Read Online Books/Novels:
Good Girl Gone Badd (Badd Brothers #4)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
Evangeline du Maurier is the definition of a good girl. Attending Yale, raised with the best tutors and etiquette instructors, she’s expected to toe the family line and be a trophy wife for a future senator. But when this good girl takes a quick getaway to clear her head, she finds a whole lot more than she’d bargained for. She finds herself in the arms of a bad boy.
Big, hard-drinking, and as rough and demanding in bed as he is out of it, Bax may be the baddest brother yet…
|Books in Series:|
|Books by Author:|
Dude. This chick, man. She’s fine as fuck. But the East Coast, old money, wealthy kind of classy fine. Not, like, bar honey, ring bunny sexy, or even model hot, or movie star gorgeous, or porn star fuckable. She’s…one in a million. An actual factual motherfuckin’ angel from heaven.
Evangeline du Maurier is…god, I don’t have the words. She’s a lady. Not a chick, not a honey, not a babe, or a dame, or any of that vaguely condescending, objectifying terminology. She’s a goddamn lady.
I suppose a thorough description is in order.
Five-eight, five-seven. A true hourglass shape, as in she probably has a literal set of 36-24-36 measurements—I feel compelled, for the sake of honesty, to point out here that measurements and sizes and whatever else don’t define a woman to me. I’m just saying, those are Evangeline’s measurements by my estimation, and she fuckin’ rocks the look so hard it makes me dizzy. Her hair is jet black, so black it shimmers and glints and gleams, thick and long and loose, pulled around the back of her neck to hang down her left shoulder. Green eyes, the shade of a maple leaf in the summer sun. Tanned skin, but naturally tan, not fake or spray tan. A combination of a lot of time in the sun and a natural caramel hint to her skin.
Sharp, exotic, symmetrical facial features, plump lips in a perfect cupid’s bow. Not a lot of makeup as far as I can tell, nor a lot of jewelry. A pair of round diamond studs in her ears, a full carat at least, a bracelet with little charms and shit dangling from it, and a fine platinum chain with a tiny key pendant, a single chocolate diamond in the center of the head of the key. Her clothes look expensive, and I’m pretty sure her purse and shoes should be insured.
But understated money, not flashy look how rich I am money.
And right now, she’s just barely on her feet, leaned back against the wall of a closed bakery a block from the bar, gasping for breath, hyperventilating. She’s got blood spattered across her face and clumping in her hair, there’s blood dotting her forehead and hairline and down across her nose and chin. It’s all a result of that punch I threw to lay out McDermott. An asshole move, I admit; I punched the fucker that way on purpose, knowing the splatter would hit her. I mean, it was obvious she’d wandered into the wrong end of town by accident, but she was staring at me like she’d never seen a real man before, and looked disgusted at what she’d probably term a vulgar display of brutality or some fancy, Hah-vahd educated highfalutin bullshit like that. She’s got a bit of an East Coast lilt to her voice. Arch, crisp, educated, and formal.
She’s a good girl.
A virgin even, maybe.
But then again, the way she looked at me? Maybe not. I don’t know. I can usually sniff out and avoid virgins as if I’m a bloodhound, but this woman is so far outside my realm of understanding that I don’t even know how to read her.
Her shirt is all bloody. It’s ivory or cream colored—words for not-quite white, but almost, in my understanding—and it’s sexy as fuck. Figure-hugging silk, a deep V-neck exposing a good bit of cleavage, sleeveless. Again, classy and sexy, expensive looking without being in-your-face. Her hands are shaking, trembling like crazy. There are dirty handprints on her shirt, from those fuckin’ assholes. I really do hope brother Zane takes care of them properly, as they deserve.
I still have her hand in mine. I just kissed the back of her hand, like a storybook knight. Felt stupid doing it, but it got her eyes on mine, and her teeth caught at her lower lip, and her struggle to breathe seemed to intensify momentarily, and then she sucked in a sharp breath and yanked her eyes away from mine.
She’d said she trusted me; time to make good on that. I take her other hand in mine and lift her to her feet. “Come on. Let’s get you that drink.”
She nodded, and let me guide her into a walk. Not quite a full block later, we arrived at the front door of Badd’s Bar and Grill. At one in the morning it was still crowded with people spilling out the door, which was propped open by a chair, on which sat Bast, my oldest brother. His burly, tattooed forearms crossed over his chest as he closely scrutinized the IDs of a quartet of college-age girls waiting to be admitted. He jerked his head toward the interior of the bar, indicating the girls could go in, and then his eyes cut to mine, and Evangeline.
“Jesus, Bax. The fuck did you do now?” He left the chair and took a step toward us. “Honey, is this ugly gorilla bothering you? Say the word and I’ll break his legs for you.”