Forbidden Surrender (The Forever Book 1) Read online

  Forbidden Surrender

  by

  Priscilla West

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Copyright © 2013 Blackbird Publishing

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  The Forever Series Reading Order

  Chapter One

  “Leaving already?”

  I’d tried my best not to wake my roommate as I collected the pile of client documents laying on the hotel room table. Riley Hewitt was a heavy sleeper, especially when she’d been out drinking the night before, her favorite vacation pastime. So I was surprised when she popped her strawberry-blonde head out from beneath the covers. Apparently, I hadn’t been quiet enough.

  “Sorry I woke you. I have to meet Richard downstairs in a few minutes so I’m just packing up.” I’d been poring over the client strategy the previous night with my supervisor, Richard Hamm, in his hotel room, as if we hadn’t already gone over it dozens of times this past week.

  When I’d gotten back to my room, I went over the materials again, memorizing every detail, replaying in my mind the sequence of events that would lead to landing this client for our company. Closing this deal would mean a lot for my career: prestigious wealth management firms weren’t in the habit of letting analysts with only three years of experience fly to Cape Town, South Africa to woo billion dollar clients. It was only through a series of fortunate events—a group of senior employees leaving to start their own firm, my recent promotion, and a chance encounter with one of the directors in the cafeteria—that I was in this position. To say this was big would be an understatement.

  “No worries.” She yawned and rubbed one sleepy eye while making a noise somewhere between a groan and a gurgle. “I wanted to get up anyway. Get some breakfast, catch some foreign television. It’s not every day you get to see Big Bird speaking Afrikaans. You ready for your meeting?”

  God, I hope so. I’d better be after all the practice and preparation. Thankfully the butterflies fluttering in my stomach did more to energize me than a cup of coffee ever could. “I think I’m ready. Besides, Richard’s going to do most of the talking. He’s got years of experience doing this. I’m just there for backup.”

  She flashed her winning smile. “And to be a pretty face. You’ll do great, Miss Harvard grad.”

  I stuck out my tongue playfully. Riley was from Staten Island and went to NYU for college. Although we both ended up working in the finance world, Riley was a corporate tax accountant thanks to her parents’ guidance, and often reminded me how her job was less exciting than mine. She generated plenty of her own excitement in her downtime, though. Her permanently revolving bedroom door guaranteed that she always had a juicy story to tell at our weekly mojito-and-Mexican “date nights.” Watching her pore over a room service menu, I reflected for the millionth time that I was unbelievably lucky to have her in my life. We had met at a work-mandated, soul-deadening seminar on Expanding Corporate Productivity at the NYU Stern School of Business, where we learned absolutely nothing about expanding corporate productivity and almost everything about each other over the space of three hours.

  Since then, she had been the yin to my yang, the weekend warrior to my librarian. We often joked about sending NYU a nice fruit basket to say thanks, though Riley always countered that “the two hundred thousand I dropped there for a Philosophy degree is thanks enough.” Still, I couldn’t suppress a surge of gladness every time I walked past the imposing steel-and-glass business school on my way to the gym; I knew that without Riley, my time in Manhattan would have been just as cold and lonely as my years at Harvard.

  When I’d told her I was taking a business trip to Cape Town for a week, she insisted on using her vacation time to join me, much to my delight. Hanging out with her on the beach would be much more fun than tanning by myself or--god forbid--with Richard.

  I packed the last of my files, zipped my shoulder bag, and smoothed my light blue blouse and black pencil skirt. The outfit had been painstakingly put together to blend professionalism and style. It was part of the strategy. “How do I look?”

  “I’d trust you with my million dollars—if I had it.”

  “Hopefully bad boy billionaire Vincent Sorenson thinks the same way.”

  “I’ve seen you working nonstop for this meeting for a month now. You’re more than ready, girl. Either way, we’re going to have fun tonight. Don’t forget about that.”

  Of course, a full afternoon and evening of adventure with Riley—a sweet reward for waking up at ass o’clock to woo a client who was, according to my research, notoriously difficult. With a wave, I left the hotel room and took the elevator down to the lobby to meet Richard. As I stepped onto the marble tile, heels clacking, I checked my watch. 7:30 a.m. on the dot. We’d agreed to meet an hour before the meeting, giving us plenty of time to walk the few blocks from the hotel to the client’s office building and to go over any last minute details should they arise in our sleep. God knows I’d had dreams about this moment. Well, more like nightmares. And for some funny reason, all of them ended with me in my underwear.

  I spotted Richard seated on the edge of a cozy lounge chair, eyes glued to his Blackberry. His slate-gray suit and cerulean tie knocked years off his age. Only a few strands of gray hair would betray that he was pushing forty.

  “Morning,” I greeted him.

  “Have you eaten breakfast yet, Kristen?” he asked without looking up from his Blackberry. Though his dismissive manner had irritated me in the beginning, the last six months of working with him had taught me to hold entire conversations without once making eye contact. Unless, of course, the subject was money. Then Richard was all ears.

