by S. Layne
Contents
ENFLAME
Copyright 2015
Synopsis
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Thank you
About the Author
ENFLAME
The Affair Series, book three
by
Best Selling Author
Stacey Lynn
writing as S. Layne
Copyright 2015
ENFLAME, The Affair Series, book three
S. Layne
© 2015 S. Layne
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permissions from the author, except for using small quotes for book review quotations. All characters and storylines are the property of the author. The characters, events and places portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of all products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks in not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing provided by: Amy Jackson Editing
Proofreading provided by: Emily A. Lawrence
Cover design provided by: Sarah Hansen with Okay Creations
Photography: Bigstock Photos
Synopsis
Talia Merchant dropped the idea of a forever kind of love after the first guy she loved stole not only her heart, but he also took her virginity….and then he took off.
Now, busy with caring for her father and trying to save her teen shelter, Talia doesn’t need the messy entanglements that come with real relationships she doesn’t have time for.
But after a mysterious benefactor saves her free clinic and reveals himself…everything changes.
Donovan Lore doesn’t just want in Talia’s bed, which is the only thing she offers —he wants inside her heart and he doesn’t care what type of fight Talia puts up. He’s determined to break through every one of her walls until she’s pliable and needy in his hands and writhing beneath him.
And Donovan always gets what he wants.
To all my readers
I couldn’t do what I love
Without you.
My fingers hesitate, running down his cold, pale skin. He no longer wears a tanned and healthy look. His skin is sallow, sunken in and dark around his eyes. His cheekbones protrude too far and his lips are too dry.
Everything about him feels and looks wrong, regardless that I’ve seen him like this almost every day for the last month.
“Get better soon, Dad.” My hand leaves his cheek and moves to under my eyes, wiping away my tears that slowly begin to fall.
His eyes are open but unresponsive.
I should be used to it, but I would give my right arm for the outer edges of his eyes to crinkle, the corners of his lips to turn up, just one more time.
“See you tomorrow.” I brush my lips across his forehead, forcing myself out of the chair and out of his room.
The nursing home he’s in has a constant musty smell to it that clings to my clothes.
I would give anything for a shower. Maybe a glass of wine and a Skype date with my best friend, Laurie.
But neither of those are on the agenda for today.
I still have a business to save. And no funds to do so.
“Miss Merchant?”
My heeled boots pause on the cracked linoleum floor and I close my eyes, blinking slowly and praying for patience.
Why couldn’t I have afforded a better place to send him?
“Yes?” I turn and look at the sharply dressed woman. A clipboard is in her hands and black plastic frames surround her eyes. Her lips are bright red and in a familiar pinched expression. I’m not ever sure I’ve seen the Administrator of Centerville Nursing Facility do anything other than purse her lips.
“Your father’s bill is past due.”
“I know.” I swallow, twisting my lips, stalling for time and an explanation. The problem? I have neither. Nor the money she’s seeking. “I’ll get it to you as soon as I can.”
“Yes, well, you see…” Clicking heels echo in the hall as she walks closer. “We are not a governmentally funded facility, and if you can’t pay this bill, we’re going to have to look into transporting him elsewhere.”
Like hell, I want to say, but press my lips together.
I hate this.
My hands ball into fists and I nod briskly. “I understand. It won’t happen after this.”
She eyes me warily. More like an eagle searching for prey.
I hate her. This place.
I despise the fact that my dad took amazing care me of me, his only daughter, on his own for most of my life, and only thirty days after his stroke I’m already struggling to care for him. But there’s no way he’s going anywhere. I can barely afford this piece of crap place, but it’s an exotic retirement resort compared to the government-funded long-term care facilities I looked at while he was in the hospital.
“See that it doesn’t.” She turns on her heels.
When she’s gone, my head falls back and I glare at the stained circles on the ceiling tiles.
Before my eyes can fill with tears, I take several deep breaths, forcing down the tsunami of emotions threatening to pull me under the force of its heavy swells.
I have too much to do. Too much is at stake.
I don’t have time to huddle in a corner and cry.
“We have a problem.”
I shoot invisible daggers from my eyes to my assistant, Marisa, as I step through the door of our nonprofit, teenage counseling center. “Not the four words I need to hear today.”
She nods once and points toward my office with her thumb. “I know. But Jeremiah is here.”
My eyes fly wide open and my hand covers my heart. It’s beating rapidly. Thank goodness.
“How long?” I ask, walking past her and tossing her a look over my shoulder.
