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  Catching London © 2018 by MV Ellis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Catching London is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing.

  www.hottreepublishing.com

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Designer: Claire Smith

  ISBN-13: 978-1-925655-43-8

  He’s not looking to change his bad boy ways.

  Arlo Jones is a badass millionaire rock star with the world at his feet. He lives the “sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll” lifestyle to the max, and believes in working hard and playing harder. He’s a man who always gets what he wants, especially when it comes to women. Until he meets London.

  She’s a damaged dancer not looking to fall.

  All London Llwellyn wants is to rebuild her life following the tragic car accident that robbed her of her fiancé, and ended her career as a professional ballet dancer. She’s working two jobs to scrape together the cash to set up her own studio, and reinvent herself as a photographer. The last thing she wants is to get involved.

  Arlo promises to always be there to catch her, but can London trust him enough to let herself fall?

  If music be the food of love, play on;

  Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,

  The appetite may sicken, and so die.

  ~William Shakespeare

  For the boy I sat next to on a bus in Brazil

  For two little girls who can never sit still

  I love you

  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

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Catching London Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Shit. Fuck! Oh no! I’m going to die. Surely my labored breathing is a sign? Or maybe I’m just having a panic attack? After all, there’s a lot to panic about. Even if this is not a heart attack, I’ll be forced to hack my own head off just to put myself out of my misery, but for now, I settle for running about the house screaming like a banshee, tearing off items of clothing and discarding them as I go. By the time I leave the elevator and dash toward the basement bathroom connected to the home gym, I’m completely naked and ready to throw myself into the shower stall. I pause only briefly to hit the on button located on the wall outside the cubicle, and set the water to super-hot.

  I like a hot shower at the best of times, even more so now when I’m in the midst of a living nightmare, one I’m sure to relive for many nights to come. This is an arachnophobe’s idea of hell, combined with Room 101. The only hope of surviving with my sanity somewhat intact and minimal emotional scarring is to scrub away the anxiety under the scalding hot water of the top-of-the-range German engineered shower.

  Technically I shouldn’t be using my employer’s shower, even though they don’t live here, and haven’t done so for years. But these are extenuating circumstances—almost an emergency, or at least as close to an emergency as I hope to ever get at work. Surely anyone else would do the same in my situation? Besides, I’m pretty sure this counts as inhumane working conditions or violates some kind of workplace laws, and if it doesn’t, it should.

  While I love this house aesthetically, some of the things that make it so gorgeous are the very same things that are the bane of my life. The impressive double height ceilings are a case in point. The rooms are large and spacious, and the ceiling heights add to the effect. They also add to my workload in keeping the house clean. Although it is unoccupied and has been since even before I started cleaning here, the place seems to attract dirt like no property I’ve ever encountered. Between the ceilings, the huge airy rooms, and the priceless objet d’art, it’s a dust mite’s playground. Clearly spiders love it too, if the thousands, possibly millions of tiny daddy longlegs that just rained down on me are anything to go by.

  I shudder involuntarily at the thought and scrub even harder at myself, especially my hair. Normally I think of my head of wild curls as some kind of bird’s nest, it’s so thick. But now, I can’t escape the image of those tiny arachnids thinking my hair is part of their natural habitat, and deciding to make it their home, and raise their families there. It’s an irrational thought, given the fact that the spiders are dead is what caused this debacle in the first place. But what phobia is rational? Ugh, my scalp is crawling. If I could just scratch it off and be done with it, I would!

  I scrub harder still, barely registering that the water is blisteringly hot. If I’m ever going to feel clean again, this is the only way. I don’t care if my skin suffers as a result; it’s worth it for my peace of mind. I’m relieved to see many tiny spider corpses making their way down the drain, but I continue to scrub and shake, as though stuck in some kind of loop.

  Out of nowhere, the hot water runs cold. I jump against the farthest wall of the shower, trying to avoid the freezing droplets touching my skin. I’ve never liked being cold, so a freezing shower isn’t my idea of a good time. Could this day get any worse?

  Apparently it could. I hurry to get out of the cubicle so that I can switch off the water, and end the torture as soon as possible. As I reach for the door, I’m scared out of my skin to come face-to-face with a pair of fierce, bright green eyes. Yeah, so shit just got worse. Much worse.

  “What the fuck!” I shout. Instead of getting out of the cubicle as I had planned, I push myself back into the corner like a trapped animal.

  Now I hardly notice the icy water as it rains down on me. After all, there’s a lot worse that can happen to me right now than being cold. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! My mind races, thinking through the ways that this could possibly end well for me, but I quickly come to the conclusion that the prognosis is bleak. I’m trapped in a shower. Naked. In a basement. It doesn’t leave me with too many options. Once I come to this realization, my survival instinct kicks in.

