Authors: Serena Grey
Surrender
Contents
Surrender
A Dangerous Man #4
By
Serena Grey
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
SURRENDER: A DANGEROUS MAN #4
Copyright © 2013 by Serena Grey.
All rights reserved.
Raven
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Press
For MNC
You, You and only You.
Acknowledgements
Writing this story has been an incredible journey for me, every single step of which has been exciting, rewarding, and unbelievable fulfilling. I have received reviews that have made me so happy I felt over the moon, I have received letters from readers that were so touching they made me cry, and I have experienced the joy of having people I don’t even know, discover, buy and love my books.
This journey began sometime in May 2013, when I decided to write a romance series. I’ve always been a voracious reader, and even though I read everything, from encyclopedias and dictionaries to toothpaste packets and drug leaflets, I’ve always been in love with romance. So, in the course of a few hours, I wrote an outline for Sophie and David’s story, and started to develop the characters in my head.
Over the next few weeks, I wrote as much as I could, while drinking copious amounts of coffee. I created a blog, started a Facebook page, contacted beta readers, and did an enormous amount of research - mostly on kboards.com. Then in June 2013, I published the first book in this series.
I want to thank everyone who has been a part of this extraordinary experience, including, but not limited to, the writers who inspired me, the fellow authors at kboards, who make it the best author forum on the internet, the beta-readers who gave me valuable insight, the reviewers who gave my book a chance, the readers who supported me, and the loved ones who stood by me, believing in me through it all.
Thank you all so much.
In This Series
Awakening (A Dangerous Man #1)
His voice is hoarse. “I am going to make love to you now.” He says, “So if you want me to stop, tell me.”
I shake my head frantically. If he stops at this point, I’ll probably die.
Sophie Bennett has virtually no experience with men. Orphaned from birth, she’s gone from living with her reclusive spinster aunt to a sheltered education in boarding school. So nothing prepares her for David Preston. The intensely attractive businessman is entirely out of her league. Can she handle such a dangerous man, or is she in over her head?
Rebellion (A Dangerous Man #2)
“Don’t you want this Sophie? Don’t you want me to touch you? To make love to you, over and over again?” His lips make a trail from my neck to my shoulder. “Isn’t it enough?”
David Preston came into Sophie’s life and changed it in ways she could never have anticipated. Now the intensely sexy, exquisitely beautiful man is hers, or is he really?
Claim (A Dangerous Man #3)
I forget everything but her warmth, her sweetness, and how easy it would be to let everything go, and allow myself to sink into her, body and soul, completely, forever.
Who is David Preston? The mysterious and sexy businessman claimed Sophie Bennett’s heart and then broke it, but is that all there is to him?
David Preston likes to be in control, after being neglected as a child, he has his life exactly where he wants. No relationships, no commitments, just sex, no strings attached.
Then a chance encounter with a girl in a gift shop changes everything.
Surrender
Chapter One
THE PAINTING IS OIL ON CANVAS, not very large, but so distinct it stands out from all the other paintings in the small museum, at least to me.
Light pours into a small room from an open window, casting a soft glow that highlights the rosy skin of the girl seated at the edge of an unmade bed. Her naked back is exposed, and her face is turned to the side, as if she was about to turn around, towards the painter. Long gold hair falls in soft waves to the middle of her back, and you can tell by the slight curve in her cheek, that she’s smiling.
It’s not remarkably beautiful or outstanding, but it’s sweet and sensual at the same time, and yet more than that, it reaches out to something in me, something that’s separate from my misery and incessant loneliness, something that I can’t explain or even understand. I’m drawn to it. It makes me curious, and somehow certain that it has the power to assuage my curiosity.
I stumbled across the small museum a few days after I finally found a job at Empathy Zone, a graphic T-shirt store where I process orders and manage deliveries. The museum was only a few blocks down the street from my new workplace, and it drew me in, promising perhaps a few moments respite from my constant dejection, and pathetic mental fixation on the man behind it, the man who broke my heart.
David.
As usual, as soon as his name enters my mind, I lose the ability to think of anything apart from the pain, the intense ache I still carry around with me, every minute of every day.
I force my thoughts my thoughts to return to the painting in front of me, banishing all thoughts of David from my mind. It’s only temporary, I know. It’s only a matter of time before he invades my thoughts again, making me helpless against the memories.
Blinking back the sudden aching moisture in my eyes, I concentrate on the small printed card below the frame, which displays the painter’s name. Jonathan Cutler. I wonder if he’s a local painter, or some well-known artist I’ve never heard of. I remind myself to find out more about him when I get the chance.
I’m so engrossed in my thoughts that I don’t hear someone come up to stand beside me. “You’re here again.” A friendly voice says, startling me.
The voice belongs to Trey Welty, the curator. A middle-aged man with thinning brown hair that’s liberally sprinkled with grey, and lively dark eyes that twinkle behind his thick dark glasses.
“Hi Trey.” I reply, forcing a smile, even though I don’t really feel like smiling. My smiles are probably languishing somewhere along with the pieces of my broken heart. I don’t imagine that David’s finding it as difficult to smile. In my mind, I can see his easy, relaxed grin directed at someone else. It hurts.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Trey grins at me, and I turn away, unable to stomach the friendliness. He likes to chat whenever I come in, and usually tells me about the paintings and the museum, which is private and non-profit, and funded by a bequest from a long dead heiress. It displays most of her personal collection, as well as some recent purchases.
“It’s not our best piece.” Trey states, his eyes following mine back to the painting. He gives me a quizzical look, which I ignore. It’s not the first time he’s commented on my obsession with this particular work of art. At first, he tried to get me interested in the ‘treasures’ of the museum’s collection, but he’s since given up.
“I know it’s not.” I admit with a shrug.
“But you’re drawn to it anyway.” He nods reflectively. “Sometimes art speaks to parts of our subconscious that we’re not even aware of.”
It does speak to me in some way, I agree silently. I can’t stop looking at it. I can’t stop wondering about the two people in the room. They weren’t just a model and an artist. I’m sure of it. Were they in love? Did their emotions rise to some stunning crescendo and then fall, leaving them shattered and heartbroken, like me?
“It has a story behind it.” Trey says thoughtfully, interrupting my thoughts again. He glances towards me, waiting for me to indicate that I’m interested in the story, whatever it is.
I am interested. “I hope you’ll tell me.” I say, encouraging him to continue.
“Of course.” He replies, obviously pleased to have an audience. “The painter was an art professor at one of the local colleges, who had some small success as a painter back when he was a young man, but he hadn’t painted anything in years.”
I nod, waiting for him to continue.
“Well, on their anniversary, about twenty years ago,” Trey says, “his wife… she was a poet, I remember, moderately successful too... Well she makes a dinner reservation at a restaurant in Seattle, then she goes to pick him up from his office at the university and drives the car over a bridge with the both of them in it.”
“Oh!” My eyes widen in shock. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Who knows? She didn’t leave a note, but she did write a poem that day. It was found on her desk, handwritten on a plain sheet and held down with a paper weight, as if she wanted to make sure it would be found. I can’t remember what it said, but it sort of pointed towards the fact that she knew what she was doing. One of those ‘If I can’t have you, no one else will’ themes.” He looks at me, “Gossip on campus was she found out he was having an affair with one of his students.”