GHOSTS OF ST. BARTS a totally addictive romance read (St. Barts Romance Books Series Book 5)

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Authors: EMME CROSS

BOOK: GHOSTS OF ST. BARTS a totally addictive romance read (St. Barts Romance Books Series Book 5)
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GHOSTS OF ST. BARTS

(Book 5 of the St. Barts Romance Books Series)

 

EMME CROSS

Published 2015 by Joffe Books, London

www.joffebooks.com

 

 

 

© Emme Cross

 

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling is Canadian English.

 

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BOOK 3: BACK TO ST. BARTS
Sunny is at loose ends, trying to fit into Sven’s life but also establish one of her own. Then something happens which will change everything . . .

 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/BARTS-totally-addictive-romance-Romance-ebook/dp/B011LOZ7V0/

http://www.amazon.com/BARTS-totally-addictive-romance-Romance-ebook/dp/B011LOZ7V0/

 

 

 

 

BOOK 4: BABY ON ST. BARTS
Two events shatter Sunny’s dreams in the most compelling St. Barts book yet. This time there may be no way back for Sunny and Sven.

 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/totally-addictive-romance-Romance-Series-ebook/dp/B0125TAU6W/

http://www.amazon.com/totally-addictive-romance-Romance-Series-ebook/dp/B0125TAU6W/

 

 

 

Chapter 1

Now Astrid was late, having changed her clothes five times before deciding on tight black jeans tucked into knee high boots with four-inch heels, topped by an ice-blue turtleneck that matched her eyes. She kept her flaxen blonde hair hanging free the way Sven liked it. Her black leather motorcycle jacket wasn’t really warm enough for the frigid weather but tonight was about making an impression, not comfort.

She was finally going to see him again. It’d been more than three years since she’d last seen Sven Larsen. As she checked her make-up in the car mirror, she tried not to remember that the actor had broken her heart when he told her he’d fallen in love with some woman he’d met while filming in the Caribbean.

She was used to his multitude of partners. She had two children of her own, after all, and she certainly wasn’t celibate while he was away.

But when he came home to Oslo he belonged to her. It had always been so, ever since the first moment they’d met at university, where they were both freshmen. They’d bumped into each other in the cafeteria and looked at each other amazed at how alike they were. They could have been twins, with the same chiselled cheekbones and strong jaw lines. Sven decided Astrid was his doppelgänger — an albino with her nearly white hair, alabaster skin and blue eyes of the palest shade possible. He had called her ‘ice queen,’ a nickname soon forgotten as she melted into a puddle at his touch. They ended up in bed, ignoring her roommate pounding on the door, and made love for hours and hours. The heat! Astrid would always remember the heat.

And that was how it continued for almost twenty years. They would meet, talk, laugh together. And then fuck. She knew that Sven thought of them as friends ‘with benefits.’ They joked that they were impervious to love, and both looked down on the emotion they considered to be something weaker mortals needed to hold on to.

In Astrid’s case this attitude was a complete fabrication. Outwardly cool, composed and never flustered, Astrid had fallen in love at once. But she was wise enough never to let him know it. The only way to hold onto Sven was to be cool and let him go, and she never made any demands. Over the decades she became secretly convinced they would be together when the actor finally left Hollywood behind and moved back to Norway.

That long cherished belief was shattered when he became infatuated with the woman he met on St. Barts, who had the improbable name of Sunny O’Hara. A starlet who had a made-up name and a made-up history, so Astrid thought at the time.

After her initial heartbreak, Astrid got used to the idea he had found someone else to care about. Sunny had never been real to Astrid; she was so far away, and was a part of Sven’s life that had always seemed unreal. So she’d been able to follow the couple’s progress in the news and social media without emotion. It was like a soap opera, merely interesting and titillating.

So Astrid had been able to shrug off Sven’s public declaration of love for Sunny at the movie premiere in St. Barts. Show business, she thought — more business than show. This Sunny was just someone to accompany Sven to events and who understood how Hollywood worked. In other words, a convenient escort.

So she merely glanced at the photos of the two of them at the Golden Globes where Sven won the award for Best Actor. For a while, it seemed they were everywhere — in the tabloids, on Twitter, in magazine spreads . . .

And then — nothing. Not a word. So, she mused, the ‘fauxmance’ had run its course, as had Sven’s short-lived engagement to another improbably-named starlet, Eden St. Clair. Poor Sven, having to put up with all these false relationships for the sake of his career.

Just to be sure he was once again unattached, Astrid had managed to bump into Sven’s mother in Oslo. Despite all her discreet prying, Judith hadn’t said a word about her son’s love life. Just as well, she thought, Sven wouldn’t want his mother gossiping. She would get the real story when he returned to Norway. And her.

But it hadn’t happened that way. Astrid had been stunned, first by the announcement of a wedding in St. Barts and then a child — a daughter they called ‘Bliss.’ He had gotten married. She hadn’t seen that coming. Would a celebrity get married and have a child just for the sake of their career? Was Hollywood really so fake?

An even greater shock was that Sven had seemed to openly and enthusiastically embrace fatherhood. As the official pictures of the wedding were released, Astrid thought maybe he’s with this woman for the sake of the baby. She had trouble coming to grips with that idea too.

After the wedding, the couple appeared everywhere, photographed endlessly at film premieres, in magazine fashion spreads and finally at the Oscars where Sven took home the award for Best Actor in ‘
The Barbarian King.’

Astrid followed it all, trying to suppress her pain. She still hoped to feel some connection to her long-time lover, despite the distance and the different paths their lives had taken.

Damn it. Her hands were shaking so much she was having trouble curling her mascaraed lashes and touching up her lip gloss. She was remembering the party at Sven’s mother’s place the previous summer. She’d refused the invitation of course. There was no way she could stomach ‘
The chance to join Sven and Sunny in a renewal of their wedding vows and to meet
their daughter
.’ What a farce.

