Esmerelda's Secret (Esmerelda's Lovers Book 1)

by Adrianna Dane

  Esmerelda, Massachusetts, a community built on tradition, held secrets and painful memories. John William (J.W.) Dalton and Willow MacKenzie had once been passionate lovers, two halves of one soul, torn apart by greed and misunderstanding. Now, ten years later, J.W. is sheriff and Willow has returned to Esmerelda to finally lay to rest the tormenting ghosts that continue to haunt her. Her love for J.W. has never died. Willow's return will open old wounds. Can J.W. protect her from the destructive truth that awaits?

  This story is a work of original fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.

  This book remains the copyrighted property of the author.

  Copyright 2017 by Adrianna Dane

  Cover Art Designs by T. A. Gallup

  This story was originally released in June 2004 by Amber Quill Press/Amber Heat

  CAUTION: This story contains explicit sexual situations and strong language. You must be over the age of 18 years of age to read this story.

  Esmerelda’s Secret

  By Adrianna Dane

  Dream Romantic Unlimited, LLC

  Table of Contents

  Esmerelda’s Secret

  Author Bio

  Networking Links

  Esmerelda’s Secret

  When the tires of her car crossed the county line, the rhythm of Willow's body intuitively shifted. She quivered with awareness. Long dormant desire blazed unexpectedly. Her breath quickened. With fear or anticipation?

  The glow of her car's headlights captured the dark wood and white paint of a road sign. Esmerelda, Population 10,592. First Established 1752.

  Willow, shrouded in memories and the icy silence of a moonless, fall evening, traveled along the bittersweet familiarity of Main Street. Orange jack-o'-lanterns swaying in the wind cast a flickering ghostly glow to the lonely night. It was 11 p.m.

  She remembered well the unwritten commandments of this small town on the edge of the Massachusetts border. No one stayed out past 9 p.m. In Esmerelda, the commandments and the law were laid down, and upheld, by the Family Dalton.

  Willow was raised during the tenure of Sheriff Jack Dalton. Tradition held that the eldest Dalton son always stepped into the black-and-white embrace of law enforcement. This was a community defined by tradition. Tracing back to 1752, Daltons had stood guardian for the innocent. When Willow was growing up, those who crossed Jack, or anyone of Dalton blood, might as well fold up and call it a day.

  Willow bitterly remembered being the recipient of the thunder of Dalton anger. After the unjustified gossip over the incident with Kenny Miller, a Dalton cousin, she might as well have been branded with the letter A.

  Even her mother had encouraged her to leave town. She never asked Willow for the truth. But then, neither did the man who professed to love Willow. No one wanted the truth. Justice is blind was never a truer statement than in Willow's case.

  In Esmeralda, a story didn't need to be true to spread like wildfire, or be held as gospel. At seventeen, Willow had been too naïve to withstand the suspicion and humiliation.

  Once she graduated from Esmerelda High School, Willow fled to Boston. She never looked back. That was ten years ago. She wondered if anyone would even remember Willow MacKenzie today.

  She turned into the parking lot of the Comfy Lodge Motor Inn and turned off the engine. Willow closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

  The week before, she had received a form letter from her mother's lawyer informing her that Moira MacKenzie had died. Her mother, the woman who had raised Willow from a sense of duty rather than love, who never tried to contact her after she'd left, was gone.

  Something beyond a sense of duty to her mother had brought Willow back to Esmerelda. She trembled as the devil tiptoed along her spine. Willow was about to come face-to-face with the demons that had chased her for ten years. Tormenting memories kept her yearning, but never satisfied; made her want, but never fulfilled.

  The wound to her soul inflicted a decade earlier had abscessed and she yearned to have it cleansed. Only one person could help and that person was in Esmerelda. Her mother's death was but the catalyst that returned her to the source.

