Get You Back E-Book

Juniper Bell

• Herausgeber: JB Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 560

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

JOIN USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR Jennifer Bernard writing as JUNIPER BELL in this forbidden steamy romantic suspense with a guaranteed happily ever after.

Rye
I just saw Lauren Blakewell again – on national TV. Twelve years after she and her con woman mother scammed my father and ruined our lives, there she was. Looking like a goddess. Engaged to the son of a U.S. senator. She and her evil mother never paid for what they did. But I’ve never forgotten. Now I’m going to DC and I’m out for revenge. 

Lauren
I’m so close to freedom. So close. One more job, and Glee will let me go. That’s why the sight of my former stepbrother is such a shock. I have to stop Rye. Whatever it takes. I have to make him an offer he can’t refuse. A proposition he can’t resist. If I enjoy it too…that’ll be my secret. And I have more secrets than Rye can ever imagine.

THIS IS THE COMPLETE COLLECTION.

Leseprobe

GET YOU BACK

THE COMPLETE SERIES

JUNIPER BELL

CONTENTS

Get You Back

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Get You Back

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Get You Back

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Also by Juniper Bell

About the Author

GET YOU BACK

PART ONE: REVENGE

CHAPTER1

Rye

The first thing to know about me is that I'm a McAllister. To the people of Chicago, that name means "wealth," "ambition," or maybe "insane financial risk-taking." But to us McAllisters, it means "survivors."

Family legend says the Saxons tried to kill us off back in medieval Scotland but we were too hard-headed and wouldn't surrender. If the McAllister laird hadn't married a Norman heiress who saved his ass, our line would be extinct by now.

My father used to say that being a McAllister man means you never give up. He also claimed, during late-night whiskey sessions, that for us McAllisters a woman will either be our downfall or our savior, and you don't know which until it's too late.

Which brings us to the Blakewell women.

The first time I laid eyes on Lauren Blakewell, she was twelve and I hated her on sight. Not her fault. She was a cute, awkward pre-teen who wore blue nail polish, licked her braces when she was nervous, and turned pink whenever I looked at her. I hated her because my father was about to marry her mother, Glee. Let me repeat the name.

Glee.

We should have seen through her like a wet paper towel. But none of us did. All I knew was that I didn't want a new stepmother and I sure as hell didn't want a new "sister."

Yeah, I was probably being a selfish teenager. I was sixteen and frickin' owned my world. As a McAllister, I was part of Chicago's uppermost echelon of rich kids. Prep school, quarterback, girls all over me. Vacations in Italy. Skiing in Vail, the works. I was money. Top of the dogpile. I had it all.

Until I didn't.

If I'd known the truth, I would have hogtied my father before letting him walk down the aisle with Glee. I would have sicc-ed a lawyer on her, or the FBI. I would have run to our accountant and had him lock up the family funds and everything we owned.

But my father was in love, and love makes you stupid.

The last time I saw Lauren, before all the crap went down, we played Ping-Pong in the basement game room at our place on Lake Shore Drive. We had an Olympic-size table down there, along with billiards, miniature golf, a punching bag, and state-of-the-art Wii. My father, Ian, loved any kind of game. He always wanted us to have fun, and we did.

Lauren seemed nervous, but then she always did around me. Probably her guilty conscience. She kept sending the ball in crazy directions, like the overhead light fixture. Then my chin. Ouch. I put down my paddle and rubbed my jaw while the swinging chandelier sent weird shadows flying across the room.

"I'm sorry, Rye," she said, in an awkward squeak of a voice.

Her eyes were swimming with tears. Even then, Lauren had eyes that could stop you in your tracks. Like tiger-striped marbles, green, brown, even gold sometimes. Hazel, I guess. "Relax, doofus. It's just a Ping-Pong ball. "

She went pink. Like I said, she did that a lot. And she hated it when I called her "doofus." I didn't catch what she said next, but it sounded something like, "see if I care."

"My serve. Ten to eight," I answered smugly and sent the ball across the table.

She fucking smashed that thing. One thing I'll say for Lauren. She was competitive as hell and hated to lose. If she'd been a football player, she would have sacked me without mercy.

Come to think of it, she did. Or at least her mother did.

After that Ping-Pong game, things happened very fast. Three days later, Glee and my father had a massive screaming argument. That night, the Blakewell females disappeared. Also that night, my father had a stroke. My uncle Chris, suddenly put in charge of the family funds, discovered that our finances were a disaster. We had depressing meetings with his lawyers and accountants. Then the housekeeper realized that my mother's jewels were gone. All signs pointed to Glee being a thief and a con woman.

He sold off everything he could, including the Lake Shore Drive house, and moved my dad into an advanced care facility. My brother and sister and I were shell-shocked. Our entire world was crumbling around us. No parents, no home. Uncle Chris invited us to move in with him.

My little sister Annabelle didn't want to. She hated Uncle Chris. But she was outvoted, two to one. Until I visited Papa in the hospital the day he regained consciousness. He took my hand and with one shaky finger he spelled out three letters in my palm.

R.

U.

N.

We trusted our father more than anyone in the world. So the three of us kids—me, Elijah, and Annabelle—scraped together what money we had and ran away.

Crazy shit. No one would ever expect to see the three rich and privileged McAllister kids hopping a Greyhound bus to Texas. Or finding work on Parker Ranch, where Annabelle had gone to camp. But we did. We kept our little orphaned, broke-ass family together. For safety’s sake, we used the name Parker and stayed out of sight. Less than a year later, we read in the newspaper that Papa had died. We had no more reason to go back to Chicago then.

On my twenty-first birthday, I went to Las Vegas with five years' worth of hard-earned savings. I won enough at the craps table to keep us going for a year. But even though Elijah and Annabelle fought me on it, I put it all into the stock market. I remembered everything my dad had taught me about high-risk investments. I'm a McAllister; it's in the blood.

And it paid off. I hit my first million at twenty-five. The second came much quicker, followed by more. I was driven by the need to survive. To take care of my brother and sister. To redeem the McAllister name. To honor my father. The money did all of that.

