An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication www.ellorascave.com Anastasia’s Style ISBN # 9781419909443 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Anastasia’s Style Copyright© 2007 N.J. Walters Edited by Mary Altman. Cover art by Syneca. Electronic book Publication: January 2007 This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310- 3502. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously. Content Advisory: S – ENSUOUS E – ROTIC X – TREME Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E- rotic), and X (X-treme). The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated E–rotic. S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination. E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. E-rated titles might contain material that some readers find objectionable—in other words, almost anything goes, sexually. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry in terms of both sexual language and descriptiveness in these works of literature. X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Stories designated with the letter X tend to contain difficult or controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart. A ’ S NASTASIA S TYLE N.J. Walters Dedication To my husband, Gerard, who makes every day Valentine’s Day. Trademarks Acknowledgement The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Dom Perignon: Chandon Champagne Corp. Godiva Chocolates: Godiva Brands, Inc. Honda Civic: Honda Motor Co. Manolo Blahnik: Blahnik, Manolo Individual Spain Anastasia’s Style Chapter One “I hate Valentine’s Day,” Anastasia Style muttered as she contemplated the wisdom of kicking the flat tire she was glaring at. If she hadn’t been wearing her very expensive, incredibly sexy red high-heeled Manolo Blahniks, she might have attempted it. Sighing with frustration, she reached into the stylish leather handbag she’d just retrieved from her vehicle, rummaging around until she found her cell phone. Dialing her office, she glared at the offensive piece of rubber. Of all the days to get a flat. “Hi, Maryann.” She spoke calmly even though a part of her wanted to scream. Her normally composed assistant sounded flustered on the other end. Not good. But not surprising. Valentine’s Day was shaping up to be her second busiest time of the year. Only Christmas had been more frantic. As the owner and manger of Hassle-free Holidays, her holidays were anything but hassle-free. “I’ve got a slight problem.” She explained her situation to Maryann and paused while the other woman commiserated. “Call Manny’s Garage for me, will you?” Her family had been using Manny’s for as long as she’d been alive. “Tell him to take it back to the garage and I’ll pick it up later. I can’t afford to wait, so I’m going to call a cab.” She stared into the backseat of her normally reliable six-year-old Honda Civic and eyed the expensive bottle of Dom Perignon, the huge box of Godiva Chocolates and the extravagant arrangement of colorful carnations. The carnations didn’t quite fit with the other two items, but that wasn’t her concern. Whatever the client wanted, the client got. That was the mantra for her business. 5 N.J. Walters She glanced at her watch and groaned. This day was going from bad to worse. She had to make this delivery for a very last minute—but extremely lucrative—client and get to her lawyer’s office before five o’clock. She was signing her divorce papers today. Pushing that thought aside, she said goodbye to Maryann and punched in the number of a local taxi company. After they’d promised her they’d have a car to her location within fifteen minutes, she popped the phone into her purse and climbed back into the driver’s seat to wait. It was only four o’clock, so she still had time to take care of everything and run back to her office to make sure that the rest of the deliveries had gone off without a hitch. Luckily for her, her office was located on the first floor of the old Victorian-style house that she’d purchased a year ago, just after she and Mason had split. She bit her lip and shook her head. She didn’t want to think about her soon-to-be ex-husband, but it seemed appropriate today. Mason would have had a field day with this episode if they were still together. He’d lecture her on the fact that she should have let him buy her a new car. New to him meant expensive. Mason Style was a successful land developer who came from old money and, at thirty-five, he had taken over the family business and done more than his fair share to pad the family coffers. They’d met when she went to work for him. It had all been so clichéd—the boss falling for the working-class secretary. She chuckled as she admired her new shoes. Okay, so she had expensive taste. But that was all right. She’d worked and paid for every luxury she had. In fact, these were her one and only real splurge in the shoe department. But with the divorce being finalized today, she’d wanted to feel confident and, yes, sexy. Lingerie was her biggest vice. It was one of the things that she hadn’t had any problem allowing Mason to buy for her. Somehow him blowing a hundred dollars on a sexy negligee that they’d both enjoy wasn’t quite the same thing as allowing him to buy her a fancy car, diamonds or…whatever. 6 Anastasia’s Style She shivered and flicked the heater up on high, even though the interior of the car wasn’t that chilly. Memories assailed her. After the wedding, her life had changed one day at a time until it barely resembled a life she recognized. It had happened so slowly, she hadn’t been actually aware of it happening. She’d started dressing differently—more upscale, so as not to feel so out of place when she had lunch with the wives of some of her husband’s business associates and friends or when she, heaven forbid, spent time with his mother. This time she shuddered. Marjorie Style was a social snob in the worst way. It was all about acting appropriately, wearing the right clothing and spending time with the right sorts of people. It was only after Anastasia and Mason had married in a whirlwind affair one weekend—an event that his mother had heartily voiced her disapproval of— that Anastasia had come to realize that the right sort of people did not include her family and friends. They’d just celebrated their first wedding anniversary when Mason began to suggest that she might want to quit work and stay home. He’d hinted that they should think about starting a family. Anastasia had awakened on that cold, dreary morning last Valentine’s Day a woman of leisure, and instead of being content, she’d panicked. The woman staring back at her from the mirror was not a happy woman. She’d tried to talk to Mason, but he’d been in a hurry to get to work and had kissed her instead. And after that, it was impossible to think about anything at all. The physical side of their relationship was the one place where they’d never had any problems. It seemed that whenever they came together, sparks flew and heat ignited within her. She swore as she squirmed in her seat. Just thinking about her soon-to-be ex was enough to make her cream her silky red thong. