All That She Desires: The Stranger Read online

  All That She Desires: The Stranger

  Melissa Morgan

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Melissa Morgan

  Copyright © 2013

  www.melissamorganbooks.com

  Melissa Morgan’s other books:

  “Queen of Wolves” – Book 1

  “Lust of a She Cat” – Book 2

  “Wolf Games” – Book 3

  “Forbidden Mate” – Book 4

  “Wolf Blood” – Book 5

  “The Duchess and the Hunt”

  “Aphrodisiac”

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter One

  Fiona woke up under an avalanche of pillows. She felt horrible. Without moving or opening her eyes, she thought she could actually feel her brain; it felt gritty and dry and slightly shriveled, like it had been left out in the desert sun, and then roughly grabbed and slapped back inside her skull. Without putting too fine a point on it, she felt like shit.

  The bed wasn't her own. She could sense that. But she barely spent any time in her own bed anyway. In the past twelve months, she'd spend two hundred and fifty days on the road. In the twelve months before that, it had been two hundred and ten road days. She'd been a busy girl. Sometimes when she woke up in her own bed, she thought she was still on the road.

  It was daytime. The light was seeping in through the pillows, and Fiona became aware of the rest of her body. She had to pee. And her stomach felt wretched. It felt twisted and empty, but she still felt nauseous. Judging by the taste in her mouth, she'd thrown up the night before.

  She struggled to get her head up. The fluffy pillows felt like concrete blocks, and the weight of them made her head feel like it would crack. She managed to get into an upright position and looked around. She was in a bedroom. The walls were painted a light powder blue, and the bed was covered in a warm, red and blue quilt. There was an old-fashioned dresser and some amateurish landscape paintings on the walls, one of a mountain and one of a lake. It was all very homey.

  Then she remembered: she was at a lake. She was in a cottage that her manager had arranged for her. It belonged to one of his friends or something.

  She had to pee. Badly.

  Fiona got to her feet and lurched toward the bedroom door. She made her way through the living room, with its fireplace, couch, and wall of windows hidden behind thick curtains. She passed through the kitchen, which looked like it had been decorated in 1940, and into the bathroom. The motion of walking through the little cottage almost made her puke, but peeing was the critical thing at the moment. She pulled down her lime green thong, sat down on the toilet and finally relieved herself.

  When she was done in the bathroom, Fiona wandered back into the living room, and pieces of the night before came to her. The coffee table in front of the couch told the whole story. There was an empty vodka bottle, a drinking glass, a small plate serving as an ashtray with cigarette butts and joint roaches, and an empty chip bag. She arrived late last night, brought in some of her stuff, and then sat down and got completely destroyed before throwing up and going to bed. She hadn't even looked around the property. She just sat down and got miserably wrecked.

  In the kitchen was her water. Ken, her manager, didn't have a lot of details on the place, except for some very detailed directions of how to get out there. But she didn't know what the drinking water would be like, so she brought along two flats of her favorite bottled water, which she'd lugged inside in the dark the night before. Also in the kitchen was the case of vodka. One bottle down, eleven to go.

  She pulled out a bottle of water and drank half of it down. She was very dehydrated. She looked out the kitchen window. There was her rented Lexus in the gravel driveway, and trees all around. There were other cottages around too, but the place was half-decently sheltered. There was supposed to be a lake here somewhere, but she couldn't see it. Ken said the cottage looked out on the lake, so the big view must be behind the curtains in the living room.

  Taking gulps of water, she wandered into the living room and over to the curtains. They were made from a heavy brown material. This place was so out-of-date. It was unbelievable that Ken thought she would be able to relax out here.

  The last thing her brain needed at the moment was a whole bunch of daylight, but she wanted to see the lake view. Setting the bottle down on the coffee table, Fiona took hold of the curtains with both hands and swung them open, revealing a bright, beautiful, blue-skyed day with a view of a tree-covered hill-side leading down to a gorgeous blue lake, and a man on her patio.

  A man on her patio. Staring right at her with shocked eyes and an open mouth.

  Fiona was still only wearing her lime-green thong.

  She screamed and yanked the curtains shut again and dropped to her knees in fright. Her head was exploding with pain and her stomach felt like it was going to crawl out of her mouth, but adrenaline made her jump back up and run to the bedroom to find some clothes.

  Shit, who was that guy? She barely got a look at him. It looked like he was doing some kind of work on the deck, but she panicked so badly that she didn't even notice. She looked around and found her clothes under the blankets of the bed. She must have crawled into the bed in her clothes, and then struggled out of them. How messed up was she last night? She could barely remember anything after arriving at the cottage.

  Fiona pulled on her jeans. They were expensive, body-hugging things that rode low on her hips. Her top was a black tank top with a skull pattern stitched on in silver sequins. She pulled it on over her head and looked down at herself. This was too sexy to confront a weirdo hanging around outside the cottage. She looked around the bedroom for her suitcase, then checked the living room and kitchen, but only found her big handbag. The suitcase, which had all of her other clothes, must still be in the trunk of the rental car. "Fuck," she muttered.

