Authors: PJ Adams
Tags: #wealthy, #bad boy, #Romantic thriller, #rags to riches, #mysterious past, #romantic suspense, #conman, #double-crosser, #maine romance, #one-night stand, #dangerous lover
Bad Company (8 page)
She stepped out of the bedroom, and slowly Marshall and Sally lowered their rifles.
“We just...” said Marshall, before trailing off.
“I know. You just... and I really appreciate it, but I’ve got this, okay, Marshall? I’ve got this.”
She reached up and put an arm around his shoulder, turning him, guiding him. Her other arm around Sally’s shoulder, they crossed the room, then stepped out into the New Hampshire night, passing one by one through the doorway. Out on the porch they paused. The view here, from Red Maple, was dark smudges beneath a breathtaking starry sky, more and more stars emerging as your eyes adjusted.
They stepped down onto the track, and Brady Lowe was true to his word: he let her walk away from it all.
B
ut if Brady Lowe was prepared to let her walk away, not everyone else was.
She stayed the night at Marshall and Sally’s lodge at the foot of the hill. They wouldn’t have it any other way. “You’re not going back up there alone, Cass,” Sally insisted. “Who knows what kind of trouble you might draw in?”
They sat her down at the kitchen table and fed her a plate of leftovers. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. “And I sure don’t know how to repay you.”
For the second time in twenty-four hours she was left with only the clothes she was wearing: everything else had vanished with Denny in the Lexus when he’d abandoned her. And this time she didn’t even have the benefit of his roll of hundred dollar bills to help her get by.
“She’s doin’ it again,” said Marshall.
Sally nodded. “She is. She does that a lot.”
“Doing what?” asked Cassie.
“Talking stupid,” said Marshall. “Ain’t no repaying us, Cass. You don’t owe us a thing. You’re family.”
She welled up then. Had to look down and pretend she was studying her plate so they wouldn’t see. Of all the dumb choices she’d made, not appreciating what she had with folks like Marshall and Sally, and Lou back at Pappy’s, was perhaps the dumbest of all.
“I’ll stay in touch this time,” she said softly.
“You do that.”
She nodded, staring down at her plate again.
§
She thought that was it. Before she retired to the pull-out bed in the spare room, she arranged for Sally to drive her into Conway in the morning where she could work out what to do next, and how to do it.
She was surprised how easily she slept. She lay down, she closed her eyes, and that was all it took. She must have been riding an adrenalin high for the past twenty-four hours and now she just crashed.
She woke almost immediately, it seemed, to sunlight streaming in through blinds she’d forgotten to close last night, and to a folded note on the pillow by her head.
Another note to screw with her life. She knew immediately who it was from, and it wasn’t Billy Ray this time.
Babe,
I’m so glad you’re safe.
I felt so bad leaving last night. It was spur of the moment. Two guys pointing guns at me and I’m sitting at the wheel of a fast car? What does every cell in your body tell you to do in a situation like that? And the worst thing was you thought I’d left you.
I came back. I listened in. I heard what Brady said. He has a way with the story, that one.
What he said wasn’t true, though.
Yes, I went to Pappy’s to find Cassandra Dane and do whatever I could to turn her over to her father. I’m not proud of making bad choices like that, but it’s what I did. Remember the bit way back when we’d agreed I can be a bit of a shit sometimes?
But that night... I got to your bar and I saw you and you were the girl in a bar who took my breath right away, you weren’t Cassandra Dane. All of that became irrelevant from the moment I set eyes on you. From that point on I gave up any intention to hand you over, or do anything you didn’t want to do. I fell for you, baby. Hook, line and sinker. From that point on we weren’t heading for some secret rendezvous with your long-lost father, we were heading anywhere we could figure that would give us a chance to be together. You have to believe that. It was all I wanted. All I will ever want.
Right now you’re probably thinking it’s all very well with the fine words but where were the actions? Why didn’t I stop Brady last night?
