She laughed and then slid out of his arms and rose, slipping on the cranberry silk robe that lay on the chair. “I was going to wait until tomorrow but I’ve changed my mind. Now is the perfect time.”
“For what?”
“To give you my wedding gift,” she said haughtily. “You’re not the only one capable of keeping secrets, you know. I’ll be right back.”
He settled back against the pillows and waited, a smile playing about his lips. Living with Alex would never be dull and certainly never predictable. His thoughts strayed to the past six months and the smile disappeared.
The police had indeed listened to Corey Johnson’s series of
CD’s and that, combined with the other evidence he and Alex had compiled, had cleared Wendy Fox of any charges. A thorough
search of Ferron’s office and home had given them all the evidence they had needed. Enough evidence to satisfy everyone involved that
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he had been responsible for each and every one of those murders, including his aunt’s.
His jaw tightened. His aunt had been killed simply because she had acted as a friend to someone who needed one desperately. His anger was less but it hadn’t entirely faded and he doubted it ever would. She had been cheated out of so much. Her son’s marriage, future grandchildren, and a chance to grow old with a husband she had loved. He closed his eyes and it was as if she stood in front of him. He could see her laughing and shaking her finger at him as she had so often when he had been too stubborn and intense as a rebellious young man.
“Brad, my boy, stop worrying about things you have no control over. What is done is done. Only worry about what is going to be.
That you have the power to change.”
His thoughts were interrupted when Alex walked back into the room carrying a tall square package wrapped in glistening green.
She put it down on the bed in front of him, that hint of
vulnerability again just flickering for a moment in her eyes.
He leaned forward and lifted it, detecting the faint odor of oil underneath the wrap. His gaze flew to hers sensing something even before he removed the last of the paper. His heart rammed into his chest as he tilted it toward the light.
The painting depicted two women standing next to each other, one holding a small child, love emanating from her eyes as she hugged him close. The other had an arm wrapped around a
teenage boy. There was a mutiny about the boy’s eyes but an
almost unwilling lilt to his lips as she had one hand under his chin forcing him to look up into her laughing eyes. The images stood
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Anita Whiting
apart on the canvas yet together, the background and color and the boy connecting them, overlapping time and the women.
Alex stood still, hardly breathing as she watched the different expressions play across his face. Even after all this time, there were depths to her husband she wasn’t sure she would ever reach.
Those old fears came rolling back. Would he recognize the child and the boy as himself or the women that had meant so much to him growing up? Was she a skilled enough artist for the love to shine through the canvas and oil?
“How did you capture them so perfectly?” he asked hoarsely,
rising and gently placing the painting on the dresser.
She had to fight back the sting of tears at the emotion she
heard beneath the question, thrilled that he had seen what she had meant for him to see. “Your father gave me pictures of both your aunt and your mother. I pulled the rest from your memories.”
“My memories?”
She nodded. “There is so much of your mother and your aunt
inside of you. I feel it every time we embrace and every time we make love. It is their influence that molded you into the man I fell in love with.”
He motioned to his mother. “I don’t remember her.”
She smiled, shaking her head gently. “Oh, but you do. The
memories might be buried deep inside but they are there, believe me.”
He was silent for a long moment, just standing there staring at the canvas. Finally, he turned and gathered her in his arms, burying his face in her fragrant hair. “Can you read my mind right now?” he asked huskily.
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She closed her eyes for a brief moment and then they flew open and she dimpled enchantingly. “Your aunt would be shocked at such thoughts!”
He tossed a quick look at the painting once again and then
shook his head, a wicked smile flickering across his lips. “On the contrary, dear wife, I think she would ask what took me so long!”
He nudged her backward until both of them sank onto the bed
laughing. And, as the laughter turned to passion, light seemed to filter through the curtains into the room and highlight the
painting. And the women in that painting, just for a brief moment, appeared to join hands and smile.
Brad caught the movement and stilled, blinking.
