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Brenda Williamson, Rayne Forrest Reviews For SEXUAL DECEPTIONS Book 3 by Brenda Williamson &Rayne Forrest No reviews posted yet. Sample Chapter For SEXUAL DECEPTIONS Book 3 by Brenda Williamson & Rayne Forrest Tempting Her Heart “What are you going to do, Marigold?” Her friend Lucille nibbled nervously at the edge of a pastry as they sat in the hotel dining room. Located on the one hundred fiftieth floor, the quiet restaurant was centrally located in the highest structure in the world. The building was her parents’ creation, their pride and joy. How it could have been lost to financial debt still left her stunned. Nevertheless, no matter what, she intended to get back her inheritance—the lifeline to her past, the crowning heirloom for her future. “I don’t know.” Marigold pushed her plate away, unable to eat and think at the same time. “You haven’t even started looking for another place to live,” Lucille reminded her with that reprimanding tone of practicality. “I know.” She sighed. The hotel was the only place she felt at home. She had lived there all her life. “The place is sold, Marigold.” “I know. I know. Do you think I’d forgotten?” she snapped, overwrought with worry. “I’m sorry. I’m working on a plan. Really I am.” “A plan? What plan? You know the new owner is going to catch on that you’re still living here, and for free.” Lucille frowned. “You don’t have any money to pay the kind of rent they’d want for the penthouse.” Marigold watched her friend continue to take small bites of the pastry with the belief she wasn’t breaking any dieting rules. Lucille lived on the theory that if she didn’t actually eat the thing, but rather tasted it, there were no worries. “I guess when I’m found out, I’ll concern myself then on where I should go.” She lifted a slice of toast, chomping into it with frustration. “Besides, it’s a corporation. It’ll be months of arguing amongst the board of directors before they decide who gets the penthouse suite.” Marigold leaned back in the chair. “And what if it’s sooner?” Lucille’s pessimistic tone disturbed her. She wondered the same thing while lying awake in bed at night. Where would she go? How would she survive? What kind of trouble would there be? “Never mind about that. Let’s discuss my plan.” “What plan? I thought you didn’t know what to do.” Lucille froze with her pastry poised for another nibble, and stared at her. “It doesn’t involve doing anything illegal, does it?” “I’m going to find a wealthy man and marry him.” The pastry dropped from Lucille’s fingers to the plate on the table. “You’re going to marry a man just for money?” she gasped. “Why else would I marry? It’s not as if I’d enjoy someone being in charge of my life.” She reached over and picked up the blueberry confection. “In the history books, women married for position and financial security all the time.” “That was several hundred years ago. We’ve come a long way since then.” “Oh, look who’s talking. You have a monthly inheritance check from your grandmother’s estate. When you marry, you get it all. It’s not like you’ve gone out and worked.” “I’ll have you know, I’ve been managing my finances on my own since I was sixteen. I’ve done quite well with small investments. Just because I don’t have to get my hands dirty doesn’t mean I’m not capable of supporting myself.” “So you won’t look to marry for money?” “That will be the last detail on my list of merits for my future husband.” “Oh, you have a list, and what might his number one quality be?” Lucille snatched back her pastry. “I think love is the foremost necessity.” Marigold had held that same naïve wish at one point. Now she had to think practically. “Well, for you that may be an option.” She got up and paced around the table. “You have money and can wait forever.” “Why, thanks a lot. Your consideration of my single status is not very nice.” “I’m sorry, Lucille. I meant your wealth gives you the time to find a man to love. If the government gets wind of my poor status, I’ll not have the luxury of even making my own choice. They’ll issue me some wretched misfit who has money, but can’t manage to get a woman to marry him even for that. If I don’t accept that, and if I don’t get married soon, I’ll be forced to live in the catacombs under the city streets with other homeless runaways. I don’t have the luxury of time anymore.” Marigold saw the usefulness of the law; she just never believed it could affect her. Ever since it was passed over fifty years earlier, there had been conflicts. But the government was right; they couldn’t feed the poor forever. The welfare system, once a helping hand to single mothers, had turned into an encouragement for people not to try to get a job. “You know you’re more than welcome to come live with my family. The government doesn’t enforce those laws against poverty outside the city.” “Lucille, it’s nothing personal, but your family is a bit…a bit stifling. As is that country life. I’m used to the city, the hustle and bustle of people, and things like that. I could never live outside my native surroundings.” “Even if it means living belowground?” Lucille shook her head. “I couldn’t do it. I hear bad things happen down there.” “Oh, how would you know that?
