by Ellen, Tracy
In Love by Design
The Adventures of Anabel Axelrod
(Volume III)
by Tracy Ellen
In Love by Design by Tracy Ellen
Copyright © 2013 by Tracy Ellen
Amazon Edition, License Notes.
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Dedication
I wouldn’t be writing this third book without the ongoing loving support from my husband, my family, and my closest friends. You all provide my everyday reasons for existing and have my heartfelt thanks.
TE
Cover Art
by Samantha Prudhon Falkowski
Acknowledgments & Special Thanks
I love my bunch of beautiful editors! From the kindness of your hearts and the delightful pickiness of your big brains, you have all given me so much in time, effort, and friendship. Thank you, thank you!
Contributing Editors
Kelly Beausoleil
Amber Leigh Gleisner
Beth Lake
Shannan Robinett
Sandy Samuel
Mary Kris Smith
Table Of Contents
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapte II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Epilogue
Prologue
Sunday, 11/25/12
11:30 PM (CST)
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Viva Las Vegas!
Darling Grandmother,
Score! Whatever magic you used to persuade Stella the Stubborn--it worked. Your great-granddaughter and Eric George have decided on a Las Vegas wedding on New Year’s Day. Thank you, thank you!
Business has been hopping at the store and I’m hiring a couple more part-timers. The Florida girls left earlier today, and except for Crookie, my houseguests are now gone. Also, Jazy and I had a talk about James Byrd tonight. I have plans to see him later this week. We shall finally see how Mr. Byrd rolls! More on that subject later.
Yes, for once the rumors are true. I have a boyfriend. Unfortunately, he disappeared the next day, so that makes it hard to respond to your high praise that we’ll make a wonderful couple. Unless you think being an official couple for nine hours is long enough to make this determination? With most of those hours spent asleep? And the last hour was me swearing at Luke with loathing while he laughed and held me, as I had a monstrous needle stuck repeatedly in my right cheekie to be branded like his personal cow on his private hobby farm? Yes, I know that’s what I get for proclaiming I’d get a tattoo if I ever fell in love, so quit laughing. It hurt!
Your German Baron has real dungeons in his castle? Lucky you! Enjoy your stay. ;D
Chapter I
“Madness” by Muse
Thursday, 12/06/12
10:15 PM
You can tell a lot about a woman’s mood just by looking at her hands. Right this minute, mine were white-knuckling the steering wheel in Lady Liberty while I drive home from Mac’s house. I was damn tired.
Today was the annual Winter Walk festival in Northfield and Bel’s was flocked with Christmas shoppers. Later in the evening, a group of us girls met over at my sister’s to put the finishing touches on the plans for Anna’s bridal shower this Sunday.
Since I’m still officially a girlfriend, and with shower presents for Anna and Stella in mind, I’d gone lingerie shopping last week. After earrings and shoes, buying pretties was my favorite pastime. What am I saying? They’re all equally necessary to my happiness. Purchasing exquisite undies was therapeutic for me and sure beat psychiatric bills. I hit the mother lode at Flirt Boutique in St. Paul. I’d spent an extravagant amount of money on babydolls, teddies, bras and panties, along with silk stockings and lace tights. It was two hours of heaven amidst my last two weeks of hell.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw James Byrd and Jazy following closely on my tail.
As if I didn’t have enough confusing and worrisome issues challenging me lately, Lady Liberty had to pick tonight to remind me that I’d put off deciding on a new car for too long. Luckily, my jeep’s old battery had enough juice to respond to a jump, but James thought it might also be the starter going bad. James insisted they follow me home before those two were off to some swanky charity event at a club in St Paul.
I was envious that Jazy got to dress up; especially since she’d borrowed one of my newest cocktail dresses I haven’t worn yet. We can’t usually wear each other’s clothes, but this little emerald silk and chiffon number fell in pleats straight from tiny spaghetti straps down to a few inches above the knee. It was a very deceptive dress. The long keyhole neckline gave peek-a-boo glimpses of a girl’s cleavage when the pleated fabric parted as you move. It was a flippy, swirly dress guaranteed to drive men crazy.
Sighing, I tried to be happy someone was getting to drive men crazy tonight, even if it wasn’t me.
Retail therapy aside, these last couple of weeks have still been a bitch. Shaking my head, I forced myself to take a deep breath and get it together. Getting it together for me means making a list. Since I was driving, a mental list would have to do.
Turning off the music to compose the list, I heard my phone beeping in my purse. Reaching inside, I pulled it out and glanced at the screen while trying not to run into a parked car.
There was an email notification from a man named Edmund who has 38 sluts who want to meet me. Last time spam from this pimpster slimed its way through he had 78 sluts. I wondered what’s happened to the missing sluts. Then I couldn’t help but be offended that I was being offered the dregs of his stable after the top forty were taken.
