Seeing Love: Saints Protection & Investigations

by Maryann Jordan

  Seeing Love

  Saints Protection & Investigations Series

  By

  Maryann Jordan

  Seeing Love (Saints Protection & Investigation Series)

  Copyright © 2016 Maryann Jordan

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then you are reading an illegal pirated copy. If you would be concerned about working for no pay, then please respect the author’s work! Make sure that you are only reading a copy that has been officially released by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by: Andrea Michelle, Artistry in Design

  Editor: Shannon Brandee Eversoll

  Format: Paul Salvette, BB eBooks

  ISBN: 978-0-9968010-5-8

  Dedication

  Everyone needs people around them that believe in what they do. The kind of friend who will always support you no matter what is happening. For me, it’s Myckel Anne and Tammie.

  Myckel Anne and I became friends five years ago when we worked together. One day, we discovered we shared a love of romance novels and when she found out I was an author, she was delighted. She became my confidant, reader, beta reader, and proofreader. But more importantly, she became the type of friend I can call upon when life is tough…or great. Myckel Anne – we have lots more stories to share.

  Tammie and I became friends twenty years ago when our children were little. We have shared, laughed, talked, cried, grieved, and grown together. And most importantly, our lives are now so intertwined, that I’m not sure where she ends and I begin. Tammie, here’s to old friends with shared history. We have lots more life to share.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Other books by Maryann Jordan

  More About Maryann Jordan

  Chapter 1

  Prologue

  The eager young boy and his smiling grandfather walked to the end of the pier and sat, side by side, as they readied their fishing poles. The Chesapeake Bay loomed before them, the early morning sun peeking behind. Bart Taggart loved the way the sunlight twinkled off the surface of the undulating water, creating never-ending patterns across the horizon. Glancing to the side, he realized his grandfather had already baited his fishing line and he hurried to catch up.

  Barts’ childish white-blond hair was now sandy in color and his slate-blue eyes were now the color of the water on a sunny day. He recently celebrated his eleventh birthday, but his size had him looming over his classmates. Being with his father or grandfather made his size seem less noticeable—they were both large men themselves. As much as he liked being with his dad, the mornings fishing with his grandfather had become their special tradition.

  John Taggart, the CEO of his own business, was never too busy to spend time with his grandchildren.

  Smiling up at the large man sitting next to him, Bart quickly tossed his line into the water. “Granddad?”

  “Right here, Bartholomew,” came the deep-voiced answer.

  Bart covered his mouth with his hand and snickered. His grandfather was the only person to call him by his full name.

  “Something funny, son?”

  “You’re the only one who calls me that,” he answered honestly.

  “Well, Bartholomew is your name. In fact, it was my father’s name. Bartholomew. A good name. A strong name.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know anyone else with the same name,” Bart replied. He thought of classmates named Bill, Tom, or even John, like his grandfather. But no other Bartholomews. “They all call me Bart.”

  “It’s not unusual to shorten a name. Did you know my full name is Jonathan?”

  Bart’s eyes grew large, never realizing his grandfather had a nickname as well. Pleased, he ducked his head, smiling as he looked back down at his pole.

  “Boy, I believe you wanted to ask me something,” his grandfather reminded.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Nonnie said there are mermaids in the ocean and I wanted to know if you’d ever seen one. She said we might catch one today,” he added with boyish enthusiasm, his eyes bright with excitement.

  John snorted, shaking his head. “Son,” he began carefully. “Your grandmother is a wonderful woman. I’ve loved her since the first time I laid eyes on her almost forty years ago. I’ll never forget seeing her at one of my mother’s garden parties. She was wearing a yellow dress and her blonde hair made her look like an angel.”

  Bart was quiet as his grandfather reminisced. The idea of his grey-haired, slightly plump grandmother ever being a pretty, young girl seemed funny, but he loved the idea.

  “I knew then she was the women for me. She’s a wonderful wife, a great mother, and,” John leaned sideways and shoulder bumped Bart, “she’s a super grandmother, wouldn’t you say?”

  Bart nodded enthusiastically, remembering the cookie jar always being full at her house and her bedtime stories were never scary.

  “But,” John continued, “she’s always been a bit…fanciful.”

  “Fanciful?” Bart asked, his face scrunched in question.

  “Full of imagination. A bit of a dreamer.”

  “Oh,” Bart said, disappointment now replacing the confusion in his expression. “So, there are no mermaids?”

  “I’ve never seen a mermaid, Bart. I’ve never met anyone who has. I’ve never seen a photograph of a mermaid. Seen lots of people’s drawings, but then that doesn’t make it real, does it?”

  Bart shook his head emphatically, wanting to please his grandfather more than really understanding.

