WARNING: Contains explicit adult situations

Lady Rebecca seems to have a perfect life. A doting father, a man who loves her. But all that changes when a dark stranger enters her life and people begin to die, horribly. When fingers point toward her as being responsible, and thinking her love lost forever, Lady Rebecca finds herself forced to make a choice- wed a man she despises or be destroyed by the villagers, who distrust her because she has "The Power".

Lady Rebecca's choice leads to a centuries long search for Damien, the ark Sorcerer to gain vengeance for what he did to her and those she loved.

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PART ONE

England, c.1217 AD

"All in all, a good winter," Sir Garwain said to his old friend as they sat in the Great Hall of Thorne Castle. "One can only hope that the harvest will be better this year than last."

Sir Vincent Thorne was only half-listening to his old friend as he watched the two young people begin to move across the room in their direction. "Indeed."

Garwain grunted. "Of course, you have nothing to complain of, my old friend. Your farms were the only ones to prosper last year."

"Only because I insist that the tenants switch crops between them so that the land is not used for the same thing every year. I have tried to tell you that, Garwain."

Garwain followed Vincent's gaze. "Ah. The young lovers," he said as they came within earshot. "You would never realize it by his apparent lack of interest when here, Vincent, but my son is an amazing manager when we are at Charington Castle."

"Perhaps he has - other things - on his mind when he is here," Vincent speculated, his brown eyes shining as they looked at his raven-haired daughter.

"I should hope so, sire," Rebecca said with a smile. "We see each other so infrequently-"

"That will change," Garwain assured the girl, also smiling. "And you should take more of an interest in the running of this estate as well, my son. There will come a time - far in the future, one would hope - that you will have need to manage it for Rebecca," he told the young man at her side. "Once you and she are married-"

"At which point Rebecca and I shall be able to be together every day," Stephen Charington pointed out, "and I will be better able to keep my mind on other things. I came to ask your permission, Sir Vincent, to take your daughter for a ride. It is such a lovely spring day."

"Enjoy yourselves," Vincent wished, his smile widening. As they moved away, he noted again how perfect a couple they were – Stephen, tall and fair, and Rebecca, also tall, with her raven's wing tresses.

"How old is the Lady Rebecca now?" Garwain asked.

"You know very well that she will be eighteen in a month's time."

"Of course," Garwain admitted. "My son is counting the days until she can become his wife."

"It seems only yesterday that she was born," Vincent said with a sigh. His wife had died in the child's birth, never knowing her daughter. And Garwain's wife had died of a fever a year later, leaving her husband to raise their son alone. "I suppose we have not done too badly, have we?"

"No," Garwain agreed. "Not at all."

Stephen dismissed the groom back to the stable, and now sat at Rebecca's side, watching as she placed pigments on the parchment she took everywhere with her. "I should have expected this, I suppose. I shall have to get used to it once we're married."

"Expected what?" she asked, looking at him.

"That although we spent a month apart, all you can do now that we are together is to make pretty pictures."

"Pretty pictures?" she questioned, her dark eyes flashing with anger. "Is that all you think about my painting, Stephen Charington?"

He laughed, leaning nearer to place a quick kiss on her red lips. "I love making you angry. Your eyes almost glow," he told her, looking into those eyes. "They are like twin deep pools that a man could lose himself in."

"And do you want to lose yourself?"

"Oh, yes, my love. Most assuredly." He moved back only enough so that she could return her pigments to their case, and once she was done, he started to pull her closer, but she surprised him by pushing away and rising to her feet in one graceful motion. She ran across the glade, her laughter following, beckoning. "Why, you little vixen," Stephen called, in immediate pursuit. He caught up with her, and pulled her into his arms, intending to stop her laughter with a kiss, when he realized she had gone very still. "Rebecca?" He realized she was staring at something behind him and turned.

A magnificent black stallion, ridden by a stranger, had come to a stop across the glade. Even from that distance, Stephen could make out the man's black hair and dark-as-night gaze. "It is only a stranger, my love," he tried to reassure Rebecca as the rider turned his mount in their direction.

Rebecca did not speak, merely stood as if transfixed. Normally a friendly woman, her reaction troubled Stephen. She appeared frightened. And it took a great deal to frighten Rebecca.

The stranger reined his horse to a stop within feet of the couple, his eyes fastening on Rebecca. "Excuse me, am I going in the correct direction for Thorne Castle?"

When he realized she was not going to answer, Stephen responded. "Straight through the copse, my good man. Do you have business with Sir Vincent?"

"Perhaps," he said. "Thank you for your assistance. Good-day." That black gaze was even more piercing at close range, and Stephen found himself wanting to protect Rebecca from its sight.

He moved to place an arm around her shoulders. "Good-day, sir."

Rebecca watched until horse and rider had vanished on the forest path, then drew a shuddering breath. Seeing Stephen's look of concern, she tried to smile, knew that she failed.

"What is wrong, Rebecca? I have never seen you react in that fashion to anyone - stranger or not."

"I could sense…"

He knew the story, had sworn never to tell anyone - especially not his superstitious father. "What did you sense?"

"Evil," she said, shuddering again. "There was a - darkness - about him. Hold me, Stephen. Please hold me."

He drew her into his arms, hoping to keep whatever she feared at bay, to protect her.

The stranger was sitting with Sir Garwain and Sir Vincent in the Great Hall when Rebecca and Stephen returned. Her father beckoned them over. "Dameon, allow me to introduce Sir Garwain's son, Stephen, and my beloved daughter, Rebecca."

His dark gaze again fixed upon the young woman who stood at the young man's side, and Dameon said, "These were the two young people about which I told you."

"Yes," Stephen confirmed. "He stopped in the glade to ask directions to the castle."

Rebecca lifted a shaking hand to her forehead. "If you will excuse me, I am not feeling well."

Vincent and Stephen were immediately concerned. "Are you ill?" Vincent asked.

"No, I am… fatigued. I will ask Genevive to bring me a cool cloth. I will be all right," she reassured him, trying to smile. "Thank you for the ride, Stephen."

"It was my pleasure," he responded, holding her hand for a long moment, then releasing it to watch her climb the curving stairway.

"Did she appear ill while you were riding?" Vincent asked him.

"No. She was quite well until-" he paused, aware that Dameon's dark eyes were now on him. "Until we returned."

"She will be fine, my boy," Garwain assured his son. "Females often become ill for no reason. Is that not correct, Vincent?"

"Not Rebecca," her father said. Then, recalling that he was ignoring his newly arrived guest, he turned to Dameon. "You were about to tell us the reason for your visit?"

"Yes. You have all heard about the young woman in the village who died a week ago?"

"Such a tragedy," Garwain said, shaking his balding head. "She had only just married as well."

"Yes," Vincent confirmed. "She had been Rebecca's maid until she wed."

Dameon's black brows rose in surprise. "I was unaware of that," he said. "There have been other – incidents - in the area, and some of the village folk have begun to fear that there is evil at work. They tended to ignore it until the young woman's death, as many are wont to do-"

"Such nonsense!" Vincent exclaimed. His comment was echoed by Stephen.

But Garwain, to his son's disgust, was interested. "What kind of evil do the good people think is about, my good man?"

"They do not know," Dameon said, spreading his hands. "But they sent for someone knowledgeable regarding such things."

"You?" Vincent asked, suddenly concerned for the young woman up in her room.

"I have had some success in discovering the source of evil when it strikes out, Sir Vincent."

. "There are no such things. It is still nonsense. People create their own evil out of fear or hardship," Stephen insisted. "Excuse me, I think I shall retire to my chamber."

Dameon watched the young man climb the stairs as Garwain shook his head. "Forgive my son, Dameon. He does not yet understand the way of the world."

"There is nothing to forgive," Dameon assured him.

Sir Vincent rose. "I must go and make certain that Rebecca is well. I shall return."

Rebecca was cold. Even with the fur robe she had donned, the bedchamber was still cold. She went to the hearth and knelt, stirring the ashes from last night's blaze, but there were no embers left to spark anew. Calling for a servant would take too long, she thought with a sigh, and focused her energy on the kindling she had placed in the grate. Just as it caught, she heard her father's quickly drawn breath. "What are you doing, child?"

She turned to see him close the door with quick, nervous movements. "It is cold in here, Father. There were no embers. I thought that it would be acceptable - just this once."

"What if I had been a servant? Your maid?"

"I sent the fool away, Father," she told him with a scowl. "She fusses too much. Who is that man?" she asked suddenly, placing the last log on the fire.

"He is the reason you must not do anything else such as this," Vincent told her, indicating the now roaring blaze. He told her why Dameon was there, saw her frown.

"Why is he at the castle? And, if he did not know that Abigail was my maid-"

"It is only natural that he would come here seeking a place to stay, child." He placed his hands on her shoulders. "I cannot turn him out."

"I know. But I do not trust him, Father. There is something - dark - about him."

Vincent was more concerned about the danger to his daughter than in how she perceived the man. "Will you give me your word that you will do nothing else that could create trouble while he is here?" He did not like asking her that; he normally did not try to prevent her using her God-given gifts, but there were many who would see them as gifts from the Dark instead. Especially now that Dameon was here, looking for someone with just such abilities. Vincent had seen this sort of hysteria before, would not allow his daughter to fall victim to it. "Your word, daughter?"

She smiled at last. "I give you my word, Father. Where is Stephen?"

"He went to his bedchamber."

"Oh. I think I shall go up to the parapet before the sun sets." She slipped off the fur robe.

"I am pleased that you are feeling better," he told her, his eyes not as shadowed by fear.

Rebecca stood near the edge of the stone balustrade, surveying the land around the castle. This was her sanctuary, her place to hide when things became unbearable. She caught a movement on the lawn below, and looked down to see Sir Garwain and Dameon walking, deep in conversation.

"I am very interested, Dameon. Pray do continue."

"Among other things, I am able to see whether two people are well-suited," he told the gullible man at his side.

"Amazing. Tell me, what do you see when you look at my son and his bride-to-be?" He was smiling, as if he suspected that Dameon would tell him that he foresaw many long happy years for the couple.

Dameon pretended discomfort. "Well, sire-"

Garwain's smile vanished. "You see something bad? Ill fortune? What is it, man?"

Dameon hesitated a moment longer, trying to frame the words, as if uncertain how much to say. "I see… only tragedy should your son marry the Lady Rebecca, Sir Garwain," Dameon said apologetically.

"Stephen's death?"

"I fear so. Do not ask me more, I beg of you." Dameon sensed that he was being watched, and looked upward.

Rebecca met that gaze with her own until she felt herself falling forward. "Rebecca!" Stephen called, rushing to grasp her waist and pull her away from the edge. She looked up at him, then quickly led him away from the edge. It was unstable, uncertain of any weight more than Rebecca's. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, turning into his arms. "I saw him down there. In the courtyard. He looked up at me and I felt myself falling," she shivered, and not from the cold this time.

"Your father sent me up here. He said he had spoken to you."

"Yes. Oh, Stephen. I wish we could be married now. Today."

He smiled down at her. "My father will not hear of it. He has everything arranged - and it is only a month, after all," he reminded her.

"A month can be an eternity," she said softly.

"No. The eternity will begin after we are wed," he promised, his lips finding hers. He sighed once the kiss ended. "I suppose you will not want me to come to your chamber tonight."

Her smile was shy. "Please. I do not want to be alone with - that - that man here. I shall not be able to sleep. Please, Stephen-"

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "You realize that if our fathers discover that we have anticipated our wedding night-"

"I love you, Stephen. I have since I was five years old."

He kissed her again, knowing that he would find a way into her bed after darkness fell, to again feel her next to him, feel her sweet softness accept his manhood. He knew that his father would never believe that he himself had been the instigator of their intimacy, would insist that Rebecca had seduced his son. "I find myself hoping for nightfall," he admitted ruefully.

Rebecca laughed softly, her hand drifting down to lightly brush against the evidence of his need. "So I see."

"Shameless wench," he whispered, kissing her again, this time allowing his lips to follow a path downward to the rise of ivory skin above her breasts. "I think I shall spend the first week of our marriage in bed," he told her.

"That sounds terribly - decadent," she whispered, holding his head against her. She went still. "Stephen-" Before she could say more, warn him, the door into the tower was flung open and Sir Garwain stormed onto the parapet.

"I should have known," he said, flushed with rage. "You have allowed this – wanton - to seduce you. Go to your chamber, Stephen."

"No, Father," Stephen said, standing before Rebecca in an attempt to protect her from his father's mistaken accusation. Dameon was hovering just behind his father, watching. "It is not her doing."

"You will not protect her, Stephen. We will be leaving tonight."

"No, Father."

"What is going on here?" Vincent demanded to know, appearing in the doorway.

Garwain turned to him. "I found my son and your daughter in a most intimate embrace, Sir Vincent. She has seduced him, convinced him to begin a physical-"

"You will remember that you are in my home, Garwain, and speaking of my daughter." He held out his arm for Rebecca to come into his protective hold.

"I will stay in this house no longer," Garwain announced. "Stephen and I shall depart as soon as possible."

"I will not go, Father," Stephen said again. "Rebecca has done nothing wrong."

"I am doing this for your sake, son. Marriage to her will mean your death."

Rebecca gasped, looking at Dameon, who was standing back, a silent observer to the events which he had created.

"My death? Wherever did you get such an idea?"

"There will be no marriage, Sir Vincent, and as of this moment, Charington Castle is no ally of yours."

"Father, I will not leave. Rebecca and I will be married, even if I must remain here and give up Charington-"

"We will leave, Stephen. Come."

"No, Father."

"Stephen?"

He turned to Rebecca with a tight smile. "I will not leave you, Rebecca." He looked back to his father. "We cannot begin the trip home tonight. The roads are not safe. Wait until morning, and we can discuss it then."

Garwain refused to listen to his son's voice of reason. "There will be nothing to discuss. I do not want to give her another opportunity to get you into her bed."

Rebecca fainted into her father's arms. Stephen spun, his face red with fury. "I hold you responsible for this, Father. Rebecca is the innocent in this. It was I who convinced her to allow me into her bedchamber on our first evening here, and it was I who took her to bed. She was uncertain of the advisability of our actions, but I convinced her not to wait. I love Rebecca, Father, and I will marry her - with or without your blessing." He turned to follow Sir Vincent to Rebecca's chamber.

Vincent and Stephen stood in the corridor while the maid helped Rebecca undress and get ready for bed. She had regained consciousness before reaching her doorway, and her father had practically pushed Stephen from the room before him. Now, Stephen swallowed nervously under that intense brown gaze as he confronted the older man. "I ask your forgiveness, Sir Vincent. My only excuse is that I love your daughter with all of my being."

Vincent searched his face before placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I understand, Stephen," he said.

Garwain approached a bit sheepishly. "I should apologize, I suppose," he said. Stephen was relieved to see no sign of Dameon's dark presence. "I do not know what got into me. I suddenly felt convinced that Stephen would be in danger if he married Rebecca - I know it was a foolish idea. How is she?"

"We are waiting to see her," Vincent said.

"I think I will go to my bed, it has been a long day." He looked at his son. "And it might be advisable for you to remain in your own chamber this night."

Stephen was about to agree when Vincent spoke. "What difference does it make, Garwain?" he asked. "They have already been together, and I intend to send for the priest tomorrow to sanctify their union." He looked as if he expected Garwain to object, but he did not.

"A good idea. If there is a child-"

"Precisely." His eyes narrowed as Garwain departed and Vincent turned back to Stephen. "Had that thought occurred to you?"

"Yes, it had," he said honestly. "But since Rebecca and I were to be married in a month, I saw no problem." The chamber door opened and Genevive stepped back for Vincent and Stephen to enter, then departed the room.

Rebecca was sitting in her bed, her dark hair now loose and draped over the pillows. She smiled uncertainly. "I am sorry if I worried you. It is just - everyone was talking so loudly, and he was there, watching me."

Vincent sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand. "I am just grateful that you are well, my daughter. I intend to send for the priest to marry you on the morrow."

Rebecca looked up at Stephen, confused. "But - what about your father?"

Vincent's smile was grim. "Sir Garwain has relented and apologized - even for thinking you responsible for - other things," he said.

She looked down at the coverlet, picking at the wool threads. "But in a way, I am. I could have called for Genevive, and I did not do so."

"None of that matters now." He kissed her goodnight and rose. "I will tell Genevive that you will not be needing her again tonight."

"Thank you, Father."

"Goodnight, child." He closed the door behind him softly.

Rebecca continued to pick at the threads. "You are going to damage that blanket," Stephen warned, sitting beside her.

"What is happening, Stephen?" she asked. "I know that Dameon had something to do with the things your father said, told him you would die if we married. I do not want that to happen, Stephen," she said, tears on her cheeks. "I would not wish to live if it did-"

"Shh, my darling. Nothing is going to happen to me. I intend to spend the next forty years here at your side."

She looked up at him. "Do you mean it?"

"Let me prove it," he said, lifting her chin to gain access to her lips.

Rebecca looked worried. "Stephen-"

"I have your father's permission to be here. After all, we are to be married tomorrow," he reminded her. He rose and went to slide the bar on her chamber door, locking the rest of the castle out, then returned to her waiting arms, burying his face in her long hair.

When Stephen's page entered his master's bedchamber the next morning, he immediately ran to Sir Garwain's room. Disturbed from slumber, Garwain opened the door with a surly frown. "What is the matter, Eric?"

"It is your son, sire. He has a fever-"

Garwain pushed past the boy, going down the corridor to enter his son's room. Stephen's face was flushed, his eyes glazed. "Stephen?"

"Rebecca. Where is Rebecca?"

"Stephen, it is your father." When there was no response, only continued muttering about Rebecca, Garwain called the page again. "Eric!"

"Yes, sire?"

"Fetch Dameon here." When the boy hesitated, concern for his young master etched in his face, Garwain very nearly bellowed. "Do not dawdle, boy. Now!"

Vincent came to the doorway, entering the room with a question. "Is there something wrong, Garwain?"

Garwain rose slowly to turn and face his host. "My son is ill - and I hold your daughter responsible."

"Rebecca? Is she ill?"

"She is the cause of this," Garwain insisted. "If only I had not relented, left last night. I knew he should not have gone to her, that she would work her spell-"

"Have a care, Garwain," Vincent said in warning.

Dameon entered the room and went directly to the bed. "The page informed me of Stephen's illness." He looked down at the young man, touched his face. "He is very ill-"

"I will send for the physician," Vincent offered, only to be cut off by Garwain.

"No. I will take my son out of this house and call my own physician to attend him."

"You would take him on the journey back to Charington while he is so ill?"

Rebecca hovered in the doorway, her dark eyes wide as they focused on Stephen. "Stephen? Father, what is wrong with Stephen?"

Vincent turned to her, to explain, when Garwain spoke. "As if you had no idea. What have you done to my son?"

"Nothing," she said quietly, "except love him. Please, Sir Garwain-"

"Rebecca?" Stephen called weakly, lifting his hand towards the sound of her voice.

"I am here, Stephen," she said, starting forward, only to be prevented from doing so by Garwain's hand.

"Stay away from him. Have you not done enough?" He looked at Vincent. "I would request that you have our carriages readied immediately."

"Immediately," Vincent agreed. "Will you be going as well, Dameon?"

"I think not. I have… unfinished business in the village."

Rebecca's gaze moved from Stephen to Dameon, then she turned and ran back to her bedchamber, bolting the door behind her. She went to the small window, and before long saw several men carry Stephen out to place him inside the carriage where he was joined by his father. Rebecca sobbed, fearing that she would never see her love alive again.

[The Dark Staff Series -- Book 1]

Having the attention of the gods is not always a blessing...

The long, magical wars ended when the elves left the lands of men, conjuring an impenetrable barrier to keep the humans out of their new realm. They left man only with the sorcery he could create, taking all the creatures of magic to Ishan with them... except for one...

Sometimes, in the shadowy night, a voice whispered to ambitious men... a soft woman's voice, seducing them with her promises of power. Come to me, come to me.

Generations after the war, a barbarian warlord from the north heard her call and survived to release an evil, intelligent staff from her ancient bonds... and his actions attracted the attention of both gods and demons back to the world of Ylant.

The warlord's unwanted son, Aubreyan, is a pawn between the gods and the demons. He must save the world not only from his father's mistakes but also from his own acts of ignorance. With the help of Tristan -- an elf -- he sets out to destroy the staff called the Kiya Chanda Andee.

Aubreyan is the first of an eight-book fantasy series that will take the two heroes to other realities in pursuit of an evil the gods have enjoined them to contain and destroy before the gods and demons themselves are forced to battle.

---

Some thing, small and helpless, nuzzled at her arm, seeking warmth against the cold that never seemed to touch her. Altazar went closer to look down at it, the little arms and legs, the head with a fine covering of dark hair. He shivered with the realization that he had once been this small and his father might have killed him with a single blow, or a snap of the tiny neck. He started to reach, but her hand caught his wrist, powerful and stronger than he had expected.

"I call him Aubreyan," she said.

His gaze shifted from the rag-wrapped bastard and he pulled his arm free. When he looked into her face, he found himself -- as always -- staring into the bottomless depths of her green eyes. No wonder she never felt cold, with spring always in her eyes.

"Call it want you like," he said. "It will be dead before morning."

"No," she said. She sat up, the dark hair falling like a shield across the child. "You want this child."

"Why would I want a rival?" he demanded, and found that he had stepped away, his back pressed against the door as though he faced some danger. The movement angered him and gave him power to fight...something he couldn't even name. "What do I want with that bastard of yours?"

"Empires pass." She smiled, capturing him with a different look, and one that made him shiver this time. "This child is the only piece of eternity you will ever possess, man."

Not a woman's smile -- not a mother's smile. If the Kiya had not assured him that no human magic could penetrate her protection around him, Altazar would have suspected Starwind of bewitching him. For a moment he feared this creature enough that he wished she would leave and take the bastard with her.

"What do you want of me?" he asked, soft words that he'd never asked of anyone before.

"Oh, there are many things," she said, and leaned back. "But wisdom would be wasted on you." His rage at the answer almost brought his sword to his hands, but she waved a hand, dismissing that threat. "I'll tell you this much: Aubreyan is no threat to you. Go, Altazar. Go back to your Kiya and rule these men with all the barbarism that you can manage. It doesn't matter to me."

"I want it killed!" He shouted, enraged because she unmanned him so easily.

"You will not kill him," she said. His hand rested on his sword, but he drew it away. He would not kill the child. Would not, because she said so.

He shivered and his hand sought the edge of the door, pulling it open without daring to look away from Starwind. He fled before a spell for which there was no warding -- magic, even if the Kiya said he was protected. 

]]> bookstore@coffeetimeromance.com (Coffee Time Romance eBook Store) http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookStore/pubs_product_book_info/aubreyan-p-169 Tue, 25 Jul 2006 20:41:27 -0400 5.99 USD 169 Double Dragon Publishing http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookStore/images/large/Aubreyan510_LRG.jpg http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookStore/pubs_product_book_info/eternal-lust-p-97 http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookStore/product_reviews/eternal-lust-p-97

Mike Solomon is a struggling young musician with dreams of rock stardom. When his band is hired to play a college party he meets a woman who quite literally changes his life.

Marie-Constance Quesnet is a stunningly beautiful mystery, a totally enchanting enigma who steals Mike away from his girlfriend Angie with effortless ease. Mike soon discovers that Marie is a vampire, and she leads Mike into her lifestyle of darkness, deception and death. He becomes her willing victim, and then her pupil when she transforms him. He realizes too late that he has abandoned the love of his life by leaving Angie, and then Marie reveals to him a plan to unleash utter chaos and literal Armageddon on the world. Mike revolts against his vampire lover. He must stop her even if it means his own true death, yet he clings to some small hope that he can not only survive, but also manage to win back the love of the girl who once meant the world to him: Angie, his Beloved Angel…

---

I was living in Nashville, playing in a band called Bugly with Victor Richards on drums and some guy you never met named Dimitri playing lead guitar. When my brother Chuck got murdered I quit my job at the Entropy Guitar factory and went back to West Virginia. As much as I hated that place, it was where I came from, and where most of my family still lived, and we needed close contact to deal with my brother’s pointless death. I also needed to put some distance between myself, and the girl I had been dating in Nashville. Jennifer just happened to be married and had dumped me to get back together with her husband, in spite of the fact that she was pregnant and the child was almost certainly mine. Distance was the only way to guarantee she didn’t show up on my doorstep one night with a change of heart. I couldn’t have dealt with that after what she had put me through, so I made sure we would stay well away from each other by going home.

I got in touch with a drummer named Victor Richards and talked about putting a band together in memory of my murdered brother. Victor had been playing with another friend of mine, David Dean, on bass and they had a young guitar wizard named Damon Marcus throwing phenomenal lead solos on top of anything they could come up with. Until I called they had been playing instrumental pieces. What they desperately needed was a lead singer. David Dean was an excellent bass player. He learned his licks from Geddy Lee, Cliff Burton and Steve Harris, just as I had, so I offered myself as their lead singer and rhythm guitarist, a position called ‘frontman’, for obvious reasons. I had never played a six-string guitar before, but a few days of coaching from Damon was all it took to translate years of bass playing into the rudiments of playing rhythm, and not a soul could object to calling ourselves Malingen in memory of the band I had originally formed with my late brother.

We started playing the local clubs, making a living at it, but it was a far cry from fame and fortune. But we hung in there, doing whatever we had to do to make some quick cash and keep the dream alive. David Dean got us a gig playing a birthday party one night. It was for one of his college buddies, and I didn’t know anyone there. But David Dean was a figure larger-than-life to them. They had nicknamed him ‘Coal Truck’ because he had been hit by a 21-ton Mack truck while hitchhiking and bounced up out of the ditch as if nothing had happened. But I knew Dave, and this story was minor compared to some of the things I had witnessed. David Dean was indestructible. He had a tolerance for pain and punishment that was absolutely unbelievable, and he could kick ass like some sort of Viking Berserker. He never took shit from anybody, but he had a heart of gold with anyone he considered a friend, and he could drink anybody (with the possible exception of me) under the table.

I was a stranger at this party, but being a friend of Dave’s made me accepted more so than the fact that I was the ‘frontman’ for the band. I hate that term almost as much as I hate to be thrust to the front. I have never come up with a better word for it, and believe me. I have tried. I have never been comfortable up front in the spotlight; I feel more at home in the shadows, hanging out with the drummer and pounding out the bottom end of a song, even when it’s a song that I wrote myself. I was accepted without question, but the party was rather boring. I felt out of place in a house full of college students. The girls were pretty, but they looked so damn young to me, so shallow and inexperienced. But it wasn’t so much a difference of age as a difference of attitude. At 29 I was less than ten years older than most of those girls, but it had been a very enlightening ten years for me. And with Jennifer on my mind, I could not bring myself to even pretend that I was interested in any of them. I started drinking heavily, trying to flood Jennifer out of my head with alcohol.

I was standing in a circle of Dave’s friends (my band was taking a break), vaguely responding to questions about the places I had been and the things I had done as a sniper in the Marine Corps. Dave had told them some stories about me, and they wanted to know more. But I wasn’t interested these people, so for the most part I was trying to ignore them as politely as I could. And then she walked through the door.

