Rescuing the Bad Boy

Book 2: Second Chance

by Jessica Lemmon

Genres: Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Not All Scars Heal For Donovan Pate, the lake town of Evergreen Cove is a minefield of tough memories-including the day he had to let go of Sofie Martin. Years later he still can't forget the taste of her lips and the feel of her killer curves. He knows he's too damaged, that he should stay away for her own good. But what the head says and the heart wants are two very different things . . . Seven years ago, Donovan broke Sofie's heart. Now her career depends on playing nice in order to pull off the charity fund-raiser of the decade. She vows to keep things professional . . . yet working by his side every day doesn't make it easy to fight temptation, and it isn't long before she finds herself falling for this bad boy all over again. But loving Donovan means helping him face his past-so they can fight for a future together. "Jessica Lemmon is an author to keep your eye on!" -- Katee Robert, New York Times bestselling author "Everything I love in a romance." -- Lori Foster, 2014

Release date: May 26, 2015

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 424

Sample

Seven years later

Donovan Pate balled his hand into a fist and gave the front panel of his 1980 Jeep a hard whack. The temperamental dashboard lights had been flickering since he’d crossed the Ohio border.

“Come on, Trixie!” Never before had he raised a hand to his girl, but frustration had reached its peak. A seemingly never-ending drive to the last place on earth he wanted to return had a way of leeching his patience.

The lights blinked one last time before coming on and staying on. Squirrelly electric only one of the many perks to owning a classic. His Jeep had earned her name shortly after he bought her—he never knew which part of her might act up next.

He drove the main drag through downtown, shaking his head at the familiar sights. The local watering hole Salty Dog and Reggie’s Subs were both open, and each as unwelcome as every other inch of this place. When he left years ago, he’d sworn never to set foot in Evergreen Cove again.

“Yet here we are,” he told Trixie.

Donovan’s phone beeped, an incoming text from Evan Downey, one of his oldest—and only—friends, and the only person other than the lawyer who knew Donovan was in town.

The text message read: The bad boy returns.

Despite his friend intentionally being a douche, Donovan felt himself smile.

At a stoplight, he keyed in: FU.

Evan didn’t respond, but Donovan knew he was laughing. Could practically hear his easygoing chuckle now.

The light turned green and his smile faded. Much as he missed his friend, he did not want to be here.

He’d already driven past the library where his teenage, drunken, quick-to-fight self had accompanied his buddies, Evan and Asher, on their now infamous “Penis Bandit” excursion. The “artwork” may be gone from the red-brown brick building, but Evan had returned. Returned with his son, Lyon, fell in love with his late wife’s best friend, and was now engaged. Go figure.

Asher Knight had managed to stay away. Good for him. Right about now, Ash was probably touring with his band, female groupies adhered to his side—and likely a few other body parts. Donovan kept up with him through text message mostly. Usually on the receiving end of photos he wished he’d never gotten. The guy saw a lot of drunken, topless girls in his line of work.

Evan and Asher stopped visiting Evergreen Cove, but Donovan remained. Back then, he’d mostly hung out with the derelict kitchen staff from the Wharf, and his roommate, Connor McClain.

Connor kept in touch periodically via e-mail. Or at least he had during his last stint in the service. Donovan hadn’t heard from him since then. He had no idea if his buddy was still deployed in Afghanistan, or if Evergreen Cove had also lured him back into her clutches.

But Donovan wasn’t returning to the Cove permanently. No, he was only here because—irony of ironies—he now owned the mansion he once fled.

The sun was down and March’s cool air was downright cold the closer he drove to the lake, making him regret taking Trixie’s top off. First time he’d ever regretted taking a girl’s top off, he thought with a grunt.

He drove by Cup of Jo’s, eyed the CLOSED sign on the door. Just as well. He wasn’t ready to face Jo, or any other Evergreener who wasn’t expecting his presence back in town. Scott Torsett was enough.

Passing the darkened windows of Fern’s Floral Shoppe, he parked along the curb next to Torsett & Torsett Law, his destination. He pulled the key from the ignition and glared at Trixie. If she knew what was good for her, she’d start right up when he came back out, no bitching.

