Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It)

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Authors: Callie Harper

BOOK: Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It)
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UNTAMED

by
callie harper

Copyright © 2016 Callie
Harper

Cover
Design by Perfect Pear Creative

Ebook
Formatting by Jane Smith

All
rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to
real events, people, or places is entirely coincidental. All rights
reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any
format without the permission except in the case of brief quotations
used for review. If you have not purchased this book or received a
copy from the author, you are reading a pirated book.

The
author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in
this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without
permission.

This
book contains mature content, including graphic sex. Please do not
continue reading if you are under the age of 18 or if this type of
content is disturbing to you.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
CALLIE
HARPER’S BOOKS

Off
Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance

Unleashed
(Declan & Kara)
(Beg for It series, Book 1)

Undone
(Ash & Ana)
(Beg for It series, Book 2)

Untamed
(Heath & Violet)
(Beg for It series, Book 3)

Unbelievable
(Colt & Caroline)
(Beg for It series, Book 4)

CHAPTER 1

Violet

There came a time in
every woman’s life when she had to wonder,
what
the fuck?
For me, that time was now. Driving through
central Vermont in a January snowstorm in the middle of the night in
a hot red MINI Cooper convertible. What. The. Fuck. And did I mention
I didn’t have GPS? No bars on my phone, no way to know if I’d
accidently slipped down into the ninth circle of hell.

But hell would be hot,
wouldn’t it? Here, it snowed. Why snow? I personally didn’t see
any reason for it. I understood, plants and I guess people needed
water and all that, but that could happen with perfectly normal rain.
Back in L.A., we didn’t even have to deal with that too often.

Yet here I was, a world
away from home, peering at road signs through a raging blizzard
trying to navigate the way pioneer settlers did back hundreds of
years ago, practically bushwacking and using my thumb to figure out
which way the wind blew to head west. All because the network I
worked for had decided it was a brilliant idea to send me out into
the wilderness. And I’d been stupid enough to say yes.

“No one’s done it
before!” my boss had declared, hunger in his eyes. Now I knew why
no one had. The Fame! Network had grown, well, famous, for making the
world’s hottest, hippest, edgiest, over-the-top reality shows. But
we needed something new. Rich housewives throwing cocktails into each
other’s faces? Done. Gorgeous young models ranting and smashing
lamps against walls? Seen it a million times. Young celebrities
waxing their privates and “accidently” flashing them on camera?
Yawn.

But no one had tapped
into that glorified small town America vibe. Yet. Sure, we’d all
enjoyed fictionalized accounts on TV. The wacky locals on
Northern
Exposure
, the close-knit drama on
Friday
Night Lights
. My personal favorite was Stars Hollow from
the
Gilmore Girls
.
The sleigh rides, the quaint downtown with the village green, and of
course the hottie down at the local diner you got to see every
morning. Sure, other reality shows had ventured into the wilds, but
those were done by the Discovery or History Channels where people had
bad teeth and wore sensible shoes.

Our network sold sex.
Not explicitly, of course, but the people on our shows knew how to
work it. Plucked from obscurity, featured on TV, our reality stars
went on to launch their own brands.

We had a new concept
for a show:
Hot Off The Grid
.
We already knew remote Watson, Vermont was off the grid. Now it was
my job to find out about the hot. Sure, I’d be checking out the
location to verify that it was cute and quaint. And I’d start
brokering all the headaches—I mean agreements—to allow us to film
there. But most of all, I’d be looking for diamonds in the rough.
The celebrities waiting to be discovered. Because a hit on our
network needed sex in the form of hot “real” people with enough
chemistry and appeal that viewers would tune in week after week to
see what happened next.

I had my doubts. A big
long list of them. But I had to admit, I felt a tingle of excitement,
too. What if I pulled it off? What if I tapped into a goldmine and
found the real Stars Hollow? A hit reality show like that, the first
of its kind, would be huge. I probably wouldn’t shoot straight up
to lead producing my own show, but at least I could break out from
being the one who fetched coffees for the ones who brought the
coffees to the people filming the Kardashians. OK, I wasn’t
actually that far down on the food chain. I’d worked myself up in
the seven years I’d been in L.A. I was 25 now and had spent a
couple years actually helping to produce shows, but I hadn’t been
able to do anything yet that I really owned. Anything that I honestly
felt invested in. Not yet. But someday I would.

Now if only I’d flown
in on the same flight as my co-worker, Sam, joining me on this
mission. Then I wouldn’t die before it all began. I’d somehow
gotten booked into Burlington with a nighttime arrival while Sam had
flown into Boston where he’d party with friends, stay at a
harborside hotel and then drive up to Vermont at a decent, daylight
hour the next day.

I had to talk to our
network’s travel people. Better arrival cities and times were up
there on my list of demands. But at the top: no convertible MINIs
without GPS in Vermont. I knew the Fame! Network has appearances to
keep up. It wanted employees driving around in hip, cool cars. But
that strategy only worked if employees also stayed alive.

