Who knew things could get even darker and dirtier in New Orleans" New York Times bestselling author Meghan March introduces the Savage Prince of the city, the man you never want to meet.
* * *
I do what I want and who I want. I don"t follow anyone"s rules"even my own.
I knew I shouldn"t touch her, but it didn"t stop me.
Didn"t stop me the second time either. Only made me want a third.
My lifestyle suits the savage I am, and she doesn"t.
But Temperance Ransom is my newest addiction, and I"m nowhere near ready to quit her yet.
I"ll have her my way, even if it means dragging her into the darkness.
Hopefully it doesn"t kill us both.
* * *
Savage Prince is book one of the Savage Trilogy, set in the same world as Ruthless King, however you do not need to read the Mount Trilogy to devour this scandalously hot new trilogy.Books in Series:Savage Trilogy Series by Meghan MarchBooks by Author:Meghan March Books
Why is he wearing a mask"
Instinctively, I take a step back as the heavy door swings open, revealing the rest of the doorman"s tall body and the other half of the ornate red-and-black leather mask obscuring his face.
It"s not Mardi Gras season anymore, and this antebellum mansion is dozens of miles away from Bourbon Street, where spirits are high and revelry is in full swing, no matter the time of year.
Louisiana, you"re beautiful, but you"re also creepy as hell at night sometimes.
The doorman gestures for me to enter, and I hesitate on the threshold for one final beat, clutching my bag to my side before stepping through the archway. He closes the massive wooden door behind me with a decisive thud and throws a long bolt.
I"m locked in. What did I get myself into"
Chills skate over my skin, and my blazer does little to stop the shiver working through me.
This is not a haunted house. Or a dungeon. It"s a potential customer. I tell my overactive imagination to calm down but blood pounds in my ears, competing with the slow, rhythmic, and visceral beat of the bass coming from somewhere inside.
The sprawling plantation house reminds me of something out of a movie, especially with its massive trees dangling their moss over the banks of the bayou. Mansions and their expensive everything make me more nervous than the gators lurking in that murky water.
My senses shift into high gear as I scan the polished wooden planks of the floor, covered by thick rugs that probably cost more than I make in a year. The muted glow of gaslight sconces adds to the otherworldly feel"at complete odds with the throbbing beat of the club music.
For the dozenth time, I wish I did more research before I showed up for this meeting, but I"ve been so busy, I can barely manage to shovel three bites of food into my mouth for lunch.
It"s worth it, I remind myself. I have a respectable job now. There"s no mud on the bottom of my shoes to track inside these days.
Even though I know I"m in the right place, my polished designer knock-off pumps itch to beat a path to the door and out to my car . . . except it"s not there, because the overly efficient valet drove it away before the front door even opened.
I swallow back a lump of unease but straighten my shoulders and turn my attention to the doorman, who seems to be waiting for me to compose myself.
When I meet his hooded stare, he doesn"t speak. I hold out the note that showed up on my desk at Seven Sinners. He takes it from me and glances at the printed text, but still says nothing.
"I"m supposed to meet someone"" I hate that my voice sounds like I"m asking a question rather than making a statement. I shake off the unease and find my assertive tone. "I"m here to meet someone for a business discussion. Can you please direct me to the office""
The doorman gestures to the opulent staircase before me with the card before offering it back.
My sweaty palms leave smudges on the edges as I snatch it from his grip. I should have known from that fancy cream linen paper that this wouldn"t be like the normal bars and clubs I"ve visited to hawk Seven Sinners Whiskey.
"Thank you." I give him a nod, and once again get zero verbal response. This place is bizarre. Time to get in and get out.
Attempting to look unaffected, I stride toward the red-and-gold runner climbing up the stairs.
I"m just here to sell whiskey. All the whiskey.
The treads beneath the soles of my shoes vibrate more with each step I take. As I round the curve of the staircase, I find another masked man waiting for me at the top.
I offer him my invitation and stare over his shoulder at the light spilling out from beneath a set of closed double doors.
There. That has to be the club. See, nothing different about this place after all.
Except there is, and I don"t know if it"s my overactive imagination, but I swear I can smell sex in the air. Images of all the things that can possibly be happening behind those doors assail my brain. I force my attention back to the man for direction.
He jerks his head to the side and starts down a wide gold-and-white-striped corridor, away from the doors. He pauses at the corner as though waiting for me to follow him, and I uproot my feet from the floor and stumble forward to catch up with my bag smacking my hip. Instead of leading me farther down the corridor, he steps out of the way to reveal another set of curving stairs and points upward.
Seriously" I thought this was a business meeting, not punishment for missing my date with the gym for the last six months.