Brides on the Run (Books 1-4): Small-Town Romance Series Read online

  Brides On The Run Boxed Set

  (Books 1-4)

  Jami Albright

  Brides on the Run Boxed Set

  Copyright © 2019 by Jami Albright

  First edition

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and plot are all either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is purely coincidental.

  Cover designer: Najla Qamber Designs

  www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  Editor: Serena Clarke

  www.serenaclarke.com

  Contents

  Running From a Rock Star

  Running With a Sweet Talker

  Running From the Law

  Running After A Heartbreaker

  Running From a Rock Star

  Brides on the Run Book One

  To Jennifer

  You’re my romance partner in crime, and the reason this book was born. If you hadn’t had a birthday, I would’ve never started writing. It’s a few years late but…Happy Birthday! I love you and I miss you every day.

  Chapter 1

  Light seared through Scarlett Kelly’s eyelids. She buried her face in the cool pillow to block the glare, but even that slight movement caused an explosion of agony. Pain and nausea crashed into her like a train on fire.

  After several minutes of panting through her symptoms, the misery subsided long enough for her to peel open her dry, sticky eyes.

  Her conservative dress and equally unadventurous bra stared at her from a condemning puddle on the floor.

  Stomach tight, she slid her gaze slightly farther to the right to identify the black pile in her peripheral vision. A motorcycle jacket. Combat boots. Black jeans. And…a guitar? Yes, a beat-up guitar leaned against the wall on the far side of the room. And poker chips littered the carpet like crushed confetti after a wild party.

  What the—

  Suddenly, something warm cupped her naked breast. She peered down at the large hand connected to a tattooed arm, connected to a…

  Oh. My. Lord.

  She rotated her head, and a stifled gasp jammed in her throat as she stared into the sleeping face of the man who shared the bed.

  Gavin Bain? A thrill skittered through her. The sunlight shone on his raven hair. His smooth bronze skin. Fascinating tattoos. Bam! A memory surfaced through her muddled brain. She’d traced the lines of one of those tattoos, the ninja star on his chest. She’d touched and then kissed her way… Oh, heavens, had she done that with this rock god?

  She, Scarlett Kelly, children’s author and poster girl for responsible living, had sex with Gavin Bain. Gavin Bain, the rock star, AKA The Delinquent.

  Her brain tried to piece together the previous night. She rarely drank and certainly not to excess. Even during the worst time in her life, alcohol hadn’t been involved.

  An acute case of bed-head made pushing her red curls from her face a painful challenge. Why had she drunk so much? It all came back in flashes of utter dismay. The Children’s Writer’s Conference in Las Vegas. Nervous anticipation of signing the contract that would save her family financially. That dream blowing up in her face. Then the added humiliation of overhearing herself described as a No-Fun-Nun.

  She’d shown them. Look at her now, naked in a strange man’s bed, the absolute picture of wholesomeness.

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  She held her breath as she removed his hand and slid from the bed. Moving unsteadily, due to her pounding head and sour stomach, she searched for her clothes, careful to be as quiet as possible.

  The purse, bra, dress, and boots were easy. But where were her panties?

  A panic attack threatened, and her whole body trembled. Could she have removed her underwear before she got to the room? If so, she hoped that memory stayed hidden. She gave up on the lost undies and headed for the bathroom.

  Lord, she needed to pee, but after a prolonged study of the toilet, decided it would be too loud and leaving an unflushed toilet was just bad manners. Even though she’d become, by all appearances, Slutty McSlut Slut, she couldn’t bring herself to be impolite. So she dressed as fast as her shaking hands allowed.

  The reflection in the mirror caught her eye, and the blood pounding through her veins turned to ice. Her head jerked toward her image so fast her brain vibrated. For the briefest of seconds, she saw her mother. A tiny whimper cut through the silence, and she ran trembling fingers over her face. People always said she looked like her mother, but now, while making the walk of shame, the resemblance was uncanny. The mental mantra she’d been repeating her whole life reverberated in her head. I am not my mother. I am not my mother. I am not my mother. She grabbed her purse and fled the pristine bathroom.

  A cool breeze from the air conditioner drifted up her dress and skimmed her bare bottom. She didn’t ever go commando—too much freedom. Restrictions were safe. Without restraint, a girl could find herself hung over, panty-less, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown while covertly fleeing a rock star’s hotel room.

  Oh, wait. That already happened.

  She glanced at the door. Nine feet, and she’d be free of this disaster. Logic screamed escape. Compulsion kept her rooted to the spot, and it became imperative that she find her underwear.

  I cannot leave without them.

  Where could one pair of basic white panties hide? The chandelier was blessedly free of them. Nothing on the drapery rod. But a photo on the desk made life as she knew it come to a screeching halt.

  A gaudy cardboard frame held a picture of her and Gavin under a red neon heart. The Valentine Wedding Chapel of Love spelled out in rhinestones around the frame’s border.

