Twisted Luck Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author Acknowledgments

  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

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  Twisted Luck

  by

  Mia Downing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Twisted Luck

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Mia Downing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  www.DesigningDiana.blogspot.com

  Visit Mia at www.MiaDowning.com

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Christi,

  Who told me to not give up when I was ready to quit.

  Because of you, this book was born.

  For Kim

  For being excited about this book when I wasn't.

  Because of you, I finished.

  For Diana

  Who listened to me babble about this book and said all the right things when she had no clue what the hell was going on.

  Because of you, the book (hopefully) makes sense.

  Author Acknowledgments

  If you’re a fan of the hit show, Lucifer, hopefully you’ll enjoy this book. When I discovered the show would be airing, I had been concerned and I made a point not to watch until my book was finished. I had no clue how close their show would come to my version. Thankfully, it’s a great show and its own premise.

  Babu was created after my Great-aunt Trudy. She emigrated from Russia as a teen in 1917 and read tea leaves. She did find some missing people for the local police department and also predicted many deaths—the saddest being her husband’s. She and her husband taught me the only Russian I remember. It’s nice to include her in a book. So thanks, Aunt Trudy.

  Thank you to KyAnn Waters for the tagline help, encouragement, and editing pass.

  Thank you to Nita Banks at The BookChick Blog for creating my gorgeous trailer. https://www.facebook.com/thebookchickblog/

  Lastly, this book was written when I was ready to give up writing. My friend, Christi Snow, asked me to dig deeper and write this for me. So I did. I wrote though a lupus flare, unemployment, a new job, and other turmoil that usually would have had me running far, far away from writing. I can’t say it’s the best book out there, but I think it’s the best thing I’ve written so far. So thank you again, Christi, for believing in me when I couldn’t.

  Chapter One

  All I wanted was luck. The good kind. Just once, I wanted something to go right.

  That wasn’t happening tonight.

  I sat at in the nearly empty bar at the restaurant, knocking back another shot of tequila without the aid of salt or lime. The liquid no longer burned a path to my stomach, a testament to how much I’d imbibed so far though I felt perfectly sober. I smacked the glass on the bar and checked my phone. I didn’t need to do so. He wasn’t showing up, and it figured. My life sucked that badly.

  “Olivia, you want another?” Bob the bartender called.

  I gave him a come-hither wiggle of my fingers. “Keep ’em coming. You sure this is the good stuff? I’m not feeling anything.”

  “The best,” Bob confirmed. “Give it a few.”

  Someone slid onto the stool next to me. I glanced over at the attractive guy in a suit, my heart pounding fast for a beat. Maybe my date had shown after all.

  I turned just enough to check him out from the corner of my eye. Nope. The tailored, expensive suit and sparkling cufflinks screamed class and money. Definitely not my internet date.

  I sipped the frozen margarita I’d nursed between shots and peeked again, trying to not be obvious in my perusal. Hot, broody, and dangerous, he wore a dark gray suit that fit him to a tee. Short-cropped, dark hair, high cheek bones, firm lips, and a hint of dark stubble shading his strong jaw—all definitely my type. Probably mid-thirties. I liked older. With my luck, the guy had a wife and two mistresses waiting somewhere.

  Yet here he sat on a barstool next to me, making my palms wet and my heart race. Disheartened, I sipped my drink and did my best to ignore the eye candy at my elbow.

  I was definitely doomed.

  “Can I buy you another drink?” the hot guy asked.

  “That’s probably not a good idea.” I toyed with the stirrer in my drink. Wife and mistresses. I had to keep that in mind.

  He chuckled, his deep voice stirring something carnal deep inside me. “I assure you, I’m not married. Nor do I have mistresses.”

  Had I said that aloud? I shrugged, not wanting to be sucked in to the charm and whatever else he was selling in that expensive suit. “Sure. It’s your dime.”

  He ordered and casually leaned an elbow on the bar, the weight of his stare sliding along my skin, heating it. I’d worn a simple black dress that showed just enough thigh and cleavage for a first date. My exposed flesh warmed as shocks of pleasure and lust danced along my nerves.

  Maybe the alcohol was finally kicking in. I focused on the television, hoping the hot guy would take his drink and sit somewhere else.

  “You look like you’ve lost your best friend,” he observed.

  “Nosy.” But yeah, I had when she’d screwed my boyfriend in my bed. I took one of the shots the bartender slid in front of me and downed it without clinking glasses or thanking the guy.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Nope.” I set the glass in front of him and met his chocolaty gaze for the first time. “Look, buddy—”

  Gah.

  I froze, mesmerized as I stared at perfection. His eyes…deep, dark brown pools I’d drown in if I weren’t careful, framed by the thickest, darkest lashes. My heart did weird things as I fought for the breath lodged in my tight chest.

