A Million Different Ways
Book I of the Horn Duet
P. Dangelico
Contents
Copyrights
Also by P. Dangelico
Praise for A Million Different Ways
Prologue
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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Coming Soon
About the Author
A MILLION DIFFERENT WAYS
Copyright @ 2015 P. Dangelico
ISBN: 978-1-4951-4874-3
Published by P. Dangelico
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Originally Published: March 2015
Reissued: June 2016 Fourth Edition
Cover Design: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
www.pdangelico.com
Also by P. Dangelico
Romantic Suspense
The Horn Duet
A Million Different Ways (Book I)
A Million Different Ways To Lose You (Book II)
Romantic Sports Comedy
Hard To Love Series
Wrecking Ball (Book I) Winter 2016
Sledgehammer (Book II) Spring 2017
Bulldozer (Book III) Summer 2017
Praise for A Million Different Ways
“...romance that crackles with erotic tension...Dangelico’s debut romance hums along at a brisk pace thanks to a pair of engaging leads and a well-drawn cast of supporting characters.” -Kirkus Reviews
Four Stars Hot “Sexy, intriguing, suspenseful and heartwarming, A Million Different Ways will grab hold of readers' emotions and leave them wanting more. Sebastian is a broody, swoon-worthy alpha male, and Vera is a beautiful, courageous heroine. These two characters will pull at your heartstrings in this emotional and dangerous tale.” -RT Book Reviews.com
“A steamy, character-driven romance novel with an international flair. The great strength in A Million Different Ways is the characters - and not merely the characters of Dangelico’s two leads, but all the supporting characters as well. Dangelico is definitely a romance author on the rise. A Million Different Ways is filled with heartbreaking emotion, danger, sensuality, and characters you'll want to hear from again - there are a million different ways you’ll love this book!” -Self-Publishing Review
Five Stars “I loved a Million Different Ways. Loved. It. How's that for a review? Author P. Dangelico has certainly done a fantastic job creating characters that her readers will care about, connect with, and continue to think of long after the last words are read. If that’s not a hallmark of a truly great author, I don’t know what is. I highly recommend A Million Different Ways and certainly look forward to reading more from a very promising new author P. Dangelico in the near future!” -Readers’ Favorite
Prologue
1985
Santa,
Hi. I am 6. I can rite becase I have a tuder. Can you make my mom and dad like eech other. thanks
love sebastian
1987
Santa,
Hi its Sebastian. I live in texas and my parents dont fite anymore. I dont see my dad much. my mom drinks that stuf that smells can you help her?
Thanks you are grate.
love Sebastian
1988
Deer Santa,
My mom is in the hospitol agan!!!!!!! A boy in my class said you are NOT REAL. I really hope he is rong!!!!!!!!! can you rite write me back. I am not going to rite you anymore. I stil still live in texas.
Love Sebastian
Chapter One
Geneva, Switzerland 2012
Winter had worn out its welcome, dragging its feet well into April, but signs that spring had finally arrived were everywhere now. Daffodil stalks had timidly begun to sprout up from cozy beds of dirt, and a dust of color covered the naked branches of the platanus trees. The banks of the lake were packed with people emerging from hibernation. Their rolled up shirtsleeves revealed skin as bleached as an uncooked baguette.
We sat on an old iron bench that faced the Geneva fountain, the Jet D’Eau, and watched it soar 138 meters into the clear blue sky. A watercolor rainbow appeared in the down-turned arc of the spray.
“You can work at Yuri’s nightclub if you want.”
I glanced at Emilia and found her examining the cheese in her sandwich. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Em––I appreciate the offer,” I said in the most diplomatic tone I could muster. “But I’m not interested in getting out of a bad situation and into a worse one.”
She wrinkled her slender nose at the cheese and picked it out with long pale fingers. I devoured mine. I hadn’t eaten a decent meal in days. On cue, my stomach growled, nerves churned its paltry contents like a wash and rinse cycle. I placed my hand over it but only managed to reduce its angry roar to a low moan. Emilia stared at my stomach. An apostrophe between her brows marked her delicate features.
“How are you doing with money?” she asked in Albanian, our common language.
In an attempt to avoid her scrutiny, I kept my eyes on the bobbing masts of colorful sailboats being tossed about on the windswept water. “Fine,” I replied, a little too quickly. It was an egregious lie and we both knew it. Honesty had become a rare commodity between us the last couple of months. Withholding the entire truth was the only way to be in each other’s company without arguing.
