Secrets and Seduction: 5 Romance Novels (21 page)
Nick cupped her face in his hands. “I love you so much.”
Marisa’s heart soared with hope.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I need you to be sure.”
“I’ve never been surer.”
“Then I don’t need more time, at least not time to decide. But I’d like another fifty or sixty years with you.”
Marisa hugged him. It felt good to be able to rescue him.
“Look what I found.” Marisa waved the book at Nick. “It’s Carolyn’s diary. It was hidden in my father’s,” she tripped over the not-yet-familiar word, “desk. Scott or Brooke must have taken it out of the box of mementos.” Sorrow crossed her heart, like a cloud passing over the sun. They hadn’t taken the box out of her trunk, so most of the photos in the box had been ruined in the lake water, although a local photographer said he’d try to save them.
Nick pulled her down onto the couch next to him, wrapped an arm around her and kissed her cheek. “Try not to think about what you’ve lost. We own the Easterling house, the salt plant is saved, and we’re getting married tomorrow.”
“And your brother’s coming to be your best man.”
Nick had contacted his brother to let him know he was moving to Watkins Glen. He’d found out his brother didn’t blame him for their father’s death. It had been Nick’s own guilt that had caused the rift between them.
“We have a lot to be thankful for.” Marisa snuggled against him. She turned to the last page on which anything was written. She glanced at it, and then looked harder. Then she sat up straight and grabbed Nick’s arm. “Nick, listen to this.”
“To my sister Marisa. Yes, it’s true — we’re sisters. I found out from my father’s papers after he died. He hadn’t wanted to hurt my mother by claiming you while she was alive, but he was planning to claim you publicly for your thirtieth birthday. He’d meant for us to share his inheritance.
“I’d known since I was a teenager that my father and your mother were sleeping together. I’d thought it was an affair. But then I found my dad’s papers and understood your parents had been lovers since I was born. I found the wedding rings with the vows he’d written for their wedding. Had my mother died, they would have married. That’s when I knew it was more than an affair — your mother was the wife my mother could no longer be.
“If something happens to me, I’ve left your parents’ wedding rings for you to give to your mother. It’s time she admitted she was also Mrs. Easterling. And you’re an Easterling too.
“I’ve put up with Scott’s philandering because I thought my mother put up with my father’s affair. But once I found out the truth about your parents, I realized my mother had to have known your mother was like his other wife. He was devoted to both of them. I know I can’t tolerate Scott’s behavior anymore. I’m leaving him. I know I’ll probably never find anyone to love me like my father loved your mother, but I’m going to try. I deserve it.
“I wish I could tell you this instead of writing it. I don’t know why your mother continues to keep her secrets. Maybe she doesn’t want to hurt me. But I’m not hurt, Marisa. I’m ecstatic to know the truth, about them and about us.
“I love you more now that I know we’re related. I hope we’ll get to share the truth soon.
“Love, Caro.”
Marisa sniffed and rubbed tears from her cheeks.
Nick kissed her forehead. “Now you know all the truth.”
“The truth is more important than the facts.” — Frank Lloyd Wright
Shay Lacy writes stories about love that transforms. You can see all of her novels on her website,
www.shaylacy.com
. You can find her on Facebook and Twitter. You might also find her in beautiful places around the United States and Canada with either a pen or a camera in hand, sometimes both. Shay loves to hear from readers. You can e-mail her at
[email protected]
.
Shay Lacy,
author of
Hero Needed
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2013 by Shay Lacy
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6209-1
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6209-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6210-5
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6210-5
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 © iStockPhoto.com/ideeone; ScantyNebula; grafikeray
To my daughter, Monica, with love. I’m proud of you.
To those who struggle every day to meet the challenges of bipolar disorder, you have my admiration.
To Jennifer Lawler, with gratitude, for giving this story a chance.
As always, to the B-I-C group and my fellow Panera Prison inmates, who hold me accountable. And to my husband, who encourages me to do what I love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Bill Steele, of HIRE archi in northwest Ohio (
www.hirearchi.com
) who generously shared his knowledge about his profession. Any mistakes are mine, not his.
The building looked like it had suffered a terrorist attack, only it hadn’t. Christian Ziko, standing in front of it, looked like any other man, but he wasn’t. He was the architect of this destruction and Gabrielle Healey was going to prove it.
The Densmore Building had been a dazzling jewel in the crown of Detroit’s revitalized downtown waterfront. The glass third floor jutting out into the atrium with no visible means of support was an impressive engineering marvel. That floor was chosen for the hottest new disco in town.
It became a deathtrap when part of it collapsed, shattering the glass walls and hurling unsuspecting dancers over the edge. Six people were killed and a dozen others injured.
