Genre: Standalone Contemporary Romance

Cover Design: Indie Formatting Services

Release Date: October 20, 2017

US: http://amzn.to/2xOOxcM

BLURB

Captor becomes lover…

I’m a marksman. Mobster. Deadly assassin.
My job is to protect my brotherhood, but that isn’t my only responsibility.

I’m Kieran Hendry, the up-and-coming leader of The Order, and a new duty calls. I must take a wife.

A wife I don’t know.
A wife born into a position at the top of The Fellowship hierarchy.
A wife who will forge a strong alliance between her brotherhood and mine.
A wife I don’t want.

I knew next to nothing about Westlyn Breckenridge when I abducted her, but I quickly discover that she’s intelligent, strong, defiant, selfless. And beautiful.

One night with her is all it takes for me to see that she is no typical Mafia princess. I’m hopeful this arranged marriage won’t be the miserable union I imagined it to be. But convincing my intended to give us a chance won’t be easy when she sees me as the enemy. The brute who kidnapped her. The vile fiend who threatened to do as he wished with her body.

It’s true. I am all those things. I had cruel intentions. But everything has changed. My affection for her is unexpected. My love, unintended.

GOODREADS LINK: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35925953-unintended

Unintended: Kieran and Westlyn's story will publish on October 20th. Cover reveal is September 6th. Sign-ups for the cover reveal and release blast will be coming soon! 
Ohhh… and this one has a pre-order.

http://amzn.to/2vzTjdj

#asinseriesstandalone #unintended #preorder

Fuck, this has been one unproductive day so far. Three intern interviews this morning and not a single applicant I’d even consider as a temp while I look for someone to take the full-time graphic design and marketing position. Unless I settle for the guy who called me maaan every time he addressed me, showed up an hour late, and smelled like he had just smoked weed in the car before he came into the brewery.
 
Liked his designs. Hated the zero-fucks-given attitude.
 
I pick up the application of my one o’clock interviewee. “Frances Ameline Dawson. Sounds like someone’s grandmother.”
 
I scan her application and quickly discover that she’s only twenty-one years old… and not even a student. She’s already a college graduate. Shit, this girl’s confused about the position we’re offering. Which means this is another interview that will be a waste of my time; I’m not hiring a new grad for the full-time position.
 
I scan lower to have a look at her education; I’m curious about what someone so young could have already accomplished.
 
Bachelor of Fine Arts from the University of Alabama. Driven. 3.9 GPA. Intelligent. Recipient of the Howard B. Jones graphic design award. Talented. They don’t give that bastard to someone with mediocre skills. She must be a good artist… no, make that a damn good artist.
 
Miss Frances Ameline Dawson has captured my attention.
 
I look up when I hear Tap knock on my open door. “Hey. I’ve got to make a delivery to BCC. Want to ride out there with me and grab a late lunch afterward?”
 
“Love to but can’t. Got an interview in ten minutes.”
 
“Oh, yeah. Forgot you had that going on today. Haven’t found anyone yet?”
 
“Not even close.”
 
“Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for soon.”
 
“Hope so.” I’m taking care of all the graphic design and marketing, plus working on the winter seasonal recipe with Stout. I’m up to my ass in alligators and in desperate need of someone to take up some slack.
 
Molly—our office manager, head of human resources, and second mom to all of us—leans around the doorway and pokes her head into my office. “Next… applicant… is… here.” Why does she sound like she’s singing a song? Is she that happy it’s the last one for the day?
 
Frances is early. I like that.
 
“I can see that you have things to do so I’m outta here,” Tap says.
 
Molly slides her arm around him. “Tell Lawrence I said hello and to stop being a stranger. We miss her face around this place.”
 
“Don’t worry, mama. I’ll tell her.”
 
“Are you ready for me to send her back?” Molly has this huge grin plastered across her face.
 
Why is she so giddy? “Send her in.”
 
I’m taking another glance at Miss Dawson’s application when she taps on the door. “Hey Beck.”
 
Beck? Well, hell. There goes any hope I had for this one acting more professional than the three I saw ahead of her this morning.
 
“It’s Beckman.” I lift my eyes to Frances Ameline Dawson at the same time I correct her.
 
Long, dark loose curls. Vivid ocean eyes. Flawless porcelain skin. White teeth behind a lovely smile.
 
Fuck. Me.
 
Gorgeous.
 
“Come in and have a seat.”
 