  She figured there was nothing she could do but go on the attack. But first: strength and courage. The vodka bottle on the table was empty, so she went to the kitchen and pulled another bottle out of the box. She checked the refrigerator’s freezing compartment. The only thing in it was a tray of ice cubes. It was half-full, and she shook a few out into a clean glass from the cupboard.

  Everything here seemed so old. The cupboards needed to be repainted. The glasses, as well as the dishware, were an odd mix-match of sizes and styles. They weren't even a set. Why had Ken put her in this dump? She would have to give him shit later.

  She peeled the plastic off the top of the vodka bottle and poured, then swirled the glass to let the vodka and the ice mix. She walked back into the living room and stared at the curtain. Just out there, she thought, some creep was probably jerking off, hoping to get another look at her tits. Well, she was going to go out there and kick his ass.

  The vodka didn't go down well. Her stomach was raw, and the booze went straight to her head. She felt nauseas and dizzy, and she sat down on the couch and cradled her head in her hands.

  There was a knock. Bap-bap-bap.

  Fiona looked up. There was a door across the living room from her that led out to the side of the cottage. It was painted green, and it had a window in the top half that was covered by a green pull-down blind. "Fuck," she muttered again. The creep wanted to come inside.

  She grimaced and took another sip of the vodka, then got up and approached the door. Bap-bap. She stepped softly toward it and stopped. She slid one finger in along the edge of the blind and pulled it back, allowing her to see out just a crack. Trees. Then a head popped into view. It was the man.

  "Hello," he said through the door. "I'm Mike. I'm s
orry for surprising you. I'm here to paint the cottage. I'm working on the front deck right now. I hope I gave you enough time to get dressed."

  She gave him the look that she liked to give to extremely stupid people. "Why are you painting the cottage?"

  He smiled. "Because," he said, "the owner of the cottage employed me to paint the cottage."

  "Hang on." She went back to the coffee table and grabbed her pack of cigarettes, lighter, and the glass of vodka. Then she went back to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the mid-morning light.

  The guy, Mike, stepped back to let her out. They were partly shaded by the trees. The walkway around the side of the cottage was only about three feet wide, and there was an embankment of earth next to it. She turned and looked out toward the deck, and then she saw the lake.

  Fiona stepped past the strange painter-man and finally took in the view properly. It was beautiful. There were trees to the left and right, and directly in front of the cottage was a steep, treed hill, a brief expanse of beach, and then the lake. It was dark blue and covered in white-peaked waves. Across the lake was forest. She couldn't see any houses or cottages on that side. It was a sight she was not used to seeing. It was such a simple beauty.

  "Watch the paint," the man said. She turned and looked. He was pointing to the area of the deck to her left. There was a clear line where the bright new red paint began covering over the old, faded red. She looked at this side of the cottages exterior. It was all red, with yellow trim around the windows.

  "Red and yellow?" she said. "What is this thing? A fucking fire truck?" She took a sip of vodka.

  "I kinda like it," he said, crossing his arms and smiling. "It's old fashioned. It gives the place a real vintage style, I think."

  "This place is a dump." She took out a cigarette and lit it.

  "Okay," Mike said. "We've established why I'm here. Do you mind telling me why you're here?"

  Fiona took a drag. It made her stomach turn. She took a sip to settle her tummy, and leaned against the rail that ran around the edge of the deck. "Don't ask me any questions," she said. She felt like shit.

  "Are you okay?" he said. "You don't look so well."

  "Kiss my ass," she managed to say, before turning and throwing up over the rail into the bushes below. She dropped the glass and the cigarette and held back her blonde hair while she puked, spilling out clear liquid and gasping for air.

  "Oh, wow," Mike said. "This is... unexpected."

  Fiona heaved a few times, but since she had nothing in her stomach except water and vodka, it didn't last long. She retched, spit, and then sank down to her knees, still holding her hair back with one hand, and holding onto the rail with the other.

  "Um, maybe let's get you back inside where you can sit down," Mike said, stepping toward her and putting a hand on her shoulder.

  She swatted away his hand. "Don't fucking touch me," she said.

  "Okay, I'm sorry. Help yourself."

  "I think my head is going to explode," she said.

  "Can I get you anything?"

  Fiona struggled to her feet and after bracing herself for a moment against the rail, she turned and stumbled back toward the door. She went back inside the cottage and closed the door behind her. She locked it, and then managed to make it to the couch. She lay down and then struggled and shifted with discomfort until she finally managed to fall sleep.

  Mike waited and listened, and then decided to go back to painting the deck. He grinned as he got down to it. She was beautiful, but what a bitch. She sounded like a spoiled rich city-girl. He'd dealt with plenty of them at college. And what a mess! Was she drunk this early, or was she still messed up from last night?

