Desired Heart: Heart Series, #6

By Emma Koine

An Unexpected Reunion: Love and Danger Collide in the Heart of the City

 

Megan

 

After years apart, a chance encounter traps me in an elevator with the man who shattered my heart in Venice.

 

Forced together by circumstance. I discover that my father has hired him as my protector against a credible threat on my life.

 

As things get more serious, it's clear that our shared history and ongoing feud could tear us apart again.

 

Even though I care for Blake deeply, it's tough to handle our complicated past with danger all around us.

 

Just as I start to trust him, a surprising revelation risks undoing all we've built.

 

Our love can withstand the storm, but the shadows of the past may tear us apart once more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SAAK Publishing
• Release date: Jul 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227752581

Book preview

Desired Heart

Enemies to Lovers Bodyguard Romance

Emma Koine

Copyright © [Year of First Publication] by [Author or Pen Name]

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

1.Megan

2.Blake

3.Megan

4.Blake

5.Megan

6.Blake

7.Megan

8.Blake

9.Megan

10.Blake

11.Megan

12.Blake

13.Megan

14.Blake

15.Megan

16.Blake

17.Megan

18.Blake

19.Megan

20.Megan

21.Epilogue

22.Heart Stopper Box Set

Megan

Inever expected to be trapped in an elevator with the one person I despised most in the world. But as fate would have it, I was locked in a relentless battle of wills with Blake, the captivating enigma who ignited both my fury and my passion.

We hadn’t seen each other in years since our scorching hot tryst in Venice. Our whirlwind fling burned bright but flamed out just as quickly—that’s how things went with Blake. But even after all this time, just standing close to him stoked those same flames of desire and irritation I thought I’d smothered long ago.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me rewind to where this all began—a typical Friday night when my only worry was which Manhattan hotspot to grace with my presence. And o, of course, which dress would turn the most heads?

Ooh, that’s the one!" I smiled, doing a flirty twirl in my penthouse bathroom’s triple mirrors.

I slipped on the spaghetti-strapped, low-back sea-foam green silk of my new Dior dress and laughed at the way it swished teasingly around my thighs, even as I admired the daring side slit.

With a festive giggle, I misted my rust-colored curls with a spritz of my signature French perfume.

An heiress like me always had to look absolutely stunning—one never knew when the paparazzi might strike! Slipping into my favorite diamond-encrusted stilettos, I did one final magical makeup touch-up. A swipe of candy-apple gloss over my pillowy pout, a thick coat of lengthening mascara to make my emerald eyes pop, and I was ready to take on the night.

Henri, could you have the driver bring the Bentley around? I chirped into the intercom, already picturing making my grand arrival at the Copacabana club.

Everywhere I went, jaws dropped, and flashbulbs blazed at the mere sight of me. Tonight would be no different. Snatching my sculpted python clutch from the entryway, I blew an air kiss to the full-length mirror, admiring my reflection.

Eat your heart out, Manhattan, I purred, tossing my glossy mane over bare shoulders.

At that moment, nothing could have prepared me for the delicious trouble that was headed my way in the form of a devastatingly handsome bad boy from my past. Five minutes later, the Copacabana’s ornate oak doors parted like I was the Queen arriving at the ball. A hush fell over the dim lobby for the briefest moment before a roar of cheers and whistles erupted.

It’s Megan Callahan!

Oh my god, she’s here!

Flashes exploded from every angle as the paparazzi jockeyed for position.

I drank it all in with a brilliant smile, owning the attention like the untamed socialite I was. This was my kingdom, and all of New York was my court. With a saucy wink, I sashayed through the bowing crowd of bouncers and fawning hostesses, breezing into the throbbing main room. The Copacabana’s famous cherry-red lighting glazed everything in a seductive crimson glow as I made my fashionably late entrance.

Well, well, if it isn’t Manhattan’s baddest bad girl, Brock purred with a salacious grin, raising his cocktail in a mock toast from our exclusive VIP table. My posse of trusted party pals was already in full swing.

