Red: Burning Desire (Spectrum Series Book 7) Read online

  RED:

  BURNING DESIRE

  By Allison White

  RED: BURNING DESIRE

  Copyright © 2019 by Allison White.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: February 2019

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-530-0

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-530-2

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To all my readers who love the craziness of these books. <3

  Table of 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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Prologue

  College had never meant much to me. Not the way my parents wanted it to. I was taught from a young age that your alma mater controlled your life, your career, and how society perceived you. I never understood why. Wouldn’t it be smarter and more progressive to base someone on their personality and talents and their morality, rather than passing a few classes and possessing a piece of paper?

  I ignored my mother’s strictness and relied on art, like music and painting, drawing passion from deep down. I didn’t want to sit in a lecture hall and listen to some old guy ramble on and on about history when I could make the best of the present. Let him teach that to his students. Instead of doing what is the normal thing nowadays and going straight to college after high school, I travelled.

  I went to Greece, Paris, the Mayan temples, Egypt—everywhere you could possibly imagine. I did this for one year. The past year was the happiest, most well spent year of my life. I didn’t have to wake up at a ridiculous time to hoard into a classroom. Didn’t have to stress over tests and lose all of my hair as a result. I said screw it and lived life how I wanted. We only have one shot at living. Why waste it?

  Who would have known that when I stepped foot on a college campus, I would actually want to stay? Rot away my young years when I could be living my absolute best life? And all for a girl. Red Sylvetti. She was spontaneous and witty and a bit of a firecracker, but she was that magnet pulling me to something I’d loathed. Where I was cool, she was a flame that didn’t know how to control herself. Nothing, and I mean nothing, could have ever prepared me for her. She hit me like a freaking craving, out of nowhere, making me greedy for more. She was my sweet-tooth.

  She was an inferno, but I didn’t mind stepping into the flames for her.

  If you’d asked me if I could, would I have traded it all for traveling and having fun, my answer would have been I honestly didn’t know. Would you regret finding a fiery passion that it almost consumed you with hunger and fulfillment? Or would you want a watered-down flame, so small it didn’t excite you? Red was my flame. And hell if she was excitable. I think about the clear difference between us, the obstacles that hit us from left to right, the excruciating pain. But like a whisper, I remember the good times, the laughs, the passion—the everything.

  All I know is one thing: after her, she made me see Red.

  Chapter One

  “Oh, Noah,” the dark-haired girl beneath me moans. But she hasn’t been only moaning for the past hour. Several curses in her Italian tongue have been thrown at me. And a few concerning threats that I presume are effects of her natural language, passion mingling under her tanned skin. She is quite the looker with her curvaceous body and hazel-brown eyes.

  But it isn’t what drew me to her on the dance floor on the street downstairs last night, not the desire to fuck her, at least. Not just that alone. But also, the desire to paint her body, replicate these light honey eyes of hers.

  I know I probably sound like a creep, but I swear I’m not. I’m an artist. It’s more of a hobby than a proper title for me, but I take it seriously, and I like to paint the girls I sleep with. Geez, not really helping the creepy vibe, am I? To put it simply: I love art and how it takes nothing but passion and a drive to create something magnificent. Something that just makes you stop and stare. Like the lovely girl beneath me, whose name I forgot, but I blame that on the insane amount of liquor I drank last night.

  Trust me when I say it’s incredibly easy to get drunk in Italy. They basically start pouring drinks for little kids at eight, and they don’t stop there.

  “Perché non ti riposi, amore mio?” I ask her softly, kissing her neck. (Why not get some rest, my love?)

  She giggles. “Hai bisogno di una pausa per il secondo round?” (Do you need a break for round two?)

  The main objective is to paint her. I would have asked her straight away while she was dancing with me last night, but the alcohol kind of blurred my intentions, and I couldn’t stop staring at her in her short skirt and her slender, tan legs. Okay, maybe the painting was a bit of an afterthought.

  I smirk and run a hand along her exposed thigh. “Magari dopo che ti avro 'dipinto, se me lo permetti? E 'per un progetto…” (Maybe after I paint you, if you’d let me? It’s for a project…)

  “Vai pure, amore mio.” She pushes the satin sheets that are covering her body down and winks at me. (Go right ahead, my love.)

  Someone’s obviously very comfortable in her skin.