But it didn't get me the one thing I wanted most. Justice.

Who was I kidding?

Revenge. I wanted revenge. Revenge against the woman who had broken my father and ruined our family. Revenge against Glee.

So that's where things stood the day I saw Lauren again, twelve years later.

It was a sweltering Friday night in June. I walked into the Tex -Mex Grill, still sweaty from helping fix the fence line out at Parker Ranch. Even though I'd made my millions on the stock market, my loyalty to the Parkers would last forever. Elijah and I still helped Ben Parker out whenever he needed anything. The only thing he wouldn't accept was money. He was a stubborn old man but I loved him. All three of us did.

I slid onto my usual stool and smiled at Sunny, the bartender. She and I had a casual thing that suited us both. She had big Nashville dreams and didn't want anything serious. She called me her six-hour man because that's how long we usually spent together. And about five hours and fifty minutes of that was sex. Sex and I got along great. Me and "love"—not so much. Women always told me I had trust issues. I didn't disagree. Wouldn't anyone have trust issues, with my history?

"Hey, beautiful." I beckoned to her, and she landed a kiss on my cheek. I tugged on the lobe of her ear with my teeth. She shivered, her silky blond hair brushing against my cheek. I got hard right away. Sunny and I had a good thing going on. We understood each other, especially in bed. She didn't mind my "edgier" side. In fact, she liked it.

"What's shakin', bacon?" she asked me, drafting me a tall glass of my favorite local brew.

"Same old, same old. Any news from that promoter?"

Sunny's bright blue eyes got all starry. "He says it's looking good for the showcase."

"Way to go, babe." I tipped my glass to her on its way to my mouth. "You'll blow them away. If you need a friendly face along, say the word."

She grinned. "Your face is a lot of things, but I wouldn't put friendly at the top of the list."

I shot her a scowl that would make young kids cry. The big changes in my life circumstances were scrawled all over my face. My nose got broken on that first bus ride across the country. Some druggie at a rest stop shoved Annabelle into the bathroom. Elijah and I beat at that door until our hands were bloody. Then the dude opened the door and broke my nose. I also had a slash across my temple from a metal grinder malfunction at the ranch. I could have lost an eye, so I count myself lucky. The first couple years of working the ranch, I was sore all the time. Bruises, broken finger, torn muscles.

Basically, I look a hundred times rougher than I would have if I'd stayed in Chicago.

Sunny laughed at my expression. "Good thing I know you're a sweet guy under all those muscles."

"That's all for you, babe. You're such a ray of sunshine you think everyone's like that. I don't mind, so long as you throw a few smiles my way."

"Just smiles?" She winked suggestively, then whisked away to tend to a new customer. Again, my cock stood up and took notice. When Sunny winked like that, good times followed. I took a long gulp of beer, letting the cool, sharp taste slide down my throat.

Life wasn't too bad, after all the tough years. No more money worries. Elijah was doing good. You'd never guess he wasn't born to be a cowboy. Annabelle was busy breaking every heart in South Texas. And I had a sweet-natured, gorgeous girl who liked it when I tore her clothes off and fucked her all night long. I'd come a long way since Chicago, and I took a moment to let that happy thought settle in.

That's when I happened to glance up at the TV set mounted in the upper corner of the bar. It usually showed sports, which I didn't bother with. Reminded me too much of my lost youth. But today, it was tuned to the news. A reporter was talking to a young couple at some kind of political rally. They stood at the edge of a stage, with a backdrop of waving signs and sunburned faces. The couple had that slick, polished, fake look, as if someone had encased them in hair spray before they faced the public. Both were a little younger than me, the guy in a blue button-down shirt and khakis. Very country club.

But it was the girl who drew my attention. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn't place her. She was tall, with perfect posture, except for a slight slouch in her shoulders. It gave her a wary look that made me wonder what she was afraid of. Her rich brown hair was caught in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. The simple style was elegant and classy. She looked cool and unapproachable. The kind of girl who would either be a chilly bed partner or a sexual hurricane when she finally let loose.

Both were smiling at the reporter, although the man's expression was much more relaxed, as if he was used to this. Which made sense, based on the banner that scrolled across the screen. "Senator Clayton's son Brian announces engagement to teacher's aide Lauren Gallatin, who some are calling America's answer to Kate Middleton. The news has given the senator a boost in the polls and he now leads in his bid for reelection."

The name didn't sink in at first. I hadn't thought much about Lauren over the years. She was just a kid. It was Glee who dominated my revenge fantasies, especially after my father died. I despised her, although my rage had taken a back seat to basic survival.

And then, as if I'd conjured her with my vengeful thoughts, the camera shifted and I saw Glee smiling in the background.

I rose to my feet, my beer forgotten. It couldn't be Glee, could it? That barracuda used to have honey-blond hair that cascaded down her back in long curls. This woman had cropped black hair and tortoiseshell glasses. Sure, her face looked just like Glee's, and she had that "Queen of the World" attitude I remembered. But Glee would never have worn glasses. It wasn't her style. She prided herself on her bimbo shallowness. No, it couldn't be her.

I sat back on my stool. I'd just about decided that it was nothing but a freak resemblance when the camera panned back to Brian Clayton's fiancée. As it reached her, she gave a quick glance straight into the camera.

Those eyes. Even on a crappy bar TV set, those eyes just about reached inside me and lit me on fire. I knew those eyes. Cool, challenging, full of hidden intensity. I'd seen those eyes flash with fury when I snapped Lauren's training bra strap. (Okay, I was kind of a jerk back then.) I'd seen them go teary over a mouse that got trapped in a bucket in the laundry room. Lauren worked hard to hide her emotions, but her eyes always gave her away.

They did this time too. Lauren Blakewell. Alive and well and engaged to a political scion. She looked … stunning. Untouchable, like an icy star in a night sky. Like a goddess used to people bowing at her feet.

And I hated her.

