Meet Kayden in Book one in the CARELESS WHISPERS series. This is a standalone spin-off of the INSIDE OUT series (soon to be a TV show) that follows Ella Ferguson, Sara McMillan's best friend. #SayyestoKayden
Now available for Pre-order!
Blurb
From New York Times bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones, the first book in the CARELESS WHISPERS series.
Please note: This is the standalone spinoff of the INSIDE OUT series. New readers can enjoy this without reading INSIDE OUT but those who love INSIDE OUT will FINALLY find out what happened to Ella!
Ella Ferguson awakes alone in Italy, unsure of who she is, and a gorgeous man has claimed her as his own. He's tall, dark, and sexy, with money and power, the kind of man who makes a girl want to be possessed. And he does possess her, whispering wicked wonderful promises to her, stealing her trust and her heart. Soon though, the past finds her, yanking her from a cocoon of passion and safety. Everything is not how it seems. The truth will shatter her world, but it can set her free, if it doesn't destroy her first.
Chapter Two
I blink, and once again
I’m staring into pale blue eyes. “Kayden?”
His lips curve, and
those eyes of his, which have a way of stealing right into the emptiness of my
mind, light with satisfaction. “You remember me. Progress. The last two times
that you woke up, you didn’t know my name.”
“What last two times?” I
try to focus, to remember anything but him. “The MRI machine—”
“You had a panic attack
inside it, and they had to sedate you.”
My brow furrows, and I
flash back to the violin playing in my ears. “No. I was fi ne, just cold and
sick to my stomach.”
“Until you weren’t fi ne
anymore,” he says, running his hand over the dark shadow on his jaw that I
don’t remember being there before. A bad feeling comes over me.
“How much time has
passed?”
He glances at his watch
again, and I’m relieved to remember it’s a Cartier, relieved by all things
familiar. That is until he announces, “Thirty-six hours.”
Losing that much time is
like a blow; my throat is suddenly so dry it’s sandpaper. “I need water.”
He stands and finds the
pitcher, filling a cup for me. I try to sit, and he quickly abandons his
efforts, gently shackling my arm, his touch electric, familiar in a way that no
longer surprises me but still confuses me. “Let me lift the bed,” he offers,
and I nod, allowing him to help me, the way I have so many times before, it
seems, when really it hasn’t been that often at all.
The bed rises, and I
settle against it while he reaches for the cup. He offers it to me, and this
time when I accept it, and our hands and gazes collide, I don’t look away. I
can’t look away. “Déjà vu,” I whisper, feeling the sensation clear to my soul.
“Yes,” he agrees. “DéjÃ
vu.” While I could dismiss it as just that, I have this sense that there’s more
to this moment than a simple repeat action.
I down the contents of the
cup, drinking quickly before he can stop me, and when I’m done, he takes the
cup from me. “More?”
“No, thank you.” I glance
down, unnerved to realize my IV is gone. “It’s hard to comprehend that I woke
up twice and don’t remember.”
“You not only woke up—the
last time you were awake, you ate some soup and had a nurse help you shower.”
“Shower? Okay, I’m even
more freaked out now. How can I not remember that? How bad is my head injury?”
“Your tests were all normal
aside from the concussion, which is healing. Your back should be healing as
well.”
I flex my shoulders and
nod. “It feels better, and my head doesn’t hurt the way it did. But I’m not
encouraged that I can’t remember the last two times I woke up.”
“It’s the drugs they
gave you after you had the panic attack.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the second time
you woke up and didn’t remember the first time, I was worried and asked.”
“Could my entire memory
loss be the drugs?” I ask, hopefully.
His lips tighten. “No.
Sorry. I asked the same as well.”
“Of course it’s not the
drugs,” I say grimly. “That would be too easy a solution. At least I showered,
I guess.”
“As did I,” he says. “I
was afraid they’d kick me out if I didn’t.”
It’s then that I notice
he’s now in a light blue T-shirt and faded jeans, which indicates, I assume,
that he went home, changed, and made the decision to return here to me. “It’s been
thirty-six hours since my test, and at least another eight before that, and
you’re still here.”
“Yes. I’m still here.”
Reality hits me with
gut-wrenching clarity. “No one came looking for me.”
He gives a grim shake of
his head. “No.”
