Wild Card (Wild At Heart Series Book 3) Read online

  Table of 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

  GET (5) FREE READS EVERY FRIDAY!

  Wild Card

  WILD AT HEART SERIES, BOOK THREE

  BY CHRISTINE HARTMANN

  WILD CARD

  Copyright © 2017 by Christine Hartmann.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: August 2017

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-180-7

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-180-3

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Ron, still my Mr. Romantic.

  Table of 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

  GET (5) FREE READS EVERY FRIDAY!

  Chapter 1

  Did anyone notice?

  The question excited Bree as she tugged the opulent carved handle of the ladies’ restroom. The hotel’s dark walnut door swung on well-oiled hinges, releasing a cacophony of chatter on a warm, sweet-smelling breeze. The sounds hung briefly in the overly air-conditioned hallway. Keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the carpet, she squeezed her straining dress past sleek girls in short satin and chiffon numbers that exposed teenage thighs tapering like delicate exclamation points to spiky heels. She reflexively smoothed the material over her plump tummy.

  Around her, conversations faded as though someone had pulled the plug on a radio. Bree pretended to study the silver bangles on her wrist and slipped past shimmering, sweaty adolescent shoulders that parted to reveal a spot at a wall-length, gold-framed mirror. She leaned in, grateful the decorator had positioned it low enough for her to see without standing on tiptoe. Her stubby little finger traced the outline of her lower eyelid, wiping away mascara streaks, while her eyes darted to catch glimpses of nearby faces. Her teeth clamped her lower lip to repress a smile that tickled her cheeks. Yes, she thought, they noticed.

  She felt rather than saw the angry gestures, assumed rather than heard the whispers, and wanted to savor and not escape from the attention. But her hands trembled as she reached for a paper towel, the noise of its crinkling bouncing gently off the brocade padded chairs in the uneasy stillness of the faux Louis XIV surroundings. She twisted her lips into a frown. But it curved up at the corners, hinting at glee about to burst like a balloon too close to a flame. After flinging the towel into an overflowing stainless steel bin, she fled, a grin bisecting the dimples on her cheeks.

  “Slow down, amiga.” Outside the restroom, the familiar voice halted her scamper across the floral carpet.

  Bree took in the tall, slim figure of her best friend, who looked, she thought, even more than usual like a runway model in the strapless orange and black dress that clung to her outlines as though sprayed on. “You should have seen them, Stephanie.” Bree laughed, holding her hand to her chest. “They’re still picking their eyeballs off the floor.”

  “Blame them?” Stephanie tugged at her bodice, lowering it an inch. “Sophomores at senior prom. We stand out.”

  Bree’s eyes sparkled. “It makes up for a lot.”

  Stephanie led Bree away from the door toward a row of white linen-covered tables laden with porcelain towers that dripped with thick sandwiches, colorful vegetables, and gooey desserts. She dropped a few celery sticks on a plate. “They’re jealous, chiquita.”

  Bree’s hands adjusted the material around her middle. “Right. They’re all dying to wear a size sixteen.”

  “Dying to dance with your hot date.” Stephanie sucked seductively on a light green sliver.

  Bree punched her arm. A flock of heavily perfumed girls flitted past them, trailing a wake of flowery scent and evil looks the way a cigarette trails wisps of smoke. Bree coughed and crossed her fingers behind her back. “The date with him’s a fluke. Like a hundred-year storm.” She scanned the thronged ballroom’s dance floor.

  Stephanie’s eyebrows lifted. “More like a missile homing in on its target.” She pointed. “He’s over there. By the stage.”

  Bree glanced in the direction Stephanie indicated then shrugged her shoulders and turned to the buffet, choosing with exaggerated nonchalance a brownie from among the sugary selections. She held it in a napkin, smiling as she chewed, enjoying the consternation evident in Stephanie’s features and glad Stephanie couldn’t see how quickly her heart was pounding. “No rush.” She mumbled between bites. “He’s not the only thing I can enjoy.”

  “The only thing worth enjoying.” Stephanie yanked the last morsels of brownie from Bree’s fingers and gave her a shove toward the crowd on the floor. “Remember to do everything I would do. And more, if you get the chance.”

  Bree grinned as she excused her way through the pulsing dancers. The closer she got to the stage, the more out of breath she felt, as though her heart raced ahead without her. Her tight crepe dress conspired to hold her back, so she hitched it up to mid-thigh and pushed ahead, her hips bumping gently against rail-thin frames. She ignored the affronted looks that flashed from under heavy makeup, keeping her eyes focused on the corner to which Stephanie had pointed.

  She reached the stage panting. On it gyrated a band that tried to make up for its conspicuous middle agedness through judicious tears in clothing, gobs of sweat-proof rouge, and speakers the size of hot tubs. She leaned against the stage’s smooth birch planks. Her knuckles knocked the wood. She tried to ignore the thought that slithered forward and coiled cold tendrils around her stomach. Had he left?