  I scream, grateful that I have a good set of pipes. I hope that screeching like a crazy woman will buy me some time, or call up some miracle. While I try futilely to cover myself with my hands, I keep my eyes trained on that green glare. I notice that the narrowed slits sit within a young and stupidly handsome face. A quick glance downwards tells me that Green Eyes is topless, inked to the hilt, and buff as all get out. Fuck.

  I let my gaze wander even further down. He’s wearing running shorts, but is barefoot. He has tidy toes for so
meone who may be about to kill me. I quickly raise my eyes again. This guy has more tattoos than anyone I’ve ever seen. They crisscross his chest, arms, and hands, and go up his neck. In my panic, I don’t have time to absorb the detail, but at first glance, he looks like a walking notebook.

  It’s then that I notice that he is holding something in his hands. It takes me a moment to realize that in his left hand he has the clothes I discarded around the house. From the end of his right index finger, he’s dangling my bra. He swishes his finger from side to side, so that it swings back and forth, like a flag in the wind. This can’t be a good sign. Not good at all. I scream louder than ever at the thought, stopping only to briefly catch my breath.

  “Shut up! Just. Shut. The. Hell. Up.” If he was angry before, he’s raging now.

  I’m trapped in the bathroom with an emerald-eyed lunatic! This really is not how I saw my day panning out. I mentally race through my escape options. Not that there are many. In fact, there are none. If by some miracle, I were able to get the better of him (ha!) and make it out of the shower to the elevator, I might have to wait a while for it to arrive, with Green Eyes in hot pursuit. That is so not a plan.

  “Please, for the love of God and all that is fucking holy, just shut your mouth! You are not helping my hangover,” he yells, eyes wild.

  I’m forced to stop screaming, although it’s the last thing I want to do. What now?

  “Okay, that’s better. Shit. You just about burst my eardrums, and with my hearing, that’s an achievement,” he mutters, looking no less thunderous than before.

  I thought that his mood might improve if I stopped yelling, but apparently not. I guess there’s no logic with crazies. He rubs the furrow between his well-groomed brows agitatedly. I look at him again. He’s huge—about six foot four—and well built. He’s ripped in that “I work out and am fit as hell” kind of way. Not a muscle-bound meathead, but lean, and cut.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he barks, reaching down to shut off the water. Whose smart idea was it to have the shower controls outside the cubicle? This whole thing wouldn’t have happened if they were inside like a normal fucking shower.

  His voice is gruff, and his glare doesn’t leave mine for a nanosecond. Thank God the water’s off—at least I won’t die of hypothermia. Now I figure that my best way out of this mess is just to brazen it out.

  “Who am I? Who are you, more like?” I spit back, attempting to match his gruffness. I jab my finger toward him, emphasizing every word, hoping to give the impression that I mean business. He carries on talking, so I guess he’s not convinced.

  “You fans have done some crazy-ass shit before, but this takes the fucking cake! Did you get a thrill from using my shower? Or did you think I’d find you, jump in and ravish you? That is some full-scale bunny-boiling madness, right there.” He barely pauses for breath before continuing.

  “I’m pretty obliging, most of the time—interviews, meet and greets, signing underwear, blow jobs, threesomes, kinky fuckery. You name it. Hell, I pretty much bed one of you every night, two on Sundays. ‘Cause that’s the kind of selfless guy I am.” He smirks at his own joke.

  “But I draw the line at breaking and entering. I’m entitled to the tiniest shred of privacy. In. My. Own. Home. How the hell did you even get in here? Did you have yourself mailed to me, like those girls did to the Beatles?” His fury is palpable as he paces the bathroom like a caged animal.

  Wait. What?

  “Thi… this is your house?” I stammer, teeth chattering.

  “As if you didn’t know,” he snaps.

  “N-n-n-n-no. I d-d-d-d-didn’t. I mean, I don’t.” I can’t remember ever being this cold.

  “Ha! So I suppose you don’t know who I am, either?” He’s incredulous.

  “No.” I think I have brain freeze. I can’t think straight, let alone speak coherently.

  He’s obviously trying to decide whether he believes me or not. Something about the look in his eyes tells me he’s erring on the side of giving me the benefit of the doubt. Hopefully that’s a good sign.

  “Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here? Explain yourself now, or I’m calling the cops.” He punches out each word staccato style.

  “My name’s London,” I manage to choke out.

  “Okay, ‘London.’” He looks and sounds skeptical—a reaction I’m used to.

  “You still haven’t told me what the hell you’re doing in my shower, and in fact, how you got in here, period.” He’s got a point.

  “I have the key code. I’m with Marigolds,” I offer up hopefully.

  “Marigolds?” To my disappointment, he looks puzzled, raising one eyebrow as he mutters the word. Clearly it means nothing to him. Not the response I was hoping for. Shit.

  “Um, yeah. The cleaning company. I clean here.” As I say this, I’m aware that I’m still naked. Despite my best efforts, and my teeny, tiny boobs, my hands aren’t helping to preserve my modesty.