I struggled with the emotion for one boiling-hot second. But it churned past my defenses in a tumbling wave of fury. Glee had stolen my future. They'd She'd murdered my father, as far as I was concerned. Given him a stroke. And now she and Lauren were working their twisted magic on an unsuspecting family in our nation's capital.

As I sat paralyzed on that bar stool, my imagination unfurled the future before me like a documentary. I could see it all. Once Lauren married Brian Clayton, she'd be sitting pretty in one of the top political families in the country. Brian Clayton would probably go into the family business. Run for senator. Maybe get chosen as Vice President. Maybe become President.

Glee Blakewell, living in the White House. Did mothers-in-law live in the White House? Didn't matter. She'd be invited there. She'd have access to the power center of the entire world.

No.

No.

Fuck no.

Without even thinking about it, I got to my feet again. My mind was already across the country, in DC, while the rest of me went through the motions. Money left my pocket and landed on the bar. Words left my mouth in answer to Sunny's confused, "where are you going?" The bar door banged open before me. My key turned in the ignition and my truck coughed into gear. I really needed to get a new truck—the thought passed through my mind out of habit. And all the while, blood pounded through my skull, along with a kind of chant.

You'll pay for what you did. I'm coming to DC and I'm going to get you back. I'll get you back for ruining our lives. I'll get you back for killing my father. I'll get you back.

I drove home in a daze. A few years ago, I'd bought a four-thousand foot loft in an up-and-coming section of Houston. I spent a fortune renovating it for the three of us McAllisters. We each had our own section and got along pretty well. Elijah filled the fridge with too many damn vitamins and Annabelle had a habit of painting weird murals on the walls when she was bored. Other than that, we did okay. None of us thought about leaving our little family unit. We'd been through too much together. Growing up in Chicago, we hadn't been all that close. But once our lives exploded, we clung together like storm-tossed baby sparrows.

Elijah was lounging in the big living room watching TV. I automatically checked to see if the story about Lauren was still on, but he was flicking through the movie channels. One booted foot was crossed over the other knee. We grunted at each other in greeting, but I didn't stop. I went to my bedroom and started randomly throwing things in a duffel bag.

"Going somewhere?" Elijah followed me and stood in my doorway, thumbs in his jeans pockets.

"Washington, DC."

"Uh … any particular reason?"

"Yeah." I didn't want to get into it. Elijah was huge; a big, gentle, muscular guy who never went to bars because inevitably some meathead tried to pick a fight just for the joy of it. Without asking, I knew he wouldn't be onboard with my mission of revenge.

"How long?"

"Long as it takes." I zipped my duffel with a movement so vicious it nearly tore the bag.

"For what?"

I slung the duffel over my shoulder and faced him. "I saw Lauren and Glee on TV. They're in DC." I shouldered my way past him.

"Rye, wait."

I didn't wait. I needed to be in Washington that second. If teleportation existed, I wouldn't even bother packing.

"What's going on?" Annabelle stood just inside the front door, all dusty and pink-cheeked. She was must have just gone for a ride. Nothing lit my little sister up like a long motorcycle ride, unless it was a horse ride. She had the famous McAllister coloring—silver eyes and black hair, which she wore in a club-kid waif style.

"Rye saw Glee and Lauren. Now he's going after them," Elijah explained.

"For what?"

Both my siblings looked at me as if I was nuts.

"I'll figure it out when I get there," I mumbled. I grabbed my battered old ranch jacket from the pegs next to the door. What was the weather like in DC? Didn't know. Didn't care. I wanted to take a piece of Texas with me. Texas was part of me now. Part of the new me. The survivor me.

"This is so not a good idea." Annabelle blocked the door. "That's all ancient history. Why do you want to go stirring things up?"

I reminded myself that Annabelle was only ten when everything went down. She didn't feel the same anger I did. "No stirring. If it helps, think of it as a trip to congratulate Lauren on her engagement."

"Lauren's engaged? I'm not surprised. She was always so pretty," Annabelle said wistfully. Two years younger than Lauren, my sister used to trail after her like a baby duckling. Drove me crazy.

"Bull. She had braces and knobby knees. You're twice as beautiful as she is. Now get out of my way." I tried to sidestep her, but she was too quick for me.

"I'm coming with you. I'll keep you from doing anything too stupid."

"Good idea," Elijah agreed. "I'll come too. Safety in numbers. You can't trust those women."

"No one's coming with me. Someone has to be here in case Ben needs something. And what about your patients, Annabelle?" Annabelle took care of the more elderly of Ben's horses.

"There are enough ranch hands out there right now." She pulled off her riding jacket. "I'll just go change."

"Not a chance, kiddo. I'm doing this alone. It's a reconnaissance mission. If I need you guys, I'll let you know. I just want to sneak in, find out what they're up to, see if there's anything that needs to be done, and come home. I don't need reinforcements."

Annabelle didn't seem to be listening, so I hauled her over my shoulder and spun around so I could plop her in the living room, out of my way.

"Rye! That's so not cool." Already she was scrambling to her feet, so I booked it toward the door.

"Sorry. Yell at me when I get back. Won't be long. I'll be in touch, I swear. Elijah, get the fuck out of my way."

Seeing that I meant business, Elijah gave me space to make my escape. "Think this through, Rye. Don't let your temper make a mess of this."

"I don't have a temper."

Elijah's snort followed me out the door. I threw my duffel in the crew cab of my truck and tore off down the street as if the devil was after me.

Fine, on occasion I had a temper. Correction. On occasion I lost my temper. Generally I kept it tightly under wraps, where it couldn't get me into trouble. But there were certain moments that had become local legends. Couple of bar fights. Trips to the emergency room. Mostly they happened when someone posed a threat to a McAllister or a Parker.

When someone did harm to my family, I turned into a bulldog. My father had always warned me about my temper, but how else was I supposed to protect the family? I wasn't the strongest or the quickest or the biggest. But I was always the most tenacious. It was the McAllister way.

