by Diana Duncan
“Good. I’m so relieved he’ll finally pay for his crimes.”
Cocooned in the cozy intimacy known only to sated lovers, they shared conversation and laughter, sipped from the same water bottle and fed each other candied peanuts and popcorn.
When the Cracker Jack was nearly gone, she scooped the tiny envelope from the bottom of the box. “Sometimes you get the same prize twice.” She tore open the paper. “I wonder if I’ll get another monk—”
She stared, stunned by the heavy ring that fell into her palm. Made of white gold, the band formed a pair of hands supporting a heart. An emerald gleamed green fire in the heart’s center, and an intricate crown sat atop the heart. She gulped. “This is real!”
Aidan dropped to one knee beside the bed. “As real as my love for you.” He clasped her free hand. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Have children with you. Grow old with you. Zoe, will you marry me?”
Astonished and dismayed, she bit her lip. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Yes works for me.”
Doubt beat against the edges of her happiness. “What about ... your mom, and your brothers? You were able to get past the fact that DiMarco is my father, but—” She swallowed, tasted bitter despair. “I can’t answer until I’m sure I won’t cause a rift between you and your family.”
He frowned. “Honey, my brothers were fully informed at the incident site. When I found out you’d left, they threatened to collectively kick my ass six ways to sundown if I didn’t go after you.” He rose and sat on the bed beside her. “Not that there was ever any doubt. I would’ve followed you into Hell.” He stroked a fingertip down her nose. “Liam and Grady helped track you down, remember? Con wasn’t there only because he bolted for his honeymoon before the ink on the paperwork dried.”
She clutched the ring so hard the emerald cut into her palm. “But how will your mother feel? DiMarco hurt her worst of all.”
“The ring was in safekeeping at her house. Who do you think rushed it—and the sock monkey—over while you were asleep, in response to my phone call? And in record time, I might add. I’ll bet she broke fourteen speeding regulations.” He handed Zoe a folded sheet of lavender, violet-scented stationary. “She also brought this.”
Her hands shook so badly she could hardly unfold the note. “My Dear Zoe,” she read. “I’m sorry for the trauma you’ve suffered at Tony DiMarco’s hands. Please don’t worry that anyone will think badly of you because of his actions. You gave my serious, too-responsible son back his smile. If nothing else, I could love you just for that.”
Her eyes misted, and she blinked the fuzzy words into focus. “I’ve heard the entire story. Because of your determination and courage, Aidan is alive today. And I will finally be able to lay my husband to rest. You shine with truth and beauty, Zoe. I’ve always wanted daughters, and am delighted to welcome you into our family. I’ll talk to you in a few days. All my best, Maureen.”
A hot river of relief rushed through her. “You and your mom think alike.”
“In the most important ways, yeah.” He wiped her damp cheeks with gentle fingers. “She’d be the last person to hold what DiMarco did against you. Hell, Con and Bailey just tied the knot, and Mom and Letty are already salivating over our wedding plans.” He held her gaze, and she saw the vulnerability shadowing his eyes. “That is, if you accept my proposal.”
Black despair fled in a brilliant glow. She flung her arms around him. “I do! I will! I accept!”
The apprehension warmed out of his eyes. His joyous laugh cascaded over her, and he hugged her tight. “Whew! You had me worried.”
She drew back to study the ring. “This is so uniquely beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It’s a Claddagh ring, Irish in design. There’s a story.”
She bounced on the bed. “Ooh! Tell!”
“How did I know you’d love the fact there’s a story behind it?” He grinned. “In the seventeenth century, an Irishman named Richard Joyce left Claddagh, a small fishing village in Galway, on a ship en route to the West Indies. He was supposed to return and be married, but his ship was captured by Algerian pirates and the crew was sold as slaves.”
“Oh, how awful! Did Richard get sold, too?”
“Yes. To a Moorish goldsmith who trained him in his craft. He eventually became a master in his trade, and hand-crafted a special ring for the woman left behind that he couldn’t forget. Years later, King William III bartered for the release of the captive subjects. The Moorish goldsmith offered Richard his only daughter in marriage and half his wealth to stay. Richard declined and returned to Claddagh to find the woman who owned his heart.”
“Please don’t tell me she married someone else while he was gone?”
He chuckled. “No. She waited for him all those years, hoping he’d someday return to her. He gave her the ring, and they were married. He set up a goldsmith shop in the town of Claddagh, where I presume, they lived happily ever after.”
She sighed. “The best kind of romantic story.”