At first glance I thought her to be about my age. But a closer look told me that she was older, mid-30’s or maybe a young-looking 40. Her waist-length hair glistened like delicate strands of silk in the pale light, a rich shade of walnut so dark that it was nearly black. Her unrestrained tresses danced in waves of loose curls, the air itself their partner as she moved across the room in my direction.

She took off her knee-length fur coat and underneath she was dressed rather simply in faded jeans and an emerald green velvet sweater. Yet there could never be anything simple about her, not even her clothes; her jeans clung to every curve as if tailor-made, without squeezing a single inch of her perfect form. Her sweater was also a snug fit, not hiding her voluptuous figure, but rather outlining her perfect curves with delicious fuzzy ambiguity. Her eyes were deep pools of unfathomable shadow, compelling me to drown in their depths; so wide and inviting, so dark and mysterious. So many powerful emotions, so much worldly experience I could see reflected within these mesmerizing orbs as she returned my stare, our eyes locking for an electrifying moment.

I realized that I had stopped a conversation in mid-sentence, but no one had noticed. All other eyes around me had also seized upon her, but they all quickly looked away, pretending that they had not even noticed her. Yet I couldn’t help but stare. I wondered who she was, what she was doing here. It wasn’t until she walked past me that I realized she had someone with her, a tall, nervous young man with haunted eyes.

I asked around discreetly, but no one seemed to know who she was. She caught me staring at her several times. Our eyes locked. Her smile told me that we were sharing a secret beyond the grasp of those around us. We were like two wolves in a room full of sheep.

I watched her slip casually into a room, leaving the door cracked open behind her. After a moment I followed her inside. It was a bedroom, and judging from the posters of half-naked women and the cluttered mess, it was the bedroom of a teenaged boy, probably the birthday boy at tonight’s party, whatever his name was.

She was standing in front of a computer keyboard, tapping keys in what appeared to be a totally random fashion, as if it were some alien artifact from another culture. I stepped up behind her, so close that I lightly sniffed her hair as I leaned over her shoulder. It smelled like autumn, full of rich, earthy scents that spoke to me of open spaces and brisk fall nights, even though it was mid-winter outside.

I whispered in her ear, "What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you," she replied. She turned to face me, rubbing her hands down my back. I had not expected such boldness, but I tried not to let my surprise show. Instead, I followed her lead and placed my hands on her hips, pulling her closer. "I thought you might have the courage to follow me in here," she said, "and I wanted to get you alone." Her hands slid down to my ass, and squeezed.

"What about the guy you came in with?" I asked, for she had taken the initiative away from me.

I had spent most of my adult life trying to get what I wanted from women, but in the end it always seemed they manipulated me. Women have an advantage over men, and I was more susceptible to their charms than most. The flash of a smile was all it took, and I would slay a dragon or laugh in the face of the devil himself to win her favor. She left no doubt in my mind that she wanted me, but I suddenly needed to know what situation I was stepping into. All I wanted was a night of sexual release; I did not need to get involved in another love.

"What about him?" she replied, running her fingers through my hair, her body pressed firmly against mine.

"Is he the ‘jealous husband’ type?" I asked, pulling away from her without conviction; I put maybe a half-inch of air between us, and even then my face hovered above hers, ready to kiss her full, red lips.

"Don’t worry about him," she replied, tossing her head dismissively. "He is completely…under my thumb." Since she and her male companion weren’t wearing wedding bands I decided that whatever their relationship might be I would follow her advice and not worry about it. "Let’s go outside," she said, and abruptly left the room. I followed after her toward the front door. The party seemed to be winding down, only the most serious drinkers still on their feet. My band had played our last set, and I caught a glimpse of David Dean drinking beer straight from a pitcher. We got our coats and went outside.

The house was nestled between two fingers of a mountain, situated at the narrow end of a private valley. The nearest neighbor was out of sight down the narrow drive. It was bitterly cold outside, with about six inches of snow on the ground. I was grateful for my heavy leather jacket and the fact that the wind was still, even though I had plenty of alcohol in my system to numb me. As for my mysterious companion, the cold did not seem to affect her in the least. Her fur coat hung open and she strolled through the snow as if we were walking along the beach on a warm summer night. She led me toward the woods behind the house, and we were as alone as two people can get, the party behind us like some sort of half-remembered dream.

"I love the night," she said, breaking the silence as we walked.

I looked up at the moon in its third quarter, but especially large and brilliant, as if it had moved closer to us to eavesdrop on our conversation. I readily agreed with her, for I was no stranger to the lures of darkness.

"Yeah, it’s so peaceful and quiet, especially around here." The blanket of snow on the ground and the barren trees made everything look sterile and subdued. The rest of the world seemed to be in hibernation.

"The night is far from peaceful," she replied. "It is alive with passion and secret desires. People try to deny Nature during the day, paving it over and conforming it to their ‘civilization’. But at night Nature re-asserts herself, reclaims the world from human whim. Nocturnal predators take full advantage of the depths of shadows; the hunters come out to feast in the night by the pale pastel beauty of the moon." She turned to look at me. "So what is your name, handsome?"

"Mike," I replied.

"Your friends call you Mike. What is your real name, your full given name? Tell me who you are," she demanded, a command thinly veiled by her compelling gaze.

"Michael David Solomon. Singer, musician, lover extraordinaire, and a hundred other things, all rolled into one. You could call me King Mustache, and if your wet little pussy ever fucked my face, you would understand why."

She tossed her head back and laughed loudly. "My, what bold self-confidence. So, tell me, Michael David Solomon. Are you always so forward with strange women?"

"Only the most beautiful ones," I replied. "Besides, you seem like the kind of woman who knows what she wants, who isn’t afraid of the naked truth. Veiled hints and implications would probably bore you."

"And you feel you know me so well, after such a short time?" She was looking at me intently, an amused smirk on her face.

"I would like to know you a whole lot better. Is there anything wrong with that?"

She stopped and grasped my hands, and I was surprised at how warm her hands felt. Had I expected them to be cold? "That depends upon your definition of ‘wrong’," she replied, watching me closely for something, but I did not know what.

I did not know what to make of that statement, either, but I got a grip on myself. I decided to lighten the conversation. "Well, I told you who I am…" I put her hands behind her back, so that my arms encircled her. "So who are you?"

"For you, my love, I shall be Marie-Constance Quesnet."

I repeated her name. "Marie-Constance Quesnet. That’s beautiful. Like you." She was smiling at me, more in amusement than at my simple flattery, and I realized that she had spoken with certain intensity, as if she were telling me something very important. I wondered about this for an instant, but the answer eluded me, so I took the easy way out. "What sort of accent was that?" I could tell she was definitely not a local.

She laughed a sparkling tone. "That was no accent. I was speaking French," she answered, and I realized that she was right, and that she had just done it again.

"And I understood you perfectly," I replied, answering her in French. "How is that possible?"

I could not explain it. I had learned a few French words and phrases in the military, and I could recognize the inflections of the language even when I didn’t know the words. But I had never been fluent; so why had I understood her so well that it was like my native language, so familiar that I did not even realize it was not English? I was stunned, and she offered no explanation, but I decided to play it cool and see what happened next. Things were getting very strange, but I wasn’t about to let such an enchanting and mysterious beauty get away from me.

"You speak French flawlessly. Are you from France?" I asked.

"I am from everywhere and nowhere," she replied, in English this time. "I am the embodiment of night, the Queen of Darkness." She pressed me close against her body, her fingers swimming through my long hair. I smiled at her as she gazed at me with a quiet intensity. "Do you understand what I am saying to you?"

"You’re trying to tell me you’re a vampire," I replied.

I can’t explain how I arrived at this conclusion based on the subtle hints she had dropped, but I knew it was the answer she was looking for. I had never met such an intriguing woman before, and I couldn’t wait to see what surprises were yet to come.

"That does not frighten you. Good."

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There are whispers of slain men and of bodies being discovered all around the Saint Louis area of the 1920s. In Grantsville a gangster turns his eyes on a vibrant eighteen-year-old named Gloriana Fuller. Jack Diamond dresses like the movie star, Rudolph Valentino. His automobile is long and sleek and extravagant. While Gloriana finds his presence electrifying, she suspects he may be the notorious Eddie Richardson who beds very young women and drowns men in the river. Hadn’t he served time in jail on bootlegging charges?

After a hasty marriage they enjoy a steamy relationship. But the fruit of their love possesses a rotten core. Law enforcement agencies are paid off; Eddie reigns with a firm hand, keeping all competitors out. Gloriana is blinded by love until the horrendous truth unveils. Gloriana realizes Eddie’s evil side after she catches him with a girl in bed at his lair at the Moonlight Inn. He disgusts her. His gang kills, plunders, rapes, and profits from illegal moonshine. And their evil deeds are raising political interest in Washington. Prohibition laws made Eddie rich and he will not change his ways, not even for Gloriana.

But there’s a train speeding toward him on the same track, a stranger in Grantsburg seeking to end Eddie’s career...and win his wife. But can even the rugged, handsome Prohibition Agent T.W. Walker save her and send Eddie Richardson to prison? Washington lawmen soon descend on the area, arresting everyone who aided Eddie; and that includes Gloriana. Is it too late for her, or can she and the lawman get the evidence he needs to send Eddie to prison for life?

Her mother rushed at her wielding the razor strop. Gloriana Pearl Fuller’s dress and corset provided little padding for her slight build. She’d practically sell her soul to the devil to leave home.

"Come here!"

Snap! Gloriana dodged and fell on the floor, scraping her knee. Her head barely missed hitting a cast iron leg. The lash licked her calf. Snap!

"Mother, no!"

"Come here, you little—"

Myrtle swung again and again. Flinching, Gloriana shrieked. It stung. She scrambled to her feet, covering her head and face with her hands and arms.

"Yee-ouch! Don’t—"

Her mother’s bushy brows rumpled and her lips curved into an arc-of-hate, an expression that visited Gloriana in nightmares. Throughout her life, her mother had whipped her. Gloriana yanked a chair from under the table, blocking her mother’s path, further enraging her. Myrtle shoved it aside. A pot crashed to the floor.

"You no account little—" She yanked Gloriana’s brunette hair. With the other hand, Myrtle drew back the strop and struck Gloriana’s back. "Come here!"

Snap! As Myrtle readied for a fresh hit, Gloriana scurried around the table.

"No!"

Her mother cornered her. Again and again she swung, striking Gloriana on the back, buttocks, and legs. Praying, Gloriana squeezed her eyes shut. Pain shot through her body until her mother’s arm tired and the whipping ended.

"Don’t ever leave this yard again! You hear me?" The heavyset woman bellowed with the tenacity of a drill sergeant leading a satanic army. "Not without my permission. You don’t seem to learn." Her chest heaving, she hung the strop on its hook. "Next time it’ll be harder. Now get out of my sight."

Sobbing, Gloriana wished her life would end. Her back burned from welts. Gloriana lifted her skirt, tore through the dining room and sitting parlor. Loping up the stairs two steps at a time, she passed her gleeful nine-year-old brother. Inside her bedchamber she pressed the door shut with her back. Breathlessly, Gloriana waited for footsteps, but merciful silence fell upon the house. She waited, her heart thundering. Five minutes passed and her mother didn’t come. She was safe.

Her brother laughed, and sang, "Nah, nah, nah, nah!"

The sound carried. The four-feet-nine-inch, skinny-legged, blonde terror angered her. He enjoyed inciting her mother. Myrtle seldom spanked Trevor because he could do no wrong. Her aunt told her once that her grandmother whipped Myrtle with a strop. Perhaps her mother thought it normal to whip a girl child. However, Gloriana was no longer a child, for goodness sake. Couldn’t her mother see that?

Thinking back, Gloriana remembered the crime; following her cat. An unthinkable act. A dog had chased it down the alley and past the barn. Gloriana feared the tom would lose its way. Stupidly she followed. She loved the cat. Needless to say, she had made a poor decision.

From the window, Myrtle had watched. Gloriana hung clothes on the line. All morning she kept her eyes on Gloriana’s movements. The moment Gloriana stepped off the property, her mother followed. She grabbed a handful of Gloriana’s dark hair, marched her home, pushed her up the steps, and through the back door. In shock, neighbors stood near a hedgerow, and watched the nightmarish scene and soon dispersed, appalled.

Her mother allowed Gloriana out of her sight on Sunday afternoons, when her friends visited. They gossiped and drank lemonade, tea, or coffee. Gloriana lived for the freedom of Sundays after church. As she stood with her back flattened to her closed bedchamber door, tears wet her cheeks. If she were to leave, where would she live? How would she earn money?

The pain subsided. Looking at the positive side, her mother hadn’t picked up the razor strop lately. Wordlessly sitting at the dining room table, Gloriana scooted the bit of scrambled egg across her plate. She whiffed coffee and heard the rattle of the neighbor’s automobile. She was not allowed to speak, although her brother Trevor talked incessantly. Trevor whined about how badly the neighbor boy treated him during a baseball game.

To her right, her father hid behind his section of the Marion Daily

Republican. He folded it and read the back page without noticing Gloriana’s plight. Usually, he concerned himself with three clock repair shops. Rarely, did he come home. An unwritten rule existed. He was not to be disturbed with domestic problems. Conversation was sparse. Gloriana feared mentioning her troubles. Medium-tall and gaunt, he hunched at the shoulders and sniffed every few seconds. Silver streaked his hair and worry lines cut deep into his forehead. Gloriana wondered why he refused to go to church.

To her left, her mother raised her head from behind the front page and sneered. Gloriana lowered her eyes to her bacon, not wishing to provoke her. Elaine’s father and mother accepted her without question. Why couldn’t it be that way in the Fuller household? The grandfather clock chimed six times, reminding her that a day of freedom approached. She lived for Sundays.

"What’s happening to the young people today?" her mother’s voice cut into the silence. The family gazed her way when she lowered the paper. "I want you to look at this." She pecked a photograph of made-up young women who wore risqué, shapeless dresses. "Showing their ankles and calves. Look at ’em. Incredible."

"Mm-hm." Butch wagged his head and resumed reading his section.

"They get by with murder," said Myrtle.

Her dislike of Gloriana apparent, she frowned, and smiled Trevor’s way. "Those ruffians who pick on you, the ones down the street, need me to come down there."

"Yeah," said Trevor, not understanding the implied violence.

"Like you, Gloriana." She gazed icily toward Gloriana. "If I didn’t punish you, you’d be loose, like those girls in the paper. Some day you’ll thank me."

For her brutal treatment, Gloriana could never forgive her mother. Silently, she finished eating and waited to be excused, knowing better than to speak in her own defense; her mother would slap her out of the chair.

"If I’d ever catch you going near any boys who don’t belong to our church." She paused, thinking. "Or if I catch you mixin’ with strange men, you’d get it real hard."

Who was she talking about? Boys were afraid to come near her. Her mother invented trouble. Her father put down the paper and interrupted. For once he stood up for Gloriana.

"Good heavens, she won’t Myrtle."

"Butch, I beg your pardon. I know her a lot better. ’Cause you’re never here." Gloriana’s mother scowled, her German patience wearing thin. "Remember what I said missy. I don’t ever want to hear about you with any strange men."

Much to her dismay, the hellfire and damnation sermon kept everyone past twelve o’clock. Patiently, she listened while fingering a page of a hymnal. The final prayer was said, the doors opened, and worshippers emerged into the sun, heading for their surreys and motorcars. The bell clanged and she bid friends goodbye. She ran-walked toward sidewalk, en route for the Sunshine Soda and Confectionery Shop. The Sunshine was the place to go. Other businesses were closed, because they observed the Sabbath.

Her mother climbed into the surrey, but didn’t sit. "Gloriana?"

"Yes?" With dread, Glori turned and looked back.

"You’d better not be a minute later than five."

"Yes M’m," she said. She hurried out of the yard before her mother could change her mind.

It was a glorious day. The sun shone in the light blue sky. Birds tweeted. The air was warm and not too humid. Through the week she thought about talking with friends on Sunday afternoons. The Catholic Church dismissed the congregation earlier than the Protestant church. Unlike Gloriana, Elaine was Catholic. Elaine arrived several minutes early and saved a place for them to sit. This week, due to Elaine’s insistence, they opted for counter seats. Gloriana found it odd, but went along. She didn’t care whether she sat at the counter or the tables.

Gloriana wore her least-faded summer dress. The hem touched her ankles and the sleeves lined her wrists. It was a hot garment to wear during the dog days of summer. Her ebony hair tumbled and bounced on her shoulders. She held the wide-brimmed hat and waved at an acquaintance along the way.

The previous six days crawled by and she knew the current afternoon of freedom would zip past. With excitement, her heartbeat quickened. She hopped over the cracks in the sidewalk, striding farther away from the church. A horse and rider passed, catching her attention.

"How’re you doin’ Glori?" asked a boy her age.

"Fine. You?"

He seemed to be smiling more broadly than usual. Was he flirting? She hoped not.

"Just fine, too."

Humming, she meandered toward the square. She tried not to appear eager, so she scanned the opposite side of the street. To her chagrin, her brother had followed. Cringing, she looked ahead. He wouldn’t dare go to the soda shop. He accompanied a friend. That was a good sign. After calling her name, he stuck out his tongue, and yelled a rude remark. How come her mother allowed him out of the yard? He had the run of the town.

"You don’t mean that!"

"You better not tell me what to do. I’ll tell Mother and you’ll get a whippin’. I can’t wait." He let out a high-pitched giggle.

Gloriana rolled her eyes. The little demon. She couldn’t stand him. Picking up her pace, she walked down a side street. He would tell. Even if a whipping awaited her, she didn’t want to miss an afternoon in town. She felt as though Lincoln freed the slaves. Entering the soda shop, she scanned the tables.

"Elaine?" Gloriana moved to Elaine’s side, sporting a broad smile.

Elaine and Gloriana ordered a sarsaparilla. Elaine’s figure was curvy and regal, her features were dainty, and she seemed optimistic.

"It’s on the house," the soda jerk said. and made a clicking sound with his tongue.

"Thank you," said Gloriana, picking up the soft drink. "Wasn’t that nice? Free."

"They do that for ladies who sits up here," said Elaine.

"Why?" Gloriana paused. "Maybe we should sit up here more often."

Elaine shrugged. "I guess maybe we should."

She turned, and whispered, "And also, he’s got a crush on me."

Gloriana giggled. "Oh, so that’s why."

"He’s not my type."

For a few minutes they chatted about the week’s happenings. The soda shop was a high-ceilinged room that possessed shiny hardwood floors, and colorful bottles of syrups on the back of the counter. She felt older than eighteen.

High-pitched laughter rose above the hum of voices. The soda jerk mixed different drinks. None of the drinks contained liquor, because liquor was illegal and immoral. The soda jerk wiped down newly vacated tables.

Gloriana whispered to Elaine, "You’re right. He’s not your type."

A reflection from outdoors flashed out the corner of Glori’s eye. A black automobile parked outside. She turned toward the back of the counter.

"Nice, huh?" said Elaine, cooly. "The automobile, I mean."

Gloriana glimpsed outside, and sighed. "It’s the prettiest one I’ve ever seen."

"It’s noisy." Elaine laughed. Elaine grinned. "I know the owner."

"You do? Who?"

"The owner’s rich."

"He’d have to be," said Gloriana, sipping.

"Get this. Those bigger cars scare horses." She laughed. "They sure do. Elaine’s hair was glistening russet and combed up in a new style called a pompadour and a lot of make-up.

"Where’s your new boyfriend?" asked Gloriana.

"He’s meeting me."

"What’s his name?"

"Dwight Kramer," she said, in a soft and clear voice.

"He’s coming here? Today?"

"Do I look all right? Tell me the truth." Her back straight and taut, she posed.

Admiring Elaine’s trendy chemise and feathered cloche, she nodded. "I wish I looked as good as you."

Elaine groaned. "You do. Your mother—I don’t like to talk bad about people, but Glori, she’s got you so…torn down. You’re beautiful."

"Look at you, Lainie! You’re so sophisticated. And your clothes are—"

Gloriana stopped, thinking she sounded silly. The nicest thing Gloriana wore was a homemade hat, which displayed blue and pink streamers. The hat never changed. Gloriana changed the ribbons each Saturday evening. Elaine’s tone grew serious.

"If I could dress you up and put some make-up on you, why Glori, you’d be a beauty queen."

"Oh, really?" Gloriana peered at her in disbelief. "What kind of dress is that you’re wearing? It’s the new style, isn’t it?"

"Like it?"

"I do, but it’s short. Mother’d kill me if I ever—"

"Don’t ruin your day," said Elaine. "Don’t even mention her name."

Gloriana agreed. A shiver wavered through her. Why did she mention her mother? A male hand brushed Gloriana’s back and she whiffed his citrusy after-shave lotion. She turned and looked up at him. She hadn’t seen anyone coming.

A deep, male voice murmured, "I’m in love."

Who was he talking about?

The stranger who stood at Gloriana’s side whispered something to Elaine’s partner, Dwight Kramer. Two men arrived instead of one. Who was the second man? Gloriana fixed her eyes up at the tall, dark-haired man. He peered back with an attitude of self-command and studied relaxation. His eyes were blue…or were they gray? He was strong and wore a suit bought somewhere else. In fact, both men wore very expensive clothing, unlike the men from Grantsburg. Didn’t she once see a photograph of a movie star, Rudolph Valentino, and hadn’t he worn a similar suit? The fellow who stood next to her was as handsome as Rudolph.

When he returned her interest, her eyes dove. Plaguing her, his hand touched the small of her back. She should go home, because he shouldn’t place his hand there. Although, the more she thought about it, it wasn’t hurting anything. How well did Elaine know her new boyfriend? Gloriana peered their way.

Dwight put his arm around Elaine’s shoulder. Gloriana’s cheeks deepened in color while she watched them. What was Elaine’s boyfriend’s other hand doing?

"Quit," Elaine said, softly urging him. She shoved his hand off her waist. "Don’t."

"Loosen up," Dwight said.

"People are watching," whispered Elaine.

Dwight’s dark blonde hair was cut in a trendy style. He wore a muscular physique on his six-foot frame. Gold and jeweled rings sparkled on his fingers. Gloriana didn’t care for his aggressiveness.

"What’s your name?" asked the man with the blue-gray eyes, who stood beside Gloriana.

She tore her gaze off Dwight and focused on the man who placed his hand on her waistline. "Gloriana Fuller. Any you’re…"

"Jack Diamond." A laugh escaped his lips. "You’re…"

"Glori’s fine. Nice to meet you."

He seemed citified, and his demeanor urbane. He didn’t look like other men. Neither man seemed as though they lived in Grantsburg, population 642.

"The pleasure is mine."

Her senses returned and she repositioned her attention on the soda jerk. Her body tautened as she leaned away from. It was an unnatural position, but his hand stayed. She began to feel uncomfortable. Should she be talking to him? Actually, he was an older man; a lot older. Too old, maybe?

"Give me one of those, and give the ladies another," he said to the soda jerk.

"Thank you," said Elaine.

"Yes, thank you," parroted Gloriana.

"Anytime."

Was he in his mid-thirties? Oh, how she wished to be a little more forward and ask a few questions. Although, asking men leading questions wasn’t socially acceptable. Dozens of women probably wanted him as a beau. Silence hung as heavy as the July humidity. His hand stayed on her waist and she endured his visual scrutiny. Although he was much too old for her. Liquor stunk on his breath; at least, she thought it was liquor. He broke the law.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

She would be polite, remember her manners. "On the corner of Alexander and Washington. On Alexander Hill. Do you know where that is?"

"That big house?" Leaning her way, he nodded. "The one with the green shutters?"

"That’s the one." She didn’t want him going there. Perhaps she shouldn’t be so forthcoming. "How about you?"

"I live off French Lick Creek Road, at a place called Moonlight Inn."

"Oh." Perhaps her father heard of him. She hoped he didn’t hear about the current set of events, though. "That’s a nice name: Moonlight Inn."

"I named it myself. In fact, I had it built. You know where French Lick Creek Road is?"

"Yes." She held her breath, summoning the nerve to ask him a daring question. "What do you do, Mr. Diamond, or a living?"

"Jewelry," he said, and laughed.

"Do you really?" His name was Diamond and he sold jewelry. "What a big coincidence."

Her father sold and repaired watches, too. Also, Elaine’s male friend wore a lot of jewelry. Did he buy it from Mr. Diamond?

In a voice like a knife scraping sandpaper, he murmured, "Where have you been all my life?"

As he said it, his nose hovered an inch over her ear. Shivers tore through her until her knees weakened. It happened just as he reached for his soda. She gasped.

"Didn’t mean to shock you," he said.

Brushing her long skirt, he propped a strong leg on her stool as though he were taking possession. If he continued, other boys would be afraid to come and talk. But, of course, she could be misinterpreting the entire situation.

Hesitantly, she said, "I’ve been right here in Grantsburg. All my life. I haven’t moved anywhere." She found his interest nerve-racking.

"How old are you, hon?"

"Eighteen."

Much too young for him. Judging by his words and actions, she doubted he was a man with scruples. Although, as unsophisticated as she was, how would she know? Maybe men from different cities acted like Mr. Diamond and Dwight Kramer. Nodding, he brought a bottle of brown liquid from an inside pocket of his jacket.

"You’re a young thing, aren’t you?" he asked, uncapping it.

"I guess so. Not real young."

Lifting the bottle to his lips, his eyes dropped to hers as he contemplated her words. "Want some?"

Gloriana didn’t want her mother noticing the scent of whiskey later. She wouldn’t be able to walk for a week. She whiffed the fumes and scrunched her nose.

"P-shu! Hoh! I think not."

"Come on," he urged softly, holding it closely. "One little sip."

"I can’t." Gently, she shoved his hand away.

"Mind?"

She shrugged. "Go ahead." As he sipped, she summoned the nerve to ask, "So, how old are you?" Her eyes shot down once the question left her lips.

"Ah. Thirty-six." His gaze grazed her downcast profile. "Why?"

She shrugged. "Just wondered."

"You think I’m too old for you, hon’?"

Hon? She flushed miserably, perspiring. She fanned herself with a piece of paper. "Too old for what, Mr. Diamond."

Obviously contemplating her breast size, he again lifted the bottle to his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed once. Her heart skipped a beat. She dropped her soda.

"Oh no!" It crashed onto the floor.

"It’s no big deal. He’ll get it." Jack raised a hand and snapped at the soda jerk.

The boy jumped. "Yes, sir?"

It was an order. "Get it."

The boy’s eyes rounded and he froze in place. "Yes sir, right away."

He hurried for the back room. With renewed humiliation, she looked away until the soda jerk emerged and mopped up the mess.

"I’m so sorry."

Jack’s amused expression embraced her. "No problem."

"There’s a free table," said Dwight Kramer. "Over there." A cigarette bounced on his lip. "We can get out of his way." His diamond rings flashing in the sunlight, he escorted Elaine toward the main window that overlooked a motorcar.

"Care to join them?" Jack lowered his eyes.

Was there another choice? She scanned the table. Standing at the counter drew attention that she wasn’t sure she wanted. All heads turned their way. Who was he really?

Elaine turned, and asked "Coming, Glori?"

Did Elaine want to sit with him? She considered the escalating drama while fanning away cigar smoke that twirled her way. Without even considering Mr. Diamond’s wishes, she wouldn’t mind sitting where the air was fresher. She glanced outside. If Trevor caught her mingling with him, he’d run home and tell. Sunday freedom would be a memory.

