LANCELOT'S LADY
Cheryl Kaye Tardif
writing as
Cherish D'Angelo
LANCELOT'S LADY
Copyright © 2010 Cheryl Kaye Tardif, writing as Cherish D'Angelo.
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
FIRST EDITION eBook September 2010
Imajin Books
ISBN: 978-0-9865382-8-5
Cover designed by Imajin Creations and Sapphire Designs -
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Cover art: photo licensed from http://www.romancenovelcovers.com
Cover model: Jimmy Thomas
Table of Contents
Praise for LANCELOT'S LADY
Dedication
Acknowledgements
LANCELOT'S LADY
Introduction: DIVINE INTERVENTION
Introduction: DIVINE JUSTICE
Introduction: WHALE SONG
Novels by Cheryl Kaye Tardif
About the Author
IMAJIN BOOKS
Praise for LANCELOT'S LADY
"Romance, mystery, danger, black-mail, and twists and surprises, this tale contains them all… Despicable intentions threaten every character in this finely crafted tale of sweet tension…Lancelot's Lady is a non-stop adventure combined with the agonizing struggle to not give in to the magnetism between them. Enticing. Fun." ―Midwest Book Review
"From the cold rocky shores of Maine to the extravagant mansions of Miami to a lush tropical island in the Bahamas, Cherish D'Angelo takes her heroine through a series of breathtaking romantic adventures that mirror the settings, often in surprisingly ironic ways. A page turner in the best possible sense." ―Gail Bowen, author of the award-winning Joanne Kilbourn series
"Cherish D'Angelo has got that mythical "voice" down to a fine art." ―Jennifer L. Hart, author of River Rats
"Another brilliantly crafted novel by Cheryl Tardif (aka Cherish D'Angelo)...a beautiful love story rippling with suspense and just the right amount of sensuality." ―Emily Ross, aka Pauline Holyoak, author
"Lancelot's Lady is riveting. It holds on and won't let you go! Cherish D'Angelo's descriptive powers are amazing. She summons up scenes like genies from bottles!" ―Susan J. McLeod, author of Soul and Shadow
Lancelot's Lady is the winner of an Editor's Choice award from Textnovel.com. It was also the #3 Most Popular Semi-Finalist in the Dorchester 'Next Best Celler' contest hosted on Textnovel.com.
Dedication
Lancelot's Lady is dedicated to my Textnovel fans.
You have supported me, encouraged me, embraced my writing, loved my characters, and followed Rhianna and Jonathan's journey. Without you, my words are just words.
Acknowledgements
There are so many people I'd like to thank, because without all of you, Lancelot's Lady wouldn't exist. So thank you to…
Stan Soper and everyone at Textnovel.com, for giving me a platform to showcase my work on, including Lancelot's Lady.
Dorchester Publishing, for partnering with Textnovel in the "Next Best Celler" contest, and for giving me a reason to go back to an older manuscript and bring it back to life as my debut romantic suspense.
My fans, friends and family who read Lancelot's Lady, especially those who voted, subscribed, commented and kept me consistently in the top 3 "Most Popular" for the contest.
My wonderful beta readers, who pointed out the flaws in the story: Karen Nicholson, Shell Bryce, Kelly Komm.
Author extraordinaire Gail Bowen, whom I so appreciate for the valuable writing advice and for the cover blurb.
Christiana Cameron, my "Next Best Celler" pal, for all your encouragement and support during the longest 5 months of my life―and yours too, I know.
Author Karen Wallace, for allowing me the use of her children's book title, Sir Lancelot and the Ice Castle.
Waheed Rabbani, for participating in one of my contests and supplying me with the name "Winston Chambers", for a character I hope you'll all love to hate.
A special thanks to Michael Iwasaki and Philip Louie at www.24-7PressRelease.com, for being my media sponsor for all things Lancelot's Lady. Your press release services rock!
My agent Jack Scovil, for believing in my career as an author. Thank you is not enough.
My husband Marc and daughter Jessica, for supporting me on this journey and many others. My undying love and gratitude always.
Chapter 1
Pacing in the expansive marble foyer of Lance Manor, Rhianna McLeod tried to calm her nerves as she waited for her life to change. One man's decision would determine her fate. Would she have a new job and a place to call home? Or would she be sent packing?
A tall, thin man in a dark gray suit approached her.
"Are you Mr. Lance?" she asked, holding her breath.
The man smiled and fine lines crinkled the corners of his warm brown eyes. "I'm Higginson, Mr. Lance's butler. He's resting at the moment. Perhaps you can leave your name."
Rhianna blinked back tears. She couldn't be turned away. The trip to Florida had taken most of her savings and she didn't have enough money to fly back to Maine. Besides, if it weren't for Mr. Lance's letter, she wouldn't even be in this predicament.
