Gena Showalter - The One You Want

As if he hoped to prove it, an older male wrapped his beefy fingers around Brook Lynn’s arm. The girl jolted, and the tray she held wavered. Champagne sloshed over the rim of the glasses, and the women around her stepped away as if she’d just contracted a deadly virus—while all of the men moved closer in an attempt to help her.

She tried to wave them off.

They kept talking to her, patting her with napkins to blot up what had spilled.

One rescue, coming up. Kenna hopped off the dais and strode forward, determined to free her friend from the grabby hands. But as more and more partygoers moved away from the chaos, a path beside the girl opened up, revealing the group of people Kenna hadn’t yet noticed. At the center of them was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. So beautiful he couldn’t possibly be real.

The moisture in her mouth instantly dried. He was tall and leanly muscled, with bronzed skin and hair a rich jet-black. His features looked chiseled from granite. Strong, sculpted. Hard. His eyes, a smoldering gold, were stunning and somehow familiar, perfectly offsetting his blade of a nose. A nose that would have been considered too severe if not for the luscious contrast provided by the only point of softness he possessed—his lips. Even his jaw was hard, a square shadowed by the hint of a beard.

He wore danger and excitement as well as he wore his pin-striped suit, as if everything had been perfectly tailored to fit him by magic fairies. Kenna shivered. He was every woman’s fantasy made flesh...and he was staring right at her, his glass lifted midway to his lips, as if he’d been frozen in time.

Electricity crackled in the air between them, a new experience for her. One she didn’t understand, and didn’t like. But as ensnared by him as she was, she didn’t realize she’d bypassed Brook Lynn completely to stop directly in front of him...until it was too late to back away without causing a scene.

What have I done?

Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile.

“Um, hi,” she said, then cursed herself for being lame.

The chesty blonde at the man’s side flicked her an irritated glance, only to brighten. “Oh, good.” She handed Kenna an empty glass. “I’d like another. Thanks.” Then, with her profile to Kenna, she returned to her story about a recent trip to Italy and all the fun she’d had.

Welcome to my nightmare. Kenna’s cheeks heated.

Sadly, I doubt this will be the last time I’m embarrassed tonight.

Mr. Fantasy slowly lowered his glass. His eyelids appeared heavy, long black lashes shielding all that smoldering gold. “Kenna Starr,” he said, unrepentant as he interrupted the blonde—who then faced Kenna with darkening interest. “It’s nice to see you again.” His voice was as heady and seductive as the rest of him. Low, with a raspy quality, like melted honey drizzled over warm chocolate chip cookies.

Then his words penetrated her awareness of his masculine charm. See her... again?

He must have sensed her confusion, because he added, “And in the same spot we first met, no less.”

Realization was like a punch in the gut. The same spot. There was only one person she’d met in this house... no, please no ...but there was no denying it. She’d just stumbled upon Dane Michaelson.

He looked to be the right age. Around twenty-nine. He had the right hair and eye color. But he didn’t have a mess of scars on the left side of his face—surgery?—and he wasn’t peering at her with hatred, wasn’t calling her awful names.

You’re stupid and ugly and trash!

Those were the words he’d spat at her during their last “play date.” She’d been seven, and he’d been thirteen, and before that moment, she’d loved spending time with him. Which was funny, considering he’d ignored her every time they were thrown together, never deigning to speak with her until those final minutes. But she’d wanted a friend so badly she’d somehow convinced herself she could win him over.

Now, looking back, she knew how impossible that would have been. At the time, he’d known what she hadn’t. Her mother and his father were having an affair.

Kenna wanted to hide under the covers every time her mind drifted back to the day of discovery—when she remembered Christine Michaelson, Dane’s mother, walking in on the couple.

How could you do this to me? I’m your wife. And you. You’re nothing but trash. A cheap whore!

The very next day, the Michaelson family had moved into the city, about an hour and a half away. Kenna often wondered if Dane realized the affair had continued despite the long distance. Roanne Starr’s “me vacations” to “rest and recharge,” despite the fact that she had never worked a day in her life, had given her away. And—

Everyone is watching me, Kenna realized with dawning horror. They were waiting for her to respond to Dane.

“You grew up,” she blurted out. Oh, wow. State the obvious much? Way to rack up the fails tonight. You don’t even deserve a mental Twitter account.

“I know a few people who would agree with you,” he replied easily, those amber eyes glittering. “But not many.”

“Well,” the chesty blonde said, running her well-manicured hand down his tie. “I happen to know for a fact that you’re a big... big boy.”

O-kay. Going there, are we?

Dane frowned at the woman.

“Darling!” Roanne’s voice registered, saving Kenna from having to say anything else.

A slender arm wrapped around Kenna’s waist and tugged her none too gently from the group. “Excuse us, please.”

“I guess this is goodbye,” Kenna said with a wave.

Dane’s frown landed on her and deepened.

Roanne drew her away, managing to maintain a smile as she whispered, “I asked you not to embarrass me, and you show up like this? ”

Ah. Motherly love and unconditional acceptance. Can’t ever get enough.

They stopped in a shadowed corner. At forty-five, Roanne was still one of the most beautiful women Kenna had ever seen, with a thick mass of red waves and green eyes that rivaled the most expensive of emeralds, two features Kenna had inherited. But while Roanne had flawless porcelain skin, Kenna was covered in freckles.

“It’s like you go out of your way to hurt me.” Roanne removed Kenna’s scarf and tucked one end along the bust of her dress.

“What are you doing?” she asked, standing still and just letting it happen, whatever it was. Fighting would do no good.

“Making you somewhat presentable. You should have let me buy you a dress.”

Roanne had been living off Henry Starr’s insurance money for about two years. He’d died of cancer after an eight-month battle; actually, he’d died of a broken heart long before that, hating Roanne for her betrayal, but never leaving her. Why he’d stuck around, Kenna had never known. It certainly hadn’t been for her. He’d actually disowned her right before her seventeenth birthday, and he’d made it clear his money wasn’t to be spent on her, so despite her mom’s seemingly kind offer— always comes with strings —Kenna would never take a dime.

“You know Daddy would have rather I wore last season’s garbage bag,” she said.

“He’s dead. What he wants doesn’t matter anymore.”

“That’s so cold.”

“It’s also true.”

Maybe, but all Kenna had ever wanted was to make her father proud and happy.

And I failed in every way.

Motions clipped, Roanne threaded the scarf between Kenna’s breasts, draped the material along her middle, then wrapped the ends around her waist. To make sure everything stayed in place, she then used a diamond-crusted broach to pin those ends at Kenna’s lower back. The final result was shockingly effective, making the dress appear almost Grecian.