Savage Deception: Savage in Love, #6

By Lark Anderson

Logan Savage once thought being the black sheep of his powerful family was an honor, but after spending six years in the real world without a maid to wash his dirty clothes, he's ready to rejoin the fold.
 

Unfortunately, there's a contender to the throne. An adorable four-year-old who goes by the name of Ashley.
 

His deceased brother wasn't one to break the rules, and siring a child out of wedlock was their father's biggest no-no. But it happened, and now Logan has to deal with the fallout.
 

Lucky for him, dear old dad doesn't know about the indiscretion.
 

Inheritance Status: Safe!…for now…
 

Elly Stark is about to lose her business. With both her daughter and her ailing mother dependent on her, she's desperate to make her life work. So when a handsome stranger offers her a leg up, she can't say no.
 

Logan knows he should stay far away from his brother's hidden family, but that doesn't stop him from showing up at places he knows they'll be, buying them pizza, and helping his brother's ex reclaim her business. All while ogling her lush backside in yoga pants.
 

Every moment he spends with Elly is a risk, because if she were to discover that her daughter is a Savage, he could lose everything.
 

But he can't keep away.
 

Come to find out—neither can she.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lark Letter Press
• Release date: Nov 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223428657

Book preview

Chapter 1

LOGAN

Entering my brother’s pristine apartment, I’m hit with the sudden urge to say fuck it all and burn it to the ground. But seeing as how there are at least two hundred other tenants in the building, I exercise restraint.

I pass by his meticulously arranged modern furniture, making my way down the hall to his bedroom.

At best, I have all of an hour to accomplish my mission, then I’ll never have to step foot in this godforsaken place again.

Or at least I hope I won’t have to. My father could have other plans.

Walking into his bedroom, I’m greeted by a distinct flowery aroma that is so unlike my brother’s usual mahogany undertones, I know I’m not alone.

Russell? a high-pitched voice chirps from the bathroom.

I respond with silence, crossing my arms over my chest to prepare for the impending eviction.

Russell? Is that you? From the bathroom steps an olive-skinned goddess that could walk the runways of Milan.

She stops when she sees me and brings her arms around her chest because the silk robe she’s wearing does little to hide her figure. Her head tilts to the side as she tries to piece together why exactly I’m standing where Russell should be.

You’re Logain, aren’t you?

It’s Logan, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.

Excuse me, but you have no right to order me anywhere.

And you have no right staying on private property where you’re not wanted.

Oh, I assure you, Russell most certainly wants me right where I am. Though I can’t say he’d want the same from you.

Unfortunately for you, Russell does not own this place. My parents do. And they won’t ask you to vacate as nicely as I am.

Apprehension lights her admittedly beautiful face. What happened to Russell?

Don’t make your life harder than it has to be.

She walks to the side of my brother’s enormous bed, sheds her robe, and slowly dresses.

My brother always had a thing for pretty faces and tight bodies, overlooking toxic traits for visual appeal.

Some people never change.

My eyes stay glued to the beauty, but I don’t so much as crack a smile. She won’t get the attention she so craves from me.

Once she’s dressed, she slings her purse over her shoulder and saunters over to me, placing a hand on my chest. She bats her long lashes as she licks her lips. A move I’m sure has worked for her on every other man in existence.

I am not every other man.

My name is Lila.

I don’t care.

Relentless in her pursuit of Savages, she runs her fingers lightly down the column of buttons of my shirt. I’m free all weekend. She grabs my belt buckle.

If we were anywhere else other than here, I would take her up on the offer. But knowing that Lila consorted with my brother taints her irredeemably.

Annoyed, I take her wrist and raise it, placing her now clenched fist between us. I am not my brother.

Obviously, she spits back.

I narrow my eyes, relishing the tensing of her muscles under my grip. And I doubt you’d like what I’d do to you.

That silences her.

She pulls her hand away, but I give it one last tight squeeze, boring my eyes into hers. She sucks in a breath, letting me know I’ve accomplished what I’ve set out to do.

Finally, I let go. She snatches her wrist back, rubbing it as if I’d somehow hurt her.

You’re fucked, you know that? If something happened to Russell, you’re goddamn bloody fucked.

Are you sad? I scoff.

Of course, she is. My brother was the biggest fish she could hope to land, not because she’s not pretty enough to score better. There simply is no better.

Russell Savage was the sole heir to a billion-dollar fortune up until the moment he died, three hours ago, and while there are a few fish out there with deeper pockets, none of them have my brother’s Savage looks.

Lila leaves in a huff, and I know that I have precious little time to carry out my father’s orders, as the little minx seems like the type that would have the paparazzi on speed dial.

