C-26

by D. D. Lorenzo

  "Izzy!" Abby's voice was panicked and hoarse, her cry a mere croak. "Izzy, please don't go! I need you."

  Though the action was delayed, Isidore gradually opened his eyes. Relief flooded Abby as she gazed into the warm brown orbs that had anchored her through her entire adult life, and, though weak, she offered him a smile. Tucking her arm around his waist, it instantly locked into place due to the bitter cold.

  "I'm not going anywhere without you, Abby. Hold onto me. Look into my eyes. Let the fear fade away."

  Always the obedient wife, Abby did as her husband requested, securing herself in the love reflected in the warm, brown pools. It was the only heat between them. The piercing and penetrating cold had caused the blood to drain from his handsome face, leaving only a frosty remnant of his natural, healthy color. There were things to say, tender thoughts that needed to be voiced, and only this moment to express them.

  "My sweet, sweet man. I'll say the same words to you now that I said the day we married. You are and have been, my life, Isidore Eisenberg. As I think upon our journey together, I have not one moment of regret. With my last breath, I want you to know that I am, still, desperately in love with you.

  Her confession warmed his heart, and Izzy knew that they had, at best, moments to say their final words to each other. "I'm so sorry, my dearest love. This trip was supposed to be an adventure, not our end, but it's only one of the many destinations you and I have shared. It seems our next journey will, hopefully, be to heaven. I won't grieve, because at least there we'll be together."

  Tears wouldn't come, but the effort stung the corners of Abby's eyes. A sudden movement made her flinch as a sloppy, frigid wave splashed atop her woolen coat. It triggered a layering effect starting with outerwear and then causing the skirt beneath it to quickly saturate with wetness. The heavy material slapped against her skin, so cold that it burned. The numbing seawater was littered with chunks of ice, the pieces now quickly closing in on them as it rose above the top of the mattress. Abby trembled, terror clobbering her with the same ferocious impact as their ship when it hit the iceberg.

  The room pitched at a near ninety-degree angle, and the bed catapulted into the wall at their feet. Again, Abby tried to scream, but dread clutched her throat, squeezing away all sound. She was terrified she would be torn apart from her husband and launched into open space. Sensing her fear, Isidore grabbed her with whatever strength he had, seizing any precious moments they might have left. In a flash, the water was around their necks, then chins, rising quickly to just beneath their mouths.

  "Abby. Look at me."

  Panicked, Abby looked one last time into the eyes of the man who had always made her feel safe and loved. Her quickened breaths burned her throat and chest, fueled by fear. They had seconds, at best, to share one last breath. Isidore had managed to squeeze out a final tear, and with blue lips and chattering teeth, pressed his lips one final time to the woman who would forever own his heart.

  "Don't be afraid, my love. We'll be together again. Look for me. This promise I take to the grave; I will always love you, and I will always find you."

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  BWI Airport, Baltimore

  "Dear sweet baby Jesus! Do you think any of these people know to cough into their elbow instead of sharing their cooties with the rest of us?" Skylar Harrison mused aloud as she ground her teeth. She had little patience for stupidity. A self-professed germaphobe, her skin crawled every time someone sneezed in her direction.

  "I know, right?" Skylar's friend and editor, Vincent Mannon, snapped back a retort as he sighed. He sat in the seat right beside her, sharing Sky’s silent hope that their next stop on this business trip wouldn't be to one of those express medical centers for some antibiotics.

  Sky huffed and nodded her agreement. She hated traveling, but it was a necessary evil for a journalist, and her work had taken her all over the world. She’d accomplished much, delving into the heart of her stories and describing them in such detail that many publications clamored for her work. Time magazine had featured her latest piece. Vince was convinced a Pulitzer was in her future, having witnessed the effect Skylar's stories had on her readers. He encouraged her to continue writing in-depth articles, but Skylar was now working on her third book as Eden Skye. Her goal was for her novel to hit the trifecta of bestsellers lists, USA Today, the New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal.

