Clandestine

  Clandestine

  Copyright © 2017 by Ava Harrison

  Published by AH Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording or by information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and/or restaurants referenced in the work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Line Edit: Write Girl Editing Services, Lawrence Editing, www.lawrenceediting.com

  Content: Jennifer Roberts-Hall, Becca Mysoor

  Proofreader: Love N. Books, Marla Selkow Esposito

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Exposé

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Preview of Heartthrob

  Preview of Illicit

  Acknowledgments

  By Ava Harrison

  About the Author

  Dedicated to Melissa

  You’re the ying to my yang. Thank you for always being there for me. I’d be lost without you.

  Exposé

  Exposed: Spencer Lancaster, CEO of The Lancaster Hotels, was recently rumored to be attending clandestine meetings with UK developer Henry Gilbert. Sources close to Gilbert say Lancaster is looking to expand his currently domestic brand of hotel chains into the European market. If you recall, when the senior Lancaster retired five years ago, he snubbed his younger sons and left the hotels solely to his eldest. Spencer Lancaster appears to be anxious at the news that his estranged middle brother Grant Lancaster is starting his own brand of luxury hotels. The brothers are set to go head-to-head in a few months. Will the black sheep or the golden child playboy come out on top?

  We can’t wait to report.

  “Fucking media.” The words are laced with venom as they move past my lips. I can’t believe this shit. The bastards can’t keep their noses out of my business. It’s fucking bullshit. Ever since my father named me the CEO to The Lancaster Hotel chains, they’ve been watching my every move.

  I swear I can’t catch a break. No matter where I am, they’re right behind me. The constant attention from the press isn’t the surprise. I’m used to it by now. But what really pisses me off is their need to constantly pit brother against brother. Pierce is too young to be part of the drama, but Grant isn’t, and Grant is a major issue. The media is relentless when it comes to our estranged relationship.

  We may be estranged, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about him. Yes, we haven’t been in the same room in years. No, we don’t speak. But it doesn’t mean they have to make something where it’s not. Born only twelve months apart, we look almost identical with our square jaws and, as the tabloids say, “piercing” green eyes, but that’s where the similarities end. I’m no golden child, but I don’t make dumb ass decisions all the time, unlike my brother.

  “Mr. Lancaster?” my assistant Lucy calls from the adjoining room. “I have Gloria Reynolds on line one.”

  My nose scrunches at the unfamiliar name. “Who? I don’t know any Gloria,” I state.

  “She’s Mr. Gilbert’s secretary, sir.”

  “Put her through,” I bellow, grabbing the phone and pulling it to my ear. “Hello, Gloria. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I have Henry Gilbert holding for you. Mr. Gilbert, I have Mr. Lancaster on the line.”

  “Thank you, Gloria. I’ll take it from here.” Gilbert’s thick English accent rings through the line. “Lancaster, why must your press always stick their nose in other people’s business?”

  “When you have the answer to that question, please share your wisdom.” My eyes roll to the ceiling in frustration, and I bring my hand up to run through my hair. “What can I do for you, Henry?”

  “We need to talk. Since the news has leaked that I’m looking to develop the property in Manchester, my phone has been ringing nonstop with offers.”

  I knew this would happen. When word got out that I was interested in that property, others would wonder what potential I saw in the location. The fact that I haven’t already sealed the deal and purchased the land is a mistake I intend to rectify.

  “I hate to break it to you, but I have a string of people on the phone offering twice what you did.”

  Fuck, I should have known. “You wouldn’t dare.” The threat is thick on my tongue. Henry Gilbert got his start with my endorsement. I’d bury him as quick as I built him and he knows it.

  “You’re correct, champ. I’m too loyal. But Randall isn’t. We both know he’d never answer your call if I weren’t involved.”

  He’s right. There has been bad blood between Randall Taylor and myself ever since a deal fell through with our fathers years ago. If it weren’t for Henry’s involvement and acting as the middleman between us, this deal wouldn’t have even gotten this far.

  “If I were you, I’d sign the papers before he goes above both our heads.”

  “I’m not signing shit until I see the property.”

  “Then I’d highly recommend that you get your arse on a plane and close the deal before I change my mind.”

  “I’ll make my flight this afternoon. Stay in touch. I’ll be in contact.”

  He hangs up without so much as a goodbye.

  Ass.

  “Lucy,” I call through the door.

  “Yes, sir?” Her auburn hair peeks around the frame.

  “Get the plane ready. I need to fly out to Manchester.”

  “Absolutely. When would you like to return?”

  “Tell the pilot it’s one-way. I intend to work out some additional deals while in Europe.”

