Still Savannah Read online

  STILL SAVANNAH

  Blue Ridge Valley – Book Three

  Sandra Owens

  Contents

  Also by Sandra Owens

  Newsletter Info

  Praise for Sandra’s Books

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About Sandra

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2018 Sandra Owens All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Sandra Owens

  Print ISBN- 978-0-9997864-6-8

  E-Book ISBN- 978-0-9997864-6-8

  Cover design by Kim Killion

  Edits by: Melody Guy and Ella Sheridan

  Printed in the United States of America

  This one is dedicated to Jim, who still makes me laugh.

  Also by Sandra Owens

  ~ Blue Ridge Valley Series ~

  Just Jenny

  All Autumn

  ~ Aces & Eights Series ~

  Jack of Hearts

  King of Clubs

  Ace of Spades

  Queen of Diamonds

  ~ K2 Team Series ~

  Crazy for Her

  Someone Like Her

  Falling for Her

  Lost in Her

  Only Her

  ~ Regency Books ~

  The Dukes Obsession

  The Training of a Marquess

  The Letter

  Newsletter Info

  To sign up for Sandra’s Newsletter go to:

  * * *

  https://app.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/e7q6o9

  Praise for Sandra’s Books

  The Blue Ridge Valley series is Sandra Owens at her finest. Filled with Southern charm and a dash of humor, she had me churning through the pages. I laughed. I cried. This series has it all.

  ~ Heather Burch, bestselling author of ONE LAVENDER RIBBON

  * * *

  Take everything you love about a Sandra Owens novel—the dry humor, the hot alpha heroes—and transplant them into a quirky small town, and you have the Blue Ridge Valley Series. Charming, funny, and sexy.

  ~ Jenny Holiday, USA Today bestselling author

  * * *

  Snappy dialog, endearing characters, and a delightful plot . . . I loved, loved, loved Just Jenny!

  ~ Barbara Longley, #1 Bestselling author

  * * *

  Welcome to Blue Ridge Valley . . . A town you’ll want to visit and never leave. You’ll fall in love with the quirky residents who will make you laugh, and you’ll cry tears for Jenny and Dylan—two hearts in need of healing—as they find forgiveness and love.

  ~Miranda Liasson, Bestselling author of the Mirror Lake series

  * * *

  JUST JENNY, set in the picturesque Blue Ridge Valley, is just an all-around good time. It’s got its share of colorful characters, juicy secrets, nosy neighbors, apple pie moonshine, and a romance that will touch your heart. Small town living at its best you don’t want to miss.

  ~Tamra Baumann, Bestselling author

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  "If you are a fan of this author or enjoy romantic suspense or just love your heroes to be swoon-worthy, Jack of Hearts is highly recommended."

  ~Harlequin Junkie Top Pick

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  "A heated romance is at the forefront of this novel, backed by a compelling story that will lure readers into Madison and Alex's world."

  ~Publishers Weekly

  * * *

  "I love this new series! It's filled with ongoing suspense and tension, then sexy hot romance, and relatable people that you want to spend time with."

  ~Reading in Pajamas.

  1

  ~ Savannah ~

  “I can’t do it. I won’t do it.” The mere thought of it made me sick.

  Jackson’s cold eyes roamed over me. “Who made you what you are today, Savannah?”

  Me. I made me who I am today, I screamed in my head. It was my face, my body on the covers of all those magazines, not his. “You,” I said, hating the sound of defeat in my voice.

  He pointed the knife he held at his chest. “Exactly. If not for me, you’d still be modeling for catalogs.”

  That might or might not be true. I’d never know, but maybe I wouldn’t be miserable. I eyed the carrots he was peeling—my evening snack—with distaste. I hated carrots. Not that he cared. Jackson controlled my food intake as closely as he did my career.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said when he pushed the three carrots across the counter. That was a lie. I was always hungry. But I wanted food, real food. I would just about kill for a slice of red velvet cake from Mary’s Bread Company in my hometown of Blue Ridge Valley.

  “Eat the carrots.”

  It was a command, and if I didn’t obey, he would get angry, so I picked up one, nibbling on the end. I closed my eyes and imagined the moist, buttery taste of a Mary-baked cake. It was a trick I used to get the carrots down. Sometimes it still amazed me how good I’d become at tricking my mind. It also made me sad that I had to do that.

  Once all the carrots had been chewed and swallowed, I tried one more time to make Jackson understand that he was asking the impossible from me. “I can’t take off my clothes in front of a roomful of people. I just can’t. Please don’t make me do it.”

  Jackson sighed as if I were a contrary child who was annoying him. “I’ve already signed the contract, so you don’t have a choice. Did you even pay attention to how much money they’re going to pay for the nude spread?”