  I admire it, admire her. Not many girls are confident like her. People, in general, don’t understand how that confidence goes a long way. It pushes you to only better things in life. You don’t get to be a supermodel by being modest and not pushing yourself. Nor do you get to be on the top of the business world by not opening your mouth and thinking the worst of yourself. When I notice someone with confidence practically sp
illing out of their relaxed postures and the way they carry themselves, I absolutely melt.

  Kissing this gorgeous, confident, Italian girl, I thank her for pushing her boundaries.

  I leave her on the bed and walk over to my easel and canvas in the corner of my hotel room. I’ve been staying here, in Venice, Italy, for about three weeks now. This room has been the base of my artworks. I glance at my past works, reflecting on the different skin tones and unique marks, all within the three paintings. In my present work, I will inflate her confidence between her relaxed curves and broad posture.

  I pull up the easel in front of the queen bed and begin working. I begin with the outline of her curvy body, making sure to add everything I see and not embellish anything else. Most people want their portraits to be altered to appease what they wish was different in reality, but I don’t do that when I paint. What’s the point in art if you’re going to make what isn’t already in eye view? Both figuratively and literally.

  I focus thoroughly on the afternoon sky of Italy as my brush swipes across the canvas, behind her body. The sky is a breathtaking canvas itself, with its arctic blue splashed over horizon to horizon, blush pink layering the blue, while a sunrise orange mingles in between. The colors swirl, and I can’t help but appreciate where I am and doing even more.

  I’m a nineteen-year-old guy who, instead of going directly to college like the rest of my graduating class, traveled the world. The minute I hit eighteen and walked across that graduation stage, I booked a ticket to China and left. It wasn’t because I hated my parents and couldn’t get away from them fast enough. I did it because I didn’t have any desire to continue school. In previous years, my parents drilled into my brain that college is extremely important: job-wise and world-wise. But it never interested me. I have to be interested in something to pursue it. Otherwise, what’s the point?

  I graduated as top valedictorian in high school. Aced all my classes with ease. I just didn’t want to sit behind a desk when I could be traveling the world, learning more about life and hardship, and real things you can only experience and grasp outside of brick walls.

  I tried repeatedly to explain this to them, but they just cried out that I’d have no future and dismissed me. Especially when I expressed my love for art and how I had a natural talent and infatuation for it. I always had and, I believe, I always will. But the moment I entered high school and professed my passion, I knew I lost my parents.

  A lump forming in my throat makes me pause in filling in her light brown eyes. I swallow it away and expel the thoughts about my parents and how they will never see eye to eye with me. I don’t need their negativity invading my mind. Especially not when I am in the middle of doing what they despise so much but what I live and breathe like it’s air.

  I begin to draw in different shades of her sun-kissed skin when there’s a knock at the door. “Just a minute,” I call out. It’s most likely the room service I ordered: a few sandwiches and drinks. I’m setting down my brush when there’s a harsher knock on the door. “Coming!” Geez. This worker must be in a rush to get to other places.

  “Spero tu abbia ordinato delle fragole…” the girl croons with hooded eyes. Something tells me she has a special trick up her sleeve that has to do with strawberries. I send her a wink and receive a giggle. (I hope you ordered strawberries.)

  “Grazie per essere venuto…” I begin with a smile as I twist open the door. But I stop short when I look into the eyes of the last person I expect. (Thank you for coming…)

  My father.

  Neither of us says anything for a minute or an hour. I can barely tell time since he’s in front of me. I haven’t seen him in a year. Since I left New York, my home state, and began traveling. I didn’t expect him or my mother to check up on me, so consumed in their rage when their only son ditched them without much of an explanation. Even though I genuinely conveyed my ardor for both art and traveling many times, I can’t even recall an exact number. They called maybe two times out of the twelve months I’ve been venturing out in the world.

  Except they had me in Miami for two months, but since then, since a tragedy, I resumed traveling and thought I wouldn’t expect to hear from them again.

  But here is my father, who doesn’t look very different from the last time I saw him. His green eyes are darkened and almond shaped, contrasting to my similar, but brighter, more vivid, rounder green eyes. There are still wrinkles and laugh lines from age and networking: laughing and befriending tycoons in the business industry he currently dominates. He’s tall—where I get my height from—but he doesn’t have anything on my six-foot, four-inches.

  Dressed in a pressed suit and gray tie, he looks like he’s here to conduct business, not reunite with his son. Which brings the question: how did he find me? And what’s his purpose for coming after all the time he spent clearly despising me for my decision of what to do with my own life?

  “Well? Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asks, a faint smile working on his thin lips, those laugh lines from tycoons gaining momentum.

