Readers everywhere are in love with the new series
by Lisa Renee Jones
THE SECRET LIFE OF AMY BENSEN
“Intoxicating, intense, and deeply seductive.”
—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick) on Escaping Reality
“Suspenseful and packed with questions.”
—Fiction Vixen
“The slaps to the face, the sucker punches, and the too-good-to-be-true moments will have you audibly gasping and wondering if you’re going to get your HEA and still be in one piece.”
—The Book Vamps
“Suspense, suspense, suspense . . . all over the place and within every page.”
—Cristina Loves Writing
“It has everything anyone could want. Mystery, intrigue, suspense, enough heat to melt an iceberg, and characters with depth. Do yourself a favor and start this one now!”
—The Book Hookers
“A great story that’s wrought with tension and fear of kidnapping and murder.”
—Diary of an Eager Reader
“An amazing storyline with twists and turns; a roller coaster of highs and lows; and at no point could you sit back and relax. Lisa Renee Jones has stepped forward and claimed her place in the new adult category and Infinite Possibilities will leave you breathless and wondering where it will all end.”
—The Reading Café
“Lisa Renee Jones will have you gripping the edge of your seat, biting your nails, and leave you with a book hangover.”
—Lisa’s Book Reviews
Praise for the “passionate, all-consuming” (PopSugar)
INSIDE OUT SERIES
“If you haven’t started this series yet, run to grab the first book and dive in! This easy-reading series is compelling—sucking the reader into a dark and seductively dangerous world of art, BDSM, and murder.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Lots of dark, suspenseful twists.”
—USA Today (A Must-Read Romance)
“Great characters, angsty and real, that draw me in to their worlds, and storylines that hook me every single time.”
—Smut Book Junkie Book Reviews
“Darkly intense and deeply erotic. . . .”
—RT Book Reviews
“Intimately erotic . . . Jones did not hold back on the steam factor.”
—Under the Covers Book Blog
“A series that will completely captivate you—heart, mind, and soul.”
—Romancing the Book
“Powerfully written. . . . A tumultuous journey.”
—Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews
“A crazy, emotional roller-coaster ride. . . .”
—Fiction Vixen
“Brilliantly beautiful in its complexity. . . . This book had my heart racing.”
—Scandalicious Book Reviews
“Breathtaking in its suspense and intrigue.”
—Heroes and Heartbreakers
“Leaves you begging for more!”
—Tough Critic Book Reviews
“Dark and edgy erotica that hit all my buttons just right.”
—Romantic Book Affairs
“If you haven’t read Lisa Renee Jones’s Inside Out series then you are seriously missing out on something fierce! It’s a great blend of sexy, suspense, and kink.”
—Talk Supe
“These stories just keep getting better and better. . . . Every single one of them leaves you wanting more!”
—Ramblings From This Chick
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To my readers:
Thank you so very much for your constant excitement in Ella’s story. Every single one of you gives me a reason to smile daily, and I am forever blessed to have your support.
Dear Readers:
I’m so thrilled to finally share Ella’s story with you. For my new readers, the Careless Whispers series can absolutely be read on its own, despite its being a spinoff of my Inside Out series. Keep in mind that everything is for a reason and everything is a clue!
For my Inside Out readers who have come to find out what happened to Ella, I know you have so many questions and I promise they will be answered throughout the series. I know you’re going to have even more questions as you begin to delve in. Some things may not align perfectly with what you were told during Chris and Sara’s books, but what may seem wrong or incorrect is not. They are actually clues that will unearth the secrets you’re searching for! I just love to play with your minds like that. I hope you don’t mind?!
To my loyal and new readers, I hope you enjoy the journey, and thank you for taking it with me!
Lisa
one
I blink and open my eyes to stare at the unfamiliar white ceiling, a dull throbbing at the back of my head. My throat is dry and I swallow with effort, waiting for something familiar to come to me, but there is nothing—just the white ceiling and more of the throbbing beneath my scalp. I decide I must be having a weird dream, and I’d really like to wake up now.
Shifting, I roll to my side to find myself staring into a pair of pale blue eyes so striking and pure that they seem inhuman. I blink again and bring the gorgeous man directly in front of me into stunning clarity. Thirty-something, with thick, longish light brown hair. His cheekbones are high, his chin dimpled.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, admiring my mind’s work. I like this dream.
His deliciously full and sensual mouth curves with my comment. “I’ve been called a lot of things, sweetheart, but beautiful isn’t one of them. And this isn’t a dream. How’s your head?”
“It hurts,” I say, my brow furrowing as I digest all he has said, and I realize I muttered that last thought aloud. “And wait. What? This isn’t a dream?” I lift up on one elbow, and I’m punished for my effort with the pounding of my head. “Okay,” I murmur, squeezing my eyes shut. “Maybe I want to wake up now, after all.”