“Did you see that?” he asked, sitting up to stare at the
painting.
“What?” Alex said, feathering a kiss along his jaw.
He shook his head. “Nothing. I guess I’m more tired than I
thought.”
“I definitely have a cure for that,” she murmured.
“Oh, you think so?” he growled, leaning down to nip her lips.
“Without a doubt,” she answered, wrapping slim arms around
his neck. She began to massage his neck and shoulders using her fingers to relieve the mild tension she felt in his muscles.
He captured her hands, his dark eyes glinting with humor.
“Strange I thought you were going to use another form of
relaxation.”
She paused. “You want me to stop?”
“No way. Feels great,” he muttered, edging next to her so she could continue. “You’re pretty good at that, my love. Fact is you’re pretty good at a whole lot of things. That’s why I married you.”
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Anita Whiting
“Strange, I married you for an entirely different reason.”
He lifted one heavy eyelid. “And that would be?”
“Alicia told me to.”
He laughed. “That’s not hard to believe. What is strange is that you listened to her.”
She gave him an indignant look. “My sister can be very
intuitive when she wants to be, Bradley Norton.”
“That’s one word you can use.”
She gave him a shove, suppressing the urge to laugh. “Hey, you should be grateful to her. She told me I had to marry someone with layers. You, husband, definitely have layers.”
She let out a shriek as he flipped over, pulling her under him as he shoved the sheets backward with his foot. “And you, wife, have removed every single one of them.” Just before his head dipped, he smiled wickedly. “Guess I’ll have to thank Alicia after all.”
And, just before she lost herself in her husband’s embrace, she raised her gaze to the women in the painting.
And winked…
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About the Author
When she was little, Anita Whiting spent hours reading. It
didn’t matter whether it was in the bathtub, in a car or huddled under the covers with a nightlight after her mother thought she was in bed. By the time she was in the sixth grade, she was trying her hand at poetry and short stories, some of which were
published in the school newspapers. However, it was only after raising three children and working as an obstetrical nurse for years that she finally tried her hand at a full length novel. It went so well that she wrote several more. Nothing pleases her more than reading a good book and she hopes her readers feel the same.
If you would like to learn more about Anita M Whiting and her work, visit her website at
http://anitawhiting.tripod.com or send
an email to [email protected]
.
Cocktail hour will never be the same.
A Man for Marley
© 2007 Arianna Hart
Marley Sullivan is willing to do almost anything to claim her inheritance, even if it means putting up with sexy Hunter O’Malley for six months. Marley has worked hard for years turning
O’Malley’s Pub into a New York hot spot. This is her chance to finally own it; all she has to do is live, work, and not fall in love with Hunter.
Racecar driver Hunter O’Malley thinks being stuck working at his family’s bar for six months is a fate worse than death. If he could get Marley to stop bristling at him and use her ever so kissable mouth for something other than ordering him around, it might not be so bad. But when heated tempers lead to hot lust, will six months be long enough after all?
Enjoy the following excerpt for
A Man for Marley:
Hunter watched the scene with a mixture of curiosity and
repulsion. Almost like one would view a car wreck. He’d wondered what the mysterious Vivian looked like. The reality was almost frightening.
Marley stood behind the bar, clutching a dishtowel like she was holding on for dear life. Her eyes were wary, and she made no move to come out from behind the safety of the bar.
Hunter looked back at the woman whom Marley called mother
with such distaste. On first impression he could see why. He had seen her type around the racetrack plenty of times. She had to be
in her late forties, early fifties, but dressed like she was in her teens.
Vivian wore skintight Capri pants in a leopard print and high-heeled sandals. Her black shirt was at least two sizes too small for her sagging figure and it had an oval cut out to show off her cleavage. On a younger woman the shirt would have been
suggestive. On Vivian all it did was emphasize her losing battle with gravity.
