Guilty As Sin (Sin Trilogy#2)

My mother stands, and Whitney stiffens beside me.

“You don’t need that whore,” my mother snaps. “Not when you have Maren—”

“Give it a rest, Sylvia.” Jackie steps out of her suite and walks toward my mother. She stops beside her table. “Haven’t we all lost enough? Isn’t it time to finally bury the ax? If they want to be together, let them.”

Finally, someone who has some goddamned sense.

“You might work for my daughter, but you can’t speak to me that way.”

“And I’m not going to let you treat my niece like this. She’s never done a thing to you, so why don’t you just let them be happy.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out. It’s the pilot. He’s arrived.

“We’re leaving, Mother. We’ll be back when the media circus dies down. I suggest you take a vacation and do the same.”

I slide my fingers into Whitney’s and lead her down the hall in the opposite direction.

“You little whore! You’re just like your mother! I won’t let you—”

“For the love of God, shut up, Sylvia.”

Thankfully, my mother finally listens to Jackie and goes silent.

Whitney stops and looks at me, indecision clear on her face. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” I squeeze her hand. “I love you.”

Whitney’s blue eyes shine. “I love you too.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

I lead her toward the stairs that will take us to the helipad. I’m tempted to look over my shoulder, to see the shock on my mother’s face that I’m not caving to her demands, but I have no desire to look backward.

Today is all about moving forward—to my future with Whitney.





55





WHITNEY





I HAVE no idea how long we’ve been in the chopper, and I still have no idea where we’re going other than it’s called Blue House. I don’t exactly want to presume about the significance of the name either. Honestly, right now, it doesn’t matter to me where we go.

Lincoln loves me.

I try to use that to salve the ache in my heart over the rift I’ve caused between him and his mother.

I will find a way to fix it, I promise myself. Only then can I allow myself to smile and feel the joy surging in my soul.

Lincoln loves me.

He squeezes my hand from the seat beside me as we fly toward the ocean and dozens of islands. I open my mouth to ask where we’re going, but he speaks first.

“I hope you like whale watching, because the view of the straits of San Juan is incredible from the house.”

“You own a house in Washington?”

He smiles wider. “I own an island in Washington. The house is totally self-sufficient. Impossible for the press to get to unless they have a boat or a chopper.”

“Of course you own a freaking island.” I can’t stop myself from laughing. “It sounds like paradise.”

“It is, and we’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”

“You didn’t pack anything.”

“I have all I need already there. It’s where I go when I need to get away from everything and everyone. You’re going to love it. No venues. No hotel rooms. Just experiences you’ll never forget.”

Lincoln’s phone vibrates between us, but he shoves it in his pocket without looking at it.

I lose myself in the view of the ocean and the islands. Completely breathtaking.

True to his word, we touch down on a helipad a half hour later, and my phone vibrates in my purse. I pull it out and see several missed calls and text notifications.

Lincoln pulls out his phone when it vibrates again. “Sometimes I wish this place didn’t have cell service,” he says, glancing down at his phone. “It’s my brother. I don’t even want to answer it.”

“My aunt called three times.” I lift my gaze to Lincoln, and a horrible premonition washes over me. “Maybe you should answer it.”

Lincoln’s expression turns grim as he taps the screen to accept the call on speakerphone. “What do you need, Harrison?”

“You finally did it. You fucking killed her.”

Lincoln’s face pales. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Mother was pronounced dead at the hospital a half hour ago. Heart attack. They couldn’t resuscitate her. You fucking killed her. I hope you’re happy.”



Whitney and Lincoln’s story will conclude in Reveling in Sin, which is now available for preorder by tapping on the title.



Have you met the Ruthless King of the New Orleans? Keep reading for a glimpse of my dark and dirty alpha, Lachlan Mount, in Ruthless King.



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PREVIEW OF RUTHLESS KING





Get ready for the darker and dirtier side of New Orleans with an epic alpha romance from New York Times bestselling author Meghan March.



New Orleans belongs to me.

You don’t know my name, but I control everything you see—and all the things you don’t.

My reach knows no bounds, and my demands are always met.

I didn’t need to loan money to a failing family distillery, but it amuses me to have them in my debt.

To have her in my debt.

She doesn’t know she caught my attention.

She should’ve been more careful.

I’m going to own her. Consume her. Maybe even keep her.

It’s time to collect what I’m owed.

Keira Kilgore, you’re now the property of Lachlan Mount.





ONE


Keira

Are those footsteps?

I freeze outside the door to my locked office and stare at the handle like it’s tainted with anthrax.

My younger sisters wouldn’t dare. They know my office is off limits. My parents are 700 miles away in Florida living it up as retirees on the monthly payments I make from the dismal profits of the distillery. It’s barely hanging on, even after four generations of clinging to life making Irish whiskey in New Orleans.

This basement isn’t haunted. This basement isn’t haunted.

I repeat that truth like a chant until my heart slows to a semi-normal pace. My dead husband’s ghost better not be inside, or heaven help me, I’ll kill Brett again myself.

Summoning the same iron will it has taken to dig this company out of the trenches, I grasp the handle, yank it open, and fling myself inside, attempting the element of surprise. Or false courage. Or… something.

“Trying to make an entrance?” The deep voice that comes out of the dark chills me to the very marrow of my bones.

I’ve only heard it once before, through the battered wood of the same locked door I just barged past, but it had been delivering threats I didn’t understand, not asking a question in that cool, controlled manner.

There’s no way I want to be in the dark with this voice.

He’s not a ghost. He’s worse.

He’s the friggin’ boogeyman.

Whispered about in the shadows, but never mentioned in polite company, almost as if saying his name will make him appear—and no one wants that.

I’ve never said it.

I don’t even want to think it now, but my brain conjures it anyway.

Lachlan Mount.

I fumble around, slapping the concrete wall to find the switch, but when I flip it, nothing happens.

Oh Sweet Jesus, I’m going to die and I won’t even see it coming.

My antique desk chair creaks just before the dim glow of my lamp clicks on.

I see his massive hands first, then darkly tanned forearms with white cuffs rolled up. The light doesn’t reach his face.

“Shut the door, Ms. Kilgore.”

Swallowing back the saliva pooling in my mouth at the fact that he knows my name, my hand moves as though directly responding to his command. I grope for the handle behind me, when all I really want to do is turn around and run.

To the police.

Maybe they could… I don’t know. Save me?

I glance over my shoulder, clutching the knob as the door creaks shut, the urge to flee growing as the dim light of the hallway disappears from sight.