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**KND Freebies: Game-changing LIFE IN HALF A SECOND is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt**

January 29, 2014 by Kindle Nation

22 straight rave reviews!

What if there was a proven path to success?

Challenge your thinking with this game-changing “fact-based” formula that
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Life in Half a Second: How to Achieve Success Before it’s Too Late

by Matthew Michalewicz

4.9 stars – 22 Reviews

Kindle Price: $6.59

Text-to-Speech: Enabled

Don’t have a Kindle? Get yours here.

Here’s the set-up:

What if there was a proven path to success? A path supported by science and research? A path that led to your goals and aspirations in less time, with less risk?

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Gimmicks, mind tricks, fairy tales, and wishful thinking NOT INCLUDED. Just facts.

5-star praise for Life in Half a Second:

“…It puts a whole new perspective on everything you do in business and in life generally…If you are not kicking your major goals and you’re wondering why…Matthew Michaelwicz will show you how. “”…A MUST READ for those who want to be successful, however you may define it…Matthew’s book is outstanding in that it is evidence based and spells it out in very simple terms…”

an excerpt from

Life in Half a Second:
How to achieve success before it’s too late
by Matthew Michalewicz

Life is short and death is long.

Fritz Shoulder

The Countdown

Everyone knows that life is short – it’s the most over-preached truth on earth. But how short is it, exactly?

Planet Earth is four-and-a-half billion years old. The species you and I belong to, Homo sapiens, did not emerge until some 200,000 years ago. The oldest known fossils of modern humans are only 160,000 years old, discovered in Herto, Ethiopia. So out of the four-and-a-half billion years that this planet has been floating through the nothingness of space, we’ve been around some .0044% of that time. Put another way, if our planet was exactly one year old, then modern humans would have only been around for the last 23 minutes. Measured on the same scale, if our planet was a year old, then your entire life would amount to half a second.

In planet-time, that’s all you have: half a second.

We don’t appreciate this as kids. Time seems unlimited and goes by ever so slowly. We’re impatient to grow up, become adults, and enter the real world. We imagine all the freedom we’ll have, all the things we’ll get to do. But when adulthood finally arrives, we discover that we’ll be spending the vast majority of our “freedom” at work, paying bills, surviving, often in jobs we don’t like or don’t care about. Life is not how we imagined it and disillusionment sets in. We spend our half second doing everything except what we really want, dreaming of the future, of some distant, faraway day when life will be different, better, when we can finally do the things we want. But as we grow older, time begins moving faster and faster, and our long-awaited day never seems to come.

The tragedy of life isn’t that we only have half a second. The tragedy is that we waste it. In my travels across continents, countries, and cultures, first as a serial immigrant and later as a businessman, I met people from every walk of life imaginable. And throughout all these journeys in different parts of the globe, I became obsessed by a single question:

What would you do if you only had one year to live?

I’m not sure where the question came from, what prompted it or why, but it quickly became my favourite topic of conversation. And the more I asked the question – to people of varying backgrounds, skin colour, religion, and education – the more obsessed I became. Why? Because I always received the same answer. With only a year to live, most people would quit work, spend time with family, see the world, and do everything they always dreamed of doing before it’s too late. Their answers would be thick with emotion – not sadness or regret, but enthusiasm, eagerness. I felt they were about to set sail on some journey they often fantasized about but never actually took. With heat and fervour, eyes flashing, gleeing almost, they spoke of the many things they would do before death claimed them. And after the hundredth question and hundredth answer, I finally thought, Good God! Can we only live when we’re dying?

My impression of the world is that we spend life doing what we “have to” rather than what we “want to”. This comes across in many psychology and happiness studies, especially those related to work. Harvard studies show that worker happiness is at an all-time low, with 74% of employees wanting to find a new line of work. At heart, we would rather be doing something else. A number of prominent psychologists have proclaimed that every industrialized nation is experiencing an epidemic of depression, all the way from university students – where a study of 13,500 students found that 94% felt overwhelmed by everything they had to do and 45% were too depressed to function properly – to the general population, where only 28% of people out of a massive sample of 520,000 were classified as “emotionally well off ” as defined by positive and negative daily emotions, as well as a clinical diagnosis of depression. What can we make of all these studies and statistics?

One thing: we would rather be doing something else.

And that, right there, is the great tragedy of human existence. While this planet has been spinning and forming and cooling for billions of years, nature has been busy making you. From scraps of living matter – from bacteria, microbes, fermenting cells fighting for the right to exist, squirming and striving, growing in complexity through millions of generations, learning to breathe, mutating, spawning life on land and sea and air against the backdrop of centuries and millennia passing – the first genus Homo emerged. Somehow – only God knows how – he rose from the mess of biology and creation, covered in slime, ignorant and animalistic, and learned to stand, walk, stare at the sky, marvelling at the dark voids and cosmic dust above. And then he embarked upon the journey of all journeys, the hundred-thousand-generation epic of survival, of hunting and being hunted, overcoming frost, famine, struggling with tools made of wood and stone, discovering fire, migrating tens of thousands of miles to colonize the world, living by the law of fist and club, coping with violence, rape, conquest, disease without cures, starvation – enduring unthinkable pain and suffering so that the species could survive – living with the sole intent to mate, procreate, pass genes on to the next generation of survivors, over and over, thousands and thousands and thousands of times, until finally, at the very end of that endless ladder, one sperm out of 300 million attached itself to an egg, creating you, only you.

The point of it all, since the planet cooled and nature first put her hand to work, was to produce you – the finest specimen of an eternity of mutation and adaptation, surviving the evolutionary climb of all evolutionary climbs, through miracle and chance, beating all odds, winning a trillion-to-one-wager, winning the sperm race to be born, to be you. And today, sitting comfortably, reading this book, safe, warm, fed, the beneficiary of millions of years of unimaginable suffering and billions of years of incalculable good luck, there you are, with just half a second to enjoy the result, the marvel of existing, the miracle of being. And what do you do with that half second? Something other than what you want!

It’s the tragedy of all tragedies – it makes Shakespearean blank verse seem comic by comparison. Our lives are so cluttered doing what we “have to” that there’s no room for what we “want to”, even though we only have half a second to do it. Perhaps that’s why there’s so much unhappiness in the world! Perhaps that’s why Americans spend $57 billion on lottery tickets each year – not to win wealth, but to win freedom and finally do the things they want to.

But what are we waiting for? If we only had one year to live, our desire to start living – to use what’s left of our half second to the fullest – would become unstoppable and we would finally, finally, take action. But is that what it takes? Must we be confronted with death to finally do the things we want? Is that what we’re waiting for? Sadly, it seems so. Death always seems a long way off, a concept almost, as remote and abstract as the dark side of the moon. We don’t appreciate our mortality or fully comprehend how little time we have, so we defer our desires for another day. It’s not until death becomes more tangible, inevitable, that we realize our time is measured and we spring into action.

We’re relaxed and laid back about the time we have left because we measure our age in “years lived”. We know that 50 is older than 40, and 40 is older than 30, but so what? What does that really tell us? Not much. It’s like knowing how many litres a car has used without knowing how many litresare left. The most important information is missing. So what would happen if we measured our age in “days left” rather than “years lived”? I bet we wouldn’t be as relaxed and laid back. I bet that death would become less abstract. Let’s try it.

The average life expectancy of the global population in 2011 is 70 years, ranging from 80+ years in countries such as Japan, Australia, and France, to less than 60 years in South Africa, Laos, and Kenya. Let’s assume you live in one of the sixteen countries where life expectancy is more than 80 years, or that you’ll beat the odds and live to be 80. In either case, subtract your current age from 80 and multiply the result by 365. This is the number of “days left” you have – assuming all goes well and you don’t find yourself on the wrong end of “average”. I’m currently 37 years old, so 80 – 37 = 43, and 43 3 365 =15,695 days. So that’s it. That’s all I have left: 15,695 days. And there’s something more meaningful about “15,695 days left” than “37 years old”. I feel a sense of urgency, haste. There’s a countdown on my life.

Perhaps that’s why people accuse me of being in a hurry. I don’t need to be. But I am. Why? Because it took a billion years for me to get here, and now that I’m here, I’ve only got half a second to make the most of it. So yes, I admit it, I’m in a hurry! I’m in a hurry to live. The world is right there, outside my window, in the blueness of the sky, over the horizon, begging to be discovered, touched, appreciated. It’s all there waiting for me – so what am I waiting for?

“I’m here to live, man, live!” I remind myself each morning.I want to lie in the grass, underneath the burning sun and swirling clouds, wind blowing, seasons changing, with the raw earth under my fingernails. From the largeness of the cosmos to the smallness of my little toe, I love life. And knowing that everything is ephemeral, fleeting, here one moment and gone the next, I’m not saving anything for later. There might not be a “later”. Like the great motivators that preach from stadiums and pulpits, I want to live full and die empty. I’ve skydived, explored the great pyramids, sat next to the Moai on Easter Island, bungee jumped, owned Ferraris, driven at 300 km/h, rock climbed above Machu Picchu, sailed the Mediterranean, scuba dived on wrecks in the Caribbean, photographed the Nazca Lines from a lightplane, touched the giant tortoises on the Galapagos Islands, met the Pope, worked with Lech Walesa, and dined with Arnold Schwarzenegger – I’m not waiting for anything. Each morning I tell my wife and kids how much I love them, as if I’ll never see them again – each year I’m living like it’s my last, bucket list and all.

Do you have a bucket list? No? Then make one and do it now, while you still can, while there’s still life and strength in your veins. If you only had one year to live, you’d do it now. Nothing would stop you. No amount of commitments, obligations, or responsibilities. But because you measure time in “years lived” rather than “days left”, the future seems unlimited, so you defer and wait. You do everything you “have to” and very little of what you “want to”. But what are you waiting for? When you’re old and frail? When your desire has evaporated? When your loved ones are gone?

The tragedy of life is waiting and deferring. I see people doing it every day, everywhere I go, in airports, restaurants, factories, offices, classrooms – waiting and deferring. I see it on their faces, in their eyes. They believe they’ve got all the time in the world, so they wait and defer, putting off the things they “want to” for another time, for “later”. And when later comes, they often feel it’s too late – that they’ve waited and deferred for too long. But why continue to wait and defer because you’re older today than you were yesterday? What sense does that make? You won’t have any more “days left” tomorrow than you do today. What’s left is what’s left, and you must make the most of it.

Harlan David Sanders certainly made the most of his “days left”. After a colourful life that included farming, piloting steamboats, and selling insurance, he founded Kentucky Fried Chicken at the age of 65, immortalizing his eleven herbs and spices and becoming a multi-millionaire in the process. Ray Kroc did the same, beginning his legendary transformation of McDonald’s into a global colossus while he was in his 50s. Frank Lloyd Wright began designing the iconic Guggenheim Museum at the age of 76, and Francisco Goya – the last of the old masters – created his best and most powerful work during his late 70s.

There are thousands of similar stories, as evidenced by entrepreneurial statistics. Consider that the “over 55” category is responsible for starting 28% of all new businesses in the United States each year.10 The truth is that it’s only “too late” when you’re dead. That’s the only time when it’s truly “too late”. Any time before that, the dice are still in play, the dealer still has cards to deal, you still have time.

It’s not over till it’s over.

But you don’t have any time to waste, nobody does. If you want more from life than the daily grind of work, routine, retirement, and death, you’ve only got half a second to do it. To achieve success and turn your dreams into reality, the only time you’ll ever have is now. And that’s where this book comes in. Based on scientific research and thousands of real-world studies, Life in Half a Second is your master key to success. Free from gimmicks, mind tricks, fairy tales, and wishing upon stars, it will help you achieve success before it’s too late, before you’re dead.

I have organized Life in Half a Second into five “doors of success”, which represent the five scientifically proven factors that drive success across every discipline – from athletics and show business, through to entrepreneurship and corporate careers. Each door explains a specific factor, why it works, and most importantly, how you can apply it in your business, career, or personal life. After reading Life in Half a Second you’ll realise that every motivational book ever written, every gravity-defying success story ever uttered whether it’s climbing Mount Everest, becoming a billionaire, setting a world record, or making a scientific breakthrough – is based on these five doors. There is nothing more. If you want something in life, these five doors are the only way to get it. And whether you are my son or a stranger, I will give you the same advice: read this book, do what it says. Success will follow.

I don’t know who you are, where you live, or anything about your values or background. But I do know one thing: you’ve only got half a second. And you might be content to use that half second waiting and deferring, waiting and deferring – never quite knowing why or what for. But not me. I want to close my eyes knowing I made the most of life – knowing I never waited and I never deferred. If I had more time, I would have done more. But with the time I had, I did all I could. That’s why I’m in a hurry; that’s why I don’t have a moment to lose. There’s a countdown on my life.

And guess what … there’s a countdown on yours as well.

… Continued…

Download the entire book now to continue reading on Kindle!

Life in Half a Second:
How to Achieve Success
Before It’s Too Late

by Matthew Michalewicz
4.9 stars – 22 reviews!

Special Kindle Price: $6.59
(reduced from $7.99 for
limited time only)

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an excerpt from

Seduction in the Sun

How to Train a Lover

A Savage Interactive by Daire St. Denis

Tessa Savage travels the world for business…and pleasure. From the Rocky Mountains to the Greek Islands, there’s no place Tessa won’t explore and very few sexual positions she won’t try.

It’s been a year since Tessa’s rendezvous with her favorite cowboys—a year of non-stop work. Now Tessa’s off to spend some much needed R&R in the Greek Isles on the luxury yacht of playboy billionaire and sexual dominant, Alander Papadakis.

However, when Alander breaks one of her golden rules, her holiday plans take a turn and she jets off—solo—to the island of Lesvos where she happens upon a mysterious young man from her past. Built like a Greek god and with the eyes of a lion, Nicolai Kinellis is hard to resist, especially when he asks Tessa to teach him everything she knows…about sex. A holiday training session with a hot young Adonis is exactly what Tessa needs but, when Nicolai treads too far over the line of another of Tessa’s rules, she must make one of the most difficult decisions of her life.

Tessa doesn’t know what to do and she needs help. Your help. Will you help her?

Welcome to Wicked Way Interactives by Daire St. Denis where you choose the ending to the story and determine Tessa’s fate in the Greek Isles.

*****

I catch a flight from Athens to the island of Lesvos, and the following day, I rent a car to drive from Mytilini, the capital, to the quaint seaside town of Molyvos. Memories assail me during the hour-long drive, unexpected memories of a man I’ve spent the last seven years trying to forget. I’d come to Greece a number of years ago after my failed marriage to Chase Walker. Yes, it’s true, Tessa Savage was married. Can you believe it? You heard the part where I said failed, right?

Like I said, that’s a story for another day. The point is, I took a six month sabbatical after the papers were signed, to heal, to regroup…all that shit. For the first couple of months I traveled both in Turkey and Greece, seeing some really cool places, but mostly doing the tourist thing, visiting ruins, island hopping to all the well-known spots; the white-washed villas of Santorini, Naxos, Crete, partying in Mykonos and Rhodes…

It wasn’t until I arrived on the island of Lesvos that I found any sort of peace. No. That’s not true. It’s where I managed to heal enough to go on. The person most helpful during that time was the grandmotherly Mrs. Kinellis, the owner of the Daphnis and Chloe guesthouse where I stayed for the remainder of my trip.

If there was any place that had ever felt like home, it was there, probably because Medea Kinellis and I had formed a connection—a rare one. The kind where you feel as if you’ve known the person forever. Even though her English was poor and my Greek basically non-existent, she nurtured me during my stay, taking care of my needs, giving me a motherly hug when I was feeling down, ignoring my evening exploits when I was feeling randy—which (you know me) was pretty often. I never once felt judged. She had a comforting quiet knack of knowing what I needed when I needed it and if she was too busy to provide, she’d send her young, wide-eyed grandson to help.

Such a sweet kid. In the months I stayed, I don’t think I ever heard him speak, though he often watched me with these unusual hazel eyes, always wide, as if I was a curiosity.

As I drive down the hill and Molyvos comes into sight, I see with delight that nothing’s changed. It’s what I love about the island. It has all the amenities that you could want on vacation: beaches, museums, great restaurants, live music, night life…and yet the small port town of Molyvos clings to the side of the hill like it has for millennia. The ruins of the Byzantine castle on top of the cliff welcome me as if I’m a long lost traveler come home. The streets of town are narrow and cobblestoned, not designed for vehicles, so I park my car in the lot on the outskirts of town and tow my luggage behind me, weaving my way through the narrow streets and steps to where the guest house perches.

The town is unusually quiet, particularly considering it’s spring and, in my opinion, the best time to visit. It’s just past one, so most residents are at home enjoying a large midday meal, but the decided lack of tourists is another reminder of the failing Greek economy.

Based on how quiet everything is, I guess booking the guesthouse online wasn’t necessary. But I’d wanted to because it seemed so ironic that the aged Medea Kinellis was conducting her business via the internet using twenty-first century technology while still living in a place where time stood still.

I ring the bell with a sense of giddiness. I can’t wait to see her. Of course, there’s always the possibility she doesn’t remember me. I mean, I’m only one of thousands of people who’ve traveled through these parts. The fact that she seemed to have a special place in her heart for me, well, that was probably just part of who she is, part of her charm, and a way to get tourists to come back every year.

Even with these doubts whispering around in the back of my head, I don’t care and I’m sure I’m sporting a goofy smile.

The door opens and an elderly gentleman I don’t recognize is standing there, slightly stooped, his thinning dark hair slicked back from his high forehead. “Ms. Savage?” He smiles questioningly, dark eyes watering.

I nod and he opens the door to invite me inside. When he goes to take my luggage, I assure him I can manage, but then I notice the flash of displeasure and realize my faux pas. In his eyes, I’m a young woman. He’s a man. It’s his job to help me, no matter how fragile he may look. I relinquish my bags and follow him through the entrance.

Like everything else in Molyvos, the guesthouse hasn’t changed. It’s divided into four parts: the common area: with a kitchen, dining room, sitting area and large terrace all located on the main floor, a pension style lodging for travelers on a limited budget on the lower floor, the family residence is on the third floor and the deluxe guest suite, where I’ll be staying, takes up the entire second floor. My suite includes a large bedroom with a beautifully appointed en suite, a living area with kitchenette and a large private terrace.

The exposed beams and whitewashed stone immediately comfort me, as do the gauzy white curtains that blow in the open windows. It’s all so wonderfully welcoming, the smell of the salty sea air, the feel of the cool red tile beneath my sandaled feet, the lure of the large four poster bed. Yes, I feel as if I’ve come home.

“Excuse me,” I say to the older gentleman as he deposits my suitcase on the rack next to the wardrobe in the bedroom. “Is Mrs. Kinellis at home?”

His brow furrows and he shakes his head. He holds up his finger and mumbles something in Greek, as if asking me to wait. He departs before I have an opportunity to give him a tip for carrying my luggage and I vow to leave extra upon my departure.

Making my way across the room, I go to the curtains and spread them wide, smiling as I take in the red tile roofs leading down to the port at the base of the hill. The azure blue of the Aegean Sea sparkles in the late afternoon sun.

Ahh.

I have a feeling this is going to be one of my best holidays yet.

A knock sounds on my door and my heart flips as I anticipate coming face to face with dear Mrs. Kinellis after so many years. “Come in,” I call, still standing by the French doors, not wanting to betray how anxious I am to see her again.

Except, it’s not her.

Standing in the open door is someone who is as opposite to Medea Kinellis as you can get.

First of all he’s a ‘he’ not a ‘she’. Secondly, he’s young. Late twenties, maybe? Thirdly, where Medea was barely five feet tall, this man is enormous. Six foot three at least. He’s too tall. Too big. He has to duck in order to clear the doorway.

He’s wearing an open-neck cotton shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and loose linen trousers like he’s just come from a photo shoot on the beach. His hair is a mass of dark curls and his face is tanned with a wide jaw and the kind of nose sculptors take great care to reproduce in stone.

But it’s his eyes that captivate me. They’re tawny colored—I think, it’s hard to tell from this far away—anyway, the color contrasts with his dark skin tone and dark lashes making him look like a tall, delicious, god with king-of-the-jungle eyes.

There’s something familiar about him too, like I’ve seen him on TV. Or, like he’s made a guest appearance in one of my many illicit dreams.

Yes. That last one.

“Ms. Savage. Welcome to the Daphnis and Chloe Guesthouse.” He looks around the room. “I hope you find everything to your liking.” His voice rumbles like a volcano about to erupt, and I feel the wonderful resonance of it in my chest. Even though he has the coloring of a Greek man, he’s got this beautiful British accent.

Sublime.

I’ve got a partiality to accents, British accents in particular. Probably because they sound so proper. Given the right partner in the bedroom, that proper accent creates a tantalizing dichotomy when coupled with completely improper requests and the sound of his accent prompts my imagination to take me there…with him.

“Would you kindly shed your garments, Ms. Savage? Yes. Lovely. Lie on the bed. Ah, that’s it. Beautiful. Now, will you permit me to tell you exactly what I’m going to do to you…?”

“Is everything all right? Is the room to your satisfaction?”

I clear my throat and glance around. “Yes, everything looks lovely.”

What is wrong with me? Two minutes in his presence and I’m imagining inappropriate scenes with the poor man.

Fickle, fickle Tessa.

What was it? Less than twenty-four hours ago I was with Alander?

Alander who?

I know, terrible, isn’t it?

Now I only have eyes for the tall Adonis with the lion eyes and the sexy accent who has barely made it inside my doorway. If he doesn’t leave my room soon, I’m going to jump him and it won’t be pretty.

“We normally serve breakfast downstairs between seven and nine, but as you’re our only guest…we can make other arrangements if you like.”

My warped brain takes his words and twists them as if he’s suggesting illicit arrangements.

I give my head a little shake and rub my eyes. But when I open them, I swear I catch him checking me out. His gaze starts somewhere mid-calf and up it goes with a leisurely browse. Then back down. Only to shimmy back up, even more slowly, giving me the shivers.

I swallow.

My hand flutters to my throat and I fight the urge to undo the top button on my blouse.

Not good.

“I can bring your breakfast up here, if you like.”

To my one-track mind, it’s like he’s suggesting that he, himself, is on the menu.

“Ms. Savage?”

“What? Sorry. What?”

“Is that all right with you?”

“Yes. Yes of course.” I nod even though I have no idea what I’ve agreed to. I think it’s something about breakfast. Not sure. Doesn’t matter. “Thank you.” I say, trying to politely wave him out before I do something insane. “Everything is lovely. Perfect. Really. Thank you.”

He smiles as he backs out the door. It’s an interesting smile. Secretive. Like he can read my dirty mind.

No. That’s just my overactive imagination.

There’s something wrong with me.

“If you need anything, anything at all…my name is Nicolai and I’d be happy to serve you.”

With that, he closes the door and I am left to deal with my insanely naughty thoughts. I lean against the door and press a hand to my feverish forehead. My reaction to Nicolai—what a nice name—might be understandable given his striking physical presence, but is no less unacceptable. I just met the man. Good lord. My reaction is over the top, even for me. I’m sure it’s because I’ve had my arousal prematurely squelched with the whole Alander-being-married thing.

There’s only one remedy. A cold shower.

Of course, once I’m ensconced in the shower cubicle, my imagination takes me back to the elevator…with Alander. In my new version, his body guards aren’t there, it’s just us. I’m facing the mirror at the back and Alander is behind me, being his bossy self…

“You shouldn’t have made me wait, Tessa Savage.”

“I had no choice.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

He nuzzles my neck while caressing my hip with one hand and burying the other in my hair. It feels nice. So nice. When he tilts my head to kiss me, properly, I let him. Gladly. He’s such a good kisser and I’ve anticipated our visit for so long. His hands roam freely over my body when I remember the truth about him.

He’s married.

Damn. Even in my imagination, I won’t go down the path of infidelity with Alander.

I pull away to tell him to stop. That’s when I catch his reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator. It’s not Alander whose lips are swollen with kisses…it’s another man, a much younger man. One with dark curls and incredible hazel eyes.

“Nicolai?”

What?!

Water sprays in all direction as I shake the unexpected image of my young host out of my head. I finish showering, determined to control my wayward imagination. I’m pretty sure I know what my problem is. I’ve gone without sex longer than I should have. The little interlude with Alander yesterday only served to aggravate my libido, so now I’m reacting to the first attractive, red-blooded male I see. There’s only one solution. I need to find a lover. Quick.

However, when I head out that evening with plans to go to the nearest taverna for supper and hopefully meet someone of like mind, I run into the very man I’m trying to avoid. He’s carrying a cloth bag filled with fresh vegetables and he’s wearing a perplexed expression on his handsome face.

I was hoping my lust-logged brain had embellished his attributes. Unfortunately, it did not. In fact, if anything he is even more attractive. He seems somehow bigger outside in the narrow alleyway. His eyes shine brighter, his shoulders appear broader and the smile on his face hints at even naughtier secrets.

The mere sight of him triggers a tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach.

Not good. This is not good.

“Ms. Savage,” he says with a frown. “You are eating at the guesthouse this evening, aren’t you? My cousin’s grilling fresh mackerel and the spanakopita’s already in the oven.”

“Oh,” I say, covering my mouth. So that’s what he’d asked me about earlier while I was immersed in my wicked fantasy. I clear my throat. “I did say I was eating in tonight, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” He gives me an odd look.

“Right. Well, let’s go back to the guesthouse then, shall we?” Oh no. I wonder if he can hear that I’m putting on a little bit of a British accent. I do that sometimes, I unconsciously adopt the accent of others around me. Perhaps it’s because I have no home but make my home wherever I am at the moment.

“Good.” He furrows his brow before continuing down the lane to the guesthouse.

I follow so close that I catch a whiff of his personal scent; citrus, cardamom and fresh air. He smells like a beach party. It’s a little slice of heaven and instantly brings on more vivid fantasies starring…him. My naughty gaze drops to the mound of taut flesh covered by loose linen, moving directly in front of me.

I try to tear my eyes away, but I’m not having much luck.

It’s not until he stops and I nearly run straight into him that I lift my gaze. Is he smiling that sort of half-smile because he caught me staring at his ass?

“I hope you’re hungry.”

“Yes. Very.”

“Please.” With a sweep of his hand, he indicates the open door to the guesthouse. I precede him inside and he ushers me to the terrace where a table has been set for two. Pulling out my chair, he gets me settled before disappearing inside again to drop off his purchases.

He returns with a bottle of ouzo and two small glasses which he promptly fills. He hands me one and takes the other, lifting it in a toast. “Yasou,” he says.

“Yasou.”

We drink and he refills our glasses.

“Is it too presumptuous to ask to join you?”

“Of course not,” I indicate the empty chair. “I was hoping you would.”

Ah, shit. I wonder if I should warn him that spending time with me in this intimate—I glance around—romantic setting is going to result in only one thing. Me jumping him.

