Broken by a Dangerous Man: By a Dangerous Man, #7

By Cleo Peitsche

BROKEN BY A DANGEROUS MAN (#7) is an erotic romantic suspense of 32,500 words. ~This is the second book in Season Two.~

Audrey’s shortcomings as a bounty hunter and as a girlfriend rise to the surface during a trip to Paris, and Corbin is the only one who can save her… But will he forgive her?

A desperate fugitive begs Audrey to help clear him of a murder charge. He’s hiding something, but he isn’t necessarily guilty. Before Audrey can make a decision, she learns that she and her family are already involved.  

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pouch Productions
• Release date: Feb 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507036402

Cleo Peitsche

If Cleo isn't writing (or reading!) erotica, she's probably sitting on her balcony, watching the wind blow through the trees. She loves snowstorms, piña coladas, horses, and pasta primavera. If she won the lottery, she would hire an assistant to take care of the technical side of e-publishing so that she could write all day.Some random facts about Cleo:1. Thinks life's too short to forgo HEAs and HFNs.2. Sprained an ankle joining the mile-high club. (Never again!)3. Favorite writers include Cormac Mccarthy, Junot Diaz and Rachel Caine.4. Gets weak-kneed for bookish guys who know how to fix things with their hands. *swoons*

Book preview

Chapter 1

The plane’s subtle vibration should have lulled me to sleep, but I couldn’t get comfortable.

My muscles were knotted up, and my shoulders ached. The overstuffed pillow I’d stuck behind my neck was giving me a rash, and the woman sitting in front of me must have sampled every flowery perfume in the airport shops.

For the third time in as many minutes, I fussed with the footrest in the plush, first-class pod. And it was a pod, like something out of an awful science fiction movie. Even though the flight had been smooth so far, my fingers dug into the padded armrests.

I needed to shut off the obsessive, looping worries about what would happen when I saw Corbin.

Alcohol would help.

I leaned into the aisle, looking for the flight attendant who had been studiously avoiding me. Everyone else had gotten a drink before the plane had even finished boarding, but apparently I was invisible.

If only I were at home, performing my duties as a partner in the family bounty hunting business. Instead, I was heading to a country where I didn’t speak the language so that I could have my heart broken and my dreams shattered.

When Corbin’s devastating text had popped onto my phone, I should have collected my things and quietly left the airport, my head held high. It would have been easier for everyone involved.

Too late for that.

Now, an hour into the flight, my only hope was that we’d land in the ocean and no one would rescue us for several days. Or weeks.

In desperation, I pushed the call button.

Goodness. I’m right here. Would you care for a beverage? The flight attendant’s dark blue outfit was immaculate, and every strand of honey-brown hair on her head lay obediently in place. Even the perfectly knotted silk scarf around her milky throat hung jauntily to the side, like she’d glued it to her neck. Picture perfect.

But her condescending tone and frosty smile said, You don’t belong in first class, honey.

Perhaps my choice of clothing—jeans and a tee—offended her. Maybe she was disappointed because I wasn’t a celebrity.

It would take a lot more than snobbiness to intimidate me out of a free drink. I’d tracked down criminals who were coked-up and paranoid. If I could drag 250 pounds of cursing, tattooed skinhead to the authorities, I could certainly handle a smug flight attendant.

A mojito, please, I said. And if you have chocolate chip or fudge cookies, that would be great, too.

She smiled, nodded, and floated away, and I wondered if I’d actually get a cookie. It made me wonder… How far would the airline go to accommodate the demands of the first-class clientele?

Would they strap a parachute to my back and let me out early?

I would have felt more comfortable in coach class. Cattle class, as my twin Rob called it—not that he’d ever experienced anything better. We’d never had that kind of money. Corbin had bought my ticket. He appreciated luxury and liked to spoil me. For all that, he was more capable of getting rough and dirty than anyone I’d ever met.

Not that I’d be seeing that side of him again. Corbin wasn’t mine. Up until a few hours ago, I hadn’t realized I was just borrowing him.

I’d feared it, but I hadn’t known.

That drink couldn’t come soon enough.

Leaning into the aisle again, I spotted the flight attendant. She stood on the other side of a sheer curtain, a hand on her hip while she chatted with another attendant.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and stalked to the curtain, peeked in, and cleared my throat. Excuse me. If you point me to the bar, I’ll be happy to make my own mojito.

The attendant blinked at me, startled. It’s already made, of course, she said in a rush. I’m just warming the cookie.

The other attendant smirked and turned away.

In that case, I’m happy to carry the drink back with me. I held out my hand.

At least she had the decency to blush.

The drink did finally arrive, and I received three cookies. Guilt cookies. Please-don’t-get-me-fired cookies. I had two more mojitos, then fell asleep before dinner was served. It was a dreamless slumber, like falling into a dark, deep, bottomless chasm.