He may be bound and determined to vanquish his demons, to finish the unfinished business he’d left behind, but that didn’t mean he cared to be bent over the hood of his Jeep in the middle of Endless Avenue on a Tuesday night.

The Cove wasn’t exactly a small town, but everyone who lived here had known of his grandmother; knew Pate Mansion. He couldn’t take a round of condolences from some overly friendly passerby. Not now. Not ever.

One of many reasons he’d skipped the funeral.

The law offices of Torsett & Torsett were decorated with burgundy and mahogany guest chairs, pine green carpet, and shiny brass light fixtures. Cliché. Ugly.

An older woman, her fingers on the keyboard as she ticked something away on the screen, glanced up as he came in. “Help you?” she asked, eyes behind her thick lenses showing no signs of recognizing him.

“Donovan Pate to see Scott Torsett.”

She depressed a button on the phone on her desk. “Scottie, Donny’s here.”

He cringed at his old nickname, hoping the woman wouldn’t start up a polite and needless conversation, or worse—

“I’m so sorry about your grandmother,” she said. “She was an amazing woman.”

Amazing. Sure, okay.

He clamped his teeth together and offered a curt nod, then turned his back to her and watched the hallway for the guy who used to sit on his battered couch and smoke enough pot to make the entire neighborhood high. Scott stepped out of an office a second later wearing a streamlined dark suit, his former scraggly goatee shaved clean, his eyes clear, not glassy.

It was a blast from the past in the weirdest way.

“Holy shit, Donny. You look grown up.”

“Donovan,” he corrected. He ditched the nickname when he’d ditched Evergreen Cove. After his father had died.

Swear to God, Donny, you are a worthless waste of space. What’d I ever do to deserve a piece of shit like you for a son?

Wasn’t any wonder why he’d skipped dear old Dad’s funeral, too.

“Donovan, it is. Coffee?” Scott offered as they passed a carafe on a cart.

His stomach had soured at the mention of his “amazing” grandmother, at the memory of his father’s words. Words often followed by fists. Donovan shook his head. He was only going to be in Scott’s office long enough to iron out the kink in the will, then he was out of here and heading straight to the House of Pain.

He sat across from a big, antique desk wondering how the hell Scott had managed to get it through the narrow doorway, when Scott pulled a sheet of paper out of a folder and said, “Problem.”

“Another?” Fan-fucking-tastic.

“We didn’t know about this contract until Make It an Event put an ad in the paper announcing the dinner. Then we started digging.”

Contract? Dinner?

Donovan took the sheet of paper and read it over quickly. “A charity dinner.”

“Yep. Your grandmother has been hosting these things at the mansion for the last few years, and this one was contracted with the event planning company before she died. It’s a binding contract, signed by your grandmother’s hand.” He clucked his tongue in an aw, shucks manner and added, “Hope you weren’t in a hurry to sell.”

Right. Because what Donovan really wanted to do was stay in this town for… he skimmed the type searching for the date of the dinner. “Three months from now.”

Scott folded his hands on his desk. “You’re stuck, buddy.”

Donovan felt his lip curl. He wasn’t Scott’s “buddy,” and he refused to be “stuck.” He’d decided seven years ago, after his old man died, that neither his father nor his grandmother would have control over one single aspect of his life. Not ever again.

He groused at the paper in his hand.

Gertrude seemed to have gotten the last laugh.

Last year when he received the call from Scott about the will, Donovan thanked him, then did nothing. He didn’t want the mansion or the trust. He didn’t need the mansion or the trust. Over the years, and thanks to a man in a very high place, he’d been able to carve out a nice living doing stonework and building custom fireplaces in the Hamptons.

When Alessandre D’Paolo offered up his guesthouse, Donovan had looked at it as temporary digs. Aless lent him the garage where he stored his stones and worked on his designs, and where he was planning to repaint Trixie before he drove her here wearing nothing but primer gray. Donovan ended up living there by default. He liked his life in New York. He was able to keep busy, keep his head down, live honestly.