He’s smiles and I start to think that perhaps the man is amenable to me making an advance, despite our obvious age difference. I tilt my head and smile back.

His response is to continue to regard me over the lip of his ouzo glass.

“So, Nicolai, are you the property manager here?”

He sets his glass down and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his wonderfully broad chest. “No. I own the guesthouse.”

“You do?” I frown, realizing I’ve been so enamored of him I’ve forgotten to ask after Mrs. Kinellis. She must have sold it. Considering she was in her late seventies when I was here last, that would put her in her eighties now. Running a guesthouse on her own was probably getting too difficult at her age.

“The property has been in my family for three generations.”

I blink. I tilt my head. I blink again. “Really? I thought this place belonged to the Kinellis family. You see, I stayed here before. About six years ago. Medea Kinellis and I became quite close. That’s why I came back.”

“I know.”

“You know? How do you know?”

“I know because I am Medea’s grandson. I’m Nicolai Kinellis. And, it wasn’t six years ago that you were here, it was seven.”

He stands and dips his head in my direction. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see to the food.”

I’m stunned. I’m completely gob-smacked, confounded, blown-away, dumbfounded. Stunned. It’s not possible.

Medea’s grandson is a boy.

The person I’ve been interacting with, Nicolai, is a man.

The two are not the same.

Although, now that I think about it, there was something about him that seemed familiar when we first met this afternoon.

When he returns, a moment later, carrying a steaming platter of fresh spanakopita, I realize what it was that I recognized. What I now recognize.

His eyes.

I remember how he used to watch me, always with a semi-perplexed expression, as if I was a curiosity. And, I remember how striking his eyes were, even then.

But, to say this man sitting across from me is one and the same as that shy young boy? Well, it’s impossible for me to put the two together. Everything about him has changed. It’s like some Greek god swooped down from the heavens and took over his body, leaving only his eyes intact.

I’m so stupefied, not only am I running out of adjectives to describe my shock, but I don’t know what to say to him. I’ve been entertaining erotic fantasies about him all day and now I feel like the biggest pervert around. I mean, I knew he was younger than me, but that much younger?

I cover my discomfort by stuffing my mouth with spanakopita. But the pastry is obviously fresh out of the oven and I burn the inside of my mouth.

“Ach!” I spit the spinach and pastry back onto my plate, waving my hand in front of my mouth.

“Are you okay?”

I grab ice out of my glass and suck on it, pressing the cube against the sensitive skin on the roof of my mouth.

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you it was hot.”

I mumble something about it not being his fault while I continue to suck the ice. However, images from my most recent fantasies plague me as I nurse my burned mouth and I’m appalled with myself.

How could I have been fantasizing about him? He’s barely more than a kid! And all that stuff I’ve been picturing…it’s immoral.

The problem is, how do I shut all that stuff off? I don’t want to think about him but that’s not how my twisted brain operates.

It doesn’t matter how wrong it is, how young he is, he’s still got the body of a lion god and the face of a dark angel.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Can I get you something?”

“I’m fine. Really. I’m totally fine.” I’m lying, of course. But, it’s not like I can tell him what’s really wrong. That I’ve been having fantasies about him from the first moment we met and that I am now officially a cougar. It’s downright humiliating.

Thank God his cousin appears at the open door with another platter of food. She carries it to the table and sets everything out, providing a moment of distraction.

However, she’s gone too soon, leaving Nicolai and me alone again. He opens a bottle of white wine to accompany the meal and I busy myself with heaping aromatic food onto my plate. I have no idea how I’m going to eat it, with my burned mouth and troubled stomach, but I’m going to do my best to pretend everything is normal. Totally normal.

The first thing I do to try to encourage normalcy is to ask about his grandmother. In retrospect, I should have asked him about her before. I’d meant to. I really did. But my philandering thoughts took over. Remember?

“I was hoping to see your grandmother when I arrived. I’ve thought of her often over the years.”

I know what’s coming before he opens his mouth. It’s apparent in his expressive eyes and the serious set of his mouth. “Grandmother passed away a year ago.”

“Oh no.” My lapse in judgement over Nicolai is completely forgotten by my shock at this news. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” He stands. “I have something for you. I’ll be right back.”

Nicolai returns within minutes and places two books on the table in front of me. They are tied together with yellow ribbon. I undo the bow carefully, as if I’m diffusing a bomb, and then stare transfixed at the titles. The first is The Love Songs of Sappho. The second is Daphnis and Chloe.

I open the covers to see my name printed there. I’d left these books behind when I’d departed seven years ago. Having no fixed address, it’s what I do. I leave things I don’t need anymore, hoping others will make use of whatever it is.

I never expect to get these things back.

Seeing my own handwriting in books that once belonged to me makes me feel something strange and unnamed and the melancholy I thought I had under control as I drove into Molyvos, returns.

“She saved these for you. In case you should ever return.”

I’m overcome. I glance up at Nicolai and find him watching me with an expression that is completely indecipherable.

“She saved my books,” I whisper.

“Yes.”

“She told you she had them?”

“Yes. You were…special to her.”

There is an enormous lump in my throat that is making it impossible to swallow. “I should have come back sooner. I should have—” I cover up the fact my lips are quivering by taking a drink.

“You’re here now,” he says and his hand moves as if to touch my arm, but he stops himself and quickly pulls his hand back.

The seriousness of his news and my feelings subdues my rampant lust, allowing the two of us to catch up like we’re old friends. After he tells me a bit about his grandmother’s illness and passing, I am struck by how fluent he is and on the fact that he doesn’t sound Greek.

“Your English is excellent,” I say. “But, why do you have a British accent?”

“My mother died when I was ten. Afterwards, Grandmother sent me to boarding school in London. The summer you were here was the first time I’d been home in four years.”

I think back to the gangly teenager who is now barely recognizable in the man sitting across from me. I suppose his English would have been excellent even back then, but he was so shy and quiet, I don’t know if I ever heard him speak.

I ask him about what it’s been like running the guesthouse this past year in his grandmother’s absence and then we discuss the recession and austerity measures taken by the Greek government. I tell him what I do for a living and propose that I look at his books and business plan, offering to do anything I can to help.

“I’m afraid no amount of planning can help, Ms. Savage. All of Europe is suffering. Tourism is non-essential and is the first thing people give up when times are tough.”

“How are you surviving?”

“The last three summers we’ve earned just enough to get by. In the winter months I take on odd jobs, labor, construction, anything I can to earn extra income to keep the guesthouse running. I keep the costs down by only hiring part-time staff, mostly family, when I can’t manage on my own.”

I look around. The guesthouse is in beautiful condition. There’re no chinks in the stonework, no cracked tiles, everything is clean and welcoming. I’m impressed by what I see, so much so that my next question pops out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop it. “Nicolai, how old are you?”

His hazel eyes flash. “Old enough.”

“Come on. You can’t be more than twenty, maybe twenty-one.”

Looking away, he says. “I’ll be twenty-two next month.”

I sigh. Oh, to be twenty-two again. I’d snap Nicolai up in a heartbeat, he is divinity personified. Despite my best intentions, my wicked imagination takes me back down that road of immorality, imagining his youthful strength and endurance.

Oh shit.

And I was doing so well.

“Ms. Savage,” Nico says, breaking into my fantasy of youth revisited. “I don’t know what your plans are for the evening but there’s a play tonight up at the castle that I thought you might be interested in.”

I love the castle. I’d attended a number of performances up there when I was here last. Musicals, plays, even rock concerts, I loved the dichotomy of old and new melding together. “What is it?”

He points to one of the books on the table. “Daphnis and Chloe.”

“What time does it start?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“Perfect.” I begin to gather our empty plates.

“Please, Ms. Savage. You’re my guest. Leave the cleaning to me.”

“But aren’t you coming to the play?”

His movements appear as if in slow motion. He stops what he’s doing and slowly turns his head, meeting my gaze. There is a conversation going on between our subconscious selves, I feel the tingle of it in the back of my skull. I’m afraid I know what my subconscious is telling him. I’m not sure I trust what I think his is telling mine.

“Would you like the company?” he asks softly.

“Yes.” I answer, just as softly.

“Then, I would love to join you.”

***

I’m a wee bit tipsy and a whole lot turned on during the walk back to the guesthouse after the play. Based on how quiet the town had seemed earlier, I didn’t expect there to be such a large turnout for the production. However, the performance was just one of the many events going on in celebration of the weeklong International Women’s Festival. Busloads of women who are staying down the road at Skala Eressos, the hub of the festival, came to watch the play. Based on the party atmosphere, they may not have come to watch so much as they came to drink, talk, laugh, and make-out on blankets on the grounds of an ancient fortification.

Nicolai and I shared a bottle ourselves. Hence the tipsiness.

The arousal? Well, that’s sort of my perpetual state of being of late. But the play didn’t help matters. The story of Daphnis and Chloe is a romance written in antiquity and set on the island of Lesvos. It’s about a young man and woman who were abandoned as babies and raised by shepherds. They fall in love and are overcome with physical passion, but don’t know how to follow through…if you know what I mean. So neighbors, friends and the odd Greek god help them figure things out. There’s even an older woman who takes the two under her wing and tutors them.

Now that scene was a feast for the senses!

If the intent was titillation, it worked because my whole body is throbbing right now. The nudity alone could have put me over the top. But, what didn’t help was that I was cozied up on a blanket beside young Nicolai with the lion-eyes. We sat close, so very close that I could smell his virile scent, hear each breath he took, feel the heat emanate off his big body. But we never touched. By the end of the night I was so hyper aware of him, I ended up drinking way more wine than I should have and now my wicked thoughts are ten times worse than before.

I look up to find Nicolai waiting for me a few steps ahead. “Are you okay?”

I’m so caught up in my naughty daydreams, I find myself leaning up against a wall instead of walking toward the guesthouse.

“I’m fine,” I say, hurrying to catch up but stumbling in the process.

Miraculously, I manage to keep from falling. “Okay, I’m a little unstable. Give me your arm.”

He stands completely still as I thread my arm through his. The man is not only tall, he’s ramrod straight. Of course, that could all be an illusion because I’m so floppy at the moment.

It’s embarrassing.

Looking up, I try to pretend I’m more sober than I am. “Sssooo, what did you think?” Unfortunately, my slurred words give me away.

“What did I think of what?”

I give him a playful hip check. “The performance, silly.”

He glances down at me with one of those expressions I find hard to read. “I enjoyed it. I always like to see modern adaptations of the guesthouse’s namesake.”

He’s not slurring. This bothers me. How can I be drunk when he isn’t? It’s not fair.

I form my next words carefully, committed to sounding as sober as him. “So, how was this one different?”

“For one thing, in the original story the older woman, Lycaenion, doesn’t teach both Daphnis and Chloe about sex, she only teaches Daphnis. She’s in love with him and wants him for herself. In fact, she tells him he shouldn’t be with Chloe because he’ll hurt her.”

“Hmm,” I say, thinking about the erotic, threesome sex scene—again. I clear my throat and try to sound scholarly instead of overly aroused. “What do you think of the premise? I mean, I have a hard time believing that the two main characters wouldn’t be able to figure out sex. They were shepherds for God’s sake. I’m pretty sure they witnessed copulation before.” That’s how the sentence sounds in my head. But apparently I got my words confused.

“Capitulation?” Nicolai gives me one of those odd looks.

“Did I say capitulation? No. Copulation. Cop-u-lation.”

Nicolai clears his throat. “It’s a romance written in the second century. It’s not meant to be taken literally. I’m sure it was meant to be a story about the rite of passage from youth into adulthood.”

“Can you imagine?” I persist. “Having these feelings and not knowing how to act on them?” I try to imagine, but I can’t and it’s not just because I’m tipsy. It’s because it’s been so long since I didn’t know what to do in the sex department.

When I look up, I’m startled by the expression on Nicolai’s face. It’s heated and piercing. “What?” I ask, wondering if I’ve somehow offended him in my drunken ramblings.

He shakes his head and opens the gate of the guesthouse, holding it so I can pass through first. Damn. The kid’s a real gentleman. I think I want to kiss him. I turn and give him my I-think-I-want-to-kiss-you smile.

He furrows his brow.

What is wrong with me? Besides being drunk and horny? I’m not twenty, far from it. I’ve got to stop flirting with him. He is not Daphnis and I am definitely not Chloe. Lycaenion, maybe. But I don’t want to be the older woman in this scenario.

Once we’re inside, I look up at him, resolved to behave myself. “Tonight’s been lovely. Thank you.”

I can tell he wants to say something, so I wait. I see his eyes move to the stairs behind me. “Let me escort you to your room.”

He must realize I’m drunk and is afraid I’m going to fall down the stairs.

Bless him.

My legs are more unsteady than I expect as I lead the way upstairs to the door of my suite, overly aware of the man—no, not man, boy, dammit! Boy—following behind me, smelling deliciously of sweet grass and ocean air. I unlock the door and stand in the opening. “Thanks again. Good night, Nicolai.”

“Tessa?”

“Yes?”

He is staring at me with this weird expression like he’s going to say something really serious, I don’t know, like he has a terminal disease or something. That’s how serious he looks.

“May I kiss you?”

What? Don’t tell me the I-want-to-kiss-you smile, worked?

I am not prepared for this and unfortunately my head bobs up and down giving assent before I mean to.

Even in my drunken state, I know this is a mistake. I know I shouldn’t allow this to happen. But I can’t help it. Nicolai is exuding pheromones and, in my uninhibited state, I’m exuding them right back. His question, stated in his marvellously accented voice, fans my arousal to unbearable proportions. Not to mention, he has this killer serious look in his tawny eyes that tugs on some warm part of me deep in my abdomen.

I want him.

I need him.

It is impossible to say no.

I don’t want to say no.

I should say no…

“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes.”

*****

His head moves down and his lips find mine and…

It’s all wrong.

His mouth is stiff and unmoving. When I go to hold onto him, because quite frankly, I’m about to topple over, his body is hard and unyielding. He doesn’t reach for me, he doesn’t wrap his arms around me, he doesn’t lift me up or press himself against me.

Confused, I look up and realize we’re standing in the doorway—the doorway that is too low for him.

Of course, he’s uncomfortable, so I grab the front of his shirt and pull him inside the room toward the bedroom. It takes me a moment to realize he’s saying something. I think it’s Greek. The saying, “It’s all Greek to me,” flashes through my mind and I giggle like I’m a teenager.

That’s what this man does to me, he wipes a decade and a half off my actual age and makes me feel stupidly young. I’m so busy tugging him toward the bedroom and giggling like an imbecile that I don’t pay any attention to the strange expression on Nicolai’s face.

He stops just outside the threshold of the bedroom.

“What is it?” I ask.

His eyes flick over my head to the canopied bed behind us and then he shakes his head and says, “Nothing,” before following me through.

Strangely, he avoids touching me, so there’s no frantic stripping of my clothes, like I’m doing to him. No tossing me onto the bed, either. His hands remain frustratingly chaste and he keeps watching me with this tortured look.

“Nicolai?”

Forcing a smile, he licks his lips, ducks his head and once again, presses his mouth to mine. I flick my tongue along the closed seam of his lips and his body jerks. I run my hands up his oh-so-gorgeous chest and he gasps as if my touch burns him.

The problem is, I can’t tell whether my touch burns in a good way or a bad way.

If only I was a little more clearheaded, I’d be demanding that he tell me what the problem is. But I’m not clearheaded so I press on as if nothing’s wrong.

Dragging him to the side of the bed, I give him a shove so he falls back onto the mattress. I pull my shirt up and over my head, revealing my lacy, pink bra. It’s a pretty bra and I take a moment to admire it…with my hands.

Beneath lowered lashes, I watch Nicolai’s expression.

His eyes widen, but his look is more concerned than aroused.

Does that stop horny-toad-Tessa?

No.

I crawl on top of him and spread his shirt wide open.

Oh heaven! His chest is…well…he’s beautiful. He’s so lean and strong and his skin is so warm and there’s a sweet patch of dark curls in the center of his chest and it’s all so delicious and the hair is so silky and his skin is so hot and all hard and soft at the same time and I press my lips to his sternum and move lower, kissing and tasting like I wanted to from the moment I saw him, following the delicious line of dark hair down, down and down some more.

Does Nicolai thread his hands through my hair?

No.

Does he guide my head, telling me where to kiss him?

No.

Do I care?

Apparently not.

I unsnap his fly and his body goes rigid.

I go to reach an inquisitive hand inside and…

Nicolai convulses on the bed and rolls out from under me.

What the hell?

He looks tormented and angry and he’s speaking to me in Greek. No. Not speaking, yelling—I think. It’s really hard to tell with this Greek language, it all sounds like yelling to me.

“What? What did I do?”

He’s still yelling…or talking very passionately? I don’t know. I throw my hands up in the air. “Nicolai? What is wrong?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and then, with a shake of his head, he turns and strides to the en suite bathroom and slams the door.

What the hell?

There’s nothing like an outright refusal to sober a girl up. As I listen to water running in the other room, I sit in the middle of the bed and replay the events of the last few hours over in my head. Dinner, the erotic play at the fortress, the walk home, Nicolai asking to kiss me…

He did ask me, right? I didn’t force a kiss on him, did I?

An awful thought materializes.

What if…what if he was just going to give me a little goodnight air kiss, the way the Europeans always do—kiss-kiss—and in my inebriated state, I misinterpreted it? Oh God! He’d been trying to tell me all along, albeit in Greek, but judging by his body language, he was trying to tell me that he wasn’t into me. He totally wasn’t into me!

Did I listen? No. I tore at his clothes like a rabid animal. I pulled him into my bedroom and pushed him onto my bed and stripped him and jumped him. I basically didn’t give him a choice.

Covering my face, I groan because I realize that I have just acted like the cougar I swore I’d never be.

Oh. My. God!

I jump off the bed and wrestle my shirt back on. The last thing I want is to be sitting here, half-naked, looking like a dejected cougar. My stomach roils with embarrassment and my head pounds from an early-onset hangover.

I rush out to the kitchenette, pull a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and press the cool plastic to my forehead, rolling it back and forth.

When Nicolai reappears a few minutes later, I wonder if I look as awkward and embarrassed as he looks. His face is red, his hair is totally wild, as if he’s pushed his hands through multiple times and his eyes are dark and…angry? Is that what that black look means?

As if reading some bad script we both open our mouths and the words, “I’m sorry,” come tumbling out in unison.

I laugh—uneasily.

Nicolai’s nostrils flare with some grim emotion.

How could I have screwed this up so badly? I long for a rewind button on my life. I’d take myself all the way back to meeting Nicolai on the street this evening. What did he say? “You are eating in this evening, aren’t you?”

But instead of going back with Nicolai, I’d apologize and explain that I’d changed my mind. Instead, I’d go out to Molly’s Taverna, like I’d planned. I’d have a nice meal, meet a nice, thirty to forty-something single man. A tourist probably. We’d talk, we’d laugh, we’d dance, and then…we’d either agree to meet again tomorrow or we’d go back to his hotel and I’d throw all my unspent arousal at him.

Not Nicolai.

Dammit! Why didn’t I do that? Why did I have to follow Nicolai, with that fine round hiney of his, all the way back to the guesthouse? It was tempting fate and I should have known better.

“Nicolai,” I say, cringing because the simple act of uttering his name is painful. “I’m so sorry.” I take a step toward him but he hastily retreats as if I’m about to attack again.

I put my hands up to show him I mean him no harm.

He shakes his head and shoves a hand through his thick curls. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”

A cynical laugh bursts out of my chest. “Not my fault?” The laugh, that’s not really a laugh, erupts again. “I jumped you. Attacked you. I nearly made you…God! Who does that?”

I can read his expression now. He’s perplexed. And, for the first time since we’ve reconnected, I recognize Medea’s young grandson in his expression. The way he’s looking at me now is exactly the way Nico used to regard me when I was here seven years ago.

“Is that what you think?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Letting his head fall back, Nicolai groans at the ceiling.

Am I still drunk? Because his response to my apology is not making sense.

“It’s okay, Nicolai. You don’t have to lie. If you’re not attracted to me, I understand. I’m a lot older than you and I took advantage of—”

“Tessa.” My name shoots out of his mouth like a bullet from an assault rifle.

“What?”

“It’s not you. It’s me.”

I laugh because the line is so clichéd and so overused, I can’t help it. “Nice try.”

“Jesus.” He paces the length of the room. “I’m attracted to you, okay? Very attracted to you.” By the way he cringes when he says this, it’s as if he doesn’t want to be attracted to me or he’s embarrassed by his attraction.

“Did I do something to embarrass you?”

His reply is a deep growl at the back of his throat. After pressing his hands to his temples, he gives me one last pain filled look and makes for the door.

“Wait,” I shout, running after him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry. I have to leave. I should never have come up here.”

Before he can open the door to my suite, I grab his shirt tail. “Oh no you don’t. Not before you explain yourself, buddy, because I’m at a loss here. On the one hand, you’re telling me I was correctly reading your come-on signals.”

“You were,” he says to the closed door.

“But…your body language is screaming that you’re repulsed by me.”

I’m not prepared for how swiftly he turns around to face me. His face is flushed, his full lips are pulled back in a snarl and he’s breathing really hard.

“Repulsed? Are you kidding me?”

He grabs my arms and slams me against the closed door. He’s right up against me. Snatching my closed fist, he pushes it down to the front of his jeans. “Is this the reaction of a man who’s repulsed?”

“I don’t know what the hell this is.” I wrench my fist out of his grasp and try to push him away but he doesn’t budge.

His nostrils flare as he regards me as if he’s having a very hard time keeping himself in check. Though he’s clearly aroused, he doesn’t do anything about it. He doesn’t gyrate against me, he doesn’t use his knee to force my legs apart. He just stands there, pressed up against me, staring at me, breathing hard.

I’m breathing hard too.

Finally, he closes his eyes and bows his head. He whispers something, I think it’s in English, but it’s too quiet for me to make out.

“What?” I whisper back.

“Tessa, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” His beautiful eyes open and I can see some emotion, but I don’t know what it is—anger maybe?

His nostrils flare wider. His breathing becomes more labored. Little muscles tick along the side of his jaw. Suddenly, he slams his fist into the door beside me and I hear wood splinter.

“Dammit!”

He moves away, shaking what must be a very painful hand. But apparently there are other things going on with Nicolai that are more painful because his hand is soon forgotten as he paces the length of the room from the kitchen to the door and back again.

“I thought I could do it,” He mutters. “I thought it’d be okay. With you, of all people.”

He turns to look at me.

Umm, what’s that supposed to mean? With me, of all people?

“But I…I can’t do it!” He slams his hand against the kitchen cupboard and grunts in pain.

I rush over because two crushing blows with the same fist have left his knuckles split and bleeding. “You’re hurt,” I say, grabbing his hand and running it under cold water. I open the small freezer compartment and pull out a tray of ice cubes to make a cold compress.

Once I’ve got his hand wrapped in a tea towel full of ice, I grab another bottle of water out of the fridge. Indicating the French doors that lead out onto my private terrace, I say, “Let’s go sit outside, okay?”

His expression says that’s the last thing he wants to do, but I don’t care what he wants to do. I’ll lock him in, if I have to. He’s not leaving before he tells me what the hell is going on.

With obvious reluctance, he follows me out onto the terrace. Once we’re seated in a pair of comfortable lounge chairs, facing the ocean, I say, “Do you want to tell me what ‘it’ is?”

He takes a drink of water.

“You thought you could do it. You don’t know what to do about it. Nicolai, what is ‘it’?”

After a lengthy silence, he says, “It’s not important.”

I watch him as he’s staring out at the lights of the town below. “Obviously, it is.”

When he still doesn’t answer, I say, “Can I make some guesses?”

He groans.

“You’re attracted to me but you don’t want to be because I’m too old for you.”

“No. You’re not too old for me.”

“Do you know how old I am?”

“You’re thirty-six.”

“How do you know that?”

He glances my way. “I Googled you.”

“What? Why?”

“I saw your name on the online registration and I wanted to make sure you were the same person who was here before.”

“Why would you do that?”

He doesn’t answer and I continue trying to figure him out when a sudden thought occurs to me. “Oh my God, are you gay?”

“I’m not gay.”

“It’s totally okay if you are. I can help you come out if—”

“No, Tessa. That’s not it.” He makes an exasperated sound.

“Then what’s wrong?”

He shakes his head and stands. “I need to go.”

Suddenly the truth dawns on me. “You’re in a relationship, aren’t you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

He stands still. I hear him swallow so I figure I must have guessed right.

“I’m sorry,” I say, standing, putting my hand on his arm. “If I had any idea you were in a relationship, I never would have…well, I wouldn’t have attacked you like that.”

He turns to me, his face pinched as if he’s in pain. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

He looks down at me, blinking. I can practically see the wheels turning inside his mind. Finally, he sighs and sits back down, elbows on knees and head in his hands.

I sit too. Waiting. Watching.

Very softly, he says, “I’ve never been with a woman.”

His words don’t compute. “But you said you weren’t gay.”

“I’m not.”

“So you’ve never been with a man either.”

“No.”

“So, you’re a…oh. Oh!” I cover my open mouth. “Oh my God. Tell me you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

Even in the dark, his posture says it all. “I’m a virgin, Tessa, and I need your help.”

*****

I stare at the man sitting beside me, unable to believe what he’s telling me. “You’re lying.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not.”

“But…that’s not possible. I mean, look at you.” I wave my hand around in his general direction. “You’re all gorgeous and everything. How can you be a virgin?”

He inhales, then exhales rather noisily before replying. “I think I mentioned that I went to boarding school in London, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It was an all-boys school.”

“Okay. But you came back when you were, what? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Right. Then, it was just me and my grandmother.”

“Okay. So…?”

Big sigh. “I was…” he shrugs again and looks my way, but his head blocks the outside light and in the darkness I can’t make out his expression. “You met me. I was shy.” He rubs his forehead and continues quietly. “Then grandmother got sick and I had to take care of her and run the guesthouse while the Greek economy fell apart. I didn’t have time for anything else, least of all women.”

Holy shit. No wonder he seems so much older than his years. I contemplate his confession. It seems completely impossible. Yet, it goes a long way to explaining what just happened inside.

“What about this past year?”

He makes a noise deep in his chest. “There are only two options for me.” He indicates the lights of the town with a sweep of his hand. “Someone local.” He shakes his head. “Bad choice. Even if I was interested in someone, which I’m not, it’d be impossible.”

“Why?”

“Molyvos is a very small town. I’m related to half of the people here. Then there’s the issue of my parentage. Or lack of parentage.” He pauses and rubs his jaw. “I’m the no-good-bastard-son of Medea’s slutty daughter.”

“Is that what people think?”

He nods. “What makes it even worse is my mother didn’t know her father either.” Shrugging as if growing up without a father, losing his mother and then being ostracized is no big deal, he says, “Immorality runs in my blood. No mother wants me near her daughter because they’re all convinced I’ll get her pregnant and bolt.” He laughs without humor. “I’ve been shunned for even looking at a girl the wrong way. So, I stay far away from locals.”

