The Red Ledger: Part 1 (The Red Ledger #1)
Meredith Wild
For Sean, my little writer
CHAPTER ONE
ISABEL
Rio de Janeiro
Carnaval saturates the streets like a thousand tiny rivers of excess and desire. Heat and music and the ebb and flow of revelers create an undeniable pulse of excitement. It exists in the balmy ocean air, settles on my skin, and sizzles against my nerve endings. I feel like I could drown in it.
“Do you want another drink?”
Kolt’s American accent stands out in the cacophony of the open-air bar.
I don’t need another drink. The alcohol from the few caipirinhas I’ve already had flows through my bloodstream, making me horny and impulsive. I meet his gaze and consider where I want the night to go.
“We have to work tomorrow.” I’m not sure if that will discourage him, though.
“Then maybe we shouldn’t waste all night here.”
I smirk. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’ve been staring at you in that dress all night. And right now, I’m willing to do just about anything to have a couple hours alone with you.”
With his soft brown eyes, he rakes me in, betraying his desire. He’s smooth-shaven with lightly tanned skin. His short, dirty-blond hair has grown out just enough to curl naturally at the ends—as close to rugged as he’ll ever look.
I swirl the ice in my glass. “A couple hours?”
He rests his hand on my lower back and presses his lips to my bare shoulder. “You know I want a lot more than that.”
I tense. I care about Kolt. Deep down, I know he cares about me too. But every time I sleep with him, I feel his grip tighten on me as if I’m becoming more his. He doesn’t understand I’m not his at all. I can’t give him more.
But I can give him tonight. One more night.
“Let’s go back to my place,” I say, silently promising myself I’ll indulge the physical attraction one last time.
His eyes widen a fraction before returning to normal. He gets the attention of the bartender with his broken Portuguese and pays him quickly. He makes no effort to fit in here. Most days he looks like he should be strolling the grounds at Harvard, the very place that shaped him through undergrad and another shaky year in grad school.
Kolt’s on vacation from his life. It’s been six months. In another six, he’ll go back to it, and I know as surely as I know my own name that he intends to bring me back with him. I tick off all the boxes. We have chemistry. If we both ignored my inability to love him, I could fit into his life nicely. He’s rich and driven, and every time he looks at me, I know what he sees. A pretty fuck. A prize to be won. A match.
But I’m not on vacation. I’m running away. The urge to thrust myself into a future unknown was so powerful, it landed me in Rio. In the center of this chaos is exactly where I want to be—until I can find the truth. But the truth is like this overwhelming place. It’s much easier to get lost than to ever find what you’re looking for.
“Let’s go.” Kolt slips his hand into mine, and we’re off.
He leads the way, walking quickly through the boisterous crowd. His eagerness has my heart beating faster, momentarily overwhelming the sensations of the celebration around us.
I’m mourning the decision to leave the festivities the second we turn onto the quieter Rua Lopes Quintas. Shadows play in my periphery as we head toward my apartment. Relief and unease curl inside me with Kolt’s possessive embrace around my midsection.
“Thanks for walking me home,” I hedge, already anticipating his disappointment, because I don’t think I can go through with it. Not tonight.
We’re at my door, and he turns me, squaring our bodies. He weaves his fingers into my hair, caresses over the dampness at the roots, and guides my mouth to his. I accept. Because if we’re not lovers, we’re undeniably more than friends. And even though I refuse to give him everything he wants, I still crave contact. His taste is a mirror of sugar and citrus on my tongue. He slides his other hand to the back of my thigh and inches up, pressing his groin to the center of my physical desire. But his desperation barrels over his sensuality.
I close my eyes and reach for what I want… A memory. Silvery-blue eyes flash in my mind. Full lips mark my skin, and then the memory takes me away. In my mind, I’m pinned under hard thrusts that threaten to shatter my body and my heart. Reckless lust and love I want so hard to believe was pure.
A rush of desire hits me. I gasp and answer Kolt’s persistent groping with an infinitesimal shift in my hips. With a hungry growl, he pushes me back against the rough stucco of my building. My eyes open to his perfectly chiseled features. I turn my head, disconnecting our mouths. Undeterred, he latches on to my neck instead.
“Kolt…not tonight.”
He hitches the tight fabric of my dress up like he means to take me here in the street but stops short of baring me indecently. “Why do you do this to me?” His voice is low, gritty with need.
I wince because I really don’t want to do this to him. “If I gave you everything, you wouldn’t want it.”
He pulls back to stare at me for a quiet moment. “That’s a goddamn lie, and you know it. I want you all the time.”
He can’t want the person he’s never truly seen. I trace my fingers across his lips, wishing I could tell him the truth. That I’m incomplete. Still utterly broken. And he doesn’t have what it takes to put me back together. Somehow I know if I told him all that, he’d try to talk me out of it. Either way, the answer isn’t the one he wants.
“I drank too much. It doesn’t feel right.” I offer the half lie that gives him no choice but to leave me alone.
He may be cocky and entitled, but Kolt is still a gentleman. His shoulders soften, and his touch falls away. “At least let me walk you up.”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“Are you sure?”
He’s only being half genuine, giving me one last chance to give in. I consider it one more time. I lean in, close the small space between us, and kiss him softly on the mouth.
“Good night, Kolt,” I whisper against his lips.
He reacts, taking the kiss deeper, molding his hands over my ass and yanking me against him. I pressure him back gently because we’re riding a dangerous edge when it comes to self-control. I still have plenty, but I’m not sure he does.
Finally he lets our bodies separate. His breath comes in uneven pants as he looks me over like every inch of my bare skin burns him.
“Good night, Isabel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tension lines every plane of his face as he turns and takes brisk strides down the street. He disappears into the shadows I have learned never to trust. I reach for my key, quickly turn it in the lock, and bolt the door behind me.
TRISTAN
Sweat beads down my back. My heart beats slowly, like the pendulum on an old clock. Adrenaline rushes don’t come easily for me. As I circle to the rear of the building, memorized details project onto the bright-white screen of my mind.
Isabel Foster. American. English teacher. Aged twenty-five.
Marked for death, she’ll be extinguished within the hour. I register the faintest measure of relief that her lover—or the man who desperately wanted to be—is now out of the picture. Collateral damage isn’t uncommon, but I prefer to avoid it if I can. God knows I have enough blood on my hands.
I scale the metal stairs in the darkness, mentally mapping my journey from a brief assessment of her living arrangements days ago. The week of Carnaval is already loud and dangerous. Her death will be one of dozens of others reported by the morning.