My savings account was dwindling rapidly. I was reminded of it every time I looked in the mirror and saw the sharp angles of my cheekbones protruding, the dark depressions beneath my eyes. I couldn’t afford to pay the rent on the tiny room off the Rue du Berne much longer. Just for a little while, in the span of time it takes to eat a crappy sandwich, I wanted to forget my problems and lose myself in the breathtaking beauty surrounding me.
“Is there any way you can go back to the pub?” Her question caught me by surprise. Salt on an open wound. The burning sensation lingered as the memory of what had happened that evening came back to me in a rush…
It was our turn to close the bar that night and Pascal always seemed to forget something. The last
time we worked the late shift together he had forgotten to lock the back door and the manager had threatened to fire us both.
“Did you lock the cash register yet?” I asked––for the third time.
His dark eyes roamed over my rear end in approval. “Oui.”
Pascal was considered attractive––he certainly never lacked female company––but if you asked me he looked like the villain in a bad romance novel. His mouth had a perpetually smug tilt to it, and his black, deep-set eyes were framed by slanted brows that winged up at the ends.
It was past one. Eager to close up and go home, I sat at the bar and divided the tip money while Pascal finished cleaning. It vaguely registered that he had been wiping the same spot on the copper top bar for ten minutes in mindless circles. My gaze nervously drifted from his powerful bicep, stretching the black t-shirt he wore, down to his meaty hand and calloused knuckles––the sight of which never failed to turn my stomach.
“Let’s have a drink,” he announced, his French accent coarse.
I paused from counting my share of the money and glanced up. Before I had a chance to respond, he had already poured himself a shot of tequila and knocked it back. “Let’s not,” I snapped, too tired to even feign an excuse.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and raked me head to toe with a blank stare. A flicker of something indefinable made me pause. All my senses coalesced, focused strictly on him. He moved behind me, to collect his keys from behind the bar, and I felt him purposely brush up against my rear end, his erection jabbing me in the small of my back. Pascal had been making sexual advances for months and had done so with all the girls. It never occurred to me that I was in any real danger.
A wave of confusion rolled over me. I stood there frozen in place while my mind questioned what my instincts were trying to tell me. When I finally gathered the courage to glance over my shoulder, I found him hovering disturbingly close, a predatory smile plastered on his face he did nothing to conceal. The realization didn’t hit me all at once. It trickled in, collected in my gut, and slowly transformed into a feeling of dread.
“You know, my cousin works at the department of immigration.”
“Yes, I know, Pascal,” I curtly replied, unease getting the better of my self-control.
“For a well educated woman, you’re very stupid,” he spat out.
There were a million things I wanted to say to him and none were particularly educated. This time, however, self-preservation easily prevailed over any impulse I felt to argue or defend myself. I grabbed my keys from beneath the cash register and stuffed them into the back pocket of my jeans. Not daring to turn my back on him, I slowly backed away. “I appreciate the offer, but I can take care of it myself.” His eyes narrowed into aggressive creases and the air surrounding us instantly transformed, grew heavy with dark energy. I pretended not to notice his threatening glare and untied the black apron wrapped around my shrunken waist, throwing it onto my shoulder casually. “See you Tuesday,” I said, insincerity ringing loudly in my overexuberance.
Escape was only an arm’s length away, the door within reach, when he spoke again. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The delicate hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight. Dear God. My winter jacket was in the back office and I couldn’t afford to leave it. The internal debated though, lasted only for a second; the look on his face made my mind up for me. “It’s not that cold. I’ll get it tomorrow.” It wasn’t even a small lie. There was still snow on the ground.
I gripped the doorknob and heard him moving, my hypersensitive ears registering footsteps over the heavy hammering of my heart. And then time seemed to grind to a halt, reality collapsing into a singular, awful moment. I stepped out of the scene, as if observing from some distant perspective, and watched it play out frame by slow frame. His thick, calloused fingers were splayed in front of me, holding the door shut. I could feel his hot, tequila-laced breath on the nape of my neck. His erection pushed against my rear end. My hipbones pressed painfully into the wood of the door. I couldn’t hear myself scream; sounds seemed dull, wrapped in goose down. I struggled wildly but it was impossible to budge him; he outweighed me times ten. I realized my mistake much too late, had calculated badly, hadn’t anticipated his determination. I had grossly misjudged him and the cost was unthinkable.
In vain, I struggled to pry off the sweaty hand clamped over my mouth and nose. The pungent odor of his personal musk mixed with cleaning detergent and beer invaded my lungs, leaving no room for oxygen. Launched into a state of terror that was indescribable, any sanity I had a fragile hold on instantly fled.
