Reawakened Read online

  Rachael Stewart adores conjuring up stories, from heartwarmingly romantic to wildly erotic. She’s been writing since she could put pen to paper—as the stacks of scrawled-on pages in her loft will attest to. A Welsh lass at heart, she now lives in Yorkshire, with her very own hero and three awesome kids—and if she’s not tapping out a story, she’s wrapped up in one or enjoying the great outdoors. Reach her on Facebook, Twitter (@rach_b52) or at rachaelstewartauthor.com.

  If you liked Reawakened, why not try

  Just One More Night by Caitlin Crews

  Tempting the Enemy by JC Harroway

  Fast Lane by Margot Radcliffe

  Also by Rachael Stewart

  Harlequin DARE

  Mr. One-Night Stand

  Mr. Temptation

  Naughty or Nice

  Getting Dirty

  Losing Control

  Unwrapping the Best Man

  Our Little Secret

  Harlequin Romance

  Tempted by the Tycoon’s Proposal

  Discover more at Harlequin.com

  REAWAKENED

  RACHAEL STEWART

  For all the DAREdevils who loved DARE, this one is for you! It’s been a blast writing these superhot tales,and it’s time to go out with a BANG! Consider yourselves warned. ;-)

  Much love,

  Rachael xx

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Just One More Night by Caitlin Crews

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘To live is the rarest thing in the world.

  Most people exist, that is all.’

  —Oscar Wilde

  Olivia

  HOW RIGHT CAN one man be?

  Wilde would definitely lump me in with the ‘most’.

  And do I care...?

  I throw back a shot of vodka and wince into the mirror beyond the bar, my blue eyes sparking back at me as the answer burns with the alcohol.

  I care.

  And I’m doing what I can to make up for it. To make up for forty-five years of just existing. Of giving my all and coming out the other side, like this.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not bitter... I’m not.

  I’m angry.

  I’m angry that my husband of twenty years has gone. Taken away from me without any warning. I’m angry that we spent our entire lives together dedicated to our work, to our charity, and we never found a balance.

  I don’t resent the work we did. Especially the help we gave those who needed it. Those without homes, without money, without family or support. Those living lives that we could barely bring ourselves to imagine.

  Just existing isn’t a choice for them; it’s all they can do.

  I had a choice, and I chose badly.

  So no, I’m not bitter. I’m angry. Angry with myself for not living. Angry that we ploughed so much time into everything else that we never hopped off the treadmill long enough to actually live. Never saw the world with our eyes wide open. Had fun. Adventure.

  Cue me. Now.

  Sitting alone. Propping up the bar of the exclusive DareDevils club. The sultry beat to the music pumping through my veins, the soft white lights mixing with the vibrant strobes that work through the crowd, deepening the mood and highlighting the suspended dance cages above. Women and men locked within, their lithe bodies twisting and turning in movements that scream sex.

  The same kind of allure thrums off the bodies below. People hanging out in varying states of dress. Subs crawling on leashes, led by their latex-clad Doms. Others, much like me, wearing club gear designed to entice, to seduce, to have the elusive fun I am so desperate for...

  Hedonistic. Wild. Abandoned.

  ‘Your room is ready for you, Sky.’

  I swallow a surprised laugh at the young bartender before me. My pseudonym is something I came up with on the spot and having it repeated back to me triggers a little rush of embarrassment. I may be forty-five, yet something about this has me feeling childlike and foolish and way out of my comfort zone.

  But then, isn’t that the point?

  I palm the cool bar-top with both hands like it will somehow steady me and return the bartender’s smile that’s so perfect I can easily believe him a model by day, a successful tip-gainer by night.

  ‘Lead the way...’

  Because, no matter how ridiculous or silly or foolish I feel, what lies in wait upstairs has not only the nerves but the anticipation clambering up my throat and I need this.

  Another tick in the many, many boxes I have yet to fill...

  Valentine

  This bar is not my scene.

  Not the mood, the people, the music...the blatant hunger.

  It’s carnal, animalistic, and the walls pulse with it.

  Only I have no interest. For four years, I’ve been celibate. Four years avoiding anything close.

  Yet here I am, and all for her.

  Olivia Carmel.

  The woman I’m supposed to help.

  The woman whose PR image is going down the pan and taking her brand with it. And when I say brand I mean her company, her charity, her. All three. She’s a celebrity entrepreneur, an icon, but since the death of her husband a year ago she’s steadily gone off the rails and I’ve been sent to rein her back in.

  To bring the Olivia the nation loves back.

  To fix her.

  I stroke my jaw as I watch her, my frown building, my curiosity too. She’s all cool, suave and sophisticated against the seedy backdrop and I can’t marry the two together. Not the venue and her. Not the tabloid gossip and her.

  She’s an enigma.

  An enigma that’s steadily pulling me out of my comfort zone.