  Using her real name and reputation, she could quickly have done so. Instead, she'd adopted a pen name and was publishing her books independently. Once she accomplished what she'd set out to do, she planned to use her experiences in a series of articles. The world of self-publishing had upset the control traditional publishing houses once held. Amazon had opened a new world to those with vivid imaginations, and she planned to chronicle every detail of her experience and report what she found on her venture.

  "I'll be right back." Vince left his backpack on the ground, giving Skylar a smirk as he approached the Cinnabon counter. A few minutes later, he returned, the proud owner of one of the giant, sticky pastries.

  This wasn't anything new. Vince had a wicked sweet tooth and indulged it whenever they traveled. The airport kiosks were the perfect excuse for a treat, tempting and teasing even the most adamant dieter with savory sights and smells. Skylar followed Vince with her eyes, her judgmental expression having no effect on him as he returned to his seat with the sugary confection in hand.

  "Don't you have diabetes?" She gave him a disapproving look.

  "I do, but I take insulin." He shrugged. "Don't judge me."

  "I'm not." Her statement was weak and flat.

  "Yes, you are. It's not like I do this every day. Besides, I didn't eat breakfast," Vince scolded in a hushed voice. When anyone, especially Skylar, pointed out health concerns related to his glucose level, he became irritated. As far as he was concerned, his blood sugar numbers weren’t anyone’s business but his own. Besides, life was too short not to indulge in tasty food.

  Just to spite her, he held the sticky roll in the air and moved it slowly toward his mouth, making a full display of taking that first, sweet bite. He then closed his eyes, enraptured as the sweet taste hit his tongue. When he opened them again, he smiled devilishly at her as he chewed.

  Skylar rolled her eyes, turning away. It was too early to be goaded into a discussion about the benefits of a healthy diet. Instead, she reached down, unzipped the top of her laptop bag, and rummaged around for a pencil. Vince had his obsession with sweet things, and she had a thing for mechanical pencils. She loved them and purchased a pack nearly every time she went to stores like Target and Walmart. Pencils were forgiving. Their erasers permitted a person to make mistakes. What she didn't like were pens. Everything about them was too final. If she made a mistake with a pen, her OCD dictated she rip out the page and start all over again. No one had time for that nonsense, and that was what made pencils the number one choice of perfectionists everywhere.

  "What are you writing?" Vince peered over Skylar's shoulder, making her pull her work a little closer to her chest.

  "Nothing, nosey. Just looking at your edits."

  "The edits are done.” His tone was flat. “Move on to the next book." The hair on the back of Skylar's neck bristled. She didn't take orders, especially from someone on her payroll. There was a way to voice his opinion nicely, but Vince rarely did so.

  "That isn't me, and you know it. I always re-edit when I get my stuff back." The monotone statement was one she'd delivered many times over. How long would it take for people to understand the luxury of being an indie author? Control. Skylar would always have the final say on her work as long as she published independently.

  "I get what you're saying, but you have to ask yourself if it's the best way to use your time. That's why you pay an editor."

  She rolled her eyes, partially because she knew Vince was right and, also, because she knew she should let the story go and move on to the next in the series. There was a vast diffe
rence between writing an exposé and writing fiction. The character's lives she created were entirely at the whim of her imagination. There was only one problem, she became attached to her characters as she developed them. As she grew their personalities, they became as real to her as the man sitting beside her. It was hard to let them go once they were published. Not so with a piece for a magazine. Those were facts. This was fiction.

  She ignored him, reaching into her bag once again to find a notebook. Vince's expression held a question. "I'm fleshing out the next story. I'm not exactly sure where I want to take it."

  "So just get your thoughts down on paper and let me do the rest. Use your imagination, and I'll polish the words. You can't drag your feet, Sky. There's too much competition."

