Flawed ~ Kim Karr Read online

  FLAWED

  ________________________________

  THE CONNECTIONS SERIES

  A game of cat and mouse

  Flawed

  Copyright © 2018 by Kim Karr

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Please note:

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

  Cover designer:

  Outlined With Love Designs

  Cover models:

  Daria Rottenberk & John Morrish

  Photographer:

  Lindee Robinson Photography

  Editor:

  Insight Editing Services

  Formatting:

  Type A Formatting

  They each had a plan.

  They knew what they were doing.

  Until love got in their way.

  Purity engenders wisdom, passion, avarice,

  And instills ignorance, folly, infatuation, and darkness.

  ~Cyril Connolly

  pu·ri·ty

  pyo͝oritē

  noun: purity

  1. Freedom from adulteration or contamination. “The purity of our drinking water.”

  Synonyms: cleanness, clearness, clarity, freshness; more sterility, healthiness, safety. “The purity of our tap water.”

  2. Freedom from immorality, esp. of a sexual nature. “White is meant to represent purity and innocence.”

  Synonyms: virtue, morality, goodness, righteousness, saintliness, piety, honor, honesty, integrity, decency, ethicality, impeccability; innocence, chastity. “They sought purity in a foul world.”

  About FLAWED

  Him:

  The first time I laid eyes on Gemma Hart, I knew I wanted her.

  The second time I laid eyes on her, she belonged to another man. He literally owned her. I hated the very thought.

  I wanted her to be mine.

  Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t help but watch the way she swayed her hips when she walked in my direction, raised a brow when she pretended not to notice me, get excited over the way her skin prickled whenever she got close.

  I turned her on.

  Thinking about her like that wasn’t part of the plan. Getting addicted to the way she arched beneath me wasn’t part of the plan. Caring about what happened to her was definitely not part of the plan.

  F*ck me.

  Now my plan has to be altered. I can’t allow her to get caught in the crossfire. She has to leave, but she insists on staying. She has a secret—a reason she allows herself to belong to that obnoxious prick. She won’t tell me what she’s hiding unless I tell her why I need to know.

  I can’t do that.

  There’s another way to get what I want—a little game of cat and mouse. And I’m an excellent hunter. Her leaving is for the best. This isn’t love. It can’t be.

  Or that's what I keep telling myself.

  Her:

  The first time Caleb Holt strode into the room, I was certain I knew his type. A man too gorgeous for his own good, he was sexy, brooding, and so full of himself, I thought he could easily be fooled.

  I was wrong.

  Those brilliant green eyes followed me everywhere. I swore he could see into my soul, read my determination, uncover my secrets with just one glance.

  It worried me.

  I should have stayed away from him, but I couldn’t fight the searing desire that flowed through my veins and the burning passion that coated my skin.

  I didn’t really want to.

  Before him, I had a plan to get back what was taken from me. The cost was irrelevant. Now I’m not sure I can sell my soul to the devil because I fear it belongs to him. The problem is, he has a plan of his own, and I can’t risk his plan taking priority over mine.

  Not even for him.

  Not even for love.

  So game on.

  Contents

  FLAWED

  pu·ri·ty

  About the Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek

  What’s Also Next

  Here’s a look inside some of my favorite books

  AND ALSO: A LOOK INSIDE NO PANTS REQUIRED

  AND DON’T MISS ONE OF MY PERSONAL FAVORITES: SEXY JERK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TO THE READER

  Chapter 1

  Art School Girl

  Gemma Hart

  MY BLOOD SUGAR starts to spike as I take another sip from my second can of soda and anxiously await the unloading of a very famous art collection.

  The minutes are ticking by so slowly I can barely stand it.

  I’ve drained the can, and I’m about to reach for a third when at long last my phone finally beeps. I have so much nervous energy, I almost jump out of my seat.

  Reading the message, I breathe a sigh of relief. The text confirms it. “Everything is back on schedule.”

  Thank God.

  After a day of maddening, inexcusable delays, the driver must have received the same alert because without delay, the armed truck’s locked door finally rolls up.

  Restricted to the confines of my car, I open my window and watch as the brown paper wrapped paintings are carefully handed one-by-one to the six-man team standing on the ground.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  With white knuckles, I clench the steering wheel and practically hold my breath until the very last painting is removed from the dark confines of the truck.

  Twelve.

  Phew.

  They are all there.

  When the heavy metal door slams closed, I start to feel a little giddy—like I actually accomplished something that for quite a while seemed impossible.

