Contents

  Copyright

  About Seduced by the Spy

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Seduced by the Assassin

  Wicked as Sin

  About Shayla Black

  Other Books by Shayla Black

  SEDUCED BY THE SPY

  A Forbidden Confession: Protectors

  Written by Shayla Black

  * * *

  This book is an original publication by Shayla Black.

  * * *

  Copyright 2021 Shelley Bradley LLC

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  Cover Design by: Rachel Connolly

  Edited by: Amy Knupp of Blue Otter

  Proofread by: Fedora Chen

  Excerpt from Seducing the Assassin © 2021 by Shelley Bradley LLC

  Excerpt from Wicked as Sin © 2020 by Shelley Bradley LLC

  * * *

  ISBN: 978-193659678-2

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by an electronic or mechanical means—except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews—without express written permission.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away, as it is illegal and an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  ABOUT SEDUCED BY THE SPY

  * * *

  What will she surrender to him for his protection?

  I’m Vanessa.

  Someone has broken into my place…and taken nothing.

  I’m terrified.

  And alone.

  My work crush appears unexpectedly and offers to keep me safe.

  At what price?

  We have a past Rush doesn’t remember…

  So I offer him a night he won’t forget.

  But he already knows everything about me—ambitions, habits, and forbidden desires.

  And that’s not the only secret he’s been keeping…

  * * *

  Enjoy this Forbidden Confession. HEA guaranteed!

  St. Augustine, Florida

  February 5

  6 p.m.

  Vanessa

  * * *

  The sun is about to set. The streets are slick from the shower that doused me as I rushed to my car. My clothes stick to my skin, from the low dip of my soft pink shirt all the way to my beige wraparound skirt. What was a more demure than daring slit this morning now clings uncomfortably to my damp thighs.

  Rush Garrison probably got caught in the rain, too. I would have loved to see his crisp black dress shirt plastered to his broad shoulders, hugging all the rippling muscles of his torso…

  Dream on. He doesn’t remember you. It’s been years. And he’s head of the hotel’s security now, so he’ll never notice you except as a fellow employee. Go out with Paul in Accounting. He’s asked three times.

  I just can’t bring myself to say yes.

  With a sigh, I pull my little Fiat into the carport in front of my historic cottage, grab my purse, and dash through the deluge up my brick walkway. Finally under the cover of my porch, I stop to catch my breath and turn. I have to laugh at the crazy sheets of rain still pelting the street.

  It’s been a hell of a day. Bryan Russell, my boss, was holed up in a mysterious meeting for hours, the hotel is filling up fast with out-of-state guests for another unseasonably warm weekend, and some creepy guy hung out in the lobby most of the afternoon to stare at me. I handled everything, of course. But now? TGIF, and I’m scheduled for some days off. I have all blessed weekend to curl up on my sofa with a glass of wine and the pile of super sexy romances on my e-reader. Okay, I have to do laundry, too. But the rest of the time, it’ll be nothing but fictional hot sex. I can’t wait!

  Oh, don’t lie. You’ll be fantasizing about Rush, too. A lot.

  I can’t deny that…

  As I scramble for my house key, the rain suddenly stops in typical Florida fashion. I laugh again.

  “Hi, honey!” elderly Mrs. Crafton calls across the street as she emerges through her front door, waving at me as her poodle, Muffet, sniffs around in the thick grass for a place to do its business.

  “Hey! You doing okay?”

  “Fine. Just fine.” She stands under her porch lights and eyes my Fiat. “You going to get a more reliable car someday?”

  This isn’t the first time she’s asked.

  “Nope.”

  I should. It’s a menace. It only works sometimes. It doesn’t go very fast and it costs an arm and a leg to fix, but my father bought it for me as a present when I graduated from high school a few years back because that’s what I wanted. He even had it painted Tiffany Blue—my favorite.

  Shortly after that, he told me to wait here for him. He had an overseas mission, and he’d be home…eventually. He’s been a spy half my life, so I’m used to him being gone. In his absence, I’ve done everything he asked. I started night school. I got a good job. Sure, he calls periodically, but it’s been a few weeks now. And he’s been gone two years next month. Every time I think about that, I have to force down panic. Daddy has never not come back, but this is the longest I’ve gone without a visit from him.

  I’m scared he won’t make it home this time.

  He gave me no direct way to communicate with him. He left me a number to call in case of emergency. And by emergency he meant that my life was in imminent danger. So unless something terrifying happens, I’m forbidden to call that lifeline. I don’t even know who would answer.

  Mrs. Crafton shakes her head at me. “That heap isn’t safe. You should get a man to help you fix that blasted car next time it breaks down.”

  Some months I spend more on fixing it than I do rent, but I love the car. Every time I get behind the wheel, I see Daddy squeezing in beside me, giving me a smile of encouragement, and telling me I’m doing great.

  I cling to that image.