I was the same way on Ben's ranch. Give me a job, and I wouldn't fucking quit until it was done. Investments, same thing. I lost money until I got it right. In bed with a woman—yeah, same thing. I didn't give up until she was a boneless mass of pure satisfied female.

And now I was one hundred percent focused on one goal.

The Blakewell women had no idea what was coming their way on the next flight out of Houston. No idea.

CHAPTER2

Lauren

Some nights, my job wasn't worth the money. In fact, I'd say that was true every night. But political parties were the worst, even when they were being held at the Smithsonian and attended by every power player in the Metro DC area. Before we came to Washington, I thought it would be the peak of glamour to shake hands with the Secretary of State while wearing a black sheath and pearls. But the reality was that my shoes hurt and my panties kept crawling up my butt, and the few hits of weed I'd had earlier weren't nearly enough.

Isn't it funny how five hundred dollar Manolos can pinch just as much as a Payless special? And don't even get me started on whoever invented thongs. I'm sure it was a man. I wonder how he'd like to have a string of itchy lace wrapped around his dick.

I shoved my totally inappropriate thoughts aside and focused on the older lady with the sapphire earrings who was talking to me. But my thoughts kept drifting. Maybe that joint had been stronger than I realized. Who were these people? Were they even real? No one's smile looked real. No one's face looked real. No one ever showed their actual thoughts or emotions. I should be used to it, right?

After all, I was an expert at exactly that sort of behavior. I'd been trained by the master, or at least the mistress. But that didn't mean I liked it.

The woman was still talking. I noticed a speck of plum lipstick clinging to a hair above her upper lip. It was hypnotic, the way it moved up and down. Like a follow-the-dot song on a karaoke machine. I bit the inside of my lip to hold back any inappropriate burst of laughter.

"…don't you agree, dear?" The woman paused, looking at me expectantly.

My turn to talk. And I had no idea what we were talking about.

"That makes perfect sense to me." I smiled falsely. All my smiles were false. All my utterances were false. I was a pillar of falseness poured into a Chanel dress.

I felt Brian shift next to me. I smiled prettily at the older woman and turned to my fiancé. He gave me a brotherly little side-hug that brought me against his pudgy ribs. "What did I just agree to?" I asked out of the corner of my mouth.

"Shenanigans," he whispered back. He addressed the woman, who I now remembered was one of his great-aunts, or second cousins, or something. Brian was related to half the Republican elite. "You'll have to clear it with my mother," he told her. "She's taken charge of everything wedding-related. It's a good thing I have the most loving and accepting fiancée on the Eastern Seaboard."

Of course I was "accepting." Because none of it mattered.

I stroked his forearm, putting a little sizzle in my smile. "I did draw the line at a family honeymoon, darling. I have my limits."

He beamed at me as if he couldn't wait to ravish me in that mythical honeymoon suite in Santa Lucia. We both knew how to play our parts. Politics, I'd learned, was the ultimate con game.

The aunt/cousin looked a bit flushed. "Well … I'll discuss it with Blair, then."

"Perfect." Brian kept his arm around me until she left. "T minus thirty," he muttered under his breath.

"Thirty minutes or thirty years? Because right now they feel about the same."

He giggled. Yes, giggled. Why everyone in this chandelier-spangled room didn't realize Brian was gay -- that mystified me. "I'm going to miss your sense of humor, Lauren. Do you think we can stay friends?"

"Depends. Take it up with the script-writers." Someone was stage-managing this farce, but it wasn't me.

"I mean personal friends. Under the radar. Catch up now and then on the phone."

"Sure. Facebook, that sort of thing. I'd like that." No need to break it to Brian that I intended to disappear when I was done with this job. Facebook profile and all. Brian was a good guy and I wished him well. Spending so much time with him was no hardship, even though most of the time I wished myself a million miles away. "What's the time now?"

"T minus twenty. See? We'll be out of here before you know it."

I thought longingly of the condo where Glee and I had lived for the past three years. I wanted to snuggle under my pink comforter, turn on my flat-screen, and stream Netflix until I passed out. My feet ached in these stupid high heels and my face was screaming to be released from its smiling duties. The bacon-wrapped shrimp I'd sampled earlier had not agreed with me. My stomach was roiling with the need to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

My stoned brain brought up the image of the grungy motel room in Chicago where we'd been living when Glee first met Ian McAllister at a bar. Would I rather be there? With the moldy black grout between the shower tiles? The thud of a headboard against our wall, courtesy of the prostitute next door?

Maybe I would. It was more honest. Glee and I had lived everywhere on the spectrum, from dump to mansion. I liked luxury as much as the next girl, and I was thrilled when she married Ian McAllister. For ten months of my life, I had a normal-ish existence. For the first time, I had a home that was an actual house. With an actual family. Brothers. A sister. Stuffed animals, for heaven's sake. A lion, to be exact. Gifted to me by Rye, who tossed it to me after Annabelle scoffed at the idea of a stuffed Aslan. I didn't care if I was an afterthought. Rye gave it to me.

Rye of the tempestuous eyes and restless body. Always moving. Always laughing. Always a magnet for my attention. You'd laugh at how much I cuddled that golden lion. It might as well have been a lock of Rye's hair. Me and my silly crush. Mortifying.

I shivered, longing for another puff of oblivion, AKA weed. Why was I thinking about that time? It was bad for my morale. When those memories disturbed my thoughts, it was hard to keep the Mona Lisa smile pinned to my face. Maybe that's why I'd started secretly smoking more.

If Glee knew, she'd be furious. These days, I was the one at center stage, not her. I needed a clear head to play my part. I couldn't afford to be distracted. Not when I was so close to getting out. One more job and I was done. That was our deal.

I put all my energy into my next smile and angled my head toward Brian in the classic "Entranced Fiancée" pose—Expression #41.

And froze.

A man stood stock still on the other side of the Smithsonian's ballroom. I blinked, just in case my drifting thoughts were causing this hallucination. He was just so … different. Everyone else in the room was wrapped up in some kind of conversation. This man alone was silent. Still. Oblivious to everything around him. Staring straight at me.

