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    Sugar Princess
    Sugar Princess
    Sugar Princess
    Ebook116 pages1 hour

    Sugar Princess

    By Nicolina Martin

    ()

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    About this ebook

    When a scary-looking—indecently hot—Italian mobster shows up to shake me down for protection money, then reddens my bottom with his palm and demands I obey him - what's a girl to do?

    I hide.

    But he not only finds me, he takes over my whole damn life, and I find I welcome it every step of the way.

    With my insides set ablaze by Tommaso Vittelli's touch, I'm not sure what I want anymore. My mobster won't stay in the US forever, and I'm not leaving my home and my heritage.

    'Lies carry consequences', he told me.

    And I'm a liar. I lied about not needing him.

    I'm Carrie Ellerbrock - tiara-wearing, self-professed booknerd, proud owner of the Sugar Princess Bookstore - and I'm ready for my punishment.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDark Heart Pen Publications
    Release dateJan 9, 2021
    ISBN9781393326526
    Sugar Princess
    Author

    Nicolina Martin

    Nicolina Martin is a Swedish author whose passion for the written word began during her teenage years. While she is deeply influenced by Stephen King, Neil Gaiman, Jodi Picoult, and many more, she doesn’t limit herself to just one genre, and dabbles in dark, steamy romance, suspense, erotica shorts, and contemporary fiction. Nicolina enjoys singing, practicing martial arts, and gardening. She is also a music enthusiast, movie fanatic, and bibliophile. Above all, she loves spending quality time with her three beautiful daughters and three feline fur-babies. To Nicolina, life is far too short for regrets, and she is a firm believer in looking forward no matter what to avoid repeating past mistakes. She also believes in thoroughly enjoying each and every moment as it comes because tomorrow is never guaranteed.

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      Book preview

      Sugar Princess - Nicolina Martin

      Chapter One

      Tommaso

      The store is no more than a hole in the wall, and the whole front is floor-to-ceiling windows that don’t cover much of what goes on inside. I shake my head. Those windows could easily shatter if I wanted to, say, get the owner’s attention.

      Inside the store, a young woman moves between mismatched armchairs of various sizes and little round tables crowded too close together. Behind the chairs and tables are shelves filled to the brim with books of all sizes. Hardcovers, paperbacks, and coffee table books, passionately squeezed in to fit as many as possible in a seemingly unsystematic manner. There’s love behind the arrangement. That pleases me. I appreciate reading. It’s weightlifting for my mind, and I like staying in shape. The messy display offends my sense of order, though. I would have organized it differently.

      Rounded, pink neon letters along the façade spell out ‘Sugar Princess’. An arc is painted on the window in several shades of pastel: ‘Sweet Heroes and Spicy Heroines. We have a flavor for everyone.’

      I don’t understand the shop’s concept. Is it a bookstore or a café? Well, it’s not my business. I’m here to collect. I kick down the support and jerk up my motorcycle so that it locks in place, then I pocket the key and march up to the door. Collecting protection money was something I did when I was twelve. At thirty-nine, I thought those days were past, but thanks to my idiota drunk of a brother, here I am again, stuck in the US of A for a few months, paying off his debt.

      Back then, I would go in with a bat, smash up some shelves and break a few things. It usually did the trick. Today, I hope to settle this with a few well-considered words. I pull open the door, step inside, and take a deep breath. To my surprise, I’m met by the sweet smell of vanilla, like from panna cotta, my favorite dessert, and not musty books, as expected.

      The girl by the tables freezes with her back to me. I raise an eyebrow, appreciating her outfit. A wide, brown leather belt nips in her small waist, creating an alluring hour-glass shape. Below the belt, a wide, deep red skirt falls to her knees. Above the belt, a red-and-white polka dot blouse stretches across her ample chest. As she turns to me, I must drag my gaze away from the creamy skin of her breasts revealed by the blouse’s plunging neckline. Her honey-blond hair is tied into two braids that rest, one in front, and the other behind her shoulders. On top of her head sits a glittering tiara, worthy of a princess. She widens her round blue eyes as she lets them travel my body, and her intense scrutiny is an almost physical sensation. She looks as taken aback as I feel myself.

