Undone, Volume 3 (27 page)

Heath

All I want is life out
of the spotlight. I’m up here in my cabin in the woods and I like
it that way. No one knows who I am and no one cares. Then she shows
up, strutting along in heels with her long, sexy legs, tossing around
her silky, golden hair and smelling like vanilla and honey. It should
be easy to ignore her. She’s exactly the high-maintenance,
gold-digging type I’ve steered clear of my whole life.

The only problem is the
blisteringly hot sex. Melt down the cabin, end winter and start
spring sex. Other than that, I see no reason that my life is going to
change at all.

Violet

Where even is Vermont?
When I got the call to scout the location for our network’s next
reality show, I seriously had to pull out Google Maps. When I first
got there, I was counting the hours until I convinced those country
bumpkins to sign away all their privacy for the next six months.

Funny thing about these
rural places, though. They grow ’em big. Crazy big, if you know
what I mean, ladies. There’s this guy. Just thinking about him,
I’ve got to stop for a second and fan myself. I’d tell him to get
lost only I can’t seem to form words around him other than “yes,”
“more,” and “I’m going to…Oh!” It must be the orgasms
melting my brain. He’s nothing like the type of guy I’m after,
believe me, and once I’ve wrapped up this deal I’m never looking
back.

At least that’s what I’m telling
myself. But each time he touches me I can’t remember my name, let
alone my sales pitch. And I’m starting to realize that if I seal
this deal and get my big win, we might both have a lot to lose.

NOTE:
Untamed
is a sexy, standalone, hot adult romance. It’s the third story in
the
Beg for It
series
about the dominant, alpha males in the Kavanaugh family and the
strong, sexy women who make them finally meet their match.

Violet

There came a time in
every woman’s life when she had to wonder, what the fuck? For me,
that time was now. Driving through central Vermont in a January
snowstorm in the middle of the night in a hot red MINI Cooper
convertible. What. The. Fuck. And did I mention I didn’t have GPS?
No bars on my phone, no way to know if I’d accidently slipped down
into the ninth circle of hell.

But hell would be hot,
wouldn’t it? Here, it snowed. Why snow? I personally didn’t see
any reason for it. I understood, plants and I guess people needed
water and all that, but that could happen with perfectly normal rain.
Back in L.A., we didn’t even have to deal with that too often.

Yet here I was, a world
away from home, peering at road signs through a raging blizzard
trying to navigate the way pioneer settlers did back hundreds of
years ago, practically bushwacking and using my thumb to figure out
which way the wind blew to head west. All because the network I
worked for had decided it was a brilliant idea to send me out into
the wilderness. And I’d been stupid enough to go along with it.

“No one’s done it
before!” my boss had declared, hunger in his eyes. The
Fame!
network had grown, well, famous, for making the world’s hottest,
hippest, edgiest, over-the-top reality shows. But we needed something
new. Rich housewives throwing cocktails into each other’s faces?
Done. Gorgeous young models ranting and smashing lamps against walls?
Seen it a million times. Young celebrities waxing their privates and
‘accidently’ flashing them on camera? Yawn.

But no one had tapped
into that glorified small town America vibe. Yet. Sure, we’d all
enjoyed fictionalized accounts on TV. The wacky locals on
Northern
Exposure
, the close-knit drama on
Friday
Night Lights
. My personal favorite was Stars Hollow from
the
Gilmore Girls
.
The sleigh rides, the quaint downtown with the village green, and of
course the hottie down at the local diner you got to see every
morning. Sure, other reality shows had ventured into the wilds, but
those were done by the Discovery or History channels where people had
bad teeth and wore sensible shoes.

Our network sold sex.
Not explicitly, of course, but the people on our shows knew how to
work it. Plucked from obscurity, featured on TV, our reality stars
went on to launch their own brands.

That was why I was
being sent to this remote, not-even-on-the-map, tiny Vermont town. It
was my job to answer the question, could it sell? Sure, I’d be
checking out the location to verify that it was off-the-charts cute
and quaint. And I’d start brokering all the headaches—I mean
agreements—to allow us to film there. But most of all, I’d be
looking for diamonds in the rough. The celebrities waiting to be
discovered. Because a hit on our network needed sex in the form of
hot “real” people with enough chemistry and appeal that viewers
would tune in week after week to see what happened next.

