Willing Victim Read online

  WILLING VICTIM

  SR JONES

  EDEN SUMMERS

  CONTENTS

  1. Morgan

  2. Morgan

  3. Morgan

  4. Morgan

  5. Morgan

  6. Morgan

  7. Morgan

  8. Mark

  9. Morgan

  10. Morgan

  11. Morgan

  12. Mark

  13. Morgan

  14. Mark

  15. Mark

  16. Morgan

  17. Mark

  18. Morgan

  19. Morgan

  20. Morgan

  21. Mark

  22. Morgan

  Epilogue

  Copyright © 2022 by SR Jones and Eden Summers

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  CHAPTER 1

  MORGAN

  I cling to my champagne flute, the liquid threatening to spill over the lip as I hustle through the crowded ballroom.

  My ruby satin gown billows at my legs while people dance around me. Some waltz. Others merely sway along to the string quartet. But all of them receive one of my smiles despite the masquerade mask itching my cheeks every time my lips curve.

  A forced smile.

  A charade.

  That’s what’s expected of me—the daughter of a highly regarded Senator of California and the face of his fundraising campaign. I need to be welcoming at all times. A glorious show pony. And, for the most part, I succeed.

  “You look stunning, Morgan,” Ty calls behind me.

  I pause in my escape and turn to my father’s assistant. It takes a second to recognize him beneath the partial mask covering one side of his face, the mass of glitter adorning the material attempting to steal my attention from his hazel eyes. “Thank you. You don’t scrub up too bad yourself.”

  “Does that mean I finally look good enough to score a date with you?” he asks flirtatious as ever.

  “Ty, you know it’s never been about looks. I don’t have time for a relationship.”

  He grins, adjusting his cufflinks. “Well, perhaps I can get you another drink instead.”

  “I’m fine for now. Maybe later.” I smile in farewell—again, forced—and do my best to appear calm and collected as I stride to the stairs.

  I need a moment to collect myself. A brief breath of peace. And the only place I’m likely to find solitude is in the isolated upstairs bathroom instead of those occupied by partygoers on ground level.

  It isn’t until I’m in the silent tile-covered room, my gaze caught in the reflection of the mirror, that I release the air tightening my lungs.

  I hate these events.

  I loathe the pomp and circumstance. Resent the political players and the way no conversation can be free of hidden meaning. Everything is a grift disguised as a friendly chat.

  I even despise my expensive gown.

  I’d wanted a low-key birthday. No party. No guests. And definitely no champagne fountain or string quartet to serenade an intoxicated crowd of influential entrepreneurs and politicos.

  Give me peace and relaxation. Maybe an expensive bottle of wine and a good book.

  Unfortunately, my father always gets his way.

  I down the contents of my flute, dump the empty glass on the counter, and use the facilities, then return to staring at my sorry existence in the mirror.

  At least the mask means I don’t have to work hard to fake my enjoyment. The black lace veil covers the unease I usually battle to hide.

  If only I could stay in here forever.

  You need to be hospitable, Morgan. Don’t let me down.

  I leave the empty flute and shove back through the bathroom door, the whimsical music deafening my ears, the rambunctious laughter and chatter vibrating in my chest.

  I trudge to the balcony, my exhaustion bone-deep as I stare at the guests dancing and drinking below.

  My father is there somewhere, buttering up possible campaign donors, and I’m expected to do the same. That’s why no occasion in my life is ever subdued. Every birthday or anniversary is turned into a grab for donation dollars and I’m always at the heart of it, my smile and charm his greatest asset.

  “Hiding from your own party, Ms. Hastings?”

  The deep, masculine voice catches me off-guard. I tense, gripping the banister as I glance over my shoulder to collide with intense blue eyes framed by an opulent black mask, the slightest wisp of dark hair lining the covering’s edge. He’s in a designer suit, just like all the others. But it’s the gentle grin of lush lips partially hidden beneath his mask that momentarily renders me speechless.

  I clear my throat and straighten as I turn to him, attempting—and failing—at putting a name to those eyes. “Forgive me for being rude, but do I know you?”

  I can’t recall any of my father’s associates having a beard. Most are clean-cut. Straightlaced. Dull.

  “I doubt you remember me.” He holds two flutes of champagne, his gaze fixed on mine. “The Senator and I have done business in the past. The name’s Mark.” He offers me one of the beverages. “It’s nice to formally meet you.”

  His casual smile warms me. There isn’t a hint of a hidden agenda. No schmoozy undertone.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too.” I return his expression, not having to fake the kindness for the first time all evening, and grasp his offering. “Thank you.”

  “The birthday girl should never be without a drink.” He clinks his flute against mine.

  “The birthday girl needs to remain level-headed. But I appreciate the thought.” I take a sip, letting the bubbles dance over my tongue as I discreetly scrutinize this stranger’s features.

