Want It

  Want It is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Stark

  Excerpt from Risk It by Jennifer Chance copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Stark

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Risk It by Jennifer Chance. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 9780553392272

  Cover photograph: © iStock

  www.readloveswept.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Epilogue

  By Jennifer Chance

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Risk It

  Chapter 1

  She had to ask. Even if he laughed in her face, she at least had to ask.

  Erin Connelly straightened in the back of the crowd of mourners, fussing with the belt of her vintage black dress. Three beefy men in suits stood in front of her, clearly ex-military—guys who’d once been all muscle, but were now mostly bravado and beer cheese. This was in her favor. She could peek between their thick bodies and see the family in their formal black or dress blues. She could see the casket, too, covered with the American flag, looking almost surreal beneath the brilliant August sun.

  And, finally, she could see the young man standing at attention at the end of the first row, his shoulders ramrod straight, his manner intent.

  Zander James. Standing not forty feet away from her.

  He might as well still be halfway around the world.

  Erin closed her eyes, thinking back to the email she’d gotten just three days earlier. The one from Zander’s mother, Sarah, with the stark subject line: Funeral Arrangements.

  She’d just…locked up. Staring at the screen, her eyes blurring, her thoughts instantly jumping to the worst possible scenario, while a thousand pictures of Zander rushed through her mind. The daredevil who’d jumped off cliffs just to feel the thrill of the splashing water far below. The speed freak who’d pushed his beat-up Mustang too hard, too fast, punching it in the dead of night to break records he’d made up in his head. The boyfriend who’d wrapped his long arms around her in a circle of strength one minute with a kiss and a grin, then had taken off like a shot the next, unable to stand still when there was some abandoned building to climb, some road crew truck to hot-wire on the side of the road, some army plane to jump out of.

  She hadn’t seen him in four years. And when she’d opened that email, she’d thought…

  It didn’t matter what she’d thought.

  Because it wasn’t Zander up there, lying in that casket. It was his father—still a terrible loss, still a tragedy, but…not Zander. Caught up in sudden emotion, Erin had done something she rarely ever allowed herself to do: she cried. Huge, heavy tears of gratitude and regret. She didn’t have any right to shed those tears, she knew. She had no claim on Zander anymore, not even on his memory. In fact, right at this moment, looking at him…she wasn’t so sure she’d made the right choice to see him today, no matter how desperate she was. He looked so different, now. Taller. Bigger. His uniform seemed to fit him like a second skin, moving with his body, his every step one of grace, precision, and—something else. Power? Lethalness? Was that even a word?

  Zander had become the warrior he’d always bragged to her that he would be.

  And as much as she hated to admit it…she needed a warrior right about now.

  Because Erin had two goals in coming here this afternoon. First, she was going to march up to the family and pay her respects, just like everyone else in attendance. After all, despite everything that had happened four years ago, Sarah James had included her on the email about the colonel’s death. She’d invited Erin to attend the funeral, to share in this family experience. That meant Erin had every right to be here, every right to speak to Zander—and, accordingly, every right to follow through on her second goal for the day: to ask a real, live trained soldier how he did what he did without getting his face shot off.

  All she wanted was a few tips. Tricks. Hell, she’d be thrilled for a couple of Google links. Surely, Zander could spare her that much.

  There was a sort of line forming at the grave site now, and Erin moved to the end of it, forcing herself to stay calm. As she folded her hands at her waist, she frowned down at her dress again. It was conservative, just like her. It blended into the sea of people, just like her. She didn’t have to apologize for it. She didn’t have to apologize for herself. She’d simply walk up to Zander, express her regrets, and wish him well. That was the best way to begin.

  Then maybe, just maybe, she’d casually ask her high-school sweetheart turned kick-ass Army Ranger a simple question or two. Nothing too bold, nothing too memorable. Nothing that involved words like “Mexico” or “life savings.” And definitely nothing that included the phrase “drug dealers.”

  Erin grimaced. Drug dealers. What was she even thinking? She worked in an art gallery, for heaven’s sake! She was an HGTV-loving Do-It-Yourselfer who owned a brownstone and took care of three very nice tenants! She knew zero about taking ransom money down to someplace called Nuevo Laredo and begging for the release of hostages. Hostages. God.

  She’d been on her way home from the gallery a week before when the first call had come through. Collect, of course. And suddenly she was hearing the voice of a person from whom she hadn’t received so much as a text in nearly eight months. A person who had, over the years, taken her money, compromised her credit, stood her up on so many occasions she’d stopped counting, and convinced her to flat-out lie to everyone from complete strangers to people who were important to her. People who’d needed her. People who, at one point, she’d needed back.

