Cynda and the City Doctor: 50 Loving States, Missouri (QUARANTALES Book 1)

by Theodora Taylor

  “I mean maybe, but I don’t understand why she wouldn’t just call us if that was the case—”

  “Who are you talking to, krasotka?” a heavily accented voice asks in the background. “Is it Cyndarella? Hello! How are you and the Drosselholz Prince Charming?”

  I smile at the sound of Billie’s totally unexpected quaranboo, Cheslav Rustanov—or Chess as he insists on being called by everyone but Billie. He’s my new favorite Russian, even if he does insists on referring to Billie as Krasotka, which apparently is Russian for Beauty, and to me as Cyndarella.

  Billie giggles and rolls her eyes. “I have to go. But call me if you hear anything else from Gina. Anything at all.”

  “Of course,” I answer.

  I hang up and suddenly there are lips on my neck, making me giggle too.

  “Who were you talking to, love?”

  It’s Rhys, fresh out of the back house’s shower. We love running the newest DBCare clinic together. We’re using my father’s practice to gather data on practices like scaled pricing and preventative home visits like the farm rounds.

  We’re also preparing to do frontline work for a possible wave of COVID cases. Unlike bigger cities, Audrain County, where Guadalajara is located has only had about fifteen cases so far in a population of around 25,000, and no deaths. Also, Mavis is off the ventilator and though she’s got a long road to full recovery, now that she’s hopefully immune to the virus, she’s already talking about making her RV trip in 2021. But with the state reopening, we know the number of cases will grow. So Rhys is helping to outfit all the US DBCare clinics with protective gear and working with the GuacBap to get them another ventilator and more PPE.

  Funny that I was planning to leave Guadalajara behind forever just a few weeks ago. Now I’m essential. And as much as I’ll miss the twins whenever Carnegie Mellon decides to reopen, it feels good to be needed.

  However, being essential means showers as soon as we get home these days. Me first, then him after work. And sometimes we’re good about going straight into making dinner afterwards, but a lot of times we’re bad.

  “Stop,” I warn when Rhys’s neck kisses start making me shiver instead of giggle. “We have dinner with the twins and Reina in just a few minutes.”

  With Rhys holding my hand, I’d called Reina a few weeks ago, and my shock, she’d been nearby. Less than an hour away actually. She’d been vague about why she’d left South Dakota, but I sensed there was a break up involved. A bad one, if the haunted look she got when she talked about leaving the state so suddenly was any indication.

  But after five awkward days of getting to know each other from six feet away, it was agreed that Reina would move out of her hotel room in Guadalajara and into the main house—which we were no longer planning to sell. After a lot of back and forth, I’d agreed to let Rhys pay for the twins’ housing in Pittsburgh so that we could not only hang on to the house but eventually raise a family there.

  And as it turned out the twins and Reina got along amazingly, especially after E discovered Reina not only knew how to play guitar but could also sing.

  We’ve gotten used to after dinner serenades of show tunes from the 70s and 80s era musicals E and Reina like to watch together. Sometimes I play the piano inside the back house, while E and Reina create sweet harmonies outside. I don’t feel the itch to give my whole life over to music as Reina once did. But I love having the piano back in my life on a regular basis.

  Also, Reina’s more than happy to cook and clean and take care of whatever else the twins need. And if that’s not enough, she’s a yoga teacher! She makes extra money teaching a morning class for the neighborhood on our front lawn.

  A few months ago, I doubted anyone would have responded to the flyers she posted around town. But during these COVID times, her biggest problem is having to turn clients away when more than ten people show up, on a lawn that can only handle eleven socially distanced mats. Everybody living in Guadalajara isn’t down with the science of masks in the first place. And they can get pretty salty when they show up with the required face covering they don’t want to wear only to be told the class is all filled up.

