by Shara Lanel
Enlightened Love
Shara Lanel
Published 2004
ISBN 1-59578-056-4
Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2004, Shara Lanel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Liquid Silver Books
http://lsbooks.com
Email:
[email protected]
Cover Art
by April Martinez
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my husband, for putting up with my creative moodiness, my sudden deadlines, the stacks of books all over the house, and the money I spend on conferences, Chapter memberships, and paper and ink (among other things). Thanks for believing in me. Thanks for not demanding I get another job. Thanks for reading my books, synopsis, cover letters, and blurbs. You are the greatest and I couldn’t do it without you.
*
This book is also for my son, who at age six wants to have a published book just like Mommy. I know you don’t understand half of the crazy things I do, like why I get so many emails and why I hoard my printer paper, but you love me anyway, and I love you.
CHAPTER ONE
Kerry Reynolds drifted down the marbled hall, barely glancing at the mirror cloaked in shadows. She knew what she would see there—the gray half-moons under her eyes, sunken pale cheeks, and flaxen hair hanging limp about her shoulders. A draft blew against her bare shins, below the hem of her virginal white nightgown. She shivered and clutched the mug of tea tighter to her chest. She heard voices. A woman’s laughter.
My God, he’s brought someone home with him.
Heart pounding in her chest, Kerry peeked around the corner into the lush foyer. Jason Sentron, her future husband, shrugged out of his suit jacket without mussing a single blond hair on his head. His eyes crinkled with momentary laughter, but that didn’t disguise their cold blue depths. Nothing could do that, Kerry knew.
Jason reached behind him and tugged a strange woman across the Aubusson rug and into Kerry’s sight. Her eyes widened in shock.
She looks like a prostitute.
The woman’s best feature was her long, flowing brown hair. She had large almond eyes caked in mascara, high cheekbones smeared with rouge, and puffy lips painted vampire red. She wore a faux fur coat despite the California heat. Black leather boots reached her thighs, and she had to tug her skirt down to keep it from revealing her ample butt cheeks. The woman’s breasts strained against the fabric of her bikini top, jiggling as she walked towards the fireplace at the far end of the living room.
Jason strode to his favorite posing spot, beside the white stone mantle, and dropped the woman’s hand. “Strip,” he ordered, as he loosened his tie and undid the top of his shirt.
The single word was filled with malice and had Kerry taking an automatic step back, deeper into the shadows, knowing she should hurry back to the safety of her room and feign sleep. The morning couldn’t come fast enough. This time she would leave. She’d already bought the plane ticket.
Kerry attempted to retreat to her room, but found herself frozen in shock as the woman removed her coat and untied her halter to expose her breasts. Jason stroked a finger over a rigid brown nipple, then looked up, nostrils flaring. His wicked eyes pierced Kerry’s hiding place. The sudden upward turn of his lips was both salacious and depraved.
“Kerry, you’ve spoiled my surprise. I wanted to bring you a present.”
She pictured something in a Harrod’s bag gift-wrapped with a bow, then realized what he meant and her stomach churned.
The hooker turned shocked eyes to the shadow where Kerry stood. “Who’s that?” Her voice was low and loaded with sex.
“My future wife. Come here, dear. I’ve brought Cassandra to tutor you.”
Kerry didn’t move.
“Hey, what kind of game is this? I’m not into kinky shit.” The woman put her hands on her hips, which emphasized her jutting breasts. Then a suggestive smile curved her lips. “But perhaps, for a bit more money…”
Jason turned his attention back to Cassandra. “We’ve already negotiated the terms of this deal.”
She slid a finger down his chest. “But you didn’t mention a threesome, especially with your supposedly virtuous fiancée. I’m thinking the papers would be very interested in the fact that the Sentron heir needs help tutoring his wife in the ways of the flesh. And didn’t I hear that your fiancée is the daughter of George Reynolds, the Senate hopeful?”
Kerry took a step back, one hand pressed against the wall, the other clutching the now-tepid mug of tea.
“Kerry, come here right now,” Jason said, his voice deceptively calm.
She shuddered, knowing from past experience how he rendered punishment when disobeyed. She watched as he slid his fingers into Cassandra’s waistband and jerked her to him. “What exactly are you saying?” He glared into Cassandra’s eyes, daring her to issue her threat.
The woman planted her breasts firmly against Jason’s chest and played with a curl of hair on his forehead. “I’m saying that that sort of information is worth considerably more than we discussed.”
Though his expression remained composed, Jason’s face had grown red, a precursor to an explosion. “How much?”
“I’m not greedy. Just ten thousand will do.”
“Just?” His fingers trailed from her breasts to her neck where they circled and squeezed like an automatic vise.
Cassandra’s throat emitted wheezes and her hands dug at his wrists, as he lifted her into the air. Kerry gasped. He would kill her if he didn’t loosen his grip.
With one hand, Jason unsnapped his pants and jerked the hooker’s skirt to her waist. “You will abide by our original agreement.” He never gave her a chance to agree, as he looked over his shoulder at Kerry. “And, Kerry, my sweet, you’re going to watch and learn.”
