Indigo Love Stories
An imprint of Genesis Press, Inc.
Publishing Company
Genesis Press, Inc.
P.O. Box 101
Columbus, MS 39703
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, not known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission of the publisher, Genesis Press, Inc. For information write Genesis Press, Inc., P.O. Box 101, Columbus, MS 39703.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.
Copyright© 2006 by Kymberly Hunt
ISBN-13: 978-1-58571-523-7
ISBN-10: 1-58571-523-9
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Editio
Visit us at www.genesis-press.com or call at 1-888-Indigo-1-4-0
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the memory of my father, a musician and master of the art of verbal storytelling.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to:
The creator of all good things for allowing me to fulfill a childhood dream that had been put on hold for a long time.
The editors at Genesis Press.
My sister for sharing and listening to all my stories.
The creative writers at the Rockland Center for the Arts.
Denise, my e-mail buddy for being so positive and encouraging.
Norma, a friend and former co-worker, whom I’ve unfortunately lost track of, but who I will always remember for her fascinating Cuban tales.
And finally, to the musicians, artists, and writers of the world for providing endless inspiration.
PROLOGUE
Chicago: The past
“You know, babe, you’re just as cold as ice…an ice princess living in your own little dream world. Whenever things don’t go exactly the way you want them, you just chill out and drift off.”
She knew it was childish to be harboring resentment over the words her husband had spoken the previous night, especially since he had apologized, but Nicole still felt upset. It was not the first time that he’d blamed her for the problems with the physical aspects of their relationship.
Brushing back stray locks of hair, she glared at the breakfast table. Two cereal bowls sat there surrounded by puddles of milk, and bits of soggy frosted flakes. There was even more on the floor. Honestly, she thought, the two of them needed troughs. Her son, Trey, was only three, but what was Warren’s excuse?
Even worse was the fact that it was Sunday and Warren, who had recently been promoted to detective, now had less restrictive hours and was off duty the whole day. He could have cleaned up the mess instead of leaving it for her when she had to go to work in the afternoon. Nursing had been the occupation he’d encouraged her into and lately it seemed to be monopolizing all her time. Was it her fault that she was always tired?
Warren and Trey had left the house a half-hour ago on a jaunt to the local deli to pick up the paper. Trey was at that age where he had to be with his father wherever he went, and that thought caused a brief smile to cross Nicole’s face. Warren had better get all he could out of it, because the day would come when he would be begging the boy to accompany him.
A loud knock on the door startled her and the smile vanished. It was probably Warren being obnoxious again. She’d told him so many times to use the bell, or better yet, use his key. How did he know that she wasn’t in the shower, unable to answer the door?
“I’m coming!” she yelled, deliberately taking her time.
She flung open the door, expecting Trey to rush in, loudly announcing his presence, but standing there was Warren’s detective partner, Eddie Garcia.
“Eddie,” she started, flushing with embarrassment, patting at her disheveled hair. “Warren isn’t home right now. He just stepped out a few minutes ago with…”
“Nicole,” Eddie interrupted, fumbling for the rights words. “I…I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Nicole’s hands dropped limply to her sides. She stared at him, noting that his normally boyish face had aged at least ten years. Waves of panic washed over her.
“Warren is in the hospital. He’s been shot…”
“Shot!” she screamed. “How could that be? He wasn’t on duty…he…oh my God. Where’s my son? Trey…”
Eddie stepped in, placing his hands lightly yet firmly on her shoulders, drawing her closer to him. “Your son is fine. He wasn’t hurt.”
She broke free of him. “My God…I have to go…I…”
“I’m here for you,” Eddie said, taking a deep breath. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”
* * *
The scene at the hospital was chaotic. An army of police officers in full uniform were gathered about, talking in hushed tones with paramedics and members of the trauma team. She could not see Warren because he was in surgery, but a nurse carried Trey to her. The little boy had a bewildered look on his face, and he immediately reached out and clung to her. Nicole felt dizzy with anguish as she noticed the traces of Warren’s blood staining Trey’s clothing.
She knew she should call her parents because they lived only fifteen minutes from the hospital, but at the moment she was in such a state of shock that she couldn’t remember their number. When a doctor came out to inform her that Warren’s prognosis did not look good, she barely comprehended his words.
Trey was starting to weigh a ton and his arms around her neck were practically strangling her, but she could not move. They were frozen, bonded by the worst kind of pain.
“It’s going to be all right, baby,” she soothed. “It’s going to be all right. Mommy’s here.”
She felt Trey’s hot tears sliding down the back of her neck, but he remained silent, as silent as the cold flakes of snow falling from the gray Chicago sky.
CHAPTER ONE
Miami: The present
It was another hectic night at Miami General Hospital. Nicole Evans was used to working the night shift, but tonight seemed even more hectic than normal. The demands of the sick were unending, and being short-staffed did not help. Most of her fellow nurses were doing double shifts and sheer exhaustion had set in. She longed for one quiet moment.