  Luckily Lydia Brandt, August Brandt’s mother is one of Reina’s students. One word from her and the upset party walks away for fear of her or their spouse’s job. But even with Lydia’s help, it’s obvious that Reina’s going to have to expand soon. So Rhys and I are currently emailing back and forth with the Guadalajara mayor about getting her set up in the town square. And A has abandoned his video games for a while to work on a homemade microphone Reina can wear while teaching a much bigger class.

  No, Reina’s not the mom I lost. And yes, she made a lot of mistakes. She’s apologized several times for that. But at the end of the day, I couldn’t have asked for better parents than the ones she left me with, and now my biological mother and I get a second chance. Reina feels like an unexpected bonus to my happy ending with Rhys.

  The twins’ first day of in-school learning is still up in the air, but Rhys and I have already discussed asking Reina to stay on in the back house after they leave.

  We enjoy having a singing, happy, yoga teacher around. Plus, we might be needing her help for someone other than the twins…eventually. We know we want to get married soon, but with both of us front lining, we’ve agreed to wait on making babies until after there’s a vaccine.

  “I think we can get a lot of naughty done in just a few minutes,” Rhys insists, pulling a condom out of the nightstand drawer.

  Flipping me over in bed, he goes from kissing on my neck to other places.

  I want to give in to him. I really do. But…I feel confused.

  I’m glad Billie has found someone who makes her giggle, and I’m happy for me, too. But…

  “What’s wrong,” Rhys asks, sensing my mood.

  The old instinct to hold back rears its head. Communication is hard. Especially after a long day of work. But over the last few months, I’ve learned that doing the hard things is worth it when it comes to my brave girl relationship with Rhys.

  Instead of waving him off, I tell him the truth. “Gina’s still missing. And it feels…I don’t know…wrong to be so happy right now. I just want her to be all right.”

  Rhys sits back up, all his “let’s get it on” replaced by an empathetic look. “I love that you care so much about your friend. I tell you what. How about if I hire an investigator too. With that last name, I imagine Billie’s friend is very connected. But I have a few connections too. And if I’m going to use them, we should take advantage of them now before my family finds out, along with the rest of Drossel that we’re planning to get married and there’s nothing they can do about it.”

  I laugh. I love how determined he is to marry me even though I don’t remotely deserve his dedication. I love the life we’re planning together even more, especially since we’ll be living here in Missouri, far, far away from his disapproving royal relatives.

  This request, unfortunately, will open up the door, to the little bubble of reality we’ve made here in Guadalajara. However, finding Gina is more important than my comfort.

  “Yes, do it,” I start to say.

  Only to be interrupted when my phone starts buzzing with a call from an unknown number. I frown, not recognizing the state code. Could be a scammer….

  But just in case, I pick up. “Hello?”

  “Hi, who is this?” The voice on the other end is gruff and irritated. Like I called him in the middle of an important conversation and not the other way around.

  I frown and sit all the way up in bed. “Why don’t you tell me who this is first.”

  “How do you know Goldie?” he demands.

  “Goldie?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I know that’s not her real name. But that’s what we called her. Real cute Black woman. Long blonde hair. Smile like sunshine?”

  The only person I know who would even remotely fit that description is “Gina? Are you talking about Gina?”

  “Y
eah, I think I might be. She never told us her real name. And she’s gone now, and we just…we just want to make sure that was her choice.”

  “Who’s we?” I ask, not remotely keeping up.

  The man on the other end clears his throat, then seems to decide to answer. “This is Jeb, calling on behalf of the men who love Goldie with all our hearts. The men who want her back.”

  It takes me a moment to process what I just heard. Then I answer, “Wait a minute. Did you say men.”

  Oh boy, thank you for reading the first book in the Quarantales series. Wondering who Billie’s mysterious Russian is? Wondering who—or should I say who all Gina has been quarantining with? And why is Cynda’s mom happy but heartbroken?

  Make sure to read the entire Quarantales series. These stories go from steamy to blazing hot with the sweet tale of Cynda’s biological mother on top.

