One Night To Forever

Needing to mentally escape, her thoughts drifted to the collection she was in the process of archiving for the New York Public Library. The grandson of a noted French art collector and critic had recently bequeathed his grandfather’s entire collection of diaries, letters, art and mementoes detailing the Parisian art world of the 1920s. It was a fascinating look back into the glamorous era between the two World Wars and the project of a lifetime.

She couldn’t wait for her two weeks’ vacation to be over so that she could get back to work, to her quiet, empty-of-people apartment. Hearing shouts of laughter, Lachlyn looked through the trellis onto the ballroom below. She took in the exquisite gowns and breathtaking jewelry, carefully made-up faces and sophisticated conversation. A jazz band played in the corner and a few couples were on the dance floor, swaying to the 1940s ballad.

Lachlyn’s eyes drifted over faces, easily finding her brother Tyce, his arms wrapped around Sage’s baby bump. Tyce couldn’t understand her need to hold the Ballantynes—and the world—at an arm’s length. However, their agreement that she deal with the Ballantynes on her own terms was holding. Just.

Tyce didn’t realize that Lachlyn was perfectly fine on her own, that he needed this amazing family, a great love affair, more than she did. She hadn’t told him, or anybody, what happened that summer so long ago...

She didn’t need to try hard to remember the sour smell of his breath on her face, the taste of his slimy tongue, the feel of his rough hands inside her shirt, between her legs. She’d yelled and screamed but her mom—thanks to depression, sleeping pills or, most likely, disinterest—hadn’t lifted her head to help her. Before the assault had turned from horrible to devastating, Lachlyn’s elbow had connected with her assailant’s nose. She’d followed that up with a knee to his scrotum and he’d scuttled off. She’d sat on the floor of her bedroom, weeping and alone. As a result, asking for any type of support or help, emotional or physical, transported her back to feeling like a helpless little girl, and that was something she never wanted to be seen as. Yeah, it also stopped her from making friends, from having normal relationships with normal men, but that was a small price to pay.

Sometimes, in the early, honest hours of the morning, she suspected that she still might be that girl who didn’t want to do it on her own, who might want a man, a family...that she might want to, sometimes, lean. What stopped her from exploring that terrifying scenario was remembering the past, the experience of looking for support—asking for help—and finding no one there.

No, she was better off alone.

Lachlyn felt the change in atmosphere and she stepped up to the trellis, trying to find the source of the disturbance. Yep, and there he was, the alpha-est of alphas. Lachlyn took a sip of her cool champagne, enjoying the way it replaced the moisture in her mouth. She’d only met Reame Jepsen twice, the first time at The Den and she’d had another brief encounter with him at the art gallery when Tyce proposed to Sage. But despite not spending more than ten minutes in total with the blasted man, she was irritated that he was the star of some of her very sexy dreams.

Like most alpha males, Reame was big, six foot three, six four? Lachlyn’s fingers curled around the trellis as she watched him move across the ballroom. Greeting someone she knew was important, Reame gripped the other man’s hand, flashing a practiced smile. Mr. Important dipped his head, a clear indication that he was submitting to the alpha male. Reame stepped into the group Mr. Important was standing with, and all four men, two CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, an investment banker and a world renowned economist, took a tiny step back. Reame Jepsen dominated the space, claiming it as his own. He was the super-alpha in a room of men who were accustomed to calling the shots and taking charge.

Lachlyn released a long sigh. Reame Jepsen bothered her.

No, he bothered the hell out of her.

And here came the moths to the flame, Lachlyn thought, amused. A tall, thin blonde spun around from the next group, squealed and all but threw herself into Reame’s arms. Cheeks were kissed before the blonde was elbowed out of the way by a redhead, then a brunette. She supposed it was business as usual for Reame. With his caramel-colored hair, olive skin, masculine face and light eyes, he made female eyes water, ovaries quiver and brains start to churn. Linc’s best friend, or so she’d heard, was the most eligible bachelor since Connor Ballantyne, and that list had included, up until very recently, her very hot and rich brothers.

He was a catch, a prize, a goal.

Lachlyn wasn’t a game-playing girl.

She was about to turn away, about to pull her eyes off his angles-and-planes face when his head shot up and their eyes clashed and held. He lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips, his light eyes not leaving her face, ignoring the woman hanging off his arm. Lachlyn stared down at him as the air between them fizzled and crackled.

She wanted him.

She was pulsing with lust, attraction, desire, need. Hot, spiky lust. Her womb was as tight as a drum and her lungs had lost their ability to breathe. Lachlyn felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle, goose bumps lifting the skin on her arms. The thought of that sexy mouth on hers, what it would feel like, how he would taste—whiskey, mint, man—drowned out rational thought. The fantasy of her dress up to her waist, his hands on the back of her thighs, her back against the wall as he slid into her was as strong as a memory from yesterday, as powerful as reality.

She understood why. He was the biggest, most powerful, highest-ranking man in the room and millions of years of biology had programmed her, and every other woman there, to want to mate with all that strength and power. Mating with him would ensure her offspring would be given the strongest chance of survival, the best genes. Her attraction to him was pure animal instinct and nothing to cause her any concern.

But Lachlyn didn’t date alpha males. Hell, she didn’t date at all. It would be easy to chalk it up to what happened to her so long ago, but Lachlyn refused to give that rapist-in-training that much control over her sex life.

