One Sex Scene Too Far Read online

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2017 Larissa Vine

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-179-3

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Lisa Petrocelli

  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.

  DEDICATION

  To Mark

  ONE SEX SCENE TOO FAR

  Romance on the Go ®

  Larissa Vine

  Copyright © 2017

  Chapter One

  Troy finished kissing Antoinette. He drew away from her and looked softly into her eyes.

  “I love you.” His voice was like velvet.

  Sweat glistened from his bare chest.

  Then he said those immortal words which Antoinette knew would change her life forever. “Will you marry me?”

  The End

  ****

  Robin closed the book with a sigh. She stayed on the couch, still holding the book, as she wallowed in its afterglow. If only real life was like that. If only she would meet her own Troy, who would sweep her off of her size eight and a half feet and give her a happily ever after.

  She laid the paperback onto the armrest then idly picked up her phone. She gave a yelp. Six fifteen p.m. Oh God. Sam would kill her if she was late for the book launch.

  Robin jumped off of the sofa. She had planned to get changed but now there wasn’t enough time. She ran around her apartment, gathering up her keys, lipstick, and bike helmet from their resting places. Then she raced outside and down the stairs of the fire escape to the tiny courtyard at the back, where she grabbed her bike from the shed.

  Soon she was pedaling down Main Street, her shoulders hunched low over the handlebars to escape the cold. The tips of her fingers tingled. She wished she’d brought gloves, but she’d been in too much of a hurry to remember them.

  She pedaled on, her eyes narrowed against the icy air. Her fingers grew colder by the second. Did people get frostbite in Vancouver? She hadn’t heard of any, but it was certainly cold enough. The night sky looked heavy with snow.

  Soon her bike began to make a clanking sound, which probably meant that the mud guard was rubbing. She should have been more organized. She should never have risked being late. She’d been so excited when Sam had told her about the tickets in the office.

  The launch was for Luke Delaney’s new book, The Immigrant. A book that would no doubt top the charts and make him even more famous than he already was. If that were possible, she thought, as she pedaled. These days, it felt like she saw him every time she switched on the television.

  Not that she minded. He was yummy on the eyes. If the shops ever sold posters of him, she would plaster them all over her bedroom walls. He looked like a hero from one of her romance novels—dark and broad-shouldered with a long straight nose. His cheekbones were high, which made him appear aristocratic. But despite this refinement, she sensed that he was a real man, a man’s man who could get down and dirty with the best of them.

  She had never read any of his books, although this made her feel disloyal. Romances were her thing. She used to believe they could really happen. Then one day when she was thirteen—she could remember it clearly—she was reading a romance novel at the kitchen table. She was hunched over the book, her elbows digging into the wood, when her mum and dad started up again. This time her dad was doing the yelling. He called her mum a joke and a fat cow. Robin gripped the pages so tight that the blood drained from her knuckles. She tried to keep reading. But her dad’s voice drowned out everything.

  That’s when she’d realized something. Reality was about arguing. It was about bitterness and disgust. Romances were a fantasy that could only ever exist in books.

  ****

  The stone columns of the Heritage Center came into sight. Robin stopped her bike outside the hall. A few stragglers were hurrying up the flight of steps. She chained her bike to a lamppost, took off her bike lights, and slipped them into her bag. Then she ran up the stone steps, taking them two at a time, and into the warmth of the foyer.

  A lady in a mohair cardigan sat behind a trestle table. Robin got her e-ticket out of her bag and flashed it at the woman, who nodded at her to pass. She walked on a few more paces, then stopped by an antique mirror to check her reflection.

  Damn. The bike helmet had flattened her auburn hair to her head. She ran a hand through her hair to fluff it up and unbuttoned her coat, which was too tight on her bust. She was a big girl. Not that men ever complained about her curves. They loved her ample breasts and hips.

  Her features were equally oversized. She had huge, sandy-colored eyes. Her lips were big and pouting. One of her ex’s—Tony, an electrician—had called them come-to-bed lips, a remark that had embarrassed Robin. Since then, she tried to draw less attention to her mouth by never wearing lipstick.

  She left the mirror and stepped into the hall, where she breathed in the fug of warm bodies. The place was packed. There had to be three hundred people at least, who sat perched on wooden seats facing the stage. Their anticipation crackled through the air.

  Robin checked the seat number on her ticket. Number Y20. Blast. She was right at the back. She made her way along the aisle, scanning the printed numbers that were attached to each end seat.

  At Row Y, she stopped. She spotted Sam’s cropped blond hair in the middle of the row. Sure enough, there was an empty place beside her. Robin squeezed down the row toward Sam. People stood up to let her through. She edged past them, muttering apologies and stepping on bags and toes and sat down next to Sam.

  Sam looked at her, frowning slightly. “You’re late.”

  “I’m nearly late,” Robin replied.

  Sam held out a bag of Maltesers and rattled them at Robin, who took a handful. She popped one into her mouth.

