Wild, Hungry Hearts

By Beth Kery

Wild Hearts, Book 1

Friends to Lovers . . . to Forever?

Esme Esterbrook had always carried a torch for her gorgeous, sexy best friend Jude Beckett, even though she kept that secret locked away from the rest of the world, most especially Jude. When they unexpectedly meet up in a hotel elevator as adults, some serious fireworks go off between them. Esme wakes up the next morning, horrified that she’s ruined an amazing friendship. She panics and runs from Jude. But now, a mysterious family meeting has called her back to their hometown . . . and she’s about to be reminded that there is no hiding from a determined Jude Beckett.

Jude had learned long ago to lock down his lust for Esme. He’d suffered the loss of both of his parents at a young age. Esme became not only his best friend during that turbulent time, but his mainstay . . . his link to the joys of childhood and a normal life. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake and lose Esme as a friend. But as he watched her dance for him in the hotel that night, he realized something had changed between them. He dared to touch her. It’s a choice that will burn him to the core . . . and change him forever. Amidst the shocking truths that are being revealed between their two families, and an old, deeply regretted mistake, Jude and Esme have to find a way to connect in a whole new way. To discover if friends-to-lovers is a fantasy, or a happily-ever-after reality, they’re going to have to risk everything . . . including their hearts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beth Kery
• Release date: Jun 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370472574

Beth Kery

Beth Kery loves romance, and the more emotionally laden, smart and sexy the romance, the better. She has always been fascinated by human beings, their motivations and emotions, so she earned an advanced degree in the behavioral sciences. Her hope is that her stories linger in the reader's mind long after the last page is finished.

Book preview

Contents

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

A Note from the Author

Wild, Wounded Hearts

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter One

Esme had always known that a male could go from a willful, touchy mood to charming warmth within a matter of seconds. She’d accepted this as fact since she’d been a little girl on a self-appointed spy mission against the new boys that had mysteriously appeared at Beckett Lodge that summer.

She’d first seen Jude Beckett through the manzanita shrubs that separated their Lake Tahoe family homes. At the time, Jude had been wearing nothing but blue swim trunks, a pair of ratty, once white tennis shoes, a layer of sweat that covered his deeply tanned, rail-thin naked torso, and a fierce—almost frightening—scowl of determination as he went back for a pass. Jude threw a football like he was throwing a tomahawk at a target painted with his mortal enemy’s face. Always had. Seconds later, when a taller boy with an equally tanned, skinny body, caught Jude’s pass in the kid-contrived end zone, that’s when the sun broke out on Jude’s thin face.

Even at age six, Esme hadn’t been able to unglue her stare from the brilliance of it.

When Jude stepped onto the elevator at the Peninsula, Beverly Hills hotel twenty-two years later, Esme immediately recognized not only his familiar face, but that he was in that fierce, storm-cloud mood. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t laid eyes on him in two years, or that she’d just downed two Scotches at the hotel bar in quick succession. She’d always read Jude as easily as bold script.

Yep. She was a bit tipsy, and all because she was trying to convince herself that of course she was the type of woman to propose a night of casual sex to a man about whom she knew nearly nothing, and whom she cared about even less. She’d given Thor Redfern her room key after the photo shoot late this afternoon. Yes, the guy’s name was Thor. Or at least that’s what his model/actor/artist resume said it was. Esme’s smirk at his pretentious name had faded when Thor had arrived at her office for an interview a month ago. And she was far from being smug about his name this afternoon when he’d swaggered onto the set wearing only a pair of EsmeEs Sierra Monster pants and biker boots. The man rippled and bulged pure sex.

But the memory of Thor’s hypnotically gleaming muscles dissolved to mist at the vision of Jude Beckett’s black slanted eyebrows and burning face. That particular expression was as familiar to her as the low, thrilling call of an owl interrupting a Lake Tahoe silence, or the sound of an adult’s unwanted call on a starlit summer night, bidding them to come inside, and bursting the bubble of their magical childhood world.

Jude punched irritably at a floor button on the panel, his back turned to her. She strained to take a deep breath.

