Manwhore 1: The Ferro Family Page 3

  The air is crisp, and it smells like snow. I tuck my chin into my coat and run down the street to a cab. I slip into the back seat and tell the cabby, “54th and Madison Avenue.” He nods and takes off. The traffic isn’t too bad, so the ride won’t be long. The cabbie does his thing, and I get lost in my thoughts.

  I haven’t done this in months. Approaching Ferro is suicide, isn’t it?

  My gut is saying no, but my head is screaming yes.

  There’s something about the guy that puts my nerves on edge. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that primal reactions shouldn’t be ignored. There’s something there, something dark and dangerous beneath his plastic smile and perfect manners. I intend on finding out what it is, where he really was the night his wife was killed—because I don’t think he told the cops the whole story and the gun is still missing.

  Occam’s Razor is usually right, the simplest explanation is often the truth, but I can’t swallow this explanation. It’s almost as if Ferro wants us to believe he killed her. He never refutes the charges. He’s never offended. Add in visiting a club a few times per week during the trial--specifically, an establishment known for connecting people with singular tastes--and damn! He’s either incredibly stupid or completely genius.

  The cab pulls up to the curb and stops. The driver looks up in the rearview mirror. “Club Noir.”

  I hand him the fare and slide out of the cab, smoothing my small tight skirt, and adjusting my jacket as I go. The wind whips my hair into my eyes, so I look down until I reach for the door. At the same time I tug it open, someone is coming through. The glass door opens forcefully, causing me to stagger backward. The heel of my thigh high boot catches a crack in the pavement, and my balance is lost. I'm flailing, frantically trying to right myself, when a warm hand firmly grips my arm. I'm pulled forward, and crash into a firm, muscular chest wrapped in a luxuriously soft black coat.

  My fingers splay across the fine wool coat buttoned midway up, a cobalt blue scarf tucked into the opening at the top. I glance up and gasp, suddenly realizing it’s him—Sean Ferro.

  His voice is sinfully deep, rumbling beneath my fingertips as he speaks.

  “Apologies. I didn’t see you there.”

  I mean to step back and shake him off, but he doesn’t move. His hands remain fixed above my elbows, and his indigo eyes darken as if he’s thinking about my skin against his skin, slick and hot. I make sure my voice comes out clearly, even though I’m insanely nervous.

  “I didn’t see you either. Sorry about that.”

  He’s still holding me, a breath away. If I leaned in, I could taste his lips. They’re smooth and full, and perfectly pink. I wonder how he kisses, if it’s soft or hard, playful or intense. My gaze lingers on his mouth, and I shiver involuntarily. His thumb rubs against my arm in a slow circle.

  “If you’re ok…” His voice trails off like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t.

  I’m suddenly very aware of how fast I’m breathing. It sounds way too loud in my ears, but I can’t help noticing his chest rise as he gasps for air. What the hell is happening? This was going to be a controlled pairing. I was supposed to come to the club and whip out my collar. I wasn’t supposed to slobber all over him on the sidewalk.

  I nod, unable to find words, and wonder where all my gusto goes when it gets sucked away. From the looks of it, this encounter has shaken him as well. His gaze fixes on my lips, and he’s visibly fighting the pull between us. I want to press my body to his and feel him writhing beneath me. I want things I shouldn’t want. This attraction wasn’t part of my plan. As long as he’s touching me, I can’t think.

  I twist my shoulders slightly, causing him to release his hold on my arms. He collects himself and looks over his shoulder at the black Bentley sitting at the curb. There’s a light dusting of stubble on his jaw and, for once, it isn’t clenched tight. He presses his lips together, then looks back at me.

  The wind blows his dark hair into his eyes. Extending his hand, he commands, “Come with me.”

  * * *

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  THE ARRANGEMENT

  * * *

  THE ARRANGEMENT

  Chapter 1

  The night air is frigid. It doesn’t help that I’m stuck wearing this little black dress in my crap car. I shiver as I try to keep the engine running at a red light. My little battered car is from two decades ago and stalls if I don’t rev the engine while I have my foot on the brake. I’m driving with two feet, in a car that’s supposed to be an automatic. The heater doesn’t work. If I try to turn it on, I’ll get my face blasted with white smoke. It’s awesome, in an utterly humbling kind of way. At least the car is mine. It gets me where I need to go, most of the time.

  The light flips to green and I botch it. I don’t gas the car enough and it shudders and stalls. I grumble and grab for the can of ether. The cars behind me blare their horns.

  I ignore them. They can go around me. I grab the can on the seat next to me, kick open my door, and walk around to the hood. I shake the can and spray it into the engine intake. The car will start up as soon as I turn the key now, and I can drive away in shame.

  The night air is crisp and filled with exhaust. This road is always busy. It doesn’t matter what time of day it is. Angry drivers move around me. Everyone is always in a hurry. It’s part of the New York frame of mind. I’m treated to a catcall as a car full of guys blows past me. I flip them the bird and hear their laughter echo as they fade from sight.

  Tonight couldn’t possibly get any worse. I put the cap on the can of ether. Then it happens. My night takes a one-eighty straight into suckage.

  As I drop the hood, it slams shut, and I look through the windshield. “Seriously?” I say at the guy who jumps in my seat. He’s wearing a once-blue fluffy coat and hasn’t shaved for weeks. He turns the key and my crappy car roars to life. He gasses it and takes off, swerving around me. I stand in the lane staring after him. What a moron. Who’d steal that piece of trash?

  Still, it’s my car and I need it. After the night I had, I don’t want to run after him, but I have to. I need that car. I take off at a full run. My lungs start to burn as I suck in frozen air and exhaust. I run down the shoulder, avoiding trash that’s laying in the gutter. My attention is singularly focused on my car. I push my body harder and feel my muscles protest, but I don’t hold back. He’s getting away.

