Wicked Gentleman Read online

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  Disclaimer. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement.

  Warning: Please note this novel contains explicit sexual content and crude language and is intended for mature audiences. Parental/reader discretion is advised.

  All Rights Reserved. This book contains material protected under the International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of the material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with others please purchase a copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  Cover design by Sofie Hartley of Hart & Bailey Design Co.

  Editing provided by Missy Borucki

  Book formatting provided by Stacey Blake of Champagne Book Design

  Proofreading provided by K. Donald

  Tweet/Instagram as you read using #JaxAndStevie and Join the The Harbour Series Discussion Group on Facebook.

  Publication Date: June 21, 2018

  Wicked Gentleman

  Copyright ©Christy Pastore 2018

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Wicked Gentleman

  Dedication

  Playlist

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  Books by Christy Pastore

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  My Fairy Godmother had a wicked sense of humor, of that I was certain.

  The first time I met Jackson Hart, I was on all fours with my ass in the air.

  At the time of our meet not so cute, I didn’t know that the handsome man with the most captivating blue eyes was the wealthy, charismatic, and hot as sin hotelier, oh and my new boss.

  Well, technically he is my boss’s boss. Just skimming the company manual was maybe not the best idea.

  But, I digress. Working at Hart Hotels & Spa was a temporary plan.

  Now, that plan has changed. Jackson Hart not only wanted me in his bed and in his life, he wanted me working alongside him.

  Some offers are too good to pass up.

  Premium scotch aged to perfection, making money before sunrise, nine holes of golf and interesting conversation. Those are the things most known about me. Toss in a leggy brunette or a stunning redhead at a society event for good measure and there’s a story to amuse the public. But, my story goes deeper—to the past that I left behind.

  Sooner or later past and present collide. I never dreamed Stevie Brockman would be part of both.

  Nora Bing—this one is for you.

  Wicked Games by The Weeknd

  Toothbrush by DNCE

  Heathens by Twenty One Pilots

  Body Say by Demi Lavato

  Freak Me by Campsite Dream

  wRoNg by Zayn featuring Kehlani

  All I Ask Of You by Josh Groban with Kelly Clarkson

  Feel It Still by Portugal. The Man

  Now or Never by Halsey

  Done For Me by Charlie Puth featuring Kehlani

  Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac

  Amanda by Boston

  Never Be the Same by Camila Cabello

  One Kiss by Calvin Harris with Dua Lipa

  All The Stars by Kendrick Lamar with SZA

  Meant to Be by Bebe Rexha featuring Florida Georgia Line

  Piano Man by Billy Joel

  Devil Callin’ Me Back by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill

  New York Minute by Don Henley

  WICKED (adj.):

  Naughtily or mischievously playful.

  GENTLEMAN (n.):

  A man of refinement.

  Three Years Ago

  “I AM TRULY SORRY,” HE said, smoothing his black tie. “It’s nothing personal, only business.”

  Everything was collapsing around me, and I couldn’t stop it. This was the fourth cancellation in a week. If I couldn’t convince him to keep his contract, I would be spending another evening evaluating the financial state of my company and this time there would be no avoiding layoffs. I’d spent everything I had to build this hotel, and I wasn’t about to lose it. There had been so much loss in my life recently, I couldn’t take it if my business crumbled, reduced to bits of dust just like my personal life.

  He cleared his throat, and tapped his finger to my desk. “You see, we don’t feel that your hotel is the right one for our annual fundraiser.”

  “John, we’ve been hosting your events for the last two years. What has changed your mind?”

  He stood. “I’m going to give you a bit of friendly advice. Sell your hotel. There is nothing left for you in Miami.”

  I cocked a brow. “Nothing left for me in Miami? Is this some kind of joke?” And now I was on my feet. My hands curled at my sides.

  “Trust me, son, when I say that there is nothing funny about this particular situation.” He pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and tossed it onto my desk. “Clear out, Jax, before there’s more bloodshed. You’re finished in Miami. I wished the circumstances were different, but that’s how things are done around here.”

  He snagged a peppermint candy from the jar on my desk, and then turned on his heel.

  “I really like you, kid, and trust me when I tell you
that I hate seeing you go out like this, but it’s your only option.”

  I thought about telling him to fuck off as he strode towards the door, instead I took a deep breath. I scooped up the envelope and dug inside for the contents. The letter was signed by the mayor, and the message was quite clear. I am fucked.