  Though he spoke while chewing a mouthful of food, her disapproving look wasn't lost on him. He put his hand in front of his mouth to be polite and kept right on talking. Thankfully, only two more bites, and he'd be finished.

  "This is really delicious. You should try one." He mumbled the words, pausing a moment to swallow. As he brought a napkin to his lips, he wiped away the flicked remnants of white icing that remained.

  "Excuse me."

  Skylar and Vince simultaneously looked up. The man sitting directly across from them broke in on their conversation. He had his laptop in front of him while he worked at one of the airport computer stations. Apparently, he’d been listening as they talked.

  "I couldn't help but overhear you talking about edits and rewrites. Are you an author?"

  His expression was sincere, his eyes gentle. Skylar was instantly drawn to the rich, velvety sound of his words. Some men were famous for their voices being their most prominent feature. This guy could have capitalized on that attribute.

  "I'm an editor. She's an author," Vince replied. As expected, her editor's welcoming delivery and friendly mannerisms drew the stranger in.

  "I'm sitting here working on a story. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" He gestured to his laptop, then returned his attention to Vince.

  As expected, Vince saw the potential for a new client and didn't hesitate to engage. "Not at all. What can I help you with?"

  As the two men continued their conversation, Sky tuned out from the world, turning back to her notebook. She had no trouble ignoring people around her and could completely disengage when necessary. It was a skill she'd mastered at an early age. She was an only child and a bookworm like her mother. Her early love of reading had taught her how to make observations and write the details within the scene. She was then able to transport herself into the stories she both read and wrote. Everything around her faded away in the distance as she immersed herself into a book. She'd traveled the world, fallen in love, and experienced heartbreak, all in her imagination. Her reader base for the new pen name was a faithful one. Although she'd created the persona of Eden Skye, she found she liked being Eden. It freed her to write romance the way she felt it should be. Sky took her obligation to the readers seriously because they fell in love with the people and places in the worlds she created, just the same as she did.

  "Sky, are you going to answer him?" Nudging her with his elbow, Vince interrupted her thoughts.

  "Huh?" She looked between the two men. Confusion clouded her eyes as heat flushed her face. A prickling sensation raced up the back of her neck, the evidence of her embarrassment at having ignored them.

  "Sorry. I wasn't paying attention. What was the question?"

  "What kind of books do you write?" Again, the man's tone caught her attention, caressing her ears with much the same velvety effect as James Earl Jones, Alan Rickman, or Patrick Stewart. She loved voices, especially rich, deep ones. Skylar would eagerly listen to any of them read the daily newspaper and never lose interest.

  She looked up at him, a smile filling her lips. "Romance. Contemporary romantic suspense, to be more specific."

  "Ahhh. Romance." He exaggerated the phrase and bobbed his head, acknowledging her chosen writing genre with a crooked smile.

  His expression wasn’t lost on her, his was the response of many people when telling them she was a romance writer. She detected a hint of disapproval or condescension in his voice. Instantly, she felt the need to document his reaction with all the others she experienced for the exposé she had planned. Though he would never note the difference, her thinking morphed from romance writer to investigative reporter. It would only take a matter of minutes to tell if he was genuinely interested in her as a person or humoring her because he didn't take her work seriously. She took mental notes whenever the subject arose. What she'd discovered so far was that those on the outside of the romance genre dismissed love stories as nonsense. He would be shocked to know how many indie romance writers had healthy bank accounts.

  She inclined her head as blood simmered in her veins. "Yes. Romance." The answer was defensive and clipped. It seemed she was always defending the choice to write love stories. She'd met people like him before. Judgmental. Quibbling about the content of romance novels. Everyone had an opinion. If the story was too sweet, it was judged as not realistic. Too erotic, and it was "mommy porn." She hadn't invented the chip on her shoulder; it was put there by the patronizing attitude of people who didn't even read the genre.

