Read the book: «The Perfect Distraction»

Praise for the Novels of J.R. Ward Writing as Jessica Bird

‘Jessica Bird gives us a romance of rare depth, humour and sensuality…’

—RT Book Reviews on Beauty and the Black Sheep

‘Dramatic, edgy and intense, this story has a largerthan- life, dark hero who takes the sweet heroine (and the reader) to some exciting places.’

—RT Book Reviews on His Comfort and Joy

‘Jessica Bird’s A Man in a Million features a largerthan- life, irresistible hero and an equally complex, intriguing heroine. Top-notch.’

—RT Book Reviews

Praise for No.1 New York Times bestselling author J.R. Ward

‘Terrific…explosive…exciting… Ward has outdone herself.’

—Publishers Weekly

‘Ward wields a commanding voice perfect for the genre… Hold on tight for an intriguing, adrenaline-pumping ride.’

—Booklist

‘J.R. Ward has a great style of writing and she shines… You will lose yourself in this world.’

—All About Romance on Dark Lover

Also available

WHEN YOU WALKED IN

UNTIL YOU’RE MINE

ME WITHOUT YOU

The Perfect Distraction


J. R. WARD
Writing as Jessica Bird

www.mirabooks.co.uk

J.R. Ward is a No.1 New York Times and Sunday Times bestselling author of erotic paranormal romance. She lives in the outh with her incredibly supportive husband and her beloved golden retriever. After graduating from law school, she began orking in healthcare in Boston and spent many years as Chief of Staff of one of the premier academic medical centres in the nation. Writing has always been her passion and her idea of heaven is a whole day of nothing but her computer, her dog and her coffee pot.

Visit the J.R. Ward Message Boards or e-mail her at jrw@jrward.com.

With love to the better half of WriterDog

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Spike Moriarty raced down Park Avenue, legs pumping, arms swinging, black leather jacket flapping behind him in the night air. Big, in great shape and properly motivated, he was like an SUV tooling down the sidewalk. Oncoming pedestrians got out of the way.

Damn, he was late.

And this was no fifteen minute, margin-of-error kind of thing. This was a two-hour black hole of social impropriety.

Usually the rules and regulations of polite behavior weren’t high on his priority list. He never went out of his way to offend people, but he wasn’t in bed with Emily Post, either. But tonight was different. Two of his favorite people were getting married and this was their engagement party. He was supposed to be helping the host and giving a little speech.

Sean O’Banyon, master of ceremonies, was going to kill him. Good thing they were buddies. It might buy him a quick and easy end.

Although it wasn’t as if he’d been dogging it on his couch. The drive from upstate New York to Manhattan had taken twice as long as it should have on account of a fiesta of automotive trouble.

The kickoff had been an eighteen wheeler jackknifing on the Northway right in front of him. Fortunately, no one had been injured, but the semi fell over onto its side and shut down the southbound lanes entirely. Like everyone else, he’d been diverted to Route 9 and had become tangled in rural traffic.

Tangled, that was, until he got nailed by an eighty-five-year-old man driving an ancient Pontiac. Then he’d been stopped dead in the road. Thank God only the Honda had been hurt, but then the real fun and games had begun.

Local cops showed up. The pair of them took one look at Spike’s hair and his tattoos and ran everything but his jockey shorts through every criminal check they could find. They probably even called Interpol overseas. The two had seemed bitterly disappointed when they’d found no outstanding warrants or parole violations. And to work off the frustration at not getting to use the cuffs, they’d detained him at the side of the road for about two hours.

By the time Spike finally made it back onto a highway, he knew he could kiss off any hope of making it to the party before the speeches started. Hell, he’d be lucky if he made it before folks left. After dropping a voice mail message at Sean’s, he’d had to resist the urge to red line the Honda’s speedometer. What stopped him was knowing that the last thing he needed was another run in with some badges.

Once he’d made it to the city, he’d dumped the car in a lot and started hightailing it. For the middle of May, the night was blessedly cool and clear so at least he wasn’t going to look like a total mess when he arrived.

Spike glanced at a street sign. Thank God. Only a couple more blocks to go. If he made good time, he figured he’d get to Sean’s before Alex and Cass—

The taxi came out of nowhere. One minute Spike was shooting across 71st Street, the next he was looking the grill of a yellow Chevrolet right in the teeth. Years of physical conditioning gave him the reflexes and strength to yank his six-foot-four body out of the way. But he did bounce off the car before ending up on his ass in the street.