  Annoyed, I sagged into my chair and then pulled the bottle of whiskey from my bottom drawer, where I kept the good stuff. It was the bottle my mother had given me when I opened this place.

  I poured a little bit into my tumbler and swirled it around, before taking a long drink. I relished the burn. Pushing to my feet, a hundred thoughts raced in my mind. I stood staring out my window overlooking the ocean. How was it possible that I’d managed to operate one of the most successful hotels in South Beach and now I was being forced to give it all up? For something that was out of my control. My hand shook as I raised the glass to my lips again.

  Fuck it.

  I’d sell this place, and build a bigger hotel—a resort. I’d have a chain of properties.

  I stared at my reflection in the glass, raising a toast to myself despite the fact that I was dying inside. Here’s to another new beginning.

  TO SAY MY DAY WAS long would have been an understatement. Seven hours, twenty-one minutes, and counting, and I was stuck in traffic on Salissa Island Parkway. To make matters worse, the air-conditioning in my car went out about an hour ago. The guy in the Porsche behind me got quite the skin show as I climbed over the center console to crank down the windows in the backseat. I’d ditched my t-shirt a few miles back. I was totally rockin’ the pink sports bra and lycra shorts ensemble. Looking back it would have been far easier to have exited the car and rolled them down from the outside.

  Hindsight is a cocky little bitch.

  In what felt like Satan’s asshole, here I sat immobile with all four windows of my Ford Focus rolled down drenched in sweat. It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. Shouldn’t there be a mandatory summer rain shower right about now?

  I stared at my reflection in the rearview mirror. What was the point of wearing makeup if it’s just going to slide off? Not to mention my hair, which resembled Monica’s from the Friends episode where they took a trip to Barbados. Where was a hair tie when you needed one?

  With the hope that I could at least generate a breeze, I cranked up the fan. Just as we started to move, my favorite Fleetwood Mac song blasted over the speakers. I started singing as loud as I could, and then I turned to my left where Porsche guy grinned. His jet black hair fell over his aviators, and I could see the thick cords of his arm muscles from the grip he had on the steering wheel.

  He motioned for me to turn down the radio.

  I shook my head, and just kept bopping along.

  “That’s a great song!”

  “Yeah, I know! It’s kind of my favorite.”

  My mother had aptly named me Stevie after her idol, Stevie Nicks. Yep, that was my real name, not even short for Stephanie, like the legendary singer herself. Porsche guy was still staring at me, even as we crawled along the hot asphalt.

  “You might rear end someone and scratch that pretty car, if you keep looking in my direction.”

  “I’m enjoying the view, babe, plus you’re entertaining. You have a great singing voice.”

  I smirked, and rolled my eyes. “You must be tone deaf.”

  His lane started to move, I watched intently as the sleek black piece of machinery rolled four car lengths ahead. Good. Now I could go back to listening to the radio. Dammit! I slammed my hand against the dash. The song was over, but my air kicked on and the cool breeze whipped over my skin. This car was a classic, and by classic I mean piece of crap. But it was my piece of crap. I worked my ass off at the country club to pay for this beauty back in high school.

  I was able to roll up my window. I wasn’t even worried about the backseat. At this point the air could go out if I drove over a pot hole or pumped my brakes. I steadied myself and by some miracle I was able to reach across to the passenger seat and roll up that window. Apparently, this last year of Hatha yoga was paying off.

  Yoga class and graduating college, so far those were the highlights of the year. My mom’s health had improved, but then she fell and broke her hip a few weeks ago. She had surgery, but then she suffered some setbacks. I felt bad leaving her, but she demanded I take this job even if it meant moving away from Kennesaw. She wasn’t alone, but she might as well have been. My abusive father, the only thing he was good for was providing healthcare and a nice rehabilitation facility.

  Beep! Beep!

  I looked in my mirror and somehow the man with the Porsche had ended up behind me again. Lifting my hand, I politely waved. This guy, he was wasting his time hitting on me . . . if that was even what he was attempting.

  Flirting was a foreign concept to me, at least these days. I hadn’t been with anyone since my ex, and that was nearly ten months ago. The only flirting I’ve done is with my pink vibrator or licking the sugar rimmed glass of the occasional peach margarita.

