From the Heart

by Eva Shaw

  Contrary to what the slogan says, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” wouldn’t work with PSA, because according to what I’d read in that morning’s paper, they’d learned that when criminals play games of the heart it gets deadly. Earlier in the day, I’d been served with a federal subpoena to spill my guts to the committee headed up by none other than Senator Geraldine English. When I get around to writing my bestselling memoir, I’ll use the transcripts as they slam the book—or is that close the book—on Delta and the assorted scum who ran PSA. Maybe Bob, too.

  What I heard next was heart-stopping delicious and I didn’t open my eyes because I wanted to bathe in the sound of that protective rumble from, literally, the man of my dreams.

  “Why are you here, Bob? Let go of her.”

  “Um, ah, Captain Morales—” Bob tossed my hand to the bed.

  “Don’t you have something to do? Like pouring Clorox on your reputation? Be decent for once, man, and let Jane rest,” Tom growled. It was a growl I wanted to lust after, even when directed at me.

  Then I sniffed the air, peeked just a slit. Tom had placed an unmistakable gold box of Godiva on the table near the bed. The man came bearing gifts. This was a good sign. A chair squeaked, pulled close. Tom’s rough hand caressed my arm. His voice caught in his throat, all mushy and tender as he said, “Eres mi heroína, Jane,” and crooned, “Esta bien, esta bien.”

  What? I was Tom’s hero? I twisted my pulsating noggin, allowing his crooning words that it would be okay to sink in. I also positioned my lips so we could smooch and we did. He was still hot; I’m still a woman.

  Tom was right. Everything would be okay, that is until my do-gooding soul flipped into hyper mode and became a buttinski. Again. Hey, like they say in Vegas, “You can bet on that.”

  Acknowledgments

  Always and always again with happily forever after, my first reader and my favorite fan, I must acknowledge and thank my life partner, my husband Joseph. He always tells me the truth, and that’s hard to do when dealing with the sensitive feelings of a writer. I couldn’t—wait—wouldn’t be the writer I am without his love, opinions, common sense, and belief in me.

  Thank you to Jennifer Lawler, my editor at Crimson Romance Books, who read the manuscript and wanted it. In April 2012, Jennifer emailed me saying, “The book is a delightful romp.” Music to my ears. Now, months later, she continues to wow me with her encouragement and advice, plus the way she makes me think I’m the only novelist she’s working with. Now, that’s a gift.

  Thank you to the devoted, intelligent, and capable staff at Crimson Romance, from my copy editor to the talented designers who created a cover that really speaks to the reader and to me. Thank you to the publicity staff and especially to the booksellers.

  Thank you, too, to my Crimson Romance “sisters” who are inspirations. Your friendships have been a delightful perk since joining the CR “family.”

  To my online students—more than 50,000 of you “out there” now—thank you. Helping you to become the best writers possible, being your mentor, and nudging you all the way toward publication, you have helped me become a better writer and person in the process.

  Thank you to my early readers: Paulette Stewart, Ellen Hobart, and Dr. C.J. Johnson. Your encouragement meant the world to me, especially in the early stages, when I told you I was writing a mystery/romance/comedy about black market adoption.

  On a personal note, this book is dedicated to my mother-in-law, Stella Angieski Shaw. I am certain she’s now in heaven serving up cakes, coffee, and laughter-filled conversation just like the buscias—the Polish grandmothers you have met in this book.

  A Note From the Author

  This book came about after reading an article in the San Diego Union Tribune about black market adoption schemes where profit-hungry companies sold “return” policies to adoptive parents. These unscrupulous companies were “selling” toddlers to prospective parents without disclosing their hidden and heartbreaking mental challenges to cash in on the exorbitant return option. I couldn’t get it out of my head or my heart.

  Then I learned about the squalor found in many eastern European orphanages and women kept as sex slaves to produce “made-to-order” babies sold to Americans. Sure I could have written an article about the crimes, but I wanted to show the faces and hearts involved. A novel with plenty of mystery and a quirky protagonist that could make you smile became the vehicle of choice.

  I started writing as soon as I could hold a pencil. At eight, I wrote The Teddy Bear Trilogy. For a long time, especially when I was a shy, bookworm teenager, I only “wrote” novels in my mind, but boy what elaborate scenes. Because of an undiagnosed hearing loss and two strong-willed sisters as a middle child, I found comfort in reading. It was about this time, too, that I started talking with my characters and asking them what they wanted to tell in a story. Sounds a tad psychotic, but most writers do this and I continue to do it with each novel.

  I think of you, the reader, with each word I write. I work to spin characters that you love or love to hate. For the main characters, I strive to build heroines and heroes that make you want to know them better and make you miss them as the last page is finished.

