Passionate Kisses

by Various

  Awareness washed over her. “You weren’t planning a ceremony?”

  “No.”

  “And so you didn’t spend all day in town getting decorators, and caterers, and photographers, and going overboard to plan some big audacious wedding?”

  “If I thought you wanted that, you’d have it. But remember last night, when I told you that I know you? I mean it. I know you, Elsie. It’s scary how much about you I seem to know. It’s like you walked into my life and something inside me recognized you.”

  She reached for a jug of water and poured a glass. Her throat was dry. “So you weren’t surprising me with a wedding? I’m surprising you?”

  He laughed then. “I’m hardly surprised, now am I?”

  Another level of awareness dawned on her. “You manipulated me! You made me think you were planning a wedding, just so I’d get upset, and take control myself. That’s what you meant by convincing me to marry you today.”

  “Manipulation is a strong word, but maybe I steered you in that direction. A little. But it wasn’t just my idea. Your father knew.”

  “Did my mother?”

  “No. He didn’t think she’d be able to play along. He didn’t think he could either, which is why he came to St. John’s with me.”

  You sneaky bastard. She loved him. If he hadn’t put the idea into her head, she knew what would have happened over the next few months. She’d dither back and forth about if she wanted to marry him. And she would have driven him mad, in all likelihood. It was better this way. She didn’t have time to think too much, and he didn’t get a chance to discover how neurotic she could be.

  Well, they’d gone this far. Might as well see it to completion.

  “Mr. Scott. Would you like to skip supper and get married instead?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Curious about what happens after the wedding? Check out Hard as Ice, Book 2 in the Heart’s Ease series to see sparks fly between Cam’s sister Daphne and hunky hockey star Jack Walsh. Now available at your favorite e-retailer.

  About the Author

  Victoria Barbour lives on the island of Newfoundland on Canada's windswept east coast, and is fiercely proud of her home. She can imagine no better setting for her contemporary romance novels, and hopes that her readers will one day come to witness Newfoundland and Labrador's rustic beauty for themselves. When she's not hard at work creating her Heart's Ease contemporary romance series, or trying to convince people to visit her home, she's busy with her day-to-day life as a mother, wife, and marketing communications specialist.

  You can find Victoria on:

  Amazon

  Facebook

  Twitter

  Email: victoriabarbourromance@gmail.com

  Website

  SHAMELESS

  by

  Rebecca J. Clark

  Prologue

  January—20 years ago

  Someone should have noticed the stop sign.

  They hung out the windows of the stolen Mercury, screaming along with the Scorpions into the cold night air. One of the boys, Carlos, swung a bat at each passing mailbox. His average was two for ten. If he hadn’t pounded back ten brewskis in the past hour, he’d have connected with more.

  This highway was a teenage boy’s dream. Northeast of Seattle, sparsely populated without a single traffic light, mile upon mile of straight, flat road stretched out like a carrot on a string. Temptation at her finest. Carlos swore he’d gotten his car to 120 out here. Johnny Everest knew his friend was full of shit. Everyone knew a piece-a-crap Vega, even one with an overhauled V-6, would shimmy and shake before it hit eighty.

  Johnny glanced out the open backseat window, the wind blowing his stringy blond hair onto his face. Fence line surrounding the passing farmland whizzed by in a ghostly blue blur in the darkness. It should be him driving. It had been his idea to swipe the car.

  He shoved a hand into his jeans pocket and retrieved a crushed pack of Marlboros. He shook one out and lit it. Inhaling, he pictured his parents’ reaction were they to see him right now — a cigarette in one hand and a half-empty beer in the other. They wouldn’t be surprised. His father had low expectations of him. Johnny couldn’t blame him. He was a failure. Always had been, always would be. At fourteen years old, he wasn’t good at much of anything. Actually… that statement wasn’t quite accurate. He wasn’t good at being good. But he was damn good at being bad.