  And I’ve kind of sworn those off since the last guy who bought me the peachy good cocktail, tried to finger fuck me right there at the bar. Can you imagine? In a public space no less.

  In between recalling sinfully delicious margaritas and relishing in the accomplishment of earning my dual degrees in Philosophy and Art History, I realized I was finally nearing my destination.

  I eased in between an SUV and a pizza delivery truck. Traffic over the bridge was not looking much better. No matter, I was finally here. I couldn’t wait to unpack and settle into my new apartment on Salissa Island. Sunny days are here again, and soon I would start my job at the Maritime Arts & History Museum.

  Now. Now was the time to for my new beginning and leaving the bad behind—even if I did have to sit in traffic a little longer.

  Several Months Later

  WELL, SO MUCH FOR REACHING for your dreams and all that crap. Two weeks ago, I got the proverbial pink slip. My assistant curator position at the museum was totally amazing. It was a job many applied for, and imagine my surprise when I’d been selected.

  Four months into my job, they lost their biggest donor and I along with a few others, were given two weeks’ notice to find new jobs. The person in charge of fundraising had been on medical leave, and I guess no one bothered to pick up the task in her absence. When she returned, the discovery of limited funds called for cut-backs. The good news is that the position would come available again one day and I could reapply. Reapply for the job I already applied for, and earned.

  After weeks of searching, and half a dozen interviews later, I finally found something that would pay the bills, with just enough left over to buy a few drinks.

  “Hey, bartender,” I called, lifting my glass into the air. “I’ll have another.”

  She gave me a smile, her brown eyes twinkling. “You got it, slutina.”

  I laughed and slid my tumbler towards Krystle, my therapist, and by therapist I mean the best drink slinger at my favorite bar, Quench. It’s quite possibly the dumbest name for a bar ever. There’s a chalkboard above the liquor wall with a list of names of bars far worse that this one.

  It might be a terrible name, but the atmosphere and the people are the best. In fact, since moving here, Krystle has become my closest friend. When she found out I’d lost my job, she told everyone to get the fuck out of the bar and we commiserated over a basket of coconut shrimp and a pitcher of sangria.

  Krystle was the best, unlike Tiffany, my best friend from back home in Kennesaw, possibly ex-best friend now. She decided that I was the worst person in the entire world for moving away and having way too much fun without her. During a midnight drunken phone call she decided to lay that bullshit on me. She rambled on about me never calling her, even though I’d left her several text messages and tried to call her on my lunch breaks.

  “Cheer up, buttercup,” she said, pouring more rum into my glass. “Tomorrow you start your new job and you’ll be surrounded
by gorgeous, rich, older men. You’re bound to score a sugar daddy.”

  “First of all, can you not say things like that? Second, I am sure no man is going to be looking at his golf caddy and thinking, ‘man I’d like to trade in my smoking hot wife for this twenty-three year-old loser.’”

  She tossed her bar towel at me. “You are not a loser. You are going to rock that job, until something better comes along. I believe in you.”

  “Thanks for the solid vote of confidence.”

  She splashed some rum and coke into a glass and added a cherry. “That’s my job to make your life problems better, blondie.”

  “I can’t believe I have to go back to doing the same job I had in college,” I groaned.

  Krystle tied her dark hair up into a topknot. “At least you’ll be in an environment to meet and connect with people of influence. Before you know it, some CEO will be begging you take a job at his or her company.”

  As I took another sip, I let Krystle’s words sink in. A strange combination of confidence and anxiety twirled through me. I swallowed down the sensation along with the final drops of coconut and lime.

  Here’s to another new beginning.

  Just before nine o’clock, I climbed the flight of stairs that led to my apartment. When I reached the top, I stood on the balcony, admiring the view of the moonlight dancing off the ocean. Inhaling deeply, the smell of burnt oil and spicy cabbage raced up my nose. I stared down at the dumpster in the back alley from the Chinese restaurant. That smell was awful. Thank goodness tomorrow was trash day.

  Turning on my heel, I pulled open the rickety screen door and then pushed my key into the lock of the weathered wooden door.

  The apartment was quiet, which meant Megyn, my roommate, had yet to come home from her shift. Or that she was getting piss drunk with her co-workers again. God I loved Megyn, but that girl couldn’t handle her liquor. More than a couple of times, I needed to reel her in by last call or she was bound to ditch her panties to make out with any available guy donning a beard and tattoos in the bathroom.