I inhale and then let
the breath out, devastated by this news. Kayden is here out of obligation or
some sense of responsibility. Whatever the case, he won’t admit it, and I’m not
going to pathetically drive home the topic. I need out of this place, and so
does he.
“Do you know when the
doctor will be back around?” I ask.
“Not until tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait until tomorrow; I need to talk
to him now,” I insist. “Please call him.” I realize I’ve grabbed his arm and
I’m squeezing. “I’m sorry.” I jerk my hand back, and it’s trembling. I’m trembling.
All over. “I just need them to fix me. They . . . they have to make me remember
who I am.”
“The doctors keep saying
that you will,” he assures me, reaching to the table beside the bed and
presenting me with a leather book.
“What is that?”
“A journal. The staff
psychologist left this for you. She wants you to write down your thoughts and
dreams. Apparently there’s reason to believe it will help you regain your memories
sooner.”
In disbelief, I ask,
“That’s my medical treatment? A journal?” I take it from him, my brow
furrowing with a memory that’s here and then gone, leaving me frustrated and
ready to throw the darn thing. “How is this supposed to help me?”
“It’s one part of a
treatment plan they intend to present to you on Monday.”
I set the journal on the
bed, rejecting it along with the “treatment plan.” “They seem to believe that
your brain is suppressing memories to protect you from some sort of trauma.”
“Leaving me homeless and
without a name?” I ask. “That’s a horrible way to protect myself. And I don’t
even have memories to write in it.”
He shifts on the bed,
his hand settling on my leg. It’s a strong hand, the hand of a man who knows
what he wants and goes after it, while I know nothing at all. “Maybe if we
talk, it’ll help.”
“That’s no different than writing in the
journal. I can’t talk about what I don’t remember.”
“My memories might stir
yours.”
I sigh. “Okay. But it
would be so much easier if there was a pill for this kind of thing.”
His lips hint at a
smile. “Most of us would agree with that at some point in our lives. Why don’t
we talk about the night you were mugged?”
“That’s exactly why I’m
here,” says an unfamiliar male voice.
My attention shifts to the
doorway, where a man in his mid-thirties leans on the doorjamb, his suit and
dark brown hair a bit rumpled and his tie slightly off center.
“What the hell are you
doing here, Gallo?” Kayden demands, shoving off the bed to face him.
“My job,” the man states,
striding toward us. While his features are too hard and the lines of his face
too sharp to be called good-looking, there is something about him that refuses to
be ignored, and he stands at the end of my bed, fixing me in a steely gray
stare. “I’m Detective Gallo. I hear you were mugged, and I want to ask you a
few questions.”
“You don’t handle
muggings,” Kayden points out.
“I do when your name’s
on the report,” the detective says shortly. It’s pretty clear these two don’t
just know each other; they don’t like each other.
“Of course,” Kayden replies,
sounding amused. “Because I’ve broken so many laws.”
The detective is not amused.
“Just because you haven’t been caught doesn’t make you innocent.” He gives me a
pointed look. “I’m guessing you aren’t Maggie.”
I blanch. “What? I . . .
no. Or . . .” I look to Kayden for help. “What is he talking about?”
“He’s being a
smart-ass,” Kayden states. “I registered you under that name and told them you
were my sister.”
My brow furrows. “What?
Why?”
The detective takes it
upon himself to answer. “Because it gave him access to you.”
“Exactly,” Kayden
confirms, offering no apology or explanation.
He doesn’t need to, and
yet I want more. More what, though? I don’t know. Just . . . more.
“At least he put you up
in the ritzy end of the hospital,” the detective points out, demanding the
attention again, and making a big show of glancing around the room. And as
obviously intended, I follow his lead, and for the first time since I’ve been
lucid, I look at it, as well. Really look at it—and realize it’s larger
than expected, with a sitting area to the left and a mini kitchen.
I look at Kayden in shock.
“How much is this costing? I don’t even know if I have a bank account, let
alone money to pay for this!”
“Don’t worry about
money. I have this,” he says softly.
“You mean you’re paying
my bills. Kayden, I can’t let you do that. I don’t know if I can pay you back.”
“Let him pay,” the
detective interjects. “He’s got a boatload of cash. But I do have to say, his
registering you under a fake name, on top of the upgraded security in this wing
of the building, does make it damn hard for anyone looking for you to find
you.”