You know how I love making an entrance, I drawled, draping myself artfully across the recycled ruby banquette.

With a sultry crook of my finger, I summoned a server.

Bottle of your finest Don Julio 1942 tequila for the table, and you can start me off with a French 758, please.

The opening notes of the evening’s first check began as the server scurried off. Around me, Copacabana’s elite crowd had already packed the sprawling dancefloor, undulating in a sweaty mass of stylish bodies. The air was thick with buzzing energy, thumping beats, and clouds of premium champagne mist.

Last one on the dancefloor is a rotten banker’s wife! I crowed, already halfway out of my skyscraper heels and shimmying my way through the crowd.

From there, the night descended into a whirlwind blur of pulsing bodies, breathless laughter, and deliciously tempting strangers. Drinks flowed endlessly, the lights twirled kaleidoscopic colors, and I danced until my blood ran molten with tequila and sheer adrenaline.

At some point, I coolly dismissed the growing cluster of male admirers vying for my attention with a careless toss of my hair. I was Manhattan’s most untamable party girl—a dazzling firework impossible to chase or pin down.

By midnight, the pulsing rhythms and flashing lights started to blur together as the tequila thrummed through my veins. I’d clearly celebrated a bit too enthusiastically tonight—not that I was one for holding back.

Time to blow this popsicle stand, I slurred with a languid stretch, peeling myself off the banquette.

A couple of my more persistent admirers perked up.

Need some company, Meg? A particularly brazen stockbroker type leered, sliding an arm around my waist.

I playfully swatted him away with a tinkling laugh.

Nice try, sweet cheeks. But this after-party is a one-woman show.

Snatching up my clutch, I blew a kiss over my shoulder and, fixing a few wild tendrils of my artfully mussed hair, I swayed my way across the opulent marble lobby toward the bank of elevators. Letting out a relieved sigh, I leaned against the elevator wall and closed my eyes, glad to finally be alone. Just as the doors began to slide close, a broad shoulder stepped into the small space. I ignored him, anxious to get back to the apartment and sleep off the alcohol.

Well, if it isn’t Miss Party Princess herself, a deep, sardonic voice rumbled.

My eyes snapped open at the familiar voice. Even in my drunken state, I could never forget that silken, smooth voice and the things it whispered to me on those hot nights under the stars so many years ago. I blinked hard, trying to shake off the tequila haze as his painfully familiar face came into focus.

Blake... what the hell are you doing here?

My voice was cool, only out of practice. When you’re a young, beautiful heiress, you learn to keep your voice authoritatively cool even if you’re shaking inside or very soon, you’ll have more people taking advantage of you than you’d care for. His chiseled features darkened, giving him that scorching look that could stop traffic as he openly raked his gaze over me.

I see you’re still all about the party and good times.

White-hot fury lanced through me, burning away the lingering buzz instantly.

And I see you’re still a world-class jackass, I spat.

Now get out before I have security toss you out on your arrogant ass.

Blake’s signature smirk curled those ridiculously lush lips.

Not your daddy’s private elevator, princess. I’ll stay if I damn well please.

Then I won’t,

Jabbing the DOOR OPEN button with more force than necessary. But the elevator gave an ominous shudder, and the metal doors slid shut, sealing us into the confined space together. The elevator jerked into motion, moving down several floors before coming to an abrupt jerking halt that nearly sent me toppling into Blake. I clutched the rail, steadying myself with a huff of irritation. Blake’s hands shot out, instinctively grasping my arms to steady me.

Are you alright?

Instead of responding to his question, I snapped, What the hell is going on?

All the while glaring daggers at him.

Don’t look at me, he shot back, giving a muscle-corded shrug.

Blake’s thick brows knotted as he smashed the call button a few times, to no avail. Without another word, he braced one shoulder against the door frame and started prying at the seam with his fingers, testing the hold. I watched him struggle with growing irritation, rapidly replacing my shock.