“Shhh, you little putain. I’ll make it good for you,” he growled in my ear.
Then a sudden bang, as loud as a clap of thunder, disrupted the violence. A group of young men stood outside the large picture window of the pub, pounding on the glass. They were obviously drunk and seemed in no hurry to move on. Pascal rocked back on his heels and relaxed his weight on the door just long enough for me to react and jerk it open. I stumbled out into the icy night greeted by a round of shouts and cheers. The young men rushed the door just in time to block Pascal from grabbing me again.
“Va te faire enculer!” he shouted, and the men replied with a few choice obscenities of their own.
I pushed through the crowd clutching the tiny gold cross around my neck for reassurance and, rubbing the warm metal between my fingers, sent up a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever angel had delivered them. In the doorway, Pascal stood eerily still, gripping the frame tight enough to turn his fat knuckles white. A blast of frigid air loosened the paralyzing hold naked fear had on me, my body shuddering as I backed away into the dense black of the moonless night.
And then I ran.
I ran like the devil was at my heels. I ran even when the pain in my lungs felt like a sharp knife skewering me. I ran until I reached the safety of my little room, where a small immigrant woman with nobody in the world to protect her goes to hide. I never went back for that jacket.
“There’s a greater chance of me becoming the queen of England than going back there.”
“Shit! That bad?!”
I picked nervously at the frayed hole on the knee of my jeans, tried to tuck the loose fibers back into the open weave but only succeeded in making it worse. “Unfortunately, yes.”
A pair of elderly men walked past us at a snail’s pace, arms locked behind their backs, bickering about the cost of living. One of them tipped his hat at me and I forced the corners of my mouth into a poor imitation of a smile.
“Have you heard anything from the hospitals?”
“Nothing…yet.” My voice sounded weirdly high, my feeble attempt at optimism falling flat. I had applied for a residency position at half a dozen local hospitals months ago and hadn’t received a single response. My three month grace period had expired.
Originally signed in 1985, the Schengen Agreement allows EU residence to travel freely across borders without having to stop at checkpoints and show a passport. In 2008 Switzerland became the twenty-fifth country to join. More importantly, the law allows EU residents to obtain a temporary visa lasting ninety days within a six month period. Unfortunately that day had come and gone for me. And since Switzerland is notoriously strict about enforcing the limit––lawbreakers are routinely rounded up and deported after being subjected to enormous fines––I was constantly looking over my shoulder.
Thanks to the global economic meltdown, a blanket of hopelessness had settled over Europe. Not only was it suffocating growth and opportunity, it was also fueling an alarming anti-immigration movement. Previously fringe, far-right political parties were gaining momentum in Italy, Greece, Switzerland, and the Netherlands. Austerity policies had given birth to a destructive mentality of scarcity, a perfect breeding ground for hate and intolerance. Cracking down on immigration suddenly seemed to be the solution to every evil. No one wanted to acknowledge how closely it had begun to resemble a cycle of unpleasant histor
y in Europe.
Italy had taken a big hit. The economy unraveled with each descending tick of the Italian stock market. By the time I graduated from the University of Milan medical school, funding for state-run hospitals had been reduced to the bare minimum. And since Switzerland’s recognition of medical degrees from Italy is automatic, the decision to leave the relative safety of Milan, a city I had grown to love, was an easy one. I jumped on a bus headed north and three hours later found myself in a new country, with a renewed sense of hope.
Geneva is a grande dame, an elegant lady, hosting a dinner party for friends from all around the globe. Arabic men dressed in traditional thobes are as common as young mothers pushing designer baby strollers in their workout spandex. Add to that bankers, students, and foreign dignitaries and what you get is a city filled with an eclectic mix of people who fit together as neatly as a colorful puzzle. I fell in love with her instantly. My shining city upon a hill. But as beautiful as she is, routinely ranking as one of the best cities in the world to live in, she also ranks as one of the most expensive. Financially, I was barely surviving, one paycheck away from total ruin.
“How are things with Yuri?” I asked out of habit. She brushed my concern away with a wave of her hand.
“Yuri isn’t that bad. I can handle him.”
I turned to look at her, an expression of disbelief plain on my face. “You can handle him?” Her eyes flickered away, scrupulously avoiding my glare. “Emi, he’s involved with the Russian mafia. It’s no secret. I’m very worried for you. And what about your modeling career? Have you given up on that?” Something about Emilia triggered fiercely protective instincts in me. It had always been that way between us, since the day we met in grade school.
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