The Beautiful Stranger: Passion Fruit Martini, #1

By Arielle Morisot

Aspiring travel journalist Camden O'Malley can't keep herself from falling for Owen Jones, her father's estranged best friend who's just waltzed back into their lives after twenty years in England. Owen, a suave, sexy and successful overseas businessman, is a recovering gambling addict  who is dangerous enough to attract Camden while making her feel totally safe in his arms. When Camden's beloved father starts receiving anonymous threats and extortion letters, however, is Owen the one behind it? Will he ever let her get truly close enough to him to find out? 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arielle Morisot
• Release date: Jul 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215518311

Book preview

Prologue: Patrick

I’d only gone up the street for maybe half an hour, but when I got back to my bar, called Hannah’s, after my late wife, it looked like a bomb had gone off in the place. There were broken bottles shattered and smashed all over the carpet, and a sticky mess of wine whisky, and a little bit of everything else was coating the countertop and the backs of the ebony hardwood tables and chairs. Not everything was destroyed, at least; the furniture itself was intact, and most of the bottles on the top and second shelves didn’t seem to have been messed with. It was just the stuff on the lowest shelf that had been smashed up, as if whoever had decided to redecorate my bar had known they’d only had a few minutes do the damage in, and had just grabbed whatever stuff was easiest to reach.

What the actual fuck, I muttered aloud, glaring around at the expensive disaster. This was going to take time, resources, and a lot of extra hands to clean up if I had any hope of opening Hannah’s again by happy hour the next day.

I wish I’d been shocked, but I wasn’t. I was pissed as hell, definitely disappointed and even a little defeated, but I honestly wasn’t surprised, because I’d known. That melodramatic anonymous letter I’d gotten in the mail – who even sends mail anymore, in 2023? – had made it crystal clear that I had only a couple of options. Either I could pay up and settle the debts by next week, or this cowardly piece of shit would take everything I had; and I didn’t have much more than this place to my name. Maybe they’d broken in and smashed the place up just prove to me that they could; to make it clear just how much was at stake for me, and that their threats weren’t empty.

I sighed, rubbing anxiously at the back of my neck, trying to figure out what to do next, who to call, how to proceed. Then the door clinked open behind me, and someone gasped.

Whoa! Oh my god, Patrick, are you okay? What the heck happened?

I turned around to find my pretty little bartender, twenty-four-year-old Alexis Finch, gaping the destruction, her wide green eyes shifting back and forth between the shattered glass and the clenched fists at my side.

I’m fine, I assured her, choking down the gruffness in my voice, trying to sound casual, hoping to keep her from freaking out. I found it like this when I came in just now; whatever went down here, I wasn’t involved.

Alexis gave me a slightly doubtful look, and I grinned at her, shaking my head. She had a point; I had a reputation for a quick temper, and not without reason. I’d been in my fair share of totally justifiable barfights in my time, and she’d even seen one of them a few months ago, not long after she’d started working here. I couldn’t blame her for wondering, but I also really appreciated it when her face cleared, and she nodded. She was a good kid, a good employee, and apparently she was going to take me at my word, which was a welcome relief. I couldn’t risk telling her about the letter; getting her involved in this crap was the very last thing I’d do, no matter how much devastation this fucker could wreak.

Well, I guess we’re lucky, then, boss, she announced, shaking her head and pursing her little red lips for a moment before taking a few steps farther into the carnage. The vandalism could have been worse, and it doesn’t look like anything was stolen, at least. Why would anyone waste all of this good alcohol? What’s the point of that? How did they get in, anyway? None of the windows are smashed in front. Hang on, I’m going to go check the back.

Don’t you dare, I barked out, grabbing her by the shoulder and feeling her freeze in my grip. Quickly, carefully, I let her go.

Sorry, I muttered, Listen, you can’t go back there. There’s glass everywhere, you could get cut, and-!

And whoever did all this might still be back there, waiting, she finished for me, frowning. Okay, then we go together.

Alexis knew better than to suggest we call the police; I am not a big fan of the cops or the work they’ve been doing lately in DC. Instead, she grabbed an intact, empty bottle that was lying on its side on the counter, and I had to stifle a smile.

Forget it, I told her. I’ll go. You just sit tight here and-!

Alexis ignored me. Instead, wielding the bottle in front of her like an extremely fragile bat, she stepped forward and switched on the lights to the main room of the bar. Then, carefully, her head on a swivel like she was playing a virtual reality video game, she crept past the tables and back towards the storeroom door, forcing me to follow her.

None of the windows were broken, either in the main area for patrons, or in the back. The back door was still locked from the inside, and nothing in the area of that door seemed to have been disturbed. Apparently, whoever had been here had made a few messes, made their point, and then left presumably the same way they’d come in, which must have been through a door. That meant they had to have a key, and that narrowed down the pool of suspects, but that wasn’t exactly a good thing.

How many keys have we given out? I muttered, taking another long, hard look around to make sure that I hadn’t missed something. I’d have been a lot happier if the vandals HAD broken a window; that’d be harder to solve, but easier to stomach.

Alexis was doing math on her fingers.

Counting yours and mine, she said, there are five. We both have one, and then each of the guys has one.

The guys Alexis was talking about where our three regulars; the same old buddies of mine that had been showing up at Hannah’s at least five nights a week since Hannah herself had passed nearly eight years ago. There was my brother Jack, Hannah’s best friend Miles, and Gideon, my former partner from back when I’d be a cop with the MPD. I’d given them all keys months ago, because they almost spent as much time at Hannah’s as I did, and because I trusted them.

Had that been a