Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Vanessa Baker is a temptation with a body made for seduction and secrets swirling in her violet eyes.
There’s no denying that she’s a stunning woman, but she’s a wild card.
Irresistible, unpredictable, and unexpected.
Exactly the kind of trouble I’ve vowed to stay away from.
So, imagine my shock when I wake up in the Bahamas with a ring on my finger and Vanessa in my bed—with no memory of how either got there.
She swears she had no choice. That marrying me was the only way to save herself from a dangerous deal she’d never agreed to.
And now I’m torn between protecting her and resenting her … doing the right thing and wishing I’d never met her.
I don’t trust easily. Not with my heart. Not with my son. And I definitely don’t trust her.
But I bring her home anyway—because her life is at risk. And even though she doesn’t deserve my protection, she has it.
Every day she’s here, charming my son, slipping past my walls, she reminds me of what love is supposed to feel like.
So, what happens when she doesn’t need me anymore … and I still want her anyway?
Please note: Secret Seduction is not a mafia romance. The book is a dark romance because of its content. Since dark romance can mean different things to different readers, please check the detailed content warnings on my website. Your mental health matters
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
RHETT
“Fuck.”
I mutter under my breath, but Cade doesn’t miss it, even with the noise of the Rusty Spike’s Friday night crowd, and the honky-tonk song blaring about a pickup truck and a broken heart.
He fixes me with a look that says he won’t let it drop until I tell him what I just read on my phone.
I take a slug of beer and return the mug to the scarred table with enough force that some of the foam sloshes out.
That gets Boone’s attention. He’s been leaning back like he owns the saloon, one arm stretched along the back of the empty chair beside him, facing the crowd with that easy grin he gives too freely, especially to women.
Now, he turns toward me with a look that matches Cade’s. “What’s up?”
“The Morrison group canceled.”
Boone echoes my curse. “They give a reason?”
“They did.” My hand, resting on my thigh, curls into a fist reflexively. “Said they have no choice but to go with Elk Run.”
My brothers both narrow their eyes. Boone curses between his teeth. Cade’s response is quieter and meaner.
Our biggest repeat client, gone. Eight men, six nights in July, remote camp, high passes, backcountry fishing, private guided routes they’d trusted us with for three summers running.
Elk Run Outfitters had offered the same route for thirty percent less.
“That’s four clients in six months,” Cade says.
I glance over at him. “I can count.”
Boone shakes his head, disgusted. “Turner’s either desperate or stupid.”
“He’s deliberately bleeding us out,” Cade says.
Boone scoffs. “You’re being paranoid.”
I look from one brother to the other. Same face, same dark hair, same broad frame taking up too much space at the four-top table. Same eyes I see in the mirror every morning. The ones our mother once said could make innocent people confess to crimes they didn’t commit.
But Cade’s expression is flat, while Boone’s wearing a smile like a welcome mat in front of a locked door.
And me? I’m expected to know what comes next.
I was born first by four whole minutes, and our family never let me forget it. The Army hadn’t either.
I take another drink of beer, mostly to buy time.
Cade thinks Harlan Turner, who owns Elk Run Outfitters, is deliberately trying to choke our business out of the high-country routes by consistently undercutting our rates. Boone thinks Cade’s seeing patterns because that’s what Cade does.
I think they’re both right, but I don’t say it out loud, because that would mean deciding what to do about it. Right now, I don’t have an answer that doesn’t involve risk and money we can’t afford to lose.
I turn my mug a quarter circle in its puddle of condensation, as I half-listen to Boone say things like temporary rate adjustment and client retention strategy.
“We lower by fifteen percent,” Boone says, tipping his beer toward me. “Make it clear it’s for repeat clients only.”
Cade doesn’t look up from the water ring he’s tracing with his thumb. “Turner will undercut that, too.”
“He might,” Boone says.
“He will.”
Boone gives him a lazy smile. “You know, Cade, sometimes people make bad business decisions. Not every man in Moon Ridge is trying to start a war with you.”
Around us, the bar keeps pressing in. Boots on old plank floors, chairs scraping, so much chatter. It should be easy to tune out after years spent sleeping through mortars, firefights, engines, and Boone snoring like a wounded bear. Tonight, I can’t think.
Then the bartender gestures toward our table, and I notice, because I’m always aware of my surroundings. I notice entry points and exits, I see fights before they start, and I watch for people who look lost, angry, drunk, or dangerous.
The woman following the line of the bartender’s hand is none of those things.
And for one clean second, I forget about Harlan Turner, lost clients, and the bills waiting on my desk at home.
The woman isn’t from Moon Ridge, but she doesn’t look out of place.
Most visitors who come into the Rusty Spike for the first time hesitate inside the door as they take in the old timber beams, the antlers over the bar, and the framed historical pictures that cover nearly all the available wall space. Out-of-towners usually look like deer in headlights as the locals glance up collectively to take their measure.
The copper-haired woman coming our way moves confidently, head up.
She’s late twenties, probably. Maybe five-six in her dusty boots. Curvy in a way that makes my hand tighten around my beer mug. Her rounded hips fill out a pair of worn field pants, and her green jacket is open over a fitted dark shirt.
Her skin has a natural warmth, the kind that comes from time outdoors.
Pretty isn’t the right word, because that sounds decorative.
She has a canvas bag slung over her shoulder and is striding toward us with purpose. My body responds to her with an irritating immediacy, but I’m not the only one.