by Tia Louise
The woman exhales deeply and holds up her hands. “I can’t make any promises.” Tension ripples through my girl, but her mother isn’t finished. “Still… I might try. For Colette.”
Ember’s body melts against me. She starts to laugh. “Oh, Momma…” she groans. “I guess that’s something.”
I pull her to me, holding her, hugging her. Her mother drifts away, toward the party, but we stay where we are.
Whether her mother succeeds or not, I know our love covers the sins of the past.
When we touch, the hurts are healed. The dream changes from darkness and fear to a story of fantasy and rescue, of pirates finding magical mermaids, of two hearts uniting in an unbreakable bond no ancient bitterness or hurt can break.
When we touch the dream comes true.
Epilogue
Ember
Many months later
Jackson Cane is salt-water kisses, happy days in the sun, and great sex.
When he paints, his long fingers twist in the back of his hair, right at the base of his neck, and he tugs.
Tugs…
Tugs…
I like to slide my tongue along his jawline and nip the lobe of his ear with my teeth.
Then I’ll give his hair a tug.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that in front of the children.” His low voice ripples to me through the ocean breeze and I laugh.
“How is Mommy looking?” A little brown head pops up, and I lean down to kiss her button nose.
“Like Daddy is a Purple Monster Number Four cupcake.”
“Daddy is not a cupcake.” Coco snorts and resumes her pose.
It’s possible my hormones have me a little more interested in sensual delights these days. We’re sitting on the sand with the waves crashing behind us. I’m one with the sea, the sand, and the moon.
Two days ago, Jackson stretched a canvas, only this time the painting is different. This time I hold a sparkling little mermaid in my lap. She rests her soft cheek on my growing stomach. Her palm is flat against my skin, and it’s as if she’s listening to what’s happening inside—the sound of a heartbeat, a song of a little girl, perhaps the call of a brother…
Just like before, his eyes move along the sweep of my neckline. Blue eyes follow the curve of my lips. His gaze is so intense, it’s like a touch on my shoulder. It’s hot as a firecracker, it melts my insides.
When his eyes trace the curve of his baby in my stomach, we share a secret smile. I’ve barely started to show, and he wants to add to it, make it bigger. Artistic license, he says.
Coco becomes restless. She doesn’t like sitting in the same position for so long. She gets cranky, and we pack up to return to the cottage.
We’ve made it through the darkness. Our lives are officially one, and he’s even started the paperwork to adopt Coco. Brandon was more than happy to let that happen.
My mother is trying.
It’s the best I can say, but I suppose it’s saying a lot.
As time has passed, I’ve tried to put myself in her shoes and imagine how I would feel if I lost the love of my life and my daughter on the same night, if I also lost my best friend, who was running away and taking them from me. I can at least grasp the concept of that root of bitterness. I can see the need to hide away in status and power and bending everyone to her inexorable control.
I wouldn’t do it.
I don’t accept it.
Still, I can understand it.
So she’s trying, I’m trying, and I don’t expect twenty-plus years of behavior to change overnight.
Or in a year.
* * *
The sun is gone, and cicadas scree from the trees all around us. Their noise is deafening, but comforting. It’s the sound of my favorite season and memories of staying up late and sleeping until noon.
Coco is tucked away in her bed in Atlantia. She’s given her orders, and she’s sleeping like a princess. We’ll have outgrown our cottage in less than nine months, but I can’t imagine moving our family away from here.
Jackson steps from the bathroom, his dark hair messy, a dimple in his cheek. The lamplight casts shadows along the lines of his body. Ocean-blue eyes blink to mine, and just like always electricity hums in my veins.
He smiles. I smile, and it isn’t long before our lips touch. I climb onto his lap in a straddle as I open my mouth, and his delicious tongue finds mine, heating every part of my body. Large hands cover my stomach, and he bends down to press his mouth against our growing baby.
Our kisses are languid and deep, chasing and tasting.
Salt-water kisses.
Happiness.
Love.
We kiss passionately, deeply, life giving, life saving. We sizzle like fireworks on a hot summer night…
When we touch, it’s not only us, it’s our family, our future.
Jackson Cane is so much more than my first love. He’s more than my teacher, my painter, my passionate lover.
He’s my savior.
My dream come true.
* * *
The End.
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Start my new contemporary romance series with The Prince & The Player, Book #1 of my “Dirty Players” series.
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It’s a sexy story of two con-artist sisters doing whatever it takes to survive… until they’re given an offer they can’t refuse, and things get dangerous. (eek!)
