Read an Excerpt
Hard Compromise
A Compromise Me Novel
By Samanthe Beck, Heather Howland Entangled Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2016 Samanthe Beck
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63375-665-6
CHAPTER 1
"Bugger me, Booker. You've been lusting after one woman for ten years?" Booker's soon-to-be brother-in-law's voice held a note of incredulity even the windy ride in the convertible Jag couldn't cover.
"I've known her for ten years," Booker corrected, and stared at the full moon shining down on him like an interrogator's spotlight from the unrelenting blackness of night sky. "Lust didn't factor in for the first few. When I was a rookie, she was Montenido's poster girl for at-risk teens — a high-school kid with the body of a bikini model, zero parental supervision, and a rebellious streak a mile wide. I felt protective, because she attracted every predatory asshole within a fifty-mile radius, and she was too young to know better."
"Okay," Aaron inclined his shaved head, and moonlight glanced off the ladder of silver rings studding his right ear, "I stand corrected. But after she graduated?"
Yes, after that his protective instincts had turned into something trickier, because he'd been forced to face the maddening reality he could no longer bust any adult male who came sniffing around. But for him, she'd still been off-limits. "You mean when she was eighteen and I was twenty-four?"
Aaron had the decency to wince, because despite the shaved head, beard, tats, and tendency to swear like a sailor — albeit a British one — his moral compass aimed due North. "Point taken. Still, somewhere between past and present, you never thought, 'Now's the bloody time'?"
Sure he had. Sometime during the last handful of years, Booker's life had become an exercise in self-restraint as he'd watched her sample men like candy. Fair enough. She deserved a chance to indulge her curiosity. Life had afforded him the same opportunity, and he'd taken full advantage.
She'd never shown an interest in going back for seconds, which made it easier to bide his time, but the I-dare-you flicker in her eyes every time she glanced his way told him he wasn't the only one feeling the pull between them. Pull or no, he wasn't interested in being the flavor of the night, so timing counted.
"Now's the time," he muttered.
"Huh?" Aaron pulled up to a four-way stop behind a red Mercedes. "What are you going to do, wankstain? Make the turn or sit there and blink your signal all night?"
Booker ignored the rhetorical questions aimed at the driver in front of them. The past twelve months, he'd found himself running out of noble reasons to resist the temptation of Lauralie Peterson. Now, he was flat out. He couldn't tell himself she was still playing. She'd gotten serious — professionally, at least. She'd opened Babycakes Bakery, and invested every bit of her talent, energy, and hard-earned capital into it. With her business taking off, he figured she was ready to bring a similar sense of purpose to her personal life.
Well, ready might be an overstatement. The woman had an inborn pride that demanded she always stand on her own two feet. She wasn't an island, mind you. She had friends. She had family — the fucked-up variety, but still, the ties existed. Yet heaven forbid she need anyone.
She had to get past that particular hang-up, because there was going to be need between them. A whole hell of a lot of need. He'd do his damnedest to satisfy every one of hers, but when he'd resolved to make this the year he tugged on the invisible tether binding them, he'd known getting close would bring a crash course in need. For both of them.
Odds seemed good she'd require a push. Fine. He knew how to push, and he knew when.
"Now's the time," he repeated, a little louder. When he'd hauled her underaged ass home from Nido Beach on New Year's Eve a decade ago, and refused her reckless offer to show her appreciation, he'd told her they could revisit the topic in ten years. At the time, he'd tossed the answer out as a way to brush her back, and emphasize how much growing up she still had to do regardless of how physically mature she looked. But ten years had turned into ... well ... ten fucking years, and time was up. Tonight.
"Far be it for me to criticize a man's timing, but did you not just spend the better part of the evening going shot-for-shot with my bride-to-be?"
Booker glanced over in time to catch the look Aaron cast at him. "So?"
"So, no offense, mate, but you may not be in the best shape to make your move."
"What, you think I'm impaired?"
"I reckon, yeah, and it would serve you right. What kind of plonker gets shitfaced with his sister on New Year's Eve?"
"I didn't get shitfaced. And for the record, she challenged me. If she hadn't been cheerleading Mom's efforts to pair me up with an eligible bachelorette of her choosing in time for the wedding, I wouldn't have resorted to drinking her under the table." When Kate had tossed out the bet — if she downed the most shots, she got to pick his date for the wedding — he'd willingly cracked the seal on the bottle himself. His sister was notoriously overconfident when it came to wagers. A hundred and twenty pounds and a preference for wine ensured him an easy victory, and the only thing four shots of Jack prevented him from doing tonight was getting behind the wheel. "I only wish my mother was as easily outmaneuvered."
"Your mum didn't build Best Life into a billion dollar brand by being easily outmaneuvered," Aaron noted.