Sex wasn’t the problem, that much she knew. No, thanks to her mom’s disinterest, her lack of response, her fears had taken on a different form. Lachlyn refused to ask for anything, to give up even a small measure of her independence, to make space in her life for a man, to allow herself to ask for anything, even his company.

Men liked to feel needed and Lachlyn refused to need anyone ever again. Stalemate.

Lachlyn shook her dark thoughts away, refocusing on The Alpha Male’s face. She could appreciate him for what he was, a fine specimen, and her response to him was normal, natural even. Looking at him was like looking at a Botticelli painting or a Rodin sculpture...she could admire him, appreciate his masculine beauty, but unlike art, there was a personality behind it, quite a forceful one if she read him right. He was tough and strong—someone people relied on. He would expect his woman, his mate, to allow him to protect her, to shelter her, to slay her dragons.

Lachlyn had expected the person who should love her the most to help her slay a dragon once and she’d been left to do it herself. Luckily, she’d won the battle, but she’d never put herself in the position of allowing anyone to disappoint her again.

Three (#u70748e05-5080-5524-9330-879e4ccf9d38)

No.

Hell to the no!

Reame took a hefty sip of his whiskey, disengaged himself from the female octopus hanging off him and wished he could be rid of the panic crawling up his throat as easily. Pushing a hand through his short hair, he looked around and saw Linc across the room. Linc caught his eyes and lifted one sandy eyebrow in a silent but demanding What the hell is wrong with you?

Reame was pretty sure that Linc did not want to hear that he had just had the hottest video of the newbie Ballantyne playing in his head, her head tipped back, her tangerine-colored evening dress—sporting a low dipping neckline hinting at great breasts and a thigh split that made for easy access—up around her waist and the soft material flowing over his black suit as he stood between her legs, his mouth on hers, his...

Yeah, don’t go there, Jepsen, unless you want to embarrass yourself.

He was damn sure that Linc didn’t want to know any of that.

Reame ordered another whiskey from a passing waiter and glanced up to the Juliet balcony, spotting the swish of the orange dress, the flash of a pale neck. He frowned, noticing that the new Ballantyne had cut her hair, that her waist-length, platinum-blond hank of hair was gone. Dammit, he’d had fantasies about winding that hair a couple of times around his fist as he slid into her, those long strands sliding over his stomach, over his...

Reame aimed a mental roundhouse kick at his temple. Lachlyn was not a wild woman and she was not anyone he could tangle with. She was his oldest friend’s new sister and you didn’t fool around with your best bud’s baby sister. Lachlyn was also Connor’s daughter and he owed Connor so much—without him he wouldn’t have his business. And he definitely didn’t mess around with women with eyes that were a curious combination of lapis lazuli, vulnerability and sky-high intelligence.

Lachlyn Latimore was Trouble with a capital T and if he was as smart as they said he was, he’d stay far, far away from her. She wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t the here now, gone tomorrow woman he was looking for.

“Stop scowling,” Linc said. “You’re scaring my guests.”

“Wasn’t.”

Reame cursed silently as Linc gestured for Lachlyn to join them. Reame saw her send a quick look toward the exit, as if she were judging how quickly she could escape. Her shoulders slumped as she started to make her way toward them through the crowd, and Reame couldn’t decide whether to feel insulted or to sympathize.

Linc picked up Reame’s whiskey off a tray and appropriated the drink as his own. Reame tossed him a hot insult and considered wrestling the glass out of his hand. Deciding to be an adult, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his suit pants and ordered another drink. Hopefully, it would arrive soon.

“Why the frown?” Linc asked.

Reame shrugged, deliberately not meeting Linc’s gaze. “You know how much I loathe these society events. I’d rather be in a firefight than here.”

Linc smiled. “I know and I appreciate your sacrifice.”

Reame narrowed his eyes at Linc’s gentle sarcasm. Turning his back to his approaching fantasy-come-to-life, he spread his legs wide and folded his arms across his chest. He studied Linc and saw the worry in his eyes, the tense muscle in his jaw. “What do you need, bro?”

Before he could reply, Lachlyn stepped up to Linc’s side and sent Reame a cool look. “Hello, Reame.”

“Lachlyn,” Reame replied with equal ice. Look at them, he thought, pretending that they hadn’t just imagined each other naked and writhing five minutes earlier. “You look nice.”

If nice meant sensationally and spectacularly sexy.

Those blues darkened to violet as a blush crossed her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Linc was just about to ask me something...” Reame turned back to Linc who tossed back the rest of his whiskey and then rolled the glass between the palms of his hands. Keeping his voice low so that he wasn’t overheard, Linc answered his question. “The reaction to the news that Lachlyn is a Ballantyne and that we have accepted her into the fold has been bigger and more intense than any of us, including Cady, expected. Lachlyn has moved into The Den, Reame, and for the last few days the press have camped on the sidewalk. None of us can get in and out of the house without being harassed. Lachlyn tried to go out yesterday and they nearly ripped her apart. She ran into the house looking like the hounds of hell were on her tail.”

“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Lachlyn interjected.

“Shh.” Reame hushed her, wanting Linc to continue. Before he could, Linc was distracted by an old lady with diamonds the size of quail eggs and wrinkles as deep as the Mariana Trench.

Linc turned his attention to the Grand dame and Lachlyn took the opportunity to launch her small elbow into his side. “Don’t you shush me!” she hissed.

“I wanted to hear what Linc was saying and you were interrupting him,” Reame replied, willing her eyes to flash violet again. “Maybe kissing you to shut you up would’ve worked better. Far more enjoyable...”