“It’s not too chilly in here?” Worry nipped at his brow.
“It’s hot.” Her voice was raw with need. “Too hot.”
She wanted this—wanted him—desperately, but when he unfastened several buttons of her blouse, she experienced a single moment of clarity. The last thing she wanted was for him to regret their actions, regret this night. She stilled his hands.
“What about Dr. Warren?” she asked. “What about the rules?”
Greg’s reply required that their counselor take his rules and contort himself into a position that wasn’t humanly possible. He made short work of the buttons on her blouse and slid the fabric off her shoulders. He nibbled a trail of hot kisses from the curve of her neck to the back of her ear.
“Greg,” she whispered, “let’s have a baby.”
His head whipped up.
“Let’s have a whole slew of babies.”
He laughed. “You’ve lost your mind. After Thanksgiving, I thought—”
“I loved the madness,” she told him.
He just looked at her in disbelief.
She silently mouthed, loved it. Then she murmured, “Almost as much as I love you.”
He kissed her, long and slow. “Let’s just take this one step at a time.”
And then right there on the revolving carousel, with the freshly painted Pinto undulating at her back and candlelight burnishing their bodies, Greg solved her Big O problem. In fact, he solved it several times over.
Later—much, much later—when every muscle in her body had turned to rubber, every pent up stress dissolved away, every need sated, Lauren found herself smiling. They’d gathered up shirts and belts, underwear and shoes, and wearily dressed, both of them wearing silly smiles. She sat on the crossbar of the saw horse now, grinning down at her bare foot and then lifting her gaze to watch Greg scratch his head, cursing under his breath as he searched the carousel in vain for her missing sock.
Life and love, she decided, wiggling her chilly toes, were exactly like that merry-go-round. Blemished. Flawed. Imperfect. But with the right person by your side, it could be one hell of a ride.
A note from Donna Fasano
Hello!
Thank you for taking the time to read my book. If you enjoyed Lauren’s story, please consider writing a review and telling your friends about The Merry-Go-Round. Good reviews and word-of-mouth recommendations are the best way for any author to find new readers. I thank you for your support.
Connect with me on-line at DonnaFasano.com where you will find my bio, a list of my other titles, links to some of my favorite authors and websites, as well as fun blog posts with recipes, inspirational quotes, and interesting tidbits I come across in my day-to-day life. You can also find me on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest. Feel free to contact me. I love to hear from my readers.
All my best,
Donna Fasano
Twist of Fate
Patti Forsythe
Copyright © 2015 by:
Patricia Forsythe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Praise and Awards
USA Today Bestselling Author
Romance Writers of America RITA Award Winner
Chapter 1
Côte de Diamant wasn’t at all what Rebecca Perris had expected. No doubt she had seen too many television reports and old movies about this part of West Africa, she decided, gazing out the huge windows of the airport as she inched her way through customs.
The country had been founded by the French two hundred years ago on the backs of diamond miners, not farmers, so she had expected to see endless sand dunes, trackless brown desert with few redeeming features. She had been surprised to see that there was very little of that. As her plane had banked and circled the airport, she had spied great swaths of green, no doubt farmers’ fields of cotton and grain irrigated by the Côte de Diamant River. Groves of trees, which her seatmate on the plane had said were mangoes, stretched in perfect rows south of the city. Palms swayed like skittish young colts in the breeze, their fronds tossing flirtatiously. As the plane landed, she saw bright shocks of flowering vines tumbling over white-painted walls in nearby neighborhoods.
Seeing that this was a beautiful country somehow gave her hope for the dangerous quest that lay before her.
“Passport, please,” a young, uniformed man asked, holding out his open palm.
Rebecca handed it over and faced him with a pleasant smile, turning to the bright light from the window so that he could see that she was, indeed, the woman in the photograph. After traveling and sleeping fitfully on the plane, she knew she looked a wreck, but maybe she was still recognizable.
The young man carefully examined the shoulder-length sweep of her strawberry blonde hair, her deep blue eyes, oval face, full lips – lingering a little too long on her lips. Her eyes took on a hint of the toughness she sometimes showed her high school students, but kept smiling.
She knew that, above all, she had to be gracious, law-abiding, above reproach, if she was to get what she wanted in this country.
Rebecca had even dressed the part, wearing a calf-length skirt in a subdued shade of brown, comfortable suede boots, a white oxford shirt with a button-down collar and a lightweight tan jacket. Colors and style had all been chosen to give no offense, but to appear businesslike, competent, sure of herself. If only she really was sure of herself.
“And how long do you plan to visit the jewel of Africa?” he asked without a blush of self-consciousness for his flowery phrasing.
“My visa is for three weeks.”
“And are you here for business or pleasure?”
She hesitated. She wouldn’t lie, but she couldn’t tell the full truth, at least not yet. “A little of both.”
He tilted his head, waiting for more of an explanation.
“I am a high school history and government teacher on summer vacation. I’m visiting Côte de Diamant to study your culture and people in order to teach my students about this part of the world.”