"No, she did not. She got there by being bossy as hell and thinking she knows what's best for everyone. And now, thanks to you and Kate infecting her with wedding fever, she's decided what's best for me is a trip down the aisle. It's past time she accepted a simple fact — I don't need her help managing my life." He folded his arms. "I've got my own plans."
"About your so-called plans ... are you storming into this party with your balls out and your guns blazing, or shall we aim for something a tad more discreet?"
"You get rid of the guests. I'll handle the rest." He could already picture her, breathless and ready as he braced her against the nearest surface and unleashed half a decade's worth of repressed longings. Fuck her so thoroughly she'd have no standing to dismiss the event as a heat-of-the-moment hookup. He was coming for her. Her, dammit, and he hadn't waited this long only to be shown the door after one energetic encounter.
So yes, he'd use the chemistry to land him in her bed, but from there it was on him to convince her the connection between them couldn't simply be sweated out of their systems. He had to get it through her hard head and fortified heart that he intended to stick around, and figure out where "they" led. Storming in tonight with the element of surprise on his side might work. Or it might blow up in his face. Either way, he was done waiting.
Aaron's eyes widened as he pulled to the curb in front of her apartment. People milled on the front lawn, and the small porch. Music blasted from the open windows of her ground-floor unit, layering over the sounds of laughter and conversation. "Oh, sure. I'll just wave my magic wand and make everyone disappear."
"Delaney's is within walking distance. Drinks are on you. Say it loud and then step aside."
"You want me to buy drinks for fifty friggin' people?" He didn't flinch. "You want to marry my sister?"
"I'll dance to this tune until Valentine's Day, Book, but once she says 'I do' the 'want-to-marry-my-sister?' shite ends, and I'm no longer your wench."
Booker smiled and popped the door. "I count six long weeks between now and February fourteenth. Lead the way, wench."
He had a woman to claim.
* * *
"Sounds like you've got the whole town packed into your apartment."
Laurie pushed the phone to her ear to hear over the din of the party. She wasn't about to let a little logistical challenge like Chelsea's recent move to Maui for work keep them from ringing in the New Year together. "It's a little bigger than I planned." Behind her, a cork exploded out of a bottle, followed by an approving roar of appreciation. "And louder. But what the hell, it's New Year's Eve, and ... hey — !"
She broke off as a helpful soul refilled her flute, and splashed a liberal amount of ice-cold Korbel down the front of her silver sequin top in the process. The white, silk shorts that ended high on her thighs fared better, thank God, because one errant spill and those suckers would be see-through. Her strappy, silver heels survived unscathed — though the same couldn't be said for her protesting arches. As soon as the party ended, she planned to ditch the sandals.
Normally she might invite someone to help her work the kinks out. A strapping candidate with strong hands, who knew when to be gentle, when to be firm, and when to advance a foot rub to a full-body massage, but more and more lately only one man sprang to mind, and he was absolutely out of the question, as well as not in attendance, so ... Her doorbell chimed, ringing through the chaos of music and laughter.
"Shit." She plucked her top away from her chest and started toward her door even as the nearest guest pulled it open.
"Everything okay?" Chelsea asked.
"Nothing a trip to the dry cleaner won't fix ... Shit."
"What now?"
Had she conjured him with one unguarded thought? Maybe, because a breath-stealing span of shoulders filled her doorframe. "I don't believe this. Booker's darkening my doorstep."
"Ethan Booker? Sheriff Ethan Booker?"
"Yes, and yes." Not in uniform, no, but otherwise looking as authoritative, and — damn her perverse hormones — hot as ever in a charcoal V-neck that did all kinds of justice to his shoulders and chest, and dark pants that did justice to everything else. The porch light found the sun-streaked strands in his thick brown hair and turned them copper.
"What do you think he wants?"
"No clue."
Perverse or not, no red-blooded woman could deny Booker was an eyeful, but she ought to be used to it. She'd been looking her fill for a while. In the years since rookie Booker had first hauled her sorry ass home from Nido Beach, he'd worked his way up the ladder of command to sheriff, and she'd outgrown her juvenile rebellions. Mostly. She owned a business, paid taxes, and, aside from a few speeding tickets, abided by the laws like any upstanding member of society. Didn't matter. Booker's assessing stare always regressed her to teenaged troublemaker at the same time it sent her grown-up sex-drive surging.
She was no longer a wayward delinquent resorting to reckless behavior in a desperate search for the attention she didn't get at home, but only a blind woman would miss the fact that he saw a shadow of that girl when he looked at her. And he looked at her a lot. As if he knew exactly what his quiet stare did to her. As if he was biding his time.
"Think he got a noise complaint?" Chelsea asked.
All her neighbors were here, so it seemed unlikely, but she raised her chin and channeled the defiance she defaulted to whenever Booker appeared. "So what if he did? It's New Year's Eve, for God's sake."