"Is everything all right?" Mr. Diamond asked.

"Yes," She lied. His concern made her shudder to the depths of her soul.

"Ready?" He took her arm. No man had ever escorted her anywhere.

"I can’t." She stopped, and took her arm from his hand.

"You can’t be serious," Mr. Diamond said. "You don’t want to sit down?"

A lady wouldn’t immediately take up with a man, especially one who looked and acted like him. Contemplating his demeanor, she smiled, unable to help herself. Intrigued, she noticed how the sunlight caught the glint of blue steel under his jacket’s bulging lapel. A gun? Quickly, she looked away.

"I-I can’t stay." With three sets of disappointed eyes focused on her, Gloriana paused. "Maybe for a few minutes, I can talk." It was too early to go home. Her mother really would suspect her of something.

"I’d be honored," he said.

"You would be? Really? Thank you."

She flushed as they crossed the room and he pulled the chair from under the table. Outside a man leaned against the luxurious car all the while. He dressed a lot like Dwight and Jack Diamond. Elaine noticed, too.

"Nice," Elaine told Mr. Diamond.

"Thanks."

"So that’s yours?" Gloriana asked. "Not the man, but the motorcar?"

"Yeah to both."

"Where do you buy petrol?"

"Five miles that way." He motioned with his head.

"Oh, nice. Isn’t it nice?" Elaine gave her a quizzical look, and mouthed, "What’s wrong with you?"

Gloriana rolled her eyes. What could she say? The man made her clam up.

Mr. Diamond said, "I have two motorcars, really. I plan to buy a couple more."

"Two?" said Elaine. "Wow-ee."

"Lincoln’s," he said.

"Mm-hm. Very nice," said Gloriana.

"That’s a lot; two and soon four," said Elaine. "Isn’t it, Glori?"

"The other’s a year newer." His eyes lingered on hers. "Good cars. Best I ever drove."

Gloriana said, "It’s the first time I saw one."

"How about a ride?" asked Jack Diamond.

From the first moment she saw him the feeling that he would extend an invitation lingered in the back of her mind. "Oh, no. I can’t."

"Why not?"

Elaine leaned toward them. "It’s not her. It’s her mother. She’s a real doozie." Elaine rolled her eyes. "If you know what I mean."

"I can handle her," Mr. Diamond said.

Her voice, an ebbing tide, said, "No, you just can’t. She’d—you don’t know her."

"What would she do?" asked Mr. Diamond, his eyes wide. "Not to me she wouldn’t do a damned thing. And I wouldn’t let her try anything with you. She wouldn’t know who she was dealin’ with."

Grimly, she looked away not saying a word. Her pool of thought regarding her mother was private and she would not let him tap it. What would he say if he knew that her mother routinely whipped her over small matters?

"It bothers you to talk about it, doesn’t it?" he asked, and rubbed her back for two or three seconds.

After a pause, she shrugged. "I can’t say."

He removed his hand. "Did I upset you?"

In a sharp exhalation, she said, "It’s okay."

"I like your hat," he said, fingering the streamers that dangled down her back.

"Oh, this old thing. It’s nothing, really." His fingers moved on her bodice back and an unwelcome tint climbed her cheeks.

"I like this," he murmured.

She looked down at the wriggling fingers in her lap, and inwardly pooh-poohed his compliment. Anyone with eyes could tell she hand-decorated the hat. He tried to impress her with flattery.

"It’s Elaine’s hat. Or, it once was. She gave it to me."

"Nice."

"Thank you, Mr. Diamond."

"A ride’d be fun, sometime," said Elaine. "Don’t you think, Glori?"

Gloriana grimaced. If she could, she’d nudge Elaine’s leg. "I really do appreciate it. And, it’s nice of you and all. But I can’t." Turning in her seat, she began to rise. "I have to go. It was nice meeting you, gentlemen. Mr. Diamond." Mustering her strength, she looked both of the men in the face. "See you."

"I’ll drive you," said Mr. Diamond.

"No!"

He had to be joking. Such an act would be dangerous. She envisioned Jack Diamond dropping her off at the corner of Alexander and Washington as her mother watched. The repercussions would be catastrophic.

"You come here every Sunday?" he asked. He grasped a lock of her hair and twirled it around his finger.

"Sometimes."

The urge to leave vanished. He seemed to tear his eyes off her. His line of vision drifted outside. He didn’t focus. He turned back, looking at her full in the face.

"How about next Sunday? You’ll be here?"

She bit her lip and shrugged. "I don’t know. Maybe."

"What if I’m here?" he asked. "And what if I asked you to go on a ride with me and Dwight and Elaine? Then what? Would you say ’no’?"

Her heart rate increased. It would be so very much fun and she yearned to do it. "I-I don’t know."

"It’s settled then. I’ll be here."

He reached out and squeezed her hand. When did she say yes? Pausing, Gloriana sighed with exasperation.

"Mr. Diamond, where’re you from?"

"Originally? Chicago."

She gave him an odd look, wondering what he was doing in Grantsburg, Illinois. His face looked vaguely familiar. Surely, she could trust him. She gazed down and noticed his hand. Where was his second to smallest finger? She had no business asking, but she did anyway, touching his hand.

"What happened?"

"A bar fight. I beat the dickens out of him. He healed, but my finger got infected."

"Your ring finger."

"It doesn’t stop me from doing other stuff." His fingers moved and rested on her shoulder.

"I see that."

He smiled. "What if I want to talk to you, say through the week? Pop in?"

"No." Panic gripped her. "Please don’t."

He nodded. "Okay, then. I’ll send you a note. Through Elaine."

What if her mother intercepted the note? Tears couldn’t come now. She acted like a whimpering schoolgirl. She felt herself being pushed to the wall.

"Mr. Diamond, listen…" Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to not cry. "You’ll get me in trouble." She wrung her hands. Word would get around that she flirted with him. The lash of the strop already stung. "Just don’t."

"I don’t want to do that." He scratched his head and his jaw twitched.

"Well, this time I really do have to go." Inhaling once sharply, she rose and backed away from the table, without making too big of a fool of herself. "I’m leaving now," she told Elaine, then stumbled over a chair, catching the table. "Oops."

Jack Diamond rose, too. "Wait, Glori!" He called her Glori and they barely knew each other. She didn’t remember her name sounding so ominous on any person’s lips--ever. "I’ll be here next week."

She shrugged. "I just don’t know."

His attention confused her. As though a demon chased her, and without a glance back she darted from the Sunshine Soda Shop and hurried home, thinking about Jack Diamond the entire jaunt. Would she meet him the next week? She had all week to think about it. Arriving home, she was relieved to find her mother entertaining her sister June and her first cousin on the porch. Jeffrey sat on the steps of the white two-story house, which boasted green spires, white siding, and a gabled roof. The two heavy-set women occupied the swing, gabbing and swatting flies.

"Hi," Aunt June said, fanning herself. "You’re all dressed up."

"Oh, this. I didn’t change after church." She looked down at her blue dress. "Thank you." She leaned and hugged her Aunt June.

"You’ve grown," said Aunt June. "My, my. You’ve blossomed into a beautiful young woman. I hadn’t seen you for two months and it seems like it’s been a year. Jeffrey and I thought we’d stop by."

"I’m glad you did."

Gloriana glanced at her mother’s disapproving expression, before she acknowledged the lavish complement. Maybe Gloriana should find a rope, wind it into a noose, and string it to the barn’s rafters. Maybe then she’d make her happy. Nothing else worked. She would laugh at Gloriana’s funeral and dance in the street. If the truth were known, Gloriana had thought about ending it all. At least Jeffrey was glad to see her. Bless his heart. A smile spread over his lips as Gloriana crossed the porch and pulled the screen open.

"What’s goin’ on up town?" asked June.

"Nothing much."

"I thought about going up," Jeffrey said.

Jeffrey stood six feet tall, was solidly built, and sported a dark blonde head of hair. His eyes were blue. Jeffrey quarterbacked for Grantsburg High and enjoyed reading. His teachers told June he was a very intelligent boy of sixteen. In a way, he resembled June, except for the hair color and height. They were both friendly and she had utmost respect for them.

Her mother said, "When you get in the kitchen bring me a lemonade. Then you can start the dishes. They’d better be done by the time I go in." Her voice lowered and she told June, "You can never tell about that girl."

Gloriana shut out her mother’s words, which were barbed and hurtful.

Jeffrey rose to his feet. "Excuse me," he said, his voice cracking. "I’ll get it."

Gloriana climbed the stairs, changed into an everyday dress and went into the kitchen where Jeffrey leaned back on the stove with his arms folded at his chest and his legs planted firmly apart. Jeffrey had delivered Myrtle the glass of lemonade and began helping Gloriana dry dishes. She gazed at him as his eyes followed her.

"What’s wrong?" Jeffrey asked.

"Nothing. Why?" She scrubbed up spilled lemonade from the luncheon.

"Are you going uptown regular now on Sundays?" He hung a soggy dishtowel up to dry and searched for a dry one. His voice was laced with a new emotion.

"Yeah." She handed him a dishtowel.

"Thanks." He took the cloth and picked up a dish.

"Yeah, I go on weekends. Sundays." Briskly, she scratched stuck cooked apples off a plate.

"Does your mother jail you through the week and let you loose on Sunday?"

Gloriana stared at him. "I think they gossip and she doesn’t want me to hear." Gloriana shrugged. "She tells me I can go."

"She’s getting worse, if that’s possible."

"I’m not going to complain."

"I don’t know how you’ve turned out normal," Jeffrey said. "I sure wouldn’t have."

"It’d help to be crazy, that’s for sure."

Reaching for a pitcher Gloriana poured and took a long, deep sip, feeling Jeffrey’s scrutinizing stare. She wasn’t about to tell Jeffrey about Jack Diamond, because he’d have a fit.

"I bet you’re glad to get out."

"It’s great to see friends."

She ran the back of her arm across her damp forehead. She retrieved a pile of plates and leaned in front of him and seized the dishrag from the edge of a counter. Jeffrey didn’t move, so she brushed by him.

"You smell like smoke."

"They smoke in the Sunshine. The men do—cigars and cigarettes. I don’t."

"That’s where you were? How long have you been going there?"

"A couple of months, maybe." A silence fell between them. "We don’t come over much anymore."

"I noticed. I hope it isn’t me."

"It’s not."

"Is it Mother?" she asked.

"How’d you guess?"

"It was easy." She saw a strange look in his eyes. "What?"

"There’s something I-I wanted to say. Can I just—" His voice fell.

Gloriana rinsed a dish and placed it in his hands. For a minute, she stared out the window and waited, but Jeffrey’s words stalled.

"What Jeffrey?" Why was he acting so backward? "What’s on your mind?"

"I’ve heard about how she’s been whipping you and all and—"

"Oh."

She felt like ice had just solidified in her stomach. Everyone knew about her life. Although very few mentioned it; the town’s shocking little secret.

"Wait," he said in a tormented tone. "It took me long enough to get the nerve to say this." He gathered his thoughts and raised a hand. "To say it is hard. So, hear me out…please. Think about this."

"Sure."

"Why don’t you and me…run away."

"Oh, Jeffrey. I-don’t think—"

Why would he have such a crazy idea? She stiffened and backed away an inch or two. Surely, it was the kid in him talking.

"Wait." His eyes clung to hers, seeking approval. "I’ve thought about it and it’s what I want to do. We can go far away to the east coast. I’ll go to college there. How’s that sound?"

"Do you know what you just said?" She stared at him, hoping no one hid around the corner and listened.

His tone was deadly serious. "I mean every word."

"For one thing, we’re first cousins, for goodness’ sakes," she whispered.

"I know what you’re thinking." Raising his hand to his forehead, he settled down with a thoughtful pause. "Listen. If we went…away, far enough…no one would know we were, well, you know. And we could maybe get married and—" As he peered her way, his eyes darkened with emotion. "Think about it. It could save your life."

Gloriana dropped onto a chair and rested her head in her hands. Jeffrey meant well, but his feelings for her were misguided. The only event in their past that could have triggered his romantic notions occurred a year earlier. Then again, perhaps he just wanted to save her from her mother. She remembered the evening at the lake when they had almost kissed. He put his arm around her while swimming. It made her warm and tingling inside. Later, they shared a deep discussion about life and other soul-wrenching topics while lying under the stars. Could she attribute his affection to the conversation they shared that evening? She had practically forgotten it, hoping Jeffrey had also let it go. It was a fun summer, the year her mother had to go back east to tend to a sick aunt.

"No, Jeffrey. That’s so silly. Where did you dig up that idea? It’s nice and I love you, but not that way."

Surely, he experienced puppy love or perhaps felt sorry for her. In any event, it was no reason for them to run away together. Jeffrey smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand and paced around the room.

"I think you’re in danger," he said, his voice cracking. "People told us."

Her voice softened and a faraway look entered her expression. "We just can’t."

It was an impossible suggestion and an immoral way to live married to a first cousin—utterly ridiculous. Jeffrey started his Junior year of high school in September and he had a lot of growing up to do. He wasn’t thinking straight. He was a wonderful friend and his considerate gesture overwhelmed her, but he needed to find an unrelated girl who was more his age.

Her mind wandered to the problem of the moment; to the exciting Jack Diamond she had met. She couldn’t rid herself of his image. Who was she kidding? She’d never see him again. But why did he have such a powerful effect on her?

"What are you thinking?" asked Jeffrey.

"Nothing at all."

Sensations in Centigrade gallops out of the chute like an enraged bull. Max gives us a journey through the dim love-darkness of contemporary romance. He pens a joyous bittersweet romp through the life of a modern day war widow, with all her romantic obsessions, deceptions, and pitfalls.

Seven months after the death of her husband Tracy Beckwith discovers the man of all her dreams and fantasies when he wades out of the ocean and into her life. Hunter Marshall is a magnificent body builder with a civilian existence sponsored by a little known top secret department of the federal government. His profession requires that he live undetected and unnoticed within the general population. Unfortunately, when you are six feet tall and built like a human log splitting wedge, living unnoticed proves difficult. We are granted entry into the life of a beautiful and very active widow’s marvelous temptations and her late-in-life sexual awakening.

CHAPTER 1

Mid-May of 1966 finds me sitting in the outer office of Dr. Ruth Simmons, a psychiatrist in Tucson, Arizona. This is the last place in the world I want to be. I’m dressed down in a scruffy two-piece athletic suit, because I don’t feel like dressing up for anyone or anything. My eyes are red from lack of sleep and twelve hours of sobbing my heart out. I didn’t put on any make up and there is none in my purse. My hair is almost untended; I merely turned the scraggly mess into a ratty looking ponytail before rushing out the door. I’m late again, which has become my most current mode of operation.

The twenty-six hundred square foot ranch style house John and I built in Tucson has become a prison. I rarely venture forth for anything, but the necessities of life. My best friend Carlotta Mason has become so worried about me she arranged an appointment with Dr. Simmons.

The Doctor enters the waiting room, and says, "Please come with me Tracey. How are you today?"

I make no comment, but I rise with dread barking at my heels and precede her through one door, and into a large office with comfortable looking white leather furniture grouped around a large coffee table. Total security, nothing I say will pass outside these walls. Dr. Simmons gestures toward one of the chairs and when I am seated, she takes the one opposite me with the table between us. I look around the room. I’ve never been to a psychiatrist before, so don’t have any idea what to expect. The place is light and airy, fish float in a glass tank along the wall beyond Dr. Simmons.

"Good morning, Tracey. How are you today?" she asks again.

This time I answer. "Good morning, Doctor. I’m probably about medium today, angry at the world."

"I see from my secretary’s notes that you are thirty, and recently widowed. How long ago did your husband die?"

"November eleventh, nearly seven months ago.

"How did it happen?"

"I was told by his Summary Court Officer that he was killed in Vietnam, by friendly fire."

Dr. Simmons says, "How terrible. I’m truly sorry. What an awful thing." I feel my eyes fill with tears as I reflect on how close he came to coming home to me. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"His tour was half over when he went on a four day trip to Okinawa. The C-130 he was in was struck by naval gunfire. A cruiser the air-traffic controllers knew nothing about was lying off shore firing inland in support of ground troops. One of the shells struck the transport as it was climbing out. I was told the odds of that happening are approximately one in two million. What was left of the plane fell into the ocean. John’s body and that of his back seater were recovered. We had the funeral November twentieth in Fort Logan National Cemetery, Denver."

"Where are you living now?"

"In our last home, here in Tucson."

I grab several tissues from a nearby box, press them to my eyes and bend forward from the waist while I sob hysterically. When the sobs reduce to an occasional spasm, she continues in a calm even voice.

"What are your plans now?"

"Plans? I don’t have any. I’m afraid of the future without John."

"Do you have any relatives you could go visit for a while?"

"I have John’s parents, but when I go there I feel like an outsider because I gave them no grandchildren. So for me, there are no relatives anymore, just me."

"What about your parents?"

"Both dead in a plane crash ten years ago."

"Would you care to elaborate on that circumstance?"

"It was a private plane crash. Dad flew them both into a twelve thousand foot mountain in eastern Utah. I am an only child, so there aren’t any siblings, although I wish there were."

"I’m sorry you are alone. You have your friend Carlotta who thinks enough of you to arrange this appointment."

"Yeah, friends like Carlotta are rare. I’ve never met anyone like her."

"How long had you known John?"

"My entire life, we were childhood sweethearts and married after he graduated from pilot training in 1951."

"Why no children?"

"We had a baby when I was 22, a little boy, but he was stillborn and I couldn’t become pregnant again. The only thing we accomplished with our effort was that the baby took the calcium out of my teeth and six months after the birth, they all had to be pulled. What I have now is the most perfect set of false teeth I’ve ever seen."

"They are not noticeably false, Tracy, I would never have guessed."

"How nice of you to say so."

"Have you heard any voices talking to you that other people don’t hear?"

"Sometimes I seem to hear John calling me from a long way off."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Sometimes I feel like I want to go join him."

"Have you made any plans about that?"

"No, no plans at all, for anything."

"Why don’t you tell me about John?"

"How much do you want to know?"

"Every thing you are willing to tell me. Be as detailed as possible, so I can have an insight into the both of you."

"I’ve known John from as far back as I can remember. He was two years older than me and first came into my life when I was in second grade. The school bully had a habit of picking on me during recess. His favorite thing seemed to be pulling my pigtails. He’d pull them so hard, sometimes I’d fall down. One day he entered a new phase and hit me. John came to my defense and a fight ensued right there on the school ground. The fight itself was rather remarkable. John was younger and smaller than the bully, but he whipped him so badly the bully couldn’t get up. Finding someone who could whip him seemed to have a calming effect on the kid, and he stopped picking on everyone.

"John’s family lived about a block from my parent’s home, on the same street. After he became my hero, we walked to school every day together. We were a twosome right on through high school. In high school I was the perpetual homecoming queen and he was the enduring captain of whatever sport was in season. We were each other’s first sexual experience. We did it all, from petting, to oral sex and finally we gave our virginity to each other on his eighteenth birthday. Our entire lives were spent in a town of about twenty-four hundred people. We planned our first sexual experience as though it was a wedding, even to the place where we would consummate the rest of our lives. We selected a secluded site alongside the railroad tracks. The track leads to an oil refinery on the other side of town and the spot was behind a large stack of railroad ties. Trains only came to the refinery once a week, so when we parked there we were in no danger of discovery. The event was planed in advance so John could come up with a condom. Actually he bought a dozen in a little box from his buddy who worked as a soda jerk in the main street drug store. Funny how you remember incidental little things like that. I remember the box had a drawing of a peacock on the lid and cost him three dollars and ten cents.

"On the appointed night we went to a movie, then he drove in his dad’s car to our hand picked site. We were both scared spitless, but we went ahead. We started and he could tell he was hurting me really bad, so he withdrew."

I sob uncontrollably for half a minute while the Doctor waits patiently.

"Please continue Tracy."

"John graduated from high school when he was seventeen. His first job was in our hometown with an out of state construction company from Tennessee. They were putting in REA lines to the outlying farms and ranches. John was a typical class ‘A’ personality; he became a demolition man because everyone else was afraid to work with dynamite. When his induction notice arrived, he enlisted in the Air Force and went away from home for the first time. He took competitive exams during basic training and was accepted into pilot training. We married the day of his graduation from cadets. Our courtship had been very sexual and marriage only increased the process. Every time we visited the home town, when we drove across the tracks in the center of town, we would look north and see where we had been, a long time ago for our very first time."

I break down again and there is a long lapse before I can continue speaking.

"John was a twice a day man. He nicknamed my vagina ‘Connie’, and I named his penis ‘Johnson’. As far as I know, he never had anyone else. One time he told me that when he was in cadets in Arizona, they would go to Nogales, Mexico every payday for a five-dollar oral delight. After that bit of information I made certain he never wanted to go anywhere else for something he could get better at home."

I stop for new tissues and sit there numbly until the Doc tells me to continue.

"Were you in love with him or just lustfully involved?"

"We were married twelve years and had been a couple for the previous sixteen prior to marriage; during all that time, our emotions never slackened. Some days he would call from the base and say, ‘I’m bringing Johnson home for lunch.’ That meant that I was to freshen up, get naked, and be kneeling on a big thick pillow inside the garage entrance to the dinning room. After a few minutes of lip service, we would either complete Johnson’s homecoming or adjourn to another favored place."

"Favored place?"

"Yeah, you know, like the living room floor, the ottoman that went with the over stuffed chair in the living room, our bed, or maybe the dinning room table. We even did it atop the washing machine with the spin cycle going; those were all favored places. The possibilities were limited only by our combined imaginations. One of our favorites was for me to go down on him while we were driving some place. He’d move the seat as far back as it would go and I’d do him while the car was on cruise control. Once we even made love in the front seat of our Buick Electra in the garage, just like we in his dad’s car when we were teenagers. Another time after he was eighteen, we made out in my parent’s bed while they were twenty miles away shopping. The thrill of possible discovery only added to the pleasure."

I notice that I have stopped sobbing, and am sitting upright clutching two sodden tissues in my right hand. I stare at the fish in the aquarium behind her desk.

"Even his return from a weekend cross country was cause for sexual jubilation. We could hardly wait to get back to each other. Afterward, we would lie in bed facing one another and talk. Our conversations mostly involved dreams and fantasies about our future. Sometimes we would act out the fantasies and that was always special. We were deeply in love with each other, but lust was a large part of that love. I can’t imagine love with a spouse being any thing but lustful.

"When his orders came for Vietnam, I cried for a week. He looked at the assignment as his great adventure of a lifetime and the key for future promotion. I looked at it as the possible end to an ideal marriage. I had this deep, gut-wrenching feeling that he was never coming back.

"Although we couldn’t seem to have anymore children, we enjoyed each other so much, nothing else mattered. Halfway through his tour he was allowed a two week Rest and Recuperation leave. He scheduled the R & R for Bellows AB, an old WWII fighter strip on Oahu in the Hawaiian Islands. The place was one of the more popular R & R sites that we could afford. I booked a flight with Pan Am, so as to arrive the same day he did. Providing the planes were on time, he would be there an hour ahead of me. True to the schedule, he got there first. He rented a Volkswagen for our transportation, and a motel room at the first place outside the base gate. He picked me up at the air terminal with three flower lei’s encircling his left arm. Once the lei’s were around my neck and I had been kissed practically to death, we raced to the room. He was wearing shorts, a white T-shirt, and zorries when he picked me up. The shorts worked wonderfully well for what I had in mind for the trip to the motel. By the time we got there, he could hardly walk because of his advanced state of arousal. I let him carry my overnight kit in front of himself until we got inside the room. We left everything else in the car. Once in the room, I gave a proper welcoming to Johnson as soon as the door was closed. He went back to Nam after our two weeks were up. The trip had been another honeymoon. Less than a month later he was dead. All I can think about is ‘never again.’ Never again to be in his arms, never again to experience what we did when we were alone together, never again to make love to him and Johnson."

I give a gagging cough, lean forward again, and sob my heart out. There is a long silence in the room after my last crying fit, and then she speaks.

"You are severely depressed, Tracy, so I’m going to give you something for depression and something else to help you sleep. We have to figure out a way for you to move on with your life. You need to accept the fact that John is never coming back. You need to acknowledge that to yourself, for your own good, whether you like it or not. There’s someone else out there for you, all it will take is time. You are a beautiful woman; what a shame it will be if you turn into a recluse, afraid to venture forth or meet anyone else. I’d like for you to sign a release so I can talk to your friend Carlotta. Perhaps together we can get you past this point in your life. You probably need to get out of that house for a while; take a vacation, go somewhere you’ve always wanted to go."

Carlotta tells me later about her conversation with Dr. Simmons; much later after I am under some semblance of emotional control. She told me their conversation went something like this: "I’ve had my first three sessions with Tracy and we have to get her out of that house for a while. You need to talk her into gathering up John’s clothing and if she will allow you, give them to some place like Goodwill or the Salvation Army. Her best attempt at healing will come if we keep her from establishing some sort of shrine to him in the house. She needs to be thinking about something besides, ‘never again’. The never agains can kill her, so we want to get her thinking of the future. Can you spend more than a normal amount of time with her?"

"Yeah, we do coffee every morning at her house. My hubby’s in Vietnam flying F-4’s in the same Squadron John was in and I dread every time the phone or doorbell rings."

"Do you think you can get her to let you bundle up his clothes and get them out of there?"

"I’ll manage."

Margaret Taft is the silver-haired captain’s mistress who desperately needs rescuing. ‘Mad’ Jack Wyndlam is the one man capable of doing that, but his interest is only in pirate’s gold. Silver meets gold, spinning a legendary tale unlike any heard before on the high seas.

Margaret Taft has a fantastic secret. Pale of hair and skin with a silvery voice to match she has endured life as the ill-used mistress of British Navy Captain Ambrose Price. The only way she can return home is to find a magical pearl stolen by the pirates aboard the Mercy’s Ransom. When she meets the man with the golden aura, she knows he is the only man who could save her. Trouble is…will she be able to let him go?

‘Handsome’ Jack is a gentleman pirate just looking for a fight. Thrown off his own ship by a treacherous hand he is seeking a ship to bear him on a bloody mission of revenge. Then he comes face to face with a silvery woman offering him everything: escape from the noose, a ship, plus the sunken treasure of the fabled Ana Maria Salvador. All he has to do is find her one solitary grey pearl. It sounds so simple. But he never bargained for the feelings she drew from him as easy as breathing. He never counted on being unwilling to let her go. In the end, he knew it was more than his honor at stake. It was his soul.

"Margaret, I will not have you defying me," he warned.

Captain Ambrose Price glanced over the shoulder of his reflection in the mirror at the woman being cinched up into a new corset on the other side of the room. Her platinum-blonde hair was catching the dying light from the window and turning deeper shades of gold and red. He decided he did not like the color on her. Though, with the silhouette she was cutting in her undergarments as the maid worked, he was tempted to forget her mission and ravage her himself.

"Jeanette, tighter," he ordered. "I want to be able to wrap my hands around her waist and meet my own fingers."

Margaret gasped as the girl pulled in response to the order. She thought she was going to be cut in half. "But, sir, I can hardly breathe as it is," she protested, as the new steel boning forced her body into the shape he desired.