  But this time, the voice pleaded, it was different. This time, things were desperate. Erin had to come get her. Not send money, not open up her credit cards—she had to come herself. In person, alone, and with every dime she had. Because the person on the other end of the line had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and had decided to walk off with the wrong thing. How many times had she done that before, successfully? Erin didn’t even want to know. But this time, she’d been caught by some very bad people, people who were capable of doing some very bad things. And now, Erin needed to get to Mexico as soon as the rest of her money was released from the bank…

  Or she’d never see her mother again.

  You can do t
his.

  Erin’s heart was already slamming against her ribcage when she reached Zander’s brothers, murmuring her prepared words—“I’m sorry for your loss. He was a good man.”—as she moved quickly past them. Even if they remembered her, they had that glazed-over look that indicated they’d already seen way too many people today, and she was simply another face in the crowd. Not too surprising. The brothers had both been in their late twenties when she’d known Zander, and deployed for most of that time. His sister, Karen, recognized her immediately, however. She was only six years older than Zander. It had seemed like an impossible age difference four years ago, but now, not so much. And as Karen turned to see Erin approach, her gaze flashed with open curiosity. “Erin,” she said, nodding. Her manner seemed cool, though, perfunctory, and Erin rushed into the exact explanation she’d just convinced herself she didn’t need to give.

  “I’m so sorry, Karen,” she said, drawing on every ounce of serene, professional distance she’d learned from putting her own work up to scrutiny week after week in art school. “Your mom let me know about the funeral. I—”

  “No, no—thank you for being here, of course.” Karen didn’t cut her off as much as give her an out, but Erin shut up anyway. Wow, this was maybe the dumbest idea ever. Zander wasn’t going to help her. Zander probably never wanted to see her again. No one in his family did. It was only what she deserved.

  She wondered if he ever thought about her anymore. If he still blamed her for everything that had happened that last summer. Not that he shouldn’t, of course. But still, Zander hadn’t known all that she’d been dealing with back then, hadn’t known what his crazy, out-of-control antics were costing her every time she saw him put himself in danger—put others in danger. Back then, no one knew how much of a train wreck her life really was.

  She still didn’t want anyone to know.

  Karen was saying something else and Erin’s gaze snapped back to hers. “I’m sorry?”

  “I asked if you were coming to the house.” Karen’s words were polite, but Erin picked up a challenge in them. Which made no sense at all. “You should, you know. There will be a reception after the funeral. We would love to see you there.” She turned and left Erin blinking after her. They would love to see me there?

  “Erin Connelly, how kind of you to come.”

  The gracious words quickly refocused Erin’s attention. Turning, she found her hands enfolded in the soft, strong palms of the next person in line. It was Zander’s mother, Sarah, who surely had to be the model for the perfect military wife. Attractive without being too pretty, strong without being cold, she’d welcomed all military souls to her house regardless of their rank or station. If you were a friend of the colonel’s, you were Sarah’s friend, too. If you were not a friend of the colonel’s, then you would never know it from his wife’s demeanor or hospitality. She was the kind of woman who could hold late-night vigils in one corner of her mind while coordinating an Army-wife potluck dinner in another, all without ever letting on that she was worried about one or all of her own family members, deployed God only knew where.

  And now she was continuing her service to her country in what Erin supposed was the only way she knew how. “Mrs. James,” Erin said, surprised to hear the wobble in her voice. “I was so sorry to learn of Colonel James’s passing. If there’s any—” She cut herself off, feeling her cheeks grow warm. She’d been away from this family for four years—by her own choice, and, she supposed, by Zander’s, too. What right did she have to offer anything now?

  Without missing a beat, Zander’s mother squeezed her hands, just as if Erin hadn’t called the cops on her youngest son four years ago and ruined his life. “Thank you so much, dear. We’re holding a reception back at the house later. I know Zander would be pleased for you to be there.”

  Erin could only stare, unable to form a response as Mrs. James gave her a last, reassuring smile. Now she had two invitations to the James residence. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. She needed a few questions answered, that was all. Then she’d scuttle away, more than ready to leave this family alone for good. She turned forward almost numbly, moving in lockstep with the person in front of her, as Zander’s mother welcomed the next mourner in the receiving line.

  It was as if her brain had forgotten the math of who was left to greet, who was up ahead. Because suddenly the path in front of her cleared and there was only Zander, standing at attention. Zander, looking larger than life. Zander, glaring at her with a clenched jaw and stormy eyes. Erin stiffened, her pulse jumping wildly, not knowing what to do, what to say, what to—

  “Zander,” she barely managed. “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t even realize she was holding out her hands until she felt him take them both in his, exactly the same way his mom had. But the moment Zander’s fingers touched hers, Erin’s brain short-circuited, all of her carefully scripted questions forgotten. Tears stung the back of her eyes and her throat felt thick, clogged. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, not even sure what she was apologizing for. Her head spun, her pulse pounded, and the only thing grounding her in reality was Zander’s grip, holding her still, holding her upright.

