Chapter 1
Remi
Plain and
simple, this night sucked.
Sadly, it
was my honeymoon.
I sighed
heavily and gazed around Masquerade, an intimately lit London nightclub
where
everyone wore black domino masks, some elaborate and some plain, to hide
their
identity. A few die-hards even sported dark clothing with long, loose cloaks.
Not
me though. I’d gone modern with a slinky little number and three-inch
heels, putting
my height at nearly six feet. Yep, I’m the giant in the blue
dress, towering over every
girl and some guys at the bar.
My top
teeth dug into my bottom lip as I gazed around the smoky club, my eyes
bouncing
off random faces. Even in a room full of party people, music, and strobe
lights, I was lonely.
My groom
was missing.
That’s
right. Hartford Wilcox, Jr., aka Mr. Nice Guy at Whitman University in North
Carolina, had jilted me two weeks before the big wedding day as we had dinner
at our
favorite Italian restaurant, Mario’s
.
And now
here I was—on my honeymoon and getting trashed with my best friend Lulu
who’d
decided to skip her beach vacation and come with me at the last minute
.
She poked
me with her finger as we sat in front of the heavy wooden bar of the club
.
“Hey, Earth to Remi, get that glazed look out of your eyes and order a drink
already.
I’m thirsty.” She fluffed her pixie-cut pink hair and straightened her
black tutu, eyes
scoping out the club. “Dang, the men in here are hotter than a
billy goat with a blow
torch,” she said in her honeyed southern drawl.
I
half-heartedly agreed, not really caring, more intent on scanning the bottles
behind
the bar. “I want tequila,” I murmured. “A whole bottle.”
Her face
snapped back to me and her green eyes widened. “Uh-uh. No way. I know
what
happens when you drink that crap. You either eat a ton of tacos and puke, or
you
wrap yourself around some cocky bastard with a well-developed tush.”
True. I
did love a tight muscular ass.
But I
wouldn’t get one tonight.
A short
laugh burst out of me, one of those I’m-miserable-but-pretending-to-
be-okay-
laughs that I’d been doing a lot of lately. For the past two weeks, I’d
vacillated
between a sobbing mess and an angry woman who became so incensed
that “fuck”
was
the only word that seemed appropriate in any given situation.
Going to the post office
to mail he
dumped me, but thank you anyway cards. Fuck. Going to the wedding
venue
and
not getting the ten thousand dollar deposit back. Fuck. Realizing I was
homeless
fall semester—which was in two weeks—fuck. Listening to my mother tell
me it was
my fault. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The
bartender delivered my bottle and poured me a shot. I sucked the tequila down
while Lulu watched me warily. It tasted like bad decisions and gasoline, but
tonight
was about forgetting. The sooner the better.
A few
minutes later, Lulu went out to dance with a British guy she’d been making eyes
at. I sat glumly at the bar, fiddling with my diamond tennis bracelet, rubbing
it like
rosary beads. I needed to forget Hartford, and according to Lulu, that
meant hooking
up with someone.
Was she right?
Fate
answered in the form of a beautiful man—and by beautiful I mean drop-dead sexy
with a backside so delectable and muscular my mouth plopped open.
I snapped
my lips shut and adjusted my velvet half-mask—the annoying feathery
plumes on the
sides kept sticking to my red lipstick—and turned ever so slightly to
check him
out, not wanting to appear obvious. He slid into the seat next to me, tall and
broad with rippling shoulders and a massive frame.
I checked
my appearance in a mirror behind the bar, mentally analyzing the odds of a
girl
like me snagging a hottie like him.
Although
no one had ever called me beautiful, I did have two—okay, maybe three—
things
going for me in the looks department. My shiny, golden-brown hair that hung
down in waves to my shoulders, my fluffy “pillow lips” as Lulu described them,
and
lastly, I had an itsy bitsy space between my two front teeth which were
otherwise white
and perfect. Lulu claimed the gap lent me an exotic look, like
Madonna or Sookie
Stackhouse. Whatever. I was a True Blood fan. I went with it.
He
shifted on the stool, leaning closer to me. His cologne swirled in the air, the
smell
of expensive Scotch and musk mingling together to create a heady,
slightly dangerous
scent. I paused, goosebumps rising on my bare arms. The
spicy whiff triggered a
distant memory just out of reach.