      Her heart-shaped face opens into a smile that reveals deep dimples. What do they say, the Americans? Cute as pie. To my Italian soul she is cute as the sweet pudding this whole bookstore smells of.

      How do you do, sir? she asks, pulling me out of the near trance.

      Sir.

      I like how polite she is. I hope she’s as pliable as she is polite and will fold like a cheap lawn chair when I put pressure on her. It would be a shame to have to wreck this little shop.

      Is that coffee I smell? I remove my sunglasses and move a step closer. She backs up. Her instincts tell her something is wrong, but the polite veneer doesn’t wear off just because everything inside her screams at her to be careful. She works in retail, and I am a customer.

      Y-yeah, she stutters as a blush creeps up the sides of her cheeks. I just put it on. It will be a few minutes. Did… did you come here looking for something special?

      I sure did, and she’s not going to like it one bit.

      Carrie

      What is your name? His deep baritone combined with a thick accent I can’t pinpoint, maybe southern European, possibly Italian, causes a shiver to run through me. He is made up of squares, I decide: a squared jaw, squared shoulders, a squared forehead. His thick dark hair lies neatly combed back, tamed with hair gel, light green penetrating eyes that flash as they look me over, and a massive black beard. He looks like someone glued a suit onto a caveman. Primitive. Capable. Sexy as all hell.

      I haven’t been with a man for two years. Not since my father passed, and I kicked Ethan out.

      Ethan is the most self-centered person I have ever known, and he somehow managed to make my grief all about himself. Having given him eight years already, that was the last straw.

      I haven’t looked at a man since. I’ve kept my head down and worked.

      But today I not only look, I gawk.

      Something about this rough stranger with his expensive-looking suit, and his intense gaze, has me spellbound. The silence is deafening. I realize I’m staring, and that he asked me a question.

      Ehm… Carrie. Carrie Ellerbrock.

      And are you from California, Carrie Ellerbrock? It sounds as if his tongue is making love with my name, and I choke down the moan that wants to climb up my throat. Italian, I decide. That raw, sexy accent is definitely Italian.

      I can’t tear my gaze off his hands as he slowly pulls off his black leather gloves, meticulously, finger by finger. His hands are callused, huge, deliciously veiny squares, too. Jesus Christ. My girl parts clench from the vision before me, and my mind plunges into the gutter with a dizzying speed as I imagine what those rough palms could do to my bottom.

      Mm-hmm.

      His gloves held in one hand, he pulls off his coat, hangs it over one arm and then moves, seemingly regarding the bookshelves. This gives me a perfect opportunity to study his broad back.

      And is this your business, Miss Ellerbrock?

      The silence mounts between us. I’m supposed to answer? This is ridiculous. How can anyone be expected to function when sex on legs walks into their little bookstore? The coffee brewer gurgles, signaling that the last few drops are hitting the pot, pulling me out of my weird hypnotized state.

      I clear my throat, square my shoulders, and involuntarily jut out my substantial bust, but lose the ability to speak when his gaze lands on my breasts.

      Mmph, I say then flee to the safety behind the counter, aiming for the coffee pot and the rack with cups. His presence burns holes in my back as I pour a cup of coffee, shaking slightly. I ground myself in the familiarity of the action, and as I turn back to him, my hands are steady again.

      Cream or sugar?

      Black.

      Chapter Two

      Carrie

      He has somehow soundlessly crossed the distance from where he stood in a matter of seconds. I swallow the gasp that wants to escape me, look over his shoulder, at the abandoned street, and then back up at the man, realizing two things: I’m alone with a stranger whom I somehow doubt is here for the classics, and he smells really good.

      Black coffee it is. Do you want anything to go with it? I scan the assortment of cookies I have yet to unwrap and then I work on routine, unveiling the trays in the cooler counter.

      He takes the cup and puts it to his lips, sips, then seems

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