Prologue

Signing with the record company of our dreams should have been the best thing that ever happened to us.

And it was…for a short while anyway.

While the glitz and glamour of the fame’s promise was shining as bright as our stage lights we could forget where we came from and live in the glory.  The money bought us every happiness we ever craved.  Those false securities that you think will make your life better.  The instant friends, lovers—you name it—would do whatever we asked just to spend a second in our presence.

We had it all.

The only problem was when we had those quiet moments in between the insanity.  When we were slapped in the face with the reality that all we really had—all we could count on—was each other.

My brother, Weston, is the only constant I’ve ever had in my life.  He’s the person that I know will never let me down and will always be my biggest support.  We grew up with parents that hated us.  Really…it sounds ridiculous, the notion that parents could hate their children, but ours did … no, do.  They made no secret of it when we were younger.  And they continue to attempt to pick at our very souls like the vultures that they are.

My earliest memory of them is somewhere around third or fourth grade.  That was the year that they seemed hell-bent on reminding us that we had ruined it all for them.  Constant screams and verbal lashings.

According to them, they were on the edge of fame and then we came along and it all went down hill.  Even now, I still can’t understand how they came up with that logic.  How we were to blame for their reckless behavior.  The same reckless behavior that, in reality had ruined whatever path they might have traveled.  It has nothing to do with us, but to them, we were essentially their bad luck.

When we hit middle school it got worse, but only because they knew that they could leave us for long periods and we wouldn’t die.

Our parents, like us, were born to be stars…or at least they assumed they were and they had no qualms about reminding us that fact daily.  Unfortunately for them, they lacked the drive and ambition to never back down until they had everything they ever wanted.  The first challenge that was thrown in their path they decided to take the low road full of scavengers and sinners.

Like I said, vultures through and through.

Our dad knocked up mom in the early eighties, when big hair rock bands were all the rage and theirs was seconds away from signing the record deal that would make their careers.

Then they found out about us.

The twins that ruined it all.

And all those long nights performing in whatever local hole they could find, bouncing from town to town just waiting for their big break was washed away.

Mom was no longer the singer that men would lust over.  Not when we ruined her body.  And our dad was so deep in the bottle I’m not sure he realized he was swimming in it.  Again, something that was blamed on us.

When their band fell apart, they decided hating us was almost easier than hating each other.  They had a common goal in their blame and right or wrong, to them we would never be anything other than a reminder of why they aren’t living their dream.

Their band mates obviously didn’t share the same bond that Weston and I have with Jamison and Luke.  God forbid I ever found myself in a position like my parents had been in, I know my boys would band together and the show would go on.

Because for us, this is it.

This is our future’s promise of a better life and even if for me it’s starting to look like more of a curse than a promise, it’s something that we would die before we gave up.

Unfortunately for me, I’m pretty sure that there are a few people that would love to make that happen.

I’m getting ahead of myself.  You’re probably wondering who am I.

I’m no stranger to you.  I’m on every magazine cover.  You open social media and I guarentee you there is a spondered post about my group.  Turn on the radio, boom – there we are.

I’m everywhere.

I’m Wrenlee Davenport, lead singer of Loaded Replay, and I’ve learned the hard way that there is plenty of people in the world that would love to have a piece of me, but they don’t give one shit about the person behind the voice.

They see the persona.  The fake me that the record label loves to market as the sexy singer with the body of a sinner and the voice of a saint, but for me—I’m probably always going to be that stupid little girl that believes that my prince charming will come riding in on his black horse—because really, black horses are so much more badass than white ones—and prove to me that every little jaded piece of my heart is worth loving.

And he will love me for me.

For Wren.

Not the Wrenlee that, for more times than I care to admit, has to drink herself stupid just to face this fucking life I’m living.

Yeah… fame and fortune is far from everything I ever dreamed it was.

It’s my own personal hell and I pray that there’s something or someone out there that can prove to me that the world isn’t screwed because the majority of humanity is too busy licking the windows on the outside to see the beauty behind it.  All they care about is what’s at face value when what matters is skin deep.