  It couldn’t possibly mean what she thought it did.

  Nooooo.

  Next to the picture, the condemning proof—a marriage license issued by the State of Nevada, signed by Gavin Michael Bain and Scarlett Rose Kelly. Her vision blurred, causing the letters on the certificate to dance like cartoon characters.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle and glanced back to the gorgeous sleeping man in the bed. A wave of vertigo slammed into her, along with the memory.

  She’d told him she’d only have sex with her husband.

  With shaking hands, she grabbed the evidence of their reckless night and shoved it into her purse.

  While her hard-won reputation exploded into a million pieces, her inner wild child made a victory lap around the room. If that hussy had been driving the bus last night, then she was the reason for this catastrophe.

  How could she have been so irresponsible? What was she going to do? No good answer for the first question, but she knew the response to the second. Find the panties and get the heck out of Las Vegas.

  She dug through the comforter at the foot of the bed. She kicked at his pile of clothes. She checked behind his guitar.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  They had to be under the bed.

  Crap.

  Not interested in waking The Delinquent, she cautiously made her way to his side and quietly lowered herself to the floor, ignoring the sweet smile he had on his face while he slept. The white material peeked out between the headboard and the mattress. Hallelujah. She reached in and yanked them free.

  All the extra movement pounded dizzying pain into her skull. She bent forward and

&
nbsp; rested her head on the soft carpet, and waited for the room to stop spinning.

  “Are you praying?” asked a sleepy male voice.

  She squeaked, then slowly turned her head without lifting it from the carpet. Amusement sparkled in Gavin’s smoky gray eyes.

  “Yes, I’m praying you’re a very bad dream.”

  He rolled his eyes as if that couldn’t possibly be true. “Good one. Why are you really on the floor?”

  “I, uh, I…” The marriage certificate hidden in her purse and the cacophony of self-condemning thoughts made it hard to focus.

  Suspicion darkened his handsome face. “What are you hiding under the bed? Is there a recording device under there?”

  “Are you serious?”

  He leveled her with a deadly serious glare. There was no trace of the formerly amused man.

  “Actually, there’s a reporter from TMZ under here, would you like to say hello?”

  When his features went from dark to thunderous, she knew she’d made a critical error with the sarcasm.

  “I was just…um…looking for something.” She forced herself to meet his eyes.

  “Looking for what?” Titanium coated every word and drilled into her hungover brain.

  Time to go.

  She scrambled to her feet. An increased heart rate, combined with residual alcohol pumping through her system, made the room spin. She swayed and toppled cheek first into the side of the dresser, dropping the panties in the process.

  “Ouch!” She covered her face with her hands.

  Sheets rustled, and suddenly, he was in front of her. “Shit, are you okay?”

  She slowly lowered her hands and…hot mother of a freakin’ cow. A very naked Gavin squatted in front of her with all his dangly bits…well, dangling.

  “Fine, thanks.” That’s it? That’s the best she could come up with a gorgeous naked guy in front of her. So much for clever repartee.

  She honestly did try to keep her eyes above his shoulders, but—come on. This was her last chance to see a rock god in all his tattooed, naked glory. One quick peek, then she rose unsteadily to her feet.

  “It was nice to…um…meet you, but I should go.” She inched toward the door.

  “Wait. You’re not going anywhere until I have some answers.” He made a grab for her arm. Fear and adrenaline lit her up like a rocket. She forgot her injury, made an evasive move, and sprinted to get away.

  When she got to the door, she glanced over her shoulder. Gavin hopped on one foot trying to yank on his jeans. The last thing she saw was her husband as he fell, legs tangled in the fabric of the jeans.

  She bolted down the hallway toward the elevator. “Come on, come on, come on.” She jabbed the down button repeatedly. A small, logical part of her brain, not currently recovering from near alcohol poisoning, wondered what she hoped to accomplish by running. But the larger, wholly irrational, part of her psyche screamed, Married? I’m freakin’ married? I’ve got to get out of here.

  Gavin stumbled from the room and into the hall, still struggling with his jeans. They were over his hips but not buttoned. He strode down the hall toward her.

  The indicator bell dinged.

  “Stop. Do not get on that elevator.”

  The sight of him stole the air from her body. Magnificent—scary as hell—but totally, completely magnificent. For a crazy instant, she almost complied, but then the doors slid open and broke the spell. She lunged forward, but relief made her clumsy. She tumbled head over heels into the elevator, dress flying over her head as the doors slid shut.

  Great, she’d just mooned her husband.

  Gavin thanked the security guy for opening the door. His half-naked trip into the hall had ended with him locked out of his room. Once inside, he leaned against the smooth wood and burst out laughing. The last thing he’d seen before the elevator doors closed was her bare ass with a brand-new tattoo that read “Gavin.”

  He could almost forgive her for running out on him. After all, she’d have to live with his name tattooed on her butt for the rest of her life.

  The laughter made his head throb. God, he was hung over. Most of his memories of the previous night hid behind a coagulated haze of alcohol.

