Holding My Breath

Holding My Breath
AM Hartnett

Book 2 in the Carried Away series.A passionate erotic romance perfect for fans of Sylvia Day.“It’s a skill not every man possesses, and it can’t be taught. That’s why I’m good at what I do.”For half his life Quinn has been making his living as a professional Casanova. Challenged by Molly to take his business elsewhere, he strikes a bargain with her: give him until New Year’s Eve and she’ll never see him again, and in the meantime he’ll make it worth her while.As their arrangement becomes a passionate affair, there’s no denying that Molly’s been waiting for him to come into her life for a very long time. She never imagined that a man like Quinn would be the one.

HOLDING MY BREATH

A. M. Hartnett

(http://www.mischiefbooks.com)

Copyright

Mischief

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.mischiefbooks.com (http://www.mischiefbooks.com)

An eBook Original 2014

Copyright © A. M. Hartnett 2014

A. M. Hartnett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007587841

Version: 2014–08–21

Table of Contents

Cover (#u0b7b57a6-5d9a-5b6f-9633-41ce8bfbaa0e)

Title Page (#u0b489a31-dbdd-522a-adf1-67850993aa97)

Copyright (#u5b8d1ee1-78d6-5c41-a2a3-626e30fafc6b)

Prologue (#u18e22a71-f021-5424-b79f-109bd55b3277)

Chapter One (#ued4964a5-f648-54d6-8d6b-f5092e8ef92c)

Chapter Two (#u5b08e69c-e0b0-5fa2-a886-bbb5fa62bc00)

Chapter Three (#ufee7d9de-f995-5885-b960-47d17fd9dbf8)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

More from Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)

About Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#ulink_a209255e-9510-53f9-a30e-8428ad7d1b9c)

Molly leaned forward and watched the man’s entrance into reception. She could see the lobby from her office and the atmosphere seemed to alter as he entered. She likened it to the uncanny charge that made the hairs on your arms stand up when a storm lost its patience and was ready to unleash. She’d been watching him for about three months, and she felt it every time.

He came in the same as always, a Ken doll fresh from his plastic cage, but not quite. No, the clean-shaven face and brown hair slicked down, the expensive suit and occasional glitter of that $3,000-dollar watch peeking from the French cuffs weren’t real.

What made him real were his hands. Save for the manicure, he didn’t have Armani hands. His were scarred, knuckles and joints knotted, and there was a squiggling line leading from the flesh of his thumb to his wrist.

He never tried to hide them. Nor did he now as he leaned against the front desk and folded one hand over the other. Molly had never given them more than a discreet look when she was the one to greet him, though some nights she longed to reach out and turn them over, to run her fingers over those scars, trace the lines on his palms and follow that bluish vein from his index finger to where it disappeared under those cuffs.

‘Good evening,’ she heard the clerk, Nick, greet him.

‘You too,’ the man said. ‘Can you please call up to room 435 and let them know their guest is waiting in the bar?’

‘Certainly, sir.’

He could have used the courtesy phone in the seating nook alongside the front desk, but she didn’t think he’d trade this part of the routine. It was a part of the image he had created. Using the courtesy phone to call a room direct was too subtle. Announcing his arrival at the desk was sordid and suited his image.

His swagger was pure confidence as he headed to the bar, or maybe it was arrogance. He slid the green and red tartan scarf from his neck and draped it over the coat he carried across his arm. Once in the bar, he went straight to his usual table where he could see the entrance and placed coat and scarf over the edge of a chair, then took the same seat as always.