I had my doubts. A huge
long list of them. But I had to admit, I felt a tingle of excitement,
too. What if I pulled it off? What if I tapped into a goldmine and
found the real Stars Hollow? A hit reality show like that, the first
of its kind, would be huge. I probably wouldn’t shoot straight up
to producing my own show, but at least I could break out from being
the one who fetched coffees for the ones who brought the coffees to
the people filming the Kardashians. OK, I wasn’t actually that far
down on the food chain. I’d worked myself up in the seven years I’d
been in L.A. I was 25 now and had spent a couple years of actually
working on shows, but I hadn’t been able to do anything yet that I
really owned. Anything that I honestly felt invested in. Not yet. But
someday I would.

Now if only I’d flown
in on the same flight as my co-worker, Sam, joining me on this
mission. Then I wouldn’t die before it all began. I’d somehow
gotten booked into Burlington with a nighttime arrival while Sam had
flown into Boston where he’d party with friends, stay at a
harborside hotel and then drive up to Vermont at a decent, daylight
hour the next day.

I had to talk to our
network’s travel people. Better arrival cities and times were up
there on my list of demands. But at the top: no convertible MINIs
without GPS in Vermont. I knew the
Fame!
network has appearances to keep up, but that only worked if its
employees stayed alive.

Wait, up ahead. There
was a God. I saw a sign, battered and weathered: entering town of
Watson, VT. Population 1,708. I’d never thought I’d be so happy
to be entering into a town of nothing, nowhere with no one living in
it. I supposedly had a condo reserved for me in this town for the
month. With any luck it wouldn’t take anywhere near that long to
suss out if there was a story to build there, and then, if there was,
to get the locals on board with filming a reality show.

Lights! Up ahead. I
whimpered a bit in relief. Pathetic, I know, but I was a city girl
through and through. Ask me to navigate traffic in L.A. or the subway
in NYC and I’d have no problem. Here, I half expected a Yeti to pop
out in front of the car and swallow me whole.

At a stoplight, because
apparently even the main highways in Vermont had stoplights, I took a
left, then a right and low and behold, the shimmering glimmer of a
window. It looked like it might be a bar. I managed to pull my tiny
car up front in what may or may not have been a parking space. How
could you even tell in all this muck?

I zipped up my parka,
placed my fingers on the door handle and braced myself. At least I
had my parka. Last week in a panic over my upcoming trip I’d done
some late night online shopping. I’d bought the largest, craziest
looking parka I could find, the kind with enough padding for an army
and wild fur tufting out along the edge of the hood. It made me look
about three times larger than I actually was and right now I felt
grateful for it.

No cell phone service,
no GPS, I was at the mercy of whomever I happened to find in what I
hoped was a friendly bar. Small towns were supposed to be friendly,
right? Maybe a kindly baker or an elderly quilter would greet me
inside and give me directions to my condo? Yeah, that would probably
happen.

Stepping out, I
instantly learned that my shoes weren’t as onboard with the snow
program as my parka. Damn it. Picking my way along the icy, snowy
path in heels I had to admit, I probably should have invested in some
sturdier footware. But my shoes! I loved my shoes. I felt so sexy and
powerful in my shoes.

Right now, though, one
hand against the building as I guided myself toward the front
entrance, I mostly just cursed. Cursed my boss for having this lousy
idea in the first place. Cursed myself for agreeing to go along with
it.

Pushing open the door,
I walked into heaven in the form of a small, simple, mostly empty
bar. It was warm. It had electricity. And who knew, if I was lucky
they might even have some vodka.

The ten or so people
inside all watched me as I made my way over to the bar. I didn’t
make eye contact with any of them. I just needed to warm up, figure
out where I needed to go and then get there. The time for making nice
with these people would come once I was no longer numb.

