Passion Rekindled
Delaney Diamond
Garden Avenue Press
Contents
Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
A Passionate Love
Johnson Family series
Also by Delaney Diamond
About the Author
Blurb
As far as Sylvie Johnson is concerned, her ex-husband used her and left her and she cannot stand the sight of him. Fifteen years after their divorce, her feelings haven’t changed. She wants nothing to do with him—no matter what her beating heart suggests.
Oscar Brooks has always assumed that his ex-wife hates him, but after an unplanned kiss, he’s not so sure. Why does she always have such a hostile response to his presence? Is it love, or is it hate? He’s determined to find out.
Passion Rekindled by Delaney Diamond
* * *
Copyright © September 2016, Delaney Diamond
Garden Avenue Press
Atlanta, Georgia
ISBN: 978-1-940636-32-0
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and e-mail, without prior written permission from Delaney Diamond.
Chapter 1
Sylvie Johnson stared at the sketches that one of her in-house designers had brought in. Holding them at arm’s length, she examined the drawings of bold oranges and blues planned for next year’s spring line. None satisfied her.
“No.” She shook her head. “No, no, no.” Sighing heavily, she tossed the sketchpads onto the neat desk, a uniquely modern creation she designed herself, made of a slab of glass on top of white concrete legs.
Sylvie glared at Roselle over black designer glasses. “These are horrid. I don’t want to see you in my office again until you have something so exquisite I don’t regret hiring you.” She dismissed the young woman with a tight smile.
“Yes, Miss Johnson.”
Roselle grabbed the pads and bowed her head in deference. The act grated on Sylvie’s nerves, and she fought the urge to cringe. On more than one occasion she’d told Roselle to stop with the reverential bowing. She wasn’t a queen, for heaven’s sake, but she also knew that she intimidated the young woman.
Roselle lacked backbone but was sweet. Too sweet. The kind who’d get gobbled up by the vultures of the world if she wasn’t careful. She created beautiful designs when pushed, but unfortunately did not dress the part.
Sylvie assessed the young woman with a critical eye. A purple shift dress hung off her bony shoulders, and her narrow face was—with a gray pallor beneath the cinnamon-brown skin—surprisingly gaunt. Roselle looked as if she was not taking care of herself and hadn’t eaten in months.
“Roselle,” Sylvie called out as the young woman rushed toward the door.
She turned, eyes wide, clutching the sketchpads to her chest.
“Have you eaten today?”
“I…um…”
“I will take that as a no.” Sylvie removed her glasses and placed a fist on her hip. “We’ve talked about this, remember? You must nourish your body or your mind will suffer the consequences. Since I need your mind in tiptop shape—after all, that’s what I’m paying for—I need you to take better care of yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Roselle mumbled.
Sylvie shuffled papers on her desk. “Have Inez order you a meal from the restaurant across the street. Tell her to place it on my bill and order the usual for me, as well.”
“Thank you.”
In the quiet, Sylvie realized Roselle was still standing in the room. She looked up to find the young woman staring at her with a mixture of adoration and awe.
Sylvie glared at her. “Go.”
Roselle darted from the office.
Sylvie shook her head and sank into her soft white chair, the plush fabric molding around her hips and buttocks. She ran three profitable companies from this office, located in Atlanta atop a twenty-story building where she leased fifteen floors and part of the basement.
The entire office contained ultramodern pieces with a feminine twist, stylish but engineered for comfort. The shaggy white chair behind her desk was a very popular item she’d designed, made of ivory sheepskin resting on clear Lucite legs. It went well with the rest of the furnishings, which included white built-in shelves filled with books and awards, and a glass coffee table encircled by a sofa and two armchairs.
Her film development company funded documentaries, a line of office furniture offered high-end pieces made of hearty woods and vibrant fabrics for female executives, and she sold fashion and cosmetics products under the Sylvie brand. She was proud of her accomplishments, but particularly the makeup line, created for women with darker skin tones. Made from natural and organic ingredients, the line had won numerous awards. Reviewers raved that they often forgot they were wearing makeup and swore the products improved their complexions.
She found her notes and scribbled a few items onto her pad, and then went to work drafting a memo on her laptop. Approximately twenty minutes into the task, the intercom beeped.
The voice of her administrative assistant, Inez, came through the speaker. “You have a visitor.”
Sylvie lifted a brow at the guarded tone. Her eyes skirted away from the document on the computer to the phone on the corner of her desk. “Who is it?”
“Your ex-husband. Oscar Brooks.”
She stiffened.
What was Oscar doing at her office? She couldn’t recall the last time he’d been there. Certainly not since they’d divorced and she moved to this new location when her businesses expanded.
With all of their children grown, they had little reason to communicate with each other, and the last time she saw him had been a month ago. They had both attended a function in Miami where their daughter gave a speech. Oscar showed up with one of his young girlfriends, a slight Sylvie made sure he knew she didn’t appreciate. They’d had another confrontation when they saw each other at breakfast in the hotel restaurant the next morning, and that had been the last time she’d seen him.