With silver eyes.

Transfixed, I stared back. Everything about him stood out. He was the only man in the ballroom not wearing any form of tuxedo or business suit, unless his business required a beat-up old black leather duster. I was surprised they let him in, except who would dare to stop him? He exuded a menacing, masculine, dominant aura. Tall and strong and merciless. And he hadn't looked away from me once.

He started walking toward me. With purpose. His intensity terrified me. Something about him looked familiar, but I couldn't pin it down. All I knew was that this dominating man had me in his sights and I was in trouble. My flight-or-fight response kicked in and I wheeled around to run.

I slammed into a waiter passing by with a tray of champagne glasses. It teetered precariously as I watched in horror. Just what I needed. More attention. I had to get out before disaster struck.

Brian grabbed me. "You okay, honey?"

"No." I struggled against his hold. "I have to get out of here."

"All right, all right. We just have to say goodbye to the hosts."

"Can you do it?" I whispered desperately. "I really need to run to the bathroom. It's a … personal thing."

Right away he let go of me. I knew he had no interest in thinking about any of my private functions. I hurried past the waiter, who gave me a dirty look. "I'm so sorry," I told him. I gave a quick look over my shoulder but didn't see my tall pursuer.

Who was he? The knowledge was right there, at the edge of my consciousness, and if I could just get my head to clear…

I found an exit door and slipped through it. Right away the sounds of the party got muffled. All that chatter, all that roaring and deal-making and maneuvering and gossip, was finally reduced to a hush. Thank God.

I leaned against the wall, soaking in the solitude. In the quiet, red-carpeted hallway, my hallucination seemed absurd. Why would some tough, leather-wearing cowboy show up at a Republican fundraising event? Even if he did, why would he come after me?

Even stranger, the mystery man looked eerily like Rye McAllister. But Rye lived in Chicago and wouldn't wear cowboy boots and black leather. He wouldn't be staring at me with steel vengeance in his eyes.

Or maybe he would.

"You fool," I whispered. "That wasn't him. It couldn't be."

I took a deep, shaky breath and vowed never to smoke weed again.

"Lauren Blakewell."

I jumped about two feet in the air and spun around, landing like a confused cat. The voice was deep, very male, and filled with scorn. Rye used to address me in exactly that same tone of voice when I first knew him. Later, we'd become friends of sorts.

But he certainly didn't sound like a friend now. And he wasn't looking at me like a friend.

Alarm bells rang all over the place. Danger, danger. Drawing on every ounce of my training and experience, I tilted my head and assumed Expression #24— – "Adorably Perplexed."

"Do I know you?" I asked him coolly.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. My bravado was working.

"Define 'know'," he said grimly.

I offered him a vague half-smile while I came up with a response. While pretending not to stare, I surreptitiously gathered every bit of visual information I could. Rye McAllister had grown up into someone I didn't recognize. He was like TNT packed into muscle form. His nose was a lot bumpier than it used to. He looked like he didn't mind using his fists, or any other part of his body, to get what he wanted. Fierce. Off-the-charts intense. And sexy … oh my God, my knees were already jelly.

But I couldn't let him see that. Play the part.You know what to do.

I narrowed my eyes as if searching my memory. Tilted my head the other direction. "Rye? Rye McAllister?"

Yeah, I didn't fool him for a second. "Lauren Blakewell. Gallatin. Clayton. Will you just put all those last names together? Or are there others?"

I ignored his jabs. I recognized an opening maneuver when I saw one. I just didn't know what he wanted. "What an interesting coincidence that I should see you here. Do you live nearby? Funny we haven't run into each other before now."

"I live in Houston."

I swallowed hard. This was not a random chance meeting then. Not good. Houston? Why did he live in Houston? What did he do there? My mind raced with questions I wanted to ask. How was Annabelle? Elijah? I knew Ian had died, but I'd completely lost track of the others. But I couldn't ask any of those things before I knew what was going on. I settled for something safe. "You're far from home."

"Yes, and I'm anxious to get back, but I'm sure this won't take long."

What wouldn't take long? What was he here for? Why had he followed me out of the party?

"Well, it sounds like you have urgent business to attend to. I won't keep you." I gave him a polite nod and skirted around him toward the door. The ballroom suddenly seemed like a much safer choice than this empty hallway. The space practically throbbed with testosterone, all emanating from this one volcanic male.

"Don't touch that door," he said quietly. "I'm not done with you yet."

I froze. How dare he order me around? But there was a note in his voice—a kind of command—that touched me somewhere deep. I couldn't resist it. With my hand hovering close to the door handle, but not touching it, I raised my chin and shot him a scornful glance. "What do you want, Rye?"

I expected to catch him looking smug because I'd obeyed him. But he didn't. Almost as if it went without saying that I would do as he said. Instead, he looked even more grim and forbidding.

"You know, I wasn't sure what I would want until I saw you. I decided to play it the way it came to me. I didn't expect you to be so …" His jaw tightened, and he looked away from me. As if he couldn't stand the sight of me. "When I saw you on the news, I couldn't think straight. I couldn't believe you were here. Engaged. Like nothing ever happened."

"I can't imagine how my engagement could mean anything to you. Are you looking for a wedding invitation? Well, I suppose we're family, in a way."

That last bit slipped out. And boy, was it a mistake. Rye's eyes went storm-gray, and the next thing I knew, his hands were on my upper arms.

At his touch, a full-body shudder swept through me. I couldn't hide it. I couldn't stop it. All I could do was react to the fire searing through me.

I'd never felt anything like the electric current of energy flowing between us. He felt it too. His hands tightened, his eyes drilled into me. My thoughts skittered like little mice running from a tomcat. I took in every detail of his face—familiar yet so different. Where had he gotten that cut near his right eye? Who'd broken his nose?

The small distance between us evaporated. I'm not sure who moved first, or how my body came to be pressed against his. I knew better, or at least my brain did. But my body was driving this train, not my common sense.