I’m starting to see Nicolai through a new set of eyes. Holy hell, it must have been hard growing up being an outcast in his own home. Molyvos might be quaint, but these antiquated attitudes leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

However, equally unpalatable is his explanation. “But, Molyvos is a tourist town. Surely you’ve met your share of available and willing female tourists?”

He looks at his hands. “I have no experience. Any woman I want expects that I do.”

“That’s not true.” I place my hand on his knee. “There are plenty of young girls who would give anything to have a little vacation tryst with the likes of you. With or without experience. Trust me.”

The muscle beneath my hand flexes and I notice he’s staring where my hand is resting on his leg.

“I’m not interested in young women.” His gaze sweeps up to my face. “I’m interested in experienced women. Like you.”

“Like me?”

“Yes, Tessa. Like you.” He lifts my hand off his leg and drops it. Then he gets up and stalks off to stand at the railing of the terrace, staring into the darkness. From where I’m sitting, he looks every bit like a god of Olympus scowling upon his mortal realm below.

I give him a few moments alone before joining him at the railing. “So,” I say. “You like older women.”

“Yes.”

“And they expect you to know stuff.”

“Yes.” He looks at me. “But I don’t, so I never make a move.”

“But you made a move tonight.”

“You’re different. At least, I thought it would be different with you.”

“Holy shit,” I whisper more to myself than to him. “You were about to lose your virginity to me.” I don’t know why this thought has taken so long to sink in, but once it does, I feel like I’ve been clocked on the back with a sledgehammer and it’s hard to breathe. “My God, Nicolai. You can’t just do that. You can’t pull something like that over on an unsuspecting victim. How did you think I’d react when I found out?”

“You weren’t supposed to find out.”

“Of course I would have found out.”

“How?”

“By…I don’t know how, but I found out, didn’t I?”

He shakes his head and scowls. Staring out at the darkness, it’s obvious he’s upset. But so am I.

He turns to me, looking down at me. The outside light shines across half of his face and I can see the burning intensity in those startling eyes. “I need your help, Tessa. I need you to change this for me.”

My body—traitorous bitch—is saying, ‘hell yeah, let’s go!’ But I’m sober now and I am finally able to access the reason center of my brain. Waving my hands in front of me, I say, “Oh no. No, no, no. I’m not going to take your virginity, Nico. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not asking you to take it. I’m asking you to change it.” His nostrils flare as he leans closer, still not touching, but close none the less. “Please, Tessa.”

Oh man. His body is less than an inch from mine. I can feel his warm breath on my face and smell the hot scent of his skin. It fills my senses, consuming me with desire. Overwhelming desire.

Despite everything that’s happened, I still want him.

I need him.

I want to say yes.

He wants me to say yes…

I shake my head and back away. “No. Nico. No.”

***

Considering how tired I was after the long day of travel, I barely sleep. Now that it’s morning, I sit out on the private terrace, enjoying the cool morning breeze, wishing that the tranquility of the setting could settle the disquiet within me. But it doesn’t. Of course I stayed up half the night thinking about what happened and thinking about Nicolai’s request.

And yes, I’ll admit it, I imagined all kinds of crazy, wonderful, x-rated scenarios involving my handsome young host. The fantasies went on and on and on. I must have eventually dozed, because the scenarios became much more dreamlike, though still excruciatingly vivid—with tastes, touch, sensations that lingered long after I woke up. I dreamed Nicolai and I were starring in the play, Daphnis and Chloe, up at the fortress. He’d forgotten his lines and the blocking for some of the more erotic scenes, so I had to coach him through it. ‘Touch me here, yes that’s right,’ I whispered in my dream. ‘Kiss me, like that…good.’

I rub my temples, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that Nicolai, a young Adonis, is basically asking me to be his own personal Lycaenion: initiator, teacher, tutor, lover. It’s been a fantasy of mine since as long as I can remember. Even if it weren’t, Nicolai’s plea for help is compelling. Completely compelling. I know I should refuse him, but…I am only human.

When I hear a firm rap on the door to my suite, I experience the strangest sensation of hot and cold coursing simultaneously through my body. It’s no secret who is standing on the other side and I know that I

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The Replacement

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Here’s the set-up:

My name is Elise Duchamp. I’m twenty-three years old and I’m known as the town whore.

No, not the kind who exchanges sexual favors for money. The other kind. The kind who gives it all away for free, whenever and however she likes. I am that girl. The one everyone whispers about and the one none of the girls seem to like, because all of their boyfriends either want to sleep with me or already have. Promiscuity is my thing—the kind that slowly, violently turns my insides black, but gives me something I need.

All things considered, I’m not completely reckless. I’m safe, and contrary to popular opinion, I do have a heart. I live in a world of careless choices, and with those choices come careless people. I cannot judge them, because I am one of them. I too bow down to the altar of the self-serving. I am not a good friend. I am not and never could be anyone’s girlfriend. I’m convinced any goodness in me shriveled up and died long ago.

But I am a replacement. That is something I know how to be, and this is a story of the lengths I’d go to in order to keep it that way.

Please note: Contains sexually explicit content and mature subject matter, including language and elements of abuse.

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an excerpt from

The Replacement

by Rachael Wade

Chapter 1

Elise

23 Years Old

It’s five o’clock in the afternoon, and I’m screwing my boss’s brother. It’s not the first time. He’s bald and his name is Tim, and I know he’s engaged to be married next summer. I vaguely wonder if his fiancée knows about the things he does with me, or if she knows about me at all. I doubt it.

He’s sliding in and out of me slowly, relishing each push and pull, and frankly, it bores me. But he’s giving me something I crave and it has absolutely nothing to do with physical pleasure. Sure, I enjoy sex just as much as any man does. Especially when I’m attracted to a man, which in this case I’m not, but my mind usually loves it more than my body does.

Especially when it involves Tim.

It’s men like him who give me the greatest mental high. The ones who actually love to cheat. They somehow think they’re so smooth, think they’re getting away with it—and for a while, they often do—so when they’re screwing me, they have this rebellious air about them, as if they wish someone would walk in and catch them with their dicks in the cookie jar. They’re half out of their minds with lust, and they’re only out for themselves. Obviously, it’s quite fucked up that this somehow nourishes me, but it’s what I know, and it’s what I need.

Tim’s looking down at me, with that lost, untamed sparkle in his eyes that I know so well. He’s not really looking at me; he’s looking at my shell. And as his waist begins to pump harder, I too become lost. Lost in the heady look in his eyes, like for just a few short minutes, I am his whole world. Nothing matters to him in that moment except using my body, his visual of my shell, to get him to where he wants to be. He’s relying on me for that, and if I yanked it away from him right this moment, he’d be a crazed, dazed, desperate man. That power sends me soaring, and then the plummeting begins.

This is the best part. It’s like a roller coaster. It all begins with that look of his. I ascend, higher and higher, knowing his climax is looming as I rush to the top. Then, as my moans follow in a trail of his own, we both teeter at the top, our bodies enraptured in dizzy anticipation. A few more jerks of his waist and we’re tipped over the edge, sent spiraling down in a fiery blaze, our shouts overpowering the sound of the coaster’s rickety rattle, until finally, we reach the good stuff.

Once I hit the bottom of the track, I plunge head first into a free fall, straight into an ominous abyss. It confuses me because it’s equally dark and light, just as beautiful as it is dangerous. All is cool and still there. So peaceful I could cry. And I often do, which sometimes baffles the men I’m with. Or freaks them out, one or the other. The bottomless void continues to drag me down, farther and farther, and at this point, I’m begging to be swallowed up. And this is where the sobs usually become heavier. Because I can’t sink any further. The hole won’t drag me down anymore. I hit a wall, and it infuriates me. As if the abyss can read my very thoughts, it cuts the string that was pulling me into it and watches as I begin to float back up, forcing me to ascend back to the place I do not want to be.

I don’t want to leave the abyss, I want to drown in it and soak up that peaceful feeling. I want to live there. But I can’t, and it’s time to go home.

Tim grunts above me as he finishes and then rolls off of me, immediately getting up to walk to the bathroom and dispose of the condom. In my massive quest for euphoria, that is the only thing I always do right—insist on protection, every time. I don’t care if it pisses the guy off, ruins the moment, or whatever the hell. I just don’t. I might disregard my dignity and tons of other important shit, but one thing I won’t consider compromising is my physical health. Not if I can help it.

I ponder that—my dignity—as Tim fumbles around in the bathroom. It’s something I think about often. The whole town seems to think I’m in short supply of it, because I sleep around. What they don’t realize, though, is I’ve found my own sort of dignity. It just doesn’t match up to their standards. I find self-respect in owning up to what I am and not bullshitting anyone about it. Honesty is self-respect in my book. Granted, I’m deceptive. But if you flat-out asked me if I’ve deceived you, I’d never bullshit you about it. That’s gotta count for something.

“Give me ten more minutes and I’ll be ready for round two,” Tim says as he steps out of the bathroom, lingering in the doorway. The blinds are drawn and I squint at the clock to get a better look at the time.

“No can do,” I say, stepping out of bed and slipping on my jeans. I didn’t wear underwear here. I stand there topless in front of him, letting him drool over my tits. Sometimes I think he likes that more than actually having his hands on them. “I work at six. Gotta go.”

He stirs from the bathroom doorway and makes a move toward me, but I raise my hands. “Don’t, Tim. I can’t be late for my shift.” He stills and grits his teeth, obviously annoyed. I reach down to grab my tank top and roll my eyes. What’s he got to be annoyed at? I just gave him exactly what he wanted, just the way he liked it.

“Tell Jay to cut you a break tonight,” he says. “You know he will.” I detect a hint of whininess in his tone and I’m immediately turned off. I couldn’t fuck him again now even if I tried.

“No. This is my job and I won’t screw it up.”

He suddenly laughs, and the sound grates on my nerves so badly that it takes everything in me not to run out the front door sans top and shoes. “You screw everything else, what’s the difference?”

In a flash, I feel my body leap forward so fast, I’m not sure where the slap across his cheek begins and where it ends. It just happens, and it feels fucking great. “This was the last time. We’re done.”

“Oh come on, Elise.” He rubs at his cheek, not the least bit surprised by my retaliation. “You know what I meant. You never play by the rules. Excuse me for finding it humorous that you’re concerned about a good attendance record all of a sudden.” He waves his hands out to the side like he’s trying to get me to see some sense. But I only see red.

“You know what I’m concerned about, Tim? The fact that men like you seem to think all women like me don’t give a damn about anything. Stop acting like just because I give it to someone else besides you that I’m a worthless slut with no life ambition.”

“Hey, you said it, not me.” He folds his arms smugly and smirks.

“You know, I think I might stop by after work tonight to give Cheryl a visit when she gets home. She’s been in the dark a little too long, don’t you think?” I slip on my tank top and snatch up my bag, then start for the door.

Tim’s hand snakes out and grabs my elbow. “If you even think about talking to my fiancée, you can kiss your shit waitressing job goodbye.” His eyes roll down my body and then back up, locking with mine. “All I have to do is tell Jay how long you’ve been sucking my dick and he’ll toss you right out on the street, honey. Think about it.” He lets out a haughty laugh. “You’re so ambitious…maybe it’s time to find something better than waiting tables, huh? Maybe you can start charging for that fine ass of yours.”

I yank my elbow from his grip before spitting in his face and racing out the bedroom door. I have to admit, the son of a bitch has me. I need my waitressing job at Stella’s. Not just because it pays my bills, but because it gives me the means to pursue those other ambitions—the ones that Tim clearly doesn’t think I have.

I jump in my car and waste no time peeling out into the residential street that I know like the back of my hand by now. The misty rain coats my windshield with a sleek layer of moisture and I flick on the wipers, thankful when I hit the first stoplight. I’m officially off of Tim’s property, and I can breathe again. I pop a piece of gum in my mouth and hit the gas when the light turns green.

***

My ride from Tim’s house to downtown Gig Harbor is a blur, and I’m suddenly pulling into the parking lot at Stella’s for my shift. I park and rifle through my bag to make sure I didn’t forget any necessities before I go inside. A clean uniform, pair of panties, bra, and my apron are all rolled up into a ball at the bottom of the bag.

I inhale deeply for a moment before stepping out into the rain, scanning the picturesque harbor view that lies just beyond the restaurant. That harbor isn’t the only thing that looks like it belongs on a post card. The grass is an unnatural shade of green—so vibrant I want to snatch up a handful and watch it bleed on my fingers. There are white picket fences that line the adjoining buildings and everyone, I mean everyone, is walking a dog, not the least bit deterred by a little Northwest drizzle. On a clear day, this harbor is littered with sailboats and kayakers. Everything in Gig Harbor seems untouched, so pure and sweet that you can almost feel its nostalgia sink you, like sugar hitting sensitive teeth. It’s high-end, with a ritzy feel, but comfortable. Like coming home.

I sigh and pull the small bottle of hand sanitizer from my bag and rub a drop onto my fingers, smoothing away the leftover grime from my messy tryst with Tim.

The door jingles as I make my way inside the vintage, classic movie themed diner, and Jay greets me right away.

“Hey, hon.” He smiles and glances at his watch from behind the counter. His dark black hair is tainted by a smidgen of gray, and his green eyes are fresh and alert. “You’re early today.”

“Yeah, just wanted a few extra minutes to change and get myself together,” I reply, which is not entirely a lie. “I’ll be right out.”

I head toward the bathroom and Jay nods, his dark black hair glinting under the counter’s lighting. As I strip down in the bathroom to put on the fresh change of clothes, I dampen a pile of paper towels under the faucet and wash off the remnants of my afternoon with Tim. Nowhere near as refreshing as a hot shower, but it’ll have to do for tonight. I pull my back into a ponytail and wash my hands thoroughly.

The hallway lined with black and white shots of Marilyn Monroe and Lucille Ball greets me when I step out of the bathroom. I pass the old-school telephone mounted on the wall and round the corner to the main counter to check in. Jay has disappeared, but Natalie, one of our newest waitresses, stands there, looking flustered

“Hey, Elise,” she says. “Do you know where Jay put the new dinner menus? I can’t find

them anywhere and I have three tables waiting, with no menus to give them. Jay ran up the road to give Brad a lift. He’s having car trouble again.” She bites her lip, knitting her strawberry blonde eyebrows together, and shuffles through a pile of paperwork beneath the register. Brad is one of our waiters and has worked for Jay since high school. The thing about Gig Harbor is that it’s homey and tight knit. A family harbor town, where everybody knows everybody. Jay has always treated his staff like family, and Brad is no exception.

“Yeah, here,” I say, handing her the pack of new menus from one of the cabinets.

“Oh! Thank you so much!” She jumps around to face me and grabs the menus, sending me a mega-watt smile before dashing off toward the waiting customers. I don’t return the smile, no matter how nice it might be. I know Natalie’s the new girl on staff, and she is also in the business of looking for new friends. It is bubbly, bouncy girls like her that I avoid at all costs. She seems like a nice enough person, with plenty of girlfriend bonding potential and all; which is exactly why I need to stay far, far away from her. Chances are it won’t be long before she catches wind of my reputation around here, if she hasn’t already.

The door jingles, calling my attention to the customer walking in. I tie my apron behind my back and veer around the counter toward the guy. “How’s it goin’?” I ask, placing my hands on my hips as I approach him. “Take a seat wherever you like and I’ll be right with you.”

“Oh, that’s okay, thanks,” he says with a grin. He doesn’t move, instead scanning the restaurant as he sticks his hands in his pockets. “I’m just here to chat with my girlfriend for a second. It won’t take long.”

“Oh?” I scan the restaurant with him. “Who’s your girlfriend? Natalie? I didn’t realize she was seeing anyone.” I laugh. “We know everything around here. Harbor towns are infamous for gossip.”

“Yeah,” he says, his grin revealing a tinge of shyness. “Uh, it kind of just became official, so…”

“You’re not from Gig Harbor, are you?” I give him a knowing look, twisting my lips into a smirk.

“Nope, nope I’m not.” He holds out his arms and looks down at his jacket and chuckles. “What, is it that obvious? Do Gig Harbor people have, like, a look or something? I’m from Phoenix. Just moved here.”

“Nah, I can just tell. Locals have a sixth sense like that.” I shrug and reach over the counter to grab a new menu from the remainder of the stack I pulled for Natalie. “Here you go. She’s waiting on those tables over there, so if you want to order something while you wait, just let me know. I’m Elise, by the way.”

“Cool, sounds good.” He takes the menu and nods, extending a hand. “I’m Nate.”

I accept his handshake and let my head roll to the side. “Nate and Natalie. Cheeky.”

“Yeah, we seem to be getting that a lot lately.”

“Well, Nate, nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too.” Turning on his heel, he gives Natalie a wave across the room and slips into a nearby booth. I stroll over to the adjacent booths and start wiping them down with a washcloth to kill time until the next customer walks in. About two minutes pass and I decide to top off the salt and pepper shakers. I can hear Natalie finishing up with her customers and then a squeal as she walks back to the other end of the restaurant and spots Nate sitting, waiting for her.

“Hey, baby!” she sings, leaning over the table to give him a peck on the lips. I fill one salt shaker, then two, watching their rosy cheeks as they exchange laughter about something under their breath.

The door jingles again and in walks Tim, the bald spot on his head tossing a shiny reflection my way. I stiffen and set the salt shaker down, dropping the washcloth on the seat before I stride toward him. “What are you doing here?”

“Just grabbing a bite to eat, honey. Miss me already?” He shoots a glance at Natalie and Nate, who are still preoccupied chatting, then winks at me. He got here quickly. Must’ve left his place seconds after I did.

I rush forward, closing the space between us, and glower, lowering the volume of my voice. “You can’t waltz in here and say shit like that when you know full well Jay might overhear you.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist. His car isn’t in the lot. I know he’s not here. Give me one of those menus, will you?”

“Natalie,” I say, looking over his shoulder, “sorry to interrupt, but I have to run to the restroom. Can you please take care of Tim here?”

“Oh, sure,” she pipes up, pulling herself out of the booth. “Tim, you’re Jay’s brother, right?”

Tim smiles smugly and it makes me even more uncomfortable. Natalie is new here, and the less she knows—the less anyone knows—the better. The community knows most all of my business, but I’ve managed to keep my fling with Tim on the down low. And I want to keep it that way. This is my job on the line.

“That’s me, honey. I’ll take a coffee to start, please.”

Natalie excuses herself from Nate and scuttles off to fix Tim’s coffee, and I slink to the back hallway and into the restroom, dragging in deep breaths as I stare at myself in the mirror. I can’t allow this bastard to have the upper hand like this. But I can’t lose my job, either. If Jay found out, I guess he couldn’t technically fire me over it, but his opinion of me would be severely altered, and he’d probably find some other excuse to let me go, if not for the awkwardness that would surely settle in afterward.

Cheryl, Tim’s fiancée, has been friends with Jay for ages, long before they ever got engaged. Jay is possibly the one person in the world I don’t want to let down. He is the polar opposite of his brother: honest, loyal, and trustworthy. He gave me a chance with this job three years ago when my mom died. I had dropped out of my first year of college as quickly as I had enrolled, had no place to live, and no job. My dad had sold the house and told me I was on my own. He still technically owned it, even though my parents were no longer married, and I had little say over the matter when my mom passed. Jay had been a friendly acquaintance of my parents over the years. He lived only a few blocks from us and my dad would sometimes pay Jay to help with yard work when he needed to be out of town on business.

My parents split up right after my high school graduation, and my dad moved to L.A. My only other family in Gig Harbor—an aunt and uncle—wanted nothing to do with me, especially after my mom’s death. I quickly became the outcast, which made no sense considering I’d never done anything to them to deserve that. So, Jay was really all I had in the way of family. He might have only been my boss, but he treated me like a father would a daughter…like I wished my own had treated me.

Guess I should’ve thought of that before I started sleeping with his very engaged brother.

There’s a knock on the door and I jump, moving to turn the lock and step out. “Yeah?”

“Oh my God, Elise,” Natalie whispers, stepping forward so I retreat back into the bathroom. She carefully shuts the door behind her and I make sure to leave a good two feet of space between us. “Jay’s brother is seriously a douchebag. I get super bad vibes from him. He’s nothing like Jay!”

“Tell me about it,” I mumble, wondering why she’s cornering me like this. Did he tell her something? Did she figure it out?

“So, I know you asked me to wait on him, but is there any chance you can come help me? I still have those other tables, and Jay isn’t back with Brad yet. I hate to barge in here and rush you, really, but the guy kinda grosses me out and he’s so damn picky. He’s describing exactly how he wants his lettuce and tomato on his BLT, talking to me like I’m three years old.”

I groan. “Yup, that’s Tim alright. It’s fine, I’ll handle him. I was just on my way back out.”

“Whew, thank the Lord. He’s all yours, girl.”

I cringe inwardly at her words as I follow her back out into the diner. I’m not her girl, not her anything. I’m relieved to see more customers have just walked through the door. The more the merrier; whatever helps keep me busy until Tim leaves. I know he just came here to get underneath my skin after our little altercation back at his place.

Showing a family that just walked in to a booth, I take their drink order then waltz over to Tim and top off his coffee, not bothering to say a word. I take my pad from my apron pocket and pop a hip to the left, then click my pen and wait.

He looks at me with beguilement and then shuts his menu, sliding it across the table. I’m vaguely aware that Natalie’s boyfriend is within earshot—another reason I won’t delve into any conversation with Tim right now. “You are aware that Jay knows you get around, right? It’s not some big secret.”

My eyes snap from my order pad to his condescending expression. “What can I get for you, Tim? A BLT?”

“I’ll take another order of what you gave me thirty minutes ago, how about that, honey? You know, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve envisioned taking you right here, over one of these tables. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

Just like before, back at his place, my hand acts on its own before I can even respond to his scumbag comments. I pick up his coffee and dump it on his lap. He leaps up from the seat, screaming like a little girl. “Son of a bitch! You dirty little whore!”

All of my patience has just been thrown out the window. “You want to play this game?” I ask, disregarding my last drop of restraint. “Too bad, ’cause I’m not playing.”

And I mean it.

I need this job, and the last thing I’d ever want is to see the disappointment and disgust in Jay’s eyes when he hears the truth, but if he’s anything like the man I know him to be, he’ll hold Tim just as much responsible, if not more.

“Go on.” I jut my chin out at him. “I dare you to tell your brother when he walks through that door. I’ll be damned if I let you hold this over my head anymore. And if Jay finds out, Cheryl finds out, too. How will you get your weekly cheating fix then, huh? Who will you run around on? Not everyone will be as oblivious as she is, you jackass. Better start looking for a replacement.”

Tim gets in my face. He’s beet red and boiling as he hovers over me, drawing every eye in the room to our dispute. “That’s all you are, you slut—a replacement. Sloppy seconds and an in-between quickie for every guy in this town who’s looking to fill a hole.” He speaks through gritted teeth as he leans in closer. “All you’re good for is that hot little body. I bet you a hundred bucks you’ll be back at my doorstep by the end of next week, begging me to bend you over.”

I dig my fingers into his chest and push him back, fueling as much anger as I can into the shove. “At least I know what I am,” I spit back. “I don’t masquerade myself around this town, pretending to be something I’m not. Now walk out that door, Tim, before you make an even bigger idiot out of yourself.”

He shakes his head and swipes his car keys from the table, then turns for the exit, giving me one last glance. “By the end of the week,” he repeats, pushing the door open. I exhale when he’s gone, but I don’t have much time to gather my breath. Natalie and her boyfriend Nate are right behind me.

“Uh…Elise?” Natalie’s voice drifts over my shoulder. It’s timid and calm. “Are you okay?”

“Who was that asshole?” Nate asks. I turn to face them, and I’m mortified when I find each customer watching me intently.

“That was our boss’ brother,” Natalie answers for me, taking a hesitant step forward to hand me a clean napkin. It just hits me then that there are tears running down my cheeks. “Elise, can I get you anything? Is there something I can do?”

I use the napkin she’s handed me to dab at my eyes, quickly shaking my head to decline her offer. It’s sweet, but accepting anything from this girl would only open a door. One I want to keep tightly shut. “No thanks,” I say. “Please just never mention this again, okay? It never happened. That’s how you can help.” I look from her to Nate to make sure Nate realizes I’m including him in my request.

He nods and shifts his stance uncomfortably. “Oh, of course, yeah.”

“We won’t say a word,” Natalie replies, exchanging glances with Nate. They both back up to give me some space and I hear them whisper as Natalie shows Nate out the front door. Once he’s gone, she returns to her tables and apologizes for the scene and for the delay, and I sneak back to the bathroom to ride out the humiliation and to once again pull myself together, so I can make it through my shift. It looks like business might be slow today, but every little bit helps. My head needs to be in the game. I’m still $2,000 away from meeting my goal, and I’ll be damned if I let Tim—or anyone—get in the way.

Chapter 2

Bacon sizzles in a pan and I wait patiently for my toast, taking small sips of black coffee from my Eiffel Tower mug. Little pink and yellow flowers blossom around the sides of the tower, and cliché French sayings, oh là là, c’est la vie, dance around them, reminding me of where I’m headed.

Someday, I’ll visit Paris for myself.

Until then, I can only dream about my trip to France and live vicariously through the mug’s close proximity to the landmark I want to see standing right in front of me someday—tall, stoic, and elegant. I’ve been planning the trip since tenth grade. It is a luxury expense, one I’ve had to claw, scrimp, and save for over the years. I’ve never been able to explain my fascination with Francophone culture to anyone. Like a passion for teaching or healing the sick, it was just there one day, and since then, I’ve been unable to think about much else.

My mom gave me this mug when I graduated from high school. After my dad left, she didn’t have much money. Helping me get there wasn’t an option. She struggled, right up to the very end, when breast cancer took her life. She died alone, convinced that dad left her because she lost all her hair. It was tragic and seemingly delusional—just like my father—but I often wondered just how deluded the theory really was. My father was a material man, after all. Shallow to the bone. Appearance always mattered in his eyes. If it didn’t look good, then it wasn’t worth his time.

So, the mug was her little way of cheering me on. She wanted me to keep the dream alive, and after she passed, my desire to make it happen bloomed with a vengeance. Dad was well off, comfortable with his new wife in L.A.—a beautiful blonde actress, not much older than me—but asking him for even the pettiest of financial help was out of the question. He didn’t call, didn’t write. When mom went, he went with her, and it was better that way. I didn’t want to depend on his money, anyway. I’d much rather live in this tiny, outdated apartment, where I could at least sleep at night knowing I earned every dime that paid its rent.