He turned away from adjusting his wig and crossed the room to her. He shoved the small black girl out of his way and began to manhandle Margaret’s breasts into place to present the most appealing vision. "Get the dress," he ordered, without looking at the slave girl. "Now," he said, his voice deceptively pleasant, "I have told you to call me Captain, haven’t I?"

She hung her head, "Aye, Captain," she breathed.

He touched her chin in what began as a tender gesture, then moved her head rudely out of his way. "Now make certain that you bring up the subject of my promotion with subtlety, and a casual, but calculated glimpse of this," he said, giving her décolletage a pat. He set his hands around her waist until his middle fingers touched and frowned to note the quarter inch gap between his thumbs. "It will have to do …for now," he added with considerable menace.

Jeanette wisely approached from behind and climbed on a short stool to be able to get the dress over the girl’s head without messing up her elaborate hair. Margaret wiggled to help, but frowned as the bloomers chaffed against her thighs.

"Must I wear these accursed things between my legs?" she pouted.

He cupped her chin and squeezed hard enough to hurt, but not leave a mark. "One: do not frown, it mars your beauty. Two: you must be wearing knickers when he undresses you or you will be seen as a wanton and all my carefully laid plans will be for naught, which will cause you considerable pain. Three," he added, cutting off her next thought, "you will not question me. You do remember your dear brother, don’t you? And what your obedience to me means to him?"

She lowered her silvery blue eyes in submission, and it seemed to please him. He let her go and paced back to the vanity and allowed Jeanette to finish working her magic. He opened a drawer and returned with a three strand rope of pearls spread between his hands set with a brilliant sapphire the size of a Spanish doubloon surrounded by diamonds. He set it at her throat and handed the clasp back to Jeanette to fasten.

Margaret ran her slim white fingers along the gleaming ropes. They were breath taking, and they made her think.

"Captain," she ventured.

"Yes," he mused, as he adjusted a curl that was blocking the view of her earrings.

"What news of my pearl?" she asked.

He glanced down at her, and then went back to making his minute adjustments. "It never made it."

"Sir? Captain?" she corrected quickly.

"The ship was attacked by pirates," he answered, as if its loss meant nothing to him. "It was the Mercy’s Ransom. No doubt it is even now gracing the neck of some pirate’s whore. I wonder if she knows what she has?"

His smile was cold and cruel.

From outside there came the sound of a carriage and he shooed Jeanette away and pulled Margaret into the hallway.

"But…the Mercy’s Ransom takes no survivors. How do we know it was her?"

He paused on the top of the stairs, his hand tightening on her elbow. "Because another ship saw her leaving the wreckage and was unable to catch her before she vanished. She was sighted, and you will drop the matter. I have not allowed you to use that pearl for some time now. Its absence will hardly be missed. You will forget about it, and keep your mind on the task at hand tonight. Vice Admiral Trask will be waiting for you."

With that he half dragged her down the stairs to the front door. He stopped in front of the butler and got himself under control, his face once more the nonchalant mask it always was, looked her over for signs of dishevelment, then looked back at the butler. The man nodded minutely, serving as mirror in absence of one, and only then did the Captain signal him to open the door. He was the picture of gentility as he handed her into the black coach and watched them drive into town.

Captain Jack Wyndlam stood up in the rough native dugout and reached for the underside of the bridge. He steadied himself, and then began climbing precariously up the side. He had gotten one bare foot up on the plank arches and was pulling himself over the rail when a black carriage charged over the narrow bridge and veered too close to the side. He felt the lantern glass shatter against his hand and lost his grip, falling back into the water cursing.

He tried again, looking both ways before throwing his leg over the rail and standing rather unsteadily on the stones. The ground was painfully still, but his head insisted it wasn’t. He swayed, tried to steady himself, cursing dry land. He did not wait to get his land-legs. That was a pointless endeavor. They were something he had never once in his life been able to acquire, not even in the four years he had languished on that damned island. The sooner he got moving, the sooner he could ‘acquire’ a ship and be back on water. Sopping wet, and wringing out the tattered gold sash at his hip, he rolled into town. He passed a fruit vendor folding up his wares for the night and handily filched an apple, slipping it up his sleeve as he volunteered to help him pull down the heavy planking that closed up his cart. The old man thanked him, then got a look at his tattered clothes, bare feet, and questionable appearance and hustled away with his cart without another word.

Jack shrugged and walked the other way, taking a deep bite of the russet apple. He savored it, sucking on the bitten piece to get the most of the flavor before chewing it. He headed toward the docks and the taverns that were livening up as darkness approached.

Vice Admiral Trask was a portly man getting on in years, and heavily pock marked. "So tell me," he was saying, "what your relationship is with Captain Price?"

Margaret swallowed her distaste for the man, and smiled coyly at him over the dinner table. "He is a friend of the family," she said shyly, tilting forward as if she had no clue the view this presented her host. "When my father died and my brother went off to sea he took me in."

"You are what, seventeen?" he asked.

She blushed and responded with the lie she had been told to use. "Not quite, Vice Admiral. But that is not exactly a proper question for a lady?"

"I apologize, Miss Margaret, truly. I was just curious why you have not been married off as of yet."

She toyed with her food, staring at her fork as she turned it. "I suppose he is waiting for word from my brother before he makes such plans. I…really would not know of such things. He has never discussed it with me."

The vice admiral seemed to approve as a servant entered with a stack of documents on a plate. "Thank you, Morton. Now, I know you came here with an eye out for your benefactor. You want to know how he stands for my job, seeing as I’m retiring fairly soon." Margaret looked up in shock. "Oh, don’t play coy, my dear. I know how this game plays. Come, sit closer whilst I go over these papers." He waved for Morton to clear away the remains of the meal, and reached over to pull Margaret’s chair close. "That will be all, Morton. Unless, of course, you want dessert?" he asked, turning to her.

She shook her head. "No, thank you. I couldn’t eat another bite." It was not a lie. Though she was still quite hungry, the corset’s tight laces guaranteed she could not eat a single grape more. "What are these papers? If you will forgive my rudeness?"

"Oh, it is not rude in the slightest. This is what you came here for, after all. These," he said, leaning uncomfortably close, "are Captain Price’s records of service."

"All of them?" she asked, seeing the thickness of the stack. She was aware where his eyes were and could almost feel the heat of his pheasant laden breath on those ivory mounds though he made no move to touch her. "Yes. I can’t even think of taking his offers into consideration if his records do not come close to justifying him for the position. I would love to recommend the man, but I need to cover my own assets, if you understand, my dear. Now, let us see… Here’s the list of pirates he’s hung, both here in Port St. Charles and at sea…" he muttered as he set it aside.

"Personally?" she asked, her eyes widening. The list was long.

"Yes. While under his command, anyway. Those hung when he was on board, but not in command are over here." He fished for another document.

Margaret picked up the page and glanced down its length. There were nearly sixty men, along with ships and dates on the first page alone. As he turned back to her with the other list he knocked over a glass of wine and she jumped back with a squeak, the papers clutched to her for safety. The chair clattered as it fell over and she tripped on the outstretched leg as the dark red liquid ran across the table and splattered onto the floor. She managed to catch herself before she fell, but the papers scattered. She began apologizing, and dropped to her knees to pick them up.

The vice admiral bellowed for Morton to clean the mess then pulled Margaret gently to her feet, away from the scattered papers. "Are you hurt?"

"I am sorry, I…I’m…"

He gave a dry chuckle. "It’s all right, my girl. I spilled the wine, not you, and I have servants for that. But thank you for saving them. You did not get any on your dress, did you?"

Margaret did not hear him. She had seen the name on the bottom of one of the pages in her hand: Marcus Taft. The date next to his name was four years ago. She felt weak. She became aware of hands on her, arms wrapping around her. "Miss Margaret! Are you all right?"

She looked dumbfounded at the vice admiral. "Pardon? I am sorry, I…I must have eaten far too much of your fine dinner than is good for me."

"If you ask me, you ate far too little, but no matter." He took the papers gently from her and passed them to the servants who were cleaning up. "Come, sit down. You look faint."

"I think…I shall be sick," she said, managing to think again. Her mind raced.

"Oh, dear. Henrietta!" he bellowed. A tall weed of a woman answered his call. She bobbed a curtsey without a word. "Take Miss Margaret to the privy. She is feeling ill. Then find her a place to rest a moment."

The woman bobbed another curtsey, and took hold of Margaret. Henrietta was almost strong enough to carry her as she helped her down the hall and into to the small room where chamber pots were kept for the convenience of guests.

"Leave me a moment," she gasped. "I’ll be fine. I’ll…let you know when I am done."

The woman nodded and left. The moment the door closed, Margaret looked about for a way to escape. There was nothing, not even a window. She leaned back against the door and tried to breathe. After a moment she heard a noise down the hall followed by shouting. Another moment passed and she heard footsteps walking away and ventured a peek out the door. The hall was empty and she took the opportunity to slip out the other way and began searching for another door.

Everyone seemed to be headed to the front of the house in a hurry. It took her a few moments before she found the servant’s entrance in back and slipped out into the streets, pausing to snatch a cloak from a nail by the door.

Jack sat in a tavern with his head over a mug nursing his fourth pint of sour, watered beer. He had managed to pick a pocket or two and ‘acquired’ a pair of ill-fitting boots off a man in an alley too drunk to need them anymore, and a new coat to cover his weather worn shirt. The coat was a faded blue and set off the blue part of his eyes nicely. The brown rims faded into near nothingness as he stared through the dimness at the denizens of the tavern. At the moment, all he had to do was not call attention to himself, and he should be able to commandeer one of the smaller ships in the harbor without too much trouble. He flexed his injured hand, wrapped in a dirty rag and soaked in the bit of whiskey he allowed himself to buy. It still hurt mildly, but the pain gave him focus.

Around him sailors talked of their ships and their women and he kept a tally of which ships’ names he heard the most, telling him which ones were most likely to be easiest to take having less men on board. He was also listening for word of a particular ship, but was disappointed to hear nothing of her. He flashed a grin that was less sober than his head at the wench who brought him a fifth beer. When she smiled back he reached out and pulled her into his lap. She giggled, and seemed more than willing.

"Cor, yer’ an ‘andsome one. Though a bit worn. Whatcha need, duckie? A bit of company?"

"Mm," he rumbled, deep in his throat. "Maybe later," he slurred, although it did nothing to change the warm, silk-like quality of his voice. It was huskier than it used to be from long disuse and abuse by the sun and sea, but it was sultry and seemed to inflame her to genuine desire. "Are you sure? I might not even charge you," she cajoled.

"Don’t tempt me, luv. I’m lookin’ more to…information, you might say, rather than company."

She snuggled into his lap, laying her head on his shoulder and her mouth next to his ear, and played with his hair. "So, tell ol’ Darla what you want to know."

He rubbed his unshaven cheek against her expansive breast, and placed a light kiss on the high swell. "Ah’m lookin’ fer a ship."

"There are quite a few hirin’, luv. What are ye lookin’ fer, merchant, man o’ war…?"

"Pirate," he whispered, with another kiss.

She gasped, both from the touch and the words. "Oh!"

He grinned, continued to wrap around her, his hands wandering quite artfully. "Oh, not just any pirate ship, luv. One in particular."

He moved to her ear, and whispered a name. She was off his lap in seconds, knocking over his mug, whether by accident or intent he could not be sure. While she was picking it up she hissed hastily at him.

"Ye best be fergettin’ that death ship, luv. Ye’ll live longer. An’ ye’d best be makin’ yerself scarce, and quick. I’m thinkin’ ye’ll not be wantin’ naval attention?" She waited until he gave her a minute nod. "Captain Wellington’s men’ll be comin’ off the evn’in’ watch shortly."

Jack nodded, doing a quick calculation of how long it had been since the seventh bell. He stood, hoisted his breeches, swept Darla into a passionate kiss and walked out of the tavern leaving her breathless with three pence in her cleavage and no idea how they got there. He sauntered down the walk toward the docks with someone else’s unattended mug, staggering from time to time. He did not get far when he saw a troop of off-duty navy men headed straight for him and spun on his heel, hiding his face in his cup. They went past without incident. Unfortunately, turning back toward the docks, he slammed into the back of a man who tumbled over a packing crate and spilled a pint of sour grog all over a lieutenant’s uniform. He grinned, and spread his arms in way of a drunken apology. However, the lieutenant was brighter than most, and noted his attire beneath the pilfered coat.

"In a bit of a pickle, aren’t we, thief?" he snarled.

Jack gave a chuckle, and wavered on his feet. "That would be dependin’ on what you may think was stolen what was borrowed, actually, from a close…personal friend."

"Well, why don’t we go find this friend and ask him, shall we?" he suggested and reached for Jack’s arm.

"Certainly," he crowed. "He’s right down there by the bridge thingy in the—hic— dinghy," he slurred, pointing toward the bridge where he had left his makeshift dugout.

The moment the solider turned his head a fraction Jack tossed the remaining contents of his mug in his face and bolted in the opposite direction down an alley. Behind him he heard the lieutenant yell for back up. Risking a glance back, he tripped over a drunk who complained unintelligibly, as he ducked and dodged and bobbed and shot out of the back end with both batches of soldiers in pursuit. Ever cagey, he doubled back up the next alley toward the docks instead of the way he had been running and shucked off the coat, throwing it to a surprised and pleased rummy who had been sleeping there.

The docks were busy and well lit. He darted in and slowed down amid the crew of a merchantman that was unloading its cargo into a warehouse whilst the men grumbled it could wait until morning. He scooped up a small crate and began helping. Someone complained it was just as well, as they would not get paid until the next day anyway, and Jack couldn’t resist commenting.

"Aye, we can’t be drinkin’ on credit, now can we? Or we’ll be dealin’ in dead horses b’fore mornin’ fer sure."

There were mutters of assent and the grumbling grew quieter. Jack was able to blend in amongst them with fair ease, and though he had to dodge a few more soldiers as he aimed haphazardly toward the smallest boat in the harbor. Occasionally, he would walk on board unloading ships and walk off with boxes and crates, marching them into the warehouses, or loading supplies onto soon to be out-going vessels. He had maneuvered toward a less well-lit part of the docks where no ships were moored, only small dinghies, carrying a large bundle of bananas he had removed from one of the warehouses when he heard a voice calling out.

"Hey, you there!"

He spun to look, hitting something with the bundle. As he realized the caller was speaking to someone else further down the dock, he heard a feminine grunt and then a dull splash. He looked down off the edge of the dock and saw the long white arm flailing in a mass of dark cloth, and then slowly sink from view. There were few sailors on this end, and no one seemed to notice. He set the bananas down, and started to curse just as a sailor halfway down the dock saw him looking in the water and asked him what he dropped.

"Me hat," he said, without thinking. "Me favorite, lucky hat."

"Bad bit of luck, that," he muttered, then looked up, hearing a disturbance further down. "Wonder what they lookin’ fer?"

Jack did not even stop to look. He just dove in.

 Aspiring off-road racer, Tom Guthrie, is down on his luck when he meets well-heeled Elizabeth Claymore. She is in southern California to open a West Coast extension of her successful Manhattan art gallery. He’s trying to figure out what women want. She’s trying to prove to her father that she can succeed on her own…as soon as she learns to drive. Tom decides the only thing Libby can drive is a man crazy. However, what Libby teaches him is that a person can’t win unless he’s in the race.

Chapter One

Tom Guthrie liked the low-lying fog that blanketed the Southern California coast each spring. The locals called it June Gloom, a good description that fit his mood. He swung open the glass door of Bernie’s Best Driving School with a chip as big as a California redwood on his shoulder. Melody left him almost six months ago, and he still hadn’t figured out why.

"Got a live one for you."

Bernie interrupted Tom’s thoughts mid-way between regret and good riddance. The owner of the driving school sat behind a metal desk with an unlit cigarette hanging between his lips.

"Teenager?" Tom asked.

"Naw, older woman. New Yorker. Paid in advance." Bernie chuckled, cleared the gravel in his throat, and handed over the paper work. "The lady requested a stick shift."

Tom nodded. He knew the type. Never driven a car in her life and now that she’d found herself in SoCal, she was ready to cut loose in a sporty convertible. Miss New York would be better off in a nice American boat-sized automatic. Something she wouldn’t get too hurt in when she made that left turn in front of an unsuspecting fellow road warrior.

"Hey, Tom. Try not to screw this one up."

Bernie’s throaty laughter echoed in Tom’s ears as he left the office. There wouldn’t be another screw up, because he needed this job. Nothing would come between him and the new love of his life: a 1968 Mercury Cougar with gleaming chrome bumpers, duel carbs, and 427 cubic inches of pulsating V8 engine. She belonged to him and the San Diego North County credit union. He intended to keep her in the lifestyle to which she’d become accustomed. That would happen only if he could maintain a positive cash flow, and bouncing from job to job put a serious crimp in the checking account.

He slid behind the steering wheel of a Honda Civic with Bernie’s Best Driving Academy painted on the door. The sign assured Tom a wide berth in the street and on the freeway, evoking both fear and respect to all who saw it. This wasn’t the greatest job in the world, but it paid a decent wage while he waited for the powers that be in the racing circuit to decide if he was disqualified for the Baja 500. Although the wait was killing him, he’d learned not to beat himself up over things he couldn’t change.

"Otherwise, you can take this crummy job, and shove it," he said, to the demure compact he drove with such careless disregard that he was surprised she’d survived his three days as a driving instructor.

He turned the corner of 4th and Palm and searched the pink stucco buildings for a street address. When he came to the right number, he pulled over to the curb. Cramped, Tom stepped out of the ‘gray ghost’, and stretched his six-foot frame. The morning gloom had lifted, replaced by a bright sun that bathed the high-priced condos in white light. Tom took the work order out of his shirt pocket and checked the stats. The lady’s name was Elizabeth Claymore. He strolled over to the iron security gate and buzzed her number.

"Who is it?" a woman’s voice asked over the intercom.

"Bernie’s Driving School, Miss Claymore. Ms. Claymore," he corrected himself.

His lack of political correctness had messed up his last assignment. How was he supposed to know that she was a he?

"I’m not quite ready. I’ll be down in a minute," the voice answered.

No surprise there. One fact of life he’d learned early in his thirty-two years. Women kept you waiting.

"Women," he said out loud, enjoying the fact that they always lived up to his low expectations.

Palm trees shaded the quiet street, providing relief from the rising heat. Tom leaned against the car. He got paid by the hour, and could wait. The psychiatrist in group therapy had said Tom needed to express his emotions. What did the doc know about what Tom needed?

His ex had cleaned him out; lock, stock, and espresso machine. What crumbs she’d left, the attorneys had squabbled over like pigeons in the park. Tom had been bummed out since that day in Laughlin when he’d seen his ex arm-in-arm with Kevin Weyerhauser. So bummed he’d ignored the ‘idiot’ light on the Ford Ranger and burned up an engine. He’d stewed plenty when that happened, but he’d kept cool. No way was he going to let those two see how bad that felt.

He was about to even the score. He’d formulated a state-of-the-art fuel additive that would give an engine that extra endurance needed in down and dirty commuter traffic. With the Baja race, he’d have the opportunity to prove his invention. The money would roll in like waves at high tide.

What would he do with all that dough? He smiled. He hadn’t dreamed that far ahead, yet, but the possibilities would be a pleasure to contemplate. Old Kevin, with his toothy grin and family bankroll, would have to show Tom the respect he deserved. And Melody? He’d show her who was the better man.

Tom peered at the empty sidewalk on the other side of the gate. No Elizabeth Claymore. He checked his watch.

"What’s keeping you, Ms. Claymore?"

A woman close to his age emerged from one of the condos. His mood picked up when a look of recognition illuminated her face. She smiled and waved. He watched her close the gate behind her. Why didn’t a woman her age know how to drive a car? Driving was as natural as breathing. Women were the great unknown, and he’d given up trying to guess what they wanted.

The lady looked dressed for a board meeting in a black power suit with a long jacket and short skirt. Black strappy high heels adorned long, slender legs. They were the kind of shoes that would distract a guy about to close a multi-million dollar deal. Geez, how’s she going to slip the clutch in those? If that wasn’t enough, the lady wore a string of pearls that peeked through a shimmering black silk blouse. He liked pearls on a lady when the occasion called for them, but this was a driving lesson, for crying out loud.

Tom’s attention was diverted by barking. A woman his mom’s age rounded the corner walking a lap dog. Both she and the dog wore Capri pants and a tee that showed their bare midriffs. The pooch jumped up on his client’s expensive duds.

"Bruno, get down," the woman said, pulling on his leash.

"That’s all right. I love dogs." Ms. Claymore reached down and scratched the mutt behind his ears. "Aren’t you the sweetest little guy?"

The dog grinned from ear to ear.

"Ms. Claymore?" Tom asked.

She turned to look at him. Her eyes were the closest shade to chrome he’d ever seen. The dark red of her lipstick was his favorite, a come hither red that needed a man’s attention. She gave the woman a quick nod and continued up the sidewalk. Something about her walk exuded the poise of a Victoria Secret model in a kick ass power suit. He had the distinct feeling he was about to earn his pay.

When Ms. Claymore reached him, she stuck out her hand. Tom did the same and she shook his vigorously. Her hand was small and soft, and contrasted nicely with her bold as brass style.

"Call me Libby."

He continued his appraisal. Her head of shiny blond hair swung when she moved her head and then fell neatly into place. Her white skin had never seen a ray of sunshine, but looked classy in that outfit. Definitely east coast, and a woman of means. Not that he objected. He appreciated a fine pair of shapely legs as well as anyone, including man’s best friend. Tom shifted his gaze.

"I’m Tom Guthrie."

"Glad to meet you, Tom Guthrie." This time the smile came with dimples. "I’m new in town," she said, stating the obvious.

"Are you here for business or pleasure?" Tom couldn’t help but smile back.

"I’m out here to open a new art gallery." She handed him a business card, the kind that came from a commercial printer on heavy-duty stock with raised lettering.

"Claymore Galleries, New York City," he read out loud.

"I’m the chief, cook, and bottle washer," she said, with a light-hearted laugh.

Tom decided she hadn’t worked for a day’s wages in her life. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Stuck behind his pictures of the Cougar were his business cards. He fished one out and handed it to her. He’d done them himself on his computer, and they’d turned out great.

"Team Guthrie, SCORE?" She raised perfectly tweezed eyebrows.

"Off-road racing circuit," he replied, with a measure of pride.

He closed one eye against the glare of the sun and watched for her reaction. Babes liked men who drove fast cars. She turned the card over.

"Well, Team Guthrie, off-road racing is a little more than I had in mind." The comment made him grin. The lady had a sense of humor. He liked that in a woman. "What does SCORE stand for?"

"Southern California Off-Road Enthusiast. In racing, to be exact," he added.

"Doesn’t that spell SCORER?" There was a hint of mischief in her eyes. Tom knew how to spell, but he couldn’t afford to annoy a paying customer. "How long have you been teaching people to drive?"

"Long enough," he answered, his speech more clipped than he intended.

Ms. Claymore asked a reasonable question, but hell, he’d given her a reasonable answer. She slipped the card into a small leather purse. Her silky hair fell forward, inviting his touch.

"You know, this is my very first time," she said, her voice as silky as her hair.

"I promise I’ll be gentle," Tom answered.

Was it his imagination or did he detect a blush on that flawless complexion? Naw, this lady was too cool a customer to be thrown by his back-handed comment. She blinked thick dark lashes.

"Okay, Team Guthrie. Let’s get started."

"Jump in on the other side," Tom said, indicating the driver’s seat.

"Au contraire. You need to show me how to drive first."

"All students start in the driver’s seat," he explained.

"You don’t understand. I’ve never actually been behind the wheel of a car."

She spoke with a trace of apprehension. Tom was surprised. She looked so together, so ready to take on any task in front of her.

"Then today’s your lucky day."

She shot him a cryptic look. Tom didn’t have a clue what that meant, and wouldn’t venture into what went on inside a woman’s brain. He believed in hands-on experience, and he didn’t make an exception for anybody. Ms. Claymore studied his face and then made up her mind.

"Okay. If you think I should start in the driver’s seat, then I’m game."

She swung past him, and he caught a whiff of a light, citrus scent, throwing his imagination off guard. He watched her smooth backside round the corner of the car. The woman had a nice chassis, no doubt about that. She opened the door, descended into the seat, and grabbed the steering wheel in both hands with such determination that Tom wondered if she would be all right. Tom tapped on the passenger side window with a chipped fingernail. She found the right button and unlocked the door.

"Don’t be nervous," he said, as he slid into the seat next to her. The interior of the car already held her scent. "There’s nothing to be afraid of." Again the light laugh. Tom pulled his seat belt across his lap. He knew a bluff when he heard one. Her feet were inches away from the pedals. "First thing you need to do is adjust your seat."

"So how do you do that?"

"Pull up on the lever under your seat and scoot forward." She followed his directions and moved the seat closer by half a foot. She flashed him a look of satisfaction. "Seat belt," he commanded.

She pulled the belt across her lap and fastened it without an argument. After explaining the clutch, the brake, and how to shift, he told her to practice. She listened intently, didn’t interrupt. She followed his instruction to the letter.

"Not so difficult, is it?" he said.

"No. Easier than it looks." She put her hand on the door handle.

"Where are you going?"

"I’ve learned the basics. Now you can show me how to put them all together."

"Not a chance," Tom replied. "Start the engine."

"What?" Ms. Claymore licked her lips with a quick flicker of her tongue.

Tom checked himself. His mind had begun to wander where he’d promised himself he wouldn’t go. At least not anytime in the near future. He couldn’t afford a distraction, not after last year’s fiasco.

"Now comes the fun part," he said, trying to sound encouraging. "You’re going to drive a car."

This story traces the laughter, tears, and loves of four people as they wend their way through open doors seeking an illusive happiness.

Which door will Natalie Woods open? Her marriage of nine years ended when Damien left her for a younger woman. This is the end of her life as she knows it, and the beginning of all things new.

Which door will Diana Anderson open? Frank left their marriage because she forced an issue. Can the creative outlets she explores ultimately fill that void?

Which door will Damien Woods open? With his marriage to Natalie ended he can play out his fantasies with Carol. But is that what Carol wants?

Which door will Frank Anderson open? He has the freedom to do whatever he wishes. But what can stir his passions now that Diana is no longer in his life?

Do they all open a fresh door to find happiness or do they stay outside in the cold?

Diana Anderson sat on a bench stool in Natalie Woods’ kitchen. The view through the window painted a tranquil scene with the bright sun blazing overhead, light fluffy clouds skittering across the sky and rolling green hills filling the background. Inside the kitchen the atmosphere was anything but tranquil. Natalie sighed, tensely clutching the knives and forks she held in her hands. Around her mid-thirties, she dressed with a casual elegance; her faded jeans ironed, her shirt fresh and crisp, her dark hair, sleeked back and tied neatly.

"Well, what a state of affairs," Di said. "What do we do now? Here we are, two women without husbands, relatively little money and no means of supporting ourselves." She swiped stray hair from her face. "Its not your fault Damien turned out to be a first class heel! What rankles me is the fact that he left you for a younger girl...one, not much older than his own two sons. Not that my Frank turned out to be much better. That two-bit girl of Damien’s fantasies, according to Frank, is called Carol. A lusty piece with a cute buttocks and big boobs!" She clicked her teeth in sheer frustration. "Damn, Frank, and his bid to prove his virility. I suppose he’s done this to ward off the inevitable menopause. Do men suffer menopause? Of course they do."