  The thumping beat from the speaker obliterated all hope of concentrating. Under the glittering glass wall sconces that threw a nonstop shower of confetti-like sparkles into the crowd, she edged against the cream-colored walls, suddenly welcoming their support. He was nowhere in sight. Her throat constricted. She watched the room spin without her, like a complete, lithe, contented entity that cast her off. Her eyes searched for the nearest exit.

  A hand gripped her elbow. “Couldn’t stand the noise.”

  Upon meeting his calm, blue eyes, a sudden warmth rose from Bree’s chest, melting the chill the way summe
r sun pushes through clouds. She disengaged from the wall and posed deliberately, one foot at right angles to the other. Behind her back, her fingers uncrossed.

  The boy stuffed a napkin into the vest pocket of his dark suit so it stuck out like a folded handkerchief. He gripped her hand. Dancers parted for them as he led her to the center of the room. He didn’t seem to notice boys and girls who tried to catch his eye.

  Breathless, not with fear but with exhilaration, Bree floated behind him, remembering the time she went tubing on the lake near Stephanie’s family’s summer house, the wind whipping her long hair across her face, the giddy excitement of being pulled behind a speeding motorboat that skimmed across the water, trailing a frothy silver wake. He was exactly like that motorboat. Rushing her into situations before she could ask why or consider the consequences, such as how she would feel tomorrow when she saw him pin a willing girl’s hands against a locker and grind into her with a kiss that slammed the breath out of Bree.

  She focused her eyes on his and danced, centering her awareness on the next step, the next brush of his arm, the next inhalation that drew in his half men’s deodorant, half teenage sweat, all-delicious scent. He smiled down at her, moving in sync with her rhythm but with few gestures, as though fun for him came from the inside.

  “Don’t you like dancing?” Bree ran her fingers through her hair and let the music’s rapid thrum stream through her limbs.

  He twinkled a smile. “Too much like sports.” He spun her under his arm, twirling her into the crowd of strangers then scooping her back into the space only they inhabited.

  Eyes wide, she raised her voice to be heard above the music. “But you’re great at sports.”

  He thrust his hands in his pants pockets, wiggling his shoulders in time to the beat and looking, for an instant, younger than his eighteen years. “Just trying not to disappoint people.”

  Bree waved her arms over her head. “For me, dancing takes away pressure.”

  “Because you’re good at it.” He spun her again into the surrounding melee. “Wish I had your guts.”

  Bree squinted. “You’re dancing with the math league secretary. I think you get the award for guts.”

  He seemed not to have heard and she closed her eyes, allowing the rhythm to take over, like a drug. She moved her feet and arms as though they belonged to a different self. Then the music paused, the lights dimmed, and a slow song floated on the thick air. She stood bewildered, legs splayed, as couples partnered or traipsed from the floor. Her mind still vibrated with the previous song’s lyrics. Her extremities tingled with exertion that had no outlet in the quiet swaying.

  He stretched his arms and beckoned her to him with a quick tilt of his chin, a fisherman hooking and reeling in his catch. She stepped forward, her nose level with his armpit. Not knowing where to lay her head, she hovered it an inch from his chest, twisting like an anxious carp on a line. A moment earlier, she thought, everything seemed easy. Now dread inched up her body like wet cement. What was she doing in his arms? Her feet dragged, stumbling across each other.

  “Relax.” He pulled her closer, resting one hand on her hips and one on her neck.

  Her hand slid up his back. She tried to shut out the thought of the contrast between her own spongy contours and the hard, rippled surface that strained beneath the wool and polyester mix. A gentle pressure eased her head onto his chest. She thought discerned his breathing, even and deep. Her own came in shallow, rushing snatches. Slow dancing, she thought, left too much space for doubts.

  Her platform shoes ground into his toes with a crunch. He pulled away and squinted at her, one eye closed in mock agony. She turned away, face reddening. “I should let you dance with someone else.”

  His warm hand curled around hers. “Let’s get out of here.” He again tugged her in his wake through the staring crowd, this time toward the exit. Outside the ballroom, the music barely audible behind padded doors, he strode toward the hotel’s deserted shopping arcade. Its window displays provided the only light in a wide hallway that curved away from the ballroom. Periodic benches ran down its middle like paint on a highway. As she trailed slightly behind him, flashes of empty jewelry cases, women’s silk scarves, and men’s swimwear impressed themselves fleetingly on her mind, billboard images on an empty pedestrian highway. She slowed her pace. The last bubbles of intoxication from the dancing drifted into the shaded recesses of the pressed lead ceiling. She imagined walking hand-in-hand with him down a hallway in their high school, the image so incongruous that she jerked her hand from his, slowing her stride to a crawl. The icy feeling of uncertainty once more crept along her limbs.