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Keep clicking for an Exclusive Sneak Peek…
More Tia Louise
THE DIRTY PLAYERS SERIES
The Prince & The Player (#1), 2016
A Player for a Princess (#2), 2016
Dirty Dealers (#3), 2017
Dirty Thief (#4), 2017
* * *
THE ONE TO HOLD SERIES
One to Hold (#1 - Derek & Melissa)
One to Keep (#2 - Patrick & Elaine)
One to Protect (#3 - Derek & Melissa)
One to Love (#4 - Kenny & Slayde)
One to Leave (#5 - Stuart & Mariska)
One to Save (#6 - Derek & Melissa)
One to Chase (#7 - Marcus & Amy)
One to Take (#8 - Stuart & Mariska)
* * *
STAND ALONE ROMANCE
The Last Guy, 2017*
(*co-written with Ilsa Madden-Mills)
* * *
PARANORMAL ROMANCES
One Immortal, 2015
One Insatiable, 2015
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Descriptions, teasers, excerpts and more are on my website (link)!
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The Prince & The Player
Exclusive Sneak Peek
(Dirty Players Duet, #1)
© TLM Productions LLC, 2016
Zelda Wilder
My legs are wet. Thunder rolls low in a steel-grey sky, and the hiss of warm rain grows louder. I lean further sideways into the culvert, closer against my little sister Ava’s body, and grit my teeth against the hunger pain twisting my stomach. There’s no way in hell I’m sleeping tonight.
Reaching up, I rub my palm against the back of my neck, under the thick curtain of my blonde hair. A shudder moves at my side, and I realize Ava’s crying. We’re packed tight in this concrete ditch, but I twist my body around to face her.
Clearing my throat, I force my brows to unclench. I force my voice to be soothing instead of angry. “Hey,” I whisper softly. “What’s the matter, Ava-bug?”
Silence greets me. She’s small enough to be somewhat comfortable in our hideout. Her knees are bent, but unlike me, they’re not shoved up into her nose. Still, she leans forward to press her eyes against the backs of her hands. Her glossy brown hair is short around her ears and falls onto her cheeks.
Our parents were classic movie buffs, naming her after Ava Gardner and me af
ter Scott Fitzgerald’s crazy wife Zelda. We pretty much lived up to our monikers, since my little sister wound up having emerald green cat eyes and wavy dark hair. She’s a showstopper whereas I’m pretty average—flat blue eyes and dishwater blonde. So far no signs of schizophrenia (har har), but you can bet your ass I can keep up with the boys in everything, which brings us to this lowly state.
“Come on, now,” I urge. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”
Her dark head moves back and forth. “I’m sorry.” Her soft whisper finally answers my question. “This is all my fault.”
“What?” Reaching for her skinny shoulder, I pull her up. She’s the only person I’ve ever known who looks pretty even when she’s crying. “Why would you say something like that?”
“I tried cutting my hair off. I tried not brushing my teeth—”
“Don’t be doing shit like that!” I snap, turning to face front. The rain keeps splashing on my side getting me even wetter. “We can’t afford a dentist.”
“I don’t know what to do, Zee.”
Pressing my lips together, I clench my fists on top of my knees. “We ain’t going back into no foster home. I’ll take care of us.”
“But how?” Her voice breaks as it goes high in a whisper.
“Hell, I don’t know, but I got all night to figure it out.” I press my front teeth together and think. We’re not that far from being legal. I’m seventeen, but Ava’s only fifteen. Looking at the sand on my shoes, I get an idea. “We got one thing going for us.”
“What’s that?” My little sister sniffs, and I hear the tiniest flicker of hope in her voice. She’ll trust whatever I tell her, and I take that responsibility very seriously.
“We live in the greatest state to be homeless. Sunny Florida.”
“Okay?” Her slim brows wrinkle, and the tears in her eyes make them look like the ocean.
“We don’t have to worry about getting cold or anything. We don’t have to worry about snow…” I’m thinking hard, assembling a plan in my mind. “During the day, we fly under the radar—keep your head down, don’t attract attention. I’ll see what I can find us to eat. At night we can sleep on the beach. Or here, or hell, maybe one of these rich assholes forgets to lock his boathouse. Have you seen how nice some of these boathouses are? They’re like regular houses!”
Her eyes go round with surprise. “Why are they like that?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Rich people are crazy. Some rich men even get their nails polished, and they aren’t even gay!”
Air bursts through her lips, and she starts to laugh. I smile and pull her arm so she can lie down with her face on my bony, empty stomach. “Now get some sleep.”
The rain is tapering off, and my little sister is laughing instead of crying. I don’t have any idea if anything I just said is possible, but I’m going to find out. I’ll be damned if I let another foster asshole touch her. It’s what Mom would expect me to do. I’m the biggest. I have to take care of us, and I intend to do it.
* * *
Crown Prince Rowan Westringham Tate
The navy fabric of my father’s uniform coat stretches taut across his shoulders. It’s the tangible warning sign his anger is rising, and the person addressing him would do well to shut up.
“Monagasco has been an independent nation for eight hundred years.” His voice is a rolling growl pricking the tension in my chest.
The last time my father started on our nation’s history, the offending party was thrown out of the meeting room by the neck. He’s getting too old for such violent outbursts. I worry about his heart… and my future. My freedom, more specifically.
“I think what Hubert was trying to say—” The Grand Duke, my mother’s brother Reginald Winchester, tries to intervene.