  I lurch forward in my seat as the last works of art are carried into the makeshift, secure holding area.

  When the final painting is no longer in my sight, I’m a bit crazed.

  All I can say is what happens next is one-hundred percent out of my control. I arranged and organized the transportation of the works. Now, he’ll either allow the event or he won’t. I can’t do anything more than I have.

  I put my palms together and pray.

  It’s not that I’m religious, but who knows, maybe it wil
l help.

  Okay, so sometimes I can be a bit dramatic. I can’t help it. It’s in my blood. After all, it’s that very quality that drew me to art to begin with. The intrigue. The chase. The wait. The discovery. I love it all.

  However, tonight isn’t about drama. It’s real. I’m not exaggerating the chaos that has ensued up to this point.

  Not one bit.

  The status of this event has been back and forth more times than a Ping-Pong ball in a professional tournament.

  The event is on.

  The event is off.

  The event is absolutely on.

  The event is positively off.

  The event is back on—maybe.

  Maybe.

  I have to take it.

  It’s not like I have a choice.

  As long as there is a sliver of hope, I’m not giving up. Successfully displaying these works of art has the potential to catapult my career. At the same time, defeat could very well result in total professional failure.

  As the Assistant Director for Exhibition and Program Funding at the San Diego Museum of Art, I am responsible for planning and coordinating all the museum’s fundraisers.

  Yes, it’s true—my art history degree earned me a glorified party planner position. And yes, tonight my job includes babysitting the safe passage of the Andrés Baisden collection of 20th-century Mexican art while it makes its trek from the museum to this exact location and then back.

  Not that I mind. When it comes to art, no job is too small or menial. Besides, putting this prized collection on display for the richest of the rich to admire is going to help raise an obscene amount of money.

  It’s kind of a big deal.

  The portfolio normally resides at its permanent home in the Centro Universitario in Mexico. However, this evening the handsome exhibition is not only on loan to the museum but at Mr. Enrique Cruz’s request, has been relocated from the museum to his estate in La Jolla, more specifically right here on the private grounds of his beach compound.

  Mr. Enrique Cruz is a man you never say no to. So, when asked to change the venue, the answer was, of course, yes.

  A member of The Powers of the Higher Mind, he is a man of wealth and influence and prestige. Many of the businesses catering to the mega-rich in this city are here solely because of the approval of this one man.

  His power is boundless.

  He can also be ruthless, so you never want to misstep anywhere near him.

  The best way to put it—San Diego looks like San Diego and San Diego is San Diego—because of him.

  He decides what businesses stay open and which close. His influence is widespread. To say everything of importance in this city bears Cruz’s imprint would be an understatement. He’s the wealthiest man in California—worth an estimated ten billion dollars, and he rules his empire with an iron fist.

  Much to my chagrin, he has a soft spot for art, which is why I’m here, hoping beyond hope for success.

  Attracting his attention is my goal.

  I glance around. It’s quiet. The truck has gone dark. The security team is nowhere to be seen. At least I know the collection is safe behind locked gates. Now, I can breathe a sigh of relief and wait—some more.

  Getting out of my car, I try not to pace. I’m not allowed up near the tent or inside the secured area until Mr. Cruz has given the green light for the event to go on as scheduled.

  As I already said, it’s not on, but it’s not off. I’m not really quite sure what the status is, and it’s not like I can call him and ask him or even send him a quick text.

  Typically, he’s elusive and unreachable, publicity-shy and enigmatic, maybe even paranoid. Mr. Cruz never invites anyone outside his small circle into his house, never gives out his phone number, and rarely allows people on his grounds.

  However, tonight is one of those rare exceptions to the golden rule and he still might cancel everything at the last minute due to some kind of security breach.

  Perhaps it was just a false alarm since he allowed the art to be unloaded? I hope so. I’m keeping my fingers and toes crossed.

  I breathe in the salty air and exhale, feeling thankful my one shot at making an impression hasn’t been shattered.

  I have yet to meet the big boss man, and I feel slightly nervous about it. One person with so much power is a little intimidating. But I am more than qualified for the career path I hope to pursue and am sure he’ll be able to see that.

  Having received my degree in History and Art at the University College London, I spent over a year unsuccessfully trying to secure a job at Christie’s Auction House. Penniless, I came back home to San Diego to work at the museum I grew up visiting, and they were more than happy to have me.

  It wasn’t my first choice.

  Or my second.

  Or my third, for that matter.