I should feel bad for prince charming.  My knight in tarnished armor.  Because he’ll have one giant battle on his hands to make me believe that there might be someone left out there that doesn’t just want a piece of me.

He chuckles and all of a sudden my back straightens. “That’s their schedule, Ships. Ours is a secret.” He abruptly stands and grabs my hand to pull me up. My body jolts at the connection that sitting side by side with him all this time has had buzzing just beneath the surface. As if knowing he was close enough to touch but not really touching was an awareness all in itself. I know he can feel it too. That I’m not alone. Because the words on his lips falter momentarily before he recovers. And a part of me wants to stay like this a bit longer but know it’s just that missed connection we lost so long ago that’s causing the sensations to simmer to the surface. Nostalgia. Muscle memory of the heart. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

“Go?”

“Yes. Go. It’ll be easier if you think of this whole trip as an adventure rather than their wedding.”

“And what? You’re my tour guide?”

“If that’s what you want to call me. I prefer cruise director though, considering we’re kind of stuck with the nautical theme, Ships.” He winks and holds his hand out.

“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes.

“Or captain.”

“You’re certifiable, you know that?” I shake my head and he pulls on my hand to help me stand.

“Quite possibly, but all that matters is I’m in charge of this schedule, and we need to get a move on it. Your adventure awaits.”

“And, oh captain, my captain, that adventure is what?” I drag my feet like a child, curious what he’s talking about but smiling nonetheless.

“Do you actually think I’m going to tell you?” He dazzles me with that smile I can’t resist. “Didn’t you know? Spontaneity is the best kind of adventure.”

Oh. Shit.

PROLOGUE

CALEB

MY father always said I would know when the right woman came along. He was such a wise man. When it happened, I didn’t even question it because the process was so effortless. I just fell into her . . . because my heart knew her right away.

Knew she was the one for me.

I’d known her for years actually. She came to Blackstone Island to live with her grandmother after her parents were killed in a car crash. A devastated fifteen-year-old trying to adapt to a new life in a new place, trying to find where she fit in to a world so different from where she’d come—a forty-square-mile resort island off the Massachusetts coast where her grandmother ran the household at Blackwater, the family ancestral home.

Should have known of her, that is.

Our paths didn’t cross that I am aware of, but it’s possible. I rarely visited the island in those days because I was a twenty-three-year-old junior executive fresh out of Harvard Business School, learning everything I could about the family business. I traveled the world, enjoying the excitement of international boardroom deals by day and socializing at off-hours business affairs by night. I worked hard at both. Affairs, liaisons, one-night stands had all come and gone without a backward glance. Nameless faces and unremarkable encounters filled my nights whenever I wanted them to. The hopping nightlife of the big cities with even bigger players vying for a piece of the pie became my normal. I embraced every aspect that came with the lifestyle. Wealth, sexual favors, a certain celebrity born out of my name, all collected with barely any effort. For the next eight years, I had the world in the palm of my hand as I went about amassing a personal fortune in addition to increasing the family coffers.

Or so I thought.

I didn’t yet know what was missing from my life. Until her. And then, when I realized exactly who she was, and how fate had gotten the last laugh on me, it was already far too late. She’d bewitched me utterly. And furthermore, I knew she had no idea who I was or what ties connected us.

Maybe that’s what made her so intoxicating?

I didn’t know and I didn’t care because it made absolutely no difference to me. I wanted her with a primal desire I could barely understand, yet I embraced that desire wholeheartedly because I was incapable of doing anything else with it. How could I not? She had enchanted me.

However, once my brain managed to catch up, it wasn’t quite so effortless to accept this new and unfamiliar reality of feeling something for a woman beyond the unquestioning curiosity of when and if we might fuck.