"It’s not your fault either, Di. Although I have to admit, Frank seems a little too old and too stayed to be experiencing a seven year itch." A faint smile crept across her face.

"Ah, don’t laugh," Di groaned. "I’ve no idea how long his philandering has been going on. Just because I found him out once, doesn’t mean he hasn’t been doing it for years." Di tossed her head to help ward off tears. "I’ll get over it. After all, I didn’t throw away over twenty years of marriage. Frank did!" She wiped away a tear forming in her eye. "Have you heard from Damien?"

"Not one word. Despite his protestations of love, how he needed space, and how he would be back in touch to explain…absolutely nothing."

"Frank rang the day after I caught him out in an intimate liaison with that Danielle woman," Di said, gathering momentum for her own plight as if she had not been listening to Natalie. "Well, girl, I really did it. His smarmy words trickled down the phone line, bouncing like a flea in glee. I nearly stuffed up our marriage. I realize how much I love you and I need a chance to make it up to you," she mimicked Frank, her face animated. "What you did that night…you were brave and I admire you for it. I didn’t realize that I loved you so much until you found me out." She contorted her face, swiveling her eyes. "Will you have me back?" Di sniffed, looking directly at Natalie. "Have you ever heard such rot? I listened to him squirming like a worm sliding into a hole, feeling nothing. Honestly, I felt nothing for the worm," she repeated adamantly. "Not one tiny tingle of compassion did I experience...only an anger welling up inside. I was too hurt to be taken in by his ingratiating attitude. Frank was in a fix, one which he created and laboring under the illusion, I suspect, that good old Diana would pull him out of it."

Natalie pursed her lips, fully listening to her friends enfolding tale.

"Years ago I would have been so desperate to forgive, Frank. However, today, women do not have to put up with any kind of abuse, emotional or physical. It made me feel stronger to know I no longer had to be a cotton-picking dormouse. No longer submissive, bending to any man’s needs and wants."

Di’s face turned as red as her hair, her eyes blazing. Her bright auburn unmanageable hair had a mind of it’s own. She tried as successfully as she could to shape it into doughnut type bun on the top of her head, held together by small hairpins. Strands cascaded over her face, causing her to keep wiping them from in front of her eyes. Her face displayed dotted freckles that went with the hair. The freckles she covered lightly with makeup, toning down her little girl look and highlighting her deep blue eyes.

Natalie shook her head from side to side in reaction to her friend’s plight, her lips raising a small wry smile, a shiver of apprehension coursing her body. She had no idea how she might have reacted had she found Damien in a liaison.

"Our children are making their own lives. So I determined it was time to make mine. I surprised myself by saying to him, ’No! Take what belongs to you and get out of my life!’ There was a second’s pause while I waited for him to reply. I could visualize his brain scanning madly like a computer, searching around for ideas. True to form, he would not give up. Quietly, almost chaste, he said, ‘Di, can we be adult about this and meet to talk?"’ She flayed her arms, the color of red rushing to her face. "If he’d been near me I would have thrown something at him I was so mad. Nor did I trust myself to meet him. I knew he would turn on the charm and I would melt like an ice cream cone, so I bellowed down the phone, ’No’, and threw the receiver onto the cradle as if it were a hot potato."

"After Damien left all I did was cry," Natalie responded, rising off the chair, putting down the cutlery to walk over to fill the kettle. "I jumped every time the phone shrilled, listening for every car coming down the road, checking the mail every day and waited…my self-esteem slowly diminishing." She took two mugs out of the cupboard, the coffee off the bench, and milk out of the fridge. "The first week I was filled with remorse, feeling sorry for myself for being the loser. I found it hard to stop the visions of Damien draped around a younger woman. Jealousy was somewhat entangled in my line of thinking. If I could have found his nubile nymph I would have scratched out her eyes, broken every bone in her body, contorting her like a rag doll, which you have to admit is not like me.’

Having finished preparing the cups of coffee she handed one to Di and then sat back on her chair.

"During the second week, waiting for an explanation from him, I grew angry, and then pity reared its ugly head. I spent my time wondering how I was going to cope with the garden, the car and house--all those mundane entities. Everything seemed larger than life and far too insurmountable. Honestly, Di, I reached my lowest ebb. This morning, waking up, I felt ashamed. After all this time I realized I had acted like a star-struck teenager, besotted by a man who no longer wanted me, hanging onto a dream that had turned into a nightmare. I’ve spent three weeks trying to work out where it all went wrong, but still I don’t have any answers. I’m forced to face the inevitable. I was killing time, dithering around while pandering to my hurt feelings and my reluctance to face facts. I glanced out of the kitchen window to see for the first time in weeks the lovely tranquil scenery with birds twittering as they woke and parakeets screeching as they moved from tree to tree. There was my organized garden in front of me, flourishing in an array of color, chirping with life. I changed my style of thinking. Enough girl! Pick up the pieces of the jigsaw puzzles and jam them back in the box. This is one puzzle that you will never solve…the whys and wherefores. It’s happened. Get a life!"

Di nodded, smiling in a knowing way. "Let’s eat and work out our strategy for your ’get a life’ campaign,’" she suggested, a trill in her voice. "We’re in this together. I’ll be damned if we’re going to let them get away with discarding us so easily. What do you say?"

Both women rose and walked toward each other, flinging their arms around each other’s shoulders, clinging together to cement their bond and resolve to make moves that were more positive. Both cried, not through remorse, but more through relief. They had each other. That had to be half the burden.

"Prepare the sumptuous repast whilst I go to the bathroom to tidy this stupid hair."

Natalie smiled and picked up the cardboard box of food her friend brought with her, heating it in the microwave. She bustled around laying the table and they sat down to eat.

"There’s a bottle of Moselle in the fridge we could open to celebrate our momentous decisions," Natalie shouted, after her friend.

Di came back into the kitchen, opened the fridge, a grin spreading across her face. "Yes, lets. Let’s get a little tiddly and work out what we are going to do to resolve our situations."

Damien Woods sat slumped in a chair in Carol’s small flat thinking about all the possessions left behind with Natalie in his marital home. He was over six feet tall, leanly built with a strong bone structure. Some women would classify him as handsome in a sturdy, rugged way. He certainly had a propensity to attract women like birds attracted to nectar. With his feet resting on the windowsill, a drink in his hand, he sipped his drink pensively waiting for Carol’s return. His eyes swept down through the window overlooking red drab rooftops; the day cloudy and dismal, engendered in him a tight feeling of claustrophobia. That feeling crept over him in the small box of a flat that lacked garden color hemmed in by an urban landscape of buildings, roofs, and small gardens.

He groaned. How could he have given up the magnificent rural view from their marital house to come and live in this? Three weeks had passed since he left Natalie to live with Carol. This was the first time he had had time to think through his move.

Carol turned out to be so demanding, so controlled. Every minute of his day was taken up with work, and his nights--he licked his lips--with making endless love. Carol couldn’t get enough of him. He ended his thoughts with a throaty chuckle. Carol made him feel young and virile once more. He could not even remember feeling so good as a teenager. He chuckled again. He was still not sure how he had fallen into this particular relationship. It all happened so fast; a happy, middle-aged married man falling for a much younger woman. Whatever possessed him to give up everything?

No, no, he could not go on like this. The first week was great. He buried his problems, oblivious of anything, but the lust and need for Carol’s body. The second week he was so tired that he was not able to do his job properly. So many times he all but fell asleep over his desk. It was looking obvious that he was in no way young enough to keep up the marathon pace. His sexual proclivity was becoming the butt of jokes around of the office. This week, staying home to try to catch up on some of his work, Carol had been petulant and sulky. The thought crossed his mind that she was going to be even more so when he informed her that next week’s business would take him to the Gold Coast for a few days. How would she handle being without him?

He sighed, picking up his drink. He could never go back to explain to Natalie, as promised. He could not face her or tell her why he left. To be honest, he did not rightly know why. Carol had swept him of his feet, and he was not too sure where their relationship would lead.

The image of his two grown up boys flashed through his mind. Ugh...the boys. His thoughts dithered around in his head. Whatever were they going to think when he told them that he had left Natalie, especially for a girl not much older than they? Max might understand, but he doubted Chad would. They were after all this time only just accepting Natalie as their stepmother. Oh, what a bloody mess.

He rose from the chair to pour himself another liberal drink, the feeling of guilt riding over him. The implications of his situation filled him with dread. He was saved from further recrimination when he heard Carol’s footsteps approaching the flat and her key turn in the lock.

Frank Anderson put down the phone after speaking to his wife, Diana. He rang her with the purpose of saying he was sorry, and then ask her if he could return home. The culpability of what he had done to his marriage, overwhelming. In his cheap hotel room, a dismal space without character, he strode into the bathroom to shave. While he brandished his razor around in the air he talked to his image in the shaving mirror. Talking to his reflection filled a silence; a method he employed since he began living on his own and not in a house full of people.

Portrait of Mara introduces an extraordinary sequence of events that begin in Nairobi, East Africa, moves to the island of Mauritius and, eventually the USA. Mara, an exotic woman of color, marries international businessman, John Barton. John is unaware that his wife has a latent sexual disorder. The psychosis erupts when his friend, artist Robert Cutre, arranges Mara’s nude figure in a classical pose. The lustful incident tests the sanctity of an already complex mixed marriage, including a family’s disappointment with her marital choice, and a psychotic infidelity. To be sure, two interesting twists, but not the story’s dramatic high points. Mara finds out she’s been living a lie, and breaking down in front of her sisters. Dr. Alston, confesses, “I’m not your real father, your biological parents were Eurasian. You are not an African-American.”

Nairobi Kenya, East Africa

In the wooded area, next to the Nairobi National Railway Museum, are several ancient steam locomotives. They lay around in the weeds like sleeping old sows. One of the relics, a Hedley locomotive built in 1890, is sheltered inside a barn. The engine’s black paint is freshly bright. And the gilt, lacelike decoration around the cab, still has its golden glitter. Coupled behind are its two diminutive passenger cars.

Climbing aboard I sat down on one of the cane-backed seats. While sitting there I envisioned turn-of-the-century travelers, men in belted khaki coats, ladies in simple muslin dresses, intrepid souls who gazed out upon a landscape unlike any in the entire world.

Finished with my reverie I got up and wandered over into the museum. Curiously, I was drawn to an ornate mahogany pedestal. Inside its glass-topped case was a yellowing card, and pasted on it were the scimitar-like claws of a man-killing lion. Below I read the following account:

Reported 1897 British East Africa

The huge predator jumped throughthecar’svestibule causing pandemonium and terror among the passengers. Like a cat would snatch a canary, the lion seized an Englishman, mauling and killing him before the beast was finally shot.

That horrific scene flashed across my mind as the lion landed half on the open Land Rover and half on me. I felt the bone crack as she clamped down on my shoulder. At the same time, her claws ripped into my thigh. She spewed spittle into my face as I smashed at that massive head with my camera, but it was weak and ineffective. I closed my eyes to the horror of it all…and then, mercifully, I slipped away.


1 - KENYA, EAST AFRICA

"Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!"

BARONESS KAREN VON BLIXEN

— From Out of Africa

What in life can be more deluding or self-serving than that of a failed marriage and what can be done to overcome it? The answer is simple: exchange the old disenchantment for a new enchantment; fall in love again. At 30,000 feet I pondered the first unaware of the fact that I was on my way to the second.

Coming from a liberal San Francisco Nob Hill family, I was induced to enroll in a progressive Northern California University, albeit I left that elitist institution before I could sit for a degree. (It was then that I knew I wasn’t going to be the person they wanted me to be). And the reason for leaving was because I refused to be re-shaped by that college’s regulatory structure; teachers whose ethos and personal biases were too radical for me.

It seems that nearly all higher institutions of learning today are given over to teaching materialistic expediency, and I didn’t want to become another barbarian. So I opted to leave and plant myself in a college that stressed career rather than academic programs. As a result, I was able to skirt most of the Humanities whilst majoring in Engineering and Architecture. Now, years later, I was sitting in the dim cabin lights of a British Airways jet, on my way back to Kenya, East Africa.

Four months ago my company, J.B. Engineering, a California based corporation, entered into a joint venture with EADA, the East African Development Agency. At that time, we were awarded a contract to build a food processing plant in Nairobi. Negotiations were determined and strong-minded, for Kenyan’s are tenacious and wily negotiators, but I too can play that game. Not that I believe in throttling a client beyond unreasonable equity, but I do understand the virtues of serving your own interests.

One of the agency’s concerns was that of completing on-time, and I was coming back to see that we would meet our deadline. Our company has never been the litigant in a liquidated-damages claim (legalese for missing a completion date), nor, have we ever been involved in a cost overrun. J.B. Engineering designs and builds factories that process edible products for human consumption—fuel for humanity. On our roster of completed projects is a plant in American Samoa that cans blue fin tuna. Another is a stick margarine facility in Brasilia, and a duplicate of the Samoan operation in Rio de Janeiro. As owner and president, one of my jobs is to monitor our company’s financial worthiness. Another is to see that its internal framework, namely engineering and manufacturing, is the best that it can be. We manufacture equipment to operate these facilities, such as fillers, can making machines, and hydrostatic cookers-the complete turnkey operation. FYI hydrostatic cookers are huge cylindrical vessels that are filled with thousands of cans and then pressurized with high temperature steam. Steam not only cooks the product but also sterilizes the can’s contents. It keeps you from getting a fatal dose of e. coli.

Shortly after my arrival in Nairobi, negotiations were completed and ground was broken. Work was started on the construction of a high-speed food processing plant. One that would be capable of producing more than five thousand lithographed cans per minute…four color, eye appealing, aseptic containers. Cans that would be filled with Kenyan green beans, okra, and stewed tomatoes.

Now, I was returning for the start-up and in the dim lights of the cabin and monotonous drone of the engines I mused over my failed marriage and divorce.

During these interludes, far from marriage’s conveniences, I invented a bogus theory of self-deception. I told myself that due to the remote circumstances, any extramarital affair that happened would be written off as being purely a clinical requirement. At a cocktail bar, or parties, I had my own, veiled, classified ad that professed my requirements: CONCUPISCENT, LONEY WHITE MALE, 6’1’ 175lbs, nice looking, in early 40s. Seeking an attractive female. One who is high-spirited and looking for fun and excitement. Must be intelligent, and trim, whose Body Mass Index doesn’t exceed 24. I certainly didn’t want some roly-poly lover.

Of course, there were times when those extramarital affairs became overly involved and emotional, but most were without guile and were not looking for a long time engagement. To my surprise I found out that such extra-marital dalliances do not work the same way for women as they do for men. However, Kay, my wife’s, came close to it. Kay was one of those women who needed constant adoration. I had met Kay on a cruise to Catalina and found out she belonged to the same beach club as I. The Deauville Beach Club had an Olympic sized pool indoors and one outside in front of the beach. It also had dancing on the weekends. One of the people that I had met there was a man who had a large machine shop. Its success, as a maker of hardware for the aircraft industry, had apparently made it possible for Julian to buy a sleek fifty-foot cruiser. On occasion, he liked to have lively people sail with him to Catalina, and often I was one of the participants. It was on one of these trips that I met Kay who happened to be the sister of Julian’s wife.

In making headway over to the island, there was the constant tossing and movement of the swells. Huddled together on the deck, I quickly found out that she was single, and during the two and half hour cruise, we learned much about each other.

On the return trip, before we had anchored back at the marina, she agreed, to meet me later on for dinner at the club. On weekends, there was dancing and our highflying relationship quickly turned serious. To make a long story short, in no time at all, I asked her to be my wife, and she agreed.

In describing Kay, she was a tall, attractive blond who always drew long looks from men. Knowing this I reasoned, that when I began to travel and was away for long times, she too might adapt to her own kind of self-deception, one that would fulfill her own ‘lonely hearts’ requirement. Strangely, due to the fact that my own extra-marital activities were oceans away, I didn’t have any problem getting back into a normal routine when I came home. However, as I found later, it was not so with Kay. One of her misalliances was revealed by a covert letter, which I happened to open. When I confronted her with it, I was shot down by a hot and tearful defense.

And there was our daughter, Ashley, which made the problem even more complex. It wasn’t good for a five-year-old to witness parental disputes that came close to a physical confrontation. It was apparent that our marriage had been weighted heavily with these negative encumbrances, yet I’ve known marriages that have survived such stressful separations. I knew another international businessman whose wife reasoned, that playing the flesh game out, was better than going through a cruel and costly divorce.

Kay and I both continued to sail along in these dangerous waters. She finding male propinquity a physical and emotional need, while, conversely, I was doing the same in far away places. But as time went on, the insidious circle kept widening. Finally, that which was fated to happen did. While I was on a lengthy project in South America, Kay took Ashley and moved to Palo Alto. She sued for divorce, and not to my surprise, re-married the week after it became final.

I didn’t contest the divorce, which was based on irreconcilable differences and desertion. However, the simple truth of the matter was that Kay needed constant attention, an adoring, uninterrupted relationship, and I wasn’t able to provide it. Marriage, for whatever time it lasts, locks in a 24-7 connection and I felt its loss. It’s a strange kind of loss, a vacuum, an emptiness that comes from no longer having a conjugal regimen. I missed sleeping under the same roof with the same woman, breakfasting and dining with her, even arguing with her. Now I was alone, back in the company of those who are single; an ocean of totally self-oriented individuals, a sea I hadn’t sailed in for several years.

In looking back, the marriage seemed to have ended as quickly as it had started, and now it was over, receding into the past. From that experience, I learned a lot about my erring life, and Kay’s too. The debacle gave me a new set of rules for the road; for sure, I would not let myself become trapped again in a life, wherein, I became snared in a cocoon of deceit and duplicity.

As the engines droned on, the whole mess was a dismal picture and I finally traded it for the lighter memories of my youth. I saw myself twelve years old…in front of our family home…standing with my brother Sam. Between us was my dog, Scotty, an overfed Airedale.

In those days, I spent a lot of my time tinkering with clocks and mechanical gadgets. Then when I was fifteen I shifted that interest to girls. There was Betty Ormsby and Caroline McKaye, who, years later said I was the first boy she ever kissed. And Blanch Sweet who had a twin sister named Sherrie. I was never quite sure which one I was talking to, they were so perfectly alike.

On weekends I went swimming at the beach. I’ve always loved the ocean even though I nearly lost my life in it one time. It happened near Malibu when my pal, Bob McIntyre, and I decided to swim out to what we thought was a raft. When we finally got there, it turned out to be a submerged lobster skiff. It was a long swim and upon arriving, we were totally exhausted. We tried to climb aboard and rest, but just the least weight caused it to sink. It was cold and getting late, and there was nothing to do but turn around and swim back. Halfway there I started to go under, and Bob grabbed hold of me. He held my head out of the water and made me paddle along with him. We finally made it to shore and I passed out on the beach. When I regained my senses I saw that there was a large gathering of onlookers and strangely among them was a priest. I suppose he saw the crowd and was curious. I remembered that he gave me a sip of wine, which warmed my cold body.

As the engines droned on, I thought of my mother, who’s gone now, but I could still see her clearly. Born in Olathe, Kansas, she was a lovely and deeply religious woman who made me go to Sunday school every weekend. The hour in class seemed like forever and I disliked having to wear a suit and tie, but it was her plan to see that I had a high sense of purpose, a spiritual foundation. She was a caring person, and, through her spiritual approach to life, became deeply philosophical. When I used offensive language to describe a predicament, she would say, "You should elevate your thinking…don’t hold evil thoughts."

During the long flight from London to Nairobi, I had plenty of time to think about holding, if not evil, at least disquieting thoughts. I pondered over recent female alliances, break-ups and disappointments, which always left me with a bleak sense of desolation. I remembered my mother saying it’s easy to form strong attachments but hard to put them out of your mind when you lose them. The romantic closures always brought me back to the cold, clear light of reality—where, once again I was alone. I began wondering if I was becoming a misogynist.

Suddenly, the engines were cut back. We were approaching the Great Rift Valley. And looking through the Plexiglas window I could see the blue Ngong Mountains off in the distance. Further west was misty Lake Victoria.

The jet lurched and shuddered as we began our descent to Nairobi’s Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. Shortly, I heard a grinding, whirring sound. I glanced out the windows and saw that the slats were being deployed. Instantly, there was a blunting reaction as if a giant hand had tugged at the plane. A wing dipped down and the plane’s tossing around brought an anxious silence that settled over the passengers. Some became noticeably uneasy as the big jet struggled to keep a beeline on the runway. I glanced at the old man sitting next to me. Both his hands were clasped to the arms of his seat and white knuckles showed through the thin delicate skin. I gave him a reassuring smile as if I had some guaranteed insight that everything was under control. Then the turbulence smoothed out and the descending glide became straight as an arrow. In seconds, the landing gear was deployed. As we swept past the long white terminal building, there was a chirp and, at the same time, an arresting jolt as we touched down. It was a long flight, slightly over twelve hours since we left Heathrow Airport. I looked over to the old man, and he gave me a relieved grin.

We came to an abrupt stop in front of the main building. Passengers rose up and began gathering together loose items and carry-ons. There was a long line coming from both the business and the aft sections of the plane, and for several minutes, I just stood there queued up with a couple hundred passengers. While ground personnel were attaching deplaning equipment. I realized that months had gone by since I was here last. At that time, I had come with Doug Wilson, our Contract Specialist, and Chuck Bradshaw my Chief Engineer. After discussions over construction costs and scheduling hardware, the contract was finally definitive and Wilson and I returned to the States. Chuck stayed on to oversee the erection of buildings and the installation of equipment. Now that all that had been accomplished, I was back again. The construction crew was laboring away with Kenyan workers and technical personnel. But along with all the new faces and the plant’s pre-operational state, another person was about to enter the scene. A man named Amis Cunningham. Amis was co-owner of a nearby coffee plantation, the harbinger who was bent on derailing my romantic destiny.

Disclaimer: This is a fictional erotic romance novel. It contains adult situations, graphically-described sexual acts, violence, death scenes, and abnormal views of real life situations. If any of these circumstances disturb you, or you are under the age of 21, do not read this novel. All the characters and names in this book are fictional and any resemblance to any person either living or dead is purely coincidental. The author takes no responsibility for comparisons with the identities or names of real live individuals or situations. This novel is a fictional accounting involving romantic fantasies and sexual situations. Under no circumstances should the details of this novel be viewed as real life occurrences.

Choctaw Princess or Lady...which is she?
Upon reaching womanhood the Choctaw princess Winona receives a vision that will fulfill an ancient legend. But she will undergo challenges and heartache before she finds the answer, and a love so deep and true it will make her whole.

Golden Hawk or Viking Lord...which is he?
While exploring a new land Lord Rurac Dragson becomes the reluctant guardian of several heathen maidens. Protective of all, but drawn to one, he finds that his honor, his name, and his wealth mean nothing without love.

Together they travel the age-old path of love until the Viking Lord finds his Savage Lady.

Amelia Karidokkus has spent most of her life staying away from her hometown and the past. A turn of events forces her to confront the choices that led to a ruined marriage, a crashed career, and has kept her from pursuing her high school sweetheart Jeff Herrington. In another turn of events Amelia is thrust into a decades old family controversy that could ruin those she loves. If she can solve the mystery and outwit a murderer she just might finally find a home for her heart.

 Amelia McKenna Karidokkus sat with her family in attorney Ira Winslow’s austere office. Winslow was late in reading her aunt’s will. Amelia looked at her watch, and then tapped her foot impatiently to let those around her know that she was tired of the delays. Remaining in town was not solving her problems. She heard papers being shuffled in an adjacent room, but her sister Kristin and brother-in-law David seemed content to wait however long it took for Winslow to get items ready.

Amelia was wrapped in a cocoon of problems. She was barely 30, and everything she had worked for was gone: her job, her home, and her marriage. The only family member who could comfort her was gone. There was too much emotion to speak, and too much sorrow to go on. How could this happen when she did everything as right as her sister?

Life had been so easy for Kristin. She was not as pretty as Amelia, but Kristin’s personality had always made her more popular. Kristin met her husband David within weeks of moving to Monticello. They never dated anyone else. She was settling into married life in small town America while Amelia was pushing through one of America’s most prestigious universities.

Within a few years things did come together for Amelia when she met a reporter named Nick Karidokkus. Together they made a life, but now it had unraveled and she was destitute. What is someone to do when her world has been shattered like a crystal vase on a brick fireplace?

As she listened to the papers being shuffled, she knew a document was being crafted in an Atlanta law office: the decree that would end what she had with Nick; a decree that disconnect her from a solid foundation for the second time in her life.

Amelia brushed her hair out of her eyes and grabbed a magazine from a table with an exasperated turn of her hand. All her signals were doing nothing to get Winslow to move faster. In the same fashion no matter how hard Amelia tried, she could not escape the vignettes of the past that raced through her mind. The haunting thought that kept coming was if she could only go back to that day two years ago, but it really began ten years ago.

What lies behind us, and

What lies before us

Are small matters compared to

What lies within us.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Chapter One

"Amelia, are you going to the Spring Fling luau?"

"Not today, I’m going to the lake."

Amelia sat at her desk closing her books. It was nearly the end of the semester and she was tired of studying for finals. The afternoon was clear. A warm, gentle breeze blew in the windows of the century-old dorm that was covered with ivy.

"You’re never going to find anyone by hiding among the bulrushes, Moses. You need to open yourself to adventure." Jackie looked in the mirror and adjusted her shorts and top.

"I know adventure," said the twenty-year-old Amelia. "I just wasn’t raised to party." Amelia tried to act as if it didn’t bother her, but she missed having a special someone.

"Neither was I, but time is marching on. You’re going to be a senior and you haven’t had two dates this year, and that’s twice the number you had last year. Just one time do what all the others do, okay?" Jackie was persistent as she checked out which hat she was going to wear with her outfit.

"I don’t want to present a false image. I’m going to the lake to sun, and that’s my afternoon. My mind is made up." Amelia pushed her desk chair into its cubicle for added emphasis.

"Ame, you’re one hardheaded girl; too stubborn for your own good," Jackie said, as she tugged on her shirt in front of the dorm room mirror one more time.

"When my knight-in-shining-armor comes around I want him on my terms. My aunt Gwen raised us conservative, but that’s okay. You’re a doll to be so concerned for me, but parties aren’t my style."

Amelia pulled her hair back in clips. She was a fresh as honeysuckle on a spring morning and looked like an advertisement for the ultimate California girl of the 1960s: a wide smile, pink lips, and freckles. Her blonde hair was long and straight over her shoulders. Amelia had a slight overbite and she was perky like a high school cheerleader. She was also naïve and trusting.

"Ame, you’re brilliant, beautiful, and a people person. Why can’t you get past that boy in the hometown?"

"Jeff Herrington?" Amelia asked, with a sparkle that would light up Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

"The one you said you couldn’t wait for any longer, but everyday you wait for him," Jackie said, as she gathered her purse and keys.

"It just wasn’t working, and I needed…"

"The glorious life you have now?" Jackie said, as she opened the door.

"My knight is on his way. Jeff wasn’t him, but maybe today there will be a white horse." Amelia’s anemic smile had no light. "I’m in no rush, but if the horse is at the Spring Fling, send him to Radnor Lake, okay?"

