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Taken
Her proximity brought to life every part of him,
left him longing to kiss her lips and snake his arms around her slender waist and pull her tight against him. Take up where they’d left off.
“Where would you like it, ma’am?” Jeeves appeared next to them with a silver tray filled with teacups and scones and clotted cream and jams.
Seline closed her eyes. “Remind me to talk to you about your awful sense of timing, Jeeves.”
The butler grinned at her, as if he believed his timing was perfect, as he put the tray down on the table near the long sofa. “Yes, ma’am.”
Just like that they were alone again.
And Ryder became doubly aware of how very close she was.
And did something he definitely hadn’t planned to do. At least not consciously.
He kissed her.
TORI CARRINGTON
Romantic Times BOOKreviews Career Achievement Award-winning husband-and-wife duo Lori and Tony Karayianni are the power behind the pen name Tori Carrington. Their over thirty-five novels include titles for Mills & Boon® Blaze® and Special Edition lines. They call Toledo, Ohio, home base, but travel to Tony’s home town of Athens, Greece, whenever they can. For more information on the couple, their books and where they plan to appear next with a fresh batch of Tony’s Famous Baklava in hand, visit www.toricarrington.net.
Dear Reader,
“Well-behaved women rarely make history.” This Laurel Thatcher Ulrich quote is one of many that grace our office walls. Women who push the boundaries of accepted behaviour are a popular theme for us, so when it was proposed that, along with Leslie Kelly and Julie Elizabeth Leto, we consider adding members to THE BAD GIRLS CLUB, we immediately signed on.
In Taken, Seline Sanborn is a sexy con artist. And self-made millionaire playboy Ryder Blackwell is the handsome mark. When Seline breaches his company’s inner circle by posing as a successful account executive, Ryder falls for her hard. A one-night stand quickly turns into full obsession. But what happens when he wakes up to find the angel in his bed gone…along with an interesting chunk of his company’s capital? Is he capable of redefining everything he believes about life and love and the law in order to be the one man skilled enough to earn Seline’s trust and steal something worth far more than money – her heart?
We hope you enjoy every twist and turn in Seline and Ryder’s unconventional journey towards happily-ever-after. We’d love to hear what you think. Contact us at PO Box 12271, Toledo, OH 43612, USA (we’ll respond with a signed bookplate, newsletter and bookmark), or visit us on the web at www.toricarrington.net.
Here’s wishing you love, romance and hot reading.
Lori & Tony Karayianni aka Tori Carrington
TAKEN
BY
TORI CARRINGTON
We dedicate this book to fellow lifetime
Bad Girls Club members Leslie Kelly, Julie Leto
and our shared editor Brenda Chin. And to bad
girls everywhere: keep knocking down those
walls and breaking through those glass ceilings.
1
IT WAS a temptation she couldn’t resist.
Heat slid over her skin, igniting every nerve ending, making her hyper-aware of each breath she drew in. Tension. Anticipation. Longing. All combined in her muscles, clamored for release. Demanded she unleash the more primal part of herself kept under wraps for far too long.
It was July, it was hot and Seline Sanborn sat alone in her leased glossy-black Audi TT roadster convertible with the top down, her Dior shades parked on her nose, tendrils of blond hair stuck to her chin and lips. Yearning, pure and strong, shuddered through her. How long it had been since she’d allowed herself the indulgence of taking off her mask? One month? No, it was closer to two. Two months since she’d taken on the identity of conservative Carol Lambert, senior account executive moved to New York City from Seattle, Washington. Eight weeks in which she’d gained the confidence of the higher-ups at Blackwell & Blackwell Industries. Sixty days since she’d traded a lifestyle with few boundaries for long twelve-hour days, and nights spent reviewing carefully laid out plans rather than enjoying romantic sunsets with a special someone.
Then again, it had been time immeasurable since she’d spent a romantic anything with anyone.