Unfortunately, Caroline, his grandmother’s chef-turned-Alessandre’s-chef, and Donovan’s one saving grace, also had a very big mouth. She’d mentioned the mansion inheritance, and the fact that Donovan was ignoring it, to her wealthy boss.

The bed-and-breakfast kingpin pressed Donovan about his plans—Was he moving? Was he renovating? Was he going to sell it?

He’d replied honestly, telling Alessandre, “I’m bulldozing it.”

That’s when his friend’s face had gone ashen.

Apparently, one man’s House of Pain was another man’s treasure, and Alessandre D’Paolo envisioned the mansion as his latest bed-and-breakfast acquirement.

And it would be. Just as soon as Donovan disentangled himself from this contract.

“This my copy?” he asked Scott, standing abruptly.

“It is.”

He turned to leave the room.

“It’s only three months,” Scott called behind him. “Not an eternity.”

“Still too long,” he answered, and shut the door behind him.



Despite the late hour, the interior lights were on at Make It an Event, making it one of the only shops still lit on Endless Avenue.

Endless. Like this trip.

Donovan had driven a few blocks until he found the shop, realizing he’d overlooked it the first time he’d come through town. If the owner was in, he’d insist they talk about the contract now rather than wait. Shouldn’t be too much trouble to get the venue moved. In a wealthy town like Evergreen Cove, there were plenty of hoity-toity places to hold a charity dinner. He parked next to a meter he didn’t have to feed since it was after six p.m. and got out of Trixie, who had done him a solid and started up without complaint.

He hadn’t known what to expect an event planning company to look like, but once he was inside, he concluded this wasn’t it. The shop wasn’t filled with frilly wedding shit, nor was it corporate and bland.

What it was, was orderly.

Clean white shelves lined with silver metal mesh trays and baskets were stacked with papers. Alongside those stood an army of black binders with neatly typed labels on their spines. The shelves and their implements made up the entire rear wall behind an equally neat desk. Save for the huge desk calendar covered in scribbly handwriting.

He studied the loopy scrawls without reading the words. A woman. Most definitely. He put a hand on one of two patterned lavender guest chairs in front of the desk and read the card on a fresh vase of purple flowers. Courtesy of Fern’s Floral Shoppe.

He wondered if Fern, one of his grandmother’s former Bridge buddies, was still alive. Clearly, her business was.

“Be right out!” a woman called from a back room.

Without answering, he meandered to the other side of the small shop where a metal table stood, not unlike the one where he prepped scallops and deveined shrimp when he worked at the Wharf.

He flipped open a photo album on its surface, recognizing the ballroom immediately, the huge chandelier with its dangling teardrop crystals, the navy walls, the gold sconces lining the walls.

Pate Mansion.

He closed the cover to see if the album was titled. It was. With a tag that read USO FUNDRAISER, PATE MANSION and last year’s date. He opened the book again and flipped through a few pages, spotting his grandmother in one photo, looking about a hundred and eighty years old instead of seventy-six.

Gertrude Pate had died spring of last year, and he wouldn’t be surprised if this was the last photo taken of her. Her ashen skin and sunken, hollow eyes were a far cry from the eagle-sharp gaze and tightly pursed lips he’d grown up around. She’d reached out to him at the end. Too late. How could someone live their life horribly for seventy-some years and think they could make up for it with a phone call? There was nothing she could’ve said he wanted to hear, so he ignored her olive branch and continued working.

Caroline, who up until Donovan turned sixteen had lived in the cottage at the back of the mansion’s property, had gone to Gertrude’s funeral. She expressed her concern when he didn’t fly back to the Cove with her. But then Caroline was an all-around good person, and Donovan wasn’t. So, there was that.

He started to close the album when a cute brunette in one of the photos caught his attention. Her familiar smile beamed, her arm wrapped around Gertrude’s frail shoulders. Sofie Martin’s sweet expression was an odd match for Gertrude Pate’s cold demeanor. Seeing her close to his grandmother was startling, if not irritating, but the smile gracing the brunette’s face wasn’t startling at all. She’d always smiled.