  Really, what was the harm in escaping to love and passion within the pages of a book? She believed there was none at all and dismissed those with negative attitudes for something they knew nothing about.

  Having been put in a position like this before, Sky stood her ground, trying hard not to be rude. It was more like digging deep, planting her feet in the statistics of how many romance books were sold each year. She prepared to state her position that, romance genre or otherwise, a writer was a writer regardless of content. "It seems I'm a hopeless romantic and write stories that, as a whole, generate over one billion dollars in sales per year." A disdainful smile was all she could muster for this asshole. She couldn't help but feel a little smug defending her career decision with facts. "So, you see? There's quite a market for love stories."

  His eyes never left hers. She'd said her piece and readied herself for what would come next. Would he be an arrogant dickhead, or would he open his mind to something that was a little outside his wheelhouse?

  She studied him, the moments ticking away as she readied herself to defend her position and that of the romance writing community. What she hadn’t expected was the warmth she found in his gaze, and the longer they sat there, the more she found herself trying to resist the magnetism of the sweet, chocolate-colored pools.

  Chapter 2

  Grinning, he cocked his head. "What's your name?"

  His deep baritone slightly short-circuited Skylar's concentration. He was a mystery that she planned to unravel. She chastised herself for forgetting her discipline as a reporter. She was supposed to stay impartial and not lose focus when investigating a story. His voice was at fault. It caught her unaware. She hadn’t anticipated the effect that something so inherently masculine would wrap around her like a fur coat and pull her in. She hadn’t dated in a long time and, other than Vince, she didn’t have too many conversations with men. Like a dry sponge, she soaked in the sound. The melodic tone sank into her muscles and bones.

  Unfortunately for her, she didn’t recover quickly enough for her liking, and her distraction cost her. The tight grip she'd had on her notebook relaxed. As her hand fell open, loose sheets of notes she'd tucked in between the pages tumbled to the floor, scattering everywhere on their way down.

  "Shit." Immediately flustered, she cursed herself for the faux pas. She tried to snatch the falling jumble of creased loose-leaf paper and Post-it notes, attempting damage control. It was too late. While she grabbed at some of the fallen items, she experienced the domino effect. Her arm bumped into her laptop bag. That, too, tumbled, spilling even more of her things to the floor.

  If there had been a hole nearby, Skylar would have crawled into it. She looked anything but ladylike as she tried to catch the contents.
Half the bag emptied, and she wasn’t quick enough to save the other half. She was embarrassed. Her laptop, flash drives, pencils, and various other contents went everywhere. But fate wasn’t done with her yet. To add insult to injury, she knocked her fresh cup of coffee, sending the venti to the floor, the plastic lid popping off when it hit. It splashed everywhere, wetting the papers that had preceded it. She was mortified. Now, not only was the research and working copy of her manuscript on the floor but they were drenched. All this time Vince watched as the disaster unfolded. His eyes went wide. All she needed were some clowns and elephants to go with the circus.

  "Shit, shit, shit!" Fumbling through her pockets, she grabbed the small pack of Kleenex that was hidden within. With only a slight handful to help her, she grabbed the laptop, dabbing at any liquid that could seep through to the keyboard.

  It took a moment for her editor to regroup and, when he did, he popped out of his chair. "I'll grab some napkins." The urgency in his voice meant he sensed her distress. He ran off, but Skylar didn’t see him. She was too busy expending her efforts to save the electronics before they fell victim to the coffee. All she could picture in her head was destruction. One soaked keyboard meant the laptop was shot.

  "Here. Let me help."

  Skylar responded to the outstretched hands, though she wasn’t sure who possessed them. She shoved a handful of dripping paper into open palms. The hands were much larger than her petite ones, the fingertips thick and calloused. She grabbed her Kindle and an extended battery pack, as well as four or five flash drives, and handed them to the good Samaritan as well. Through her peripheral vision, she saw they were being placed on the seat next to where she’d been sitting before she looked like a failed juggling act.