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Authors: Kate Allenton

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BOOK: Jackson (The Love Family Series Book 8)

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Jackson sat next to her on the hospital bed. She’d been out of surgery for the bullet wound for hours, and they expected a full recovery. Jackson held her hand and stared lovingly down at her. “I was an ass at the hotel.”

She grinned. “You’re always an ass. I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

“Next time, just smack me.” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm.

“What do you think I was trying to do when I got taken?” She grinned. Her eyes were glassy from the drugs they had her on. She glanced down at their entwined fingers. “We need to talk.”

Jackson stiffened. Whenever a woman uttered those words, it was never a good thing.

“I love you,” he blurted out, afraid that if he didn’t tell her at that moment how he felt, he might never get the opportunity again.

Scarlett smiled. “I love you too, but you might not like what I have to tell you.”

He nodded and steeled his resolve in an attempt not to fly off the handle. They could work out anything out. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. “Go ahead. I can’t read minds like Gabe or Marsh, but I’ll always be connected to you.” He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to her lips.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She let out a sigh. “Marsh wants me to write a book about people with abilities. He thinks that if more people understood, and knew there was help available, that it would make a difference.”

“Okay,” he said, staring down at her, unsure why that would be a problem.

“If I do that, people will automatically assume that I’m referring to friends and family, and I’d never hurt your family like that. Ever.”

“Scarlett, I don’t care what people think, but what I do care about is losing you. This thing between us just started, and I already know where it’s going to go.”

Scarlett chuckled. “Do you now?”

“I’m giving you time to catch up.”

“Yep.” He kissed her again. “Flynn’s confirmed it. So, whatever it is you want to do, I’ll support you and have your back. You’re mine, and I’ll always be yours.”

“I love you,” she whispered.”

“I’ll never get tired of hearing it. I love you too.”

Chapter 13

Nine months to the day, Scarlett tried to stifle the butterflies in her belly as she stood at the podium with Jackson. His hand was on the small of her back, offering her unspoken support. Mr. Marsh stood in the background with his merry band of men in suits.

Cameras flashed before she even spoke her first words. “Thank you all for coming.”

“Mrs. Love, Mrs. Love,” a reporter called out. “Are the individuals in your book really based on actual people?”

“Yes. I’ve had the privilege to meet some extraordinary people who allowed me the honor of telling their stories.”

“You do realize that some people are skeptical that people with abilities actually exist. You’ve been called a fake and a fraud.”

“If only I were gifted with the ability to change minds, I could rule the world.” Scarlett chuckled. “My only goal is to tell those special people out there, living among us, that they aren’t alone. My book was written to help create awareness and give hope to those who need it. I understood going into this that not everyone would believe what I wrote and that there would be a backlash.” She glanced at Jackson and smiled. “But thankfully, my family is very supportive of me and everything I do.”

“Mr. Love,” another reporter yelled out.

Jackson leaned into the mic. “Yes?”

“Is the story she wrote about you? Are you a fire starter and did you burn down your house?”

Jackson grinned. “No, but if I was, it’s a good thing that my brother-in-law is the fire chief on the Island. I’m sure if I went around starting fires, he might be a little peeved. But the answer is no. That story is not about me.”

“Are any of the stories in the book about you or someone you personally know?” another one yelled out.

He leaned into the mic. “Not yet.” He grinned. “But I’d like to think she used some of my characteristics for the hero in a romantic suspense novel she’s in the process of writing.”

The audience erupted in a bout of laughter before another reporter yelled out, “Mrs. Love.”

She smiled and nodded.

“Is the facility you mention in your book actually real?”

“Yes, it is. Harold Marsh, the owner of Marsh Corp., saw a need to help and stepped in to figure out a way to help those individuals who needed it most.” She glanced back at Marsh. “I’m sure he’ll answer whatever questions you have about his doctors, their research, and the facility.”

“Mr. Marsh. Isn’t there a risk of having so many mutants in one facility?” another reporter yelled out.

Scarlett didn’t give him a chance to answer. “These are human beings, not mutants. The only thing that separates them from people like you and me is an anomaly in their chromosomes. Similar to what would give someone green eyes versus brown or why someone has a predetermined cancer gene. They are kind and caring people, and there are many more than the two dozen that I met. They are our friends, our families, and, right now, they are being judged and feel alone. Concentrate on that when you’re writing your stories. Have compassion.”

“Until one burns down your house,” another reporter yelled, and the audience laughed.

Marsh moved up to the podium, and Scarlett and Jackson stepped back. “Do I look like a monster?” he asked the same reporter who had yelled about the house.

“Well, no. You’re successful. You own a multibillion dollar operation, Mr. Marsh. You aren’t the kind of people I’m talking about.”

