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  Copyright © 2014 Scarlett Avery

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  This book is a work of FICTION. Do not try any new sexual practice that you find in this book. It is fiction and not to be confused with reality. Neither the author nor the publisher or its associates assume any responsibility for any loss, injury, death or legal consequences resulting from acting on the contents in this book. Every character in this book is over eighteen years of age. The author’s opinions are not to be construed as the opinions of the publisher. The material in this book is for entertainment purposes ONLY.

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  Book 1—Unbearable Passion

  Never Say Never

  By: Scarlett Avery

  © Scarlett Avery 2014

  ISBN: 978-0-9938604-0-9

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  The Unbearable Passion Erotic Romance Series

  Book 1—Unbearable Passion, Never Say Never

  Book 2—Unbearable Passion, French Kiss

  Book 3—Unbearable Passion, Exposed

  Book 4—Unbearable Passion, Total Abandonment

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  Book I: Never Say Never

  Chapter 1

  I have to stop beating myself up for this.

  I still cannot believe I’m standing in front of a Midtown hotel waiting to meet a stupidly rich guy for my first gig as a high-priced escort.

  Damn! How can this be happening to me?

  I have two university degrees and speak four languages, but none of that prevented me from losing my shirt in my last business.

  The business was doing well until I decided to bring on a partner who turned out to be a major crook. Within one year, Brad Keller stole all the money from my business accounts, smeared my good name all over New York City and left with my top investors.

  I’m smart and business-savvy, but the financial backing I needed to keep my real-estate development afloat was more than I bargained for. I really cannot blame anyone else for this mess. Truth be told, I never trusted the snake from the get-go, but I desperately needed help and money. I hope the bastard rots in hell for what he’s done to me.

  It’s funny, I suppose, but as I stand here in the middle of the night, I’m in the same situation in many ways. I’m still desperately in need of money.

  Cassandra Fitz-James, one of my female employees—or should I say former female employees—introduced me to Elite Encounters Escorts. I lost my job waitressing at a local lounge two weeks ago after a jackass grabbed my ass with both hands and I decked him with my elbow before slamming the tray I was still holding over his head.

  His explanation: “I’ve always wanted to know what your round ass would feel like in my hands.” Don’t fucking mess with a financially ruined woman if you know what’s good for you.

  Cassie and I had grown closer during my financial meltdown. Over drinks where I poured out my heart to her, Cassie shared that I could make a lot more as a high-end escort, and with less stress than when I was running my business. I’m a woman with exotic features, as Cassie put it, university-educated and fluent in multiple languages. I’m a billionaire’s dream date for functions that require brains and decorum. I still remember the comment that motivated me to try my hand at being a high-class escort.

  “Sofia, I make more money in one month than most women make in a year. My hourly rate would shock most people. Heck, with the hours you were working in that real-estate business of yours, I’m pretty sure I make a lot more than you ever did.”

  Cassie used to be one of my project managers and I always wondered how she managed to show up at one of our Christmas parties with a Hermes Birkin bag when the starting price tag is ten thousand dollars. When I commented how I loved her bag and loved that it was purple, not black, she simply looked at me with her piercing blue eyes and smiled. We both knew that she had not been able to afford to buy that bag with the part-time salary I was paying her.

  I found out as we became close that she worked for me as a way to lie low in the eyes of the taxman and show a pay stub. Since she got paid in cash, putting in a few hours at my office made all that money look legit.

  I really have no choice but to work as an escort because I have a lot of angry people I owe money to and I need to find a way to protect my house. It’s the last thing of value I’ve still managed to hold on to because the mortgage is under my sister’s name.

  Oh God! Ciara would die if she knew I was doing this.

  It’s ten past six and the taxi just dropped me off in front of one of the city’s most luxurious spots. I’ve purposefully arrived early to give myself time to accept my new reality.

  This is a beautiful part of New York City. The Midtown lights sparkle and leap from the neighboring windows to the metallic trash bins before landing on the impressive glass entrance door behind me.

  At this point, the familiarity of this neighborhood and the lights are the only things comforting me.

  As I’m nervously counting the minutes until my so-called date texts me further instructions as to where to meet him, a car drive
s by with windows down blaring Santana’s Hold On. It’s a familiar tune that brings a smile to my face and calms me down.

