The Ocean City Boardwalk Series, Books 1-3

by Donna Fasano

  And he would be horrified.

  At last, reality snuffed out every vestige of her passion.

  She tensed in his embrace, and he noticed immediately. He leaned away from her and she took the opportunity to act. In one swift motion, she grasped his wrist and removed his hand from her body, and then pulled her robe up over her shoulder where it had fallen loose.

  “I can’t do this, Daniel.” Her jaw had gone so tense it hurt, but it wasn’t nearly as painful as the anguish that clutched her heart in a death-grip.

  Confusion shadowed his black eyes. “I’m sorry. Did I—”

  “You didn’t do anything. You didn’t. I promise you. It’s just that… I can’t…” Her exhalation was shaky. “I just can’t do this.”

  The sound of plastic vibrating against wood drew their gazes to where his cell phone sat on the coffee table.

  “I’ll let you get that.” She started to get up, but his hand clamped down on her forearm.

  “I have to take this. You know I do. But please don’t go anywhere. Please.”

  The pleading in his eyes was her ruin. Her breath left her in a rush, and she yielded to him with a small nod.

  He snatched up the phone and went to stand by the picture window. Heather heard him offer a curt greeting, and then he turned his back to her, his tone dropping to a murmur.

  The call was a relief, really, as it gave her a moment to collect her thoughts.

  Her first inclination had been to escape, to flee him and the irresistible yearning his kiss, his touch stirred in her. Oh, how she wanted him. However, when she began to imagine being with him, the idea morphed into a razor sharp focus of his blanched expression, the repulsion she would witness in his eyes, when he looked on her nakedness.

  Rather than feeling panicked, she went dead calm inside. Now that she had been given time to pause and reflect, she realized she cared about this man. Cared about what he thought of her. Deeply. She wanted him to understand why she wasn’t willing to engage in a physical relationship with him.

  Less than half a minute later, he ended the call and turned back to her.

  Light from the window set his dark hair glowing and cast his face in shadow, so it was impossible for her to read his expression.

  “Did you learn anything?” she asked. “Good news?”

  He moved to the sofa and sat down. “They seem certain that they’re on the right trail. They’ve just missed her, they think. They’ve been just missing her for what feels like a lifetime.” He shook his head. “In the beginning days, everyone was certain that one of Anica’s friends was allowing her to hide out. But my detectives questioned dozens of people. The police did, too.”

  Heather laced her fingers and tucked her clasped hands into her lap. “How on earth is your father-in-law keeping this out of the newspapers over there, Daniel? I mean, the police are talking to people, your detectives are talking to people, the State Depart—”

  “Burgovnia isn’t a democracy, Heather.” His statement was spoken in a low murmur. “The citizens there don’t enjoy the same kinds of freedoms that we have here.”

  She let out a soft sigh of frustration, the idea of human rights and freedoms conjuring memories from the social science class she’d taken when she’d attended the local community college. She’d never forget the look of pride on her teacher’s face when the woman had told the room full of students about Franklin D. Roosevelt’s 1941 State of the Union address. The Four Freedoms Speech, as the address came to be known, proposed that people everywhere in the world should have freedom of speech, freedom of worship, freedom from want, and freedom from fear. That teacher had instilled in Heather a deep appreciation for both the US Constitution and the Bill of Rights.

  “The government keeps a tight rein on what the press can and can’t print,” he said.

  “It’s just so unfair. If the newspapers there would run Anica’s picture or Mia’s picture, surely someone would see them. And what about social media? You could post photos. Ask for information. Surely, you have fans in Eastern Europe. Someone would contact you with information about your sister-in-law’s location.”

  “I’ve already explained,” he said. “I was warned by my contact at the State Department. Dawson said not to stir things up. Not to make trouble for Jakob. I’ve been assured that they’re doing all they can to find my daughter.”

