Forbidden Heat (The Forbidden Series Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  The Rules

  Comfort Food

  Minefield

  The Game

  Revelation

  Incursion

  Deep Piney Woods

  Attention

  Falling

  Burn

  Huge

  Late-Night Activities

  Bargain

  Lucky

  Also by Mia Madison

  About the Author

  Forbidden Heat

  Mia Madison

  FORBIDDEN HEAT

  Copyright 2017 Mia Madison

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Contents

  1. The Rules

  2. Comfort Food

  3. Minefield

  4. The Game

  5. Revelation

  6. Incursion

  7. Deep Piney Woods

  8. Attention

  9. Falling

  10. Burn

  11. Huge

  12. Late-Night Activities

  13. Bargain

  14. Lucky

  Epilogue

  Also by Mia Madison

  About the Author

  1

  The Rules

  The taxi stops in front of enormous wrought-iron gates just as lightning slashes the sky and an entire Niagara’s worth of water pours down. The driver, cursing, rolls his window down an inch, but before he can try to explain our presence, the gates swing slowly open.

  “Sorry for the language, Miss,” he says as we follow a long, curving drive. The trees lining it are dancing wildly, whipped into a frenzy by the wind. I feel like the ill-fated heroine of a Gothic novel.

  “It’s all right,” I tell him. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

  He comes to a halt at the porticoed entrance to the mansion. The double doors open and a man in a dark coat, holding an umbrella, comes out. He’s aimed at the back of the taxi, which he can probably barely see in the storm. The driver jumps out so he can open the trunk; I dig in my purse for my wallet.

  When my door opens, the man in the dark coat is standing there, my suitcase in his hand. The driver is back in his seat, so I push a generous stack of bills through the slot. “Thank you for driving out here in this weather.”

  He pushes the bills back at me. “The guy already paid me, Miss.” Startled, I glance at the man, but I can’t see his face; the umbrella is blocking the light from the residence.

  “Keep it as a tip, then.” I push the bills back through. “You’ve earned it.”

  The driver doesn’t argue. “Thanks, Miss. Now I can go home for the night.”

  “Good. Drive safely.” I grab my purse and carry-on bag and climb out next to my waiting escort.

  “Thank you very much,” I tell him as he keeps the umbrella over my head, shielding me from the worst of the rain. I stick as close to him as I can so he’ll have some protection too. We go up the stairs and through the open doors into a marble-tiled foyer.

  A woman waits there, short, her dark hair liberally threaded with gray and pulled back at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are keen, but not unkind. At her feet sits a sleek gray tabby cat, looking at me with unblinking green eyes.

  I crouch down. “Hey, kitty.” He comes to my outstretched finger, then rubs himself against my hand. “Good boy.”

  When I look up, the woman has a smile in her eyes. “Good evening, Miss Morgan. I trust your trip was uneventful.”

  “It was,” I say, standing again. “Thank you.” No need to mention the shouting match with my father before he sent me away, or the angry tears I shed on the plane. “I’m sorry to arrive at such a late hour, and with so little notice.”

  “Late hours are not altogether unheard of here. I’m Mrs. Jameson, the housekeeper.” She gestures behind me, where umbrella man must be standing with my suitcase. “And this is Mr. Thorne.”

  I whirl. He’s put the umbrella in a stand, his coat on a rack, and my suitcase on the floor. I see now that he’s not a member of the household staff, as I’d assumed, but Cameron Thorne himself. The scion of an old-money family and ridiculously successful hedge-fund manager came out in the rain, personally, to fetch my luggage.

  But my astonishment at his actions barely registers, swamped as it is by my visceral response to the man. He doesn’t resemble a financial genius so much as a pirate … the kind who’d like to plunder more than my gold.

  He’s tall, dark, and a good twenty years younger than my father —in his thirties, not his fifties. He’s built like a professional quarterback, tall, broad-shouldered, with muscular arms and thighs. A short, neatly-trimmed beard and deep-set eyes that crackle with intelligence do nothing to detract from the aura that surrounds him.

  One that signals danger — and heat.

  I swallow hard and scrape together some semblance of coherent speech. “Mr. Thorne. Thank you for taking me in so unexpectedly.”

  “Welcome to my home, Haley Morgan.” The rich, deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver chasing down my spine. “Your father was a mentor of mine, once upon a time.”

  “It’s difficult to imagine you needing … mentoring.” The man before me seems capable of anything. In both senses of that phrase.

  A slow smile curls one corner of his mouth, and I get an answering spasm between my legs. It’s a good thing Mrs. Jameson is chaperoning us, because I would like to jump my host right here in the foyer.

  Not that he’d be interested. A man like him doubtless has his pick of women; a college girl like me can’t hold a candle to the supermodels he probably dates.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.” In truth, I was too upset to even touch the in-flight meal. I’m hungry now, but I don’t want to be a bad guest.