  He waves toward my shivering form. “You’re naked in my shower, with a body like that—”

  He’s looking at me. All of me. He casts an appraising eye over my dripping wet, naked body. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s ogling me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. A wave of dread washes over me. Standing here with him looking me over like this while he calculates his next move is agonizing. Torture, in fact. Oh God, I hope that’s not what he has in mind for me—torture!

  “—and you expect me to believe that you’re my cleaner?”

  I realize he’s waiting for me to answer his earlier question.

  “Um, yeah… yes. I am. Marigolds is my aunt’s company. I was in the shower because when I came in today, I noticed a daddy longlegs on the ceiling with all of these tiny babies around it. I really hate spiders, but I couldn’t just leave them there, so I went and got the ladder and the bug spray to get rid of them. I didn’t really think it through too well, and right after I sprayed them, I guess they all died, and then they started falling off the ceiling onto me.

  “Actually, it’s probably more accurate to say that I’m terrified of spiders. I freaked out—completely lost it. I thought I was having a heart attack or something. All I could think about was getting them off me, so I stripped and came down here to shower. I thought I was alone, and I was going to clean up the shower right afterward. The next thing I knew I was trying to scrub myself clean, when the water ran cold, and now you’re here.” I speak quickly and decisively, even though my mind is racing.

  “Darlin’, you must think I was born yesterday and grew up overnight, if you expect me to believe that bullshit.” He’s still leering.

  I need to say or do something to get him to stop looking at me like that. Then inspiration hits me. “Business card!” I yell, not meaning to be quite as loud as it comes out. I guess fear will do that to you.

  “I have a business card in my bag upstairs in the kitchen. You can call and check with my aunt.” I forge on, attempting to get the situation back on track. I try to keep my voice firm and even, although inside I’m quaking. By now I’m so cold, I swear, if my teeth chatter any more, they’ll fall clean out of my head. Whatever happens, one thing’s for sure—I can’t stay here freezing half to death for much longer.

  He continues to look skeptical, but I see a subtle shift in his demeanor that gives me hope, so I decide to continue brazening it out. His stare is colder than the water, and almost impassive as I move toward the shower door. He surprises me by taking a few steps backward to allow me to climb out of the cubicle, and more so when he slowly reaches for and hands me a towel, and my clothes, never moving his gaze from mine. He truly has incredible eyes—they’re the most startling shade of green I’ve ever seen, and they sparkle like jewels.

  As I wrap the warm, luxurious towel around my body, emotions flood me. I’m relieved to be out of the freezing cold shower, but there’s something else too, that I can’t quite put my finger on at first. Then I realize that Green Eyes is still st
anding so close to me that we’re almost touching.

  He looks at me, raising a well-groomed eyebrow, a slight smirk playing on his lips. At the same time, he reaches toward my face, and I flinch, drawing the towel closer to my body protectively, like a child with a security blanket. He winces, and cocks his head.

  “What, you think I’m going to hurt you?”

  I stand motionless, but I realize that he’s actually waiting for my response again. I had assumed that it was a rhetorical question. I nod slowly. A look passes across his face. He looks hurt.

  “I was just going to move the hair out of your eyes.” He sounds hurt too.

  Damn, something about that look slays me, and I somehow figure that he’s not a danger to me. He continues the movement of his hand, and true to his word, sweeps a few stray tendrils of hair from in front of my eyes. As his fingertips slowly and gently sweep across my forehead, a lightning-like pulse surges through my body, and awareness hits me. He trails his thumb down my cheek, gently smoothing it across my lips. It’s all I can do to resist opening my mouth and sucking on his thumb. What the fuck? Get it together and get your mind out the gutter, cupcake. I give myself a silent pep talk.

  I move to the bench at the back of the room, placing my clothes on it so that I can dress, but not before shaking everything in case of any lingering spiders. I shudder involuntarily at the thought. So fucking gross. Turning my back, I hastily pull my T-shirt over my head, forgoing my bra. I just want to be decent as quickly as possible; I’m not concerned with etiquette. As soon as I pull the T-shirt down to my waist, I realize my epic mistake. White T-shirt + wet hair + no bra = wet T-shirt contest, and being so cold, my nipples definitely make their presence known. Bang goes that decency I was aiming for.

  I drag my cutoffs up my wet thighs hurriedly, forgoing my underwear as well, and I find myself wishing that my shorts were longer. In fact, all of a sudden, my normal uniform of short cutoffs and a hacked-up T-shirt doesn’t seem like such a good idea, after all. I blame Rihanna—it’s pretty much her second skin too. The difference is that she’s always accompanied by a burly security guard, and I’m not. Instead, I’m trapped in a basement with a strange guy, wearing next to nothing. Thanks, @badgalrhirhi, #wheresmybodyguard.