Astrid had spent that week in London, so as to avoid bumping into the ‘happy family.’ Upon her return, she’d been bombarded with mutual friends’ reports of Sven’s gorgeous wife and lovely daughter. There had also been a text from Sven himself saying it was too bad she missed the bash because they’d all got hammered, just like the old days. Then nothing for months.

He had called three days ago. The old gang from university was getting together at their usual haunt, The Barn, for some beer and a few friendly games of pool. Of course she would come, she said.

And here she was, anxious and shivering in her car with the blower on high, mustering the nerve to go inside and see Sven once more. Astrid checked the mirror for signs of aging. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head. “Vanity is the devil’s plaything,” she would say if she caught Astrid staring at her reflection in some shiny surface. “Your looks are a temptation from Satan.” If Astrid asked her mother why God had given her such a face if it wasn’t His will, the answer was invariably a beating.

She shrugged off the painful memories and continued her inventory. A few crows’ feet and some creping when she pushed her breasts together, but otherwise she looked just the same as she had at university, when Sven had wanted her and her alone.

A commotion across the street, and there he was. Sven was signing autographs for a group of excited fans at the entrance to the bar. From a distance it looked as though he hadn’t changed either. He was still tall, blond and — well, gorgeous. He still had the charisma that had been evident even before he’d taken up acting.

Astrid couldn’t move. Go on, get out, she told herself. Get up and get out of the car now and say ‘hello.’ But instead of turning off the engine and rushing over to see her long-time lover, Astrid sat. She watched as he smiled at his fans and chatted before going inside. She saw him take a seat at their usual table in the front window, where he was at once surrounded by staff and patrons, apparently all wanting to shake the hand of the first Norwegian to win international accolades in film.

Astrid wiped steam from the window and continued to watch as he smiled and posed in front of a sea of cellphone cameras. Sven seemed to accept these tributes with ease. His attitude had changed. On previous visits home he had ducked his head down, trying to avoid being noticed. Which is not easy when you’re six foot four and look like a Norse god. Now he appeared to take it all in his stride.

While Astrid watched through the fogged car window Sven spoke to his fans. A waitress managed to slip him a beer and Astrid saw him flash a grateful smile, downing half a stein in a single gulp. Some things hadn’t changed. That familiar gesture was enough to shake her out of her paralysis.

She sprayed herself with another layer of cologne, making sure to douse the back of her neck, where he once loved to nuzzle. She had already arranged a sleepover for her sons so she and Sven would have the condo to themselves and renew their relationship in the best and most intimate way.

Now impatient to get the evening started, Astrid gathered her things into her purse, making sure she had her cellphone, before taking a final look through the car window.

The crowd had thinned but Sven wasn’t alone. There was a teenager with a pair of skates hanging over one shoulder. The girl — at least it looked like a girl — was wearing a huge parka, and was bundled up in a toque, mitts and miles of scarf.

Astrid laughed. That girl would never get Sven’s attention dressed like the Michelin Man. Her mouth opened as Sven unwound the scarf from the young woman’s neck and held her to him for a kiss that never seemed to end.

Like a silent movie, Astrid gazed across the distance of the street. Sven unhooked the girl’s skates and began removing the layers of clothes one by one. First the parka, then a hoodie and a sweater were tossed aside, until his companion stood in jeans, Ugg boots, a T-shirt and a toque. When the hat came off Astrid finally got it. The reddish gold curls tumbled down almost to her waist. It was Sunny, Sven’s wife.

Astrid felt as though she’d been punched in the stomach. This was
their
place. They had always met in the Barn, for years and years. It was from there that after beer and conversation with friends, she and Sven would rush back to her flat and have sex. It had always been that way. Sunny was an interloper. She shouldn’t be here; she had no right to be here!

Holding her breath, Astrid couldn’t stop herself watching through the car window as Sven kissed the woman. This was no ‘three kiss to the cheek’ greeting; it was a real kiss, with full body contact. The embrace continued so long the other patrons of the bar had begun snapping photos like mad with their cellphones. No doubt some of the pictures would find their way online or onto the gossip pages of the local papers next morning.

Astrid knew from experience that Sven was a passionate man, but he was also extremely private. This was his wife and he was kissing her in public. Sven and Astrid had never been photographed together, let alone kissing. The rule had always been no touching until they were behind closed doors. What had happened?

Astrid shook her head. This wasn’t
her
Sven.
Her
Sven was reserved and quiet in public and never gave the paparazzi ammunition. Yes, there had been photo shoots and the necessary publicity for movie releases. And well, his wedding pictures had been sold to raise money for Caribbean Tsunami Relief, but Astrid had believed all this was work related. Her Sven had always drawn a strict line between his personal and his public life.

And yet, here he was publicly kissing a woman.

His wife.

Not only that but he gave every sign of adoring her after three years of marriage. Three years was a long time these days, and in Hollywood it was eons.

Meanwhile Astrid had spent days on a strict diet. She’d spent money on fuck-me boots with four-inch heels and persuaded a co-worker to lend her the ice-blue turtleneck. She owed a favour to her neighbour who’d taken the boys for the night.

All for nothing. Just ten metres away, stood the proof. Now Astrid knew: Sven was really in love. He was in love with his wife.

Astrid was about to turn the key in the ignition, drive home and drink herself into oblivion when there was a knock on the window.

“I thought it was you. Come inside where it’s warm.”

It was Ed, a friend from university, along with ‘Silent’ Stellan and his silly comb-over that fooled no one.

Astrid slowly got out of the car and followed them into the bar to meet her lover — and his wife.

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