Then I looked up.
Sitting at the far end of the bar, I saw a man who looked like he’d
been talking to the bartender. But now neither of them said a word as
they looked over at me, watching me pick my way along the rough
wooden floor planks in my heels. I didn’t so much notice the
bartender, though. It was the other man that had me riveted.

My step wobbled. I
could blame it on the heels or the melting snow I’d accumulated on
my parka in my short walk to the door. But those weren’t the
reasons for the wobble. It was the man.

Thick black hair, dark
intense eyes, broad muscles filling out his shirt, he was straight
out of a late night naughty fantasy. True, I was a city girl, but I
had to admit I had a soft spot for a good Highland romance, the type
featuring a massive Scottish warrior who’d brave fire and brimstone
to be with his woman. The type so broad and tough he’d fell an army
with the swoop of his battle axe while still managing to grasp you in
his free arm, pull you up with him on his horse and ride off with you
pressed against his huge, barbaric, manly chest.

He was sitting right
there at the bar watching me. I swallowed, feeling my face flush. I
tried to look away. I had street smarts. A woman on her own didn’t
walk into a bar and instantly make steady, heated eye contact with a
gigantic strange man. My brain knew that. But my brain wasn’t in
charge at the moment. Something else had taken over entirely and I
continued walking toward him with nothing but a vaguely formed “wow”
on my lips.

“Welcome,” the
bartender greeted me.

“Hi.” I managed to
veer my attention away, at least for a moment, and stop myself from
climbing straight into the man’s lap. That wouldn’t do. Even
though it had an almost undeniable appeal. I chose a stool a couple
down from him—proud of myself for exercising such restraint—and
sat down.

“How you doin’
tonight?” the bartender asked.

“Um, fine,” I said
weakly, clearly far from it. I swallowed again, biting my lip. I was
all atwitter and it wasn’t just because of the harrowing drive I’d
survived navigating through a raging snowstorm in a toy car.

I couldn’t help it. I
snuck another glance. Wow. At least I hoped I hadn’t said it out
loud. You could see he was strong, really strong, even though he
wasn’t wearing anything like the type of shirt guys wore in L.A. to
shamelessly flaunt their physique. Tissue-thin, painted on, I’d
seen enough guys showing off to last me a lifetime. This man blew
them all away in soft, faded cotton, the kind of shirt that looked
like it had been worn to do work. Real work, work that made you sweat
and weathered your clothes, out under the sun. It wasn’t tight, but
it clung and draped, suggesting more than revealing. Those broad,
strong shoulders, the glimpse of his forearm I got where he’d
pushed up his sleeve, thick and corded with muscle.

“Is that a MINI you
drove up in?” the bartender asked me. Because, right, he was still
standing there in front of me behind the bar.

I cleared my throat.
“MINI convertible,” I confirmed.

“Good thing you got
here in one piece. Can I get you something?”

“Yes,” I responded,
gratefully. I wasn’t a big drinker and, yes, technically I still
needed to drive. But my nerves were shot and my feet were frozen
blocks of ice and sometimes a girl just needed a drink. Maybe I could
eat something along with it before I headed out again. My stomach
growled at the thought.

“I’d love an
appletini. And can I see your menu for apps? Something light, maybe a
tuna tartare?”

The bartender squinted
at me as if I might have spoken a different language. He had a big,
bushy mustache and looked somewhere between 30 and 50, weathered and
plaid.

I could still feel
Mountain Man watching me, too, his gaze heavy and intent. It was
definitely warm in the bar. They must be cranking the heater. Of
course, I was also wearing the parka that ate all of the other parkas
for dinner. I unzipped it and shrugged it off, draping it from my
stool. It felt like shedding a cocoon and I stretched, enjoying my
freedom.

“That’s the menu.”
The bartender tilted his head behind him toward a chalkboard.
Handwritten, it listed ten or so brews. I looked at it, no clue what
to order. I’d never really drunk beer, and I couldn’t say I knew
anyone who did, either. Cocktails were the way to go, preferably
skinny. Beer bellies just weren’t done in L.A.

“Maybe…the one with
the apple in it?”