Coming Attractions

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2015 Rosie Vanyon

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-473-9

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Brieanna Robertson

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  COMING ATTRACTIONS

  Rosie Vanyon

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  Cara Kelly changed gears but barely slowed as she approached the next sweeper. She picked her line and eased her weight right, hugging cool metal between her thighs as she slanted into the corner. Accelerating out of the curve, she was already setting up for the next bend. It felt like flying. She barely registered the soaring cliff face to her right or the sheer drop to the dusk-lit ocean to her left. Her heart was buoyant, her spirit was at ease, and her mind was empty of anything but the interplay between her body, the bike, and the tarmac.

  It was better than she remembered. This was a road made for riding and she sucked every bead of pleasure from her mastery of the arcs and cambers beneath her wheels. Totally focused, completely caught up in the moment, utterly free.

  As she rounded the final curve, where the road dipped and coiled tautly around the cliff base, her right hand eased off the throttle. She kicked down to third and tilted hard right, her memory preparing her for the uphill curl where the turn tightened further and angled up out of the basin, and the asphalt opened up to a flat, narrow ribbon, stretching in an almost straight line across the isthmus.

  Only once she hit the home stretch did Cara come back to herself. The high of riding the coast road dissipated like a tide, leaving behind the realities of her homecoming—so much emotional debris. Fleetingly, she wondered if it might be possible to outrun the memories. But if she could, a hundred and twenty wasn’t fast enough.

  Her senses returned. She realized she was squinting against the glare from the sea and sky. She smelled ocean, exhaust, and sweat. She became aware of her cramped legs and shoulders, her chilled face and hands.

  As though the very sky could read the shift in her awareness, the sun dropped a notch lower in the afternoon sky, its orange rays haloing the steep roofline ahead. For a moment, it was as though the house was the center of the world.

  “Flinders’ Keep,” she murmured inside her helmet. “Never thought I would come back here.”

  But here she was, hurtling home.

  The sun, descending fast now, backlit the house, dropping its facade deep in shade while lighting its windows the same fiery orange as the ocean on either side of the neck of land she roared across.

  The iron gates were open and she applied the foot brake as she swung the bike up the tree-lined driveway, spraying gravel, even as she decelerated into the turning circle and pulled up beneath the shadow of what had been her mother’s house. By the time she killed the engine and swung her leg over the saddle, it was almost full dark.

  She unbuckled her helmet and shook the tension out of her legs, reeling a little from the sudden loss of weightlessness and the abrupt quiet. She pulled off her head gear and drew in lungsful of air—moss and roses, sea salt, earth and pine—that peculiar mix that comprised the fragrance of home.

  It was odd that she’d come here to Flinders’ Keep tonight, she acknowledged as she stripped off her gloves, unhooked her Gearsack, and trudged up the front steps. Her plan had been to head on past the turnoff to the beach and to bunk down at her sister’s place in Ocean Ridge proper—at least for a day or two. But as though it had a mind of its own, the bike—or her memory—had impelled her directly here, to the place where it all began. She supposed she could always backtrack to her sister’s place…

  Almost without thinking, Cara bypassed the front door, moving left to the second of three sash windows overlooking the driveway. Her hand edged behind the stone window box, planted with something dark and fragrant, and felt for the key. Maybe she should have been surprised that it was still there after all these years, but she wasn’t. Everything about this evening had an air of prescience about it.

  “Come to think of it, everything about this house has always felt predestined,” she muttered as she slid the iron key into the lock where it turned easily. After returning the key, she let herself into the house. Her left hand flipped a couple of the antique light switches inside the door and the ground floor was immersed in lakes of light.

  If the house’s exterior seemed unchanged, exactly the opposite could be said of the interior. Oh, the bones were there—the sweeping mahogany staircase, the chandelier presiding over the marble foyer, the elegant plasterwork and opulent woodwork. But that was where the original features stopped.

  Scaffolding, tools, stacked furniture, paint tins, and tarpaulins littered the ground floor. The kitchen was nothing but the skeletons of cabinets, the lounge room almost completely bare except for a grand piano beneath a drop sheet and an indignant cat that stretched and stalked off into the hallway upon her intrusion.

  She’d known what to expect, of course, but coming face to face with the changes made her jaw clench and her fists tighten.

  “At least there’s electricity,” she told herself as she moved through the downstairs rooms toward the back of the house. As she had predicted, the “back kitchen,” as they’d called part of the lean-to that had once been the servants’ quarters, was still intact. She guessed the people using the house needed somewhere to prepare food and eat.

  When she had lived here, the back kitchen had been her favorite part of the house—always warm from the stove, fragrant with baking cinnamon or cumin, and cozy in its mismatched clutter. Whereas the kitchen proper had been a rarely-used soulless state-of the-art, professional standard glacier, this room still brought to mind crochet, hot-milk-coffee, Canasta, and Jack Clement singing “When I Dream.”

  Cara dumped her bag on a 50s-style chrome-surrounded table and ran the faucet. She was pleased to find both cold and hot water and took the opportunity to sponge off the ride’s grime and freshen herself up.

