Xavier's Desire Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Sneak Peek of Stryker’s Desire: Dragons Of Sin City, Book 1

  Sneak Peek Of Hunter’s Desire, Dragons Of Sin City, Book 2

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  Xavier’s Desire

  Dragons Of Sin City

  Meg Ripley

  Copyright © 2017 by Meg Ripley

  www.redlilypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, with the exception of brief quoted passages left in an online review. This book is a fictional story. All characters, names, and situations are of the author’s creation. Any resemblances to actual situations or to persons who are alive or dead are purely coincidental.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; this copy is not available for resale or to give to another reader aside from any transaction through Amazon’s e-book lending program.

  Disclaimer

  This book is intended for readers age 18 and over. It contains mature situations and language that may be objectionable to some readers.

  Xavier’s Desire is the third installment of the Dragons Of Sin City series. Each story is a standalone, but if you’d like to read the series in order, you may find Book 1, Stryker’s Desire, HERE and Book 2, Hunter’s Desire, HERE.

  A Personal Note From Meg Ripley

  Before you begin reading Xavier’s Desire, I just wanted to let you know how truly grateful I am for your download of this book. Writing has been a lifelong passion for me, and without you amazing readers, I'd have no one to share my crazy ideas with!

  As a token of my sincere gratitude, I wanted to let you know that I’ve also included several additional steamy paranormal and scifi romance stories in this book as a bonus for you, as well as a few sneak peeks of some of my most recent stories. Hope you enjoy them!

  Many thanks,

  Table Of Contents

  XAVIER’S DESIRE

  Prologue

  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

  BONUSES

  Sexy Shifter Romance

  Sizzling SciFi Romance

  Sneak Peek of Stryker’s Desire: Dragons Of Sin City, Book 1

  Sneak Peek Of Hunter’s Desire, Dragons Of Sin City, Book 2

  Sneak Peek Of Marked By Werewolves: Packs Of The Pacific Northwest Series

  Also Available From Meg Ripley

  About The Author

  XAVIER’S DESIRE

  I’ve seen plenty of gorgeous women—and had a good number of them, too—but no one has ever had such a profound effect on me as Freya Cullen.

  I only saw her for the briefest of moments, but when I did, I knew I’d never forget her. She’s the most powerful, intoxicating woman I’ve ever seen; no mere mortal could have been responsible for this irresistible creation.

  But could it also be possible that she’s a murderer? A huntress?

  As I seek to avenge the untimely death of a fellow dragon, I can’t ignore the fact that Freya now holds a sacred possession that once belonged to my dearly departed comrade.

  But there’s something about her that’s unlike any human I’ve ever known; something that threatens to consume me entirely if I can’t rein in the fiery beast within.

  For the first time in my long existence, I’m finding it hard to control myself. But to be honest, I’m not sure I want to.

  Prologue

  She opened her eyes to the early morning sun peeking through the blinds. The room was warm; too warm. She kicked and wriggled until the covers that had cocooned her fell to the floor. A breeze wafted through the window and she stilled, letting the cool air slide over the light sheen of sweat that dampened her bare skin.

  A moment passed, and then another while she enjoyed the cooling touch of the gentle wind. She couldn’t linger in bed all day though; she had to…

  What do I have to do today? she asked herself. There had to be some reason to force herself off the mattress that was just firm enough beneath her to hold its shape, but soft enough that it might be mistaken for a sturdy cloud. She closed her eyes and focused hard, trying to recall what was on her agenda, but nothing came to mind.

  Alright, what did I do yesterday? she pondered, but there was nothing. She couldn’t remember, and come to think of it, she had no recollection of what she’d done the day before that…or the week before…the month before…

  Last year…

  There was nothing.

  Her breath came quicker as panic welled in her chest. She couldn’t remember a single thing before waking to the morning light flickering in through the window. She looked around, searching for something that would explain the enormous blank in her mind, but she didn’t recognize her surroundings.

  Wait, is this my room? She spied a picture frame on the bedside table and reached for it, but it was empty. What kind of person had a picture frame with no picture in it?

  She vaulted to her feet. There had to be something…somewhere that would explain what was going on. She opened the chest of drawers by the window and found it brimming with woman’s clothing: socks, lacy underwear, slips, camisoles. Were they hers? None of the things looked familiar.

  Spinning around, she continued her search, but there were no pictures hanging on the wall; no phone book in the bedside table drawer. She opened the closet door to find more women’s clothing, and all of it looked about her size. Hoping it would trigger some recollection, she grabbed for the nearest item—a pale yellow, linen sundress—and yanked it over her head. It fit—perfectly, in fact.

  Just as she closed the closet door, she noticed a small piece of paper taped to the bedroom door.