She and her four-inch fuck-me pumps cross my office and she lowers herself into the chair across from me, placing her black portfolio by her feet. “It’s good to see you again. Been a while, right?”
 
What. The. Hell?
 
This girl knows me.
 
And I have no idea who she is.
 
Have I fucked her? No. I would remember being between that pair of legs. Unless I was shit-faced. But even then, I don’t think I could forget this one.
 
Her eyes. Something about them seems familiar. But that body… I’ve never seen it before. And I’m certain I’ve never seen it naked. I would remember.
 
“How long has it been?” Maybe I can put the pieces together if I have some kind of time frame.
 
“Three years.” She’s only twenty-one. Three years ago, she’d have been eighteen. A kid. Barely legal. No way I fucked her… unless I had no idea how young she was.
 
Dammit. I cannot recollect Frances Ameline Dawson. Not even a little. And I really, really, really want to.
 
“You don’t recognize me?” Her voice is low. Childlike. Am I imagining a pang of hurt in it?
 
I wish I could place her. But I won’t pretend I do and risk looking like a fool. “I’m sorry, Frances. I don’t.”
 
“Frankee. Not Frances.”
 
Frankee… Frankee… Frankee Dawson? Oh, Scott’s daughter. Kiddo. I’ve known this girl since her father came to work for us when we opened Lovibond’s doors five years ago. “Kiddo.”
 
A broad smile spreads when I call her by the nickname I gave her years ago. “You remember.”
 
“Took a minute but yeah I do. In my defense, you’ve… changed.” Changed? Huge understatement. Developed. Matured. Bloomed. Blossomed. All of those would be much better word choices.
 
Short hair. No makeup. Baggy clothes. Straight, gangly body. Those are the things I remember about Frankee as a teenager. But no more. Kiddo is no longer a kid. She is a woman. A beautiful one.
 
Seems like only yesterday when she was here sweeping the warehouse and doing odd jobs around Molly’s office. Until she’d find her way to the art and marketing department. My territory.
 
She took an interest in what I was doing. Watched me. Asked questions. Doodled more than she swept. She was quite the little artist even back then.
 
I once found a crumpled sketch of a beer label in the trash when I was digging for something I had lost. I had no idea who had drawn it until I looked at the name signed in the lower right-hand corner of the page. Frankee Beckman. Not Frankee Dawson.
 
She was only sixteen, maybe seventeen but was apparently crushing on me since she was toying with the idea of being Mrs. Beckman. Typical behavior for a silly teenage girl. But Frankee was no typical teenage girl. She was a tomboy to the nth degree.
 
But not anymore.
 
“It’s okay that you couldn’t place me. I know I don’t look anything like I did the last time you saw me.”
 
“Not at all.” My eyes are tempted to leave her face and roam her body, but I force them to stay on her eyes… and full pink pouty lips.
 
Get on with the interview, Beckman. “You graduated from the University of Alabama in three years?”
 
“I did.”
 
Damn. That’s an accomplishment. “Impressive but why the rush?”
 
“The twins graduated from high school this year and they’ll be going to Alabama in the fall. My parents were going to have three kids in college at the same time if I didn’t push to finish early. I couldn’t do that to them because I wanted to take it easy.” Selflessness. A quality you don’t find in many these days.
 
“I’m sure Scott and Tara appreciated that.”
 
“It was brutal at the time but completely worth it. I can say that now that it’s over.”
 
It took five years for me to graduate but not because I was a slacker. Stout and I were concentrating on brewing and how we were going to build a company from nothing. Classes took a backseat to that. And I haven’t spent a single day being sorry about it.
 
“Let’s have a look at your portfolio.” I’m eager as fuck to see the designs of a Howard B. Jones award recipient.
 
She leans forward to pick up her portfolio, giving me a clear view down her blouse. Damn. She’s wearing a black lace bra. And I can’t help but wonder if the panties beneath her skirt match.
 
I quickly divert my eyes back to her application and remind myself that this is Frankee. Kiddo. My warehouse manager’s daughter. Having thoughts like that about her makes me a total dick.
 
One. Hundred. Percent.
 
She opens her portfolio case on the sofa and bends forward to take out her work, giving me the perfect view of her ass and legs in that skirt. So I do what men do. I look… despite knowing how dead I’d be if Scott saw me checking out his daughter.
 
