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LOVING LUCAS
Lies & Leather #1
Violetta Rand
Releasing Oct 20th, 2015
Loveswept
Perfect for fans of Joanna Wylde and Monica Murphy, Violetta Rand’s explosive new Lies & Leather series kicks off with a red-hot motorcycle racer who rides hard and plays for keeps.
Twenty-one-year-old Karlie Augustine is a survivor. She’s smart and tough, but she’s in too deep with a bad boyfriend who isn’t above breaking her spirit—or her body. Luckily, help arrives in the form of a leather-clad, motorcycle-riding hunk on the right side of the law. Lucas Lafontaine is pure muscle, a Corpus Christi cop who ignites something primal deep within Karlie. And when he offers her room and board in exchange for housekeeping, she finally starts to feel safe again.
As their arrangement turns deliciously decadent, Lucas gets hooked on Karlie’s killer body and fighting spirit. He wants to heal the pain he sees behind her eyes, but to protect her he needs to keep her close, especially now that her psycho ex won’t take a hint. Even as Lucas fights his own battle for custody of his young son, he knows that what he’s found with Karlie is real—and that he’d do anything to protect the woman he wants to take to the finish line.
Twenty-one-year-old Karlie Augustine is a survivor. She’s smart and tough, but she’s in too deep with a bad boyfriend who isn’t above breaking her spirit—or her body. Luckily, help arrives in the form of a leather-clad, motorcycle-riding hunk on the right side of the law. Lucas Lafontaine is pure muscle, a Corpus Christi cop who ignites something primal deep within Karlie. And when he offers her room and board in exchange for housekeeping, she finally starts to feel safe again.
As their arrangement turns deliciously decadent, Lucas gets hooked on Karlie’s killer body and fighting spirit. He wants to heal the pain he sees behind her eyes, but to protect her he needs to keep her close, especially now that her psycho ex won’t take a hint. Even as Lucas fights his own battle for custody of his young son, he knows that what he’s found with Karlie is real—and that he’d do anything to protect the woman he wants to take to the finish line.
I’m
a prisoner. My cage is a luxurious thirty-two-foot Thor motor coach
and Connor is stretched out on the leather couch by the only exit. If
I try to sneak out, he’ll wake up. And I don’t want to suffer the
humiliation of another one of his explosive tantrums. I’m standing
between the bedroom door and living area, arms crossed over my chest,
music and laughter filtering through the open windows. It’s ten
o’clock; the races are officially over, but the partying just
started.
I
peek out the closest window, catching sight of the bonfire. It lights
up the nighttime sky like fireworks. My friends are drinking and
having fun, and I’m stuck inside with my homicidal boyfriend who
loses it when I smile at another guy. I carefully weigh my options,
considering the consequences. With Connor, everything comes with a
price.
I
sniff the air, smelling cigar smoke and barbeque. A tradition I hate
missing. Michael Samos travels to Cuba every year and smuggles the
finest cigars back, saving a box for the last weekend of the races. I
can taste the citrusy twang already. However, what I crave most is
the camaraderie, the feeling like I belong somewhere. Sitting in
utter silence while Connor sleeps off his postrace buzz sucks. And
I’ve already exhausted the DVD collection in the bedroom. If I
watch Fast
& Furious
one more time I’ll puke.
I
edge closer to the door. Connor flips onto his right side. There’s
a night-light on in the kitchen. I gaze at his angelic face. That’s
what initially attracted me, along with his sense of humor, of which
I don’t see that much anymore. But after sixteen months, I know
what lurks beneath his tranquil features.
And
that’s why I don’t like him anymore.
I
take another silent step and then stop. So far, so good. Another few
steps and I’m at the door . . . I touch the latch, turn it, and the
lock pops.
“Karlie?”
I
cringe, not facing him. “Yes?” My voice wavers.
“Where
the fuck are you going?”
I
hear him sit up. “Outside.”
“Get
over here.”
