A Touch of Passion (boxed set romance bundle)

by Uvi Poznansky

  “I see.” He was too much of a professional to ever cross the line, but he had to admit, Veronica was one sexy female. She viewed her assets as a commodity. He wanted nothing more than to make sure she got the pictures she needed for the shoot. “I’m not a photographer, but I’ll make sure we have enough tanks to stay out there until you’re satisfied.”

  Felippe lifted his camera and sneered. “Good luck with that.”

  Jorgio chuckled. “It will never happen, boss.”

  Veronica pretended not to hear their derogatory remarks, keeping her charm for Dax. She lightly touched his arm. “Thank you, Dax. I knew you would understand.”

  He understood ambition, he understood desire.

  He understood cold, hard cash. At two hundred bucks an hour, he’d stay out all damn day.

  It wasn’t cheap to have a nurse come by once a week, or to keep those tanks filled. Dax would be happy to do it, despite the cost, but he suspected his dad was on a slow suicide mission. Old man decided he wanted out, and wasn’t lifting an oxygen tube to make a difference.

  It wasn’t right, but what could Dax do?

  Bringing Darcy home would make it worse. She’d want to make Dad better, but that wasn’t an option.

  ❋

  Celia pulled into the parking garage, carefully avoiding the large pole in the center. She’d gone to get the bare necessities at Publix, a local grocery store chain. A few cans of soup, some cracked wheat crackers. Hard cheese. Eggs. A bag of frozen shrimp. A bottle of white wine, and a bottle of red. Angel hair pasta, and some olive oil. It was enough for a couple of days, anyway. Tea. Lemon. At the last minute, she’d grabbed a package of whole wheat English muffins and some reduced-fat peanut butter. It wasn’t fancy, but she was on a budget. Caloric as well as financial.

  So exhausted her eyes crossed, Celia could have slept at the steering wheel.

  It was only remembering that she was on camera that kept her from napping in her car. Unpacking her little hybrid seemed insurmountable, so she got out the reusable grocery bags and piled them on top of her largest suitcase with wheels and a handle. She gathered all of the papers from the front seat, and put them in a plastic bag--keeping them there, but making it look more organized until she had the brain power to decide what to keep, and what to toss.

  A bite at a time.

  Did she need anything else from the car? Her photo albums could stay. Making do with what was already upstairs gave her three changes of clothes and some pajamas.

  Maybe she’d feel better after a nap.

  Exhaustion weighted each step. She hardly had the strength to push the button on the elevator.

  She made it inside, pressing number four, then closed her eyes for a moment. The door dinged, and she was on her floor. So tired. Had she ever been this worn out?

  The hall looked unending as she started out of the elevator toward her door, pulling her groceries and suitcase behind her. She tried twice to get the key in the lock, succeeding with a desperate twist of her wrist. Going inside, she forced herself to the refrigerator and just shoved everything in, including the pasta and red wine.

  I’ll deal with it after a nap.

  When was the last time she’d slept? Two days ago, going on three?

  The apartment was brightly lit, because the drapes had been left open. It was warm, the sun warring with the air conditioner. Bypassing the couch for the darkness of her bedroom, Celia was determined to shut her eyes and rest.

  Only for an hour.

  Crawling beneath the covers, she dropped into sleep.

  Then woke up as a shrill ring emanated from the bag she’d dropped at the foot of her bed.

  Disoriented, she squinted into the dim room. Patted the comforter. Was she dreaming? Adrenalin raced through her body, forcing her up. The phone. Where was it?

  Who could be calling?

  She got out of bed and dug her phone from the recesses of her purse. “Hello? Hello, this is Celia Langford.”

  “Hello, Ms. Langford. We’d like to welcome you to our little town by the sea. I’m Julie Welch, the realtor you leased your property through.”

  Celia blinked, trying to match a voice and a name.

  “Ms. Langford?”

  “Yes, I’m here.” She leaned back against the bed post and closed her eyes, the phone to her ear. Just resting, that was all.

  “I wanted to be the first to apologize.”