The places where we were touching—--chest, thighs, stomach, hips—sizzled like lightning. I clung to the worn black leather of his jacket. I inhaled the scent of him, and it was surreal. I recognized the teenage Rye—fresh laundry, hint of sweat—from the times I'd bumped into him during games of tag or badminton or Ping-Pong. But now I also smelled black leather, travel dust, maybe a whiff of diesel. Had he driven a truck to get here? Ridden a horse?

I had to get a grip. I scrambled for words that would give me back the upper hand. "I never thought you'd end up a cowboy. I hope that silver spoon up your ass doesn't get in the way."

Tension radiated through the muscles under my hands, under all that leather. "I hope that heart of ice doesn't get in your way."

Heart of ice? If only he knew …

"You came, you saw, you insulted. Are we done here?" I moved to draw away, but I couldn't with those bands of iron clamped onto my arms.

"Not even close." With a growl, he bent his head and crushed his mouth against mine.

My mind went absolutely blank. My breath literally seemed to stop. My legs tried to collapse under me. His tongue owned me. Owned my mouth, owned my lips, which parted helplessly, greedily. The press of his teeth on the tender flesh of my lower lip made me moan. I was absolutely on fire. It was the roughest kiss I'd ever experienced and I loved it.

"Fuck." He groaned from deep within his chest. We stared at each other, both of us shocked, panting, as if we'd suddenly stumbled at the edge of a cliff. "Fuck," he said again.

Interesting how many ways the word "fuck" can be interpreted. The first "fuck" meant "what the hell." That second "fuck"—that one meant the moment was over.

He held me at arms' length. "I'm not falling for this. I know what you're doing."

"What?" I was so bewildered by his hot-and-cold behavior, the shock of seeing him again, the high from earlier. It was all too much.

"Why'd she do it? Why, Lauren? Why?" Anger rippled through his voice.

"What are you talking about?"

"Glee. Your mother. And you. Why'd you mess with my family? Where is Glee right now?"

I ordered my legs to stop trembling. My lips were still tingling from his kiss, but I ignored my physical reaction.

"I think you should go," I told him. I clenched my hands to hide the trembling. But he saw. The way his gaze consumed me, I knew he saw everything. The blood surging into my cheeks, my swollen nipples, my scared-rabbit pulse.

"I'm going. For now," he said. "But I intend to finish what I started. And I'm not talking about this." He brushed his thumb across my lips.

I didn't want to ask, but I had to. "What then?"

"I intend to ruin Glee the way she ruined us."

CHAPTER3

Rye

I don't even remember how I got out of that building. My lips still burned from the taste of Lauren's. My blood sizzled. My cock wanted to bust out of my jeans.

As soon as I laid eyes on her in that ballroom, I'd wanted her. And then, once we were alone in that hallway, I'd totally lost control. We'd made out just feet away from her fiancé and half the suits in Washington. What the hell was wrong with me? I was there for revenge, not anything physical. And I could have gone a lot further than a kiss, but I'd finally come to my senses.

But beyond that hot kiss, another moment stood out. Her quick look of surprise when I asked her why Glee had done it. She tried to hide her reaction, because that's what Lauren always did. I still remembered the time I pretended to read her diary. She acted as cool as if it was the Yellow Pages. Lauren hid her real self as much as she possibly could. I knew that about her. But there was always that one moment before she managed to school her expression when the truth peeked out.

The truth, as I read it in Lauren's quicksilver reaction, was that she genuinely didn't know why I accused her of ruining our lives.

That intrigued me.

And no matter how much her disdainful manner got under my skin, I couldn't shake the memory of that skinny, long-legged girl who used to hide behind her mom. This was Lauren. She'd lived in my home for ten months. That wasn't long enough to make her any kind of "sister." But it was long enough for me to feel vaguely protective of her.

Like the time some asshole from her school texted her a dick pic. Sent a twelve-year-old girl a dick pic. I went ballistic on him and texted him back all kinds of shit. Threatened to call the cops. Blocked his number from Lauren's phone and told her if he so much as looked at her in the hall, to call me at school and I'd come home. Usually I just made her pink, but that time she was bright red.

Okay, so maybe even back then there'd been a little something between me and Lauren. Nothing compared to what had just happened, obviously.

Outside the Smithsonian, I hailed a cab and had the driver take me to the Colonial Inn, which advertised itself as a "boutique hotel" in the heart of the nation's capital. The fuck if I cared. I wanted a bed and a shower. Someplace where I could jerk off before my cock exploded. I checked in, fully aware that I was the only guest in the lobby with an olive-drab duffel over my shoulder.

The theme here was quiet luxury. Plush carpet, copper wall sconces, tomato-red Chinese lanterns filling a porcelain vase at the concierge desk.

"How long will you be staying, Mr. McAllister?" The Asian girl behind the counter was perfection in her navy blazer and perky smile.

"I'm not sure. Can I take it night by night?"

"Of course. You're lucky, this is our slow time. The cherry blossom season has ended and Congress isn't in session."

"I'm not here for the cherries."

That sounded a little dirty, but she didn't seem to notice. "They don't make cherries. It's the blossoms people come to see."

"Right. Thanks for the clarification." As if I cared about cherries or blossoms. I was here for one purpose. I'd located one half of the Blakewell duo, so I was halfway there.

Off to the side, I spied an expensive-looking bar filled with expensive-looking customers. I caught the subtle clink of silverware against crystal, or maybe it was someone's gold bullion clinking against their ruby necklace. The sound of money. The sound I grew up with.

On my way to the elevator, I paused outside the bar. A single malt Scotch would sure hit the spot. In an alternate universe, in which the McAllisters hadn't left Chicago, I might know those people in there. I might have gone to college with some, or business school. My father would be in the thick of it, making friends out of strangers.