“Miss Johnson, are you there? Should I send him in or…?”
“One moment.”
Sylvie went to the gilded oval mirror hanging on the wall and checked her appearance. Perfect. Her raven hair was pulled back from her face, covered in neutral-toned foundation and lipstick to match her dark brown skin.
She straightened the hem of her sleeveless royal blue peplum top and smoothed a hand down the front of the canary trousers before stalking over to the desk. She didn’t really care what Oscar thought, but still wanted to look her best. “Send him in.”
Sylvie stood behind the desk, posed with a hand on her hip, and took a slow breath, quietly easing air into her lungs as she awaited her ex-husband’s entrance.
Oscar entered slowly, dressed in black loafers, jeans, and a dark pullover. His eyes took in the bright room, sun-drenched from the windows covered with sheer drapes at her back, highlighting the white, tan, and splashes of pale rose that filled the expansive room.
The patch of gray hair over his right temple hinted at his age, a man in his fifties. His mother was Brazilian, his father African-American. Some recognized his Lat
in roots; others mistook the curly hair and swarthy skin for someone of Middle Eastern descent.
He was the kind of person who did his own thing and didn’t care what other people thought. One of the many reasons she’d been attracted to him in the first place. He’d been so different from the well-mannered young men she knew that he’d immediately intrigued her.
But right now Sylvie was not intrigued. In fact, she was annoyed because he had disrupted her day.
“You need to shave,” she told him, casting a disparaging eye at the shadow of whiskers that covered his chin and jaw. And a haircut, she added silently, critically assessing the loose curls on his head. Her eyes avoided the hint of chest hair revealed by the three open buttons on his shirt, and she kept her body still to combat the faint flutter of warmth that seeped into her chest at the untamed virility of his appearance.
Oscar rubbed his palm across the hairs on his jaw, peppered with gray. “I’m my own man. I can do what I want. Have been able to do what I’ve wanted for fifteen glorious years.” He sent a tight smile in her direction.
He crossed his arms over his chest, revealing defined biceps. According to the children, he stayed in shape by regularly going out on his boat. It was obvious he spent a lot of time out there. His face was weathered and sun-kissed from being out in the sun, but he was still very much the young man she had fallen in love with. With a sparkle to his dark brown eyes, and quite handsome.
And she wished she hadn’t noticed.
Her nostrils flared. “What do you want?”
“I came to extend an olive branch.” He came further into the room, and the skin on Sylvie’s neck tightened upon his approach.
“Why?” she asked.
“No need to sound so suspicious. I’m worried about our children, and I want to talk to you about them. Mind if I sit?”
“I’m very busy—”
He dropped into the chair in front of the desk and crossed an ankle over his knee.
“Excuse me, but what are you doing?” Sylvie asked.
“Have a seat, Sylvie, and let’s talk.”
“Why should I talk to you?”
“Because the only thing you love more than money is our children. They’re the only good thing that came out of our marriage, wouldn’t you agree?”
The barb sent a razor-sharp pain through her chest, and Sylvie dropped her gaze to the glass top desk. Regrouping, she compressed her lips and recovered, steeling herself for the conversation with her ex.
She coolly looked at Oscar. “I agree. They’re the only good thing.”
She sat down across from him.
Chapter 2
Oscar looked thoroughly relaxed in the chair, elbows on the rest, fingers steepled before him. Sylvie, on the other hand, felt tension creep into her muscles, practically invading her bones.
“I’m worried about Ella. I’m sure you know, I came up from Miami for Brett and Natalia’s wedding last weekend. I thought I’d see you there,” Oscar said.
“I couldn’t make it. I sent a gift instead.”
She and Oscar could go years without seeing each other, even with four children and mutual acquaintances between them. Brett and Natalia had divorced a few years ago and for some reason reconciled. They were more Oscar’s friends than Sylvie’s, as she’d steered clear of them ever since she heard rumors that Natalia thought she was a snob. Suspecting Oscar would be in attendance, she’d politely declined the wedding invitation and sent a gift, but only because she liked Brett and found him amusing.
Oscar continued. “I decided to stick around a few extra days and spend time with the girls.” “The girls” referred to Ella’s daughters, their only grandchildren. “Outwardly Ella seemed fine, but I know my daughter, and I believe it’s all a show.”
Sylvie had recognized the same and tried to talk to Ella privately, but hadn’t gleaned any information of value from her daughter’s reticent answers. “Her heart is broken. Her husband left her after their second child was born. Don’t worry about Ella. I stay in close contact with her, as well as Simone and the boys.”
“Stephan and Reese are not boys,” Oscar said.