  “Maybe that hunk at work you’re gaga for?” She wags her gray brows at me.

  “That’s old-fashioned, Edna.” Besides, Rush doesn’t have any interest in dating me, much less fixing my car.

  “That’s practical, honey. And speaking of practical, I saw a guy wander into your backyard about an hour ago. I think he came to read your meter, so you should budget for another gas bill soon.”

  Already? I just received one a week ago. Ugh.

  “Thanks for the heads-up. Don’t let Muffet wander into the mud.” I point to her dog, now trotting happily toward a puddle after visiting the groomer yesterday.

  “Damn it.” She charges after the bit of white fluff.

  With another chuckle, I lift my mail from the box hanging on the wall beside my door. Wet. Just like my shoes and my clothes and everything I’m carrying.

  I can’t wait to get inside and ditch it all for a warm shower and my cozy pajamas. It’s not cold by any definition—except a Floridian’s. Anytime the temperature drops below seventy, all the natives start shivering.

  Slinging my dripping army-green messenger bag onto my shoulder, I unlock the door and let myself in before shutting it behind me. Then I toss my purse and the soggy mail on the nearby chair before yanking off my clothes. I toss my shoes, shirt, and skirt onto the tile of the adjacent kitchen, then head inside.

  Damn, it’s dark. I don’t usually get home this late. And why is my place so cold? Did I inadvertently set my thermostat to meat locker before I left for work this morning?

  I shiver my way down the shadowy hallway in nothing but my wet panties and clinging bra. I’ll have to grab my robe from my bedroom so I don’t freeze before I finish investigating. As soon as I turn off the burglar alarm.

  Then I realize the warning chime that I have thirty seconds to disable before the police are notified isn’t pealing.

  The house is utterly silent.

  Did I also forget to turn the alarm on this morning before I headed out to work? No. No, I remember. I dutifully punched in the code, just like Daddy taught me. I do it before I leave. I do it when I come home. I double-check it before showering and going to bed at night. The world is full of monsters. Daddy taught me to be prepared.

  Has someone been here?

  My heart thuds as I glance into my living room. Residual light from the street shafts through the tiny but classy space. White walls and chandeliers, tone-on-tone décor with glass accents and flowers. I’m usually really proud of this room.

  Right now, I’m scared.

  The books stacked at the bottom of my two-tiered table are out of order. I didn’t do that.

  Panic floods my veins and turns my breath thready as I tread down the hall and peek in my home office. The desk light is on. The top drawer is open. The shutters are closed. I didn’t do that, either.

  Farther down the hall, the powder bath sink is audibly drip, drip, dripping, which only does that if I forget to turn it off completely.

  Last night, it wasn’t dripping, and I didn’t use it this morning. Like all the other things out of place in my house, I had nothing to do with that slow trickle.

  Someone has definitely been here.

  Pressing a hand to my racing heart, I try to calm myself. I’m terrified, but I need to stop panicking and think.

  After all
, the intruder could still be inside the house—with me.

  I need to toss on some dry clothes and get out of here, but they’re all in my bedroom…at the end of the hall. That’s also where I keep my loaded gun. Daddy insisted I have one. And he taught me how to use it.

  Unfortunately, my intruder could be lying in wait for me in my room even now.

  Any chance I’m being overly anxious? Or wasn’t really paying attention this morning? I was a little groggy.

  But I’m rationalizing. I know I am. Everything was perfect when I left for work. It’s a habit my father instilled in me. Some people call him paranoid, but he’s got a point. If I don’t have a norm, how else will I know if someone has been in my space?

  I stand in the dark hall, trying to decide what to do. Risk going into the bedroom to find something dry to wear or backtrack to my purse and grab my phone to call the police?

  No contest.

  I pivot, determined to tiptoe to the foyer undetected. I’ll grab my wet clothes and sneak back to my car—thank goodness it’s now dark outside—and call the police. When they’re on their way, I can wriggle back into the damp garments.

  As soon as I gather my things, I wrench the door open—why was it ajar?—and wince at the squeak of the hinges. I’ve barely stepped through the threshold and onto the inky porch when I’m blocked by an obstruction that shouldn’t be there.

  It’s a wall of man.

  I gasp, drop everything, and try to back away from the looming black shadow. Strong masculine fingers grip my arm and jerk me back to him. I bounce off his hard chest, and he quickly binds me against him with an unyielding arm around my waist.

  I’m trapped.

  Terror jolts my heart. I stare at the tall intruder. What are his intentions? Under a black shirt, he has enormous shoulders and muscles for days. He’s huge. Overwhelming. Threatening. And he’s nearly inside my house. Uninvited.

  What does he want? The possibilities are bone-chilling.

  I do my best to jettison panic and think of ways to wrest free. Will Mrs. Crafton call the police if I scream?

  Before I can, the intruder covers my mouth with his enormous palm.

