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You can’t truly know anybody. Not your friends. Not your neighbors.
Not your lovers.
Not even yourself.
I learned the last one the hard way. Harsh? Maybe. But once you truly understand how brutal the world is—how quickly the ground can be ripped out from under you—the easier it is to get from one day to the next.
You keep a tight lock on your heart.
You hold your secrets close.
And you look out at the world from behind a wall of glass bricks, so thick it’s almost shatterproof.
Almost.
That’s the tricky word. The hard lesson that nearly broke me.
Because despite everything I thought I knew—despite every rule I’d set for myself—I let him in. I let him get close. A man whose hands have caressed me. A man I fear I don’t know at all. Who may have betrayed me in the most brutal of ways.
He is a mystery, and yet I let him hold my heart in his hands.
Now, I am fully at his mercy. And all I can do is hope that he is truly the man of my dreams… and not the tormentor who still hides in my nightmares.
My cheek muscles are sore from smiling so much, but I don’t care because—hands down—this is the absolute best day of my life. “Do you want it signed to you?” I ask, taking the copy of Reveries at Dusk from the outstretched hand of the last reader in line—a wide-eyed blonde in a UCLA tee.
“Are you kidding? Of course.” She pushes a lock of hair out of her eyes, then spells her name for me. Her copy of my first—and so far, only—book is already open to the title page.
It’s now fifteen minutes past closing time, and while there are a few people still mingling in the store, she’s the last person in line. As for me, I may look like I’m seated, but I’m really floating on a cloud, not quite able to believe that so many readers had come to The Ripped Bodice—an incredible bookstore in Culver City—to meet me and get a signed copy of the book.
And not just that. Before settling at the table stacked with copies of Reveries, I’d done a Q&A in front of dozens and dozens of readers.
Seriously—Best. Day. Ever.
Even better than the day my agent called to tell me my book, a steamy women’s fiction novel with magical elements, had made the top ten of the USA Today bestseller list.
I finish my inscription, then sign my name—Bree Bernstein—below where it’s printed on the title page.
When I pass it back, the smiling blonde hugs it to her chest. “Thanks so much. I’ve read it twice already, and I can’t wait for the next one. I have to know if Ace comes back.” She holds a hand over her heart and swoons.
I know how she feels. Ace is far-and-away my favorite character. Not too surprising considering who I modeled him after. But that little authorial tidbit is meant only for me.
I offer a benign smile. “Ace died.”
She cocks her head. “Please. There’s no way Bethany is letting death keep her from her love.”
“Is that what he is? What about Dirk?”
She presses her fingertips to her temples and groans. “Oh, man. You’re killing me.”
I laugh. “I promise it’s not meant to be torture. Thank you,” I add. “It means a lot that you love them as much as I do.”
We chat a bit longer, then she asks for a pic with me before heading over to the counter to pay for the stack of books she’s collected in the store—with mine right on top.
I wait until she’s done, then hurry to the checkout area and start spewing out my thanks to the owners, Leah and Bea, even as I tell them that I hope I was okay. This was my first ever Q&A as a published author.
“You did amazing,” Leah says.
“Fantastic,” Bea adds.
A small part of me fears they are just being nice—Did I stumble over my words during my talk? Did I give away too much of the plot?
But mostly, I believe them. Today felt good. Like it’s the second half of my job. The
first part’s where I sweat out the book in blood. The second part’s where I feel the love and know it was worth it.
I spend another fifteen minutes chatting with the store staff, but I know they probably have things to do in this last hour before the shop closes. So I repeat my thanks, then gather up the ridiculously amazing goodie basket from the store. A few fans also brought gifts, and those are piled in the basket, too. A mix of candy and wrapped packages and homemade bookmarks and other trinkets that I treasure.
The summer sun is low in the sky when I reach the door, and it’s hitting the glass in a way that turns it into a mirror. I pause for a moment, just looking into my own brown eyes, my long, almost-black hair hanging loose around a face that is lit up with so much joy I barely recognize it as mine.
I turn back to my hosts. “Thank you both so much. Today was a keeper.”
Leah grins. “That’s what we like to hear.”
“Thank you again for coming,” Bea says at the same time. She glances at the clock. “Are you going to be late? I should have cut questions off a few minutes earlier, but it was going so well.”
“Oh. No. Not a problem.” I feel my cheeks go red. During the Q&A, someone asked how I was going to celebrate after the signing. Since head home and stream a romcom sounded lame, I concocted a party in Burbank. “They know I’m coming from over the hill, and my arrival time is a moveable target.” A total lie, but, hey, I write fiction.