  “On it, sir.” She turns to retreat.

  “Lucy.”

  “Yes, sir.” She looks at me, brow raised.

  “Stop calling me sir. I’m not my father.”

  A smile graces her face. “As you wish.”

  Two hours later I’m sitting on the tarmac in one of my fathe
r’s fleet of private planes. The Lancaster money and name always has its perks, and today is no exception. I’m finishing up an email to all of my hotel managers, letting them know I’ll be out of town for the next couple of weeks and reminding them of the protocol when a sultry voice I’ve never heard before comes over the inflight speakers.

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. Lancaster. My name is Victoria, and I will be at your service for the duration of our flight into Manchester. For the next eight hours, please let me know any way that I can be of assistance to you.”

  If she wasn’t sending subliminal messages over the intercom, then I’m just a damn pervert. Everything from her voice to her words screamed, “Take me.” My eyes widen when the vixen steps around the curtain that was shielding me from her view. She’s new. I want to thank whoever hired her because they deserve a raise. Long black locks fall in waves down her back, and a tight black pencil skirt hugs every one of her curves. She’s tall; I’d estimate five foot nine, and the violet eyes that meet mine have me ready to play. Oh, what I can do to this woman in eight hours.

  “Mr. Lancaster. Can I get you something to drink?” she purrs.

  My eyes glide over her svelte body in appreciation. The knowing smirk on her face tells me she knows what I have planned.

  “Champagne, please.”

  She nods slowly, turning to walk away. I raise my hand, stopping her.

  “Bring two glasses.”

  The way her lips tip up is taunting. I have no doubt the things she’ll do to me will be graphic.

  I can’t wait.

  I’ve been a member of the mile-high club for years, but it gets better every time. I shouldn’t fuck with the staff, but I don’t have any other use for her. I’m all keyed up with the possibility of losing this deal and she’ll be the best distraction. I didn’t get my playboy reputation for no reason.

  She returns a minute later. This time I notice an extra button on her blouse is popped open. The swell of her breasts is screaming at me to touch her, to taste her, and I will. But this is a long flight and I need to take the edge off first. Accepting the glass from her hand, I take a gulp before looking up at her still standing in front of me.

  “Drink,” I order. She lifts her own to her mouth. Good girl.

  When she pulls it away, she runs her tongue seductively over her lips.

  “Is there anything else I can do to make your flight more enjoyable?” Her tongue juts out and there’s no mistaking the question she’s asking. I’m only too happy to oblige. My glass hits the table with a thud and her lip tips up at the gesture.

  “I’m sure you can think of something . . .” The words hang in the air as an invitation. But I won’t clarify.

  I’m Spencer Lancaster.

  I don’t have to.

  Without another word, she sets her own glass down and drops to the floor in front of me. Reclining back, I look down at her as she begins to crawl toward my seat.

  The view is fantastic.

  “Unzip me,” I demand and then watch through hooded lids as she arranges herself on the floor, leaning over me. Her eyes never leave mine as she pulls me from the tight confines of my pants. Stroking me up and down, I let out a groan of satisfaction when the warmth of her mouth engulfs me.

  Perfect.

  Absolutely fucking perfect.

  At thirty-six thousand feet, I imagine this is pretty fucking close to what heaven must feel like.

  With her hand and mouth working in perfect symphony, it’s a mere matter of minutes before my balls tighten and I know my impending release is imminent. Normally I’d warn her, but seeing as she’s made it clear she’s here for my enjoyment, I just close my eyes and allow myself the blissful relaxation she’s offered.

  I can’t breathe.

  My racing heart makes it hard to keep still as I wait. Torture. It feels like I’m having a heart attack, but I know I’m not. It’s only anxiety.

  A fear of what’s about to happen. The fear of the unknown.

  Today has got to go down in history as one of the worst days of my life. It was utter hell. I’ve been baking in the hot sun in a tiny bikini, and now I have sand in places it should never be. All I want is a huge glass of water and a nice cold shower. Instead, I’m stuck sitting here waiting inside the lobby outside of Giorgio, my photographer’s office, as he’s requested. Even the thought of it makes my shoulders tense and a sick feeling coils in my belly. This can’t be good, as Giorgio never sees models after shoots.

  The shoot.

  The dreadful shoot, I should say.

  He was not happy at our photo shoot. It was obvious in the way his body was rigid every time he looked through the lens. With each shot he took, he’d look down at the image on the camera and his brows would draw together. His heavy sighs, and the fact that he damn near chucked his camera across the beach, were sure signs that something’s up.