I struggled against the idea of her at first for a few reasons. She was too young. My mother would never approve of us together. Others in my world would probably chew her up and spit her out, destroying her sweetness. But I soon found out my heart didn’t give a flying fuck about any of those reasons. The heart wants what it wants, and I’d discovered that for my heart, “want” was all wrapped up in the package that was Brooke Ellen Casterley.

The death of my father from the evils of cancer was an eye-opener for my siblings and me. Money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t stop the grim reaper from calling on you if it’s your time to go. Death was called the great equalizer. And it truly was. Wealth is a trivial thing when it’s only extra fuckin’ zeros on a balance sheet that makes any difference between lives lived. Doesn’t matter if you are rich or poor when you die, because none of it counts at the end. You leave this life the same way you come into it. You go out alone and take nothing. “There has to be more to life than making money, son,” he told me at the end. He took hold of my hand and squeezed as hard as his frail strength could manage so as to make me understand the importance. He had regrets and wanted to share with me what he’d learned to prevent me from making the same mistakes. I understood him clearly.

The most essential value my father tried to teach me along with my brothers and sisters was the idea of family. Family took precedence over money. “Take care of the family first and the wealth will grow, Caleb,” he said.

A strong family moving forward was the only thing that truly meant anything at the end of the day.

The Blackstones had been here on the island since the days when the Mayflower made its treacherous journey to the untamed American shores. As the eldest son it was my duty to make sure the Blackstones would still be here a hundred years from now.

My plan to fulfill my duty included her. It wouldn’t work any other way for me. I knew it the first time I ever felt the heat of her eyes as they burned me from across the room.

I knew it down in my bones.

I was going to marry that lovely, beautiful girl from England, and she would be mine.

“Pull your skirt up.” I said it without acknowledging the possibility that she’d disobey. It felt good to use those words and that tone. To watch her eyes go to the floor.

“Trust me.” I said it so low she was just within range to hear it. “Five minutes. Then we don’t have to fight over the car.”

I stepped back and set my watch with a beep. It wasn’t about the car for her. The Jag was the least of her worries, but it was a tangible justification.

For the downcast eyes. For the way her breathing changed. Maybe every bone in her body was vanilla. Maybe not.

“Quit any time,” I said. “Just say the word.”

She laid her hands on her hips.

Curled her fingers.

Gripped fabric.

Pulled up her skirt.

The tops of her thighs came into view then met at the crotch. I was hard already and made no move to hide it. She noticed and stopped moving the skirt.

“Higher,” I said as if telling her how to center a picture over the couch. Higher was where it had to be. It wasn’t a request.

Up it went, revealing cotton underwear in a pink so pale they were almost white.

“Now what?” she asked.

“How do you feel?”

“Weird, Adam. Really weird.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m standing here with my skirt around my waist? Because you told me to? For a car, no less, which is creepy.”

She was so honest. I ached for her honesty.

“You’re not obeying me for an object. You’re obeying me so I do something. Take an action or don’t.”

“You think that’s not weird?”

“No, I don’t. And we have four minutes.” I stepped forward. Part of her discomfort was in the physical distance between us. I’d stepped away so she didn’t feel threatened, but my gaze was keeping her from relaxing. I kept my eyes on hers. I could smell her perfume and feel the shortness of her breath. “Are you turned on?”

“Sex isn’t going to get me back. I’m sorry—”

“Touch yourself.”

Her initial shock and offense lasted only a second before she pressed her lips together and reached down, shoulders angling, hand thrusting as if checking to make sure her cunt was still there.

We have hundreds of bones in our bodies, and sometimes we won’t acknowledge the preferences of the ones that scare us.

“Are you wet?”

“A little.”

I gripped the edge of the vanity and put my lips near her cheek, millimeters from touching her.

“You don’t love me anymore,” I whispered. “But I could always make you wet, and you always came for me. Like our Italy vacation. In Florence. Coming back from that club, in the little alley. Against the wall. I ripped through your underwear.”

Her breathing got shallow and fast.