  Daniel took her hands in his, and only when she felt the warmth of his fingers still in hers did she realize that at some point, she’d begun digging the pad of her left thumb into the palm of her right hand. The spot burned from the friction.

  “They are going to find them,” he told her. “They’re going to find them soon. My guy said that Anica and Mia had left the hotel today so quickly, that one of Mia’s sweaters was left behind.”

  Since Anica had fled so suddenly, Heather thought, the woman must be frazzled. Maybe she would make a mistake soon. Maybe she would say something telling to a stranger—a gas station attendant, a hotel clerk, someone—that would lead the detectives to her.

  Daniel repeated, “They’re going to find them.”

  Heather nodded.

  Still holding onto her hands, he scooted closer to her. “Now that my phone call is over, I need you to tell me what’s going on.” He searched her face. “Tell me why you won’t let me make love to you.”

  Chapter Nine

  She had thought she was ready. Of course, she hadn’t had time to process the exact words she would use, but just moments ago she’d been certain that she wanted him to understand her thoughts and feelings, she wanted him to know about her… situation.

  Now, looking into his anxious face, the idea of providing an explanation seemed to disappear from her mind in a vaporous poof, like the coin that vanished with the snap of a magician’s fingers.

  He reached up and brushed her hair back from her shoulder. “Talk to me, Heather. I want you. I know you know that. And I can tell you want me too.” He paused, his head tilting just a bit. “This isn’t the first time you’ve frozen up on me. You enjoy our kisses just as much as I do.” He smiled. “I know you do. I can hear it in your breathing, feel it in your quickening pulse. So please talk to me. Help me to understand what’s going on. Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

  What was she afraid of? It was a simple enough answer. She was afraid for him to look at her body. Afraid of the revulsion she’d see in his eyes.

  “The truth is, Daniel,” she began, “I don’t like my body.”

  “How can that be? You’re curvy. Lush. Beautiful. Sexy as hell.” He smiled. “Do you need more adjectives?”

  She lowered her gaze.

  “You have had sex before…” Then he hurriedly added, “I mean, of course you’ve—”

  Now she smiled. She couldn’t help it. “I’m no virgin. I was once engaged to be married.”

  He nodded but remained silent.

  “Steve left me, though. And it was all my fault. It was my choice to make and, well, I made it.” She offered a tiny shrug.

  Clearly, Daniel had no clue what she was trying to explain.

  She sighed, the idea of dredging up all those bad memories made her feel exhausted. But she steeled herself. He deserved to know the truth.

  “Ten years ago, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was a very difficult time for her.” Her gaze wandered to the far side of the room, searching the shadows. “Steve was so good through the whole thing. He drove Mom to a lot of her appointments. When she became really sick, he helped me get her in and out of the house. I swear, cancer treatment is absolute torture. I watched Mom shrink into all that suffering right before my very eyes.”

  Grim and frightening images whorled through Heather’s mind. Her mother’s pale complexion, her hollow eyes, her ever-decreasing physical strength.

  “At first,” she continued, “it looked as though the treatments were working.” She pressed her lips together for a moment. “All of us thought everything would be okay. I know that Steve loved me
, of course, but I do believe he asked me to marry him more as a means of lifting my mom’s spirits, getting her to fight her way back to health.” She looked at Daniel, a faint smile curving her lips. “It was a nice thing he did. Mom did rally for a bit after that. But she relapsed really quickly.”

  Daniel’s expression remained impassive. Why would it be anything else? She was so far from the point in her story that would answer his question.

  “Mom only survived three and half years after being diagnosed.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Grieving for those we’ve loved and lost is… a very difficult process. But, Heather, honey—” He gave a small shake of his head. “—I honestly don’t understand how this…”

  “Please be patient with me. This is hard. I’m getting there. I promise.” In need of a little security, she crossed her arms, cupping her elbows in her palms and drawing them inward. “Before my mom died, she begged me to be tested.” Heather moistened her lips. “Have you heard of the BRCA1 and BRCA2 gene mutations?”