The next thing I knew, the cabin lights were on, and everyone around me was standing, retrieving small bags from the overhead compartments, which were mostly empty. Apparently people in first class didn’t try to jam everything they owned into their hand luggage.

Sighing, I ran my fingers over my curly dark hair. Hair? While I’d been sleeping, someone had swapped my curls for a cloud of frizz.

I yawned and stretched, then wobbled to my feet and pulled down my own bags, which were stuffed full.

As I groggily merged into the deplaning queue, I glanced toward the coach section. The seats seemed awfully packed together, and the passengers wore the unblinking, unfocused stares of the freshly traumatized.

My gaze snapped back to the crowd as a man wearily stood, his attention focused on the exit. His arrestingly handsome face was familiar.

It took me a millisecond to realize he wasn’t some actor I’d binge-watched in a television series.

Massimo Swann was on my flight.

My jaw dropped.

Skintight designer jeans and a trendy T-shirt showed off Massimo’s lithe, masculine body. His thick dark hair was a luxuriant mess. To look at him, I never would have guessed he was a dog groomer. He looked like a pouty model.

I’d been hired—well, drafted was a better word, because I hadn’t been paid—to secretly investigate Massimo at the behest of his boyfriend’s grandmother. She worked at the sheriff’s office, and she’d done Stroop Finders plenty of favors over the years.

Being a Stroop, it was in my best interests to keep Frances happy. It didn’t hurt that I’d been wanting to get into private investigation. When she’d asked, I’d agreed to see what I could dig up on Massimo.

Never mind that I didn’t have a PI license or that I’d hidden the side job from everyone at the office.

Massimo helped a woman pull down her suitcase, and the muscles in his chest and biceps flexed.

I couldn’t hear, but she appeared to be thanking him profusely.

Massimo’s smile never reached his eyes. Eyes which, I now noticed, were red and puffy, like he’d been crying recently.

And the way he acted… timid, or like he was nervous. Usually he was ebullient, the center of attention and a bit of a showoff. My impression had been that for all his superficial vanity, he was genuinely kind. A new-agey type with a big heart. He’d even introduced himself to the dog I’d borrowed for my undercover mission.

He’d referred to her as the canine person. He’d also addressed her as ma’am.

When I’d phoned Frances to report that her grandson was in good hands, she’d said it didn’t matter anymore. I’d taken that to mean Neil and Massimo had broken up. Looking at Massimo’s glum face, now I was certain they were through.

Poor bastard. He’d talked about Neil like they were soul mates, and I could only imagine how brokenhearted he felt.

In a few hours, I’d be going through the same thing.

Someone behind me cleared his throat to let me know I was holding up the line. I tightened my grip on my backpack and overnight bag and headed into the terminal.

I saw Massimo again later, going through passport control. He was in the line for EU citizens, which was much shorter than the one I patiently waited in. Funny, the way he kept his head down, like he didn’t want anyone to see his face. Soon he was gone, probably to meet a connecting flight to Italy. Silently, I wished him well.

My heavy suitcase was already making loops in the luggage carousel. Another first-class perk, but I would have been thrilled to wait, to delay the moment of seeing Corbin.

Resigned, I headed for the exit, every step toward the outside world jiggering my anxiety levels higher. Somewhere in the airport, Corbin was waiting for me. Originally he was supposed to send someone, but then he’d reversed and said he’d be there.

I wasn’t ready to see him. Instead of getting buzzed on the flight, I should have used the time to figure out what I wanted to say.

The impatient crowd kept me moving, and finally there was nothing to do but trudge along until I was through customs and in the meeting area.

I raised my eyes and scanned the waiting throng. There were a lot of people holding signs. Dozens of beaming faces stared past me as they searched for an anticipated loved one.

Dark hair caught my attention, but it wasn’t Corbin. A tall, broad-shouldered man… not him, either.

Greenish eyes. Not his.

Where was he? I turned to look over the crowd again. Maybe he hadn’t come. I felt the blood draining from my face. He wouldn’t have forgotten.

But what if he had? What if he was so focused on his wife that he’d forgotten about me?

Not wife. Ex-wife, due to a technicality. Hardly reassuring.

A uniformed driver stepped forward, holding a sign with my last name on it. His blue eyes were friendly. He had cropped blond hair, a mole beneath his ear, and lips that curled easily into a smile. All that coupled with his strong jaw and smooth skin made him attractive, if not conventionally handsome.

Relieved that Corbin wasn’t with him, I headed over.

Bertrand Lambert, at your service. He was most definitely from England, but he pronounced his name with a French accent. I’ll take you to your hotel as well as anywhere else you might want to go.

Nice to meet you, I said, trying to summon a socially acceptable smile. Is Corbin waiting in the car?