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  Wordless

  A Novel

  By Sabrina Stark

  USA Today Bestselling Author

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  Copyright © 2019 by Sabrina Stark

  Chapter 1

  Becka

  For someone I'd known less than four hours, he sure was bossy.

  "Pack your stuff," he said. "We're leaving."

  I stared up at him. "We?"

  His hair was thick and blond, and his eyes were so blue, they made the ocean look dingy in comparison. "Well you're not going alone," he said.

  I struggled for a reply and came up empty. Honestly, what was I supposed to say? The guy in front of me wasn't just a new acquaintance. He was also Jack Ward – my favorite author, a total hottie, and a billionaire several times over.

  Unfortunately, he was also just a little bit scary. Ask my roommate. He'll tell you – well, unless he's already escaped through his bedroom window, that is.

  I glanced around the condo where I'd been living for the past two weeks. To say the arrangement had gone to crap would be giving crap a bad name.

  Turns out, my roommate was a druggie and a dude. On top of that, he wasn't terrific at keeping his horse in the barn, if you know what I mean.

  Until just five days ago, I'd never even met the guy, much less realized that "Nicky" wasn't short for Nicole, but rather Nicholas. But in my own defense, the gal who'd rented me the place had neglected to mention this little detail, along with a whole bunch of other stuff – on purpose, no doubt.

  And me? Like a total sucker, I'd actually trusted her.

  Now I didn't know who to trust. I bit my lip. If only my sister were here.

  Jack's voice interrupted my thoughts. "If you need boxes, let me know. I'll have some delivered."

  I blinked. It was nearly ten o'clock on a Sunday night. This was a small town. Nothing was open. I shook my head. And was box delivery seriously a thing?

  Not in my world, it wasn't. Then again, I wasn't a billionaire. In fact, my bank balance was dangerously close to zero.

  I just had to ask, "Who'd do that?"

  "Do what?" Jack said.

  "Deliver boxes. I mean, nothing's open."

  He gave me a look. "Do you need them or not?"

  "No," I admitted.

  "Good," he said. "Then get packing."

  I didn't appreciate his tone. "Don't you think that's kind of bossy? I mean, I never said for sure that I'm moving."

  His jaw tightened. "Well you're not staying here. I can tell you that."

  Yup, he was definitely bossy. I wanted to argue. But I couldn’t. And why?

  It was because he was right.

  I couldn't stay. Not anymore. But I'd known that already.

  Stalling for time, I glanced around the condo. The place was surprisingly nice. It had come pre-furnished, too, which meant that nearly nothing was mine.

  Sure, I had some clothes in the bedroom along with my notebook computer and a few essentials. But the sad truth was, I could probably cram everything I owned into my cheap compact car.

  No boxes needed.

  Still, I shoved a hand through my hair and tried to think. Leaving sounded easy enough, but where would I go?

  A hotel?

  As if I had the money.

  My sister's place?

  That would've been the plan, if only she were in town.

  I was still running through my options when Jack said, "Becka."

  I jumped at the sound of my name. "What?"

  "You're not packing."

  "I know, because I'm thinking."

  "So do both," he said.

  I sighed. On this, he was right, too. After all, it would take me at least a half-hour to gather up my stuff. Surely by then, I'd know where I was going.

  But for now, I was simply going crazy.

  Some of this was Jack's fault. Not only had he just assaulted my scuzz-bucket of a roommate, he was distracting the heck out of me.

  Some people go for movie stars. Or rock stars. Or hell, even reality TV stars. But me? I'd had my nose crammed in one book or another for as long as I could recall. Some of those books were better than others.

  But seven years ago at the ripe old age of seventeen, I'd fallen head-over-heels in love – with his books, sprawling medieval tales that were beyond brutal, and yet sometimes so beautiful they almost made me cry.

  It was totally insane. Jack was only a few years older than I was. In fact, he'd just turned thirty-one last month. And how did I know this?

  I'd read it on the internet, of course.

  Now, he was glowering down at me like I was a bratty kid refusing to clean my room.

  I wasn't bratty. I was just confused.

  Hell, I'd been confused ever since showing up on my sister's doorstep four hours ago, only to encounter someone who definitely didn't belong.

  And that was putting it mildly.

  Chapter 2

  Becka – Four Hours Earlier

  Un-freaking-believable.

  I stared up at the half-naked floozy who was blocking the mansion's front door. Okay, floozy was an old-fashioned word, but that's exactly what she was – a total freaking floozy – unless I was planning to dive for the gutter and call her something a whole lot worse.

  Slut.

  After all, she had to know exactly who she was screwing – Flynn Archer, a guy who was already engaged – to my sister.

  The bastard.

  Not her. Him.

  Obviously.

  I felt my jaw clench. Boy, was he gonna get it.

  Again, I moved forward, intending to yank open the massive front door and barge my way into the house, his house, the glorious secluded mansion where my sister had been living since sometime last year.

  Unfortunately, my sister was out of town. She'd been away for the past week, helping our mom get settled into a new place. That place was in Wyoming – several hours away, even by private jet. His jet.

