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The Unbreakable Trilogy
Primula Bond
850 pages of passion, love and betrayal. The Unbreakable Trilogy; a must-read for fans of erotic romance.In THE SILVER CHAIN, photographer Serena Folkes is indulging her impulsive side with a night-time shoot. But someone is watching her – mysterious entrepreneur Gustav Levi. Serena doesn’t know it yet, but this handsome stranger will change her life forever…In THE GOLDEN LOCKET, Serenna and Gustav are ensconced in his penthouse mansion in New York. All seems blissfully happy; but with a whole new world of sexual encounters out there for them to explore, their eyes are soon opened far beyond their cosy world. Is their love enough to survive the excitement that the Big Apple holds…In THE DIAMOND RING, life should be blissful for Gustav and Serena. It should be a time of happiness; a time to plan their their future together. But the ghosts of Gustav’s past have returned to haunt him, and one in particular casts a dangerous shadow over their relationship..
PRIMULA BOND
The Unbreakable Trilogy
The Silver Chain The Golden Locket The Diamond Ring
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Avon An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015
Copyright © Primula Bond 2015
The Silver Chain copyright © Primula Bond 2013
The Golden Locket copyright © Primula Bond 2013
The Diamond Ring copyright © Primula Bond 2014
Primula Bond asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007524150, 9780007539789, 9780007550906
Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008135102
Version: 2015–01–07
Table of Contents
Cover (#u8db94ba5-7d79-52ab-8ea2-17d01cfecfb0)
Title Page (#u04a051bd-1647-5163-89b6-985cded5b15e)
The Silver Chain (#u0ec7e659-5779-571c-9c6d-cf7c41bf3691)
The Golden Locket (#litres_trial_promo)
The Diamond Ring (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
(#ulink_b56500c6-e9dd-5f7a-b1c1-69e1af3a7e93)
PRIMULA BOND
The Silver Chain
Copyright
Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
Copyright © Primula Bond 2013
Cover photographs © Shutterstock
Cover design © Steve Boggs 2013
Primula Bond asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007524174
Ebook Edition © July 2013 ISBN: 9780007524150
Version: 2015–01–07
Dedication
To R who is my rock
Table of Contents
Cover (#u0ec7e659-5779-571c-9c6d-cf7c41bf3691)
Title Page (#u887e05d9-30fd-5a4b-8ccf-c593fb7da269)
Copyright (#u0de9c91f-751e-5287-ab98-3228a2d90abe)
Dedication (#u5140a3c4-f11d-5dbf-8f3c-a6b4218a1420)
Chapter One (#ued4bdb2a-c2e9-5286-a4c7-60ef9ef05d66)
Chapter Two (#u48984f55-044f-55c1-92e5-df9323916697)
Chapter Three (#u7dfdfaf2-72c7-5645-8b10-07f1bde714d9)
Chapter Four (#u60e5e2fa-e335-5c24-aca5-70df286dd287)
Chapter Five (#u27aa7332-d10d-5453-bd37-69617919fbce)
Chapter Six (#ue63aa88a-7180-5226-b213-ceb7f13d9150)
Chapter Seven (#u24babe3a-bee3-5607-8d25-7397316721c9)
Chapter Eight (#u6e098016-faf6-58c2-a687-978107c16f28)
Chapter Nine (#uec9df26d-a545-550e-b5f9-33917231af37)
Chapter Ten (#u8c244668-4c43-529c-8400-8a1c58e8b71f)
Chapter Eleven (#u480f1a1d-0116-5164-b0c0-4477d9defccd)
Chapter Twelve (#u3562fdd7-a5fb-5e05-88f4-3c799a1994e4)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
At last. At last. We jolt once, twice, then start to move. The rumbling from the diesel grows louder and more determined as the engine settles into gear. The vibrations under my seat are calmer, but they are doing nothing to quell the churning in my stomach.
The grey paved platform, slippery from the rain driving in from the south west, rolls smoothly alongside as we pull away, but it’s still too slow, too slow. I feel like I’m on the run. My hands are shoved under my legs to keep them prisoner. My heart is juddering as if there’s still time for someone to slam on the brakes and arrest me. Why do I feel like that? This is as final as it gets. Everything alongside me, soon to be left behind, is finished.
I’m free to go where I like, so why does this feel like the great escape?
I wish I was sitting up front with the driver. Not to talk to him. I only want to perch quietly on a ledge or a stool up front, and stare out at the world.
What a day job a train driver has. He’s probably sick to death of it, but what a view he has, all to himself. He clambers up to the cab at the start of every shift, yawning and cursing, carrying his flask of muddy tea, then all day and sometimes all night he’s king of the road. The big curving window, smeared with grease and smuts, spattered with rain, sometimes even with blood or guts or bits of animals, is a cinema screen showing the English countryside unfurling between the carved leafy embankments. The gleaming metal tracks converge in the distance just like the parallel lines you draw in art classes to learn perspective.