Never mind, I’ll be married long before that should happen.” “Don’t be absurd, Lucille. You’re beautiful.” “I’m twenty-eight and I can’t remember the last time I was on a date. That’s termed a spinster according to the encyclopedia of social graces.” “I told you to throw that antique book away. It’s making you think weird.” Marigold gripped Lucille’s hand. “Women don’t need men other than for procreation, and even then, if you’re married, you can buy sperm or just buy a child.” “Weren’t you the one just talking about history and how women marry for money?” “Dire circumstances lead me to take drastic measures. It doesn’t mean I like what I have to do.” “Nevertheless, I don’t know what you’ve got planned for children, but I’m hoping to produce my own offspring, and I want to do it before I’m fifty!” Lucille yanked her hand away and stood. “I want to be loved and adored. I know this is hard for you to understand, but I like the idea of a man wanting to be in charge of me.” “You don’t mean that. You’re an attractive, brilliantly intelligent woman. So you’re having a slump in dating. It doesn’t mean you have to get all freaked out by it. When the right man comes along, you’ll know it. He’ll treat you well and respect you as an equal. Now, no more talk of looking for a supposedly extinct Neanderthal. I have an invitation to a party at the Empire Ballroom. Some gala to celebrate some corporation’s something or other.” “That’s very informative, Marigold.” “Needless to say, it’s a posh event with a room full of rich people—wealthy men to be exact. You and I are going to find us suitable men to fit our lifestyle.” She closed her eyes. “I’m going to be rich again if it’s the last thing I do.” Money Back Guarantee How would she be perceived, sitting on the board of trustees of the most respected nonprofit foundation in the northern hemisphere in a suit that cost almost ten thousand credits? Not very well, or so her common sense told her. Not that most of her clothes flaunted her wealth, but within that circle, people would know. And yet, she had to dress as befitted her appointment. She finally settled on a simple, albeit old-fashioned, princess-styled black dress and a single strand of pearls. Simple, elegant, and not too expensive. Well, the pearls had a high value, but that’s because they had belonged to her great-great-grandmother and were a hundred and fifty years old. You couldn’t even buy pearls on the open market any longer, not since the oyster die-off of 2097. Iris slipped her wallet into a black and white purse that matched her open-toed pumps, and called for her limo. A chime sounded. Good. Her car had arrived. She took the elevator down to the portico level, silently thanking the former owner of her multilevel townhouse for installing such a convenience behind the back of the historical society. Iris appreciated people who had a little rebel in their soul. The latest financial report on the Celia and Robert Martin Foundation lay on the seat in the car for her to read on the way to Boston. She settled in and flipped the booklet open, reading aloud the high points to help her remember them. “The CRM Foundation was started by son Slade Martin to honor his parents. Slade got his start helping older neighbors with household chores. One neighbor paid him with old art pieces that young Slade eventually sold at a tidy profit, banking the money. At his parent’s urging, he took ten percent and gave it to charity. As his bank account grew due to hard work, he gave more. CRM now has a multimillion-credit endowment, complete with gold bullion to hedge against inflation, and does good deeds all over the colonized universe. End of lesson.” Iris closed the folder and tossed it into the corner of her seat. If this was such a prestigious appointment,
why did it suddenly feel like such a chore? The driver buzzed her, telling her they had reached their destination. Iris looked out the window at the impressive ten-story, black-granite building, and spoke to the quiet interior of the limo. “I suppose you have to look the part to attract big donations.” She leaned over and retrieved the booklet, flipping it open. “It says here the building was bequeathed to the foundation by one of its benefactors.” She sighed. “That makes me feel better about it for some reason. I’d hate to be involved in an organization that squandered other people’s money.” Great, she was talking to herself again, a sure sign she was nervous, even though she told herself she wasn’t. The limo glided to a stop, settling to the sparkling blacktop. Her door opened and a gloved hand reached inside. Iris took it and allowed the doorman to help her out. She straightened her dress, squared her shoulders, and walked inside. Iris gave her name to the receptionist, and