Why Do I Still Love Him? (A Bad Boy Romance Collection) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Why Do I Still Love Him?

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Burning Hearts

  Baby Bargain

  Hard Bargain

  Hard Luck

  Hard & Fast

  Why Do I Still Love Him?

  A Bad Boy Romance Collection

  By Vivien Vale

  Copyright 2018 by Crimson Vixens

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.

  Want Vivien Vale in your inbox? Get freebies, new release updates, bonus chapters, and more!

  Sign up for my newsletter!

  Author’s Note

  Hey Vixens!

  What is it about second chances?

  This is the story of Adelaide and Ford. Ford is written after a man I knew when I was in college, doing fieldwork for my major in Colombia as part of a studying abroad program.

  See back then I didn’t know that I would spending my days as a writer. So I did a Peace Corps gig where they sent me to a small village in the mountains that had been decimated by the drug and gang warfare that was taking that country apart.

  I met a man, whose name I can’t put in here.

  He was everything I ever thought I wanted in a man.

  He challenged me. He infuriated me.

  He made me swoon. He made me think.

  He reignited my soul with his very presence.

  So when I sat down to write about Ford, I wrote the man who broke my heart, and then seven months later showed up in Bogota to piece it back together again. I wrote about the man who made me so happy that I forgot what day it was.

  The man, who when he died sent me into mourning for several months, cutting my program short and returning back to America.

  When I first finished this book, I knew it wasn’t complete. It was put out as His To Protect and after two days on sale I removed it. Because I knew I had to add more. I had to do justice to not just the man who was my Ford, but to those of all other readers as well.

  I think the following is something that finally gives the type of ending that I want.

  I’m excited for you to read it.

  In keeping with the whole second chance theme, I’ve included some other books that will expand upon the themes found in this one. They are Burning Hearts, Baby Bargain, Hard Bargain, Hard Luck, and Hard & Fast.

  I hope you enjoy this collection. And I wish you all well on each of your second chances.

  Regards,

  Vivien Vale

  Chapter 1

  Ford

  Let’s get one thing straight right here, right now: I would take a fucking bullet to the brain for Adelaide Johansen.

  Before this day’s through, I won’t be surprised if I do exactly that.

  “Fuck,” I swear as the puddle jumper’s left engine sputters to death. We’re coasting on fumes and dreams now—and my pilot knows it.

  I swear again as I check for parachutes—the jackass only stocked one, and judging by the fear in his eyes as his gaze meets mine, he knows that, too.

  I shake my head and toss it to him. At least he’s got the good sense to look grateful as I pull him out of the pilot’s seat.

  “There’s a town about three clicks east of here,” I grunt, taking the wheel for myself. I ease the nose up a little, catching the air stream we’re currently riding so I can maintain enough altitude for the pilot to parachute to safety. “Stay low, stay quiet—and no matter what happens, if anyone stops you, don’t let them know you’re an American.”

  Funny thing about these war torn countries, really. You’re better off being from fucking Mars as far as these bastards are concerned. Doesn’t matter if you’re in the middle of the Middle East or out here in Africa where we’re now.

  As the pilot takes his jump—damn near pissing himself in the process, from the looks of him—all I can hope is that he’s got a good fucking Steve Irwin impression up his sleeve. Because when the fuckers who shot out our left engine see a chute fly…

  Well, I suppose the least I can do is buy him some time.

  Maybe it’s my CIA training, or maybe I just never put a whole hell of a lot of importance on my own life—but playing the hero is the only thing that’s ever made sense to me. It’s not complex, and it doesn’t keep me up at night—because frankly, I never fucking fail.

  As I veer the plane west, risking some of my precious altitude in the process, it hits me that this is just how I fucking operate.

  You keep kids safe. You respect women. You put your brother before yourself, and you don’t fucking bitch about it.

  Their lives before mine. Always. Forever.

  I mean, ideally, you pack more than one fucking parachute while you’re at it, but that’s neither here nor there at this point. I may not be the man who stocked this plane, but I’m the man who’s going to land it safely.

  Until, that is, the fuckers who shot out our left engine make a point of shooting out the right as well.

  At that point, a crash landing isn’t so much an option as it’s an inevitability. And a Podunk little plane like this…

  It’ll crumple on impact like a piece of tin foil balled up in a fucking fist.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve faced near-certain death. If I make it out of this, I’m sure it will be far from the last.

  But just like always, knowing that these very well may be my final moments…

  I turn my thoughts to her.

  Adelaide fucking Johansen. She sashayed her way into my life when I was just a half-wit, hormone-riddled teenager with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove…and even though we parted ways ten years ago now, there’s not a day that’s gone by that she hasn’t been on my mind.

