Threads Of Desire (Creative Hearts Book 3) Read online

  Threads of Desire

  Published by River Hills Press

  Copyright ©2014 by Kwana Jackson

  Cover by Mae Phillips at www.coverfreshdesigns.com

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-941097-10-6

  ISBN (print): 978-1-941097-11-3

  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. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected].

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.kwana.com

  Other titles by K.M. Jackson

  The Creative Hearts Series

  Book 1: Through The Lens

  Book 2: Seduction’s Canvas

  Book 3:Threads of Desire

  Bounce

  To Will,

  Who is just my style.

  Acknowledgments

  First and always, I’d like to thank God for all the amazing blessings in my life. A big thank you to my family for all the support and love with this series and with my writing journey. To my twins, thank you for understanding when mom’s in another world with her computer on her lap and that glazed look in her eye. Also, thanks for your love of take-out and hot dogs. It’s truly appreciated.

  To my super friends and go-to writerly peeps, Jen, Jeanine, and Megan—you sure know just how to talk a girl down. To RWA/NYC, your never-ending support will always be cherished in my heart. To Farrah, Phyllis, Lauren, Deanna, and Synithia, thanks for all your right-on-time words at just that perfect moment. And to all my extraordinary friends on Twitter and Facebook who always give that kind word or nudge just when I need it, there are too many to list you all, but I’m ever so grateful for every one of you.

  To Julie and the team at Formatting Fairies and to Mae at Coverfresh, you are my fairy godmothers, making me look good behind the scenes!

  And lastly, to my husband, Will, for his never-ending encouragement and belief in me—even when it would wane in my own mind. You are my rock. Love you always.

  Chapter 1

  Note to self: Don’t shimmy your ass, pulling out your best Waiting to Exhale walk-away in front of your boss’s loser son just because he happens to be the first guy to pop a woody and pay you a compliment in … hell, you don’t know how long. It will only end in regret. And do not, just because you’re hungry from your beet diet and have recently become aware of a slight iron deficiency because of said diet, start immediately salivating when your boss’s son invites you out for a steak dinner. Because of his well-inflated ego, he will no doubt take your salivation as a sexual nod his way, not the Pavlovian reaction to the steak that it is. This, too, will end in regret.

  “Now, there go three hours and the better part of my dignity that I’ll never get back,” Gabrielle Russell said by way of greeting as she walked into her apartment.

  “So an ‘I told you so’ is a waste of time?” Her roommate, Steve, asked through a mouth full of pizza as he downed a swig of beer from where he was perched on their couch. It was one of his rare nights off from work.

  “Don’t start,” Gabby warned. She kicked off her heels in the foyer of their upper Upper West Side—okay, who the hell was she or any full-of-crap real-estate person fooling? Harlem—apartment, and hobbled into the living room. Her feet were killing her since the elevator was once again on the fritz, and they lived on the fourth floor of their pre-war building. “How about you let me change and get comfortable before you start in on the ‘I told you so’s,’ okay?”

  Steve shrugged. “Okay, have at it.” He let out a small belch, but at least had the decency to look sheepish over it and gave her an apologetic shrug. Gabby shook her head at her old childhood friend, marveling at how comfortable he was on the old overstuffed granny style couch, a leftover from when his aunt had the place. The apartment featured a hodge-podge of styles, blending French Country antiques, her bohemian love of color, an eclectic mix of fabrics, and some of Steve’s modern bachelor touches. Gabby started toward her bedroom but Steve, long ago having designated himself her surrogate big brother, couldn’t just let it lie with the burp and a smile. “Not that I didn’t know that was going to be the outcome for you going in,” he yelled.

  Gabby paused as she felt her lips pull together and her spine go rigid.

  “I told you he was an asshole from the jump,” Steve continued. “Neck too big. Tan too dark. Probably on that P90.”

