"Breathless for Him left me breathless. Sofia Tate has taken sexy billionaire romance up a notch with a spicy dash of suspense. Passionate and perfect." -- Cecilia Tan, author of Slow Surrender In this erotic novella, Sofia Tate takes you on an emotional and unforgettable journey into the wild desires of a jaded woman who's afraid to take a risk on a man responsible for crumbling her defenses . . . Rising star Luciana Gibbons has the voice of an angel, the curves of a woman, and a tragic love life she'd like to forget. After dating more than her share of losers, she's all but given up on men. But when she runs into a gorgeous new singer from Prague-literally colliding against him and his muscles-she may have found the man of her dreams. Tomas Novotny craves Lucy, body and soul. She is all he's ever wanted . . . and didn't know he needed. But with a past shrouded in despair, he can't risk exposing Lucy to the pain he's endured. Yet in order to give Lucy the life she deserves, Tomas has no choice but to face the past he's ignored for far too long . . .
Release date:
October 6, 2015
Publisher:
Forever Yours
Print pages:
85
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I look over at Tomas at the wheel of our jet-black Volvo station wagon. “Remember what I said during my C-section about being excited to have more babies?”
“Yes,” he replies with a warm smile.
“Yeah, I think I’m good.”
Tomas laughs to himself as I turn around to reprimand my five-year-old daughters. “Mimi, you had your time with the iPad. It’s Marika’s turn now.”
“You know, Mommy, it would be much easier if you bought us another iPad so we wouldn’t have to share this one,” Mimi remarks in exasperation.
“Yes, it would.”
I turn back around with a smug grin. “Yay! She’s getting us another iPad!” I hear Mimi exclaim.
Marika sighs in reply. “Oh, dear, you don’t know anything, do you?”
“Be nice, Marika,” Tomas admonishes her from the driver’s seat.
God, I love my girls. They may be twins with matching blonde hair, but they’re so different. Mimi is named for her godmother Allegra’s signature role from La Bohème. She’s a dreamer who worships Disney princesses. Marika, a realist whose nose is always in a book, is named after Tomas’s mother.
We’re on the autostrada on our way back home to Geneva, where we’ll spend a week before flying to the Czech Republic to enjoy the last of our summer vacation with Tomas’s family. Then he’ll fly to London to start rehearsals for his lead role in Aïda at Covent Garden, and we’ll join him for opening night as we always do for all his performances.
“They’re fighting because it’s late,” Tomas points out.
I check on the girls. The iPad is now with Marika, and Mimi is pouting as she watches the Italian countryside rush by. Peace is restored for the moment. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. The girls wanted more time in the pool with Serena. I didn’t want to put an end to their fun. They only see Serena in the summer when we visit Allegra and Davison.”
“Well, it’s getting dark and we have another three-hour drive ahead of us. I say we find a motel and just start fresh in the morning.”
I let out a long yawn. “I agree, baby. Let’s keep an eye out.”
Tomas quickly glances over at me, mindful of the road. “I have an idea to keep us awake until we find something.”
“Tell me, Prague Boy. I’ll try anything at this point.”
“You’ve told me before how much you love my accent.”
I give him a quizzical look. “Hmm, I don’t recall ever saying that.”
He raises his eyebrow at me. “Yes, it must’ve been my imagination,” he teases me. “Maybe we could tell each other our story. You know… how we met, how we fell in love.”
I take a deep breath. “Hmm, that might be kind of nice.”
He nods with a smile. “Shall we start with the day we first met?”
I grin widely and nod. “The day I met The Wall.”
* * *
The Gotham Conservatory
New York, NY
Six years ago
“Will you hurry up, Lucy? You know how Waltz hates it when we’re late!”
I’m rushing with Alli down the hallway to our Wagner seminar at our grad school, the Gotham Conservatory near Gramercy Park, trying to juggle my coffee travel mug in one hand while checking my phone with the other. I frown at the email that just popped up, shoving the phone into my coat pocket. “Correction. He hates it when I’m late. Everyone loves Allegra. And by the way, you still haven’t told me what happened with Money Boy after I left you in front of Lincoln Center.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “You’re such a drama queen. He only picks on you because your German is flawless and he’s trying to challenge you. And we’ll talk about Davison later.”
I turn to look at her with a knowing grin. “Bet your ass we will. And yes, this is true. My German is—”
Oof!
Without looking where I was going, which I could’ve sworn was down an open hallway, I bump into a wall. But a wall doesn’t grab you by your upper arms, holding them with a vise-like grip.
And a wall doesn’t have a broad chest, solid with muscle.
And a wall really doesn’t have a face with brilliant sapphire eyes, an aquiline nose, full lips that smile back at you wickedly, and a mop of dark blond hair falling across its forehead.
Then The Wall speaks to me in a deep European accent. “Are you all right?”
And that’s when I lose all train of thought.
Alli clears her throat to snap me out of my trance. “Oh, hi, Tomas. We’re just on our way to Waltz’s class.”
“Hallo, Allegra,” The Wall replies to my best friend without taking his eyes from mine, still grinning like a damn fox about to dive into its catch of the day. “Do you speak?” he directs to me.
What an asshole.
That’s it.
“Yeah, I bloody do speak. And you were in my fucking way, so how about you step aside so I can get to class?”
“Are you British?”
I shake my head in confusion. “What?”
“You said ‘bloody.’ When I learned English back in the Czech Republic, we were taught using British textbooks.”
Oh my God.
Disarmed.
That’s what I am right now. Disarmed. I can’t think, and I’ve lost my ability to speak. And I’ve never been disarmed in my life. I’ve always been in control of myself, my environment, what’s going on around me. I have to be because of my size. At the first slightest sense of discomfort, of any type of mocking or insult, my defenses go up and I wield my shield of armor like the fierce warrior maiden Brünnhilde in Wagner’s Die Walküre, my favorite role to sing.
But with this guy, the steel inside me that I usually arm myself with has melted. It pours like molten lava out of my brain, leaving me without the ability to speak. The absence of the armor causes me to turn inwardly with my s. . .
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