Page 14 of Hard Luck (Blackstone House)

Stanley gave a world-weary sigh, even though he wasprobably sitting in an office that had its own luxury bathroom, a putting green, and a Picasso on the wall.

“I can increase the offer by half a million, but my accountant won’t let me go any higher than that.”

“This isn’t only about the money.”

“Give it some thought,” Stanley said, ignoring Cole’s words. “You could buy a mansion on that island you call home. Take a vacation to Europe, spend a year on the beach.”

“Thanks, but I’m planning to run the Galaxy as a hotel and casino.”

“You have no experience in this industry, son. You’re only prolonging the inevitable.”

“Rest assured, you’ll be the first person I call if I decide to sell.”

That was a lie. If Cole decided to sell, he’d explore every available option before he handed the Galaxy over to that man. Helpful or not, Cole just didn’t like him.

“You don’t have the capital behind you to make a success of the place. The Galaxy is weighed down by debt, and no amount of wishful thinking will change that.”

“Have a good day, Mr. Fuller.”

Cole hung up and leaned back in Uncle Mike’s leather swivel chair. It squeaked loudly. Like everything else in the Galaxy, it had seen better days, say thirty years ago. The lucky shamrock hanging on the wall opposite was crumbling too. Uncle Mike had picked it himself on a trip to Ireland right before he opened the Galaxy, and it had hung in his office ever since. According to Nancy, Uncle Mike had been a superstitious man, and he’d firmly believed that the leaf brought good fortune to all who set eyes on it.

Given that Uncle Mike had collapsed and died over by the coffee machine in the corner, Cole had his doubts aboutits abilities, although he had run a finger over the glass as he left the office last night. And then he’d met Bella.

Bella.

She’d been an intoxicating mix of filth and fun. After they’d snuck into the rooftop party via a set of emergency stairs that the waitstaff used as a shortcut to the other end of the club rather than fighting their way through the partygoers, she’d blown his mind as well as his cock. The scars on her body and the tattoo on her ass—a heart with devil horns and a tail—told a story of their own. She was a risk-taker. An enigma. He should have asked for her number, but he never thought she’d sneak out of his bed in the middle of the night.

On impulse, he rose and touched the glass again.

“You found her once. Can you find her again?”

CHAPTER 6

JEZEBEL

“You know, when I heard Jerry Knight was down the hallway with yet another injury, I told the nurse, ‘No, that’s impossible. Jerry’s resting at home with a fractured tibia.’” Doc Martinsson checked my chart and raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here you are.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“If I had a dollar for every time I’d heard that, I’d be playing golf right now.”

“We only went out for dinner.”

“Dinner where? The Diamondback Devils’ clubhouse?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

True, some members of the motorcycle club could be violent, but they weren’t irrational. They didn’t stab you in the thigh with the broken stem of a champagne glass just because you said five words to their boyfriend. Even if those five words were, “Your girlfriend is a psycho.” Anyhow, the wound wouldn’t stop oozing, so after a restless night, I’d given in and driven to the hospital. It was either that or fix the mess myself, and I had to reluctantly admit that Doc Martinsson was skilled when it came to sewing.

Plus I had a hangover.

He poked around in the hole. “This needs stitches. Are those glass fragments?”

“Probably.”

“Go on then, entertain me while I repair the damage.”

I lay back on the exam table and sighed as he jabbed local anaesthetic into my leg. Would I end up with another scar? I was into double figures already, and each one of them had a story. Most of those stories were classified.

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