Wanted by J. Kenner
acknowledgments
Special thanks to Elle, Christie, and Dana. I so appreciate you taking the time to read and comment, especially when the turn-around was so dang fast! Hugs, kisses, and buckets of emojis to you!
A big shout-out to my former boss, Steve, for letting me have the use of his Chicago condo so I could get the feel of the city, and to Jim at In Chicago Sedan and Limousine for being such an incredible and informative tour guide.
To my daughter Catherine (even though it’ll be years before she can read this book!), for being a great travel companion, and for not complaining when Mom insisted on walking everywhere in order to enjoy the city’s vibe!
To my awesome agent, Kim, and to Shauna and Gina and all the wonderful folks at Bantam whose support and enthusiasm thrills me to my toes and beyond.
Most of all, to all the incredible readers who’ve reached out to me through my website, social media, snail mail, conferences, and book signings. Y’all are truly amazing.
XXOO,
J.K.
one
I know exactly when my life shifted. That precise instant when his eyes met mine and I no longer saw the bland look of familiarity, but danger and fire, lust and hunger.
Perhaps I should have turned away. Perhaps I should have run.
I didn’t. I wanted him. More, I needed him. The man, and the fire that he ignited inside of me.
And in his eyes, I saw that he needed me, too.
That was the moment that everything changed. Me, most of all.
But whether it changed for good or for ill … well, that remains to be seen.
Even dead, my Uncle Jahn knew how to throw one hell of a party.
His Chicago lakeside penthouse was bursting at the seams with an eclectic collection of mourners, most of whom had imbibed so much wine from the famous Howard Jahn cellar that whatever melancholy they’d brought with them had been sweetly erased, and now this wake or reception or whatever the hell you wanted to call it wasn’t the least bit somber. Politicians mingled with financiers mingled with artists and academics, and everyone was smiling and laughing and toasting the deceased.
At his request, there’d been no formal funeral. Just this gathering of friends and family, food and drink, music and mirth. Jahn—he hated the name Howard—had lived a vibrant life, and that was never more obvious than now in his death.
I missed him so damn much, but I hadn’t cried. Hadn’t screamed and ranted. Hadn’t done anything, really, except move through the days and nights lost in a haze of emotions, my mind numb. My body anesthetized.
I sighed and fingered the charm on my silver bracelet. He’d presented me with the tiny motorcycle just over a month ago, and the gift had made me smile. I hadn’t talked about wanting to ride a motorcycle since before I turned sixteen. And it had been years since I’d ridden behind a boy, my arms tight around his waist and my hair blowing in the wind.
But Uncle Jahn knew me better than anyone. He saw past the princess to the girl hidden inside. A girl who’d built up walls out of necessity, but still desperately wanted to break free. Who longed to slip on a pair of well-worn jeans, grab a battered leather jacket, and go a little wild.
Sometimes, she even did. And sometimes it didn’t end right at all.