  She let out a sigh, fighting to hold her tongue. No use taking her bad mood out on Steve. Still it pissed her off to no end that he was right. Dono was all those things. Tight lipped, but without comment she entered her bedroom, remembering Steve’s warning—well, warnings—since she’d taken the deadbeat job at Zenia Fashions coming straight off her last deadbeat gig designing print maternity tops with not-so-cute sayings about “womb-mates” and “buns in the oven.” She let the day wash over her as she shimmied out of her skirt and then peeled herself out of her Spanx. Gabby frowned, remembering the feeling of Donovan, her boss’s son, pressing her up against the back wall of the sample closet. The stifling feeling of him at her front and too many flammable materials at her back. The solid heat of Dono’s muscular body—not feeling half bad in the moment—dredging up the not-distant-enough memories of another closet and another man.

  Another mistake. At least she’d pushed Dono away before things went too far, though he’d been none too happy about it. Still, she’d felt like she’d been doing the walk of shame, nonetheless, as she’d slipped past the sample hands in the sewing room with heated cheeks. Gabby felt their eyes and heard the stilted pause in the machines’ usually constant running. She’d known they were pointedly pretending not to see her leaving the closet just three minutes after Dono’s departure. And all she’d had to show from her closet grope fest were cheap sequins on her ass and in her cleavage—a sparkly scarlet letter to let all know how far she had sunk.

  Her stomach gave a dangerous rumble then did a flip reminding her she should have maybe gone a little easy on the carbs and the wine after living on nothing but beets for as long as she had. But really the carbs were just too tasty, and the wine was a necessity once Donovan went in with what, in his mind, she was sure was a compliment. He’d taken in her looks, her light brown skin, her naturally unruly curly hair and asked if she had some Italian blood mixed in with her African-American. As if she wanted to jump though genealogy hoops for ol’ Dono.

  To top things off he’d had the nerve to compare her to his mother, taking pre-pillow talk to an all-new low. But really she should have known the lay of the land. She’d only agreed to dinner because he’d dangled the carrot of supporting her ideas about finally bringing in some higher-quality fabrics and getting Zenia into the twenty-first century. She’d even hoped to get him on board with her thoughts on expanding the company’s size range, though she knew it was an uphill battle. She sincerely hoped he’d paid attention and heard her over his munching and playing grabby hands.

  Gabby let out a curse as she pulled her shorts up over her behind and her tank top over her breasts. It was all because of that damned beet diet going one day too long that she was in this boat. Because of those beets, she’d gone down from her usual size zaftig down to a sassy size curvy and wedged her ass into that too-small-for-curvy skirt as if she were Beyoncé on a tour. The damned skirt that had Dono forgoing the whole b
oss/subordinate situation they had going on, any rules-of-first-date niceties, and the basic laws of booth etiquette by sitting on her side and playing “What can we find up Gabby’s skirt?” all night.

  She walked back out to the living room and let out a groan as she flopped on the couch next to Steve, hoping her evening’s humiliation wasn’t showing too brightly on her face. “I thought you were going in to bartend tonight.”

  “Nah, someone else was covering. I think it would have been a slow night anyway.”

  Gabby gave him a smile. Despite his tendency to be a little overbearing at times, it was good to have him home tonight. Steve was an actor who’d so far only gotten the occasional walk-by on New York cop shows, so his primary income came from being a bartender-slash-waiter. Thanks to his good looks, he did great at New York’s hottest clubs. But lately it seemed his star was on the rise. The walk-bys had become walk-ons after he’d landed a spot in a holiday boxer-shorts ad jingling his balls. Steve was in demand and Gabby had been missing her friend.

  He gave her a pat on the leg. As usual, it was as if he could sense her feelings. “This is better. I’m glad I could be here when you got home.”

  She frowned, though she was grateful for the familiar reassurance. “You are not my keeper, you know.”

  “I know. And I can also see you were up to no good. You have it written all over your face.”

  Gabby blushed. “I think need a new job.”