  The jerk. Probably the whole private jet thing was his way of keeping track of her – making sure that my sister didn't return early while he was doing – well, her, whatever her name was.

  I'd been arguing with her for several minutes now, and so far, she'd refused to tell me her name, much less what she was doing here.

  But hey, it was easy to guess.

  When she moved sideways yet again to block my path, I took a single step backward and let my gaze drift rudely over her nearly naked form. She was wearing a lacy black bra with matching black panties. The lace of both undergarments was so flimsy it was practically transparent, giving me an intimate view of her perky nipples and shaved – well, you know what.

  The undergarments – what little there were – perfectly matched her long, ebony hair and thick, dark eyelashes. I squinted upward and gave them a closer look. They couldn’t be real. Could they?

  Without thinking, I looked down to her ample chest and mentally repeated the question. Were those real? If so, it was hard to fathom, given the tiny circumference of her waist.

  I knew one thing for darn sure. She wasn't from around here. This was my hometown, not hers. And yes, I would know. After all, this wasn't New York or even Detroit. This was Sugar Falls, Michigan, where, depending on the season, tourists might outnumber actual residents several times over.

  I was still staring when her voice – in that upscale English accent of hers – interrupted my thoughts. "Maybe you should take a photo. It will last longer."

  "Oh yeah?" Suddenly inspired, I blurted out, "Well maybe I did."

  It was a total bluff. In truth, I'd been too surprised to do much of anything after pulling onto the property only
to see a scantily clad stranger standing in the open doorway.

  The door wasn't open anymore. And why was that? It was because the moment I'd stalked up to the front porch, she'd slammed it behind her faster than you could say, "Where the hell is Jonathon Flynn Archer?"

  That was his full name – the guy who was going to get a piece of my mind, as soon as she moved aside.

  In front of me, she gave a mean little laugh. "Oh, please. You did not."

  Take her picture? She was right. I hadn't. Still, I pulled out my cell phone and gave it a random wave. "Are you sure about that?"

  "Of course I'm sure." She glanced toward the phone. "I would've seen."

  "Not if I took it from my car." I forced a smile so evil, it made my face hurt. "And just so you know, it wasn't flattering."

  She gave a little gasp. "What?"

  When my only reply was a loose shrug, she sputtered, "You are such a liar!"

  I kept my smile plastered in place. "If you say so."

  Okay, so maybe I was lying just a little. Even if I had taken such a picture, she would've looked impossibly gorgeous. In fact, I couldn’t imagine any angle that wouldn't make her look like some sort of goddess, sent to make normal girls like me feel short and frumpy in comparison.

  Then again, she was wearing high heels. That had to account for at least a few inches, right?

  Her eyes narrowed as they zoomed in on my phone. "Show me," she commanded.

  I took another step backward. "No."

  She stepped forward. "Why not?"

  Again, I backed up. "Because you're too far away."

  "So stop moving."

  I jerked my chin upward. "Make me."

  Finally, with a long-suffering sigh, she strode forward as if she weren't wearing nearly nothing. Even worse, she managed to look stupidly elegant doing it, almost as if she were walking down some fashion runway in Milan – and not some porch in northern Michigan.

  It was this twisted observation that made me suddenly realize why she looked so annoyingly familiar. Holy hell. She was a model – an underwear model. Swimsuits, too. Her name was Imogen St. James, and I'd seen her on television just last month as part of some prime-time lingerie extravaganza.

  Well, this was just great.

  Not only was Flynn cheating on my sister. He was doing it with one of the hottest models in the world. What a total cliché.

  But what did it matter?

  Cheating was cheating, right?

  As she strode forward, I kept backing up until I was in serious danger of toppling backward down the front steps. But then, just as she nearly reached me, I sidestepped around her and bolted straight for the front door.

  From behind me, she squealed, "You little bitch!"

  Hah! She was ten times bitchier than I was, because unlike her, I'd never sleep with a guy who was taken.

  Already I could hear her scrambling up behind me. Too fast, even in high heels.

  Crap.

  In a burst of raw desperation, I took a flying leap for the handle of the front door, only to have the door itself swing magically open just as my fingers stretched out toward it.

  With an embarrassing little scream, I soared through the open doorway, and landed with a thud on the ornate entrance rug. On impact, the stupid thing slid forward across the glossy wooden floor, moving like a bobsled on ice – and carrying me along for the ride.

  Damn it.

  When the rug finally stopped moving, I flopped over onto my back and lifted my head, looking up at the guy whose hand was still on the interior door handle. He was tall and muscular with thick blond hair and piercing blue eyes.

  He was frowning and shirtless above his faded jeans. His waist was lean, and his torso was a mouthwatering work of art – not with ink, but rather with muscles cut so fine that I couldn’t help but stare.

  When my gaze dipped to his abs, I swallowed with an audible gulp – and not because I'd just had the wind knocked out of me.

  Trying not to drool, I jerked my gaze upward. From the look on his face, he was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

  I knew exactly who he was.

  But he wasn't my sister's fiancé, which meant…what, exactly?

  Chapter 3

  Becka

  I could hardly believe it. I was looking at Jack Freaking Ward, my all-time favorite author.