Leah grins. “Have fun.”
“And pop in next week,” Bea adds. “We’ll have more stock for you to sign.”
“Will do,” I promise as I head out, giddy all over again at the idea. It doesn’t get much
more author-y than that.
He shouldn’t have come.
As far as Ash was concerned, that was a given. Axiomatic. As true a truism as ever there was.
He should have left Los Angeles two days ago, right after his breakfast meeting. He should have canceled tomorrow’s interview, then hopped the first flight back to his Austin office. He could be kicked back at his desk, reviewing the most recent test results on the INX-20. Or prepping for his upcoming meeting in Vegas.
Or, hell, he could be chasing typos as he proofread next week’s shareholder report.
Anything—anything—other than sitting parallel parked in a red zone while he waited for a woman who hardly knew he existed to step out of a bookstore and into his line of sight.
No. That wasn’t true.
She felt the tug of attraction as much as he did. He was certain of it.
She knew him.
She wanted him.
She’d pushed him away.
And wasn’t that a hell of a thing?
She wasn’t the first woman to reject him, of course. But he had ego enough to remind himself that it didn’t happen often. Still, she was different. With her, the rejection had stung.
When they’d met, that first glimpse had felt like a punch in the gut. Albeit a pleasant—hell, arousing—punch. But he hadn’t pursued anything. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong vibe.
Wrong man.
Back then, he’d been angry—drenched in hate for Damien Stark, the father he thought he understood, and on a mission to destroy a family he’d resented.
The nanny for his father’s kids, Bree had merely been part of the scenery, and yet she’d pulled his focus without even trying. But the last thing he’d needed was the distraction of a woman, no matter how much he’d craved that distraction.
Even later, after the dust had settled and he was back home, she’d pop into his mind. Hundreds of miles between them—and much fewer words exchanged—and yet there she was. The beautiful girl with the haunting eyes who’d made his cock go hard with nothing more than a sideways glance.
That soft skin. That adorable smile. That sharp mind and stunning body he was certain would fit perfectly against his own. A body he shouldn’t desire. But he did, and in his fantasies, they’d make love sweetly under the sun, her bare skin glistening with sweat as he thrust inside her. As she whispered that she knew him. That she believed in him.
That she wanted him.
But that was all just his fantasy. Why the hell would she want him? Not after what he’d done.
He might have fooled the press. They’d gone from calling him reckless, to praising his determination and skill, to telling the world that he never backed down. That he was the man who went after what he wanted and wrote his own damn rules.
He was Ashton Fucking Stone, and when he set a goal, he achieved it.
That’s how the media spun it, anyway.
But Ash knew better than anyone that those reporters were morons.
Yup, Ashton Carrington Stone was a walking, talking lesson in the decline of journalism. Because he wasn’t the man they described. Not really. Maybe he could toss them a bone in the context of business. But in the personal?
Not even close.
But—damn him—four months ago, he’d let himself believe his own press. He’d spent a few days in his father’s house, and once again, Bree was there.
That’s when he’d seen it. That flicker of heat in her eyes. More, he’d felt it. The way the air had sizzled when they stood close. When he’d caught her arm as she’d stumbled on the stairs.
It had been late—well past two in the morning—and she’d been wearing a tank top that accentuated her figure and baggy sweats that suggested she didn’t care how she looked. Her long hair had been pulled into a messy bun, and when she’d met his eyes, hers were dark and heated.
More than anything, he’d wanted to fall into that fire with her. To lose himself in the heat of her touch. The warmth of her kisses.
So, yes. He’d leaned in. Then his little sister had called out, and Bree had bolted.
Disappointing, but probably for the best.
A few days later, both their flights had been canceled and they’d ended up together at the airport hotel’s bar.
She’d been right beside him, their hands had brushed, and that simple touch had sent a riot of lust and longing racing through his veins. And in that moment, he’d been certain that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
He’d never been so wrong.
He’d given her his spare key, then waited for her, pacing his room as he sipped Scotch, but tasted anticipation.
She’d ripped his guts out. Left him hanging.
It had taken him two drinks to realize the truth. A sad testament considering how much the press praised his intellect. Apparently, that only applied to math and science. Because she never showed, and he hadn’t seen that coming. Why would he? Ashton Fucking Stone hadn’t been stood up before. Not one single time.
He didn’t much like the feeling.
He’d called, of course. But she didn’t answer her phone. And the only thing that finally quelled his rising fear and certainty that something had happened to her—because surely she wasn’t intentionally staying away—was the flashing light on his room phone. And the message she’d left on the hotel’s voicemail.