Well yes, I could have tried, and it took every ounce of strength in my body to stop myself from doing exactly that. Yes, I had a gun, but there were three of them. And, baby, even if I’d been able to overpower them, I’d heard what Brady was saying. I’d seen the look on your face. The doubts. So tell me: if I’d managed to overcome all the odds, if I’d burst in there and overpowered them, would you have come with me then?
No. Not when the doubts were so fresh in your mind.
That’s why I’m doing this. The coward’s way. The note. It gives you time. Time for it to sink in. Time for you to make a choice.
It’s 4am now and you’re sleeping like a puppy. I’ve been out to a place called Conway and found an all-night store: I have a new cell phone now. Call me, babe. Any time. Now. Tomorrow. Six months from now.
Give me a chance and call me.
D
She screwed the note into a ball and hurled it across the room. Then she looked around, suddenly feeling vulnerable. He’d been here. He’d broken in, left the note, gone again. It made her feel exposed and
violated
, even.
She shouldn’t have to feel this way.
She shouldn’t have people messing with her head like this, either. Pulling and twisting at anything she believed, so that she ended up doubting everything.
She found the note and re-read it.
So what do you do? Believe the guy who breaks in on you with his two armed sidekicks? Or believe the guy who has done everything in his power to make you distrust him but still you just can’t shake off how he makes you feel?
She had time. All the time she wanted.
Or she could do something right now.
She read the note yet again, swallowed, stood, and then went downstairs to where Marshall and Sally had a phone.
Why was she like this? This thing for the bad guy. She never had been able to resist the bad boy.
All the bad luck she’d had, all the even worse choices she’d made. Was she forever trapped in that cycle, or was this really the right thing?
There was only one way to find out.
She reached for the phone.
W
riting under other names, PJ Adams is a successful novelist, with several novels published by major publishing houses and optioned for movies. As PJ Adams, she writes in the genre closest to her heart, erotic romance – love stories with that added heat, including the international bestseller
The Object of His Desire
. Working as Polly J Adams, she writes best-selling erotica, relationship stories crammed full of explicit sex. Among Polly's most popular stories are the Girls’ Club series, and
Wings of Desire
, the story of a young woman's relationship with the wealthy owner of a New England sex club.
You can find out more about Polly and her writing on
her website
, on
http://www.facebook.com/pollyjadamswriter
and on Twitter
as @PollyJAdams
.
Join the PJ Adams mailing list for all the latest news and offers.
––––––––
Winner Takes All 3: All or Nothing
C
assandra Dane has issues with Denny McGowan. He's lied to her, he's set her up, he's abandoned her when the chips are down. But worst of all, he's stolen her heart.
It should just be a simple matter of trying to work out whether she can ever trust a man like Denny. But there's still unfinished business to deal with, involving his ex-business partner, and Cassie's father, freshly out of jail. Pretty soon matters of the heart become matters of life and death, as the gunmen close in and Cassie has some tough choices to make.
And foremost among these: just how many chances do you give a guy like Denny McGowan?
All or Nothing
: the explosive climax to bestselling erotic romance author PJ Adams'
Winner Takes All
three-part serial novel. (The first two volumes in this serial are
Trading Down
and
Bad Company
.)
More information and purchasing links for
All or Nothing
are available from
the author's website
.
The Object of His Desire
When Trudy goes to her estranged brother's wedding, the last thing she expects is one of those moments: a handsome stranger, their eyes meeting across a crowded room... a tempting, but dangerous stranger. Determined to find out more, she discovers that dark secrets bind him to her brother; she also learns that he's the kind of man who gets what he wants, and what he wants right now is Trudy.
Introducing her to the world of the super-wealthy, he showers her with designer clothes, shoes, and diamonds, whisking her off to dinner dates by private jet... what more could a girl want?
But as she finds out more about him, Trudy begins to wonder if she can ever love a man she can never fully trust. A man involved in murder and blackmail, who may just be using her as an alibi. Should she run or let herself fall for him? And will he give her a choice?