While she watched, those keen eyes scanned the room. For her.
Someone killed the music, and people started cheering.
Ten ... The walls of her apartment shook as revelers broke into the countdown. "Ten lousy seconds and the party will be over anyway. What's the point of barging in now, except to be a hard-ass?"
Nine ... "Maybe he wants to wish you a happy New Year?"
Eight ... "Yeah, right. From a jail cell."
Seven ... Booker's attention locked on her. Her stomach took a free fall, as usual. She realized she was worrying the corner of her thumbnail and made herself cut it out.
Six ... "Uh-oh. He spotted me." His gaze turned oddly ... purposeful. No other word fit the lowered brows and tractor-beam stare. The man was clearly on a mission, and the determination in his expression raised the tiny hairs on her arm. Whatever he wanted, it had nothing to do with a noise complaint. Booker's voice echoed through her mind from a full decade ago. We can revisit the topic in ten years.
Five ... "Don't assume the worst."
Four ... She downed her champagne, and set the glass on an end table while he shouldered his way through her small, packed living room. Her rapid pulse rushed the bubbles straight to her head.
Three ... "I better go."
Two ... "Happy New Year. Call me tomorrow, okay?"
One ... "I may only get one phone call. Happy New Year's, Chels."
Booker took her phone, hit disconnect, and slipped it into his back pocket at the same time confetti went flying and the room erupted into shouts of "Happy New Year!"
"Hey, give me my pho —"
His mouth crashed down on hers. Strong fingers sank into her hair, and ... holy hell. However many years she'd had to envision this moment, one thing became startlingly apparent. She'd failed to adequately prepare for it. Waves of excitement and alarm rolled through her at the realization.
Then again, how could she have prepared for Booker's kiss? How could she prepare for this much intensity, and all this hunger?
His mouth moved on hers, parting her lips wider, then wider still, and just when she'd gotten a grip on his shoulders and started to make a move of her own, he swept in with long, deep strokes she couldn't resist. Didn't want to resist. And he was so sure she wouldn't he didn't even hurry, simply kept up the slow, commanding slide of his tongue. She didn't consider herself the kind of woman who obeyed commands, but he was dragging them somewhere she desperately wanted to go. A place she'd fantasized about for too long. Though it wasn't smart, or particularly sane, she took two fistfuls of his very nice, very expensive sweater, and held on.
From somewhere nearby, a voice yelled, "Take it to the pub, yanks. First round's on me." In a vague recess of her mind, she registered people leaving, calling their thanks as they squeezed past, but she didn't respond. More urgent priorities demanded her attention. Priorities like the scrape of his rough jaw against her skin, and whisper-soft cashmere covering hard muscles. Her hands found a route under his sweater and raced along his warm, smooth, withstand-anything back.
"Aaand we're out. Cheers to you. Happy New Year." The door closed, and she sensed without looking they had the apartment to themselves. Apparently he sensed it too, because the next thing she knew, he'd backed her up against the hallway wall. He pulled his mouth away long enough to level a serious look at her. "Ground rules."
"Uh-uh." Rules would require negotiation, and negotiation implied they had more at stake here than rampant lust. In other words, negotiation would ruin this. She wrapped her arms around his neck, came up on her toes, and sank her teeth into his upper lip. He groaned, and slammed his hips into hers. The position pinned her to the wall, and gave her a forceful preview of what he had in store for her. Her body responded with a rush of anticipation guaranteed to send her silk shorts to the dry cleaners along with her champagne-splashed top. Against the lip she'd just abused, she murmured, "Booker, don't confuse me with one of your well-bred, easily-shocked, country-club girls. I'm not well-bred and nothing shocks me. My only rules are fast, hard, and so filthy dirty it leaves a stain on your soul."
CHAPTER 2
Her words put to rest ground rule number one. Express mutual consent. Too bad the accord he sought involved a hell of a lot more than fast, hard, and dirty. He pushed her wild mane of blond corkscrew curls back from her forehead, framed her face with his hands — okay, trapped her — and waited until she looked him in the eye. Hers brimmed with impatience, which made him all the more determined to go slow. "Declining a review of the ground rules constitutes your agreement to everything I've got in mind."
The smart-ass gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. "My goodness, Sheriff. Are you going to whip out your cuffs and restrain me? Push me up against the wall and give me a thorough frisking?" Her smile returned, sly and defiant. "Should I assume the position while you unholster your big, dangerous weapon?"
Graphic images played in his mind, and challenged his commitment to go slow. Some things hadn't changed in ten years. She still liked to test the boundaries. He held his ground and returned her cagey smile. "You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you, Lauralie?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Hard Compromise by Samanthe Beck, Heather Howland. Copyright © 2016 Samanthe Beck. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
