For 100 Reasons Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  FOR 100 REASONS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  FOR 100 REASONS

  A 100 Series Novel

  Book 3

  NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  LARA ADRIAN

  © 2017 Lara Adrian, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. (v1)

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  FOR 100 DAYS

  100 Series ~ Book 1

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  FOR 100 NIGHTS

  100 Series ~ Book 3

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  FOR 100 REASONS

  Love takes no prisoners . . .

  Billionaire Dominic Baine stepped into Avery Ross's life when it was at its lowest. Obsessed with the beautiful, struggling artist, Nick was determined to have her. What began as a scorching seduction soon burned out of control, exploding into a white-hot passion neither of them could deny.

  Yet Nick and Avery are two damaged people, both haunted by dark secrets with the power to destroy them. And for Nick, the ugly past that shaped him cannot compare to the unforgivable deception that drives Avery from his arms, from his life. Now the man accustomed to having everything he desires must find a way to redeem himself to the only woman he has ever loved.

  Avery Ross has known heartbreak. She has known betrayal and loss, but nothing like the pain that loving Dominic Baine has brought into her life. Reeling from the aftermath of his devastating revelation, instead of allowing despair to break her, she builds herself into something stronger—the fearless woman and gifted artist that Nick's passion has taught her to be. Yet her heart is in pieces, and despite everything she has, the one thing she needs is the man whose possessive desires and consuming love holds the power to either save them both or shatter her forever.

  ~ ~ ~

  “There are twists that I want to say that I expect from a Lara Adrian book, and I say that because with any Adrian book you read, you know there's going to be a complex storyline. Adrian simply does billionaires better.”

  —Under the Covers (on FOR 100 DAYS)

  * * * * *

  For 100 Reasons is the final novel in a passionate new contemporary romance trilogy from New York Times and #1 international bestselling author Lara Adrian.

  Other books in the series: For 100 Days and For 100 Nights

  Chapter 1

  Paris

  I tried to warn her that I wasn’t a good man.

  From the very beginning, I told her she deserved someone better. Now, she knows it’s true.

  Selfish, ruthless bastard. That’s what I am, what I always have been. I’ve never made a secret of that fact. Never apologized for it, either. Hell, it’s the only way I know how to survive.

  When I see something I desire, I don’t waste time waiting for it to land at my feet. I reach for it. I take what I want, by fair means or foul. And more than a year ago—when I caught my first glimpse of Avery Ross—what I wanted above anything else was her.

  For the past five months, she’s been mine.

  Long enough for me to realize how incredible she is. Long enough for her to turn me inside out. To make me forget what it was to crave any other woman but her.

  Christ, what have I done?

  In a few short months, this beautiful, broken, infinitely brave woman has made me want something I’ve never had nor ever dreamed I would need.

  Now, she’s gone.

  I feel her absence as if a piece of me has been ripped away from my body. And the worst of it is I have no one to blame but myself.

  On a snarled curse, I slam my palm on the steering wheel of my Mercedes AMG GT as the traffic ahead of me on A1 out of Paris creeps at a virtual standstill. A slim opening appears beside me on the freeway. I seize it, grimacing as I make a reckless dodge through the clogged rivers of compact cars, taxis, tourist vans, and delivery vehicles that stand between me and the Charles de Gaulle Airport.

  “Go, damn it!” I lay on the horn, furious. Desperate to keep moving. I have to reach her before she’s gone for good. “Out of my fucking way!”

  Zig-zagging past the slower moving vehicles, I gun the 450-plus horsepower engine and roar over a brief space of open highway. A few hundred yards ahead, that gap closes up. Another goddamned standstill. Fuck it. I veer onto the concrete shoulder, speeding along it like a man possessed.

  In truth, I am a man possessed. I have been ever since I set my sights on Avery.

  Her face haunts me as I navigate the congested traffic heading toward the exit for the airport. All I can see is her tear-filled green eyes looking up at me in shock—in despisement—over the way I’d betrayed her.

  You set everything up, Nick! You took my life apart piece by piece until you had me in your hands. In your bed.

  All true.

  I couldn’t deny anything she’d said back at my flat where we made love only a couple of hours ago. Nothing I said could make her understand. I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me. In a handful of seconds she went from loving me to hating me. As she’d shoved past me, determined to leave, I told myself I had earned every bit of her scorn, every bit of this pain.

  And when she ran from my place with her purse and passport in hand, into a taxi that sped her away, I told myself the fairest thing to do—the only right thing—was to let her go.

  Yeah, fuck that.

  Since when have I treated her fairly? Since when have I concerned myself with doing the right thing by her?

  I’ll be damned if I’m going to start now. Not when she’s the one person in this world who means anything to me. The only woman I’ve ever truly loved.