Wait, up ahead. There
was a God. I saw a sign, battered and faded:
Entering
Town of Watson, VT. Population 1,708
. I’d never thought I’d
be so happy to be entering into a town of nothing, nowhere, with no
one living in it. I had a condo reserved for me in this town for
three weeks. With any luck it wouldn’t even take that long to suss
out if there was a story to build there, and then, if there was, to
get the locals on board with filming a reality show.

Lights! Up ahead. I
whimpered a bit in relief. Pathetic, I know, but I was a city girl
through and through. Ask me to navigate traffic in L.A. or the subway
in NYC and I’d have no problem. Here, I half expected a Yeti to pop
out in front of the car and swallow me whole.

At a stoplight, because
apparently even the main highways in Vermont had stoplights, I took a
left, then a right and low and behold, the shimmering glimmer of a
window. It looked like it might be a bar. I managed to pull my tiny
car up front in what may or may not have been a parking space. How
could you even tell in all this muck?

I zipped up my parka,
placed my fingers on the door handle and braced myself. At least I
had my parka. Last week, in a panic over my upcoming trip, I’d done
some late night online shopping. I’d bought the largest, craziest
looking parka I could find, the kind with enough padding for an army
and wild fur tufting out along the edge of the hood. It made me look
about three times larger than I actually was and right now I felt
grateful for it.

No cell phone service,
no GPS, I was at the mercy of whomever I happened to find in what I
hoped was a friendly bar. Small towns were supposed to be friendly,
right? Maybe a kindly baker or an elderly quilter would greet me
inside and give me directions to my condo? Yeah, that would probably
happen.

Stepping out, I
instantly learned that my shoes weren’t as onboard with the snow
program as my parka. Damn it. Picking my way along the icy, snowy
path in heels I had to admit, I probably should have invested in some
sturdier footwear. But my shoes! I loved my shoes. I felt so sexy and
powerful in my shoes.

Right now, though, one
hand against the building as I guided myself toward the front
entrance, I mostly just cursed. Cursed my boss for having this lousy
idea in the first place. Cursed myself for agreeing to go along with
it.

Pushing open the door,
I walked into heaven in the form of a small, simple, mostly empty
bar. It was warm. It had electricity. And who knew, if I was lucky
they might even have some vodka.

The ten or so people
inside all watched me as I made my way over to the bar. I didn’t
make eye contact with any of them. I just needed to warm up, figure
out where I needed to go and then get there. The time for making nice
with these people would come once I was no longer numb.

Then I looked up.
Sitting at the far end of the bar, I saw a man who seemed as if he’d
been talking to the bartender. But now neither of them said a word as
they looked over at me, watching me pick my way along the rough
wooden floor planks in my heels. I didn’t so much notice the
bartender, though. It was the other man that had me riveted.

My step wobbled. I
could blame it on the heels or the melting snow I’d accumulated on
my parka in my short walk to the door. But those weren’t the
reasons for the wobble. It was the man.

Thick black hair, dark
intense eyes, broad muscles filling out his shirt, he was straight
out of a naughty late night fantasy. True, I was a city girl, but I
had to admit I had a soft spot for a good Highland romance, the type
featuring a massive Scottish warrior who’d brave fire and brimstone
to be with his woman. The type so broad and tough he’d fell an army
with the swoop of his battle axe while still managing to grasp you in
his free arm, pull you up with him on his horse and ride off with you
pressed against his huge, barbaric, manly chest.

He was sitting right
there at the bar watching me. I swallowed, feeling my face flush. I
tried to look away. I had street smarts. A woman on her own didn’t
walk into a bar and instantly make steady, heated eye contact with a
gigantic strange man. My brain knew that. But my brain wasn’t in
charge at the moment. Something else had taken over entirely, and I
continued walking toward him with nothing but a vaguely formed “wow”
on my lips.

“Welcome,” the
bartender greeted me.

“Hi.” I managed to
veer my attention away, at least for a moment, and stop myself from
climbing straight onto the man’s lap. That wouldn’t do. Even
though it had an almost undeniable appeal. I chose a stool a couple
down from him—proud of myself for exercising such restraint—and
sat down.

“How you doin’
tonight?” the bartender asked.

“Um, fine,” I said
weakly, clearly far from it. I swallowed again, biting my lip. I was
all atwitter and it wasn’t just because of the harrowing drive I’d
survived navigating through a raging snowstorm in a toy car.

I couldn’t help it. I
snuck another glance. Wow. At least I hoped I hadn’t said it out
loud. You could see he was strong, really strong, even though he
wasn’t wearing anything like the type of shirt guys wore in L.A. to
shamelessly flaunt their physique. Tissue-thin, painted on, I’d
seen enough guys showing off to last me a lifetime. This man blew
them all away in soft, faded cotton, the kind of shirt that looked
like it had been worn to do work. Real work, work that made you sweat
and weathered your clothes out under the sun. It wasn’t tight, but
it clung and draped, suggesting more than revealing. Those broad,
strong shoulders, the glimpse of his forearm I got where he’d
pushed up his sleeve, thick and corded with muscle.

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