  Celia’s eyes snapped open, her mind fighting through thick brain-fog. “For what?”

  The woman hesitated. “Have you been to the storefront yet?”

  “No.” Damn it. Should have gone there instead of groceries.

  “Well, your signage is on the way. There was a hiccup,” she said.

  “What sort of hiccup?” Celia forced her eyes to stay open.

  “It seems that the name of your business did not meet the property owner’s approval.”

  Celia knew paperwork. She understood how to cross her T’s and dot her I’s-everything had been done correctly. She’d spent a good portion of her very limited budget on promotional advertising.

  “I had the town’s board approve the name. Ambrosia by the Sea.”

  Perhaps her tones were a little harsh, because the woman on the other end of the line lost some of her joviality. “As I said, ma’am, there was a hiccup, but everything is now back on track. Your sign will be up at the first of next month.”

  Celia breathed in through her nose. This business had to support her. She didn’t have the luxury of two to five years income in reserve to see her through. It had been a leap of faith to come here and start her café. To follow her broken, betrayed heart.

  She’d gone against her parent’s advice, her financial advisor’s advice. Her husband had played the part of wealthy doctor, but he’d had school loans and enormous debt. Everybody figured he’d have time to pay it all back. But no. He’d risked his life in Hawaii by jumping out of a perfectly good plane, wrapped around a strange woman.

  “I have flyers. Menus. Brochures. They all say Ambrosia by the Sea. Opening Sept 15th. Not October.”

  “That is no problem, Ms. Langford. You can still serve food.” Julie’s tone lifted with encouragement.

  Celia’s days of playing along just to get along were over. “How will that happen, if nobody knows I’m there? Do you plan on standing outside, every day from six in the morning until 4 in the afternoon, wearing a sandwich board and a foam pointer finger?”

  Silence screamed from the other line.

  “I am on my way to the building now,” Celia said, her body catching up with her angry mind. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  Julie cleared her throat. “Well. We weren’t certain what was going to happen with the property, so, er, I did not send the cleaning crew.”

  Part of what enabled her to move into the space so quickly to begin her business had been the clean, painted interior and new tile. Celia had a terrible feeling in the pit of her belly. “The paint? Tile?”

  “Well,” the woman hedged.

  Sick, she asked, “The kitchen?”

  “I have a phone call into the inspector now. I’ve let him know that there was an emergency.”

  Holy hell. Disaster. Celia bit down on the inside of her cheek. “I am going to hang up now. Go to the café that is supposed to be painted, inspected. Have a sign over the door. I will call you back.”

  “But,” Julie said. “We should talk about this.”

  “Trust me. You do not want to talk to me right now.” Celia pressed end, and stared at the blank screen of her phone, her thoughts whirling. She did not like to be rude, but really? She was just now getting this sort of call?

  Sleepiness fled, chased by thoughts of failure. She couldn’t breathe. Panic nipped at her heels, urging her to do something.

  When planning came down to the wire, it was people like Celia who made magic happen. When nameless entities like property owners were not held accountable, problems were created from nothing.

/>   Celia grabbed the edge of the bed, and got up. She eyed the thick comforter, the cozy mattress and turned her back. Instead, she flipped on the lights and looked in the mirror. A sundress did not fit her mood. And if the place looked like she suspected, then she needed work jeans and a tank top. Closed-toe shoes instead of sandals.

  She’d chosen this condo not only because of the relative affordability with an ocean view, but because it was three blocks from her business. She changed her clothes, pulled her hair under a baseball cap, and grabbed her keys. A bottle of water, an apple and a granola bar, and she walked right back out of her home, down the elevator to the ground floor.

  She walked past the startled doorman.

  He called after her. “Have a good afternoon, Ms. Langford.”

  She didn’t stop, but lifted her hand in a wave as she kept going.

  Having so many people interacting with her on a daily basis was going to take some getting used to. She’d been very self-sufficient in her marriage, taking care of the business end of Dr. Langford. She accompanied him as the beautiful, well-educated, well-read wife. An asset, like his car or home. Her guilty secret was watching the Food Network to unwind.