  I swerve in to the airport entrance and race for the departures terminal. A French policeman shouts at me as I leap out of the car and leave it unattended at the curb. Ignoring the sharp whistle and the barked orders to stop—first in French, then in English—I run into the busy terminal and head directly for the AirFrance ticket counter. If Avery intends to fly home to New York City, odds are she’s found an available seat on one of the frequent nonstops taking off from this hub.

  The first-class line is a dozen deep with customers who scoff and grumble and curse at me as I bypass all of them to reach the counter attendant. She gives me a wary look, her gaze darting over my shoulder where the police officer continues to shout at me.

  “Sir, you cannot jump the line. There are other people waiting—”

  “I need to find someone,” I tell her, my voice low and tight with urgency. And, yes, desperation. “Please, I need your help. It’s important.”

  “You there!” The officer’s call sounds nearer now. And he’s pissed. “Monsieur, I am spe
aking to you.”

  I glance back and see that the disruption has attracted the attention of a pair of uniformed French soldiers. Maroon berets and green camouflage move in from posts at the other end of the ticketing area. The situation is escalating quickly.

  I’m sure I look unsettling, even dangerous or unstable, especially given the current state of unease in the world. But I don’t have time to deal with anxious security patrols or aggravated cops. I need to find Avery and keep her from getting on that plane. Hell, I’ll search the whole damned airport if that’s what it takes.

  “Monsieur!” The shout comes from one of the soldiers approaching me from behind now.

  “Ah, fuck this.” I pivot in front of the counters and head for the security line.

  People move out of my path like a receding wave, wary looks and whispers left in my wake. Children drawn close to their parents as I pass. I’m causing a scene, probably on my way toward an international incident, but I don’t care.

  I duck under a length of security tape just as a firm hand latches onto my arm. “Sir, I wouldn’t do this if I were you.”

  The largest of the French soldiers holds me in an iron grasp. His partner steps in on my other side, while a third blocks me from the front. Their faces are stern, all three gazes unblinking and prepared to take me down.

  Each second I’m delayed here is a second closer to losing Avery. When I speak, it’s through gritted teeth. “Let me go. I have to get through.”

  “No, sir.” The mammoth in front of me shakes his dark head. “You’ve gone far enough.”

  I know there’s no getting past these men, nor their guns. I’ve already lost. I’m too late to make Avery listen, even if she somehow granted me the chance.

  On a roar, I fight against the hold on my arm. I wrench loose, fueled by fury and a sawing ache in my chest that’s too big to be contained.

  It explodes out of me on a growl. My fist flies at the same time, connecting with the soldier’s jaw in front of me. His head rocks back on his shoulders, but only for a second.

  When the hammer of his answering blow smashes into my face, I savor the pain. I’ve earned it after all. And for the briefest moment—before my vision goes dark and the hard concrete floor comes up to greet me—I tell myself that Avery deserves this chance to fly away and escape me.

  She deserves everything that I can never give her.

  She deserves to be free, to live her life without me.

  Chapter 2

  New York

  One year later

  “Avery, if you have a moment, the magazine would like to get a few more photos for your interview.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Rachel.” From within the small throng of art critics and collectors circled around me, I nod at the publicist who’s been hired to help me navigate tonight’s invitation-only reception. “Will you all excuse me, please?”

  Slipping away, I follow her through the thick, buzzing crowd that fills the newly opened modern art gallery at one of the city’s most prestigious private universities. The high-ceilinged, open-concept space is packed, vibrating with energy. Soft music plays from the string quartet set up near the open cocktail bar. Mingled conversations swell from all directions, punctuated here and there by the soft clink of crystal glasses.

  And on the soaring white walls that surround the gathering, paintings from contemporary masters hang alongside works from promising new talents and Avant-garde outsiders, most of whom are in attendance tonight.

  It’s hard to believe I’m actually a guest at this elegant event, let alone that I’m here because one of my pieces has been acquired for the university’s collection.

  “Ms. Ross, can you tell us what you’re working on now?” The question comes at me from somewhere to my right, accompanied by a hand holding a cell phone camera in my face. Rachel is there in an instant, smoothly deflecting for me.

  “Ken, you’ll have to wait to find out, just like everyone else.” Smiling at the disappointed reporter, she steers me away from him. “How are you holding up tonight?”

  “Good. I’m having a great time.”

  “It’s okay, you can be honest with me. You hate all the attention, don’t you?” She winks at me as we walk. “After the price your most recent painting commanded, you should be getting used to it. Everyone wants a piece of you now.”

