The Essence of Fate

by Alison E. Steuart

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. Charlotte

  2. Ian

  3. Charlotte

  4. Ian

  5. Charlotte

  6. Ian

  7. Charlotte

  8. Ian

  9. Charlotte

  10. Ian

  11. Charlotte

  12. Ian

  13. Charlotte

  14. Ian

  15. Charlotte

  16. Ian

  17. Charlotte

  18. Ian

  19. Charlotte

  20. Ian

  21. Charlotte

  22. Ian

  23. Charlotte

  24. Ian

  25. Charlotte

  26. Ian

  27. Charlotte

  28. Ian

  29. Charlotte

  30. Ian

  31. Charlotte

  Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgement

  Where to Find Alison

  One

  Charlotte

  So much for getting out of my meeting in time to avoid the clusterfuck that is Miami rush-hour traffic. I missed it by twenty minutes, sealing my fate.

  Case in point, it’s been three minutes, I’m in the passing lane, and I’ve already got this guy going five miles under the speed limit in front of me, some chick texting and driving to my right, another person changing lanes randomly with no signal—I actually think he might be drunk—and I’m stuck in the middle of it all with no option of getting out. I don’t do well in situations like this. My intolerance for people that mindlessly go about driving, not giving a damn that there are laws and basic rules that make this whole process run more smoothly, not to mention safely, is extreme. To put it mildly.

  The minutes pass and things are not progressing the way I would like them to as I sit stranded, watching the rest of the traffic around us fly by. My hands grip tighter to the steering wheel. I’m teetering on the edge. The anger is building, though I’m trying hard to keep it in check. It’s a fruitless effort, regardless of the breathing exercises I’m doing. I know what comes next… Sibel, my alter ego—or Psycho, as I like to call her—will make her appearance, and the road rage will ensue. It’s kind of like what’s-his-name that turns into the Hulk when the shit hits the fan. He has no choice in the matter, and it’s the same for me with Sibel. Sometimes she comes in handy, but nine times out of ten, she causes issues I could do without.

  I should blame the jerk in front of me who is now driving seven miles under the speed limit, and yes, he is still in the passing lane. Clearly, he doesn’t know that the left lane is sacred territory meant for motivated people wanting to get from point A to point B in the quickest, safest way possible. Not to meander and create unnecessary traffic jams. I’m on his ass now, trying to get his attention so he will hopefully get out of the way. However, I’m not sure he can even see me in any of his mirrors because his seat is back so far, I can barely see his head. This has me somewhat confused since I see his elbow sticking out his window. That means his arm is resting on it, which doesn’t seem physically possible, considering the position of his seat—let alone, comfortable.

  Before I can ponder that pointless mystery any longer, Miss Text-n-Drive moves into the other lane, leaving an opening that I know Mr. Go-Getter in front of me isn’t going to take, so I’m forced to pass him in the right lane. Glancing over as I go, suspicion confirmed—everything about this guy screams, “I have no life and I don’t give a damn if you do!” Beyond the awkward seat-position and arm-out-the-window combination, his only contact with the steering wheel is the underside of wrist; that’s terrifying! He also doesn’t seem concerned about the cigarette dangling from his mouth that a simple gust of wind could knock into his lap. And don’t get me started on the duct tape flapping in the wind near the passenger side mirror. There is no way that’s doing anything constructive. Perhaps I should feel sorry for him. I don’t know his story; it could be a sad one. But Sibel has taken over, and she’s not interested in excuses.

  I blare the horn as I pass, just because it makes her feel better to vent a little since she can’t walk up to the guy and say, “What the hell is your problem? There are signs all over the highway that say Slower Traffic Keep Right! It’s not that complicated!”

  Making my way back into the fast lane with Asshole getting smaller in my rearview mirror, I can relax; it’s all clear. Finally, the road is mine. I turn up the volume and come back down to earth while I close the door on Sibel until she’s awakened again.

