No Getting Over You (7 Brides for 7 SEALs Book 2)

by Cerise DeLand

  Table of Contents

  No Getting Over You

  Publication Information

  PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Also Read

  Thank You

  No Getting Over You

  by

  Cerise Deland

  7 Brides for 7 SEALs

  Book Two

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  No Getting Over You

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Jo-Ann Power

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

  Publishing History

  First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2017

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1445-7

  Published in the United States of America

  PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

  Cerise Deland

  “Sinfully hot!”

  ~Romance Junkies

  “Bring a fan, and plenty of ice water, you’ll need it!”

  ~Long and Short Reviews

  POWER POSITION

  “Prepare yourself for a wild, hot ride. The steaminess never lets up as they rock, glide and slide their way to ecstasy. Amanda and Jack are as opposite as they come but they find a way to make each other vulnerable, needy and sexy all at the same time. Amanda is dealing with a new lover after the death of her husband. Jack is dealing with uncontrollable hunger for his boss. The scenes are well-written and will leave the reader wishing they were one of the characters in the book if only to get some relief.”

  ~You Gotta Read Reviews.com

  Chapter One

  Viviana LaClare leaned over the restaurant table to whisper in Abby Stuart’s ear. “After dessert, I’m going home.”

  Her best friend stared up at her with disbelieving dark golden eyes. “No, Viv. You can’t.”

  “I’m tired.” She and Abby were curators at the National Portrait Gallery, and their boss had resigned a few weeks ago. In line to be promoted to his job, Viv had worked long hours the past two weeks to absorb some of his projects and learn the nuts and bolts of his duties. But Viv saw no end in sight for her overtime. Abby was getting married in two days and had given her notice so she could marry her Navy SEAL and move with him to San Diego. All of it meant Viv had taken on lots more work. To boot, she was to fly to Venice Monday to examine the provenance of a painting that the owner wished to donate to the gallery.

  She was tired. And she had to be honest. Looking at Abby’s joy at being in love made Viv envious. And lonely. All she wanted right now was to catch a taxi home and work on ridding herself of that horrid emotion. Abby was her friend, and Viv was enormously happy for her. She just needed to go home and sleep it off. “It’s been a long day.”

  “We won’t let you skip,” said Tracy Banning, another of their colleagues.

  Another mutual friend grabbed Viv’s hand across the dining table. “You promised. All of us bridesmaids stick together.”

  “I know, Monica, but day after tomorrow is the wedding and—” Viv threw them a valiant smile. She was no maid, for sure. In fact she was the Widowed Matron of Honor. But she couldn’t say something so depressing. “I’m an older lady, and I need my beauty sleep.”

  “Older?” Monica Sandoval said, stuck two fingers in her ears, and chanted, “No, no, no.”

  The other two agreed.

  Still. Next week, Viv would turn thirty-eight. She might eat right and run two miles every morning along the C and O Canal, but since her husband passed away nine months ago, she felt older than dirt.

  “None of that,” Monica said, shaking her head, her long platinum waves swirling over her shoulders. “Abby got herself tied to this SEAL so quickly, we’ve got to do all the regular funky stuff as if we planned them for months.”

  “Well, frankly,” Viv said and rolled her eyes at the bride-to-be, “if you’d agreed to wear a goofy veil, a ‘Virgin’ sign, and bar hop, I might’ve been inclined.”

  “Bull,” said Monica.

  “You would’ve run like Frank Damon was after you.” Tracy grinned at the reference to their retiring boss.

  Viv hid her negative reaction. Frank had called her last night and asked her to dinner. She’d refused, not in the mood to alter their former supervisor-employee relationship now that he had left.

  Monica fell back in the plush banquette and folded her arms. “You promised to stick with us tonight. No matter where Abby said we’d go after dinner.”

  “Can’t call retreat now, Viv,” Abby objected, her large almond-shaped eyes twinkling in mischief. “I shared with all of you how Nick and I met. You owe me the courtesy of escorting me into this marriage with everything you’ve got.”

  “Brought together by a really live—or rather a really dead—ghost at The Menger Hotel is odd-ball. But belly-dancing lessons were never on any list of bachlorette hi-jinks I thought you’d pick.” As if belly-dancing were the worst of Abby’s funky choices for tonight’s hen party.

  “You thought we’d go where?”

  “Dunno.” Viv lifted her shoulders. Abby was an old movie buff. “This month the Strand up on Wisconsin is showing back-to-back Robert Redford flicks.”

  “Nah. Abby has her movie hunk in the flesh.” Monica widened her eyes and licked her bottom lip. “She does not need to go to the Strand to drool.”

  “Okay, okay.” Viv raised her hands. “I’ll do the belly-dancing lesson. But that’s it. Then I get in my pumpkin and disappear.”

  Abby frowned at her. “You’ll love this. I promise. I picked all of these things because I knew each of you had a hang-up. A bias. I want you to open your mind to the rich possibilities of—”

  “A back ache,” said Tracy, who refused to go out dancing at clubs because there’d been a fire at one where she danced when she was in college.