Do something useful for once in your life and get this piece of junk moving again,

Could this night somehow get any worse?

Blake cast me a scathing sidelong glance before slamming his palms against the door in frustration. He dragged a hand through his tousled chestnut hair, leaving it artfully mussed in a way that should have been illegal.

Must be a power outage or malfunction. All we can do is relax and wait for the emergency techs.

I narrowed my gaze at him suspiciously. After our volatile run-in, this all seemed far too coincidental. And ‘relax’? What was he really up to?

Wait a minute... this is you, isn’t it? I accused, pointing a crimson-tipped nail at his chest.

What kind of game are you playing here, Blake Thorne? Out with it!

Heat flared in those bold, cobalt eyes as he took a swift step toward me until our bodies were mere inches apart in the confined space.

Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart, he growled in that sinfully husky tone of his.

I’ve got better things to do than get stuck in a goddamn elevator with an arrogant princess like you.

My breath caught in my throat as our intoxicating chemistry crackled to life like an electric shock. Against my will, desire burned low in my belly as those penetrating eyes bored into me. Some things never changed—his infuriating presence still made me feel reckless, alive... deliciously dangerous.

As we faced off like two prize fighters itching for a brawl, I suddenly realized what was about to go down in this tiny metal box suspended high above Manhattan. I leaned forward until my lips were a breath away from Blake’s. But instead of kissing him, which I wanted to do more than anything else, I turned my head aside and moved to the furthest part of the elevator.

Don’t play dumb with me, Thorne, I spat, jutting my chin out defiantly even as my heart pounded against my ribs.

This has all the markings of one of your shady mind games.

Blake’s eyes flashed dangerously as he stepped close. He turned me so I faced him. He was so close I had no choice but to back up against the elevator wall. The dim emergency lighting cast deep slashes of shadow over those chiseled features, making him look utterly sinister yet impossibly magnetic.

You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you, princess? he growled in that low rasp that did delicious things to my insides.

Still the same spoiled little rich girl making snap judgments about people.

I opened my mouth to hurl another biting retort when the lights chose that moment to flicker and die completely, plunging us into jarring darkness. A startled gasp escaped my lips as the floor seemed to drop out from under us for a split second before the emergency generator’s eerie red backup lighting cast haunting shadows throughout the elevator.

What the hell was that? I whispered, hating the tremulous note of fear in my voice as I strained my eyes against the gloom.

Instead of answering, Blake’s arm encircled my waist from behind, pulling me flush against the solid wall of his chest as his other hand gripped my shoulder firmly.

Stay still, he murmured roughly in my ear, his warm breath sending tingles down my neck.

That’s when I finally saw it—a flicker of movement from the elevator’s escape hatch overhead, like a shadow shifting against shadows. My breath seized in my lungs as bone-chilling realization crashed over me.

We weren’t alone.

Blake... I started in a terrified whisper.

But he was already moving, shielding my body with his own as he shifted us away from the hatch’s trajectory. One finger came up to brush my parted lips as he held me immobile in his iron grip.

The silent message was clear:

Don’t make a sound.

Tense moments stretched as we stood frozen, holding our breath in unified dread. Just when it seemed my wildly thudding heart was about to burst straight through my silk bodice, a sinister metallic clang reverberated throughout the elevator.

Blake’s palm swallowed my shaken cry as he held me tighter against his powerfully built frame. When everything fell unnaturally still and quiet once more, scarce inches separated us as our heaving breaths mingled in the scant space between our lips. Blake’s eyes had gone battleground intense, blazing with protective ferocity as he searched mine.

What was that? I mouthed shakily against his hand.

Blake shook his head a fraction, slicing his stare meaningfully upward toward the hatch again before dropping it back to bore straight through me. The wordless message was clear.

This was far from over.

As we both instinctively shifted into survival mode, a metaphorical storm started brewing in the depths of those blazing cobalt irises. And in that endless moment snared in his powerful embrace, part of me wondered if being held so tightly by him was not the greatest danger of all.