  As the music continues to calm my agitated nerves, my thoughts wander to this afternoon’s meeting. Overall it went well, but I’m still frustrated with a few of the board members. The resort’s common areas are looking tired and a bit dated. Now is the time to spruce things up before too many people get turned off by it. Savvy travelers don’t like paying top-dollar to stay at a luxury resort that looks like it’s been ridden hard by all the previous guests. Granted, it’s not nearly that bad, but my standards are high. I want my guests to feel like they are the first to ever stay there. It makes a difference, a difference that is important to me. But our numbers are up from last year, so some of the misers in the group think we’re good for a while longer, no need to spend the money until we absolutely need to. Cringe. Pointing out that this year’s numbers are up for every resort and hotel on Miami Beach due to the hellacious winter they’ve seen up north didn’t seem to matter, but the list of negative comments we’ve received, albeit a short one, gave them something to chew on until the next meeting.

  My uncle James owns the resort along with several other five-star locations around the world. He’s one of those people that just makes things successful. It doesn’t matter what it is; if he acquires it, it will be successful.

  When he bought The Clara Sea, I was fresh out of college and ready to take on the world. However, Uncle James is not a handout, start-at-the-top-because-you-are-family kind of guy. Therefore, I started at the front desk, working my way up to general manager in five short years. At first, I was a little insulted that my hard-earned business degree gained me a spot at the front desk of an oceanfront resort. But I trusted my uncle and knew I should follow his lead. Of course, he was right. I started at the bottom, learning everything I needed to know about successfully running a luxury resort and loved every minute of it.

  Now, The Clara Sea is my baby, and I am proud of her success. So when board members with tight wallets and no foresight question my judgment and try to hold me back from continued success, I don’t like it. I guess I’m somewhat of a control freak, but more so, I just think things should be done properly, with high standards. I can’t imagine doing otherwise.

  Several miles before my exit, I’m coming up quickly on another driver going slow in the left lane and not getting out of the way. Dammit. My body tenses with aggravation as Sibel wakes up, ready for a fight. Interestingly, this time it’s not a car that would be better off in a junkyard; it’s a seriously gorgeous black Lamborghini. I can’t imagine the person driving that work of art is an unmotivated who-gives-a-shit jerk like the guy I passed earlier. But I can imagine that his or her ego and sense of entitlement will keep that car right where it is, and if I want to get around it, I’ll have to pass in the right lane. Sibel does not like being forced to pass in the right lane.

  Getting up on his tail, I wait for the right signal to flash, indicating the driver is finally paying attention and will move. That doesn’t happen and Sibel has lost her patience, which was limited to begin with. I flash my lights to get his attention… Nothing. I move to the left a little, flash my lights again hoping he sees them in the side mirror… Nothing. Actually, I take that back. I think he may have slowed down. B
astard! I’m getting closer, moving left and right, flashing my lights, but Lambo stays in my lane, clearly challenging me.

  Stupidly, I pick up the gauntlet.

  Rarely do I resort to blaring the horn when I’m behind a car—I usually save that for the pass—but now I’m pissed and I’m on it, the nerve-shattering sound only making matters worse.

  Regretfully, the horn blast doesn’t work, and I’m about to reach a new low because Sibel wants to start shoving her middle finger at the windshield yelling, “Fuck you, Asshole!” I yank her by the collar and throw her in the backseat before I become one of those people.

  With my psychotic split personality temporarily diffused, reason takes over—which means if I want to go faster than Moneybags, I have to pass on the right. Ultimately, it’s really not that big a deal; it’s the principle, and it simply infuriates me.

  As the signal ticks its steady rhythm and Sibel is fuming in the background, I pass Black Lambo with its equally black tinted windows and shiny perfection, not giving in to Sibel’s insistence that I flip him off as I go by.

  This is when I notice my exit is coming up on the left. Dammit, again! I must have lost track of where I was during my self-imposed duel with my highway nemesis. I should have just dealt with it, but I’m a Gemini and a stickler for following rules, even if they are my own. Geminis are also known for their split personalities, which explains Sibel. I’m actually a very kind, generous, hard-working person that values dignity, integrity, and honor. But my evil twin has major issues when others don’t show the same regard. She has been known to react, or overreact, with free-flowing verbal assaults, a variety of hand gestures like the standard f-you bird, finger guns, hangman’s noose, and some others involving private parts that I’m too embarrassed to acknowledge. I think her favorite is to show off her road-rage skills by flashing lights, tailgating, blaring the horn, and cutting in front of jerks that force her to pass on the right. Like she’s getting ready to do right now. With a quick acceleration and a jerk of the wheel, I put my Mercedes right in front of the Batmobile.