I rush to my brother’s closet, plug in the code to his safe, and pull out the dirty laptop my brother keeps. I know the exact passcodes to use, as my father knows everything, and I waste no time as I rush through, noting all my brother’s offshore accounts and how to access them.

I pull out a sticky pad and make a few extra notes. Ones my father will not be privy to.

To think, hours ago, I was working in the Hamptons, minding my own fucking business, then I get sucked into this.

I delete Russel's entire trove of porn and move all pertinent files to a thumb drive.

When I’m done, I breathe a sigh of relief as the only thing left for me to do is dispose of the evidence, but as I’m about to close the box, curiosity gets the best of me.

I’m only supposed to recover the laptop. My father was quite clear about that.

But what else could my brother be keeping in here?

I empty the contents of the safe, finding several bags of party favors, harder than anything I would take, his passport, social security card, birth certificate, cash, and a stack of letters.

I pocket the cash and inspect the letters. A picture falls to the floor.

Dear Charles,

I celebrated Ashley’s third birthday yesterday with balloons and chocolate cake. I thought you might want to know what she looks like. She has your eyes.

As promised, you won’t hear from me for another year.

Elly

I furrow my brow, trying to recall a Charles and how they might know my brother, but no one of note comes to mind.

I pick up the picture and see a girl no older than three, and all at once, I go numb.

No way.

No-fucking-way…

I blink, hoping I’m hallucinating, but there’s no mistaking what I’m seeing.

And that’s the icy blue eyes of a Savage.

LOGAN

Have you done what I’ve asked of you? Father says without looking up from the stack of papers in front of him.

He’s making a point of showing me how insignificant I am to him. Not that I’m bothered by his indifference. I’d rather his attention be elsewhere.

Destroyed. I toss the thumb drive on the stack he’s inspecting. That’s all that’s left.

He gives a curt nod as he inserts the drive into his laptop, breathing out a sigh of relief when the spreadsheets manifest.

Savage Industries is his favorite child. Started over a century ago by my great grandfather who specialized in high-end furniture, it’s grown into an investment firm utilized by the world’s elite. Most recently, we’ve acquired a majority shareholder stake in a pharmaceutical company, but my family owns several smaller businesses as well.

Did you touch anything else?

Without being invited to stay, I take a seat and manspread, knowing it’ll annoy him. Why would I? I know what a tight leash you had him on. He would have had nothing of value.

He nods because what I’ve said makes sense. He’s not the type of man you can con with an emotional story. He’s a businessman, through and through, thinking only in motives of logic and money.

When I was a child, I wondered if he had any feelings at all. Every time I saw him, his mouth was a thin line, his face, immovable stone. He wasn’t quick to anger or to shed a tear, much less give a warm smile.

Now I know better. What I took as a detached, emotionless exterior was a stick of dynamite waiting to be lit.

Unlike a volcano, my father is intentional with his destruction, cutting his fuse to just the right length, and planning his damage with surgical precision.

And right now, Father is frowning.

This couldn’t have happened at a worse time with the acquisition on the horizon. He smashes a button on his keyboard, his eyes scanning over the manifested data. Savage Industries has weathered worse, but fuck—what a time.

His son’s body has barely gone cold, and he’s already moved past it. And no, this isn’t him going through shock. This is him.

I shrug. What’s the damage?

I’ve no doubt there’s a sea of booze and a good amount of cocaine in his system.

And you expect me to fix that?

No. I offered the lab tech double his salary to switch his vials, but if you’re rejoining the fold, and that’s a big if, you need to know what it entails.

My brow lifts. I’m impressed.

A team of lawyers is on standby to send cease and desist letters to anyone who dares tarnish the Savage name.

No one did that more than Russell himself in his final moments.

My father’s eyes shoot daggers at me. Your brother was as much a lion as he was a Savage, which is more than what could be said about you.

My brother was a puppet that did everything you said so he wouldn’t have to give up his hooker and cocaine addiction.

I suppose you think yourself better?

I’m your prodigal son, I say, knowing it’ll irk him.

While it may seem like goading the devil is a bad idea, falling to my knees and doing everything he asks is far worse. It’ll make him lose whatever respect he has for me, which isn’t much.

He has to believe our desires align, which shouldn’t be too hard because not only does it make logical sense, but they do. Why would I want to jeopardize the family business when I have so much to gain?

I just so happen to have other ambitions as well.

Do not think your insolence has been forgotten. I’d guard my tongue if I were you, Father warns.

Anything else?