Is Kiddo aware of what she’s doing? Or is she still so innocent that she doesn’t realize she’s presenting more than just her designs?
 
“This was my senior project. I consider it my best work.” I quickly divert my eyes to hers when she turns around to present her work. I hope like hell she didn’t see me ogling her ass.
 
“My assignment was to build a start-up business from scratch. I chose a hard cider company. My research stated that men and women are drinking cider equally so my design needed to appeal to both sexes. The cider drinker is between the ages of twenty-one and forty so I knew I needed to keep it modern and fresh.”
 
She removes the poster cover and it isn’t possible not to instantly be sucked into her design. The font. The colors. The artwork. They’re… perfection.
 
“For my advertising posters, I chose a different couple for each cider—each with a sexy, classic pinup-style girl and a devil-like man. The play on design concentrates on fruit from the Garden of Eden, depending upon the flavor of cider. The design is reminiscent of sex and sin.” Her smile deepens. “And who doesn’t love that?”
 
Fuck. Me.
 
She goes through her posters, explaining them in great detail and then the product label itself. Everything about her design, her strategy… brilliant. “I would never have thought to take this route. My man brain doesn’t function this way, but every little detail about your campaign works.”
 
“A sexy woman and a bad boy. No one hates that.”
 
“These are really great.” I’m pretty sure Tap and Lawry would pay big bucks to have these images on their cider products.
 
“Got an A on this project.”
 
“You should have gotten an A-plus-plus.” Her work is that good.
 
She returns to her case and takes out several foam-core posters… while bending over in front of me again. “I have lots of other beer label designs if you want to see them.”
 
“Absolutely.”
 
Ales. Stouts. Porters. Lagers. Malts. There must be at least twenty-five labels here for all different styles of beer. And not one of them is less than superb. “I’m impressed, Kiddo. Not only in your designs but the way you grasp the marketing side of this business.”
 
“That means a lot to me. Thank you.”
 
“Are you aware that this position is for a summer intern and not full-time employment?”
 
“I am. I’m moving to Austin in September. There’s no point in finding a job in Birmingham only to turn around and quit three months later. A summer internship is perfect for me. I think the experience I’d gain here would look great on my resume when I apply for jobs in the fall.”
 
I need temporary help. Frankee needs experience. I think this could work out perfectly. “How many hours a week could you work?”
 
“As many as you need.”
 
Frankee is already Lovibond family. And the perfect candidate for this summer job. This is a no-brainer. “It’s your position if you want it.”
 
“Of course, I want it.”
 
“Can you start Monday if Molly can push the paperwork through in time?”
 
“I sure can.”
 
“Stop by and see her on your way out. She’ll take care of everything.”
 
“Thank you for this opportunity. I really appreciate it.”
 
She gathers her artwork and returns it to her portfolio. One last look at her ass and legs. After this, no more. I swear.
 
“Dress code around the office?”
 
She looks sexy as fuck in what she’s wearing. I’d love to see her in more short skirts, blouses with low necklines, and black lace bras but that ain’t Lovibond brewery style.
 
“We’re casual around here. Jeans or shorts and a T-shirt are fine unless we have a big client coming in. But you’d never be expected to dress up for them. That would fall on Tap, Stout, and me.”
 
“Okay. Then I guess I’ll see you on Monday at…?”
 
“I get here around eight.”
 
“All right. Eight o’clock, Monday. I’ll be here.”
 
She stops in the doorway and looks back at me. “Working together again will be like old times. I look forward to it.”
 
“Me too.” I say the words but I already know that nothing about working side by side with Frankee is going to feel like old times. It isn’t possible with this grown-up, hotter-than-fuck version of her.
 
It’s only for the summer. Twelve weeks.
 
No big deal. I’ve got this.

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My employee’s daughter. The tomboy. The kid who once did odd jobs around the brewery. That’s all she was… until three years passed and she walked into my office for an interview.

Frankee Dawson is no longer that girl I once called Kiddo. She’s grown into a beautiful, sexy, desirable woman. Very desirable. And that’s a problem. She’s my employee’s daughter. Lovibond family. And too young for me. Too innocent.

I want to feel her respond to my kiss.
I want her body to tremble as she anticipates my touch.
I want to learn all the places that bring her pleasure.

But mostly I want her to know that she’s never truly been loved by a man until me.

Frankee is my intern and under me for the summer. Literally. It’s a difficult secret to maintain when you can’t keep your hands off each other.