The
fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. And my
fight-or-flight instincts insist I obey. But I don’t want to.
Instead, I push the door open.
Everything
happens so fast. He clamps onto my hips, snapping me backward. I let
out a little cry as he lifts me off my feet, slamming me onto the
couch. My back hits the padding so hard it knocks the breath out of
me. But I still try to roll onto the floor—maybe I can crawl
between his legs, making it outside.
“Settle
down,” he hisses, gripping my right ankle. “Now.” His nails dig
into my flesh.
Tears
sting my eyes, more out of fear than pain. “Please,” I beg. “Let
me go.”
He
laughs, wrapping his fingers around my throat. He applies just enough
pressure to let me know he’s in control. “Where, Karlie?”
I
raise my chin, my last attempt at defiance. “Wherever I want.”
He
squeezes harder, depriving me of enough oxygen to make me feel dizzy.
I kick my feet so hard my sandals fly off. I dig my fingernails into
the sides of his face.
“Bitch
. . .” He lets go accidentally and I take full advantage, launching
off the couch.
I
land on my knees near the steps and fall forward, hanging on to the
edge of the first one, ready to scramble out the half-open door. He
grips both of my ankles and flips me over, and the back of my head
smacks the tiled floor with a sickening thud. It hurts more than
brain freeze. I grit my teeth, praying the pain away, only to have it
replaced by something far worse. He bends my big toe forward, and
fire shoots up my foot. Oh.
My. God. I
bite my bottom lip so hard I taste blood.
I
kick frantically as he twists my toe again. “Stop or I’ll break
it.”
He
means it; I’ve been to the hospital twice in the last year with a
broken wrist and a concussion. When the doctors asked what happened,
Connor turned on the local-boy charm and told them I crashed at
practice. He’s a local celebrity, so no one challenges him; no one
suspects him of abuse. Except my friend Marie, but she’s outside
with her boyfriend.
“Wh-what
do you want?” I ask.
“Where’s
the goddamn phone number that prick from Colorado gave you?”
“In-in
the trash,” I stutter as fear takes over.
“Not
in your pocket?”
I
threw it away the minute we got back to the RV tonight. “No.”
“I
don’t believe you.” He lets go of my foot, kneeling beside me.
His
angry face gets closer and closer. Survival instinct takes over. I
fist my hand and punch him in the nose with all the strength I have.
He growls, falling back. Somehow I scramble to my feet and tumble
down the steps, landing on the hard ground outside. Cool air fills my
lungs and I shake my head. That pain at the base of my skull quickly
reminds me where I am. I get up and run for the fire to join the
others. Halfway there, I hear Connor’s heavy footsteps somewhere
behind me. Oh
God.
This
is it. I’m going to die tonight.
Breathless
and exhausted, I fall to my knees hearing voices and see dozens of
feet standing around me. The heat from the flames feels so good
against my chilled skin. That’s the effect my boyfriend has on me;
it’s 60 degrees outside and I’m as cold as a corpse.
“Karlie,”
Connor calls, his boots coming into view in my periphery. “Don’t
make this into something it doesn’t need to be. Get up—we’ll
talk this out. In private.”
I
don’t move. I can’t speak. I’m too busy worshipping the
goddamned ground I’m kneeling on, thrilled to be free. Yet I fear
that freedom will be short-lived. We’re a tight-knit group, but
certain things are taboo in the racing community, interfering with
relationship stuff being one of the biggest. And Connor Seville is a
hero, a three-time American Motorcycle Association champion; the fact
that he graces these unsanctioned races with his presence is reason
enough for everyone to overlook his temper. He only participates for
the extra money and to keep his local fans happy. His real passion is
the national circuit, where television cameras and sports journalists
chase him down for interviews.
He
slides around me, resting his hand on my shoulder. I look up, meeting
his blue gaze, the firelight making him look ominous. “No,” I say
confidently. “We’ll never discuss anything again.”
Thank you for hosting LOVING LUCAS
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