The taxi skidded to a halt, and evidently the driver didn’t appreciate the assault on his hood ornament. He flipped the bird and hit the gas, kicking up some loose stones that pinged off Spike’s biker jacket.

Much as he could have used a breather, he didn’t hang around resting on his laurels. One: there was no time, not even to swear a little. Two: the asphalt was hard. Three, and most important of all: he had on black clothes, because that’s all he ever wore, so he was indistinguishable from the street. He probably looked like an odd-shaped pothole.

He bolted up and kept running, figuring he’d find out soon enough if anything hurt. When nothing howled, he went faster, letting the motion of his body clean any debris off his slacks.

Finally, he saw Sean’s building up ahead. He shot under the red and tan awning, peeled back the glass door and headed right for the elevators.

As he punched the Up button, a nasal voice cracked through the marble lobby. “Excuse me?”

Spike turned around toward the receiving desk. The doorman he knew wasn’t on duty tonight. But Colonel Klink’s evil twin was. The guy was a dead ringer for the Hogan’s Heroes commandant, just without the monocle.

Wait, that was a double negative of sorts. Klink was a bad guy. So maybe this was his doppelganger?

Spike shook his head, wondering if he had brain fry. Between pants, he managed to get out, “I’m here for…O’Banyon’s party. My name’s…on the list.”

Klink’s eyebrows arched in a haughty rendition of Yeah, right, loser. “Bike messengers aren’t allowed up in the building. You’ll have to leave whatever you’re delivering with me.”

Oh, man…

Sometime soon this night was going to end, Spike thought. One way or another, it was going to be over.

Madeline Maguire hung around the fringes of the engagement party, thinking that she didn’t really have her land legs yet. Or her interpersonal ones, either. As a professional sailor, she spent most of her life battling the ocean and it was always hard to downshift into some semblance of normalcy whenever she took a break.

So this kind of social playing field felt like Mars.

Part of the problem was a crushing lack of urgency. On a racing yacht, every word was significant, every creak a clue to be deciphered, every minute shift in direction an important event. As a result of years of experience and training, her instincts were finely tuned and hyperalert. And her capacity for multiprocessing what they told her was one of the reasons she was such a good navigator.

In this environment, however, there was absolutely nothing to respond to.

Which left her feeling flat.

The high point so far had been arriving and seeing Alex Moorehouse. Alex had been captain of the crew she’d belonged to and was not only her mentor but a friend. He and his fiancée, Cass, were two of the finest people Mad knew and seeing them was well worth the hassle of getting to Manhattan.

In fact, the whole crew had wanted to come tonight, but the rest of the boys were stuck in the Bahamas rehabbing a boat after a bad storm. Following an unanimous vote, Mad had been designated the official ambassador. It was a good choice and they all knew it. The boys didn’t do the civilized world all that well and it was better for everyone that the representative from the crew be able to put up a good front.

Not that she was doing so well at the social stuff right now, Mad thought. She could make a wallflower look like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.

Except there was no one she really wanted to talk to. The fifty people in the penthouse were mostly from her half brother’s world: powerful, edgy men with competition in their blood; willowy, beautiful women with hard eyes and harder smiles. Of course, not everyone was like that. Alex’s family was warm and lovely and there were a few others who seemed approachable. But somehow, the players stood out and made her want to hang back.

Plus, she had a preoccupation.

Her eyes sifted through the party again, scanning faces and bodies, searching for a tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair that stood up in spikes.

Spike had to be coming tonight. Alex was one of his closest friends. And from what she’d heard, so was Sean.

He just had to be coming.

“Looking for someone?” a deep voice asked from behind her.

Mad glanced over her shoulder. Sean O’Banyon, Wall Street genius, mostly reformed street thug and all-around good guy, was giving her one of his gotcha stares.

She smiled. And lied to one of her nearest and dearest. “I’m not looking for anyone. Not at all.”

“Come on, Mad. Your eyes are playing floor hockey with every man in here. Except you’re not finding the one you want, are you? So who do you wish you were seeing?”

Sean was the brother she wished she had instead of the one she’d gotten. But she didn’t feel comfortable talking about Spike with him. The two were friends. And besides, given her history, nothing good was going to come of whatever interest she had in the man.