Cassandra started to lift her knee to his groin, but he anticipated her, throwing her against the bricks of the chimney and shoving his knee between her legs. Her eyes flared wide as Jason pushed aside her thong and drove his dick hard into her body, but no sound escaped her lips.
Kerry finally found the ignition switch to her muscles. She threw her tea mug at Jason’s head, praying it would stop his mad rutting and give the hooker a chance to break free, but her aim was off. The mug crashed on the paneling to the right of the fireplace, splattering tea, which left brown streaks as it rolled down the wall. Automatically, she dove forward and grabbed a hank of Jason’s hair, anger finally overcoming shock.
“You bitch!” He turned around and backhanded her. The force of the blow sent her to the floor, knocking the wind from her lungs, and she hit her head on a chair.
Jason continued to fuck the limp woman, and tears welled in Kerry’s eyes.
Oh, God, was she dead already? She struggled to her knees, fighting nausea and dizziness. The phone. She needed to reach the phone.
“Kerry, you will die next, long before the cops get here, if you touch that phone.” He sounded breathless. “Now … I told you … to watch.”
Disgust roiling through her belly, Kerry turned her face away, wondering what he hoped she would learn from this display. The room seemed steadier, but the phone sat on an escritoire in the fo
yer, miles from where she crouched. As she crawled toward it, the room lengthened as if her knees moved on a treadmill.
A few more grunts and a sigh floated over her shoulder. Was he finished? Please, God, let him be finished.
Kerry turned her attention back to the scene in time to see the woman’s limp body fall to the floor and Jason straighten to zip his pants. He walked a few feet from the body, but kept his eyes on Kerry as he yanked out his cell phone and dialed. Adrenaline replaced nausea as Kerry rushed over to Cassandra and felt her neck and chest. No pulse, no breathing, only a faint chirping sound that didn’t belong here. It didn’t make sense. Was it the doorbell?
The sound grew, turning to insistent beeping. Kerry flung herself over the dead woman, wanting to cover her from the prying eyes of whoever was about to walk through the door, but the woman faded from her arms. The room around her evaporated as well. Even Jason and his evil grin vanished. Only the piercing beeping continued. The beeping and a harsh brightness that roasted her eyelids as realization settled in.
A dream. She was only dreaming. This time.
Kerry struggled to bring herself fully back to consciousness. The horror of that night almost two months ago soured her stomach even as the bright sunlight warmed her face. The rest of her wasn’t in such good shape either. Her butt was numb from sitting on the park bench in the same position for so long, and the trash in the nearby garbage can reeked from baking in the Virginia heat. The smell, combined with the memory, had Kerry fighting her gag reflex.
The beeping entered her awareness once more and she turned toward it, noticing the flashing lights of a tow truck. Remnants of her dream lingered, disorienting her, making reality sink in slowly. Then it did, causing her to dart from the bench, yelling, “My car!”
She didn’t wait to see what the tow truck would do. She knew. The mound of parking tickets in her glove box as well as a bright orange “Abandoned Vehicle” sticker on her windshield provided obvious clues. In a sense, she’d been waiting for this, for the other shoe to drop. She’d just been powerless to prevent it.
“But they can’t take my car.” She quickened her pace, narrowly avoiding a trashcan as she flew past two students studying beneath a tree, and catapulted over a slow-witted squirrel. All the time her desperate cry of “My car!” grew louder.
The tow truck had backed into position. Its door slammed and a man in blue overalls walked to the back of the truck. Clanking sounds ensued.
On Franklin Street, traffic continued as usual, stopping at the light, then whizzing across Belvidere towards downtown Richmond. Students from Virginia Commonwealth University hiked down the sidewalk, cutting through Monroe Park to get to the dorms or the School of Engineering building.
For a moment, Kerry self-consciously reflected on her bedraggled clothes and hair and on the fact she was hurling herself like a lunatic toward this poor unsuspecting tow truck driver. But she didn’t stop. Her life was in that car, everything she owned. She hadn’t meant for the VW Bug to conk out at this busy intersection, where parking was at a premium, and she certainly hadn’t meant to run completely out of money, finding herself in a convenience store choosing between a can of Vienna sausages and a bar of deodorant. She’d chosen the sausages.
“Put down my car right now, you thief! Grand theft auto. I’m calling the police!”
“Lady, the police called me.” The tow truck driver gestured to the brand new parking ticket on her windshield. Kerry wondered why they wasted the paper.
Ignoring the obvious, she squared her shoulders. “This is my personal property and I refuse to let you take it.” She threw herself across the Bug’s grimy hood, spreading her arms wide. A whiff of her body odor assailed her nose, so she lowered her arms. She didn’t need the tow truck driver taking a guess about the last time she’d showered.
She choked back a lump of despair. How had she gone from being the coddled daughter of a California politician and his perfect hostess wife, to a raunchy-smelling, grimy homeless person in Virginia? Of course, she knew the answer to that—Jason—but none of that erased the humiliation she felt now.
She shook her head to escape the memories and focus on the present, which was not much of an improvement since the man continued to latch her bumper to his truck. He wore overalls with a name badge that read Evan. He cranked the winch, jerking the Bug’s front end higher. Kerry swore. He turned to look at her as she lay spread-eagled and smelly on the hood of her rusty, broken-down car.
