by Berinn Rae
Olivia stared at her friend. Her words made sense. “When did you acquire such wisdom?”
“Just something I read on Facebook.” Jess bit her lower lip and sighed. “Let’s go pack. Even if I so don’t want to leave.”
Jess was right — she didn’t want to leave with the first light tomorrow. Their trip had not produced desirable results, but Olivia would relive the impressions for the rest of her life. This land of olive trees, vineyards and lavender bushes growing among stones, the barren rocks of Biokovo Mountain raising straight from the azure waters of the Adriatic captured her heart. Just like Tom.
• • •
Gray clouds hovered above Toronto’s skyscrapers and threatened to dump their load. Olivia paid the cabby, grabbed her luggage and scurried up the steps to her house. She scooped the newspapers thrown at the front door.
A young man in black hoodie approached across the lawn. “Miss, the mail got mixed up. This came to our address.”
She took the envelope from his hand. “Thanks. You’re Jason, right?”
He squirmed as if uncomfortable she talked to him. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Olivia pointed her chin at the young girl standing on the sidewalk. “Is that your girlfriend?”
He smiled. “Julie. She likes Madonna.”
Olivia waved to the bleached haired girl in black fishnet stockings and cherry Doc Martens. The girl’s many bracelets chimed when she waved back. Olivia returned her glance to Jason. “Tell her to pay special attention to the lyrics of ‘Papa Don’t Preach.’”
“All right, I will.” He nodded and strutted toward Julie.
Olivia left her suitcase in the foyer and proceeded to toss the rolled up newsprint in the recycling bin. She halted her hand at the headline reading Baldwin Escapes Death, pulled the paper out of the clear, plastic bag and read.
Mr. Jim Hiltorn and his son Ike were arrested in the Baldwins’ residence following a bizarre shooting incident. Mr. Baldwin was warned of his possible endangerment by two anonymous letters and turned the matter to the police. The details are not clear at this point, but police are investigating the involvement of Mrs. Baldwin …
Olivia read the short article over and over. Two letters? She’d sent one. Could Tom have sent the other one?
“Your determination is powered by love.” The angel’s voice pierced the silence of the still house. “Tom is ready to be with you again.”
Olivia darted her glance from side to side, but couldn’t see anything. The house once again stood quiet. And her heart rejoiced at angel’s words.
• • •
Tom yanked the glasses down and pinched his nose bridge. His eyes burned from staring at the Olivia’s picture on the computer screen. The fantasy woman had helped him out of the darkness, but in this real world, she may not know who he was. Or not care about him. That would explain why all his efforts produced no results. No, it couldn’t be. She promised. Something stood between them and tampered his search, not allowing his messages to go through.
A knock on his office door pulled him from his morose thoughts. Constable Sealy stood at the threshold. “Sorry to disturb you. I tried your number, but got voice mail.”
If the cop paid him a special visit at this hour, he must have some important news. Tom gestured toward the chair. “Come in, Sealy. I suppose what you have cannot wait.”
“This came across my desk an hour ago.” The uniformed man stepped into his office and plopped a sheet in front of Tom. “The accident reported here is strikingly similar to yours from nine months ago, only that victim of road rage suffered minor injuries. The lady must’ve kept her wits to scribble the license plate of the pickup that rammed her into the ditch. We got them this time.”
Tom picked up the paper and scanned over it. “The report dates back three months ago.”
“Yes, the local department is slow to forward copies.” The officer shrugged.
Tom scanned to the bottom of the form. His pulse quickened when his gaze fell on the familiar handwriting. He drew in a quivering breath. “Olivia.”
“Yes, the young woman was fortunate.” The cop got on his feet. “I shouldn’t take up any more of your time.”
“Thank you for notifying me of this.” Tom stood too. The officer had made it his personal battle to investigate Tom’s accident and so far his efforts turned fruitless.
“It’s the least I could do.” The man touched the brim of his cap and left.
Tom dialed Owen’s Recruiting. To his surprise the phone rang. Until now he believed the business was a hoax. Each time he’d called he got a busy signal or a mechanical voice had told him the number wasn’t in service. Emails he’d sent returned as undeliverable or were not replied to, and his attempts to find the address brought him to a few back alleys. For starters, the address on their website didn’t correspond with the street numbers.
A woman’s cheerful voice came through and gave him the details of the business hours and other available options of their automated answering service. He left a message under a different name, requesting to see Ms. Owen. He must be discreet and not come across like some pushover. After all she’d never seen him in reality. But would she remember what they shared? Would she want him? He would find out at tomorrow’s lunch.
• • •
The rosemary basted lamb, the signature dish featured on the logo of the posh little French restaurant, drifted to Olivia from the pivoting kitchen doors.
The hostess greeted her with a grin. “Welcome to ‘Le Clair de Lune’. Do you ’ave réservation?”
