Acknowledgments
This is the ninth book in the Submissive Series. I know that’s not a lot comparatively speaking, but considering The Submissive was only supposed to be a writing exercise, I think it’s safe to say no one is as surprised as I am that the series has grown to what it is today.
Many thanks to Elle Mason, who is my crit partner, my beta reader, and the president of the Cole Johnson fan club, and she basically keeps me sane. Couldn’t do it without you, Twin!
To the entire staff at Penguin Random House: Claire, Jenn, Erin, and everyone who has touched this series, you all are the best!
Special thanks to my dad, who, at my request, doesn’t read my books, but nonetheless was extremely beneficial in helping me brainstorm and plot the blackmail piece in this book. Dad, as I wrote the manuscript, I discovered the finer points often veered from our initial discussions, but I’ve found it’s best not to argue when the characters tell me to change something.
Many thanks to Fiona, Christine, and Tina for their continued support and e-mails that make me smile.
Thanks as always to Mr. Sue Me. It’s because of you and your support that I’m able to continue to do what I love.
Finally, to all my readers and the numerous book bloggers who read my stories, it is truly an honor and a privilege to have you read my words.
Prologue
ABBY
Meagan looked up from her desk. “You found these where?”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t me. You remember Cole and Sasha? From opening night at Luke’s place?”
“The submissive with the short dark hair and the hot Brit? Not likely to forget him.”
I laughed—a lot of people had that reaction to Cole. “That hot Brit actually collared her a few months ago. He also recently bought a house and they were in the attic cleaning when Sasha came across those.” I pointed to the stack of magazines.
I hadn’t recognized the cover model immediately. The young woman staring up at us from the front page had teased blond hair and ice blue eye shadow. She was worlds away from the woman sitting across from me now with sleek, straight hair and natural makeup that subtly enhanced her features.
“Look at me. I don’t even remember being that young.” Meagan shook her head. “Well, now you know part of my history with Luke. We did a photo shoot another lifetime ago.”
She sighed and organized the magazines into a pile on the corner of her desk, but she didn’t look up immediately and something lurked in her eyes when she did. “Thank you for bringing these by. I somehow misplaced my copies.”
I got the distinct impression she’d misplaced them on purpose. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought you should know we found them.”“It’s okay. It was just a shock seeing these. It’s been so long.”
“I had no idea you used to model.”
“Used to being the important part.”
I took a step back and studied her. “I can see it, though. You have that look about you. I never noticed it before, but now? Definitely. You probably could still do it.”
Meagan raised her eyebrow. “Model? Please.”
“Or anchor the news. Something in front of the camera.”
“I don’t think so,” Meagan replied. “I’m very happy sitting behind a desk. Besides, do you have any idea of the stress that comes with modeling? And I’m sure it’s only gotten worse in the last few years.”
“One could say you’re older and wiser and could handle it better now.”
“Or one could say I’d work myself into an early grave.”
“I think you’ve pretty much got that one covered with the job you already have.”
Meagan laughed. “You’re probably right.”
She changed the subject and I went along with her, not wanting to pry too much. It was obviously a subject she didn’t want to discuss.
Yet, when I stopped by her office two weeks later, the magazines were still on the corner of her desk.
Chapter One
Meagan Bishop should have taken the paper cut as a sign. A sign with flashing red lights that read OPEN LATER. But instead, she shook her finger and tried to open the invitation without getting blood on the fine linen paper. And since she insisted on opening the envelope, she really had only herself to blame when the contents punched her in the gut.
Guy Ferguson had been nominated for an Emmy and he’d invited her to his celebratory dinner. Because, as he’d made a note in his flawless script, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
She hated the Emmys.
No, that wasn’t it. She hated that Guy Ferguson had been nominated for one. Guy Ferguson, the man she’d groomed years ago for a correspondent position doing human interest stories. She already worked for the news organization and even though she secretly wanted the job, she instead helped Guy, an acquaintance she knew from college, in his quest. She remembered his smile and hug when he’d received the offer. And in the years that followed, he’d always drop her a note when he climbed another rung on the corporate ladder.