Dr. Pensch said it would put more familiarity into Sara’s head when they’d spoken on the phone. Above all else, Casey was going to follow doctor’s orders. He couldn’t live like this, and he needed Sara back.
She came quickly to Casey’s side. “I don’t know you,” she informed the older man, quite tartly. “Why are you here?”
“Honey, this is Charlie. I told you about him. He’s my friend and we’re going to discuss business.”
“Not without me, you’re not!” she warned.
Both Dr. Pensch and Casey smiled. The use of familiarity was working in their favor, far better than expected.
Pensch held out his hand to Sara. “Hello, Beth. I’m so glad to meet you.”
She wouldn’t take his hand, looked at it as if the man’s hand was covered in warts.
“Come in, Charlie. I’ll get you a beer.”
Dr. Pensch followed Casey inside the mansion, first setting his briefcase on a low table near the door.
Inside the man’s case was the answers to what Casey needed most.
Dr. Pensch was going to jar Beth into releasing Sara back to them, before it was too late, and since Sara was carrying his child and Beth wanted it dead, Casey was running out of time. Not only was he losing her, he was losing his firstborn.
Dr. Pensch promised him he would gain every success today. And Casey took that promise to heart. The diamond ring inside his pocket burned against his thigh, awaiting this promise. For now, he simply need wait. He had his happy for now, for what it’s worth, but his sole goal was that ever-wished-for Happily Ever After.
Casey carried the diamond engagement ring wherever he went, waiting for that one single moment Sara would change back to the woman he loved. He needed her to come back to him. She’d captured his soul and every second, every day he woke and took a breath deep into his chest, it hurt him just a little more knowing he could have done so much more to prevent this.
His eyes darted to Sara/Beth. She was fidgeting and licking her lips, judging the strange man in her midst. How much grief she would give the doctor would remain to be seen. Probably a lot.
His gaze drifted lower. Everything this woman had inside of her was what he’d been looking for his entire life—a complete and controllable change, that had always been right at his fingertips. Nothing more, nothing less, he had to urge Sara back to the living by getting Beth to turn into the woman he loved. His sigh was heavy, knowing exactly how hard this would be.
The End
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And now... an excerpt from
Beneath the Lace
coming summer 2014
Chapter One
Jack Mareach eased his numb ass off the leather stool. His plan was to maneuver every part of his body toward the woman at the far end of the crowded bar…or die trying.
Besides the loud music thumping in his eardrums, and the continuous clinking of glassware drowning out most of his thoughts, he had one lingering thought stuck on the brain: forget today. What better way than while in the company of an incredibly hot woman dressed in black lace?
It wasn’t his fault he’d squirmed like a two year old in a stuffy, old church pew—which produced the need for stiff drink, and by the end of his night perhaps a whole lot of them. It was just easier to blend into the background when so stinking drunk he could barely walk. Even easier when he was being swarmed by bodies in the same boat as he.
Too inebriated to endeavor on an easy ménage, he’d offered two hot morsels during the past half hour his cock, and now passing them up for something far better. Sex with a silken-clad woman he’d done before. Used goods. He had a taste for lace. Of course, he would have to get her permission to remove all that lace from so much loveliness. Jack figured without, it would be nothing less than near rape.
But hell, if she wanted to rape him…he was all for it. He’d done some pretty stupid things in his life, a ton of brain-dead things for a man who thought he knew better. What was one more not-so-bright idea to suffer through on an evening wrought with memories and guilt?
He forced the usual come hither, no holds barred, deep-dimpled smile upon his face, his drink clamped in his fingers lest he drop it, then waited. Most said he looked exactly like his father; more the pity to Jack. His father was dead.
The pallbearer duties this morning had been appointed to those not so angry about life. Jack would have dropped the old bastard on his head, as pissed as he’d been. Dropped the coffin, kicked it for good measure, then gloated to suit his needs.
