Adored: A Love Letters Novel

by Kristen Blakely

  Adored

  A Love Letters Novel

  Kristen Blakely

  Copyright © 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Contents

  Adored

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Betrayed

  Love Letters

  About the Author

  Adored

  A Love Letters Novel

  Gratefully divorced and not looking. Well, okay, maybe just peeking.

  Single parenthood to a two-year old toddler and a full-time job doesn’t leave me with any time to find Mr. Right. Not that he exists. But when a sexy male escort walks into my volunteer clinic for his annual checkup, I’m startled—okay, fine, tempted—into accepting his invitation.

  Rowan Forrester’s model-gorgeous looks are the least of his attributes; he’s like no other man I’ve ever known. His single-minded attentiveness boosts my shaky confidence. I know better than to believe his interest is genuine, but his easy sincerity is irresistible. his fantasy can’t last—after all, he’s an escort—but I can’t turn away from someone who adores my daughter and makes me believe in love again.

  But when the truth of his past finally catches up with him…with us…it crushes my fragile hope for a future together. And it’s entirely up to me if I’m going to allow it to destroy our love...

  Chapter 1

  Thank God, he isn’t here yet.

  Vera Rios swung her steering wheel and maneuvered her Honda Accord beneath the slowly rising garage doors. She glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard; she had five minutes to spare before Darren picked up Allison for the weekend. Vera gritted her teeth in frustration. Damn it. She had not just managed not to leave work early, but she was actually late.

  She had primary custody of their two-year-old daughter since her divorce from Darren nine months prior, but “custody,” Vera had since concluded, was a wicked joke, and the joke was on her. Her supposedly “prime time” with Allison lasted no more than a few minutes in the morning before she left for work and a few minutes at night after she returned from work and before Allison went to sleep. The rest of the time Allison spent with her nanny, Teresa, and on the weekends, when Vera did have time, Allison was with her father.

  “I’m home,” Vera called out as she entered the kitchen.

  “Estamos aqui.”

  Vera followed Teresa’s voice into the living room. Allison, her wavy hair brushed and beribboned, wore one of her best dresses and a pair of tiny black shoes with matching frilly socks Darren’s mother must have purchased. The pout on Allison’s face confirmed her disapproval with the thing that waved about her chubby legs. She pointed at her pink skirt. The pout deepened into a scowl. “Dress.” Disgust infused her voice.

  Vera set down her tote bag and snatched up her daughter to press a kiss to her cheek. “I know, my darling, but you can’t spend the whole day in diapers and a T-shirt.” Oh, Allison smelled delicious—freshly bathed with lemon-scented soap and mint shampoo. Vera relaxed into a smile, and the tension seeped out of her shoulders. The petty annoyances and endless frustrations of the day did not stand a chance against Allison’s charming antics and opinionated commentaries.

  “Mama.” Allison threw her arms around Vera’s neck and nuzzled her cheek. A sunny smile flashed across Allison’s face, the wretched dress apparently forgotten in the delight of her mother’s homecoming.

  Teresa chatted on in rapid-fire Spanish about everything that had transpired during the day, but Vera only heard a handful of words as she sank down on the couch. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her entire world condensed into the twenty-two pounds of absolute joy cuddled on her lap. At that moment, all Vera wanted was to hold love close to her.

  Love, however, had a mind of her own. Squirming, Allison leaned in to babble into her mother’s ear and provide her own account of the day.

  Vera heard “sweet” and concluded that Allison’s lunch was a little less healthy than Teresa made it out to be, but the many delighted references to dolls, books, and playtime confirmed Teresa’s conscientiousness as a nanny. Vera looked up at the older woman and smiled. She could not have survived the chaos of single motherhood if not for the woman who cared for Allison each weekday.

  The obnoxious buzz of the doorbell shattered the moment. A faint frown flickered over Teresa’s face, but she had smoothed it into a smile by the time she unlocked the door for Darren Templeton. “Come in, Mr. Darren,” she said in accented English.

  He nodded, but his eyes glazed over Teresa to focus on Vera. “You’re still in scrubs.”

  With effort, Vera kept her voice cool. “And hello to you too, Darren.”

  His Hugo Boss business suit looked as fresh on him after a long day at work as it probably had when he first put it on that morning.

  He frowned. “Shouldn’t you change before you hold her? Germs and all that.”

  And just for that, she was not going to tell him that she had showered and changed at the hospital before coming home. Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t nag, Darren. I know what I’m doing. I would never put her in danger.” She kissed the top of Allison’s blond head. “Daddy’s here.” Please frown or cry or say, “Go away.”

  Allison smiled and held up her hands. “Dada!”

  Traitor. Vera sighed and transferred Allison into Darren’s arms.

  He grinned at the child. “How is my little princess doing? Are you ready for some fun?”

