October 23rd 2018
As a teenager, Samantha DaSilva had two interests: running wild and messing with her posh neighbour. The neighbour moved away—the coward—but the wild kept right on going. At least it did until her hippie father vanished, leaving her in charge of the family tattoo studio. As Sam struggles to keep the business afloat her childhood nemesis returns, taller, blonder and more offensively gorgeous than ever.
As a teenager, the wildest thing Scott Sanderson did was get a crush on Sam DaSilva. When that blew up in his face he moved to London to pursue realistic goals and girls who didn’t set fire to his underwear. When unexpected circumstances pull Scott back into Sam’s orbit, he’s shocked to discover he’s still in love with a woman who doesn’t own a phone. And who hasn’t forgiven a thing.
As Sam and Scott struggle to make sense of their mutual attraction, they confront some of life’s biggest questions—can you ever really get over the past? Is it better to be safe or sorry? Is a spanking adequate punishment for putting someone’s virginity on eBay?
A short man exploded out of Silver Daughters slamming the glass door back on its hinges. Scott had a second to wonder what was happening before he was knocked backward. Pain exploded in his arse-bones as he hit the concrete. The man fell on top of him, his breath sour, his wooly jacket smelling strongly of mildew. Scott pushed at his chest, trying to get him off. “What are you playing at?”
The man rose and resumed running, his battered shoes making loud slapping sounds on the concrete. Despite his furious movements, he wasn’t going very fast. He looked as though he were sprinting underwater.
“Are you okay?” Scott called after him.
The man jogged on, his chunky arms swinging ineffectually. Still sitting on his arse, Scott watched him, fascinated.
“Oi!” a woman called behind him. “Stop that asshole! Grab him!”
Scott glanced over his shoulder and saw a girl in black jeans and a shiny red top sprinting toward him. “Grab him!” she shouted, pointing in the direction of the short man. “He robbed me, grab him!”
Scott struggled to his feet but before he got his balance, the woman had blown past him and launched herself at the short man like an alley cat.
“Gotcha!” She pinned the short man to the ground, bundling his arms to his sides. “I can’t believe you did this, Frank, you absolute toolbox.”
“Get off me,” the short man hollered. “I’ll pay you later, I promise.”
“You get your ass back in the store and pay Gil right now. You’re not getting away with this!”
“I can’t pay. I don’t have any cash on me!”
“Then I’ll call the cops!”
The short man cackled. “How’re ya gonna do that if you’re on top of me? I know you don’t have a phone, Sam.”
Scott, who was brushing the gravel from his suit pants—the nice ones, goddammit—froze. Sam? Did that guy just say…?
The woman glanced at him. “Look, mate, if you’re okay, can you please call the cops?”
But Scott couldn’t do that. All he could do was stare.
Samantha DaSilva had been an astoundingly beautiful teenager—milky skin, wide blue eyes, the kind of girl that could have played a teenager on TV. While everyone else slogged it through puberty, she swanned around in midriff tops, her skin clear as a summer sky, her silky black hair like something out of a shampoo commercial. It had been Scott’s evil hope that her beauty would burst by the time they were twenty-four. That she’d grown craggy from all the cigarettes she smoked and paunchy from the beers she drank. He wanted that because then he could look back on his crush with something like nostalgic relief.
He’d hoped in vain. She was even lovelier than when she was the loveliest teenager on earth. Her mouth was wide and her eyes were the same deep, breathtaking blue, but there was a seriousness to her features, a solemnity that made her look as though she’d seen and felt a world of things since he’d left. Given their location—and the fact she’d just tackled a man—he should have recognised her sooner. Why hadn’t he recognised her sooner? Was it the tattoos? There were a lot of tattoos; elvish markings across her collarbones, an antique cameo bracelet on her right bicep, lacy wrist-cuffs that made her look like a gothic Wonder Woman. But there was something he’d forgotten, something that, as she struggled to hold the short man down, he could only marvel at. She was alive. She was so fucking alive. Not happy, not sweet, not demure or in any way subdued. She was passion itself, wrapped in an insanely gorgeous body. She’d been that way from the moment he’d seen her. Fearless. Wild.
Eve Dangerfield has loved romance novels since she first started swiping her grandmother’s paperbacks. Now she writes her own sexy tales about complex women and gorgeous-but-slightly-tortured men. Her work has been described as ‘the defibrillator contemporary romance needs right now,’ and not by herself, or even her mum, but by OTHER PEOPLE. Eve lives in Melbourne with her boy and a bunch of semi-dead plants. When she’s not writing she can usually be found making a mess. So Wild is her tenth novel.
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