  CYNDA AND THE CITY DOCTOR

  BILLIE AND THE RUSSIAN BEAST

  GINA AND THE THREE WISCONSIN BEARS

  And the newsletter exclusive

  REINA AND THE HEAVY METAL PRINCE

  And keep on reading for a sneak peek at Billie and the Russian Beast!

  After a henchman shows up at Billie’s condo, demanding that she come with him to pay her brother’s debt, Billie finds out she’s in trouble…very, very sexy trouble.

  I step out of an elevator into a sleek black and grey hallway. The thug who introduced himself as Vlad while directing me which way to drive from the passenger seat of my own car escorts me down the short corridor into a gorgeous penthouse apartment.

  I find my brother sitting on one of the couches in the sunken den living room.

  “I’m sorry, baby sis. I’m so sorry!” he says, jumping to his feet as soon as we come through the door.

  Vlad tuts and crosses the room to shove Clem back down on the couch. “Yes, you should be sorry, causing your poor sister so much unnecessary distress. But right now, we will wait here quietly for Mr. Rustanov to finish the rest of his game.”

  “Mr. Rustanov?” I repeat, looking at Clem. “Who’s that?”

  Clemson doesn’t answer. Just sits on the couch with his eyes lowered in a way that puts me in mind of a little boy, even though he’s large and dressed in a t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a gold chain. He’s much larger than me and an offensive lineman for the Carolina Leopards. But it doesn’t matter how big or strong he is, there’s always something about Clem that reminds me of a little kid. Maybe that’s because our mom’s dying wish on her deathbed was for me to take care of him no matter what.

  No matter what…

  The words echo in my ears as I wait for Clem to answer my question.

  But instead of replying, he looks to Vlad, like a child requesting permission to speak.

  “All will be made clear soon, Princess South Carolina,” Vlad answers in Clem’s stead. “Please sit.”

  I sit on the couch directly across from my brother. But I don’t feel much like a former beauty queen, dressed in my loose tank top, shorts, and house slippers with my sisterlocks in the two loose braids I put them in last night. I also really don’t feel like I belong here. This apartment, it’s too nice. I’m an Ikea and replace it every five years kind of girl.

  But the sleek, dark furniture in this penthouse looks like it was handpicked from a showroom. The kind that’s not open to the general public and is staffed by people who wear suits—not striped yellow shirts and jeans.

  There’s a slate black coffee table between the couches with a gorgeous chess set on top. The pieces are painted black and red instead of the usual black and white. A nod to Russia maybe?

  There’s also art on the wall. Colorful as if to provide contrast to the dark furniture. I don’t recognize any of it, but I am sure it costs a fortune.

  To top it all off, the entire back wall is composed of floor-to-ceiling windows filled with a twinkling view of the stadium where the Charleston Knights play hockey and the Ashley River beyond it.

  No, I definitely don’t belong here.

  Neither does my brother.

  He’s barely making ends meet as a third-stringer going through a messy divorce after his wife caught him cheating. What is he doing in this opulent apartment? And again, who’s this Mr. Rustanov?

  I decide against asking Vlad these questions. I’d had plenty of them for him as I’d driven myself to this high rise. But the only question he’d answered had been the one about him killing me.

  “I have no intention of harming you,” he’d assured me. “But your brother’s debt will need to be negotiated and he said you were only one who could provide this service.”

  Okay, that sort of made sense. Even before I got my degree, I’d been Clem’s de facto financial manager. The person who made sure he still had a pot to pee in after he spent his earnings on any number of idiotic things.

  The gun part was scary for sure, but other than that, this looks like yet another jam I’m fully capable of getting my brother out of.

  I hope.

  Either way, I wait quietly as instructed until suddenly the apartment erupts with yells and groans.

  “It looks like Mr. Rustanov has won.” Vlad cuts his eyes at my brother. “Again.”

  I also look at my brother. He asked me to move in for just a few weeks while he searched for his own apartment. That had been back in January. Now it’s March, and apparently instead of saving up for a deposit as he’d assured me he was doing, Clem had been here all night. Losing so much money to this Mr. Rustanov guy that he was being detained here against our will.