  Maybe it would be best to cut her some slack, he figured. Maybe she was so bitchy because he'd surprised her and seen her naked. That was liable to make a young woman defensive.

  She was beautiful, though. Very beautiful. He thought for a moment and tried to think if he'd ever seen a girl with a better body naked. She was so sleek and fit. Maybe he had. He couldn't think of anyone. Some were close, but not quite as sexy. She also looked very familiar, but he couldn't quite place where he knew her from. Maybe later he would catch her name and it would click.

  It didn't matter. He just had to paint. It would probably take three days to do the whole cottage, front to back. He only had to do the exterior and the decks. That was for the best. It meant he probably wouldn't have to deal with her very much. She was a mess.

  *****

  Chapter Two

  Fiona woke up two hours later. She still felt bad, but not as bad as before. Better wait a while before trying another drink, she thought. In fact, the thought of vodka turned her stomach.

  Despite the mild nausea, she realized she was actually very hungry. Some food would probably settle her stomach, if she could keep from puking again.

  She got off the couch and went to the kitchen again. Except for bottles of ketchup, mustard, and barbecue sauce, the fridge was empty. The cupboards were the same. There were a few condiments and spices, but no food. She opened another bottle of water and sat down at the little table. What a mess she was in.

  Well, Ken had told her it would be a bare-bones place. The owner only used it a few times a year, so it made sense that it wouldn't have a fully stocked kitchen. And stupid her, she'd picked up a case of high-end vodka and half an ounce of weed, but only brought a few bags of chips for food. She needed a restaurant. And probably a grocery store.

  She found her cigarettes on the floor next to the couch. She lit one and sat, miserably cursing her situation. Why couldn't she just have brought an assistant? This whole thing was a mistake. She was supposed to get away from everything to try and find her center, and she was getting more lost than ever.

  There was a small town about half an hour away. She'd passed through it on the way there last night. She could go into town and load up on whatever she needed. The thought exhausted her. She didn't want to do anything except wallow in her own misery, and maybe get high. But she needed food.

  A sound from outside reminded her about the guy out there painting the deck. Maybe she could send him. He could go pick up whatever she needed. But even if he went right that moment, he probably wouldn't get back for an hour or two. She'd probably be dead from hunger by then.

  She would have to go and get something to eat right away. But she wanted his help anyway. He would be able to show her where to go. And it would probably be safer if she had someone else drive right now. She felt like she would probably go off the road, and that was the last thing she needed. A crash would probably draw the paparazzi out there, and then the whole thing would be blown.

  But would he-- what was his name, Mike? Would Mike help her? She had been a complete bitch to him. She finished the cigarette and crushed it out in the small plate that was her improvised ashtray. Of course he would help her. She was a celebrity. But she should probably get cleaned up first.

  There was a stand-up shower stall in the bathroom, and she stripped and climbed inside. She turned on the water and soaked herself down, then realized all of her bathroom stuff was outside with her suitcase. She cursed, and helped herself to the bottle of discount-brand shampoo that was already in there. It smelled like apple. Fine, whatever.

  The water felt nice. A shower always helped when she was hung over. She stood under the shower, letting the hot water spray onto her head, trying to feel each river flowing down. Her hair felt heavy with water, and she pulled it forward and hung it over her shoulder.

  There was a small bottle of shower gel, and she squeezed some onto her hand and started rubbing it all over herself, running her hands over her chest and the small breasts that looked so amazing with a pushup bra or the corsets or various other tight, sexy tops and outfits that made up her stage costumes. She ran her hands down over her flat stomach and her narrow waist, then back over her little round ass. She was getting horny. She always got horny when she was hung over. Every sensation was amplified. Anything bad
was the absolute worst, but anything that felt good was amazing. She would have stayed in the shower a while and masturbated if she wasn't so damn hungry.

  Fiona got out and dried off on the hand towel. Once again, her bath towel was in the car. When was she going to get her shit together? She dried off, put on the same smelly clothes, and went out to the blue Lexus that was sitting in front of the little red and yellow cottage. She dragged in her suitcases and set them up in the bedroom, then got dressed in some comfy corduroy pants and a t-shirt with a zip-up running jacket. She took all her toiletries to the bathroom and found there was barely room on the sink for it all. Even so, she brushed her teeth until the nasty taste of booze, smoke and vomit was finally gone, and put on some makeup. If she was going to ask Mike to help her, the least she could do was fix herself up a little.

  She chose a light pink lipstick and some silver-blue eye shadow, and gave herself a touch of foundation so she didn't look so dead. Her face was a bit puffy. Proper sleep and hydration were needed. She was going to age prematurely if she kept up her present routine. But all she wanted to do was get wasted. Her life and her future seemed to hold absolutely nothing for her right now except nihilism and destructive self-indulgence.