  Surprisingly, he nodded. “I did some research. For one of the characters in a book I wrote some time ago. You tested positive?”

  “BRCA1. The doctor said I had a 65% chance of being diagnosed with breast cancer.” Her heart rate shot skyward, and her mouth went dry. But she was determined to finish this. “I opted to have a double mastectomy.”

  He eased himself against the sofa back. “You obviously had reconstructive surgery, yes?” Before she could answer, he said, “Forgive me for being so blunt, but that was warm, live flesh I cupped in my hand before…”

  Raging heat scorched her face and neck, and she found it impossible to look at him.

  “Reconstructive surgery. Yes.” She grimaced. “I guess you could call it that.”

  “Heather, you said your fiancé left you because you made a choice.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Are you saying that jackass broke off your engagement because you chose to save your life?”

  She hefted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. “From his perspective, the 35% chance of remaining cancer free looked pretty good. And I would have been whole. Undamaged.”

  “What the hell? You are whole.”

  There was anger in his gaze; she could feel it burning into her even though she kept her eyes averted.

  “So… are you saying you haven’t had a relationship since? Are you letting him and his stupid ideas about what you should or shouldn’t have done with your own body—your own body—keep you from having a loving relationship with anyone else?”

  Before she could say another word, his spine went straight as a steel rod.

  “Are you lumping me in with that jackass? Do you think that I would—”

  The tone of his voice scared her, conjured all manner of twisted memories of arguing about her decision to have surgery all those years ago.

  She stood up. “Daniel, stop! I didn’t intend to make you angry. I only meant to explain why I can’t… why we can never…”

  Hot tears splintered her vision, and she was grateful that they had chosen to leave the lamps turned off. Hopefully, the shadowy darkness would keep him from seeing just how upset she was.

  “I just wanted you to know that… I can’t do this.”

  Then she turned away from him and hurried from the room.

  * * *

  The Sunshine Grill was one of those quaint little eateries that locals clung to and tourists fell in love with deeply enough to return to during all seasons of the year. It was the kind of place you wanted to visit, not just to chow down on a stack of hot blueberry pancakes dripping with butter and served with a side of crispy bacon, but because you knew you would more than likely see your friends there. You could watch the daily news or read the Dispatch, and there was always someone around interested in discussing what was happening in the world. Daniel knew he would use The Grill, or a place very much like it, in a future book.

  He sat in a booth, the cup of coffee on the table in front of him having grown as cold as the winter wind that whipped across the beach outside. Cathy had refilled the cup twice, and he’d declined a third. The caffeine he’d consumed already had his insides jittery.

  He continued to bide his time, patiently waiting for the mid-morning lull. Only one customer, other than himself, remained in the café, and the elderly gentleman was just now pulling out his wallet and handing money to Cathy to pay his bill. The old guy offered his boisterous goodbyes, told Cathy he’d see her tomorrow, and even gave Daniel a quick nod before zipping his coat and walking out into the sunny but chilly January day.

  His idea to talk to Heather’s friends probably wasn’t a good one. But he’d messed up badly last night when Heather had left him stewing in his own anger. He shouldn’t have snapped at her; he shouldn’t have let his emotions take control. Of his thoughts. And of his tone. He’d grown incensed on Heather’s behalf when he’d learned how her fiancé had treated her. And then he’d completely lost it the instant he’d realized that Heather had obviously concluded that he—Daniel—would treat her just as callously as that jackass Steve had done. Like a Lamborghini Murcielago with a lead-footed driver, his temper had shot into high gear before he could grapple it under control. She had cut their conversation off with the stern censure that had narrowed her gaze and tightened the muscles around her mouth. And she’d walked away from him.

  Yes, he’d screwed up royally. She’d barely spoken to him at breakfast. He’d tried to apologize, but she’d shut him down.

