Captivate, book I of the Love & Lust (6 page)

Tamsin shrugs and bends down to grab her shoes. Her hair falls over her shoulders in a fiery wave as she rights herself. “It’s your choice… but we both know how much you hate having nothing to do.”

Ashlyn groans and lets her head fall to rest on the table. This release was supposed to be easy. Find a guy. Make the cover. Move on. Simple.

Why can’t anything in life be easy?

“Fine,” she calls out as she hears the door lock click. She leans back to look at Tamsin’s triumphant grin. “You make the call and I’ll pray that I can survive this.”

Six

Slade’s feet have that familiar ache that he has come to associate with a busy Saturday night at the White Horse.
 
The front of his black fitted T-shirt is damp with sweat from being rushed off his feet. Thomas, the little prat, called in sick at the last minute and left Slade to man the bar alone. If he finds out that kid just wanted a night off, he will pummel him in the alley out back.

The scent of cigarettes is strong as he passes through the storage room and dumps the trash in the bin outside. Rob has been smoking again. His missus will throw a wobbly when she finds out.

Locking the door behind him, Slade checks to make sure he didn’t miss the trash in the kitchen. As rough around the edges as ol’ Rob may be, he is a stickler for empty waste bins. Grabbing a rag off the back counter, Slade leans over to wipe up the last of the water rings left from the evening’s pub hoppers that left just a few minutes ago.

The chairs are all stacked on the tables and the floors have been mopped. The scent of cleaning solution always makes his eyes water. That’s why he hates the closing shift. Not to mention the fact that he usually ends up missing the last train and is forced to pay through the nose for a cab back home. He can hear shouting on the street outside and looks up to see a cabbie paused just out front, leaning out his window.

It was easier getting to work when he could crash at his mate’s flat a few streets over, but now that Sean’s been shagging his new girl, Slade hasn’t been welcome.

He can feel the stretch in his back as he leans over to wipe the far end of the counter, going with the grain of the wood. Not that it really matters because of the sheen of gloss covering it.
Almost done,
he reminds himself as he glances behind him a the clock. 2:03 a.m. He’s missed his train.

He turns when he hears the bell over the front door ring. “Oy. Didn’t you see the sign? We’re closed.”

“I’m quite aware of that.”

Slade sinks into an overconfident grin as he eyes up the brunette standing before him. A narrow waist flares out into appealing hips and legs that just won’t stop. Shiny black heels help accentuate the woman’s sculpted calves. As he draws his gaze higher, he notes each curve until he reaches the firm frown on her otherwise attractive face.

“Are you done drooling yet?” she snaps, planting her hands firmly on her narrow hips.

“Almost.” He leans back against the bar to take in the full view.

The open collar of her buttoned blouse dips low enough to be tempting but reveals only a hint of flesh. Her straight black skirt falls just above her knees. It reminds him of a teacher he used to fantasize about back in secondary school… a very hot teacher.

She clears her throat and adjusts her black-rimmed glasses. They sit low on her nose and her brilliant blue eyes peer over the top at him. “I’m starting to think this might have been a mistake. You are obviously
not
who I was looking for.”

He struggles to comprehend this cryptic statement as she turns and heads back to the door.
What the heck is she going on about? I’ve never seen her before in my life!

“Wait!” He rushes around the end of the bar. He has to at least find out what this is all about. He slows as she turns back to face him. “Were you looking for someone?”

“I was looking for Ender James. What I found is some pub ragamuffin who thinks he’s the world’s gift to women.” She wrinkles her nose with obvious disgust. “From a distance, you have the right look, but you obviously don’t know how to use it.”

“Now hang on a second.” His jaw sets in a hard, distinctive line as he approaches her. “You can’t just come in here and start tearing a bloke to pieces without even telling him your name.”

She forces a laugh before settling into a hard smile. He can see that she is debating whether to turn and walk right out the door or give him another chance. Judging by her closed-off posture, he has little shot of this going in his favor.

“Please,” he says. “I probably shouldn’t have been so obvious about checking you out.”

