Special Delivery

by Traci Hohenstein

  I slowly nodded my head.

  “Now I feel foolish.”

  Smiling, I reached over for his hand. “Does this change your mind?”

  “Yes, I believe it does.”

  “What about you and Olivia?”

  “I told you the night of the Heart Ball, we’re just friends. That’s all. Olivia and I had breakfast yesterday and I told her there was no chance of us reconciling.”

  “So she does still have the hots for you?”

  Brad shrugged. “I guess so. But I made it clear that I didn’t feel the same way.”

  “Wait, you told her this after you thought Frederick and I were an item?”

  “Yeah. I knew I could never feel the same way about her as I did with you.” Brad smiled. “Or as I do.”

  “Do you think we have a chance?” I asked.

  Brad got up and came around the desk. He held out his hand and helped me out of the chair. Putting his arms around me, he kissed me gently on the lips. “I’d like to try. Take it one day at a time.”

  I kissed him back. “Me too.”

  Epilogue

  One year later

  “Sorry, this is a bit chilly.” The ultrasound tech, Kendra, said as she squirted some gel on my skin. She put the transponder on my belly and then turned the monitor around so we could both see.

  Brad threaded his fingers into mine as we expectantly stared at the screen.

  “Are you sure?” Kendra asked nervously for the third time.

  “Yes, we’re sure.” Brad answered her.

  “Okay, here we go.” The picture came into focus and we peered at the monitor.

  “It’s a boy,” Brad said cheerfully. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “It’s a boy.” He repeated like the happy father-to-be would.

  Fingering the heart-shaped diamond locket around my neck, I counted my blessings. I had a wonderful husband, a successful practice, and awesome family and friends.

  After a three-month courtship, Brad had proposed to me one weekend while we were visiting my parents in Palm Springs. Much to my mom’s dismay, we eloped a few weeks later to Antigua. I got pregnant sometime during our wedding/honeymoon trip. Now here I was, almost six months pregnant and expecting our first child. A son. Of course, we were over the moon.

  The fertility clinic was doing well. We officially opened a couple of months ago, and it worked out better than expected. Brad ran the clinic next door while I managed our busier-than-ever OB/GYN practice. Brad was in his element treating women who had trouble conceiving. I still handled all the high-profile OB clients.

  The spring issue of LA Style came out, and I was teased mercilessly by my staff and friends. The spread had turned out well, and that’s what sealed the deal for Brad. At least that’s what he tells me. He thought I’d have men knocking down my door to ask out one of LA’s most eligible doctors. The funny thing was that four out of the eight people featured were no longer single by the time the article made its debut.

  Frederick found a place to live. After Brad moved in, we built a guest cottage on my lot for Frederick. He met a nice guy and they’re dating. He still cleans and cooks for us and is like an addition to our growing family.

  Venus got her divorce from Mr. Vanderbilt. And she got the house, the furnishings, the cars, and the additional property they owned as per their pre-nup. He denied being involved with another man, although Venus suspects they live together. Venus’s lastest novel is being made into a major motion picture. She and the film’s producer are now seeing each other.

  Hilary Jackson finished her last round of radiation. I’m happy to say that she is cancer free. She’s still in charge of the annual Heart Ball.

  Janessa and Apollo got married and they are also expecting a boy.

  Kasey and Sherry made the talk show circuit with their special twins. They run a non-profit organization that helps other lesbian couples conceive through IVF. Brad serves on their board.

  And lastly, my father recovered nicely from his heart surgery. He still plays golf a couple times a week and my mom is tickled pink about the pregnancy. I think she may have even forgiven us for eloping.

  Read an excerpt of the next book in the Hollywood Hills series, Split Decision, featuring Ava Spivey, Hope’s friend and Hollywood’s hottest divorce attorney to the stars. Coming soon in February 2012!

  SPLIT DECISION

  Chapter 1

  “I want my damn dog back! You have to get her for me.” The Prada-clad woman slammed a tiny rhinestone collar on my desk.

