To Have and Hate Read online

  To Have and Hate

  A Standalone Romance Novel

  By Donna Alam

  Copyright © 2018 Donna Alam

  Published By: Donna Alam

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  The moral right of this author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © Donna Alam 2019

  Cover Design: Kellie Dennis: Book Cover By Design

  Image: Specular

  Editing: Editing 4 Indies

  Contents

  To Have and Hate

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  To Have and Hate

  Quote

  Prologue

  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 14

  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

  Chapter 42

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  How About a FREEBIE?

  Never Miss a Donna Release

  More From Donna

  anti-hero

  /ˈantɪhiːrəʊ/

  a central character in a story, film, or drama who lacks conventional heroic attributes.

  Quote

  Between men and women there is no friendship possible.

  There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.

  ~ Oscar Wilde

  Prologue

  OLIVIA

  I’d always expected to get married in my grandmother’s garden. During spring probably, if I’d given it any real thought at all. The garden would be fragrant with bluebells and tulips, the scene like something out of a Monet painting with colour and fragrance bursting all around our guests. We’d exchange our vows at the edge of the lake as the sun set before spending the evening dancing under fairy lights that would mirror the stars.

  It’s funny that I would consider these details now when, a few days ago, I was no closer to finding a husband than I was to sprouting wings. Yet here I am, alone in a hotel, about to marry a man whose first name I don’t even know.

  There have been no invites to send, no cakes to taste, and no videographers to vet. I’m not even wearing a wedding dress.

  They say your wedding day is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, but I’d have to disagree. That’s not to say I’m unhappy, though. I’m more resigned to my fate. Today won’t be the pinnacle of my existence, and not for the lack of champagne or absence of friends flitting around me like butterflies in the room, but more for the fact of who I’m marrying.

  Why I’m marrying can wait for another time.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  As my husband-to-be enters the room, his eyes fall over me in a cool sort of appraisal. If only I could share his detachment because how I feel about him is anything but cool.

  Oh, Beckett. Let me count the ways I loathe you.

  You’re the bane of my existence.

  A thorn in my side.

  And I’m pretty sure you’re the devil in disguise.

  Remind me again why I’m about to become your wife?

  Chapter 1

  OLIVIA

  I’m late. I’d like to say this doesn’t happen to me often, but I’m always late. Despite my absolute best intentions, and despite setting alarms on watches, laptops, and phones, and not to mention, trying really, really hard, I always seem to be in a hurry. Oftentimes, I’m there by the skin of my teeth with my hair in disarray and my shirt sticking to my sweaty back. Exactly like today.

  But being late for the biggest day in my life so far? That’s kind of special even for me. In my defence, it isn’t my fault. There was a signal problem on the Jubilee line; that’s the Jubilee line of the London Underground. I’d given myself an hour to get there, an hour for a thirty-seven-minute journey, and I know it takes exactly thirty-seven minutes because I timed it in a dummy run last week.

  So now I’m running.

  In heels.

  Because I don’t have the seven minutes walking time allocated to get me from the Tube to my meeting.

  Damn!

  I slide my laptop bag higher on my shoulder as, in my haste, it begins to bang against my hip. I press my elbow tightly to the leather, though not to stop potential bruising but as a means of protecting my handouts—the hard copies of my pitch—from somehow escaping. I really don’t need to invite another disaster today. I must look a horrendous mess, but as the entrance to the building is in sight, maybe I won’t be late after all. But I’ll still be a mess.

  ‘Oof!’

  The toe of my shoe catches on a loose paving stone, catapulting me forward as my bag skitters across the ground. But that’s not the worst of it; I collide with someone climbing from their car, and the forward motion sends me flying over a large foot. And not a large foot as in a generous measurement, but a large foot as in the thing at the end of a long leg.

  Long, sensible legs, I decide as I lie across the ground, staring up at the car’s expensive rims. Sensible is what I should’ve opted for. I should’ve ordered an Uber or a cab. Maybe even something a little more fancy like an UberLUX to travel to this meeting in style. This meeting that has the potential to change my life. I might’ve even gotten a fancy Mercedes like the one I’m staring up at right now. Also, horror upon horrors, my hair tie has snapped.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asks a very English accent, albeit rather sharply. Hands hook under my arms, and I begin to protest as though I’d meant to throw myself on the ground all along.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I answer ungraciously.

  ‘Sprawled across my path is not fine.’ The tone and grip leave no room for argument, but I find myself doing so anyway.

  ‘I am fine.’ Twisting my upper body, I pull away from his strong grip and unceremoniously roll onto my butt.

  ‘It looks like it,’ he replies sardonically.

