by Ami LeCoeur
Healed by
LOVE
by
Ami LeCoeur
&
Elle Dawson
PUBLISHED BY:
Career Life Press
Copyright © 2015
Ami LeCoeur and
Elle Dawson
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be copied or reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior written consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is entirely coincidental. All names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and situations are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real.
This series is a collaboration between Ami LeCoeur and Elle Dawson, based on characters from the High Stake Seduction series, created by Ami LeCoeur.
Healed by LOVE
Book 1 - Summary
How well do you ever REALLY know another person? Their secrets? Their fears? Their doubts?
Meet Thompson. The real Thompson. Underneath this polite chauffeur's exterior beats the heart of a warrior. A warrior who has been through hell and back. A warrior trying desperately to deal with the demons of his past. Trying desperately to bury the disappointments of his life, his actions, his failures.
Meet Maria. Sweet. Creative. Funny. With a heart of gold. Even confined to a wheelchair because of an accident, no one could define her as disabled. She longs for all the things any young woman longs for: love, connection, maybe a family. But for now, she's put that aside.
In the best-selling series, High Stakes Seduction, you got a glimpse of Thompson and Maria... the parts of themselves they normally show to the world. Now, come discover the private sides of two people struggling to leave their pasts behind. Two people fighting the limitations others have imposed on them. Two people whose lives and souls can only be Healed by Love.
Don’t miss this sexy and intense first book in the High Stakes Seduction spin-off series, Healed by LOVE by best-selling authors, Ami LeCoeur and Elle Dawson.
This book contains adult themes and is intended for readers 18 and older.
Release Schedule:
Book 2 - July 24, 2015 - ARC mailed: July 17
Book 3 - August 14, 2015 - ARC mailed: August 7
Connect with Ami on Facebook: http://facebook.com/AmiLeCoeurBooks
Connect with Elle on Facebook: http://facebook.com/ElleDawsonWrites
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Chapter 1 — Thompson
The bitch. The damn bitch. The freakin’… oh hell, the fuckin’ bitch!
Experience and training kept the words inside my head, but didn’t stop them from rattling around like the tail of a diamondback snake. Coiling inside me, tighter and tighter. The urge to do something, to strike out, became a vicious need.
Instead, I took a breath, pressed my thumb and index finger together until one nearly snapped the other and managed, “What do you mean I can’t have my daughter this week?” My words were soft, calm, deliberate. I could be pissed off, but I could never show it.
“You. Can’t. Have. Her. Shall I say it again, slower this time?” The voice of my ex-wife pierced my brain through the phone’s receiver.
“Rachel, we spoke about this two weeks ago. You agreed that I could keep Emily this entire week and—”
“I changed my mind,” she interrupted, still speaking slowly, as if to a child. “If you want additional time with her, you pay more.”
I gritted my teeth. It always came down to money. I looked around me. I’m standing on the front porch of the condo… I pay for. I’m talking to her on the cell phone… I pay for. While she’s driving the car… I pay for. It was never enough, she always wanted more.
“I already far surpass my obligation, and you know it. Not another dime.”
“Then not another day.”
In the background, I heard Emily say, “I want to stay with Daddy.” I wanted to punch a wall. The snake inside me itched to be unleashed.
“Listen,” I began, trying to find a middle ground. Hell, I’d been searching for a middle ground the past ten years. There wasn’t one.
“No, Francis Lorain Thompson,” she sneered the words and I cringed as she spit out the name I hate. “You listen. I’m the one who takes care of your daughter twenty-six days a month. I’m the one who takes her to doctors’ visits, who makes sure her leg braces stay clean and her crutches fit. I even drive her to and from school every day to make sure she gets there safely. But you? You waltz into her life every other weekend and think you’re God’s gift to sperm. I’m tired of it. You want more, you pay more. End of discussion.”
“Let me lighten the load for you.” I leapt through the verbal door she’d opened. “You do need a break, you deserve a break. Imagine an entire week to yourself.”
A long pause, then a laugh. “You think you’re so smart. I know what you’re doing and it won’t work. If you get her more, you pay me less. I can’t live as it is. I’ll not let you fuck me over that way.”
Can’t live like it is?
I looked up at the three bedroom condo she lived in. Not an expensive neighborhood, but gated and safe. I lived in a freakin’ one bedroom apartment, a third of the condo’s size, and did it willingly so that anything I made would go toward Emily’s care and private schooling. The rehab she goes to three days a week to strengthen her legs.
My baby girl is whip smart. Talented. Sweet. Funny. Already a beauty at nine years old, she inherited my dark hair and blue eyes, which pissed her mother off to no end.
Just thinking of Emily and her big smile, the way she snuggles up on my lap calms me, softens me. Centers me. All I want is to make sure Em has a better life, every opportunity available to her.
Not that the money was ever used that way.
Emily. Light of my life and currently in the backseat of my ex-wife’s car, being used as blackmail. She was supposed to be right here, ten a.m. sharp this morning, packed and ready to spend the week with her old man.