  She supposed she ought to reconnoitre and check that the house was unoccupied, but the place had an empty feel, and the sound of 800ccs of engine was hard to ignore, so if she had company, she was sure she would have known by now. Besides, she was suddenly starving and exhausted. So, she set about making a pot of Russian Caravan from the leaves in the vintage Nesco canister on the shelf, and sourdough sandwiches from the provisions she’d bought during the afternoon with dinner in mind.

  It was surreal using utensils she so clearly associated with her childhood—the mismatched bone-handled knives, the peculiar sugar spoon with the spinning windmill handle. Her childhood Mickey Mouse mug was badly chipped, but she used it anyway and it felt right in her hands. The Royal Albert plate with the blue background and pink roses had been Mia’s favorite and Cara actually smirked as she selected it, as though her little sister might come running at any moment and protest.

  She wolfed down the makeshift meal with little decorum and rinsed her cutlery and crockery, wiping the items dry on a clean tea towel and carefully returning them to their cupboards and drawers.

  Sleep was next on the agenda. She wondered what state the bedrooms were in. Not that it mattered—she’d spent the last two nights outdoors as she’d travelled down from Calgary where she’d been researching the oil boom for a documentary. J
ust a roof over her head would be a luxury, and if she could actually find a bed, well, that would be a bonus.

  She returned to the front door, automatically putting it on the latch, then flicked on the landing lights, switching off the first floor lights behind her. She climbed the stairs and began to head for her old room. Stopped. Wondered how she’d feel seeing it gutted. Figured she might handle that better in the light of day. And opened the door to the first guest room she came to.

  She gasped. Even in the dim light from the landing, she could see that this room was something else. The walls were hung with dazzling sequined silks, the enormous brass four-poster swathed in gilded brocade. The color palette was jewel bright—emerald, ruby, amethyst, and topaz. The space was all velvet and tassels, furs and sashes. It looked like something out of a harem.

  Despite its decadence, the bed looked soft and inviting. All those cushions promised to cosset her weary body. That warm duvet guaranteed to cocoon her aching muscles.

  She began to strip off her t-shirt, but her conscience prickled. She paused. It wasn’t her house anymore. She really had no right to stay here. She shrugged and yanked off her jeans. Her bra and panties followed. She could stay here, she rationalized. She was here for work, after all. She stuffed her clothes in her Gearsack. She’d been invited. She kicked her bag into the corner. She was just a little early.

  Cara practically fell into bed and almost immediately stopped thinking and started dreaming of belly dancers and sultans and a thousand and one stories...

  ****

  Levi blinked. Twice. But the naked woman was still in the bed.

  Masses of tousled tawny blonde hair partly covered her small, pert breasts. The slender arch of her neck mimicked the slight curve of her belly. One leg was tucked beneath the heavy gold and purple bedspread, which barely covered her sex. The slim length of her other leg was exposed, as though she had grown too warm during the night and slipped out from beneath the covers.

  She was a golden goddess, asleep in an Arabian Nights fantasy, and he wanted her the way he wanted to breathe. But he couldn’t seem to suck enough air into his lungs. Though it took every ounce of his self-control, he knew he couldn’t touch her. Not so much due to any sense of propriety—although some dim region of his brain was trying to get a message of decency through his addled thoughts—but more because he was afraid that if he put his hand on her, actually reached her skin, she might disappear.

  And so, he ate her up with his eyes—a woman so perfectly formed, she was made to be kissed and embraced and licked and pleasured. She was built to be stroked and caressed...and worshipped. In fact, it almost seemed wasteful to stand there with his jaw hanging and his dick hardening doing nothing but gape. She was created for me... The thought came unbidden, but it struck him clearly and resonated with absolute truth. This woman was his, just as surely as was the manhood stirring at his groin, rising to the call to claim what belonged to him.

  She sighed in her sleep and shifted slightly in the bed, the bedspread sliding aside and coming dangerously close to baring her completely. At some level, Levi knew he should look away, back out of the room, pretend he had never seen her. But his brain wouldn’t work, much less his legs. He sure as hell couldn’t tear his eyes away from the splendid vision before him.

  His arousal was increasing. His temperature was up, his chest felt tight, and his breathing was erratic. If his balls hadn’t been so hot and tight and his dick hadn’t been so hard, he would have thought he was an impending heart attack candidate.

  His eyes lingered on the steady pulse at her neck, the shallow crescent of her navel, the tangerine polish on her toenails. He drank in all the details, imprinted them on his mind. Her coloring was all desert sand and shimmering sun. Her lips formed a peach bow that, even in sleep, seemed to be smiling. Her nipples were several shades darker. And her eyes were—

  Staring at him!

  He felt color suffuse his cheeks and immediately dropped his gaze to the floor. But of their own volition, his eyes returned to her. Sharp cheekbones, finely shaped brows, delicate ears, pulse fluttering, nipples puckering...