“Oh?” he asked. “And what kinds of things do you teach your students about other cultures and people?”
Rebecca sensed a minefield. “I find the best, most unbiased information possible.”
“And who produces this so-called unbiased information?”
Rebecca didn’t know how she had stepped into this maze, but wherever she turned, but she couldn’t seem to find her way out. She smiled again. “There are many sources. I try to choose the best.”
For some reason, that non-answer seemed to displease him. He frowned, studied the few stamps on her passport indicating she had rarely traveled before this, and then only to vacation spots like Belize and Jamaica on family trips. He looked up. His eyes had grown cold.
Rebecca knew suspicion when she saw it. What on earth had she said? She smiled warmly, attempting to thaw him.
“And what kinds of things do you plan to teach your students about Côte de Diamant?”
She also knew a minefield when she saw one. “I don’t know because I haven’t yet had the opportunity to meet any citizens of Côte de Diamant except you.”
That wasn’t strictly true. She had met some citizens of Côte de Diamant, and at least one prominent one, but that had been long ago and far away.
Her answer didn’t seem to mollify him.
“And have you made arrangements with the Ministry of Tourism to see the important sights in our country?”
Her smile widened. “That’s my very first stop as soon as I check into my hotel.”
He gazed at her for another few seconds, then nodded, and, at last, stamped her passport before handing it back. “See that it is.”
“I will.”
Before Rebecca could turn away, he seemed to think better of it and said, “Wait a moment.” Gesturing
to another uniformed man nearby, he said, “Ibrahim will escort you to your hotel and then to the ministry. I will call ahead and tell them to expect you, Miss Perris.”
Panic clawed at her, but she fought it down. “That isn’t necessary. I’m sure I can find it by myself. I would hate to take this soldier away from his important duties.” In truth, he’d been propping up a nearby wall, but she was determined to give no offense, to get away from here and go about her business. “I understand that Côte de Diamant has one of the most user-friendly designs in this part of the world.”
“That is true,” he answered graciously, but with steel in his tone. “However, it is best if a single woman is accompanied by a trustworthy man.”
What could she say? she wondered fleetingly. The chance to look around the city, get the information and directions she needed was being snatched from her, but her smile never wavered. “Thank you. That would be very helpful.”
Her unwanted bodyguard indicated that she should precede him. As she did so, she saw the customs official reach for the phone. She wondered who was receiving the report about her. Fuming silently, she followed Ibrahim from the terminal into the sharp brightness of the afternoon sun. She fumbled for her sunglasses while Ibrahim gestured for a car to pull forward. It was not a taxi, but an unmarked sedan. The driver stopped and jumped out with alacrity, loading her bags into the trunk in record time. He helped her into the backseat, Ibrahim joined him in the front seat, and they took off with a burst of speed that bounced her against the car seat.
While they drove, Rebecca gazed out the window and worried. She knew her face didn’t show it because she had spent the past several years teaching herself to maintain an interested, pleasant expression while she critically assessed her students’ knowledge and understanding during oral presentations.
She commented on the architecture of the buildings they passed, which could only be described as haphazard. Unpainted one-story cement block structures jostled for elbow room with elegant, walled homes painted gleaming white. Bougainvillea in every hue spilled over the tops of the walls which were topped by spikes or broken glass. She commented on the walled gardens with exotic plants barely visible through railings, the lightness of the traffic leading from the airport to their destination – a fact for which she was profoundly grateful since everyone on the street seemed to be practicing for some kind of demolition rally. Her remarks received only occasional grunts of agreement from Ibrahim.
All the while she worried. She had no idea if this was normal procedure for Americans visiting Côte de Diamant, or if it could be something personal. She couldn’t believe that her name was on a list of suspicious characters that would require an escort if they ever happened to land in ‘the jewel of Africa’.
As they rode and she chattered inanities about what she saw outside the window, the reason she had come to this part of the world gnawed at her, nagged her, urged her to get this part – whatever it was -- over with, and get on with what was really important.
Sitting had been a mistake, she knew, though she’d had no choice. She had been worried and stressed for days, striving toward one goal so that she’d slept little and eaten even less. Now, she felt empty, not hungry, but hollow and her tiredness was beginning to press down on her as if she was wearing some type of evil device that sapped her energy, filled her with exhaustion. It was hard for her to think, but she had enough presence of mind to look around. They were driving through an area of office buildings. She would almost bet her life that they were government buildings.
“Is this the way to my hotel?” she asked, trying to hide her alarm.
“It would be best if for you to visit the ministry first,” her escort answered. It was all she could do not to think of him as her captor. “In Côte de Diamant, we want to make sure every visitor feels fully welcome.”
“I’m sure that extends to the staff at my hotel, as well,” she said sweetly, but he ignored her.
It didn’t take long for them to reach the Ministry of Tourism, an imposing white stucco building with the ever-present seven-foot wall and wrought iron gates. A guard stood out front, watching the parking lot with eyes that pierced the atmosphere from beneath a billed cap.