What’s got your knickers in a twist, Beckett? Esme asked, heartened to hear the usual half-amused, half-bored tone of her voice.

He twisted around in the process of distractedly smoothing his silk tie. As always, his eyes seemed to scream wild, almost alarming intelligence. For a split second, he went completely still. Esme froze too. The elevator door shut. She felt a swooping in her gut that had nothing to do with the elevator car lifting them swiftly upward.

Then it happened, as it always did. The sun broke, fast and brilliant.

"Esme. What the fuck?"

She found herself crushed against his chest, her cheek pressed into his crisp cotton shirt and the lapel of his suit. He squeezed her so tightly she gasped. She inhaled his scent—the subtle spice of his familiar cologne, fresh soap, and just a hint of wintergreen on his breath. He’d sucked on Wintergreen Lifesavers since he was thirteen and started to notice girls. The mixture of the scents defined male. At least for Esme, it did.

She felt that familiar panic rising in her and backed out of his arms.

"What are you—"

The Global Economic Conference. Just got here this afternoon, he replied, anticipating her question.

Some kind of coven of finance? she asked, eternally amused at the idea that her savage childhood friend had so skillfully smoothed his rough edges and transformed himself into a sleek warrior of the mighty dollar and politics. A Beckett boy gone legit. Well, come to think of it, Jude always did attack a math equation with the single-minded focus that he sliced a football through the air or shredded a half-pipe.

He nodded, his now warm gaze glued to her face. This hotel is a hive of worldwide economic wisdom at the moment.

I thought there was an unnatural amount of geeks in suits wandering aimlessly around the lobby.

His gaze slid lazily down over her. Her abdomen tightened. She couldn’t prevent the tingle of excitement in her lower belly caused by his stare.

"I’m sure you were driving the geeks nuts in that get up. Some things never change, huh?"

She smoothed her hands over her leather-covered hips. I’ll have you know these pants are the centerpiece of our fall line and are already selling like fashion crack in London and Paris.

His expression turned speculative as he stared at her EsmeEs Designs skin-tight, breakaway leather pants. He seemed to come to a decision.

You look like some combination of a classy biker, a superhero, and a stripper.

Can I use that for the catalog sales description?

He gave a slashing grin. She laughed, a feeling of euphoria rising in her. God, it was good to see him.

So…you said you arrived just this afternoon? And you’re already pissed off? She stepped back to grip the railing. Hard. A head rush of happiness had left her giddy. This was a very unexpected event.

What are you talking about?

You looked like you were ready to kick some serious ass when you walked onto this elevator.

Oh, that. Jude shook his head in the manner of someone trying to rid himself of an irritating fly buzzing around his head. Yeah, it was nothing. Work stuff. The Assistant Treasurer for Financial Institutions loves to make me look like an idiot in front of our boss. Wall Street dickwad, he muttered under his breath, eyebrows once again tugging into a scowl.

"I thought that was your job: the Assistant Treasurer for Financial…er…whatever."

"I’m the United States Assistant Treasurer for Financial Markets, not Institutions, he said, his small smile conveying that sweet, resigned forbearance she recognized all too well. It’s not that your bad at math, Es, you just won’t fricking study." Damn right she wouldn’t study. Back then, Esme Esterbrook had far too many thrilling, pointless and potentially self-sabotaging activities on her calendar to waste time with her nose in a book.

"Sorry," Esme muttered, making a face. She was proud of Jude’s accomplishments, of course: his master’s degree in Economics, his work at the Federal Reserve, and now his illustrious appointment in Washington. He reported directly to the Secretary of the Treasury of the United States. She’d read an article about him in the L.A. Times that called Jude’s economic models fresh, powerful, and even revolutionary. The same article predicted that Jude would one day be the chairman of the Federal Reserve. All of Esme’s knowledge about his job still didn’t mean she was any closer to having a clue what he did every day of his life. An old sadness twitched to life inside her.

Jude had left her behind, that summer after he’d graduated from high school.

The elevator door dinged open. He glanced up at the floor indicator. He placed his hand on the back of her arm and urged her forward. This is your floor? Let’s go to your room and catch up.

No, that’s not my floor, she said too quickly, leaning her weight backward in an obstinate gesture.