  “I don’t give a dang about the money!” Or the French magazine whose name I couldn’t even pronounce that apparently thought it would be a grand idea for the world to see the famous model, Savannah, without a stitch on. That had been Jackson’s doing, the one-name thing. I hated it. I had a last name, but Graham had been lost years ago, along with my identity.

  My bio, the one Jackson wrote after my mother signed me on as a client at his agency, claimed that Savannah—no last name—was from Charleston, South Carolina. There was no hiding my southern accent, so he’d chosen that particular city because there were a lot of old-money families in Charleston. It was a city of expensive older homes and a culture steeped in prestige, tradition, and charm. A good place for a model to be from, he’d claimed. It was also big enough that it would be difficult to disprove my vague bio. I’d never understood why I couldn’t just be me, a girl from a small mountain town in the North Carolina Blue Ridge Mountains.

  “Yelling isn’t attractive, Savannah. And I’ve told you repeatedly to stop saying ‘dang.’” He sneered. “Makes you sound like a mountain hick.”

  “News flash. I am a mountain hick.” And dang proud of it. I picked up the contract Jackson had set on the counter, glanced at his name signed at the bottom, and then tore it down the middle. It was the first time I’d dared to defy him, but the anger that had been simmering inside me since he’d told me that I would be posing nude had finally boiled over, impossible to contain.

  Suddenly he was behind me. He wrapped an arm around my chest, holding me so tight that it was hard to breathe. He brought the knife up to my face, pressing the sharp edge against my cheek. I froze. Jackson was demanding and controlling, but he’d never physically threatened me before. Not that there weren’t times when I thought he wanted to hit me, but my body and face were his meal ticket, so he used intimidation and manipulation to keep me in line.

  “A few cuts to this pretty face and you’ll never grace the cover of another magazine. Is that what you want, Savannah? To be a nobody again?”

  Yes, that was exactly what I wanted, what I craved. “No,” I whispered, my lips trembling as I told him what he wanted to hear. I didn’t believe he would cut me. My face was too valuable. But his temper had been getting worse lately, and I was no longer sure of what he might do.

  “Didn’t think so.” He let me go, put his hand on my butt, and gave me a push. “Go pack. Our flight to Paris is an early one.”

  And just like that, he acted as if he hadn’t held a knife to my face. My knees were still shaking, and my stomach was churning as I turned to leave the kitchen. I couldn’t go on like this.

  “Oh, FYI. That was a copy of the contract you tore up, not the original.”

  I didn’t answer, just kept going. In the bathroom I lost the contents of my stomach, all three carrots. After splashing cold water on my face,
I spent a mere ten minutes packing, which I had down to a science since I traveled frequently. Even on location I wasn’t free of Jackson. He always came with me. Not because he wanted to be with me, but to make sure I knew he was watching me.

  Out of all the beautiful women surrounding him, I don’t know why he chose me for his girlfriend. I suspected it was because my mother signed over control of me—both my physical body and my money—to Jackson. The day she did that was the day he moved in with us and into my bed. By that time I didn’t much care about anything, so I didn’t even try to put up a fight.

  Something had to change, but I didn’t know how to make that happen. From childhood I’d been managed, first by my mother and now by Jackson. I hated myself for allowing my life to reach this point, but I’d never learned how to stand on my own two feet. The truth of that was pathetic.

  Jackson had always intimidated me with those piercing brown eyes that seemed to constantly be watching me, just waiting for something he could criticize. He frowned and scowled more often than he smiled. At least at me. He had plenty of smiles for whoever’s ass he was kissing. We were the same height, and I think it irritated him that he couldn’t look down on me.

  He was good-looking but not gorgeous. It was his confidence, intelligence, and success that drew people to him. Models and wannabes would openly flirt with him, even if I was at his side. Jackson Marks could make you famous if you were lucky enough to be signed by him. He was smart about that. He didn’t sign anyone unless he was sure she had the it factor, which meant that he had very few failures.

  As for the flirting, I didn’t care. They could have at him. My greatest wish was that he’d leave me for one of them, but unless he could get control of their money like he had with mine, he wasn’t going anywhere. But it was more than that. For reasons I’d never understood, Jackson had an unhealthy obsession with me, to the point he didn’t always give his other models the attention they deserved. Recently he’d lost a few to other agents, and when I told him he needed to pay more attention to the others before he lost more, he got angry. Apparently I didn’t understand business.

  It was only ten, but that was usually my bedtime since I often had to get up early for a photo shoot. Jackson never slept more than five hours a night, so he would be up for a while. Having the bed to myself for two or three hours was one of my few blessings.

