Enticing Interlude (Tempest #2)
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Authors: Michelle Mankin
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Enticing Interlude
Book two in the Tempest series
Copyright © 2014 by Michelle Mankin
Cover created by Michelle Preast of Indie Book Covers
Formatting by JT Formatting
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents
To grandmothers who love us and make us believe we can do things we never thought we could...
A brief romantic or sexual meeting or relationship; a short piece of music that is played between the parts of a longer one
It had been a wild night.
The skin of the woman in bed with me shone pale almost luminescent in the growing light of a Vancouver dawn. I trailed my fingers softly, sliding the sheet away to reveal her naked curves. She stretched and turned over at my touch, her large tits swaying as she rolled toward me.
Holy hell!
The rack was nice, but the face…
The face was one scary ass mess.
Thick black streaks of mascara were smeared beneath her eyes and the bottom half of her face was a mishmash of bright red from her lipstick and light pink from the abrasion of my stubble.
Heath Ledger’s Joker came to mind.
Ok, maybe that was a little too harsh.
Sunlight now began to stream unmercifully through the crack in the heavy brocade curtains of my Sutton Place apartment revealing a riotous kaleidoscope of color staining the pillowcase beside her head. Garish blue eye shadow. Heavy beige foundation. That lipstick. It framed a black tangle of hair that would make a Rastafarian proud.
That gonna be a real bitch to comb out
.
“Justin.” Her cloying perfume made my stomach churn as she shifted closer. Dual waves of nausea and regret instantly crashed over me.
What the hell had I been thinking?
Bringing casual hookups back to my place was not something I usually did. Letting them know where you lived made things too complicated the next day.
She propped up on an elbow, eyes practically obscured by heavily clumped lashes. “Wanna take a shower?” Her deep, gravelly, two pack a day voice was an additional repellant that had me withdrawing to the other side of the bed.
Not. At. All. Sexy.
“No thanks.” I shook my head firmly, my voice cold. I wanted her to have both visual and auditory confirmation so there would be no misunderstandings.
Why her?
I’d been stone cold sober last night. I didn’t drink and I didn’t do drugs, not anymore, not since rehab a couple of months ago. Why hadn’t I noticed that voice, the truckload of makeup or all that powdery perfume?
My eyes dropped to her chest.
There you go.
Two reasons.
Two 38 DD ones.
“Your loss.” She shrugged, coughed like she was hacking up a lung, and smiled, a more than slightly off kilter grin. Then she abruptly let out a maniacal laugh that rang like a warning in my ears. Morbid fascination had me imagining her sliding a switchblade out from underneath the pillow.
I’d only have myself to blame if she turned out to be a real psycho. Maybe the Joker thing wasn’t such a stretch after all.
Hopefully I could get out of this mess without my sister having to identify my body.
“Ok honey.” She sat up and pulled the sheet to her chest. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll be ready to meet her.”
“Meet who?”
“Avery, silly.”
“Why the hell would I take you to meet her?” Avery was my twin sister, not to mention the world famous lead guitarist of Brutal Strength.
Joker Woman stopped dressing and her gaze slid back in my direction.
Uh-oh…
Angry clown.
“Because I told you last night, I’m a huge fan of hers. Don’t you remember?”
Yeah I remembered. That had been her opener when she’d approached me in the checkout line of the IGA next to the hotel. Her being a fan of my sister hadn’t seemed that important last night.
But flashing lights and sirens were going off this morning.
Holy hell!
This woman had only let me fuck her because she wanted to meet Avery.
That was so whacked.
And damned if the realization didn’t smart a bit. After all, I was a good looking guy. Auburn hair, ripped physique, green eyes, a sharp dresser and a smooth talker. Chicks were into me. Not that I was arrogant. That was just the way it was. I had my pick most of the time. Nothing even remotely similar to this had ever
happened to me before.
I didn’t like it. In fact, it pissed me the hell off.
“Violet,” I snapped, proud of myself that I even remembered the bitch’s name. “You need to go. Like right now. I’ve got an appointment I need to keep.” Which was actually the truth, conveniently. But even if it hadn’t been, I still wanted the skank the hell out of my apartment.
I got up, tagged last night’s jeans from the floor, and hastily pulled them on. I found the remaining pieces of her scattered clothing and threw them at her. “Get dressed and get out.” Succinct and decisive. I didn’t make the slightest attempt to soften my words.
Her lips thinned. “Turn around while I put them on.”
“Babe, I’ve already seen everything you got. And believe me when I say I’m not interested in having a do over.”
“Fuck you,” she huffed.
I resisted the urge to remind her that she already had.
Several times.
Her clothing rustled as she resumed dressing. Scowling, my arms folded over my chest, I waited impatiently. The moment she scurried past me, I snagged the house phone from the nightstand. I put in a request for a change of sheets from housekeeping before the front door clicked closed behind her.
If only it would be as easy to erase the entire memory of last night.
I really needed to stop and think before I acted. After all, this wasn’t the first time that my impulsive nature had screwed me.
I took a quick shower and rode the elevator downstairs, ducking into the first cab in the queue. Within minutes, I was transported from the crowded streets of downtown Vancouver to the kitchy neighborhood of Kitsilano.
Home of Black Cat Records. Brutal Strength’s label. My sister’s label. And mine now, too.
I was about to answer a mysterious summons from the formidable CEO, Mary Timmons, aka the Queen.
The taxi dropped me off in front of the building. I dashed through a set of double glass doors etched with a black lion logo and took the stairs two at a time brushing by several people in my hurry to get to her palatial corner office in time.