She’d given Thor a room key and told him she’d meet him in her suite at eight o’clock. Her uncharacteristic desire for drama and illicitness tonight (not to mention horniness) now struck her as immature and stupid. It was currently five after eight. She envisioned a ridiculous tableau of Jude following her into her suite only to find Thor Redfern stretched out on the bed, wearing only his bronzed skin, some biker boots and a rose lying on the six-pack, tight drum of his belly.

Jude’s brow creased in confusion at her flat denial. He stopped the elevator door from closing and glanced at the button panel.

"Hold on. You must have hit this floor. We’re the only two people on here, and I’m three floors up." His blunt assessment and refusal to let go of the topic struck her as stubborn. Her hackles rose, an uncontrollable reaction honed from years of childhood squabbles.

Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. I’m on the same floor as you, she lied.

Then why the hell did the elevator stop? he groused under his breath, hitting his floor button again with an impatient stab. The doors closed. He turned toward her again. "Why are you staying at a hotel, anyway? You live in L.A."

We have a photo shoot going on at a studio near here. We finished tonight, but it’s taken a couple days. It’s easier for me to stay close by instead of driving back and forth from Chinatown everyday.

"Why do you say we? I thought you were the sole owner of EsmeEs Designs," he said, putting out his hand for her to exit in front of him when the doors opened. She exited the elevator, highly aware of his light touch at her back. When had he learned to escort a woman with such casual male grace?

"I am. But I have seven employees now. I guess I just think of the company as all of ours, not just mine. They’ve been great. Every one of them has been as dedicated as I am in making EsmeEs fly. I owe them a lot," Esme explained, keeping her head lowered as she dug in her purse. They walked down the hushed, luxurious hallway, she slightly in front of him. She tried to disguise her panic in regard to the fact that her room was three floors down, and she had no idea where she was leading him. Unfortunately, Jude had years of experience in recognizing her bluffs, so she kept her face hidden by a swath of long hair.

It was bad enough, that she’d proposed a night of casual sex with a male model whom she barely knew. Despite what Jude—and most of her family—thought of her, Esme was not the love-’em-and-leave-’em type. It was hard to leave someone you never had. It was just easier for her if her family and friends didn’t expect much from her in the romance department. The best way to accomplish that was to let them imagine she was a cold-hearted man-eater.

In truth, she was fairly lame when it came to sex and male companionship. Mostly, she was lonely, living alone in her huge Chinatown loft, bingeing on coffee, Honeynut Cheerios, wine or manic workout routines, and working incessantly on her designs all night long. Sometimes, she didn’t shower or change clothes for two days running.

Pitiful. Not to mention disgusting. No wonder you came on to Thor. You’re starved for a man’s touch.

Thor possessed the gorgeous male face and body that Esme had hand-selected to represent her male line. Most women would have killed for the opportunity to sleep with him. And Thor wasn’t stupid. Maybe he wasn’t smart, either, but he was far from the box of rocks category. He had a nice smile, and in addition to being a model and an actor, he was also a painter or sculptor…

Or something.

Point being, she could have chosen a desperation booty call that was a hell of a lot worse. But with Jude Beckett unexpectedly standing by her side, it felt like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Revealing the secret about her impulsive propositioning of Thor to Jude wouldn’t just make her feel like a naughty girl, though. No, Jude’s sharp, knowing gaze would make her feel shallow and stupid.

Not to mention ashamed.

Jude Beckett always had been her Achilles heel.

Democratic to the last, Jude was saying. At least as democratic as a born monarch can be.

Esme blinked, forcing her brain back to the topic. She’d been telling him about her employees’ ownership and hard work for EsmeEs Designs. "Monarch? Cut that shit out, Jude." He knew she hated his asinine jokes about her being a princess.

The Becketts and the Esterbrooks had lived side by side for years at Tahoe Shores in an affluent neighborhood. Jude’s family had once been wealthy, but had been brought low, as they used to say in the olden days, not just by financial ruin, but by scandal, loss, and grief. Jude’s parents had died in a car crash when he was eight, and his brother Zev was ten. The boys had been moved to their retired grandfather’s Lake Tahoe lodge.