  Viv smiled at pretty petite Tracy, delicate as a flower. “The belly-dancing is for you.”

  Abby tipped her head at Tracy but stared at Viv. “And she’s agreed to rock out.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Monica huffed. “And the karaoke is for me.”

  Viv understood. Monica had stage fright and repeatedly refused to give any presentations at her design firm. She needed to get over it if she was to ever have a crack at managing client cases on her own.

  “And the fortune teller is for you,” Abby said with kindness in her gaze. “I’ve checked him out. I know you’ll like him.”

  “Him?” Viv blurted, shocked at this news. “What? A man who’s clairvoyant?”

  “Tough to come by, I agree. You told me so yourself.”

  Viv’s mother had told fortunes and read auras for decades. She’d earned a living at it. “My mother’s gif
t was inherited from her mother. I got only a thimble-full of her talent. But she taught me to be skeptical of those who claimed the sight.”

  Abby wiggled her brows. “But this man is the real deal.”

  “How can you tell?” Viv had to argue with straight-laced WASP Abigail Stuart whose extended family of Virginia patricians were the epitome of work-hard, serve-long, become-famous-forever legends.

  Abby pursed her lips. “That day I saw him before I went to San Antonio two months ago, he told me ‘something strange’ would happen to me. I’d see a vision.”

  Viv gave her a rueful eye. “Abby Stuart, we all have ‘something strange’ happening to us every day. As for the vision—”

  “Un-uh.” Abby picked up her wine glass and drained it. “I have no doubts. My vision, my ghost was real.”

  “But the night you had your palm read, you thought the psychic was a crank. You told me so yourself.”

  “I won’t deny it. But what will it hurt to go listen to him, hmm?”

  I might fall for his mumbo-jumbo. I’m too damn lonely. And I might want to believe him.

  She shook away that possibility. A native of New Orleans, her Irish-Creole family was well versed in the arts of Seeing. But since Viv’s husband, Paul, passed away nine months ago, she believed only in the art of Getting On. She no longer grieved for him, fabulous man that he’d been. Instead, she pined for his presence, his awful jokes, and his stories of life in the fast lane of Louisiana politics. Worse, she ached for the affection he’d lavished on her. She wanted a man to share her days with and a bad ass lover like Paul to spend her nights with.

  “So?” Abby egged her on. “What do you say, ma cherie?”

  Viv had to protect herself from charlatans and find comfort in the reality that she might still make a happy life…alone. “My mother could read the aura of anyone twenty feet away. Sometimes, I can, too. If he’s a crank, I’m leaving, you hear me? And I am not giving him my palm. He’ll have to read me as I am, straight on. No words. No written hieroglyphics. Just so we’re clear.”

  “We are,” said Abby with a small smile.

  “Fine,” said Tracy. “I’m ready to dance.”

  “And I’ll sing but never live down the shame,” said Monica.

  “No predictions!” said Abby. “Let’s get the check.”

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Viv hailed their waiter. “The bridesmaids’ treat.”

  ****

  Two hours later, the four of them strolled up M Street. The Friday night crowd of Georgetown college kids and Washington politicos was thick, and the four women often linked arms, two-by-two, to maneuver through the throngs.

  “Okay.” Abby stopped in front of an antique store with a side entrance to the upstairs. “This is it.”

  Viv glanced up at the building, old nineteenth century gingerbread carvings hanging from the eaves.

  A breeze lifted wisps of her hair. Earlier, she’d rolled up her shoulder-length red hair in a Victorian style bun and coiled it up in a net caul. But the wind gusted and oddly, despite her deft pinning job, her hair unwound and the pins dropped one by one to the sidewalk.

  “Oh, my.” She grabbed for one pin, then another, but straightened as a shiver ran up her spine. She shook out her hair and went with the moment.

  “What happened?” asked Tracy.

  “Lost her pins.” Monica bent over. “I’ll get—”

  “No, Monica. Leave them. I—I’m okay.” She winced as the wind turned brisk, cutting through her light wool jacket. It was early October and Washington weather could change, but the sudden drop in temperature was odd.

  “Don’t you want them?” Monica asked.

  “Thanks. I’ll just leave my hair the way it is. Do I look okay?” she asked Abby, knowing the change in weather and her physical appearance would be omens her mother would mark.

  “Wonderful.” Abby hooked her arm through Viv’s. “I’ll ring the bell. He’s expecting us.”

  “Goody,” said Tracy.

  “Personally,” Monica said, “I want to know if I’ll win the Maryland lottery tonight.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Viv said and regretted her negativity. They were out to have fun tonight. No use being a wet blanket.

  Abby gave her a playful nudge as she pushed the button at the entrance. “Open your mind.”

  “And let—” Viv read the sign near the mailbox. “—Mister Voyant walk in?”

  “Exactly. Should we have ordered another drink for you before we came here?”

  “No. I’m perfectly soused as is. But do you know what ‘voyant’ means?”

  Tracy giggled. “Voyeur!”

  Monica snorted. “Can he see us without our clothes?”

  Abby shook her head. “You three are hopeless.”