My lips still at the mug as I will the toaster to spit out my wheat bread. The bread finally jumps and I slap it onto a plate, lathering it with jam and butter. I settle into my green armchair, the one with the tear in the left arm, nibbling on the toast while opening the paper. My pulse begins to race as I thumb closer and closer to the Sorry Secrets column. It’s my favorite column in the Gig Harbor Weekly. Much more entertaining than reading on a hard, impersonal e-reader device. I detest e-books. Give me an old-fashioned newspaper or paperback any day. Give me something tangible, something that gives me paper cuts and leaves my fingers dirty.

I unfold the page that beholds the column and scan each header, ready to pounce on the first one that catches my eye. The column is a collection of short confessions, submitted by readers, all residents of Gig Harbor. Some are downright laughable, while others are so sobering, they’re chilling. Most are anonymous, but every now and then, someone decides to be brave and leave a name. The why behind the reason people choose to write these confessions and send them in to a paper for the whole town to read still eludes me, but I find a sort of cleansing in it. I hadn’t gone to college long, but when I did, one of my first classes was basic psychology. I remember learning how simply writing down your thoughts or listing your source of anxiety is somehow cathartic. I imagine the sense of relief these people experience, submitting their deepest, darkest secrets. How it strips them of fear.

Once you’ve cut yourself open and dumped your insides out on the table, what can the world really threaten you with?

My attention latches onto a confession from a daughter to her mother, something about not really wanting to go to medical school. I’m vaguely interested. Before I can jump to the next header to see if it’s any juicier, the phone rings.

“Yeah?” I answer, holding the cell limp in my hand. I’m still restlessly searching the column for my fix.

“Hey, baby. It’s almost ten. You coming over?”

I recognize Christian’s voice immediately. It’s husky and authoritative, which usually sends my libido into overdrive, but today is my day off and all I want to do is curl up with my column and dive into a bag of peanut butter cups after breakfast.

“Can’t,” I say with a sigh. “Busy today.”

“It’s Monday.”

“I know what day it is.”

“It’s your day off.”

“Very good. You want a gold star for that one?”

“You know I love that smart mouth of yours. If you were here right now, I’d teach it a lesson. Don’t deny me, Elise. You know I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Well, today you’re going to have to, because I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’ll come to you.”

“No,” I say quickly, sitting up. The paper falls to my lap and Christian has my full attention now. “You can’t come here.”

“You do realize you’re going to have to let me come to your place someday, right?”

I laugh dryly. “You do realize that day will never come, right?”

“What are you so afraid of? You have a husband I don’t know about?” His question is full of coy regalement, but I’m not amused. Christian will never see my apartment. None of the men I sleep with ever do. I go to them. This is all on my terms.

“Where’s Kylie today?”

“Visiting some friends in Seattle. She won’t be back until late tonight. Come on, baby, let me come over and show you a good time. I’ll bring lunch.”

I almost choke on my coffee. I’ve grown used to his endearments, but now he wants to eat together? “Lunch?”

“Yeah, you know, that meal after breakfast and before dinner?”

“Christian…”

“Elise, relax. I’m not asking you to have my children. Surely, you can eat a meal with me after I fuck you senseless, yes?”

My earlier plans for binging on peanut butter cups are cast aside by his forwardness. Well, that and the fact that this week’s column is turning out to be a letdown. Warmth floods my inner thighs and I fold my legs underneath me in the chair, turning to gaze out the window. Christian is pretty damn delicious. I’d probably count him as my favorite, although Brad from the diner is a close runner up. Brad and I have had an understanding for the past three years now, since I began working at Stella’s. He’s low maintenance through and through, and he knows my body well. The conversation is always minimal, and he’s considerate. Sweet. Kind of like Christian.

I laugh at that thought, watching a blackbird zip past my window.

Christian is far from sweet. In bed, he’s as dominant as they come, and he’s as charming, persuasive, and seductive as the devil himself. There are times I almost forget about his wife, Kylie—almost. He’s that good.

“Okay,” I decide, wanting to see his face. “I’ll come to you. Give me an hour.”

“That’s my girl.”

“See ya.” I hang up and pull myself from the chair, ditching the paper and my mug for my laciest red lingerie. Christian loves me in red, and the day could use a little color. I wash up, curl my hair, apply some make up, and then I’m out the door.

***

What was meant to be a quickie and a bite to eat turned into an all-day romp. Not that I’m complaining. Christian is 30, fit, and maddeningly handsome, with dirty blonde hair and shocking blue eyes. What really gets me is his tan. We’re not exactly golden here in Gig Harbor, Washington, but Christian has this perpetual bronze glow. Not the orange, unnatural kind, but the kind that kisses his skin just enough to give him that beach-bum look. Not only is he first-rate man candy, he’s phenomenal in the sack. I don’t doubt he k

eeps his wife a very happy woman. Too bad she has to share.

We’re launching into another round on his bed, and I go to kick off my black peep toe stilettos, but he grabs my ankle and slides my leg up higher around his waist. “Leave them on,” he orders gruffly. My head floats back down to the pillow and I keep my hands relaxed above my head, next to my ears, just where he likes them. I let him do his thing, keeping quiet and rocking my hips up to match him thrust for thrust.

My gaze settles on the corner of the ceiling. It’s barren and lonely, and I think there are traces of a cob web hanging there, dusting from wall to wall. I don’t whimper or moan for another few minutes, knowing he only likes to hear me on command. “I know,” he says sympathetically. He gives me a dazed smile of approval. My obedience makes him happy, and that only serves to make the way he’s fucking me all the more satisfying. “You can control it, I know you can.”

I bite down hard on my lip, trying to give him what he wants. I’m not sure why I comply with his demands. Maybe because compared to the others, Christian is the most tolerable. Something about him makes me want to compromise. Whereas I need Tim to punish me, I need Christian to indulge me. “Christian,” I pant, feeling every spring in my body coil tightly.

“Soon.” He starts to pump harder, gathering my wrists above my head to pin them against the mattress. His waist is pushing, his force prodding me on as he nails me to the sheets. “Come on, baby, let me hear you.” His arctic eyes hone in on me, never straying from my face. Now that he’s given me permission, I let my moans pour from my lips. I can hear his cell ring from the nightstand, but I don’t dare let it burst the heady bubble I’m in. He feels too damn good and I’m way too close to be distracted.

“Shit,” he mumbles, closing his eyes to push out the intrusive ringing. My gaze falls down to his abdomen, firm and defined, rolling with each thrust. Each one is frantic now, and I know he’s close. I allow myself to whimper and my fingernails to dig into the palms of his hands. They’re still restraining me, holding my fists in a vise grip above my head. “Tell me you’re mine, Elise.”

The phone stops ringing and he keeps pushing, smashing me into the comforter, but I let my eyes drift shut and focus on absorbing all of the sensations instead of replying.

“Elise,” he barks, stabbing me with a sharp, measured jolt. “Say it.”

“Mmmm,” I breathe, answering him with a buck of my hips. My breasts are tender and swollen with arousal as they bounce against his sweaty chest.

He hammers me with another piercing strike and withdraws, releasing my wrists to flip me over onto my torso. I cry out from the sudden emptiness. In a flash, he gathers my wrists above my head again with one hand, while he lifts my ass with the other. He gives me no warning, slamming back inside of me. The warmth is deep and decadent, just as much as it is possessive. “You like that?” His words ooze into my ear, his head hovering over mine. “You want me to keep fucking you like that?”

“Yes,” I say, the word muffled as I answer into the side of the pillow.

“Then say it.” He lifts himself up to lean his weight on his hands and peer down at me.

“I’m yours,” I lie, pressing my ass harder against him to capture each thrust. I’m about to combust, and the sight of his muscles flexing over my shoulder sends a sinful shudder through me. “Don’t stop, Christian.”

“Say please.” He leans in and bites savagely on my neck, and the pain is numbingly exquisite. Christian has always liked it rough. It’s one reason we’re so compatible in bed.

“Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please, don’t stop.”

He growls in approval and lowers himself back down so his chest is pressing against my back, leaning on his forearms. One of his hands fists my hair, tugging my head farther to the side, and he pauses for a beat before powering away. He fucks me mercilessly, pounding me into the bed, and I come hard and gloriously, convulsing against the damp sheets. “So…goddamn…good,” he hisses through his teeth, pushing the syllables out in a broken staccato as he comes. His hips slow and our heavy pants fill the air, my body aching in the most delicious way.

Groaning in pure satisfaction, he pushes off of me and rolls me onto my back, sitting back on his heels. He pulls at my legs, propping my knees up, and grasps the tops of my thighs to part them. Before I can catch my breath, his hands slide underneath my knees and he yanks me forward, shoving his face between my legs. His mouth hits my clit, and he begins to suck, setting my body back on fire. “God, I love your pussy,” he mumbles against my flesh, rubbing his nose up and down the slit in between licks. The man has a tongue women dream about, and the way he looks up at me, with the most wicked, gorgeous smile, confirms my earlier musing: He is the devil personified.

The fire he ignited is raging now, like flames doused with gasoline. My entire body tingles from head to toe, the hypersensitive skin at the junction of my thighs blazing with need. My fingers find his hair and push his head down, pressing his mouth tighter against me. He groans as he licks and sucks, moving a hand to tap my calf, encouraging me to hook it over his shoulder. I obey and slide the other one around for good measure, linking them both behind his neck. He loves that, and I find pleasure in giving him what he loves.

My stiletto heels dig into his skin and he groans, moving from my clit to fuck me with his tongue. The bliss sends me into a shout and I start to rock my hips against his hot mouth. Each shot of pleasure he delivers travels from my core to the tips of my fingers and toes, reminding me exactly why I keep coming back to Christian for more. No one screws me like he does, and although I’m cautious today about his sudden interest in sharing a meal together, he’s kind to me, unlike Tim and some of the other assholes I hook up with. Tender, even. The way he leads me into a room, places his hand delicately on the small of my back, and the way he brushes my hair over my shoulder when we talk, leaves me feeling like his lover sometimes, instead of what I actually am.

In seconds, I’m coming again, and he’s delighting in every wave of ecstasy that washes over my body. I’m utterly spent, my skin buzzing with a high that only Christian knows how to give. My legs fall lazily from his shoulders and his head rises, his eyes burning as he looks down at me. He watches my chest rise and fall, lets his gaze drift over my curves until it settles on my legs again.

My eyes are shut as I breathe deeply, fluttering open when I feel his teeth graze my ankle. I find him holding my calf up, nipping the skin there, then trailing up to the inside of my knee. The little bites are the perfect dessert for the aftershocks. “You’re insatiable,” I finally speak, giggling when one of his bites triggers a small tickle.

“You’re mouthwatering.”

I sigh and smile, rolling my head to the left to find the alarm clock on the bedside table. I move to sit up on my elbows. It’s time to go. He’s done with me—I’ve been here all day—and the moment our feet leave the bed and hit the carpet, I know I’ll start thinking about how I can get away. I don’t ever want to hear a guy awkwardly ask me to leave. Which is why I always beat it to the punch.

“I better get going.” I wriggle out of his way and swing my legs over the side of the bed, searching the floor for my dress.

“Wait,” he says, moving with me.

I snatch up my dress and begin sliding it over my head, mumbling absentmindedly while searching for my scarf next. “Hhhmm?”

“Elise, wait.”

His tone causes me to still. I turn to him, and find a determined expression on his face. There’s a deep set to his jaw, his blue eyes churning with intensity. I’m afraid to ask. “What is it?”

“Can we talk before you go?”

I sneak a side glance at the alarm clock again, wondering if we really do have the time. That was probably Kylie calling earlier. She could pull up any minute. “Talk about what?”

Christian extends a hand, gently guiding me to sit back on the bed with him, and I feel it—the awkwardness. I let myself sit, but my feet are poised to stand.

“Elise, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh, God.” I jump up, pulling my hand from his. “Don’t tell me you have another mistress. Or three. Christian, whatever it is, I don’t care, okay? I don’t ask questions, you don’t ask questions. That’s never been an issue, so let’s just—”

“I’m leaving Kylie.”

“What?” I blink, not sure I heard him right.

“I’m leaving Kylie. She knows I want a divorce. It’s over.”

“Oh.”

The bedroom becomes quiet, his words hanging heavily in the air.

“I know how you feel about me—about this, about us—” he waves his hands in the air, “and you know I respect your position. But I thought you should know. I’m leaving her, and she’s relieved. She hasn’t been happy, either. I want you, Elise. I want you to be mine.”

Shock explodes into little sparks around me, and I suddenly feel the walls closing in. The air in this bedroom is too stuffy, the ceiling too low. He can’t have possibly said what I think he just said. “Christian,” my voice comes out throaty and dry, “I’m not sure I’m hearing you right.” He relaxes with a knowing sigh, leaning forward on the edge of the bed to rest his elbows on his knees. “I’m not trying to put any pressure on you. I just want to be honest, want to put it all out there so you know what’s waiting for you, if you decide it’s something you’d be interested in. You know I’m a rich man, Elise. I would take care of you, take care of everything. I’d pay for you to go back to college. Anything you want, it’s yours.” Suddenly, he rises from the bed, carefully approaching me like he knows I’m about to dart at any moment.

I am.

“I want every inch of you, inside and out. And I don’t give a damn who thinks what about it. This isn’t enough for me anymore.”

My mouth bypasses my brain’s filter and lets out a laugh, one that I know will hurt Christian if I don’t quickly explain where it’s coming from. “I’m sorry,” I say, half covering my mouth, “I’m not laughing at your offer, I’m laughing at…” I search for the words, turning in a circle to look out the bedroom window. What am I laughing at?

Could it be the fact that aside from being a cheater, this guy is actually a dream? Young, rich, handsome, charming, and amazing in bed to boot? Or could it be the fact that I’m possibly the reason he’s leaving his wife? He hasn’t mentioned that detail yet, or if I even have anything to do with his decision, but judging by the reality that he sees me often and his wife is not a stupid woman—she’s a well-read, educated med student—it’s a very real possibility. My mind tumbles through these options, then pauses as it reaches a realization: I’d classified him as someone like me.

Someone who uses his good looks and charm to deceive and take what he wants, then casts aside the object of his interest the second he’s accomplished his goal. Granted, Christian had never been a one-night stand or cold lover from a sordid affair, but I’m certain that with each bedroom tryst, he is willfully using me, just as I’ve been using him. He is unfaithful to his wife with me and who-knows-how-many other women, and he never sees me as anything other than a piece of ass he can call up anytime he is feeling lonely. Each time he touches me, he makes me feel like I am the only one in the universe. The only one he has eyes for. He knows that isn’t true, and I know that isn’t true, but he has led me to believe it anyway, because he is a wolf by nature. He is wicked like me. Or at least he was, until he started bringing his feelings into the equation.

In this moment, I realize Christian and I are very different.

“You barely know me,” I say evenly, fixing my gaze on his. “You know my body. That’s not the same thing.”

He falters for a second, but he’s not the least bit deterred. He’s confident, his naked body remaining steadfast and still. “I know a lot about you.”

“You know only what I tell you.”

“Nothing you tell me will change my mind.”

“You can’t possibly know that.” I shake my head and something in the back of my skull screams for me to find that damn scarf and get the hell out of his house. Right now. “Does Kylie know about me?”

“Our divorce has nothing to do with you, Elise.”

“Does she know about me?” I repeat sternly.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“A while.”

“Shit.” I spin and start rifling around for the scarf, my movements erratic.

“Please don’t take off like this. Talk to me.” He reaches out to me, but fails to make contact, his open palm hanging in the air.

“There’s nothing to talk about. This won’t work, I’m sorry.”

“I care about you, Elise. I want to take care of you.”

I laugh again. This time it’s got some bite to it. “You want to own me, that’s what you want.”

“I want a relationship. With you. No one else. And I want you all to myself, yes. I won’t apologize for it. I don’t care about the other men you’ve been seeing. Stop seeing them. Move in with me.”

I gasp as I find my scarf, unable to process what he’s saying without going completely fucking mental. “Move in with you?”

“I know you have feelings for me, too.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” I gesture wildly in the air, my hands flailing at my sides, the tension building in me like hot lava. “Wait, let me guess…you assume that from the way I beg you to let me orgasm? The way I say your name as I come? Because I say I need you? That I want you?”

That does it. A flicker of hurt flashes over his features, but he recovers quickly. “I see it in your eyes. Every time you look at me, you’re searching for something. I feel it in the way you touch me, the way you drop everything to come see me when I call. You think I don’t know about the others? Well, I do. I know when you’re with them because you don’t answer. You take time to call me back. But you’re never gone for long. You spend time with me, more time than you ever give to them. I know that much. That tells me something, Elise.”

“Yeah, it should tell you that I like sleeping with you. That’s all.”

“No.” He strides forward, placing his hands softly on my arms. “You need something from me and I can give it to you. Something those other dumbasses can never give you.”

I flinch from his touch. Not because it doesn’t feel good. It always feels good. He’s always careful with me, even when he’s impaling me like a wild caveman in bed. “What, money and college tuition?” I snicker, stepping back. “You can’t buy me, Christian.”

“You know that’s not what I want. You want more, too. I know you do, damn it. So let’s not dance around it.”

My mouth goes slack and I’m about to respond, but the chime of his cell phone interrupts my train of thought. “You should get that.” I eye the phone, then the bedroom door.

“It can wait.”

“It’s Kylie, you know it is.”

His jaw flexes and his eyes dart from me to the phone, then back. He knows I’m right, and he also knows he can’t keep avoiding her calls. Not when she’s due home tonight. He may be leaving her and she may know about me, but I’m certain he wants to avoid that potential shit storm just as much as I do. “Damn it,” he murmurs, moving for the phone. He answers and stops to give me a silent, pleading look before he slips out of the room to handle the call.

And I take that as my exit cue.

Wrapping my scarf around my neck and collecting my bag, I wait until I hear his voice disappear down the hall. I pull my car key from my bag and count to ten. With a deep breath, I quietly open the bedroom door and peek out into the hallway.

The coast is clear.

I zip through the hall and down the elaborate stairwell, slithering through the front door and making it to my car just in time. I rev the engine and speed off, catching a glimpse of Christian’s solemn face in the living room window, through the rearview mirror. He’s standing there, pulling the curtain aside, the phone still held to his ear. I watch only for a second, turning to give my attention to the road. My foot powers down on the gas pedal, and I don’t want to imagine what Christian must be thinking, watching me drive away like this. But I know what I’m thinking.

This will be the last time I ever see Christian Walker.

… Continued…

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The Replacement

by Rachael Wade
5 stars – 8 reviews!
Kindle Price: 99 cents

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Home Again (The Endless Love Series)

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A novella set in 1969 on the shores of the Albemarle Sound in North Carolina.

April Harrington has fond memories of summers at her family home, Bliss. After her fairytale wedding disintegrates, it becomes her refuge–the one place where she can attempt to pull the unraveling threads of her life back together. Unbeknownst to April, the stately house has been neglected in recent years. The once-sturdy roof is leaking in a few dozen places, and the wharf is rotting. Nothing is the same as she remembers. Nothing except for Hale, a Viet Nam pilot who is haunted by a dreadful secret, and who is also her brother’s best friend, a brother killed in the conflict that is tearing the country apart.

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Home Again
by Kathleen Shoop

ONE

Autumn, 1969

APRIL HARRINGTON FINALLY arrived. Nine hours, straight through. After everything that had happened, she was simply drawn there. She swallowed hard—her raw throat ached as she stared in the direction of her brother, Andrew’s, memorial site. She missed him so much that she hadn’t been able to return since the service. Nothing had been the same since he died in Vietnam.

She stood where the cypress trees bowed to one another, forming a lace canopy of foliage that led the way to the dock. Her mind worked like a camera, snapping shots into neat frames that she filed away in mental drawers. Without trying, she compared all that she saw in present time with all that she recalled about Albemarle Sound. The call of the osprey that nested above the water drew April’s attention upward. What had she done to her life?

She looked down at her French silk wedding dress. She whisked her hands over the fabric, not believing she’d driven straight from New York in full bridal attire. She pulled her veil from her hair, peering at the fine creation that an elderly woman, with her bent, bulbous fingers, had lovingly fashioned for April’s special day.

The great blue herons screeched, their throaty voices as familiar as her breath. The toads, woodpeckers, hawks, and wolves—they set the rhythms of Bliss—the home where her family had spent every summer of her life before she left for college. She was sure she’d made the right decision to abandon Mason at the altar, but sharp guilt that she’d also left her parents at the wedding stabbed at her. She knew her parents would understand her not marrying Mason in the end, but they would not approve of her fleeing the scene.

She had worked so hard at Columbia University. A journalism graduate, she’d found her camera was her favorite way to observe the world, to tell a story. All that work—the elation she’d experienced when she crafted the perfect photo essay or framed the perfect shot, revealing someone’s soul in a single image—had been so fulfilling.

Yet she’d driven away from all of that and more. And standing there, April knew the deep regret of failure was dwarfed by what she’d seen in the photos from Woodstock, what she’d learned about life since Andrew died.

The hollow tone of wood thudding against wood made April head down the dock. The rowboat that had been carved 60 years before, shaped from one of the biggest cypress trees on the property, bobbed at the end of the dock. What would it be doing out of storage this late in the year?

She looked around as though there’d be someone there to answer her thoughts. A stiff wind dropped in and forced the waves to stand in sharp rows like soldiers marching toward the dock, bullying the boat. The gusts pressed April’s dress to her thighs, making it hard to walk. She raised her hand, the veil flapping in the wind. She opened her hand and the veil swirled around her fingertips, and then soared away.

At the end of the dock, she tried to squat, but the dress was too tight. Dammit. The dock creaked beneath her. She reached behind her and worked the buttons. It had been the one concession she’d made to her future mother-in-law; she’d had exquisite antique buttons sewn onto her otherwise decoration-free dress. She’d never imagined she’d be trying to wiggle out of the sheath on her own.

The woodpeckers and crickets performed as April reached up, then down her back to get at the last of the buttons. A wave tossed the rowboat upward, smacking it against the dock again. She took a deep breath and pulled at the dress, scattering buttons around her feet. A fresh wind broke over the mooring and blew the buttons in every direction, dropping them into the water below.

Another crash of the rowboat, and April refocused. She shimmied out of the dress then bent over and yanked the rope that tethered the boat.

The wind dropped away, bringing an eerie stillness that draped the water like a blanket. The boards creaked again. She froze. Her right foot pushed through the wharf. The dock couldn’t be breaking. Her father would never let that happen.

She pulled her foot out of the cavity and resumed pulling the rope. The creaking wood escalated into a whine, then a groan, and before she could react, the end of the dock collapsed, dropping April into the water.

It stung her skin. Its coldness made her feel as though her lungs were solid, unable to allow air in or out. She kicked hard; pulling toward the top, telling herself to be calm, a little chilly water wouldn’t hurt.

As her head broke the surface, the stiff waves pushed her up, throwing her nearly out of the water. She could see the boat was still roped to the piling—it was safer than her.

The sprays fell away as fast as they rose, and she plunged under water, brushing by a submerged tree stump. The punch of the severed cypress on her ribs almost forced her to inhale under water. She willed herself to ignore the pain and swim for the top again. She broke the surface and gasped as she stroked, head out of the water, toward the remaining part of the dock. A figure on the dock startled her. For a second she thought she was hallucinating—a man was there, kicking off his shoes and pulling his shirt over his head.

She waved and yelled before going under again. She struggled to stay above the rough water and fell back under as she felt hands around her. The man grabbed her waist and set her on his hip while he used his free arm to sidestroke toward the narrow beach.

He kicked hard, bumping her body up and down. Eyes squeezed shut, she panted and coughed up water. Once on shore, he threw her over his shoulder and headed to the veranda of the great summer home, where he settled her on the wooden floor. Lying there, her breath began to calm and the dizziness released her. She squinted at the man who was now lifting one of her arms, then the other, then one leg at a time, asking if this hurt or that.

It was him. She couldn’t believe it.

“Hale,” she said. Hale Abercrombie.

He raised his gaze from her leg.

They locked eyes. Those indigo eyes.

“Hi there.”

How long had it been since she’d seen those eyes looking back at her?

He flinched and rubbed his shoulder.

Her teeth chattered. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” he said.

April slowly pushed herself to a sitting position. The movements made her inhale sharp and loud. She felt awful to have put him through such trouble. He had scrapes across his broad chest where she must have scratched him. She touched one of his wounds.

He pulled back. “Just a branch. Got a little too close to the tree cemetery.” Hale took her hand and turned it back and forth. His muscular arms tensed and relaxed as he moved. “Does this hurt?”

She drew her hand back and rubbed her arms to stave off the chills. “No, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” he said.

She nodded and pulled her knees up to her chest. This move caused her to groan. She covered the spot where it hurt with her hands.

He put his hand over hers. “Lie back,” he said.

She hesitated as she considered the fact she was dressed in only wet underpants and bra. Then flashes of their childhood came to mind—they’d spent countless summers running the grounds in nothing but bathing suits. He was Hale, her brother’s best friend, not some stranger.

He shifted his six feet two inches to get a closer look. His wavy, golden hair was cut close to his scalp, as any officer’s hair would be. He pressed her ribcage where the red skin was already blackening. She winced.

“Just a bruise,” she said.

“That’s not.”

She lifted her head to see what he was pointing at now. “Appendectomy.”

His eyes widened.

“A few months old.”

He ran his finger down the center of the crosshatched stitching. She pushed it away.

His gaze slid up to meet hers. His expression bore concern. He’d always been serious, but this concern was a darker, more troubled kind of somber. That made sense when she considered what he’d been through with her brother.

“I…” he said.

April felt connected to Hale—she always had. But this was an entirely new sensation—so strong and confusing to her that she had to order herself to stop feeling it. “It’s fine, Hale. Just a bruise.”

She struggled to sit up again. He took her hands and pulled.

“I didn’t mean to touch you. Your scar.” He ran his hand through his hair but wouldn’t look at her.

“You’ve touched me a million times, right?”

He nodded. “A long time ago.”

Indeed, today’s touches had evoked far different feelings than the ones that had marked their childhood.

“You’re okay? Really?” he said.

“Fine. Fuddy-Duddy,” they both said at the same time.

He met her smile with his, making her stomach quiver.

“If you’re okay, I’ll get your suitcase,” he said. “I’m on leave for a month, and I came to fix the kitchen sink. I figured since I was here, I should…well, I ought to check over the place. I took the rowboat out earlier. When the winds kicked up I came back to bring in the boat.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Your parents—they didn’t say you were coming.”

She looked away. She couldn’t start explaining all that had happened.

“Well, your suitcase.” He started down the steps toward her car.

She scrambled to her feet, grimacing, following him.

She looked down at her barely clad body and stopped. “No luggage.” Heat rose in her cheeks. “Just the dress, my purse, my camera.”

“That white thing on the dock is your dress?”

April nodded. She should at least try to recover some of the precious buttons, if possible. He took her hand. His fingers squeezed hers, sending a chill up her spine. She looked away from him, embarrassed at the excitement that swept through her.

“It’s gone,” he said.

April raised her eyebrows. She felt dizzy.