  “Son, I’ll tell you what’s real to me. If I can’t feel it, touch it, see it, or experience it, then it’s not real. And when it comes to people, you need to learn to judge a man by his actions and not just his words. I have to deal with fake people sometimes who will lie to get what they want.”

  Sitting quietly for a moment, Bart turned his face back up to his grandfather. “So we aren’t going to be able to see any of Nonnie’s mermaids, are we?”

  “I’m afraid not, son, but your grandmother doesn’t mean any harm.”

  “She’s not a fake person?” his young mind tried to discern.

  “No, no,” John said, shaking his head. “There’s no deceit in your grandmother at all. Nothing wrong with someone having an imagination, as long as there’s no deceit. But in my business, I have to always look to see what someone’s motives are. What their actions a
re. And that’s how I determine what the truth is.”

  John’s gaze was on his grandson as he quietly fished for a few minutes before Bart turned his face back up to the older man.

  “Granddad, you love Nonnie, but you can’t see that so how do you know it’s real?”

  “Oh, son. Don’t ever mistake that faith cannot also be truth. I have faith. Faith in God. Faith in love. But I don’t believe in just telling someone you love them. It’s got to be followed by actions. Deeds.”

  Bart’s face continued to scrunch as he thought over his grandfather’s words.

  “Your grandmother shows me every day that she loves me and I hope I do the same for her. I see God’s presence in the world around me. Faith is just as real as truth.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a nibble on Bart’s line and for the next few minutes, the two were immersed in pulling in a fish before they decided to let it go back into the water. Bart watched it swim away, glad for the fish’s chance to live.

  His grandfather’s voice broke into his musing. “Your name is synonymous with seeking the truth, did you know that?”

  Bart’s attention was immediately pulled from watching the water’s rippling surface once more. “Huh?”

  “Your name. St. Bartholomew was a follower of Jesus and known for always searching for the truth. Not a bad name to live up to, son.”

  “I didn’t know that,” he answered.

  “Yes, indeed. Always search for the truth, Bart. It has served me well over the years,” came the sage advice.

  The two silently packed their tackle boxes and headed back up the lawn toward the mansion John and Arlene owned. They could already hear the sounds of Bart’s cousins playing on the expansive back patio.

  “Granddad? What should I say to Nonnie if she asks about the mermaids?”

  “Did you see any?”

  “Um…no, of course not. They’re not real.”

  “All you need to say is that you didn’t see any on this trip. Afterall, we don’t want to make your grandmother feel bad, do we?”

  Bart grinned, shaking his head. “No, I won’t make her feel bad. But we know the truth, don’t we, granddad?”

  Patting his grandson on the back, John nodded benevolently. “Yes, Bartholomew, we do. We know what’s real.”

  Chapter 2

  Seventeen Years later

  The early morning light filtered through the blinds, creating slatted patterns on the opposite wall. Bart slowly opened one eye, blinking, as he tried to remember where he was. Lifting his pounding head, he realized he was sprawled on a bed in an unfamiliar room, the sound of soft snores coming from his left. Turning his head toward the noise also caused him to face the window, the sunlight piercing his skull.

  Fuck! How much did I party last night? The sight of the naked woman sleeping next to him offered no answer to his question. He threw his large arm over his eyes to shade the light from continuing to stab his head. A huge man, his movement caused the bed to shake and for a moment he was afraid the woman would awaken. He hated the mornings after. No matter what had been discussed the night before—this is only sex, I don’t do relationships, it’s only physical—he could see the look in their eye the next morning. The look that screamed, please stay. Or worse, please cuddle. Or worst of all, what do you mean you won’t call?

  After years of practice, the former SEAL had developed his natural flirt down to a science, able to discern which women would be most conducive to a quick night of fucking. But even with his immeasurable skills, he still tried to give a hasty goodbye with a wink as he let himself out of the door before the woman had a chance to offer to cook him breakfast.

  As the mattress moved, he recognized the signs that his night’s partner was awakening. Wanting nothing more than to roll over and sleep for a couple of hours, he sat up, throwing his long legs over the edge of the bed. Running his hand over his stubbled jaw and up through his hair, he fought the battle between wanting to run and wanting to sleep. But only sleep if I were by myself in my own bed. Or with someone I cared about.

  Holy shit—where did that come from? The thought of having someone to care about jolted Bart from his tired, hungover, sleepy state of mind. Sighing deeply, he knew why that thought crossed his consciousness. Jack Bryant, his boss and friend, recently married Bethany, a remarkable woman who fit into Jack’s life perfectly. And Cam, his best friend and co-worker, now engaged to Miriam, another great girl. Jesus—and my cousin, Sabrina, was now engaged to Jude, a former SEAL, who now worked for Jack.