"But Mr. Lance is expecting me. I'm Rhianna McLeod, the palliative nurse he contacted. In his letter he said I'd have the job if I came here."
"I'm dreadfully sorry. Mr. Lance already has a nurse."
"But I don't have anywhere else―"
Somewhere in the stately mansion something crashed to the floor. Before Rhianna could comment, a crystal-shattering shriek pierced the air. This was followed by a terrible wailing sound.
The butler groaned. "Oh, no. Not again." He rushed off in the direction of the commotion.
Unsure of what to do, Rhianna took a determined breath and followed him. When they passed beneath a pillared arch and into a long hallway, she saw a reed-thin elderly man dressed only in a threadbare blue plaid bathrobe. It gaped open in the front, threatening to reveal more than just a hairy chest. Beside him, a plump woman in white scrubs was trying her best to calm him down, even though she was dripping wet and very upset.
As they approached t
he dueling pair, Rhianna tried to remember everything she could about her potential employer. In the past year, the tabloids had been filled with stories of multi-millionaire JT Lance and his fight against an aggressive disease, a cancerous brain tumor that made him an unruly and difficult patient. From what she could see, the rumors were true. Once exuding strength, confidence and perhaps a touch of arrogance, JT now looked frail and helpless.
"JT?" the butler called out.
"Higginson, get this woman a towel. She spilled my water."
"I did not spill it," the nurse snapped. "Mr. Lance refuses to take his meds or draw a blood sample. Now he's having a temper tantrum. He threw that water pitcher at me."
JT's eyes flared. "That's because you keep trying to poison me, you old bat!"
"I am not trying to poison you," the nurse sputtered. "The medication will help―"
"How the hell do you know what will help me? Half the time, you keep me so drugged that I don't even know who I am when I look in the mirror. The other half, you're busy taking my blood for your tests."
JT turned his back on the nurse and staggered toward Higginson, oblivious of the broken glass and water on the floor.
"Sir!" the butler warned.
With a resigned sigh, JT leaned against the wall for support. Then he caught sight of Rhianna. His mouth gaped and electric blue eyes lit up like twin lanterns.
"Anna," he whispered. "You came back."
He moved toward her and she suddenly found herself wrapped in his scrawny arms. Her first reaction was panic. It gripped her around the throat, strangling her. She wanted to fight him off, but then something strange happened. Calmness washed over her and she felt connected, a sense of belonging. For once in her life, she knew what it felt like to be welcomed home.
But this isn't my home.
She pulled back, embarrassed. "Mr. Lance, my name is Rhianna McLeod. I'm the nurse from Maine. Remember?"
"Nurse?" He studied her face and something akin to recognition flickered in his eyes. "Ah, yes…"
"What's going on, sir?" Higginson asked.
"I'll explain later. First, I need a drink."
Higginson gave Nurse Simpson an apologetic look. "Get Mr. Lance a fresh jug of water, please. I'm sure he won't let his temper get out of control now that he has company. Will you, sir?"
All eyes watched as the portly nurse waddled down the hall. Her disappearing act seemed to make the old man extremely happy.
JT nudged Rhianna. "That woman's a vampire."
"As you can see," Higginson said, "Mr. Lance and the nurse don't exactly get along." He turned to JT. "Let's get you back into bed before you end up on the floor―again."
"Come along, Anna." JT took her hand. "You can visit while Higgie tucks me in."
Rhianna stifled a laugh. Higgie?
When she caught his eye, Higginson shrugged.
She followed the two men up a spiral staircase, her shoes clicking on the Italian marble steps and echoing around her. When she entered a handsomely decorated suite accented with polished mahogany and brass, she sucked in a stunned breath.
The suite was larger than four bedrooms put together. A plush sitting room with two suede sofas and a wall of bookshelves greeted her first. Double French doors with glass inserts opened into the bedroom area. On one side of the bedroom, an open door led to a massive walk-in closet that held rows of suits, dress shirts and ties in every shade, and a shoe collection that would be the envy of any man on Wall Street. Another door opened into a bathroom ensuite featuring a Jacuzzi, a glass and tile shower and a sauna room. A sliding door on the other side of the spacious bedroom led out onto a small balcony overlooking a delicately scented rose garden. Between two tall windows stood a huge carved bed, a work of art in itself. A tan-colored suede armchair was positioned next to it―probably for the nurse―and a kaleidoscope of pill bottles lay scattered across the nightstand.
"What do you think, Anna?" JT asked once he was settled in the bed.
"I think it's definitely a man's domain."
Nurse Simpson returned, carrying a plastic jug of ice water. Shoving the pill bottles aside, the woman set the jug on the nightstand and crossed her arms, every muscle in her face pinched in disapproval.