  “Please, Mrs. Coulter, have a seat.” I gestured to one of the two empty chairs in front of me.

  “I don’t want to sit down. I want Ginger back. That no-good son of a bitch husband of mine hates my dog, and he stole her just to spite me. And I’m pissed off and I’m not agreeing to his piddly settlement. Fifteen million! He cleared that much on his last movie.” She took a deep breath and sat down. “I just want Ginger back,” she repeated.

  I called my assistant, Meghan, on the intercom.

  “Get Dalton Balzer on the phone, please. And bring Mrs. Coulter some tea.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Spivey,” Meghan replied.

  Dalton Balzer was the attorney for Mrs. Coulter’s husband. He was the other big divorce attorney in this dog-eat-dog town (no pun intended), and we often went toe-to-toe in court over divorce proceedings. But he was no match for me. Ava Spivey – divorce attorney to who’s who in Hollywood.

  Mrs. Blaine Coulter was a twenty-nine-year-old former beauty queen and Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. She also had the pleasure of being Mr. Stephen Coulter’s fourth wife – soon to be ex-wife. Their marriage had lasted only ten months. A first for Stephen. His former wives had lasted much longer. At least more than two years.

  Stephen Coulter was one of the biggest television producers in Hollywood. His claim to fame was reality shows. His latest, The Love Bug, put a bachelor or bachelorette who was looking for love, in a mansion with twenty other single people. The last girl or guy standing won the bachelor/bachelorette’s heart and a marriage proposal. Maybe. Unfortunately for Blaine Coulter, Stephen liked to sample the goods. Blaine had caught him in a compromising position with one of the contestants.

  Meghan’s voice rang in over the phone’s intercom system. “I have Mr. Balzer on line one.”

  I picked up the phone and exchanged pleasantries with Dalton Balzer. After explaining the situation about Ginger, the missing pooch, he promised to talk to Stephen and call me back.

  I smiled at Blaine. “Mr. Balzer assured me he would speak with Stephen and get Ginger back to you.”

  Blaine seemed to relax a little. While she inspected her well-manicured fingernails, I noticed she was still wearing her five-carat, princess cut, diamond wedding ring. The sunlight cast thousands of sparkles off the ring and tossed them around the room when she moved her hand.

  “Thank you, Ava. All I want is the dog back.” She smoothed her long, bleached-blonde hair. “And my twenty-four million dollars. I think that’s a fair amount for all the bullshit I’ve put up with for over a year.”

  “You’ve only been married for ten months.” I reminded her.

  “Yeah. But we dated for two before we got married in Vegas.” Blaine stood up to leave. “Two million for every month we were together is not much to ask. Especially since Stephen just signed a thirty-million dollar agreement with one of the big networks to move The Love Bug to their station.”

  I made a note on my pad. “How do you know this?”

  “It was in this morning’s TMZ online news. Don’t you keep up with this stuff? What am I paying you for?”

  “I’ll check it out,” I said mentally rolling my eyes. “We’re getting close on the settlement, though. Think about the last offer. Fifteen million for ten months is nothing to scoff at. We don’t want to go to trial.”

  “Twenty-four million. And not a dime less.” Blaine left my office in the huff that she’d walked in with.

  I’d need all day to get the Ch
anel perfume smell out of the office.

  Read More Traci Hohenstein

  The best-selling Rachel Scott suspense series featuring…

  Asylum Harbor

  Amber Knowles, a beautiful high school senior and Florida governor John Knowles’s daughter, has everything going for her until she disappears during a cruise to the Bahamas. After an extensive search of the ship SeaStar, it’s clear that Amber has vanished without a trace. When Governor Knowles receives the distressing news, he asks for Rachel Scott’s help.The teenager’s disappearance represents every parent’s worst fear, and Rachel, founder of Florida Omni Search, knows only too well what losing a daughter feels like. Her three-year-old, Mallory, went missing five years ago. As she works with FBI special agent, Drake Reynolds, Rachel discovers an organized crime ring linked to the cruise line. The last person known to see Amber aboard the ship was an incognito DEA agent, who also has vanished. Where is he? And where is Amber? Finally, where is Mallory? Traci Hohenstein’s Asylum Harbor draws inspiration from the disappearance of Natalee Holloway in 2005 and delves deeply into the mysteries and suspense of missing-person investigations and organized crime detection. The first in a series, Asylum Harbor introduces Rachel Scott and her team and compels readers to follow Florida Omni Search and all their investigations.