Like I said, it’s been a rough two weeks for me.
I also had a voicemail from my fake godmother, Jamie Wade. It was probably about the part-time employees her grapevine has found for me. This was working out pretty slick. I’d hired one referral from her last Monday and had interviewed another likely candidate yesterday. I decided the message could wait until I got home and put the phone back in my purse without listening.
Okay, back to my mental list of gripes. I started organizing my thoughts by stating out loud, “We’ll take it chronologically from the oldest to the newest problem. Number one on the list: Being in love is a major pain in my ass!”
A few of the things I’ve learned over the past two weeks were really bugging me, but overshadowing all of those concerns was how down I’ve been feeling since
last Tuesday. The day came and went with no word from Luke. It wasn’t that he committed to those dates I’d suggested for getting away alone together. However, I haven’t heard one peep from Mr. Secretive since the morning after Thanksgiving, so I’d hoped he might surprise me.
‘Who am I kidding? I’ve been waiting for Our Turn like a cat in heat!’
So far, being in love sucked the big one.
‘It’s pretty damn hard to become a fabulous girlfriend when there’s no boyfriend around for weeks for me to practice on!’ I griped bitterly.
‘Yes, Anabel, and not even one phone call or text in all that time, either,’ smirked the mean mommy voice.
‘Things are not adding up and that’s a fact not to be ignored,’ stated the accountant voice.
‘Hey, the man’s got a tough job. There are no facts yet, so give the dude a break before getting your panties in a twist. Who knows what he’s doing?’ argued the detective voice, sounding defensive.
‘I know for a fact who he’s not doing!’ haughtily sniffed the sex kitten voice.
I had to agree with all the voices in my head. Who did know what or who Luke was really doing?
Not his new girlfriend, that’s for sure.
I only know he’s been gone two weeks and has not found one spare second in all that time to contact me. Nothing Luke’s revealed about his job made me believe he needed to observe radio silence for this long. There has to be some perks to being the company’s owner, such as making personal calls on the clock won’t get him written up. My logical conclusions were Luke’s lying in a coma somewhere and yearning to remember me, or his tongue has been cut out and his hands were in casts. Or he’s out of contact by choice.
With everything else on my mind, it was a toss-up which answer I wanted to be true.
The morning after Thanksgiving, Luke dragged me kicking and screaming to my appointment at High Noon Tattoo Shop to get me branded. The reason the business card looked familiar the night when he gave me my so-called present was because this shop is located down the street from Bel’s. The tattoo shop has been there for a while but due to my needle phobia, I’d been very successful blocking its existence from my personal universe.
The next hour of torture has also been blocked from my memory, but according to what was prettily tattooed in black ink inside a pink heart high on my right buttock, I was officially the chattel of a man named Luke.
After my ordeal by needle, my Master was watching me lick my fingers over my consoling breakfast treat of a chocolate éclair from Anna’s newest dessert competition at CakeWalk when he got a text. One of the partners from Luke’s company, DDL & Associates, said he was needed ASAP to deal with an urgent situation.
Before my boyfriend took off, and in between some goodbye kisses that erupted into a hot and heavy make-out session in our truck parked behind Bel’s, I learned the DD part of the DDL stands for Dan and Daniel.
Taking his turn sucking the creamy custard filling off my fingers and then licking it off my lips, Luke explained to me both Dan’s were men from his Army days, and the three of them each own an equal third of the private security company.
My boyfriend was so talented at sucking and licking, he made me a bad listener. When he pulled me across the cab of the truck and into his arms, I was barely paying attention to his low mesmerizing voice telling me a little of the history of DDL because I had better things to think about. Later, I recalled he said the three of them had basically divided the company into thirds. Luke ran field operations and the operators, Dan was the IT guru in charge of the business side of things, and Daniel specialized in procurement, which included gear, gadgets, and human talent.
Despite his kisses, I wasn’t too terribly disappointed to see Luke go because of my busy schedule with work, the Florida girls visiting that weekend, and because my butt cheek really hurt. However, I was very disappointed his parents didn’t get to stay for the entire weekend as planned, either.
Damaris went shopping that Black Friday and bonded with my family and friends while I worked. Svettie tagged along uninvited with the girls, so I was doubly glad I’d decided to hold down the fort at the bookstore. Anna, proving once again her superior qualities as a best friend, bombarded me with texts and pictures throughout the day of their Mall of America experience. It was almost as bad as being there, but not quite.
Unfortunately, Friday night the senior Drakes caught a late evening flight back to Chicago with Svettie. They were providing the little baby with moral support. The Russian was freaking out after being requested to show up on Saturday to prepare for her witness testimony in the government’s case against her ex-boyfriend, the money man for a Russian crime boss. Svettie’s time slot for testifying had been moved up to first thing Monday morning, instead of later in that week.