  I try to ignore the shudder that rakes me at the thought of being the focus of so much curiosity. I spent most of my life hiding from my past and the monsters who inhabited it, so I can’t imagine a time when I’ll ever be comfortable standing in the spotlight. Thankfully, none of these people here tonight can see inside me to the terrified, damaged child I once was or the many ugly secrets I had to keep in order to survive.

  Only one person glimpsed deep enough to really see me, and for the past year I’ve been doing my damnedest to forget him. Not that it’s been easy.

  For the short handful of months we were together, Dominic Baine had consumed me. He had been my everything—or so I’d foolishly believed. In reality, Nick had been playing me for a fool from the moment I first met him.

  No, I remind myself harshly. He had been playing me even longer than that.

  From the time he saw one of my paintings hanging in his gallery, Dominion, nearly two years ago now and decided he had to have me. But the joke was on him, wasn’t it?

  He didn’t realize I was damaged goods.

  He didn’t know about the secrets I had been keeping all my life. The abuse and the shame, the obfuscation.

  The blood and the death.

  I wish I could take some satisfaction in how I deceived him too. When I think about how I hid my past from him, how I allowed him to risk his own life to protect me when that horrid past eventually came to collect on my debts, all I taste is regret.

  I wish I could take it back. I wish I could reset the clock and start over.

  That was the reason Nick had taken me to Paris—to reset the clock. Or so he claimed.

  With my sins all bared to him and no more secrets to stand in our way, I thought Paris would be a new beginning. And it was. I just had no idea we’d be starting over apart.

  I didn’t want to believe it was over, but I couldn’t stay.

  Not after what he did, systematically manipulating me, controlling every detail of my life as if I were nothing but a pawn being moved around on his chessboard, until he had me right where he wanted me.

  Conquered.

  Owned.

  His.

  Worst of all, Nick played me so masterfully, I fell completely, helplessly—stupidly—in love with him.

  When it all fell apart in Paris last summer, I thought the pain would kill me. How it didn’t, I have no idea.

  Throwing myself into my work has helped.

  Moving out of Manhattan has helped too. The 1940s townhouse I bought in the Forest Hills neighborhood of Queens two months ago could not be more different from the towering glamour of the Park Place building where I spent so much time with Nick.

  It’s hard to go anywhere in the city and not think of him, not be bombarded with unwanted memories of all the places we explored together. All of the dark, erotic pleasures we shared.

  Ancient history.

  I push thoughts of him to the back of my mind as Rachel leads me over to the waiting photographer from the art magazine and the woman who interviewed me earlier tonight. They position me in front of my painting and as the camera clicks away I do my best to look like the confident, coolly unaffected artist they all seem to expect.

  “Thank you again for your time, Avery.” The reporter walks over and shakes my hand after the photos are taken. “We’re planning a series of artist spotlights later this year. In addition to featuring your work, we’d like to talk to you more in depth about some of your influences, your early life, things that have shaped your remarkable work. If you’re interested, we’d love to add you to the program.”

  “Oh. Um . . .”

  “Of course,” Rachel interje
cts. “She’d be happy to participate.”

  The two women exchange contact information and make arrangements to talk next week about scheduling for the article.

  “That really wasn’t necessary,” I tell Rachel once we’re alone.

  “Yes, it really was.” She purses her lips and looks at me over the rims of her tortoise-shell glasses. “Kathryn hired me to take care of you tonight because she couldn’t be here. She’d never forgive me if I let a great opportunity like that slip through your fingers.”

  I nod begrudgingly. Kathryn Tremont has become a dear friend this past year. She also happens to be one of the wealthiest women in New York and a force to be reckoned with in the art world. As much as I dislike accepting favors or being managed, I know Kathryn is only trying to help me because she cares.

  And Rachel is only trying to do her job.

  Her phone chimes with an incoming call. “Sorry, I have to take this. Don’t forget, the dean will be inviting you and the other artists up on stage to say a few words before his closing remarks.”

  I nod, but she’s already pivoted away, immersed in conversation on her phone.

  I spend an awkward minute standing by myself in front of my painting, wishing I had friends with me at the reception. Not that I’m completely alone. In addition to Rachel, my date is here somewhere, too, although I don’t see Brandon’s ginger curls and ruddy cheeks among the sea of attendees. I shift on my high-heeled sandals, arms crossed over the front of my black Valentino cocktail dress as I crane my neck to scan the crowded gallery.

  How long has he been gone, anyway? It seems like an hour since he left to fetch drinks for us. As much as Brandon likes to chat, it wouldn’t surprise me if he hasn’t even made it to the bar yet. God knows I could use a dash of liquid courage before I’m due on the stage.

  Since I have a few moments to myself, I figure I’ll go in search of my erstwhile date or an adult beverage, whichever I locate first. Just as I step into the cluster of party guests, a wall of firm, warm muscle seems to materialize in front of me.