This was supposed to be a hot summer fling. Sex and fun without commitment. That’s what we called it. But we were wrong. This is more. I’ve never felt this way about a woman. Never cared more about someone else’s happiness more than my own.

I love her. And I’m happy, so damn happy… until a terrible mistake from my past springs forward and threatens to rip us apart.

There are a million reasons for her to leave me. And trust me, she should. But all I really need is one good reason for her to stay.

​Photography: Eric David Battershell 
Cover Design: Indie Formatting Services
Model: Drew Truckle

Special Release price will be $.99
(Price will increase to $2.99.)
No pre-order on this one, guys.

OR it can be read for FREE in Kindle Unlimited.

Bram--
My best friend’s little sister—that’s all Claudia Bliss is to me.
My head keeps trying to convince my heart, but both know it’s a damn lie.

It’s her face I see every time I close my eyes.
It’s her lips I long to kiss.
It’s her touch I crave in the dark.
She’s the one I love … but wanting Claudia is wrong.

She’s been like a little sister to me since the day she was born. Now, everything between us is changing—including the special bond we’ve always shared. It’s stronger than ever … and becoming something so different. Something so hot. Something so forbidden.

My little dove is growing up.
Doesn’t matter how wrong it is, I can’t stop wanting her.
I will have her.

Claudia--
Bram Windsor. I have loved him my entire life.

For years, I was nothing more than one of the boys to him. Owen’s little sister. The pest who tagged along everywhere the boys went. But now, everything has changed.

I’ve grown up and it’s time Bram sees me for what I am. A woman. A sexual being who wants him. A virgin more than ready to give herself to him.

​I don’t care what our friends or family say. I love him and everything about being together feels right.
I will have him.

Chapter 1
Rose Middleton
 
 
She’s here again. The woman who always dresses in black. The woman with perfectly applied cosmetics and long silky, ebony hair. The woman who sits with crossed legs on a nearby bench and watches me for hours each day.
 
The woman who’s after something from me.
 
She puzzles me. And pisses me off.
 
What could a well-put-together lady like her want with a girl like me? I have nothing. It’s impossible for her to think otherwise.
 
Look at me. I’m on Jackson Square in New Orleans wearing a ridiculous Mardi Gras getup I found in a dumpster. I stand motionless, imitating a mannequin, and holding a pose on the steps of St. Louis Cathedral. I’ve spent the last two hours praying for kindness and mercy in the form of a few clinks in my tin bucket.
 
A trio of guys around my age stops in front of me. The tallest one in the bunch steps close and waves a ten-dollar bill back and forth in front of my face. My mouth floods as I consider how much food that would buy. “All you have to do is move. Grab it and it’s all yours, honey.”
 
I hate when men call me pet names. Just another way of degrading me. I’m no one’s honey or baby or sweetheart or kitten.
 
And I never will be.
 
I consider abandoning my pose and snatching the money. Ten bucks would cover my supper tonight plus breakfast in the morning. Maybe lunch tomorrow if I’m frugal.
 
The guy’s friend punches him in the shoulder. “Make her work for it, dumbass.”
 
“Right.” He shoves the bill down the front of his jeans. “All you gotta do is go after it, sweetheart.”
 
I’ve been doing this long enough to know that going after it isn’t all I have to do. No one gives you something for nothing in New Orleans. 
 
Maybe I should do as he asks . . . and give his balls a twist while I’m in there. That would show this dick I’m not his honey or sweetheart.
 
The runt of the group slaps his friend on the back. “Look at her face, dude. She’s thinking it over.”
 
The jerk is totally right. I am considering diving into his pants to go fishing for that money. That’s how hungry I am.
 
I’m a millisecond away from breaking pose . . . until I remember she’s here. Watching me. And something beyond my empty stomach won’t allow me to cave to these pricks in front of her.
 
I’ve always been stubborn. It’s gotten me in trouble more times than I care to admit. And it will this time too, ultimately costing me meals I so desperately need. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Not while she’s watching. And judging.
 
Don’t know why I care.
 
“Come on, Mark. Don’t waste your money on this chick. She’s ugly anyway.”
 
She’s ugly. Pff . . . like that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that. Like I’m not immune to hearing those words.
 
Let it go, Rose. Let it roll off your back. Just like you always do. These idiots don’t define you.
 
The triad of ass monkeys leave, and I’m relieved. Grateful they didn’t stick around to sling more insults in my direction.
 