As slyly
as I could, I studied his profile from top to bottom. Like me he wore a black
mask, although his was more masculine, not hiding his chiseled, movie star
jawline.
His lips were carnal and luscious, the bottom more plump than the top
with a slight
indentation in the middle. As I watched, his tongue swept out and
caressed it, his top
teeth biting it as if he were deep in thought. He raked a
hand through his dark, longish
messy hair, held it suspended above his head for
a few seconds and then released it,
letting it swish back into its tousled yet
perfect place.
I tore my
eyes away.
Something
about him sent loud warning bells ringing in every atom of my body.
Danger, danger. Don’t touch that.
But my
gaze would not be denied as I took in the tight black shirt and sculpted chest
that was obviously used to the inside of a gym, right down to an arm that
looked like it
could snap a board in half—or me.
Nice biceps, Mr. Beautiful.
The pièce de résistance was the vivid blue
and orange dragonfly tattoo displayed on
his left arm. It was larger than my
hand and took up most of his bicep. My eyes traced
the contours of the design
from the papery wings to the multi-faceted eyes. A bold
black color outlined
the insect, giving it a masculine feel.
Gorgeous.
True
Religion jeans stretched down long legs and ended in a pair of black Converse
without socks, giving him a boyish quality that was in direct contrast to the
crazy-sexy-
bad-boy vibe he had going on.
Him tonight?
Maybe. He
was the polar opposite of Hartford who was blond, lean, and tattoo-free.
I nibbled
on my fingernail. How do I get him to
notice little ol' me?
Just then
a redhead with fluffy Farrah Fawcett hair strode up to his stool, bold as
brass,
wearing a tight, white mini-skirt that barely covered her booty. She
brought with her
the smell of sweet, cloying perfume, the kind I always got
spritzed with at the mall.
She
flicked her hair over her shoulder, casually rubbed her finger down his arm and
struck up a conversation. Her fake, black lashes—which she’d somehow managed to
get outside the eyeholes of her mask—batted. She puffed out her well-developed
chest.
He smiled
back at her with a wicked grin, his relaxed body language telling me he was
confident when it came to women. She whispered in his ear, boobs right in his
face,
but whatever he said back wasn’t what she wanted to hear because a few
ticks later,
she crossed her arms, glared at me, and stalked away.
I blinked. What had I done?
Then he
turned and pointed his devastating smile at me.
Shit,
he’d made eye contact—as much as you could with a claustrophobic mask on.
But wait
…
Was he crazy?
Because
if he’d turned down her flirtation, I
didn’t have a shot.
I didn’t
know how to do the fingers-tip-toeing-up-his-arm-thing and sexy hair flicking.
I didn’t know a thing about applying fake eyelashes. I didn’t know how to make
my
breasts sit up that high. I looked away from him and took another shot,
feeling anxious
and strangely off-kilter.
Mr.
Beautiful ordered a drink from the bartender, his British accent smooth as silk
as it
washed over me. I froze. I almost knew
that voice—deep with soft rounded vowels
that made you tingle in your lady
parts.
What was
it about this guy that had me all jacked up and hot for him?
Hello, tequila, my inner
voice said. But it was more than
that.
Getting
brave, I pivoted on my barstool, and found Mr. Beautiful’s eyes on me once
more, searching my face. As if he too recognized the pull between us.
My heart
played hopscotch, jumping against my chest. My skin prickled. I shivered.
Did I know him?
It
clicked.
Dax Blay?
It was his voice, the same deep quality, the
kind of voice that made you want to hop
into his bed and ride him like a cowgirl.
My breath
hitched, and I swallowed down the emotion that zipped up my spine
whenever I
thought of him. He was my one
mistake, the time I’d tossed inhibitions
and carefully laid plans aside and
went with my instincts, only to have them tossed
back in my face.
But the
man next to me wasn’t Dax. Thank God.
Last
spring at the campus-wide end of the year fraternity party with Hartford, I’d
seen
Dax, and he’d had shorter hair, like always, and zero tattoos. Yeah. No
way.
Plus,
last I heard, he was in Raleigh where his father lived.