  * * * *

  The pulsing rain of wet heat soothed away the long hours of driving. Willow's body recalled a time when callused, long fingers had massaged and inflamed, soothed and stimulated every inch of her sensitive skin. Her own slick fingers now moved down her hips, soaping and massaging, remembering, craving...

  For ten, long years she had dated other men, kissed them, allowed them to woo her, and was left bereft with her turbulent memories. Memories that had flared instantly to life when she'd crossed over the county line. Subliminal signals delivered her body from its deep, numbing sleep and primed it for the one man who could set her soul free.

  With the memory of his touch, Willow's body surrendered to sensations so forcefully they caused her pain. She turned off the water and stepped from the shower. As she shook with unfulfilled desire, her stomach cramped.

  Willow grasped the sink and leaned forward, inhaling slowly and deeply. Lavender pools of hurtful yearning stared back from the misty reflection. If her memories alone did this to her, what would happen when she finally confronted him in reality?

  The pain subsided; she knew her craving never would.

  Willow wrapped a white towel around her head turban-style, and another around her body in sarong fashion. She walked from the small, heated bathroom into the twenty-degree-colder main bedroom.

  Abruptly, she stopped in disbelief. Had she summoned him with her erotic ruminations? She would recognize those broad shoulders anywhere. How had he gotten inside?

  "J.W." Instinct had her body responding to him. She was not prepared for this.

  He turned toward her. John William Dalton, eldest son of Jack Dalton, and the current favored son of Esmerelda. There stood the man who had stolen and destroyed her heart and soul, leaving her with long, dark years of emptiness.

  In uniform, he appeared larger, more muscled than she'd remembered, his face chiseled in shadows. Hard eyes studied her, and it was obvious he found her lacking. Willow gripped the towel. How had he known she was here?

  At last, he broke the silence. "Hello, Willow. It's been a long time. I'm sorry about your mother, but I hope you're not planning on staying long. We don't need your kind around here." His voice caressed and destroyed her in the same breath.

  So much for pleasantries. The words had been meant to hurt and to send her into retreat. Hurt, they did. Retreat, never. She would not let him see her pain.

  Willow turned away, rummaging through her suitcase, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears. She couldn't find what she sought, so stopped looking. "What do you want, Sheriff? Are you here to railroad me out of town before I can cause another scandal?" She faced him, in control of herself now. Her hands were balled into fists, her stance rigid, and her head high. "I'm not seventeen, Sheriff, and I don't scare easily. I'll leave when I'm damn well ready to leave. Your scare tactics won't work."

  "Think not?" His voice was deceptively quiet. "You've forgotten a lot since you left."

  He stood close enough to taste. His magnetism captured her. Willow had the sinking feeling her yearnings would defeat her.

  Willow had been certain the years would blunt her response to J.W. She had underestimated. Exorcising his memory was why she was here, but it wasn't working so far.

&
nbsp; She stood mesmerized, unable to move, as he reached out and traced down the length of her naked arm with one finger. Chilled awareness raced up her spine.

  Willow moved to step away, but one hand grasped her forearm, stopping her. His other hand yanked her close. The cheap white towel was no barrier to his fire. His breath whispered across her skin.

  In a quick, unexpected motion, he dragged the turban from her head. Her hair fell in damp disarray to her shoulders.

  J.W.'s unreadable eyes studied her. What was he looking for?

  Willow withstood the look, unflinching. She would not surrender.

  He anchored her to him, and the cold metal buttons on his shirt pressed into her. His left hand curled in her hair, and he was relentless as he drew back her head. "Sunlight. I wanted to see if it was still the sunlight I remembered."

  Loving him had never been passive. It was filled with intensity and burning, fierce and passion.

  "How many have there been?" His voice was like gravel under tires on a hot July day. The blue blaze in his half-closed eyes seared her with its intensity.

  Willow did not pretend to misunderstand. "None of your business. You gave up that right a long time ago."