“Probably?” Her tight smile loosens just a fraction, so Slade takes that as a good sign.

“I’m really not a total prick,” he says, taking another step toward her. “Usually only about fifty percent on a good day.”

An inner glow appears in the woman’s eyes as some of the tension eases from her shoulders. “Well, I’ll give you one thing. You do know how to smooth talk a gal.”

Slade offers what he hopes to be an innocent shrug. “A guy’s gotta eat, right?”

She reaches into her slim clutch and holds out a business card to him. Turning over the glossy black card, he notices wide swirling red designs and a name in bold print: Tamsin Archer.

 
“My name is Sophie Turner. I’m Tamsin Archer’s agent.”

“Whoa.” He tosses his rag to the side and offers his hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we were properly introduced.”

She stares down at his hand and sniffs with distaste. “On the contrary… I think we have.”

When she turns to leave, he rushes for the steps and grabs hold of her arm before she can open the door. “Please, wait. It’s been a really long day and I was a bit of a wanker. Let me buy you a beer and we can talk. How about that?”

He watches as a hint of a smirk tugs at her lips. “Are you hitting on me, Slade?”

Better be careful with how I answer that one!
He thinks over his response before shrugging. “That depends on if you want me to.”

“Maybe there is a bit of Ender in there after all.” Sophie laughs. She saunters past him and heads for the bar. “I’d like a pint of Stella, please.”

His eyebrow arches with surprise. “Fighting juice? I would’ve pegged you for a fruity drink kind of gal.”

“Then you would have been wrong.” She sets her purse down on the counter, holding her skirt as she crosses her legs.

From this vantage point, it looks very uncomfortable to be perched on the edge of the barstool, but somehow she manages to make it look natural. He rushes around the bar and grabs a glass, giving it a onceover to make sure it’s clean.

“So I’m guessing it’s a good thing you’re here, then. Does this mean I got the job?” He pulls on the tap and waits for the foam to rise to the rim of the glass. He pushes the pint toward her and pours himself one, stopping halfway. He doesn’t want to look like a drunk during their first encounter, now does he?

“Well, that all depends on you, really. Let’s call this an interview, shall we?” Sophie grabs the pint and takes a long drink.

Slade watches her throat bob several times before she places the glass back on the bar. A third of the beer is gone. He grins, realizing that under this high-maintenance exterior is a girl who could probably outdrink most of the blokes that come in here every weekend. He likes that.

“You’re a pretty tough bird under all that makeup, aren’t you?” he asks, leaning against the bar. The scent of her perfume makes his stomach feel warm. Or maybe that’s the beer. Probably the beer.

“I have been known to play the role of bodyguard a time or two. Tamsin can be quite a handful at times.”

Slade laughs. “No kidding. I think I’ve still got the claw marks in my stomach to prove it!”

Sophie smirks before taking another drink. This time she sets it to the side and laces her fingers together, leaning in close. “Here’s the deal: we want you for more than just the cover shoot. I’m prepared to offer you a rather nice sum of money in exchange for your services over the next three weeks.”

His eyes widen in surprise. “Well, that doesn’t sound the least bit kinky.”

“I assure you
that
is not something I am willing to pay for.” She reaches for her purse and pulls out a trifold set of papers and passes them to him.

“This is your contract. It details everything we expect from you. All of your expenses will be paid for the duration of this book signing tour. Five cities in three weeks. Black tie dinner parties and more screaming women than a guy like you could handle. If that sounds like a good time, then you can sign on the dotted line.”

She tugs back on the contract, making him pause. “Make no mistake about it, though. This is a job. If Tamsin takes you out to party, then you go, but don’t you dare show up the next morning too hung over to work. No drugs, no bringing hookers back to the hotel, and most importantly, do not do anything stupid to get a bad name in the press.”

“I don’t do hookers.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Just keep that attitude in check and we’ll be just fine. Snarky is good—women like that—but keep the dickhead moves to yourself, okay?”

Slade stares at her, feeling slightly overwhelmed, and judging by the look in her eyes, she can tell. Her stern expression softens. “This is a great opportunity for you, Slade. I’d hate to see you blow it.”

