Harden My Hart

  The third story in Clare Connelly’s scandalous The Harts miniseries will leave you wanting even more!

  “Unless you’re after one night of hot sex—no guarantee he’ll remember your name the next day.” I should have listened to the warning. But I have only one passenger on this private flight: Holden Hart. Billionaire, brooding bad boy and the one Hart brother that no one dares mess with. Except for maybe me. Because with one glance from those hard, stormy gray eyes, my entire body feels like it’s on fire. Dear God, the man is hotter than Hades.

  Maybe, just this once, I can have what I want.

  But when we touch, the sexual chemistry is hot and explosive. It takes over, pulling me down into some lust-ridden underworld where I know only the taste and feel of his skin, his mouth, and his ferocious hunger for me.

  Neither of us has more to give than this. We’re both running from ourselves, from our pasts. And if I’m not careful, I could fall hard for the gorgeous, sexy and oh-so-dangerous grenade that is Holden Hart. I already know too well the dangers of dealing with a man consumed by his own pain...so how could I ever survive a broken Hart?

  Take control. Feel the rush. Explore your fantasies—Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha males and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

  Clare Connelly was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Harlequin book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero, and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign that she’s in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Harlequin novels continue to be her favorite-ever books. Writing for Harlequin is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or her Facebook page.

  If you liked Harden My Hart, why not try

  The Rebound by Stefanie London

  As You Crave It by J. Margot Critch

  Losing Control by Rachael Stewart

  Also by Clare Connelly

  Guilty as Sin

  Her Guilty Secret

  His Innocent Seduction

  The Billionaires Club

  The Deal

  The Notorious Harts

  Cross My Hart

  Burn My Hart

  Discover more at Harlequin.com

  HARDEN MY HART

  CLARE CONNELLY

  To Steph, who has loved the Harts right from the start. Thanks for your support and many discussions about hero-hotness at school pickup time.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Rebound by Stefanie London

  PROLOGUE

  ‘THIS ISN’T OPTIONAL, BRO.’

  I close my eyes, wondering what time it is and, for a moment, where I am. Ibiza? Madrid? Rome?

  I was on a yacht at some point—the lapping of the water is at the forefront of my mind—but was that last night? Or days ago? I train my eyes—so bleary it’s as if they’ve been acid-washed—on the side table. There’s a half-empty bottle of rum—apparently I drink rum now—my sunglasses, a pair of keys. Further into the room there’s my jeans and a shirt, thrown over a chair.

  New York? Am I in New York?

  ‘What?’ My voice sounds like it’s been acid-washed too. All gravelled and deep. My mouth tastes like an ashtray. I push up, lifting a hand towards my hair to get it out of my eyes on autopilot before remembering I shaved it a month ago. It’s grown out a little, but it’s still short enough not to bother me.

  ‘Grace had the baby weeks ago. You have to go see them.’

  Something pulls at my gut—something that momentarily makes breathing impossible. I have an almost irresistible urge to tell Theo all the things he seems to have forgotten:

  Jagger’s your brother, not mine. I’m not a real Hart. That baby isn’t my niece. She’s yours.

  But we’ve had all those conversations before, enough times for me to know he’ll never understand how it feels to wake up at twenty-nine thinking you’re one thing, only to have a meeting that pulls everything out from under you. To have no earthly idea who you are nor where you came from. To have lived your whole life with an inexplicable but no less real belief that you were different. Wrong somehow.

  I’m not a Hart.

  I never was.

  I was raised by a Hart, raised to be a Hart, but the blood in my veins isn’t theirs. I don’t belong and never did—everything I’ve believed in my life is based on fraud. Even as I think that, I catch myself. Did I really feel like I belonged? Shards of memory slide through me, sharp and unrelenting.

  ‘You’re not like your brothers. You’ve gotta work harder, be better.’

  Or, ‘I know your mom was prone to outbursts but in this house you keep a grip on how you’re feeling. Tears are for babies.’

  That last one was a week after I’d moved in with the Harts—I was just a kid. My mom wasn’t coming back for me, I’d had a bad dream and all I wanted was to be held by her, to breathe her in, to feel her arms wrapping me tight.

  ‘You live here with me now. The sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.’

  In some ways Ryan, the man who raised me, masquerading as my father, was right, but hearing it just made me want to break down and cry. I was terrified and miserable.

  ‘Holden?’ Theo’s waiting for me to say something. I shove the memories aside; they’re not helpful.

  ‘I will.’ I grip the phone, pushing out of bed on one wave of reluctance, forcing my feet to carry my naked body across the room. Something makes a noise. I turn around to see a woman in my bed.

  Hmm.

  Who is she? I frown, trying to piece together the events of last night, of the last few nights, with no success.