Which probably explained why she’d decided to take the sporty rental car to her uptown lunch meeting rather than a taxi. And why she’d let the top—and her hair—down afterward.
Of course, the success of the meeting had also contributed to her desire to cut loose. If all corporate endeavors could be as powerfully engaging, she’d seriously consider hanging up her hat and going legit. The problem was that there was much more paperwork and tedium involved in the life of a corporate exec than big-ticket deals like the one she’d just brokered on behalf of Blackwell & Blackwell.
Or rather, just brokered on behalf of herself using a shell company she’d anonymously staffed through a temporary employment agency. A company that would cease to exist by this time tomorrow, guaranteeing her rush would survive at least as long…and the security the funds from she’d make off with even longer.
Which was why she much preferred the title of con artist. Forget that the job was the only one she knew. What other position would give her quick access to the type of money she needed? Not even Carol Lambert’s nice salary could cover an overhead that went beyond the expensive leased cars and designer duds she needed for her cons. Well beyond.
Of course, the impulsiveness of her current actions went against one of her top rules, developed out of necessity: do not, under any circumstances, let your guard down until the con is over. And seeing as only a day and a half—thirty-six short hours—remained in her current job…well, her uncharacteristic recklessness was spotlighted all the more.
“It’s a car ride, that’s all,” she said quietly. “What harm can come out of a car ride?” She pressed the power button for the high-end CD player. The guitar riffs of “Radar Love” by Golden Earring instantly drowned out the cautionary voice that whispered in her ear, along with the sound of the purring engine now idling at a stoplight.
Until the rumble of another equally impressive engine turned her attention to her left.
She smiled with deliberate pleasure.
It didn’t take a car lover to appreciate the sleek lines of the XK Jaguar. But seeing as she knew the 12-cylinder engine that growled beneath the attractive hood inside and out, her interest quotient notched upward.
Too bad all she could make out through the heavily tinted windows was her own reflection. Which looked damned good, if you asked her.
She tilted her head and made a play at nudging her sunglasses halfway down her nose to get a better look at the driver even though she couldn’t see him.
The response was a revving of the potent engine.
Seline righted her glasses and looked forward.
Having been raised in New York, despite the fact that she could no longer live there unless she was on the job, she knew times were few and far between when traffic opened in front of you. And this appeared to be one of those rare occasions when the big city and her many denizens offered up a precious gift of space and opportunity. She had every intention of greedily taking advantage of both.
She put the car into first gear, easing up on the clutch even as she floored the gas pedal. The car’s back end immediately jerked as the back tires spun against hot asphalt. The Jag’s engine revved louder in answer.
She watched the opposing traffic light. A moment after it turned red, and a split second before hers turned green, Seline released the brake and the Audi shot forward in a cloud of white smoke and burning rubber. She was no fool. She knew the Jag could do cartwheels around her car…if the driver was equal to her and if she played fair.
But she wasn’t known for fair. For survival’s sake, she’d learned to take full advantage of any opportunity to get ahead. In this case, literally.
She switched gears into third, then quickly into fourth, watching as the speedometer needle leapt upward.
The Jag easily caught up, staying even with her. Ahead, a taxi seemed to be at a dead stop in the middle of the road. She veered right even as the Jag swerved left, within moments the two of them running side by side again.
Seline shivered at the feel of her hair whipping around her face, the sound of the engine and electric guitar filling her ears, and the sights and smells of midtown Manhattan around her.
Damn, but this felt good. And it had been a long time since she’d felt good. Much longer than two months.
She and the Jag ran like that for another four blocks before the other driver blew his horn. She shot him a look, having noticed two lights back the white-and-blue NYPD cruiser parked at the next intersection. What she didn’t know was if the other driver would have the guts to continue the street race or if he would drop back.
To her surprise, he kept up with her, even upping the ante as he blew past her.
The stopped squad car immediately turned right and gave chase after the Jag.