  If Preston saw her in cut-off jean shorts and sneakers with no socks, he’d have a conniption. And her hair in baseball hat? No make-up, or jewelry?

  Well, he was gone, baby, gone, and she had nobody to answer to but herself.

  She walked past manicured hibiscus bushes, palm trees of every shape and height. The humidity, tolerable at eight in the morning, was a force to be reckoned with at two in the afternoon. Dripping with sweat, Celia reached the store front and stood back. The windows were supposed to be stenciled, something she’d thought to have plenty of time for. They weren’t even clean, with the scrapings of poster paper left over from the last tenant.

  A bead shop. Before that, a bakery. The bead shop had left the small kitchen alone. The miniature industrial oven was big enough for Celia’s needs, and had been the reason she’d leased the space.

  Her toes curled in her sneakers, but she lifted her chin. Hell, she was desperate. It was make or break time.

  Anxious, she unlocked the front door and was hit the hot odor of melted plastic. The place looked like it had been ransacked, and was a far cry from the café she’d had in mind. Emptied bins lay on the floor. Carpet instead of tile. She couldn’t serve food and drinks on carpet. It made her head ache.

  The walls were rainbow striped with glittery unicorn decals leaping from one spot to the next. A tween girl’s dream gone awry. How was she supposed to turn this into a sophisticated café by next week? She staggered back to the kitchen. The huge stainless steel double sink was piled high with more tubs. The refrigerator door was open, and listed to the right. Unplugged, or broken? The glass on the front of the stove was cracked.

  She left before she burst into panicked tears, locking the door behind her, and walked down the street, following the briny scent of the ocean. She realized the Grille where she and Dax had breakfast was two blocks over, but didn’t want to see anybody she knew. Like Rachel. Or Dax, who said he ate there all the time.

  No, Celia wanted to lick her wounds by herself. On the beach. With her pedicured toes buried in the sand.

  She recognized the alley next to the Dive Shop and scooted by, knowing there was ocean access. If I can just reach the ocean, I will be okay. I will be okay.

  She’d been telling herself this for months now, and she’d arrived, only to find that it wasn’t at all okay.

  ❋

  Dax slipped his arm around Veronica’s trim waist, leading her from the water. She was limping, leaning on him after stepping on a conch shell. She hadn’t lasted two hours.

  She fought her fear of the sharks well, but it was difficult for everyone to get the shoot situated properly, snap a few pictures, then have to start over again because she’d panic at the sight of a blow fish.

  “I am a professional,” she said, holding his arm. “I have been hired to sell these jewels, and I will, Dax. I will. Umberto is counting on me.” She patted the large emerald at her chest. “I am the canvas for his best piece.”

  “Let’s take a short break,” Dax suggested, reaching shallow water. He tried to release the model, but she clung to him like seaweed.

  “Jorgio, Felippe, will you get us some lunch? Perhaps sustenance will give me the strength to return to the deep.” Veronica sighed, her body sagging with defeat.

  The photographers exchanged glances, then the shorter one shrugged. “I’ll go, Felippe. You went last time.”

  Dax got the impression that they followed Veronica from job to job and were well accustomed to her drama.

  “Corned beef if they have it?” Jorgio said. “And you know what Veronica likes.”

  The shorter man nodded. “Take this, will you? I like the place by the pier. That all right with everybody?” He didn’t wait for answers before jogging off.

  They’d set up beneath a portable canopy, with towels and a backpack of assorted equipment, fruits and water. The ebony box held the faux jewels for the photo shoot.

  Dax was glad when they reached the towels and he could gently extricate himself from her hold. “Here you are, Veronica. Why don’t you rest?”

  As if she’d never felt a second’s fear in the water, Veronica folded down on her thick towel like a Persian princess, the thin gold belt around her tanned belly catching the light. She leaned back on one arm, her hair, styled to frame her face before curling down to her waist, spread out around her.