  My stomach rumbled. Long used to feeling like I was starving, I could usually ignore the hunger pains and fall asleep, but for some reason I wasn’t able to tonight. Maybe because a thousand thoughts were spinning around in my head. Contract or not, I just couldn’t do a nude shoot. What if Adam saw it? He’d be so disappointed in me. Or maybe he couldn’t care less anymore. Thinking of Adam made me want to cry, so I tried to think of how to get out of the mess my life had become. I was nothing more than a doormat, an empty shell. I’d lost myself.

  I must have drifted off, because I startled when the bed dipped. Even being in the same room with Jackson, much less the same bed, was becoming torturous. Jackson was one of those people who fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. My stomach was killing me, and I felt like bugs were crawling under my skin. If I didn’t get out of this bed, I was going to scream. Inch by careful inch I slid out. When my feet landed on the floor, I crouched next to the bed, listening to Jackson’s breathing. He was still asleep.

  Jackson kept treats for himself in a locked drawer in his office, but I knew where he hid the key. I wouldn’t take enough so that he’d notice, just a few chips from an opened bag or, if I was lucky, a bag of candy. A few bites to get something in my stomach, then maybe I could sleep.

  The bedroom was pitch-black—the way Jackson liked it for sleeping—and I held my hands in front of me as I shuffled toward the closed door. Pain shot up my foot when I stubbed my toe, and I slapped a hand over my mouth, silencing a screech. I stilled until I was sure Jackson hadn’t woken, and then I reached down to touch what I’d walked into. It was my overnight bag, containing one change of clothes, makeup and toiletries, some jewelry, and my Kindle and its charger, along with my phone charger. Everything else for the trip was in my large suitcase. My hand seemed to separate itself from me as my fingers wrapped around the handle of my overnight bag without any instructions from my brain.

  Time stopped, and I think my heart did, too. Did I dare? My heart started beating again but hard against my chest, pounding the same word over and over into my mind. Go. Go. Go. Go.

  With no other plan than to escape, I picked up the bag and slipped out the bedroom door, closing it gently behind me. I wished I could have grabbed my suitcase, too, but it would have made too much noise rolling over the marble floor. Barefoot, I made my way to the living room, my gaze searching for anything I might want to take with me. There was nothing of me in this cold room of leather, chrome, and glass, and unless I wanted to carry a large abstract painting out with me to sell for cash… I shook my head at the foolish thought. My purse was on the kitchen counter, and I slipped it over my shoulder. The good news, I’d stuck my phone in my purse so I wouldn’t forget it in the morning. And lucky me, I’d forgotten to put away a pair of running shoes—which irritated Jackson to no end when I left stuff lying around—and I grabbed them. I decided to take it as an omen that I’d left the shoes out. Normally I was careful not to do anything that would set him off.

  Minutes later I was in the hallway. Was I really doing this? I stopped and reconsidered. Where would I go? I didn’t have close friends in the city. Jackson had seen to that, isolating me from anyone who showed an interest in friendship. As for money, there was, at the most, two hundred dollars in my wallet, another Jackson thing. He controlled all my money and doled it out sparingly. Nor did I have a credit card. If I needed clothes or whatever, Jackson paid for them. Well, technically I paid since it was my money, but that was a moot point at the moment.

  Where could I go with only the money I had on me? But I couldn’t stand here outside the door to my apartment thinking about it. God forbid that Jackson caught me out here with my overnight bag. I ran down the hallway to the elevator. While I waited, I opened my bag and pulled out the black sweater dress, slipping it on over my camisole and boy boxers. I congratulated myself on my foresight to always stick one change of clothes into my overnight bag in case my luggage didn’t arrive at my destination with me. The running shoes would look funny with it, but I was lucky to even have them. I wished I had the black knee-high boots I’d planned to wear tomorrow, though.

  Our night doorman widened his eyes at seeing me. “I’ll get you a cab, Miss Savannah. Where to?”

  “Thank you, Frank.” He was used to seeing me leave at odd hours, but Jackson or I had always given him notice when I’d need a cab standing by. And where to was the question, wasn’t it? “Airport,” I said. Not that I had any intention of going there, but when Jackson found me missing, he would question Frank.

  Within minutes a cab pulled up, and I walked out of my building for what I hoped was the last time. A freezing blast of cold air hit me, and I rushed into the back seat. “Greyhound bus station,” I said once the door was closed behind me and Frank couldn’t hear. A Greyhound seemed like the fastest way to get out of New York with what little money I had.

  I glanced out the rear window as we pulled away, wondering if I was crazy leaving a penthouse apartment in one of the most desirable sections of New York City and a hugely successful career. But as my neighborhood faded behind me, I didn’t have any regrets, other than that I hadn’t managed to bring a coat with me.

  After paying the driver, I gathered my meager belongings and ran inside the bus terminal. Dang, it was cold. But I’d done it. I’d escaped. And with each block separating me from my prison, the heavy weight in my soul was a little lighter.

  Now I just needed a plan.

  2