“The ring symbolizes a trinity.” He extended his hand, palm up. She placed the ring on his palm and he pointed to the elements. “The hands signify friendship, the crown stands for loyalty, and the heart for love.” His face was earnest, his eyes intense. “This particular ring is an O’Rourke family heirloom. Well over two-hundred years old, it’s always bequeathed to the eldest grandchild. My family ... and I ...would be honored if you’d wear it.”
She studied the ring sparkling on Aidan’s palm, then looked up at the love gleaming in his eyes. Her breath caught. She’d been alone for so long. Never had anyone but her mom. Yet, now she shared in an honorable heritage. Belonged to a family whose lineage spanned generations. Belonged to Aidan. Happiness overflowed, spilled through her. Someday, she’d give the ring to her and Aidan’s grandchild.
Aidan. Her every wish come true.
“Allow me.” He offered the ring, and her left hand trembled as she held it out to him. He slipped the Claddagh over her fingertip. “I pledge you my friendship. My loyalty. And my love.” He gave her a tender kiss and slid the ring down her finger. “Forever.”
The heirloom was warm and solid on her hand. And fit as though it’d been made for her. Indeed, perhaps it had.
Aidan wrapped his arms around her and took her down to the bed. His tender smile embraced her in the shelter of his love. “Welcome home, Zoe.”
Dear Reader,
If you’ve read more than one of my books, you may notice abuse and domestic violence are sometimes themes in my stories. There’s good reason for that. I grew up in a turbulent atmosphere of domestic violence, and I am a survivor of long-term child abuse.
For many decades, I didn’t speak about it ... even to my beloved, trusted husband. Until one glorious day, after a severe depression sent me to two years of counseling, I finally accepted that the blame and shame didn’t belong to me. The blame and shame belong wholly to my abuser.
There’s no blame or shame for you, either, about being the target of someone else’s anger or perversion. None of it is your fault.
Abuse can take many forms. Physical, emotional, verbal, sexual. Abuse isn’t usually constant, and has three distinct phases you’re likely familiar with, but might not have recognized as a repeating cycle.
The first stage is the “Tension Building Phase.” You’re aware tension in your home is rising, and you try to stop your abuser from becoming angry. Keeping the children quiet, making sure the house is clean and meals are on time, dressing to please your abuser, in desperate attempts to keep the peace.
It never works for long, and the “Explosive Phase” occurs. During this time, the abuse is the worst. The explosive event may include physical abuse, sexual assault, and verbal/emotional abuse. Nothing you do can prevent it. No matter what, your abuser will find a reason to hurt you. They often say things like, “you’ll never learn.” Or, “look what you made me do.” Or, “If only you would/wouldn’t ...”
(fill in the excuse).
Phase three is the “Honeymoon Phase.” Your abuser seems sincerely sorry, and makes promises. “I’ll never do it again. I’ll go to marriage counseling. I’ll quit drinking/doing drugs.” They return to being the partner you fell in love with. They express remorse, and romance you, perhaps bring you gifts. They may beg for forgiveness and beg you not to leave, or even threaten suicide if you leave them.
However, they cannot keep their promises. Inevitably, sometimes over months, sometimes within weeks, the tension again grows, leading to another explosion.
And the cycle repeats.
Please understand that without extensive counseling, your abuser will never change. Your situation will never get better—and in too many cases will escalate to life-threatening.
You might justify staying in the relationship, “for the children.” Take it from someone who knows all too well—even if you don’t think so, your children are aware of what’s happening. They feel helpless, trapped, and scared. They’ll be happier, healthier, and better able to form real, loving, respectful relationships as adults if you remove them from an abusive situation.
The phone number and website Zoe quotes in this story are real. If you, or someone you know is trapped in an abusive situation, free help is available. Call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE. Or go online at www.thehotline.org and use the chat box to connect live with a counselor, without having to speak a word. The website is equipped with a fast escape—you can click it to immediately close the browser, and it erases your browsing history. Your abuser will not know you’ve visited the site.
You don’t have to live in fear. There’s no shame in asking for help. Your life, or the lives of your children and other loved ones may depend on it.
Despite what your abuser says to the contrary, you are valuable. You are smart. You are capable. You are strong and courageous. Someone else can and will love you, just the way you are.
Please, love yourself enough to take the very best care of yourself, and leave that abusive situation. Don’t wait. Do it now.
Wishing you the very best, brightest future you deserve,
Diana Duncan
A Sneak Peek...
SURVIVE THE FIRE
Diana Duncan
Survive the Fire
“I saw that you were perfect and I loved you. Then I saw that you were not perfect and loved you even more.” ~ Angelita Lim
Las Vegas, Nevada
August 30, High Noon
Kate Chabeau stared down at the sweaty blond man working feverishly between her thighs and waited to die.