“The staff know to
direct any inquiries that might fit your description to me,” Kayden assures me,
flicking the detective an irritated look. “Obviously—since you found her.”
“I found you, not
her.” He looks at me again. “And I’d ask for your real name to connect a few
dots, but I understand that you don’t remember it.”
“That’s right,” I
confirm, resisting the urge to fidget, like I have something to hide, when I
don’t. Do I?
“What do you
remember?” he asks.
“Nothing before the
moment I woke up here.”
He arches a brow.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Not even the actual
attack?” I shake my head.
“I see,” he says,
stroking his clean-shaven jaw. “I was hoping the actual attack wasn’t a part of
your memory loss.”
“I’m completely blank,
Detective, and it’s really quite terrifying to think about being in that
alleyway, passed out and alone. I’m thankful Kayden was there to get me help.”
“Right.” His hand leaves
his face, and he grips the railing at the foot of the bed. “That was lucky.”
His gaze lands on Kayden. “Not often a real hero comes along.”
“If you have something
to say to me, Gallo,” Kayden says calmly, “then say it and let’s move on.”
The detective’s steely
eyes fix on Kayden, and the hate radiating off him is so fierce. I’m clearly in
the center of something very personal, and very bitter.
“Detective—” I say, intending
to ask for the help he swears he’s here to give me.
“You and I need to chat
for a few moments alone,” he says, his hard stare returning to me.
“Let’s cut to the chase,
Gallo,” Kayden interjects. “You’re here to badger me by badgering her, and I’m
not going to let that happen. Especially while she’s fragile.”
“I’m not fragile,” I
insist.
“I can assure you,” the
detective replies, ignoring me, “this is about her, not you.”
“If ‘her’ is me,” I say,
certain this one-on-one is going to happen, “I’ll talk with you alone.” I
glance at Kayden. “I get that there are two agendas here. I can handle it. I
just need to solve the mystery of who I am.”
The detective’s
approving gaze falls on me. “At least two of us are on the same page.”
Kayden’s lips thin, but
he accepts my answer. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”
I give him a nod, and he
meets the detective’s stare, the two of them exchanging what I’m pretty sure
are some heated silent words, before he strides out of the room.
Detective Gallo claims
the stool Kayden favors and scoots closer to me. “It really was lucky that he
just happened to be at the right place, at the right time, to rescue you.” His
tone says he doesn’t think it was a matter of luck at all. “And talk about
dedication to a stranger. Forty-eight hours later, he’s not only still here,
he’s paying your bills.”
Already he’s attacking
Kayden, but I’m not foolish enough not to find out why. “What are you getting
at?”
“That maybe, just maybe,
he knew you before he found you.” He holds up a finger. “And maybe, just maybe,
he wasn’t in the right place at the right time by chance.”
My mind flickers with an
image of Kayden’s hand on my back, and I can almost feel the familiar sensation
of his touch spread from my shoulders down my spine. “He says I didn’t know
him.”
“Do you believe him?”
“You know I have no
memory.”
“You have instincts.”
“Which could suck, for
all I know.”
He rests his arms on the
railing, the position eating away much of the space between us. “I’m trying to
help you—you know that, right?”
“You are here for him,
not me.”
“I’m here because of
him, but for you.”
“I don’t know what that
means,” I say, “and I honestly don’t care. I have to find out who I am, before
I’m discharged and on the street.”
“You won’t end up on the
streets. There are programs—”
“So that’s the
help you’re giving me?” I interrupt. “You’ll stick me in some government
program and I’ll cease to exist before I landed in this hospital room?”
His lips tighten and he
leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I ran a general check on all
missing persons reports, including anyone traveling from outside the country.”
“And?” I ask, holding my
breath, almost as afraid to hear the answer as I am desperate for it.
“At this point there are
no active reports that match your description locally.”
“What about internationally?”
“Or for anyone traveling
by way of a passport,” he adds.
I’m shell-shocked,
trying to figure out what this means for me.
“However,” he adds,
“there tends to be a slight delay in reports filed for a missing person who
lives or travels alone.”