  The lights dimmed and a hush fell over the audience. A suave-looking man in a suit stepped onto the stage. With him came Luke Delaney.

  Robin crunched down hard on the Malteser, reducing it to powder. Wow, he was even hotter than he was on the television. She’d never expected him to be so muscular. He wore tailored jeans which encased his muscular thighs. His V-necked sweater clung to his pecs. Robin couldn’t see his stomach. But she could imagine it all right. It was ripped.

  He wore good shoes. She should have known he’d have great footwear. They were a slouchy hybrid of running shoes and boots.

  She watched Luke and the presenter get comfortable in the two armchairs on the stage, which were angled around a small round table.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the presenter spoke into his lapel mic. “It’s such a pleasure to be here today. And a big thanks to Britannia Publishing for hosting this event. Of course,” the presenter continued, “my guest needs no formal introduction. He’s a multimillion best seller and a Governor General Award winner. He’s the creator of the beloved novel, National Spy.”

  “Tonight, folks,” the presenter continued, “you’re in for a treat as he discusses his groundbreaking novel, The Immigrant. Now, I want you to put your hands together and give a warm Main Street welcome to the one, the only, Luke Delaney.”

  The crowd burst into applause. Robin and Sam clapped along, too.

  The presenter turned to Luke. “So, I guess we should start at the beginning. We’re all anxious to know. What inspired you to write The Immigrant
?”

  Robin stared at Luke. He was smiling, but he jiggled his leg. He was nervous. She’d never expected him to be nervous. Somehow his anxiety made him even more appealing. She had the crazy desire to comfort him with a hug.

  “Well, Peter,” Luke began. “You know the great writer, Stephen King? Well, he believed that novels aren’t born from a single idea, but rather from a fusion of two strong ideas. And— well, that’s how it was for me.”

  Robin tuned out and immersed herself in Luke’s husky tones. That voice. It was warm and rich. It swirled around her like melted caramel. She bathed in it, soaking up the inflections of the words and the rhythm and the cadence.

  Luke read several excerpts from his book. It was a good hour before she tuned in again.

  “So,” the presenter said to Luke. “What’s next for you to conquer?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say conquer,” Luke said. “That’s what’s so fascinating about novels. We writers can never master the art form.”

  “Rumor has it,” the presenter said, “that you’re working on a romance novel?”

  A romance novel. Robin perked up. She eyed Luke more closely.

  The color vanished from his face. He seemed to shrink into the armchair. There was a second’s pause. Then he laughed like the presenter had said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

  “A romance?” Luke laughed again. “Why on earth would I write a romance?”

  “I’m sorry,” the presenter said. “I guess my sources aren’t always correct. And now enough from me. Let’s open up the floor and have some questions from the audience.”

  A sea of hands shot up.

  ****

  The questions ended and the hall erupted in a frenzy of clapping. Luke Delaney stood up from the armchair and bowed at the crowd to thank them. Then, rather than disappearing into the wings of the stage like Robin had guessed, he walked down the steps and into the hall. He sat at a table by the stage, which the audience started to queue in front of. He was flanked by a vixen in her mid-thirties, who had a lot of cleavage on show.

  Robin turned to Sam. “What’s happening?”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “You really haven’t been to a book launch before, have you? He’s signing copies of his book.”

  Robin realized that Sam was clutching a hard-backed copy of The Immigrant.

  “Stay with me,” Sam said. “I’ll need you to take the photo.”

  Robin bit back a sigh. The queue was going to take ages. It seemed like all of the 300 people in the crowd had bought the book apart from her.

  She stood with Sam as the queue inched forward. Forty-five minutes later, they were the next people in line. Luke continued to sit behind the table. His sweater looked so soft. Robin fantasized about nuzzling up to it. Chest hairs poked tantalizingly up from the V of the neckline.

  He was signing a book for a man in a ruffled shirt while chatting to him. Robin bet that Luke’s throat was dry from talking and that his wrist ached from autographing books. But if he was tired, he didn’t show it. He spoke to the guy in the ruffled shirt like they were long-term friends.

  The vixen woman from the publishing company still watched over Luke. Now that Robin was closer, she was able to get a better look at her. The woman had an angular face and slanting cat-like eyes. Her hair was slicked back into a high ponytail, which made her appear even more feline.

  She looked at Robin. Her gaze traveled from Robin’s face to her breasts. Robin fidgeted. She thought about buttoning up her coat. The gaze was so greedy.

  The vixen leaned down and topped up Luke’s glass of mineral water from a jug. She whispered something into his ear.

  He laughed an extremely attractive laugh.

  “But isn’t that always the case, Jenna?” he murmured.

  A frown cut across Jenna’s cat-like face.

  The man in the ruffled shirt left the table holding his newly-signed book. Jenna nodded at Robin and Sam to summon them forward. They stepped up to the table. Luke put down his glass of water and looked up.

  His gaze locked onto Robin. The chatter in the hall seemed to fade away. Robin was no longer aware of the squeaky floorboards or the slightly stale air. Everything else had vanished. It had melted away to become just her and Luke. She was drawn to him, slammed by a physical attraction that was the strongest she’d ever encountered.