quickly found herself ushered to the elevators. In seconds, she arrived on the top floor. The doors whisked open without a sound. Iris stared at the bright sunlit area before her, appreciating the effort that had gone into making the conference level inviting and welcoming, and yet completely conducive to business. The elevator attendant touched her elbow. “Ma’am?” “Oh, yes. I’m so sorry. I’m gawking and you need to go.” Iris stepped out of the car. The man smiled and tipped his hat, then the doors glided closed just as silently as they’d opened. Iris’ gaze settled on the group of people seated around a large, oblong table made of genuine oak. That cost a pretty penny these days. A tall, dark-haired man stood at the head of the table. His blue gaze smoldered with poorly concealed anger. “Miss D’Vance, so glad you finally deigned to join us.” His deep voice dripped sarcasm. That had to be none other than Slade Martin himself. Nothing she’d read about him mentioned he was drop-dead, sexy gorgeous. Iris tried to think of any other man she knew who stood over six-feet tall, or which one had such broad shoulders. She knew nary a one. Okay, so he was quite a specimen of masculinity, the likes of which she’d never seen before. Her body tightened as gooseflesh skittered over her skin. Iris pushed the feelings away. Early on in her life she’d learned not to let it show when a man interested her. Too often, that interest had turned bitter upon learning her money was more attractive than she was. Her chin lifted. “I was told the meeting would begin promptly at ten o’clock. I am early.” A muscle worked in his jaw. He made a careless gesture toward the one empty chair. At least it was not next to his. “Will you please take your seat, Miss D’Vance?” Iris drew on every ounce of dignity she possessed as she walked to her seat. The older man in the chair next to hers rose and politely pulled hers out for her. She murmured her thanks to him as Slade glowered at them. She smiled at him. “I hope I’m not out of line asking that introductions be made.” The gentleman who had seated her spoke up. “No, no, my dear, not at all. As you say, we’re all here early. I’m Reggie Farnsmore.” He offered Iris his hand. She shook it. One by one, people around the table said their names, all but Slade, of course. He acted like the ass she pegged him for. “Now, if Miss D’Vance is ready, may we get down to business?” Iris nodded. And not just any nod, either. She inclined her head like royalty granting a vassal a favor. Slade’s look blackened, and she had a slight twinge of regret over goading him. Very slight. The terminal mounted in the table in front of her activated and she hurriedly scanned the information as Slade spoke, getting back to business. Two hours later, Iris grudgingly gave Slade high marks for running an efficient and organized meeting. As the newest member of the board, she’d abstained from the two polls, not knowing enough about the projects in question. Slade accepted her decisions without comment, but he’d not glared at her, either, and Iris considered that to be evidence that he approved. The meeting adjourned and people gathered around her, welcoming her and chatting amiably. Iris smiled and did her best to be friendly, but she kept one eye on Slade. He didn’t seem inclined to be friendly. What a shame. Slade didn’t need her money, something that calmed some of the fear she had about men in general. He was just too good-looking, too…too…manly…not to notice. Iris squared her shoulders and turned back to Reggie. She would ignore Slade Martin, no matter how difficult, because she didn’t need someone that arrogant in her life. Iris smiled at her newest friend. “Of course I’ll have lunch with you, Reggie. Wherever you choose will be fine as I don’t know Boston very well.” The old gentleman beamed as he led her to the elevators. She’d made him happy and that felt good. Iris turned as she stepped into the car. For one brief moment, her gaze collided with the angry blue glare of Slade Martin, then the doors whisked closed between them. What could she have possibility done to him? She didn’t even know him! Iris shivered as some sixth sense, or instinct, whispered that she would know him someday, and know him well. Funny how she didn’t object to that notion at all. * * * * Slade Martin slammed his office door behind him. Damn Reginald Farnsmore! That woman on CRM’s board was Reggie’s doing, that’s all there was to it. Reggie had read about her drilling a well for some Peruvian village and decided Iris D’Vance was the kind of woman the board needed. Rich. Very rich. Pretty, too, but that was neither here nor there. Farnsmore had prodded his buddy Travis Daniels to retire, leaving the seat open for his new protégée, D’Vance. Slade tossed his briefcase onto his desk, abandoning his plan to take some work home in the attempt to set aside his problem, at least for today. Now that he’d gotten an eyeful of Reggie’s new mark, he’d never be able to focus. Those pearls around the