  Allison laughed and clapped her hands. “Fun! Fun time.”

  Vera tried not to sigh. Fun, go figure. I rush home to spend five minutes with her, and he gets her for the entire weekend.

  Darren headed to the door. “I’ll bring her back at six on Sunday.”

  Allison kicked her father like a rider prodding a lazy mule. “Go, go, go!”

  Father and daughter disappeared down the driveway, and with them went just about every shred of delight and laughter in Vera’s life.

  Teresa looked at Vera. Her doe-eyed gaze offered understanding and sympathy. “I go too, Miss Vera.”

  Vera nodded. “Have a good weekend, Teresa. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  The front door closed behind Teresa. Only then did Vera sigh. Her forty-eight-hour countdown to 6 p.m. on Sunday had begun.

  Vera raided the fridge for leftovers and washed down the unsatisfactory dinner with a glass of sangria. After her meal, she lingered at the kitchen table. The lights were dim, and the quiet of the house hung over her like a shroud, dampening her senses and darkening her mood. Her fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the polished wood.

  It occurred to her that she was tired of her own company.

  She glanced at her watch.

  Two minutes.

  She would give herself two more minutes to sulk, and then at seven, she would get up and do something
useful, like reorganize Allison’s closet and sort through the clothes her daughter had outgrown. Tomorrow, she supposed, she could cook several large meals and freeze them in small portions for quick dinners the rest of the week. She did not need to worry about Sunday; fortunately, her volunteer work at the Family Health Center would keep her occupied for most of the day.

  Vera stared at the digital numbers on her watch as they marched forward through time. All right, almost out of “woe is me” time—

  Her cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID before accepting the call. “Hey, Iris. What’s up?”

  “Jordan’s sick,” Iris Whitley said. She was another volunteer doctor at the Family Health Center. Jordan, her son, was a quick-witted ten-year-old. “I think I need to stay in with him tomorrow. Can I swap my Saturday shift for your Sunday one?”

  “I can handle both shifts if he’s still sick on Sunday,” Vera offered.

  “Are you sure? You’d be working twelve days straight if you don’t take any time off during the weekend.”

  “And how would that be any different from a residency?”

  Iris chuckled. “Well, you got paid then.”

  Vera laughed. “Yeah, that’s right. Moving down in the world.” She glanced at her watch again. Oops, my time is up. “Like I said, I can cover both days. It wouldn’t be a problem. Allison’s with her father, and it’s not like I have anything else to do with my weekend.”

  “Don’t sound too enthusiastic now.”

  Vera could hear the sympathy through Iris’s sarcasm. “Trying hard not to.”

  “You need something else in your life.”

  She chuckled. “Right, as always. I’ll let you know when I find it. You never know who might come through the clinic—” Other than the usual suspects, of course—the prostitutes, unemployed illegal aliens, or homeless veterans. The Family Health Center was the county’s last safety net for people in Fort Lauderdale who could not afford health care. “Maybe a sexy Brazilian soccer player will stop by tomorrow, and you’ll be sorry you weren’t there to review his chart.”

  “Among other things. Trust me. His chart wouldn’t be my priority.” Iris laughed. “Okay, I’ve got to go. Thank you for taking my shift tomorrow.”

  “Not a problem. Tell Jordan I said hi and to get better soon.”

  “Not if he can help it. You know him. He’s going to milk this for all it’s worth. I’ll catch up with you next week.”

  Vera hung up and sagged into her seat. Absently, she tugged the rubber band from her hair, spilling her long brown locks free for a moment before she gathered her hair up again into a practical knot. Thanks to Iris, she now had weekend plans. Sexy Brazilian soccer player, here I come.

  Not…

  Chapter 2

  Most of Saturday, including Vera’s fifteen-minute lunch break, passed in a blur of activity at the Family Health Center on Hollywood Boulevard. Her fluent Spanish helped her communicate with many patients who walked into her office; her broken Portuguese helped her reach several others. When all else failed, she tried English. Over the course of the day, she treated food poisoning, diabetes, hypertension, viral and bacterial infections, and stomach flu. She taped sprained joints and set broken bones.

  The people’s needs were, for the most part, routine, though her current patient, a Hispanic woman in her mid-thirties, worried her. Vera set down the woman’s file, leaned over her desk, and tapped on the phone intercom. “Maria, can you come in here for a minute?”

  Moments later, the door opened, and Maria, the receptionist, stepped in. “What do you need?”

  Vera nodded at her patient. “She needs an appointment with an oncologist over at Broward General Medical Center. Her blood work shows high levels of alpha fetoprotein, and I’d like to get a second opinion from a specialist. Blake Smith, perhaps? I’ve already explained this to her, but can you make the appointment, and then let her know where and when to see him?”