Seline thrust the gear into Neutral and made a squealing right-hand turn, then another, until neither the Jaguar nor the cops were any longer visible.
Yes.
Seline relished the rush even as she turned the music down, slowed to the speed limit, then headed back to the offices of Blackwell & Blackwell where she would have to play Little Miss Manners for the next four hours before knocking off work…with nothing but a saucy little smile to remind her of her brief excursion.
“THANK YOU, officer.”
Ryder Blackwell accepted the speeding ticket from the unsmiling NYPD officer then leaned back in his dormant Jaguar and watched the patrol car drive away.
He’d purposely raced by the hot babe in the Audi, hoping to place her squarely in the patrol’s crosshairs rather than him.
Then she’d turned off and rather than following her, the police officer had targeted him instead.
He grinned and shook his head, thinking of the provocative blonde in the black car—the personification of every teenage boy’s dream. And, apparently, a grown man’s, as well.
“Can I take that for you, Mr. Blackwell?”
He’d only been a block up from the Blackwell & Blackwell building when he’d been pulled over, so the red-haired, freckled-face valet who usually parked his car had sprinted over to meet him.
Ryder got out of the XK and tossed him his keys. “Sure, O’Malley. But why don’t you take her through the car wash before parking her back in the garage.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Blackwell.”
Ryder chuckled quietly as he retrieved his briefcase from the back of the Jag. He knew the nineteen-year-old valet would take the car for a spin first. But that’s what hot July days were meant for. If you couldn’t have a little fun in a kick-ass car on a day like this, what was the point? He would have loved the opportunity when he was O’Malley’s age.
He straightened his tie and was crossing the parking-garage driveway when he was nearly hit by the woman he’d never expected to see again. Ryder squinted at her. At least he thought it was her. Gone were the trendy sunglasses. Up were the Audi’s top and her wild blond hair. And if he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d exchanged scarlet lipstick for neutral beige.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwell,” she said, looking everything like yet nothing like the woman who’d tempted him into a ticket. “I didn’t see you.”
“So, is that going to be the story?” he asked with a grin.
She looked confused.
He nodded toward where O’Malley was taking off his black hat and getting into the Jag. The tires squealed as he pulled away from the curb.
When she looked back at him, he saw a definite shimmer of challenge in her green eyes.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Blackwell.”
A car pulled up behind her and the driver lay on the horn. Ryder stepped aside to let both into the parking garage, shaking his head as he went.
Carol…Carol…he repeated her name in his mind. Lambert. That’s right. Her name was Carol Lambert. Coleman had hired her a couple months back.
It wasn’t all that surprising that he’d had trouble remembering her name. Although she’d been present in meetings, she usually sat back from the table in a way that guaranteed he barely noticed her, rarely contributing anything, although he understood from Coleman that she was doing a hell of a job since signing on.
He stepped inside the lobby and went straight to the elevator dedicated to his top-floor offices.
Perhaps he’d have to invite the wild Ms. Lambert into his office to see how hot her personal engine ran.
DAMN, damn, damn. She so hadn’t made that mistake. Had she?
Seline sat at her desk behind a door she never closed but had closed now, hoping against hope that what had happened earlier would stay outside the office. But even though three hours had passed, and she was just a short time away from knocking off for the day, she knew that Ryder Blackwell wasn’t the forgetting kind. And judging by the hot suggestive look he’d given her, he wasn’t the timid kind, either.
Of course, she already knew that. Ryder Blackwell, the sixth in a line of wealthy Blackwells—although she understood that Ryder’s grandfather had squandered a great deal of the family’s fortune…a fortune that the grandson had spent a great deal of time earning back and then some—was not only touted as one of the city’s most eligible bachelors, he was also a notorious ladies’ man, never seen with the same woman at two consecutive events.
“It’s said that men love the thrill of the chase,” he’d said in an interview with GQ. “But I think women are equally intrigued by a challenge.”