  I don’t say anything, because I haven’t found my voice or the reason for his sudden appearance in his eyes. I used to be able to detect bullshit after watching him bullshit other businessmen on his long climb to the top. But now…I see nothing but a blank smile.

  “Noah?” A sweet whine sounding behind me snaps me into reality, and I shift uncomfortably on my feet. No matter how silently upset I am at him for shutting me out when I chased after my dreams, I can’t just slam the door in his face. He is still my father.

  “Hold on,” I tell him in a low voice.

  He nods. “Of course.”

  I give him one last look over before stepping back into the room. I walk over to the glowing Italian and groan internally. Her posture is so open and inviting, and her eyes are dark, lips flirty. It’s taking everything in me to not hop onto the bed and go for round two, but my father is a few feet away, and something tells me fucking this lovely girl would be very, very awkward. “Dammi qualche minuto. Puoi prendere quello che vuoi dal frigo.” (Give me a few moments. You can take whatever you want from the fridge.)

  She looks disappointed but blows out an, “Va bene,” and waltzes over to the mini fridge that stocks fruits and sweets and other things. I nearly combust when she bends over and rummages through it. (Okay.)

  Just walk away, just walk away, just walk away…

  I reluctantly shut the thick, wooden sliding doors that close off the bedroom to the rest of the suite. Turning on my bare feet, I find my father sitting on one of the white floral armchairs. His back is straight as a pencil, his gaze on me casual, a technique taught by him to me that is supposed to intimidate anyone you speak to.

  I scoff in my head before sitting on the matching sofa in front of him, imitating his pose. There’s no way he’s going to manipulate me into doing whatever he wants. Not when he showed me the game of manipulation. But to be fair, he was prepping me to take over his business, which he may be here to remind me is going to be mine one day.

  He smirks. “It is so nice to you see you, son.”

  “Right,” I murmur, then speak up. “What do you want, Dad? Because if you haven’t noticed, I’m a little busy at the moment.”

  His smirk grows into a smile, then a little chuckle. “I can see that. Saw a peek; I’m very proud of you.”

  For once in your life? Mind saying that again so I have it in documentation?

  “Thanks.”

  A moment of silence passes as he bounces the foot of the leg that overlaps the other, another intimidating technique. I kick up my leg over the other and arch an eyebrow. He smiles, and I keep my face straight. Isn’t he going to tell me how and why he’s found me? If not, he is wasting my time. I could be painting and fucking a beautiful Italian girl.

  “Father, why are you here?” I ask. If he’s not going to cut to the chase, then I will.

  “Straight to the point, aren’t you?” he says, subtly teasing me.

  I offe
r him a deadpan expression.

  Chuckling condescendingly, he leans forward, green eyes trained on me. “I’m here to tell you that you need to go to college.”

  Not this again.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, son.” He sits back and runs a hand down his sleek tie, as if he’s bored out of his mind. “Your mother and I have arranged for you to attend our alma mater—John Hopkins University.”

  He has to be out of his mind.

  “You’re not serious.” I laugh nervously.

  They’ve been strong advocates for my college education, but they wouldn’t dare enroll me in a college without my permission. Can they even do that? Surely, they can’t and he’s just bluffing, waiting for me to fall for his deceit so I fly to wherever the hell John Hopkins University is, and he locks me in a dorm room then enrolls me, like the psychopaths he and Mother are.

  “Oh, I am very serious.” He snaps his fingers, and the hotel room door jars open. Two men dressed in bellhop uniforms open the doors connecting to the bedroom, and I jump to my feet.

  The Italian girl screams and curses.

  “Hey! What the hell are you doing? Metti giù la mia merda!” I scream and storm over to one of them; he’s hauling one of my black suitcases out of the room. (Put down my shit.)

  “What is going on? Noah! Noah!” she cries, and I try to shush her, but her screaming is too much, too fast. I explode at her in Italian, and she curses one final time before storming into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

  No! I need her to finish the painting! What the hell is going on?

  “Father!” I storm back over to my father, who is striding to the door in a calm manner as my shit is being hauled out of the room. I stamp myself inside of the door before he can leave without answering me. “What the hell is going on? You can’t do this!”

  “I told you, sending you to where you’re supposed to be—college,” he answers around a cloud of annoyance and brushes past me. I let him, holding in the rage that’s filling my clenched fists at my sides. It’s taking everything in me not to swing at my own father. I hate the thought and wish for it to go away, but it grows and grows as he leisurely walks to the elevators.