  He’d gone to one of the Bellagio’s bars to have a drink and unwind. The frustrating phone call with that damn private investigator had left him in desperate need of diversion. And the pretty redhead with the Texas twang and innocent blue eyes had offered the perfect distraction.

  They’d had a few drinks. More than a few, actually, and he was paying for it this morning. He massaged his temples then dug in his bag for pain relievers. He didn’t do this shit anymore and dammit, in light of recent events, he didn’t need to do it again.

  After the second scotch, or was it the third, the memories got hazy. But he definitely remembered falling into bed with her, her soft hands on his body, her sweet, if slightly boozy, breath in his ear as she snored gently…wait, what?

  “She fell asleep.” Relief flooded his body. He didn’t have to worry about a recording device. There was nothing to record. Good thing too—the last thing he needed right now was an internet scandal.

  What had she been looking for under the bed? He moved to where their ill-fated confrontation took place, and picked up a scrap of white material. It was a pair of women’s underwear.

  He wouldn’t call them granny panties, exactly, but they weren’t sexy. They were…sensible. He shook his head. He’d never been to bed with a woman who wore sensible panties.

  SCARLETT KELLY was written in permanent marker on the tag. She wrote her name in her panties?

  Eight-year-old boys going to camp wrote their names in their underwear, not grown-ass women who sleep with rock stars in Las Vegas.

  His phone alarm sounded, nearly giving him a heart attack. He cursed his throbbing head and the piercing tone as he crossed the room to silence the thing.

  He stared at the lock screen on his phone like it was a two-headed dragon. Appeared he and the girl—Scarlett—had taken a selfie. That was a first. He smiled at a sliver of memory.

  Gavin.

  Yeah?

  I want to kiss you.

  Nobody’s stopping you, sweetheart.

  Her hand trembled as she brushed the hair off his forehead and then slid it around to the back of his neck. She gently pulled him to her.

  The kiss had been soft and tentative. He couldn’t remember a better kiss, which was saying something. He’d snapped the picture as their lips touched.

  The alarm gave a reminder screech. Time to get moving. His stomach churned at the thought of returning to California.

  He’d never considered Los Angeles the City of Angels. The whole town was overrun with pretentious, phony people who were completely self-serving. He’d stuck it out as long as he could, but after Johnny died a year and a half ago, he’d given it all up and moved to Seattle.

  But to salvage his career, L.A. was the place to be.

  He pulled the letter from Johnny out of his wallet. It was a morbid talisman guiding his every move. The damn thing had changed his whole life. Holding it shot his anxiety through the roof.

  He pulled oxygen deep into his lungs and unfolded the letter. Every time he read his friend’s rambling words, they blew back at him like a hurricane. It was a gut shot from the only person he’d ever trusted.

  Gav,

  Remember when I went back to Memphis to lay down a few more tracks for the album? When I was there I saw Tara, you remember Tara, y’all partied together when we recorded the album back in September. Well, she was pregnant, man, I mean fuckin’ big pregnant, and she said it was yours. I totally freaked. So, I paid her off, man. I paid her off and she went away. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. Fuck, the guilt’s been eatin’ me up inside. She said it was a boy, but that doesn’t matter. Who knows if it’s really yours? Right? It’s probably not. The last thing you need is a paternity suit. But, I know you would’ve wanted to know, and I didn’t tell you. I know I screwed
up. AGAIN. Shit, I’m so sorry. Don’t hate me, Gav. Please? Screw this, I need to tell you in person.

  He smoothed the creased piece of paper on the nightstand. Was there a kid out there with his DNA? He’d be almost two by now. Wouldn’t he?

  He leaned his arms on his thighs and cradled his head in his hands. “What the hell were you thinking, Johnny?” He raised his gaze and stared out the window at the Las Vegas skyline. “I love you, man, but I’m so pissed at you right now. I still can’t believe you kept this from me.”

  Was the pretty, self-absorbed blonde, who lived to play, a good mom or still a party girl? The possibility this baby might have the same kind of life he’d had…he wouldn’t wish that for any kid, especially his own.

  He plowed his fingers through his hair. Hopefully, the private investigator he’d hired could find Tara. Gavin didn’t even know her last name, or if she was actually from Memphis, but his manager said this guy could find anybody.

  Thinking about Johnny, Tara, and this baby wasn’t accomplishing anything except to spike his blood pressure. He returned the note to his wallet, scrubbed his face, and headed for the shower.

  While the hot water ran over his aching head, he felt a lot older than his thirty years. He was so over the sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll, but they’d definitely left their mark.

  With a towel around his waist, he moved to the sink and wiped the steam from the mirror. He ran a hand over his face, trying to decide if he should shave. A glint of gold caught his eye.

  He froze.

  There, on the third finger of his left hand, was a gold band.

  What the hell?

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to shuffle and rearrange the puzzle pieces into place.

  His eyes snapped open.