Blake

Ishould’ve known getting into that elevator with Megan Callahan would be a goddamn disaster.

If there’s one thing I learned when I started dating, it was that women like her only cause trouble—the beautiful, rich, entitled kind convinced the world revolved around their every whim. However, I couldn’t deny the rush of adrenaline that still sparked through me whenever thoughts of her crossed my mind, even after all these years.

Or the fact that anytime I remembered those smoldering whiskey-colored eyes, it could still make my heart kick into overdrive. I tried telling myself it was just the thrill of the forbidden, that insane chemistry we could never escape no matter how disastrous our last go-round ended up.

But I’d be lying if I said it was that simple of an itch to scratch.

Maybe I should rewind to the beginning before Megan Callahan barged back into my life and flipped my entire world upside down yet again.

I was just a typical reckless American student back in those days if your definition of typical involved pulling endless pranks, picking fights with the stuffy British elite, and spending more time guzzling cheap booze than attending classes at my elite school in London. Getting a world-class education at an Ivy like Pembroke was my ticket out of my misspent youth. I just had to survive the old money snobs and aristocratic backstabbers convinced my rough-around-the-edges background made me inferior.

The end of the semester at school was always a raucous affair, made even more excessive by my mates and I securing an ill-advised loan to fund an extravagant holiday. With our exams behind us and youth’s overflowing arrogance coursing through our veins, we set off for the sun-drenched shores of Venice—a city renowned for its debauchery and indulgence.

The first few days passed by in a whirlwind of cheap booze, backpackers’ hostels, and the kind of regrettable decisions that only excessive alcohol consumption could breed. But it was the stumbling of our drunken pack into one of Venice’s infamous aristocratic soirees that changed everything.

The sprawling palazzo was alive with the thrum of pulsating music and the electric atmosphere of hedonistic revelry. A mix of posh high-rollers and slumming trust fund babies like me filled the dim space to the gilded rafters. I spotted her across the room, shining like an oasis of light in the shadowy haze.

She wore a white halter dress that molded to her frame like liquid sin. Those wildly tousled waves screamed, I just rolled out of some VIP’s bed looking this naturally gorgeous, as she twisted them up into a messy knot. As she turned to slide her way through the undulating crowd, the molten heat in those scorching honeysuckle eyes made my recently pounded heart stutter in my chest all over again.

That night, the music was like a drug, the architecture a delirious fever dream, and the drinks flowed like wildfire. But as I watched that nameless girl from across the crowded club, those words rang truer than ever before. She was the most intoxicating vision I’d ever laid eyes on, and I had to have her before this fever broke.

So, with a muttered Sorry to my companions, I started pushing my way through the throbbing throngs, pulled forward by an invisible force straight toward my siren. When our gazes finally met and locked across the crowded space, the world itself seemed to stop on its axis for one tantalizing breath. Then her ruby lips curved in the sultriest, inviting grin as she reached up to tuck an errant curl behind her ear.

That was all the encouragement I needed to close the distance between us for good. After that moment, we were utterly, helplessly inseparable. Megan was a force of nature, wild and free-spirited. Her tinkling laughter and cascading strawberry-blonde locks captured my undivided attention.

In that moment, our worlds collided—mine, fueled by the arrogance of elite education and a desire to rage against society’s conventions, and hers, a whirlwind of privilege and insatiable hunger for adventure during her Venetian summer.

Megan was magnetic, this worldly Venice vacationer with sun-kissed skin and a kaleidoscope of mischief glittering in her eyes. I was powerless against her charms, captivated by the challenge she represented.

The following nights blurred together in a vortex of drunken debauchery and tangled bedsheets.

With Megan, I could be the charismatic bad boy I always fancied myself as, a diverse crew of delinquents in tow as we raised hell from the winding canals of Venice all the way to the sun-kissed Amalfi Coast. Those blissful two weeks in Venice were unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Megan and I were utterly, recklessly consumed by our own private bacchanal.

The