Dirty Secrets Page 17

  And that’s exactly what I do. Because Connor might still have a lot to learn about show business.

  But when he’s right, he’s right.

  * * *

  If you liked Dirty Secrets, why not try:

  Unbreak My Hart by Clare Connelly

  Bad Mistake by JC Harroway

  Sinfully Yours by Margot Radcliffe

  Available now from Harlequin DARE!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Unbreak My Hart by Clare Connelly.

  WE HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK FROM

  Take control. Feel the rush. Explore your fantasies.

  Step into stories of provocative romance where sexual fantasies come true. Let your inhibitions run wild.

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  Unbreak My Hart

  by Clare Connelly

  PROLOGUE

  I’M HERE TO watch her. My closest friends in the world—men I think of more as brothers than friends—have sent me here to find out what I can about the half-sister whose very existence they only learned of a week or so ago.

  I’m here to watch her but even if I weren’t, even if that wasn’t the express purpose for my flying from London to San Francisco, I would find it hard not to watch her.

  Avery Maxwell is, in a word, mesmerising.

  If I didn’t know she was a Hart I’d never have guessed. Where her half-brothers are built like mountains, Avery is diminutive. Petite. She’d be about five and a half feet and her frame is slender, though there’s a strength to her, arms that are elegantly sculpted, eyes that are intelligent and assessing as they scan the crowded bar, lips that—even when they smile—look somehow cynical. That, come to think of it, is a definite Hart trait.

  She has dark hair, thick and long; it falls down her back with a hint of wildness and untameability. I reach for my Scotch, cradling the glass for a moment, appreciating the feel of its fine shape in my hands, the elegant cut crystal half filled with amber liquid. She pauses, skimming the bar, and I wonder if she’s meeting someone here. It seems as though she’s looking for someone she recognises. Her eyes glance past me and I stiffen my spine, a hint of adrenaline flooding my system, as though she might—with one look of those dark, almond-shaped eyes—be able to discern my reason for coming to San Fran.

  Her mouth forms a hint of a smile and then her eyes skate past me. I release a breath I didn’t realise I was holding and narrow my gaze.

  Suddenly, this favour doesn’t feel so onerous—to find out what I can about the missing Hart and report back to her famous brothers. Their need to know what they can about her before working out the best way to make contact with her is completely understandable.

  She could be any number of things that would make them want to steer clear. The fact she doesn’t know she’s part of one of the world’s most successful dynasties is odd—but they could use that to their advantage and simply refuse to acknowledge her existence.

  I shift a little in my seat, wondering why that idea offends me. It might be my inner British aristocrat—the fact I was born into a family like mine and raised, all my life, to believe in the importance of blood, lineage and birthright—even though on some level I reject that thinking, it’s still a part of who I am.

  And she’s a Hart. Their blood runs through her veins—that counts for something.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE MUSIC FORMS a pulse in my veins, the beat deep and throbbing. I look around the exclusive bar, mojito in one hand, clutch purse in the other. The thin strap of my dress drops a little over one shoulder; I don’t bother to catch it.

  The day has been a stinker. Baking hot, with barely a hint of relief coming in off the Bay. Even a dip in my infinity pool didn’t cool me down, and here in this club the press of bodies, the tightness of space, combine to make my skin lightly sheened in perspiration.

  But I’m not leaving, not yet. I look around, considering my options. A hot guy near the bar lifts his drink, silently inviting me to join him. He’s gorgeous but a bit fussy, his hair a little too styled, his look a bit too contrived. Then again, there’s the cowboy I was talking to earlier, straight out of Texas, all faded jeans and plaid shirt. It’s unusual to find a guy like him in a place like this—but in talking to him I learned his dad’s an oil baron. Makes more sense.

  I continue to peruse the bar until my eyes skate past someone—at first—and then shift back. A man is watching me. I narrow my eyes, trying to determine if I’ve met him before.

  He’s handsome so it’s possible we’ve hooked up and I’ve forgotten, but no. I’m sure I’d remember him. His jaw is square, covered in stubble, his face autocratic and symmetrical, his skin has a golden tan and his hair is a light brown with a slight wave. He has an air of authority in his bearing, from the way he’s sitting so straight and controlled to the breadth of his shoulders. He’s wearing a suit, definitely bespoke, and hand-made shoes.

  My lips curl with a hint of derision, because while there’s a chance he’s self-made there’s also a greater probability he’s some kind of entitled rich kid, living off his trust fund, wasting money on big boy clothes. Nonetheless, I’m intrigued enough to return his stare head-on, lifting my drink and draining it until it’s empty.

  I sashay towards the bar, not taking my eyes off him, and as I draw closer I lift my lips into a slow smile, loaded with sensual promise.