And unfortunately, she was interested in Spike. She’d met him when she’d headed up to Saranac Lake this winter to see Alex. The attraction had been instantaneous on her end, but she’d kept it to herself. Like most men, Spike didn’t say much while he was around her and he didn’t make a lot of eye contact. And no touching, not even casually.

So it was pretty much what she was used to. When you were six feet tall in your stocking feet and a professional athlete, most men didn’t think of you as girlfriend material. Or even as a female. If they liked you, or respected you, you were one of the guys. If they didn’t, they stared at you as if you were an alien or wrote you off as a lesbian.

Usually, either reaction was tolerable to her. More than tolerable, really, considering her few tragic attempts to make a connection with someone of the opposite sex. It was just…She wanted Spike to notice her, and not as an oddity, but as someone he might like to put his arm around. As somebody he might want to kiss, even just once.

She winced, trying to think of the last time she’d had a man’s lips against hers. God, how long…Whoa, that was not a good number. Too high for someone her age, way too high.

And that would be years, not months.

“Mad? Where’ve you gone?” Sean prompted.

She shook her head. “Sorry. So I like what you’ve done to the place.”

The penthouse he’d bought last year was done up fit to kill in a sleek, masculine style. Clean lines everywhere, minimal clutter, a lot of leather and metal. The panoramic views of the park and city were phenomenal and unimpeded by fussy drapes.

Sean glanced around. “Thanks, I like it. Architectural Digest photographed everything for next month’s issue. Blair Sanford did the interior.”

“It suits you.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re all about hard edges.”

Sean laughed, his harsh face softening a little. “In my business, soft gets you spread like paste.”

Sean had been her family’s investment banker for the last ten years and he’d helped turn Value Shop Supermarkets into a nationwide chain. Her relationship with him, though, wasn’t based on what he could do for her portfolio. She loved and trusted him more than she did her immediate relatives.

It was ironic. Usually she avoided men who looked like him because they reminded her of her late father and very-much-alive half brother. Sean had a real slick, glossy image. Dolled up in his fancy Savile Row suit and his silk tie, he seemed like your typical Wall Street money man. Except he wasn’t. He’d grown up in South Boston, in a tough neighborhood, and he’d never forgotten the lessons he’d learned on the street.

Which meant he was also a little scary. And gave her only more reason to love him.

“Listen, Mad, we need to talk.”

She cringed. “I can tell by the sound of your voice—”

“It’s about your half brother.”

Her eyes left his. “I’m not going to see Richard, but you can give him a message for me. Tell him to stop calling. He’s using up my voice mail space.”

“Mad, this is important—”

Up ahead, the door to the penthouse opened.

And Mad flushed from her earlobes to her toenails.

Spike was wearing a black leather jacket, a black button-down and a pair of black slacks. His jet-black hair was sticking straight up off his head in all directions, but instead of looking unkempt, the jagged peaks emphasized the hard lines of his beautiful face. His big body filled the doorway. The hall. The whole apartment as far as she was concerned.

Oh, God, his eyes…Those incredible, impossibly yellow eyes were still hidden under heavy lids and thick lashes. And the tattoos…On either side of his neck, two elegant, curving designs marked his skin. In his left ear, he had a thick, silver piercing.

Mad swallowed. It was not possible for a man to be sexier. Otherwise the laws of physics would collapse and the earth would implode into a black hole.

And no, she didn’t think that scenario was an exaggeration.

“Holy Moses,” Sean said under his breath. “You’ve been looking for Spike, haven’t you! How long’s this been going on? When did you meet him? And why the hell don’t I know about this?”

Mad took a sip of her Chardonnay and tasted nothing whatsoever. “Shut up, Sean.”

Spike had just about had it with the world as he walked into Sean’s apartment. He’d been okay with the stream of bad luck until he’d faced off with the lobby tsar downstairs. Now he was spanking pissed as well as embarrassed about being late. And he was hungry.

So heaven help the next person who screwed with him.

He pulled off his jacket, put it in the hall closet and immediately searched for Sean’s dark head in the crowd.

It took a second and a half to find his buddy. And as he saw who was standing next to the guy, Spike’s heart pole-vaulted into his throat.

Oh, good Lord. She was here. Madeline Maguire was here. Standing right across the room. Breathing the same air he was.

Or rather, breathing what he would have been inhaling if his lungs hadn’t frozen solid.

But he should have known she’d come. She was Alex’s navigator, or had been before the man stopped captaining America’s Cup boats. So of course she would be at the guy’s engagement party.