Why doesn’t he step on it? We are still crawling, we still haven’t emerged from the canopy roof and ornate bottle- green girders of the station.
The train is wrestling with the wind that blows viciously off the moors no matter what season it is, batting at the station signs as we gather speed. Let other people get off here and feel jolly. Let them think of that breeze as bracing sea air.
Me? I’m turning my back. I can’t wait to get out.
The train pulls away fast now, too fast to keep up if you were trying to chase after it, trying to grab the door handles to jump on. Jake isn’t trying to stop me. He’s not moving at all, in fact. Not that I can see him any more. I’m facing forwards, way past all the drooping heads and shoulders of the other bored passengers.
Usually I like to weave a story around fellow travellers, maybe even catch the eye of an interesting-looking man or woman. I’m not as shy as you’d think, at least not with strangers. I always have something to talk about or show them, my pictures, my work. But this lot are faceless, all anoraks and shopping bags and mobile phones. They don’t even glance out of the window at the place they’ve passed through.
Who can say what they’re thinking about behind their laptops and magazines? Work. Warring families. Hospital appointments. Running away. Tonight’s supper. Elopement. The car’s MOT. Adulterous assignations.
As the distance between us stretches to breaking point the muscles in my shoulders, my eyebrows, teeth, my jaw, even my hair, all start to let go, relax. The headache hasn’t quite gone, but I drank too much last night so I’ve only myself to blame. I unbutton my new caramel tweed jacket checked with threads of faint blue. It’s a little tight because at the last minute I decided to shove my thick white sweater on as well. I smile as my ribcage expands and my breasts rise gently with relief.
I unwrap my oversized royal-blue scarf and run my hand up my warm, slightly sticky neck to release my tangled hair. Horrible how hangovers make you feel. I didn’t realise I was still so strung up. Like banging your head on a brick wall. You only know how bad it is when you stop.
I know it isn’t fair, but you only get one life. Not fair on Jake, I mean. He looked petrified just now, in the fossilised sense. I’ve never seen him so angry, or so still. All that fidgeting, the phantom drumming thing he does with imaginary sticks on every available hard surface, the constant foot tapping and knuckle cracking. All stopped.
I didn’t want him to come here and see me off. Surely after everything we’ve said and done he doesn’t believe for a second that I’ll stay? I have no more energy for any of it. For him. Everything is focused on the future, on selfish little me. Those gleaming metal tracks are carrying me out of here, the big smoke is blooming with promise on the horizon.
How many times can you say goodbye?
Last night, holed up with him in his caravan on the cliff, was dreadful. What was I thinking? Everything had gone so well up until then. All my decisions, plans, all the arguments were over. I was so cool, sorted, strong. And then like an idiot I agreed to meet him for one last drink in his brother’s pub. He knew I’d say yes because I wouldn’t be able to stand one more night alone in the house. Even though they are finally gone, even though the coldness and the silence, the sneaky feet and surreptitious fists that never left a mark, even though the dead eyes and the lovelessness are all gone, it’s still horribly creepy. And now it’s deserted as well.
The Black Hat looked jolly and warm enough. Even though it’s not Halloween till tomorrow, they’d lit candles and lanterns and draped the beams and light fittings with lacy cobwebs, propped-up broomsticks, carved out grinning pumpkins. One of Jake’s many gripes is that I’m buggering off just when the party season is starting. He still doesn’t get that I’m done with partying. I’m done with him, with everyone, and certainly with spending any more of my precious time and money in a medieval pub in a dead-end village at the far end of the country.
I have a life to start living.
But I went along for that one last drink, didn’t I, persuaded our rag-tag bunch of mates to come along. Hence this hangover. Jake was behind the bar all evening, serving a bubbling punch from a cauldron which was deceptively orange-flavoured and totally lethal. He was ladling out brimming pint glasses for free, and by the time our mates had drifted away, slightly too obviously I thought, I was pissed and careless, and what happened next is that all that coolness, sortedness, strength, it all evaporated. At least physically. Nothing in my mind had changed. My bags were still packed.
I was still the heroine of all those country and western blues you’ve ever sung along to, about lovers leaving on jet planes.
So there we were, Jake and I, somehow back inside the little tin can that he lives in, and it was midnight. I can only conclude, if there is a jury out there, that it was laziness and familiarity and the remnants of randiness that bore us from the village up the road, along the pitted track, into the muddy field to where the caravan sits, protected from the sheer drop to the fierce sea by massive boulders that look like nightclub bouncers, and purple moss and hard sheep droppings and a broken fence.
That caravan with its moth-eaten pull-down bed and garish seventies orange-flowered curtains, its kettle and booze and stash of chocolate and overflowing ashtrays, it used to be my haven. Once we’d pulled the rickety door closed and bolted it with elastic bands and other flimsy barriers against the world, Jake and I were like babes in the wood in there. We used to cling and whisper together, getting stoned, learning everything together. And I mean everything.
Childhood sweethearts sounds so innocent, doesn’t it? But we weren’t children. And we were on a mission to shed our innocence.