  I roll my shoulders beneath my tailored jacket and run a finger under my shirt collar, cock my head side to side. She’s far, far from reach but her presence does something to me; it creeps beneath my skin, teasing, taunting, goading out the old me.

  ‘Can I offer you another?’

  I turn to my left, to a scantily clad waitress who I’m sure is offering more than the drink on her tray, and smile. It’s tight and she backs up a step. Easy.

  I’m six foot four and broad; a tight smile isn’t going to soften my look. Especially with the jagged scar through my eyebrow that looks like I spend too long inside a boxing ring when the truth is far simpler and comes with a dark tale of its own.

  ‘No.’ My voice is gravel thick, another side-effect of the same event, and it only makes her back up further. ‘Thank you.’

  My gratitude has her smile returning, her shoulders easing. ‘No problem. Just wave me down if you change your mind.’

  I nod and go back to Olivia.

  She’s perfectly poised on the bar stool. Her platinum blonde hair, smooth and sleek, snakes down her exposed spine in a ponytail that ends just above the low curve to her dress. Her eyes are all made up, the dark shade making her crystal-blue eyes strike out across the distance, her lips far more subtle in their blushing pink gloss.

  The entire look is sexy, sultry, and so far removed from the polished businesswoman and wholesome charity organiser th
e press were once accustomed to.

  She’s not the official face of the charity any more; she stood down months ago when her wild behaviour first hit the tabloids. In all fairness to the press, they did cite mitigating circumstances. She’d recently lost her husband after all. But it wasn’t long before they started putting the boot in anyway.

  And I get her behaviour. I feel it. The ache of loss. The mark it leaves and the interminable chasm. I understand. And I know that’s why Alan, my friend and mentor, her chief operating officer, came to me for help.

  So that’s why I’m here. To witness it for myself. The truth. Not the persona the press now project, the rumour mill doing its thing. I’m here to get a feel for what lies ahead, to decide if it’s worth the battle that’s bound to ensue and the raking over old wounds that I seek to forget.

  Is she worth it?

  My head says yes. She doesn’t deserve the hand she’s been dealt in life and the PR shitstorm brewing. Not to mention the potentially grave consequences if she takes it one wild step too far.

  But my gut...that’s a whole other ball game.

  I’m too interested. Too intrigued. I feel it build with the atmosphere as I wait for her next move. Just how far does she partake in the illicit fun under this roof? Is it natural curiosity that has her coming here as an innocent bystander, an observer? Or is it something more...is she seeking to indulge another side to her?

  A side I long ago denied myself...

  I watch as she swirls the glass in her hand, her eyes lost in the movement of the drink and then they lift, pierce the mirror, pierce me.

  My lungs still, my breath caught in some weird suspended state...but she can’t see me, I’m in the shadows, and yet that feeling she sparks returns tenfold, stirring up something deep, long forgotten.

  I shift in my seat, look away. It’s time to go. I’ve seen enough. She’s nursed the same drink, not even touching it until now. And, whatever she’s here for, it doesn’t matter; it’s enough that she’s crossed the threshold in the world of Public Relations. It isn’t just some falsified rumour designed to discredit her.

  I rise, turn to leave, but the bartender catches my eye as he pauses before her, says something that has her turning rigid. I can see her eyes dance in the mirror, see her cheeks streak with a flush of colour as she nods and then she’s lowering herself from the stool. One long, creamy leg unfolding to reach the floor, followed by the other. Her red-soled black stilettos making her appear taller, all the more slender as she rises up...

  Her dress, what there is of it, shimmers in the lights, the draping curve to its back sashaying as she turns and faces me head on, and I lose the ability to breathe once more. The dress ends mid-thigh, the high front and full-length sleeves contrasting with the skimpy rear, but the way it clings to her with that accentuating shimmer...

  She’s something else.

  I force my eyes up, take in the sleek ponytail, blue eyes and alabaster skin and realise with a surge of heat inside just how much I’m attracted to her. And I haven’t felt that kind of pull in so long.

  I blame the alien environment, the carnal longing thrumming off the crowd. It’s messing with my status quo. I haven’t wanted anyone since Layla and no brief visit to a den of iniquity will change that. No matter what my reawakened body is trying to tell me.

  I control it. Not the other way around.

  I learned my lesson the hard way. And it really is time to leave.

  I turn and smack into something.

  ‘Shit!’ it curses. Big brown eyes stare up at me as something cold and wet seeps through my shirt and glass shatters on the floor at our feet. It’s the waitress from moments ago, her tray now devoid of drinks and stuck flat between us.

  I step back. ‘Apologies.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I’ll just...’

  But I’m no longer listening. Every eye in the vicinity is now on me, on us.

  Including hers. Olivia’s.

  Bollocks.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Olivia

  I TURN TO follow the bartender as the sound of breaking glass snags my attention. A pretty brunette waitress is clutching a tray to her chest, her eyes wide as she blinks up, up and up at a man so broad and so tall he dwarfs everyone around him.