  I grab my jeans, almost tripping over my feet as I step into them, zipping them up halfway then striding out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

  Los Angeles. The sun beats a path through the windows in a way I find offensive. I want to tell it to fuck off. Instead, I pull the curtains shut but the rough motion hurts my head.

  ‘Go there today.’

  There’s half a bottle of beer left on the bench. I lift it, take a drink then pull a face. It’s room temperature and flat. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because. You’re being a dick. Your brother and his wife have had a baby and you’ve dropped off the face of the earth. Pull your head out of your arse and get there.’

  I grip the phone tighter. Theo’s the baby of the family but he’s never pulled any punches with me. With anyone. I like that about him generally, but right now it makes me want to reach through the phone line and shake him.

  ‘I’ve got stuff on today.’

  ‘Don’t be such a shit. I’ll make the arrangements. Just get your butt to LAX by midday or I’ll fly over there and drag you to Australia myself.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  Five hours out of Sydney

  I’M USED TO flying in luxury. It only took me a couple of years to work my way out of economy and into premium cabins. Up until recently, until I handed in my not
ice after eight years’ of criss-crossing the globe, I was working first class cabins. But even those are nothing compared to the unrivalled grandeur inside this Hart jet.

  I’m talking a huge plane, like a commercial jet, that more closely resembles a penthouse apartment. Leather sofas, reclining armchairs, a cinema, bedrooms fitted out like the nicest hotels I’ve ever been in, bathrooms with proper spa baths, and a boardroom fitted out with a bank of computer screens, printers, everything you could need to run an empire from the air. I don’t know what I expected, but definitely nothing quite like this.

  ‘Please, Cora, I need your help. I’ve never been so sick. I literally can’t even get out of bed. There’s no way I can fly today. We weren’t meant to be going anywhere; this is completely unscheduled. Besides, you’ve quit now, haven’t you?’ I hesitated. ‘It’s a luxury long haul. Maybe a domestic flight or two once you’re there. And I’ll owe you. Big time.’

  I press my lips together, wondering when I became such a soft touch, shaking my head a little from side to side. The induction was brief but thorough. A nice man—Edward—who’d been managing Hart jet crew for eight years, he explained as we boarded the steps, ran me through the basics. It was, in theory, as Amy had said, much easier than commercial. No regularly scheduled meal service and instead of looking after a cabin full of passengers who expected me to jump when they snapped their fingers I had only one passenger.

  Holden.

  Hotter than Hades.

  Hart.

  And though there’s only one of him he’s sure intent on making me feel as hectic as if I had a full complement of guests to care for.

  I look at the dim light in the galley, compressing my lips. There are four flight crew members on board, plus four pilots. I was nominated to do the overnight shift but I don’t care. The truth is, I love flying through the night. There’s something magical about it—contrasting shades of darkness that only the trained eye can pick out. Purples and blacks blend differently depending on the atmosphere and whether we’re flying over ocean or land. I’m used to this, but I’ll never tire of it. I’ve tried to capture the phenomenon on film without success. It’s one of the few things that are better in reality, rather than captured as a photograph.

  The other crew members are sleeping. They presumed Holden would sleep and that I’d be left to my own devices. It is, after all, two in the morning LA time. But no, he’s wide awake, and when I push into the cabin his grey eyes—the colour of the ocean on a stormy day—are fixed on me in a way that provokes an involuntary and unwelcome reaction. I want to photograph him. The idea comes to me unbidden but I can’t help imagining what a striking portrait he’d make. He’s handsome but there’s a contrast with his easy good looks and his manner, which is somewhat forbidding.

  My stomach pulls and my pulse heaves. I ignore the unwelcome physical response, keeping a professional expression locked to my face.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  He turns his attention back to the papers in front of him. They bear the ‘Hart Brothers Industries’ insignia in the corner.

  ‘Who are you?’

  I frown, not immediately comprehending why he’s asking me that.

  Impatience flickers across his face; my pulse trembles. ‘It’s not rocket science. I’m asking your name.’

  ‘Cora.’

  ‘Cora what?’

  ‘Cora Andersson.’

  He nods, then drops his attention to his papers once more. Distracted by his work, I have a moment to observe him unawares and I take advantage of it before I realise what I’m doing. I’ve heard of him, I’ve seen his photo in the papers, but up close he’s all kinds of distracting. Handsome, sure, but not in an ordinary way. His complexion is tanned, his hair dark, his features broad and symmetrical. A square jaw, a straight nose, lips that are almost rectangular and a divot in his chin that is the one softening part of his whole expression. His physique is just as impressive. I couldn’t help but notice as he boarded the plane and lifted his backpack off, so his shirt pulled apart at the waist to reveal a flat, toned stomach, that he’s fit.

  Really fit.

  My mouth goes dry and after a few seconds I realise the absurdity of what I’m doing—standing in the cabin, staring at Holden Hart until I can hardly think straight.

  ‘Is that all, sir?’