“Alone.” The word
carves a hole in my soul, taunting me with the idea that no one’s looking for
me because no one cares about me. “No,” I say, rejecting that idea. “I might
not know who I am, but I know I wouldn’t live here without learning the
language, which means that I’m visiting. And I wouldn’t visit a foreign country
alone.”
“And as you said, your
instincts might suck.”
Infuriated at his lack
of help, I say, “I don’t need instincts to know that I can’t wait for a missing
persons report that might not come, to deal with my situation.”
“And you don’t have to.
If you are indeed an American citizen—”
“I am. I know I am.”
“Well then,” he says,
“you’d be traveling with a passport, and there will be fingerprints on file.”
A ray of hope replaces
my anger. “You mean we can crosscheck my records?”
“Exactly. I’ll pick up a
fingerprint kit, and we’ll run them through the database. If we get a hit, then
we’ll know your name, home country, and even your parents’ names.”
“Why wouldn’t we get a
match?”
“There are any number of
reasons,” he says, “but let’s cross that bridge if we come to it.”
“No. No, I want to know
the reasons.”
“It’s really—”
“I want to know.”
He sighs. “You could
have crossed the border illegally.”
“Why would I do that?”
“There’s a black market
for American women in the sex trade. Normally they’re drugged, and you have no
marks on your arms. But—”
“Enough,” I say, not
needing anything else to freak me out. “I get the point: there are reasons.
What happens next?”
“I’ll bring in a fingerprint
kit.” He glances at his watch. “It’s nearly five now, and visiting hours end at
eight. So most likely I’ll have to bring it tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d like
to get a photo that I can show around the neighborhood where we found you.
Maybe someone knows you.”
A photo—good God, I
don’t even know what I look like! “I . . . Yes. Okay.”
He pulls out his phone.
“I’ll take a few now, if that works for you?”
“Of course.” I’ve barely
issued the approval before he snaps a few shots and is inspecting them.
“Looks good,” he says.
“Do you want to approve it?”
He offers me the phone
and I hold up a hand again. “No,” I say quickly, irrationally panicked at the
idea of seeing myself, especially when seeing myself, finding me, is exactly
what I’m after. “I really don’t want to know how I must look right now.”
“Far better than you might
think,” he says, a hint of warmth in his tone as he slips his phone back in his
jacket and stands, his hands settling on the railing as he stares down at me.
“There’s a reason he told them you’re his sister.”
“What do you mean? You
said he did that to be able to be in my room with me.”
“A decision he made the
moment he brought you to the hospital. That doesn’t add up to being a stranger
to me.”
“Why can’t he simply be
a good guy helping someone in need?”
“Because this is Kayden Wilkens we’re talking
about, and Kayden Wilkens doesn’t do anything, including you, without an
agenda.” He’s looking at the doorway now.
My gaze follows his, my
lips parting with the impact of finding Kayden standing there. If Detective
Gallo demands attention, Kayden just plain claims it. He is power, control, beauty,
and, right now, anger. The air crackles with its intensity, and when his
piercing blue eyes shift from Gallo to me, I have a sense of a wolf who doesn’t
bother with sheep’s clothing, with his sights set on me.
And I’m certain that
it’s not protectiveness or obligation I see in his face. This time, it’s one
hundred percent possession.
Excerpt (Steamy)
His hand slides to my back and he leans me toward the table, forcing me to catch myself on my elbows. He holds me there, his body cradling mine, his lips a breath from a touch. “I won’t let you fall.”
“I know,” I say, and I do now. Beyond time and reason, I trust this man.
His mouth brushes mine and then trails down my jaw, slowly teasing a path to my ear, where he whispers, “I’m not going to claim to own you the way he did.” He flattens his hands on my belly, possessiveness in the touch. “I’m just going to make you wish I did.”
My lips part with the erotic promise, and he is already kissing me, licking into my mouth, his tongue a sultry, seductive promise that he can make good on his vow. And while I do not wish anyone to own me again, I want what he offers in a way that defies reason.
He nips my lips and licks away the sweet ache, and somehow I feel that lick between my thighs where I am already wet and aching. His whiskers rasp on my cheek, down my neck to my shoulder, a wicked burn that is torment and pleasure at the same time. Like he is. His hands settle on my waist, lingering there, teasing me with all the places they could go, until finally he is caressing my body, up and down, a slow, sexy, torturous exploration.