Right up until the moment he’d drawn out of her warm, mostly nude body and told her to get dressed.

She hadn’t smiled then.

“Sorry, I was…”

He turned to face Sofie as her words died in the empty air between them. Every detail of her smacked with familiarity, a thundering slam into the center of his chest like it’d been seven minutes since he’d held her in his arms instead of seven years.

Her wavy chestnut hair, cool green eyes that hadn’t lost a bit of their shine, and parted pink lips he could still taste on the tip of his tongue. Unbidden, his mouth watered as he recalled snagging that bottom lip with his teeth a long time ago in a mansion not so far away…

They hadn’t parted under the best of circumstances. Understatement of the millennium. His fault. He knew what he was getting into, and once he’d gotten into her, he should have stopped. He hadn’t.

Much as he’d like to believe the years had dulled the sting of what he’d done to her, he could see the condensed pain bowing her eyebrows and in the thin set of her normally full lips. He’d been cold that night, arguably as cold and apathetic as his family ever was, proving the apple hadn’t had far to fall.

His coldness had earned him a slap on the face. After taking hits his entire life, he concluded the blow from Sofie had been the most deserved. Swallowing thickly, he forced a greeting through his teeth.

One he never imagined uttering again.

“Hello, Scampi.”



A nightmare. I’m having a nightmare.

But she wasn’t. If this were a nightmare, she’d be naked.

Unfortunately, the naked part had been very real. Like this moment was very real. Which meant Donny Pate was standing in her shop. For real.

He’d aged well.

Too well, she thought with a frown.

His ink-black hair no longer covered his eyes, but it was in the same longish mass that tickled her cheeks when he’d kissed her for the first time years ago. Still long and lean, his shoulders were broader, his chest more filled out. Dark denim hugged thighs with far more muscle than she remembered.

He raised one black brow and her eyes locked on to his silver-blue ones. Those hadn’t changed. They were the color of the shallows when the lake began to freeze. They were the color of cold, the color of hollow. The color of her heart the night she’d slapped him in his stupid Jeep.

“Nice place,” he said, and she realized she hadn’t spoken yet. What was there to say?

Welcome home? How did you find me? What are you doing here?

That was a great question, actually.

“What are you doing here?” Rude, but then, he’d invented rude.

The corner of his lips lifted. Not quite a smile, but she could see she’d amused him. Good thing she’d retired from being his plaything, or his enticing smirk may have her swooning.

She’d done some growing up, too.

“Didn’t expect to find you here.” His tone gave no hint as to whether he thought this was a good thing or a bad thing.

Also: she did not care.

She was a professional. An in-charge, take-charge, confident woman who refused to let her one-time-roll-in-the-hay alter her personality.

“I’m the owner.” Pulling her shoulders, she stood straighter and replaced the look of shock on her face with neutrality. “What can I do for you?”

His mouth shrugged as if impressed she’d made something of herself. Not that she wanted to impress him.

He reached into the back pocket of his battered jeans and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Her eyes grazed his attire: simple gray T-shirt molded to nicely built arms and a muscular chest. Jeans worn from age, but clean. A far cry from the Wharf’s checkered chef’s pants he’d worn day after day, and the ratty black bandanna tied around his head.

He unfolded the paper, the star tattoo on the base of his index finger a reminder some things never changed. It took her a few seconds to drag her gaze from his hands—amazing hands.

Large, roughened from labor, and marked with a tattoo she never knew the meaning behind. There was a newer tat next to it, she noticed. A black bird—or a crow, wings spread—on the fleshy part of his thumb. She could almost feel the phantom grip of his hands back then, on her hip, on her bottom…

Anyway.

Nice hands.

“I assume this is you.”

She jerked her eyes from his hand to the paper he held. He didn’t budge, forcing her to walk across the room. When she did, she became aware of how solid he was. Living, breathing, and right in front of her. He’d always been tall, but now he seemed to tower over her. A whiff of spice rolled off his neck, the scent snapping her back to the moment he’d had her back against the door in the mansion.