  ‘Sit.’ He waves a hand towards the armchair opposite, not directly answering my question.

  ‘I—’

  I what? It’s not like I can make the kind of excuse I ordinarily would when a passenger tries to keep me hostage, taking advantage of the fact we’re there to make their journey as pleasant as possible.

  He knows I don’t have another call button awaiting my attention.

  ‘It wasn’t an invitation.’

  That goads me. ‘It was what? An order? A command?’ I think of Amy and regret lashing out. She trusts me. She recommended me to take over for her. I shouldn’t risk doing anything that could hurt her job. But seriously?

  Something changes in his expression. I can’t say what—it’s a tiny shift of his lips and eyes so he looks—for barely a millisecond—amused. Then, nothing. He drinks his beer, his eyes on mine so I know I can’t drop my gaze to his Adam’s apple, despite the fact I have a strong impulse to do just that.

  He replaces the beer on the table in front of him, his expression contemplative. ‘I don’t know you.’ The words are said simply, yet I feel like there’s an undercurrent to them I can’t possibly comprehend.

  ‘No, that’s true.’ I don’t sit down, but nor do I move.

  ‘I know everyone who flies with me.’

  I relax a little. He’s a control freak, that’s all. ‘I see.’

  ‘So? What are you doing on my jet?’

  There’s a simple answer to this. Why do I feel like I want to tease him a little, string this out, make him worry? The urge is completely unprofessional.

  And yet... ‘Flying to Australia.’

  He frowns, and then his eyes spark to mine and something changes in the air between us. I want to take the words back, so too my teasing—okay, flirty—tone. What the hell’s got into me?

  ‘You’re some kind of sky hitchhiker?’

  My smile is involuntary. This time when he gestures to the seat opposite him I take it with only the slightest hesitation. ‘Yep. Thanks for letting me jump aboard.’

  He lifts a brow but it takes me a second to hear the unintentional double entendre to my words. I wonder if he’s going to say something. To tease me back. He doesn’t. His face is like stone once more. Grumpy, cross. ‘So, Cora Andersson, how did you come to be wearing a Hart uniform?’

  I look down at the navy suit, glad Amy and I are basically the same size. She’s a little less endowed in the bust region and, okay, she’s slimmer at the waist too so I’m wearing a T-shirt beneath the shirt of the suit, just in case I pop a button.

  ‘I’m filling in for someone.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Amy.’ I dart my tongue out, licking my lower lip, then stop as soon as his eyes drop to the gesture, following it lazily so heat flicks at the soles of my feet.

  ‘Hancock.’

  I’m impressed by his instant recollection. Then again, Amy’s pretty memorable with her flame-red hair, eyes like emeralds and creamy, flawless skin.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Sick.’

  He doesn’t react except for the slightest narrowing of his eyes. ‘So why you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We have other staff.’

  I compress my lips. ‘She said something about a training weekend.’

  He lifts his brows then nods, slowly. ‘Right. Every quarter our flight crew are sent for retraining.’

  ‘Every quarter?’

  He nods, his eyes scanning my
face. After a moment—a moment that scatters heat across my flesh like sunbeams—he drawls, ‘You have thoughts on that?’

  ‘Should I?’ I’m a study of wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘Whether you should or shouldn’t has no bearing on your thoughts.’

  I dip my head forward, concealing a small smile at his quick retort.

  ‘So? What are they?’

  I lift my gaze, fixing him with a steady look.

  ‘Quarterly retraining seems...somewhat excessive.’

  His eyes narrow and I feel every bit of his multi-billion-dollar CEO strength. It makes my tummy loop.

  ‘Why?’

  It’s a little hard to think straight under the intensity of his stare. ‘Well, not a lot changes in three months.’

  ‘People change.’ His voice is low. ‘The training isn’t just to teach. It’s to test.’

  I consider that. It’s true, people can become lazy, or distracted. I’ve had a few occasions in the sky that have caused me to have a mid-air freak-out because one of my fellow crew failed to properly secure something or double-check a switch before take-off.

  ‘Only the best fly with us.’

  I’d smile if I thought he was making a joke, but his expression is deadly serious.

  ‘I can assure you I’m across all the safety features of this plane. In fact, it’s the same model I ordinarily work on.’ It’s hard to think of past tense in relation to my job, despite the fact I’ve officially hung up my uniform.

  He relaxes back in his chair a bit, his ocean-grey eyes lingering on my lips even though my tongue is now firmly planted in my mouth. ‘So you’re flight crew?’

  I nod. ‘I was.’

  ‘For a commercial airline?’

  I name one of the biggest. ‘I started working the European routes but then I switched to mainly transatlantic, which is how I happened to be in the States when Amy called.’ I don’t mention that I’ve recently resigned. After eight years of flying, almost entirely without a break, I’m pretty sure I was sailing close to the burnout wind.