  I look at the poster on the wall next to me. A stunning blonde is sprawled out across the beach in a bikini that just barely covers her breasts. She’s thinner than I am, her bones jutting out from her hips. I used to look like her. Unhealthy. That was back when I was anorexic. I drank my meals and snorted my dessert. It almost killed me. I was so thin that my ribs were on display. I’ll never go back to that again. Now at twenty-four, I have more curves than I ever did before. Guys love curves, though, right? Not that it matters what they like. I’m still alone.

  Running a hand through my blond locks, I decide it’s time to knock again. I manage a deep breath as I stand; counting slowly to ten and allowing each inhale to calm my fragile nerves. With a tentative lift of my hand, I knock, this time desperately hoping I’m overreacting and when he does answer, I’ll find relief.

  “Olivia.” My name is screamed from the other side of the door. “Come in,” Giorgio commands.

  I stand on wobbly legs and walk toward Giorgio’s office. I can hear his thick Italian accent, but I don’t know the words. I turn the knob and the door creeks open. My head slowly peeks in.

  “You wanted to see me?” I squeak. My stomach turns with the anxiety of what he wants to say to me. It feels like my heart might hammer out of my chest any minute.

  “Take a seat, Olivia.” He gestures to the chair in front of him.

  With slow, hesitant steps, I sit.

  We’re quiet for several moments, which does nothing to help calm my nerves. I watch him with acute awareness, pulling in oxygen slowly so I don’t hyperventilate. I hate confrontation. It makes me feel as though my breath has been cut off as I wait for him to speak, to confront the issues he has with me. The silence is heavy in the air. It envelops the room, and I wait for any sign that he’ll break it. Finally, his eyes grow weary, and I know it’s time.

  His tone is soft when he says, “Your body has changed.”

  My brow furrows. “What do you mean, Giorgio?” I know exactly what he means. I’m not like the girl on the poster outside, but I want to hear him say it.

  “I’m only saying that things are different from the last time we shot photos.”

  “What you’re not saying is you think I’m fat.”

  He shakes his head violently at that. “Olivia, you know I’d never say that.”

  Of course, he wouldn’t. That would be grounds for a lawsuit. But he thinks it regardless, and suddenly I’m remembering one of my first photo shoots with my ex-boyfriend Bennett. “Your thighs. They shouldn’t touch. That needs to be fixed.”

  No, I won’t allow myself to go there. If I do, the realization that I’m not perfect will tear me apart. So instead of thinking about it, I focus my anger and pin him with my most heated glare, causing him to flinch. Unlike many of the other photographers, Giorgio is tenderhearted, but it appears he’s no different from any of them. All he see’s is every single flaw on my body and knowing that makes me want to wrap my arms around myself and hide from his scrutiny.

  “I’m only saying that you don’t look healthy and I’m concerned.”

  I scoff at that. “Your idea of he
althy and mine are two very different things, Giorgio. I, for one, don’t think that bones protruding from someone’s body are healthy.”

  “You have your opinion, and I have mine.” He shrugs. “Our readers have been polled for numerous years, and the fact of the matter is they want something that you aren’t.”

  “Are you letting me go? We still have three more locations to shoot,” I cry. I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to admit this has all been a big mistake. That I was and still am not good enough. My stomach begins to tighten as a familiar need to numb the pain claws through my veins.

  “You know I love working with you, Olivia. You’ve always been one of my favorites. But you were hired by Soleil for their calendar because you had a specific look.” Rail thin with breasts. He doesn’t have to say it. I know how I became a model. I know what Bennett saw in me.

  “Seeing as you no longer fit the look for this campaign, I’m going to have to dismiss you from the rest of the shoots. You need to go and do some soul-searching and figure out if this is still what you really want.”

  Anger seeps into my being. “Giorgio, cut the shit. Say what you mean.”

  He huffs out a long breath before placing his hand over his eyes, thinking of what to say. “If you ever want to work again, you’ll need to go tone up and get back to where you were two years ago.”

  I knew what he would say, but knowing doesn’t take away the hurt once he says them. His words cut deep.

  Two years ago.

  A miserable haze I can barely remember . . .

  Anorexic and using cocaine.

  A dark, painful spiral I barely escaped. I can’t go there again. As hard as I try, and as angry as I was seconds ago, I can’t stop the waterworks. Tears begin cascading down my cheeks.

  With nothing more to say, I stand and begin my walk of shame.

  Twenty long minutes later, I’m finally home. As I begin to push open the door to the apartment, my phone begins to ring. Shit. It’s Helen, my agent. Helen took me on as a client after my career took a nosedive two years ago. When not one other agency would touch me with a ten-foot pole, Helen believed in me.