  I manage to run a block when a guy on a motorcycle slows next to me. “That guy stole your car.” He sounds shocked.

  I can’t see his face through the black helmet. It has a tinted visor that covers his face. “No shit, Sherlock,” I huff and keep running. My purse is in the car, my only pair of work-acceptable heels, my books--awh, fuck--my books. I paid over a grand for those. They’re worth more than the car. I run faster. My dress flares around my thighs as my Chucks help me sprint forward. My body doesn’t want to do it. The stitch in my side feels like it’s going to bust open.

  The guy on the bike is annoying. He rolls next to me and flips up his face shield. I glance at him, wondering what he’s doing. Biker guy looks at me like I’m crazy. “Are you trying to catch him?”

  “Yes,” pointing ahead, huffing. There are three lights on this stretch of road before the ramp to get on the parkway. If he hits a red light, the car will stall and I’ll get it back. My lungs are burning and it’s not like I have time to explain this. My car has already passed the first light. “If he stops, the car will stall.”

  “You want me to help?” he glances at the car and then back at me.

  I stop and nearly double over. Holy hell, I’m out of shape. I nod and throw my leg over the back of his bike, flashing the cars driving past us. I so don�
�t care. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I hold on tight and say, “Go.”

  “I was going to call the cops, but this works, too.” He sounds amused. I hold onto his trim waist and plaster myself against his back. He’s wearing a leather jacket, and I can feel his toned body through the supple material. He pulls into traffic and zips through the lanes. The wind blasts my hair and plasters my eyelashes wide open. We bob and weave, getting closer and closer to my car. My heart is racing so fast that it’s going to explode.

  I see my car. It’s passing the second light. Motorcycle man punches it, and the bike flies under the second intersection just as the light changes. I manage not to shriek. My skirt flies up to my hips, but I don’t let go of the biker’s waist to push the fabric back down.

  We’re nearly there when the thief catches the third light. The car in front of him stops, forcing the carjacker to stop as well. As soon as he takes his foot off the gas, my car convulses and white smoke shoots out the tailpipe. The engine ceases. The driver’s side door is kicked open and the guy runs.

  Motorcycle man pulls up next to my car. I slip off the back of the bike, my heart beating a mile a minute. I can’t afford to lose this stuff. I’m barely making it as it is. I look at my car. Everything is still there. I turn back to the guy on the bike as I smooth my skirt back into place.

  Tucking my hair behind my ear, I say, “Thanks.” I must seem insane.

  He flips his face shield up and says, “No problem. Does your car always do that?” A pair of blue eyes meet mine and the floor of my stomach gives way. Damn, he’s cute. No, not cute--he’s hot.

  “Get jacked? No, not always.”

  He smiles. There’s a dusting of stubble on his cheeks. I can barely see it because of the helmet. He raises an eyebrow at me and asks, “This has happened before, hasn’t it?”

  More times than you’d think. Criminals are really stupid. “Let’s just say, this isn’t the first time I had to chase after the car. So far no one’s made it to the parkway. That damn light takes forever and I keep stalling out in the same spot. You’d think I’d figure it out by now, but…” But I’m mentally challenged and prefer to chase after car thieves. I stop talking and press my lips together. His eyes run over my dress and pause on my sneakers, before returning to my face. Great, he thinks I’m mental.

  Turning to the car, I grab another can of ether from the backseat and walk around to the front. I dropped the last can somewhere behind me. I pop the hood and spray. I’m so cold that I’ve gone numb. As I walk back to my door, I shake my head saying, “Who steals a car that barely runs?”

  “Do you need any help?” The guy holds my gaze for a moment and my stomach twists. He seems sincere, which kills me. A strange compulsion to spill my guts tries to overtake me, but I bash it back down.

  Pressing my lips together, I shake my head, and swallow the lump in my throat. Today sucked. I’m totally alone. No one helps me, and yet this guy did. “No, I’m okay,” I lie as I slip into my car and yank the door shut. “Thanks for the ride.” I turn the engine over and smile at him. The window is down. It doesn’t go up.

  “Anytime.” He nods at me, like he wants to say something else. All I can see of his face is his crystal blue eyes and a beautiful mouth. He’s sitting on a bike that cost more than my tuition. He’s loaded and I’ve got nothing. A pang of remorse shoots through me, but I need to go. The haves and the have-nots weren’t made to mingle. I already learned that lesson once. I don’t need to learn it again.

  “Thanks,” I say before he can ask my name. “I’ll see you around.” I smile at him and drive away, holding back tears that are building behind my eyes.

  It’s weird. There are so many shitty people in the world, and on the worst day of my life, I finally find a nice one and I’m driving away from him.

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  MORE FERRO FAMILY BOOKS

  Nick Ferro

  ~THE WEDDING CONTRACT~

  Bryan Ferro

  ~THE PROPOSITION~

  Sean Ferro

  ~THE ARRANGEMENT~

  Peter Ferro

  ~DAMAGED ~

  Jonathan Ferro

  ~STRIPPED~

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  Broken Promises: a Trystan Scott Novel, by H.M. Ward

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  MORE ROMANCE BY H.M. WARD

  SCANDALOUS

  SECRETS

  THE SECRET LIFE OF TRYSTAN SCOTT

  DEMON KISSED

  CHRISTMAS KISSES

  SECOND CHANCES

  SHADOWS OF THE PAST

  And more.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  New York Times bestselling author HM Ward continues to reign as the queen of independent publishing. She is swiftly approaching 10 MILLION copies sold, placing her among the literary titans. Articles pertaining to Ward's success have appeared in The New York Times, USA Today, and Forbes to name a few. This native New Yorker resides in Texas with her family, where she enjoys working on her next book.

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