Reaching into her purse, she grabs a twenty-pound note and tosses it on the counter. She spins on her heel and saunters back to the door, leaving Slade numb and speechless.

“Hey!”

When she looks back over her shoulder, he holds the business card up for her to see. “I’ve been trying for years to get my foot in the door, but I think we both know I had the least amount of experience in that room. I’m just a pub keep with a dream, not some glamorous model.”

Sophie smiles back at him. “That is exactly what we’re hoping for.”

As the bell over the door rings, he blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair.
Did that really just happen?

He grabs the contract and riffles through the pages, seeing excessively big words. He stops on the final page and stares at the payment offer. It stands out in bold red ink. His mouth gapes open as he runs his finger over the multi-digit amount. He would have to work weekends at the White Horse for six months to make what he can earn in three weeks. Not to mention the publicity that will come from this.

Being on the cover of Tamsin’s new book could just be the big break he’s been waiting for. Maybe he really could move back out of his mum’s flat. Lord knows she hasn’t been overly thrilled with all of his stuff lying around since he was forced to move back in six months ago when his flat mate, Timothy up and kicked him out when he decided to shack up with a new girl.

That one ended badly for both of them.

Slade groans and hangs his head. What is he getting himself into?

Seven

Ashlyn taps her chin with her finger as she stares into the depths of her closet. She only brought three pairs of shoes with her to London and each is sitting neatly on the shelf at the bottom of the built-in organizer. Her long-sleeve cotton shirts are folded neatly in a pile on the bottom shelf. Her jeans are pressed and neatly hung. Two hoodies, worn and faded but utterly comfortable, and three tank tops dangle from hangers.

The six-foot space looks positively barren.

Her color palette is borderline boring, or at least that’s what Tamsin always says. Her friend has a flare for standing out in the crowd. From her black or white boned corsets, hip-hugging red leather pants, and wild mane of flaming hair, Tamsin Archer knows how to make an entrance.

Tamsin is perfectly suited for this lifestyle. A different city every few nights. Luxury suites and penguin-suited concierges that bend to her every whim, not to mention the flock of fans always at her beck and call.

She doesn’t know how Tamsin does it. There is no way Ashlyn could party all night long and pull off anything even remotely resembling beautiful in the morning.

Not that she would ever dream of going out. Ashlyn prefers peace and quiet, a good book, and a glass of milk before bed. She knows she’s already begun to develop some serious spinster attributes, but at least she doesn’t have a cat yet!

Skimming her hand along her tops, she scrunches up her nose, trying to decide if today is more of a black day or a gray. The BBC weather report drones on in the background about the likely chance of rain.

“Isn’t it always raining in London?” She selects a gray top, knowing that on a wet day like today, she shouldn’t have any trouble blending in.

Sinking down onto her bed, she wiggles into her pair of skinny jeans and has just buckled her belt when a knock sounds at her door. “Mrs. Doyle?”

Her bare feet whisper across the ornamental rug as she opens the door to find a bellman waiting for her. She smiles politely. “Actually, that was my mother. I’m still a miss.”

“Pardon?” When the young man’s eyebrows rise, she can’t help but notice one is slightly more curved than the other, almost as if it were caused by a waxing gone wrong.

She stuffs down her chuckle and holds out her hand. “Were they able to save it?”

Muddy-brown eyes close for a split second as the bellman shifts from his left foot to the right. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, miss.”

“Please, call me Ashlyn.” She reaches out and unzips the black garment bag he holds aloft and reaches inside to stroke the arm of her coat. “And I’m referring to the life-threatening coffee stains that sent me racing to you for assistance, of course.”

The first hint of a smile makes the young man’s cheeks redden as he dips his head. “Oh, right. I knew that.”

“I’m sure you did.” She holds up a finger and dashes across the room to find her purse. Pound notes protrude from the top of her billfold. “Darn English money,” she mutters as she riffles though the various-sized bills.

“I’m afraid I’m a tad hopeless when it comes to understanding the conversion rates,” she calls as she holds out a colorful array of money. The man’s eyes widen in surprise as she places them in his hand.