“The wind took it. Right over the sound.” He whistled and pushed his hand through the air. “Took flight like, well, remember that big old heron we used to call Matilda?”

April smiled. Their familiarity, the tales, the troubles—all of it made her feel as though they’d crossed paths just the day before.

A fresh wind whipped the trees. April and Hale looked to the sky.

Hale’s face grew troubled. “Storm’s coming,” He squeezed her hand once more, then dropped it. She clutched her hand to her body, feeling the spot where the engagement ring no longer encircled her finger.

“I’ll grab my stuff and get the rowboat.” Hale pushed his thumb in the direction of the water.

She looked at his wet jeans, the way they molded to his thick legs. Him saving her was really no big deal. Hale had lived his entire life saving others quietly, so circumspect and aware of what people needed. So old-fashioned, she’d always thought when she was younger. Not much fun, she’d always teased him. Now she just felt grateful—fortunate that Hale had been there to comfort Andrew as he had died, and glad he happened along for her sake a few minutes before.

She couldn’t help comparing Hale to Mason. Mason and his family were philanthropists, but when they sprung into life-saving action, it was with a checkbook, not their bare hands. Who would have jumped in after her if Mason or his parents saw her struggling in the water? They wouldn’t let her drown. They’d send the butler, Henri, but of course. Hale’s family, year-rounders at the sound, had nothing in the way of money, but they were strong, steady, and loyal.

“Go in. Get warm,” Hale said.

She nodded. No clothes, no family, no husband, no job. She needed more than to simply get warm.

“I’ll come back tomorrow to fix the dock and the tile in the blue bathroom,” Hale said.

“Thank you,” she said. “For Andrew. For everything.” She’d thanked him before for having tried so hard to save Andrew, but for some reason, she felt the need to say it again.

He nodded, and then headed toward the sound, humble as ever. April made it as far as the front door and stopped. She couldn’t believe what she saw. Like an old man’s mouth, the pointing between the bricks that faced the grand mansion was gapped and jagged, leaving the house vulnerable to wind and water. She slid her finger into a hole between the red brick and released a shard of aged plaster. She turned it back and forth as though it could explain how or why her father would have neglected to maintain the house.

The wood trim around the door was pitted, the paint lifting off, curling in sections. She examined the sturdy oak door. It seemed to be the only part of the house that wasn’t falling in or marred with age. She swept her finger along the carvings that depicted the nine rivers that fed the Albemarle, still amazed at the gorgeous work a family ancestor had done.

April sighed. She had to be honest about what she was seeing—utter neglect. Regret coursed through her. In living the silver-spoon life in New York, she’d ignored her parents, their pain, what that meant for this house. She hadn’t meant to be blind to what her family needed from her. She should have made sure the house was being kept up—it had been in their family for two centuries, after all.

She shook her head. She knew the cost of the wedding had been high, that her father had had some rough times with some real estate deals over the years, but she never imagined those things meant her parents might let the house suffer. Perhaps they’d just been focused on the inside of the home and had let the outside go until…until what? She didn’t know. The guilt she felt right then twisted at her soul. What had she done?

She turned the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. She checked behind the planter for the spare key. Nothing. She swallowed a sob, and then turned her back on the door. Hale must have the key.

She turned and saw him coming with the boat over his head.

She ran toward him as quickly as she could with the sore ribs. Thunder cracked, making her move faster.

He stopped and nearly buckled under the weight of his haul.

“I can get the bow,” she said.

“I have it,” he said through clenched teeth.

She reached to lift one end, but all she could manage was to blanch at the pain that emanated from her ribs and follow behind like a little kid.

When they reached the veranda, Hale stopped. “We’ll stow it in the crawl space for the night. I have to get going.”

He appeared irritated. He flipped the boat and set it gently down on its bottom. Together, they gripped it, shoulder to shoulder, pushed it under the veranda and reset the lattice that served as a door for the space.

“Oh. The key,” April said.

Hale appeared confused. She ignored his unasked question. She wasn’t ready to explain her flight from the altar to anyone, least of all old-fashioned, always-do-the-right-thing Hale.

He reached into his pocket, and then pressed the key into April’s palm.

The thunder rumbled. She hoped she wouldn’t lose electricity.

Hale looked to the sky again, then began to move quickly, fussing with the lattice again. “Shouldn’t be too stuffy inside the house. I had the windows open earlier.”

She started toward the front steps.

“I’ll let your dad know he doesn’t need me here anymore.”

“No!” April turned back to make sure he got the message.

He snapped his attention to her, eyes wide, before his expression turned to relief.

“Don’t do that.” She straightened and crossed her arms over her chest.

She needed time to sit with her decision, to be strong and decisive when she spoke to her parents next. She needed to reassure them she could handle her life alone.

Hale raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, sure.” He cleared his throat. “Careful there. The fourth stair is disintegrating. I’ll fix that, too.” He started up the stairs to show her the rotting board.

Thunder rumbled and he looked into the sky again so April couldn’t hear everything he said until, “Don’t suppose an accomplished Ivy League lady like you has much time for carpentry.”

April forced a laugh. Hale drew away. Her hands shook. Ivy League lady. Images of Woodstock, of the wedding, of the blurred faces she saw as she ran down the aisle and out the door snapped through her mind as though she were photographing the scene.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Hale reached out but didn’t touch her.

April shook her head.

“You’re crying.”

She touched her cheek and studied the tiny puddle of tears that she collected on her fingertips.

She felt Hale’s gaze slip down her body, reminding her she was nearly nude.

April covered her chest with one arm. She needed to get into the house so she could fall apart in private. The thunder interrupted their silence, and he abruptly started down the steps.

When he reached the bottom stair, he turned back and poked at something. April moved closer to see what he was doing. Inside a tiny circle of pebbles was a furry, black caterpillar. Hale plucked some grass and sprinkled it into the miniature fortress.

April squinted at him.

He shrugged. “Little guy just needs some shelter. ’Til the storm passes.”

She looked into the mottled sky. “I guess so,” she said, not wanting to embarrass him.

He shrugged. “I’m really glad to see you.”

April nodded. She was comforted, relieved that someone on that day would be happy to see her. The air sizzled with the coming storm. “Come in, stay for tea.” But as she spoke those words, a clap of thunder broke, and he didn’t hear.

He hopped into his Chevy and drove away, his truck winding around the house and disappearing. April pushed the key into the lock and turned it. She opened the door and faced the great marble staircase that rose up from the worn, but still stunning, cypress floors. You’ll be fine alone, she repeated to herself.

The echo of silence between the thunderclaps embraced her. She wondered if it was going to be too quiet at Bliss, if she should have just slipped into a women’s hotel in Manhattan and gotten lost in the crowd. No. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She would go on with her life, and she would do so in memory of Andrew and how right he’d been about everything.

She started toward the kitchen and passed the mirror in the hall, glancing at herself. Some of her golden hair was matted against her face and the rest was plopped on top of her head like a loaf of bread, still held in place with pins and elastics. Strands sprung out all around her scalp from where she’d pulled the veil off. Mascara ringed her eyes like the great owls that serenaded her summer sleeps.

No wonder Hale had run away as soon as he knew April was fine. She considered his Ivy League crack. She knew she’d hear that, coming back to Harrington. But she hadn’t expected it from Hale. She hadn’t expected him to be on leave at all.

April took her attention from her reflection to the empty space beside the mirror. She pinched one of the naked picture hooks between her fingers, twisted, then pulled it out. She turned slowly, surveying the fifteen-foot tall walls.

Her mouth fell open. Every single one of them was gone. Each of her mother’s treasured Albemarle Sound paintings had been removed. Only the silver picture hooks remained, scattered, winking at her in the soft foyer light. Where were they? Maybe Hale knew. She touched her belly where his fingers had traced her scar.

She gasped at the thought of his hands on her, the way he cared for her. She realized the sensation sparked by his touch—this quiet luring—was not new, but now, as a woman, she recognized the sentience for what it was.

There was and had always been a special bond between them even if she’d forgotten it was there for years. She wrapped her arms around her middle. Of course they were connected. They’d shared summers, her brother’s life and, most importantly, his death.

TWO

HALE DROVE THE Chevy back toward the road but had to stop. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then strangled the steering wheel to make his hands stop shaking. His heart pounded so hard, he was sure he could track the rushing blood through his body from start to finish. He pushed his head back against the seat and clenched his jaw until the panic stopped.

The thunder. He hadn’t expected it to still bother him so much, not after two years. It had been a while since it had had this affect on him. He willed the terror to subside. It must have been finding April in the water, needing help. Yes, she was fine, but it had scared him. All it took was an unexpected hand on the shoulder, a door slamming, a clap of thunder… Any small, startling thing could trigger fright so vivid that sometimes, he threw up.

Dear God, please make it stop, make it stop. He pressed his feet into the floor of the truck, told himself he was grounded, he was safe. He re-gripped the wheel and said aloud, “You’re in the truck. You’re home.”

Gradually, his heart decelerated, his breath calmed, and the heat that scorched him from the inside out retreated. He could do this. He was okay.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before he opened his eyes. He looked at the back of April’s house. There were lights on upstairs. Had April seen him sitting there? He imagined her calling her dad to tell him she had arrived. He gripped his knee. The lie had been out of his mouth before he’d even consciously formed the thought. He had not been invited to take care of April’s family home.

No. He was on a month’s leave. A chance to get his head straight, his commander had ordered. So he’d come to the only place he might be able to do that…Bliss. The place he’d always found peace and plenty. Hale’s father had died when he was a baby, leaving his mother to cobble a living by watching over all the homes on the sound when the summer season was over. April’s family had become his in too many ways for him to parse. But he never thought he’d have to face April before he was ready to tell her the whole story.

It hadn’t mattered that he was awarded a Silver Star and a Purple Heart. He’d buried the medals inside the sweeping skirt of the giant cypress tree outside Bliss, near Andrew’s memorial. The idea that someone would award him for valor when his bravery hadn’t resulted in saving Andrew, well, Hale knew an empty gesture when he saw it, and he would never forgive himself for being the one who was alive.

He couldn’t sleep at night. Nearly every hour, he shot awake. The sharp screech of the missile hitting the plane rang through his head as though he was still in the rear of the F-14. He would wake standing in the middle of the room, or on the bed, feeling as though he’d just punched out of the plane. There amidst perfect safety he experienced the sensation of the entire seat rocketing out of the plane, his body shuddering as it had the very day it had happened. And as he came back to consciousness, he heard Andrew’s easy tone calmly narrating how he’d maneuvered them away from the missiles. That was what had happened every time, but once. Just once.

The part that affected him most was what happened after punching out. The ground fire. He couldn’t bear to envision it, but couldn’t shake it from his very being. The divot in his leg was nothing compared to the grooves that had been forever worked into his brain, his skin, his soul. Those memories—the missile, the odor of the fire—were creased into his core, which held onto that day, grasped onto the experience, making Hale sure that if he managed to pass a day without Andrew entering into his mind, every cell in his body would still recall his loss.

In fact, the events of that day had left him with the only thing that let them know he was still alive—pain. A fly buzzed near Hale’s ear. He swiped his hand through the air, capturing the insect. He opened his fingers and the fly flipped over on his palm and staggered back into the air, escaping to the back of the truck.

Hale put his hand over his chest. His pulse was even. He drew a deep breath. He would put his mind straight as he’d been ordered to do. He would. He put the truck in gear and started home. Glancing in his rearview mirror, a lightning strike made him jump as it lit the air and revealed the form of April at Andrew’s bedroom window.

His nerves leapt as he considered the attraction toward her sweeping through his body. He pushed away his misplaced feelings. No, April was just his best friend’s sister, and there was never any good to come from something like that. Not when she’d probably been left at the altar, and not when Hale was the reason her brother was dead.

In the kitchen, April threaded her fingers through the metal cabinet handle. She tugged and the hinges pulled right over the screws as though they were made of gelatin instead of metal. Her sadness deepened. What had been going on in this house? Had she spent too many spring breaks and summer vacations in Cayman Island resorts with the Franklins? Had Bliss always been run-down and she just never noticed?

She set the door aside and chugged down several glasses of water. She rubbed her chilled arms and went to find clothes. In her bedroom, she wiggled her toes on the worn Oriental rug. She jiggled the top dresser drawer then tilted it at just the right angle that would allow it to slide out. She dug between half-a-decade old undergarments. Girdles, for goodness sake. She’d sworn those off within the first five minutes of being in New York City.

She tried the next drawer. She held up some plain t-shirts. She was tall and angular and for the first time, seeing the small t-shirts as her only clothing option, she was grateful for her lean lines. Her closet was empty, and she needed pants.

She went to Andrew’s room. The light bulb was burned out, so she used the hall light to illuminate her quest. She excavated his drawers and found jeans she could cut into shorts. She went to the closet. Thunder continued to crash and rumble, bringing bright flashes of lightning with it. She fished through the closet and found an old tie of Andrew’s to use for a belt. She pulled a shirt from the shelf.

She held it to her nose. The aftershave smell she associated with her brother should have been long gone, but in the folds of the fabric, she swore there was a hint of him.

She buried her face in the shirt and sobbed. Her Andrew, her wise, fun-loving brother, had taught her so much about life. But it was his death that had educated her the most, that had helped make it so clear that choosing to marry Mason would mean a lifetime of awful.

She told herself not to cry that leaving him had been right, even if in the short run, it had felt so terrifically wrong. She gathered her new apparel, plucking Andrew’s old Converse sneakers off the closet floor. They would work until she figured out how she was going to reassemble her wardrobe, rework her entire life.

She sat on the edge of the tub while the water ran. She reached for the glass vial with the cut-glass stopper and opened it, inhaling her mother’s homemade orange oil. She turned it into the faucet letting the water carry the emollient into the bath.

Tucked into the water, she poked at the shiny islands of oil that floated on the surface. She patted at the bruise that formed where she’d hit the stump, then traced the appendectomy scar, thinking of Hale’s caring expression as he had stared at it.

This reminded her of the way Mason had gaped at the incision, turning grey, retching and nearly passing out, declining to assist her ever again.

It was true—the stitches had been relatively new. But with years of snapshots flipping through April’s mind, she realized how often he chose to turn away from her needs rather than step toward them.

She reclined further into the tub, her long hair floating like spider legs around her. The warm water cushioned her sore body. She would not let the loss of her almost-marriage feel like a death. Andrew’s absence and the experiences of soldiers who came home injured or simply forgotten were tragic. But April’s life, her loss? She shrugged at the thought. That was nothing.

She hadn’t felt so free in ages. Probably since the summer she’d left for college, when all was hopeful and everything she could imagine was possible. It had been at least that long.

… Continued…

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Home Again
(The Endless Love Series)

by Kathleen Shoop
4.5 stars – 24 reviews!
Just 99 cents!

**KND Freebies: Romantic mystery WEEKENDS is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt**

January 23, 2014 by Kindle Nation

“…Weekends has it all —
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Weekends

by Lindy S Hudis

3.7 stars – 21 Reviews

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Here’s the set-up:

An innocent-sounding family reunion at an exclusive California beach resort turns into a weekend of murder, deceit, exposed secrets and unexpected intimate encounters.

John Peterson has it all: He’s a respected, successful Beverly Hills entertainment lawyer with a loving wife and grown son, the strikingly handsome young film director Joe Peterson. John also has a secret and he decides to gather his disparate family members at the elegant Hotel Del Moor in picturesque Linda Bella, California for some luxurious fun, togetherness and re-connecting before revealing his secret. Unbeknownst to the family, a brutal serial killer is lurking in the midst of all the wondrous festivities.

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an excerpt from

Weekends

by Lindy S. Hudis

PROLOGUE

The man woke up next to victim number twenty. He had tied her firmly to the bedpost by her wrists and ankles, then passed out. She was nude, her eyes red from crying, her face had a petrified look on it. Her nose was also swollen and bloody from the repeated blows to the face.

He met her at a local watering hole. She said her name was Lisa, and she was beautiful—just the type. The man smiled, nodded, and feigned interest in her pathetic little life. As she was babbling on and on about how she was an aspiring actress, he reached in his front, right pocket and pulled out his trusty pills. He plopped them into her drink when she wasn’t looking. He sat back counting the minutes until the drug took effect.

Getting her out to a taxicab was so easy, the cab driver just figured she was some drunk bar slut, and she was. The man ordered the cab to take them a sleazy, roach infested motel in Alphabet City, a seedy neighborhood on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Once there, he took the young woman, tied her up, and raped her until the sun came up. As she started to come to, and realize what was going on, she started to cry out for help. In New York, a woman can scream and scream until her face turns blue—nobody would ever come. That was the beauty of all this, the man thought. Just in case she did holler, he duct-taped her mouth shut.

Now it was morning, and the man was bored. He got up, showered, and dressed. The woman looked at him, frightened and confused, as he pulled his jeans on. He checked his watch and realized he needed to move quickly. “See ya.” He sneered at her, and promptly walked out the door, leaving her tied and helpless. The man had a plane to catch.

CHAPTER 1

The plane touched down at the Santa Barbara airport around ten a.m. During the short flight from LAX, John Peterson contemplated the weekend ahead. He had not seen his younger siblings in ten years, and was looking forward to seeing them and their families. He was also very concerned, because he had bad news to break to all of them. Very bad news, and everybody’s life would be affected. He was nervous as to what the family’s reaction would be. John was a fifty-year-old, extremely successful entertainment lawyer in Beverly Hills. His clients included rich and powerful movie stars, producers, and studio heads—they were the reason for his phenomenal success. He was the kind of man who silenced rooms when he entered them, and would tell another man’s children to be quiet.

Sitting next to John was Joyce Peterson, his wife, age forty-seven. She was born and raised in Los Angeles, and being the daughter of a prominent L.A. heart surgeon, was used to the good life. Her one and only dream was to marry a rich doctor or lawyer, have children, and be a good wife.

Then there was Joe. Joe was the twenty-three year old son of John and Joyce. To say that Joe was good-looking would be the understatement of the year. Joe was beautiful. He looked like a work of art, a Greek god. He had long, blond hair that hung just below his shoulders, and fantastic azure eyes, the color of the California sky itself. His body, although on the thin side, was cut and lean, with pronounced chest, biceps, and a washboard stomach. The facial structure, with its defined jaw and cheekbones, was captivating in its exquisite, masculine beauty. He could easily be a beautiful woman on testosterone.

He, like his mother, was born and raised into wealth in L.A., but his goal was not to become a doctor or a lawyer. He had just graduated from New York University Film School. Although his looks were better suited for being in front of the camera, his dream was to become a movie director. Having inherited his father’s magisterial personality, he simply answered, “Because I don’t like being told what to do.” whenever he was asked why he was not an actor. Through his father’s many industry connections, Joe was not at a loss for employment. He chose, however, to start at the bottom, doing Production Assistant work to get his foot in the door. His father told him it builds character, and advised him to “work for it” rather than have it handed to him. Because he was also very charming, he was meeting and networking with all the right people. The only direction Joe was going was up.

As the plane landed, the family unbuckled their seatbelts, even though the steward had instructed the passengers not to. When the plane came to a complete stop, the family was the first ones off. Joe passed by three flight attendants who gazed at him, with a look on their faces that Joe saw all the time. He smiled and bid them good-bye.

The three hiked through the jet-way into the busy airport, carrying their weekend luggage with them. They took the escalator to the lower level where the car rental stations were. While John was making arrangements for the family to rent at nice, slow sedan, Joe stepped outside. It was a hot Spring morning; a light, cool breeze offered relief from the sweltering heat.

The famous California sunshine shone brightly, reflecting off Joe’s equally golden hair. He squinted his sapphire eyes to look at it, and decided that he was determined to enjoy the insipid family reunion that his father was forcing him to attend. He did not have much in common with his simpleton cousins. Some of them he had not seen in ten years, although his father’s brother, Uncle Stephen, kept in touch with them by phone. It was, of course, just a weekend.

It was now Friday morning, they would be back home by Monday, and not much happens over weekends anyway. He decided that he would just smile and say hello to the many relatives that will be in attendance. At least, he had his own room, hopefully with cable television and an ocean view. Maybe getting away for the weekend on a mini-vacation would do him good, and he could relax a little. An older lady and a pretty, teenage girl walked by, both turning and smiling at him. He smiled back.

At only twenty-three, he was very aware of the amazing power he had over women, and as he got older, it would only get more intense. Females started throwing themselves at him when he was fifteen, and the feeling was more than mutual. He loved women, and would never use his power for cruel or destructive purposes, like many attractive, rich men do. That was not his style. Quite a few of his Beverly Hills buddies teased him for that. “Take the goods and run”, the guys said, and kidded him for being so sensitive.

Joe was not like the other guys, being a romantic, he honestly believed that there was the love of his life out there somewhere. He was determined to find her, but he wanted to win his Oscar first. The sliding glass doors of the airport flew open and John and Joyce hurried out. Joyce was carrying the keys to the Lincoln Continental that would take them to their final destination, the elegant Hotel Del Moor, overlooking the mighty Pacific Ocean. The three climbed inside the automobile, secured their luggage, and took off, with John driving, Joyce up front, and Joe in the back.

The family cruised north along the Pacific Coast Highway, with it’s incredible, palm-tree lined vision of the long, sandy beach that stretched all along the length of the Golden State. While Joyce and John were heatedly discussing who would be there, what to do, and so on, Joe gazed out the window, lost in thought. The enormous ocean and the endless sky met over the horizon, both equally wondrous and awe inspiring. Joe rested his head against the plush back of the seat and just stared at the blueness of the sea, and the swaying palm trees.

He thought about his life and how lucky he was. Being the adored only child of a wealthy L.A. lawyer and a loving mother, not to mention his genetic good fortune, he was thankful the world was at his feet.

He thought about the day ahead, meeting people less fortunate than he. Relatives from the mid-west—middle-class people from small towns, people utterly foreign to him. Needless to say, the weekend would be an adventure. As the car sped along, Joe started to drift off, eyelids getting heavy and, with the gentle motion of the back seat’s softness, he slowly fell asleep.

His father slamming the car door awoke Joe with a start. He rubbed his eyes and looked out the window. It was around noon. The drive had taken much longer than John expected, he was quite agitated. Joe stretched his gorgeous body, grabbed his duffle bag, and stepped out of the car. The intense heat did nothing to cheer his father up, that with the usual tribulations of hotel check-in. The mild breeze slightly shook the towering palm trees, and Joe caught a strong whiff of the salty ocean air.

The hotel itself was splendid, in all of its stately allure. It was a giant, pink structure, with a grand waterfall in the center of its circular driveway. It was surrounded with pink rose bushes and ‘Birds of Paradise’ flowers. Behind the main building was a row of small bungalows, slightly resembling little Polynesian huts, which were mostly occupied by honeymooning guests. Adjacent to the huts was a small bar, with a Polynesian motif as well, and a sparkling, kidney-shaped pool and Jacuzzi—beyond that was the Pacific Ocean itself with the hotel’s private beach. Joe took one look at the wonderful place and decided that this was not going to be such a bad weekend after all.

After glancing around the grounds, Joe followed his parents inside. Once his eyes adjusted to being indoors, he looked around at the impressive, though not stuffy, interior. It was not Beverly Hills, what he was used to, and the Hotel Del Moor could never give the Regent Beverly Wilshire a run for its money, but for a hotel on the beach of a small, coastal town, forty-five minutes north of Santa Barbara, it was very pleasing.

The cheery lobby was bright, due to most of the walls being all glass, and the inside as well as the outside was pink and delicate. His mother, a snob of sorts, gave the quaint place her seal of approval, much to the relief of Joe and John, for they would have never heard the end of it if she didn’t. While John was busy with checking in and Joyce ran through the lobby in a frenzy searching for the ladies’ room, Joe found himself staring into the ocean again. Maybe when he got rich, on his own of course, he would purchase a house in Malibu, because he just now realized how the ocean soothed him.

“Joe!” The rigid voice of his father broke his trance. “Can you come here for a minute, please?” Joe went quickly to where his upset-looking father was standing. Even though he was his son, when John Peterson called his name, he came running.

“There seems to be a mix up in the reservations.” John explained to him. “They over-booked the rooms and there are none left. Now you can do one of two things. You can stay in a room with your mother and me, or you can take one of the honeymoon huts that are available. Which do you prefer?”

Joe hardly relished the thought of sharing a room with his mom and dad, so he chose the latter. He would be closer to the ocean anyway, and the solitude would be a welcome change. John handed his son the keys to Bungalow Three and eyed him suspiciously.

“Are you all right, son? You’re awfully quiet.” he asked.

“Just tired, Dad.” Joe answered, and he was.

“Well go get some rest. We have to go to that introductory dinner tonight, so go take a nap, and meet us in Suite 326 at four-thirty. Got it?” John commanded and handed Joe a manila envelope. He then followed Joyce upstairs and disappeared.

Joe stood alone in the lobby, holding his bag, the keys to the hut, and the envelope. He must have looked bewildered, because after about three seconds a young lady appeared and asked if he needed help. He smiled, knowing what she was thinking and feeling quite humble he asked politely how to get to Bungalow Three.

“Oh, are you on your honeymoon?” she asked, her big eyes shining.

“No, I’m here for the family reunion and they ran out of space. They put me out here.” Joe explained. Her sigh of relief was almost comical.

“Come on, I’m on my break so I’ll show you personally.” the girl grinned cozily. She gestured with her arm and walked out into the little walkway, Joe followed. The sea breeze was light and airy, the young lady’s skirt flitted in the wind, something Joe could not help noticing. She led him like a lamb down a little concrete path, with rose bushes on either side, and down a narrow pathway. The delightful aroma was a mixture of ambrosial flowers, salty ocean air, and her buttered scent. Seagulls circled overhead, dodging the immense, swaying palm trees.

“Some people get lost on their way to the bungalows.” she said, turning to him and smiling. Joe just nodded and kept walking behind her. They finally arrived at bungalow three, the one right in the middle. To Joe’s delight, he discovered that each bungalow had its own little private patio, and was literally about fifteen feet from the water. He took the key, opened the door, and stepped inside. The young girl kept smiling at him, unmoving. Joe was polite, but wanted to be alone. He had not slept the night before and really needed that nap.

“I’m Cindy, I work in the Velvet Room as a waitress.” she smiled at him, still not leaving. Joe looked back at her, used to this kind of behavior from women, yet trying not to get annoyed. She was just admiring the view.

“I’m Joe Peterson, I’ll be in the Velvet Room this evening. I’m with the Peterson Family Reunion, and we are having a big, family dinner there.” he told her, and held out his hand. She shook it with enthusiasm.

“So, I guess I’ll see you later?” Cindy asked. Her eyes were deep and shadowy in their hopefulness.

“Maybe.” Joe smiled politely, and began to close the door. She finally took the hint and her smile dropped a notch.