It wasn’t all that difficult to see why he rated high with both the ladies and the NY press. Money aside—and that was a big aside—he was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome, with just the right amount of devil in his smooth grin and one deep cheek dimple. His attractiveness had been exactly the reason why she’d steered a wide berth around him. And if she couldn’t avoid contact, rather than looking up to meet his gaze, she tucked her chin into her chest and murmured responses that he had to ask her to repeat.
Then she’d gone and challenged him to a street race in the middle of Manhattan.
The telephone at her elbow rang. Seline froze and then she forced herself to answer.
“Yes, Rita?”
“Ms. Lambert, Mr. Blackwell says he’d like to see you before you leave for the day.”
“Here?”
“No. He’d like you to go up to his office. Just ring his assistant when you’re ready so she can signal the elevator.”
Seline sighed. “Thanks, Rita.”
Signal the elevator.
Oh, she’d known the layout of the building like the back of her hand before she’d ever set foot in it. Architectural plans were easy enough to access. But she’d never had reason to venture into Ryder Blackwell’s professional domain. And she didn’t want a reason to now. Not with such a short time remaining before a punch of a button would transfer a significant amount from Blackwell & Blackwell’s business accounts into a series of dummy front accounts and eventually make its way, untraceably, into her own.
She could pretend she hadn’t got the message. Blame the miscommunication on Rita. After all, who she was—or rather wasn’t—and why she was really here would become painfully obvious soon enough.
She swiveled restlessly in her chair. This was exactly the reason she’d established a strict set of rules to work by. And today the breaking of one of them had snowballed into the breaking of Golden Rule Number 1: Stay under the radar of the higher-ups.
And in this con they didn’t come any higher than Ryder Blackwell.
She clicked through the documents on her computer, then made a couple of notes. There was no way in hell she was going up to that office.
Seline remembered his sexy grin and her panties grew tighter. A reaction that had nothing to do with July sunshine and fast cars, and everything to do with sex and a great candidate to have some with.
2
“UH OH. I know that look.”
Ryder turned his leather chair from the clear view he had of the Empire State Building from the forty-fifth floor of the building his company owned. He considered his second-in-command and longtime best friend, John Coleman. “What look?”
Coleman sat back in the righthand guest chair and gave him a wry expression of his own. “That one that says you’re about to do something dangerous. Or stupid. Or both.”
Ryder grinned, not so much at his friend, but at himself. “I don’t know whether I should take offense or be amused.”
“Oh, God. You are about to do something stupid and dangerous, aren’t you?”
“When have I ever done something stupidly dangerous?”
“Oh, how about that impromptu trip to Alaska two months ago to drop from a helicopter and snowboard down some virgin mountain when we had a meeting to close the deal with Trump? Or the month before that when you disappeared so you could hike up the side of the Montserrat volcano before it was due to erupt?”
“You call that dangerous?”
“I definitely call that dangerous.”
Ryder leaned forward in his chair. “That’s because risk to you is whether or not to wear the pink tie your new wife gave you for Valentine’s Day.”
“Yes, well, someone’s got to keep their wits about them around here.”
Ryder’s mind wandered to the clock. Four-thirty.
“So what are you considering now?”
“What?”
“Isn’t there a hurricane due to hit Florida’s east coast? Are you having your surfboard waxed?”
“Nothing quite so unimaginative.”
“But you are considering something.”
Ryder picked up his pen and tapped it on his desk. “Maybe.”
It all depended on one very inscrutable Carol Lambert.
Granted, he’d been privileged to enjoy the company of a lot of women in his life. And he knew that outer wrappings often were deceiving. There was the raunchy pop star he’d gone out with who had pretended to be an exhibitionist sex kitten in public, but the minute he got her home she’d folded in on herself then passed out from the stress of having to put on such an act all night. He recalled having waited around until morning in that case, convinced the sex—when he got it—would be worth it. But it hadn’t been. One-on-one she’d been shy and hesitant, the exact opposite of the image she portrayed for everyone else.