elegant column of her lovely ivory neck had to be worth a million credits. They were antique, probably from the late twenty-first century, a time when divers harvested pearls in the wilds of the ocean. Iris D’Vance, only child of Shirl D’Vance and his… What was it? His fourth wife? Slade didn’t remember, but he bet Reggie knew. Iris had inherited a sizable fortune, one she diligently, yet responsibly, shared with the less fortunate. So she had brains behind those honey-hazel eyes with their long black lashes and a generous heart under those C-cups. Slade rummaged through the bottom drawer of his desk and located the file he had on her. Thirty years old, and very pretty, curvy like a real woman should be. What the hell did that have to do with her being on his board? He banished the memory of her open, confident gaze locked with his as she’d taken her seat. When had anyone challenged him like that? Her dress had to be vintage Kennedy. She looked good in it, but she’d look great out of it. Slade collapsed into his chair. He’d lost his mind. He had bigger problems than Iris D’Vance landing her perfectly rounded ass on his board, or in his lap. Someone had stolen seventy million credits out of his personal account. He was broke, on paper, and all he could focus on was this woman’s breasts? Iris had a townhouse in swanky downtown Old Manhattan, a summer home on the Isle of Borneo, and a winter retreat near Vienna, with easy access to Austria’s ski slopes. And she still spent practically half her yearly income on charitable causes. It was a good bet she hadn’t stolen his money. But someone had, and it was time he got his butt in gear and found the guilty party. Slade called his assistant and told her he’d be out of the office for the remainder of the week, but not why. He couldn’t allow anyone at the foundation to find out someone had robbed him blind. He needed someone with better hacker skills than he possessed, and that meant he needed his brother. Beckett could get into any system, find any file, and never leave a trace. Slade punched in the code to make the call. Beckett answered immediately, “Slade, my lad. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” There was no point in attempting to evade giving an honest answer. Beckett was too good at knowing when his little brother sidestepped. “I’m in trouble, Beck. Big trouble. Someone got into my personal accounts and took some money.” A low whistle drifted out of the speakers. “How much, Slade?” “All of it.” Silence. Dead silence. “Beckett? Are you there?” “I’m looking up the number for a good doctor. My hearing is going bad. I think you just said someone ripped you off for seventy million credits, give or take.” Slade pictured his beloved brother sitting behind his desk, immaculately dressed in the latest fashion, leaning back in his chair, feet encased in real leather and propped on the windowsill, with his mouth hanging open in shock. It wasn’t a pretty picture. “I did say, and I’m royally pissed off. I need your help to nail the bastard’s hide to the wall.” Beckett sighed audibly. “Bro, I’d say you’ve been royally pissed on, but who am I to argue semantics? What can I do to help?” The tension in Slade’s shoulders and neck eased. “I need you to log into my accounts and hack your way back to them.” “That’s it?” “Yep. I’ll take it from there. It has to be stashed somewhere. You find out where and ‘appropriate’ it back, then install a few new safeguards.” “You’ll owe me.” Slade laughed softly. He already owed his brother more than money. Beckett always had his back, and he had Beckett’s. Besides, if Beckett could get the money back, he wouldn’t have to go to the police. The Department of Portfolio Recovery kept thirty-four percent of all funds recovered from those individuals careless or stupid enough to need their services, which obviously he was. “Put it on my tab, bro.” Beckett grinned and cut the connection. Slade slumped in his seat, relief turning his limbs to jelly. There was a good chance Beckett would have the information to him before he had to sell any of his assets and use the proceeds to live on. At thirty, Slade owned his home, an auto-car, an antique automobile from 2008 that still ran on gasoline, a small—very small—yacht, and a little log cabin up in the mountains for weekend getaways. But now, the money to maintain them had vanished. At least he still had enough in his checking account to buy dinner and a few groceries. Slade locked his terminal and headed for the elevator. Usually, he enjoyed the swift drop to the lobby, but today he didn’t notice. He’d never taken a paycheck from the CRM Foundation, even though he was entitled to one as the chairman of the board of trustees. If Beckett took too long, he could perhaps ask the trustees to approve a small disbursement against those reserved funds he’d not yet donated back to the foundation. The elevator doors whisked open and he suddenly stood face-to-face with Iris D’Vance. What the hell was she still doing in his building? |