Jesus, more intoxicated than at first thought, he tried to move his feet forward. Tried. Those movements became awkward and unsteady. But damnit, he meant to be seated next to the delicious female within a half minute, give or take a few bumps and bruises along the way, or land up on his ass, seated on the barroom floor and looking the fool.
The leather stool on her immediate right had been empty for the better part of ten minutes. Oddly enough, its vacancy didn’t figure into his head as he continued toward her.
Everyone loved happy hour in this stinking hellhole town; Wintelow wasn’t exactly the mega metropolis where all the fine, upstanding citizens lived. And once inside Mo’s, situated on the corner of Fifth and Main, happy hour took on a whole other meaning. Even Jack was partial to Mo’s chicken wings during happy hour. But he wasn’t here for barbecued chicken parts, free drinks in a smaller glass size, or the expected socialization on a normal Friday night. Just the thought of food was making him ill.
He was here for one thing—and one thing only. How hard was that to understand? He needed hot and heavy screwing of someone he did not know; someone he could forget by the morning; even if she knew or had heard of him.
The woman at the end of the bar either came into Mo’s to score, same as he—or she wasn’t alone, and the guy she with either in the men’s restroom or…gone. She wasn’t frowning, so he couldn’t have left with another hottie. Still, no one seemed to make any claim on her.
Christ! If she’d been his girl, he wouldn’t have left so much deliciousness out of his sight. He loved long black hair on a woman. He wasn’t partial to blondes these days; seen and done enough of those to know the old cliché was rather true. Not always a lot upstairs. And although there were plenty of women inside Mo’s, only the dark-haired beauties were drawing him in. Okay, only one dark-haired beauty was drawing him in, locked on like a heat-seeking missile.
Sultry high cheekbones on a nearly flawless face. Lord, she had legs running damn near to the Mexican border, from a pencil thin waist he could easily put his hands around. Her ample chest was a bonus; near to size DDD, if his eyesight could be trusted.
That lusty chest had caught his attention more than twice throughout his evening.
He would hate to be disappointed, finding her flat-chested, but the closer he got to the lacey quest, the bigger her breasts became and the happier Jack’s cock got for making the initial move. Then again, she could have been a nearly size A for all a hardened dick cared.
He’d found it hard enough to keep his vision within a reasonable level of singular throughout the past half hour than care about what pressed into his pants, almost erect.
Even their bartender looked a bit doubled, Jack shaking his head to ward off a second image of the man.
As her head turned, pools of brilliant blue with just a hint of teal trapped in their color flashed his way. Either her eyes had fake contacts covering them to hide the natural beauty within, or she was one hell of a woman . . . and he was in for one hell of a night.
He’d glue the damn things onto his eyeballs too, if they could make him see any better.
He slithered up to her side, jostled by others trying to claim any empty seats, reached the stool next to her unscathe
d, and plopped down without proper invitation, setting his drink on the bar. A few drops of Kentucky’s finest spilled over the rim of the glass, but he didn’t care about that either. There was always more and if a man bought enough drinks during happy hour, when the bell rang signaling its end, the next would come free.
Jack was on his second free drink, his eighth in total. He wasn’t sure if any bells were rung, or it was simply the loud music blaring from the hidden stereo speakers surrounding the entire bar. Whatever it was, he considered whiskey an emotional cleanser and for those who thought their shit did not stink.
Jack dragged in a painful lungful of air. Nope! Still smelling good. Shit doesn’t stink. As hot as it was in Mo’s tonight, this good smell wouldn’t last long.
“I’m Jack, Jacko, Jack-of-all-trades…and most of them good; real good, if you get my drift. And you are?” He held a slight curl to his lips with all his might.
This was, by far, the worst pickup line he’d ever used on anyone, and he actually wanted to groan aloud, but she probably wouldn’t had paid any attention to him had he made a vocalization to stupidity, or came up with something more to his favor. Besides, he was drunk. He didn’t give a rat’s ass what she or anyone else around him and her thought of his terrible line; only that it ended into what he expected. Her. Him. Bed. All three not necessarily in this order, or separated from the other until his lower extremities were completely satisfied.
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