The bitch didn’t even give me a heads up to let me know she’d changed her mind. She loved jerking me around like this. Just letting me show up to an empty house to knock fruitlessly on the front door.
I ground my teeth as I walked back down the driveway, phone still at my ear. Stay calm, Thom, I kept reminding myself. Calm. Cool. Control.
“Maybe it’s time for a new custody arrangement.”
I regretted it the moment the words left my lips. I waited for the laugh and it came right on cue.
“What judge in his right mind is going to give a little girl to a man with your history, Francis? You’re delusional. You threaten me with court again and I’ll make sure the only time you ever see her is in the presence of a court appointed guardian.”
Rage became a living thing inside me and I gritted my teeth to keep from saying something I’d regret. As pissed as I was at her, I was more furious that she was right.
Without another word, I ended the call. When it came to my daughter, I was totally screwed.
Chapter 2 — Maria
Knock knock.
I hurried to the door, anxious to see Emily and Thompson again. It’d been too long since Emily had been here and I really missed her smiling face. I couldn’t wait to show her my latest drawings and the cover I’d just gotten back for our book.
“Hey.” Thompson’s furrowed brow greeted me and I knew immediately something was wrong. I noticed he was by himself, and that explained the darkness in his eyes.
“What’s up? Where’s Emily?”
A muscle in his jaw tensed, but hi
s words were soft. “Her mom changed her mind,” was all he said, but I knew he’d left off the most important part, “again”.
I caught my breath, biting my tongue. I don’t know Emily’s mother, and I was reluctant to say anything I might regret later. But something didn’t feel right about this. Emily was a sweet child who had begun to open up with me, and I couldn’t understand why anyone would prevent a daughter from being with the father who loved her.
It made me think of my own situation—and the accident that had caused it—and for the briefest moment, sadness washed over me. But I shook it off. I didn’t need this, and Thompson didn’t need me being sad about something I couldn’t change.
Besides, I had some great news I wanted to share. And given that my sister, Angela, was off at some cabin with her handsome boss, Antonio, I’d been sitting on it all day, restless and excited, like a kid with a secret.
“I’m sorry.” And I was. I’d been looking forward to seeing Emily again. We still had some work to do on the book project we’d started. “But you still have your regular days, right?”
He nodded, tight lipped, and muttered under his breath. I leaned forward, but couldn’t catch his words.
“For now,” was all he said in response to my raised eyebrows. The frown on his face kept me from asking any more. I wheeled my chair back from the door, giving him room to enter.
“How about a quiet evening in, then?” I asked, grinning shyly. “Since it’s just you and me.”
His shoulders relaxed as he slouched into the big overstuffed chair, almost as though he was melting into it. He gave me that smile I love—the quiet, soft, protective smile that filled me with thoughts I probably shouldn’t be having.
“Sounds good. Thanks.” He took a deep breath, filling his chest like a giant balloon. Then he expelled it all at once. “Sorry.” He shook his head.
“You want to talk about it?” My stomach twisted a little, probably in sympathy. I hated to see him so tense. It made me feel vulnerable somehow.
“No. It’ll just make it worse. And you don’t deserve that.”
I narrowed my eyes, watching emotions dance across his face. Watching him struggle for control. I wasn’t used to seeing this side of him. He was usually so capable in everything he did. Protective with me, and with Emily. But I sensed an undercurrent that threatened to boil over—an undercurrent he was managing tightly.
And, I knew the best thing I could do at that moment was to give him some room. “How about a beer?” I suggested, heading for the kitchen. He smiled and seemed to relax by the smallest degree. “I’ll be right back.”
I wondered what I could throw together for dinner, mentally taking inventory. As I grabbed a beer from the door, I noticed last night’s roast beef, and decided that comfort food might be the best thing at the moment. I stuck a potato in the microwave and headed back out to the living room.
“Thanks.” Thompson’s face was back to its normal color, the flush gone from his cheeks, but a hint of a frown still surrounded his eyes. I longed to smooth it away. He took a swig of the cold brew and grinned at me.
“Are you sure you want to stay in?”
I grinned back and waggled my eyebrows. That brought a laugh, and I sighed with relief. I couldn’t change things with Emily and her mother, but maybe I could help take his mind off the drama for a little while.
“Well, at least let me help you,” he offered, standing up as he set the bottle on the side table.
“Sure. You can keep me company. It’ll be fun.”
###
I looked over at Thompson as he swabbed up the last of the gravy from his hot beef sandwich with the skin from the twice-baked potato. His face was softer now, relaxed and even satisfied looking. A big difference from earlier.
He caught my eye, a grin starting up again. “Thank you, that was delicious, Miss Maria. Let me wash the dishes since you wouldn’t let me do any cooking.” I laughed as he stood up from the table, reaching his long arm across to take my plate.