  “Sure.” Maria reached for the file and then ushered the woman out ahead of her.

  The woman darted a nervous look at Vera, but she muttered, “Gracias,” before leaving the office.

  Vera sighed. The woman’s lips had trembled, and she had wrung her fingers so tightly it was a wonder she hadn’t twisted them into a knot. The woman’s medical records were incomplete; the driver’s license number and home address were conspicuously absent. She was an illegal immigrant, perhaps, or a prostitute. Either way, full disclosure was not in her best interest. The same could be said for most of the people Vera had seen that day.

  She glanced at her watch before reaching for the next file on her desk. Almost done; she was a half hour from wrapping up a full day at the health center. Her gaze darted over the patient’s name: Rowan Forrester. The note in the file, scribbled in Iris’s familiar scrawl, indicated Rowan was coming in for “routine blood tests.” It was health clinic speak for a prostitute requesting a regular medical screening for STDs or HIV.

  Vera shook her head. If only she could do more for these women than translating the results of a routine blood test. She quickly flipped through the full blood-work report—skimming past the lipid and protein results to scan the STD report—as the door opened to admit her next patient. “Come in, Miss Forrester. I was just going through your results and everything looks—” A shadow fell over her desk. She looked up. Her eyes widened; her jaw dropped. “—fine.”

  Actually, he was more than fine. Rowan Forrester wore a black T-shirt and faded denim jeans on his six-foot athletic frame with more elegance and panache than she had seen other men wear tuxedos. His hair was chestnut brown; his piercing eyes were a gold-copper color she could only describe as amber. His symmetrical, chiseled features pushed him over the line from good-looking into gorgeous, and the easy confidence he exuded set him apart from every other person who had walked into her clinic that morning. Heck, it set him apart from every other person she knew.

  “You’re a man.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded squeaky and pitched an interval or two higher than normal.

  “Excellent powers of deduction, doctor.” His baritone was rich and warm. Laughter lurked in his voice. He sat down, without invitation, across from her. “I hope the blood tests and my medical records agree with you, or I’m in trouble.”

  “I…I’m sorry. I just read your name and assumed you were a woman.”

  Disgust flashed across his face. “You’re an Anne Rice fan, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Rowan was a perfectly good, solidly male name until that woman co-opted it for one of her heroines. Now, half of the Rowans in the world are female.” He leaned back in his chair. “I was expecting Dr. Whitley. Doesn’t she usually work here on Saturdays?”

  “Dr. Whitley had a family emergency.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “Her son took ill, and she needed to stay home with him.” Vera stared down at Rowan’s file, because it was safer than staring at his face. “As I was saying, your test results are fine. No STDs—” Realization was like a slap in the face. Heat rushed into her cheeks. Oh, God. He was a prostitute, or an escort, or whatever society called male prostitutes. It explained his good looks and sensual appeal. Vera rushed on with the rest of her spiel. “Still, you’ll need to practice safe sex. Condoms. You know.”

  “Yes, I know.” He sounded amused.

  Her head snapped up. She glared at him. “This isn’t a joking matter. You owe it to yourself and to your…partners…” Vera faltered. “—to practice safe sex.”

  “You almost said clients, didn’t you?”

  Damn it, why did he have to be right… and so amused about it? She had spent her entire day talking to nervous women with wrecked self-images, women who believed that the only money they could earn came from selling their body. Rowan’s self-confidence and insouciance, compared to those women, came across as arrogant, even selfish. “Do you even know what you’re doing? Your looks, your body—”

  “My looks and m
y body are my stock-in-trade.”

  How could he sound so matter-of-fact about it? “Why are they?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you choose to do something else?”

  “I happen to enjoy what I’m doing. Are you going to tell me next that I shouldn’t enjoy my job?”

  “Do you? Why?”

  He shrugged, an elegant motion that rippled the muscles beneath his T-shirt. “It’s hard work, but I’m good at it, and it pays well.” His amber eyes narrowed. “I’m paying my way in the world, doctor. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “Of course.” She sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t mean to— It’s your life, of course, and if the people who love you couldn’t stop you from going down this path, then who am I, a stranger, to think I can talk you out of it in five minutes?”

  “Ah, now here’s the guilt trip.” He laughed, but without humor. “I’ve heard it all, doctor. If it makes you feel any better, my parents are both dead, so I’m not breaking anyone’s heart.”

  “But what about your girlfriend or your wife—?” She glanced down at his left hand. She did not see a ring, nor the telltale indentations that he might have ever worn one.

  “Who would date me? And why date for free when I can apparently get paid to take women on dates? Free dates aren’t exactly the best return on investment for my time, are they?” The mocking edge was back in his voice.

  “Guess not.” Vera sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to light into you. I just saw the women today and—”