TENSE - Volume One (The TENSE Duet Book 1)
FIRST ORIGINAL EDITION, APRIL 2017
Copyright © 2017 by Deborah Bladon
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual person’s, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1545301463
ISBN-10: 1545301468
eBook ISBN: 978-1-926440-43-9
Book & cover design by Wolf & Eagle Media
www.deborahbladon.com
Also by Deborah Bladon
THE OBSESSED SERIES
THE EXPOSED SERIES
THE PULSE SERIES
THE VAIN SERIES
THE RUIN SERIES
IMPULSE
SOLO
THE GONE SERIES
FUSE
THE TRACE SERIES
CHANCE
THE EMBER SERIES
THE RISE SERIES
HAZE
SHIVER
TORN
THE HEAT SERIES
RISK
MELT
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Thank You
Deborah’s Mailing List
About the Author
Chapter 1
Sophia
"Do you like it? Some people have said it's too long. It's thick when you're holding it in your hands, isn't it?" The tone is masculine. It's low and throaty, emanating somewhere from my right.
Such is the conversation on subway trains in New York City. You'd think I'd be oblivious to it all by now. Most people who have lived here for decades have an innate ability to silence the staccato sounds of voices, traffic, and the underlying hum that is constantly hanging in the air in Manhattan.
For those of us who are considered recent transplants, the timbres of the city are still a part of its undeniable charm. I never thought I'd grow accustomed to the constant buzz beyond my bedroom window when I closed my eyes to sleep each night, but now it's the lull the helps me drift off. I've only been here for two years, but I know I'd crave the frenzied energy of this place if I ever decided to move back home to rural Florida.
"I'd like your honest opinion." I feel the slight pressure of a shoulder rub against mine. "Chapter seven is my personal favorite. Have you gotten that far into it yet?"
I glance down at the thick book resting on my lap. I now know, without a doubt, that he's talking to me. I've already had two, one-sided, conversations about the book today. The first was with a woman waiting in line at the dry cleaners. The other was just fifteen minutes ago with the man who owns the bodega by my office. In both cases, I just smiled, nodded and listened to them rattle on about the awe-inspiring detective novel I'm lugging around Manhattan with me.
"I haven't," I answer without looking at him.
No eye contact will make it easier for me to ignore him if he persists. I'm not a rude person, but I do know how to protect myself with a perimeter of ignorance. Men give up quickly if you pretend they don't exist. Most men do, that is. This one doesn't seem to be taking the hint.
"What page are you on?" A large hand brushes against my navy blue skirt. "You've made it past the first chapter, right?"
Physical touching is a no-no. I scoot more to my left, trying to gain a few more inches from him. This train is bursting at capacity with commuters. Part of that is the time of day, and the other is the route.
It's early evening, and I'm Times Square bound. It's one of the few places in the city I'd be happy never seeing again. It's not for me. There are too many people, too much noise; the smells are overwhelming, and the pace is frenetic.
"I'm not trying to accost you." He laughs. It's a sexy growl and a few women turn to see the source. Judging by the way they linger when they look at him, he's not hard on the eyes.
"I'm just trying to get to a book signing," I confess, hoping he'll leave me alone if I tell him, politely, that I'm not looking to hook up. "I need to get this signed for my boss. It's a birthday gift from his wife."
"You're hoping to meet the author? Nicholas Wolf? I heard the line for the signing is around the block. People have been waiting since this afternoon to meet him."
"Dammit." I finally turn to look at him. "You're not serious, are you?"
He's as good looking as I imagined him to be based on his voice. Seriously hot. As in, I-will-give-this-man-my-number-if-he-asks-for-it, hot.
Black hair, blue eyes and the stubble shading his jaw are the appetizers. A perfect smile, chiseled features and his lips, oh those lips, are the main course. He's wearing a dark wool coat and jeans so who knows what dessert is, but it would be delicious. I know it would be delicious.
"I'm serious," he says. "If you get in line now, the store is going to close before you get that book signed for your boss."
I roll my eyes. "I don't get the appeal. I have no idea why Gabriel likes it so much. He told me to read it, so I started to read the first chapter and…" I point my thumb toward the floor.
"Thumbs down?" He knits his brow. "You didn't like it?"
"It's too wordy. I was so bored I couldn't finish it."
He stares at the book before he speaks again. "I take it Gabriel is your boss? You're getting it signed for him?"
I nod sharply.
"Give it to me. I'd like to show you something."
It's not my book, and since we're moving at breakneck speed inside a subway car, it's not as though he can grab it and run. I slide it from my lap to his.