“I KNOW what Hubert is trying to say!” My father (a.k.a., The King) cuts him off. “He thinks we should cede our southwestern territory to Totrington! Even though their raiders and bandits have pillaged our farms along the border for generations!”
Leaning back in my heavy oak chair, I steeple my fingers before my lips and don’t say what I want. As crown prince, I’ve attended these meetings for three years, since I turned nineteen. I’ve learned when to speak and when to discuss things in private with my father.
I could say I agree with Reggie, we should consider a trade agreement with our neighboring nation-state, but I’m more concerned about the King’s health. I’ve never seen him so worked up before.
“Independence at all costs,” he continues, his naturally pink cheeks even pinker. “We will not give those savages an open door to the control of Monagasco.”
“No one’s suggesting—”
“Shut UP, Hubert!” My father shouts, and I glance down to avoid meeting the earl’s offended eyes.
Hubert’s sniveling voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and I privately enjoy my father chastising him. I’ve always suspected him of conspiring with Wade Paxton, Totrington’s newly elected Prime Minister, from the time when Wade was only a member of their parliament.
“I’ve had enough of this.” My father walks to the window and looks out. “I’d like to speak to Rowan in private. You can all go.”
“Of course.” Reginald stands at once, smoothing his long hands down the front of his dark coat.
Tall and slender, with greying black hair and a trim mustache, my uncle embodies the Charmant line of our family. I inherited their height and Norman complexion. My father, by contrast, is a Tate through and through. Short, pink, and round.
As soon as the room is cleared, he stalks back to the table, still brooding like a thunderstorm. “Reggie’s in league with them as well,” he growls.
“Not necessarily.” My voice is low and level, and I hope appeasing. “My uncle does have an idea, and of the two, it’s the least offensive. Hubert would combine our countries and walk away—”
“Exactly!” Father snaps, turning to face me, blue eyes blazing. “My own cousin, born and reared in our beautiful land. He’s been promised a place in the new government, I’ll bet you. They’ll throw the lot of us out—behead us if they can.”
“I’m pretty sure beheading is no longer tolerated in western civilization.”
“Harumph.” He’s still angry, but at least he’s calmer. “It would break your mother’s heart. The Charmants founded Monagasco. We can’t let those Twatringtons in.”
His use of the unofficial nickname for our southwest neighbor makes me grin. Rising from my chair, I brace his shoulder in a firm grasp.
“We won’t let that happen.” Our blue eyes meet. It’s the only feature we share. He’s a few inches shorter than me, but he makes up for it in stubbornness. “We’re flush with reserves, and the economy can change at any time.”
His thick hand covers mine. “I’m doing my best to leave you a strong country to rule. The country I inherited.”
“We would do well to reduce our dependence on foreign oil reserves.” He starts to argue, but I hold up a hand as I head for the door. He’s finally calm, and I’m not interested in riling him up again. “In any event, you’ll be around long enough to see the tides turn. Now get some rest.” I’m at the enormous wooden door of the war room. “We can’t solve all our problems in one day.”
“Goodnight, son.”
The tone in his voice causes me to look back. He’s at the window, and a troubled expression mars his profile. A shimmer of concern passes through my stomach, but I dismiss it, quietly stepping into the dim hallway. It’s enormous and shrouded with heavy velvet curtains and tapestries.
I grew up playing in these halls, hiding from my mother and chasing my younger brother. I’m tired and ready for bed when the sound of hushed voices stops me in my tracks.
“Pompous ass. He’s going to kill himself with these outbursts. We need to be ready to move when that happens.” The glee in Hubert’s sniveling voice revives the anger in my chest. I step into the shadows to listen.
“By climbing into bed with Wade Paxton
?”
I recognize my uncle’s voice, and my jaw clenches. Is Father right? Is Reginald conspiring with that worm against the crown?
“Wade Paxton would unite the kingdoms and make us both leaders in the new government.”
“Wade Paxton is a thug.”
“Not very respectful verbiage for the Prime Minister of Totrington, also known as our future partner.”
“He’s no better than one of those mob bosses on American television. Savage.” Reggie’s voice is laced with snobbery. “He’d tax the people and change the very nature of Monagasco.”
Hubert’s tone is undeterred. “Some things might change, but as leaders, you and I can help maintain the best parts, the heart of the nation. Once Philip is out of the way, of course, which could be sooner than we think.”
My fists tighten at my sides. I’m ready to step out of the shadows and shake Hubert’s traitorous neck until his teeth rattle. The only thing stopping me is my desire to hear the extent of this treachery.
“You’re right about one thing,” Reggie says. “Philip’s health is tenuous. We need to be prepared to act should a crisis arise.”
“What about Rowan? If he’s not on our side, we could end up in the same position—and with a much younger king to wait out.”
“Possibly.” My uncle pauses, and I feel the heat rising around my collar.
“Wade has a plan for managing such a contingency. Should Rowan prove… difficult.”
“I’m sure he does,” Reggie scoffs. “And Cal? Shall we wipe out the entire Tate line?”
