Scorch: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (Military Bad Boy Romance) (26 page)

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Excerpt from
Heat
, Book One in the
Soldiers of Fortune
Series.

Five years ago, that cocky, egotistical a**hole played me like a fool and broke my heart.

Hudson Banks; the dominant, tattooed, womanizing, ex-Marine-turned-billionaire who runs God-knows-what at my late father’s company.

Oh, and he’s sexy as all f**k, and he damn well knows it.

He’s like a gasoline fire; a scorchingly hot disaster, and if I’m not careful, I’m going to get burned.
 

I’m on track to be the youngest New York State Senator ever elected; the bright, gutsy, good-girl media darling. Except my campaign funding just went dry, and it looks like the only solution is coming from the last person on Earth I’d ever want to take anything from. Oh, and it turns out bad-boy, tough-guy Hudson will be shadowing me 24/7 after he makes it clear that he’s in charge of “protecting the investment.”

Yeah, just perfect; a reckless, irresistible d*ck like Hudson Banks is the
last
person I need being “in charge” of anything to do with me.
 

Especially when I still can’t forget the taste of his lips or
 
the feeling of that
massive
hardness I know he’s packing between his legs. It’s not fair that he’s even hotter now than he was back then. It’s not fair that those smoldering, arrogant eyes and that cocky, panty-melting grin still make me warm in places they shouldn’t. And it’s definitely not fair that five years later, I still can’t get him out of my head.

So it looks like I’ve got two races on my hands: the one for election, and the one against the burning heat threatening to tear us both apart. But on the sprint to the finish line, what happens when the man who has everything comes up against the one thing he can’t have?
 

*****

“They’re fucking
what?!
” I almost drop the glass of champagne in my hand as I feel the floor practically drop out from beneath my feet. My campaign manager Donald’s face is impassive and steely - pretty much like it always is even in crisis meltdown situations like this - with his bushy grey eyebrows furrowing slightly like they do when he’s got news for me neither of us want to hear.

“They’re pulling out, Reagan; entirely.” I see him reach out of habit for the phantom pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket that hasn’t been there for five years; the frown in his eyebrows deepening.

“
All
of it?”

He sticks a pen between his lips instead of his old vice and glowers at me; “Every damn penny.”

I swear fiercely under my breath, clenching my hand tight and digging my nails into my palm as the reality of the situation hits me like a wet blanket; “How fucked are we?”

Donald tenses his face; he hates when I swear, especially in public and
especially
in public when there are cameras
everywhere
. “Lower your
voice
, Reagan” He mutters through the pen in his teeth, looking at me like I’m an ill-behaved child in that way that drives me
crazy
. In the movie version of my life, Donald is the kind and sagely grandfatherly type who guides me along a path of adorable metaphors and teary-eyed life lessons to victory. In reality, he’s cold, calculating, and robotically efficient at keeping me in line with his battle plans. But then again, kindly grandfatherly types doling out anachronisms like they were candy don’t win elections; robots do.

“They were forty percent of our campaign.”

I can feel the breath leave my lungs as the room spins around me; my lips moving soundlessly as my brain searches for the words to possible use here. This simply
can’t
be happening; not after we’ve worked
so
freaking hard to get to where we are.

Donald glares at me as he furiously chews on his poor pen; “Maybe next time, you’ll
stay on the
damn
speech I give you instead of going off on one of your ‘save the world’ tangents, Reagan. You know they’re going to jump down you throat for that kind of things because-” His phone beeps and he frowns, trailing off as he shakes his head and mutters at whatever’s just popped up, but I can pretty much take my pick of what he was going to say anyways: ‘Because I’m a girl,’ or ‘Because I’m the youngest person to ever run for the State Senate of New York,’ or my favorite, ‘Because I’m the daughter of the late William Archer; billionaire philanthropist-slash-arms-dealer, depending on who’s opinion you ask.’ To most people, I’m either the next great American Dream for politics, or a nut-job, which plays nicely to the split media opinion of eager-eyed media darling or poor little rich girl, depending on which new station you like to watch. I hang my head;
running
was one thing, but dropping out like this is going to be a news anchor joke for
years
.

“So this is it then? We’re done, just like that?” I can hear my voice from outside my body, my ears ringing and my jaw clenching in that way Donald always tells me not to do in front of cameras because it makes me look aggressive. I look down at the trembling glass of champagne in my hand, suddenly wishing it was the size of a movie-theater cup.

“What?” My campaign manager takes the mangled pen from his mouth and briefly wrinkles his face at it, as if just noticing how gross a habit it is. He looks up at me, a stony look on his face; “No of course not,” He snaps, a bit more condescendingly than I need right now; “We’ve been approached by another new donor who sees a lot of promise in our campaign.”

I feel myself exhale for the first time in what seems like an hour and start to shake my head; “Well Jesus, Donald, you scared the living-“

“Now, you aren’t going to
like it
, of course, but try to let go of
personal
baggage for once,” He interrupts me, his voice low as he glares at me; “Try to remember that this is about more than just you?”

Instantly, I narrow my eyes as suddenly every one of my gut instincts start to tingle at the look on his face and the tone in his voice; “Donald-” I start to shake my head, my jaw clenching as I feel the anger and the heat rising in my cheeks; “No,
absolutely
not! It’s not even an option!”

Even though we’re off in the corner of the big open gallery of the museum where we’ve been throwing the now seemingly-useless campaign fundraiser, people around us turn to stare at my outburst. Donald shushes me again as if I’m some child acting out; “It’s our
only
option, Reagan.” He huffs, “Look, we all
get
that you don’t want your Father’s company’s money, but it is
the
only move here.” Donald’s rolling his eyes at me in the obnoxiously patronizing way that makes my blood boil, and for the eight-hundredth time, I have to remind myself that he’s
really good
at this job, otherwise I’d have blown up in his face and told him where to stick it a
month
ago.
 

“Now, there’s a man here from Archer Holdings to meet with you, and he’d like to talk with you-”

“Ms. Archer, they need some shots with some of the museum trustees.” I’m still shaking my head furiously, my mouth open and closing like a fish out of water, when one of my staffers scurries over and starts to tug me by the arm; yanking me away from Donald before I can even come up with anything to say. I turn back to over my shoulder to yell something like ‘We’re not done talking about this,’ but they’re already pushing me in front of the wall of flashing lights and clicking cameras and back into the spotlight where I can’t look like I want so break something.

*****

By the time they’re done, my face is feeling sore from all the fake smiles, and my palms are slick from
other
people’s sweaty handshakes; the hazards of the campaign trail they never tell you about. I’m extricating myself from the stuffy museum board of directors and scanning the room for another glass of champagne when I hear it -
his
voice; the voice from my past and the voice I haven’t heard in five years; “Hey, Princess.”

I turn and he’s just
there
, standing in the flesh right in front of me. I feel my breath catch in my throat as I suddenly look up into the bluest, most piercing eyes I’ve ever seen, and then I feel my pulse actually skip a beat as I fully grasp the man they’re attached to. He’s even more gorgeous than he was back then, in that unbelievable, magazine-model way. His dark hair is slicked back to one side, and beneath those stunning eyes is a cocky grin stretched across a strong, chiseled jaw, marked on one side by just the faintest white line of a scar across his clean-shaved chin. He’s the same infuriatingly hot dichotomy he was five years ago; the perfectly tailored tuxedo and gleaming silver watch on his wrist
screaming
money, but the teasing glimpses of tattoo ink creeping out from beneath his French cuff sleeves or the neck of his linen shirt. His lips part as he grins at me; I
know
those lips.