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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Thunder

  Copyright © 2012 by Taryn Kincaid

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-403-4

  Cover art by Tibbs Design

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

  Look for us online at:

  www.decadentpublishing.com

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  Also by Taryn Kincaid

  Lightning

  Thunder

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  Taryn Kincaid

  ~DEDICATION~

  To the memory of my mom and dad who would have been encouraging and endlessly proud, who believed there was nothing I could not do, and who had the good sense to move their family to a street named after the right World War Two commander because Taryn Eisenhower just would not have had the same ring to it.

  Chapter One

  “How’d you get this number, princess?” Sean Jones growled into his phone. He nearly knocked the irritating instrument off the nightstand.

  The naked supermodel lying next to him in bed murmured her annoyance and rolled over, presenting him with her back.

  The woman on the other end of his private line was going to be the frickin’ death of him. Literally, figuratively, every which way there was.

  “I advised your office I had an emergency.” The plummy, aristocratic Veronica Hardwicke crooned in his ear. “I need you out here at once, Mr. Jones.”

  Of course, she did. Probably to fire up her outdoor barbecue, hang a picture, open a jar of pickles or something equally trivial. The rich but needy young widow knew he ran whenever she summoned him. He couldn’t help himself. It was as if he’d been ensorcelled.

  Despite all her brittle grandeur and hauteur, she personally brought lemonade and little sandwiches and cookies to his construction crews. And the uncertain, vulnerable way he caught her nibbling on her lower lip, wrapping a strand of dark hair around her finger or tugging on one delicate earlobe made him want to wrap her in his comforting embrace.

  Not that he studied her that intently.

  The woman drove him stark, staring nuts. But he had a demented need to protect her. From what, he didn’t know. Jesus. He was on New York Magazine’s Most Eligible Bachelor list, for fuck’s sake. Youngest, Wealthiest, Most Influential Real Estate Developer—but let Veronica Hardwicke crook her little finger and he danced to her tune.

  Despite the fact she was a certified pain in the ass, and he’d been sexually satisfied by the Sports Illustrated swimsuit model in his bed only moments before, his cock twitched, instantly aroused, at the mere sound of Veronica’s voice. Her breathy purr did bad, bad things to him.

  Hell. The entire Veronica package did bad, bad things to him. No denying the woman was one smokin’ hot babe. A loony babe. But a damn fine babe nonetheless.

  He pictured the exotic tilt of her eyes, greener than the well-tended lawn at the Belmont Estate that By Jones was gutting and renovating for her, the ripe, red mouth he’d often imagined sucking his engorged dick. The juicy peach of an ass he dreamed of plowing, the awesome tits she barely bothered to conceal when he was around, and the splash of silky, midnight hair he badly wanted to feel caressing his bare chest.

  Witchy woman. What was it about her? The ass, tits, eyes, mouth, and hair. The much-photographed piece of arm candy currently gracing his bed seemed a pale imitation of womanhood by comparison. He refused to admit he’d recently found it harder to perform unless he was picturing Veronica’s seductive face unguarded in the throes of orgasmic ecstasy, or fantasizing about her lush body, shuddering in his arms in climax, screaming his name in her release.

  Hell. Maybe “Shallow Sex Hound” should be stamped on his forehead, like his brother thought. He made allowances for Campbell, though. The eldest Jones brother walked around in a blissful haze lately. After finding true love, he wanted everyone around him to be just as insanely, cuckoo-for-cocoa-puffs delirious…. Sean didn’t envy him. Not even remotely.

  Well, maybe a little.

  I’m happy the way I am.

  He squelched the words “hollow” and “empty” before they could fully form in his head and silenced the competing devils perched on his shoulders. He pretended the grind of staying out with a different model or starlet every night was not beginning to take a toll. He was twenty-seven years old. In his partying prime. But sometimes he felt like forty-seven.

  And since the crazy woman in Sleepy Hollow had inserted herself into his life….

  “It’s a holiday weekend, Mrs. Hardwicke.” He glanced at the cover girl curled beside him. “I’ve got plans.”

  Plans that included lolling around in bed with Erica all weekend. Maybe whipped cream. Or chocolate sauce. The A/C cranked high in his luxury Manhattan condo to block out the brutal summer rays. Maybe afterward taking in a little of the Independence Day fireworks display from his floor-to-ceiling windows and balcony overlooking New York Harbor.

  En-fucking-chanting.

  But still.

  The thought of ditching his current squeeze and battling Fourth of July traffic and the sweltering temperature to drive up to Westchester so that the ditzy broad calling the shots on the renovation project could request changes yet again to the old mansion in Sleepy Hollow, did not sit at all well with him. She’d already made him yank out four bathrooms three times.