  “I had an orange juice and a granola bar. I could go for some coffee though.”

  “Let’s get going then. We can stop for a cup.” He gathered his briefcase and I followed him as he left the hotel.

  As we stepped out from beneath the overhang of the valet area, the view of the ocean in the distance helped calm my nerves. An early morning breeze ruffled my hair, and the mid-June sun streamed gold. As we continued strolling the busy Cape Town streets, I relished the sights, smells and sounds I had been too busy prepping to notice yesterday. Tall corporate buildings piercing the sky, honking cars, an eclectic mix of people commuting to work, a McDonald’s on seemingly every corner—in a lot of ways, it reminded me of Manhattan. Still, the mix of bright colors, unfamiliar languages, and dreadlocked surfers streaming towards the beach to catch an early-morning wave gave this place its own charm.

  Along the way, we paused for coffee and Richard took the opportunity to review our strategy.

  “When we get inside the building, I want you to be all smiles, Kristen. I want to see your teeth at all times. I will be doing most of the talking, but you play an important role as well. Clients may have more money than some countries, but first and foremost, they’re people. People are emotional. Men, in particular, are weak to feminine allure. You soften them up, and I mold them.” He
said shit like this on a regular basis, with absolutely no irony.

  Sounds like my role could be replaced by a cardboard cut out with boobs. Great. Richard’s back-handed compliment irritated me, but I wasn’t in a position to rock the boat. Although there were plenty of women in the finance world, the upper echelons were men’s clubs with their own rules. I said nothing when Richard made his sexist little comments, but that didn't mean I was going to compromise my personal integrity if he ever suggested I take things farther than a smile. After three years in this ruthless business, very little could shock me.

  “Right. An emotion-driven approach.” I used his own words to show I understood him.

  He smiled. “I call it the Buddy System. In my experience, Vincent’s a Type B. Hobbyist, passionate for recreational activities, doesn’t really know how to run a company but got extremely lucky. A hands-off CEO who’s unburdened by details but good at delegating responsibility to his VPs. The guy loves to jerk off and surf.”

  I had my doubts about his assessment, but I kept them to myself. Vincent had started off as an avid surfer and built a cheap waterproof camera that he affixed to his surfboard, allowing him to film his accomplishments. Soon, the YouTube generation of extreme athletes was clamoring for a similar camera to affix to a surfboard/bungee cord/skateboard/parachute, and Vincent's from-scratch company was generating billions in revenue. My research had painted Vincent Sorenson as a workaholic—his empire had expanded to include an extreme-sports TV show, a clothing line, and custom surfboards—but if Google Image had anything to say about it, he was a tattooed beach bum with a deep tan and heavy-lidded stoner eyes.

  A bum with tattoos and chiseled abs.

  Richard continued as we crossed the street. “These guys are fairly predictable. All the other wealth management firms vying for his money look exactly the same on paper. They’re going to talk to him about alpha ratios, dividends, hedge funds, and it’s all going to go over his head. We want our approach to stand out. Demonstrating your interest in what he’s passionate about is going to win you half the battle. Watch, I bet he’ll be in a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals when we meet him.”

  My sensitivity to incorrect initial assumptions kicked in but I wasn’t going to argue with Richard. Our strategy was set. Fortunately, Richard’s confidence helped quell the gnawing feeling that we were still unprepared. It was like the test anxiety I would get all throughout college except now failure meant losing millions of dollars instead of a few GPA points.

  When we reached our destination, I faintly recognized the towering structure from our research. “Does Vincent own this building?”

  “No. The company just rents out a few offices on the twenty-third floor for small operations in the area. He mainly comes here to surf.”

  I made sure to plaster my smile on before we passed through the revolving door entrance. After checking in, we took the elevator up to Vincent’s floor where a receptionist ushered us to his office. “Just knock,” she said before returning to her post.

  “You ready?” Richard asked as he held his knuckle to the door.

  This was it. I sucked in a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “Let’s do this.”

  He knocked and I heard a distinctly male voice telling us to come in. Raising the corners of my lips to give my smile that extra perk, I followed as Richard led us in. My smile faded at the sight of the man seated behind the desk.

  He was calmly poised with masculine refinement more befitting a Calvin Klein model than a Fortune 500 CEO. As I gazed at those rich brown eyes, sharply etched nose, and seductively carved mouth set in a bone structure undoubtedly designed by a master artisan I briefly thought we had stepped onto the set of a photoshoot. But there was no mistaking this was Vincent Sorenson, in the flesh. The hours I’d spent analyzing his images in the name of research did not—could not—prepare me for the real thing. In the most recent photo I could find, he was up to his waist in the sea and approaching the shore beaming a heart-stopping smile like some sort of mythical sex god eager to claim his offerings. It wasn’t difficult to imagine virgins voluntarily sacrificing themselves to him.

  But that picture was taken months ago and his dirty-blonde hair had been short then. Now it flowed, framing his features like a portrait fit for display in a museum. For an instant all I could think about was how it would feel to run my hands through those silky locks.