Marsh gave a slow nod. “Pick a number.”

Marsh’s brow rose. “Two, five, seven, three, purple polka-dotted unicorns.” Marsh scrunched his nose. “Really?”

The reporter’s mouth parted as he stared at Marsh.

“Will you confirm for the audience that those numbers were indeed in your mind?”

The reported nodded, which garnered gasps from the audience.

“We’re just like you, and all these people want is to be helped like an infant learning to walk or talk. We help them. That’s all.”

“Mrs. Love,” Another reported yelled out, and Marsh stepped back for her to retake the mic.

“Yes.”

“I find your stories fascinating. Will there be more?”

“I hope so.” She smiled and rubbed her protruding belly. “As long as this little one cooperates, I’ll be writing for a long time.”

She glanced up at Jackson, and he leaned in and kissed her on the lips.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“That’s my line,” she whispered back.

The End

Thank you for taking the time to read my stories. As always I appreciate each and every one of you. If you liked it and have a moment, please leave a review on Amazon.

I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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Please keep reading for a sneak peek at
Deadly Intent
, the first book in a brand new series called Linked Inc.

Chapter 1

Most people would find it odd walking into their house after a long day at work to find a ghost poking his head inside a closed fridge. Quinn Thatcher wasn’t most people.

“Don’t be sliming all over my leftover Chinese noodles, Clarence,” she scolded while tossing her purse and keys onto the bar.

“You’re going to die from clogged arteries. There isnae a vegetable in your house, and as you well know, we donae
ooze slime
like in the movies.”

Quinn knew a lot about ghosts, and she should; it was her job. Yet she couldn’t help aggravating the uppity Scottish Highlander who had decided to haunt her day and night until she listened to his problems. The ghost was slowly learning she was more stubborn than the leather pants in her closet that refused to budge over her hips. She, too, was unwilling to give that extra inch or three.

“Don’t you have some family members you’d rather haunt?”

“I donae.”

She sighed and left the food voyeur in the kitchen to change her clothes and ditch her bra. The ghost wasn’t going to stop her from getting comfortable in her own home. Returning a few minutes later, she pulled her hair up into a ponytail.

“I can give you the addresses of a few people who deserve a good scare. Have you learned to rattle chains yet?”

His sigh of aggravation made her chuckle. She had this innate ability to bring out the best in everyone. Ghosts were no exception.

“Lass, I’ll leave when you help me.”

If only that were true. Quinn had been duped once by a little old lady who worried about who was going to take care of her ten cats. Never again.

“You shouldn’t have invaded my private space. I might have considered it.”

Quinn grabbed a pint of chunky monkey from the freezer and a spoon before turning on
Gone with the Wind
. The movie worked like ghost repellant; most disappeared before the opening credits.

“You’re gonna make me do this the hard way, aren’t ya, lass?”

“Give me your worst.” Quinn grinned while turning up the TV volume.

“So be it.”

Quinn’s mother had always warned her to be careful what she asked for. She was about to find out exactly which one was more stubborn—the Scottish ghost or southern medium.

****

Rest In Peace would never be inscribed on her gravestone like the one she was sitting on top of. Nor would the attendees cry a tear once she kicked the bucket. Her death would never be from natural causes, more like from falling off a table while dancing topless as she belted out the wrong lyrics to her favorite song. It could happen. It almost had.

Both men and women wanted to strangle her for her unusual manner and razor-sharp tongue. One had already tried and failed miserably. The poor shmuck was serving ten in the state pen after a spirit convinced her that the perp was responsible for his early demise. Maybe she shouldn’t have confronted him alone. She wasn’t a cop, she didn’t carry a badge, and she didn’t solve crimes. Her contribution was a little more on the down-low and usually swept under the rug. Police agencies would never admit to using her skills, and she couldn’t blame them. How was she supposed to prove what she saw in her head?

Conversing with the dead was much more entertaining than conversing with the living. It was a gift and a curse and one she acknowledged proudly like the red tangled curls on her head, which had lost their luster in the choking humidity and eerily strange wind while sitting in the cemetery. Gathering the strands, she pulled them back with the ponytail holder she kept on her wrist for just this purpose and the occasional infliction of red marks on people she didn’t like.

Her only company lay entombed in a steel casket six feet beneath her feet. Darkness cloaked her in the graveyard; not even the moon was on her side. She wasn’t scared of waiting in the sacred place alone. Just the opposite.

Ghosts didn’t tend to hang around their final resting place, no matter what the living thought. She’d often tell her clients if they wanted to talk to their deceased loved ones to save the gas and do it in the comfort of their homes. Chances were good that their relatives were already visiting.