  Mr. Perfect stared at me as if he knew me, had lost me, and had finally found me. And for some reason, I thought I knew him, too.

  My heart fluttered in my chest, tightening under his scrutiny. I wet my lips, not wanting to break the moment…but I had to know. “Do I know you?”

  “No.” His large hand reached out, a cufflink sparking in the dim light as he brushed a lock of hair from my face. “But you look like her. Same blonde hair. Same blue eyes. Similar features.” He cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing over my skin.

  “Who?” I whispered. A blaze ignited my flesh with each swipe, searing along every nerve.

  He stroked again and muttered under his breath, “Damn it.”<
br />
  I don’t usually let strangers touch me, but I didn’t jerk away from his hand. I wanted his touch more than anything. A flash of sensuous images—his lips on mine, his fingertips skimming my bare skin—flooded my mind and left me breathless.

  Something dark like jealousy clouded his gorgeous eyes as he searched my soul. “So tell me, Olivia, who were you waiting for?”

  A warning bell rang in the background of my mind, and I pulled away from his hand. I stiffened my shoulders and narrowed my eyes. “How do you know my name?”

  “The bartender.” He gestured elegantly behind the bar and took a sip of his drink.

  I relaxed a little. Okay. Bob had said my name. When I was engaged to David, we’d come in quite a bit for drinks. But that was over.

  “What’s over?” Mr. Perfect asked, intrigued.

  “Did I say that out loud?” Another drink tapped down in front of me, and I sipped this time. “My engagement. Over.”

  “Ah.” He perused me over the rim of his glass. “That would drive one to drink.”

  “Oh, it’s worse than that. He got married today. To my ex best friend and roommate.” I gave up sipping and nailed back the shot, the liquor failing to cease the pain stabbing at my heart. “I caught them screwing in my bed when they’d thought I was at a conference. They broke it.”

  Images swam in my vision—David pounding into Jessie from behind, the bed crashing to the ground.

  I shook my head. “You pile that on top of me losing my job yesterday, some asshole hacking my bank account and draining it…being stood up on my first date since the bed breaking is just icing on that crap pile.”

  Mr. Perfect’s brows arched in surprise. “My. That’s a lot of bad luck.”

  “You said it.” I gestured for another drink.

  Mr. Perfect grabbed my hand, engulfing it in the warmth of his large palm. “You don’t need another drink.”

  “I do.” I had issues to drown.

  “Yes, you do have issues to drown, but I think you’re going a bit fast.” He gestured to Bob. “Another for me, soda for her.”

  “I don’t want soda.” His concerned, gorgeous face blurred a moment then cleared. Ah, finally, the liquor had kicked in. “I am batting zero at everything except getting drunk. Let me have some semblance of victory.”

  “I think you’ve already won. How about another conquest?”

  Conquest. I snorted. “My intent tonight was to get laid. My exes are getting laid. It’s their wedding night.” Shot glass empty, I sipped from the soda placed in front of me and found it lacking. “I can’t even accomplish that.”

  He cocked his head. “It’s not too late.”

  I looked around the nearly empty bar. “I have Rudy the homeless guy and Nate to choose from. And Nate’s gay.”

  “What about me?”

  “You?” I laughed. “You’re as sexy as Satan. Way out of my league.”

  “I assure you I don’t come close to Lucifer’s beauty or skill in bed.” His hand brushed my hair aside again, and when he cupped my cheek this time, I leaned into it. “But I’m not out of your league.”

  “How do you know you’re not as good in bed as Lucifer? Unless you’ve done him.” I had no skills in bed. None. Zilch.

  “No, I haven’t done him, but his infamy precludes his deeds.” Mr. Perfect pulled his hand away, and I mourned the loss. Fresh drink in hand, he cocked his head with a ghost of a smile. “No skills?”

  Had I said that aloud, too? He didn’t need to know I was a virgin. Men shied away from that crap, and the more I studied him, the more I considered doing him.

  I waved his question away with a hand, not believing for a second he was interested in me. “So what about you? Why are you here, talking to a nobody like me? You could have your pick of any model down in Manhattan.”

  “First, you’re not a nobody, Olivia.” He leaned in, and I inhaled his cologne, a sexy mix of citrus and woods. “Family brings me to Connecticut. My father needs help with business.”

  “Is that why you’re in a suit on a Saturday?” A hot man in a suit turned me on just like lingerie made a man senseless. The haze of liquor mixed with desire. Every nerve ending sensitized, the heat in my sex radiated outward as the blood raced through my veins. The way he fiddled with those cufflinks, that swath of white shirt against the olive tones of his strong wrists…maybe he wasn’t out of my league.

  His mouth quirked. “Yes. My father has quite the work ethic.”