  “Mr. Rustanov and his guests will be done soon,” Vlad says to me, smoothly flashing the gun underneath his jacket again. “Some advice. Do not cause a scene when they come out. If you make this night difficult for Mr. Rustanov, I will have to make your entire life difficult. Both yours and your brother’s.”

  Wow, this guy is an excellent threat-maker.

  I’m still not sure what’s going on, but I keep my mouth shut. Even when a cadre of North and South Carolina Who’s Who spills out from the hallway into the front to the apartment.

  I’m talking three of my brother’s teammates, some basketball players, and even my boss’s favorite golfer. There’s also a bunch of muscular white guys I don’t recognize. But I’m pretty sure they’re also athletes. They have that air about them. Especially the tallest of the white guys. He stands nearly as tall as the basketball players and nearly as musclebound as the football players. And he seems familiar somehow, but I can’t place where I’ve seen him.

  Is he Mr. Rustanov? The one who owns this stunning apartment? Whoever, he is, he’s clearly The Winner. Everyone is either complaining loudly about the last game or congratulating him on winning it.

  The Winner doesn’t seem to notice us, sitting just a few feet away in the sunken den living room that may or may not be his. He doesn’t so much as glance in our direction. But I stare at him. How can I not?

  If you combined the salaries of the athletes he’s surrounded by, it would be more than the GDP of some countries. Though if I’m being honest I’m not paying much attention to all the superstars. As famous as they are, my eyes keep coming back to him.

  The Winner.

  He has dark hair—I’m not sure what color. It’s cut close to his head in a way that would make him seem like a criminal or military if he wasn’t surrounded by elite athletes. He’s wearing a blazer over a v-necked t-shirt and jeans, which makes him stand out, even in this crowd.

  A few of the mega-athletes glance our way but most of them keep their eyes on The Winner until the last one declares that his car is here and leaves.

  And did I think The Winner hadn’t seen us?

  As soon as the elevator dings shut behind his last guest, the affable expression fades from his face and he turns toward us.

  I stand on instinct. Facing him down like tax season as he strides forward, his light green gaze laser-focused on us.

  Actually, not us…me. His eyes hold me and me only. And when h
e stops right in front of me, it feels the same as having a Mack truck suddenly brake, right before it runs you over.

  He’s even bigger up close. Not basketball tall or football heavy, but close enough. I’m tallish for a woman, but he towers over me. And the thin t-shirt and blazer ensemble he’s wearing hugs his muscles tight.

  “This is Clemson’s sister, as requested,” Vlad says beside me. “Princess South Carolina.”

  The Winner’s green gaze rakes over me. And I swear I can feel it pressing into my skin as it moves up my body. All the way from the bottom of my toes to the top of my head.

  I didn’t choose to be here. And I don’t like or date athletes. Yet, suddenly I feel self-conscious. I fight the urge to pull my sisterlocks out of their messy over-the-shoulder braids and groom myself.

  For him. For The Winner who pulled me away from an exciting weekend of preparing for the CPA exam.

  But right now, the only thing getting studied is me.

  I swallow, feeling even more scared than when I turned around to find a stranger in my kitchen.

  Even though The Winner hasn’t said a word, his intensity speaks volumes. And the examination goes on for several excruciating seconds.

  Eventually, his mouth turns up at the corner and he glances over at Clem. “You were right. She is very good girl. Upstanding.”

  The Winner has a Russian accent, too. Not as heavy and broken as his employee, but close enough. Maybe I was mistaken about him being an athlete. Could he be mafia?

  And they were talking about me before I got here? My stomach knots with fear. Seriously, what has my brother gotten himself into? Gotten the both of us into?

  I glance over my shoulder at Clem, who’s still sitting on the couch like a little boy awaiting his punishment. Then I turn back to the Russian hockey player, irritation and fear chasing the next words out of my mouth. “Look, I don’t know why you had me dragged out of my house at four in the morning, but congratulations, you’ve officially freaked me out. Now can you please tell me what this is all about?”