Read Beauty and the Dark Online
Authors: Georgia Le Carre
Beauty and the Dark
GEORGIA LE CARRE
BEAUTY AND THE DARK
is a standalone erotic romance with no cliffie and a guaranteed HEA. It contains mature themes, strong language, and steamy situations. All characters are 18+ years of age and all sexual acts are consensual.
:-)
Don’t forget to look out for the sneak peak of my next book…
THE BLIND READER
Enjoy!
ALSO BY GEORGIA
The Billionaire Banker Series
Owned
42 Days
Besotted
Seduce Me
Love’s Sacrifice
Masquerade
Pretty Wicked (novella)
Disfigured Love
Hypnotized
Crystal Jake
Sexy Beast
Wounded Beast
Beautiful Beast
Dirty Aristocrat
You Don’t Own Me 1 & 2
The Bad Boy Wants Me
You Don’t Know Me
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Editors: Caryl Milton, Elizabeth Burns & IS Creations
Cover Designer:
http://www.ctcovercreations.com/
Photographer: https://www.facebook.com/DKArtistics/?pnref=lhc
Model: https://www.facebook.com/kimberleighmichellemodel/?pnref=lhc
Proofreader: http://
http://nicolarheadediting.com/
BEAUTY AND THE DARK
Published by Georgia Le Carre
Copyright © 2016 by Georgia Le Carre
The right of Georgia Le Carre to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patent act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN:
9781910575-44-4
You can discover more information about Georgia Le Carre and future releases here.
https://www.facebook.com/georgia.lecarre
I wish to extend my deepest and most profound gratitude to:
Caryl Milton
Elizabeth Burns
Nicola Rhead
Tracy Gray
Brittany Urbaniak
Contents
Jack
(Five Years Previously)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vt1Pwfnh5pc
(Hurt)
“G
et up, Englishman,” a harsh voice barks at the same time the butt of an AK47 jams into my solar plexus.
My eyes fly open as I jack- knife upwards, winded and stunned. My hands flail wildly as I attempt to grab the thing that slammed into me, but the man has withdrawn it. He is looking down at me contemptuously, his smooth face gleaming with sweat. I get up on my elbows and take gasping breaths of air, but the air is so thick and hot it’s like sucking lava into your lungs. Malevolent.
“Get up,” the man yells again, and roughly pushes the barrel of his semi-automatic into my chest, driving me onto my back.
“What the fuck,” I swear, furious now. “If you want me to get up, quit fucking pushing me back on the bed.”
He moves back and I swing my legs down, my booted feet hitting the mud floor with a thud. I went to bed drunk, and my head is banging like some prick on crack is working an industrial sledgehammer inside it. I wince with the pain. Damn, they had to pick tonight of all nights.
Gritting my teeth, I force my head up.
The tent flap has been left open and the outside camp light seeps in allowing me a good look at the men. There are two of them and they are dressed in army gear, but it is clear they are rebels.
The one standing closest to me is of medium height, muscular, and as dark as the African night. Sweat is running down his temple in rivulets. He is wearing his ammunition belt as if it is a glinting scarf around his shoulders. His eyes tell me he is battle hardened and trigger-happy.
This is one man you don’t want to piss off.
The other man is standing by the tent flap with his gun held loosely at his side. He is tall and lean and wearing a maroon cap with badges on it. His army jacket is unbuttoned and underneath he is wearing a badly stained white T-shirt. There is something infinitely more dangerous about him than the jacked up, muscle shirt in front of me.
“You get up now. Come with us,” Beefy commands.
“Fuck you,” I tell him.
He raises his gun and points it directly at me.
I start laughing. At first lightly, then more raucously.
“Shut up, Englishman, or I kill you,” he shouts, bringing the black hole of his weapon closer to my face, but already, I can see that I have confused him. He has never encountered a man laughing at the thought of his own violent death.
It infuriates him that I am not afraid of him. “Stop laughing,” he screams.
I stop laughing, grab the barrel of his semi with both hands and pull it tight against my forehead. They say your whole life, everything you’ve ever done, all the people you’ve hurt and loved, flash before your eyes as you exit this cruel earth. Well, not for me.
I feel nothing.
Just numbness.
“Fucking do it! Shoot me,” I dare, staring him in the eye. “You’d be doing me a favor.’
“This man is crazy,” he pronounces, turning dumbfounded to his comrade. The dangerous one steps closer. His hat was covering his eyes so I couldn’t see them before. Now I do. They’re chillingly empty. Without a hint of humanity. He comes right up to my bed and stares down at me curiously.
Well, fuck you too. If he’s looking to see terror in my face, he won’t. Only darkness.
“You have a death wish, Englishman? How ironic then that you have come here to save people from death,’ he says in perfect English.
Obviously, he didn’t pick up that upper-class accent in Africa. He must have been educated in England. He’s right though. Even I can see the unintended irony.
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
‘Our leader has been shot. You are a doctor. You can save him.’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll pass. Your leader is a fucking mass murderer.’
He smiles. ‘We are reasonable people, Englishman. We will give you a choice. Come with us or we will behead every man, woman, and child in this village and you can stay and bury them.”
A bead of sweat trickles down my spine. That’s the problem with this oppressive heat. You go to sleep sweaty, you wake up sweaty, and you get out of the shower sweaty. I look at the doorway to my tent. Through the open flap hordes of mosquitoes are flying in. There’ll be no sleep tonight.
“Where was he shot?”
Beefy points to his abdomen. “Here.”