I never let jackasses like those guys get to me. I learned to wear my skin like armor a long time ago but this incident is different. She heard them taunt me. This gorgeous woman, with the straightest spine I’ve ever seen, heard them call me ugly.
 
A tingle in my nose stings, and I will it to stop. But it doesn’t. My stare becomes blurred and I fight the urge to blink, afraid she’ll see my tears and mistake them for something they are not.
 
I’m not hurt. Emotional pain isn’t possible when there’s only emptiness in the place where you once had a heart.
 
I. Am. Pissed.
 
Pissed this woman is here again. Pissed I don’t know why. Pissed she witnessed my humiliation.
 
Her attention is unwanted. Being noticed by people has never ended well for me. And I’m sure it won’t this time either.
 
I’ve stayed below the radar of many in my life. I actually became skillful and cunning about it. Until that night. The night I let my guard down.
 
The night I can’t remember.
 
The night I can’t forget.
 
I’ve had enough of this—of her—and whatever it is she’s trying to pull. She needs to leave me alone and go away. Now.
 
I break pose, hold out my hands, and shout at the woman. “Whaaat?”
 
I fume when I see the amusement spread across her flawless face and red-stained lips. “Do you really have so little going on in your life that you get a kick out of coming here day after day just to have a laugh at my expense?”
 
She gets up from the bench and approaches, her hips swaying with each long stride she takes in her skyscraper pumps. I don’t know how women walk in shoes like those.
 
She flashes a business card and several one hundred dollar bills. “Use this money to buy some decent clothes. Rent a room for the night and get cleaned up. You stink. And then meet me at The Court of Two Sisters. We have reservations for seven thirty tomorrow night.”
 
One. Two. Three. Four. This woman’s seriously handing over four hundred dollars? For nothing?
 
Nobody gives you something for nothing. And they definitely don’t give you four hundred dollars for nothing. “I’m not a hooker.”
 
“I’m aware.”
 
I’m calling her out on her MO. She needs to know I’m onto her and this little game she’s playing. “You’ve been watching me. I’ve seen you every day this week.”
 
She laughs, making me feel like I’m not privy to some kind of joke. “I’ve been watching you much longer than a week, Rose.”
 
Shit. She knows my name? “Who are you? What do you want from me?”
 
“That’s a conversation for us to have over dinner after you’ve made yourself presentable. Not while we stand in front of St. Louis Cathedral with you looking like . . . that.”
 
I’m further humiliated when this elegant woman points out the fact that I look like a fool. “You think I like dressing this way? You think I really need you to tell me I look stupid?” I’m homeless—and maybe I am a nobody in everyone’s eyes—but she doesn’t have to be so unkind.
 
“I think you’re dressed like that because you’re surviving the only way you know how. But I want to show you a different way. If you want to hear what I have to say, be at The Court of Two Sisters tomorrow night.” She drops the card and bills in my bucket. “If you’re not interested, at least spend this money wisely.”
 
I quickly retrieve the money from my bucket, stuff it into the wrap around my chest acting as a bra, and flip over the card.
 
 
Vale
Duets Foundation
Specializing in Mutually Beneficial Relationships
504-555-8900
[email protected]
 
I’m not into girls, but I can’t resist watching her swagger and listening to her heels click away on the pavement until she disappears around the corner. So elegant and graceful and classy.
 
“Specializing in mutually beneficial relationships.” I have no idea what that means and I don’t care. I’ll worry about Vale of Duets Foundation after my belly is full, I’m freshly showered, and I’m snuggling in a real bed with a roof over my head.
 
Or maybe I won’t. I made her no promises.
 
Agony, please don’t allow this hope to grow if nothing will come of it. I’m barely hanging on. Barely hanging on.
 

Chapter 2
Rose Middleton
 
 
I’m in disguise tonight. The cosmetics, the dress, the shoes. All are a mask, covering the filth beneath my surface. They’re a veil hiding my dirty past. And present. I wear them like a bandage over a wound incapable of healing.
 
I catch a glimpse of the petite brunette’s reflection in the restaurant’s glass window. I don’t typically like looking at her but tonight she passes for something she isn’t. Elegant and graceful and classy.
 
The girl looking back at me can pretend all she likes but she’s only different on the outside. Embarrassment. Shame. Agony. Those things fill her to the brim, yet leave her feeling empty inside.
 