Gabrielle hadn’t expected to see Ziko here, since he’d disappeared shortly after the collapse. She thought he might be ashamed or afraid to show his face in public. He should be. With his black hair and dressed all in black, he looked like the cold-blooded killer some thought him to be. Before the Densmore, he’d been touted as a brilliant and innovative architect for his radical designs. Now one local newspaper called him “the architect of death.” She wanted to hate him. How dare he create a design so flawed it didn’t hold up for six months after it was built?
But she couldn’t allow herself to become emotionally involved in her investigation. Her job wasn’t to pass judgment, but to gather facts to protect her employer, Michigan Casualty, that had insured the building, from having to pay a claim. Her team had ruled out everything but the architect’s design. All she needed was proof to condemn Ziko.
She had so many questions to ask him, and here was the perfect opportunity.
Stepping from the shadows of the building, her sneaker sent a stone skittering across the pavement, announcing her to Ziko. When he turned to face her, she sucked in her breath at what she saw. Lines of strain bracketed his tight mouth and a deep furrow beetled his black brows. But what struck her like a blow was the pain in his Caribbean blue eyes. She almost cried out just looking into their tortured depths.
She’d expected to find a cold, heartless bastard, but tearing pain didn’t make any sense. He’d made one public apology … and then remained glaringly silent. He hadn’t faced the grieving families, or visited the injured in the hospital, or been on-site during the investigation.
Gabrielle had to touch him. Her clairvoyance allowed her to glean information about a person or object through physical contact. It helped her perform her job as an insurance investigator exceptionally well. But Ziko made her uneasy. There was a darkness about him that had nothing to do with his black jeans and T-shirt. His tee clung to muscled biceps and a firm chest. Her feminine instincts sat up and howled their notice.
She shook off her fanciful thoughts and the unwanted attraction. She was here to do a job, and Christian Ziko could provide the truth.
Taking a cleansing breath, she held out her hand as she moved toward him. “Mr. Ziko? I’m Gabrielle Healey from Michigan Casualty.”
At the first touch of his surprisingly cool skin, a picture formed in Gabrielle’s mind, clear in the center but fuzzy around the edges.
Christian Ziko sat hunched over his drawing board, his pencil meticulously detailing on the paper tacked to it. It was a drawing of the Densmore and his blue eyes were soft with what could only be described as love as he worked on it. There was joy in his movements, in the light way he held his pencil, and in his bare toes gripping the bottom rung of his wooden stool.
Gabrielle tore herself away from Ziko and the vision disappeared. She felt shaken by a kernel of doubt. He’d loved it? Then how could he have designed it so poorly?
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“No. Michigan Casualty insured the building. I’m investigating the collapse.”
His face closed up and his lips flatlined. “Oh. Well, I’m glad there’s insurance money to make repairs.”
“Unless they have to tear the building down. The building inspectors have to decide if the Densmore is structurally sound. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
But she was. She could see it as the color leeched from his face, leaving the lines of strain etched starkly into his skin. What the hell?
“I wasn’t aware of that,” he said.
Where had he been that he hadn’t kept up with the TV, newspaper, and radio coverage? “Have you been out of town?” That would explain his absence from the public eye.
He studied the derelict building, his jaw muscles bunching, for so long she thought he didn’t intend to answer. Finally one word came out, although reluctantly. “Yes.” It was a word full of anger and some other dark emotion. Tension resonated from him. Wherever he’d been, it hadn’t relaxed him.
Gabrielle wanted to touch him again to get a picture of what he’d been doing during that time, but she didn’t want any more doubts.
Oddly enough, the word that described his present state was vulnerable, as though he was affected by what had happened. But that was crazy. Ziko’s lack of public response showed his unconcern.
“I won’t keep you from your work.” He made a half turn away from her.
“Wait. Let me give you my card in case you need to contact me.” She dug in her purse.
“I won’t need to — ”
“Here,” she interrupted, thrusting a card at him. For some reason, it seemed imperative he have a way to contact her.
His hand brushed hers as he took the card and another vision blasted to life in her mind.
A cop slammed Ziko face first against a painted wall. As Ziko tried to rear back, the policeman jammed his billy club against Ziko’s neck.
“I‘m innocent!” The wall muffled his shout.
“Tell it to the judge,” the cop growled.
Another policeman moved behind Ziko and roughly cuffed him.
Gabrielle jerked back from him, unable to deal with the tumult of emotions the vision caused. This was a precognitive vision, more rare for her. It showed one possible future, if nothing changed between now and then. She was sure she had something to do with this future coming true, but whether it was due to action or inaction, she didn’t know.