  He was still frowning – except now he was frowning at Imogen, who was standing in the open doorway, griping up a storm. Even worse, she sounded stupidly elegant doing it.

  It was the accent. It had to be.

  She concluded her little tirade by saying, "And I don't appreciate the intrusion."

  At this, I couldn’t help but snort. "Yeah, right."

  Her gaze snapped in my direction. "Pardon?"

  Like an idiot, I was still lying on the rug. As I scrambled to my feet, I said, "I guess I'm just wondering why you'd be standing outside in your underpants if you didn't want any attention."

  She was glaring again. "I said intrusion, not attention."

  "But isn't that the same thing?" I asked.

  "Hardly." Through gritted teeth, she explained, "I wasn't outside. I was in the doorway."

  To me, that seemed like a distinction without a difference. "Yeah, but I could still see you from outside."

  "It was an oversight, I assure you." She turned accusing eyes to Jack Ward. "You said his estate was private."

  "Yeah? And you said you were going to the bathroom."

  She frowned. "What?"

  "The bathroom," he repeated. "So unless you were planning to pee off the front porch–"

  "What?" she sputtered. "I'd never!"

  He looked unimpressed. "If you say so…"

  "You're barbaric. You do realize that, don't you?"

  "Hell yeah," he said. "But at least I do my business in the house."

  I almost snickered. He was goading her. That much was obvious, even to me – a total stranger. But the way it looked, she was totally missing it.

  I watched in silent wonder as she launched into a long explanation of how she only opened the door because she thought she heard a noise on the front porch.

  Oh, please. It was the dumbest excuse I'd ever heard, unless of course, she was starring in a slasher movie, in which case her logic made total sense.

  When he didn't bother with a reply, she demanded, "And what about this?"

  His eyebrows lifted. "This?"

  She extended an arm and pointed a bony finger in my direction. "Her."

  He looked to me, and then to the rug that lay twisted at my feet. "Yeah, well…" He shrugged. "These things happen."

  At this, even I had to frown. If people soaring through the open doorway was a regular occurrence, this guy's life had to be a million times more exciting than mine.

  Then again, he was Jack Ward. I'd seen his picture on the back of all those books. They were the same books that had formed the foundation for some of the most popular movies in the world.

  In what couldn’t be a coincidence, my sister's fiancé had starred in those movies. In fact, the newest flick was still killing it at the box office – here and overseas.

  Near the door, Imogen was still sputtering. "These things happen? Not to me, they don't."

  Yeah. Well, they did now.

  But I didn't say it. Instead, I glanced around while she continued to complain, even as Jack Ward continued to look oddly unconcerned.

  He hadn't even bothered to shut the door.

  I spoke up. "Maybe you should shut that. You know, to keep the bugs out." It was, after all, nearly summer, and the place was surrounded by acres of dense forest. Bug Central, right?

  Imogen gave me an irritated look. "What an excellent idea." Stepping aside, she made a grand sweeping gesture toward the open doorway. "Off you go."

  I glanced toward the door. "Sorry, what?"

  She smirked. "It's called a hint, dearie."

  Dearie, my ass. She could hint all she wanted, but I wasn't leaving, n
ot without making sure that my sister hadn't been screwed over. "Just to make sure," I said, "you're with Jack Ward? And not Flynn Archer?" I looked from her to him and back again. "Right?"

  She eyed me with open hostility. "That's hardly your concern."

  "It is, too," I insisted.

  Through clenched teeth, she replied, "And why is that?"

  Jack Ward spoke up. "Because that's her sister, Becka."

  At the sound of my name on his lips, I sucked in a quiet breath. He knew my name. I didn't even care how he knew it. I just wanted him to say it again. How stupid was that?

  She turned to face him. "Whose sister?"

  Finally shutting the door, he answered, "Anna's."

  At this, Imogen gave an annoying little laugh. "You can't mean the waffle waitress?"

  I stiffened. "Hey! There's nothing wrong with being a waitress."

  With a lingering smirk, she turned back to me and said, "If you say so."

  My jaw clenched. "I do say so." But what I didn't mention was that I was no stranger to food service myself. Not too long ago, I'd been working at a burger joint that wasn't terribly different from the waffle place. I hadn't even been a waitress. I'd been a part-time cashier, which meant that I'd been earning even less than my sister.

  But in my own defense, good jobs were hard to find, especially when someone's stepdad had been sent away to prison for a whole slew of financial crimes.

  Considering my family history, it was amazing they'd let me near the cash at all.

  With a final snicker, Imogen turned back to Jack Ward and said, "Well? Aren't you going to tell her to leave?"

  He crossed his arms, making his biceps pop in a way that was stupidly distracting. "No."

  She sighed. "Why not?"

  "Because she's here for a reason."

  "But you don't know that," she protested.

  "Then neither do you."

  "What does that mean?"

  Jack looked to me and said, "Go on. Tell her."

  I wasn't quite following. "Tell her what?"

  "That you're here for a reason."

  He was right. I was here for a reason. But his confidence was unnerving, and I didn't want to discuss it, or at least, not with Jack Ward or his bitchy sidekick.

  Still, I was curious. "But wait, how would you know?"