“When did it happen?’
“Yesterday, at noon.”
That’s a long time to be injured in this climate. Mud, dirt, bacteria, and little insects love an open wound: all safe and warm and filled with delicious food. “How far away are you?”
“Three hour’s drive.”
‘It’s been more than twenty-four hours. Even if I treat him he may not survive, I tell them.’
‘No, our leader is strong and you will save him,’ Mr. Muscle declares confidently.
I sigh. “Yeah, I’ll come, but I’ll need a drink first.”
Sofia
“Do roses know their thorns can hurt?”
–
a quote
attributed
to
JonBenét Ramsey from Lawrence Schiller’s
Perfect Murder, Perfect Town
“B
ut you promised,” my sister accuses, eyeing me with frustration.
I bend my head to hide my face with my hair. “I know I promised, but I can’t, Lena. Not just yet. Not this Christmas. Maybe next year.” My voice is low, ashamed, and guilty.
“Look at me, Sofia,” Lena demands.
I raise my head. She is staring at me with tears in her beautiful eyes. My sister used to be a world famous model until she gave it all up to get married and have little Irina. If you meet her on the street, you’ll never imagine that we are sisters. She is tall with long blonde hair and piercingly blue eyes, and I am small, with sandy brown hair and chocolate eyes. She inherited her height and coloring from my father, and I got mine from my mother.
I lift my hand and wipe away the solitary tear rolling down her lovely cheek. “Please don’t cry, Lena,” I plead. “I’m just not ready. I can’t do it yet. One day I will, but not right now.”
“It’s been a year,” she whispers. “You have to make an effort, Sofia. At some point you’re going to have to climb out of this dull, solitary existence you have crawled into and start living again. There is beauty out there.”
I sigh sadly. My sister wants me to forget. To move on. To be happy. She doesn’t know what I have been through. I have not even told her a third of what happened to me.
“I
am
living and there is beauty around me,” I murmur. “I love you, and Irina, and Guy, and the dogs. I go for walks. I paint. I play the piano. Just because I don’t want to go to this party doesn’t mean I don’t have a life.”
She looks at me steadily. “You
never
go out, or meet people. You are as silent as a shadow, and if no one addresses you directly you would never talk to anyone, would you?”
I drop my eyes. It’s true. I don’t want to go out, meet people, or even speak to anyone. My experiences with people have taught me that they are immeasurably cruel, deceitful, and disloyal. I don’t trust them. If at all possible I want to live here quietly with my sister and never venture outside the vast grounds of this remote and wonderful castle.
“I talk to the dogs,” I say with a smile, but my attempt to lighten the mood has no effect on her.
“Please come,” she begs. “For me.”
I frown. I’d give up my life for my sister, I hate to let her down, but even the thought of going to a party makes my body tremble. “I’d only spoil the party for everyone else,” I tell her.
It’s the wrong thing to say. Her back grows ramrod straight and her eyes sparkle with steely determination. I am older than her, but anybody looking at us will think that I am the younger one. She seems so much stronger and more powerful.
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’ll never leave my side. Guy and I will take care of you the whole time.”
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “Oh, Lena. It’s a Christmas Eve party. You don’t want to be worrying about me the whole time. You should go out and have fun with Guy.” I smile brightly. “I’ll stay here and take care of Irina. Make sure she doesn’t get into any mischief.”
She crosses her arms in front of her chest. Oh, God! I hate it when she does that. It means it will be impossible to sway her from her purpose.
“Thank you. That is very kind of you, but Irina already has a babysitter lined up.”
“Surely she’ll prefer me to take care of her.”
“Irina will be asleep by eight-thirty. You’re getting into your new red dress and coming with me,” she says firmly.
‘I can’t wear the red dress. It’s too obvious.”
“Fine. Wear the black velvet one. You look stunning in it.”
Cornered, I try to find other avenues of escape. “I don’t even know the people who are throwing the party.”
She senses victory and grins. “The Barringtons? You’ll love them. Well, at least you’ll love Lana. Her husband, Blake, is a bit reserved and hard to know, but underneath the unapproachable exterior he has a heart of gold.” Her eyes light up. “Besides, if we go early you can meet their kids. They’re gorgeous. The boy is so cute you’ll want to pop him between two slices of bread and eat him.”
I smile. I know she is talking about the children because she knows they are the only humans I can bear to talk to. “What’s his name?”
“Sorab.”
“That’s an unusual name.”
“Yeah. Apparently it’s an old Persian name. His mother is a quarter Persian.”
“It sounds almost Russian.”
She smiles broadly. “A bit. So you’ll come?”
“All right, but I don’t want to stay long. Maybe the driver can bring me back early.”
She shakes her head decisively. “Guy and me don’t plan to stay long either. You’ll go with us and you’ll come back with us.”
I nod reluctantly. “Okay.”
She stands and, pulling me up, whirls me around the way we used to when we were children living in a tiny wooden house at the edge of a Russian forest.
“Thank you, my darling sister,” she says and kisses my cheek. “You’re the only family I have left and I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy,” I say automatically, but the truth is I don’t know what happiness means.
When we were young we were always terrified of my father. After he sold me to those men I stopped being a person, I became a piece of meat with a name.
Open your legs, Sofia. Wider, Sofia. Wider still, Sofia.
Until I began to hate the sound of my name. I shudder at the painful memories.
My sister puts the palms of her hands on either side of my cheeks. “One day …” she lets the whisper filled with promise and hope trail away.