Jeremiah’s been one of my most frustrating young teenagers. At thirteen, he thinks he’s got the world figured out already. Thinks he knows everything. I don’t know what his family situation is, but I know he often shows up bruised and bleeding from his lips or cheeks. His assurance that it doesn’t come from his family has assuaged my concerns for the most part. The fact that he’s usually dressed in designer clothes—jeans more expensive than I can ever hope to own—doesn’t play a part, but it does make me curious about him. I wonder about him and why he shows up, comes regularly for a week or two, and then we don’t see him for months.
I’m always terrified that we might never see him again.
Plastering on my most friendly and nonthreatening smile, I walk through my door. “Hey there, stranger. How are you?”
Jeremiah turns his head, looking at me over his shoulder.
I fight the urge to gasp or rush to him. His left eye is swollen. His bottom lip is cracked, and there’s some dried blood. Glancing down, I see his knuckles on his right hand are equally cracked and
bleeding.
Fighting.
I shake my head before joining him in my sitting area. Most of the time, the majority of the teenagers who come to my center are homeless, struggling in school, or running from abusive homes. We’ve found several of them dealing drugs on the street corners of Grand Rapids.
It doesn’t stop me, ever, from bringing them here and loving on them, though—as long as they don’t do drugs on the property. That’s my most important rule.
My second: be honest.
It’s not a big list of rules, but it’s amazing how even those two are difficult to adhere to.
Jeremiah always follows the first. Occasionally, the second.
“Hey, Miss Merchant,” he mumbles, a typical greeting by teenagers.
I don’t take offense to his lack of manners.
Sitting down, I brush my hands down my jeans, thankful I dressed casual today. It helps with the kids—young adults—I’m desperate to reach.
“What’s up?” I ask, quirking a brow.
Jeremiah and I play a game frequently. I like to call it Wait. Essentially, I ask a question. And then I wait.
Sometimes I wait for an answer the entire time he’s here, but by avoiding it he’s not lying, so I allow it.
He’s a smart kid, figuring out how to stretch the rules in his favor when he needs to. He must be desperate, because it’s only when he needs a place to stay that he does this.
“Got a room?”
“Need ice for your eye?” I counter, giving him a look that says he needs to start talking.
He brushes back his sandy brown locks and looks down at his knees. He flexes his injured hand, trying to stretch his fingers, and I see him grimace.
“I’m good.”
I scoff and point my index finger in his direction. “Stay here.”
Shooting him a scolding look, I’m not surprised when Jeremiah chuckles. I’m not very fierce, and my scolding looks are typically used when I’m trying to fight a smile. All the kids know it, but despite that, very few of them take advantage of me or my kindness. I’ve always hoped my genuine love for the kids who walk through the doors of our center is what helps them relax around me, but I could be blowing smoke up my own ass.
Walking out of my office, I quickly head to our kitchen to grab a couple of ice packs and our small medical kit.
When I return, I take note of Marisa as she talks on the phone. She’s speaking tensely but quietly and her eyebrows are raised significantly. She holds up a hand, telling me to wait for her to get off the phone.
“That was the bank.” Her bottom lip finds its way between her teeth.
I hold up an ice pack and the medical kit. “I can only deal with one emergency at a time.”
“I know.” She pushes off her chair and takes the few small steps to me, lowering her voice so no one can hear us. Not that there are many people here besides us—Jeremiah, and a handful of kids watching some ghost hunters show in our common area. My other counselor left her job months ago, when we stopped making enough money to pay her already meager salary. I can’t blame her, either.
“We have forty-five days,” Marisa says, resting her hand on mine. “That’s it.”
A cold chill of fear slithers down my spine. I’m failing at everything despite trying to maintain control.
“I’ll get on more fundraising as soon as I’m done here.”
I turn my back to her, knowing the woman who’s been more like a mother or aunt to me over the last few years is watching me walk away.
I’m not avoiding.
I’m procrastinating.
There’s a huge difference.
“Here.” I hand Jeremiah the ice pack and watch as he gingerly presses it over his eye.
He hisses in a breath when the cold hits his skin, and I take a seat next to him, opening the medical kit.
“Let me clean you up,” I tell him, not giving him time to say no. With his scraped hand in my lap, I clean his wounds quickly and then cover them with an antibiotic cream. “Are you ever going to tell me what the fights are about?”
I look up from my position and into the boy’s light green eyes. They’re so bright—a complete contradiction to the general heaviness and darkness that fills the rest of his young features.
Jeremiah might only be thirteen years old, but he has the intelligence of an adult. Coupled with the looks and body of a cover model and the recklessness of a MMA fighter, he has so much going for him; but he’s also a walking disaster.