  Steve pulled back, scrunching up his face and snorting as he reached for another slice of pizza then paused momentarily, as if contemplating the extra sit-ups it would cost him to indulge. The pizza won out as he took a big bite. “How’s about you come to me when you’ve got breaking news? You’ve needed that for a long time,” he said, his voice garbled as he chewed.

  Gabby started to let out a long sigh, but looked at Steve’s serious expression and cut it short. She knew he didn’t approve of the Dono thing. Hell, she didn’t even approve.

  She was contemplating what to say to him when the downstairs buzzer saved her the effort.

  Buzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzz. Steve got up to answer.

  Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  “Jeez. Give us a minute. What, are you laying on the bell?” Steve went to the hall and yelled into the intercom. “What the hell do you want?”

  A slurred voice on the other end seeped through the speaker. “It’s Nech, man. Lemme up.”

  “Who?” Steve yelled back. “I can’t understand you.”

  “Nickulish. Um, Nick, aw, come on, man, I really gotta pee.”

  “Nick?”

  Nick. Otherwise known as Mr. Mistake. Gabby ignored the knot that instantly formed in the pit of her stomach and wiped her mysteriously sweaty palms on her thighs.

  “Yeah, man, that’s what I said. Now ring the friggin’ bell, before I gotta go right out here.” Steve and Gabby looked at each other, confusing bouncing between the two of them. Nick, drunk? Steve shrugged and pressed the buzzer, letting his brother up while Gabby frowned and once again regretted her choice of attire. She sure as hell needed more than shorts and a tank top to arm herself for the unstoppable force that was Nicholas Ross.

  The last time Nick had been over to their place was months ago when Steve and Gabby had had a dinner party to celebrate the brothers’ Aunt Lula’s most recent visit. Nick had come with his latest girlfriend, Claire, another one of his interchangeable fembots of perfection, draped elegantly on his arm. They’d spent the evening barely choking down the cheap wine that Gabby and Steve had put out while liberally looking down their noses at everyone. Nick had seemed to take particular pride in showing off the fact that this particular fembot happened to be his boss’s daughter—a fembot with a pedigree. It hadn’t fazed Gabby—well, not all that much. She’d received this treatment from Nick most of her life.

  Aside from that one little closet episode.

  As he made his way upstairs Gabby wondered what could bring Nick to their place at this hour of the night and in such a state. More than anything she hoped Cruella de Claire wasn’t once again by his side.

  Moments later, there was a bang, bang, bang, bang, bang at the door. Okay then, Gabby thought, he must really have to go to have sprinted up the stairs that fast.

  Steve opened the door and Gabby swallowed the comment about drunken sprints that was on the tip of her tongue because there he was—tall, dark, suited, handsome … and, to her shock, a disheveled mess.

  This was not Nick. Nick didn’t do disheveled. Gabby’s mind immediately went to the only other time she’d seen him looking so messy and out of control. Another time, another closet. The first and the last time Nick Ross had knocked her out with a punch to her heart.

  She blinked, looked up at him again, and forced her mind to stay in the here and now. It must be the odd sight of seeing him so undone that had set her off kilter. Two years older than his brother, he was the golden boy. The perfect opposite to Steve’s laid-back, “take it as it comes” counterpart. Both tall and dangerously handsome, the Ross boys had been a force in the old neighborhood. Growing up, Gabby had considered herself lucky to have at least one of them in her corner—even if it brought the ire of the neighborhood girls down upon her. Steve was the easygoing, artsy one—the lead in the school plays, the one most likely to break into song. Nick was dark and brooding and competitive—the one most likely to succeed. Academics, sports, it didn’t matter; he could do it all and if he couldn’t, he’d find a way to make damned sure he aligned himself with someone who could make a way. Nick Ross was a playa.

  But on this night a facsimile of Nick—rumpled suit jacket over one arm, shirttail half undone, one of his trademark suspenders hanging down his shoulder—rushed into her and Steve’s apartment, almost knocking his brother over as he headed towards the hall closet. Gabby detected a shade of putrid green coming through his normally smooth, creamy brown complexion as he ran by. She didn’t think he even noticed her.