  She remained unresisting as his eyes bore into her, yet hoped she revealed none of the primitive lust seething inside. Her fingers itched to rip open his shirt, to expose his naked chest to her eyes, to her mouth.

  Her breath hitched. The room closed in.

  Without warning, he released her other arm and yanked the towel from her body.

  Willow gasped in surprise. Her nipples tightened with arousal. J.W.'s eyes flashed. He lowered his head, and his mouth explored and reacquainted itself with the curves of her right breast. The hand that had removed the barrier now bit against the warmth of her naked hip. He licked, sucked, and teased, drawing a helpless moan from her lips.

  "Don't do this, J.W." Her words came out in a ragged burst. Her body responded with rising poignant pleasure to the touch of his lips.

  He ignored her. His mouth moved to her other breast, suckling and tugging at the sensitized bud, spiraling her into a world of passionate, dark needs.

  The music of her body, long silent, swelled to life. Willow felt helpless to do other than undulate to the rhythm he plucked from her. She gave one last plea before the melody he commanded totally consumed her. "J.W."

  "Be quiet," he growled.

  His right arm snaked around her waist, arching her closer, stretching her back, opening her to him. He drew her breast more fully into his mouth, his tongue circling and rasping over her hardened nipple.

  Willow reached for him, her hands curling into the cloth of his shirt. Her head dropped back, while her lower body pressed against his rigid abdomen.

  He raised his head, repeating his question, his voice raw with passion. Or was it rage? "How many? Don't lie. I know what you did in Boston."

  His question abruptly dragged her back from the edge of euphoria where his dangerous, sensual mouth had transported her. With one last, superhuman effort, she pushed away from him, stumbling, yet moving fast. The bed now served as a barrier.

  "What I did? What are you talking about?" Willow made a quick grab for the robe she at last saw peeking from the corner of her suitcase. She wrapped the lily-patterned silk around her and tied the belt.

  His eyes gleamed. "I know you're a stripper." Those passionate mirrors to the soul she had loved so much insolently traced the curve of her body beneath the silk. "What did you have to do for that piece of expensive clothing? How many men did you fuck?"

  White-hot anger dueled with blazing arousal. The robe was a luxury she had designed herself. "You insulting son of a bitch! How dare you assume anything about my life? Get out! I don't have to explain to you how I live." She yanked open the door. "Leave, Sheriff, before I say something I'll regret."

  He towered over her. "We aren't finished, Willow."

  "Too right, Sheriff. And when you're ready to hear what I have to say, you let me know. You always assume the worst. And you're always right, aren't you, Sheriff? Let me know when you want to listen. But now, I want you to leave."

  He stalked past her and she slammed the door behind him. She shot home the security bolt as well.

  How could she have forgotten how infuriating and overbearing he could be? Even worse, how could she have underestimated her response to him?

  This time he had taken her by surprise. Next time she would be ready.

  * * * *

  The Main Street Restaurant occupied an 1800s renovated and converted former private residence. Situated next to Mary Agnes's Beauty Parlor, it had provided a convenient place for Willow to eat lunch when she worked at Mary Agnes's as a teenager. Once the gossip spread, however, Willow had given up her job, unable to face the whispers of the beauty parlor customers.

  Now, she shook loose the cobwebs of memories and sat at a booth near the back of the restaurant.

  It was 9 a.m. and Willow had an appointment with her mother's attorney at ten. It left her just enough time for a quick breakfast.

  She was waiting for her food to arrive when a woman sat down across from her.

  Willow looked up in surprise. A knife pierced her heart. Elizabeth Anthony. No, that was wrong. Elizabeth Anthony Dalton. Elizabeth had married J.W.

  "Hello, Willow." Elizabeth's hothouse, regal beauty had always left Willow feeling like a windblown dandelion.

  "Hello, Elizabeth. What can I do for you?"

  The woman's perfect lips curved into a polite smile. "I heard you were back in town. I just wanted to say hello."

  "Really..." Willow knew Elizabeth wanted something.