  I hope I look the part for the evening. I was simply told by Todd, the booking manager at the escort agency, that my client wants upscale and very sophisticated.

  I never imagined in my life I’d be willing to do this, but there are few options that will pay me this much this fast.

  I had to sell a lot of my designer clothing to a second-hand shop in order to remain afloat. I’m wearing the only pair of high-heel Christian Louboutin shoes I have left. I’m only five two and I need the extra three inches from the shoes to give me some height or else I feel so short.

  My baby sister, Ciara, has been blessed with beauty, brains, talent, an incredible body and height—she stands at a gorgeous five nine. I did okay in the looks department. I’m curvy and petite. I always need the extra boost of confidence I get from wearing really high heels, even though nothing I can buy will ever rival Ciara’s statuesque figure.

  My eyes move from my shoes to my phone at precisely seven-thirty when my escort-job-only phone flashes a text message.

  Amanda, when you arrive, please walk through the doors of the hotel and make your way to the Trouble’s Trust bar area. I’ll be sitting at a table. You’ll recognize me by looking at the table in front of me—I’ll have an unlit cigar sitting in an empty cognac glass. I’ll see you soon.

  My real name is Sofia Herrera, but I prefer a more generic name for this new job. I turn on my heel and open the heavy glass doors of the hotel I have been standing in front of for twenty nail-biting minutes and head for the bar area where Bryce is waiting for me. I know he’s paying for my services for the night and since I get an outrageous hourly rate, I shouldn’t be too picky, but I still hope he looks—well, decent.

  The Towers at the New York Palace hotel on Madison Avenue is one of the city’s top-rated luxury hotels. It’s most definitely a hotel for the elite, wealthy and influential. The Trouble’s Trust exclusive cocktail bar is renowned for the ambiance and the ultra-rich clientele who choose to relax in this premier location. I’ve heard of this place and I’ve read about it on so many blogs, but I’ve never been until tonight.

  It seems like all of New York is here.

  The bar is packed and you can smell the money in the room. As I walk by a tall blond guy who gazes at me with a flirtatious smile, I can’t help but blush. He’s probably in his early forties and dressed in one of the finest suits I’ve ever seen on a man. For a second, I think it could be Bryce, but then I realize he’s standing. Bryce was clear about the fact that he’d be sitting at a table.

  Too bad, he’s smoking hot.

  I shyly smile back at him, secretly proud of the fact that I look good enough to elicit that kind of reaction from a stranger. I continue to scour the room for Bryce. Even with my three-inch heels, I’m still short and it’s difficult to make my way through the crowded bar and nearly impossible to locate my date.

  At some point, an older gentleman approaches me.

  Oh, gosh, Bryce is much older than I thought.

  “You look lost, my dear.”

  “Yes, I’m trying to find a friend.”

  “I wish you were looking for me,” he says with a sparkle in his eyes.

  I immediately relax at the idea that this isn’t Bryce. “My friend is waiting for me at a table.”

  “All the beautiful ones are taken,” he says with a touch of disappointment. “That guy sitting in the corner over there looks like the type of high roller who would be waiting for a woman like you.” He points to the corner of the room with his chin. The older gentleman gently pushes aside a few of the well-clad New York socialites to allow me to see the man waiting at a table. “That lucky fellow over there must be the one you’re looking for.”

  “Thank you so much. I’ll see if that’s him,” I say to the gentleman before walking towards the man sitting alone.

  As I approach him, I notice the unlit cigar in front of him and my heart skips a beat when the man turns to look at me. As nervous as I’ve been all day long anticipating this encounter, I’m relieved and excited to see that Bryce Van Der Linden is absolutely stunning.

  Well, lucky me. My first client is hot.

  I’ve done some research on him beforehand because I wanted to be ready and I also don’t want to let Cassie down. After all, she convinced Todd to take me on even though I have never done this sort of work before. Since Elite Encounters Escorts only deals with high-profile clients who require the highest levels of privacy, Todd suggested I Google Bryce in order to avoid the newbie mistake of asking too many basic—code word for stupid—questions.