  “It sounds like you could use some fun, then.” I stared at his mouth, his lips firm and sexy. Hell, I’d wanted a one-night stand. That had been the point of this date. To find someone to take away what I’d saved for David. I wasn’t going to be one of those whiny women losing their virginity, either. I wanted sex, damn it. Losing the V-card might bring better luck.

  My gaze skittered to Mr. Perfect’s neck and the bare skin above that starched white collar. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and I inhaled his citrusy scent. I wanted to kiss him there, to taste his skin, to have him sample mine. Yeah, he’d do.

  “Like what you see?” His whispered words swirled deliciously in my ears. “Would you like me to escort you home, Olivia?”

  Did I? I licked dry lips and glanced at Bob the bartender. He nodded in approval, setting down one last shot for the road. Needing the liquid courage, I picked it up.

  “No, Olivia, wait—” Mr. Perfect sputtered as I knocked back that drink.

  “What?” I set the glass down and studied him, his handsome face lined with concern.

  “I told you not to drink anymore.” He grabbed my elbow and helped me rise.

  “I’m not driving.” My words were steady, but my legs bobbled. I braced my hand to his strong chest, steadying myself.

  Male muscle flexed beneath the layers of material under my palm, the heat of his skin beckoning to me. I found my footing and still had to look up at him despite the heels I wore. Fuck-me pumps in black. Maybe I should have worn the red flats.

  “How much have you had?” He removed a generous wad of money from his wallet and tossed it on the bar. I was going to tell him I had a tab going, but screw it. Mr. Perfect wanted to pay, I’d let him.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been drunk before.” I tried to count. I’d needed drinks to bolster myself before I had left my apartment, had some at the bar while waiting, and some with him... “A lot, but I’m okay.”

  “No, you’re not.” He escorted me by my elbow, his strides much longer than mine, and I stumbled. He heaved a sigh when he slowed to my pace. “Damn my father.”

  “What’s your dad got to do with this?” We stepped outside, and the spring night air hit me full on. I shivered, wishing for a coat.

  Mr. Perfect gave an agitated sigh, removed his suit coat, and placed it over my shoulders. His scent and warmth engulfed me, and I wanted to just swim in his essence.

  His arm descended around my shoulders, and he hugged me to him. “Just keep walking.”

  Confusion reigned as wind swirled around my feet, and suddenly, we were in the hallway of my apartment building. I bobbled on my high heels, and he held me up.

  “Which one?” he enquired.

  “Wha—” I glanced behind me, then up at him, confused. “Did I black out?”

  “What apartment is yours?”

  The words to ask what the hell was going on eluded me, so I pointed to my door. “That one.”

  I have no clue how we made it inside, but the next thing I knew, I sat at my kitchen table, and Mr. Perfect prowled my living room.

  The bottle of tequila sat in front of me, beckoning. “Am I allowed to drink?”

  “The damage is done. Why not?” He returned to the kitchen and paused at my counter. He picked up my mail and leafed through it with long, tanned fingers.

  I sat a little taller. “Hey. Buddy. That’s my mail.”

  “Indeed, it is.” He lifted the eviction warning I’d received yesterday and read it. Perfect brows arched in surprise, an
d his chocolaty gaze met mine. “You were right about the horrid luck.”

  Those eyes… Something shriveled and dead inside me sparked again, like when a breeze hits an almost-spent ember. Heat pooled in my belly and spread along my limbs, my skin warming in a way that made me feel parched and longing for a cool drink and no clothes. The alcohol must have freed the dirty girl in me, now clamoring to see what that stubble would feel like on my skin, between my cleavage, between my thighs…

  “There’s time for both…in a bit.” His eyes narrowed in a calculating way as rubbed his chiseled jaw with a thoughtful hand.

  “I gotta quit speaking my mind.” Not that I remembered speaking. I pointed as he returned to my mail. “It’s not polite to snoop.”

  “My, my. Touchy.” He set the letters down and removed his gold and black cufflinks. I squinted but couldn’t see the ornate symbol any clearer. Instead, I found my mouth dry as he rolled each sleeve up, revealing defined muscles in his tanned forearms. “You’ve had quite the run of bad luck, haven’t you, Ollie?”

  “Don’t call me Ollie.” David and Jessie had called me that. I hated them.

  He laughed and undid a top button on his dress shirt, then two. “You don’t hate them, Olivia.”

  “I do.” But my answer lacked heat as I stared at that small patch of firm chest sprinkled with the perfect amount of hair.

  He walked into my kitchen and returned with two glasses. The tequila bottle eased out of my hands, and he poured two generous portions. One he set in front of me, the other in front of him. Pulling out one of my kitchen chairs, he sat, crossing one leg over the other in a picture of virile casualness. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Didn’t we come back here to have sex?” I sipped the liquid from the glass this time.

  “I’d want nothing more, but I don’t wish to force myself on you. There are other…factors I need to worry about.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.” I rolled my eyes. “God. I’m single, you’re—”