There was no resemblance between mother and daughter that
he could see but it was hard to tell from the amount of cosmetics Vivian wore. She looked like she’d applied her makeup with a trowel. Her eye shadow was caked up to her viciously tweezed eyebrows and she had fake eyelashes that would make a drag
queen proud.
Her hair was bleach-blonde, sprayed and teased to about a foot above her head. Hunter wondered what miracle of modern
chemistry could keep that much hair standing so high in this heat and humidity. His mind kept coming back to the mystery of how this woman could have produced a daughter like Marley.
“Aren’t you going to give me a hug? I came in person to offer my condolences because I couldn’t get you on the phone.” She
clattered her way into the pub. Hunter could smell her musky perfume before she got within three feet of him.
When she got to where Marley stood behind the bar, she
dropped her enormous pocketbook on the counter and leaned over as if to embrace her daughter. Marley stood stiff and frozen and made no effort to return the gesture.
“So what can I do for you, Vivian?” Marley’s voice was ice cold.
“Oh, nothing, I just wanted to see how you were holding up
now that the old man is six feet under.” She opened her purse and
dug around in it for several seconds, missing the look of pain and suspicion on Marley’s face. Hunter didn’t.
“I’m holding up fine so far. Now why are you really here?”
“Is that any way to talk to your mother?”
“It wouldn’t be, if you were a real mother. But I know you and you don’t do anything without a reason. So I’ll ask you again, Vivian, why are you here?”
“Not a real mother? Now that’s a fine how do you do! You know I didn’t have to have you, didn’t have to ruin my figure carrying you around for nine months.” She dug a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and put one to her heavily painted lips.
“Do you think it was easy raising a kid all by myself? Hell no, it wasn’t easy, ungrateful brat. Always ‘Mommy, I’m hungry’ or
‘Mommy, I need clean clothes’ or ‘Mommy, when are you going to be home?’ Nag, nag, nag. That’s all you ever did as a kid and when I come to see you in your time of sorrow, how do you treat me?
Like I’m some beggar on the street. I don’t have to stay here and be treated like this you know. I should just walk right out of here without looking back.” She made no move to leave.
“No one’s stopping you. It wouldn’t be the first time you left without a second thought.”
Hunter couldn’t believe the drama unfolding. Everyone in the pub carefully kept their eyes averted from the scene but he could almost feel their ears straining to hear every word. With the way Vivian was carrying on, they didn’t have to strain hard.
“Oh God, can’t you get over that already? So I kicked you out.
You landed on your feet didn’t you? It was probably the best thing I ever did for you. They even have a name for it now, ‘tough love’.”
Vivian dug around in her purse some more.
“Hey, sugar, do you have a light? I can’t seem to find mine.”
Vivian gave a syrupy smile to Hunter.
It was enough to make him queasy. He reached into the
ashtray between the two of them and slid the pack of matches her way.
“Thanks, handsome.” She took her time lighting the long
cigarette despite the no smoking laws. “I didn’t come here to fight with you, Marley. I’ve missed you. You don’t come around, you don’t call, how am I supposed to know how you’re doing if I don’t stop by where you work?”
“Come off it, Vivian. How am I supposed to visit you even if I wanted to? I never know where or with whom you’re living. The only time you ‘miss’ me is when you’re between boyfriends or out of money. Which is it this time?”
“That hurts.” Vivian wiped her eyes, although Hunter noticed that no tears marred her makeup. “How can you say something
like that to me? Your own flesh and blood. I came here for you and you treat me like this?”
Vivian turned to Hunter again. Tom had made an escape to a
nearby table. Close enough to help but out of the line of fire.
Hunter wished he had been as quick as the old codger when Vivian addressed him.
“Do you hear how she’s talking to me? Would you treat your
mother like this?”
“I think this is between you and Marley,” Hunter said, trying to stay out of the argument.
“Nonsense, I make it a point to always listen to an attractive man. So tell me, when you see your mother, do you insult her and treat her like dirt?”