"What's your name?" he asks as his hand dives into a brown leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
I watch his every movement. "Sophia. My name is Sophia. What's your name?"
He pulls a silver pen from the bag and before I can protest, he opens the cover of the book and starts writing.
Well, shit. I bet it's his number. I'm not going to stop him. I'll just buy another book for Mr. Foster and keep this one for myself.
He closes the cover of the book with a firm snap, slides the pen back into the bag and turns to look at me. "My name is Nicholas. Nicholas Wolf."
"Sure," I scoff. Does he think I was born yesterday? The author of the book that he's holding in his hands is way too successful to be riding the subway to his own book signing. Nicholas Wolf must have a driver at his permanent disposal to take him wherever he wants to go. Besides, all I need to do is pull out my phone and do a quick search for the renowned author. Judging by the verbose text in the book, Nicholas Wolf is a ninety-year-old retired English professor. "You think I'm naïve enough to fall for that? Nice try but you're not him."
I've never bothered to glance at anything other than the moody artwork on the front cover and the few scant pages I forced myself to read. There, in the corner of the back cover of the book I've had in my possession all day, is a small headshot of the man sitting next to me.
There's a smug grin on the face of the guy I'm talking to. The photographic version on the book has a sexy scowl, shorter hair and a pair of black rimmed glasses framing his gorgeous eyes. I doubt I would have recognized him as the same person even if I was aware of what the illustrious Nicholas Wolf looked like before I sat down next to him.
Dammit. I insulted him. I told him his book was boring. It's the same work that's won him numerous awards and landed him a spot at the top of every bestseller list there is.
"I should probably apologize for what I said about your book." I try to force a smile.
He narrows his eyes as he studies me. "Were you being honest when you said it was boring?"
I've got nothing to lose at this point. There's no way in hell he'd believe me if I told him I was teasing him about his book being a snoozefest. I didn't like it. I'll never see him again, so there's no reason for me to be anything but truthful.
"I wasn't lying," I confess, but I don't stop there. I need to buffer my words because I know what it feels like to have your creative work torn apart. There are enough bitchy comments on the pictures I've posted to social media to last me a lifetime. Not everyone likes the clothing I design and I'm the first to admit that it stings to read anything negative about something I've worked tirelessly on. "I should mention that I've never read a detective novel in my life. It's not my thing so please don't take my criticism personally."
"What's your thing?"
I squint at him, trying to decipher what's behind the question. He's still grinning, a clear sign that he didn't take my insult about his work to heart. His skin must be thicker than mine if he can face criticism without even a minor flinch. "What do you mean? What thing? Are you asking me what type of books I like to read?"
"I'm not asking that, but let's start there."
I swallow. "I don't want to start there. I want to know what you meant."
The noticeable slowing of the train draws the commuters around us to their feet. "You'll have to wait until tomorrow at lunch to find out. I have a book signing to get to."
"Tomorrow at lunch?" My eyes follow his movement as he stands. "I'd remember if we had a discussion about lunch tomorrow."
"We didn't. I wrote the details down for you in the book."
I flip open the cover to see an address in the West Village and the words 'tomorrow at noon, Sophia' scribbled in blue ink. He didn't sign the book so I could give it to Gabriel. He used it to invite me to lunch.
"This isn't my book." I sigh. "I can't give this to Gabriel's wife now."
"I have an advance copy of my next release in here." He pats the front of his bag. "I'm reading a chapter tonight before I answer questions and sign books. It's yours if you'll have lunch with me."
Why do I feel like this total stranger is coercing me into sharing a meal with him? He's hot and normally I'd find an interaction like this charming, but he still has that arrogant grin plastered on his face. He's confident I'll show and what's worse is that he knows a big part of that isn't related to the book in his bag. "What if I can't leave the office at noon tomorrow?"
He takes a half-step closer to me as people start to migrate to the door so they can rush off once we stop. "Tell your boss…tell Gabriel who you're meeting. He'll probably give you the entire afternoon off and maybe even a bump in pay."
I'm all for self-confidence but Nicholas Wolf's ego is in a league of its own. I want that book though. Mr. Foster isn't just my employer, he's finally becoming a friend and I'd give almost anything to see the expression on his face and on his wife, Isla's, if I present them with a yet-to-be released book written by their favorite author.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Sophia." His fingertips graze my shoulders. "This was a pleasure."
A pleasure? That's one way to describe it. I'm leaning more toward the word clusterfuck but maybe that's just me.
Mr. Foster's birthday is tomorrow and I have nothing to show for it, other than a lunch invitation from a man who clearly sees himself as something special. He might be, hell, he obviously is, but men like Nicholas Wolf are a dime a dozen in Manhattan. They know what they have to offer and they're all too aware that their charm is almost irresistible.