Amelia smiled as Jackie closed the door. At the lake she took out her laptop and began to write. Writing was her passion: anything from short stories to romances to mysteries. No one knew about the poems or prose except Jeff who had received a verse or a letter everyday of high school. All the writings were carefully locked away within her computer from anyone who might discover the secrets of her heart.

Spring in Nashville was pleasant, and probably better than any place she had ever lived. On this gorgeous spring day Amelia felt nostalgic. She missed her parents and her home, and even Jeff. He had always been her knight, but that was long ago. Reason and logic told her that an indecisive man was not a man she would be happy with, and for the long term it was better to end it after the first year of college.

Amelia was born in Madrid, and was the second daughter of an artistic couple: her mother was a well-known sculptor and her father an architect. Life had been full of colors and fascinating trips as the family traveled the world to look at the great architecture. Amelia had inherited 99 percent of the McKenna creativity. She could do anything with a few colors, scissors, and glue.

The life with her parents ended before she fully appreciated it. When she was 13 a tragic accident had taken both her parents and Aunt Gwen’s husband. Gwen was spared because she decided to take the girls shopping. From that time it was just the three of them in a tight-knit circle.

Gwen McKenna was different from her parents. She was a tender and loving woman who was almost a best friend, but the flighty artistic whims were replaced by logical decisions based on facts. Gwen would never decide to go to Paris on a whim and overnight book a flight that would go through Egypt. It was with Gwen’s guidance that Amelia decided that a long-term relationship with Jeff would not be successful.

Jeff had been the defensive captain of the football team and looked like a Nordic prince. He would remove his helmet and a long golden hair would tumble out. His torso was firm and thick; his waist was sheer muscle. He was All-State Linebacker of the Year for Kentucky. While sports scholarships poured in Jeff wanted to get the restlessness out of his soul before he settled into college, career, and family life. His adventures led him to backpack through Europe after graduation. The next year he went to Oregon to get his degree while Amelia received a fully paid, four-year scholarship to Vanderbilt University. She had won his heart, but after five years of being ‘in like’, and then ‘in love’ and finally a long period of non-commitment she took action. Trips home were few these days, as she spent summers in New York to intern in advertising. When she did go home to Monticello she cut off any conversations that included information about Jeff.

Today the memory of Jeff was overwhelming. They had dreamed of the time when they would consummate their love. High school had been one big playtime for them, and there was no sign of settling into a mature relationship. During the summer he was content to fish while she wrote her stories. He talked of braiding vines to make a swing that was big enough to swing her over the valley. In the late summer and fall she was there with a video camera to capture each play so he could perfect his performance on the football field. One time she surprised him by making life-sized stuffed tackling dummies she hung from the clothesline. The romantic fantasy was not a lifelong commitment, and although they had been connected, there was something that kept them from going the distance.

Fantasy. Amelia thought as she reflected on their neatly milled dreams of the future, but she needed reality. Jackie was right, she did need to get on with her life, but school required so much of her time.

"Help me please! My child!"

A woman’s scream brought Amelia back to the moment. There was no one at this side of the lake to respond to the call, and Amelia ran the hundred yards to where the mother was standing.

"What happened?" Amelia asked the screaming woman.

"He fell in!" After pointing she fell limp onto the ground and pulled her hair in torment.

Amelia scanned the murky lake before jumping in. She could see faint movement in the water, but nothing more. Once she was under the water Amelia felt around for anything that would be human. Nothing. She could not give up. Carefully, Amelia opened her eyes to faintly see the top of the child’s head caught in the bushes. Quickly she pushed deeper into the lake and labored to pull him out, but he was caught. Amelia’s air was compromised as she worked furiously to free him from the massive undergrowth of bushes and trees. Just as she felt she would pass out she got his suspenders off of the tree limb and swam to the surface.

Gasping for air, Amelia carried the motionless body of the toddler to the grass where she performed CPR. It had been years since she had the training, but in the urgency of moment she was able to recall what she learned in her tenth grade physical education class. By the time an ambulance arrived she had handed the crying boy to his trembling mother. An emergency crew of firemen, police, and medical technicians were trailed by a news team from WKRN-TV. Medical personnel examined Amelia as the reporter asked to speak with her once they finished. Amelia nodded.

"Please, get my things—over there."

She pointed to her purse and laptop on a blanket. The reporter responded quickly, and got back to his position before he was to begin his broadcast to the station.

"This is Nick Karidokkus reporting live from Radnor Lake in the Oak Hill area of south Nashville where a toddler almost drowned. Spring rains have made Radnor Lake cloudy. Apparently the mother was distracted when the child fell into the muddy lake. Unable to swim, the child’s mother screamed and this young lady responded in a daring rescue."

Amelia steadied herself and smiled as Nick came to interview her. After a brief dialogue he ended his broadcast and cut the feed. Nick was the most handsome man she had ever met. Amelia had watched him on Channel 2 for two years, and now he was handing her the computer and her purse as the ambulance personnel finished with her. She needed to go to the emergency room, and Nick said he would lock her car. He got her number and promised to check on her the next day. Still shaking from the experience Amelia laid back on the gurney and rode to the hospital.

THE DEVIL IN MARYVALE, Jackie Griffey’s new book, is now out. It is the first of a cozy mystery series set in fictional Pine County, Tenessee.

This series incorporates the gifted with the population of Maryvale and Pine county. The first of them in THE DEVIL IN MARYVALE is a psychic; the second in the series introduces a medium who conducts a seance; and the third will introduce a healer, all of them very much part of the Maryvale scenes and surprises.

Two of Sheriff Cas Larkin’s men traveled down highway 220. Young Deputy Freeman drove, his eyes on the road and the underbrush that lined it.

"We’ll have to cut through the woods and cross that narrow stream of water to get at the back. I’m glad I’ve got my boots on."

Deputies Freeman and Raines were going around to the rear entrance of a barbecue restaurant called the Roadhouse. They were backing up Sheriff Cas Larkin on a call involving a hostage situation. The place and most of the underbrush around it had been there since Hector was a pup and the Roadhouse property backed up to a small branch of the river. There was no way to get through the wild and thorny growth on the old fence, leaving them no choice but to go around. Both Freeman and Raines accepted local conditions as the price you had to pay for living in a small southern town in Pine County. Senior Deputy Raines nodded as he warily eyed the side of the road.

"It’s pretty overgrown here. But it’s cleared a little farther on and a couple of picnic tables put back by the tree line. You can pull off there." He smiled at his young partner. "We’re probably in more danger from ticks drinking us dry than drowning," he teased Doug.

Deputy Freeman spotted the picnic tables and pulled the car onto the shoulder far enough to clear the road. He was as leery as his boss about dust or mud on his car and looked encouraged as he and Raines got out.

"This is better than I was expecting. Hope our luck holds and the water isn’t very deep." He held up one hand with his fingers crossed. Doug Freeman was the youngest of the Pine County deputies and the most optimistic, on the near side of 25.

"Shouldn’t be." Raines spoke as he walked, his long legs covering the ground quickly. "It’s not like we had any choice about it. The growth at the Roadhouse is so thick you’d never get in that way. It’d be worth your uniform to bully your way through it, not to mention what all that holly and wild roses would do to your hide. Makes the water sound downright good and I’m permanent press from the skin out."

"That’s okay," Doug chuckled. "I am too. My wife’s as practical as the county about anything that has to be ironed or dry cleaned. You can owe me one."

They walked single file on a path fishermen had worn in the weeds. Raines was the oldest of the deputies and retiring soon. With his head turned to admire the scenery and part of his mind on his retirement plans Raines bumped into his young partner.

"Hey! What’s the idea? You didn’t signal you were going to stop, you traffic hazard, you!" Raines chuckled good-naturedly.

Deputy Douglas Freeman stood still. His eyes stared ahead and to the right of the path. Raines followed his line of vision as Doug raised his arm and pointed with a not too steady finger.

"Over there," Doug managed to get out. "The other side of the path. There’s something behind that tree."

Back at the Roadhouse Sheriff Cas Larkin questioned the manager of the restaurant. "You called this in? About some troublemakers?"

"Yes, sir. I made it to the outside phone there and called you. Never thought I’d be so glad to see one of your cars pull in here." Heavyset, wiping perspiration from his brow with his apron, he looked miserable enough to be telling the truth.

"How many of them are there?"

"Four of them came in together. Two of them left when they saw the sign that said they couldn’t get beer on the weekend. Then of the two that are still here, one of them was too far gone for anything that happened to make any difference to him and the other one must have been watching too much television. Turns out he had a gun and he’s holding four of the other customers hostage until he gets a beer. He thinks he’s a big guy and it’s a big joke to him. But he’s drunk and he’s waving a gun around." His worried eyes pleaded for help. "He could hurt somebody."

It was a personal sacrifice for the Roadhouse owner and manager to call for help. This must have looked dead serious to have him this worried. He tried hard to keep anyone from calling about trouble out here so he could put up a good front and keep the churches off his back. They leaned on him a little to get him to quit selling beer on weekends.

Cas said, "Yeah, you were right to call." The Roadhouse was in a building so old Cas couldn’t remember when it was built or what for. And every change of hands seemed to make a difference only on the inside, not the grounds around it. "You said it’s a hostage situation in there?" The manager nodded. His hands twisted his apron, his eyes going to the closed door. "Is there only one of them in there with the hostages? The one you said has a gun?"

"Yes, Sheriff Larkin. I mean, there’s one of his beer buddies in there with him. But I don’t think he knows what’s going on if you know what I mean."

Cas pinned him down. "Drunk?"

"Yeah, out of it. And he was that way before he got here. I didn’t give them, any of them, anything to drink. Not getting any beer was what set them off."

Cas nodded. "Do you know for sure how many people he’s holding?"

"Four. Two men who came in alone and a nice elderly couple. I feel bad about that. The old folks come here for the barbecue. I’d hate to see them get hurt. Having a gun waved at them is scary enough without being held hostage. I feel bad about it."

He looked down at his scuffed up shoes as if he meant it. Cas raised the manager a notch in his estimation for his concern. He waved him back and warily approached the closed door. Standing to one side, Cas drew his gun. With his other hand he knocked with loud authority on the battered door of the restaurant.

"This is Sheriff Cas Larkin," he called, in his no-nonsense voice. "Open this door and let those people come out. Now!"

The answer was a shot which lodged in the wooden door at the bottom and a derisive guffaw. Cas also heard a scream that was quickly cut off. Inside, the husband of the woman held his wife in his arms, her white head cradled on his chest.

"It’ll be all right, Annie; it’ll be all right," he told her softly.

The gun swiveled around to cover the two of them. "That’s right, it’ll be all right. You just keep your mouth shut so they won’t think they’ve got to come chargin’ in here shootin’ or nothin’, you hear?"

The woman made a moaning sound and her husband nodded.

"Why don’t you just let them out?" One of the hostages said. "You’ll still have two to bargain with." The speaker was in his mid twenties and the other hostage about his age nodded.

"You’re so smart maybe I should just hand you this gun and see if you can get us some beer," the abductor sneered. He looked at the bar as if he hated it. "Might know the stingy crud would have all his stock locked up in the back room and the taps shut off. All of you just keep your mouths shut, you hear?"

Both the young men were wearing khaki work clothes and had come in alone. The one who had made the suggestion gave a shrug, glancing at the other one. Both appeared to be cooperative waiting out this crisis. They looked away from the gunman, not wanting to set him off again. The hand with the gun in it looked pretty shaky. He went a little closer to the door and shouted again.

"You want these people out there I’ll swap them for beer. And since I’m holdin’ all the aces, I want a six pack for these four citizens, you hear me?"

Cas held his gun steady, his eyes raking the scene to make sure no one was close to the door before he spoke again. "Yeah. I hear you and I know you can hear me. What do you think the odds are on you getting that beer?"

"Not too freakin’ great from what I hear about you, but what’s the big deal?"

The beer and the stress were beginning to tell on the self styled bandit. He began to whine. Sobering up a little he realized he’d caused himself worse trouble than he’d bargained for. The game wasn’t funny any more. The two men in khaki were afraid of what he might do accidentally as his condition degenerated. He was still waving the gun around. As they braced to duck bullets any minute, he faced the door.

"If I let these people come out, what’s going to happen to me?"

The answer was immediate. "The same thing that happens to any disorderly drunk that threatens people’s lives and takes hostages." Cas glanced at the Roadhouse manager who was as familiar with all the drunk stages as he was. "There are a few other things I could charge you with, too. But those are the main ones. You’d be doing yourself a favor to get those people out of there." The Roadhouse manager nodded hopefully, his face crumpled up with worry. "Maybe they won’t want to come out now. Maybe they’ll want to sue you. You’d be better off in jail! You’d better give your situation some serious thought."

"Aw, gee!" He wailed. "I don’t know how we got to this. All any of us wanted was a little beer to wash down our barbecue."

"All I know is those people are still in there. There’s no progress being made as far as I can see, and you’re getting in deeper trouble all the time."

"Supposin’ I was to let them come out. How long would I have to stay in jail assuming you’re going to put me there soon as you get a chance?"

"You assume right." The answer was chiseled in stone. Cas remembered the scream that was so suddenly cut off. "Are any of them hurt?"

"No! I never hurt nobody, never meant to hurt nobody! They’ll tell you that themselves."

"In that case, I’ll charge you with drunk and disorderly and let you out in 24 hours. First, open the door and scoot that gun out with your foot. Then let those people come out. Then you stand in front of the door with your hands where I can see them. Your brain too pickled to understand all that?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I understand. I’ll do that."

Thirst and desperation were working on his manners. A few seconds later the door opened a few inches and a small hand gun was put gently on the asphalt outside the door, the hand quickly withdrawn. Cas eyed the weapon.

"Little .22 pistol," he told the manager. "Probably got it at some knife and gun show."

Rhodes looked it over. The manager raised his eyes and held his breath, watching as the door opened wider. They heard footsteps inside. He, Cas, and Rhodes looked at them as the hostages filed out. They seemed to be all right. Cas noted there were four of them. An elderly man and woman were followed by two men who were wearing khaki work clothes. There was the trace of tears on the woman’s cheeks. None of them looked happy, but they were all right.

Rhodes moved to stand beside Cas his eyes on the door; waiting for the troublemaker. As soon as the hostages cleared the door the Roadhouse manager hurried to meet them, talking fast. He promised all of them vouchers for complimentary meals and apologized for the unpleasantness.

"I’m so sorry," the manager said, his voice like background music while Cas watched the door.

Now he could see the would-be bandit standing just inside. He had both hands over his head, a worried look beneath the five o’clock shadow on his face. He stood still, waiting for whatever Fate and Cas had in store for him. The expression on his face showed he knew it wouldn’t be good, but he stood there silently, his hands over his head. Cas and Rhodes could see the feet of his friend who was lying on the floor beyond him as they went in to handcuff the hostage taker.

"You drive a hard bargain, Sheriff Larkin." The hostage taker found his voice again. "All I wanted was a couple of beers for me and my friend here."

He put on a pitiful face at the injustice of it all. Self pity oozed from every pore.

"Um-hum, your buddy there sure seems to be in need of another beer."

With his foot, Cas nudged the man lying on the floor. He slept on, blissfully unaware of any problems at all. He looked as comfortable as a hound dog under a porch. Cas almost grinned at the open mouth and comical expression. Rhodes touched the vertical drunk’s shoulder.

"Turn around and put your hands behind you."

"Before you do that, help your buddy up. He’s going with you."

Cas jerked his head toward the docile dreamer. The hostage taker got his friend up with a little help from Rhodes. His buddy roused as they worked to get him on his feet. Half awake, he slumped against the wall .He stared groggily around, his attention caught by his friend, who was complaining again.

Then the back door opened and Deputy Freeman came in, sizing up the situation. Cas motioned to him. He went to help Rhodes get the drunks cuffed and out to the car. As he passed him, Cas noted his soaked uniform and the strange expression on his face.

"Where’s Raines, Doug? One was enough to cover the back door. Did he stay to drive the car back?"

"I wish that was it," Doug said, with feeling. "Now that these guys are in the car I’ll go back and get our car and take you over. Raines didn’t have any choice about staying there. I’ll hurry."

"No need," Cas cut him off. He remembered thinking how calamities come in threes and it did seem his own cases came in bunches like bananas most of the time. Dread tensed the muscles in the back of his neck as he spoke. "We can go around in this car. It won’t hurt these two to wait a little longer to sleep off their beer." Cas eyed the wet uniform again. "Looks like the water was a little deeper than I thought."

"Yes, sir." Deputy Freeman managed a weak smile. "We’ve been discussing the advantages of wash and wear."

"Tell me, what is it that’s keeping Raines back there?"

Rhodes had come to stand beside Cas, their attention on the young deputy. "We found a body, sir. A teenager." He added sadly, "It’s a young girl."

When her brother makes a bad real estate investment, using their house as collateral, Elizabeth Abbot comes home to try and save her house. What she discovers when she gets there is worse. Her brother borrowed money against the house from the Jessop’s, the richest family in town, a family she has always secretly resented for their wealth and power.

When she goes to the Jessop house to plead for more time to pay off the loan, she discovers that the elder Jessop is in hospital. His son Kyle has come home from the city to take care of his affairs. Away at boarding school growing up, Elizabeth has never set eyes on the handsome, yet arrogant Kyle Jessop, until now.

Kyle is not interested in pity stories, so Elizabeth must appeal to his father, a father who needs a live in nurse to get him back on his feet. Forced to give up her life temporarily in the city, Elizabeth has no choice but to move in to the Jessop home if she wants to save her house from repossession.

If you are in the mood for a good, old fashioned love story laced with some witty dialogue and a lot of passion, The Jessop’s is just what the doctor ordered!

"Kyle Jessop is a monster!"

This was the first thing she heard, as a young woman came tearing down the steps almost knocking her off her feet. Oh, great, she thought, looking around her at the figure running down the street. This was all she needed considering the amount of mental preparation and courage it had taken her to come here to meet with Kyle Jessop. Suddenly, she noticed a plump gray haired woman standing at the top of the steps looking at her. She beckoned to her with one hand. Elizabeth managed to complete her journey up the stone steps. Her stomach was in knots.

"Ms. Abbot, I presume," she said. "I’m Winnie Jessop. I believe you are here to see my stepson, Kyle."

"Yes. Good day, Mrs. Jessop."

Elizabeth took one last look over her shoulder. The wailing woman had disappeared from sight. The older woman took her arm and led her into the house. She paused at the threshold and lowered her voice.

"I apologize for that," she said, shaking her head. "Kyle had to let her go today. I just didn’t have the heart. She was stealing from us."

Elizabeth didn’t know how to respond to that. It was the first time she had ever been inside the Jessop house. She looked around in wonder. As a child she had imagined what the interior of this house looked liked. It was grand with the floors of marble so shiny she could see the reflection of her shoes in it. But then, why shouldn’t it be? The Jessop family had controlled this town for as long as she could remember.

Bringing herself back to the present she continued to follow Samuel Jessop’s wife down the long corridor. She couldn’t help noticing the window that ran the length of the wall from floor to ceiling, and beside it a carved staircase with a brass banister curving upward. There was one oil painting hanging in the hall, a picture of a meadow in the sunlight. Elizabeth stared at it mesmerized, until she became aware that the woman was waiting for her.

Elizabeth was led off past the long staircase into a tastefully decorated room with a small fireplace in the corner. There was wood and the smell of leather everywhere. Along the left side of the wall was an extensive library with aligned books. Directly ahead was a large, beautifully finished walnut desk with a brown leather office chair. Behind the desk, was a window that looked out onto a spacious lawn. Off to the right were two tan leather chairs separated by a round oriental carpet. The only thing that looked out of sync was the pile of file folders strewn across the desk.

"Take a seat," the woman told her. "Kyle will be with you shortly."

Elizabeth sighed and sat down. Although she had grown up in the same town with Samuel Jessop’s son, Kyle, she hardly remembered him. He was a few years older then she was, and after his mother had left town Samuel Jessop had sent Kyle away to boarding school. Winnie Jessop was Samuel’s second wife. Trying to concentrate on the town gossip was not making her feel any more relaxed.

Elizabeth rose from one of the chairs and went to look out the back window. To the right of the house was a full sized tennis court and on the left was one of the most beautiful flower gardens she had ever seen. In the distance beyond the tennis court was what looked like a large swimming pool. Turning around, her eyes strayed back to the many files on the desk. She wondered how many other people in town were in the same position as she was. Were all their names in those files? Maybe if they came together to fight the Jessops…

She moved toward the desk and lifted the corner of one of the files. Bending over she raised the cover just a little more. Then she jolted upright as she heard the sound of a deep male voice.

"I believe it’s easier to read if you take the papers out of the folder."

Gasping, Elizabeth jerked away from the desk knocking several of the folders off in the process. Her face flushed with embarrassment as her eyes settled on the man who had entered the room. He was very tall with the build of an athlete, and his very presence seemed to make the room shrink in size. He was dressed casually in blue jeans and a tee shirt, but everything about him reeked of power. He had eyes and hair as black as coal and the sleekness of his muscular built reminded her of a leopard on the prowl. The only feature about him that spoke of some vulnerability was his mouth. The bottom lip was slightly fuller than the top, giving it a quality of sensuality that was intoxicating. She felt like such an idiot, like a child caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar. He moved forward, muscles bulging across his taunt chest as he held out his hand to her.

"Miss Abbot?" he said, lifting an eyebrow. "I’m Kyle Jessop."

She took his hand briefly. There was something unnerving about his touch. "I would like to explain..." she began, her face burning with shame.

He shook his dark head and stooped down to pick up the files. He was right in front of her, barricading her in the corner behind the desk. He stood up to his full height. He had to be over six feet tall. He towered over her five-seven frame. Holding the files in one strong, bronzed hand he regarded her with his dark eyes, as if he knew that she was uncomfortable and was enjoying it. He ran his eyes over her, taking in her shoulder length blond hair and her light blue eyes framed with thick black lashes. He moved his eyes over her long, tan legs and the tailored navy skirt she wore. It didn’t appear as if he had any intention of moving. A smile played around that mouth.

"Please," he said, waving an elegant hand toward the two chairs on the other side of the desk.

She expected him to move out and give her space to walk. Instead, he turned his body sideways allowing just enough room for her to squeeze past him. She turned her back to avoid his gaze and slipped past. As she did, she couldn’t avoid brushing up against his hard body, her buttocks coming in contact with his thighs, her back against his broad chest.

He could have stepped back to give her some space. He didn’t. She had the impression when she slipped past him that he was going to move even closer to her, pressing his entire body against hers. It wouldn’t have surprised her, given how the Jessop’s figured they owned the entire town. The very fact that he didn’t do that surprised her as much as the physical contact did, and she couldn’t decide if she was glad or disappointed. Elizabeth came around to the front of the desk and glared at him. He blinked at her as if confused by her expression.

"First of all," Elizabeth began, "I do apologize for looking in your files, but if they are confidential, then perhaps they shouldn’t be left lying all over the place."

Kyle Jessop sat down in his chair and leaned back placing his hands behind his head, which served to emphasize his muscular strength. "Although I’m having a hard time understanding how files, confidential or not, that are lying on my desk in my home could be considered left lying all over the place, I’ll take it under advisement. Anything else?"

Elizabeth cleared her throat. "Why did you refuse to see my brother?"

He cocked his head and lifted his wide shoulders. "I don’t recall that I refused to see your brother. You are speaking of Corey, aren’t you?"

"Yes. He came to see you in order to talk about the repayment of the loan. You wouldn’t see him. Personally, I think that if you are in the process of trying to take away a person’s home you should have the decency to give them the time of day."

Kyle Jessop narrowed his eyes. "Miss Abbot," he sighed, "I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who is trying to take away your home?"

Elizabeth dug the papers out of her handbag. She passed them across the desk to him, standing while his eyes scanned the two pages. He sucked in some breath.

"Huh, uh, well." He handed her back the documents. "Looks pretty straight forward. You borrowed some money from my father, the house at 54 Elm was put up as collateral. What exactly is the problem? Have you come to repay the loan?"

"No, I have not come to repay the loan," Elizabeth snapped. "Where do you think I’d get that kind of money?"

He sat back and folded his muscular arms across his chest. "That is a question for you to answer. But since you were so generous in advising me on how I should secure my personal files I think I may be in a position to return the favor. In the future, when you borrow money you might want to have some vague idea about how you intend to pay it back before you put your signature on a contract."

What could Elizabeth say since it was Corey who had signed her name on that document? She couldn’t tell this man that Corey had committed forgery. God, her brother could end up in jail. No, better to let him think she did sign the contract. He was leaning forward, his eyes questioning. When she didn’t speak he issued her a cool smile.

"Well," he said, standing up, "this has been pleasant. Please, if there is anything else I can do for you…"

"Mr. Jessop, you are the most impudent man I have ever met. This meeting has not been in the least pleasant and you know it, and it is not over. My brother was cheated by a con man who took the money your father loaned him and left him with worthless land. My family may not be as well off as yours, but we are honest people who do our best to pay our debts."

"You have quite a little chip on your shoulder there, don’t you?" Kyle Jessop commented. "I detect a great deal of hostility. There is therapy for that, I believe."

"I don’t need any therapy," she snapped. "This is about your father trying to take my house." She paused, trembling with anger. He watched her with half closed eyes, saying nothing. She clutched the side of the chair, and began again. "You don’t need my house. It means nothing to your family. There has to be another way to settle this, a way that I can pay off this debt without losing my house."

Kyle shook his head. "Look, Miss Abbot," he lowered his voice, and met her eyes. "I’m truly sorry for your trouble, but this is out of my hands. You signed the contract and agreed to the terms. I’m in no position to alter it, and to be honest, even if I was, I wouldn’t."

Elizabeth exploded. "You’re a despicable man; you and your father! People like you enjoy ripping lives apart, taking away the last thing of value a person owns."

"You need to stop right there," Kyle Jessop told her. "First of all, I am not my father, and secondly you don’t know me well enough to assume that I’m the devil himself."

"I think you are the devil, Mr. Jessop," Elizabeth replied. "Anyone who would not even attempt to understand, who would not even try to negotiate some fair agreement, given the fact that my brother was deceived, is heartless and cold."

"Negotiate?" Kyle retorted. "What is there to negotiate? What would you have me do? Apparently, you are in no position to pay back the loan, are you?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "No, but…"

"Well, then, what? What should we do?" He slapped his hands together and stood up. "Do you want me to wave a magic wand and make it disappear? Would you like to pay my father back a little each month until the year 2090?

"I find your behavior rude and condescending," she struck back. "Perhaps you are the type of man who treats women as if they were children. If that young woman I met on my way in is any indication…"

"What woman?"

"There was a poor young woman running out of this house when I arrived. She was obviously very upset."

"That poor young woman was stealing this house blind. If it’s any of your business, my stepmother begged me to let her go. Unfortunately, she didn’t take it well."

She met his eyes. "Obviously not. You seem to have a way with women."

He grinned. "Thank you, Miss Abbot. I like to think so."

"I did not mean that as a compliment. Your charm leaves much to be desired."

His dark eyes smoldered. "It seems to me that the longer this meeting goes on the more you assume to know about me. In fact, it appears that you may know more about me than I do myself."