  The door buzzed, and Abby and Viv pushed it open. Up the stairs they went.

  “It’s not very creative of him,” said Viv with disdain, “to call himself Mister ‘Seer’.”

  “What do you want him to call himself?” Abby asked, chuckling as she knocked on the door. “Mister Smith?”

  “Quack would be good,” Viv said, and the door swung open.

  The air left her lungs in a whoosh.

  The tall, elegant gray-haired man before them looked like a French actor. Or an English butler. Whoever he was, whatever his real name, he had the demeanor of an aristocrat. Beak nosed, high cheekbones, probing silver eyes, impeccable tailoring, and courteous manner.

  But when he looked into Viv’s eyes, he smiled as if he’d known her, missed her, and celebrated her return to him.

  She rocked back on her heels.

  “Good evening,” he said, all solicitous grace. “Come in to my salon, please. I have been waiting for you.” And when he said ‘you’, he meant, by eye-contact, only Viv.

  He ushered them into his well-appointed living room, or salon as he called it. The room reminded Viv of those lush aristocratic French chateaux in the Loire Valley. Done in pale silks of creamy chrysanthemums and rich roses, thick Aubusson carpets, and lavish Louis the Fourteenth furniture.

  All of them settled at last, he offered them tea. They declined. He asked them their preference for a reading. Abby reminded him she’d made the reservation for her friend, Mrs. LaClare.

  Viv sat in one of his comfortable wing chairs as they made small talk. And all the while, Viv was conscious of her body’s reaction to this man. This Mister Voyant.

  Her chill from the wind outside had subsided. In its place was a raging warmth in the region of her heart. Her hands, normally cooler than the rest of her, were hot, relaxed. Her heartbeat had slowed. A regular jogger, her pulse was normally low, but this tempo was uniquely quiet.

  And his aura? She couldn’t stop looking at him. His handsome chiseled face was swathed in a whirling kaleidoscope of greens and blues that blended to violet and into reds, then suddenly white and back again. He was everything, save black, and she knew enough of the colors to realize he would do her no harm.

  “Would you like to come into my smaller parlor? For privacy, perhaps, for your reading, Madame LaClare?” He said her name with a tinge of French accent. Yet he seemed American. Was he from the Delta? Had he been bred in good Louisiana soil?

  “No, this is fine,” she said as much in self-preservation as to share her experience with the other three. They’d been so eager to come that she thought it fun to let them listen in. Especially if he uttered such vague words as those he’d given to Abby when she’d consulted him on a prediction. Viv would call on their affirmation to proclaim that, after all, he was a fraud to dupe people with hope of telling their futures.

  “Very well.” He nodded his noble gray head. “Would you mind to come sit in this chair, near me?”

  It was another sumptuous wing chair, and she rose, walking quickly, compelled by his magnetism, eager to sit, eager to hear what he had to tell her. His eyes, his voice acted as a lure. She startled, shockingly alarmed. She wanted to pull away. Leave. But why? Why would she when s
he yearned to learn what he did?

  “You have been sad for a long time,” he said with tenderness.

  She flinched and looked at her hands in her lap.

  “You wish to be happier.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” she asked, flippant and hating that she’d been rude.

  “You will be again.”

  She examined the silver in his eyes, the shards of gray that flashed and sparkled.

  “Soon.”

  Oh, she ached to believe him. But— “I cannot have him back. He’s gone.”

  “But he lives in your heart.” Voyant shifted his gaze to her left, staring at the empty space. “He sits here with you.”

  “No!” She shot to her feet. Her fingers dug into her clutch. “Don’t do that. Say that. You are to read me, not call up my dead—”

  “He came along, my dear Madame. I did not call him.”

  She whirled on her heel and headed for the door.

  “He does not want you to be afraid. He has found a man for you.”

  She spun to face him. “Ooh, that’s loathsome. How dare you say you see him? How dare you use him? You need to stick to your predictions.”

  “I will.” He put an index finger to his left cheek and drew it down to his jawline. “He comes. Soon. You’ll heal his wounds. And he’ll heal—”

  “I don’t want to heal anyone. Been there. Failed at that.” She threw a valiant smile at her three friends. “Bye, Abby. Sorry, Tracy, Monica. See you tomorrow. I’m done here.”

  Chapter Two

  Britt Ackerman jumped out of his rental car and surveyed the classy houses lined up on P Street. The white and red brick Federal style house in front of him was a three-story beauty, with a large cut glass front door, white Doric pillars, and small lawn that was manicured to a fare-the-well. His instinct was to whistle, but hey, he was in the high glitz district of Georgetown and he didn’t want the natives to know he was a Texas Hill Country boy who’d grown up in a trailer.

  Besides judging by the house, the lady he was picking up as a courtesy to his teammate Nick Reardon and Nick’s bride to be, Abby Stuart, was most likely richer than Dolly Parton and dressed by one of those Italian designers. Minutes ago on the phone, she’d sounded like a breathy singer of the blues, all whispery and sultry as hell. She’d had him at ‘hello,’ but Abby had told him Viviana LaClare was her matron of honor.