I can’t.
Two little words.
Two tiny, throwaway words from a woman he barely knew, and yet they’d hit him with more force than a Formula One race car crashing into the sidewall.
It had been a definitive message. A solid goodbye. More than that, it had been a firm go away.
The woman didn’t want him.
So why the hell was he now sitting outside a bookstore some four months later, hoping to talk to her? Did he really think he’d be able to change her mind? Or that he’d be satisfied just being friends?
Better to walk away, but he couldn’t make himself do it. There was desire on both sides, he was certain of it. And one way or another, he was going to make Bree Bernstein his. He was Ashton Fucking Stone, after all. What was it the press was always saying? That he never backed down? That when he set a goal, he achieved it?
They were right. He got what he wanted. Always.
Everything except Bree.
“You’re an idiot, Stone. And you’ve got one hell of an ego.”
Fuck that.
He turned the ignition key, firing the engine and fully intending to pull away. He even went so far as to put the car into gear and give it a little gas. Then he spat out a curse, slammed on the brakes, and shifted back into park before killing the engine.
And then, as he had for the last ninety minutes, Ashton Stone sat in the borrowed Mercedes… and waited.
The night air is cool against my bare arms as I cross the asphalt to where I parked Maisy, the adorable Mini Cooper convertible my parents got me as a congratulations present when I sold Reveries. I guess they’d been paying attention every time I mentioned how much I love my former boss’s car.
Now I open the passenger door and put the basket in before circling back to the driver’s side. I hesitate only a moment, then climb in and start the car. I consider putting the top down, but it’s been raining on and off all day, so I leave it up and maneuver my way onto the street. But I don’t go to Burbank. Not yet.
Instead, I pull into the first coffee shop I see. I’m already over-caffeinated, but I order a latte at the drive-through anyway, then slip into one of the parking places so I can sip it while I rummage in my goodie basket. Because, hey, why wait to see what else is in there? It’s not like I’m in a hurry to get to my imaginary party.
I roll my eyes at my own self-pity. After all, technically, I’d had plans. They’d just gone kablooey. My bestie, Aria, with her screwy work schedule. And Kari with whatever emergency kept her from coming. She hadn’t said. Just called the bookstore and asked Leah to pass along the sorry-see-you-soon message.
To be honest, that was fine by me. That little emotional factoid twists in my stomach. After all, Kari was the first friend I made after moving to LA, and we’ve always vibed. But I can’t deny that there’s been some distance between us ever since—
No.
The word blares out like a foghorn in my mind, because no way am I letting my thoughts go there. Not on such a great day. Hell, not ever. Not ever, ever again.
Raindrops.
Roses.
Whiskers.
Kittens.
It’s a stupid mantra, but I learned the hard way that my mom’s advice to channel Julie Andrews really does work. And with every repetition, I push the approaching darkness back just a little bit more. Then, for good measure, I text Kari and tell her I’m sorry she had to bail, but that I’d probably see her tomorrow at Upper Crust, the cafe/bakery where she works.
I take another sip as I glance around, then frown when I notice the burly forty-something man standing a few feet from the coffee shop’s door. He’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes, but it looks like he’s staring right at me.
I think back, trying to figure out how long he’s been there. Yes. He’d been there when I pulled into the space. He’s still there. Is he watching me?
Why would he be watching me?
Panic courses through me, turning my body to ice, and I clench the steering wheel, forcing myself to do the breathing exercises that my therapist taught me in those long months after the kidnapping when every
little glitch seemed to set me off. A sideways look from an unfamiliar man. A car behind me following the same route to the grocery store. A stranger asking to share a table in a coffee shop.
A man staring at me for no reason.
Stop.
Deep breaths. I remind myself to take deep breaths. And once I’m calm, I’ll get the hell out of there.
Then I see him extend a hand as a well-dressed woman approaches. They hug, he leads her into the coffee shop, and I slump in my seat, relief and irritation rushing through me. I’m past that. I’m fine.
Or, at least, I’m trying to be.
I take another sip of my latte, forcing myself to stay right here in the parking lot to prove the point. And since I now need a distraction, I turn my attention back to the gift basket. In addition to a Ripped Bodice tee and a card thanking me for coming to the signing, there are goodies from fans, including a pair of earrings that have little covers of the book and a framed print that has a romantic quote from Ace done in beautiful calligraphy. When I find a box of pralines, I remember the woman who’d insisted her family take a detour in their journey from Louisiana to Disneyland so she could come meet me at the signing.