"Well, to tell you the truth, the less I know about you the better. I can only judge your character based on this meeting and I think it’s safe to say you are a cold and unyielding man."

He gave her an arrogant smile. "It’s funny, you are the first young woman to ever find me so."

"Well, there’s no accounting for taste."

His smile faded. Satisfied that she had managed to stump him for words Elizabeth felt more relaxed. She took a seat. Kyle Jessop’s eyes widened in surprise at her persistence.

"I want only one thing from you, Mr. Jessop," Elizabeth told him, "and that is for you to agree to another meeting with me tomorrow."

He put his hands on his hips and gave her a blank look as if she had gone mad. Then his face broke out into a rakish grin. "I will be delighted," he bowed his dark head like some ancient knight about to be honored by the king. "We’ve had such a good time at this one, haven’t we? But, eh, may I be permitted to ask why? Could it be you find me irresistible and are just making an excuse to see me again?"

Elizabeth scowled. "I’m not even going to grace that with an answer."

He laughed a deep heartfelt laugh that completely transformed his face. God, if only he wasn’t so damned good looking. Those black eyes crinkling at the corners, the dark hair, thick, with the slightest wave to it falling across his forehead. The sight of him invaded her senses threatening to weaken her resolve. She tore her eyes away from him and scowled again.

"You’re very cute when you scowl like that," he teased. "Do it again."

She decided the best thing to do was to ignore the comment. In the short time she had known Kyle Jessop she had discovered that he was a man prone to say outrageous things, things that seemed to come right off the top of his head. She made another attempt to get back to the point.

"Tonight, I will speak with a friend of mine in the city, a doctor where I work at the hospital. He may be able to loan me some money. I want you to explain to your father that I will pay down 50 percent of the loan in cash right away. Then between what I earn as a nurse and my bother’s construction job we should be able to make arrangements to pay off the rest a little at a time."

"This friend of yours, Miss Abbot, your boyfriend perhaps?"

She glared at him. "I don’t consider that to be any of your business."

He laughed and shrugged. "Fair enough, but one wonders what this so called friend of yours will expect in exchange for lending you all this money." He raised a dark eyebrow suggestively. "It is a substantial amount of money."

"There are people in this world, Mr. Jessop, who do things for reasons other than personal gain," she replied.

"Really?" Kyle Jessop commented, taking his seat again.

"Yes, really. But then you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?"

"Apparently not," he mocked. "I’m totally self interested. Anyway, in spite of being completely into myself, Miss Abbot, I will speak to my father about your proposal when I go to the hospital. But I can’t promise anything. It is entirely up to him."

Elizabeth nodded, feeling she had made her point. "Thank you. You won’t regret this."

"Funny, but for some reason, I regret it already," he murmured.

Elizabeth remained stubbornly silent as Kyle Jessop stood up, a signal that the meeting was over. Elizabeth rose from her seat. The door flew open and a young woman stood there wearing a skimpy pair of shorts and a tank top. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her long brown hair swinging almost to her waist.

"Kyle, my love, there you are," she cooed, large green eyes shining at him. "I’ve been looking all over for you. You promised that we’d go swimming together." She paused, noticing that Kyle was not alone.

"Linda," Kyle said, smiling. "This is Miss Abbot. Miss Abbot, Linda, my sister."

Elizabeth reached out her hand, but Linda pretended not to see it. Instead, she issued Elizabeth a sideways glance, nodded briskly, and then blew Kyle a kiss.

"Well, hurry up," the young woman whispered. "You promised."

"I’ll be there shortly," he said. With that, the young woman issued Elizabeth one last glance and left the room. "Well," Kyle announced, the smile he reserved for Linda fading instantly, "forgive the interruption. I did promise to be elsewhere."

"Well, don’t let me keep you," Elizabeth remarked.

He raised an eyebrow and gave her a cocky smirk. "So, what time tomorrow? Shall we say around 2:00 in the afternoon? I do have other things to do. Let’s hope it doesn’t take too long."

"That will be fine," Elizabeth replied, stiffly.

He had a way of making her feel that her presence was an inconvenience to him. With that, Kyle Jessop walked her out, bid her good day, and closed the door behind her. The only thing he left out, Elizabeth thought, was the boot.

Elizabeth stood across the street from the house for a few minutes and studied it from a distance. It looked the same to her as it had when she was a kid. It was set back from the road, the property scanning half of Cedar Avenue. The Jessop family had controlled this town for as long as she could remember. They had owned the only factory at one time. After it closed down due to the slump in manufacturing they had started developing the land around the lake and selling it. In the last five years several developments had gone up, along with a summer resort and a marina. With the factory gone many people in town were employed by Jessop construction, and in the various services that had sprung up around the boom in tourism. Even her brother Corey worked for them. People claimed that the Jessops was the only thing that kept Martindale from becoming a ghost town. Although Elizabeth couldn’t argue with that it still seemed that the Jessops had far too much power in this town.

Samuel Jessop made his money in the stock market. The family had never mixed with the locals. Some scandal had surrounded the family back when she was a child. She recalled her parents talking about Samuel Jessop’s wife who ran off with another man. Samuel Jessop had a reputation for being cold and ruthless, and people said they didn’t blame his poor wife for leaving him. Seemed his son, Kyle, was a chip off the old block. What stirred far more talk was that when Mrs. Jessop left she had abandoned her infant son. As soon as the boy was old enough Samuel Jessop had sent him off to a private boarding school. Six or seven years her senior Elizabeth didn’t remember setting eyes on Kyle Jessop before today. A few years after his wife left him Samuel Jessop married his housekeeper, Winnie Clarke. They had a child, Linda, the young woman she had met today in Kyle Jessop’s office.

It was not surprising that the Jessop house had always been the grandest house in town. When she was a child she would stand on the street corner and admire it. Those overarching weeping willow trees and sculptured flowers were still there. The front door had that huge brass doorknocker shaped like the head of a lion that had fascinated her. Twisted ivy vines covered the stone structure leading up to at least six windows on the second floor. To the side of the house stood a large gazebo with two lawn swings facing each other. The land ran back for miles and Elizabeth knew there was a large rose garden and a tennis court out back. The pool had been a more recent addition.

Tearing her eyes away she began to walk home. She thought about the meeting she just had. Kyle Jessop had to be one of the most insufferable men she’d ever met. Of course, what could she expect? He was a Jessop after all. However, she had been unprepared for how attractive he was. Anyway, after tomorrow, she’d never have to lay eyes on him again.

She began to walk faster, then slowed as she came to the center of town. She hadn’t been home in a few months, but nothing had changed. She had spent most of her life here in Martindale, only to go off to Franklin Center a few years ago to work in the hospital. She walked down Main Street taking a detour so that she could revisit her town. There on her left was the fire hall beside the Martindale Dry Cleaners. She made her way around the fire hall and walked past the grocery store. She could smell Mrs. Adams donuts as she approached the bakeshop. And there was the magazine stand where she used to spend hours browsing. It looked like it was closed.

A few cars rolled down Main Street and onto Cedar Avenue. Some people blew their horns and waved at her, but Elizabeth could only make out a blur of faces. A few people crossed back and forth in front of her in the distance, some carrying grocery bags. She recognized Mr. Thompson who used to be the high school principle with his spectacles perched high on his nose, and Bill Smoothie, the barber.

As she rounded the corner onto Elm she sighed deeply. She knew she was putting off the inevitable. She needed to go home and talk to Corey again, but they had had a huge fight last night. She was very angry with him when he showed her that letter. Elizabeth had waved it in front of his face.

"It says here the loan has to be paid in full by the end of this month or they will take possession of the house. Who sent this, a lawyer?"

Corey lowered his head. "No. I think it was the old man’s son."

"Son?" Elizabeth cried, standing up and pacing around.

"Yes, the old man is in the hospital. He had a heart attack. Apparently the son is looking after his affairs until he’s up on his feet."

Her eyes scanned the letter again. Underneath was a copy of the agreement that Corey had made with Samuel Jessop, at the very bottom corner was her signature.

"I can’t believe you forged my name on this! Every time I think of it…I…didn’t you think that one day I would find out?"

Corey swallowed, averting his eyes. "I thought I would have made money by then, paid off the loan, and well, if you did find out then it wouldn’t have mattered."

"Of course it would have mattered; you committed forgery!" She closed her eyes, trying to hang on to her temper. "You could go to jail for this."

When she opened her eyes she noticed that there were tears in Corey’s eyes. She tried to smile at him. After all, she loved him so. He was all she had. When their parents were killed in a car crash Elizabeth had struggled to not only raise her adolescent brother, but to pay off the house. She’d had to turn down her acceptance at the nursing school in the city pursuing a nursing assistant’s certificate through correspondence instead. At the same time she had held down two jobs. The only thing that kept her sane was her writing, and the hope that one day these hard times would come to an end.

Finally, they did. Elizabeth paid off the house, earned her degree, and proudly watched as Corey walked up to the podium to accept his high school diploma. When she was offered the job at the hospital in the city it was Corey who urged her to go. He had just turned 19. Even though he would miss her he told her that she no longer had to watch over him as if he was still a child. Just before she was to leave Corey got a job working on one of the Jessop construction crews. She never imagined that everything she had worked so hard for would all come crashing down around her like this. Sitting there with his sad blue eyes, his shoulder length fair hair badly in need of a trim, he reminded her so much of Daddy. She walked over to him, and squeezed his shoulder.

"What about this guy who sold you the bill of goods?" she asked, softly. "Edward Walker; have the police been able to locate him at all?"

"No. It seems that Mr. Walker makes a pretty good living selling people swampland and then disappearing. Oh, Liz, I really thought, you know, what with the rise in tourism around here that I could sell off that land for a small fortune. Just think, Sis, you could have retired from the hospital, came home to Martindale, wrote your stories. It would have been like old times, you and me."

Elizabeth leaned over and hugged his neck. "I know you had the best of intentions, but you should have talked to me first." She relinquished her hold on him, and sighed. "You should have never gambled with the house like that, especially since you borrowed the money from the Jessops."

Standing away from him she stared out the back window. She studied the old tire, which hung on the tree, the old tire she had spent hours swinging back and forth on as a child.

"Why do you hate them so much?" Corey asked. "I never understood that. Even before you went away you used to go on and on about the Jessops all the time."

"Hate them?" Elizabeth turned to her brother. "I don’t hate them. Maybe I’ve resented them a little, that’s all. While we struggled, they never had to. They had everything and thought nothing of gobbling up half this town. Now they want the only thing we have, the one thing I’ve worked so hard to hold onto. If we lose this all that struggle will have been for nothing." Tears came to her eyes and one rolled down her cheek. "But maybe you’re right, maybe I do hate them because it’s happening to us."

She turned away from him again. Corey placed his head down on the table. After a few moments Elizabeth pulled herself together and sat down at the table. She took a sip of her coffee, which had grown cold, and made a face pushing it away.

"Oh, Corey." Her anger flared again. "It’s not a situation where we can pay the money back a little at a time. It’s all or nothing! Whatever possessed you to agree to such a thing?"

Corey paced the room. "The deal was supposed to pay off right away, a simple transfer of money. I would buy the land from Walker one day and sell it off the next, pay off the loan and then keep the profits. That’s the way it was supposed to work."

"Well, it didn’t work that way, did it?"

Elizabeth shook her head. There was a strained silence. After a few minutes she walked out of the room. She was far too angry to continue the conversation. She’d have to go and see Samuel Jessop’s son and try to straighten out this mess. She was worried about losing the house, but most of all she worried about Corey. He had committed forgery. If anyone found out he could go to jail.

Suddenly, she was standing in front of her little house. She had been so deep in thought on the way over here, she had lost track of where she was. She looked at the huge picture window where she sat as a child on rainy days, breathing in the fragrance from the lilac tree in front. Beside the window was the new aluminum door she had installed last year, its newness standing in sharp contrast to the old wood frame windows. Her eyes flew over the lawn. It was crying out to be mowed. The grass looked yellow in the mid afternoon sun.

As she started up the path she looked down at the cement. The pavement had started to crack again. She also knew that the roof was in need of repair and it was getting time to repaint the little wood porch. She unlocked the door and went inside. She called out Corey’s name, but there was no answer. She walked through the living room picking up a blanket from the floor and a stray cushion, which had fallen off the sofa. She bypassed the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and bath, and headed into the kitchen. There were a few plates lying in the sink and her fern was badly in need of water. She washed up the dishes and gave the plant a drink then slipped outside the back door.

The backyard with its huge maple trees and squeaky lawn swing was her favorite place in the world, always a refuge from the summer heat. She had such happy memories here. She sat down on the swing, and looked at the flowerbeds. It seemed that Corey had been faithfully watering the roses; they waved at her in greeting in the late afternoon breeze. Then the momentary contentment she was feeling dissipated. She pursed her lips and surveyed her property.

"My house; mine and Corey’s," she murmured grudgingly. "And no Jessop, no matter how rich or how powerful is ever going to take it away."

 Ireland. Home to incredibly green grass, rocky shores and magic. And evil. It was fear of facing that evil that had kept Cassie McGuire away for ten long years.

Away from her father, her aunt, and the man she had left behind. Yet she couldn’t deny her ancestry any longer. Or her supernatural powers. Those powers were telling her it was time to deal with her destiny. A destiny that could set her family free or, if she failed, could forever condemn them to The Stanton Curse.

The plane sliced through the blue sky while the passengers readied themselves for the long flight. Some browsed through magazines while others put on headphones to watch the movie on the large screen, and again there were some who began typing furiously on their laptops. Cassie was aware of the activity around her, but she couldn’t relax enough to do any of those things. She reached in her purse and pulled out the letter her father had sent her, reading it for the tenth time.

Cassie, my love,

It has been so very long since I’ve seen your face, felt your arms around me. ’Tis a proud man you’ve made me with your fine degree, but perhaps, you could find the time to spend a week or so with your old dad. I miss you, child. So does Sarah. She sends her love.

She stopped reading as the stewardess offered her a drink. She accepted a glass of wine, and sipped it unexpected tears filling her eyes. She should have made this trip long ago, yet every time she had thought about returning to Ireland, Connor’s face flashed in front of her, his dark eyes accusing, his expression as harsh as the day she had left. She could still picture him standing in front of her, his words striking her like blows.

"You belong here with your father and Sarah and not off thousands of miles away playing at getting an education you could easily find right here."

"Don’t you dare be talking to me that way, Connor Callahan. You’re just jealous. Would it be that you are wishing you were going yourself?"

"I’m not wishing anything of the sort. I’m happy with my life and my home. It’s a shame the same can’t be said for you."

"Go to hell! I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone!"

And she had, she thought. She had finished medical school and graduated with honors. Her father and Sarah had attended, Shamus with a big smile on his handsome face. They had visited a few times a year, usually over the holidays, but she had never returned home and they had never asked her to...until now.

She took in a deep, shuddering breath. She had missed them so very much. When she had allowed herself, she had missed everything Irish; the emerald green grass, the smell of the salt in the air, the warmth of her friends and neighbors.

Yet, underneath, there was the darkness. The evil she knew waited for her. She dreamed of it at night, awakening with her heart pounding. It intruded in the middle of the day when she least expected it. It was the other reason she found herself making excuse after excuse not to go home. She had called herself all sorts of names; coward, weakling. And yet she remained away.

She glanced down at the letter still in her damp palms. Until this letter. And, just like that, it was time; time to face what she had been born to face.

She reached up and rubbed her shoulder--the shoulder that held the mark of the Stanton curse. In that moment, a resolve formed. She would no longer run scared. No longer allow fear to invade her thoughts or influence her future or that of her family. If she was to be the one to end it, then so be it. It was then, still clutching her father’s letter that her thick lashes fluttered, allowing deep healing sleep to surround her.

Shamus looked up toward the brilliance of the stars in the crisp night sky smiling when Sarah wrapped her arms around him from behind.

"Are ye coming in? It’s getting chilly out here."

"Aye. In a bit."

"She’ll be coming home soon, my love."

He turned, running a finger across her soft cheek.

"And how would you be knowin that?"

"Because I can feel it." She dimpled. "And you would be knowing better than to question my instincts."

His blue eyes smiled. "That I do, my love. That I do." He took her arm and tucked her small figure next to his muscular chest, breathing in her familiar scent. "And why are you so sure now when you haven’t been before?"

"Because the time is right for her to fulfill what she is destined to."

His face darkened. "Then she will turn around and leave if I have anything to do with it."

She reached up and kissed his cheek. "But you don’t have anything to do with it, now do you? Come, share a pot of tea and keep me warm. We will deal with what we have to another day."

She could feel him withdraw, sense his anger, and the words she started to say went unsaid. There would be no point. They had been said before. She felt cold when he lifted his arm from around her shoulders.

"Set the pot to boil and I’ll be in shortly."

Sarah nodded, leaving him alone in the soft darkness. His eyes followed her inside. He should be happy he had a woman like Sarah in his life. Yet, he needed his daughter next to him as well. Not in a country thousands of miles away.

Don’t be a fool, man. You’re the one that sent her away. Now you’re wishing she was back. You can’t have it both ways.

Yet that was exactly what he wanted. He missed his Cassie desperately. Missed her husky laugh, the sheen of the sun on her dark hair, the way she looked so very much like her mother.

He leaned against the porch rail his memories strong and sweet. She had been such a beautiful little girl; all dark curls and sunshine. Until her thirteenth year--the year when so many things changed, things that had resulted in him pushing the most precious thing in his life away. He closed his eyes and the memories, as sharp and clear as if they were yesterday, came rushing back.

There could be no unlikelier pair of amateur sleuths than Greta Roscoe and the Reverend Aaron Shane. Not because Greta is the most elegant courtesan of St. Louis’s high society during the Gay 1890’s, and Aaron the city’s most self-righteous minister. It’s because they’re dead.

And because an angelic tutor named Aridite has given them the assignment of solving their own murders:

[the angel replied] “The two of you are dead too soon. You can’t come forward, you’re not prepared ...I need to set you up with a goal to accomplish...”

If only things in the Afterlife were as simple as they seemed.

St. Louis, Missouri

Autumn, 1896

"I wouldn’t let him in last night. Then this morning, when I unlocked the door and came out, he was there to hit me."

Gently, Greta cupped her sister’s chin, tilting the girl’s face toward the hurricane lantern so that she could see better. There was a dark bruise under the girl’s eye, the lid was puffed and reddened. Greta forced the lump out of her throat.

"It must hurt fiercely, Tess."

Tess’ eyes grew teary, and she whispered, "When can we leave?"

"I know it’s hard, but try to be patient. We have an ally now. Tonight should put it all in place. I promise you."

"Then tell me what I can do. I can help, I know."

"Darling, if I do, you’ll be at worse risk than you are and I can’t let that happen."

"I’m so angry. I’m so afraid. It feels like it’s been 20 years."

They clung to each other in Tess’ barren room, the young woman dressed in finest satin and the 14-year-old in a plain, cotton frock. And Greta thought, yes, it seems like decades. Yesterday made it two years since Marshall had had his way.

Greta stroked her sister’s hair, so much like her own--dark red, sable soft--and a shudder came over her to think what Marshall had wanted of Tess last night. Dear God, should she tell her sister to let him have what he wants? Wouldn’t that be easier to bear than a battered face? No. No.

"Hold your ground, darling," she whispered. "This is almost over."

She found Marshall waiting in her chambers, something he did frequently. It seemed bizarre in its normalcy, this ersatz gentleman standing by the elaborate gas hearth, its iron logs pretending to burn. All around him were the trappings of the elite: thick, dark tapestries against gilded wallpaper; the finest horsehair divans. Four feet above their heads the ceiling’s plaster molding recessed more deeply, because of the lamplight. Below Marshall the massive Persian carpet was so busy with magenta, indigo, and green it seemed to be in motion.

Greta looked at Marshall again, aware she was nauseous like she had been in the beginning. Everything in the room sickened her. The etched beveled crystal, everywhere crystal could possibly be, sparked and glinted, hurting her eyes. Even the water pitcher set beside the great mahogany bed, canopied with dark, embroidered silk. Oh, that silk. Its value alone could have fed Greta and Tess for months.

Marshall had been watching her. Her skirts had announced her arrival as they rustled across the threshold, but he had yet to say a word. She steeled herself to walk toward him, but Marshall held up a hand. The tangy taste of fear surged in her mouth. She’d given away something…in her expression, perhaps in her posture. But no. It was simply inspection time.

Tonight she wore emerald silk as luxurious as that adorning the bed. The gown was designed to barely escape scandal, provocatively snug at the bodice and hips, flaring below in a riot of ripples. Her opera gloves were cut from the same bolt of cloth; her diamonds were dazzling, but tasteful. Greta’s dark red hair was gathered away from her neck. An aigrette was set above her right ear; the jeweled comb at the feather’s base glinted in the gaslight. She was the most elegant courtesan in St Louis.

Marshall smiled. "Oh, the judge is going to be delighted."

Greta ignored his comment. She’d regained herself and was set on a comment of her own. A risky thing to do, but she couldn’t keep silent.

"Bad taste, what you did to Tess this morning."

She moved into the room, pleased to see Marshall lose his smile, pleased to see him pat his fashionable, macassared hair, too close in color to her own. Marshall did that only when he was nervous. It was rare to see him so. He turned and lifted a cordial glass that had been sitting on the fireplace mantel.

"She was belligerent," he said.

"Was she? What did she say, Marshall? ’No’?"

"I just wanted to talk to her."

Revulsion and anger knotted her stomach. "She’s not part of the agreement, you perverted bastard. If I see another mark on her, Marshall, I swear to you…"

His laugh stopped her. "You can’t swear a thing."

"There’s a stench around you worse than your father had."

He slammed his glass back onto the mantel and came across the room in four strides. Well, that was crossing the safe margin, she thought, and gasped when his nails dug into her arms. She refused to cry out.

"Watch your mouth, damn you. Watch your mouth."

"Careful. If I’m damaged goods, the judge may renege on your arrangement."

She could see the struggle in his eyes before his grip slackened. "He won’t see the damage on Tess, though. You owe me an apology."

Greta swallowed and, thinking of her sister, said woodenly, "I’m so sorry."

Smug and victorious, Marshall replied, "I don’t like your tone."

"You can’t do this to us forever."

Why did she bother to say things like that, what good did it do? Marshall’s smile became more civil. He rubbed her arms where his grip had pained her, almost brotherly in nature, and it galled her. But she said nothing. He returned to his cordial.

"Don’t worry about Elias tonight," he said. "Someone’s keeping him busy with supper and brandy until the judge can steal away with you."

"Oh, I never worry about your side of things. I just do as I’m told."

Marshall’s expression didn’t change, but he didn’t ignore her sarcasm. "You really don’t want to botch anything. This favor we’re doing…"

"We?"

"Fine. This favor I’m doing the judge is valuable for all of us. He’ll be a powerful friend."

"How happy I am for you."

Marshall opened his arms in a gesture of reconciliation and moved casually toward Greta. She stiffened.

"Greta. Don’t be such a grouse. I’m very serious when I say this is good for all of us. Tandy’s a bigger catch than his fellow Elias. This could mean more of everything for you, except any cash, of course. That rule still applies. Why insist on making the good things so hard to live with?"

Greta needed a moment to gather her self-control, and she looked about her chambers in silence. The excess and opulence assaulted her. It was hard to pretend, so hard to pretend. Marshall smiled and rested his hands on her shoulders.

"All right, then?" When she didn’t reply, he gave her a firm, warning shake. She managed a quick nod. "Good. Now. Give us a kiss."

The Compact ending the "Atlantis thing" prohibited Diluvian interference on Terra. But treaties are made to be broken and, from the beginning, some Diluvians meddled. Others were assigned to observe and, occasionally, report back.

Humanity on Terra burgeoned and developed. When the Internet was fed into the Diluvian Backbone, fascination with Terra grew. So did disgust at the planet's chaos and squalor. A debate raged. Should Terra be destroyed, saved, or left alone to self-destruct?

Then three ancient artifacts with the power to open the portals were stolen and taken to Terra. If they weren't returned, chaos would reign.

Adornments of Glory

The knife quivered in the tree trunk beside Windrover's head. He'd felt it go by, heard it hit and knew better than to move. She would be changing position and have another blade ready. If thrown, it wouldn't miss. As they said in Terran fiction, "The first shot is a warning."

"It's me, Feldspar." He should have known better than to pop in on his foster niece unannounced, but teleporting to a further spot and walking in wasn't as impressive. Planetsinger said vanity would be the death of him. At least sometimes she said that. Other times she said it would be his weight.

"Well, so it is. Okay Unc, you have my permission to faint." Feldspar's soft contralto came from his right. He'd been looking left. Yes, she was good.

"I wasn't scared."

"Liar. You also have my permission to move."

Windrover turned to face her. The grin was familiar but when she had left Capitol a year earlier she'd worn her woman's body like a nervous colt. Now she stood tall and confident, meeting his gaze with level eyes, deep and smouldering with a barely suppressed passion for life. It was a shame they had a familial relationship. He'd heard stories. Mind you, they weren't actually related. "You've become quite the beauty. Come here and give your old uncle a kiss."

She didn't walk. Rather, she flowed. Her aura was stronger than he remembered. She got closer, and Windrover shivered. Those familiar dark eyes held a glint he didn't like. She treated him to a half-smile. "I don't want to kiss you." She pulled the knife from the tree. It could have been buried in butter rather than oak for all the effort it took. "Skythane's right about you. Don't worry, he's not here right now." Her smile had gained her mother's sardonic edge... if you could call that a "gain".

"I wasn't worried."

"Liar. Again. As usual."

"It's just I don't approve of his approach to justice and don't want to get into that old argument today."

Feldspar wiped sap off her knife. "You're right. We should discuss something else. So, what's up, Unc?"

"Can't I visit my favourite foster-niece without having an ulterior motive?"

"No." She didn't meet his eyes, instead examining the knife as if looking for spots she'd missed. "You can't breathe without an ulterior motive, and you're not side tracking me into any of your disarming chat. If all you'd wanted to say was 'hi', you could have written. But I haven't heard from you since I left Capitol."

"I've been busy." He should have kept in touch. After all, she was the Prophesied and even without a seer's talent, he knew she'd play a pivotal role in the planet's future. He just hadn't expected it to happen so soon, hadn't thought he would need her until she was older. But things hadn't gone as scheduled. "How can your old uncle make amends?" he asked.

"He can't… you're not here as my uncle, Windrover. You're here as a manipulative politico presuming on a personal relationship."

"I'm not! I'm here on Adepts Five business… recruiting for a quest." Trepidation! He hadn't meant to broach that subject so soon. Damn Skythane. Since he and Feldspar had taken up with each other Feldspar had lost her innocence.

"Yeah, everyone knows that." Apparently satisfied with the state of the blade, Feldspar slipped her knife into its sheath. Still level, and now cold, her eyes met his.

"They can't!"

"No, they don't… not everyone. Just teasing, uncle dear. Mind you, rumour has something serious is shaking Diluvia and it's not exactly like I'm isolated." She turned her back on him and started to walk away. His eyes were drawn to her tight leather breeches… such sweet cheeks, each would be a perfect handful.