At the funeral, you’ll be sitting with your mother and me. Of course, it’ll shock some to see you there, but we’ll play it off like the tragedy brought us back together. Soft hearts will eat that up.

And after that?

You’ll slowly start taking on the roles of your brother. It has to be organic, not forced. But I warn you, one toe out of line, and I’ll cut it off.

It’s what I’ve wanted for so long, but now, I feel hollow. Not because I miss my brother. He was a dick.

I just can’t seem to get my head sorted.

I wasn’t meant for the Savage world. I wasn’t born cold or stoic, the very qualities that terrify those who find themselves in a Savage’s crosshairs.

I just like to party.

Or liked to, which my father did not appreciate. I was dubbed the Savage Prince in tabloids, which took joy in posting my antics. I was beloved in a way that was unheard of for a Savage, because I seemed almost normal. Accessible.

Then shit hit the fan after an unfortunate trip to the ER involving a potato gun. The headline was everywhere, and my father could not abide the humiliation. I was disowned and disinherited. Completely exiled.

At first, I laughed it off, but come to find out, it wasn’t partying I enjoyed. It was escaping.

With my family out of the picture, I didn’t know what to do with myself, and eventually, when I was barely scraping by because I had no real life skills, I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have been so eager to shun my father’s rule.

But it was too late. I had already fallen from grace.

You understand that all it takes is one fuck up and you’re done.

I’m not the drunken frat mess I was six years ago. I’m almost thirty, and there’s been nary a headline involving me going on three years.

"I’ll have a speech prepared for you to say at your brother’s funeral. Do not stray from the script."

Why would I want to?

After the funeral, you’ll go away for a few weeks. Not to Vegas or Peru or any of the places you like to party. You’re going underground.

I think I know just the place.

Oh, yeah? Where’s that?

A small town upstate called Brookline.

Father eyes me suspiciously. Why there?

The room seems to get ten degrees hotter as I manifest my lie.

There’s a brewery I’m interested in approaching if all goes well for us. They’re new, but their quality is exceptional. I’m hoping we can look at acquiring them for a fraction of their potential worth. I know it’s a small fish, but it could generate some good press.

My father’s brow lifts ever so slightly, not because he likes my idea, but because he likes the drive.

I like the way you’re thinking. Now get the hell out of my office.

Chapter 2

ELLY

No one appreciates the benefits of a good downward dog. Or at least they don’t until it’s too late, after they’ve already lost flexibility, strength, and bone density.

Yeah, I know I’m a real Debbie Downer, and that totally doesn’t go along with the yoga spirit, but I’m the best this town can do.

Looking good, Miss Talmont! I shout to the hearing impaired senior near the back wall.

An angry grumble comes from the side of the room, where Miss Malikar is perfectly posed, but I’m reluctant to give her praise.

And no—I’m not being a bitch. Doing yoga in your seventies is no joke. It comes with risks and I respect every participant.

But Miss Malikar treats it like an Olympic sport. When she’s not mumbling snide remarks about the other participants under her breath, she’s casting them rude glances.

It actually makes me relieved that most of the others in my class are hearing impaired because they don’t deserve to suffer her verbal jabs.

Now we’re going to gently drop our knees to the floor, bring our heads backs, and push our chests down into the cow pose.

Sighs of relief fill the room.

As the thirty-minute yoga session continues, more and more participants fall out until it’s just me and Miss Malikar left.

Excellent form, Miss Malikar, I enthuse, finally giving her the praise she so covets.

She looks smugly toward her contemporaries who are standing around gossiping. It doesn’t offend me that the real reason they attend my Senior Yoga Class is to show off pictures of their grandkids, discuss knitting techniques, and let off some steam.

Oh, and shamelessly eye the gardener through the window.

Back to the point: I don’t fault their reasons for being here. Their kids fled the nest long ago, and most are widows. Heck, with the way some of them talk about their dearly departed, I wouldn’t be surprised if a few were black widows.

I go through the motions of ending class. It’s nearly impossible to meditate with Miss Faye hacking up a lung, but I know better than to get annoyed. It is what it is.

Miss Malikar, however, has no such restraint, and after we repeat Namaste, she begins her usual after class rant.

Before I’m done rolling my mat, she’s already storming up to me, furious.

I don’t want to have to mark you down on the survey that comes out at the end of the month, but if you’re going to allow them to be so disrespectful during class, I think I might have to.

I understand, Miss Malikar, but since the class takes place at the Community Center, there’s very little I can do.

You could ask them to leave!

You would think that I’d be partial toward the one participant that actually enjoys my class.

And you would be dead wrong.

I’m tired. Exhausted. I make sixty dollars a week teaching three classes at the