“Well, have a nice day.” she said, then turned and sauntered away. The little bungalow was cozy, but it was definitely intended for honeymooners. The room was complete with a champagne-stocked mini-refrigerator and a heart-shaped hot tub in the corner. Great, he thought, and I’m here alone.

Joe flopped onto the queen-sized bed, and opened the manila envelope that his father had given him. It was an itinerary of sorts, charting out all of the organized activities of the upcoming three days—stating what, when, and where all of the events were to take place. Joe leafed through it for a few minutes, then tossed it aside, wondering what the big deal was. Why not just have a family dinner and be done with it?

He lay back on the bed, took his address book out of his duffle bag, and removed a lone joint that he carefully had hidden in the secret pocket of his little book. As he lit up and took a deep drag, he wondered if only one joint would get him through the weekend ahead, and hoped that some of his long-lost cousins had some grass on them. He thought about how his parents would kill him if they found out he smoked pot and laughed at the thought of his father confiscating it and smoking it himself. He had been high around them many times, and to the best of his knowledge, they never suspected a thing.

He took another long drag and stared at the ceiling, slowly beginning to feel its clouded effects. His mind began to become sticky and slow, and he escaped into a sweet, stoned haze.

* * * *

Shauna Peterson sat in the sun-filled lobby of the Hotel Del Moor with her brother Michael. They were both waiting for their father, Stephen Peterson, to check them in and tell them their room numbers. Shauna had kept her eye on the pool and hot tub for the past ten minutes, ignoring all else around her, especially her older brother’s constant comments about how “cheesy” the hotel was.

She just wanted to unpack her bathing suit and hit the beach and the sunshine. Where they came from, a modest town in upstate New York called Boonville, it was still freezing. The plane trip across the country was a grueling seven and a half hours, and the need to unwind was incredible.

Shauna pondered on the upcoming weekend. All her father talked about the whole trip so far was his rich brother, her Uncle John, her Aunt Joyce, and her cousin Joe. He babbled on and on about how they lived in Beverly Hills, the richest part of Los Angeles, and her Uncle John knew all these famous people. Shauna was impressed and looked forward to seeing them. Some she had kept in touch with, but had not seen in a long time. Unlike Michael, who hated rich people, and had no qualms about voicing it.

Michael was twenty-four years old, twenty years younger than his father, and four years older than his sister. Shauna had never set foot outside of Boonville in her life, so this was indeed an adventure. She was on Spring Break from the small junior college she was attending.

Michael could see in her eyes that she had the sweet, naive optimism that came with youth, and she believed that she could have a life like this one day. Michael knew better. He had worked in the same rubber stamp company for six years, and knew that a privileged life, like that of his spoiled cousin Joe he’d heard so much about, was not for them. He also was wise to the fact that this whole trip was being paid for with the last of his father’s credit.

Shauna had no such concerns, for Stephen was handing them the keys to Room 328, and she knew that it was only a matter of minutes before she was basking in the California sunshine, of which she was a virgin to. She jumped up and down excitedly and grabbed the keys out of her father’s hands, while Michael rolled his eyes. Stephen shot him a look. He was determined not to let his bitter son spoil a vacation that he looked forward to for ten years. He looked at his smiling daughter, all energy and zeal, and it reminded him of himself at age twenty.

“I’m going to be in Room 405, and you guys are in Room 328, on the west side of the building, overlooking the ocean.” he told his kids. Shauna squealed with delight. An ocean view! She had never seen the ocean before, now from her window, she could look at it all weekend long.

Michael just looked at him blankly, and could care less. As long as there was a bed to sleep in, he was happy. He was counting the minutes before he could go home.

“Thank you, Daddy.” Shauna kissed her father on the cheek, and ran to the elevator. Michael looked at his father.

“I guess I’m going to get unpacked.” he said with a sigh, and started after his sister.

Stephen grabbed him by the arm. “Try to be nice. I haven’t seen my brother in ten years, and this trip means a lot to me. Please be civil, okay?” Stephen asked him.

“Yeah, sure, Dad.” Michael just shrugged. He followed Shauna to the third floor. Civil to a bunch of rich bitches. Yeah, right!

The two of them stepped into the elevator together, and after the doors had closed, Michael stared at his sister. “So, it looks like we are sharing a room together. Dad can’t afford three rooms. Dad can’t afford this whole trip.” he grumbled.

“Oh, well.” Shauna glared at him, wondering what he was getting at.

“If we were Uncle John’s kids we’d all have separate suites, I bet that’s what little cousin Joe has.” he sneered.

She ignored him, determined not to let him spoil the mood. He kept pushing her buttons, something he was very good at. “Too bad I’m not Robert. I bet you’d rather be sharing a room in a fancy hotel on the ocean with him.” Michael jeered. She felt her throat tighten. Why the fuck did Michael have to mention that name?

The elevator arrived at the third floor, and the two stepped out, searching the long hall for Room 328. Shauna walked briskly ahead of her brother, who sauntered behind. She finally found their room, unlocked the door, and stepped in. Her jaw dropped. Her father wasn’t kidding about the ocean view. The room also had a television, mini-bar, and beautiful balcony overlooking the golden beach. Even if it wasn’t a suite, it was good enough for her.

She set her bag on one of the beds and ran to the balcony, where she pushed open the sliding glass door and stepped outside. She stood transfixed, staring at the white sand and the blue ocean, and decided it was the most fantastic sight she had ever laid eyes on. As much as she hated to admit it, her brother was right. She would much rather be here with Robert than Michael. This weekend, though, she was going to put Robert, school, and other worries out of her mind. This was her first vacation, and she was going to make it memorable.

She felt the cool ocean breeze flow through her long hair. She closed her eyes and just listened to the sound of the waves hitting the sand. She wished, like she had all her life, that she was rich, just like her cousin Joe she had heard so much about. Rich people could come to places like this all the time; they could even own places like this. It must be really nice.

She turned and ran back into the room, jerking open her tattered overnight bag, and pulling out her simple, one-piece swimsuit. She went into the bathroom to change.

Michael was sprawled on the bed, smoking a cigarette and flipping through the channels on the T.V. with the remote control. He scoffed at his silly sister, acting all impressed with these foolish people, this stupid hotel, and her ludicrous fantasies about getting out of Boonville and being “somebody”. These people were nothing but fat, lazy assholes, and not one of them was going to give Shauna the time of day.

Shauna emerged from the bathroom, wearing her worn-looking swimsuit, and Michael started laughing at her. “What are you going to do when all your rich relatives are at the pool in their designer bathing suits and won’t talk to you because you are wearing that piece of shit?” he scoffed. Michael got off on making her feel two-inches-tall—he always had. Shauna grabbed a towel and walked out the door. “Go to hell, Michael.” she called over her shoulder.

Michael just snickered and went back to the television. This whole weekend was going to be bullshit, and he wished he could stay in the room the whole time.

The first thing that struck Shauna when she stepped outside onto the beach was amazement. She could hardly breathe, and all she could do was run along the sand. She felt it between her toes for the first time. She ventured out towards the blue water and felt the waves crashing around her calves. She dove headfirst into the Pacific, got a mouthful of salt water, then ran along the wet sand. Her only company on the private beach was a flock of seagulls searching for their lunch. She felt alive, removed from reality, almost like living in a wonderful dream.

Finally, she collapsed on her towel and got lost in her happy thoughts. She though about her beautiful mother, Linda, who passed away mysteriously about a year ago. Her death devastated her and her father. The family was trying to cope with the loss and the grief. Her mother would have loved to be here and see her family. Her father was simply lost and hurting with out his wife.

Her mind drifted to Robert. Four months ago he was known as Mr. Kimberlin, her psychology instructor at H.G. Hill Junior College in Boonville. Robert was ten years her senior and married, but that didn’t stop her from falling in love with him at first sight.

He was different from all the college boys that she had dated, who were all horny and confused. Robert was nice to her, nicer than any boy had ever been. She lost her virginity to him two short months ago. Since then, she fantasized that they would run away together, leaving his wife behind to spend his life with her.

He told her that he was in love with her too, but gave her strict instructions to keep their love affair a secret, until his divorce. She wished that she could share this moment with the love of her life, but she would just have to tell him about it. Only Michael knew of the affair, after seeing the two of them together in Robert’s car. Michael knew who he was immediately. Boonville being a very small town, he told her that she was living in a dream world, that sleeping with a married man was a no-win situation and to snap back into reality.

Michael had an incredible way of ruining her joy. Perhaps he was jealous, for as far as she knew, Michael had never had a girlfriend, or even been in love. She stretched out and felt the delicious sunshine devour her, and told herself that there were going to be no worries this weekend-just relaxation, dreams, and fun. What else was there?

… Continued…

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Weekends

by Lindy S. Hudis
14 rave reviews
Kindle Price: 99 cents

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Cephrael’s Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One

by Melissa McPhail

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Here’s the set-up:

All things are composed of patterns…
And within the pattern of the realm of Alorin, three strands must cross:In Alorin…three hundred years after the genocidal Adept Wars, the realm is dying, and the blessed Adept race dies with it. One man holds the secret to reverting this decline: Bjorn van Gelderan, a dangerous and enigmatic man whose shocking betrayal three centuries past earned him a traitor’s brand. It is the Adept Vestal Raine D’Lacourte’s mission to learn what Bjorn knows in the hope of salvaging his race. But first he’ll have to find him…In the kingdom of Dannym…the young Prince Ean val Lorian faces a tenuous future as the last living heir to the coveted Eagle Throne. When his blood-brother is slain during a failed assassination, Ean embarks on a desperate hunt for the man responsible. Yet his advisors have their own agendas, and his quest for vengeance leads him ever deeper into a sinuous plot masterminded by a mysterious and powerful man, the one they call First Lord…

In the Nadori desert…tormented by the missing pieces of his life, a soldier named Trell heads off to uncover the truth of his shadowed past. But when disaster places him in the debt of Wildlings sworn to the First Lord, Trell begins to suspect a deadlier, darker secret is motivating them.

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an excerpt from

Cephrael’s Hand

by Melissa McPhail

Chapter One

‘To know love is to know fear.’

– Attributed to the angiel Epiphany

The skiff bobbed on icy waves as two sailors rowed in tandem. A crescent moon looked down upon the little boat and limned a silvery trail back to the hulking shadow that was the royal schooner Sea Eagle. The air was damp and pungent with the scent of brine, but the sky shone uncommonly clear, and the wind carried an exhilarating sense of promise.

Or at least Ean thought so as he stood with boots braced in the prow of the skiff watching the dark expanse of the Calgaryn cliffs growing taller, broader, vaster, until they towered over the little boat. They’d no lights glimmering from the great crags to tell the rowing sailors where beach ended and deadly rocks began, neither lighthouse nor lantern to serve as a beacon across the blanket of ebony ocean, only Ean’s ears, keen to the roar of the waves upon a familiar shore.

“There,” he said, pointing with arm outstretched, “two degrees to port.” The blustery wind whipped Ean’s hair, lifting and tossing it in wild designs while his cloak flapped behind him, so that he seemed a figurehead as he stood in the prow, a sculpture of some undersea godling.

“Aye, Your Highness,” said one of the sailors as he and his partner adjusted their rowing to shift course.

“’Tis strange,” said the skiff’s fourth occupant, seated on a bench behind Ean, wrapped in an ermine cloak. Ean’s blood-brother since childhood, Creighton Khelspath had sealed his destiny to Ean’s, to go where the prince went, to serve, and to protect. Now he and Ean had both gained their eighteenth name day, the age of manhood that brought new titles and new responsibilities, yet neither felt quite ready to face the world beneath the mantle that accompanied their new statuses.

“What’s strange?” Ean shifted his head slightly to maintain his focus on the minute sounds of the surf.

“Strange to be coming back here after so long,” Creighton answered; simple words that yet shouted his anxiety. He shifted his gaze to the smudge of darkness towering before them, but it wasn’t the treacherous shoreline that troubled him. He added under his breath, “Strange to think of ourselves as the King’s men again, instead of just the Queen’s.”

“Would that there was no need for such distinction,” Ean muttered. He’d spent five long years arguing with his Queen mother about her relationship with his King father—the entire time he’d been sequestered on his mother’s home island of Edenmar, in fact—and the disagreement had created a flood of bitterness. That he’d been sequestered there to protect his life after both his older brothers were lost to treachery seemed ill consolation for being ripped from all that he’d known and loved, or from his father’s beloved side.

Now all that had changed—at least, that was the expectation. Two moons ago Queen Errodan and her entourage had returned to Calgaryn to make peace with King Gydryn in the name of their only surviving son. Ean hoped his name would be enough to bridge the canyon between his estranged parents; a great part of him feared nothing could span so immense a distance.

Suddenly the little boat surged upwards, and the crashing sound of waves gained in volume.

“We’re here!” Ean shot Creighton a look of sudden excitement as the waves lifted them again, and moments later he leapt from the boat and sloshed through hip-deep surf to stand, dripping, upon the shore.

Jutting cliffs sliced into the bay on either side, while between them lay a swath of sand that sparkled faintly in the moonlight. Ean opened his arms and spun around to embrace the air of his homeland, breathing deeply of its fragrance.

The sailors took the skiff all the way in, surfing the last wave until the flat-bottomed boat scraped the shore. Creighton swept up his ermine cloak and stepped across the bow onto the beach, turning to face the waves as his boots sank into the soft sand.

Above the dark waters spread another sea, this one a starry splay of jewels surrounding the moon. Just above this eyeless crescent, high within the arch of sky, a seven-pointed constellation flamed. Creighton swallowed.

“Ean,” he murmured, pointing with his free arm. “Look.”

Ean lifted his gaze to follow along Cray’s line of sight. His ebullient expression faded when he saw the grouping of stars. “Cephrael’s Hand.”

At this utterance, both sailors lifted faces to the heavens.

“’Tis an inauspicious omen for your return,” Creighton observed, unable to hide his sudden unease.

One of the sailors grunted at this, and the other spat into the sand and then ground his boot over the mark.

Ean cast him a withering look. “Ward for luck if you wish, helmsman, but we make our destiny, not superstition.”

“Epiphany’s Grace you’re right, Highness,” replied the sailor, “but you won’t begrudge me if I keep my knife close tonight, I hope?”

Ean caught sight of Creighton loosening his own blade in its sheath and stared at his blood-brother in wonderment. “Creighton, you and I both have studied the science of the stars. How can you believe the stars have any power over our fates—”

Creighton spun him a heated look and hissed under his breath, “How can you not?”

Ean pushed a chin-length strand of cinnamon hair behind one ear and folded arms across his chest. He couldn’t discount the terrible events that had each happened beneath the taint of Cephrael’s Hand—two brothers lost—even if he chose not to believe in the abounding superstitions surrounding the fateful constellation. The memories evoked a sigh that felt painful as it left his chest. “We blame the gods too often for things no one controls.”

“That’s your father talking.”

Ean shot Creighton an aggravated look. “Sometimes he’s right.”

A gusting breeze brought the stench of seaweed and wet rocks, and something else, some proprietary scent seemingly owned by that beach alone. Ean remembered it well—it and all of the memories it harbored, memories carried like autumn leaves spinning in funnels across the sand. “I said goodbye to both brothers upon this very spot,” he observed quietly, recalling a much younger self who watched as first one brother and then the next was carried away toward an awaiting royal ship at anchor, much as the Sea Eagle was now. Neither brother had returned from their journey south, one lost to treachery, the other claimed by the Fire Sea. Now Ean stood upon this shore not as a boy but as a man, and he’d never been more aware of how different his life had become, how much the fingers of tragedy and obligation had molded and changed him.

“The Maker willing, we shall meet them again someday in the Returning,” Creighton said respectfully, repeating a litany they’d both recited too many times already in their young lives, “and know them by Epiphany’s Grace.”

“Aye,” Ean agreed, feeling unexpectedly hollow.

“Aye,” intoned the sailors, who couldn’t help overhearing.

Ean grimaced and turned his gaze upon the Sea Eagle and the tiny flame of a lantern on its mainmast. Once, a royal schooner could always be seen at anchor just off these cliffs, awaiting the King’s command for his pleasure, but after the loss of the Dawn Chaser and Ean’s middle brother five years ago, King Gydryn sailed no more. Memories of his lost brothers had stolen what joy he’d summoned for his homecoming, leaving naught but unwelcome emptiness in its place.

“Come,” the prince said, affecting a happier tone to help shake off the clinging cobwebs of loss. “Let’s see how far we can get before my mother’s men spot us.”

Creighton set off with Ean across the beach, muttering, “I only hope they’re not inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. There’s nothing like a bolt in the shoulder to sour one’s homecoming.”

“No one could mistake you for a brigand in that outfit,” Ean noted.

Creighton adjusted his ermine cloak and straightened his shoulders. “You never get a second opportunity to make a first impression.” He smoothed his velvet jacket and pressed out the long line of ornate silver buttons that glittered down the front—indeed, Ean had watched him spend many an hour polishing said buttons in preparation for their homecoming. “And Katerine’s favor is worth any effort.”

The prince chuckled. “A first impression? Correct me if I’m mistaken, but wasn’t it Katerine val Mallonwey who looked raptly on as you tried to escape that sea skunk on this very beach?”

Creighton cast him an aggravated look. “How was I to know it was mating season?” He shook his head and scowled at Ean’s back. “I had to burn that cloak. The smell never would come out of it.” Ean laughed again, and Creighton lifted his head and glared sootily at him. “I do believe you take perverse pleasure in my misfortunes.”

“Creighton, the entertainment value alone is priceless.”

They navigated around and between two hulking rocks that muffled somewhat the crash of the sea, and the prince reached for his blood-brother’s arm. “Now then.” Ean leveled Creighton a look full of amusement. “You swore you would explain once we were ashore. Why all the pomp? The cloak, the endless polishing of buttons? I notice you’ve even cut your hair, though Raine’s truth, a blind monkey could’ve made a straighter job of it.”

Creighton couldn’t stop the foolish grin that split his face. “Tonight, upon our return to Calgaryn, I’m to see Katerine.”

Ean grabbed Creighton’s arm. “You told her of our landing?”

“No—of course not!”

“You know the threat upon our lives—never mind the precarious situation of my father’s throne! If you told Katerine or anyone, Creighton—”

“Ean, I swear, I did not.”

Ean dropped his arm and gave him odd look. “Surely you don’t expect to wake her in the wee of the night. So how…?”

A faraway, love-struck look beset his friend, and a moment passed before Creighton confessed, “It’s like I can sense her, Ean.” He dropped his eyes with a sheepish look. “I know it sounds foolish, but after so many years of letters back and forth, of secrets shared across the intimacy of Mieryn Bay…years of imagining her eyes and smile as she read my words and wrote to me in return…” Creighton shrugged. “I can’t explain it, but I feel in my heart that when next I set foot within Calgaryn Palace, Katerine will be there to meet me.” His distant look faded, replaced with Creighton’s boyish smile. “So,” he concluded with a glance down at his finery, “I’ve come prepared.”

“I see,” Ean said, even though he didn’t. He started them walking again. “I take it that you mean to propose then.”

Creighton grinned. “Am I so transparent?”

“It was the ermine that betrayed you.” Ean winked, adding, “It begged me save it from a torturous hour of maudlin rhetoric. Ode to Katerine…” He placed a hand dramatically upon his heart. “Were I but able to describe thy beauty, shall I compare thee to a thistle?”

Creighton looked injured. “It wasn’t to be that sort of thing at all. I wrote her an epic allegorical poem…”

Upon which confession Ean really laughed.

Frowning at the prince, Creighton reached inside his vest and withdrew a velvet pouch. He emptied its contents onto his palm and held it out for Ean to see. “I was going to give her this.”

Sobering out of consideration for Creighton’s earnest admission, Ean took the ring and looked it over. A single ruby glinted amid delicate silver filigree fashioned in the shape of a rose. “It’s beautiful,” Ean offered by way of apology. “It must be very old.” He handed the ring back to Creighton.

“It belonged to an Avataren Fire Princess,” Creighton murmured while returning the ring carefully inside his vest.

“Ahh…” Ean winked in understanding, for he knew now who had surely given Creighton the ring to use in this marriage proposal. “So…my mother and her Companion Ysolde are in on this farce then. I’m hurt I wasn’t entrusted with the secret.”

“Only for your own protection, Ean. We wouldn’t want any rumors going about that you were planning to propose.”

Ean snorted. The truth was there were so many rumors about him that he couldn’t keep them all straight.

The boys turned their attention back to the climb then, which became ever steeper, and Ean grew pensive in the silence that followed. His mind wandered back to Creighton’s earlier confession. His friend had spoken truth. It was strange to be returning as men to these places where they’d played as children, to the very beach where he and Cray had so often sought refuge from Ean’s eldest brother Sebastian, who’d had a penchant for throwing pie tins full of mud and rocks when he was in a temper; where all the boys had come to devise new ways to torment their tutors, secretly and momentarily united against a common foe. Strange to find comfort on a chill and treacherous shore, yet it was there he’d fled when first one brother and then the next was taken, snatched away by the pitiless snares of Fate.

And stranger still to find comfort lingering there, like an old friend waiting by the wayside.

Ean didn’t want a formal acknowledgement as the crown prince—Raine’s truth, how could he desire a crown when it only fell to him though tragedy and betrayal? Never had he felt the loss of his brothers more than in the sure knowledge that he’d taken their place in line for the throne. Yet the cold fact remained: Ean was the family’s last hope of retaining the Eagle Throne, and he shouldered that responsibility as any good son should, though he wept in the knowledge of what had passed to lay the promise at his feet.

“My prince, is that you?”

The boys drew up short.

Footsteps approached from the path above, and soon a soldier’s mailed form solidified in the moonlight. “Why it is you, Your Highness,” the man said as he neared. Queen Errodan’s silver coat of arms glimmered on his breast in the moonlight, a barely discernible trident on his dark green surcoat. “And you also, Lord Khelspath, Fortune bless you’re both safe. Her Majesty is most aggrieved about these circumstances, but Your Highness’s safety necessitated the subterfuge.”

Never was understatement uttered so blithely. “I understand,” Ean said. “It’s good to see you, Eammon.”

Eammon nodded. “Aye. Let’s be off then. This way if you will, my lords.”

They took the rest of the climb in silence. As they neared the crest, the unwelcome sound of battle floated down. Eammon held up his fist to halt them. “Stay here!” he hissed, and then he was sprinting up the last switchback in the trail.

Creighton gave the prince a wide-eyed look. “Ean, we can’t just—”

“Of course not!”

Ean darted after Eammon, and Creighton followed close behind.

A battle indeed greeted them at the crest, where the moonlight revealed a writhing frenzy of soldiers. Green-coated Queen’s Guard fought red-coated palace soldiers, and other palace soldiers fought each other.

Ean stared open-mouthed as he tried to make sense of the scene. This is madness!

Creighton grabbed his arm. “Is…is it your parents fighting again?”

“No,” Ean whispered, suspecting treachery had turned soldier against soldier, not their monarchs’ whims. He motioned Creighton to follow, and they ducked through the tall sea grass looking for an opening into the fray. As yet they hadn’t been spotted, and the prince hoped he might find an opportunity to intervene—

Suddenly Ean felt the cold press of steel against his neck. Ean stilled beneath the blade.

“I have him!” shouted a voice next to his ear.

In the clearing, the fighting slowed. Among the men Ean recognized, Eammon looked down the wrong side of a deadly blade, and Ean suspected with failing hopes that his allies were on the losing side.

“Good work,” said a burly soldier dressed in the king’s livery. He pushed his way through to where Ean stood. The prince couldn’t turn his head to look around, but he suspected Creighton stood nearby, held in much the same fashion. “Let’s see his weapon,” the leader said as he reached for Ean’s sword. He looked only at the hilt and the deep sapphire set as the pommel stone.

“That’s a kingdom blade all right,” confirmed the man holding Ean.

“Aye, but the other lad has one too,” said someone else.

The leader frowned over at Creighton, who stood at sword-point a half-step behind Ean, and then back again. He grabbed Ean’s chin roughly and turned his face from side to side, the knife at his throat barely loosening in time to avoid garroting him in the doing. “Can’t tell. He could be the right one.”

“You’d think the other’d be him,” grumbled another of the men, also in the uniform of the palace guard. “Look how he’s all gussied up.”

“Just so,” the leader noted. He narrowed his gaze at Ean. “Well then, which are you? The prince or his dog?”

“I am Prince Ean!” Creighton declared before Ean could respond.

“I am Ean val Lorian,” the prince said evenly, holding the man’s gaze with angry eyes. “And you’re a corpse when my father learns of this.”

The leader laughed and spun his arm to the others. “Aren’t we all soiling ourselves now, men?”

Eammon spoke up to be heard over the round of raucous jesting that followed this remark. “You may have fooled us,” he said while disdainfully eyeing the blade aimed at his heart, “but the King’s Own Guard is coming even as we speak. Be certain they will know you for the knaves you are. Release us now, and I will beseech Their Majesties for mercy, though ’tis undeserved.”

“I just can’t be certain which one you are,” the leader remarked, ignoring Eammon completely. He lifted his gaze to the man holding Ean. “Best to kill them both.”

“Agreed,” said the man, and the prince felt the blade’s deadly sting against his throat even as Eammon and Creighton both shouted, “No!”

Ean slammed his heel onto the bridge of his captor’s foot and spun into his embrace. The blade bled his neck, but then he had his hands on the weapon and was forcing his captor backwards into the long grass. Fighting broke out behind him as others joined the struggle. Ean struggled to gain control of the dagger. His assailant’s black eyes bored into his with ruthless menace as they wrestled. Ean realized he couldn’t overpower the other man, but he was spry and agile and determined not to lose his life that night. When the man stumbled over a jutting rock, Ean used the momentum to force him backwards—just four quick steps and they reached the cliff’s edge. Ean wrenched free of his hold as the man fell with a howl.

Heart racing, Ean drew his sword and turned to dive back into the melee.

It was the first time the prince had ever swung a blade with mortal intent, and he felt powerful and righteous in the doing. His years of training held him true, and within moments he took a man through the chest. The traitor fell to his knees, and Ean backed away, covered in the other’s blood, his own chest heaving, both repulsed and exhilarated in the same terrible moment. He was the first man Ean had ever killed, but he was not the last that night.

Ean had just felled a third man when strong arms grabbed him from behind. They wrapped around his arms and chest and squeezed inward and upward, choking the breath out of him with a pressure so great that Ean was forced to drop his weapon. Needles pricked his hands and arms where the man had them pinned against his sides. He dragged Ean, kicking and grunting, into the long grass and threw him down. Ean rolled, but the man pounced on top of him just as quickly. Knees pinned the prince’s shoulders into the sandy earth and legs pushed his arms painfully into the ground.

With his heavy weight crushing the prince’s chest, the man pushed a hand hard over Ean’s mouth. “Now then,” he whispered, pulling a bundle from within his surcoat. “We’ll do this the right way.”