Her friend and co-worker, Maria Velasquez, blamed it on the full moon. Nicole found herself wondering if there was really some truth to that. There was definitely something weird about a full moon in Miami.
She glanced down at the chart before her and cringed. Julian Marquez was on that list, and it was time for a temperature check. She’d held off doing that, at least until his endless parade of visitors had checked out. They didn’t seem to realize that the man was sick and should be resting. Just because he was famous didn’t make him any less fragile than anyone else.
“Well, tonight’s the night, Nicole.”
“Huh?” Nicole looked up at her friend Maria, who was positively glowing. “Tonight? What’s so special about tonight?”
“You get to meet Julian of course.”
“Oh…is that all? He’s just another patient,” Nicole said.
“To you maybe. I got his autograph last night. I think he’ll be checking out soon.”
“Good. We could use some peace around here.” Nicole put the chart down and adjusted her stethoscope.
“Well, come on…he’s famous and he’s got lots of friends and fans.” Maria was undaunted.
“Those frien
ds and fans are a pain. What happened to all the balloons and junk they sent him?”
“He gave them to the kids on the second floor. They loved it.”
“How sweet of him,” Nicole said flatly.
“Nikki, don’t be like that. He is sweet, really,” Maria insisted.
Nicole suddenly remembered Mrs. Jenkins in 433. She had requested a sleeping pill, and it was well past the fifteen minutes she’d told her. It was aggravating to be so short-staffed. Had everyone been in, she would not even have to worry about meeting Marquez.
“Excuse me while I go see about the patient in 433. I’ll check Marquez after,” she told Maria.
It wasn’t until much later that she actually found herself approaching room 400. It was the solitary suite of course. Mr. Latin Pop Star definitely would not be sharing a room with anyone else. She had wanted so badly to ask Maria to attend to him, since she was so crazy about him, but Evelyn, the head nurse, had insisted that she be the one. Maybe she’d felt that Maria would lose all professionalism around him. Nicole rolled her eyes at the thought.
The door was ajar and she started to knock but didn’t. Why should she? She didn’t usually do it with the other patients. This was a hospital, not a hotel. The room was dimly lit, and the man who some women loved to swoon over, lay there with his eyes shut, looking vulnerable. What was the big deal? He was handsome, but there were a lot of handsome men in Miami. He had jet-black hair and a slightly darker than olive complexion. Mr. Macho also had long eyelashes that a lot of women would envy.
Cut it out! the voice inside her screamed. Stop admiring him. “Mr. Marquez,” she said in her authoritative nurse’s tone.
His eyes opened—the blackest eyes she had ever seen. They looked like twin onyx stones with a diamond sparkle in the center.
“Sorry to disturb you but it’s time for a quick temperature check.”
He nodded silently. There was something about the way he stared as she slid the thermometer into his mouth. Velvety eyebrows, sculpted lips—the man definitely had something going in the looks department. She busied herself checking her watch, anything she could do except stare at that face. The thermometer beeped and she removed it.
“Good or bad?” he asked.
“Hmmm, kind of in-between actually. It’s 101. That’s better than before, but still a fever.”
“I thought all this stuff I’m on was gonna work.” He motioned toward the IV in his arm.
“It is, but you really need to rest more.” She glanced at all the cards and flowers in the room. “You have too many friends.”
He smiled. “I didn’t know you could have too many.”
Nice smile, perfect white teeth. Caps, I’m sure, she thought. Well, he can afford it. “Two or three friends should be enough,” she said. “More than that and they’re probably not really your friends.”
“Is that how it is with you?”
She really didn’t want to converse with him, but his slight Cuban accent was pleasant, musical almost. If his singing voice sounded as fine as his speaking one, he had to be pretty good.
“I have my family,” she said. “That’s enough.”
“Family’s good.” He was looking at her hands, probably noting the lack of a ring.
“Well,” she turned, “try to get some rest.”
“You know, I’m really not tired. Could you just stay a few minutes and talk?”
Talk? Talk about what? the rude voice inside her head screamed silently. “I would love to, but we’re short-staffed tonight and there are many patients. Maybe a sleeping pill would help.”
He laughed. She hadn’t really intended it as a joke, but he probably took her reply as sarcasm. The truth was she had absolutely nothing to talk to him about, and he should be all talked out anyway, since most of the time he was surrounded by fans and friends.
“Nicole,” he said, reading her identification badge. “You have beautiful eyes, Nicole. Anyone ever tell you that you look like Tyra Banks?”
She felt herself blushing. Oh, get over it! He acts that way with all women.
“Goodnight, Mr. Marquez,” she said, moving out the door.
“Buenas noches,” he said softly.
Nicole spent the rest of the night intensely busy and trying to avoid Maria, but she was pounced upon just as she was about to leave the hospital. It was well after midnight.