  Tonight was no exception. He blew a stream of smoke out the window and the wind blew it right back in his face. Four of them were piled into the stolen Mercury, five if you counted the girl passed out on the backseat floor. Except for her, it was the same old gang. Johnny couldn’t really call them his friends. A person should like his friends. He didn’t particularly give a rat’s pink ass about any of them. He was sure they returned the lack of affection. But they understood each other. Watched each others’ backs.

  He chugged his beer and chucked the can. “I’m empty.”

  Dennis tossed back a can from the front seat. Van Halen blared from the radio. Johnny popped the top and took a long swig. He made a face at the foul taste. “What is this? Piss?” He glanced at the Olympia beer can in his hand. “What idiot bought this shit?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Dennis said. He motioned to Carlos, who still worked on his batting average. “Carlos swiped it from his neighbor’s back porch. It might taste like piss, but it’s free.”

  Johnny grabbed his crotch. “I can get free piss any day of the week.” He drained the can and crumpled it in his fist, then tossed it out the window. “We got any more Schmidt?”

  Dennis rooted around at his feet and snagged a can. “It’s the last one.”

  “I see my name on it.” Johnny reached for it.

  Dennis yanked it away. “No way, Johnny. This one’s mine. You think I like drinkin’ piss any more’n you do?”

  Johnny stretched his arm over back of the front seat and made a fist. “Rock, scissors, paper.” He picked rock, Dennis chose scissors, Johnny won. He always won that game.

  He leaned back in his seat with his beer. He had no foot room with that girl taking up all the floor space. Her head rested on his shoe. He wiggled his foot. She didn’t budge. Johnny shoved at Dennis’ shoulder. “Shouldn’t she be awake by now?”

  Dennis shrugged as Carlos came away from his little game out the window.

  “Do you think she’s okay?” Johnny asked.

  Carlos lifted the hem of the girl’s shirt and peeked under. “Hell yeah, she’s okay. Take a look at them titties!” He pumped his arms at his sides. The guys had been making lewd comments about her since Morris dumped her unconscious form into the car after that college party they’d crashed at the old airstrip.

  “Leave her alone,” Johnny commanded.

  “Why should we leave her alone?” Carlos asked. “We ain’t hurtin’ nothin’. Look, she don’t even know what’s going on.” To prove his point, he dribbled beer onto the girl’s pale face, which was mostly hidden beneath a fan of dark brown hair. She didn’t move. “See?”

  As if that made everything all right, Johnny thought. Asshole. “Cut it out, Carlos.” Johnny stared at the girl. “Does anybody know her name? Morris? You’re the one who picked her up.”

  Morris glanced over his shoulder, causing the car to swerve over the center line. “Sammy Jo.” He paused. “I think.” Morris shot Johnny a hard glance through the rearview mirror. “I’m trusting you to keep an eye on my bitch. I want everything to remain in working order, ya know?”

  Hiding his concern, Johnny gave a cool nod. Morris was 22 years old and the scariest dude he’d ever met. His eyes never showed any emotion, kind of like Freddy Krueger. Real freaky. She’d been sitting next to the keg with some girlfriends. Johnny had noticed her the second they’d arrived. She looked old, maybe nineteen or twenty. She had long dark hair with eyes to match. Killer body in her Calvin Klein jeans. Major fox. He couldn’t stop staring at her. She, of course, hadn’t spared him a glance
. No attractive girl ever did. What girl in her right mind would be attracted to a scrawny, young shit like him when a hulk like Morris was around? The guy might be a king-sized prick, but the chicks loved him.

  Johnny glanced at the girl again. She’d been hanging all over Morris, looking up at him with her big, brown eyes. No one ever looked at him like that... He’d noticed she wasn’t drinking much, so when she started to stagger and stumble against Morris, Johnny knew what the guy had done. Morris hadn’t been able to have her while she was sober and conscious, but now… Johnny swallowed hard. He knew Morris’ reputation. The girl wouldn’t have a prayer. She’d wake up and have no idea where the hell she was or who the hell she was with. He shivered in spite of the warm summer night.