“That’s far too much,” he sputters and tries to hand the stack of money back.

“Trust me, this will be entirely less awkward if you just take the money and say thank you.” She pushes his hands back with just enough force to make her wishes clear.

“Of course. Thank you, miss.” He holds out the garment bag to her.

Ashlyn’s cheeks warm at the man’s sincere excitement. This is one of the things she loves most about her job… being able to tip freely and generously. “And its Ashlyn, not miss, remember?”

The blush that creeps along his face highlights a light smattering of freckles along his nose and cheeks. “I’ll remember next time.”

With a small chuckle, Ashlyn closes the door behind her and lays her garment bag on the bed. She will check later to make sure the coffee stain from Friday morning has been properly removed, but for some reason, she doesn’t want to check just yet.

She had a dream about Slade Collins last night. A rather blush-enhancing dream to be exact.

For as long as she can remember, guys have never really captured her attention, at least not in the conventional sense of the word. She would look, maybe even allow herself to linger beyond what kissing a stranger might be like, but her fantasy life couldn’t even make a nun blush.

So why is it that she can’t shake Slade from her mind?

It was his eyes,
her mind answers for her.

She’s always been a sucker for a good set of eyes. Not too deeply set in the face or unevenly proportioned or overly expressive. She always thought people who can express every emotion with their eyes are boring and painfully cliché. She likes mystery, the ability to stare into the depths of a man and not be fully certain of what he is thinking.

Slade confuses her. That confusion has only increased tenfold since she allowed Tamsin and Sophie to push her into what she fears will be the worst decision ever made. Today she will find out just how bad it really is.

She grabs a hair tie from beside her laptop and winds her hair up into a messy bun. The black smartphone on her dresser begins to vibrate behind her, skittering across the polished cherry wood surface. Ashlyn sighs and crosses the room to answer the phone. “Hello?”

“Please tell me you’re already on your way.”

Leaning her hip against her dresser, Ashlyn laughs. “That screeching voice sounds dangerously familiar…”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Ashlyn can hear the rapid staccato of Sophie Turner’s high-heel shoes in the background. Glancing down at her watch, she realizes it has just gone eleven and Sophie must be on her way to meet Tamsin for lunch. They’re supposed to be going over all of the finer details of their trip while Ashlyn is stuck taking Slade on a shopping trip for a new, more Ender James-friendly wardrobe. This is going to be a nightmare.

Ashlyn hates clothes. Unless they are comfy or sporting an array of basic earthen tones, she is not interested.

“I’ve got a watch, you know.” Ashlyn huffs as she grabs her purse and room key. The phone teeters the between her cheek and shoulder as she unzips the garment bag and pulls out her coat.
 
Tucking it over her arm, she rushes to the closer and slips her feet into her slip-ons and then heads for the door. “I’m on my way. Chill out.”

“Okay,” Sophie says, sounding far too relieved.

“When have I ever let you down?” She jabs at the elevator button and waits for it to arrive.

“There’s always room for a first, and today is not going to be it. Just take Slade to Oxford Street. Buy him some nice clothes and come back. Piece of cake.”

“Says the woman who lives to shop,” she grumbles as the elevator dings and the golden doors slide open. “I’m heading down now. Gonna lose the signal—”

She pulls the phone away from her ear and sighs. Zero bars. “Too late.”

As soon as she reaches the lobby, Ashlyn waves at the doorman and crosses the street. After a few trips to London, she has managed to get a fairly decent lay of the land from the Covent Garden Hotel. She loves that she is only a few blocks away from the beautiful Royal Opera House or dozens of quaint shops and street performers.

At the corner, she turns to head for Charing Cross Road, which will lead her to Tottenham Court Road underground station where she will hang a left. From there, it’s an easy half-mile walk to meet up with Slade at the Oxford Circus tube station.

On a warm day, this walk would be lovely, but the breeze is a tad more blustery than Ashlyn cares for. By the time she reaches the first of the shops on Oxford Street, her nose has begun to drip and her cheeks feel a bit chaffed.