  But hell, as long as she paid for it, she could do whatever the fuck she wanted.

  Within reason.

  The design was one of Campbell’s most astonishing and innovative new concepts, and Sean would protect that or go certifiable trying. He also badly wanted to snag a couple of full-color, five-page spreads in Architectural Digest and Town & Country for the company he and Camp ran, along with the support of Silent Partner and Developer Girl, who preferred to remain anonymous.

  Then there was the stunning multi-million dollar bonus Veronica Hardwicke had promised once she was satisfied. If he ever managed to satisfy her.

  That last thought caused him to veer off course into erotic territory, conjuring raw, carnal images of the various ways he might s
atisfy her. His cock grew harder than the creamy coral marble he’d imported from China for her master bath. He pictured her in that bath, streams of water sluicing over her slick breasts from the pulsing jets set into the walls. Stepping into the shower behind her, he’d soap her belly, moving closer to plaster his chest to her back, his erect cock riding the crack of her ass, caging her arms on the tile above her head with one hand, the fingers of his other hand reaching around and slipping inside her to tease her wet core, massaging moan after moan from her….

  He pulled himself back to the present with supreme effort and realized she’d gone silent, except for the little hitch in her breathing, as if she’d stifled a gasp.

  Jesus.

  Was she panting? Were they having phone sex?

  Holy crap, that thought made him hot.

  Crazy hot. Crazy hotter.

  He deserted the curve of Erica’s bony hip and inched his hand toward his throbbing dick.

  “Mrs. Hardwicke? Are you there?” Lust deepened his voice, roughening it until his words emerged ragged and gruff. He lazily stroked his shaft. Up. Down. Again. He shut his eyes, imagining her hand equally busy at pleasure play, her fingers circling back and forth as she caressed her swollen clit. His cock pulsed. His balls tightened.

  “Yes.” Her voice sounded breathy, far away… distracted. Did he imagine that shivery gasp?

  “Did you hear what I said, princess? I’ve got plans.”

  “Change them,” she whispered. The phone clicked in his ear.

  Chapter Two

  “I can’t believe I just did that.”

  Despite what the delicious Sean Jones seemed to think, and the incredible fortune that had been at Veronica’s disposal since the death of her elderly husband two years earlier, it was not in her nature to order people about. She did not kick dogs or mistreat the servants. She carried spiders outside instead of squashing them, and followed instructions to go green whenever an email from a utility company asked her to.

  But she was lonely…and frightened. She’d given the staff the weekend off for the holiday and she could not bear the thought of staying by herself in the unfinished mansion one more night—despite the magical wards she’d set in place for protection.

  Suffocating isolation bore down on her like an oppressive weight on her chest.

  She had no family other than a trio of elderly aunts and a handful of acquaintances outside the Wiccan sorority her worried aunts had insisted she join as a legacy sister. Even her will-o’-the-wisp friend, Geneviève, had flitted off to Paris for the weekend to see what mischief she could get up to in the City of Lights.

  Since Philip’s death, Veronica had few people she could turn to for support and comfort. No one to depend on.

  Except her hunky contractor.

  Crash. Bang.

  The thuds from upstairs sent a shudder through her, and she glanced down at the protective circle of salt she’d cast to form an energy boundary on the buffed, patterned parquet wood floor in the master bedroom. Didn’t seem like the thing was doing much good. But who the heck knew if she’d even drawn it right. She wasn’t a very good witch.

  Goddess knew what Sean had made of her jumpiness over the phone. Goddess knew what he’d make of the circle, with its lighted candles flaring at each compass point.

  Not that he’d ever see her bedroom now that By Jones’ work there had been completed.

  The thought of Sean’s big, muscular body naked in her bed, his sleep-tousled chocolate hair flopping over his brow, intense blue eyes blazing with lust as he gazed at her…his taut, toned ass. His thick thighs, broad shoulders, his…. Unquenched desire spiraled through her, firing her blood, dampening her panties with liquid lust.

  So long since she’d had a man. So damn long. Since before her marriage.

  More weird noises drifted down from the upper floors. She curled her fingers into her palms, the short, clipped nails painted a hopeful but unrealistic Come Hither Crimson digging into her skin as she willed herself to stay calm.

  She should have expected such strange occurrences when she’d decided to relocate to Sleepy Hollow. Philip had willed the old Belmont mansion to her, believing the village’s special ambience would enhance her powers. No place on earth was as spooky and storied, or more beautiful. Mystical supernatural currents swirled down from the Catskills into the foothills of the Hudson Valley, as they had for hundreds of years, since long before the Headless Horseman’s ride.

  As they now seemed to rattle through her enormous house. Too much house for one person.