  Any man’s fantasy, she said without words.

  Dax thought of the deadly barracuda and kept his distance.

  He turned to the right, his back to the water. A woman in shorts with pale legs and bare feet headed past them toward the water--away from him. Her hair poked from the back of her baseball hat in blonde disarray, but it was the stiff shoulders that gave Celia away.

  “Celia?” Dax called after her.

  She stopped, hesitated. He walked toward her, knowing she was weighing being polite with avoiding him. What was wrong?

  “Celia, wait.”

  She turned, her toes anchored to the wet sand for balance.

  He could see she’d been crying, with tracks of tears funneling through dust on her cheeks. Her dusty top had seen better days. Her condo had been spotless, so where had she gotten so filthy?

  “How many times a day do you change, anyway?”

  She looked down at her shorts and pulled on the uneven hem, then her shoulders started to shake and Celia turned toward the water.

  Today was his day for crying women. He reached out and touched her arm. “It will be okay.”

  Her laugh a touch on the maniacal side, Celia turned so fast she tottered in the uneven sand. “You promise? You’ve been busy being everybody’s hero. How can you be sure that it will be okay?”

  “What?” Dax just wanted to help. He wasn’t a hero by a long stretch.

  She pointed to where Veronica watched them from the canopy. Even from a distance the model was stunningly beautiful.

  “I saw you help her from the water. When do you have time to get any work done?” Celia’s tone was sharp, but Dax didn’t feel as if it were directed at him. She’d been upset before.

  He pointed over his shoulder. “That is work.”

  Celia took off her hat and stuck it in her rear pocket. Tendrils of hair clung damply to her forehead and she leaned over to splash her face with the sea water. “Lucky man.”

  “No. No, way. She’s what you call high maintenance,” Dax whispered, leaning close to Celia. “Trust me, not my ideal client.”

  Celia glanced at him quickly before patting her face. “Model?”

  “Jewelry.” Even though they weren’t real, the pieces were expensive, requiring photographers/bodyguards.

  “I can see that chunk of green on her neck from here. Well, you don’t have to worry about me, Dax. Go back to work. I’m fine.”

  “It’s fake,” he said
. Her pink cheeks were now speckled with sand as well as tear streaks, and her hair lopsided. He’d bet she cut those jeans into shorts herself. “Meet me later?”

  “Nope. I have my own work to do.” She stared out at the waveless horizon. “It seems there was a hiccup, damn that’s a funny word, anyway, a snafu, regarding the opening date for my café.” She narrowed her eyes. “But I will open on time.”

  “What happened?” She’d taken on a lot, coming here, sight unseen. Despite her tears, there was nothing weak about Celia Langford. “Can I help?”

  “You’re a glutton for punishment. You have my permission to take the rest of the week off and let the ladies of this little island fend for themselves.”

  She pulled her cap out from her pocket and jammed it on her head. Pieces of blond hair stuck out over her ears. Her nose had already turned pink.

  “You should wear sunscreen. You’re so pale you’re gonna burn.”

  “I have a hat on.”

  “You have to build up a tolerance for this kind of sun.”

  Celia’s body stiffened. “I’m not stupid.”

  He shrugged. “I’m offering advice, that’s all.”

  “Thanks.”

  She continued to stare out at the water, letting him know he was dismissed.

  Chapter Five

  Celia gathered strength from the ocean, ignoring Dax and his model to walk farther down the beach. The pelicans amazed her, the smell of salt, the crunch of shells, the sound of the waves. It all brought the peace she needed. She’d been searching for serenity her entire life.

  By the time she’d finished walking, she had a new plan in place.

  Sleep; that came first. But after a nap, she’d get online and order paint. Stencils. And hire someone to do the tile, even if she had to pay a premium.

  Failure was not–could not-be an option.

  She remembered Khanti mentioning she had cousins that worked at the farmer’s market. Perhaps there were other locals that could use some work-cash, under the table? And she needed a waitress, one like Rachel. She’d thought she could do it all, but seeing the space again she realized it would be best to have help.