  As a writer, I need the story to carry you along. I don’t want to interrupt you from thinking, “Now what in the world did the writer have in mind?” I believe good fiction writers should be nonexistent. You don’t want to know me. I’m boring. You want to know the people in my books. You want to be involved in what’s making them laugh, angry, fall in love, or do something you’ve always wanted to attempt. That’s what I want for you, too.

  I keep on top of trends and try to foretell what readers will want in the next year or three or four years. From the time I get an idea to the time a book is published can be 3 months to 18 months, depending on the nature of the contract with the publisher. I struggle not to “date” the book with current events, a freakish blizzard or some movie star’s latest rehab exploit, so that 18 months from now it’ll seem fresh.

  My online writing students, although they don’t know it, have been most helpful to keep my writing clear and help me stay on top of trends. I teach six different online writing courses available at 2000 colleges and universities worldwide. How do these faceless and nameless (because of privacy, I know nothing about my students) writers help? They force me to write clearly and with the tightest writing possible. When they don’t understand something about writing, whether it’s fiction or an essay, they ask. I supply the answers. They want facts, not fluff. Teaching has taught me to write more succinctly and with purpose. I’m a better writer because of being a writing professor.

  I love to write. Don’t tell publishers, but I’d write for free if that were the only way. So sitting down at my computer in my cluttered and comfortable home office to write isn’t a problem. Stopping is the problem, because I always have to stop before I’m ready.

  I have an incredible, full life. I’m blessed with a wonderful husband Joseph who still makes my heart pitter patter after decades of being my partner in life, a playful Welsh terrier Miss Rosy, an incredible garden that’s always begging for my attention, paintings to start and to finish, books to read, friends to hang out with and volunteer with activities in my community, church country. I’m a board member Days for Girls, an international organization that works to increase personal dignity and sanitary products to girls and women throughout developing nations. I run out of hours long before I run out of determination or creativity for each day.

  As a seven-days-a-week writer (with Sunday morning off for church), I have a flexible schedule. Each morning, Joseph and I talk and solve world problems as we take Rosy for her six-mile daily walk. She doesn’t know she’s 13 and I’m not going to tell her. After lupper (a combo of lunch and supper that we eat, since we both work from home) we always have a cup of tea or coffee while we sit in the garden. As a breast c
ancer survivor, I’ve learned to be good to myself and cherish the small things, like spending time with those I love.

  My best advice for any writer, of any age, is: Read in your genre. Study it like your life depends on it. Learn from those who write well. For instance if one is struggling writing dialogue, study the work of Debbie Macomber. If one is struggling with storytelling, check out the work of John Grisham or J. K. Rowling. Don’t put off writing, if it’s calling to your heart. There is never, ever a good time start except right now. Take a class, find a mentor, and ask for help from someone you admire.

  I apply the Golden Rule to writing and to relationships. When I’ve helped someone to learn, to understand, to relax, or to better cope with something, I’m humbled. I’m happiest when I’ve given someone the keys to a door they’ve wanted to open and they’ve not only opened it, but rushed through and succeeded. I get this feeling in my online courses when writers start to love writing and get published. My greatest disappointment is that there are only 24 hours in the day, and I have to sleep about nine of them. I want more, I want more time to write, more time to read, more time to teach and share. I work to squeeze more time into every task and hence I’ve become a cracker-jack time manager.

  I love meeting my readers and those who’ve read my books or taken my online classes. When a reader or one of the writers I’ve mentored in the online classes (more than 50,000 when I figured it recently) comes up to me at an event, I cannot contain myself. The connection is intimate and it’s wonderful.

  A few years ago, I was at the launch of What to Do When a Loved One Dies: A practical and compassionate guide to dealing with death on life’s terms. This was at a national convention for death care providers and vendors who provide services for the industry. A woman stopped me and told me I’d saved her life. She explained, “On my only son’s twenty-first birthday, he and colleges buddies went drinking. He swallowed twenty-one shots and died on the spot. I nearly died, too. All the well-meaning drivel that friends and family handed out just made it worse. Then someone gave me a copy of What to Do, and truly you saved my life with the solid information, the facts of what I was feeling in this horrific experience. I was this close,” she squeezed her index finger to her thumb, “to taking my own life, until I read about physical and emotional grief.” We cried together for a while, hugged, and I never saw her again.

  I have been blessed with similar experiences with fiction and nonfiction time and again. When does one know a book is a success? If there is one smile, one “aha,” and, like the woman at the convention, one life changed or one time to forget the troubles of the world because a novel is plain fun to read, that book is a bestseller to me.

  I’m looking forward to meeting you, my reader, so please visit my site and meet me at that next workshop or conference.