I tug on the bottom of my black dress to smooth the fabric before entering the restaurant. Sure, my attire is a cheap knockoff of an outfit the beneficial relationship specialist wore a few days ago. It’s an absurd notion—and for the life of me I can’t explain why—but I want this woman to approve of my appearance. I want her to see that I used the few beauty skills I have, even if unsuccessful, to make an attempt at looking presentable. I don’t want her to be ashamed to be seen with me in public.
 
Instinct forces me to lower my head and step aside when I notice I’m standing in the doorway blocking a well-dressed man from exiting the restaurant. “So sorry.”
 
“Oh, no. Pardon me,” he says as he holds the door open.
 
I look over my shoulder to see who the kind gesture is intended for but find no one there. Me? This handsome man in a suit is holding the door for me?
 
This doesn’t happen.
 
Men don’t behave like gentlemen in my presence.
 
Ever.
 
They taunt me with unkind words. Proposition me with money in exchange for filthy acts. Take what pleasures them without any regard for the pain remaining in its aftermath.
 
“Thank you.” I smile at the man as I walk through the opened door—and then something else that never happens, does. Eye contact. His eyes meet mine. And despite the kindness I see there, I’m overwhelmed by the urge to look away.
 
I want to glance back after I pass through the doorway to see if the handsome man is still looking at me. But I’m afraid.
 
Afraid he is.
 
Afraid he isn’t.
 
“Welcome to The Court of Two Sisters. How may I help you?”
 
“I’m meeting someone for dinner at seven thirty.”
 
“What name is on the reservation?”
 
The woman never told me her name. I only know what the card said. “Vale?”
 
“Yes. Your party has already arrived. Right this way, Madame.” Madame? I don’t think anyone has called me that in my entire life.
 
I’m led to a courtyard where strings of clear lighting are draped throughout the limbs of the trees. Looks like some kind of glimmering wonderland. Magical. Beautiful.
 
The woman, Vale, smiles when she sees me being escorted to her table. Has there ever been a time when someone seemed so glad to see me?
 
The host pulls out my chair and pushes it under me when I lower myself to sit. Surreal. “Your server will be with you shortly.”
 
The nearly black hair. The red-stained lips. Pale skin. All she needs to do is replace her black dress with a red, blue, and yellow one to pull off being Snow White. I hope she doesn’t turn out to be the wicked witch with a poison apple.
 
“I’m very happy you came. I didn’t know if you would.”
 
“I’m not in a position to forego a free meal. Especially in a restaurant like this.” I’ve walked past this place a thousand times and there’s always a delicious aroma in the air. I’ve wondered what it would be like to dine here because from the outside, everything looks so fancy.
 
She smiles and I can’t help but admire her white, perfect teeth. No gaps or overlapping. No discoloration. No weird underbite like mine. I’d love to have teeth like those. I’d smile all the time if I did. Maybe.
 
“You like this restaurant, huh?”
 
“Of course. It’s so nice. Who wouldn’t like it?”
 
She chuckles below her breath. “You are very easily impressed.”
 
A girl like me doesn’t get to dine in restaurants with cloth napkins and real utensils. I’m more of a fast-food/convenience store/street vendor kind of foodie. Unless I’ve made no money for the day and I’m forced to dumpster dive. That’s something I strongly suspect this woman already knows about me. And the burning question is why? Why me?
 
As much as I appreciate the money and free meal, I need to know what she wants. “Watching me. Giving me money. Inviting me to dinner. Knowing my name. What is this about?”
 
“That discussion is coming. But let’s enjoy our meal and some drinks first.”
 
A server appears, as if on cue to interrupt the debate I’m about to begin, and places a glass of wine in front of each of us. “Your dinner will be out soon.”
 
“Thank you.”
 
“But I haven’t ordered.” No way I’m leaving this place without a meal. That would be the ultimate disappointment.
 
“I took the liberty of ordering for you.”
 
The server looks at me. “Is that satisfactory, Madame?” Again with Madame.
 
Disappointment rushes over me like a cold shower. I don’t get to order food in restaurants like this. I really wanted to choose my own meal but I guess I don’t get to since I’m not the one paying. “It’s fine.”
 
“I promise you’ll enjoy the Chicken Oscar very much.”
 
I like chicken but I don’t know about the Oscar part. “Oscar isn’t in the escargot family, is it?” I’ll be so disappointed—and disgusted—if they bring me snails.
 
