Slow Seduction Read Online Cecilia Tan

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Read Online Books/Novels:

Slow Seduction (Struck by Lightning #2)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Cecilia Tan

Book Information:

Unforgettable passion . . .

Two months have passed since Karina’s painful departure from James, the mysterious lover who awakened her darkest desires, and she’ll do anything-anything-to locate him and win him back. Her search takes her to London, where she finds herself immersed in the world of fine art and forbidden pleasures. And soon, Karina meets another enigmatic man who promises to help her find James . . . for a price.

Unexpected pleasure . . .

Damon George is rich, gorgeous, and a member of a secret society that caters to the sensual thrills of the wealthy and powerful. Though Karina insists her heart will always belong to James, Damon is determined to have her, body and soul. By the time she finds James, Karina has been “trained” to please another. Will James reject her again . . . or find her more irresistible than ever?

Books in Series:

Struck by Lightning Series by Cecilia Tan

Books by Author:

Cecilia Tan Books


Break the Sky in Two

I stepped off the plane in London, already tired and sleep deprived. By the time I got through customs it was even worse. Martindale had said I should tell them I was there on vacation and not to mention work, but the customs agent seemed so friendly, inquiring about my visit, it hadn’t occurred to me it was anything more than idle chitchat. In the course of the conversation I mentioned I was looking forward to the show at the Tate. His questions got more and more pointed until I finally had to say I was there for a job interview—just an interview!—and that if I got a job, the Tate would be handling the paperwork. He glowered at me after that and grumbled about letting me in. I guess there was a terrible glut of art historians looking for work in the UK if they were out to protect their jobs so fiercely. Ha.

Either way, it was a lie. I wasn’t there for an interview. I had a job waiting for me. Reginald Martindale, the museum curator James had introduced me to, wanted me as a tour guide for special groups through the pre-Raphaelite exhibit they were opening in a week. Only a temporary job, but it was still a job of sorts, as well as a good excuse to leave New York.

I still didn’t have my degree. After I’d reported my thesis advisor for sexual harassment, all hell had broken loose. I told the truth: he’d said he’d approve my dissertation if I granted him sexual favors. He lied and said that I was the one who came on to him, trying to get him to pass me in exchange for favors instead of rewriting my thesis. The full inquest period was sixty days, which made me miss graduation anyway. At this point my thesis draft was in the hands of the department for evaluation, and Renault was being forced to take academic leave until the inquest was over. I wasn’t hopeful about the thesis. It was a first draft—I’d expected to work on it after he read it—and I knew I had cut corners in it. On top of that, he had friends and allies in the department and the dean’s office who defended him and didn’t believe me. Some had called for a misconduct investigation of me. Others had called me a slut.

Right now, I had done all I could do, and had taken all I could take. It was a good time to get away from school for a while.

As soon as I got through customs, I sat down on a bench with my suitcase and texted a number I’d memorized. I told a lie today, but it was sort of a necessary one. You know I try not to tell them at all, but it was a customs officer at Heathrow giving me “the what for.” I was afraid he’d send me right back to New York City. I’m in London.

When I sent the text, it made a pleasant whooshing sound, as if it were flying through the ether directly to James’s ear.

James Byron LeStrange. I had no idea if I would ever see him again. I clung to a few ragged hopes that I would. For one, the phone he had given me kept working. Someone was still paying for it. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed, in his vast riches, that the account was still being paid? Would international roaming charges finally be the thing that brought the phone to his attention and made him cut it off? I clung to the slim hope that the phone’s continued life was a sign, a crack in an otherwise closed door. I had hurt him badly the last time we saw each other. I knew that now. And yet in the months that had passed since that fateful night, I had not stopped loving him.

I sent him a text every time I told a lie. Sticking to the rules. Being a good girl. Even if Stefan, his driver, was the only person who saw the texts, since he was the last person with that phone, I hoped he’d relay the messages. The texts never bounced, anyway. And Stefan knew all about me and how James had abandoned me, so I didn’t mind him seeing the messages if he still had the phone in his possession.

I hoped they weren’t breaking Stefan’s heart. He was a nice guy and a friend when I needed one.

I figured out how to get a transit card and then caught the Underground to King’s Cross, where I had booked two nights in a cheap hotel with shared bathrooms. The place was barely a step above a hostel, but at least I would have a private sleeping room.

It was the beginning of June. I hadn’t seen James since the beginning of April.

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