“I’m meeting Mr. Jones. I believe the reservation is in his name.”
“Mr. Jones is not ’ere yet, but I’ll show you to votre table.” The young girl’s long pony tail brushed the back of her white shirt as she led Olivia to the table.
Vexation stirred in her. First this Mr. Jones demanded the lunch meeting at the short notice and now he couldn’t have enough decency to make it on time.
The hostess pulled a chair from the table and set the menu in front of her. “Votre garçon will be with you dans un instant.”
Olivia pasted a mocking grin. Part of her annoyance came from the hostess’ fake French accent and mispronunciation. The old Olivia would tell the girl to drop her lilt.
Instead, she drew in a calming breath and focused on the menu.
“How’s a man to concentrate here when such a beautiful girl is sitting at his table?”
Her back straightened. The menu slipped from her hands. Slowly, she stood and turned to the man whose smooth voice resembled Tom’s. She reached out and placed her trembling hand on his. “Tom, is that really you?”
That wicked smile of his lit up his face. “It’s me.”
She gasped and grabbed onto the chair, scanning down his body. “You walk with a cane?”
He took her by her shaky elbow. “Why don’t we have our lunch in my penthouse? It’s in this building. I already had them deliver the food there, actually.”
Holding onto her jittery hand, he led her out of the restaurant to the brass elevator door. He struggled to keep his lame leg from limping. Her heart fluttered with his soft smile, and she averted her glance at the tiled floor. “I almost had my receptionist cancel this lunch, but something told me to go.”
His piney aftershave set her body on a tingle. How she wished for him to wrap her in his arms. The chime announced they arrived to the penthouse. He ushered her inside his condo. The round dining table set for two, stood by the ten foot window overlooking the city. “Do you want to eat right away?”
“I want to talk. And maybe kiss a little.” She stepped to him.
He didn’t seem to need further encouragement to take her in his arms and pull her close. “We can do more than a little.”
“A lot then,” she managed to say before his lips crushed on hers. At his gentle coaxing, her mouth opened and he plunged his tongue inside. She wrapped her arms around his neck. How she missed him, and now she was in his arms, ready for hi
s love. She tightened her hold on him when he shifted to lean his cane against the wall. “Don’t let go.”
“I’m never letting you go, Ms. Owen.” He pulled her down on the sofa and settled her on his lap. “After a bunch of drunken guys sent my car flying into a ditch on Blair Road, I’ve spent six months in deep coma. What we shared is not something I intend to let go of, ever.”
She cupped his face in her palms. Wide-eyed she studied his face. “Same thing happened to me … on a snowy night, on the same road.”
“I came out of coma the night we got torn apart.” He undid the clip of her hair, setting the locks loose, then brushed his finger through. “Soft as I remembered.” Holding her neck cradled in his palm, he traced her jawline. She gulped air at the stormy sea of passion that rocked her insides. “I wanted to run to you. But months of therapies followed. The psychologist ensured me the fantasy of you was a coping mechanism, but I knew better. I pushed my body hard and played along to get out of there and start searching. Something must’ve impeded my efforts. Everything I did produced no results.”
A tear rolled out of her eye and down her cheek. Her crying was release of pent-up anxiety. Thankfully, he comforted her with a surrendering embrace. She drew in a long, quivering breath. “It was the angel. The entity tested us, wanted to see if our love remains no matter what gets thrown at us. There were moments I questioned my sanity, but I knew I would find you.” She tilted her head at the staff propped against the wall. “Your accident explains the cane.”
He slapped his thigh and grinned, then cupped her neck. “Good old leg will be fine when the pins come out. The main thing is we’ve passed the angel’s test.” His smile dropped and he stared at her for a moment, as if afraid he’d wake and find her gone. “I was a wreck. My body was giving up and the doctors wanted to disconnect me from the life support. Then you came and … I can’t explain it other than I found a purpose to live.”
His words set her mind on a whirlwind and fresh tears stung her eyes, but she pushed them away. “Did you truly experience a heart attack when we visited Tadem?”
“I went into cardiac arrest and was resuscitated.” He wiped her tear that escaped and kissed her forehead. “I wept when I found out we lost Tadem. She was a special kind of angel.”
Olivia nodded, her eyes fixated on his handsome face. She dug her fingers in his hair and drew him close. “I even traveled to Croatia to find you.”
She pressed her cheek to his and tightened her arms around his shoulders. “I missed you, Tom.”
“I missed you, too.” He trailed his lips to her temple.
She pulled back. His eyes narrowed at her wondering gaze. “There’re no surprises for us. We know we’ll have a boy, Milo, and a girl, Rosie.”
“Honey.” He wrapped his arm around her waist. “We lived a fantasy. In real life we don’t know anything for sure. We could end up with a set of triplets.”
She loosened his tie and pulled the loop over his head. “Bring them on.”