  Rich kid or not, I’m not looking for anything more than one night. It’s my tradition—how I mark this date every year—and he looks like he’d be decent in bed. Then again, that’s hard to know for sure—lots of hot guys have been total disappointments in the sack.

  ‘Hi there.’ I flash him a megawatt smile now and I see the way his expression shifts, speculation in his eyes.

  ‘Hi. How are you?’ An English accent, very plum, very formal. Definitely rich kid.

  ‘Let me guess,’ I murmur. ‘You’re a lord.’

  He shoots up one brow and my stomach twists because he’s incredibly handsome and, up close, he’s also very charming. His skin is tanned but he has some freckles across his nose, freckles that speak of a life spent outdoors. His hair is light brown with natural highlights at the side, and there’s warmth in his features, a look of complete kindness that I can’t help but recognise.

  ‘Close. Earl.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Earl what?’ he prompts, expecting me to somehow
intuit his title.

  ‘Well,’ I murmur in response, ‘now, that’s a little harder.’

  ‘Have a drink and I’ll drop some hints.’

  He gestures to the seat beside him but I don’t take it. Instead, I move closer, so I’m standing within the void created by his legs. ‘I’ll have another mojito.’

  A frown flashes across his face but then he smiles, lifts a hand and orders our drinks. I don’t know what his name is or why he’s here in San Fran, in this bar talking to me, but before midnight I’m going to have my wicked way with him—Happy Birthday to me.

  * * *

  My best friends’ half-sister is flirting with me. And my dick is growing harder by the second and I want to ignore the reason I’m here and take this in a totally different direction. I want to fuck her.

  This I hadn’t expected. I thought she’d be like the Harts. I thought she’d look like one of them, that something about her would remind me of them. I didn’t expect to feel this zing of attraction, this aching need to possess her, yet it’s running rampant through me, out of control, impossible to ignore.

  But I do ignore it because Avery Maxwell is definitely off-limits. Isn’t she?

  * * *

  ‘So you have a fancy title?’ I murmur, leaning a little closer, pressing a hand to his shoulder. I’m kind of interested—the aristocracy is such a foreign concept to me—but at the same time this conversation is really just a means to an end. I know that in the morning I won’t think of this guy again. I won’t remember his name, his title, nor the colour of his eyes—even though they are a particularly striking shade of brown, as though someone’s taken the top off a just poured espresso, that beautiful golden crema, and filled his irises up with that perfect pigment. They’re surrounded by thick black lashes that give them the appearance of having been framed. Men always have the best eyelashes. Bastards.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And it is?’

  ‘I thought you were guessing?’

  A smile lifts inside me. ‘And what do I get if I guess it right?’

  For a moment he hesitates, something flashes in his eyes that makes me wonder if I’m intimidating him. I’m used to that. I’m what men of a certain age would call ‘forward’. How’s that for a double standard? Do you have any idea how many men try to pick me up? And they’re just ‘men being men’. But a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go after it? Forward. A slut. Amoral. Take your pick, I’ve heard them all at one point or another.

  ‘Earl of Castlewick?’ I grin, lifting my mojito and savouring the flavour as it hits my mouth.

  ‘Not even close.’ His laugh is the last word in hot. Deep and rumbly, and somehow even that small sound has an English accent so my stomach twists. A familiar reassuring heat forms low in my abdomen, and I know exactly what to do with it.

  I lean a little closer, catching a hint of the cologne he wears. It’s woody and spiced and when I press a hand to his shoulder he’s warm in a way that pulls me even closer.

  ‘Give me a clue.’

  He reaches for his Scotch, putting it between us as he lifts it to his lips, and again I have that feeling that he’s trying to put the brakes on this—on me. And yet this isn’t my first rodeo. I know desire when I see it and that’s exactly what this man and I are feeling for one another.

  Human, biological instinct. Desire, need, sex. I don’t know why we as a society have overcomplicated this with all the emotional bullshit people try to layer over what is, essentially, a very animalistic act. Do you think any other animal bothers to dress sex up as something more than it is?

  ‘Earl of McHotness?’ Okay, that’s totally sleazy but I don’t care. It’s worth it to see the instant flash of speculation that deepens his eyes from gold to burnt butter brown.

  ‘I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.’

  I shake my head, enjoying myself despite the duality I sense in him. ‘You don’t want to even try to guess?’

  He lifts a brow and shakes his head. ‘I’ve never been any good at guessing games.’

  I pout for a moment. ‘What are you good at then?’