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the headrest and sighed. Whatever else could be said about the man, Mason Style was six feet of prime male. His black hair, which always seemed to be shaggy in spite of the fact he had it cut regularly, hung to just above his shirt collar. She’d liked to run her fingers through it 7 N.J. Walters when they made love. Regular workouts and his love of sports kept him physically fit. But it was his eyes that she’d first fallen for. His brows were thick and black and his eyelashes were sinfully long and dark. His eyes were a bluish-green that was almost turquoise and as clear as the tropical sea they’d swam in on their honeymoon. And they’d stared at her as if she were the most fascinating and captivatingly gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. Anastasia groaned as she dropped her head into her hands. The movement made her smart, tailored jacket brush against her silky red camisole, which was all she was wearing beneath it. She bit her lip to stifle another groan. All these thoughts of Mason were obviously having an effect on her libido. And no wonder. She’d gone from having the best sex of her life to no sex at all for the past twelve months. She’d known that fateful morning that she had to do something drastic. So she’d sat at the huge kitchen table in the middle of the mansion that she’d never really liked or wanted and had written him a long letter, detailing every doubt that she had. She’d poured her heart into the letter, wanting him to understand so that they could hopefully talk about things and work them out. Then she’d gone to a friend’s house. She’d waited for hours for Mason to come to see her or to call. She’d made sure he’d known where she would be, but he’d never shown up. Never called. Her clothing had arrived on the doorstep the next morning. A week later, his lawyer had contacted her. Her fingers found the long strand of pearls that wrapped around her neck and hung almost to her waist. They were real. She’d inherited them from her Grandmother Pepperfield, a feisty redhead whom everyone said she took after. Gram had always said that pearls were always appropriate, no matter the occasion, and Anastasia had worn them almost every day since they’d come into her possession. Even as a child, she’d been fascinated by them. They’d seemed so beautiful—almost alive. She still remembered her grandmother whispering to her, telling her the story behind the pearls. 8 Anastasia’s Style “Ana, always remember that pearls keep their luster by being worn. Never pack them away in the dark, but wear them daily as a reminder.” When she’d asked her grandmother what they were supposed to remind her of, she’d replied, “Love. It’s easy to forget about love in the business of living, but you shouldn’t neglect it or its luster will fade.” Then she’d get a faraway look in her eyes and young Anastasia would know that her grandmother was thinking about her grandfather who’d passed away before she’d been born. The love that they’d shared was legendary among the family. Now, as she ran her fingers lovingly over the long strands, she wondered. Had she done everything in her power to make her marriage work? Had she lost sight of it in the business of living? She honestly didn’t know. She’d tried to call Mason several times after, both at work and at home, but he’d never answered or returned her messages. She’d even gone by the house one night and had found Marjorie there instead. Mason’s mother had calmly informed her that Mason was out for dinner—with a female friend. Anastasia had been devastated. Up until that moment, she’d held out some hope that they might reconcile and save their marriage. After that, she’d stopped avoiding Mason’s lawyer and had gotten one of her own. What had gone so wrong? She remembered the first months of their marriage. God, they’d both been so happy. They’d laughed and talked and played. They’d worked together during the week and they’d sure as heck enjoyed their weekends, spending much of it in bed together. Her face burned as she thought about those early days of wedded bliss. Mason had been insatiable. The man could spend hours touching her… His fingers lightly traced her leg from ankle to thigh and back down again. Slowly. Maddeningly. His fingers would never quite go high enough to touch the slick folds of her sex. “Mason,” she groaned. He glanced up at her with a sexy grin on his face. “What?” 9 N.J. Walters Picking up a pillow, she covered her face with it and screamed with frustration. When she heard his low chuckle, she gripped the pillow tight and whacked him in the head with it. Grabbing her hand, he tore her makeshift weapon from her fingers and tossed it to the floor. Then he pounced. He tickled her waist, which wasn’t fair when she thought about it. He knew how ticklish she was there. They rolled around the huge king-sized bed until she was breathlessly begging for mercy. Mason laughed, gripped both of her hands in one of his and raised them over her head. His legs had hers trapped between them and the bulk of his body held her captive. “You know you can’t rush an artist when he’s working.” He nibbled the line of her jaw. “So you’re an artist now, are you?” He released his hold on her and levered himself up on his forearms. His expression was serious as he gazed down at her. “Maybe. Maybe not. But you’re definitely a work of art.” “Oh, Mason.” Tears pricked her eyes. He was always saying things like that to her, and no matter how many times she heard them, she had a hard time believing them. She’d grown up a thin, klutzy redhead with braces, and memories of childhood taunting still rang in her head even though she’d filled out nicely as an adult. Taking his time, he kissed every one of the six freckles that were sprinkled across her face. She was more fortunate than many natural redheads in that her skin was mostly smooth and clear, but her husband seemed to love her freckles. Anastasia forgot all about her childhood and her freckles as Mason brushed his lips over hers. His tongue snaked out to lick at her mouth, and when she moaned, he slipped it inside. Their breath mingled as their tongues stroked and touched. She was gasping when he withdrew and began to kiss his way down her neck, taking special care to linger over the sensitive skin at the base where it met her shoulder. 10