Best Laid Plans

www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

Copyright © 2012 by Billy London

All Rights Reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright. 

This book is a work of fiction.  References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

Published by

Beautiful Trouble Publishing, LLC

PO Box 61

Colfax, NC 27235

www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

Cover Art: Les Byerley

Background Photo courtesy of Billy London

Editor: Stephanie Parent

Proofreader: Novellette Whyte

http://authorgurunovellette.blogspot.com/

Formatter: Jim & Zetta,
http://www.jimandzetta.com/

E-book Conversion:
Jim & Zetta,
http://www.jimandzetta.com/

ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-61788-283-8; (print) 978-1-61788-284-5

For my wonderful readers. Take the chance. You never know…

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OOKS

eBooks are NOT transferable.  Re-selling, sharing or giving away eBooks is a copyright infringement.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author or Beautiful Trouble Publishing.

CAVEAT

This work may contain adult language and sexually explicit scenes.  This book is intended only for adults, as it is defined by the laws of the country in which the purchase is made.  Keep this book out of the hands of under-aged readers.

Three years ago...

Frankie stretched, her fingers barely grazing the plastic label of the Canada Dry. “Come on!” she whispered angrily. She just wanted this mixer and then she could enjoy the peace and quiet that would go with it. Just this one last bottle in the final ten minutes of the supermarket’s opening hours, to make suffering Leon’s friends’ company tolerable. Whatever happened after this stupid drink was in her hands was up to fate. If fate wanted to be smashed in the face with a bottle of ginger ale.

“Frankie!” Leon yelled, startling her. With a growl, Frankie stepped down from the six-inch-high bottom shelf that held bottles of Coke and brand-own cola and rounded the corner to Leon’s irritated face.

“What?” Frankie asked defiantly.

“I said hurry the fuck up.”

Frankie closed her eyes, calling on her powers of self-control lest there be a huge public domestic, and said instead, “I’m just getting something.”
You dick.

She turned back even as he yelled after her, “What else do you need, man! Come on!”

She ignored him and headed back to the soft drink aisle. Standing there reaching to the back of the top shelf was a rather large man wearing sunglasses. Yes, London was having a small heat wave, but it was nearly eleven at night—no one should be wearing sunglasses.

“You know that’s mine, right?” Frankie said boldly.

The man handed the bottle to her. “I believe so. The prize for your struggle tonight.”

She laughed, but took the bottle from him cautiously and placed it in the basket. Another time, she’d have cursed her reticence, but she was born and bred in the city—people didn’t do things without motive. “One of those days,” she added. “Lucky me I got the last one.”

“Lucky you,” he agreed. His voice was accent-less. Frankie twigged that people who spoke without an accent were on a mission to stay anonymous.

“For Christ’s sake!” Frankie heard Leon yell.
I am going to beat his head in with a trolley, I swear to God.
She picked up the basket.

“Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

She sent him a grin and made her way to the till point where a grumbling Leon was waiting. The stranger’s kindness tickled her the rest of the night. What if she hadn’t been with Leon? Would sunglasses and white-smile man have caught her with those large hands of his, lifted her to her destination to claim her cherished bottle of ale? The idea of sliding down the front of that stranger’s wide chest to reach solid ground excited her, made her press her thighs together to calm herself as she grilled more food for the party.

The barbecue carried on long into the night, her ginger ale claimed and drunk by Leon’s friends. Frankie claimed exhaustion and went to bed, locking the door behind her. There was no way she wanted a drunk Leon trying to molest her at five in the morning.

Instead, she thought of the Good Samaritan as she climbed into bed. She knew that no relationship was immune to the concept that the grass was greener on the other side and she really should behave, even if Leon didn’t deserve it. But by God, the mental image of that huge man towering over her was a plague all by itself. She thought of them together, in that quiet aisle of the supermarket, alone. Him, catching her by the knee and placing her foot on the lowest shelf. She’d lift her dress, offering her wet pussy to him in return for that last bottle of ginger ale. It was pure, uninhibited fantasy, being touched by a stranger, his thick fingers parting her pussy lips and thrusting deep inside her. She had the strongest orgasm she’d had in a long time, her fingers pressed hard against her clit as she brought herself to exhausting, exhilarating pleasure.

With a naughty grin to herself, she threw off her maxi dress and fell asleep. It was nothing more than a chance encounter. Fate would dictate that she’d never see that man again and he would remain a delicious and deserved fantasy.

Two years ago...

With his hefty arms folded and his chin dipped into his broad chest, Luca was drifting off to sleep. He was a man who could sleep anywhere, which now included a police cell. Wondering whether his solicitor would be able to get him out, or whether the police would hold him for as many hours as they possibly could, had exhausted him. There was no telling if he’d ever be able to sleep if he was convicted and sentenced. That he was a Caristo and his family had served on the force for generations wasn’t going to save him. If anything it would guarantee him a cell next to Michele Zagaria, if anyone ever found that guy.

Zagaria was a boss. Luca was a grunt. He got his hands dirty. Greasy. Bloody. He travelled everywhere and anywhere he was needed. But all it had taken to land him in this cell was being in the wrong place at the wrong time and apparently dating the wrong woman. It did briefly occur to him that this may not have happened if he’d given Dafne exactly what she wanted, at the very least taken her to London on his regular visits to his cousin, but now was not the time for regrets. He’d rammed a car into a target four months ago, and since the collision, Luca had problems with his recollection of events. It could work in his favour, but at the moment, there was nothing else he could do.

So he slept. Even more surprisingly, he dreamed. When he jolted awake, he could just feel the edges of the images. A girl with cinnamon-coloured skin, manuka honey eyes, a laugh as sweet as the perfect
millefeuille
. The dream began to melt in the electric light of the cell and that acrid scent of the urinal next to him. Vividly, he could taste mango lip balm and hear her declare, “Ginger ale day! Let’s get it on, Lucky!”