And Damien Stark is mine.
A few feet away, a small boy who has been paid some pesos is holding Damien’s phone, streaming video of our wedding back to Malibu, where Jamie is projecting the ceremony onto one of the tent walls, just in case any of the guests are still sober and awake after a long night of partying.
Here on our beach, the official pronounces us man and wife. The words crash over me, heavy with meaning, filling my soul. “That day,” I whisper, my heart full to bursting. “That day when you asked me to pose for you—I never expected it to end like this.”
“But it hasn’t ended, Mrs. Stark. This is just the beginning.” His voice sounds full to bursting, and his words are absolutely perfect.
I nod, because he is right, and because I am so overwhelmed by the moment I can manage nothing else.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, then captures my mouth with his. The kiss is long and deep, and all around us the locals clap and cheer.
I cling to Damien, never wanting to let go, as the sun continues to rise around us, casting us in the glow of morning.
Perfect, I think. Because the sun will never set between Damien and me. Not today, not ever.
Excerpt from WANTED
If you loved the Stark Trilogy, you won’t want to miss
WANTED
The first book in J. Kenner’s hot new
Most Wanted series
Coming soon from Headline Eternal
Read on for an excerpt . . .
Chapter One
I know exactly when my life shifted. That precise instant when his eyes met mine and I no longer saw the bland look of familiarity, but danger and fire, lust and hunger.
Perhaps I should have turned away. Perhaps I should have run.
I didn’t. I wanted him. More, I needed him. The man, and the fire that he ignited inside of me.
And in his eyes, I saw that he needed me, too.
That was the moment everything changed. Me most of all.
But whether it changed for good or for ill . . . well, that remains to be seen.
Even dead, my uncle Jahn knew how to throw one hell of a party.
His Chicago lakeside penthouse was bursting at the seams with an eclectic collection of mourners, most of whom had imbibed so much wine from the famous Howard Jahn cellar that whatever melancholy they’d brought with them had been sweetly erased, and now this wake or reception or whatever the hell you wanted to call it wasn’t the least bit somber. Politicians mingled with financiers mingled with artists and academics, and everyone was smiling and laughing and toasting the deceased.
At his request, there’d been no formal funeral. Just this gathering of friends and family, food and drink, music and mirth. Jahn—he hated the name Howard—had lived a vibrant life, and that was never more obvious than now in his death.
I missed him so damn much, but I hadn’t cried. Hadn’t screamed and ranted. Hadn’t done anything, really, except move through the days and nights lost in a haze of emotions, my mind numb. My body anesthetized.
I sighed and fingered the charm on my silver bracelet. He’d presented me with the tiny motorcycle just over a month ago, and the gift had made me smile. I hadn’t talked about wanting to ride a motorcycle since before I turned sixteen. And it had been years since I’d ridden behind a boy, my arms tight around his waist and my hair blowing in the wind.
But Uncle Jahn knew me better than anyone. He saw past the princess to the girl hidden inside. A girl who’d built up walls out of necessity, but still desperately wanted to break free. Who longed to slip on a pair of well-worn jeans, grab a battered leather jacket, and go a little wild.
Sometimes, she even did. And sometimes it didn’t end right at all.