The driver parked, no doubt in a spot reserved for the escorts of suspicious characters like her, Rebecca thought. Ibrahim issued a few terse orders in Arabic, then climbed from the car and helped Rebecca out.
“This way.” He took her elbow and urged her toward the gates, stopped to show his identification – an impressive gold badge in a case, and had Rebecca show her passport.
The guard studied them both carefully and let them pass. He spoke into a communications device concealed in his shirt cuff, and the gate swung open. The two of them walked through while Rebecca reflected on whether all the security was to keep people out – or in.
They passed quickly through a courtyard edged with beautiful ceramic tiles in bright colors. Concrete benches curved around the base of a splashing fountain, giving a welcoming feel that Rebecca would have liked to stay and enjoy, but Ibrahim hustled her alo
Inside the building, a receptionist sat before a large curving desk that reminded Rebecca of a cockpit. Ibrahim stated their business and she answered, “The minister will be free in a few moments. I will let him know that you have a guest for him to meet.”
The girl made it sound as if the minister would be honored to meet Rebecca, but she wasn’t fooled. A teacher of sixteen-year-olds was very adept at spotting scams and insincerity.
“Thank you, “ Rebecca answered with a warm smile. “But I don’t want to put anyone out.”
“You won’t be,” the girl assured her hastily as she reached for the phone. She spoke into it and then nodded at Rebecca.
“Thank you,” Rebecca said graciously, realizing she wasn’t going to leave this building and go about her business until she had finessed the minister. Uninvited, she turned and sat down on a sofa and pretended to admire the potted plants and artwork displayed on the walls. Ibrahim paced the room from the door to the window that overlooked the courtyard and back again, glancing at Rebecca every time he passed. She assumed he wanted to stay on his feet and be ready in case she tried to make a break for it.
This time, sitting down was most definitely a mistake, she realized as she settled into the comfortable sofa. The sofa was too comfortable. Exhaustion continued its relentless assault. In spite of her nervousness and distress, if she sat for very long, she might doze off.
No need to worry, she discovered. Within five minutes, a young man appeared at the arched doorway leading into a long hallway. Unlike Ibrahim, he wasn’t uniformed, but wore the long white jellabiya and keffiyeh of his tribal people.
“Miss Perris?” he asked. “The minister will see you now.”
Resisting the urge to ask why all of this was necessary, Rebecca said, “Actually, it’s Mrs. Perris.”
“Excuse me,” he answered in a soft voice. “I wasn’t aware of that.” His tone was so smooth, so cool, that Rebecca couldn’t imagine what he was thinking
Dutifully, she followed him, glancing from side to side as she passed offices where people worked, mostly at computers. The Côte de Diamant Ministry of Tourism was a very high tech place.
At last, they reached an office with gleaming double doors. The young man gave a perfunctory knock before opening the door and ushering her inside. “Mrs. Perris to see you,” he said, and closed the door.
Surprised, Rebecca glanced after him, then turned to look at the man who sat behind a wide, modern desk. His dark head was down as he studied a sheet of paper.
Her rap sheet, no doubt, Rebecca thought sardonically.
“Please be seated,” he said, without looking up. “I’ll be right with you.”
Rebecca went very still. That voice, she thought. It couldn’t be. That was the voice that had added heat to her youthful dreams, filling her with desires she’d been too young to know how to name. Now it rocked her, hitting her in the stomach and
pooling in her core. Oh no, she thought. Oh no. This was different, unthinkable. A man’s voice couldn’t conjure this kind of reaction, to shake her to her soul, fill her with heat.
It was her exhaustion playing tricks with her mind, some kind of memory resurfacing because she was here in Côte de Diamant. It couldn’t be.
The man glanced up.
It couldn’t be. But it was.
She would know those clear, green eyes anywhere. They were the color of the ocean, and equally deep and mysterious. His face was hard-angled, at odds with the full sensuality of his lips.
Aaron al-Rashid. The man who had haunted her dreams, whose memory caused her to squirm with guilt.
She couldn’t speak, could only stare.
Concern lined his face as he stood up hastily. “Is something wrong? Are you ill?” Quickly, he rounded the desk and strode to her side. “Here, please have a seat. I’ll get you some water.”
He helped her to a chair, hurried to a credenza beneath a wall of windows, where he opened a small refrigerator to extract a bottle of water. He brought it back to her, along with a glass he’d snagged from a low shelf. He opened the bottle as he walked, his motions swift, reactions sure.
She remembered that about him. Remembered all too much.
She recalled the first time she’d seen him in her parents’ home in Phoenix. He’d been there with four other pilots but she’d really only seen him – tall and handsome, intelligent and quick-witted. They had spent a lot of time together. He’d told her about his family – his older sister who was married and had a young son, his recently deceased father, his mother. But mostly, he’d told her about his American grandmother, her outrageous sense of humor and winning personality that had been such a shock to her husband’s staid Côte de Diamantian family. In fact, his grandmother had been the source of his name because Aaron had been her father’s name.
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015 Page 59