  Burn Out

  Lt. Samantha (Sam) Collins, a firefighter, vanishes after a warehouse fire the week before she was to testify at her estranged husband’s trial for drug charges. The only clue to her disappearance is a firefighter helmet that was left behind at the scene.

  Rachel Scott founded Florida Omni Search after her own daughter disappeared when she was four. She has worked with law enforcement agencies all over the United States in locating missing people. Sam’s mother calls Rachel for assistance in locating her daughter. However, the search for Sam takes her on a journey that she never expected. As she digs deeper into Sam’s past, she finds out more about the marijuana operation her husband Ken, a former police officer, was involved with.

  In her desperate, terrifying search for Sam, Rachel also discovers clues about her own missing daughter, Mallory. Will she locate Samantha in time and also find out what happened to her own daughter?

  To contact the author, please visit her blog at http://msthriller.wordpress.com or write her an email to tracihohenstein@gmail.com.

  BONUS EXCERPT from Sibel Hodge

  THE BABY TRAP

  Prologue

  Why is it that you spend most of your young adult life trying not to get pregnant, and yet when you actually want to get pregnant, you can’t? How annoying is that? Not to mention frustrating, depressing, soul-destroying, and numerous other feelings that I’ve experienced at one time or another in the last two years. I know I’m in danger of losing myself in a never-ending round of fertility treatment, wishing this time it’s going to magically work. No, that’s wrong. I’ve lost myself already. I’ve become a neurotic nutcase who’s bored with life, boring, unsociable, and turning into a frump. What happened to the happy, carefree woman I used to be? The woman who used to enjoy life, have a laugh, appreciate her lot, and drink one too many bottles of wine at the weekends? Obsessed. Yes, that’s what I am, but it’s not my fault. It’s this feeling that I can’t explain. This desperate need inside me to have a baby. This urge that has completely turned my brain to single-train thoughts: Baby, baby, baby.

  And as the years have gone on, I’m morphing into the ghost of myself. Someone who can’t enjoy life because I’m too busy worrying and wondering when and if it’s going to happen for me. I don’t even recognize myself most of the time anymore. I’m constantly wishing for the end of my cycle to hurry up and arrive to see if I’ve hit the jackpot this time, and when it doesn’t work, I’m constantly wishing for the middle of my cycle so I can ovulate and try again. I’m unable to feel whole and complete unless I have a son or daughter to hold.

  So this year I have to take drastic action before I get sucked into a giant abyss of despair and can never get back. I’m going to give it six more months of trying, and if I still can’t get pregnant…well, that’s it. I’m giving up. This is the last year I’m going through it. I’ve absolutely, definitely, positively made my mind up. I know I said that the last time, and the time before that, oh, and the time before that, but I really mean it this time.

  Really.

  Maybe really.

  Nope. Really and truly, this year is going to be my year to give up trying for a baby.

  I’m sick of people looking up my lady garden, prodding me, poking me. Doctors and nurses at the Assisted Conception Unit and friends looking at me with sympathy. I’m also sick of the following:

  1) Having no spontaneous sex. It’s not the same when you have to have precision-timed nookie. I’m also having to give precision-timed wanks to Karl in aid of sperm tests.

  2) Leaving my legs hanging in the air after sex for ten minutes – although have been known to do it for up to forty as there are varying opinions on the length of time necessary.

  3) Being obsessed about babies all the time.

  4) Not having time for Karl and me anymore as always obsessing about babies. I’m worried we’re drifting apart.

  5) Being hormonal and moody from all the fertility drugs, and sometimes wanting to kill perfectly innocent people for no reason.