But as I scanned the crowd, I felt a sudden homesickness for Houston. We had our share of suits, too, but they were mostly worn with cowboy boots. When you walked into the Tex Mex Grill, you didn't see ties and cufflinks. You saw denim shirts with the sleeves rolled up. You saw girls with their shirts tied under their boobs, long legs and short shorts.

Shrugging off the idea of a bar full of strangers, I headed for my suite.

Showered, sexually self-satisfied, and dressed in loose cotton sweats, I strolled to the little balcony that overlooked the monuments of Washington. They looked much better at night, all lit up. During the day, everything seemed kind of monolithic. But at night you could breathe in the muggy city air and smell the power. Town cars patrolled the streets like sharks. What kind of sordid deals were being concocted in those back seats?

What was Lauren doing right now? Maybe she was going down on her fiancé in one of those town cars.

Right away I got hard again, as if I hadn't just come all over the Colonial's shower stall. There was something about Lauren that really got me stirred up. Maybe it was all the contradictions. Her full lips promised passion, but her wary posture said "hands off." I couldn't believe what a stunning woman she'd grown into. Her face was truly, objectively beautiful, but unreadable. She kept such a tight rein on her facial expressions. Nothing snuck past her control. Except the quicksilver changes flashing in those knock-you-off-your-feet eyes.

How much time had I spent with her that evening? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? I had no idea, but it was long enough to leave her image imprinted on my vision like a tattoo. Obsession had never made sense to me. If someone doesn't want you, move on. For the first time in my life, I understood it. I wanted to see Lauren again. Needed to see her again.

Except that my mission was revenge against her mother.

I leaned my elbows on the railing and sipped from the little bottle of Scotch I'd snagged from the mini-bar. Maybe I'd change my tune and come on all friendly. Take her to dinner under the guise of being a former stepbrother. Ask to meet her future husband. Keep her on edge about what kind of trouble I would make for Glee.

My gut clenched at the thought of Brian Clayton. I hadn't gotten much of an impression of him at the party. He and Lauren seemed cozy, but she'd looked a little bored. Before she spotted me, her attention kept wandering this way and that. He hadn't seemed to notice. He'd been chatting with the waiter. He didn't look like a bad guy, but the thought of his hands on Lauren's body made me sick. Did she go liquid when he touched her the way she had with me?

Fuck. I drained the Scotch. I wasn't here to obsess over Lauren Blakewell Gallatin Clayton Whatever. I was here to … I didn't know what I was here for. The Scotch had made the whole plan kind of fuzzy. Or maybe it had been fuzzy to start with. It was about Lauren … and Glee … and revenge …

Glee.

Just like that, all my determination came charging back. Glee had to pay for what she'd done. Where was she? How did she live with herself after betraying my father and causing his death? Glee would pay. No matter how much I wanted Lauren.

CHAPTER4

Lauren

When I got home that night, I cornered Glee while she was taking off her makeup. Our condo had an entire room devoted to Glee's wardrobe and cosmetic supplies. A vanity with a ruthlessly accurate mirror held prime position.

According to Glee, a girl's best friend wasn't diamonds, but an honest mirror. She possessed many bits of wisdom along those lines. I used to think about collecting them into a book. "A Con Woman's Guide to Style."

I myself had a rocky relationship with mirrors. Glee had spent so many hours with me in front of a mirror, teaching me the basics. How to hold my head. How to smile. How to apply eye liner. How to gain attention. How to hide.

I'd rather stare at a book than a mirror any time.

I brought her an herbal tea just how she liked it—with lemon and no sugar. Glee never ate dairy or sugar. She preferred low-calorie vices like money and men.

She accepted the mug with a vague smile and waved me to a little cushioned footstool nearby. Taking off her makeup was a nightly ritual that was often the only time we spoke to each other. Since the moment I turned eighteen and learned she wasn't my real mother, since the moment we made our deal, I'd kept our communication strictly business. Right now, my business was to get some facts out of Glee.

Rye had surprised me. Not just with his kiss, but with his accusations. Clearly he blamed Glee and me for something, and knowing Glee, maybe he was right. I wanted to find out what really happened back in Chicago.

Prying the truth from Glee might be mission impossible, but I had to try.

"Something happened tonight," I told her as she drew a cotton pad soaked with makeup removed across her left eye.

"Problem with the family?"

"The Claytons? No, no. Everything's fine with the job." At least I hoped it was, though Brian had been pissed that I left him alone for so long. "But there might be trouble coming."

"Really." With her hand poised above her eyelashes, she gave me a hard look. She was still a knockout, but a few wrinkles were daring to appear on her skin. "You'd better explain."

"Someone came to the fund-raiser last night, someone I hadn't seen in a long time. He threatened to "ruin" you. I don't know what he intends, but it would help if I had more information."

Put the job first. That was my strategy. Glee was all about the money. I'd known that even before she told me she wasn't my real mother.

"However I can help, let me know, darling. You're doing a fabulous job so far." She smiled sweetly and turned her attention to the mirror.

"The man at the party was Rye McAllister."

Glee froze for a microsecond. "Man?" She drew the word out mockingly. "Rye's just a kid."

"Believe me, he's no kid. He looks …" I picked up one of her tubes of lipstick and fiddled with it. "Well, he's all grown up, let's just put it that way. He's definitely not someone to dismiss." That broken nose, that hard body. Those astute eyes that seemed to penetrate right through me. No, he wasn't someone to dismiss. Or even forget for two minutes. Honestly, it felt as if he'd been exclusively dominating my thoughts ever since he appeared at the Smithsonian.

"Who wants to dismiss him? Let's invite him to dinner." Behind the lovely grass-green surface of Glee's gaze, I saw calculations that would put a supercomputer to shame.

"That's really not a good idea. He seems to think you did something to his family. To Mr. McAllister. He wants some kind of revenge."

She spread cold cream on her face, then began the slow process of wiping it off. "Revenge for what? Ian broke my heart when he kicked us out."

The idea of Glee being broken-hearted was a little hard to swallow. I remembered a few tears, but they probably weren't real. I'd learned that very little about Glee was real. "He didn't specify, but he looked angry."

