Nick UnCaged
Sanctuary, Book 4
by
Abbie Zanders
Copyright © 2020 by Abbie Zanders
All rights reserved.
Visit my website at https://abbiezandersromance.com
Cover Designer: Graphics by Stacy
Cover Photographer: Eric McKinney / 6:12 Photography
Cover Model: Justin H
Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
Epilogue
Ready for Jake?
Connect with Abbie
Chapter One
Bree
“Stone, you’re on the Calder story.”
Gabriella De Rossi schooled her features into a polite, I’m happy for you mask even though she was disappointed.
Of course, her boss had given the undercover sex-club story to Hunter Stone. If she were the chief editor, she would have made the same call. Hunter was the whole package. Journalism degree from Northwestern University. Paid internships at the Times and the Post. Not to mention, the man was charming, smooth, and had more connections than the city’s free Wi-Fi.
What did she have in comparison? A BA from State, an empathic nature, and a knack for stumbling unaware into virtual hornets’ nests.
“And, De Rossi ...”
Bree’s ears perked up along with her hopes that her next assignment would involve something more interesting than a pygmy-goat rescue in Utah or a tree-hugging nudist colony in North Carolina, comprised entirely of senior citizens. The goats had been cute, but she still had nightmares about the nudists.
“There’s a new place opening up in Pennsylvania for veterans with issues. Take a week, check it out, find the angle.”
Veterans with issues. Just like that, her bubble of hope burst with a silent pop. She wasn’t going to a scandalous sex club in Vegas, but a facility for troubled service people. In Pennsylvania.
Hunter gave her a sympathetic smile. Or was that pity?
“Sure, boss,” she said squaring her shoulders. She picked up the file her editor had pushed in her direction and gave it a cursory glance. She’d look at it in more depth later—after some of the frustration at being passed over again for a good story had a chance to fade.
Charlie, a.k.a., editor-in-chief of the Sentinel Voice, handed out several more assignments—all of them more interesting than hers—and summarily dismissed the half-dozen journalists assembled in his office with a few terse commands.
Bree stepped to the side while the others filed out, then closed the door and turned to look at the man gathering his papers.
He exhaled heavily, and without turning around, said, “Stop looking at me like that, De Rossi. You know I couldn’t give you the Vegas story.”
“Why not?” she demanded, keeping her voice low enough not to be heard beyond the room. “Hunter’s been with the paper for six months. I’ve spent the last six years working my way up from a grunt in the mailroom to getting that cubicle in the team room. Are you ever going to give me more than puff pieces and human-interest stories?”
“Stone doesn’t have the same family history you do, De Rossi. Doesn’t your family have controlling interests in half the casinos out there?”
Bree bristled. “They’re not my family.”
Charlie continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Besides, you’re good with the human-interest stuff. You actually give a shit.” He grumbled the words, as if caring about people were a bad thing, and dismissively waved his hand.
“But—”
“Look, kid, you’ve got heart, but you just don’t have it in you to go for the jugular. You need those killer instincts to get the big stories, capisce?”
She had killer instincts! She did. In fact, she was feeling rather stabby at that very moment. And it wasn’t just because Charlie felt the need to use the word capisce every time they had a conversation.
Instead of doing something she’d regret, Bree swallowed her frustration and headed back toward her workspace—one of many identical desks in a large, open-air space. The closed-door window offices around the perimeter were reserved for interviews and people higher on the publication’s food chain.
A wave of expensive male cologne arrived a full second before the man wearing it appeared.
“Don’t look so glum,” Hunter commanded, leaning casually against Bree’s cluttered desk and reaching for one of the Squirrel Nut Zippers she kept readily available.
“Says the man who’s flying out to do an exposé on a super-secret sex club of one-percenters in Vegas,” she replied miserably.
“A week in the Poconos sounds pretty sweet to me.”
“Then why don’t we trade? You interview a bunch of moldy old vets and I’ll go to Vegas.”
Hunter tapped the tip of her nose with his finger, his eyes sparkling with affection. “You? In a BDSM club? They’d eat you alive, sweetheart.”
Bree sniffed, indignant that Hunter believed she was such a marshmallow even if it was true. Since it had been ages since the last time she’d had sex, even longer since she’d had good sex, getting eaten alive didn’t sound like such a bad thing.
Hunter leaned back again and smiled, daring her to disagree. The sad thing was, he was right. Beyond reading a few popular erotic romances, she didn’t know the first thing about what really went on in sex clubs.
“And you do?” she challenged.
“Maybe you should ask Toni.” He winked.
Toni—or Antonia to those who didn’t know her well—was one of the researchers for the Sentinel Voice and Bree’s best friend, favorite cousin, and current roommate. Toni also happened to be head over heels in love with Hunter Stone. Bree was pretty sure Hunter felt the same