After I’ve looked at everything, I arrange it all back into the basket—albeit not as neatly. I’m about to start up the car again when I notice the envelope tucked in between the decorative purple tissue paper and the wooden weave of the basket itself.
I pluck it out and can immediately tell there’s a gift card in there. Probably for the store, and since my reading habit is voracious, I’m grinning when I rip open the envelope.
It’s not from the store, but I’m still smiling when I see the QR code stamped on one side of the light green plastic and the words SCAN ME in giant black letters on the other. As I follow that order, I make a bet with myself that it’s either a fan doing a reading from my book or a video of a book club discussion.
At first, all I see is a completely black screen. Then words appear.
Watch.
Listen.
No incoming calls.
No incoming texts.
No distractions at all.
Your full attention is
required.
I roll my eyes at the antics of whoever put this together, and I upgrade my guess to a dramatic reading. Maybe even a scripted version of Chapter One. I settle back in my seat and watch the letters fade.
As the screen returns to black, I hear a crackle and background noise. The hum of an air conditioner, maybe? I’m not sure, but something about the sound is familiar.
I turn up the volume, then stiffen when I hear a choking gasp.
No. Please, no.
Every cell inside me turns ice cold, and I start to shake, making that same choking, terrified sound that’s coming out of my phone.
No. No. Please not again. Please, no.
“Strip.” The filtered voice is all-too familiar, and my throat seems to close. It’s getting harder to breathe. I want to pull my feet up onto the seat and curl into a ball. I want to disappear.
I want to close this webpage and get away from this voice out of my nightmares.
I can’t.
Even if my hands weren’t shaking so much, I still couldn’t close the site. I want to scream, to toss my phone into the street. To drive away and never look back. But I can’t.
Somehow, I have to be brave.
Tears stream down my cheeks as the voice speaks again. “Strip or I’ll strip the little girl.”
The words are coming through the phone—I know that. But I’m hearing them almost seven years in the past. In the memory that is playing in my head. A lost, dark memory of those long, horrible hours.
Taken. Held against my will, helpless and terrified and completely unable to protect the sweet baby girl who was my charge. Little Anne, not yet two, who’d been snatched along with me.
Everything inside me wants to close this screen. To stop the voice. To block the images that will surely come. But I can’t. Because the people who would do something like this are the kind of people who mean what they say. I don’t know what they want from me, but I know they want something. And if I want to protect Anne—to protect myself—I have to keep watching that horrible black screen. I have to wait for the next words.
I taste saltwater and realize that I’m crying. The screen is still entirely black. That
voice is silent. But I hear Anne calling out for me, her words woozy and soft.
My entire body is shaking from the inside, as if I’m naked in a freezing room, and the only thing I can hold onto is the knowledge that right now Anne is healthy and happy and safe with her parents on a private tropical island. That, and the absolute certainty that she remembers nothing of the kidnapping.
I do, though.
I remember being locked in that room. Fighting the urge to sleep and knowing that they had drugged me. Battling the ice-cold terror that the drugs would kill me. Struggling to stay awake to comfort Anne.
Failing, and then spiraling down into a dreamless pit of darkness, as hollow and empty as death.
For years, I’ve told myself that nothing happened in those missing hours. That they kept me knocked out so that I wouldn’t fight or scream. But now, listening to that message and staring at my phone screen, I know that I’d fed myself a lie. Things happened.
Bad things. Horrible things.
And I’m terrified I’m about to finally meet the ghosts that have haunted me ever since.
I fight a wave of nausea as I wait, certain more words will appear. Either that or the voice will return. Or the black will fade into an image of the room where we’d been held. But there is nothing except a silence that seems to last an eternity.
By the clock it’s not even been thirty seconds.
Then I hear a whimper. It’s me. “Please.” My voice is thick, the words slurred. “Don’t hurt her.”
“Strip, bitch.” It’s that familiar, filtered voice again. “Strip, or I’ll play with the little girl instead.”
I start to shake. I don’t remember that. The voice is mine, but I don’t remember the threat at all. My mouth has gone completely dry, and my hand is holding the phone with such intensity it’s a wonder the damn thing doesn’t shatter.
This is a nightmare. It can’t be real. How can this be real?
But it is, and I don’t understand what’s going on, and when the sound finally dies and the screen flashes a new message, I cry out in a freakish mixture of horror and relief.
One hour. Scan again.
The words disappear, replaced by others, then still more after that.
No police. No law enforcement or private security. ...