“Are you going to get off of there or do I need to pull you off?”
The hood lifted high, with Kerry holding onto the antenna and a wiper blade. She sniffed loudly. The man waited, arms crossed over his chest, for her to make a decision. She let go of the wiper and slid off the hood.
“I need to get my stuff,” she said weakly, defeated and hating it.
“Go ahead.” Evan scratched his chin. “You could have just paid the parking tickets.”
“I wish.” Her throat tight, she rifled through the front seat, stuffing things into her duffel. She did the same in the back seat. The bag was brimming when she emerged.
“I need to get into the trunk.” She popped the hood and pulled out more layers of clothing, a blanket, and the bag of snacks from the convenience store. Last, she pulled out the tire iron. She slammed the hood closed and whispered, “Take her away.”
Dropping everything on the sidewalk, she proceeded to pull on a shirt, followed by another shirt, then a dress over that, then a jacket—all the clothes that wouldn’t fit in the overflowing duffel. Students veered around her, shaking their heads at the crazy lady on the sidewalk. Evan put the tow truck in gear and Kerry’s orange VW Bug rolled away from the curb. Desolation nearly swamped her as she realized with the car went her home. She was truly alone now. Alone and destitute.
* * * *
Rick—born Richard Kenneth Abernathy III—sat at the bar of the Shockoe Bottom Club feeling utterly ridiculous. His feet tapped the sticky floor while his restless fingers tapped a dripping glass of beer. He preferred water, but his cousin Evan Webley had refused to be seen with someone sipping chaste water.
Of course, chastity was not the idea tonight.
In fact, quite the opposite, but Rick didn’t think he could follow through with their plans. It all seemed so seedy. Bodies gyrated on the dance floor. Every now and then a puff of artificial smoke bellowed from pipes beside the stage, coating everyone in a smelly film of gray.
He was here to pick up a woman and, as Evan had promised, there seemed to be a large selection. Several had approached him, attracted to his “GQ businessman” image, as Evan called it, but they all seemed so aggressive, so dominant. Rick was not a man to run from a battle, but these women scared him to death.
Tap, tap, tap. The music changed tempo and the gyrating bodies moved together. Men and women, women and women, men and men. Rick sighed. Where was Evan? This just was not the right place for him. He felt uncomfortable in his tie and button-down shirt, though he’d rolled up the sleeves. These clothes were not him. Evan had been correct that they did attract women, as did the recently purchased BMW, but Rick would rather be in silk pajama bottoms (a newly discovered luxury) practicing katas. The oft-repeated martial arts routines were a form of moving meditation for him.
A huge duffel bag slugged his shoulder as a slim woman sidled up to the bar. She hefted the duffel from her shoulder, then slid onto the barstool and dropped the bag at her feet. “Water,” she said softly, running a finger through her brown hair. The bartender, though standing nearby, pretended not to hear.
“The lady asked for a glass of water,” Rick said, raising his voice louder than he had in years. He’d learned to communicate in whispers and prayers during his eighteen years at the monastery in the Himalayas. The sound of his raised voice shocked him. Though he’d been in the States for two months now, he’d had no call to yell or acquit himself aggressively and he planned to keep it that way, despite Evan’s assertiveness coaching.
&
nbsp; The bartender scowled in his direction until Rick placed another dollar in the tip jar, which his cousin had explained was important if he wanted decent service. The bartender whipped out a glass, filled it with water, and sat it on the bar before the woman. She said, “Thanks,” with a sarcastic tone, then gave Rick a tired smile, her face looking gaunt.
Rick noted that she wore several layers of clothes, looking out of place among the heavily made-up women in short leather skirts. Her outer shirt sported small tears and her jeans were stained and ripped at the cuffs and knees. Her face was clean at least.
Evan had called him earlier that evening with the story of a woman so desperate to save her car that she’d draped herself across the hood. He’d mentioned that her large duffel bag had a crowbar sticking out of it. Rick looked down. Yes, this woman had a crowbar. Not a common sight in Richmond. His cousin had gone on to say that the name on the registration in the car was Lindsay Nguyan with an address in Los Angeles, but when he’d pulled up the information on the plates he’d found the name Maria Javez and a San Francisco address. Evan had wanted to call the police, but Rick had convinced him not to kick the woman when she was obviously already down.
“I’m Kerry,” she said to him after observing him for a moment.
A completely different name—was this her real one?
“I’m Rick.” He glanced around, hoping to spot Evan. Though he was curious about this woman’s story, he found himself wanting more than ever to leave. She reminded him of someone—someone better left in the past.
Kerry sipped her water. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“No, first time.” Rick paused, thinking of the conversation openers Evan had drilled into him. “Do you come here often?”
“A few times. In the past.” She eyed the bartender, but he busily dried glasses at the far end of the bar.
“But not recently?”
Kerry didn’t say anything, just sipped her drink and smoothed her napkin. She looked back at Rick. “Where are you from? You have a strange accent, kind of British, kind of something else.”
“Indian.”