  What the hell was he doing hanging around a bunch of losers like this? It takes one to know one.

  “Yo, Morris!” Carlos called out. “Pull over. I gotta take a leak.”

  Dennis nodded. “Yeah, I gotta piss, too.”

  Morris shook his head. “You kidding? I ain’t stopping anywhere until we ditch this car. You shitheads’ll have to hold it.”

  Carlos rolled down his window the rest of the way. “Hell if I’m gonna hold it. Watch this.” He stuck his upper body out the window and unzipped his fly. He pulled his dick out of his pants and aimed it at the fence line.

  While everyone else was busy watching Carlos pee, Johnny bent over the girl at his feet. The faint scent of roses reached his nose. He was surprised to see her eyes open. They slammed shut, but not before he’d seen her fear.

  “Hey,” he whispered, poking her shoulder. “Sammy Jo?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I know you’re awake.”

  Still no response.

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  “Yeah, and the Pope ain’t Catholic,” she muttered, her voice thick from the alcohol.

  He had to grin at her spunk. He glanced at the other guys to make sure they weren’t paying attention. They weren’t. Dennis had joined Carlos in spraying the landscape with a golden shower. “Are you okay?”

  “Peachy.”

  He wondered if she’d been unconscious when Carlos had looked up her shirt. He hoped so. “You’re not hurt?”

  “No.” Anger replaced most of the fear in her eyes. “Where are you jerks taking me?”

  “This was Morris’ idea — the driver. I don’t know what he has in mind,” Johnny lied. He knew exactly what Morris had in mind.

  “Morris,” she whispered and closed her eyes, as if to squeeze back tears. She started to sit up and he pushed her back down.

  “Stay put, okay? You’re probably better off with them not knowing you’re awake. When we stop, I’ll figure something out.” At least, he hoped he would.

  He saw the argument in her eyes, but finally she nodded. She obviously didn’t trust him. Why should she?

  “Yo! Pendejo!” Carlos roared from his stance out the window. “You pissed all over me!” He ducked inside the car. “Dennis, you dickweed, you pissed all over me!”

  Johnny straightened. He and Morris howled with laughter as Dennis sat back down. “You shouldna been hanging so far out,” Dennis said with a nonchalant shrug of bony shoulders under a red T-shirt.

  “If you had a bigger dick,” Johnny told Dennis, “you’da had better range.” Everyone except Dennis whooped. Morris swiveled around and high-fived Johnny.

  No one saw the stop sign.

  Johnny’s last conscious memories were the flash of a white station wagon in the intersection ahead, a glimpse of two, small faces in the window right before impact, then an ear-splitting explosion of metal and glass.

  Johnny sat on the cot with his back against the wall, knees folded to his chest. Thank God they’d put him in a cell alone. He had no desire to be some loser con’s butt boy. With the way his head pounded and how his body ached like one giant bruise, he doubted he’d be able to defend himself.

  He’d been booked into juvenile lock-up first thing this morning, after having spent most of the night at Overlake Hospital in Bellevue. He had yet to see his parents. His mom was probably wringing her hands with worry, but she wouldn’t make an effort to see her son. Not without her husband’s approval. And Harlan Everest would remain steadfast in his determination his son suffer the consequences of his actions.

  A man tormented by the guilt of murder will be a fugitive ‘til death; let no one support him.

  Those had been the first words out of his father’s mouth when Johnny called from the hospital last night to tell his parents about the accident. Scripture. Always scripture. Not, Are you hurt? or I’ll be right there. Nope. The senior Everest had been more concerned with his son’s spiritual salvation than his well-being. Just once, Johnny would love to hear, What were you thinking? or I didn’t raise you to behave that way, because that’s what a normal father might say to his son.

  With Harlan it was always about instilling the fear of the Lord into his family to make them do what was “right” and “good.” It worked with Johnny’s mom — she was scared of her own shadow when her husband was around — and it worked with Johnny’s goody-two-shoes older brother. It had never worked with Johnny.