She slowed, stopped and turned to face him again. She sighed. It did marvellous things to the fabric covering her breasts. A sad shake of her head. "Most people treat me like I'm an adult in more than body. I suppose I should know better than to expect the same from you." She unclipped her com-reader from her belt. "I told Skythane to make himself scarce because I expected you to show, and he's less forgiving than me." She pressed three pads and tossed the com-reader to him. "As you can see, Planetsinger contacted me yesterday with the news. Encrypted, of course."

Windrover caught the reader but didn't bother looking at its screen. "I'm surprised she didn't just use mind-touch."

Feldspar grinned. It was the old grin, hers as opposed to her mother's sneer. "I'm sure she would have, if she could. I've been working on my shields."

"Can you teach me?" Windrover hadn't known anyone could elude Planetsinger's mental reach for long. Other than behind the ancient shields which kept the Academy sacrosanct, he certainly never'd been able to hide from his on-and-off companion.

"I'll tell her you were asking. I'm sure she'll want to know why. By the Unknown, Unc, I've missed you and your scheming belly! Whatever people say about you, no one can call you dull--tiresome maybe, but never dull--care to join me for dinner? There's an excellent inn in the village. They make the best chocolate cake on Diluvia."

"You're forgiving me?"

"Like Planetsinger says, you are what you are."

"I shouldn't." The cake sounded good but he was on a diet. Planetsinger claimed to be as tired of him cheating on his diet as she was of him dallying with impressionable young women. "How powerful are your shields?"

"Not strong enough to include someone of your girth, but I can make the cake look like something more wholesome."

"Your illusions are that good now?" If so, and with her improved mind defences, maybe having her lead this quest might not be as hopeless as he'd feared. Certain people would be less than pleased to learn about Feldspar's developing power, assuming he told them.

"Your confidence in me is underwhelming. My illusions have been that good since I was six. I've always known neither you nor my equally loving mother deserves anything resembling the truth."

Windrover didn't like being lumped with Bethina, or having to consider Feldspar had never been as innocent as he'd thought. Had she been deceiving him all her life or was she lying now? Then again, did it matter? She'd put him off balance and there weren't many who could do that. Choosing this girl... this woman... to lead the most critical quest since the creation of Diluvia might not be as big a mistake as he'd feared when the cursed fairy stuck its oar in and cast a decisive vote in her favour.


The roast hare had been exquisite, the best ever. Windrover wanted another.

"No." Feldspar shook her head. "I promised you dessert but other than that you've had more than enough."

She sounded all too much like Planetsinger. And he hadn't voiced his desire. "Are you developing a talent for mind-reading as well?"

"No, as the dwarves say, I'm only human. But I know you and your appetites, Unc--like anyone doesn't. You're getting cake, as promised, you'll have to be content with that."

He could sneak back later for another hare, and maybe the luscious blonde serving wench who'd been giving him the eye. Women of all races were attracted to power. He watched his foster niece walk to the counter to get his treat. Only human? Was she? He hadn't believed it before, but speculation was Bethina broke the Compact by coercing some elf to father Feldspar, her much anticipated fifth child. Males were attracted to power too--what else would explain his fascination with Planetsinger after all these years?

And like her or not, Bethina was powerful. Of course, anyone who'd seen Feldspar with Maramatma on one of his rare visits knew he was indeed the girl's father; her sculpted features were his, as were the deceptively gentle brown eyes. And if Feldspar's complexion was caramel rather than blue-black, which was understandable given that Bethina was an icy blonde. No, it was the "only" part Windrover questioned. Feldspar was the Prophesied, and he was beginning to think her well-noted failure to live up to her billing just might be the ultimate proof of her abilities.

Feldspar came back to the table with what looked disgustingly like an oversized bowl of gruel.

"That's cake?" Even for gruel, it was disgusting.

"I keep my promises." Feldspar put the bowl down, picked up a knife and sliced the bowl in half. "There you go."

"No, this doesn't look the least bit suspicious." If this were indeed gruel, it would be all over the table. Everyone in the inn was smiling. If he didn't go along with the gag he'd look foolish. If he did, he'd look foolish and have satisfied his appetite for sweets, presuming Feldspar was telling him the truth about the cake. He picked up his half-bowl with both hands and took a bite out of the centre. Feldspar was right--the cake lived up to the hare. This inn was a true find.

But Planetsinger would find out he'd cheated. So what? He was tiring of her incessant demands he change. Windrover took another look at the robust wench behind the counter. More quality--those breasts begged to be fondled. She met his eyes, licked her lips and smiled. That decided it--might as well make this a clean break from the old nag.


"So, Mistral Brown Badger, you wish to take her away from me."

For all his bulk, Windrover could sure jump. Feldspar had seen Skythane coming, but from the smudge of cake on his face and the disturbed look in his eyes, Windrover hadn't. He'd always complained Skythane didn't show him the respect due the elf on Adepts Five. But why would he do any such thing? Skythane's mind-powers were greater than Windrover's, by far; if he'd wanted to be the elf Adept, he would be.

But Skythane had no interest in being tied to that duty, especially as it would put him in close contact with Bethina. Yes, that would be very uncomfortable, to be so close. Feldspar smiled at the thought. For some reason, her smile seemed to increase Windrover's discomfort. Maybe he thought she'd enjoy seeing the two of them fight... over her. She winked at her foster-uncle. Skythane had been teasing, but Windrover's sense of humour had gone missing. Mind you, Skythane had addressed him by his proper name rather than the more respectful appellation given to adepts. That was a declaration of at least equal status and therefore could be considered a challenge, should Windrover so choose.

"Cirrus Gold Kestrel." Windrover was on his feet. Feldspar could see a tremble in his stance but he was obviously prepared to do battle.

She couldn't let that happen. "Behave yourself, Windrover. Skythane wasn't serious."

Four surprised and annoyed eyes were suddenly on her rather than glaring at each other. That overweening prick! Skythane hadn't been joking. That meant he considered Feldspar a possession you would fight over rather than a person--no other interpretation was possible. Feldspar tried to keep anger from showing in her voice. "I'm leaving you no matter what, Skythane."

"You're leaving? Leaving me?" As if to say no one could possibly break off with a gold elf, especially him. One most certainly could!

"Nothing personal, but I think I need a period of chastity in order to grow." From their faces, neither elf understood. Until just now, Feldspar hadn't either. "I'm beginning to think you were drawn to me simply because I'm the Prophesied." They still didn't get it. Feldspar suspected her dilemma was similar to one common in Terran fiction when a rich person didn't know if a lover was attracted to them or to their money. But you could lose Terran money or give it away, and as long as she lived, she'd be the Prophesied.

"Who cares why we're drawn to you?" The rolls of Windrover's face bunched into puzzled wrinkles.

Skythane nodded agreement. Then a look of realisation appeared on his face as if, at last, he realised his error. Too late, prick-brain. "You know there's more to it than that, love."

"Oh, I most certainly do." Feldspar put a challenge into her eyes--back off, or else.

"So, Windrover, could you perhaps enlighten me as to the purpose of this quest?" Skythane asked. Good, he didn't want to make their private life public either. Feldspar breathed an unvoiced sigh of relief and turned her attention to Windrover. How much of his secret would he tell?

"Quest? What quest? Okay, so there is one, but I am ever so sorry, Skythane--even if that much has become known, Adepts Five would be in agreement that I shouldn't disclose anything more."

Adepts Five wouldn't agree on whether it was day or night if the sun was beating on their addled heads. If she didn't get this moving they could be here for hours. "Could the mysterious quest be anything to do with the theft of the Adornments of Glory?"

"Damn Planetsinger! How dare she?"

"She didn't. The quest is common knowledge and rumours of the theft were on the backbone an hour before you arrived," Feldspar said, patting her com-reader and smiling. "Anyone could put the two together."

"On the backbone? The whole planet knows? I have to return to Capitol immediately." Windrover jumped up from the table, reaching for Feldspar.

She slapped his hand. "Don't grab. You could lose a hand. I'll be with you in a moment." She stood and faced Skythane. "I hope you won't take this split too personally."

"Of course not. I understand completely." From his tone he didn't understand it at all.

Feldspar took the tall blonde elf into her arms, tilting her head slightly to be kissed. "Liar. That's okay. In time we'll forgive each other." Their lips met. Feldspar felt her own shudder meet Skythane's as the familiar body pressed closer. He might be a stupid prick, but he had a lively one. She was going to miss that big fellow more than she dared admit, even to herself.

Skythane broke it off and pulled his head back. "I will accompany you on your quest if you ask."

"I'm sorry, no." Feldspar stopped and looked at Windrover, who was looking at her. He'd said the same words she had, at the same time. She nodded her head slightly, deferring to him. She hadn't any idea what she'd been going to say and hoped he had a better reason than wanting distance.

"I'm sorry, Skythane, but one thing Adepts Five actually did agree on was that if she insisted on taking you, we'd find someone else."

"I'm that unpopular?"

"Nothing to do with you. The rules for quests forbid long-term bedmates from being in the same party. Conflict of interest and all that. I thought you'd know."

"I forgot." Skythane was as unconvincing a liar as Windrover. Always had been, now Feldspar thought of it. It had never been about her, Feldspar, and always about her, the Prophesied. And a few bed-tricks… or rather, more than a few.

Georg has always known how his life would go. He would take over as Lord when his father died. But when his brother, Marcus, who has been studying with the wizards, suddenly dies, Georg is chosen to take his place. He is far from happy about this, but a member of his family has always been expected to work with the wizards. When they refuse to take his other brother, Edward. So he agrees to go.

Once there, he realizes there is something peculiar about his brother's death. Nobody seems to be willing to tell exactly what happened to Marcus. So he sets out to find out what happened. He begins by befriending the companions of his late brother. He soon finds out that his brother died from attempting to use a powerful magical relic. He also finds out that he also has the ability to use this relic. Will he agree to use this ability and accept his new position with the wizards?

The day began quietly enough. Georg bolted breakfast and set out on a brisk ride. By the time he returned, it was nearing midday. In the courtyard, he passed clusters of travel-stained men and women who sought audiences with his father. Household servants filed outside, bearing food and drink for the peasants.

Georg led Bruno to the stables, waving away the grooms. He took pride in this horse. He owned many others, but his father had given him Bruno to care for, a special birthday present. You are my eldest, my heir. And my pride. Even as a boy, Georg understood the implicit contract.

Bruno was a fine old horse, of good breeding, but inferior to probably a third of the others. Georg's father did not take silly risks. And he let me love an animal I might otherwise never have deigned to ride.

Breakfast could be taken alone, and supper was often a public affair, but the midday meal was a family occasion. Harold had grown more adamant about that over the past few years. He was still outwardly healthy, but two winters ago he had taken ill, and the physicians feared for his life. He wanted Georg to learn as much as possible before ascending to lordship.

Georg felt ready. His father had never been particularly secretive, and in fact had encouraged his son to take an interest in everyday matters of administration. Georg was in no hurry, however. He was fond of his father, and didn't want him to die, though it was not something he feared: it was natural for a father to die before his son. He also didn't want to have the question of an heir raised. He had resolved several years ago that Marta would be the mother of his children; unfortunately, her elderly husband had not yet succumbed to any illness.

Georg washed before lunch, vaguely muttering the words of the purification ritual. His mother insisted upon it. Georg liked her, and she liked her family well enough, but she clearly would have preferred to spend her life in a religious house. The instant Harold died, Georg knew she would shut herself away, and happily live out her days in prayer. Her religious zeal was tempered by a sense of familial duty--which had been strong enough to prevent her from fleeing the marriage to Harold--and of bettering the religious community in other ways. Georg's brother Edward had been given to a religious house. If she had lived past her sixth birthday, his sister Hannah might well have been pledged to a life of religious seclusion, rather than a political marriage; Harold and Matilda had argued heatedly about that, behind closed doors.

His parents sat at the table, looking up only when Georg entered. The ale and meat that normally made up the meal were absent; only bread and water remained.

Someone had died.

"Markus," Harold said, before Georg could ask. He held up a letter. "Two days ago."

Georg sat down. He hadn't seen Mark for several years, since his brother had gone off to fill the family's traditional duty and privilege of giving someone to the Veneficus Domus. "What happened? An accident?"

Harold shrugged weakly. Markus had been a joy, bright and mischievous. "They didn't say. Only that he is dead, and they offer their condolences."

"I'll set off today to collect the body. I'll bring a priest, mother." Matilda did not approve of wizards; as far as Georg knew, she had never written to Mark after he left home.

"They--this is difficult," Harold said.

"I loved him too," Georg replied, not looking at his mother. As far as Matilda was concerned, she had lost a son eight years ago.

"As we have been reminded," Harold said, aimlessly tapping the letter, "this family has a privilege extending generations. We are a friend to the wizard's house; we benefit from that friendship. As a sign of this, we are allowed--and required--to give one of our family over to that house."

Georg nodded, beginning to see why Matilda was so unhappy. Soon Edward's life of prayer would end.

"They have requested a replacement," Harold said. "You."

Georg blinked. "But...I'm not-- Who will replace you?"

"Edward will be withdrawn, when the time is ripe."

Belatedly, Georg made a motion to ward off death. "Father--if we must fill Mark's place, and Edward is already being removed--"

"They will not have him," Matilda said. "Not after he has lived a godly life."

"They say that some of Edward's vows may render him useless," Harold sounded tired, not venomous. "They specifically requested you."

I can't. All his life, it had been so simple. Learn, until his father's death, then take his place. So simple. Wait for Marta. Father children. Teach them.

Now...everything was ruined. What did he know of magic? He wasn't a scholar of any kind, certainly not of arcane subjects. I can't. I don't want to.

"You must leave with all possible haste," Harold said. "Today."

"And--retrieve Mark's body, stay for the burial, and then return?" It was something. Precious little, but something.

"They are keeping him there," Matilda said.

* * *

"...so, that's food and sleep areas," Georg's guide said. "That's all that'll matter to you for a while." The man had prattled for the past half hour, scarcely pausing to take a breath, much less allow for questions. He was about Georg's age, smiled altogether too much, and sported a brown beard splotched with red patches, making him look even more ridiculous.

The guide, Frank, pushed open a door. To Georg's relief, this one led outside. He inhaled deeply, trying to purge his lungs of the alien atmosphere of the corridors.

"And for a bit of closure, here's the cemetery," Frank said. "Your brother's over there on the end, the most recent."

Slowly, Georg approached the fresh grave. There was a simple headstone, his brother’s name, the date of his birth and death. Is that all? Mark was so much more than two days....

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss. And I hope your family isn't too upset over the burial arrangements, but it avoids the possibility of awkward questions. Sometimes nasty things--stick. Much easier to deal with it here, where we've got qualified people.... Are you all right?"

"No." Georg spoke slowly and distinctly. "My brother is dead, and now you're telling me that some sort of curse might have been laid on his bones?"

"No, not at all," Frank almost laughed. "It's very rare that anybody comes in contact with anything that could, um, curse their bones." He looked amused at the expression. Georg wanted to hit him. "And that's only the most powerful of our brothers. But people do worry and, well, it's better just to have a standing policy in place." He shrugged. "Notice how nobody cares when religious houses bury their people on site, or dig them up and sell the pieces. I'm afraid you'll have to get used to that sort of discrimination."

Matilda had only one son, and he was now a secular disappointment. She was doubtless thinking that she should have run off as a virgin. "You don't understand. I'm not a wizard. I've no vocation."

"Neither do I," Frank laughed. "Not one whit of innate talent. But that doesn't mean I can't do some things. I've a head for figures. And for that matter, once you've found the proper formula, it often doesn't matter if a parrot says the words or mixes the potion."

"I don't want to deal with that."

Frank shrugged. "Think of yourself as a lay brother, if you like. The wizards--the real wizards--will do their magic, instead of praying, and you'll help with the scut work. Tending gardens, fetching ingredients, keeping records. It's what most of us do anyway."

"Is that--is that all Markus did?" Georg managed, thinking that it might help Matilda, just a bit. She wouldn't read a letter from him, of course, but if he asked Harold to tell her....

"I'm afraid I didn't know him all that well. I'm sure we could find someone for you to ask."

"How did he die?"

"I spent that last two weeks on a shopping expedition,” Frank said apologetically. "I was supposed to be gone until the day after tomorrow, so I have a free schedule, so I get to be your tour guide."

"I'd like to see the Veneficus Altus."

"Yes, of course. We took the liberty of scheduling you an appointment. You can see him five days from now."

"I just sacrificed my life for you people--"

"With all due respect, Georg, you seem quite alive to me. We all have unpleasant duties. You got stuck with one of your family's obligations, that's all. If you ask me, you're still better off than Markus."

"So the Domus has two brothers from my family."

"No. We have one at a time. I believe that's the arrangement your family's had for some time. An insider in the house, preferential treatment, a say in the way things are run here. Not an altogether bad deal. Don't ask for sympathy from me. My father worked his fingers to the bone to get me in here."

"Your choice, I assume."

"I don't pay the bills." Frank's blackened mood lifted visibly. "But it's not a bad place. You may even come to like it."

* * *

"Dear Father,

"All is as well as can be expected. Markus was given an honorable burial, and his grave is well tended. The man who is introducing me to life here was not present when he died, so I regret that I have no further details on that score. Please do tell Mother that my guide has informed me that very few men here actually engage in the practice of magic of any kind, let alone the truly profane. Markus was almost certainly never in contact with anything that could have endangered his soul.

"I hope that Edward is well, and resigned to the new duties he must eventually assume. I confess that I envy him, but I understand that there is nothing to be done, and that I am serving my family as best I can."

Georg read back over what he had written. He wanted to ask his father to take care of Bruno, but that was ridiculous. Harold might be offended that his son considered him so poor a horseman as to need reminding. I wish we could have animals. Certain high-ranking wizards were allowed pets, and some had horses. Georg's requests had been refused. A man of his rank would have no need to travel by horseback. At most, he might ride in a cart. In a cart. Like Frank, the prattler.

"Give my love to all," he wrote.

He hoped Harold would read between the lines, and realize that Georg was thinking of someone outside of the family. Harold might even know about Marta; Georg suspected that his father had some experience with adultery. But Georg would not stain Marta's honor by committing their sin to paper. Anyone might find the letter. Matilda might not care anymore, though a few days ago she would have feared for her son's salvageable soul. But Edward would not look kindly on adultery; since Georg was out of reach, all of his disapproval would fall upon Marta.

I hope she understands. He hadn't had time to get word to her, and couldn't very well send letters to Johannes's wife. Hopefully, she would pick up the real story, that he had been summoned away by legitimate family obligations. I didn't abandon you. I never lied to you. I really did intend to marry you.

Wizards did not marry. It was the vows, Frank said. Georg didn't quite believe that, especially since he'd not yet been asked to take any vows whatsoever. Perhaps the prohibition's intent was simply to mark wizards off as special. A true wizard forsook the world and cloistered himself, devoting his life to study.

But wizards did leave the Domus. Georg hoped that he might be able to, someday. If Edward had a child...the child could take Georg's place, Edward could return to a life of prayer, and Georg could freely adopt his lordship. And Marta. If she'll wait...but what a thing to ask.

If only he'd realized sooner that it was Marta that he loved. Marta, and not Isabeau, who fell ill and died anyway. After he'd fallen out of love with her. After Marta had prudently entered into a lucrative marriage with a man who should have left her a widow years ago. Bad timing, that was all. Bad timing that left him an heirless bachelor so late in life, when he might have fathered a child to offer the wizards....

"My regards. Georg."

The fabled Doomstones, in which reside the world's good and evil, have been wrested from their rightful guardians by Sekia Soulrender. Destroyed will be these stones of light and dark, order and chaos, unless the companions of Soulmender Ashroud can retrieve them. There are the Shepherd, possessed by a dead man's soul, the Fernfolk, ravaged by the Timing and Sundered from her Bondmate, the Irthmog king, held in thrall by a cursed weapon, and the bhujan, a beast who carries with it a shame beyond enduring. Can the companions stop Sekia from remaking the world in his own vile image? Can they defeat the Balgern, the Devourer of all that is good? Or will the Soulrender succeed in bringing eternal death and despair to the world?

________________________________________________________________

PROLOGUE

The Soulmender Taul had been born in the Tower of the Keep of Ashroud and had never set forth outside. For five hundred and thirty seven years he had dedicated himself to the single purpose of guarding the Doomstones. Now it was time for him to leave.

He stood on the wall of the Tower, arms raised in supplication to the sky. His robe, woven of the blue of the heavens, the brown of the earth, the green of the sea, flapped in the wind. White hair like clouds or snow or foam whipped his face. Already the sulphureous reek of the balstorm came to his nostrils. The churning yellow clouds with their black lightnings were spreading their dark carrion wings over the Keep. Vile bal creatures milled like fire ants at the foot of the wall.

They had destroyed the Doombringers, ten thousand strong, the pride of the Soulmender army. Taul caught glimpses of Doombringer corpses and their mounts, hidden mostly by feasting bal creatures. For three days the fierce battle had waged on Dearthurn's Plain of Lidaghtrk Dalirkght, an endless cacophony of mortal and bestial screams and the clashing of weapons and armor. All that remained was for the bal army of the Soulrender to pierce the defenses of the mighty fortress. The Doomkeeper guards and the Soulmenders themselves could not long hold out against the dark army. Soon Sekia the Banned would set foot in the Keep and the Doomstones would be desecrated.

Taul began to sing. The song did not come easy to his lips, unaccustomed as he was to using dirty magic. But dirty magic was all he could use, else the Soulrender would know what he was doing and would seek to prevent his departure. The words of the song were like the faint echoes of thunder:

Come to me, the dead in your mountain,

from out of the corpse-cold north.

Come to me, the sleepers in your hill,

from out of the flesh-frozen north.

Come to me, the spirits in your mound,

from out of the bone-biting north.

Spirit passing in the breath that leaves,

Breath passing in the wind that leaves,

Wind passing in the cloud that leaves,

Cloud passing in the storm that leaves.

Come to me, the dead in your wind,

from out of the corpse-cold north.

Come to me, the sleepers in your cloud,

from out of the flesh-frozen north.

Come to me, the spirits in your storm,

from out of the bone-biting north.

Taul stretched forth the sense that saw what happened far away and watched as the deathstorm gathered over the mountain in the north. The spirits of the dead rushed like the howling wind from the Doors of the mountain, becoming One as they rose above the mountain in a pillar of swirling cloud-fire. The pillar grew until it blocked out the sun, a black lotus unfolding in the sky. When it pressed against the dome of heaven itself, the spiritstorm moved from its mountain, flew on the wings of the dead towards the Keep of Ashroud. It traveled fast, so fast that it passed behind the Curtains of the worlds. There his sight would not go. He lowered his arms. How long would it take to reach here? the Soulmender wondered. Would it arrive in time?

An explosion detonated somewhere below him, rocking the Tower. The stones of the Keep groaned to their very foundation. Before he even looked down, Taul knew what the explosion meant: a tine from a bolt of bal-lightning had found its way through the Spell of Fastening that secured the main gate. The unyielding bands of irthmog-wrought stayiron were peeled back like skin from a dead man. Huge timbers of fernfolk oak, kept suspended between the form-shadow worlds and the fernfolk world by Doordevisers, were shattered into glass-like shards.

The dark bal army of Sekia Soulrender surged forward, pressed in on itself and flowed in miasmic waves into the Keep of Ashroud.

A rumbling in the distance that was not balthunder brought the Soulmender's head back up. Scanning the horizon, he could barely make out a deeper darkness moving beneath the balstorm. Then the sense that saw what was far away knew it for what it was: the spiritstorm from the mountain in the north, just now come from behind the Curtains of the worlds. The thunder that was not bal became louder, the deathstorm loomed larger. Closer, closer it came, passing through the air with unnatural speed, boiling with the darkness that hid the dead. Something akin to hope rekindled in Taul's breast.

Within the Keep beneath the Soulmender's feet, his fellows and the Doomkeepers were dying. Some had the goodness removed from their souls by a horror of Sekia's making. These, now wholly evil, turned on their brothers-in-arms. Others had their souls rent from them and their torn souls became the playthings of the Soulrender. The rest fell victim to the nightmare warriors of the dark army. Even then, the Soulmender, who awaited the spiritwind, could feel the enemy forcing its way up the Tower stairs. Soon they would reach the roof of the Tower, where he stood waiting.

And then, mercifully and cruelly, the deathstorm reached the Keep, hovered possessively over the top of the Tower. The Soulmender offered himself to it, a sacrifice to pay for the dirty magic he had used. The fiery cloud enshrouded him in gloom. Within the gloom were shapes -- shapes without substance, shapes which gave themselves form by wrapping themselves in wind-driven cloud. The shapes, vague and indefinable, clawed and clutched at him. He gave himself up to them.

The spirits of the dead yanked him from the Tower wall, lifted him aloft. Suddenly all was cold and choking darkness, an endless sensation of violent motion, of being tossed this way and that until he knew not anymore what was up or what was down. As the spirit-shapes tried to rip him apart, tried to strike him with flaming brands, buffeted him with mighty gusts and pelted him with sleet and hail, he cried out in agony and terror, but there was only laughter like wind and screams like wind and teasing, mocking faces like wind.

Through it all, he tried desperately to keep his wits about him, to send his thoughts to the world he needed, to send his thoughts to the spirits so that they might guide the deathstorm to the world of his choosing.

The spirits heard him. Their answer was the thunder that bore him away from the Keep of Ashroud.

]]> bookstore@coffeetimeromance.com (Coffee Time Romance eBook Store) http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookStore/pubs_product_book_info/doomstone-p-181 Wed, 26 Jul 2006 21:26:42 -0400 5.99 USD 181 Double Dragon Publishing http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookStore/images/large/Doomstone510_LRG.jpg http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookStore/pubs_product_book_info/falcon-s-flight-p-182 http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookStore/product_reviews/falcon-s-flight-p-182

After helping kill her husband to protect her child from his father’s Satanic Order, Margerite embarks on a dangerous deception to cover up the murder. She pretends to be an Order priestess to keep the others from taking Wolfram away, but finds she cannot shed this falsehood so easily. Given in marriage to her husband’s opponent to seal the end of the feud, she finds her youngest stepson has been instructed to continue her training in the black arts.

She struggles to balance the safety of her child with the disposition of her soul, all the while trying to be faithful to her new husband when her heart actually belongs to her dead husband’s captain of the guard. Even there she must choose as her love, Bertram, rushes off to save his own people from the Order and her stepson invites a demon to inhabit his older brother. Who should she aid first, and just how is she to do either while keeping herself and her baby safe?
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The Williard brothers are tired of the sedentary life. When one of them falls heir to proof of Bigfoot--or possibly an alien--various government agencies began chasing them and their girlfriends, hoping to recover alien technology, if that’s what it is. Deep in the wildest Part part of The Brooks Moutain Range in Alaska, the chase comes to a head, with the CIA, Russians, NSA and Mafia all vying with the Williard brothers and an Eskimo girl to win the prize.
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After the war the zany Williard brothers and their paramours go looking for adventure and find all they can handle when they decide to see if there really is a dinosur still living deep in the Congo. Flying a beatup old seaplane, the brothers are shot up, shot down, chased by the Mafia for carrying drug money they don’t know they have, captured by pygmies and forced to undergo the dread palm wine drinking contest, where failure means being fed to Mokele Mbembe--and if they survive all this, the Godfather is waiting back in New York to feed them to his pet shark.

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