  In that moment, Erin flashed to a younger, far more boyish Zander. The one she’d first seen when she’d been all of thirteen years old, and had idolized for summer after summer until finally—they’d connected. They’d gravitated toward each other as if it had been the most natural thing in the world to do. The dreamy, too-serious girl and the laughing, wild-eyed guy who’d been so full of life it practically burst out of him, so full of energy nothing could slow him down—not his family, not school, especially not her. And maybe, a distant part of her mind teased, maybe enough years had passed. Maybe there’d been enough time for Zander to forgive her for being so scared that night, so furious and scared, that she’d just wanted somebody—anybody—to come and make everything stop. Come and make sure everyone was safe, him and all their friends, who were always so willing to follow him over any cliff, into any race, up the side of any building. Maybe there’d been enough time for her to forgive herself for the arrest that had unexpectedly—shockingly—resulted in the end of Zander’s West Point dreams.

  Then a voice from her past brought her sharply back to the present, a voice that was as flat and deadly as a knife to her heart.

  “Erin,” Zander said, the word brutally clipped. “How nice to see you again. Thank you for coming.” And just like that, he was already turning away.

  No! She couldn’t let this happen! Erin drew herself up sharply, gripping his hands hard. “Zander, wait,” Erin blurted. “I need—I have to ask you something. Please.”

  Chapter 2

  Staff Sergeant Zander James had pulled many impossible missions in the last four years, certainly since he’d shipped out to a desert life of blazing days and freezing nights, his unit constantly thrust into the worst of every possible situation. At this exact moment, however, his assignment was epically simple: to let go of Erin Connelly’s hands, and allow the woman who’d well and truly jacked up his life four years ago to crawl back to whatever miserable existence she was living, never to betray him again.

  Unfortunately, it appeared that said mission had already been compromised. All his careful strategies and well-laid plans to handle this fucked-up little reunion had completely fallen to shit.

  Because something was wrong.

  Erin was scared. Worried. And not just the garden-variety worry that she’d always seemed to wrap around herself like some sort of fucking shroud, every second of every day. This worry was real, immediate. It vibrated off her like a living thing.

  Too bad he didn’t give a damn. He’d stopped giving a damn about Erin Connelly the night she’d not only sold him out, but then proceeded to completely cut him out of her life. After he’d enlisted in the army—his only choice with West Point off the table—she hadn’t written him, not once. He hadn’t expected her to write him, of course, but he sure as hell hadn’t come crawling back to her, either. W
eeks had turned into months, months to years. All that time without an email or a text—and with him making only one, supremely ill-advised phone call. Hadn’t seemed so long, in the end.

  In the beginning, that was another story.

  But none of that mattered, he reminded himself. She didn’t matter.

  Except now, as he stared into a pair of bright blue eyes he knew so well they were goddamned imprinted on his skull, he found himself unprepared for the shock to his system. His hands tightened on hers, and he fixed his glare on Erin Connelly’s startled face for one long, impossibly perfect moment, taking in the parted lips, the flushed cheeks, the stricken expression of a woman far more affected by him than she’d either planned or wanted to be. Good. “Now?” he asked bluntly. “Now, at my father’s funeral, this is when you want to ask me something?”

  And, just like that, Erin’s chin came up, her shoulders firmed. That was new. “I apologize,” she said, her words suddenly as clipped as his, almost emotionless. “Of course not, what was I thinking. I’m so sorry.” Nice. She’d learned some evasive tactics of her own while he was gone. She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then thought better of it, substituting different words: “Your father will be missed.”

  She moved to pull away, and Zander felt the action like a visceral tug, as if Erin held a direct line to his heart and she was towing it along with her. And since the entire point of this little maneuver was getting that shit to stop, he tightened his own hold, keeping her close. “What’s your question?” he asked.

  “No, I’m sorry. You’re right. I should go,” Erin said, shaking her head. She tried to take one of her hands out of his, to flutter it in front of her face—as if to push back the fringe of dark hair that was always falling forward over her brow, or wipe away some smear of paint or chalk or whatever the hell she was messing with in one of her ongoing art projects. Her nervous gestures were so ingrained that Zander holding her hands still was like performing a mini-exorcism, smudging the memory of her just that little bit. That was good, he thought, that was right. He needed to erase every last image he had of Erin Connelly, push her out of his mind completely. He’d come a long way toward that on his own, but seeing her now, here—clearly there was more work to be done.