  Rush

  * * *

  Inside my car parked across the street from Vanessa Hartley’s little cottage, I watch her.

  Like I always do. Every day.

  I watch her vault out of her car. I watch the rain soak her and plaster her soft cotton clothes against every curve God gave her. I watch her sprint to the porch and laugh at the rain.

  I watch with my cock throbbing.

  It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last. And it sucks.

  She’s totally unattainable. Off-limits. Forbidden. She’s a sparkling diamond I’m meant to gawk in awe at, not one I’ll ever have the chance—or the right—to touch.

  Lusting after the boss’s daughter is never a good idea, but with her, it’s downright dangerous. Acting on it could get me killed. Her father is a lethal motherfucker with power and connections. No one sane crosses him.

  I’d walk away from my unhealthy obsession, but she’s part of my job. Now, watching over her is my purpose. Wanting her endlessly has become my punishment. Never having her is my penance.

  It’s worse because, in the last seven months—no, it’s been coming for years—I fell for her.

  My life is fucking torture.

  I wait patiently, like I do every night she goes home after work, for her to go inside, turn on the lights, make herself dinner, sit at her desk that faces the street, biting her lip and twirling a lock of hair around her finger while she finishes her homework.

  At somewhere just after ten o’clock, she turns off her laptop, disappears into her shower for eight minutes, thirteen if she washes all those long blond curls, then retires to bed to read. If she’s not enjoying the book, she’ll kill the lights within ten minutes. If she is enjoying it, the lights might not go off until midnight. If she’s really loving it, the lights will go off…then turn back on a few minutes later—after her self-induced orgasm.

  I wish like hell I was the man heaping pleasure on her. But I’ve been warned away. Look but don’t touch. Fantasize but don’t cross the line.

  I feel like a dog choked by a too-tight collar. I fucking hate it.

  But the men I’m protecting her from are the scourges and dregs of the criminal world. The worst of the worst. She needs me…even if she doesn’t know it. I don’t dare walk away. I can’t.

  Especially since I already know the taste of Vanessa’s sweet kiss. I’m haunted by it. And if my boss knew I was the first man to taste the innocence of his baby girl’s lips, I’d be dead.

  It’s a no-win situation.

  Tonight, Vanessa takes refuge from the storm on her porch. When it stops abruptly, she chats with her elderly neighbor, grabs her mail, and heads inside. All normal.

  I wait for the lights to come on. And I wait. And I wait some more.

  They don’t. She’s still standing in the dark.

  I frown.

  Something is wrong. Trouble brews in my gut. I’m still alive because I’ve learned to listen to my instincts.

  So I do the one thing I haven’t done in all the months of watching her. I get out of my car and head for her house.

  Ahead of me, the wind blows her door ajar. I see no sign of her. That’s not good. Standing in the gathering darkness, I peer through the crack and see only the vague outline of her purse on a nearby chair. There’s a pile of something—clothes?—on the kitchen floor. Her alarm isn’t whining.

  Vanessa is nowhere in sight.

  Before I charge in, she comes tearing around the corner. The moonlight shafting through the windows tells me she’s not naked—but it’s close. It also puts her figure in silhouette. Under the silvery beams, I glimpse a flash of her pale hair and creamy, soft skin. The rest of her is all but swallowed up by stark shadows that outline the jut of her breasts and the hard points of her nipples. The slight sway of her back is like a willow—bending and moving with grace. The round curves of her pert ass attest to her youth and enthusiasm for Pilates. Her thighs are slender, her calves strong, and her feet delicate.

  I burn. I hunger. I need.

  I push it aside when I realize she’s running to the kitchen like her very fine ass is on fire and she scoops up her clothes.

  Before I can charge in and find out what’s wrong, she yanks her slightly squeaky front door wide open. She’s not expecting me. I don’t want to scare the hell out of her. But the way she’s scrambling and trembling tells me that ship has sailed.

  What spooked her?

  I need to find out and neutralize it—now.

  Vanessa runs headlong into me, as if she was too afraid of what might be behind her to look straight ahead. When she bounces off my chest, she gasps. I’m unexpected. She drops everything, eyes wide, backing away from me like I’m part of the problem, rather than the answer to it.

  If there’s danger in the house, she’s not running back inside.

  I take her arms in an unyielding grip, pull her against me, and press her body into mine.

  Holy fuck, I’ve only once been as close to Vanessa Hartley as I am right now. And it ended with her lips on mine.

  The memory, even if it’s ancient, isn’t helping my restraint. I need to start using the head on my shoulders, not the one between my legs.

  When she opens her mouth to scream, I clap my hand over it and whisper, “Shh, Vanessa. Don’t be afraid.”

  Vanessa

  * * *

  Is this stranger crazy? I’m beyond afraid; I’m terrified. And how does he know my name?

  Then his voice penetrates my haze of fear. “Rush?”

  He wraps gentle but firm fingers around my arm. “Yeah. What’s going on?”