  “Job interview at Las Vegas Natural History Museum. 8am. Résumé on dining room table,” the note read.

  It was a start. She left the bedroom, walking through an unfamiliar hallway. At the end of it was a small living room off to the right, and an even smaller kitchen and dining room combo to the left. A résumé was right there on the table, just like the note had said, but was it hers? Had she written the note? She picked up the résumé, but her panic grew tenfold when she saw the name typed across the top. “Freya Cullen,” the résumé read. Was that her name? How could she not even know her own name?

  She sank down onto the chair at the table, her knees suddenly too weak to hold her upright, and skimmed through the résumé, looking for anything that would jolt her memory. She reached the last page, an almost blank piece of paper that was not secured to the others with the small paperclip.

  “It will be okay,” the note read, in the same handwriting that was on the note on the bedroom door.

  But how on Earth was it going to be okay?

  Chapter 1

  Okapis and mandrills peeked out from amid the thick brush all around her, and an African leopard stood not ten feet away. The inanimate figures stared back at her with unseeing eyes, but Freya was almost happy here.

  It was quiet;
peaceful.

  She breathed in the scent of the forest, fresh from a summer’s shower, and she closed her eyes, imagining that she was standing there now, not cloistered inside in the African Rainforest exhibit of the Las Vegas Natural History Museum. Her lunch break would be over in less than five minutes and the illusion would be broken.

  But not yet.

  She tried to remember when she’d become so fond of the outdoors. Was it a recent attraction? Or had she always loved to submerse herself in nature? Since no answer was forthcoming, she dismissed the subject and spun around in a slow circle, taking in her surroundings. The museum really had done a superb job with the exhibit; diverse wildlife and realistic trees and shrubs. Visitors could even experience the awesome power of a rainforest thunderstorm at the press of a button.

  “Freya!” a shrill voice called from somewhere outside the exhibit, and she sighed heavily. The voice could only belong to Anita Darcy—her boss—and the tone meant the woman had a job for her, and she wanted it done now. Reluctantly, she left the room, pasting a pleasant smile on her face and speeding her step before Anita could call out again.

  “I want you to collect the Roman cinerary urn from the Bellagio. Sonya Johansen arrived there this morning and will be expecting you at the penthouse suite within the hour.”

  Sonya Johansen was an obscure figure from Oslo, Norway, whose family happened to be in possession of several European artifacts that dated as far back as the Neolithic era. The fact that she was having a representative from the museum show up at her hotel room to collect one such item meant the woman was likely filthy rich, accustomed to having people wait on her hand and foot. But since she was donating the artifact to the museum, Freya wasn’t going to kick up too much of a fuss. After a few minutes of fake smiles—and even faker small talk—she’d be out of there.

  Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up in front of the Bellagio in the backseat of a cab. Freya had a car—at least, she had the keys to a car—but since there had been no vehicle in her parking spot outside her apartment, she had yet to figure out exactly where she’d left it. So, she relied on public transportation for the past three months, and while generally it was a pleasant means of getting around, the snarly woman in the front seat with garlic on her breath and body odor wafting from beneath her arms made her only too happy to consider getting around on foot from now on.

  At the very least, she wasn’t taking the same cab back to the museum. So, she waved the woman off, and proceeded up the walk to the hotel, breathing in deep gulps of the moderately cleaner air of Las Vegas. As much as she hated to dwell on it, the vile smell in the cab tickled her memory, though she couldn’t quite call up any particular image to the forefront of her mind. Something from a long time ago…was that perhaps how her grandmother had smelled? No, that didn’t feel right.

  Dismissing the conundrum as just another blank space in a long list of forgotten memories, she set her mind to the task at hand and proceeded inside the grand building. Somehow, she knew exactly where the elevators were located, and she rode the marble and glass car to the top floor. Stepping out, it was a short walk down the hall to the penthouse suite. She started to knock on the door, but it was open a crack and the tap against the wood forced it open further.

  “Hello? Mrs. Johansen? I’m Freya Cullen from the Natural History Museum. I believe you were expecting me,” she called through the crack.

  No answer. She knocked again and listened for any telltale sign of occupants inside. Was that the quiet shuffle of feet she heard? But if it was, the owner of those feet wasn’t coming any closer.

  She’d braved the vile confines of the cab and was not about to walk away empty-handed because the woman couldn’t be bothered to answer the door. She pushed the door open slowly, calling out once again as she did, but still there was no reply. She glanced around, taking in the opulence of the enormous suite and couldn’t help but wonder just how much a night in this kind of place would cost. It was beautiful, but she pushed the thought aside. Unless she’d happened to forget about a pot of gold she had stashed somewhere, a penthouse suite at the Bellagio wasn’t in her future.