Sylvie shrugged. “They’re my boys, and as far as I’m concerned always will be.” Well aware that she treated them differently than Ella and Simone, Sylvie ignored accusations that she coddled her sons and worked too hard on toughening her daughters. The world was a dangerous place for women. Physically as well as emotionally. She refused to allow her daughters to become anyone’s prey.
“Since you mentioned Simone, she’s my other concern. I ate dinner with her and Cameron, since I didn’t get a chance to meet him in Miami.” Cameron was their daughter’s new boyfriend, and an owner of Club Masquerade, which had the reputation of being the hottest club in Atlanta. “She’s upset you won’t accept him, and I promised I would talk to you about the situation. He seems like a good man, and I think he’ll be good for Simone.”
“I’m not convinced. He reminds me too much of someone from my past, who also made bold declarations of love that he didn’t mean.”
Oscar sat straight in the chair. “If you’re talking about me, you and I both know that’s BS.”
“Really? You left, didn’t you?” Their arguments always came back to this. She couldn’t help herself.
A muscle in his jaw clenched. “Not even Job could put up with you.”
“Until death do us part. Richer or poorer. Better or worse. Any of that ring a bell, Oscar? Swearing before God and our family and friends.” Her blood pressure spiked, heat filling her face and neck.
He leaned forward. “Honor and obey. Any of that ring a bell?” he asked.
Sylvie brushed aside the words with a dismissive sweep of her hand. “Archaic vows that should be stripped from the wedding ceremony.”
“And yet you said them, swearing before God and all our family and friends.”
Their gazes clashed.
Sylvie stood. “Well, you certainly bounced back, didn’t you? With all your little girlfriends.”
Oscar stood, too. “We were barely divorced before you took up with that billionaire. The ink was barely dry on our divorce before you flaunted your relationship at the Met Gala, or did you forget?”
“Are you talking about Roger? I did not flaunt anything. He was my escort for the evening.” After a very public divorce, she’d needed to save face and her older brother, Cyrus, had suggested the pairing since both she and Roger had received invitations to the exclusive event. “You know, the way you always manage to escort some teenaged trollop to various events.”
“They’re not trollops, and you know good and well they are not teenagers,” Oscar said between his teeth.
“Well, they might as well be, the age difference is so vast.” Sylvie held her hands several feet apart to indicate how vast. “And women that young with a man your age. Tsk. Tsk.” She sighed, shaking her head. “The game these young women play is so obvious, but men fall for the false interest every time. It would be funny if not so sad.”
“What’s sad is you sitting in judgment of everyone while you grow old and alone,” Oscar spat.
The blow of his words reverberated in the room. Sylvie’s mouth tightened and her fingers clenched into small fists. “I have plenty of friends and the love of my children. And, as you pointed out, plenty of money to keep me warm. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will show you out. I have several businesses to run, and this impromptu meeting has gone on long enough.”
She marched around the desk to escort him from the room, but Oscar grabbed her wrist. Sylvie jerked back from the shocking heat of his touch, but his fingers only tightened. Years had passed since she last experienced his hands on her, their callous texture indicative of the hours he spent on his boat.
His brown eyes flashed. “Is that really all you care about, Sylvie? Money and more of it?”
“I’m just like you. That’s all you care about. You married me and made off with a lovely settlement. Twenty-seven million dollars, one
and a half million for every year of marriage. You did quite well, wouldn’t you say?” Her heart thumped loud and hard against her breastbone.
His jaw went rigid. “I never cared about your money. I cared about you.”
“I do not believe you, and I will never believe another word that comes out of your mouth. You have no idea what love is. What sacrifice is. You left, after eighteen years. End of story.”
“We were fighting night and day—”
“You were fighting with me. I simply wanted—”
“You wanted to tear me down because I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. When Anthony died—”
“Don’t you dare talk about my brother!” This time she managed to yank away her arm. “That coward shot him down like an animal, and when she killed herself, she left my nephew an orphan. She was a selfish, evil cow.” More than twenty years later, she still despised the woman who’d stolen her brother so abruptly from her life.
In fact, both of her brothers were dead. Both taken from the earth suddenly and under harsh circumstances. The eldest, Cyrus, died when a drunk driver crashed into his vehicle. Anthony, a gentle musician and her best friend, had been murdered by his wife.
They were both gone. Leaving her alone.
“I can’t talk to you about anything, can I?” Oscar fumed. With a disgusted shake of his head, he marched away.
“Yes, go. Leave. You’re very good at that.”
Back stiffening, he froze halfway to the door. He swung toward her and spoke through thinned, tight lips. “What is the real problem, Sylvie? Is it that I left, or that you couldn’t hold on to me?”
Her neck tightened in outrage. “I never wanted to hold on to you.”
“No? Every time we talk, you bring up the fact that I left. You throw it in my face. Every. Single. Time. It’s been fifteen years. When are you going to let go of the anger and accept our marriage is over?”
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