Dark eyes watched Ean with hungry anticipation as the man unwrapped a dagger with his free hand. “This is Jeshuelle,” he said, showing the blade to the captured prince while Ean struggled beneath him. “She’s named after the first slut I slew. She was a fighter, she was, nearly bit my ear off while I was bedding her. I dug out her heart when I finished and filled the dead hole with my seed.” He scraped the point of the blade against Ean’s chest, making an X across his heart. “That’s the only way to be sure, you know.” He gave the prince a grim smile. “Take out the heart, and no Healer can bring a man back.”

Ean fought against desperation. If only…if only…

Laughing, the man raised his dagger—

It was the keening that stopped him—froze him actually in place as a wild look of recognition came into his gaze. The sound stopped everyone, in fact; soldiers on both sides of the conflict cringed, their senses immediately scrambled, ears protesting that terrible cry. It grew in volume, a horrid, uncanny wail that resembled nothing in nature. It was a cry from beyond the grave.

“What in Tiern’aval is that?” someone was heard to ask, but none other found voice to marry with words.

“Shite,” hissed the assassin atop Ean. While all others stood transfixed, he leapt off the prince and scuttled low through the long grass on hands and knees like all the daemons of thirteen hells were chasing him.

Benumbed by the strange turn of events as much as by the terrifying howling which only grew stronger and louder with every passing moment, Ean pushed to his feet. His head swam, his chest ached, and his neck bled fiery warmth into his collar. He pushed one hand over the gash, retrieved his sword, and stumbled back toward the clearing.

He met a strange scene. The soldiers stood immobile with their blades leveled at one another, as if in silent agreement to first discover the source of the wail.

Had Ean been wiser, had he not just been nearly suffocated, garroted and stabbed, he might’ve thought to follow the one man who seemed to know what approached and himself run far and fast. But like so many of the others, Ean’s curiosity to learn the source of that dreadful, ear-splitting cry rooted him to the scene.

A cloud moved off the moon, and they came.

Moonlight bathed the clearing in silence, its arrival seemingly shepherded by a cloaked man who was approaching through the meadow. Even as Ean watched—and had he not been watching from the very start he never would’ve believed his eyes—deep shadows began rising up from the low blanket of night; solidifying, congealing darkness unto themselves until they at last coalesced into creatures of legend and myth.

It cannot be!

Ean denied the image his eyes so clearly witnessed. Half as tall as horses, entirely black with eyes like darkly golden fire, they lifted their paws out of the night-shadows that birthed them and gathered around their cloaked master, red tongues lolling.

Darkhounds.

Had it been daylight and sunny, still they would have cast no shadow, for darkhounds were shadows—made real.

And then the stranger reached the clearing, and Ean became intimate with a new kind of terror.

“You men,” said the cloaked man, pointing to Eammon and the other of the Queen’s soldiers, “bind each other.”

Several hounds trotted forward on soundless paws, and Ean saw that they carried ropes in their mouths. He wondered why no one protested, why no one turned to fight, why no one moved in challenge. Wondered, that is, until he tried to speak out himself and found he could not.

The stranger turned toward Ean then as if feeling his questioning thought. Pushing back the cowl of his hood, he locked gazes across the distance with the prince, and Ean knew he was dreaming. A Shade and his darkhounds? Is this some twisted jest?

“Look at me but once, Prince of Dannym,” said the stranger with the silver face that gleamed like chrome, metal yet living flesh, “and I have the power to bind you to my will.”

Even as the stranger spoke these words, Eammon and the others wordlessly took the ropes and began binding each other’s wrists. They moved stiffly, and their eyes were wild.

Ean tried to find his voice, pushing against the confines of his throat, but though he screamed inside, not even a squeak emitted. He tried to lift just one finger, and the effort left his heart pounding and the sound of blood throbbing in his ears. Only his eyes moved freely, and he searched the darkness for a sign of Creighton, but either his blood-brother had fallen, or he was out of Ean’s line of sight.

The heavy thunder of horses brought meager hope, but all too soon Ean saw it was not the foretold King’s Own Guard that approached. Two dozen men reined to a halt in a scramble of hooves, and the Shade spun his head to fix them with a stare. “You’re late.”

“We had to elude the King’s Guard,” the man in the lead said breathlessly. “We led them for a chase, but they’ll be here soon.”

“Get the prince on his horse and be off then.” The Shade pinned his gaze once more on Ean. “Go with them, Ean val Lorian.”

Ean found his legs suddenly moving quite without his volition. More frightening still, he couldn’t even affect a jerking motion in the pretense of fighting against the stranger’s will; his legs simply no longer belonged to him.

As Ean neared the horses, a man came forward with a moon-pale stallion in tow. The prince’s fine destrier had made the crossing with the Queen two moons ago, and the horse Caldar seemed so out of place among this strange night that Ean almost didn’t recognize him.

Before he knew it, however, he’d sheathed his sword and had one foot in his stirrup and the other slung across Caldar’s back. Only as he settled into the saddle did he realize that he could now move his arms freely. His legs remained so leaden, however, that he marveled they were still attached to his body and actually caught himself looking down just to be certain.

In all, the entire night seemed far too incredible to be believed. Struggling to make sense of it all, Ean looked to the heavens, to the constellation of Cephrael’s Hand gleaming brightly above him. It all felt so impossible that Ean held onto a desperate hope that this must be an elaborate deception, that a court magician had been solicited to create the illusion, or that they were all somehow made to hallucinate the same appalling vision. Everything had happened so unexpectedly—each unlikely moment opening onto the next, such that Ean felt he watched some disjointed farce populated by actors whose wild improvisation led the entire performance into appalling directions.

The Queen’s men had just finished binding each other when the hounds began their unnatural keening again. This time an unmistakable hunger resonated in the whine.

Ean shuddered reflexively.

The Shade’s dark gaze flitted across the assembled soldiers, statues made of flesh and bone. “Spare none.”

The darkhounds attacked with predation, and men screamed like children. Horribly, the Queen’s men alone were allowed their voices as the hounds swarmed in and around them, sating their deep hunger on those who’d meant Ean ill, leaving Eammon and his men untouched save by the blood that soon washed the clearing. Ean found something unbearable in that observance—to die such a death without being allowed even the grace of voice to give vent to the fear and pain in one’s last moments…

The prince shuddered and looked away. Wicked they might be, and with malicious intent, but they were men. No man deserved such a fate.

“Creighton Khelspath!” commanded the Shade, his clear voice rising above the ravening din. “Attend!”

Ean swung his head to look for his blood-brother, for he had still not seen him among the group.

At first he saw only the horrible hounds sating their hunger on the living, but then a form rose up from among the long grass bordering the scene. Creighton wore a horrified expression, as if death had already claimed him, and he walked with a staggering gait, clearly in pain. Ean wanted desperately to call out, to give words of encouragement and hope—even if they were impotent—but voice was still denied him. So he watched helplessly as his blood-brother crossed the distance, miraculously passing untouched amid the feasting darkhounds and their flailing prey.

Tears came unbidden to Ean’s eyes, and he reached for his sword with sudden desperation that he might do anything to stop this, but his fingers couldn’t close upon the leathered steel. The sword hung encouragingly at his side, yet it might’ve been aboard the Sea Eagle for all he could use it.

Creighton halted in front of the Shade. His face was ashen, his expression now void of emotion, as if already defeated. The Shade stared at him for a long moment, and then he shook his head. He slowly drew forth a sword from beneath his dark cloak. “Kneel,” he commanded.

Creighton dropped to his knees.

The Shade walked to stand behind Creighton, and Ean saw his sword gleaming with a silver-violet sheen. He placed the tip against the back of Creighton’s neck, and Ean thought he might lose his mind. No! No! Noooooooo!

“It was not meant to be this way with you,” the Shade murmured. Then he spoke for a long moment in a language Ean didn’t understand. Creighton never looked up, never turned to Ean though, yet Ean imagined he heard his voice as clear as day in his mind.

Tell Kat that I love her. Tell her I will always love her. Tell her I’m sor—

The voice ended with the Shade’s two-handed thrust.

And Ean found he could scream after all.

“Reyd,” the leader of the horsemen called the Shade’s attention to where he stared anxiously toward the road. The rising thunder of horses said more soldiers would soon be upon them.

“Yes, go.” The Shade still held the sword that impaled Creighton so horribly, the latter’s body slumped and twisted like a broken marionette. “Go!”

The horsemen peeled away, and Caldar leaped into a canter, following the other horses without Ean’s prodding. Indeed, the prince was tumbling amid crushing waves of pain and loss and could barely conceive of anything else.

Three brothers, was all he could think as his world spun and his gut twisted and his chest heaved with silent heart-wrenching sobs. Three brothers lost.

… Continued…

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Cephrael’s Hand

by Melissa McPhail
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Adopted from scattered families into one, five boys became brothers. Together, they learned to leave their pasts behind and focus on their lives ahead. Now men, they are passionate about their jobs, concerned about their fellow man, and looking toward the future. What none of them expect is to have their hearts stolen. But that’s exactly what happens in this five stories.

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an excerpt from

Danby Series

by Tess St. John

TYLER

Chapter One

After a lively couple of knocks, Tyler Danby’s back door opened and Faith Whitmore stepped inside the kitchen. Dressed in pink scrubs, she dropped her keys into her purse, set the bag on his white-tiled countertop, and faced him. With her brunette hair pulled back in a ponytail, she looked like a young school girl. “Wanna have sex?”

Tyler choked on his orange juice, the citrus burning his throat. He coughed, tore a paper towel from the roll, and wiped his mouth. “And a good morning to you too.”

“It can be.” Her brown brows lifted flirtatiously.

What was she up to? He scowled at his best friend. “What good would it do for us to have sex?”

“Release a lot of pent up anxiety we both have.”

“Speak for yourself, Faith. I’m fine.” A lie, they both knew it. He hadn’t dated anyone seriously in three years. Pouring out the little juice left, he rinsed the glass, filled it with cold water, and took a sip to help soothe his burning throat.

She propped her hip on his dinette table and continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “And we’re good friends. Who else can someone be intimate with if not their best friend?”

“It’d be awkward.” If there were some way to make yourself attracted to another person, he’d do it for Faith. Although she gave him a hard time about everything, nagged him endlessly, and bossed him around, she was still the sweetest person he’d ever met. Maybe it was because she’d been his partner’s girlfriend before his death, but Tyler couldn’t find any attraction to her.

“How do you know?” she asked. “We’ve never even kissed. Maybe there’s some undiscovered hotness between us.”

“What’s wrong, Faith?” Then he remembered she’d had a date over the weekend. “Something happen on your date?”

“No. Andy was nice, cute, attentive, except I felt no spark. I don’t get the least excited about dates anymore.” In a rare show of emotion, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sick of missing Sam.”

Guilt assailed Tyler, making his insides cramp. The same guilt he’d suffered and fought since Sam’s shooting.

“Everyone says it’ll get better with time. And it’s true, I don’t miss him every minute anymore, but…” Her voice cracked. She usually kept herself busy between her job, social life, and family. In fact, he’d never seen her break down. But he—better than anyone—knew sometimes nothing eased the loneliness of loss.

He set down his glass and unhurriedly approached where she stood by his dinette. When he got close enough, he swept her into his arms and pulled her close.

At first surprised, her expression quickly changed to an eager smile.

Before his lips dropped to hers, he whispered, “This is a test.”

Her lips were cool, soft, and accepting—not hot, alluring, and tempting as they should have been. He lifted his head. Their eyes met.

She dropped her gaze to his lips. “Deeper, Tyler, let’s make sure.” Neither had felt a thing and doing it again would render the same results, but she’d nag him until he did it. He deepened the kiss, trying to find some flicker of a flame. A faint taste of mint from her mouth clashed with the orange juice he’d been drinking.

She ran her fingers through his hair, and her body pressed fully to his. He didn’t recoil from her touch, but neither did he ignite into heights of pleasure.

He ended the kiss and made a straight line with his lips.

“Thanks, anyway.” She sounded disappointed.

“My pleasure, honey.”

She stilled, and her light brown eyes rounded like another idea popped into that quick brain of hers. “Maybe we should have sex without kissing.”

At his scowl, she laughed. “Just kidding.” She moseyed farther into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of juice from the carton in the fridge and took a sip. “Ugh, pulp. Why did you buy juice with pulp?”

“Because I like it.”

“Blah.”

“You don’t like it, don’t drink it. And for your information, pulp is better for you.”

“Eat an orange. It’s like doing that with all this pulp anyway.”

“Hey, my house, my pulp.” The Roman numerals on his huge kitchen clock read eight o’clock. He needed to be at the office in thirty minutes and her at the hospital in an hour. She usually stopped by two or three mornings a week on her way to work. And since they were key buddies, she always let herself in.

She passed his sink and peeked inside. Her nose scrunched. “Tyler, we need to break you of your caffeine addiction.”

“Here we go. Another lecture.”

“You wake early every morning just to drink coffee. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to stay in bed late?”

With whom? he wanted to ask, but kept his mouth shut. He’d broken up with his last girlfriend shortly after Sam’s death, hadn’t been able to give her everything she needed with his conscience eating a hole through him. “I’m down to two cups a day.”

“Good, now you need to start mixing in caffeine-free.”

“Why?”

“That’s the next step. Mix one-third free with two-thirds laced and the next week, half and half, you get the picture. By the fourth week you’ll be caffeine-free.”

“And walk around like a zombie.”

“Am I a zombie?” The little spitfire tilted her chin up, challenging him.

“You must be the exception to the rule.”

“No, I’m not. I eat tons of sugar to keep me going.”

“Why do you believe caffeine is worse than sugar? Sugar leads to many health prob—”

“Fine, fine, fine.” She held up her hands as if speaking to the ceiling. “Live with a headache the rest of your life if you don’t drink a cup of coffee before the godforsaken hour of six. I’m through nagging you.”

Until the next morning she stopped by and the coffee pot still sat in the sink, they’d more than likely get into a similar discussion, and he’d more than likely lose. “That means I won this one.” He smirked.

“Don’t get smug.”

“I’m sorry, I rarely win with you. I’m thrilled when I do.”

“Don’t get used to it.” She put her glass in the sink. “What are you wearing Friday night?”

“A tux, of course.”

“What color?”

“Is there another color besides black?”

She leaned against the countertop. “I hoped you’d chosen something a bit more stylish. A white coat maybe.”

The only way for her to be pleased with whatever he wore was if she’d gone along and picked his tux out herself. “Black tux, white shirt.”

“Boring.”

He pointed to himself with both thumbs. “I’m never boring.”

“Good Lord, yes you are. You go to bed by ten. You’re up by six—”

“I have to go to bed by ten…” He spoke over her. “To wake up by six.”

She stopped talking and appeared to be considering his words, then shrugged. “I guess you have a point. But your life is too predictable, Tyler. You need some excitement.”

“Like what?”

“The sex I offered you.”

“That was a bust. What else you got?”

She bit her lip. “I’ll need time to come up with something.” Faith waved a hand as if dismissing the thought. “I’m so excited about the benefit. Lots of my friends bought tickets and will be there.”

He nodded. “The fundraising committee called and asked me to give a speech. They want me to explain how I started Men-in-Blue Survivors and give information on the ways Houston families benefit. I’m not sure many people are aware of the scholarships we give out.”

“Sam would be proud his death had a small part in helping so many people.”

His chest tightened. “Yeah, he would.”

“You were such an amazing friend to him. And to me.” She walked over to him, sadness in her eyes. “I’d be lost without you.”

Hugging her tight, he wanted to tell her she’d helped him after Sam’s death as much as he’d helped her, but decided to keep it light instead. “You’re a wildcat in the sack, aren’t you?”

With a final squeeze, she pulled away from him, her eyes now playful. “Want to find out?”

“Hell, yes.”

She hustled toward the back door, snatching her purse off the counter. “I propose it be hot, no fans, no clothes.” She turned the knob, opened the door, and glanced back at him. “And no kissing.”

“Tease.”

“I love you too.” She walked out and shut the door behind her.

He went into his bedroom and grabbed his phone off the nightstand where he’d put it next to his gun. As he checked his phone, the date registered. This Wednesday would be three years since Sam had been killed. No wonder Faith was battling her emotions; she must be dreading the day.

His phone vibrated. “Morning, Jean,” he said after reading his office number.

“Mr. Henchel called. He got your message last night, but is out of town. Which is one reason his wife is cheating on him. How can the man not realize the more he’s out of town, the easier it is for her to stray?” his secretary asked.

An old memory flashed through Tyler’s mind. “His being in or out of town wouldn’t matter. If a spouse wants to cheat, they’ll find a way.” He blinked away the image in his mind. “I’m on my way to the office. Do you want me to pick you up anything?”

Jean hesitated.

“What kind of donuts do you want?” They were bad for the older woman, but she loved them.

“A lemon filled. Only one. Last time you bought half a dozen and I wasn’t able to button my pants the next day.”

“You didn’t have to eat so many.” He chuckled to himself. The woman was a glutton with sweets.

“My generation doesn’t waste food. Only one, Tyler.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Chapter Two

Eleven-thirty Wednesday morning, Faith strode from the radiation room and into the happy yellow hallway with her patient. Recently painted, the corridor seemed luminous now. The man’s daughter rushed toward them as Faith patted Mr. Weber’s shoulder and said, “Don’t dance too much this weekend.”

The eighty-year-old man was a wonder. In treatment for thyroid cancer, he insisted on never missing his senior dances. “You should come Friday night. A pretty young thing like you’d never sit down. There are lots of single rich men who attend.”

All senior citizens. She wasn’t that desperate. Yet.

“She’s taken Friday night.”

She spun toward Tyler’s deep voice, surprised and delighted to see him. She imagined every woman on the planet found him attractive. She certainly did.

Dressed in black slacks and a lavender button down shirt, which couldn’t hide his muscular physique, he looked every bit the handsome private investigator. His short, dark brown hair had a cowlick at the top of his hairline, making a few unruly strands drop over his forehead, even with the gel he used to try to keep it in place.

“You lucky boy,” Mr. Weber said.

“Yes, I am.” He grasped Mr. Weber’s hand. “Tyler Danby.”

“Bill Weber. You’ve got a special girl there, Tyler. I hope you treat her right.”

“I try, sir.”

Mr. Weber waved as he and his daughter walked down the hospital hallway.

“I expected you to stop by my house this morning,” Tyler said softly.

She swallowed hard. “I found myself running late.” A cloud seemed to follow her around this morning. Monday, when she’d explained to Tyler that she didn’t miss Sam every minute anymore, she’d been telling the truth. She was healing, getting stronger, and tried to face each day like the gift it was. However, today, on the anniversary of his death, she’d woken in a melancholy mood, the weight of loss heavy on her heart.

Spying Tyler, she wondered how much he was mourning today. He didn’t appear upset or out of sorts, of course, he never did.

“I finished working a case nearby and figured I’d let you take me to lunch,” he said.

More like he didn’t want her to be alone and reflect too much about Sam—and he probably needed the company too. “I’d love to. I’m expecting one more patient before lunchtime. Can you wait about thirty minutes?”

A high-pitched squeal of laughter pealed down the hallway.

Faith turned to see Randy, a young orderly, pushing Heather in a wheelchair, making it pop a wheelie. “And here she is now.”

Heather, a precious four-year-old, giggled as her wheelchair sped down the corridor. Her head now bald, prior to her treatments for leukemia, beautiful blonde curls framed her tiny pale face and big blue eyes. Faith’s heart gave a thump. Cancer was so unfair—especially when it attacked an innocent child.

Heather’s giggles echoed off the walls. Today she wasn’t hooked up to an IV, and Randy was taking full advantage of her freedom. The orderly carefully brought the wheelchair to a stop in front of Faith and Tyler. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“Thank you, Randy.” Faith should probably reprimand him for doing wheelies, but she couldn’t. Not with the light shining in the little girl’s eyes. “Heather, I’d like you to meet my friend Tyler.”

Heather smiled at him. “Hi.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Tyler hunched down next to the wheelchair. “Heather is a beautiful name.”

The little girl grinned. “It’s my grandmom’s name.”

“Well, we have something in common. Tyler was my grandfather’s name. Do you realize what that means?”

Heather shook her head.

“We were named after someone special. Which makes us extraordinary.”

Faith watched Heather melt under Tyler’s charms. He’d just met the little girl and already found a way to make her feel special.

“We better get going.” Faith sidled around the wheelchair.

“Delightful to meet you, Heather.” Tyler stood and said to Faith, “I’ll return in thirty minutes.”

Faith smiled, waved, and pushed precious little Heather into the radiation room, realizing the heaviness on her heart had lifted.

Chapter Three

Thursday afternoon, Tyler swiftly entered his office, hurrying out of the rain. “Mr. Henchel’s here,” Jean said softly. She lowered her voice even more when he walked up to her desk. “You know how he looks like he’s pissed all the time?”

With his squinty eyes, Mr. Henchel did appear to always have a headache.

“Well, he seemed even madder than usual when he arrived.”

Tyler dreaded having to give his client bad news. Hated these cases where nine times out of ten when a spouse suspected their partner of cheating, they were.

He yanked off his wet jacket, draping it on the coat rack. His tiny reception area, only big enough for four people, seemed larger since Jean worked a miracle and had gotten eight chairs to fit. This office space was in a prime location in downtown Houston, and since he’d quit the police force and opened this business two years ago, he’d never been without work.

His PI firm did many different investigative jobs, but a lot of cases involved spousal affairs. And he hated them. They reminded him of the day…the day he…the memory flashed again.

The memory, and everything that happened because of it, existed in his past. He’d been a child. And afterward, he’d thankfully been sent to live with Pops, Mimi, and his brothers.

He rubbed his eyes. Time to get this over with.

Opening the door to his office, Tyler found Mr. Henchel standing behind his desk, staring out the window. “My wife confessed last night.” Mr. Henchel’s words sounded cold and distant, yet Tyler sensed his pain. “She’s been having an affair for four years.”

Surprised, Tyler assumed the liaison had recently started when Mr. Henchel hired him a couple of weeks ago.

“She loves him. Says she loves us both.”

Tyler snatched two bottles of water from the tiny fridge behind his oak desk and handed one to Mr. Henchel.

“Thanks.” After a sip, the older man continued, “You married, Danby?”

“No, sir. Never found the right woman.”

“Your life will be simpler if you don’t.”

That’s a no-brainer. Tyler kept his smartass opinion to himself. He let the man talk, sometimes clients needed to vent.

“She wants to try to work it out. Can you believe she even suggested such a thing?”

“What did you say?”

Henchel helplessly shrugged. “I was too much in shock to answer her.”

Tyler sat in one of the visitor chairs facing his desk and Henchel. “First you need to give yourself time to process this news.”

“Then what?”

“Counseling, perhaps.”

“Counseling for three?” Henchel asked sarcastically.

“Every situation is different. First, you need to decide if you want to still be married.”

Henchel closed his eyes.

“Maybe a professional can help,” Tyler said without blurting out the obvious fact that he wasn’t a psychiatrist.

His client glared out the window again. “You were going to give me the same news?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have photos?”

“I do.”

Henchel faced Tyler. “I don’t want them. If you could keep them on file in case…” The man seemed at a loss for words.

“I will.”

Henchel walked over and offered his hand. Tyler stood and shook it.

“Thank you.” The man left Tyler’s office as if lost in a daze.

A few minutes later, Tyler found himself in the same spot Henchel had been, staring at the fields behind his office. The rain had slowed to a slight drizzle, while the afternoon sun peeked through the clouds. If Mimi were still alive, she’d say, There must be a rainbow somewhere.

At a knock, he turned, surprised when Faith came into his office.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.

“You’re not.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out a square pink piece of fabric. “Wear this in the pocket of your tux, it matches my dress. I’m working until six tomorrow night, so I’ll meet you at the benefit at seven sharp.”

“Thanks for dropping it by.” He reached out to take the fabric from her.

She clutched his hand. “What’s wrong?”

His first instinct was to say nothing’s wrong, but Faith would know he was lying and badger him until he confessed. He sighed. “No one likes every aspect of their job.”

“No truer words were ever spoken.” She frowned and put the fabric in his hand. “You working another infidelity case?”

He nodded. He’d never told her why he hated these cases.

“Faithful people exist in the world, Tyler.”

“I want to believe you.” But he’d worked on too many cases where one or both spouses were cheating.

“You can. I would never lie to you.”

“Not on purpose, but you must admit JC’s problems don’t bode well for the argument of happily ever after.” His brother, JC, and his wife, Brandy, had been together since they were teenagers. Months ago Brandy left JC a text saying she needed time away and he hadn’t seen her since. Tyler tried to find Brandy, but turned up nothing on her.

“Brandy’s disappearance was bizarre, at best,” she said.

“Yes, and you can’t deny how it’s affected JC.” And not only JC. The whole family had been upset by her leaving. Her abandonment felt like someone in the family had died. His chest gave a twinge. Where was Brandy? Why had she put JC through so much pain? It was uncharacteristic of her to treat JC that way.

“No, I won’t deny JC’s been lost since she left. Even as he gets more and more popular on the music scene, he can’t seem to recover,” Faith agreed.

“He says he’s stuck in limbo until he finds her.”

“Relationships don’t have to be that way.” Her gaze held his for a heartbeat. “Trust me. There are women and men who never cheat on their significant other. Or leave them.”

She was right, of course. Mimi and Pops were prime examples, although in his estimation the kind of love his adopted parents shared was rare. “If it will pacify you, I’ll say I believe you.”

“Good. And that means I win this conversation. I’d like to stay and gloat, but I gotta go. Sabrina is waiting for me in the car. We’re on our way to Zumba class.”

“Thanks for dropping this by.” He tossed the fabric on his desk and followed her to the outer office.

“Great seeing you again, Jean,” Faith said as she passed the other woman’s desk.

“You, too.”

Once outside, the muggy scent, sweet and earthy, assailed Tyler. At least the rain had stopped. He walked Faith to Sabrina’s Honda Civic and opened the passenger door, before leaning inside. “Hey, Sabrina.”

“Hi, Tyler. Ivan and I are looking forward to the benefit tomorrow night.”

“Appreciate you guys coming.”

“We wouldn’t miss it.”

He straightened.

Faith hugged him, her voice stern. “Don’t be late tomorrow.”

“Yes, boss,” he said as he closed the door and they drove off.

Chapter Four

Tyler entered the fiftieth floor ballroom. Huge walls of windows overlooked Houston’s skyline. Tables, set with fine china and crystal, were positioned around a parquet dance floor. Many people had already arrived, most with a glass of bubbly in their hands.

Paul Stewart and his wife Meg were standing near the entrance. Paul, one of the most powerful men in Houston, owned Stewart Oil and Gas. He and Faith had been childhood friends and Tyler was sure she’d asked him to attend.

Tyler shook his hand. “Nice of you to come, Paul. Meg.”

Meg’s perfectly styled hair looked elegant and classy. She smiled. “Anything for Faith.”