  She walked through the suite toward the faint noise that was coming from down a long hall beyond the main living area, but something shimmering in the middle of the floor caught her attention. The sun reflected off it, casting brilliant, rainbow prisms against the wall, and she bent down for a closer inspection.

  It was a medallion, but it wasn’t the crystal-like gem that drew her closer, but rather the intricate carvings on the gold casing that held it. The carvings were old, dating back several millennia, at least. And someone had carelessly tossed the precious item on the floor.

  Something definitely wasn’t right here. She picked up the medallion, oddly uncomfortable with the idea of leaving such a valuable artifact lying on the floor, and then continued forward as a prickle of apprehension shivered down her spine. Sure enough, as she came to the bedroom at the end of the hall, she froze: a woman laid on the king-size bed, her eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling. Dark crimson splatters marred her immaculate jacket and skirt and speckled her porcelain skin, and as Freya’s breath caught in her throat at the realization of what she’d found, a flash of black slipped out the glass balcony door.

  Sonya had been murdered, and Freya had just walked in on the assailant making his escape. She should have screamed, called for help, or ran as far away from the room as she could, but instead, she crept forward slowly, inching toward the window, listening for the assailant’s footfalls on the balcony floor.

  She peered outside, but there was no one there. Had she imagined it? No, she’d seen a man dressed in black and he’d escaped out onto the balcony; she was sure of it.

  She hurried out of the room, down the hall and across the suite to the door, frantically pressing the button to call the elevator over and over again until the door finally opened and she stepped inside. She was anxious; every minute that passed made it more likely the assailant would make a clean escape. The elevator seemed to move at a snail’s pace, taking its time making its way down to the lobby while she paced back and forth in the small space. When the door opened again, she darted out and rushed to the concierge desk across the lobby.

  “You have to call the police,” she exclaimed in a loud whisper. She knew it wouldn’t be taken kindly if she drew attention to the horrendous scene, but she couldn’t minimize the gravity of the situation entirely. “A woman’s been murdered; she’s in the penthouse suite, and whoever killed her escaped out onto the balcony not two minutes ago.”

  The man at the desk looked at her for a brief moment as if it was taking him time to interpret what she’d said. “Um, are you sure, Miss?” he asked finally.

  “Of course, I’m sure!”

  He picked up the phone on the desk and mumbled quickly. A security guard appeared seconds later, and for a moment, she thought the concierge had called him to escort her out.

  “Please go take a look in penthouse suite, Mr. Taylor. This young woman is concerned that something tragic has taken place there.”

  Did he think this was some practical joke? She certainly wasn’t laughing. She glared at the concierge, but he continued to stand there looking unperturbed, and when a couple came up behind her, looking like they were dripping with money, she knew pursuing the issue was pointless.

  The security guard nodded and headed back toward the elevator, and she followed him. He’d see she wasn’t lying, and then she’d call the police from the suite, which is apparently what she should have done in the first place.

  By the time they arrived at the top floor, she’d regained some semblance of composure, and she strode out in front of the guard, who had spent the entire ride up looking at her with a mix of disbelief and sexual interest. Obviously, he was more concerned with her breasts than anything in the penthouse suite. Hopefully, that was because he didn’t believe her, and not because he was really that unconcerned with human life.

  She pushed o
pen the door to the suite, but immediately a niggle of suspicion set in. She’d left the door wide open when she’d dashed out, but it hadn’t been open more than a crack just then. Brushing it off, she headed straight through the suite to the bedroom, but came to an abrupt halt when she stepped inside.

  The room was empty.

  The bed was spotless, its plush duvet without a wrinkle and devoid of a single blemish.

  But she was certain of the gruesome sight she came upon; there was no way she’d imagined it. Was there?

  “There doesn’t seem to be any sign of trouble, Miss. Are you sure we’re in the right suite?”

  “Yes,” she replied in a paper-thin voice. “Yes, I’m sure.” The woman had been lying right there, and the balcony door had been wide open. It was closed now, but the woman couldn’t possibly have gotten up and walked out there on her own. Still, she couldn’t help but look outside, searching for anything that could explain what was going on.

  Nothing.

  “I suppose I’ve made a mistake,” she confessed, albeit reluctantly. No doubt, he would think she was a complete whack job now. And since she spent a great deal of time feeling like she was teetering on the brink of insanity lately, she didn’t relish the idea of anyone else looking at her that way.

  “It was probably just a prank, Miss,” he shrugged. “People have been known to do stupid things when they come to Las Vegas.”

  “I’m sorry for wasting your time,” she apologized, feeling truly ridiculous now.

  “It was no trouble,” he said, and the heat in his gaze blazed hotter as his eyes moved back and forth between her body and the bed not five feet away.