This meant I never got to have my cozy lunch with Luke’s darling mother. That was sad enough, but it also meant I was foiled again in my attempts to see the inside of Luke’s house. Once more that accursed farmstead has beaten me, but I’ll never give up.
On the brighter side, Damaris and Paul seem thrilled that Luke has a girlfriend. Mama D’s called me several times over the past two weeks. Both of us were busy women, especially me at this time of year, but we agreed texts and emails were crappy ways of getting to know one another. We’ve had a few fun phone conversations, and one not so fun conversation. At least, it wasn’t very fun for me.
The result of this conversation was the second thing on my mental list tonight that was making me see green, and not in an eco-friendly way. Innocently, Damaris mentioned that Svettie lives with Luke in his Chicago condo. I’m sure Damaris thought Luke must have shared this small detail of his life, so I kept quiet that I had no clue Svettie lived there.
Was I wrong to be unpleasantly surprised to find out a woman blatantly after my man lived with him in Chi-town? In his studio condo? A condo that I’ve never been invited to visit?
Was I wrong to look back now and read into Svettie’s smirking smile when Luke’s parents stopped by the store to say goodbye to me that Friday evening on the way to the airport? A smirk that plainly stated sneaky Svettie hadn’t given up trying to get Luke because now she was going back to her territory--a place where she lived and worked with my boyfriend?
I don’t think I was, either.
I totally agree it’s beside the point that Damaris was telling me how she’s helping Svettie find her own place. Svettie’s loser boyfriend was firmly behind bars and not getting out anytime soon. Damaris said now that there’s no threat on the table for her personal safety, Svettie was free to live as she pleases without worry. Svettie can rent or afford a condo of her own, since she has a nice little nest egg saved up for a down payment. Being somewhat familiar with Chicago’s condo market and the currently squeaky tight lending practices for mortgages, I concluded Svettie must indeed have some whopper of a nice little nest egg. She hadn’t been working for Luke’s company that long. This led me to believe it must have paid well to be the trophy girlfriend to the money man of a Russian crime lord before Svettie ran off.
‘Although, maybe a booby-prize is a better description than trophy and the dude paid her off to leave,’ I thought darkly, recalling Svettie’s hysterical fits.
Damaris went on to heap praise on her son. Sure, I agreed that Luke was a great guy for helping to provide protection and a safe haven for poor Svetlana, since he’s gone so much and his condo sat empty most of the time. It’s the “most of the time” that won’t stop rankling around in my brain box.
I know women and I have a filthy, suspicious imagination. Ms. Romanov probably sashays around the condo clad only in those white fur Yeti boots while saying, “Oh, Luke vhat is vrong vith me? Help me! I forgot to put my clothes on today!”
I found a reason to get off the phone with Luke’s mom soon after that little bombshell. It was either that, or Damaris might be able to tell by my inventive swear words what I really thought of her beloved son’s silence on the subject of livin
g with that skinny, robe-dropping Russian. Unhappily, I had to draw another logical conclusion. Luke’s deliberately chosen not to tell me that he and Svettie have been condo comrades during the entire time we’ve known one another.
The only bright side I could muster up after learning this was Stella assured me those stupid fur boots of Svettie’s had to be coated in some kind poisonous chemical to repel dirt and stay so white.
The third item on my list evolved from a conversation with Jazy ten days ago. It was the Sunday night when our Women’s Weekend was finished and the Florida girls were safely on their homeward bound plane.
We’d had our traditional family dinner earlier and almost everybody had left my apartment to go home. Armed with a tin of Mama D’s baklava and an armload of Bride magazines, Blanca went happily with Stella to have a sleepover at her garage apartment.
Jazy and I were alone in the kitchen and sitting around the island. Looking over her shoulder at the tall couple on the sofa, Jazy said in a low voice, “Great, I can finally talk to you about James Byrd without anybody around to overhear.”
Following her glance, I looked at Crookie and Tre in the living room. Amused, I noted they were now sitting a foot apart while watching TV together. This was progress. At the rate they were creeping closer and closer, maybe their elbows would have contact by Christmas. They were so cute together that I kept forgetting Crookie’s wife’s funeral was still two days away on Tuesday morning.
You’d think by the way Crookie was yelling at the TV that they were watching Sunday night football. Tre J had come into the kitchen to fill their wine glasses a minute ago and informed Jaz and me that it was a cooking show, not the NFL.
I’ve never seen Crookie so aggressive, but he must take his cooking seriously if his shouts of, “You call yourself a chef! Any idiot knows that was too much oregano!” were any clues.