  Until now.

  Now he was afraid. He was scared shitless.

  He and the girl, Sammy Jo, had been the only ones in the Mercury to survive the crash. The last he’d seen of her, she’d been lying on a gurney being loaded into a waiting ambulance. He’d been told she’d broken her back, but beyond that, he had no idea what happened to her. He made sure the cops knew she’d been an innocent victim in all this.

  An innocent victim.

  He swallowed and blinked back tears. She wasn’t the only one. The station wagon they’d hit had carried a family. A father and mother and two little girls. The father had been whisked away in an ambulance. The mother seemed okay physically. She’d sat in the back of a police car, crying. Even through the closed windows, he’d heard her wails of grief.

  He still heard them, her screams of anguish as the medics removed the children’s bodies from the wreckage. Bright blue plastic sheets over the tiny mounds that used to be living, breathing beings.

  Clenching his hands into fists, he rocked back and forth, tears oozing from tightly closed eyelids. He should never have suggested they steal the car. He should never have made the joke about Dennis, causing Morris to turn and miss the stop sign. It was his fault those kids were dead.

  Sammy Jo survived because she’d been wedged between the seats on the floor. He didn’t know how he’d managed to live with barely a scratch. A stroke of pure luck, he supposed.

  Luck. Right.

  He sure didn’t feel lucky.

  His dad’s parting words from the telephone call haunted him, would haunt him forever. The ransom for a life is costly, no payment is ever enough. But if there is a serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye. His father may have mixed his scripture, but his meaning was clear. Somehow, sometime, Johnny would pay for what he and his stupid friends had done.

  Forgiveness would be a long time coming… if ever.

  The tears he cried that night weren’t for his dead friends. He cried for the little girls and their parents, especially the mother, whose wails still echoed in his ears. He cried for the girl, Sammy Jo, who had done nothing but be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, selfishly, he cried for himself.

  Chapter 1

  January—20 years later

  Seattle Central High School was built when the area still had charm, when the houses surrounding it were new, and sagging gutters and rotted fences were the oddity rather than the norm. The school was two-storied and fronted with windows. It was an unusual day when at least a few of those windows weren’t boarded from some idiot throwing a rock through the panes.

  Despite these problems, school officials and optimistic neighbors attempted to keep the grounds clean and graffiti free. Just this morning, the head custodian spent four back-breaking hours scrubbing fluorescent o
range letters reading “EAT ME” off the cement walls of the gymnasium.

  One building, however, was free of defacement. The weight room was a small, nondescript structure with gray metal siding and matching roof, and a little defacement might have been an improvement to its drab exterior.

  Right now, the building’s metal siding reverberated and hummed from the music blaring within. While the rap artist’s booming words suggested pandemonium, the activity inside the facility was relatively structured and mellow. Spread throughout the room, doing various weight-training exercises, was a group that would do the staunchest supporter of the politically-correct movement proud. The teenagers were a rainbow of cultural diversity in terms of race and gender. All of them had one thing in common, however. All were from broken home environments and doing poorly in school.

  It was the intimidating presence of the two adults in the room that kept this colorful group in check. One of the adults was Alex Drake, a gigantic black man with a barrel chest and thick neck barely contained in a white T-shirt. A crescent-shaped scar on his bald head shone like a glow-in-the-dark decal under the rows of bare light bulbs hanging from the rafters. If appearance was an indicator of approachability, he was the type of man you’d quickly cross the street to avoid. One look into those narrow dark eyes and you’d think this was one mean son of a bitch. Until you heard him laugh. Then those dark eyes crinkled at the corners and he’d emit a silly high-pitched sound out of place in a man half his size. Anyone who heard it couldn’t help laughing with him.

  That was happening now. Something must have struck Alex funny, because he clutched his stomach and laughed so hard, the veins in his neck looked ready to burst.