“Easy,” he warns, his hand coming down on my shoulder, his touch oddly familiar even if he is not. “Lie back down,” he urges, and when I obey, he leans over me. “Sleep is a good idea. It’ll help you heal.”
I stare up at my beautiful stranger, and just the sight of him tells me he’s wrong. This is a dream, and I follow along where it’s taking me. “What’s wrong with me?”
“You have a concussion,” he explains, settling back down onto some sort of stool. “A pretty bad one, which is why you’re in the hospital.”
“Hospital?” I repeat, putting together the pieces of the puzzle and deciding that he must be my fantasy doctor. Fighting against the discomfort of moving, I roll to my side again, trying to confirm this assessment. The result is the certainty that every part of this man is hot; his black jeans and matching tee are hugging a lean, muscled body that absolutely fits my “fantasy” assessment. The doctor part, not so much. “Shouldn’t you be wearing scrubs?”
“Last I heard, that isn’t a requirement for a visitor.”
My brow furrows again. “So . . . you’re not my doctor?”
He laughs. “No. I’m not a doctor. I’m the man who found you in the alleyway passed out.”
“Alleyway?” I repeat. This dream is getting a little strange.
He gives me a curious look. “You don’t remember?”
“No.” Considering I seem to have no memory except for the here and now, my answer is easy.
“Hmmm,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “Well, I’m sure it’s just the pain and
trauma, but we need to call a nurse anyway and let them know that you’re awake.” He reaches for a
remote-control-like device hanging from the edge of my bed and I watch him, thinking that he has very nice hands. Strong, masculine hands. Familiar, I think. Maybe. I’m pretty sure. I’m considering why that might be when he murmurs something into the remote that I can’t seem to understand. My head is so murky, it almost sounds like he’s speaking another language. Which is crazy.
“Someone will be right in,” he announces, returning the device to where he found it.
I open my mouth to thank him and realize something rather important. “I, ah . . . hate to admit this, but I don’t seem to remember your name.”
“Kayden,” he supplies, rolling his stool closer, the full force of his attention landing on me. It’s nerve-wrackingly intense. “And you don’t remember because I never told you.”
“Oh—right. Because I was knocked out.”
“Exactly.”
“In an alleyway,” I say, trying to get my thoughts around that.
“Right again,” he confirms.
“What was I doing in an alleyway?”
“According to law enforcement, most likely being mugged.”
I wait for the expected shock, followed by fear and bad memories, but still nothing comes to me. “When?”
He lifts his wrist, displaying a watch with a thick black leather band. “It’s six in the morning now. I called for the ambulance just after midnight.”
“That’s bizarre. What was I doing in an alleyway after midnight?”
“I was curious about the same thing.”
“Why were you there?”
“Trying to reach the grocery store in front of it, before it closed.”
“I see.” My brow furrows. “I just can’t imagine myself making the decision to go to a dark, deserted place alone that late at night.”
“Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you were forced.”
“That’s a horrible thought,” I say, and while I mean the words, I remember nothing, therefore I feel nothing.
“But a logical one, considering you ended up in the hospital.”
There is a flickering image in my mind of an ambulance and cobblestone pavement, and I can almost feel the cold ground against my body. And it’s then that fiction becomes reality. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”
“You didn’t really think you were, did you?”
“I thought . . . because I can’t remember anything . . . it just seemed off. I’m off.”
“Because you have a head injury—and from what you’ve indicated, a hellacious headache. That’s no dream I want to experience.”
He’s right, of course. He might be dream-worthy, but nothing else about this is. Definitely not the blank space in my mind that I try to access now and fail. I don’t know what is happening to me. Panicked, I jerk to a sitting position, a mistake I’m punished for as the pain bleeds from the center of my skull left and right, seeming to draw a circle.
Groaning, I curl forward and grab my head. “It feels like my scalp is being detached.”
“You need to lie back down,” Kayden insists.
“No,” I say, grabbing my legs to support myself. “No, I don’t need to lie down. I need to remember what happened to me.”
“I’m raising the bed for you,” he says, and a low hum fills the air as the mattress comes to life.
I force my head up and look at him. “Kayden,” I say, clinging to what I know. “Your name is Kayden.”
“Yes,” he confirms, his hands encasing my waist as he eases me against the mattress. “My name is Kayden.”
“Thank God,” I breathe out. “I have present-time memory.” He starts to move away and I grab his forearms, holding him to me. “Wait. What’s my name?”
“What? You don’t know your name?”
“I can’t remember anything before I woke up. Just tell me my name. Please. I need a trigger for my memories.”
He studies me for a beat, maybe two, in which I want to yank a response from his mouth. And then he’s standing, giving me his back, one hand running through his thick hair.
“Kayden, please,” I say, freaking out at his reaction. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you answering me?”
