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Back This Woman Save as PDF
Chapters (44)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise For Jodi Ellen Malpas
  3. Dedication
  4. Prologue
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. About Jodi Ellen Malpas
  44. Also by Jodi Ellen Malpas

I say nothing, unable to get my eyes under control. They’re greedy for every little bit of Ava O’Shea they can get.

Sarah drapes herself all over me. I know what she’s doing. She’s not the only woman around here with the balls to do it either. “And you are?” she asks.

“Just leaving. Goodbye.” Ava retreats swiftly, turning and dashing away.

“Well,” Sarah muses, her tone full of sarcasm, “it all makes sense now.”

I ignore her and wander out of the doors, standing at the top of the steps, watching Miss O’Shea hurry to her car. I pull my phone out, knowing what I’m about to do is so far across the line but, again, I’m fucked if I can stop myself. I open the camera and take a picture of her. It’s as if an instinct I never knew I had needs to capture this moment, needs it documented, because I’m pretty sure I’ll wake up in the morning and feel like I’ve dreamt it all. Something just switched inside of me. Something significant. I’m scared of it. Intrigued by it.

But I’m damaged goods, and she is not only too young for me, but too good.

She deserves more than a hedonistic, alcohol dependent fuck-up.

And yet I’m not sure I’m strong enough to stay away from her.

3

I walk back to my office in a bit of a daze, wishing I could relive every second of the past hour on repeat. The darkness feels like it’s swiftly closing in again. I close the door and stare at the couch where she sat. Approaching, I collect the glass she drank from, seeing her nude lipstick on the rim. “Ava O’Shea,” I say quietly, heading for my chair and lowering into it. I set the glass in the center and study it for a while, my mind mush. Then I get my phone from my pocket and pull up the photo. The photo of her literally running away from me. The thought is as depressing as fuck, and I cast my eyes across to the drinks cabinet. I feel nothing. No pull. No temptation. Drink is an escape. It makes me forget, and right now, I have something I really don’t want to forget.

I pull up my contacts and dial Chris Clements, my estate agent. He answers on the first ring. “Mr. Ward,” he says, thrilled to hear from the man who’s earned him a heap of commission.

“Chris, how are you?”

“All good, my friend. All good.”

Friend? Ten million bought me a penthouse, it didn’t buy Chris a friend. “I want to see Lusso again,” I tell him, and I immediately sense his worry.

“Everything okay?”