  My footsteps slowed, matching my breaths as I watched him elegantly rise and circle his large oak desk, closing the space between us with economical finesse. After shaking Richard’s hand, he stood in front of me. With brows furrowed in deep curiosity, his gorgeous eyes bored into my own, shrewdly assessing and evaluating. I felt strangely vulnerable and exposed under the weight of that stare, like I was undressed and naked before him.

  I caught a whiff of something that made my mouth water and the area between my thighs ache. What was it? Cologne, after shave, his pheromones? Whatever it was, it smelled good.

  Being so close, the raw magnetism he exuded jumbled my senses and made my pulse erratic. I felt compelled and pushed all at once; it was a potent male force that could never be bottled or captured on film, only experienced.

  The sound of Richard’s cough and subsequent nudge on my arm broke the spell.

  My lips were dry so I licked them before speaking. “Hello Mr. Sorenson. Kristen Daley. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said evenly.

  I held out my hand, feeling like the appendage didn’t belong to me. I watched him take it with his own and squeeze firmly. The sensation alone was enough to summon pornographic images I neither approved of nor realized existed within me, ones where I was bent over his desk or splayed against a wall or on my knees. . .

  “Vincent,” he said, the velvety rasp of his voice flowing over me. The way he spoke his own name made it seem even more divine. “The pleasure’s mine.”

  The heat radiating from his hand and up my arm seemed to reach my brain, and I forgot to squeeze back.

  When he released his grip and shifted his gaze away from me, I was both relieved and disappointed to have the dirty mental images fade.

  Pull yourself together. You’re here for business.

  “Great weather today,” Richard remarked. “Perfect for surfing.” He was already launching into the script.

  It was then I noticed Vincent was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals—just as Richard predicted. The effect of the combination was more striking than I could have predicted and I figured he was the only man who could pull off sexy-casual well. Nevertheless, figuring the beach bum impression had been accurate, my fantasies subsided long enough to allow me to resume my feminine allure, smile included. It seemed to be working because I could feel Vincent’s gaze slide over my profile as we moved to the meeting area of his office.

  Vincent gestured and we took two accent chairs near the large glass wall facing the beach. It was a spacious office, bigger than any I had ever seen.

  “I’d like to work on my cutback. I hear the Bali Bay is a great spot,” Richard said. He had never surfed in his life.

  Vincent sat across from us and I couldn’t help studying him. Even in a position as benign as sitting, he exuded primal confidence. “It’s one of my favorites.” His deep voice resonated, inciting a restless energy in my legs. I shifted in my seat, trying to ignore the growing ache between my thighs. Fortunately, Richard was the one talking so Vincent’s attention was trained on him.

  Richard nodded enthusiastically. “From what I know, Kelly Slater got his chops riding those waves.” This was part of the plan. Richard would open up with a softball about the weather then progressively use more surfing jargon, ultimately tying it back to investments through analogies. It was like a children’s education program. I’d been skeptical—concerned the approach could be misconstrued as condescending—but when he spelled it out, the effective simplicity of the message was actually kind of brilliant.

  Vincent’s demeanor was impassive. “I see you’ve done your homewo
rk.”

  Receiving the anticipated signal, Richard continued, “The thing I admire most about him is his ability to read the water. They called him the Wave Whisperer.”

  We’d rehearsed the lines, me playing Vincent and Richard playing himself. It was standard best practice. Everything was going smoothly so far. Next, Vincent would say something along the lines of “I’m glad to hear you’re a fan. Surfing’s a big part of my company and you seem to understand that.”

  Vincent glanced at his expensive sea-diver watch. “I have another meeting soon, so if you don’t mind, let’s cut straight to the point. Why should I trust you with my money?”

  Shit. This wasn’t part of the plan. In a flash, I saw weeks of work flushed into oblivion. Panicking, I looked to Richard, hoping he’d pull something from a deep place of wisdom and experience.

  Richard swallowed a hard lump, tiny beads of sweat dotting his brows. I’d never seen him so frazzled. “Of course, Mr. Sorenson. I’m going to let Kristen tell you more about our exciting investment strategies.”

  I reeled in horror when I realized where that deep place was.

  My mouth opened to protest, but I quickly shut it to avoid ruining what remained of our facade of professionalism. I didn’t dare look at Vincent, but I could feel his intense focus on me. Eyes wide, I fumbled through the documents in my dossier, trying my best to control my trembling fingers. If I screwed this up, Richard would blame me; he’d left me to drown.

  “We’ve prepared materials illustrating the key benefits you’ll receive from choosing Waterbridge-Howser,” I somehow managed in a steady tone. I rose from my seat and walked over on shaky legs to hand Vincent the briefing materials we had planned to leave with him after we finished our pitch. What was I doing? Where was I taking this?

  Stressed out by the situation as it was, I made an effort to avoid touching him in the exchange, but juggling the maneuver with everything else proved to be too complicated. I wobbled on my heels and fell, winding up with my chest and palms flat against his shirt, papers strewn across his lap.