He faces me, hands settling on his lean hips. “Because I can’t. You were mugged. Your purse and identification were missing when I found you.”
“You don’t know who I am, either?” I feel as if I’ve been kicked.
“None of us do.”
“Surely someone has come looking for me.”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?” I choke out, and the news is yet another gut-wrenching blow that leaves me reeling and alone. What kind of person has no one looking for her?
He moves to the side of my bed again and sits down. “It’s only been a few hours.”
“Please don’t do that obligatory make-me-feel-better thing that people do. I am indebted to you for saving me, and I appreciate that you waited here until I woke up—but you don’t have to stay here with me.” My eyes prickle with tears, and I stare at the doorway, trying to compose myself.
Of course, it’s at that poorly timed moment that a woman in green scrubs rushes into the room, speaking in a language I don’t understand. I inhale and will away the tears threatening to spill over, only to have her stop at the foot of my bed, her speech pausing expectantly. I blink and realize that she’s waiting for an answer I can’t deliver. I stare at her. She stares at me, and while the tears might be gone, I have this sense of standing in quicksand, sinking fast, unable to claw my way out.
Kayden rescues me, stepping to my side and answering for me. Confused, overwhelmed with everything but memories, I let my head roll forward, pressing my fingers to my throbbing forehead and telling myself not to crumble. I have to be stronger than this moment in time.
“You don’t know Italian, do you?”
At Kayden’s question, I look up to find the nurse gone and him standing at the end of the bed. “Why would I?”
“It’s the native language.”
He’s making no sense. “No, it’s not.”
“You don’t know that you’re in Rome.” It’s not a question, and he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Of course you don’t. Why would you? You don’t even know your own name.”
“What? I can’t be in Rome. I’m American.”
“You have to know that’s not a logical reply. Plenty of Americans, myself included, live in Rome, while thousands of others visit as tourists.”
“I know that—I meant I don’t live here.”
“So you’re visiting,” he says, rounding the bed to reclaim the stool. “That’s progress. Where do you live?”
“I don’t know,” I say, wracking my brain. “I don’t know. I just know it’s not here.”
“That’s okay. You know you’re American. You know you don’t live here. You’ll remember the rest in time.”
“You have no idea how much I want you to be right.”
“I’m right,” he assures me, “and for the record, you were right, too. I don’t have to stay. But I am.”
“I don’t want to be an obligation.”
“I don’t do obligation, sweetheart.”
“Well, then, pity.”
“Another thing I don’t do, so if you’re looking for someone to feel sorry for you, I’m the wrong guy for the job.”
“There are no other reasons for you to be here.”
“Aren’t there?” he challenges softly.
“What does that even mean?” I ask, but it’s a forgotten question when I hear “Good morning.”
A twenty-something woman in dark blue scrubs, her long dark hair tied neatly at her nape, sweeps into the room and offers me hope that I might actually find a way to escape all of this white noise.
“I’m Maria,” she says pleasantly, stopping at the end of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like someone turned off the switch to my brain,”
I say, holding nothing back.
“That’s quite normal after a head trauma,” she assures me. “How about your back? Can you move okay?”
I flex a bit, and grimace. “I can. I just don’t want to.”
“I’m not surprised,” she says. “You have a pretty nasty lump between your shoulder blades.”
I don’t care about my back. I care about my memories. “When will the doctor be in?”
“He’s on his rounds now,” she says, “but he’ll be by soon to discuss your recovery. Now let’s check your vitals.”
She moves toward Kayden’s side of the bed and he stands reluctantly—or maybe I’m imagining it because I don’t want him to leave. He might be a stranger, and I might hate feeling like a burden, but he’s also all I have right now.
Moving into Kayden’s spot, Maria reaches for the blood pressure cuff and wraps my arm. “So far, your vitals have been looking good.”
It’s then that Kayden steps to her left, hovering over her shoulder, seeming to supervise her actions, and I swear the look on his handsome face is intense, almost possessive—which is a ridiculous thought. He barely knows me. I barely know him. He’s not possessive. Protective, maybe, of the woman he saved. Yes. That has to be it. That’s why he’s still here.
“How’s your pain?” Maria asks, shifting my attention back to her.
“Fine, unless I move.”
“That should start easing up by tomorrow,” she assures me, going silent for a moment to operate the blood pressure machine before confirming, “Still right on target.” She removes the cuff and picks up my chart by the bed.
“What about memory loss?” I ask. “Is that normal?”
“It happens,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact, dismissive even.
“But it’s not just a few mental hiccups,” I clarify. “It’s a complete meltdown.”
“It’s probably not as bad as you think,” she says, “but let’s do a little test.” Her pencil is poised to write on my chart. “Let’s fill in the blanks. I need your full name, birthday, and address.”
I laugh without humor. “I’d like to know those things myself.”
Her brow furrows. “You don’t know your name, birthday, or address?”