  Slowly and with incredible dignity, the woman tucked her legs beneath the bed clothes and gathered the heavy fabric over her breasts, tucking it firmly under her arms. She propped herself up on one elbow, managing to seem casual and regal all at once. Then she quirked an eyebrow in his direction, meeting his eyes head-on with her hot blue ones.

  How was it that she was naked and trespassing, yet it was he who felt awkward and tongue-tied?

  “Mr. Callister, I presume?”

  Her voice was honey and smoke and amusement. His voice was trapped somewhere between his burning balls and his hammering heart. He nodded.

  “Cara Kelly.” She held the covers in place with her supporting arm and extended her right hand.

  He almost leapt to take it, and while the handshake was fast, firm, and professional, the undercurrent of the contact was all sizzling chemistry and promise. He stepped back, so as not to crowd her—and to better appreciate the glorious sight of her.

  “It seems I muffed the dress code for our meeting,” she quipped and, for the first time, he saw a faint tinge of color in her cheeks, a glimpse of embarrassment in her eyes. So, she was human after all. Not completely immortal. A demi-goddess, he thought, only partly of this earth.

  “I don’t know,” he replied more evenly than he felt, “you wear purple brocade astonishingly well.”

  “And next you’ll be telling me naked is the new black.”

  “Naked works for me.” He grinned, letting a flash of masculine appreciation light his eyes, a hint of hunger tint his smile.

  Her cheeks flushed a little darker and he was surprised to find that her underlying modesty aroused him further.

  He stepped closer to the bed again, inhaling her musky feminine scent, taking in the dark sweep of her lashes and the faint downy hair on her tanned forearms. He longed to taste the plump flesh of her peach lips. She didn’t flinch at his approach. Her nostrils flared slightly. She would scent his shampoo and soap, he registered, and she couldn’t miss the low note of intense manly desire. He saw her swallow, watched the faintest tremble run through her, but her blue gaze didn’t waver.

  He was mesmerized. The potent combination of the sumptuous fantasy room and the unexpected demi-deity within somehow bypassed his rational mind, harnessed his imagination, and kick-started his hormones.

  He leaned nearer. He wanted to kiss her. He allowed the thought to surface in his eyes, messaged his need to taste her with the slant of his body, channeled his intention through the very air between them. And still, she didn’t shy away from him.

  He waited a heartbeat. Two.

  Her lips parted slightly as she exhaled and that was all the invitation he needed.

  Planting one hand on the bed, he reached for her. Cradling her head in his large palm, he drew himself down to her and touched his lips to hers. The slightest brush of her mouth seared him, his body combusted, the world ignited. There was nothing but heat and light and the taste of Cara Kelly burning away everything but the very essence of him.

  Cara wasn’t tentative and she wasn’t greedy. Her mouth beneath his own was assured, curious, and sexy as hell. Her hand was in his hair, pulling him closer, leading him further into temptation. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back. She emitted a sound somewhere between womanly need and animal satisfaction. She was all wanton abandon and certain seduction.

  He needed two hands. He needed to touch her—stroke her face, caress her shoulders, tangle in her hair, revere her body. Reluctantly, he drew his lips a hairsbreadth away, not relinquishing his hold on her. Her eyes fluttered open, her drugged gaze reproachful and hungry. His own eyes questioned hers. Did she want to take this further? Did she feel the same need he did? Was she, too, consumed by the utter necessity of completing what they had just begun?

  She opened her mouth as though to articulate the compelling desire he had already read i
n her blue stare.

  And then the sound of an engine rent the morning air—800ccs of red Ducati starting up and roaring away.

  “Oh no!” Cara cried.

  “What the...? Yours?”

  She nodded grimly.

  They made it to window in time to see the bike swing at breakneck speed through the iron gates, the fat back wheel spurting gravel and almost clipping the post, then hurtling out on to the isthmus and pulling an irreverent mono in a classic gesture of contempt. Levi registered denim, flannel, and helmet-less longish brown hair—not to mention flagrant disregard for property laws—and the laws of physics, it seemed.

  “Organ donor…” Cara muttered angrily.

  Levi already had his phone in his hand and was dialling. “Brian. It’s Levi Callister at Flinders’ Keep. We need to report a stolen motorcycle... Red Ducati SuperSport... Yeah, it should be heading past the police station in a few minutes. Maybe see if you can intercept it, huh?”

  Cara could do nothing but pull the bed cover tighter around her and stare helplessly as the anonymous rider stole her bike across the isthmus, disappearing to not much more than a speck as he reached the mainland.

  Chapter Two

  Brian Shepherd had always looked good in uniform, Cara recalled. He’d looked hot in his varsity football kit, sizzling in his prefect blazer, and he was fairly scorching now in his mid-blue police sergeant vestments, especially with a little maturity on his side. Eyes the colour of Bombay Sapphire, hair artfully streaked chocolate and caramel, a plump pouty mouth, and cheekbones you could sharpen knives on. Plus, he had the kind of body you wanted to photograph, touch, and possibly cast in gold.

  Too bad he had the conversational capacity of Mr. Bean and none of his imagination.