She closed her eyes against the memories closing in on her.

The rake of his teeth against her mouth, the pain-and-pleasure pinch of his fingers at her nipples, the way he cupped her bottom and lifted her like she weighed nothing.

“Couch or rug?”

Blinking twice to clear her head, she snatched up the paper and flipped it around to read it. No need. She recognized the contract Gertrude drew up last year, her weakness evident in the scrawled signature next to Sofie’s indiscernible, loopy penmanship.

“Yes.” She offered the contract to him. “That’s me.”

He didn’t take it, shaking his head, and saying, “Not gonna work for me.”

For a second, she was too stunned to speak. Her eyes went to her outstretched arm, then back to his face. “Well… I—it’s not up to you.” She folded her arms over her chest, hearing the paper crunch, feeling her anxiety creep up alongside her blood pressure. She couldn’t lose her composure in front of him, of all people.

The pressure of owning her business had taken its toll these past few weeks, as did pressure from her family—an ongoing affair. Then there was the pressure of going on way too many dates over the past few years and having zero to show for it. On a good day, she rolled with the punches. Today was not that day. She wasn’t rolling anywhere.

“I’m sure you can find another venue,” he stated.

Another venue? Obviously, he’d never planned an event as huge as the Open Arms charity dinner. This wasn’t dinner for eight. This was music, this was advertising, this was formal invitations… and that was only part of it.

She forced her dry throat to swallow, the overwhelming list of to-do items stacking one on top of the other in her mind. Too much… much too much to reschedule. Her breathing went shallow, her chest grew tight.

Shoot. Wait. No. She was a professional. This was her shop. The contract in her hand was legal. She double-and triple-checked after Gertrude passed away. Uncrossing her arms, she held out the paper for him again. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Again, he didn’t move.

She concentrated on breathing deeply and not having an anxiety attack.

“The dead woman who signed that agreement”—he dipped his chin at the paper in her hand—“left me the mansion in her will. And the new owner, me, will not be hosting a charity dinner.”

Had he really just referred to his late grandmother as “the dead woman”? Gertrude may not have been the most personable human being on the planet, but she’d earned more respect than he was giving her. She’d donated a lot of money to local charities in her remaining years, working tirelessly until her final fading breath. Who wouldn’t find her actions admirable?

Donny Pate. But of course.

Rather than lecture the man in front of her who’d long ago traded his heart in for a lump of coal, she asked him a question instead. “Do you care to know what charity this dinner is supporting?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Wow. Seriously. No heart.

She decided to tell him anyway. “Open Arms provides emergency shelter and foster care for abused children of all ages,” she said. “They’ve been in the Cove for twenty years this June, offering resources such as tutoring, nutritional education, and psychiatrists to kids who have nowhere else to turn.”

The speech poured from her lips, well rehearsed thanks to reciting it over the phone to businesses no fewer than a dozen times today. She was in the process of getting more sponsors for the charity, business owners willing to pay to put logos on table tents or donate gifts for the silent auction.

Using his words against him, she rattled the paper in her hand. “The dead woman who signed this contract was committed to supporting Open Arms. She left a great deal of money to them—I’m guessing the rest to you—and left me in charge of overseeing this event. There will be no venue change. Not when this dinner has the potential to fund their program for years to come.”

There. Try to turn down a charity for abused children.

His face went hard, his lips pressing together in a flat, unimpressed line. When he spoke, his words were a pick dug into a wall of ice, each syllable a sliver chipping through his clamped teeth.

“When you put it that way,” he bit out, “definitely no.”

She forced herself to breathe and looked around for something peaceful to focus on. Instead, her gaze settled on the most beautiful thing in the room.

Him.

If going for his heartstrings didn’t work, she’d have to use good, old-fashioned reason. “Listen, Donny—”

“Donovan.”

She felt her eyebrows pull. “Excuse me?”

“Donovan. Not Donny.”