A passionate erotic romance, where scandals buried away in the past lead to murderous intrigue in the present, in the intensely steamy world of the super-wealthy and powerful.
More information and purchasing links for
The Object of His Desire
are available from
the author's website
.
Excerpt
Even now, I’m unsure whether it was a genuine Jane Austen moment or the worst of clichés: eyes meeting across a crowded room, for heaven’s sake.
What can I say?
I was nervous, in a crowd of mostly strangers and distant acquaintances.
I was feeling flustered after a difficult journey and finally arriving at this little chapel in the middle of nowhere later than I’d intended – I hate not being in control.
I was unsettled by the rush of mixed emotions in my head. I was about to see my big brother again after far too long; despite following him across the Atlantic to England we’d drifted ever farther apart over the last couple of years.
I was thrown by the realization that his best man was Charlie, the ex who could still wrap me around his posh little English finger after all this time.
Under these circumstances a girl can surely be forgiven a lapse into cliché. No?
§
I’d driven for nearly four hours to reach this remote little Norfolk chapel. It had taken far too long to escape the tangle of London traffic, and even longer driving through the winding East Anglian lanes trying to find the place.
Deep breath, Trudy
. I was here. I’d made it on time.
I stood outside the chapel and straightened my three-quarter length Anoushka G dress. Deep cornflower blue, with scooped neck-line and a lily fascinator pinned to my long auburn hair, even I’d admit that I felt good in my wedding outfit.
I realized I was falling back on coping strategies I’d developed in my teens: a constant interior monologue of commentary and pep talks.
You look good, Trude.
That dress will make up for all sorts, and you can get away with those sucky-in Magic Knickers you bought in desperation, because you just know you’re the only one who’s ever going to see them.
Nice shoes, by the way.
Whatever it takes.
I recognized a few of the faces of the guests milling around in the churchyard. They were Cambridge buddies of Ethan’s. When I’d first come over from New Haven, I’d hung out with him in his college halls for a few weeks before landing my temporary job at Ellison and Coles, a wonderfully quaint traditional publisher with offices just off Covent Garden, right in the heart of London.
As we waited to enter the chapel, people smiled at me and nodded, but they were all in their own little groups and no one seemed particularly interested in me. I didn’t mind. I wasn’t in any mood for small talk, just yet. Instead, I checked my cell phone, only to find that there was no signal. I opened my mail just the same, and glanced through emails I’d already downloaded.
“You’ve got signal? Or are you just bluffing so you look busy even though you’re here on your own and nobody’s talking to you?”
I didn’t look round. I didn’t have to.
“Bastard,” I said softly.
“But a good-looking bastard, right? You always did say that I scrubbed up rather well.”
I turned. Honey-blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and the way the tuxedo and neatly pressed pants hung on his lean body... I took a deep breath and tried not to find him attractive.
Charlie didn’t look a day older than when I’d last seen him over a year before, ducking a flying ash tray as he backed out of the Islington apartment we’d shared back then.
“Last time I saw you–”
“You were a lousy shot. I only ducked to make you feel better about your aim. See? Even then I was looking out for you, babe.”
“I only missed because I didn’t want blood on the carpet. It was deliberate.”
“You preferred that dent in the door?” The ash tray had made a nasty gouge in the wood-panel door on impact. I’d never got round to fixing it: my little memento of the year with Charlie.
“Okay, so I misjudged that one. I should have hit you with it.”
“You look good, Trude.”
“Too damned right I do. You think I’d come to my brother’s wedding and look like shit?”
I was smiling by then. Our arguments went like that: they either got more and more intense or we’d end up laughing and wondering what we’d been fighting about.
“It’s been a long time, Trude.”
I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He smelt of Issey Miyake and cigarettes.
“Shouldn’t you be inside with Ethan? I assume he’s turned up?”
“Fresh air break,” said Charlie, tapping the cigarette-box-shaped bulge in the breast pocket of his tuxedo. “You know how it is.”
“Haven’t you given that stuff up yet?”
“Everyone’s got their vices, Trudy. Even you.”