"Well, you'll just have to deal with him, honey." She rose to her feet and patted my cheek. "We can't allow anything to get in the way of the Clayton job. I know how much this one—especially this one—means to you."

"I have to deal with him?" I scrambled to my feet. "You're the one he's after."

"Darling, I don't have time to waste on a sulky boy. If you want me to keep up my end of our bargain, you'll make sure he's no threat. Understood?"

The bargain. Damn her. The bargain was everything to me and Glee knew it. I wanted out of this life. Desperately. But Glee had the trump card in our relationship--a videotape of me during one of our planning sessions. On the tape, I calmly laid out the details of my masquerade as the girlfriend of a bank manager. That bank had been robbed of millions of dollars and the feds were still looking for the perpetrators. My role in the job was small, and I didn’t know who had hired us. But that wasn’t what it looked like on that tape.

Glee had two things that I wanted: that tape, and the truth about my real parents. She'd promised to give me both after this last job. If I messed it up, I'd be back to zero. . If anything went wrong here in DC, she’d cancel our deal and I'd be doomed to more time acting the lovesick arm candy.

I couldn't let that happen.

"You should have no trouble with the McAllister boy. A spoiled kid like him is a cakewalk. Keep your eyes on the prize and it will all work out."

She brushed past me in a cloud of stale Guerlain perfume. But I wasn't ready to let it go so easily. I still felt the Rye's silvery gaze and hot touch. Something wasn't right and I needed to know what I was dealing with.

"Just look me in the eye, Glee, and tell me what really happened with the McAllisters. I can't go into this thing blind."

"You'll be fine. I need to get to sleep now. I have a breakfast meeting with the senator. I have some fabulous ideas about how to leverage your engagement and boost his poll numbers. Seriously, I'm shocked that I never thought to become a political consultant earlier in life. These political types are so out-of-touch, they don't know what the people want to see." A breezy wink came next. I knew that wink. It meant trouble.

"What are you talking about? What do you think people want to see?"

"Why, sex, what else? I'm thinking you, on a yacht in that black bikini. Brian kissing you somewhere intimate. Not too intimate, of course. The shoulder, perhaps. Or the knee, if it's bent. The tummy might be taking it too far, and the toes are a little too fetishistic. Yes, a loving moment between two attractive adults who are engaged to be married, that's absolutely perfect."

She clapped her hands together and twirled past me. I was too shell-shocked at the idea of Brian kissing my bare stomach to say a word. Would he be able to keep a straight face?

"Expect to see me in high demand after this job is over, darling. Genius like this can not go unrecognized. Of course you'll be gone by then, doing God knows what. Something tedious with refugee children, that's all I remember. It's so boring it keeps slipping from my mind."

And she was gone, her light footsteps tripping down the hall to her bedroom.

I hadn't gotten a single answer. And yet, I had. Add up all the tiny pauses and micro-hesitations, the things she didn't say, the way she counterpunched to throw me off balance—black bikini? Yacht?—and I knew that Rye was right to be angry. Glee was hiding something.

I thought about the joint stashed in my nightstand. It would feel so good to take the edge off right now.

No. I'd been using weed as a crutch for too long. I needed to keep my focus. I needed a plan.

And I needed, on some deep physical level that shocked me, to see Rye again. To have him touch me. Kiss me. Make me feel alive again.

CHAPTER5

Rye

I spent the next day on the phone, tending to business back home and reaching out to an old friend from Chicago who now lived in DC. I'd known Levi Drake at Bellview Prep, where he was an outcast by choice. He hated the private school scene. Too brainy for the bullshit, too focused. Too bi-racial. And yet he was the only one I'd trusted enough to stay in touch with after we left.

Levi worked at a local TV news station and was interested to hear that I had a connection with "America's answer to Kate Middleton." But I didn't want to make any moves before I'd at least seen Glee. He helped me track down an address for Lauren and Mavis Gallatin. Mavis? Where did she come up with her names?

I ate a quick dinner in the bar downstairs and had just returned when a soft knock sounded on my door.

It was Lauren.

She looked different. Her uptight party clothes from the night before were gone. She wore a teal scoop-necked shirt and white jeans. Her hair fell loose down her back. Everything about her looked softer and more vulnerable.

Which sent my alarm bells ringing. Lauren had an agenda, and she'd dressed to support it. Whatever it was. I squinted at her, hoping to figure out what she was up to.

"Can I come in?" she finally asked. Her tone was wary. I couldn't detect any other evil intent. Still, I kept that threshold between us.

"What are you doing here? How did you know where I was staying?"

"I have my sources." Those beautiful, full lips curved into the tiniest hint of a smile.

I just bet she did. "What are you, a hooker?"

Yeah, it was a crappy thing to say. But she was getting under my skin with her softness and that fresh-washed glow. How dare she look like some kind of innocent when I knew what she was?

She didn't even react. When it came to guarding her emotions, Lauren was a pro. "No, I'm not a hooker. Are you an asshole?"

"Without a doubt."

"Are you going to let me in or should I send you an email outlining my proposal?"

"You have a proposal?"

"Yes. Sort of." For the first time, her poise slipped. "Maybe more of a negotiation."

"So you're a businesswoman. That explains a lot."

Finally, she snapped. "Are you going to fucking let me in or not, Rye?"

Laughing, I stood back. I propped the door open while she sailed into the room like a princess. I half expected an entourage to follow her in. I closed the door behind her. A fresh scent tickled my nose—a little spicy, a little citrusy. Rare, as if you could only experience it if you caught Lauren Blakewell after a shower.

Fighting back the beginnings of arousal, I strolled to the little mini-bar to peruse the offerings. "We have Grey Goose, Kahlua, and mineral water so pricey it must be from artesian wells in the mountains of Oz. Are you thirsty?"

She shook her head. I wondered if she was worried about roofies or some other form of vengeance.

"You're safe from me, Lauren. Whatever I do, I'll be upfront about it. I'm not the underhanded type."