  “Shouldn’t we get back?” She studied the floor’s black and white marble tiles.

  He swung one leg over a bench and patted the space in front of him. Bree peered into the dim light and noticed for the first time the silence. She perched far from him, at the end of the bench, like a sprinter ready to leap at the first crack of a gun. He laughed and scooted forward. She jumped up.

  He stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets. His eyes roamed the empty hallway. “Reminds me of the beach.” His voice sounded small, as though he too were cowed by the quiet.

  The unexpectedness of the comment made her sit again. She gazed at the ostentatious displays. “It makes me think I don’t belong here.” She sucked in her stomach, trying to minimize the rolls and curves around her middle.

  He sat and inched closer until she could feel the warmth of his body. “Sometimes I drive to the beach in the winter. When no one’s there. And stand on the cliffs.”

  Bree shivered. “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Always seems like a good idea before I go. But when I get there, I feel lonely.”

  She shot him an incredulous glance. “Half the school would go with you anywhere.”

  He rested a hand at the nape of her neck. “More isn’t always better.”

  At his touch, a spark coursed through her. Goosebumps rose on her arms. She chewed her lower lip, avoiding his gaze. Her fingers crossed and uncrossed. Any moment, she thought, he would run as fast as he could in the other direction. So I’d better beat him to it.

  She sprung from the bench. “I’m going home with Stephanie.” Her heels clicked on the hard flooring as she stepped backward. The cool air felt suddenly close.

  He rose but hesitated, his hand hovering above but not touching her shoulder.

  She brushed it aside, furious with the part of herself that wanted to remain. “You’ve done enough, Ryder.” She blinked and cursed the drop of warm liquid that slid down her cheek.

  He wiped the tear away with the awe of a child touching his first feather, rubbing his finger with his thumb, as though unable to understand why it was damp. His features softened and she momentarily pictured him at age six, lying face up in a field of soft grass, gazing at the clouds with wonder. At six, she thought, we could have been friends.

  He removed the napkin from his blazer. It hung before her in the still air like a flag of surrender. Her mind swirled with conflicting commands. She closed her eyes.

  Something warm brushed her lips. Her eyes snapped open. Ryder’s face was an inch from hers. A wisp of golden hair hung down from his forehead and tickled her nose. She rubbed her upper lip to keep from sneezing, her hand lingering in front of her mouth like a shield.

  He cupped her face, nudging her fingers out of the way. His breath smelled minty and reminiscent of something warm and earthy.

  “I want you with me on the beach.” He lifted her chin. His lips fluttered against hers.

  Bree swallowed, blood rushing in her ears, a hot flood of longing tingling her insides. Her gaze bored into his, seeming to read in his eyes everything she had dreamt of seeing there since the first day she glimpsed him in the cafeteria and he singled her out for a smile.

  He likes me.

  She lunged forward, her lips colliding with his, her inexpert fingers roaming through his wavy hair as though lost. She pressed against him, thoughts
whirling.

  A piercing whistle shot from down the hall. “Check it out.”

  Ryder’s lips stiffened. He pushed her away and stared down the hall at an approaching cluster of suit-clad boys.

  “Coming with?” The closest boy, a thick necked stubby youth who spoke loudly, as though afraid of being overlooked, strode forward, snatched the napkin from Ryder’s hand, and wiped his face with it.

  Bree’s fingers searched for Ryder’s. But he held them out of reach like the limp end of a question mark. His mouth hardened into a thin, dark line. His eyes flicked from the group to Bree and back.

  The stubby youth spoke again. “If you’d rather hang out with underage…” He scanned Bree without meeting her gaze. “You said you’d be done your pity date by eleven.” He looked at his watch. “Twelve-thirty, dude.”

  Pity date. The air caught in Bree’s throat, which felt stung by a thousand hornets. Her face burst, an agony of red flames. She bounded from the bench. Her voice, when she spoke, was raspy. “Stephanie’s waiting for me.” Her feet pounded on the marble, click, clack, like the retort of a machine gun. By the time she had run a few feet beyond the boys who circled Ryder like a pack of hyenas around a tiger, the tears began to drip in black mascara-laden drops onto her white dress, boring holes through her heart and into the cold, hard ground.

  Chapter 2

  The bright sapphire on its platinum band sparkled in the elevator spotlights, snatching Bree’s attention and momentarily giving space to a thought she tried to repress: Is this a mistake? Her manicured finger hovered over the thirteenth-floor button, whose broken plastic face grimaced like an unwanted stepchild next to full-blood siblings. She drew small circles around the knob’s cracked periphery, then touched it quickly with a decisive thrust, as though testing a hot stove. The elevator groaned and creaked its reluctant assent. Her eyes lit with the satisfaction of someone who has recognized danger and averted it.