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Love is a Four Letter Word
Zara Stoneley
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
Contents
I’ve been writing stories for just about as long as I’ve been reading them – it’s rumoured that I’m related to Elizabeth Gaskell, so maybe it’s in the genes!
I live in a country cottage in the UK with a naughty mouse catching, curtain climbing cat, my wonderful guitar playing, video making, Minecraft mad teenage son and a wine drinking, sun loving, master chef in the making, sexy alpha hero.
I love my family, sexy high heels, sunshine, wine, good food, cats, horses, dogs, music, coffee, writing and reading - but not necessarily in that order! And I like my heroes just how I like my coffee – hot, strong and moreish.
You can find more about me, and all my contact details at www.zarastoneley.com. Please stop by – I love to meet new people.
To the man in my life - who knows that being a little bit bad can be good …
“Which bit of no don’t you understand?”
“From my side of the table it looked pretty much like a yes, darling. Come on, admit it, you want it.”
“If I wanted it I’d ask, okay?”
“Oh, you were asking, babe.”
Georgie cringed. She was nobody’s babe; he’d been watching the wrong type of films. She crossed her arms across her chest and tried to stare him down, but from the glassy look in his eyes he was too inebriated to register anything, let alone a put down, unless it involved a minor act of violence. “I was just being polite.”
Surprisingly strong fingers gripped her arm before she had a chance to move further away, digging into the bare skin, leeching the colour away. The gasp had to be her, but being manhandled wasn’t on any wish list she’d ever had. Well, not like this. And it hurt.
“Hey, let go.” She was drunk, but obviously not as drunk as he was, because when she pulled away he staggered.
“There’s a word for girls like you.”
Georgina Hampton took a step back and turned away. “And there’s more than one word for dicks like you.” She was glad she’d only muttered it under her breath, because when she glanced back over her shoulder, he looked like he wasn’t about to give up.
Yeah, she’d been friendly, even flirted a bit. But that was her job. And since when was there a rule that said if you had a laugh with a guy he was entitled to get into your knickers?
As Georgie pushed open the door that separated the loud, claustrophobic heat of the club from the real world a sudden wave of exhaustion swept over her. It had been a long day, she’d had one too many vodka shots, and unwanted male attention was the last straw. She concentrated on keeping her high heels both going in the same direction as she headed for the door, not sure if it was tiredness or drink that was playing havoc most with her balance. One thing she did know was that every step was another one closer to home and her bed.
“Off early, can’t stand the pace?” One of the bouncers grinned at her, he knew that exiting at this time wasn’t her normal form, and as he swung the outside door open the rush of cool night air almost knocked her off balance. “You okay?” He was giving her a weird look.
“Yeah.” She tried a grin. “Had a shitty day, that’s all.” She didn’t know his name and he didn’t know hers, but she was at the club often enough for the professional distance to have dropped, just a bit.
“Hey, stop.” The drunken idiot had followed her all the way to the door. “Georgie, I said stop.”
“You sure you don’t need a hand, love?”
She shook her head at the bouncer. She didn’t want trouble. Not again. Carol would have a fit, a major prima donna explosion if there was even a hint of a bad smell this week. What was it with step-mothers that thought just because they had your dad under the thumb then they had the right to ruin your life as well?
“I’m fine, thanks.” She took a step out onto the pavement and almost instantly regretted turning the offer down, as Sebastian, ‘but you can call me Seb’, sent a wave of alcohol drenched breath down her neck. Good job she didn’t feel queasy or that really would tip the balance.
Yes, she knew his name. But that was the absolute limit of the relationship. Which sadly he didn’t get. He’d been one of a group of guys, rich guys, who had rolled into the restaurant that night where she was front of house. He’d flirted, and she’d done what she did best back. Avoided his hands, but caressed his ego. It was her job, and she was damned good at it. Trouble was, the stupid twat had presumed the service extended after hours and he’d followed her to the club that the staff had headed to when the restaurant had closed.
His hand was on her waist and she felt like retching, and her heart had hitched up a beat. She’d had him down as wet, but even a complete drip was strong when they were fuelled with beer and chasers. Stronger than her.
“Get your hands