Paul spoke to his wife. “If you’ll excuse us, I need to talk shop with Tyler for a second.”

“Of course, dear.”

Paul motioned Tyler to the side of the room. “How’s your PI firm doing?”

“Good. I never want for work. Why do you ask? You need a PI?”

His golden brown hair brushed his collar as Paul shook his head. “No. The head of my security division is retiring in a few months. I wondered if that kind of work might interest you.”

To run security for a major oil company would be a dream job. “That’s quite an opportunity.”

“Well, your cop background and PI experience speaks for itself. I know you’re a stand-up guy. The team is in place, but no one in my employ has your expertise. Why don’t you send me your resume and come in for an interview. You can learn what the job entails and decide if it’s something you’re interested in.”

How could he not be interested? “Thanks for considering me.”

“I’d rather put someone I trust in the position, so this will hopefully help us both.” He held out his hand to Tyler. “I better get back to my wife. By the way, do you know where Faith is?”

A spark of unease ran through Tyler. “She should be here.”

“I haven’t seen her.”

Eager to find Faith, Tyler said, “Excuse me,” and moved on, greeting people as he made his way to where Sabrina and Ivan were standing together holding hands.

“Where’s Faith?” he asked.

A sad expression came to Sabrina’s face. “I don’t believe she’ll make it. One of her patients died today.”

A hammering started in his head. “One she’s had a while?” She got so attached to her patients, especially ones she treated often.

“Three years.”

Christ.

“She left work after she found out. We covered for her.”

“I’m going to check on her.”

Sabrina clasped his arm. “Tyler, she said she wanted to be alone.”

“Being alone is the last thing she needs.” She’d had too much death and tragedy surrounding her. Sam, her patients.

No, she didn’t need to be alone.

He rushed from the ballroom and punched the button for the elevator. He considered taking the stairs, but dismissed the idea since he was on the fiftieth floor.

Speeding through the night, one question plagued him. What would he say to Faith when he saw her? He’d never been good at consoling people, reassuring them everything would be all right.

Once at her apartment door, he knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Still nothing.

He put his ear against the door and heard the drone of the TV. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his keys. Using his key buddy privileges for the first time, he unlocked the door, twisted the knob, and called, “Faith?”

The cozy living room was empty. And she wasn’t in her tiny green kitchen either. He stepped down the hallway toward her bedroom.

“Faith?” Once at the door, his heart hit the floor.

Faith lay on the bed in the fetal position. She was still in scrubs and most of her hair had fallen from the ponytail she wore to work every day. Her eyes were closed, her body shaking.

He approached the black wrought iron bed. “Honey, talk to me.”

“Tyler?” Her voice sounded weak.

“Yes, I’m here.”

She turned her head and stared up at him. Her entire face red, wet.

Why hadn’t he heard her crying?

Jesus. How often did she suffer alone and in silence over the grief surrounding her?

Covering her mouth with a hand, more tears rushed down her face. “I can’t stop bawling.”

He gingerly placed a hand on her back and stroked her spine, not knowing what to say or how to comfort her any other way than his touch.

“One of my patients died today. A thirty-year-old mother of two.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Her parents came with her to her treatments. I can’t imagine what they’re going through.” She sat up and put her back against the headboard. “No one should have to bury their child.”

Tyler moved to sit beside her, and she dropped her head on his shoulder. He picked up her hand and intertwined their fingers, trying in any way to offer consolation.

It didn’t seem to be working, she continued to silently cry. He let go of her hand, slipped his arm around her back, and scooted her crossways onto his lap—cradling her. Once he placed both of his arms around her, she wilted. Seconds later, her sobs filled the room as she cried.

Trying to make her understand that whatever she needed he’d be there, he simply held her. Hearing her cry was a relief to her soundless weeping.

“Do you think God is punishing me?” she asked.

His chest ached. “No, honey.”

“I do.” She buried her face in his neck.

Faith couldn’t catch her breath. Sadness consumed her. She felt so alone.

Except she wasn’t.

Tyler was here.

Tyler was here?

She quickly sat up. He was sitting on her bed in a tux. “Shouldn’t you be at the benefit?”

“When you didn’t show, I came to find you.”

“Why?”

“Sabrina told me about your patient. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

She sniffed, her tears seeming to have finally reached an end. She doubted she had any left. “Thank you for checking on me, but you better get back.”

“Not without you.”

Scraggly strands of her hair hung in her face. “I can’t go.”

“Okay, we’ll stay here.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “You have to go.”

“I’m not going without you.”

“It will take me too long to get ready. I’m a mess.”

He kissed her nose, slid out from under her, and stood. Popping the hem of his coat down, he removed the wrinkles. “You can throw any old thing on, honey. I’ll make you look great. Have you gotten a good peek at me?”

With a keen glare, her gaze started at his uncharacteristically well-behaved gelled down cowlick to the tips of his polished shoes. “You are damn fine in that tux.”

An hour later, Faith held on to Tyler’s arm as they entered the ballroom. He escorted her over to where Sabrina and Ivan stood. She didn’t miss all the women checking Tyler out.

Ceiling to floor windows on two sides of the room gave a breathtaking view of Houston’s illuminated skyline. Hundreds of people milled about, dressed in formal attire. Most of the women wore cocktail dresses like hers, accessorizing with glittering bling for jewelry. The men were decked-out in tuxes, making each of them dashing and handsome. None more than Tyler.

Along with being undeniably gorgeous in the tux, he was also the total package—kind, attentive, funny. He’d make some woman a great husband if he ever got over his trust issues and decided to date again.

She certainly couldn’t ask for a better friend. If it weren’t for him, she’d still be wallowing over Emily’s death, which would make her think of other patients she’d lost over the years. And Sam. She bowed her head, the loss closing in around her.

Tyler put his arm around her and pulled her close. “You okay?” he whispered.

The pain scurried away. Since arriving at her apartment, he seemed to have a way of soothing her loss. Did he realize how much his presence kept the sadness at bay? She smiled. “Yes, thanks to you.”

A teasing tilt to his lips, he said, “You being here makes this twice in one week that I won a discussion with you. You’re losing your touch.”

“Don’t count on it. Now, what’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here?”

He gave her waist a slight squeeze. “Coming up.” He and Ivan headed toward the bar.

“I didn’t expect you to come.” Sabrina’s lovely emerald green gown matched the color of her eyes. “You were so broken up earlier.”

“Tyler wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Sabrina’s brows rose.

“Don’t go getting the wrong idea. He’s my best friend.”

“You’ve said that many times.”

“Then why the brow hitch?”

Sabrina shrugged. “It’s like you two are perfect for each other. He’s had a lot of loss in his life and so have you.”

“Doesn’t make us good candidates for a relationship.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sabrina, what are you trying to say?”

She waved her hand. “I’ve never had a guy best friend. I don’t understand why you two don’t at least explore the possibility of getting together.”

Not wanting to explain that they’d tried kissing and it didn’t work, she said, “I don’t want to risk our friendship over some affair. I’d be lost without Tyler. He means too much to me.”

Sabrina put her arm through Faith’s. “You’re right. Friendship’s more important.”

Tyler and Ivan came back, drinks in hand, with some members of Tyler’s adopted family following them. It was a sweet story of how Pops and Mimi Danby were foster parents and eventually adopted five boys who were all in the same grade and graduated the same year.

Pops shook hands with every man and complimented every woman. Tyler’s brothers Levi and Brock were with Pops. Absent were JC, who was on a world tour, and Aiden, who lived in Austin.

Faith smiled when she noticed Pops in a white tux coat and black pants. “Now, Pops is a man with style,” she whispered to Tyler as she took her drink from him.

Tyler grinned.

“It’s a shame that style didn’t rub off on you,” she teased.

“He needs style,” Tyler said softly. “I don’t. I’ve got the looks.” His mischievous expression made her laugh.

“Faith, how beautiful you are tonight,” Pops said as he neared. He was tall, with gray hair and handsome blue eyes.

She hugged him. “Thanks.” She greeted the two other brothers and kissed them each on the cheek. “Thank you for coming.”

“We wouldn’t miss it.” Pops clapped Tyler’s shoulder.

A beautiful blonde woman tapped on the microphone positioned on the dance floor. “If I can have your attention.”

“I’ll be back,” Tyler said as he rushed off.

Everyone found seats at the round tables, Faith with Tyler’s family. White and gold decorations gave the room a regal glow, and the chandeliers lighting the room made the crystal vases and glasses sparkle.

Pops had taken the seat to Faith’s left and she left a chair to her right for Tyler. People turned their chairs to face the stage.

After welcoming everyone to the benefit, the woman gestured toward Tyler standing close. “Please join me in welcoming the founder of Men-in-Blue Survivors, Tyler Danby.”

Tyler approached the microphone. “First off, I’d like to thank each of you for being here tonight. I devoted a lot of my time and effort to the Men-in-Blue Survivors and am proud of what the organization has been able to accomplish.” He went on to talk about when Sam and he were Houston police officers and partners. He told of Sam’s shooting, then detailed different programs in place for families of fallen police officers, before he spoke about the scholarships they gave out. Toward the end of his speech, he took a deep breath and looked straight at Faith. “A friend and I were talking about Men-in-Blue Survivors the other day and both of us agreed how happy Sam would be that something positive came from his tragedy.”

She smiled back at him, her heart squeezing in agreement.

“Oh my,” Pops whispered. “Maybe he’s finally getting over Sam’s death. I hope so. Sam would not want him to grieve forever.” He turned to Faith. “He wouldn’t want you to either, dear.”

“No,” Faith reached over and patted Pops’ hand. “No, he wouldn’t.”

Pops was right. She’d mourned Sam, but he wouldn’t want her to grieve forever. A peacefulness spread inside Faith. From her heart to her every cell. Not exactly warmth, something cooler, more refreshing. The only way to describe it was that she felt brightness inside her. Her head, her body, her heart…they were all brighter. Happier. Uplifted.

“Again, thank you for buying the pricey tickets for tonight and for your contributions to a very worthy charity.” Tyler raised his glass of champagne. “Now let’s have a good time.”

Applause broke out.

When Tyler returned to Faith and his family, Pops met him first, hugging him tight. The rest of his family and friends rushed him, slapping his shoulder and back, shaking his hand, embracing him.

“Can I have a word?” Pops motioned to the balcony.

“Sure.” Tyler turned toward Faith. “I’ll return shortly.”

“Go,” she said. “I need to talk to Paul and Meg anyway.”

He nodded to her and followed Pops outside. The cool night air was invigorating. From this angle, he spotted the Downtown Aquarium’s Ferris wheel, making the Houston skyline resemble a lit-up carnival.

“I am proud of you, Tyler. Sam would appreciate what you’ve done to help other fallen police officers’ families.”

“I hope so.” Tyler inhaled a deep breath. The air seemed somehow more crisp this high up.

“By your speech tonight, seems you’ve finally put Sam to rest.”

He rubbed his forehead. “It was time.”

Pops nodded. “Past time.” The older man kept staring at Tyler. “If you’ve forgiven yourself for Sam’s death, what’s bothering you, son?”

No sense trying to fool Pops, he’d always been able to tell when any of the boys had something on their minds. “Old memories I can’t shake. They go back to before I came to live with you. Probably the reason I came to live with you.”

“Are you talking about your mother? She couldn’t support you, and I’m sure your life was hell for many years, but she loved you. She still does.”

His chest constricted. “Yes, sir. I never doubted her love.” Tyler turned and gazed out at the lights on the skyscraper to the left. The night that always flashed in his memory did so again. “Mom and I walked in on my dad and another woman.”

Stunned, Pops stilled. “How old were you?”

“Eight. Mom threw our clothes into a garbage bag, and we took off in her car. I never saw my father again. So many bad things happened after we left. We lived in our car, with friends, with men Mom called my uncles. When Mom got arrested for neglect for the fourth time, that’s when I was thankfully sent to you and Mimi. The first night I slept at your house, I went to bed without being hungry for the first time since I could remember.”

Pops put his hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “I wish you’d have told us, son.”

“I couldn’t.” He closed his eyes.

“Well, this sheds new light on why you hate infidelity cases.”

Tyler nodded as Pops squeezed his shoulder and let go.

“I can’t erase your memories, but you’re not your father. Just because you have his genes does not mean you’re anything like him. Any woman would be damned lucky to call you her husband.”

“Thanks, Pops. If I’m a good man, it’s because of you and Mimi and how you raised me.”

“It was a joy, son.” The older man’s blue eyes glistened as Tyler knew his did too. “You should call your mother. She’d love to hear from you.”

“We’re supposed to have lunch next week.” He saw his mother a couple of times a month. She’d never tried to get custody of him after her last arrest for neglect, but Pops and Mimi had invited her to everything important in Tyler’s life. She’d even showed up at the adoption hearing and signed over custody of Tyler, telling him she loved him so much she wanted the very best parents for him, and she believed that to be the Danbys. Years later, she told him she wished they would have adopted her too.

Pops smiled. “Good. Now let’s get back in there or every man in the place will steal a dance with your date.”

“Faith does look great tonight.”

“If only I were a few years younger,” Pops said with a lilt of his brows.

“A few?” Tyler countered.

“Okay, thirty.” Pops started for the doors.

Tyler laughed. “I’ll be in shortly.” He stepped back to the railing. Relief—like a rain—drenched him. After years of holding in the secret, he needed a minute to catch his breath.

Seeing his dad screwing another woman wasn’t what confused Tyler as a child. The horrible things he and his mother survived afterward had. His father sleeping with whomever he chose couldn’t have been worse than living on the streets, in cars, with creepy men. At eight years old, Tyler wanted to move back home where he’d been safe, fed well, and had a comfortable place to sleep.

His mother must have been terrified upending her entire life, and Tyler did suffer scars from the whole incident. More his father’s fault, of course, but a young boy didn’t understand such things.

He tilted his head and glanced heavenward. Again giving thanks Child Protective Services sent him to Mimi and Pops twenty years ago.

Heart lighter—his mind was finally restful, unburdened.

He reentered the ballroom and spotted Faith standing at the side of the room talking to Paul and Meg. Faith noticed him and waved toward the dance floor.

He took inventory of her as he walked toward the others dancing. She’d pinned her hair up with a few curly strands falling to her neck. The pink dress hugged her petite body and stopped well short enough to enjoy her shapely legs. Simply beautiful.

The DJ played a slow song as they met on the dance floor. He held out a hand to her, tugged her close, and began dancing.

“Sam would have loved your speech.”

Tyler hoped so. “He deserves to be remembered. And I know it’s hard to remember and not mourn.”

“It’s getting easier.” She smiled.

He leaned closer, wanting Faith to understand he sympathized with what she was dealing with. “And I’m sorry for your loss today.”

“Me too.” They settled into an easy sway of their bodies. “And you were right.”

“About what?” he asked. “I’ve been right so much lately.”

“You are hot in that tux.”

He whispered in her ear, “I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“What?”

“As good as I look, I can’t compare to you. You are smoking in that dress.”

She dramatically winked. “I try.”

Chapter Five

Faith entered through Tyler’s kitchen door. Since it was Saturday, he hadn’t expected her to drop by this morning. In jeans and a Betty Boop T-shirt, her brown hair softly curled on her shoulders. She didn’t need makeup, her skin always appeared fresh and flawless, but she’d applied a subtle layer, and her lips were glossy.

“Coffee smells good,” she said.

First time he’d ever heard those words from her lips. She usually went on and on about how he needed to quit. “You want a cup?”

“We both know I can’t touch the stuff. I already ping off the walls. I don’t want to add hitting the ceiling because of caffeine.”

He grinned. “I’d like to see that.”

She marched toward him, her steps purposeful, and didn’t stop until she stood scant inches from him. Lifting to her tip-toes, she kissed his cheek. “I need to thank you for last night.”

She smelled of grape something, sweet and tangy.

Was the smell coming from her glossy lips?

Suddenly, he needed to find out.

But this is Faith. My best friend.

His mind swam for a second. What had they been talking about? She’d thanked him for something. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t thank you yet.” Her eyes met his, her inner light shining in their depths.

Trying to hide his unexpected, jarring reaction to her nearness, he said, “Well, get on with it. I’ve got dozens of things to do today.”

A curl dropped to cover her eye. Before he realized what he was doing, Tyler brushed the hair back. He’d touched her so much yesterday, it seemed natural now.

With that one touch, unexpectedly his body awakened. Everywhere.

This is new.

He ignored his body and focused on her.

“Thank you for not letting me wallow last night. I had a great time at the benefit.”

“I had a good time too.” But what he’d witnessed at her apartment bothered him. “How often do you, for lack of a better phrase, break down like you did last night?” Please don’t let it happen often. He hated the thought of her silently crying alone.

“Not often anymore. Right after Sam’s death I couldn’t control my emotions well, but eventually I ran out of tears. Only happens every once in a while now.”

“I want you to call me next time. Let me help you.”

“Sometimes I want to be alone.”

“You can be alone with me there with you.”

She smirked. “I wouldn’t be alone.”

“Promise me,” he said sternly. Why hadn’t he noticed her plump and glossy lips before? Why hadn’t he seen their appeal? Was the grape scent coming from them?

Heart racing, he took a step to close the gap between them. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”

How could she look so innocent and sexy at the same time?

Unable to stop himself, he reached out and rubbed her jaw with the back of his hand. Lightning shot through his body. Air left his lungs, thankfully not in a whoosh. He forced himself to inhale normally, barely controlling his breathing. His body had never felt so alive. “This is a test.” He leaned down and kissed her.

Startled, she gripped his shirt.

Keeping the kiss light, he only pressed his lips to hers.

She returned the pressure and looped her arms around his neck.

He took the kiss deeper, hotter, wetter. She tasted of refreshing grape soda.

Whereas less than a week ago he was totally unaffected by her kiss, now he burned. Hot didn’t begin to describe the kiss—more than passion existed between them—a trust they had built over the last five years. Especially the last three since Sam’s death.

She braced her hands on his chest and broke the kiss. “Tyler, wait.”

He tried to control his ragged breathing. “What?”

For an instant, they stared at one another.

Desire consumed Faith. She wanted him.

She wanted Tyler.

When did this happen?

“I can’t make love to you,” she said.

“I realize it’s been a long time for you, but I’ll show you what to do.”

She laughed and slapped his chest. “How dare you. I could teach you a few things.”

His brows rose in a playful tease. “Teach me. I’m eager to learn.”

“No. I mean it. We can’t. I refuse to lose you as a friend.”

“You’re not going to lose me, honey.”

“Even if we do this?”

“Even if.” He backed her against the cabinets and kissed her hard. A spark in her stomach spread like wildfire through her. She held on to him, never wanting his mouth to leave hers. His heat overwhelmed her. He gently raised the t-shirt she was wearing, the backs of his hands brushing her skin.

“Shouldn’t we talk about this?” she asked.

“Talk about what?”

“This. What we’re fixing to do.”

“I’m going to strip you naked, and we’ll go from there.”

She giggled. “Tyler.”

He tugged the shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor. For seconds, he stared at her bra and jean clad body. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Thousands of firecrackers popped inside her.

He knelt and kissed her stomach. His hands went to the button on her jeans. He gazed up at her with a sultry grin, as if asking permission. His trusting dark eyes, so familiar, were different—more lively—with the look of hunger she’d never seen in them before.

She expected shyness or at least wariness to overwhelm her, but it didn’t. Her trust in Tyler was absolute, even in this new direction their relationship was taking. She bobbed her head.

With a wink, he unbuttoned her jeans and dragged the zipper down. Slowly, he slipped the denim down her legs, and she kicked them away. Tyler stopped and took in the sight of her body again.

Now only in bra and panties, his gaze scorched her. She ran her hands through his hair and brought his face closer to her body.

He kissed her bellybutton. “Take off the rest,” he said, his voice low, intense.

“Is that anyway to ask a woman to do something?” she reprimanded.

Helplessness in his tone, he said, “Blame it on the lack of blood left in my brain.”

She laughed. “I guess I have to forgive you for that.”

“You better since you’re the reason.”

After unhooking her bra and tossing it aside, she shimmied out of her undies.

Tyler sat back against the cabinet door. Simply staring at her.

“Aren’t you—”

He quickly rose to his feet and covered her mouth with this. The kiss consumed her. “Give me a minute, honey.” His gaze roamed over her, each and every inch.

Her legs weakened. “I’m going to fall.”

He picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. He didn’t have much furniture, only a four poster bed, one nightstand, and a bookcase filled with books, framed pictures, and a television. She noticed a photo of Tyler and Pops at a Texans football game.

Once he set her on the bed, Tyler ripped his shirt over his head and shucked off his jeans. She forgot about the room and everything in it, except Tyler. Stunning, from his muscular legs to his formed pecs, his body was sculpted like a god’s. Her hands fisted, wanting to touch him.

Stretching out beside her, he gently lifted her chin. Their gazes met. “This is new for us.”

She nodded. “New and wonderful.”

“That’s what I needed to hear.” He kissed her for the longest time. Fitting their lips every which way possible, drawing out her need. Then he began a journey of exploration. His lips and hands traveled her entire body, setting off sparks inside her. She lost herself in the haze of passion. Encouraging and craving his every touch. His every move.

Heavens, the man knew what he was doing. She hovered, ready to combust while he continued to pleasure her.

Suddenly, fireworks exploded inside her. “Oh, Tyler.” Her back arched off the bed and shiver after shiver shook her. The quivering of her body released more and more sensation until she believed she would faint.

“Yes,” Tyler said softly as he crept up her body.

She reached for him, but he grabbed her hands.

“I want to touch you,” she said.

“Another time. I need you too badly.” He kissed her. “Should I get a condom?”

“I’m on the pill.”

Lifting himself over her, he looked down at her with tenderness, love, and was that devotion in his eyes?

She ran a hand to his nape and pulled his head down for a kiss. With trust, confidence, and every bit of her soul, she offered herself to him.

As their bodies became one, he continued to kiss her, setting alight more bursts inside her. He kissed her eyes closed. “My Faith.” He nipped at her ear. “My Faith.” He ran his tongue along her neck. “My Faith.”

“You feel so good,” she whispered.

Her words broke the dam holding back his passion. His body stroked hers quicker, lusciously.

He kissed his way to her ear. “God. You, me, this, us…”

How could he talk, she couldn’t utter anything more than a moan.

He stopped and looked down at her with passion-filled eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she mouthed.

A triumphant gleam in his brown eyes, his body took hers again, starting another erotic storm to rain through her. She tensed, blasts igniting everywhere inside her.

His groan of satisfaction followed hers.

Their heavy breathing mingled. He tried to move off of her, but she held him around the waist—never wanting him to leave. “Not yet.”

He leaned down and kissed her neck, settling atop her. “Fine by me.”

Later, they were each on a pillow facing each other.

How had they ended up here? Together. It was crazy insane, but nothing in Tyler’s life ever felt so right, so good. She’d been responsive, passionate—everything he dreamed the love of his life should be. He ran his fingers through her silky hair, still surprised she was here, next to him, in his bed.

Faith traced one of his eyebrows with her finger. “When did this happen between us, Tyler?”

He ran a hand over her hip. “I never considered you and me together before you traipsed in my door this morning. The past week you’ve been on my mind constantly, and when I looked at you today, it was like I truly saw you for the first time…” He leaned over and kissed her. “I realized how gorgeous you are. How damn sexy. I couldn’t think about anything but being with you. I had to feel you. Taste you.”

She scooted closer to him. “Me too. God, I’ve never experienced anything so perfect.”

“Sparks?” he asked, remembering how she had no sparks with the guy she’d gone out with.

“Sparklers, fireworks, rockets.” She smiled. “Why do you think this happened now?”

“We needed time to get over Sam’s death.”

“I guess so.” She sighed. “The other night at the benefit, Pops said Sam wouldn’t want you or me to grieve forever. I had known that for some time, however, someone actually saying the words out loud finally made them real. A calmness overtook me.”

“Yeah, Pops has a way. He said something similar to me.” Tyler exhaled loudly. “For years I’ve not only mourned Sam, I was also eaten with guilt over his death.”

“Guilt?”

“I should’ve been with him.”

She scowled. “You were sick in a hospital bed. You couldn’t have stopped that drug addict from shooting him. Sam’s death wasn’t your fault.”

He gripped her hand and kissed the palm. “It took me a long time to realize that.”

“All you had to do was ask me. I’d have told you.”

“I wouldn’t have believed you. I needed time to work it out on my own.”

“You should’ve told me, Tyler.” She rested her head on his chest.

“I need to explain something else to you.” He told her about how he and his mother caught his father with another woman, and the horrible way they’d lived afterward.

The entire time she held quiet, her fingers rubbing his chest.

“So, it’s not just the infidelity cases I’ve worked that have tainted my belief in a happily ever after.”

“You poor dear,” she said.

He lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. “As long as we’re together, I vow never to cheat on you.”

“And I promise to be faithful to you.”

“Paul Stewart more or less offered me a job last night. I’m seriously considering taking it.”

“Oh?” She leaned up on her elbow, her hair spilling around her face. He brushed it back over her shoulder.

“Yeah, I would run the security for Stewart Oil and Gas. Some time away from PI work might be good for me.”

“I think so too.” Her smile beamed all the way to his soul. “I hate to bring this up at a time like this, but I was right.”

“Oh, really?” He squinted at her. “What do you think you were right about this time?”

“The other morning when I said who else can someone be intimate with if not their best friend.”

“You were correct.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “And you were right about something else.”

“Well, I’m right a lot.” She smirked.

“But you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“You must forgive me. I’ve been ravished by the most handsome, gifted lover. He’s scrambled my brain.”

Tyler grinned. “Gifted lover?”

“And handsome.”

“This is very unlike you. You’re full of compliments.”

She smiled. “I’ve had a really good morning.”

He chuckled. “So have I.”

“You were telling me how right I was about something.”

“Oh, yes.” He tugged her closer, loving the softness of her skin, the sweetness of her scent. “You were right…there was definitely undiscovered hotness between us.”

Epilogue

Tyler opened the passenger side car door and Faith slid inside. It was time for Sunday lunch at Pops’. The air was cool, the sun high, a perfect fall day.

Over the last four months, he and Faith had basically been living together. She still paid rent on her apartment, although most of her furniture and all her clothes were at his house. He loved having her with him. The world seemed brighter with her in his life.

He’d guessed this kind of love existed—witnessed the dedication with Pops and Mimi—but never hoped he’d be lucky enough to find a woman who made him deliriously happy. And Faith did make him happy, when she wasn’t driving him absolutely insane. She was no different than she’d always been, loving, sweet, bossy, and perfect for him.

And she gave him plenty of reasons not to get out of bed at the hour of six to drink his morning cup of coffee.

Dressed in a skirt and sweater, Faith held his hand as he drove. “What a lovely day,” she said.

When he turned a corner going in a different direction from Pops’ house, Faith sat up straight in the passenger seat. “Aren’t we going to Pops’?”

“

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