  We went to school together, Addie and me. I got into that stuck-up fucking private school on some kind of bizarre combination of sympathy and book smarts. Foster care kid from the wrong side of the tracks, never knew his parents but had The Count of Monte Cristo memorized from cover to cover…yeah, taking me in probably looked good on St. Anthony’s recruitment brochures.

  Adelaide, though?

  If I was the back page sob story of St. Anthony’s brochures, Adelaide was the wholesome blonde bombshell in a plaid skirt on the front cover.

  The Johansens have money. Even back then, everyone fucking knew it. When I first met Addi
e’s brother, Sten, I knew it just by looking at his shoes—you can always tell. His were brand new and shined so bright I could see my own reflection when I looked down at them.

  My shoes? Scuffed to all hell and two sizes too small. I think the nurse fished them out of an ancient lost and found box—and they were so ugly, you could understand why some poor bastard made such a point of losing them in the first place.

  But Sten never judged me for being such white fucking trash—and neither did Addie.

  Maybe that’s why, when Sten offered me this gig, I said yes so fucking quickly.

  Or maybe I might have had a somewhat ulterior motive.

  Hell, I’d gladly take a bullet to the brain if it meant seeing Addie one last time.

  Probably shouldn’t have taken this job, all things considered. These days, I doubt Addie ever wants to see my sorry ass ever again.

  But when I found out that not only did pretty little Addie get it in her head to join Doctors Without Borders after med school, but that she also felt it necessary to take the most dangerous fucking assignment she could get those slender, elegant fingers on…

  Well, what can I say?

  I didn’t make millions starting a private security firm by resting on my fucking laurels and sending some other jackass to do a job that’s mine by right.

  In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I felt it must be true.

  Protecting Adelaide Johansen while she tries to singlehandedly to save the world must be what I was put on this earth to do.

  My only regret is that I’m not going to live to fulfill that task—because this plane is going down. Fast.

  There’s a nasty, dull explosion to my left, accompanied by a cloud of noxious black smoke that billows from the left engine like oil made air.

  The heat that follows tells me that the plane I’m in is now on fire—which means that now, it doesn’t matter how long I keep it flying. It’ll explode before it hits the ground.

  There’s only one option left.

  I wrench the hand break out of its socket. It comes free with a groan of metal separating from metal. I use it to jam the controls of the plane, so our course is set for a steady decline…

  Then, I take a big fucking breath.

  Do or die.

  When the plane is near enough to the ground, I jump.

  Whatever the movies tell you, they’re lies.

  You don’t hit the ground running—you tuck and roll.

  And even then…the body doesn’t like it much.

  But as the interior of the plane catches fire and explodes overhead, I’m reminded once again that my body is a little tougher than most. A few more scuffs, scrapes, and scars won’t kill me.

  I’m Ford fucking Armstrong, after all.

  If Liberian warlords, hostile uncontacted tribes, and rogue Nazis hiding from Interpol in Argentina couldn’t kill me, rolling out of an exploding aircraft sure as hell won’t.

  I straighten, shake the savanna dirt out of my beard, and check for injuries.

  Not too shabby. Nothing that I can’t walk off, at any rate.

  I feel my breast pocket and locate the compass I keep there to check my bearings. It’s a reminder from a long lost friend, I guess you could say.

  As indestructible as I think I am sometimes, no man is immortal.

  My thumb runs across the dull golden surface while I let my mind linger on buddies of mine whose tours of duty have already ended.

  Someday, I’m sure I’ll end mine, too.

  But today, I’m alive.

  I’m alive, and Adelaide Johansen needs me.

  Even if she doesn’t know it yet.

  I flick the compass open and orient myself. The needle trembles, and true north points my way…

  Right back to her.

  I pocket the compass, grab my pack, and get marching.

  It’ll be a long, hard trek…

  But Addie needs me.

  To keep her safe.

  Whether she likes it or not.

  Chapter 2

  Adelaide

  “Hold him, please,” I say to Faraja, my assistant. “Tell him it will stop hurting in a moment.”

  “Yes, Dr. Adelaide.”

  I watch her turn to my patient and speak to him in his mother tongue.

  He nods, clutching his injured arm, but his eyes are terrified. I can feel rivulets of sweat moving down my back and beading on my forehead, but I make a real effort to keep my expression composed and smiling.

  Faraja helps the man lie down on the table, and I tell her to hold him around the waist.

  “I’m going to pull on your arm,” I say to him in a calm voice, as Faraja puts her arms around him. I brace my foot against the table, gently straighten his arm, and start pulling on it.

  “Oueee!” the man yells, then says something I can’t catch that’s probably the equivalent of Let go of me, you stupid bitch.