  I watch as the girl blurts what must be an apology, watch her cheeks flush pink as she drops to the floor. And then his eyes flit in my direction, long enough for my heart to trip over itself, but not long enough that I get to drink my fill of his chiselled appeal.

  It normally takes a good filter and camera angle to pull it off. But he’s au naturel and I’m gawping, the new me eager to take in more...eager but he’s not obliging. He’s angled away now, crouching down to assist the waitress in the clean-up, and I’m left with the memory of the look he sent me. The slight flare to his eyes as they widened with...with what? Awareness, recognition...a mutual desire?

  Because I don’t know him. I’d remember if we’d met before. He doesn’t have a face or frame you could easily forget.

  I watch as they pick at the glass, marvel at his profile. He’s striking even from the side, all angular cheekbones, square jawline, and a curl in his dark overlong hair. The lights are too low to make out much more and I feel myself step closer, just a little, and sense the bartender pause as he realises I’m no longer following him.

  ‘What’s...’ His voice trails off as he follows my line of sight and nods. ‘Ah, I see. I can invite him to watch if you like. The viewing gallery is quite the experience and I’m sure he’ll appreciate the time to dry off.’

  My eyes snap to him, a quick shake of the head. Good God, no.

  He gives a low chuckle. ‘If you should change your mind...’

  ‘Keep walking.’

  I follow his chuckling form up the stairs and have the oddest feeling the stranger’s eyes are back on me, making me regret my impulsive no. But can you imagine?

  It’s taken me three weeks just to get to this point, to have the courage to fill out the form, both asking for and consenting to what is to come, and I’m dizzy with it. To add him to the mix...

  The heat blooms in my lower belly. I wet my lips.

  ‘This is where I leave you. Second door on your left. Have fun.’

  He’s already heading back down the stairs.

  ‘Ask him...’ I blurt out before nerves get the better of me ‘...the guy downstairs.’

  He smiles, gives a nod. ‘Sure thing.’

  And then he’s gone and I take a breath, look to the door he pointed out. It’s deep red and ornate, furnished with a knocker of a lion’s head that would look more at home on the external door to a grand residence. I walk towards it, my heels too loud on the stone floor in spite of the music and chatter from below, and remind myself this is what I want.

  This is what I came for. That after years of being the one to dominate in the bedroom, I get to experience the other side...

  I rap the knocker once—too hesitant. Twice—more determined.

  The voice of a woman on the other side reaches me, clipped, authoritarian. ‘Come.’

  Another breath and I push the door open, walk inside.

  The walls of the room are much like the rest of the building: bare stone, raw, exposed. The earthy undertones adding to the primal energy that pumps through the heart of the club.

  I scan the contraptions that line the walls, the shelves and hooks adorned with implements in all shapes and sizes. Some I can identify; some I can’t even begin to label let alone imagine their usage.

  I catch my gaping reflection in one of the many two-way mirrors separating the room from the viewing gallery and snap my mouth shut. Is someone watching me right now? Will he be there soon?

  ‘Close the door.’

  I jolt, squinting into the shadows as I seek her out even though I sense I’m alone, the tinny quality to her
voice telling me it’s being piped in.

  Is she beyond one of the many mirrors, witnessing my hesitation?

  My cheeks flush all over again—a great start!

  I straighten my spine, lift my chin and close the door with far more confidence than I feel.

  ‘Walk into the middle.’

  The lighting changes, a soft spotlight illuminates a circle in the centre of the room and I walk towards it, stop when my feet are exactly central.

  ‘Good, Little Kitten.’

  A spike of something bolts through me. Little Kitten? Is that what I am to be called? Nathan and I never went as far as names in our bedroom games...

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  I open my mouth, close it again.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s...it’s not...’ I suck in a breath for courage, let it leave with my verdict. ‘It’s unexpected.’

  ‘I have a feeling there’s much about tonight you will deem unexpected, Little Kitten, but from now on, when you speak, you will address me as Mistress. Is that understood?’

  My body pulses with a frenetic kind of energy. I’ve never been spoken to like this. With Nathan I was the one with all the power, sexually; it was the one place I could take charge and I needed it. It gave our relationship balance in some twisted way.

  But now he’s gone I don’t have that need. In fact, I’m craving the complete opposite.

  I close my eyes, push him from my mind and the confusing spiral that was our life together. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes. Mistress.’

  ‘Better.’ A mirror shifts in the wall, opening inwards, and she appears through it. The clip of her thigh-high boots as loud as the drum of my heart in my ears. Her hair, tied in a high ponytail, is as dark and as sleek as her zipped-up bodysuit. Her eye mask is studded and curves to a point either side of her jaw, leaving the bronzed skin of her chin and blood-red lips exposed.

  She smiles, catlike, her eyes glittering in the low light as she takes me in. ‘Now, undress, Little Kitten.’