  Jenna’s voice broke the moment.

  “Come on, Luke,” she said. “We’ve still got a few more to get through.”

  Luke shook himself as if to bring himself out of a trance. He switched his focus from Jenna to Sam. She held out his book, which she’d opened at the inside page.

  “Thank you for buying my book,” he said.

  She flushed.

  “What would you like me to write?” he asked.

  “Just put ‘to Sam’,” she said.

  Luke picked up a pen. Robin watched his long fingers curl around it. His nails were smooth. The cuticles were pushed back to reveal perfect half-moons.

  He signed the book with long, elegant sweeps and passed it back to Sam. Then he held out his hand toward Robin.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t got your book. But you could sign my breast.”

  The words fell out of Robin’s mouth.

  Luke Delaney tipped back his head and let out of roar of laughter.

  “You’ll need a Sharpie for that,” he said.

  Robin was blushing so hard that her earlobes burned. She was aware that Sam and Jenna were gaping at her.

  “I was joking,” she muttered.

  “Next,” Jenna called to the next person in line.

  ****

  After the signing, Robin and Sam went for a glass of wine. Then Robin started the cycle home.

  You could sign my breast. Sign my breast. The words replayed in a loop in her head. God, what an idiot. She’d sounded like a total groupie. She’d never planned to offer him her breast. What type of person would say a line like that? She’d been so flustered about not buying his stupid book that the words had tumbled out of her mouth.

  And tomorrow, Sam would tell everyone at work—the team in Accounts, the whole of the marketing department, Clive who came in on Fridays to service the photocopiers. They would all know the story about Robin and Luke Delaney. It would become office folklore like the time when Robin had drunk too much cider on her lunch break and had thrown up in the recycling bin.

  It started to snow. Robin battled on up Main Street. Flakes clung to her eyelashes. She felt the snot freeze under her nose. The road became whiter until there was a quarter of an inch of snow on the ground. Her hands grew so numb that she could no longer feel her fingers. Maybe she really did have frostbite. The doctors would have to chop off—

  Waaaah. The blare of a horn cut into her thoughts.

  Robin wobbled. Shit. Shit. She was on the wrong side of the road.

  The horn sounded again. It was right behind her. Loud and insistent. She jerked the handlebars to the right to get back toward the pavement. The wheels of the bike started to slide out from beneath her.

  Everything switched to slow motion. It was like she was watching herself from above. She saw the wheels move farther and farther out. She saw the bicycle tip at an alarming angle.

  Time sped up again. Slam. She hit the tarmac. It was hard and unforgiving beneath the snow.

  She lay on the ground, fighting for air. Her breath came out in gasps.

  “Are you okay?” someone called to her.

  “Are you all right?” the same voice asked her from above.

  Robin stared up, groggily, toward the voice. A man stood over her. He was bundled up in a coat. His breath came out in huffs of ice.

  She took in his face and felt a lurch of panic. Things were really bad. She’d suffered a head trauma. Either that or she was hallucinating. Because what she saw couldn’t be real.

  Staring down at her, his eyes wide with concern, was none other than the great novelist himself, Luke Delaney.

  Chap
ter Two

  “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Luke crouched over Robin as she lay sprawled on the tarmac.

  She made a move to sit up.

  His hand shot out and he pushed her back down into the snow.

  “Stay still,” he ordered. “You can’t move. The first few minutes are critical.”

  He took off his coat and draped it over her like a blanket. Then he held up two fingers in front of her face.

  “How many fingers am I holding?” he demanded.

  “Four.”

  Luke gasped.

  “I’m joking,” Robin said.

  Luke let out a loud exhale of air.

  Suddenly, Robin felt self-conscious lying on the road. Ignoring Luke’s protests, she sat up and glanced around.

  She’d created quite a stir. She’d blocked the right-hand lane of the road. The cars in this lane had to cross the meridian line to make a detour around her. They held up the traffic that approached from the other way.

  As the cars drove around her, the drivers slowed to rubberneck. Several pedestrians had congregated nearby on the pavement. Luke waved them away.

  “She’s okay,” he called.

  The onlookers dispersed, apart from an Asian girl and a man in a raincoat. The Asian girl got out her phone and started to film them.

  Luke swore softly to himself. “Damn. She’s recognized me. We’d better get out of here. It’ll be all over the Internet. “

  He put his arm around Robin’s waist and lifted her to her feet. Then he guided her down the road toward a black Porsche SUV, which was parked behind her bike with its hazard lights flashing.

  Luke opened the passenger door and helped Robin inside. She sank into the leather seat. The warmth from the heaters soothed her cold-burned face. The car smelled new, she realized.

  She watched Luke go back out into the cold. He walked up to her bike and pulled it up from the ground. He tried to wheel it toward the SUV but the front wheel was too buckled for him to be able to push the bike. He ended up carrying it, his handsome face contorted with the effort.