“Oscar refers to the topping on the chicken. It’s crabmeat and hollandaise, not escargot.”
 
“Thank God.” Doesn’t matter if I’m homeless or not. No way I’m putting something snotty like that in my mouth.
 
Vale nods toward my glass. “This wine goes very well with the Chicken Oscar.”
 
I shrug. “I don’t want to get in trouble for underage drinking.” A problem with the authorities is the last thing I need in my life right now, but I’m more concerned with keeping my wits about me.
 
“It’s fine, Rose. A nineteen-year-old having a glass of wine with dinner isn’t the worst thing that ever happened in New Orleans. It actually falls pretty low on the police list of concerns.”
 
Shit. She knows my name and age?
 
I get the distinct feeling this woman knows more about me than just my name and age. And it’s a total violation of my privacy. Why has she made it her business to know anything about me at all?
 
“I’m sorry. I can’t sit here and pretend this is a casual dinner being shared between old friends. You want something from me, and I’d really like to know what it is.” So I can run like hell if I need to.
 
“You’re a no-nonsense kind of girl. I like that about you. And it’s one of the reasons I chose you.”
 
Something about that frightens me. “Chose me for what?”
 
“I’m a business woman, Rose. A very savvy one who has made a career out of connecting people—very successful men and success-driven women—for mutually beneficial relationships.”
 
Ahh . . . the pieces are coming together now. “Your card says you specialize in mutually beneficial relationships. Is that a fancy way to say you’re a madam?”
 
“Absolutely not.”
 
I may be young and not well educated, but I can add two and two. “All signs are pointing in that direction.”
 
“The connections I make between men and women aren’t about sex. That’s not to say that the relationships never progress down an intimate path. They do sometimes, but sex is never the purpose behind the introductions I make.”
 
“What do you mean when you say connections? And introductions?”
“Successful men thrive because they work hard. Hard work requires time, which means they don’t often have the luxury of going out for pleasure. That makes it difficult for them to meet women.”
 
Oh. Duets Foundation must be some kind of matchmaking service or something. “I’m not interested in a boyfriend.”
 
This lady is dumb if she thinks dating is anywhere on my radar. Even if I hadn’t written men off completely, my biggest concern right now is survival.
 
“My clients aren’t on a mission to find a girlfriend or wife. They want clever, talented, engaging, readily available women for the evening or the week or the month. Whatever fits into their schedule. And they’re willing to pay top dollar for that woman’s time and company.”
 
She isn’t doing this out of the kindness of her heart. “You mean you get paid top dollar.”
 
“Every woman brought on board is a huge upfront expense for me. I employ full-time professionals to transform my duet girls from head-to-toe. Of course, that consists of the typical things like hair and cosmetics and a designer wardrobe, but it doesn’t stop there. Each woman who represents Duets Foundation must be articulate, have the ability to go head-to-head in an intelligent conversation about a wide range of topics, and demonstrate proper etiquette always. Plus, it’s imperative she’s able to defend herself in the event of an assault. I invest my time, my effort, and my money in every woman while training her. So yes, I am paid top dollar by these men. But my girls are nicely compensated as well. They stick around. The only women who have ever left Duets did so to either further their education or to marry a client after falling in love.”
 
Falling in love doesn’t interest me in the least but the part about furthering an education definitely catches my attention.
 
“How much does a Duets girl earn doing something like this?”
 
“I require each girl to earn back the initial investment I make in her. Once she does that, I give her a fifteen percent royalty fee from what I’m paid. I know that sounds low but she keeps one hundred percent of any earnings made from her client. That could be in the form of gifts, cash, a predetermined allowance, even college tuition. Anything given to her directly from the client is hers to keep free and clear.”
 
College tuition? It’s unreal that an opportunity to further my education would fall into my lap like this. Why? “I want to know how you know my name and age. And anything else you’ve dug up about me.”
 
“I have a liaison at the homeless shelter. I pay her to notify me anytime a potential Duet comes through.”
 
“Your liaison told you personal information about me?” No way that’s not illegal.
 
“She tells me enough so I can decide if I think the girl is worth pursuing.”
 
All the pieces suddenly click. “Oh my God. You’re the one the girls at the shelter call Fairy Godmother.” The woman who takes girls off the street and teaches them to be classy ladies. I thought she was an urban legend.
 