  Even with much of his face covered, I can appreciate his handsomeness—the perfectly symmetrical lips, healthy tan, and glimpse of smooth skin beneath the impeccably cropped beard.

  Handsome men are common at these things. Those who vibrate with quiet, charismatic confidence? Not so much.

  “You don’t like these events,” he murmurs softly.

  It’s an observation—not a question. I slowly take another sip of champagne to buy myself a moment to formulate a response.

  I’m supposed to be the social butterfly and most people accept that facade. It’s somewhat discomfiting how this man sees through me.

  “I don’t mind them,” I lie.

  He chuckles, the gentle sound calling me on my bullshit as he turns to the banister, leaning his forearms on the railing while he cradles his glass.

  He has nice hands. Strong. Large. No wedding ring.

  My focus narrows on the broken skin of his knuckles. “Are you a boxer?”

  He shoots me a glance, those full lips quirking up slightly. “Only if you count the punching bag in my basement.”

  “You don’t wear gloves?” I’m unsure how I got here—in a random conversation with an even more random man—but it’s nice. Strangely genuine.

  “Not always.” He returns his gaze to mine and gives a devilish grin. “Sometimes I’m a sucker for punishment.”

&nbsp
; My pulse falters. Flutters.

  The visual of this masked man shirtless and sweating has my libido sparking to life.

  “So, what do you do, Morgan? I mean, other than campaign work with your father. What’s your day job?”

  “I run a charity.” I stand taller, showing pride in my accomplishment.

  “Rewarding and demanding, I assume.” He raises a brow. “And also, maybe a little frustrating?”

  “At times.” I take another sip, unsettled and overly warmed by his on-point perception. “There’s frustration in knowing that no matter how much money we raise, it will never be enough. There will always be children dying from starvation and lacking the opportunity to receive an education. But we do well with donations. And I can’t lie, being who I am—my father’s daughter—helps with that.”

  “So, it’s a children’s charity, then?” He pushes from the banister and turns his body toward me, his focus intense. “Local or international?”

  “International.”

  The laser beam of his focus makes me feel…something. A mix of sensitivity and excitement. It’s bizarre.

  I don’t know him. I can’t even see his face properly. Yet, he’s already working me around his little finger.

  Either that, or the champagne has hit the fast lane.

  He steps closer, the scent of his aftershave awakening butterflies in my belly. His scent doesn’t carry the same fresh citrus undertones that most of the men downstairs seem to boast. He smells of something deeper. Darker. Of leather, and books, and smoke.

  Then there’s his height. I’m not particularly short, and certainly not in these heels, but Mark is much taller than I am. Roughly six-foot-two.

  “And yes, it’s a youth charity.” I change gears from tiny sips to a large mouthful of alcohol, hoping it will calm the flutters. “United for the Children works toward righting the wrongs of poverty, hunger, and injustice. We’re all about developing long-term solutions, and also campaigning for social change. A lot of Americans don’t understand how blessed we are or how easy it is to change the future for someone less fortunate.”

  “I agree.” There’s a slight hardening of his tone, a passionate edge I appreciate. “Greed has become the backbone of those in power.”

  “Exactly.” I smile, loving that he doesn’t regard me as a nuisance goodie-goodie like some do. “People don’t realize there are entire villages overseas where the majority of children have stunted growth from malnutrition. These kids are slowly dying while those in my social circles struggle to imagine that level of poverty. And a lot don’t even want to.”

  “The rich prefer not to imagine how the other half live.” His lips flatten into a sharp line. “After all, they don’t have to.”

  “You sound like you don’t count yourself as one of the elite,” I tease, knowing I have a habit of plummeting anyone’s mood with my passionate stories. With a rueful grin, I sweep my arms at the grandeur around us. “Yet, here you are.”

  “Yet, here I am,” he drawls and takes a drink of alcohol, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

  I don’t know what it is about him, but I get an absurd impulse to bridge the space between us. To lean in and breathe him deeper. To bring skin to skin.

  I glance away, confused by my uncharacteristic reaction.

  “I didn’t grow up wealthy,” he clarifies. “I had to work hard for all I have, unlike most here who are born into it. I can remember enough about my childhood to never forget where I came from.”

  He piques my interest. My admiration, too. He must be a self-made man—not one of Father’s usual business acquaintances.

  “And where did you come from?” I ask.

  His lips thin for a second before the congenial man returns. “A place I don’t wish to return to.” He indicates the crowd with a jut of his chin. “Although it’s important never to forget your roots, it’s also imperative not to let them hold you back. Don’t you think?”

  I pause, pondering the cagey response. “I’m not sure.” I scrutinize him, only becoming more endeared by those intense blue eyes. “My roots have been kind to me for the most part. I think the majority of people assume my success has been handed to me on a silver platter.”