He just wished he could have gotten himself ready. Prepared. Controlled.

Although that would have required a sedative. And a blindfold.

As far as he was concerned, Madeline Maguire defined female perfection. She was confident and smart and tall enough to nearly meet him in the eye. Her no-nonsense warmth was a total turn-on and the rest of her was just as enticing. She had thick, dark hair that fell to the middle of her back. Her sapphire-blue eyes were bright enough to qualify as spotlights. And her smile had enough voltage to shock him right into an idiot-coma.

Tonight, she was wearing a black knit dress with a high neck and her body was…

Yeah, it was still perfect.

And he knew exactly what her curves looked like. He’d seen them, up close and personal. The first time he’d met her, she’d come out of a bathroom wearing nothing but a sports bra and a pair of black panties. She’d walked up to him, like she wasn’t the most gorgeous thing on the planet, and expected him to shake hands as if Amazonian goddesses talked to him every day.

Then she’d asked to see his tattoos. He’d just about passed out.

In fact, he was feeling light-headed right about now, too.

But maybe that was just hypoglycemia, he thought with optimism. The last time he’d eaten had been six hours ago.

Spike hitched up his slacks, tucked in his shirt and walked over to her and Sean, keeping a tight rein on his face. If he didn’t watch it, he was liable to start grinning like an imbecile. And shuffling his feet.

Man, where the hell was his game when he needed it?

“Hey, big guy,” he said to Sean. “Damn sorry about the slow-up. Did you get my message?”

As he and Sean clapped palms, he knew instantly something was up. His buddy’s eyes were twinkling.

And Sean O’Banyon, better known to most as SOB, was not a twinkler.

Sean glanced to his left. “No problem. You’ve met Madeline Maguire, right?”

Sure have, Spike thought. Saw her last night in my dreams.

As he nodded, he allowed his eyes one quick glance in her direction. Oh…wow. Those lips of hers were so pink. And she wasn’t wearing any makeup at all.

“Hi, Spike,” she said.

That voice. Low, husky. As sexy as he remembered it. His skin tingled.

“Nice to see you, Madeline.”

She didn’t offer him her hand and he was glad. He’d already tried out the whole puddle thing in the middle of 71st Street and hadn’t found the experience all that enriching. So melting in front of her wasn’t something he needed to do for a variety of reasons.

“What’s doing with the speeches?” he asked Sean. “Have I missed them entirely?”

“Sorry, buddy. Time’s come and gone.”

“I better go make my apologies. Know where the happy couple is?”

“In my study, I think. Alex insisted that Cass get off her feet and I think he installed her in a chair and ottoman back there. He says the doc’s probably going to put her on bed rest until she delivers the baby. Have you eaten yet?”

“Nah. I’m starved.”

“Say, Mad, why don’t you show our boy where the eats are?”

“That’s okay,” Spike said quickly. “I’ll find the food. Oh, listen, do you mind if I crash here tonight?”

Sean popped a grin, a big, wide one that pulled out his dimple.

Man, this was such trouble, Spike thought. SOB’s hazel eyes had that whole oh, goody thing going on. What was he up to?

Sean clapped him on the shoulder. “I think that would be a great idea, Spike. Absolutely perfect. Don’t you, Mad?”

For some reason, Madeline was eyeing the guy like she wanted to nail him in the shin.

Spike frowned, wondering how close they were. And in what manner of closeness it might be. He thought about what little he knew of the woman. She came from big money, supermarket money. So maybe O’Banyon was an advisor to her or something.

Sean winked at Mad.

Yeah, or maybe it was something more personal.

From out of nowhere, a mighty testosterone surge knocked out Spike’s frontal lobe and higher reasoning. He was struck by an urgent need to push his body in between them. And maybe drag that handsome, dimple-sporting, eye-twinkling Sean O’Banyon into the hall closet.

He’d look just perfect hanging next to Spike’s biker jacket. In the dark. Away from Madeline. Winking at himself. The bastard.

With a groan, Spike threw a leash on his inner gorilla, pointing out that Sean was a friend. FRIEND.

But then Mad looked at the man like the two shared a secret. And Spike’s core primate started to thump its chest.

Sean is lunch, the thing said. LUNCH.

Okay, it was now retreat time. If he stayed much longer, his personalities were going to start arguing with each other. Out loud.

“Excuse us,” he murmured, turning away. “I mean, me.”