  Still, this is where I ended up, and I’m going to make the best of it. I aspire to become managing director. Once armed with experience under my belt, I plan to move back to London and broker fine art, either at Christie’s or any other prestigious firm.

  As luck has it, Cruz is just the man I need to back me. He’s chairman of the museum’s board, and he has the influence to make things happen. So, when Isaac, my boss, dropped this new project in my lap—I jumped on it.

  I stop my pacing and sag, feeling like the weight of a thousand pounds is on my shoulders.

  My fugue state must be receding, or maybe the soda-high is wearing off, and I begin to feel a little sleepy.

  A noise has me jerking my head up and what I see in the distance makes my heart swell with pride. The site for Cruz’s wife’s benefit to raise money for the construction of the county’s Art and Humanities Center is a bustle of brimming activity.

  Finally.

  Strings of twinkling lights have been turned on, one of the biggest up-and-coming bands is setting up on stage, and the best gourmet food in the city has just arrived.

  I clap my hands together—this is so on.

  As soon as the art pieces are moved to the easels awaiting them, everything will be in place and ready for the gala to begin. Albeit under a large, peaked tent surrounded by guards and not in the museum as initially intended, but still, I can’t complain.

  To be honest, even with all the work it took to pull this off, this new venue couldn’t be more perfect. With its sprawling lawns and crisp ocean air, Enrique Cruz’s La Jolla estate is an idyllic setting.

  Romantic.

  Quiet.

  Private.

  The secluded grounds afford the security needed to raise money by allowing these most-prized, rarely seen pieces of art to be securely showcased all in one place for the wealthiest of the wealthy to view.

  Members of The Powers of the Higher Mind are very private and despise the press. In fact, they dislike scrutiny of any kind.

  I can barely contain my excitement for the night to begin. Unable to stand still, I start to pace around the grounds.

  Anytime now, I should be allowed in.

  Somehow, I end up a reasonable distance away from where the fundraiser will take place and even further away from where the estate sits.

  In my silver strapless gown and heels, I try to avoid any missteps. I’d hate to land on my ass and get grass stained before I even say a single hello.

  I look down.

  The dress I’m wearing belongs to my mother, along with her one-of-a-kind necklace. I loved the uniqueness of the piece so much, I had a small pink heart inked on my shoulder.

  It always reminds me of her.

  My mother is half Latino and grew up in Columbia among the privileged few. This dress was one she wore to social obligations where she mingled among aristocrats and government officials. Haute couture. That was the kind of life she lived before she moved to the States. In fact, before she met my father, high society was her life, but then she gave it all up and chose love over money.

  She’s such a romantic.

  I stare at the dress and smile, remember
ing how happy I made her just because I wore it.

  Crazy, right? How a dress and necklace could have that effect on anyone, yet it did.

  With a burst of energy I hadn’t seen in a very long time, she carefully pulled a gray plastic bag out of the back of the closet. Unzipping it, she presented to me a beautiful gown fit for a queen. A queen, yes. Me, no. I rolled my eyes at how over the top it was.

  “Mama, it’s going to be too small,” I’d told her.

  “I can fix that. Besides, blessings come in small packages,” she’d said.

  “Or curses,” I muttered. I was never one for girly, girly things. I’d have been fine wearing my jeans and Converse to the event. Okay, maybe it wouldn’t have been appropriate, but still, I hated dressing up.

  Ignoring me, my mother laid the dress on the bed and then she reached inside the bag to the bottom. Taking out the black velvet box which held her very special necklace, she handed it to me. She refused to put it in the safe downstairs. Thought it was a beacon for someone to rob them. Silly, silly woman.

  “It’s too much,” I tried to rationalize.

  “Never.” That’s when she took me by the hand and said, “Gemma, a Latino woman should always walk into a party feeling like a million dollars. You’re sexy, and you’re not doing anything wrong by wearing this. Just try them both on.”

  At the time, I tried not to laugh because of all the things I think I am—Latino isn’t one of them. But I slipped into the dress for her and put the necklace on, and as soon as I did, I felt like Cinderella on her way to the ball. “They’re beautiful,” I exclaimed.

  Her smile was warm. “Who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone that you belong with and live happily ever after.”

  I shook my head. “Mama, I have a career to build. Love is the last thing on my mind.”

  She made a face. “Someday you’ll find it, my darling,” she’d said. “And like me, you’ll embrace it. I’m certain of it.”

  “I hate the very idea of belonging to anyone,” I told her.