  No matter how many times she instructed By Jones to rip out rooms and install new fixtures, she still heard the mysterious thuds and creaks, as if some ghostly entity prowled the mansion. None of the de-haunt spells she’d cast seemed to work.

  The notion terrified her. She was a witch, damn it. She’d followed the recipes in the grimoire the aunts had given her precisely. Sometimes she had second sight. Why the hell didn’t she know what was causing the creepy disturbances?

  Not her late husband’s shade. Of that she was sure. Philip had died in the hospital room in which he’d lain for nearly a month. She’d pulled no plugs, shut off none of the machines keeping the eighty-five-year-old sorcerer alive, afraid to let him go, hoping against hope he’d return to her. They’d never even had sex. But she’d truly loved the crafty conjurer, and she missed him every damn day.

  Another loud bang from upstairs. She jumped.

  “Please come, Sean,” she murmured. “Please, please, please.”

  He usually answered her calls, but it was a holiday weekend. They’d close the West Side Highway soon for the fireworks display over the Hudson River. Plus, a thunderstorm was predicted. Brewing already.

  She scented a whiff of crackling ozone in the oppressive air. If he drove, he’d likely be stranded in Sleepy Hollow.

  The idea strummed through her blood, exciting and arousing. Her pulse rate skyrocketed off the charts. A few hours alone with the gorgeous stud muffin. Was that too much to ask? Just one night?

  Maybe she really was losing her mind. “Great Goddess, help me.”

  Nothing.

  The Great Mother probably took affront at being beseeched over something so trivial.

  Only it wasn’t trivial to Veronica.

  She’d concocted a love spell once, and then, embarrassed, quickly reversed it. She did not really want any man on those terms. Especially not Sean, a man who often seemed to dislike her, if his scowls, grimaces, and abrupt responses to her attempts at conversation were anything to go by. She should keep things with him strictly professional.

  Instead, she’d turned to Madame Evangeline’s exclusive dating service, 1Night Stand, hoping she’d be matched with a fun-loving stranger for a night of safe, no-strings sex. Things were so bad even the word “sex” turned her on. She was desperate to get laid. Willing to try anything.

  The last time she’d met with Sean’s brother, the usually closed-mouth architect had glowed with excitement over the success of his own 1Night Stand. He’d recommended it, happy to provide the particulars: Madame Eve typically took referrals from satisfied customers only. With extensive screening in place, potential clients had no risk of harm.

  A few weeks earlier, nearly shaking with trepidation, Veronica made the initial contact with the website. After the rigorous background check, she was advised she’d be notified when a date was found. But she’d heard nothing further.

  She sighed. When 1Night Stand made perfect, ideal matches and satisfaction was guaranteed, the process was bound to take some time.

  In the meantime…she ogled her hunky contractor when she didn’t think he was looking. She was dying to sift her fingers through his rich, minky brown hair, boyishly tousled, and occasionally mussed even further by his hard hat. His bedroom blue eyes glinted with sexual secrets she longed for him to teach her. Broad shoulders and thick muscles filled out his T-shirts and tight jeans until she tingled all over at the mere sight of him. Masculine planes an
d angles and tempting bulges in all the right places. Planes, angles, and bulges she wanted glued against her.

  What she wouldn’t give to have his virile body in her bed.

  She shook her head. Not going to happen with Sean. Not ever. Even if he did cater to her other whims and the changes she kept asking for. Even if she had made him rip out half the mansion and start over. And over. Even if he did call her “princess” to her face, and mocked her as “Her Royal Highness” behind her back.

  She was wrong to hold the fat project completion bonus over his head the way she’d been doing. By Jones was a bold and innovative young company, and she’d been lucky to land them. Campbell’s sketches and blueprints for the Belmont mansion were phenomenal. Sean was a fabulous contractor. Not to mention how easy he was on the eye.

  But she shouldn’t rely on him in so desperate and needy a fashion. He wasn’t a crutch. He wasn’t her boyfriend or her lover.

  Much as she might wish otherwise.

  Chapter Three

  “Camp. Pick up, damn it.” Sean drummed his fingers on the leather-wrapped steering wheel of his Porsche 911 Carrera as he sped up the Henry Hudson Parkway. Moments earlier, he’d slipped past the southerly portion of the West Side Highway seconds before it was closed to accommodate the swelling Independence Day crowds gathering at river’s edge.

  “Whoa, where’s the fire, bro?”

  “Where are you, man?” He looked up at the fast-moving storm clouds massing in the star-filled sky and debated whether to flip up the top of the pricey convertible. But so far no raindrops spattered the windshield, and he loved the way the sports car sliced through the brutal night, tossing refreshing drafts of air back at him.

  “Um, you called me, Sean, remember? I’m on my cell. Talking to you.”

  “Yeah, but where? Sleepy Hollow?”