“Nicole, tell me what you think about Julian,” Maria said, speaking so rapidly that all the words seemed blended together.
“What do I think? Really, Maria, he’s just a vain, spoiled man who talks too much.”
Maria did not seem to hear her. “What did he say to you?”
She feigned a star-struck expression. “He told me I look like Tyra Banks.”
“Oh my God…you mean he actually said it? What have I always been telling you?” Maria was excited.
“You told me I look like Vanessa Williams.”
“Vanessa…Tyra…What’s the difference? They’re both beautiful.”
“Maria, you are entirely too much,” Nicole said with a laugh. “See you tomorrow. Hopefully the love of your life will be gone by then.”
* * *
As she slid into the car, Nicole thought about her son. Trey was safely tucked away in bed and her sister had probably retired too, figuring it was pointless to wait up for her.
She eased out into traffic and reflected on Miami, the tropical city that never slept. It rivaled or even surpassed Chicago or New York, because the minute the sun went down, the city roared to life. It was always party time. She passed the trendy hotels and nightclubs. Why her sister Allyson had chosen to open a salon here still eluded her, but it beat Chicago, the city she’d fled three years ago.
Nicole still felt the pain when she remembered Warren Evans, her husband. They’d known each other since junior high, dated through high school and married a month after she’d graduated from college. Warren had joined the police force and managed to persuade her to take up nursing. They had both been eager to start a family and once she completed additional schooling, her added income helped buy a house.
She had always loathed his being a cop, but Warren, like a noble knight, felt that he personally had to contribute to making the world a safer place. Law enforcement became his means of doing it and he rapidly moved up the ranks to become an undercover detective within the vice division.
As if it were yesterday, she could still recall how proud he had been when Trey was born. They had both felt such joy when they heard their son’s first words and saw his first toddling baby steps. They’d thoroughly enjoyed all the precious little moments, and mostly the innocence that was light years away from the other realm that Warren inhabited, a world filled with violence and total disregard for human life. It was that realm which had cruelly shattered their world three years ago when he had taken his last drive to the store with his son.
Warren had not died right away. He lingered brain-dead for two agonizing days, with her at his bedside. The funeral with both families and a massive police presence was a blur. The only thing Nicole could focus on was her overwhelming responsibility to protect Trey from any more pain. The three year old had been an eyewitness to the horror. The only mercy extended to them was that the assailant, a known drug dealer, had been apprehended.
It became evident in the following days that the once cheerful, chattering little boy was suddenly mute. Months and months of psychotherapy had no effect. Her parents and friends were extremely supportive, but Nicole knew she and Trey had to get away from Chicago, away from the pain. When Allyson, her older sister, told her that they could come down to Miami and share her condo, Nicole took the offer, sold the house, and fled south. Now, three years later, Trey was six and attending a private school for the handicapped, where he was learning sign language.
Nicole’s thoughts returned to the present as she parked the car and entered the condo. Allyson had left a dim light on for her, and all was quiet except for the panting of their German sh
epherd, Shane, who’d abandoned his post at the foot of Trey’s bed to greet her. She knelt to scratch the big dog behind his ears and he thanked her with a sloppy, wet tongue.
She automatically headed to the kitchen for a cup of herbal tea, but the clock glared indignantly down at her, reminding her that there were only a few hours left if she intended to get any sleep at all. She had to be awake in time to get Trey off to school. Tossing Shane a dog biscuit, she walked quietly down the hall and glanced into her son’s room.
Trey’s angelic face seemed to glow under the night-light that he refused to sleep without. Nicole involuntarily leaned very close to hear him breathing. Perhaps he would murmur something in his sleep—perhaps those quiet sounds would actually form words. But she heard only gentle exhalations. She kissed him on the cheek and though he moved a little, he did not awaken. Sighing outwardly, Nicole left for her room, under the watchful eyes of Shane.
* * *
Next morning, Trey sat at the breakfast table, waging a war between two plastic dinosaurs. When one had a collision with a glass of orange juice, Nicole quickly caught it before the juice spilled on the table.
“Trey, stop fooling around and start eating. You only have thirty minutes,” she admonished him.
He nodded and took a second swallow of the cereal. He should eat more, she thought, noting that Trey was growing tall and skinny. He possessed the wide eyes and curly hair of his father, but he had her coloring. Despite his problem, all of his teachers had declared him to be very intelligent. If only he would let the world hear the sweet sound of his voice again.
The sound of the television coming from the living room distracted Nicole. Allyson was in there looking at the early morning news. Although her salon opened at seven a.m., she didn’t usually go in until later—the privilege of being the owner.
They had less than fifteen minutes now. Trey leaped up from his chair and over went the glass she had so valiantly rescued a few minutes ago. “Trey!”
He flashed her his best “sorry, mom” look and bolted out of the kitchen. She ran after him, waving his clean shirt, and tackled him in the living room, wrestling him into it. Allyson turned her attention to them and laughed.
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