Almost. I know that I can resist.
All I have to do is show up for lunch, get my hands on that book and take it back to the office before the sun sets on Gabriel's birthday.
It's as simple as that.
Chapter 2
Sophia
"Are you the same Sophia Reese who texted me an hour ago to say she was going to a book signing?" My best friend, Cadence Sutton, thinks she's funny. I can tell by the huge smile on her face.
"I decided to skip it. I thought you could use the company since Tyler is at work." I peer past her into the living room of the apartment she shares with her fiancé. "I brought you some ice cream from that place you like. I was going to stop at the deli to get a kosher pickle, but I know you have a nine month supply in your refrigerator."
She rubs her small belly. "I'm trying to cut back on the pickles this week, Soph. Tyler's worried that the sodium content is too much for the baby. My new, healthier, craving is banana chips."
"My brother cracked a tooth on one of those when we were kids. You might need to steer the craving train onto another track. What about regular bananas?"
She steps aside to let me in before she closes the door behind me. "I had a banana craving right after I found out I was pregnant. Tyler called me Monkey for two weeks straight."
"That's not some awkward segue into your sex life again, is it? If it is, I'm bowing out now and heading back to my place."
Technically, my place belongs to Cadence. I moved in with her shortly after I landed in New York from Florida. Since she's taken up residence with the love of her life, I've had two different roommate-from-hell experiences. I'm living alone now but hopefully, I can find someone to fill the empty bedroom soon. Cadence never complains about the fact that I pay next to nothing for rent each month. She's told me I can live alone as long as I want, but it's too large of a place for just one person. Besides, I'm always looking for someone I can use as a human mannequin to model my latest creations for me.
"You're not going anywhere." She runs her hand through her shoulder length blonde hair. "Come inside and tell me why you ditched the book signing. Did you realize on your way there that you don't read books?"
"The line for the signing was too long and for your information, I read books," I protest through a smile. "I'm always reading."
"Fashion magazines don't count."
I step into the living room and look beyond the wall of glass at the lights that dot the evening skyline. "I wasn't talking about Vogue or Glamour. I meant that book on the history of fashion. I read it from cover-to-cover last summer. Twice."
"Now that you mention it, I do remember you burying your nose in that book." She reaches for the pint of strawberry ice cream in my hands. "When my baby is our age, people will be writing not only articles about your designs, Soph; they'll be writing entire books about you."
Grateful, I dart up to my tiptoes to softly kiss her cheek. Even though I'm wearing three-inch heels, my best friend still has a few inches on me. It doesn't help that I stopped growing mid-teens when I reached the five foot two-inch mark. "You make me feel like I can accomplish anything, Den."
"You need to start believing more in your talent, Soph. Your designs are going to take the world by storm as soon as you catch the eye of someone with influence. I keep telling you to show Mr. Foster the lookbook on your website. You know if you did that, he'd move you over to the crea
tive department on the spot."
I don't know that. Mr. Foster has a vision for all three divisions that fall under the Foster fashion umbrella. I haven't tried my hand at designing anything for men or any lingerie, so if I'm going to make a pitch to him, it would be for the women's line. I've kept a constant eye on everything they've released since I started working as his assistant.
The line, and the boutiques the clothing is sold at is named Arilia and although my stuff would fit, it's not an ideal match. My ultimate dream is to have my own collection, but for now, if I could get a few pieces accepted into Arilia boutiques, I'd have a solid base to build on.
"When I decide on which designs to pitch him, I'll do it," I say honestly as I shrug off my vintage white wool coat before I fold it over the back of a chair. "The way I see it is I get one chance to impress the man. I know what he likes so once I create something that he can't say no to, I'll be in his office with a sample to show him."
"I could choose at least twenty pieces right now. Why don't we meet at your place for lunch tomorrow instead of here? We'll skip the wedding planning and pick out some of your designs so you can show your boss that his assistant is the next big name in fashion. I'll make your favorite sandwich and that raspberry lemonade you love."
A smile tugs at my lips. When Cadence asked me to be her maid of honor, I cried. Tomorrow is our first official wedding planning session. I'm supposed to meet her here at noon sharp so she can cook me something decadent for lunch while we discuss the venue, the guest list and flowers. One of the perks of having a professional chef for a best friend is delicious lunch meetings.
I silently follow her into the kitchen and watch as she scoops the pale pink ice cream into two white ceramic bowls. "Which one do you want?"
I laugh as I reach for the half-filled bowl. "You can have the overflowing one, Den. You're eating for you and the little mister. I'll take this one."