Hearing Jude call her a born monarch pricked her. It smarted even more knowing that he still held the power to hurt with the most casual, off-the-cuff comment. She wished he wouldn’t say things like that, because deep down, Esme knew his distant, vague resentment wasn’t just about privilege or money. It was an old wound, a bitter sadness that Esme had an intact, loving family, while his had been snatched away from him without warning or reason. He might have been accepted like a brother in the Esterbrook household. But deep down, Jude felt his orphan status like an old war wound that had never quite healed.

He laughed, and as usual, Esme had to question whether she was crazy for briefly sensing his pain.

Lower the sword, Es. You know I’m proud of everything you’ve done with the business. Not surprised in the least, either. I just meant you were born for brilliance. Is this your room? he asked casually, pointing. She realized she’d come to a halt outside a door. Thinking fast, she nodded. She extricated her card key from her purse. Then she pretended to hesitate.

Let’s go to your room instead, she suggested abruptly.

Chapter Two

"Why? Hiding something in there? Or someone?" Jude was clearly amused, but his glance was also sharply curious as it strayed toward the closed hotel room door.

"No. She stepped away from the door and resumed down the hallway. I just left my room a real mess, that’s all."

Are you forgetting I was witness to your messes since I was eight years old? Not only yours, Sadie’s as well, he said, referring to her older sister. Esme forced herself not to frown upon hearing him say Sadie’s name. He made an amused, derisive sound as he came to a halt and dug for his card key in his trouser pocket. And they say boys are pigs. You girls were downright filthy.

Well now I’m a filthy woman.

She’d said it flippantly, but his stare flew to meet hers. They stood close. He’d always been tall for his age, but he’d really shot up his last year of high school and first year of college. Esme often forgot this, as they’d begun to drift apart by that time. She was reminded full force now. He was almost a foot taller than her five foot four. Jude’s muscles might not bulge and quiver like Thor’s, but he was as hard and strong as the lean, rangy teenage athlete he’d once been—more so. Age had broadened his shoulders and made the angles of his face sharper and more compelling.

As a fashion designer, Esme hated traditional men’s business suits. She would never tell him this, but she loved Jude Beckett in one. Maybe it was because she knew he was far from traditional, and liked that his non-conformism blazed forth, even in a three-piece cage. Not that Jude could be trapped in anything. He mocked everything a suit meant. He didn’t even know he was doing it, which made it even sexier.

If that was possible.

His was a man’s face now, with more pronounced hollows and angles. He seemed harder. His long-lashed, electric blue eyes were the same, but…different somehow, too. His gaze on her was lambent, but there was something there, something new that cut into her. The moment seemed to halt and hang in some kind of suspended solution. His firm, well-shaped mouth spoke to her, even though his lips didn’t move.

She stumbled in her heels. Jude caught her at her shoulders.

Es?

Yeah? she whispered, staring up at him, her lips parting expectantly.

"Have you been drinking?"

Her breath hitched, and she backed out of his hold. That’s what he’d been thinking about, while she’d been fantasizing about him kissing her?

A little. So what? she bristled. She frowned at him when he studied her with a disconcerting, narrowed stare before he turned to press his keycard in the lock. She held her breath.

You never were much of a drinker, that’s all. He swung open the door. You always said the adrenaline was enough for you.

God damn it. When am I going to outgrow this stupid childhood infatuation?

Things change. Besides, we’re in Beverly Hills, she muttered flippantly as she followed him into the suite. A long way away from the quarter-pipe jump at Squaw, or climbing Donner Summit. How else are we supposed to get a rush around here except from a bottle?

Esme steeled herself at the rough, elementally sexual sound of his laughter. He whipped off his suit jacket in a fluid motion and threw it on the bed. She averted her gaze at the vision of him loosening his tie. He wore a charcoal colored suit that looked as if it’d been professionally tailored to fit his long, lean body. He looked fantastic in it.

She dared a glance back at him, and saw that he was distractedly unfastening the top button on his white dress shirt, exposing his throat. He wasn’t tan presently, but Jude’s skin could soak up the sun even more spectacularly than Thor’s could. He spent most of their childhood summer days with his shirt off. She used to daily appreciate the vision of his half naked body. She hadn’t understood until she was older how fortunate she was to see that beautiful body with so much regularity.