Yet…
Dax was
British. He could have family here. Maybe he got a tattoo?
Nah. I mean,
what were the odds of us both being at the same club on the same night in
a
country where neither of us lived?
I tore my
eyes off Mr. Beautiful and waved at a bartender for more limes, but somehow
my
tennis bracelet snagged on the bodice of my dress, leaving my wrist dangling
like
a wet dishrag in a most inappropriate place.
I wiggled
my arm.
Jiggled
it
.
Even went
so far as to jerk, but it wouldn’t separate
.
Sweat
popped out on my forehead. Holding my breath, I twisted and tugged the
bracelet, forcing the delicate material in my bodice to stretch beyond normal
limits.
“Well, hell,” I
breathed, pausing to assess.
Skin-tight
with a plunging neckline, the dress was mostly a stretchy fabric held
together
by sequined straps and a zipper on the side. Slated as part of my honeymoon
wardrobe, it was a Tory Burch and had cost four hundred dollars, the most I’d
ever
paid for a fun outfit, and no way did I want to damage it. I might have to
return it to
rent an apartment at Whitman.
Lulu. I
needed Lulu. She was a whiz with wardrobe malfunctions.
I spun
around on the barstool and used my free hand to wave at her, but she was
slinging herself around dancing, having a great time and completely oblivious.
I
resorted to flapping both hands at her, one high and one low. Several people
waved
back with baffled expressions, but Lulu didn’t notice. Dammit.
I groaned
and slumped down in my seat, ready to scream. Now what? Go to the
bathroom and
repair it there? Good plan.
But the
club tilted when I stood, the strobe lights making me squint as they flashed in
my face. I wobbled in my leopard print heels—that Lulu had insisted I wear—and
grabbed the stool to keep my balance. `
I sucked
in a breath to gather myself, but I couldn’t think straight. The room spun, and
I was suddenly queasy, and why did I slam all that tequila, and oh my god, my wrist is
currently
attached to my tit like a T. rex arm.
I had to
get out of here before someone noticed what an idiot I was.
Trying to
be stealth like, I reached across the bar to get my beaded clutch, but because
it was my left hand and not my right that I used most of the time, I got off
balance and
stumbled—and my ankle folded in on itself. I yelped as my shoe
catapulted off my
foot and vaulted off toward the dance floor, while I fell
forward, straight into Mr.
Beautiful’s lap.
Filthy
English (unedited excerpt)
Copyright
Ilsa Madden-Mills
The British are HERE!
Are you ready for Filthy
English?
Blurb
A smokin’ hot British player…
A jilted girl…
One night of mistaken identity…
Two weeks before her
wedding, Remi Montague’s fiancé drops her faster than a drunken sorority girl
in stilettos. Armed with her best friend and a bottle of tequila, she hops a
plane to London to drown her sorrows before fall semester begins at Whitman University.
She didn't plan on
attending a masquerade party.
She sure didn’t plan on
waking up next to the British bad boy who broke her heart three years ago—the
devastatingly handsome and naked Dax
Blay. Furthermore, she has no clue how they acquired matching tattoos.
Once back at Whitman
together, they endeavor to pretend they never had their night of unbridled
passion in London.
But that’s damn hard to do
when you live in the same house…
One night. Two damaged hearts. The passion of a lifetime.
*A modern love story inspired by Romeo and Juliet*
About the Author
You can stalk her on her website as well as get signed books: http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorilsamaddenmills?pnref=lhc
IG: https://instagram.com/ilsamaddenmills/
Twitter: @ilsamaddenmills New
York Times and USA Today
best-selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy
alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap.
She's addicted to all things fantasy, including unicorns and
sword-wielding heroes in books. Other fascinations include frothy coffee
beverages, dark chocolate, Instagram, Ian Somerhalder (seriously hot),
astronomy (she's a Gemini), Sephora make-up, and tattoos.
She has a degree in English and a Master's in Education.
When she's not pecking away on her computer, she shops for cool
magnets, paints old furniture, and eats her weight in sushi.
SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS:
Ilsa Madden-Mills’ other books:
VERY BAD THINGS
VERY WICKED BEGINNINGS
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1K5NvX8
VERY WICKED THINGS
VERY TWISTED THINGS
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