“How do I get myself talked into these things?” She groans as she attempts to push her way through the lunch crowd that has begun to spill out of offices and shops in search of a hot meal. Her stomach growls, reminding her that the bagel and jam she had for breakfast won’t hold her over for long.

Weaving through the proverbial rat race, Ashlyn mutters her apologies as she is bounced from person to person, feeling very much like a human pinball. She hates crowds, well, actually anything that involves five or more people at a time. Already she can feel sweat clinging to her palms and her heart palpitating in her ears.

As a child she was locked in a basement on accident during a friend’s birthday party. The music had been loud so no one heard her screams. To a five-year-old, a dark and damp basement is the epitome of every conceivable nightmare, and she was stuck down there for nearly three hours before her mother returned to discover her daughter missing.

When her mom informed her that she would never be allowed over to her friend Jean’s house again, Ashlyn didn’t put up a fight. Since that day, she has been terrified of closed-off spaces. Anything dark, suffocating.

Why she is terrified of large crowds, though, is a mystery. It’s true she possesses some rather extreme introverted tendencies, but that doesn’t account for why she gets nervous even sitting in a movie theater on opening night.

Ashlyn ducks her head, trying to use her hair for protection from the crowds. A couple years ago when she moved to L.A., she was talked into chopping off her hair into a stylish bob. For nearly six months she was terrified of going to the grocery store during the day for fear of being trapped by moms with shopping carts filled with screaming kids barreling down a narrow aisle. She learned then that she would never cut her hair again.

The flow of lunch traffic nearly carries her beyond her stop. She leaps onto the door front of a building and tries to peer over the mass of heads. Friends and coworkers chat about their day’s activities as they funnel past. The congestion at this stop is made worse by the nearly constant flow of people rising from the underground at the Oxford Circus station.

She leans back against the wall and checks her watch: 11:50 a.m. Giving the area a quick onceover to make sure Slade hasn’t miraculously arrived early, she settles in to wait.

From time to time she stomps her feet, wishing she’d been smart enough to wear socks with her slip-ons. The damp cold has begun to creep through her jeans and settle into her bones.

Peering down the street, she can see countless stores that would offer anything from casual sports socks to neon pink-and-black zebra-print thigh highs, but she can’t risk leaving her spot and risk missing Slade. So she waits until the tips of her fingers and toes have gone completely numb.

The lunch crowd has begun to die down a bit. Most of them now cram into sandwich shops, sushi bars, pubs, and bakeries to get out of the cold. Oh, how she envies them.

Ashlyn checks her watch for the fifth time in less than two minutes. Her foot taps with impatience on the concrete path just a stone’s throw from Oxford Circus tube station. People file out of the underground station like a herd of cattle jostling for position, but not a single one of them captures her attention.

Slade is late.

She was told that he would be taking the Victoria line to meet her at noon, and it is already ten past the hour and he is nowhere to be seen.

“Typical,” she mutters as she tucks her scarf back into the neckline of her coat. She shoves her hands deep into her pockets, clenching them into fists as she bounces on her toes.

And then she sees him. He stands a few inches taller than the other men exiting the underground. His hair is whipped about his forehead, his black scarf flapping behind his back as he pauses on the side of the street to look around.

“Over here!”

He turns at her call. As he approaches, his eyes widen with surprise as he takes in her gray wool coat and pink scarf. “You’re that girl. The one who ran into me at the coffee shop.”

“Actually, I believe it was you that barreled into me,” she corrects without thinking. The instant the words pass her lips, she bites down on her tongue and blushes. Thankfully, he appears to be too busy searching for the coffee stain on her side to notice the added flush to her cheeks.

When his gaze lifts to meet hers, she sees confusion. “You’re my assistant?”

She bristles and thrusts her shoulders back a bit. “I am not
your
assistant. I work with Tamsin, not that you ever realized that little detail the other day.”

“Pardon?”

“At the registration table…” Her hint doesn’t seem to turn on any light bulbs. “I checked you in, took your shirt, told you where to go…”