  The smile left Elizabeth's face. "All right. I'll come to the point. What are you doing here? I don't want to see J.W. hurt again."

  Willow was speechless. J.W. hurt? He was the one who did the hurting, not the other way around. "I thought you were divorced, Elizabeth."

  Willow had subscribed to the Esmerelda Sentinel, concluding long ago the newspaper was her instrument of self-flagellation. Every time she opened the paper, she found the name Dalton plastered somewhere between the pages.

  A year after her departure, she read that J.W. had gotten engaged; six months later, he married. That was the one and only night Willow allowed herself to drink beyond her limits. In her apartment, she had sat on her living room floor, old photographs and a bottle of cheap Scotch her only company. The photos hadn't survived the binge. She'd passed out on the carpet, the pieces of her heart scattered around her.

  A year later, Willow had read that Elizabeth filed for divorce, and felt only sadness at what might have been--had J.W. been a different man; had Willow been a stronger woman.

  Elizabeth sighed. "Yes, we're divorced. But we're still friends. You hurt him, Willow. You being here will only reopen old wounds."

  "What about you? You didn't hurt him when you divorced him?" The demon inside Willow had roused. Did she really need to know the details?

  Elizabeth remained silent for a long time. "That was the problem. I thought when he first asked me out and I heard the gossip about you, I had a chance with him. When he asked me to marry him, I was ecstatic. I was sure he loved me." Elizabeth looked at her hands, neatly clasped on the table. "I was wrong. Marriage takes two to succeed and J.W.--" She shrugged. "--wasn't really there, if you know what I mean. I've realized the truth since then." Elizabeth's china-blue eyes bore into Willow. "It's you. You've always been the problem. I just got tired of trying to fight your ghost."

  Willow shook her head in denial. "You're wrong. He doesn't love me. He despises me."

  "You're the one who's wrong. Look beneath all that Dalton pride and self-righteousness." Elizabeth rose from the table. "I've always disliked you, Willow. You stood in the way of what I wanted. However, it appears one can't change fate, and I'd like to see J.W. happy. He's a shell of the man he should be. I've got a feeling you're the only one who can heal him. Remember that fine line between love and hate. Both such intense
feelings. See you around."

  The breakfast arrived just as Elizabeth walked away. Willow looked at the plate of unappetizing scrambled eggs and toast, not seeing it. How was she supposed to eat with her stomach in knots? Absently, she picked up the glass of orange juice.

  In her mind Willow saw J.W. naked, making love to Elizabeth...the woman's cool beauty arching...J.W. entering her...

  The glass shattered in her hand. Willow stared blankly at the pink-tinged orange juice leaking onto the table.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  Willow heard the angry exclamation, but it didn't immediately register. A hand grabbed her injured hand.

  What was he doing here?

  J.W. held her stinging fingers between his two large hands. Willow could not look at him--was unable to answer him--still caught up in her tormenting vision.

  His eyes unreadable, J.W.'s jaw clenched. He grabbed a couple of napkins and loosely wrapped them around her hand to stop the trickle of blood. "Come with me." He pulled her up and pushed her down the hallway. "Mary," he called to the waitress, "Miss MacKenzie cut her hand. I'm afraid there's quite a mess at the table. I'm taking her in the back to make sure we remove all the glass."

  "Sure thing, Sheriff. Anything I can do to help?"

  "No. I'll take care of this."

  Oh, yes, Willow thought. Sheriff Dalton had everything under control.

  "Wait! I can't be in here." She would have opened the door to leave, but he held her wrist and wouldn't let go.

  "Just shut up and let me look at what kind of mess you've made of your hand." He pulled her wrapped hand over the sink, then gently unwound the stained napkins. He bent close to examine her wounds.

  Willow stared at his dark head, her mind filled with Elizabeth's words. She tried to tell herself that Elizabeth couldn't be right. J.W. didn't love her.