He pinches my nipples again and he is not gentle, but I do not seem to want gentle. My sex clenches and my knees crush his hips. His lips curve to a small, satisfied smile that is wickedly sexy, and rawly male. He leans in and licks one of my throbbing nipples, sending a shiver down my spine, and I arch upward, the table biting into my elbows, but I do not care. He is sucking me, dragging deep on the knotted peak, and pleasure tingles through my nerve endings, my sex, forcing my legs to squeeze his hips again.
My arms tremble with my weight and he responds without me asking, moving closer and laying me on top of the table. My spine flattens on the hard surface and he lingers above me. “I want more.”
“More what?”
“Everything,” he says, his lips nuzzling my ear as he repeats, “Everything, Ella. Can I have it?”
The question affects me, but not as much as the way he waits, genuinely seeking my approval. He takes power but somehow gives it to me as well, and this is freedom to me, safety. Things I do not think I have often felt in my life. “Yes,” I whisper. “Yes.”
He inhales as if my approval surprises and pleases him, as if it is a gift he relishes, not a property he owns. And it is then that I give myself the freedom to just let go, the muscles in my body easing in ways they hadn’t before. I do give him everything. His mouth caresses mine and he whispers, “That’s what I wanted,” as if he knows I’ve made that decision.
And already his lips are traveling down my neck, tongue flicking here and there, his hand caressing, squeezing my breast. He assaults my senses with pleasure, touching me, kissing me, driving away my memories and enemies. His whiskers rasp my belly, his lips pressing to the center, his tongue flickering into my navel, and I tremble with the silent promise it will soon be where I want it to be. His hand flattens over my sex, inches lower until he is flicking my clit, back and forth, back and forth.
He lifts my legs to his shoulders, spreading me wide, and I am vulnerably his, and aroused beyond belief. He lowers his head, his breath a warm tease on my sensitive places, and I grip the edge of the table, bracing myself for what is to come. He laps at my nub, the barely there touch, and I am breathing hard, wishing I could touch him, incapable of moving, and the muscles of my sex clench so tightly it hurts.
He licks my clit and I am both relieved and on edge in the same moment, ready for more, for that everything he has promised me. Another lick follows. Yes, please, more, I think, and as if he’s heard my silent plea, he gives it to me. His hands slide beneath my backside and he lifts me to his mouth, and it is nothing shy of sweet bliss when his mouth closes down around me. He sucks, drawing deeply on my sensitive flesh, lapping at me, licking me again in all the right ways and right places. I am panting and moaning, and I barely recognize the sounds as my own. Sensations ripple through me and when his fingers slide inside me, I am undone, tumbling into orgasm. The intensity jerks my body and I lose all time and space. It’s escape, sweet, blissful escape, and he keeps me there, slowly bringing me down, the licks of his tongue growing softer, slower. Until I am sated, limp, and he pulls me back onto his lap, my head resting on his shoulder, his hand flattening between my shoulder blades.
“Everything or nothing,” he whispers, and this time, I do not believe he is talking about orgasms and pleasure.
I lean back to look at him, and the idea of what we are becoming is a sweet seduction, threatened by the emptiness of my past. “What if everything is too much?”
He drags two fingers down my cheek. “Sweetheart, I don’t have a ceiling. We’re going to find out if you do.”
About the Author:
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones is the author of the highly acclaimed INSIDE OUT SERIES, and is now in development by Suzanne Todd (Alice in Wonderland) for cable TV. In addition, her Tall, Dark and Deadly series and The Secret Life of Amy Bensen series, both spent several months on a combination of the NY Times and USA Today lists.
Watch the video on casting for the INSIDE TV Show HERE
Since beginning her publishing career in 2007, Lisa has published more than 40 books translated around the world. Booklist says that Jones suspense truly sizzles with an energy similar to FBI tales with a paranormal twist by Julie Garwood or Suzanne Brockmann.
Prior to publishing, Lisa owned multi-state staffing agency that was recognized many times by The Austin Business Journal and also praised by Dallas Women Magazine. In 1998 LRJ was listed as the #7 growing women owned business in Entrepreneur Magazine.
Lisa loves to hear from her readers. You can reach her at on her website and she is active on twitter and facebook daily.
GIVEAWAY
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