Then there was the icy socialite he’d briefly—very briefly—considered marriage material. She headed the right charities, boasted the right pedigrees and was the perfect hostess of myriad social events. But behind closed doors she was a borderline nymphomaniac. She had nearly shredded his back with her nails and broken his eardrums with her loud and X-rated demands of what she wanted him to do to her for what had to be a record-breaking ten hours straight.
It had been the one and only time that Ryder had been more preoccupied with whether he’d survive what his sex partner might do to him than with the sex itself.
Then there was Carol Lambert.
He leaned back in his chair, ignoring his friend.
There was something about Carol. Something different. The first thing being that the hot lady who’d challenged him to race didn’t seem to fit her name, forget the person she turned into the minute she entered the front doors of Blackwell & Blackwell. He’d even consulted her employment records to try to solve the mystery, but nothing from her file had helped him to reconcile the two women with whom he was acquainted. Acquainted being the operative word.
And something he hoped to upgrade to having intimate knowledge of when she came to his office that afternoon.
“Should I call legal and make sure your insurance policies are up to date?” Coleman asked.
“What insurance policies?”
Coleman stared at him.
Ryder chuckled and got to his feet. “Go home to that pretty wife of yours, John, and stop being such a worrywart. You sound like a nagging mother.” He smacked his hand against his friend’s back on their way toward the door.
“Promise me you won’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Ryder raised a brow.
John sighed. “Okay, then. Promise you’ll be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?”
The minute John was on his way down the hall to his own office, Ryder’s secretary approached.
“There were three calls for you while you were occupied.” She said, offered up the message slips.
“Hold on to them, Mrs. Newman. I’ve got a meeting to make.”
“Meeting?” she asked his departing back. “I have no meeting on your agenda.”
Ryder grinned at her as he turned inside the elevator then pressed the button for the floor he wanted. “It just came up.”
IT TOOK a bit of doing, but Seline managed to push everything up by twelve hours. Which meant that the minute she stepped out of her office, the con would be done and she would be free to shuck Carol Lambert’s conservative suits and identity for good.
It also meant that her personal accounts would be that much fatter, while Blackwell & Blackwell’s accounts would be that much slimmer.
And, ultimately, it meant that she could duck out before anyone would miss her. Specifically, Ryder Blackwell.
Of course, it went without saying that she also wouldn’t have an excuse to see whether or not Ryder growled in bed as satisfyingly as the engine of his car did on the road.
But that was part of the price she paid in her line of work. It came with the territory. Even if the rules she lived by didn’t already make involvement with anyone personally connected to any company she targeted off limits, it just made plain business sense to keep her attention focused on the job rather than indulging sexual fantasies that would only endanger her and the con. No matter how delicious the temptation.
And Ryder Blackwell was the epitome of delicious and temptation.
She’d been around long enough to understand that if she were lucky there would be only a handful of men she would connect with in a way that transcended your run-of-the-mill attraction. And she’d felt that connection strongly with Ryder upon realizing who he was when he’d blocked her access to the garage. Within a nanosecond, his gaze had communicated an understanding, an awareness, to her that sometimes years with another person couldn’t accomplish. An “I see you” gaze that left her feeling…no, knowing that he had seen her. Not the details. Not what her favorite color was or what she was up to. But, rather, more fundamental elements. Almost as if the past, present and future had melted together to become immaterial in light of their meeting, their connection.
Oh, well. While it was certainly the first time she’d had such an experience with a mark, she had the feeling it likely wouldn’t be the last. And, probably sooner than she currently believed, she’d forget all about his electric-blue eyes and dimpled cheek and the surge of her blood every time she’d thought about him that afternoon, and use the money she’d stolen from him to further more important plans.
She stuffed the last of the items that could be connected to her inside the cavernous depths of her Louis Vuitton bag and wiped her prints from the drawer she’d closed.