“Are you asking me to become a Duets girl?”
 
“I’m asking you to become something different. Something more. Something so much better. A special project I’ve been strategizing for two years. My prodigy.”
 
“What makes your prodigy different from the other Duets girls?”
“Your training would be much more in-depth. Two years minimum instead of the usual six months.”
 
Two years training? Aside from the time she’d spend on me, that’s a huge financial investment. How can she place so much faith in me?
 
“The end goal would be to secure a long-term companionship agreement with a single man. You’d never have sporadic arrangements with multiple men like the other girls. You’d live with your companion.”
 
Long-term companionship where I’d live with him. My mind immediately skims over that part and considers what living with a companion means.
 
A roof over my head. A bed to sleep in. Food in my stomach.
 
If I agree to do this, I wouldn’t mind the stability to go along with it. No more living on the streets. No more hand to mouth. No more constant fear.
 
Although I like the idea of safety and security, I need to know how long I’d be locked into this agreement. “What is considered long-term for something like this?”
 
“Six months? A year? Two years? The timeframe would be negotiable between you and the client.”
 
“I assume something like this would be expensive for the client.” She said I’d earn a fifteen percent royalty once her investment was earned back.
 
“Two years of training would be costly. The only way to recoup my investment would be to charge one million dollars for your first assignment.”
 
Holy smokes.
 
One. Million. Dollars.
 
For real?
 
This is crazy talk.
 
“Are you serious?”
 
“Absolutely.”
 
“Why would any man fork over that kind of money for a woman who won’t have sex with him when he could get a prostitute?” I’m certain that would be a much cheaper route.
 
“When men want sex, they get a prostitute. When they want companionship with a wholesome girl they’re proud to take out in public, they come to me.”
 
I don’t know what makes her think I’m wholesome.
 
I’m not.
 
And this sounds way too good to be true.
 
“Let’s say that there’s a man who’s looking for a wholesome companion. Why would he pay a million dollars to spend time with a homeless street performer?”
 
“You wouldn’t be a homeless street performer when your training ended. You’ll be beautiful. Elegant. Charming. Men will crave your company and be willing to pay big money for it.”
 
It’s hard for me to believe this woman possesses the skills to make me pretty, much less beautiful and desirable.
 
I’m not sure I want to be made beautiful.
 
And I’m really not sure I want to be made desirable.
 
I’m not completely sure I could be made beautiful or desirable. Ever.
 
Every time I look at you, all I see is him.
 
You ruined my life.
 
I wish you were never born.
 
It’s hard to comprehend why someone would see value in you when your own mother didn’t. “Why me?”
 
“This is about so much more than a pretty face and sexy body. It’s going to require strength. Resilience. Loyalty. I think you possess all of those qualities.”
 
No doubt about it. This year has made me stronger and more resilient. But loyal, I’m not so sure. I hold everyone at a distance. I’ve never gotten close enough to know if I’m capable of being devoted.
 
“Being homeless and having no idea when I’ll eat again is scary but it’s nothing compared to the prospect of saying yes to this.” It feels like selling my soul.
 
“Would you feel better if I said you won’t be matched with a man unless you approve of him and the terms of his companionship agreement?”
 
I’d have a little control. “That would help.”
 
"You’ll have your own terms as well, and he must abide by them or the deal is off. You won’t have to do anything you don’t agree to.”
 
I inhale deeply and blow out slowly. “I don’t know about this.”
 
“Let me train you for a month. If you don’t like the way things go, we’ll part ways. No hard feelings.”
 
A trial period seems like a logical idea. “You do understand that if I decide to leave, I’ll have no way of reimbursing you for the expenses you’ll incur during my training?”
 
Vale points to her face. “Do you see this? It’s called lack of concern.”
 
She wants me. Not a prettier or smarter girl. Me. I still don’t understand why, but I’m using it as a bargaining chip to secure my future.
 
“I want to go to college.” I have no idea what I want to do or become, but I know college is the only way to get where I aspire to be one day.
 
“That can be arranged.”
 
She’s saying yes? Just like that? No hesitation? “Then I guess you and I have an arrangement.”
 
“Perfect. We start first thing in the morning.”
 
“Let’s toast.” Vale lifts her glass and I mimic her because I don’t know what else to do. “Your new life. It begins now.”

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I'm celebrating the release of Endurance, the first spinoff book from The Sin Trilogy—Jamie and Ellison's story.