  I push the tangle of hair from my face, my view filled by a pair of highly polished black brogues, the kind that are probably handmade, before my gaze travels the length of a pair of well-cut grey suit pants with knife-sharp pleats. The fabric coats a strong pair of thighs, and a leather belt denotes a trim waist. Ridiculously, my eyes follow the row of tiny buttons on a matching vest, up the flat planes of his stomach, and farther still to a broad chest. His shirt is white and open at the collar, exposing a triangle of tan skin.

  ‘And I wasn’t aware the footpath belonged to anyone but one
of the London Boroughs,’ I grumble, keeping my gaze resolutely on the dusting of sandy stubble covering his chin.

  Call me a chicken, but something tells me I should stop my perusal here. Especially if his face is as delicious as the deep tenor of his voice . . . And I certainly don’t mean to tilt my head at the sound of his chuckle.

  Strong brows frown down at me over coffee-coloured eyes narrowed for effect. The man has cheekbones you could probably sharpen a knife against, though they’re a perfect frame for a mouth that, without those hard angles, would be far too lush for a man. All in all, the effect is quite striking. And he’s all too aware of it, I decide as I focus instead on the gravel and debris pitting the flesh of my palms.

  Older. Sophisticated. Manly.

  So not my type.

  ‘Come.’ With a smile that’s more amused than kind, he holds out his hand. ‘Only street urchins languish in the gutters.’

  Reluctantly, I slide my hand into his. I’m pleased to report no bolts of electricity as our palms meet, just the continuing simmer of annoyance at his tone. Once upon a time, I was a sucker for a man in a good suit, but these days, I recognise it isn’t the clothes that maketh the man but rather the substance stuffing it.

  And this is a stuffed shirt if I ever met one.

  ‘I’m a little too old to be a street kid,’ I reply in a sullen tone.

  ‘You are young but not too young.’

  ‘Whatever that means,’ I reply under my breath as I allow him to help pull me upright. I feel foolish and a little angry. After examining my now grazed and smarting knees, I turn and scan the ground for my laptop when a large—like really large—man passes it to the guy who just helped me up.

  ‘Thank you.’ I hold out my hands expectantly, protesting as the thing is passed over me, the buckle on the strap unceremoniously thumping against my head. ‘Hey, that’s mine!’

  ‘Of course it is.’ His smile is almost cryptic as he passes the leather satchel into my hands, and I find myself frowning back at him. It feels like I’m in a scene from an old movie, and I’m not sure if that would make him the villain or the leading man. He’s all sharp suit and clean shaven, and good looking enough to be the lead, but something about him that makes me think he’d be killed off before the credits roll. But I haven’t got time to dwell on this, not if I’ve a hope in hell of making this meeting.

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ I mutter ungraciously, shoving the strap over my shoulder. I turn on my heel and make for the stairs, my skirt hiking around my thighs as I take them two at a time. As the glass doors swish quietly behind me, I allow myself to turn, but the stuck-up stranger is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Ols!’ I turn to the sound of my name and find Luke passing through the security point with a look of genuine happiness. Why? After he went to the considerable trouble of wrangling this meeting, I pay him back by turning up late?’ They probably won’t even see me now.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry, Luke. There was some kind of signal trouble on the Jubilee line, and then I fell over, and—’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s all under control. Your meeting’s not until ten thirty.’

  ‘You mean you—’

  ‘Purposely told you the wrong time,’ he says with a smug grin, ‘to make sure you’d be here on time.’

  ‘I don’t know whether to kiss you or kick you,’ I tell him as he leads me over to the reception desk that’s the size of the bow of a ship. I try not to hobble across the expanse of shiny tile as my skinned knees begin to stiffen. Goose-stepping there would bring the wrong kind of attention.

  ‘A kiss or a kick?’ he ponders, the smile evident in his words. ‘Do I get to choose?’

  ‘Maybe. If you’re lucky.’ I duck my head, a hank of unruly hair falling across my face. Damn. I hope I have another hair tie in my purse.

  ‘Here’s a thought.’ Without coming closer, he angles his body in such a way it becomes obvious his intention is to not be overheard. ‘I could claim that kiss tonight, and in the morning, be your alarm clock. I’d wake you in the best kind of ways.’

  ‘Stop,’ I protest in the vein of tell me more as my heart rate goes from a trot to a gallop. This is such a big day. First, my meeting and then dinner with Luke. Finally. ‘So you’d wake me up and then what?’

  ‘Make you late again,’ he answers with a grin. ‘But in a really fun way.’

  ‘I’m not sure you’d be all that helpful.’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘but I’d be fun.’

  ‘I don’t need the added incentive to be late. It’s not even as if I go out of my way to be late,’ I say, changing the subject before I turn beet red.

  ‘I know. Shit just happens to you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agree with a little chagrin. ‘I’m a magnet for trouble.’

  ‘But from here on in, it’s all going to be the good kind.’

  Here’s hoping, I think as we reach the reception desk, and I begin to sign in.

  ‘But at least you can say you’re a proper Londoner now.’