JT dismissed her with an impatient flick of his hand.
In the doorway, the nurse hesitated. "Mr. Lance needs his rest. Even if he doesn't think so." Sensing competition, her eyes narrowed in Rhianna's direction. "Or anyone else, for that matter."
"Maybe we should talk later," Rhianna mumbled.
"Nonsense," JT said. "Stay with me a while."
The butler glanced toward the door. "Nurse Simpson, why don't you take a break for an hour or two?"
JT nodded. "Anna will take good care of me."
As the door slammed shut behind the nurse, Rhianna took a step closer. "Mr. Lance, my name is Rhianna McLeod."
"Rhianna?" JT sighed. "Well, yes. I guess you are."
Confused, she turned to Higginson. "I don't think he remembers writing me about the nursing position. He even contacted the hospital I used to work in and―"
"I hate it when people talk as if I'm not in the room," JT fumed. "Of course I remember you, uh…Rhianna. And I do want you to be my nurse. Higginson! Make up the Rose-Mist Room for Ms. McLeod. She'll be staying with us indefinitely."
"Are you sure?" Rhianna asked, surprised. "You may want someone more experienced. I've only worked in one hospital and one nursing home before coming here."
Higginson cleared his throat. "Have you checked her references, sir?"
"References are for untrusting fools. It's my blasted memory that's disintegrating, not my eyes." JT eyed the door. "And references sure didn't make a difference with Nurse Dracula. Which reminds me…see that the old bat gets a nice severance package."
As the butler's footsteps faded, Rhianna was at a loss for words. "I…uh…thank you."
"You can thank me by getting my pills over there." JT pointed to the nightstand. "The ones in the red bottle."
She fetched his medication and quickly scanned the bottle. The prescription was for Vicodin, a narcotic pain reliever. She shook out two pills and poured a glass of water before approaching his bedside.
"Thank you, Ann―Rhianna." His breathing was strained.
"Are you feeling all right, Mr. Lance?"
"JT, my dear. When you call me Mr. Lance, I feel so damned ancient, like some old geezer waiting to croak." He chuckled at his own joke.
After he was resting comfortably, she sat down in the chair and studied him. His thinning gray hair and handsome face suggested the rather dashing young man he must once have been. A once-strong jaw line, now softened by age and illness, still held traces of stubbornness. But it was his eyes, bright and kind, that held her attention. They seemed sad. Tired and sad.
"Now, Rhianna, tell me a bit about yourself."
"Well, I grew up in Bangor, Maine, and graduated―"
"Not the technical interview stuff, dear. I want to know about you. What are your goals, your dreams?"
Nobody had ever asked her about her dreams. For nearly two years, she had hidden herself in the nursing home in Portland, afraid to let anyone too close. Afraid to dream.
In that bedroom, sitting beside a dying man, she found more than an employer―she found a friend. Tentatively, she told him bits and pieces about her life. It started slowly, like a gurgle of water bubbling up from the center of the earth.
Within an hour, Rhianna had told him all about her childhood, about the terror she had endured, and the fear and abuse that had drained her soul of all self-worth.
Chapter 2
Settling into her new job had been easy for Rhianna. JT had made it easy. Although occasionally prickly, her patient was also compassionate and kind. He gave Rhianna full run of the mansion while he napped, which was often.
As she wandered through the various rooms, admiring antique furniture, expensive ornaments and a collection of massive oil paintings in ornate frames, she
caught sight of a painting in the foyer. It had mesmerized her since her first day at Lance Manor over six weeks ago. A rectangular brass plate on the bottom of the frame displayed no date or artist name, only the name of the work.
Lady in the Mist.
On the canvas, a woman's naked body, wrapped only in a thin veil of mist and caressed by soft blue moonlight. She stood in the shimmering stillness of a murky lake, her long, slender legs half-submerged in the water. Rich auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders and swirled over the peaks of firm breasts, and brilliant jade-green eyes gleamed with such yearning and expectancy. The mist rose from the lake in spiraling tendrils, like fairy hands grasping at the woman's body. The wind whispered in hot, humid breaths. Water trickled from the falls above, showering the plants with glistening moisture, while the Lady in the Mist appeared to be waiting for something.
Or someone, Rhianna thought.
There was something primal about the painting.
It was alive.
"It's a lovely painting, isn't it, Miss McLeod?"
She spun around at the sound of Higginson's voice.
"The resemblance is uncanny," he observed. "She looks like you."
"You say that every time―as if she predicted my arrival."
"Well, look at you." Higginson smiled. "You're here. And part of the family."
"You and JT have shown me the meaning of family―I'll always remember that."
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