  I keep my grip on his arm, pulling until I feel the ball of his humerus bone slide back into the shoulder socket. Almost like throwing a switch, the man stops yelling and blinks in surprise.

  “Better?” I say, and he nods.

  Then he climbs off the table and scurries away, almost as if he’s worried that I’ll start pulling on some other part of his body.

  As I straighten up, my back and arms sore from wrestling with him, I hope that he’ll stay out of range of his mule’s kicks from now on.

  And I thought I was fit. Workouts at the gym are nothing compared to this.

  I brush ineffectually at the coating of dust and dirt on my once-clean shirt and khaki shorts and almost laugh at myself. Face it, Adelaide, you aren’t going to be clean again for a long, long time.

  These are the joys of working for Doctors Without Borders in a remote, dusty village in Kenya. Oh well. At least no one expects me to be glamorous.

  “Well done, Dr. Adelaide,” Faraja says admiringly as she cleans off the table.

  “It looks worse than it really is,” I say, tugging the elastic out of my long blonde hair and fluffing it to get some of the dust out before twisting it into a ponytail again. “Kind of hard on the patient, though.”

  Faraja grins, her white teeth flashing against her chocolate brown face. I was lucky to have her as part of my nursing staff at this tiny village medical clinic: university-trained in Nairobi, speaks excellent English, and is already one of my best friends here.

  “It makes you look like a miracle worker,” she says in her lilting accent. “It’s no wonder that the villagers love you.”

  I smile again, turning to wash my hands in the basin.

  It’s an amazing feeling, to practice medicine in a place where people are so grateful simply to have the attention of a doctor, even a white woman doctor from the United States.

  It’s taken me a while to earn their trust, but we’re getting there. As I scrub at the dirt under my fingernails, I can still hear my family’s voices echoing in my head.

  “You graduated from Johns Hopkins top of your class,” my father said. “You could work in any hospital in the country. Why are you going to Africa?”

  My mother: “With our family connections, you could have a private practice for only the best people.”

  And my brother, Sten: “Are you crazy? White girls like you—especially rich white girls from prominent families—aren’t common in Kenya. You might as well be holding a sign that says, ‘Kidnap me.’”

  They couldn’t understand that I have a responsibility to use my skills where they’re needed most—precisely because I don’t have staggering college loans to pay. Besides, I don’t want to run a pricey private practice. I need to be here.

  “I could use some breakfast,” I comment, drying my hands by waving them in the air. “How about you?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I will go home and eat. I will return in a while.”

  I stretch, yawning. It’s early, and I’d been pulled out of bed by the man’s yells before the sun was completely over the horizon. Faraja m
ust have heard him, too—hell, the whole village probably heard him—and she was here in a few minutes.

  Good thing, too. Takes two to wrestle with a dislocated arm and get it back in its socket.

  Coffee. I need coffee. Fortunately this is Kenya, land of coffee.

  “Sounds good,” I tell Faraja. “I’ll see you later.”

  She gives me a casual wave as she heads across the dirt towards her own hut.

  Kichaka, who is also part of my nursing staff, has just arrived.

  I smile at her gratefully as she brings me a bowl of ugali—boiled cornmeal—and bananas. I thank her.

  “It is good that you could help Jel,” she tells me. “But he needs to get a mule that does not kick him.

  Her daughter, Johari, appears in the doorway, dressed in her school uniform. “I think he is here every week because of something the mule did to him,” she giggles.

  “If this happens again, I’ll teach you what to do,” I tell Johari.

  Her face lights up. She’s told me she wants to be a doctor someday. She’s 16, and I’m going to teach her as much as I can so that she can get into a training school in Nairobi.

  I take my bowl and the mug of coffee that Kichaka hands me and go outside the clinic to sit on the bench outside the door. Already, the sun is superheating the air, and the humidity is a thick blanket, even in the shade of the clinic hut.

  I look at the other huts that make up this small village. With their thatched roofs, they cluster beneath palm trees, surrounded by hard-packed dirt that creates swirling eddies of dust with every passing footstep.

  I drowse a little in the heat, grateful for a few moments of peace before the day’s flow of patients begins. I think about how very far away I am from the manicured green lawns and grand houses and air conditioning of Greenwich.

  Mom would be having a fit if she could see me now, I think with a grin. It’s a pretty satisfying thought.

  I wish my phone worked so that I could snap a selfie and send it to her. Here she is, your sweaty, filthy daughter in her dirty clothes…completely happy.

  “Doctor Lady?” A soft voice stirs me out of my daydream, and I open my eyes.

  A young woman stands in front of me, a small girl clutching her hand and staring at me with big eyes.