  He realized his musings kept him sitting on the side of the bed too long when last’s night fun sat up next to him, placing her hands on his back.

  “Hey, baby,” she cooed, running her long, blood-red fingernails over his skin. “What’s this? I didn’t even notice it last night.” Her hand clasped the chain around his neck, holding a St. Bartholomew medallion.

  A slash of irritation flew through him at the sight of her talons on the gift from his grandfather. He twisted as he stood quickly, effectively moving his body away from hers and the pendant from her clutches. Plastering on his famous, panty-melting smile, he greeted her as well. “Looks like I overslept. Must have been the great workout you gave me,” he said, offering a wink.

  Letting the sheet drop, she bounded to her knees on the side of the bed. His eyes dropped to her large breasts still swaying from the movement. Funny, what gets my dick stirring at night has no effect in the light of the next morning. Shoving that thought aside, he placed his hand over his heart, saying, “You’re a tempting sight, but I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll call sometime.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she watched him finish dressing. “You’re not going to call are you? I know a brushoff when I hear one,” she accused.

  “Now don’t be goin’ and gettin’ upset,” he gently admonished, with another wink. “I’m a strictly one-night guy, and honestly…if I were to stick around, you’d be miserable.”

  She grinned as she sat back down on the bed, circling her breasts with her hands. Her gaze moved from the top of his longish sandy hair, down his huge shoulders and muscular abs, and continued down the happy trail to his trim hips now hidden beneath well-worn jeans. “Well, I have a feeling big-boy, you’ll be back.” Her seductive pout paired with her fantastic body would have most men writing her number down in their contact list. But not me! He just smiled and winked once more as he left her apartment.

  Once inside his truck, he leaned his head back against the seat, scrubbing his hand over his face. Filled with an emotion he could not identify, he drove to his large home outside of Charlestown. Pulling into his driveway, he sat for a moment appreciating the view. His hand automatically reached up to finger his medallion, the memories of his grandfather pouring over him. Gone, but not forgotten, granddad. Your advice…never forgotten.

  He headed through the house, up the stairs, and into the large master bathroom, stripping as the water in the shower became hot. Stepping underneath the spray, letting the water pound his tense muscles, he washed away the cloying perfume scent left over from last night.

  Normally on a Sunday, he would hang with friends watching football, but today he felt uncharacteristically like staying home. Mowing the grass first before tackling a few indoor projects, he stayed busy, not willing his mind to focus on the growing sense of dissatisfaction with the recent hookups.

  *

  Across town, Faith Romani sat on her worn sofa, the early morning light between the buildings across the street tried to find its way into her small apartment. The tiny, tabletop Christmas tree with four antique, glass ornaments sat on the end table she had moved in front of the window. The only sign of the season in her apartment, but it gave her comfort nonetheless.

  Sleep had been elusive so she finally gave up and fixed a cup of tea, settling in to let her mind wander. An art pad in her lap, she chewed on the end of her pencil. Closing her eyes, she allowed the feelings to flow through her mind, slowly taking on shapes and designs.
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  With the pencil clutched loosely in her hand, she began to sketch freeform, allowing the image to flow from deep inside of her. At first, the lines on the page meant nothing. Simple lines, curves, shadows. Half an hour later she held the pad at arm’s length, staring at the image that came to life on the paper. A boy’s face peered out at her. A slight smile curved his lips. His dark eyes seemed to be searching. For what…she had no idea.

  As usual with these drawings, she set the pad aside so the images no longer stared at her, daring her to do something about them. Sucking in a deep breath, she slowly let the air out. It was times like this she missed her grandmother so much. Her Babushka would have understood…told her how to interpret her drawings.

  Faith’s father abandoned her and her mother soon after she was born. The stories her mother had told her depended on her mood. Sometimes it was because he moved back to his Russian homeland. Or he died a tragic death. Or he left to search for lost treasure. By the time Faith was ten years old, she knew the truth. Her grandmother finally told her that he was a man unused to being tied down, and the idea of a wife and child were foreign to him.

  “Ah, dearie. Some men are like the wind. They blow into your life, never meaning to stay, but rush on by. Your mother fell in love with one of those.”

  Faith’s mother, who never recovered from the emotional loss of abandonment, died of cancer when Faith was only twelve and her grandmother became her guardian. As much as she loved her mother, it was her grandmother that influenced her the most. And understood me the most.

  “You have a gift, Printsesa,” she would say, using her favorite nickname of princess. “Use it wisely, but guard it carefully. Others will not understand.”

  Closing her eyes, allowing the words of her grandmother to wash over her, she could almost smell the borsch, the soup that was so often bubbling on the stove when she returned home from school. Blinking quickly, the loneliness of her existence rushed over her, but she refused to cry.