  My stomach chooses that moment to gurgle loudly. Mr. Thorne raises an eyebrow that manages to be both inquisitive and accusatory at the same time. “It’s late,” I say in answer. “I’ve put you all out enough already.”

  His eyes narrow. “There are rules, Haley, for you staying here. Not many of them, but those few I have I expect to be obeyed.”

  The command in his voice stirs something deep inside me. But the words … those are another matter.

  “Obeyed?” I repeat. What century does he think we’re living in?

  “Respected, if you prefer.”

  I can’t argue with that without being utterly ungracious, the very thing I’m trying to avoid. “Far be it from me to disrespect any reasonable rule,” I say with hands spread.

  He gives me a look that says he spotted my mile-wide loophole. And then he moves, with a sensual grace that tightens my skin. “Who decides what’s reasonable?” he says when he’s right next to me.

  Every cell in my body starts to quiver. Up close, he’s overwhelming. This man is a force of nature, and if I’m not careful he’ll steamroll right over me. “Well, that�
��s the crux, isn’t it?”

  “My house, Haley. My rules.”

  I somehow manage to keep my voice steady and neutral-sounding. “Perhaps you could explain the rules. And if I can’t agree to them, I’ll go find a hotel.”

  “That’s unacceptable.”

  My composure vanishes. “What?” I can’t believe he just said those words.

  “Your father put you under my protection.”

  “Mr. Thorne.” Hands on hips, I glare up at him. “Neither you nor my father seems to have noticed that I’m a legal adult and can do as I damn well please. I appreciate that both of you have good intentions, but we’re not living in medieval times.”

  He regards me for a long moment. Then he stoops down and hoists me over his shoulder. “Hey!” I yell, pounding his back with my fists. “Put me down!”

  Thorne ignores my outburst. “Mrs. Jameson, if you could send up some sandwiches, please.”

  “Of course, Mr. Thorne.” The housekeeper sounds utterly unperturbed, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. Maybe it does.

  My captor carries me out of the foyer and up a broad, curving staircase. “I can’t believe this,” I fume, unable to keep silent. “Except I totally do. No wonder he sent me here.”

  Thorne doesn’t answer. I’m left to stare at the floor, or, alternatively, at his legs and his excellent ass. Watching the play of muscle under his clothes is so enthralling I forget to be angry for a few moments.

  The arm he has clamped across the backs of my thighs doesn’t help. By the time he opens a door and goes through it, my panties are getting damp. Then he lays me down on a bed and sits beside me, his arm braced on the other side of me, penning me in.

  That fast, my temper snaps back. I start to sit up, determined to jump off the bed and be somewhere else — anywhere, so long as it’s not where he put me.

  “Lie still.”

  Did I say he was commanding before? Oh, no. This voice makes that one sound like a croon. It cracks across my nervous system like a whip, putting me flat on my back as effectively as if he’d severed my spinal column. Stunned, furious, I clamp my lips together and wait.

  “Here are the rules for your time in this house.” He speaks softly now, but his words are tempered with steel. “Number one: your well-being is my responsibility. I don’t care how antiquated a notion you think that is; I will take care of you.

  “Number two: never, ever, lie to me. About anything.”

  When he doesn’t say anything else, I review the scene in the foyer. By saying I wasn’t hungry when I was, I violated both his rules. On the face of it, they sound completely rational and benign, except that they’ve led to me being carried upstairs and pinned to a bed within five minutes of my arrival here.

  “And if I break a rule?” I challenge him.

  “Then you’ll be over my knee.”

  2

  Comfort Food

  Haley gasps. “You did not just say that.”

  “I most certainly did.”

  “This is insane!” Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes sparking with outrage. She’d probably like to punch me in the mouth right now.

  I don’t think Haley Morgan has any idea how astonishingly lovely she is. No doubt she’s had ample male attention in her young life; but she shows no signs at all of being one of those women who’s learned to flirt with every breath, to see every man as a potential conquest.

  Not that I’d mind if she were. It would make for an interesting game, one I’ve played before with women who thought they could bring me to heel. But Haley, it seems, prefers the direct approach to the slow seduction.

  “You can’t just—” she breaks off.

  “I can, and I will.”

  She’s breathing hard, the swell of her chest drawing my attention, though I keep my eyes on her face. If she knew what kind of man I am, had come here for that, I’d already be giving her a taste of my discipline.

  But Haley’s father certainly knows I’m no pushover; and of all the men in the world, Peter Morgan sent his daughter to me. So she’ll learn.

  My house, my rules.

  And with her spirit, it’s only a matter of time before she defies me.

  “You can take me to the airport,” she says. “I’ll go back home, and I won’t be your problem anymore.”