  There was a lot of information on Bryce’s success, but very few photos of him. It’s surprising that such a successful tycoon has been able to keep such a low media profile. In this age of viral gossip, overnight stardom and airing one’s laundry on the Internet, I don’t know how he’s managed to remain invisible to preying eyes.

  Todd took the time to teach me the cardinal rules of the profession during our initial meeting. “Sofia, this is a business transaction, not a date. Don’t ask him about his favorite dessert. Find out in advance what makes him tick and deliver in spades.” Todd had been quite clear about that.

  “Every one of the girls who works for me has to abide by my strict rules of conduct. I don’t care who you are or where you come from, I expect you to follow them or we’ll have to put an end to our working relationship. They’re very easy to remember,” Todd said as he put up four fingers in the air. “One, get the money before giving him a blowjob or allowing him to fuck you. Two, don’t go over time or else he’s getting your ass for free. Three, don’t fall in lust or love with your client, and four, don’t get personal—they’re buying a fantasy. So keep these four things in mind and you’ll be a success in this profession. Your ultimate goal is for him to require your services again and again and again.”

  I can still hear his words now, as I’m about to entertain my very first client.

  I don’t intend on making any of these mistakes. This is a temporary gig for me until I get back on my feet and I’m determined to make this last a lot longer than my stint as a waitress.

  The drop-dead-gorgeous forty-four-year-old CEO and founder of Linden Corporations is the head of an empire that generates several billion dollars every year in business. He’s a university dropout and after many failed attempts at success he finally got into the Internet security business at the right time to build the most important company in that industry. He has offices around the world and many international governments depend on him to keep their sensitive data safe. Although a native New Yorker, he currently lives in Silicon Valley. He’s been divorced three times and his former wives were New York socialites who were insanely rich from birth and all of them remarried very well.

  “Bryce? I’m Amanda,” I say, as I reach out my hand.

  “Amanda. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, getting up to greet me.

  God, he’s tall. Nothing turns me on more than height on a man.

  He looks dashing in his tailored black suit that fits his athletic body like a second skin. His white shirt is crisp and offsets his black tie. His cufflinks add flair to an already impeccable outfit. He looks authoritative, classy and sophisticated. I can’t resist furtively glancing down at his stylish black shoes.

  I’m sure they’re more expensive than I imagine.

  When I lift my eyes, I meet his stare. His gaze glides over me, taking every inch of my purple dress and black Louboutin heels. He lingers a little too long on the décolletage of my dress where I’ve masterfully squeezed in my breasts and arranged them so they look tastefully revealing.

  What I lack in height, I make up for with boobs.

  “Please sit down,” he commands as he gallantly pulls out the chair for me.

  I barely have time to drop my clutch on the table when a waiter appears to take our drink order.


  “Would you like a drink, Amanda?”

  “Yes. A drink would be perfect,” I say, grateful for the opportunity to calm my nerves.

  “What can I bring you, ma’am?” the waiter asks.

  “I’ll have a gin and tonic, please, with lime and no cucumber.”

  “And for the gentleman?”

  “I’ll have an Old Fashioned, please.”

  Bryce has barely time to say thank you before our waiter disappears.

  “The service is impeccable here and that’s why I always stay at this hotel when I do business in the city,” he says, as he closes the cocktail menu he was pretending to read.

  “It’s an incredible location and it’s my first time here,” I reply, already fearing I’ve revealed too much.

  God, I’m so worried I’ll say the wrong things.

  I’m really not sure what kind of conversation to make when a man pays for you to be at his beck and call.

  “Let me go over how the evening is going to unfold,” he says, as he holds my gaze.

  All right. No chitchat. He’s going straight to business.

  As I nod in agreement, I can’t help but be taken by the intensity of his blue eyes. I also note the few sexy strands of grey hair that caress his temples. Tall, brown-haired men with blue eyes usually leave me weak in the knees and Bryce Van Der Linden is certainly no exception.

  “The event starts at seven-thirty. The car will pick us up at ten past seven and we’ll be there on time. It’s located near this hotel, which is why I decided to stay here in the first place, on top of the fact that the service is irreproachable. You’ll stay by my side during the entire evening and act like a charming date. I’ve secured your services from six-thirty to one in the morning, but I don’t expect we’ll stay at the event for longer than a couple of hours. The driver will drop us off here, I’ll pay you and the driver will take you home.”