  Eva Shaw

  Carlsbad, California

  www.evashaw.com

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  57 Littlefield Street

  Avon, MA 02322

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Eva Shaw

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-5226-6

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5226-7

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-5225-8

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5225-0

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 123rf.com

  Doubts of the Heart

  Eva Shaw, author of Games of the Heart

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This book is dedicated to those who are on the breast cancer journey, survivors like me and especially to those who valiantly died fighting this battle, including my baby sister, Olive. A portion of all profits from the sale of this book will go to the Breast Cancer Research Fund and other charities supporting research and assisting my Sisters in Pink.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  I put on a coconut bra. Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to do that because down deep every woman has. But you know what the scary part was? It fit. For coconuts.

  Turning around in the shop’s microscopic dressing room at the International Market Place in downtown Honolulu, I tried to scrutinize my reflection in the fuzzy, fun-house mirror.

  “And what’s become of your pride, Nica Dobson?”

  This was not a rhetorical question because I really did ask myself that. Self didn’t answer, which is a good or a bad thing depending on where my psyche was living at that second.

  I slipped out of the bra and back into shorts and yellow t-shirt, sandals, and Cubbies baseball cap. What had happened to me? Who was I? What was my purpose in life?

  Sorry, if you think I have any of these answers, I don’t, so quietly close this book and check out the ones on the self-help shelf. Life is a big, fat mystery to me. That’s why I found myself in Honolulu, a year after surgery for breast cancer, six rounds of chemo, and then seven weeks straight of radiation. I was on leave, not from my senses, but as a confidential consultant for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It’s like being a temp, but I got to carry a gun if needed, and an ID card, and swore to uphold apple pie, Mom, and the American way. But as a consultant, I could give my opinions, but had no clout when terrible things happened and received no pats on the back when things went well, which often made it tough to tell the difference between a good outcome of an investigation and a rotten one. Want details? Just ask my cousin, Pastor Jane Angieski about that. She exposed all sides of me in her best-selling memoir Games of the Heart. Alas, I was okay with me for about ten years, but then this cancer diagnosis happened.

  My co-workers at the Bureau thought it was for the medical reasons that I was on leave. Made sense, since I did need time for my body to get stronger, but honestly, I’d begun thinking the leave was necessary for emotional ones. Could I continue to fight their fight? Who was I fighting? Could anyone ever win?

  Not being clear why I was a consultant, I knew I’d become a danger for my partners, citizens, and even the criminals. Yes, for myself, too.

  Don’t misunderstand. I believe in truth, justice, and John Wayne. However, doubts clustered and squawked in my brain like greedy pigeons in Central Park. For some consultants and agents, it takes a bullet for them to examine their lives and their bucket lists. For me, it was a nasty swarm of cancer cells right near my heart that made me wonder if the absolutes shared by my fellow team members and agents could ever be mine again. The treatments for breast cancer, to me, were a blessing because after years of being undercover as a wealthy patron of the arts in Las Vegas, I was free. Of course, I’m still a wealthy patron of the arts, thanks to marrying the late George Wainwright (oil importing and banking) and the late Clayton Dobson (family fortune with the smarts to get into Microsoft in the beginning). You won’t be tested later and I’ll try to remind you if I bring them up again.

  I loved them both and they loved me. Yet, I think they wanted a trophy wife rather than a life partner and because of my cover for the Bureau, I gave them what they wanted. These men always got what they wanted.
George died of a heart attack when he was “away on business.” Yes, even the death certificate had quotes around that. Clayton? Who knew that a bee would sting him when he brushed it off his face with golf towel before selecting a five-iron at the eighteenth hole at Pebble Beach? Who could imagine that an insect could end the life of a billionaire who even the president didn’t call by his first name until he was asked?

  Within twelve short months, I went from living in a mansion the size of Oprah’s in Montecito, California (and yes, I have been her guest) to living at the Hilton in Honolulu. My friends who’d been through it and the counselors in the support group said, “Cancer changes things,” but apparently not everything as I quickly found out.

  I put on my hot yellow “I Love Waikiki” T-shirt and denim capris. I wasn’t ready to buy or be seen in public in a coconut bra, well, quite yet. Then the second I flung back the fitting room’s curtain, I was knocked back and then teetered forward. Blame it on the high-heeled sandals. I grabbed a chunk of a green Aloha shirt and snapped. “Listen, pal, if you take off the dark glasses and realize there are other people in this market, maybe you wouldn’t be a menace to society,” I barked.

  “Me? You could get yourself killed moving like that, you know,” he growled, but took my elbow as if to steady me. That’s when I saw the two goons standing on each side of him. In the Bureau, I’ve heard that described as “packing muscle,” and these guys looked like poster boys for that.