  “That would violate the first rule.”

  She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut again. “I cannot believe you.”

  Her impudence is making my cock twitch. “Shall I give you a demonstration of how serious I am?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

  She has no idea how much.

  There’s a tap at the door, and I rise from the bed to let Mrs. Jameson in. She’s carrying a breakfast tray of sandwiches, and in her usual inimitable fashion she’s gone over the top with them. I see BLTs, grilled cheese, turkey with avocado, and classic peanut butter and jelly, all thoughtfully cut into halves.

  I didn’t give her the chance to ask Haley what she likes, so she’s brought a little of everything. There’s also a small bowl of cut fruit and a glass of milk. Given the chance, Mrs. J will no doubt spoil Haley rotten.

  Which might not be a bad thing. The girl’s got me to contend with, after all.

  Haley’s sitting up on the bed now. She stares at the tray as Mrs. J sets it down across her lap. I can almost hear her thinking, I can’t possibly eat all this.

  “She’s just covering her bases,” I tell Haley. “And while we’re on the topic, this would be a good time to ask if you have any dietary restrictions. If you’re vegetarian, or vegan, or have any allergies.”

  “No, I eat pretty much anything.” She smiles at my housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Jameson.”

  The cat jumps up on the bed. “Away with you, you scamp,” Mrs. J says. “You’ve been fed.”

  “Oh, please, can he stay?” Haley says. “I promise I won’t share.” Her eyes cut my way for an instant and I know she’s thinking about rules.

  “So long as he’s not bothering you,” Mrs. Jameson tells her. “But don’t let him convince you he’s starving. He’s a charmer, that one.”

  “I can tell.” She scratches under his chin and he purrs loudly. “You’re quite the handsome fellow, aren’t you. What’s his name?”

  “Bandit,” I say. Haley smiles, a small, private smile. “What?”

  But she shakes her head and turns her attention back to the tray. “Eat what you like,” Mrs. J says, “and don’t worry about the rest.”

  “All right. Thank you.” She considers for a moment, then picks up one of the BLT pieces and takes a bite. Her eyes close as she chews, a blissful expression spreading across her face. “This is delicious.”

  Mrs. J knows she’s an excellent cook, but she still looks inordinately pleased. I give her a nod of thanks and she makes to withdraw, saying, “Just put the tray outside the door when you’re finished, Miss Morgan.”

  “I will.” She takes another bite, her eyes going to me when I pull up a chair next to the bed. “Are you staying to make sure I eat?”

  “Yes,” I say placidly. She shakes her head again, but doesn’t respond. I wait while she finishes the half BLT, some of the fruit, and half a grilled cheese, along with the milk. With every bite, something in me settles.

  “Comfort food,” she says at last. “I wish I could eat it all, but I’m stuffed now.”

  “All right.” I rise and take the tray. “I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.”

  “Good night.” She watches me go, looking as though she’d like to say more, but holds her peace.

  I close the door behind me, wondering how long our unspoken truce will last. I’m halfway down the stairs when my cell phone signals an incoming call.

  Very few people have this number, and even fewer would contact me this late. I set the tray down and take the call. “Thorne here.”

  “It’s Vince. We’ve got a situation.”

  3

  Minefield

  I’m
finally alone, but despite my fatigue and all that yummy food, I’m not sleepy at all. What an aggravating man.

  Eating while he watched me was … interesting. My imagination kept going to inappropriate places. Like how his dedication to taking care of me would play out in the bedroom.

  I nixed jumping him after he went all authoritarian on me, but my body has its own ideas. My libido seems to think a dominance sandwich, served between two big slices of bossiness and flavored with control issues, is just fine.

  Restless, I climb off the bed. Maybe I can take myself on a tour of the house and start getting acquainted with my new — but temporary, I remind myself, very, very temporary —home.

  I crack open the door and hear voices. Mrs. Jameson’s, I’m pretty sure, and Mr. Thorne’s. Slipping out, I go to the railing that overlooks the lower floor and strain to hear.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours. No need to wait up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A few seconds later, a door opens, and the sound of the ongoing downpour invades the house for a moment before the door closes again, shutting out the night.

  Footsteps sound and I dart back into my room. Collapsing on the bed again, I let myself ponder.

  Why on earth would Cameron Thorne need to go out for “a few hours” in the middle of the night? Maybe it’s because of the way he affects me, but my imagination immediately conjures up all sorts of dark possibilities.

  He’s gone to a sex club. Or he has a mistress waiting, or a call girl, someone he doesn’t want to be seen with in the light of day. Maybe someone is blackmailing him, and he has to go out at night to do their bidding.

  That one makes me snort. Thorne doesn’t do anyone’s bidding, that much I’m certain of. He wouldn’t stand for anyone giving him orders.