Unbroken

By Lynne Connolly

What is better—imperfect passion or perfect control?

Vashti was a world famous model before the car accident that left her scarred and broken. She looks on her job with sculptor Zoltan as a way to get back to her career.

But Zoltan wants her for the imperfections she wants to eliminate. Zoltan has international fame, but he's changing his style, from abstract to figurative, and what better place to start than with the beautiful Vashti?

Vashti finds hours of modelling in the nude, watched by an increasingly turned-on Zoltan almost unbearable. Until they give way to temptation. In a torrent of inescapable passion, they explore each other in every way, in bed, on the couch, in the shower and any other place the urge takes them.

When the contract is finished, Vashti will have the plastic surgery needed to restore her to perfect beauty. But Zoltan loves her imperfections and plans to celebrate them. Will Vashti go ahead with the surgery she dreads? Can Zoltan accept her whatever she is, whatever she does?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Totally Bound Publishing
• Release date: Nov 8, 2010
• ISBN: 9780857153296

Book preview

A Total-E-Bound Publication

www.total-e-bound.com

Unbroken

ISBN #978-0-85715-329-6

©Copyright Lynne Connolly 2010

Cover Art by Lyn Taylor ©Copyright November 2010

Edited by Delaney Sullivan

Total-E-Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing.  Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2010 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

Warning:  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers.  This story has been rated total-e-burning.

UNBROKEN

Lynne Connolly

Dedication

To the RNA. The Romantic Novelists’ Association, whose encouragement and sheer love of the genre has never wavered.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Rokeby Venus: Diego Velázquez

Venus of Urbino: Titian

Olympe: Édouard Manet

Hayward Gallery: Southbank Centre

Guggenheim Museum: Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation

Pygmalion: George Bernard Shaw

Vogue: Advance Magazine Publishers Inc.

Gaultier: Jean-Paul Gaultier

Chapter One

The strong male voice sounded too close to the curtain. Are you okay in there?

Vashti sat on the worn sofa in the changing room, shivering. She had never, ever felt this nervous about exposing her body before. Until a year ago, that was her job, something she’d done almost since she could remember, but now she had this dreadful hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She knew why, and despite the hours and hours of therapy, she couldn’t suppress it. Try to think of your fear in terms of one to ten. Eleven, she was an eleven. No, hospitals were eleven.

She took a deep breath and sat bolt upright, drawing the silk robe around her like a princess receiving a subject. I’m fine. I’ll be out in a moment.

Don’t be long, or we’ll lose the light.

She’d heard that before from photographers, but not here, not now. She lifted her chin, as ready as she’d ever be, and concentrated on getting to her feet without wobbling. That had once been second nature to her. Now, not so much.

It didn’t help. But she’d known worse. Much worse.

She stepped out to face her irascible artist.

Zoltan glared at her, a frown marring his handsome face, his light eyes sparking fire. It took nearly an hour for you to take your clothes off. It takes me five minutes.

You’ll have to show me sometime. Her smile betrayed nothing of her inner turmoil. She knew, because she’d practised it in the mirror until she could do it in any circumstances—with jetlag confusing her, with flu raging through her, with starvation threatening to fell her. This time she only had nervousness to deal with, but it seemed worse than all the others.

He gave her a cursory glance and gestured across the studio. Over there, please. I want to take some photos, get some idea of what I want. He strode across to his easel and picked up a camera from behind it.

Zoltan’s studio had three walls of glass. Nothing overlooked it except the lush greenery of the park beyond. Very unusual in this built-up city, but London still had its oases. This was one. A very expensive one. But Zoltan could afford it. Riding high on public approval, even the critics loved him.

She still didn’t know why he’d chosen her for this project, but it would bring her back into the public eye. It might seal her career tight shut, but she couldn’t feel sorry about that.

She walked over to a typical artist’s couch, a chaise-lounge with mahogany legs and a scrolled back, partly covered with a dark blue velvet throw. A screen stood behind it, starkly white, no doubt performing the same function as a photographer’s umbrella. She smiled.

What is it?

Having worked with artists before, or people who considered themselves artists, Vashti found his abruptness odd, but not unique. The screen. I haven’t seen one in a while.

How long?

Why should he care? A year.

Is that when you had your accident?

She gazed at him, meeting his hard stare, knowing he wasn’t looking at her as a person, but as a subject. That was why she’d chosen to take this job. To be a subject, not a person. Yes. And to get it over with, she answered the question everyone wanted to ask but rarely did. I was coming back from a photo shoot when a car ploughed into mine. My mother was with me. She died, I didn’t. She stared at him, dry-eyed.

Sorry.

The muttered word nevertheless sounded sincere. That surprised her. She’d met with curiosity, requests for her story and other prurient queries, but rarely sympathy. Thanks.

She sat up, legs tightly together, thinking of a pose for him. Without fuss, she undid the belt to her robe before letting the robe fall onto the chaise. As a statement, it fell far short. He glanced up, nodded and returned to his camera, presumably adjusting it for the settings he wanted. It made her feel more secure, that he didn’t stare. Weird, but true.

After a moment, she stood, and turned around. Keeping her hips still, she pivoted at the waist and looked over her shoulder at him.

He grimaced. Too fashionista. Try something else. Don’t pose, be natural.

How? She