He raked his hand through his near-black hair. A feeling of resentment swelled up in her. No, it wasn’t resentment, she realized. It was that old, ugly ache.

It was unfair: Jude’s hair. When he was younger, he’d worn it long and careless. It’d been the crown of his rebel status. He’d been rock-star ready the second he climbed out of bed and ran his hand through the thick, waving silk. She recalled one sunny spring afternoon at the village skateboard park, watching him take off to attempt his first Cabellerial—a particularly hard trick. A small, worshipful audience, including Esme, had surrounded him. She envisioned it perfectly still, the way his longish hair had spun in the air as he twisted three hundred and sixty degrees, and how it swooshed down around his fierce face as he landed his board with the firm, fluid grace of a born athlete. Jude defined the boarder term steezy. He made his tricks look easy, and he did it with style.

He’d been fourteen years old that summer afternoon, and Esme twelve. It’d been the first time she recalled feeling that ache swell so tight in her chest, it’d felt like she couldn’t breathe.

His hair was beautiful still, the gleam and luster of the dark strands somehow belying the conservative style he now wore.

It suddenly hit her full force that she was alone with Jude in a hotel room, of all places. She’d seen him at family gatherings and holidays throughout the years, although more and more, they often missed holidays at Tahoe due to work. And even when they both were in Tahoe Shores, they were rarely alone. The last time they’d been together had been two years ago. That occasion had been sickeningly sober, though. Sexual craving—or an annoyingly chronic infatuation— had been the last thing on Esme’s mind.

We really were adrenaline junkies, growing up, Jude was saying. I’m surprised we didn’t become addicted to something else.

We did. Work, she reminded him. She tossed her purse on the made bed and sauntered over to the minibar. I hope the United States government is generous enough to pay for its employee’s liquor bill, she said, opening the door and peering inside. After a moment, she realized he hadn’t responded. She looked over her shoulder, brushing her long hair out of her face. Her breath stuck. He was staring at her leather-covered ass with frank male appreciation. Her sexual awareness of him, not to mention her subsequent anxiety, soared.

He blinked and shifted on his feet.

Uh…liquor on expense reports is frowned upon, so I pay for that personally. Actually, I’ll have a double. Help yourself to the same, he said gruffly, starting to tug on his tie again.

Such the gentlemen. She snagged four mini bottles of Scotch and stood. His gaze flashed over to her. He’d heard the sarcasm in her tone. He frowned slightly and shook his head.

Sorry about that, he said grudgingly, coming up next to her to retrieve a couple glasses from the shelf above the minibar. He glanced down at her lower half, and she knew he was talking about being caught staring at her ass. You’re something in those pants. His slight frown making her think it might or might not be a compliment. I’m not surprised they’re selling like—how’d you put it? Fashion crack?

She followed him over to a small seating area with a couch and a coffee table. She plopped down next to him, praying that she seemed as casual as when they were teenagers watching the X-Files or Babylon 5 together in the Lodge’s cavernous basement.

Thanks. I think.

She filled his glass first, then hers. She raised her drink. Their gazes met over the rims as they clinked their glasses together. What they were toasting to, she had no idea. She took a healthy swallow, needing the burn of the liquor to calm her nerves after what she’d read in his eyes just now. That particular glint was typically reserved for the girls who had flocked around him when he was teenager.

Among the Esterbrook girls, that glance had always been reserved for Esme’s older sister, Sadie.

I’m just not used to you looking at me that way, she said through a tight, Scotch-scored throat. He gave her a sharp glance. Damn. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud. The Scotch was weakening, not hardening her.

Every guy in Nevada and California looked at you that way any chance they got. I’d be damned if I was going to join the drooling crowd. Your ego was already the size of Mount Whitney as it was, he said, leaning back and putting a foot on the coffee table. She was glad to hear the lightness to his tone.

And yet she wasn’t, too. When will he ever take me seriously?

Part of her wanted that edgy gleam of hunger back in his