He grunted and slid his hand inside the pants pocket. “I hoped we could have a few practice runs before that, but first … ” Pulling the velvet box out, he flipped the lid open, flashing three diamonds set in the white gold ring. “Forgive me if I’m too forward, but will you marry me?”
Her chin dropped, a few gasps puffed out of her mouth. There was a special spot in her heart reserved for him. His love made her whole and she would not survive without him. She brushed her lips on his and whispered, “In a heartbeat.”
About the Author
Zrinka Jelic lives in Ontario, Canada, with her husband and two children. A member of the Romance Writers of America and its chapter Fantasy Futuristic & Paranormal, as well as Savvy Authors, she writes contemporary fiction — which leans toward the paranormal — and adds a pinch of history. Her characters come from all walks of life, and although she prefers red, romance comes in many colors. Given Jelic’s love for her native Croatia and the Adriatic Sea, her characters usually find themselves dealing with a fair amount of sunshine, but that’s about the only break they get. “Alas,” Jelic says, with a grin. “Some rain must fall in everyone’s life.”
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Love of Her Lives by Sharon Clare
My Cyborg Savior
Honoria Ravena
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Honoria Ravena
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6984-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6984-5
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6985-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6985-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
For Lindsey, who has always supported me. The gas station guy still asks me about my “sister.”
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
About the Author
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Acknowledgments
Thank you so much to Debra, you’re always there to help me out. Thanks to Megan for being a great friend and beta reader. A special thanks to Jess and everyone at Crimson Romance. I’m so pleased to be working with you all. And lastly a thank you to Candace Havens. Without Fast Draft this would have taken a lot longer to write.
Chapter One
“Jamila.”
Jamila turned over and brought one of her pillows along to cover her ears. The intercom was stuck on one volume: loud. It also caught some kind of awful static from the latest and greatest SkyTemple stabilizers. But the stabilizers were necessary. The planet Larus was prone to terrible windstorms that brought a house crashing to the earth at least once a year.
“Jamila,” her father’s voice carried through the intercom again, “if I send a servant to check on you, and you’re asleep, I’ll take your shopping allowance away for a week.”
That wasn’t a big threat, considering she had enough allowance saved to last her a year. And that was if she shopped at the finest tailors in New Kent. If she chose to wear peasant clothing she couldn’t begin to guess how long it would last.
Jamila sighed and released her pillow. She hated it when her father was home. He was one of those early risers, while she usually slept till noon. But then, she’d kept one of the servants up till five in the morning flying virtual combat missions over Dramam. Her father would never play games or associate with the “lower” classes.
“Jamila Christianna Clearborne!”
She flinched at the high-pitched squeal of faulty electronics as her father concluded the call. One day she was going to shoot the ’com.
The floor was ice-cold when she rolled out of bed. Another thing that was malfunctioning because of the constant remodels. When father was home, he seemed to think the place needed fixing.
Jamila slipped her feet into her self-heating slippers and pulled on a silk robe before going to see what her father wanted. She took her time, just to be a pain in the ass. It was an awful day out. In the summer the open, villa type architecture was beautiful. The SkyTemple could be closer to the ocean, so the warm sea breeze could waft through the windows. Now the Temple was higher in th
e air to avoid waves, and closed up tighter than a tomb. Rain lashed the windows and lightning lit the dark sky.
She tried to shake her case of the bored-as-hell blues. Six more months of this. Luckily, her father was due back at the Senate next week, so she would be able to leave the villa again. He always insisted that it was dangerous outside these walls, and when he was home he had the ability to make her stay … for the most part.
She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and stretched as she entered the large dining room. She came to an abrupt halt. Father sat on one end of the table and a strange little man with pinched, rat like features sat on the other. To the left, against the wall, a line of dirty, haggard slaves stretched down the length of the table.
One man stood out. He was the tallest, most muscular man she’d ever seen. She was used to being around noblemen, who were usually varying degrees of short and shorter, and tended to be quite thin and frail from the pollution of the cities. At six feet, Jamila was a grotesquely tall woman among the rich, towering over them all. But this man had her by almost a foot.
His hard forearms flexed beneath the thick slave bands he wore. He had dense sleeves of tattoos down his arms. Nobles had given up tattoos long ago as a perverse, disgusting form of body modification. She usually felt the same way about them, but on him, they were extraordinary. Detailed tropical forest scenes with vibrant colors and animals she’d never seen. He only wore loose pants, showing off his chest and tattoos.
When she could close her gaping mouth, she asked, “Father, what’s going on here?” She kept her voice as neutral as possible. Disagreeing with her father was never a good idea. If he knew how much she abhorred slavery, he would probably surround her with slaves.
“You need a bodyguard. Someone to protect you and keep you in the house while I’m away.”
She swallowed, and tried to think of a good way to wiggle out of this little disaster. “But Father, what could possibly encourage a slave, a criminal most likely, to defend his captor?”