  “To the right, to the right,” Steve yelled, gesturing toward the bathroom.

  He turned and dashed inside, slamming the door behind him. Gabby and Steve stood there dumbfounded, listening in awkward silence as Nick peed for what seemed like an eternity, the sound absurdly loud in their quiet apartment.

  “He wasn’t messing around about having to go,” Gabby said when the peeing stopped. A few seconds later, it started up again. Her nose scrunched up.

  Steve cocked his head to the side. “No, no he wasn’t.”

  There was a distinctive and ominous thump from the bathroom and they both looked at each other, brows up.

  Gabby let out a breath. “You think you should go and check on him?”

  Steve’s brows lowered then drew together. “Fuck. I get enough of this at work.” He rubbed a frustrated hand across his head.

  Gabby rolled her eyes and walked over to the bathroom door, giving it a knock.

  “You okay, Nick?” Nothing. She looked over at Steve then pounded on the door harder. “Nick, are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” came the weak reply along with a flush. Gabby shook her head. And this was the man she’d spent the better part of her adult life mooning over? No wonder she was such a screwed-up mess.

  The bathroom door opened finally, and Nick came out looking completely wrecked, but slightly less green. He plopped into the recliner off the side of the couch and put his head in his hands. When he finally lifted it, his eyes connected with Gabby’s for the first time and went from unfocused pools to blazing awareness in a nanosecond. He opened his mouth, his lips curling angrily. “Fucking bitch.”

  “Excuse me? Fuck you too, Nicholas Ross! I got your bitch, all right,” Gabby growled.

  His eyes softened, consciousness hazy as if she was going in and out of focus before him. “No, not you, Gabby. That fucking Claire.” He held his head as if just saying her name caused him pain. “I caught her in bed with that that other bitch Yasmin. Well, not in bed, really, but on our new Persian rug.” His head shook, showing his despair though i
t was hard to tell if it was over Claire or the rug. “I liked that rug too,” he added and Gabby bit back a smirk, though Steve couldn’t hold back the loud snort that escaped his lips.

  Nick gave his brother a sharp side-eye before he resumed his story. “Shoulda known I couldn’t trust her. There I was looking all stupid, and there they were, just naked and happy and barely blinking an eye. Ready for round two, about to invite me in as if it were tea time or something.” His rage began to amp up, heat waving off him. “And when I refused she had the nerve to threaten my manhood and then my job. My goddamned job! You don’t play with my money, anything but my money. I have plans.” He let out a low growl as he raked his hands across his close-shaved head, his eyes going dark and wild as he looked around the room until his gaze settled squarely on Gabby. “Fucking women.”

  Gabby pulled back. So okay, the first bitch wasn’t meant for her, but that last fucking women and the accompanying sneer was definitely sent her way, as if her entire gender couldn’t be trusted. She let the insult go, though, too enthralled with the story unfolding before her to interject and set him straight. Offense could come later—for now she had to get the 411 on him, Cruella de Claire, and that poor rug.

  She and Steve looked at each other, mouths agape, doing a quick mental telepathy recap on what was unfolding. Claire. Yasmin. Rug. Another woman. Big-time scandal going on. They both flopped down on the couch ready to take in the whole sordid story, but then Steve seemed to remember he was supposed to be the supportive brother and leaned forward, giving Nick a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

  “Sorry, man, but don’t worry, we’ll get you back on your feet.”

  “Good to hear,” Nick mumbled. “Um. I hope you don’t mind me staying here a while.”

  Gabby turned and noticed for the first time the discarded duffle bag by the door. A while? Just how long was he talking? She looked back at Steve, narrow-eyed, nostrils flaring, but what she got back was an apologetic shrug. Oh holy hell. How else did she expect this perfect day of days to end? As she met Nick’s hard eyes, flashes of that first closet came back to life in her mind as if it were yesterday and not over eight years ago. In one fell swoop, Nicholas Ross had taken her innocence, her pride, and her heart.