  Another hint of resistance, like he’s not saying the first thing he wants to. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Hmm.’ I move my hand from his shoulder to his arm, squeezing biceps that are well-shaped. ‘You’re fit. So you either work out a lot or have a job doing manual labour.’ I move my gaze downwards, intending to look at his shoes, but instead my gaze lingers on his crotch. He’s wearing a dark grey suit. If it were black or navy blue it might do a better job of hiding the fact his cock is either hard or getting that way but, as it is, I can see the evidence of his desire and it brings a smile to my face.

  Emboldened, I move even closer, my hips brush against his inner thighs. If he were to shift forward on his seat—even a little—his dick would press against me, and you don’t even want to know how badly I need to feel that.

  ‘But, going by your suit and shoes, I’d say that’s not it at all.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my suit and shoes?’

  ‘They don’t exactly scream carpenter.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Not any carpenter I’ve ever met.’

  ‘And you know a lot of carpenters?’

  He’s quick. We bounce off each other in a way that heightens my attraction to him. ‘I’ve known a few.’

  His eyes narrow infinitesimally, as though he’s trying to pick me apart, piece by piece. Bless him. If only he knew what a waste of time that would be—not to mention energy. Why try to understand someone you’re only going to know for a few hours?

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you then, but I’m not a carpenter.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll be a disappointment.’

  He’s quiet, his eyes scanning my face, and then he shakes his head, a laugh I could best describe as rueful tipping from his lips. ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘I have a place around the corner.’ It’s one of the reasons I come to this bar. Sure, it’s ‘the’ spot to be right now, so it’s also great for networking, but nothing trumps convenience. My work life is hectic enough—when it comes to my private life—what some might call ‘social’ life—I want ease of use.

  Another laugh, this one a deep rumble. Now, almost as if against his will, he places a hand on the curve of my hip, his thumb sliding across my side so a shiver bolts down my spine.

  It’s such a small touch, but it feels amazing.

  ‘Is there some kind of rush I’m not aware of?’

  I consult the wristwatch I always wear—one of the few items of Mom’s I still have. It’s after ten.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? I lose my magic pumpkin carriage at midnight.’

  ‘Ah. Leaving me with only a glass slipper to find you again?’

  ‘I’m not that kind of Cinderella. There’s no “finding me” afterwards.’

  ‘So you disappear into thin air by midnight?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  He considers this a moment then lifts a finger to my shoulder, watching its progress as he traces a line down my arm towards my wrist, then my hand. He laces his fingers through mine, frowning a little as he looks down at our interlocked hands.

  ‘Let’s talk a bit.’

  I pull a face. ‘Talk’s overrated.’

  Another laugh and I’m forced to consider why I’m still standing there. I thought he was watching me, I thought he wanted what I want. ‘Look, Earl...’

  ‘Barrett Byron-Moore,’ he supplies, and I’m not disappointed. Frankly, that’s every bit as British as I would have expected. ‘Earl of Ashwyn.’

  ‘Well, Barrett Byron-Moore, Earl of Ashwyn.’ My gut pulls as I say the double-barrelled name, liking the feel of it in my mouth. ‘I must have read you wrong.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mmm.’ I press a finger
to the button at his throat, flicking it a little, my eyes not dropping from his face. ‘I thought you were looking at me like you wanted a bit of...fun. But if you’re one of those guys, then I won’t waste either of our time.’

  He squeezes my hand. ‘What’s “those” guys?’

  ‘You know, the romance guy.’

  ‘Romance?’ Another laugh. They fall so easily from his mouth, beautiful rich sounds of natural amusement, and I briefly envy him that light-heartedness. ‘Because I want to have a conversation with you? When did the bar for romance drop so low?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ I shake my head impatiently.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘Then let me spell it out for you.’ I lean closer, so my mouth brushes his ear. ‘I want to get laid. That’s why I’m here. I don’t really care who you are, or what you do for a living. I care that you’re good in bed. Are you?’

  He lifts his other hand to my chin, using his thumb and forefinger to push it upwards so our eyes lock and I’m trapped in the force of his inquisitive stare. I’m uncomfortable; I don’t like it. I feel like he’s seeing more than I ever share and I hate that. With great care, I push a bored expression into place and straighten, pulling away from him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ My smile is tightly dismissive. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

  I reach for it but, before I can leave, his hand has snaked out, grabbing me around the waist, pulling me back between his legs abruptly.

  ‘Hold on a second.’

  There’s a frown on his face, a look in his eyes I don’t comprehend.

  ‘Why?’ My heart rate has lifted a notch. I love men, but in a very limited use kind of way. I love their arms and their chins, that little divot I can dip my tongue into, right between the clavicles. I love strong legs and broad chests. I love men who are confident bordering on arrogant, because I am—with no apology—enough of a ball-buster in my work life that when it comes to sex I like a guy who knows what he wants—and how to give me exactly what I need.