  “Then the majority of people would be wrong, I’m assuming.” His brow quirks above the edge of his mask. “Your father is a formidable man. He wouldn’t have you as part of his team if you weren’t highly accomplished at what you do. From what I’ve seen, he relies heavily on your expertise. You’re a valued asset.”

  I flinch, taking offense even though I know none was intended.

  He’s right, though. I am an asset.

  Far more of a resource than a daughter at times.

  “I’m sorry.” He inches closer. “I’ve insulted you somehow.”

  “No, not at all.”

  I’m not sure if I like how he sees right through me. It’s unsettling, yet oddly charming, too. It isn’t often that someone will look past my sociable persona to the real me hidden beneath.

  “So, tell me more about yourself, Morgan. Why are you hiding from your own party?” His attention lowers to my fingers encasing the flute. “I don’t see a ring. Does that mean you’re fearful of a birthday proposal from your lucky man?”

  I suppress a chuckle. Subtle, Mark. Very subtle.

  “There’s no lucky man.” I tilt my face to stare down at the crowd. “At least, not yet.”

  He inches closer, his arm brushing mine as he slides along the banister. He’s there, right there, crowding my periphery, increasing my pulse.

  “What would it take?” he murmurs.

  “What do you mean?” My voice is a raspy whisper as I meet his gaze.

  “What would it take to be your lucky man?”

  I catch my breath before it rushes past my lips.

  I’m unsure how to respond. One part of me wants to announce how it would take very little for him to be the man who warms my bed tonight. Yet the professional, scandal-averse side of me is hesitant.

  He leans forward and reaches out, his fingers brushing my forehead and taking a strand of hair with them. We’re on full display, our proximity clear for anyone downstairs to see.

  It rattles me. Awakens long-forgotten desire, too.

  I lick my lower lip to soothe the building tingle, my comprehension drowning in those mesmerizing eyes. “I can’t do this here. I need to set an example. I’m not—”

  “You don’t have to explain.” He retreats, his hand casually falling to his side. “Should we go somewhere more private?”

  I nod and he takes my elbow, guiding me down the corridor. We pass numerous doors leading to spare bedrooms that are barely ever occupied. This mansion is wasted on my father, especially since I moved out to gain more independence. But he’ll never sell.

  This estate has been passed down three generations. I’m not looking forward to being the fourth.

  The only place I’ve ever found sanctuary is the library, which is where I take Mark, both of us stopping before the polished French doors at the farthest reaches of the hall.

  “Do you like to read?” I stare into the darkness on the other side of the glass panels, my childhood memories awakening.

  “I appreciate a good book every now and then. Why?”

  I untangle my arm from his and regret the loss of proximity as I step forward to open the doors. “This is my favorite room.” I lead him inside, flicking on the light as I continue into the expansive space.

  His brows raise. “Impressive.” His gaze travels the walls lined with stacked bookshelves. “How many of these have you read?”

  “Roughly…a tenth.”

  He closes the doors behind him, the smile still playing on his lips. “A tenth?” He stalks to the nearest bookcase, pulling a title from the shelf. “Have you read this one?”

  I follow and lean close to study the cover—A Tale of Two Cities, Dickens. I nod. “I have.”

  He places it back, slow and deliberate, then takes out another
. “How about this?”

  Mrs. Beeton’s Everyday Cookery. I burst out laughing. “I have to confess, I haven’t read that one.”

  He straightens, his hand paused on the book as he pivots toward me. His gaze gentles, becoming almost dreamy.

  My laughter dies a quick death, my cheeks heating while the hum of attraction crackles between us.

  “You have a beautiful laugh.” He slides the cookbook back into place, his focus never leaving mine.

  I swallow. Hard.

  Compliments aren’t new to me. They’re often used as ammunition from the men who want to get close to my father. But this hits differently. With such exquisite sincerity.

  “Thank you.” I will my overheated cheeks to calm down, refusing the urge to fan myself, and reach around him to grab another hardcover. “Now, this is something I’m sure you’ve read many times.” I hand him the copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People.

  It’s his turn to laugh, his chin tilting upward as he releases the loud burst of mirth. He undoes me. The deep, gravel-rich sound. The flawless smile. I want to see him without the mask. Without clothes.

  “Are you saying I’m manipulative?” he muses.

  Maybe. That’s kind of how it feels—like he’s molding my responses, shaping me into a soft puddle. “Are you saying you haven’t read it?” I mock.

  “No, I can’t say I have, but I’d definitely give it a try.” He places the book back on the shelf. “It must have been great to grow up with all this at your fingertips.”

  My humor fades, the memories of my childhood cutting deep. “Sometimes… Definitely not always.” I shrug. “It was lonely.”

  He steps nearer, his eyes narrowing. “Oh?”

  “I had very few friends.”

  “By choice?”

  No. Never. “Being the daughter to a powerful man meant other children either felt threatened or daunted by me.”