  ‘You mean I can complain about the Tube?’ He laughs as I’m handed a lanyard and card with the word visitor emblazoned across the front.

  ‘You can’t help being an Anglophile,’ he adds as he leads me to a bank of elevators, pressing his own access card against the panel.

  ‘You make it sound so dirty.’

  ‘Or maybe I only hope you are.’ I turn to him quickly when he shoots me an innocent look. ‘What? With relatives in Yorkshire, you probably are.’

  ‘Watch it,’ I retort, hip checking him as the doors slide open, and we step into the empty box. The glass box of possible doom. I shake off a shudder, wishing it was as easy to shake off my fear of elevators. ‘I come from very respectable stock.’

  ‘Yeah, but they talk funny up there. Like they’ve got a mouthful of dirt.’

  ‘Like Londoners don’t sound weird.’ I sort of scoff, though, in truth, I love the diversity of British accents. In fact, I love all the British things.

  ‘Has your gran still got her accent?’

  ‘After being out of the country for seventy-two years?’ My grandmother emigrated to the States from Yorkshire following World War II to follow her G.I. sweetheart at age seventeen. ‘She absolutely has,’ I add proudly.

  I guess she’s the reason I’m a total Anglophile. Up until the age of fifteen, I was convinced I was destined to marry one of the Windsor princes. Secretly, I still thought I had a chance when I moved to London for college, or university, as they call it here. Which is where I met Luke and decided I’d rather take a chance with him. He’s the kind of boy-next-door handsome and a good man. Take right now, for example. All this idle chit-chat is his way of trying to distract me from my nerves. Sadly for me, he always seemed to have a girlfriend and never really noticed how I watched him from the sidelines. But life is all about timing.

  ‘How long have I got?’ I turn my head, noting the riot that is my hair reflected in the glass as I try to ignore the fact we’re hurtling skywards at a rapid pace. ‘Please say it’s long enough to wash these?’ I hold out my scuffed palms. ‘And fix this.’ I point at my hair.

  ‘You’re just angling for a compliment.’ In profile, his smile looks quite sly. At least, until I jab him in the ribs with my elbow. ‘What was that for?’ he asks, turning to me now, his words delivered through a stuttering laugh.

  ‘I was not angling for a compliment. I can’t go into the meeting looking like something the cat dragged in after chewing on it!’

  ‘You always look gorgeous,’ his low voice suddenly rumbles. He takes a step closer, but no matter how my heart pitter-pats, I know we’re not about to get hot and heavy. Luke is too honourable. Besides, we’ve waited this long, so I’m sure we can both wait a few more hours.

  ‘Business before pleasure,’ I whisper, placing my hand in the middle of his solid chest. His eyes darken, but he doesn’t answer as the elevator begins to slow.

  ‘Sure, I can wait until tonight.’

  ‘Tonight,�
� I repeat with a sigh of longing. So many good things are happening for me today.

  ‘But for now,’ he says as the doors swish open, ‘it’s time to get your game face on.’

  He points out a nearby washroom where I tend to my hands and tame my hair as much as is possible without the use of a flat iron. The thick mass that is neither red nor brown but always unruly has mostly escaped the low bun I’d painstakingly crafted this morning. It turns out, I don’t have another hair tie, so using my fingers as a comb and the remaining pins, I do my best to repair it before rubbing my fingers under my eyes to straighten my mascara.

  Mine is hardly the kind of face that would launch a thousand ships, I reason as I study my reflection, but I’m passably pretty. The inclement English weather mostly keeps my freckles in check, and a dab of Origins Pink your Cheeks in Coralberry is usually enough to stop me from looking too pale. But right now, I don’t need any of that because my cheeks pink enough on their own. I open my purse to pull out my lip-gloss, wishing a Xanax would magically appear instead.

  It seems I’m all out of wishes today.

  ‘A lot of people are depending on you right now,’ I whisper, staring at my flushed expression. Which, as far as pep talks go, it isn’t much of one. So I pull open the bathroom door and step into the hall.

  Chapter 2

  OLIVIA

  ‘Knock ’em dead,’ Luke whispers, leading me to one end of a large boardroom. Just because it doesn’t have the prerequisite sterile-looking table doesn’t mean it isn’t a boardroom. A large bank of windows flanks either side of the room, one with a vista over London and the other an open-plan office space filled with office furniture that seems to be a modern take on mid-century Danish interiors. At the other end of the room, a bunch of suits don’t so much wait expectantly as they do ignore my presence, chatting amongst themselves. I know I’m not the first person to pitch an idea to them today, but I’m grateful for Luke’s help in getting me through the door.

  Ignoring the butterflies the size of pterodactyls swooping through my insides, I force my attention back to the man himself. With blue eyes, sandy blond hair, and a boyish smile, he certainly is easy on the eyes.