I wondered, for the millionth time, why this man was so formal with me. “It’s just Maria,” I reminded him again.
“Okay, Just Maria, where is your dish soap?” His long legs had already crossed the kitchen, and he was rummaging under the sink. “Ah, here it is.” I watched those powerful legs push him back into a standing position, and I wanted to run my hand up his strong, straight back and massage the tension from his shoulders.
“Thompson,” I said, as much to distract myself from my thoughts as to satisfy my own curiosity.
“Yes?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Why are you always so formal with me?”
“Am I?”
“Yes. No matter how many times I remind you. There’s no need, you know.”
He was silent for a moment, filling the sink with suds.
“Habit, I guess,” he replied, succinct as always.
I sat there—silent. Even though I was nearly desperate to understand the distance he’d imposed between us—especially given my own increasingly R-rated thoughts—I didn’t want to push him. Not now. Not after the recent confrontation with his ex. Our relationship was too new and fragile, my first since before the accident that robbed me of the use of my legs. This was new territory for me too.
The silence stretched out longer as he scrubbed the plates, running the water to rinse them. Then stacking them with a military precision into the dish drainer.
“I never had much of a family life,” he volunteered and I had to strain to hear him over the running water. I kept my silence, willing him to continue. “I mostly grew up in foster homes.”
I heard the faintest touch of wistfulness, almost imperceptible. I imagined this strong, capable man as a young boy, isolated in the foster system, keeping to himself, maybe even wondering where he might fit in.
“Did you move around a lot?” I asked, wanting to understand what it must have been like, and remembering my own happy, loving family.
More silence.
“That was the hardest part. Just about the time I figured out my place in a family, they would move me.”
“That must have been tough.” I realized how lucky I was. I’d never questioned my place or my role—never had to.
He looked over his shoulder at me, a hint of sorrow and pain in his eyes. “Yeah, it was. I always felt like an outsider. Even when the family was friendly and welcoming.”
He turned back to the dishes. “I learned not to make attachments because I never knew when I’d be pulled out of the family and thrust into a new one. I learned to accept that everything could change in an instant.”
Well, at least I could understand that last part. But I’d been fortunate to have years of closeness and connection before my own world collapsed in an instant. I shivered at the sudden chilling reminder of the accident that left me paralyzed and my mom dead. And my family changed. Forever.
“Yes,” I said, softly.
“The last place I lived—where I lived the longest—the family was… very formal. There were several fosters there. We all knew our place, and it wasn’t in the ‘family’. It was more like two families, really. The fosters banded together and we looked out for each other, but we were never part of the family that took us in.”
Thompson dried his hands and sat back down at the table. I handed him another beer from the refrigerator.
“Go on, I’m interested.”
“I don’t talk about it much,” he laughed softly, shaking his head. “They weren’t very happy years for me.” He looked down at his hands clasping the bottle in front of him.
I wanted to reach out and cover his hand with mine, but I sensed it might take him out of his story. And more than anything else at that moment, I was hungry to know more about this enigmatic man—where he came from and what had shaped him.
So, instead, I sat there, impatiently patient. And trying not to fidget, wanting to give the moment the respect and attention it deserved.
“The mother was s
weet, but frail. She was never in very good health. Two of the foster girls took care of the house and the chores there. The rest of us worked in the fields and with the animals.”
He took a long swig of the beer. “Do you have any whiskey?” he asked. “I could use a shot right now.”
“Behind you in the cupboard,” I motioned with my head. “Help yourself.”
He stood up and reached into the cupboard, pulling out the Jameson and setting it on the table with a shot glass. “You?” he motioned with the bottle.
I shook my head. White wine or an occasional beer were more my speed. Especially after watching my dad, Jack, drown his sorrows after... the accident. “No, thanks.”
He sat down, poured a shot, and took a sip. Then another long sip of beer.
“Father was a task master. Very strict. Never much room for anything other than the chores he set out for us. He insisted we call him ‘sir’. Wouldn’t have it any other way. But he was very protective of his wife, and for that I have to give him a lot of credit. He insisted we address the girls as ‘Miss’, and even his wife was ‘Missus Laura’.” He took another sip of the whiskey and leaned back in the chair.
“I left as soon as I graduated—even before I was eighteen—and bummed around for a while. I joined the military as soon as they would accept me and my foster brother. They weren’t any less strict than my foster father had been, so I guess it was all good training.”
“So why the ‘Miss Maria’?” I asked him. “I am hardly your sister—foster or otherwise.” I tried to keep the snicker-giggle out of my voice.
He laughed out loud.
“No, you are certainly NOT my sister.”
I liked the twinkle in his eyes at my remark.
“It just kind of stuck I guess. So now it’s habit.”
“Well, I’ll be happy when you can drop that habit,” I told him, shaking my head. “Honestly, you make me feel like an old spinster lady.”
That brought another roar of laughter from him. I was enjoying making him laugh, smiling on the inside as much as I was on the outside.