The scent of roses drifted to her nose. Conversation from approaching voices pierced her peace. She didn’t need to turn around to know her sister’s had arrived. Their laughter could wake the dead.

“You’re all late,” she called out and hopped down off the cool marble stone, giving her bony butt a break. Steven Simmons would be pleased she was no longer sitting on his face.

“This place is creepy. I don’t know why we can’t meet at the office like normal people,” Becca called out as she approached. She shivered, rubbing her wool-covered arms. It didn’t matter that Becca was a native Floridian, living on the Redneck Riviera where the words ya’ll and drunken spring breakers were as normal as wearing flip-flops all year round in ninety-degree weather. Becca was in dire need of a supersized value meal to help her achieve another layer of fat to keep her warm.

Sometimes Quinn wondered whether Becca was really blood related and not the product of a secret affair between their mother and the butler. She shook her head. Regardless of Becca’s heritage and love for green vegetables, Quinn loved her.

“We get paid for creepy,” she reminded her.

“Tell me again why we’re here,” Quinn’s other sister, Cara, said while peering down at the stone in front of her. Her lips twisted into a frown as she touched the old cracked marble. Quinn’s butt wasn’t responsible for that particular crack. Cara’s ability was different from the rest of family that could see ghosts. One touch of anything personal or emotionally charged by the dead and she could see the spirit’s life flash before her eyes. Why anyone would need that ability was a mystery.

Quinn loved her sisters, all four of them, although sometimes they were the reason she enjoyed playing with the dead over the living.

“Where are Harper and Grace?” she asked impatiently, folding her arms over the big red lips printed on her shirt.

Cara yanked her hand to her chest and rubbed her palm. “They’re still out of town working in New Orleans. You’d know that if you actually showed up to our meetings.”

Well, if that news didn’t bite a big donkey butt. Those two officially couldn’t be persuaded by Quinn’s manipulative plan if they weren’t even in town. There would be another time for them. “Clarence finally wore me down but refuses to shimmer out of my life.”

Both of her sisters’ eyes widened, and they remained speechless. Quinn wasn’t surprised by their reaction. It took a lot to break her resolve. She’d ignored him for a solid month.

Last night, he’d breached her personal sanctuary, entering her bathroom during shower karaoke.

Quinn slipped her fingers into her pocket and slid out the reason for his constant badgering. A heart-shaped emerald the size of her fist dangled from a sturdy gold chain. The gem remained freezing to the touch as if it had been hidden in the gallon carton of chunky monkey in her freezer instead of in a metal box buried next to Clarence’s headstone.

“Oh my God.” Cara lifted the heart into her palms. “This is real.”

“As real as my breast,” Quinn proudly announced after hours of research online, not taking Clarence at his word. She should have. It would have saved her time. “It’s an heirloom piece that belongs to the Menzie’s clan in Scotland.”

Cara yanked back her hand and pointed an accusing finger at the gem. “That thing is cursed. You need to put it back where you found it.”

“And risk Clarence becoming a permanent haunt in my life?” Quinn shook her head vehemently. “No can do, Cara. You must be smoking some good shit, and I’m kind of offended you aren’t sharing, but there is no way in hell that opera-singing wannabe is keeping me up at night for the rest of my life. Have you ever heard a Scottish ghost try opera?” Quinn’s entire body cringed at the memory of last night’s performance. The sound was as loud and annoying as a foghorn mating with a tornado siren.

“Maybe you should listen to her,” Becca suggested.

Bless her heart. She was still so young and naïve. “My research indicated that there are two clans still feuding over this little gem, Becca. Aren’t you the one who cares about world peace and love? I thought for sure that you’d be on my side.”

“We’re not going, and you shouldn’t either. I won’t touch that thing again, and Becca….she isn’t prepared enough to deal with the spirits in Scotland.” Cara slipped her arm around Becca’s as if Quinn was about to play a game of tug of war. The thought had crossed her mind.

Traitors. Quinn should be fuming and seeing red, but she was as proud of her baby sisters showing their claws as a mother bird watching her babies take flight.

“If that’s how you want to be, then fine.” Quinn waved the fortune in her hand. “If there’s any commission, then I’m keeping it, but regardless, this is my one shot to ditch Clarence, so I’m out of here.” She spun in her Converses and stalked away. “And I’m taking one of Daddy’s jets and charging it to the company.” No way in hell would she be tortured in cramped spaces with crying babies or worse. She had hours of sleep to make up for thanks to Clarence. Get there, give them the jewelry, and then hightail it home and pray that Clarence shimmered from sight.

If you enjoyed the first chapter, Deadly Intent is available for preorder by clicking
here
.

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