He’s going to end up in huge trouble someday with all of this fighting, and while I never admit it to anyone else out loud, I have a larger soft spot in my heart for Jeremiah than for some of the other kids who walk through my doors.
It could be because he vaguely reminds me of someone I used to know. Even though that guy turned out to be a grade-A prick, he was still the only guy I ever thought I loved, and there’s something about Jeremiah that makes me think of him.
It could also be because even when he’s scowling and sullen, there’s sadness in his eyes that I want to help erase.
“Bad day at school,” he finally mutters, looking directly at me.
I smile faintly, not showing my surprise for the honesty.
“What school is that?” I ask, and press an alcohol wipe to his cut lip.
He sucks in a breath.
“Sorry. I should have warned you that it stings.”
“I can take it.”
“School?” I ask again.
From the corner of my eye, I notice his backpack slung on the floor haphazardly. It’s open, and as I catch a hint of deep red fabric, I no longer need him to answer.
Raising my gaze back to meet his, I say, “You go to Western Prep.”
He scoffs and looks away. His hands, which are resting on his thighs, ball into fists. “Only the best for me.”
Leaning away from him so I can reach my garbage can, I throw away the wrappers and wipes, tossing them in with a flick of my wrist.
“Nice shot.”
I sit up and take in his faint smile.
“Thanks, I played basketball for a while.”
And just like that, his smile disappears and is replaced by his familiar scowl.
“Look, Jeremiah. I don’t mind that you come and hang out here. In fact, I want you to be here. But if you want my help, you’re going to need to give me a little bit more than you have in the past.”
I almost hold my breath waiting for him to answer. I don’t typically push him for information because I haven’t wanted to scare him away. But I’ve never seen him this injured before, either. It worries me, and when he slowly turns his head and our eyes meet, his light green eyes to my baby blues, his lips twist.
He licks his lip and his shoulders roll forward. Shaking his head, his hair falls over his forehead and into his eyes. I hate that I can’t see them. It’s true that eyes are the windows to the soul. I can almost always gauge everyone’s emotions by them.
“Just a shitty day,” he mutters.
“Manners,” I remind him with a smile. No swearing isn’t one of the rules because it’d be fruitless, but I still try to teach them what’s best when I can.
“Sorry.” He looks up and at my wall. It’s full of inspirational quotes I’ve painted onto broken pieces of wood. It looks chaotic, but I like spending time finding meaningful quotes, preparing the wood by sanding and distressing it, and then painting the words and sealing it to the boards. My dad’s hands were made for working with automobiles. Mine were made for woodworking and caring for people.
Today I catch him looking at the sign that says You were given this life because you’re strong enough to live it.
“What does that make you think of?” I ask cautiously.
His lip curls at one end, and I’ve lost him, I know it. I don’t know what he thinks about when he goes silent, but Jeremiah has a way of closing down completely.
I’m about to push, to ask for more, when I see Marisa walking toward my office.
“There’s someone here for Jeremiah.”
My head snaps toward him. “You called someone?”
“Fuck no,” he snaps and jumps to his feet. His closed-off expression has been quickly replaced with a fury I can feel rolling off his body as he quickly reaches down, snags his backpack, and tosses it over his shoulder.
I don’t have time to reprimand him for cursing before he’s pushing past me.
My eyes go wide as I shoot Marisa a look. “Who is it?”
She shrugs. “Don’t know, but he’s damn fine to look at.”
I snort. Of course she’d notice. “Nice.”
Quickly, I follow Jeremiah to the front entrance to meet whoever has come to get him.
I’m shocked, and I feel my adrenaline kick in as I make the short walk down the hall.
“His suit is designer and the man comes from serious money,” Marisa whispers, hot on my heels.
I’m just about to ask her what in the world she’s talking about when I see him.
It can’t be.
But…oh, shit. It is.
Time begins to move in slow motion as I watch the man turn, his gaze fixed on Jeremiah as he approaches. Everything happens as if I’m watching a movie: seeing it, but detached—like I’m only an observer and not in the same room. I’m not five feet away from the man who filled my heart with his love and then crushed it with his silence.
His large hand comes out and clasps Jeremiah’s shoulder, shaking him slightly. A line digs deep in between his brows, and I watch as the man I’ve never wanted to see again is standing in the entryway to my office.
My safe place.
My feet shake in my heels and I reach out to steady myself with one hand on the wall.
“Holy shit,” I gasp.
“What?” Marisa asks.
I turn around, hissing at her to be quiet, when that voice…
A voice I loved—a voice I never thought I’d hear again—calls my name. “Talia?”