  6) Balling my eyes out every time I have my period (and countless other times, too).

  7) Eating healthy organic food and giving up alcohol and smoking.

  8) Constantly texting tarot card hotlines to find out if and when I will get pregnant (my mobile phone bill is the same as a small country’s debt!).

  9) Trying every alternative fertility treatment under the sun.

  10) Isn’t that enough reasons?

  I always said I’d never write down my infertility journey, but I’ve changed my mind now. Actually, it was Poppy, who I met online at the Fertility Friends website, who suggested it. We’ve got to know each other pretty well through emails and phone calls in the last two years. How can I describe Poppy? Hmm…if I’d met her in any normal circumstances she wouldn’t have been my type of friend. She’s a floaty, New Age, holistic type, who says she can see auras, and talks about cosmic energy, Karma, and projecting positive thoughts to the Universe. Now, normally I’d burst into uncontrollable laughter if someone told me I had to imagine a bright white light of happiness radiating through my body to my ovaries, but I’ve done some pretty bizarre things in my quest to get pregnant, so maybe it’s time I started listening to her and took her advice. What the hell, why not? What have I got to lose? I mean, the drugs and IVF don’t seem to be working, so if I can finally have my little bundle of joy by chanting a few words and hugging a tree, why not give it a go? Although Karl will probably freak and think I’ve lost my mind completely after all the “ridiculous ideas” (as he calls them) I’ve come up with so far. I’ve gone from being someone totally unsuperstitious to someone who looks for signs everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Not to mention the fertility symbols and spells.

  Anyway, Poppy told me that writing my story down is the first step to cosmic enlightenment (not entirely sure what that is, but it sounds nice). She explained that if I keep this journal, I’ll be letting the Universe know exactly what I want and she (or he, not entirely what sex the Universe represents, although I think it’s a she and will name her Zelda, which is a Universe-ish kind of name) will help me get rid of any negative energies surrounding me, unblock my chakras (whatever they are), and help me let go of my grief about being unable to get pregnant. OK, in a tiny little way it makes sense, but, of course, I can’t tell that to Karl. He doesn’t understand. And I can’t help thinking that if all this stuff she talks about could really work, then why isn’t she pregnant yet, either?

  But I’m game, and this is the last sliver of hope I can cling to. So on the first day of a brand new year, which Poppy said is the perfect time for cosmic alignment, you, my little pink diary with the silver clasp, will be my new f
riend. And if you can find time to poke the Universe and get her to grant my wish, then I’ll be eternally grateful. Because if I can’t get pregnant this time, I’ll need to do something radical to fill this gaping hole in my life, and I’m scared of what that radical thing might be.

  My Body Clock

  It all started when I turned thirty-three. I woke up one Sunday morning and I could’ve sworn I heard a clock ticking. I prised open one sleepy eyelid, stuck together with caked mascara that I’d forgotten to take off again after another mad party. Maybe it was my head banging with a humongous hangover that was making the noise. I turned towards my husband Karl, snoring softly beside me with his mouth open, and groaned. Oops, big mistake! My head felt like someone was repeatedly hitting it with a sledgehammer. Probably not a good idea to actually move. Maybe I should just stay in bed all day. Yep, good idea.

  Except the bloody ticking wouldn’t shut up.

  I knew it couldn’t be the alarm clock on my bedside table because that had run out of batteries months ago. And it couldn’t have been Karl’s because he had a digital clock next to the bed. So what was it?

  God, how much had I drunk last night? Was I hallucinating sounds? Whoa, I really needed to slow down on the wine next time.

  I rolled out of bed, clutching my head in my hands, and wandered downstairs into the kitchen that overlooked the garden. Pouring a hefty glass of water to combat brain dehydration, I glugged it down in one as I stared through hangover-induced blurry eyes at an oak tree outside.

  What was that out there?

  Instantly alert, my monster headache disappeared. I narrowed my eyes at a peculiar site in the garden. It was…what the hell was it? No, it couldn’t be.