Jack Carson raised his head and attempted what she assumed was supposed to be a reassuring expression. “I know it’s tough, but don’t squirm.”
She clenched her teeth. “Does it usually take this long?”
“Depends on how she’s wired.”
Slowly, carefully, she eased a strand of long brown hair back from her eyes. “Exactly how good are you?”
“Plenty.” Carson’s voice grew more strained by the moment. “But this is ... beyond me.” He eased gingerly from between her legs. “I’m calling in backup.”
“They said you had the best hands in Vegas.” Perspiration trickled down Kate’s spine as he slowly straightened.
“I do.”
Leaving her sitting immobile in her black convertible, he jogged toward the other members of the bomb disposal squad, convened a safe distance away.
If the best hands in Vegas couldn’t disarm the explosive under her seat, then who would save her?
Wait! She bit back the silent scream echoing inside her head. Come back! Don’t leave me to die alone!
The sun beat down on her exposed head and burned through her sleeveless black dress, stinging tender skin. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, a wavery curtain isolating her from heavily armored police officers surrounding the perimeter. They’d evacuated the parking lot and adjacent buildings. Other than what seemed like hundreds of police vehicles in the distance, hers was the only car in sight. If you didn’t include five vans swarming with media personnel.
She scowled. If the vultures got lucky, she might die in time to boost six o’clock ratings.
How many minutes did she have left? Fighting riptides of fear, she glanced at the wilted calla lily lying on the passenger seat beside her camera. Once stark white petals were brown and curling in the heat. Another “gift” from her stalker. The head-case had previously left her lilies and creepy notes ... but this was the first bomb.
Her nightmare might finally end here, her body violently ripped to pieces.
The engine idled a little faster. Kate’s pulse sped into matching BPMs. Could a change in engine tempo trigger a bomb? The young bomb tech had told her she was fortunate her cell call to 911 hadn’t detonated it. She’d been fussing with a mocha frappuccino lid malfunction and started the car before she’d spotted the threatening note tucked into the console.
The satellite radio station, tuned to “all eighties, all the time,” segued into Phil Collins’s “In the Air Tonight.”
She closed her eyes. Fate, you sarcastic bitch.
Two years ago, the same song had been playing before the first time she’d died.
More Books by Diana Duncan
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24 Hour Countdown Series:
Survive the Night
Survive the Hunt
Survive the Fire
Survive the Storm
Marriage & Mayhem! Series:
Laws of Attraction
Big Bad Wolfe
Cross Country Christmas
(no suspense & can be read as a holiday stand-alone)
Paranormal Fantasy Romance:
Sword of the Raven
Devilish Devlin Series:
Deal with the Devil
Devil May Care
About the Author
When her dreams of becoming a ballerina were quashed by early-onset klutziness, Diana Duncan took up the safer vocation of writing. Her first thrilling masterpiece—written in orange crayon—was titled "Perky the Kitten," and became an instant bestseller with her grandparents.
Her childhood growing up as a military brat gave her the ability to leap into a conversation with anyone, anywhere, anytime...and she always discovers a new friend in the process. This gift of gab perfectly equipped her for a career that involves making stuff up.
Di is famous for using seven words when one will do. She wields smart-assery like a samurai sword, and will be the first to volunteer in a catastrophe. Of course, she was probably the one who caused the catastrophe. She's fiercely loyal to her friends and family...but in the event of the upcoming zombie apocalypse, she won't hesitate to use them as human shields.
She loves her job as an author, and claims writing is the most fun she's ever had while wearing her sock monkey pajamas. She also enjoys gardening, cooking, and rescuing abandoned curbside furniture to refurbish into treasures.
Diana published 6 award-winning books with a traditional NY publishing house before going rogue with Indie publishing. 10% of the proceeds of every book she sells is donated to different organizations that serve those who are in need, both people and animals.
Di loves to hear from readers. Write to her at [email protected] Join her on Facebook and feel free to stop by and ogle her kilted hunks on her website.
eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away, as that is an infringement on the copyright of this work. Your purchase of this ebook entitles you to one copy for your own personal enjoyment. It is illegal for you to send this eBook, in part or whole, in any manner—digital, print, or mental telepathy—to anyone. If you'd like to share this book with another person, please purchase (or encourage your friend to purchase) another copy.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All characters portrayed are of legal age of consent for sex – i.e. over 18.
Copyright © 2005, 2018 Diana Ball Duncan
Cover Design and Interior format by The Killion Group
http://thekilliongroupinc.com
Editing by Debrah Morris
All Rights Are Reserved. No Part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.
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