Okay, she was absolutely over his attitude. “If you can call me Scampi, I can call you Donny.”

He shook his head slowly, the left and right motion intentional. “You took the dare. You lost. Scampi.” He smiled. Actually smiled. It was a small crook of his lips, but it made him look a little sinister and a whole lot delicious. Her heart pounded harder, and this time her anxiety had nothing to do with the seven thousand things she had to look after for the charity dinner.

“Scott Torsett,” he stated.

The lawyer down the street. She’d planned his company Christmas party last year. Wild bunch, those lawyers. Thrown, she replied, “What about him?”

“You and I are going to his office tomorrow morning to get the contract voided.”

Voided?

“You still drink coffee?”

Not following his line of thinking, she shook her head.

“Tea?”

She replayed the conversation bouncing around in her cluttered head. “I drink coffee. I mean… I don’t want you to bring me coffee.”

Hang on. This was not the point. Holding the contract in both hands, she tried again.

“Donny—er, Donovan—”

He stepped a few inches closer, his smile slipping. She looked into his crystalline eyes and promptly lost her train of thought.

Geez. He’d been back in town five minutes and she was completely frazzled.

He took the contract, folded and stuck it into his pocket, then gripped her upper arms firmly, but gently. This close to him, she had to lift her chin to take in his full height. Heat rolled off his body, the rough texture of his palms skimming along the thin sleeves of the shirt she wore.

The last time she’d been this close to him, he was kissing her. Touching her. And, dammit, her entire body reacted as if he was doing that now. A full-body tingle radiated from her chest to her limbs. His lips flinched like he noticed.

But she wasn’t the naïve girl she was back then, was she? No longer was she the girl hell-bent on losing her virginity to the baddest boy in town.

In short, she was no longer stupid.

“Coffee,” he repeated. “See you in the morning.”

He started to let her go, but she kept him captive with one word. “No.”

Thank God. She was afraid for a moment she wouldn’t find her voice until he walked out of the door.

He blinked, a subtle look of surprise on his features. Probably not used to hearing the word no. Especially from women, she thought with an irritated flick of her eyes over his solid chest. Once upon a time she’d been one of his women. She knew what it was like to be under his powerful gaze, to be stroked by his powerful hands. She knew how much better it felt to say yes and be rewarded by his attention than to say no and endure his apathy.

Too bad for him, she no longer wanted his attention. And she didn’t care if he ignored her. In fact, she preferred he ignored her. They were light years away from who they were seven years ago—at least she was. He didn’t seem to have changed much.

His lids narrowed over pale eyes. “Pardon?”

“I’m having the dinner in the mansion.” Forcing her chin up, she kept her head angled, looking into his eyes as she spoke, making sure he didn’t miss her strength and persistence. “I’ve been planning this dinner for almost twelve months. It’s in the final stages,” she lied.

According to the Event Planning Bible sitting on one of the shelves on the back wall, she was about three months behind. Moving the venue, or changing the date, would be a huge setback. A setback she didn’t have time to deal with. And there was no changing the date. June eighth was the day of the organization’s twentieth anniversary. Oh crap, had she written the eighth or the eighteenth on the invites she just ordered?

Donovan’s hands tightened around her upper arms, pulling her out of her brewing panic. “You’re not hearing me.”

Oh, she heard him. She’d heard everything he’d ever said.

I don’t do virgins.

She felt her face go red at the memory. “Let go of me.”

He did, shocking her so much by obeying she didn’t immediately back away from him. The thought of him in her shop again come morning sent a river of worry flooding her system.

With less conviction than she’d wanted, she managed, “This conversation is over.”

“None of this is over, Scampi.”

“Wrong, Donny,” she snapped. “This was over seven years ago.”

A muscle in his cheek ticked. His light eyes flickered down her body and back up, making her tingle everywhere as if his fingers followed their path. Once upon a time she believed he was her one. The One. Once upon a time when she’d handed over her precious first time to a man who couldn’t care less about her.

I don’t do virgins.

Now was her chanc. . .