  So now, he was looking for some way to fix things. And he’d decided that, in order to do that, he needed more information.

  Daniel slid out of the booth, grabbed his cup, and made his way to the counter that ran three-quarters of the way across the back of the restaurant. Cathy was busy emptying clean dishes from the plastic rack that sat next to the industrial dishwasher. When she noticed him, she called, “You change your mind about more coffee?”

  Automatically, she stopped what she was doing.

  “No. Actually, Cathy… I’d like to talk to you. If you don’t mind.” He set the thick ceramic cup onto the counter. “I’ve been… waiting. For your morning customers to clear out.”

  “I’m a little busy,” she hedged.

  He could clearly see she was uncertain about his request.

  “I have things to do to get ready for the lunch crowd.”

  “We can talk while you work, if you want.” He slid onto a stool and rested his hands on the counter top in a gentle attempt to let her know he wasn’t going anywhere, and he hoped like hell she didn’t flat out refuse him.

  She reached down and grabbed the bottom corner of her white apron and dried her hands on the fabric, a purely habitual action as her hands weren’t even wet. Leaving the remaining dishes in the rack, she made her way toward him.

  “Who am I kidding?” She gave a little humorous huff. “The lunch crowd will consist of a dozen or so grizzled old dudes who’ll insist on harassing me about the freshness of the tuna salad. But the joke’s going to be on them today. There is no tuna salad. I made chicken salad this morning. They’ll have to eat it and like it, or go someplace else for lunch.”

  Cathy stopped in front of him on the far side of the counter.

  “So what’s this about?” she asked.

  The light in her eyes held both curiosity and hesitation. Her uncertainty was palpable.

  The counter top was a stark white beneath his widely splayed fingers. He hadn’t realized he was so tense.

  “Look,” he began, “I realize you don’t like me much. I don’t understand why. I’m sure I must have done something along the line to earn your disapproval, but I’d like to apologize for, you know, whatever it was.”

  She frowned, her chin tucking back sharply. “You’re apologizing to me, but you don’t know what you’re apologizing for? That’s a little odd, don’t you think?”

  Her questions took him aback, and for a moment, he hadn’t a sing
le iota how to respond.

  “Me?” She placed her hand on her chest. “I think it’s a rather strange thing for you to do. Why do you care if I like you or not?”

  “To tell you the truth—” he paused long enough to ponder whether or not to finish his sentence, then he decided to let it roll. “I don’t.”

  She smiled. “There you go. That’s what I thought. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Daniel sat up straight and pulled his hand back until his wrists were resting on the corner of the counter, his mouth pulling downward.

  “Why are you so… disagreeable?”

  Her grin widened. “Forgive me, but I think the two of us were pretty much agreeable just now.”

  His shoulders rounded with a sigh.

  “I mean, look,” she told him, planting a hand on her hip, “you came in here and said you’re sorry for doing something to make me dislike you, but you don’t even know what it is that might have—”

  “Stop!” He felt the fingers on both his hands go straight again. The woman was making this hellishly frustrating. “The apology was a gesture, okay? A token. An offering.”

  “I don’t get it. Why would you need to offer me anything?”

  He felt his jaw tense. “Think of it this way. We’re two countries, see? Two countries that don’t get along all that well. One wants something from the other, right? So they don’t go in and just make a cold request. That would be undiplomatic. They make a gesture. Offer some sort of token first. Ease the path to good relations.”

  “Thank you for the civics lesson. I didn’t realize we were still in high school.” She shifted her weight. “So your token to ease the path to a better relationship between us is to say you’re sorry for… For? You don’t even know what.” She groused, “What you should apologize for is getting on my last nerve.”

  “Okay, I admit it. My gesture was a little empty.”

  “So now that we’ve agreed a second time,” she said, “what is it you want to talk about? Just spit it out, already.”

  He inhaled slowly. “It’s about Heather. I’m worried about her.”