“I fucked you in the dark, and when you came, you screamed my name so loud all the lights in the apartments went on.”

“That was good.” She turned her face toward mine.

When her lips nearly touched me, I pulled away just enough. “I said I wouldn’t touch you.”

“I changed my mind.”

I wasn’t fooled. Her arousal was talking. I owned her. She’d do whatever I told her. But I wanted something very simple. I wanted her pleasure. “Take the juice from your cunt and rub it on your clit. Make it wet.”

“Adam.”

“What?”

“What’s come over you?”

“Do it.” I felt her arm move against me. “Rub back and forth. Be consistent. One-two-one-two.”

When I felt that she had it, I stepped back. She stopped. Her knees were bent slightly and her fingers had taken her cunt from the side of the crotch, not the waistband. She never ceased to surprise me.

“One-two-one-two, huntress.”

“Is this your way of getting back at me?”

“One-two-one-two. Let me see you come. You’re so beautiful when you come. You’ve gone this far.”

Her body must have been able to override her mind, because she moved her finger again, closing her eyes. Her cheeks reddened and her knees bent more deeply.

“In Florence. An hour after we got to the hotel. I came so deep in you that night. I fucked you from behind with your leg up on the dresser. I wanted to thrust my whole body inside you. I loved you that much. And I gave up who I was. Last night, at the club, I remembered what I was. I was a man who was obeyed. I dominated women, and they submitted to me. The result was what you’re about to feel. Complete pleasure.”

She let out a long, low groan, leaning on the vanity, twisting. I could have fucked her right then. I could have bent her over the counter and pounded her. But that wasn’t the point. No. Watching her hand move under her clothes because I commanded it. That was the point.

An uh escaped her throat. Years of marriage had taught me that meant she was about to come.

My watch beeped.

“Time’s up,” I said.

Her eyes went wide. Her hand stopped.

“Thank you,” I said. “We’re done. I’ll send you the title to the car. You might want to pull your skirt down, since I can’t lock the door from the outside.”

It was hard to walk away from her panting, bent frame without tasting her cunt or even seeing more of her reaction, but I turned the corner, unlocked the door, and left the bathroom.

The next week is blissfully uneventful. I address Palace business during the day, and spend my nights with Olivia—which are so much more than blissful.

While I work, she relaxes like I want her to. She walks the grounds and has found a friend in Franny. They’ve had lunch together a few times, which doesn’t exactly thrill me, but at the very least, I know she’s safe with Simon’s wife.

Franny, and her forked tongue, will protect Olivia from the Lucy-types looking to wound her with their half-truths.

On the rare occasions my brother is sober, he becomes increasingly agitated—like he’s unable to sit still, to stand his own company, or any sound that resembles silence. Finally, he decides to throw a welcome home party for himself.

I’m in my bathroom preparing for his royal yacht party, just showered with a towel around my hips, scraping the last of the shaving cream off my jaw, when Olivia appears in the doorway.

I thought she was lovely from the first moment I saw her. But here, now—her bare, soft skin wrapped in a pink silk robe, her face glowing with well-rested happiness…she’s magnificent.

“So…do you guys have like a gift shop or a convenience store around here?”

I laugh. “A gift shop?”

She holds up a light blue disposable razor. “I’m out of razors. This one’s so dull I could run it over my tongue without drawing blood.”

“Let’s not test that theory. I like your tongue too much.” I wipe my chin with a towel. “I can have the staff bring one to your room.”

The devil on my shoulder—and the angel too—smack me upside the head. And they whisper a much better idea.

“Or…I could help you out.”

Her brows draw together. “Help me out? I can’t use your razor.”

“No, definitely not—you’d cut yourself to ribbons.” I finger the sharp, heavy straight blade. “What I mean is…I could shave for you.”

Her eyes darken, the way they do when she’s right on the edge—right before she comes. And she moves closer to me.

“Do you…want to do that?”

My gaze drags down, down, over every sumptuous inch of her body.

“Oh, yes.”