  Taking a moment to relish the satisfaction, I ease up my acceleration, forcing him to slow down. Not enough to be terribly dangerous, but definitely enough to piss him off. With a smile and a wave, I take my exit, feeling a little less defeated.

  That mini euphoria lasts about five seconds, because I may have underestimated my opponent. Bruce Wayne is right on my ass, and now I can see masculine hands on the steering wheel, confirming my assumption and giving me some relief that I don’t have a potential cat fight on my hands.

  Coming up to a red light, I get in the left turning lane knowing the lane next to me is open, providing the perfect opportunity for him to pull up, roll down his window, and let me have it. That would have been ideal. Because having that intimidatingly awesome car, jet black and shiny with what I suspect is an extremely pissed off man inside, pull up behind me is menacing. “Shit!” I asked for it… No, Sibel asked for it. Bloody nuisance!

  Heart pounding, hands sweating, I curse my split personality and start to plan my getaway. As the green arrow finally lights up, I don’t move. I continue sitting there until it turns yellow, waiting for the second when it turns red and take off. My hope is that Captain Menace doesn’t want to chance a ticket or worse, wrecking his precious $250,000 car. That would have been ideal, as well. But once again, I am disappointed. He’s hot on my tail and apparently has no intention of losing me until he’s had the opportunity to personally rip me a new one.

  “Let it go, jerk!” I yell as my anxiety spikes a little higher. At the next light, I realize there is no way I’m going to lose him in all this traffic, and there is definitely no way I’m going to let him follow me home. I have no choice but to suck it up, face the music, and diffuse the situation as quickly and reasonably as possible so I can get on with my evening, chill out, and possibly get drunk.

  Up ahead I see Sommelier’s convenience store. I love that place. It’s an upscale, well-appointed quick stop where you can get excellent wine, gourmet cheeses, chocolates, and coffees; the most amazing pre-made dinners; and other random stuff you might need when you don’t feel like dealing with the traffic and crowds at the main grocery store further in town. That seems like a safe enough place to have my inevitable confrontation with the Caped Crusader. Hopefully he’s not unstable or prone to violence and simply wants to yell at me a bit for almost hurting his precious car…or potentially causing a major accident on the highway. Thanks again, Sibel! Maybe I could get hypnotized or something to shut her off permanently. It would save me a lot of grief.

  Pulling into the parking lot, I pick a spot front and center, hoping for an audience. I put my car in park, take a fortifying breath, check for my big-girl panties, and kill the engine. “Here we go…”

  I get out of the car and he’s right next to me, but I can’t see him since he has Secret Service tinting on his windows. Adding to the suspense, his engine purrs a little longer, and I do my best to remain calm, cool, and collected, leaning against my car, hiding my hands behind me so he won’t see them shaking.

  Staring at the opaque window, assuming he’s only looking at me and not pointing a gun at my heart, I tip my head and raise one eyebrow as if to say, “Let’s get on with this.”

  Finally, a minute later, the smooth hum of his engine dies and driver’s door opens. Strangely, it seems like slow motion as his tall frame slides from the car and reaches its full height. I can only see the back of his head and a small portion of his profile and my heart almost stops. He’s young, broad-shouldered with dark, shiny hair and what appears to be a stunningly gorgeous face. I silently pray that when he fully turns to look at me, he is cross-eyed or has a huge birthmark covering the rest of his face. Shallow, I know, but the way my chest just constricted, I need anything I can get to not have some god-like creature render me speechless, especially now.

  Once again…no such luck. Making his way around the front of his car, he faces me fully. Sweet Mary, Mother, and Bride! You have got to be kidding me! I am literally looking at the most gorgeous specimen of a male human you can possibly imagine, no joke. Actually, maybe it is a joke because I am so overwhelmed by the humor in this whole situation, that when the stupidly hot God of Physical Perfection finally approaches me, I involuntarily throw my head back and laugh out loud.

  It’s not a total out of control, ugly-face, tears-pouring-out-of-your-eyes crack up. But it’s a healthy enough laugh that releases the right amount of endorphins into my bloodstream to relax my strung-out nerves and clear my brain. At least somewhat.

  Bringing my head down and my hand to my chest, I regain control as my laugh ebbs to a slight chuckle. With a slow, oh-the-things-I-get-myself-into head shake, I open my eyes and catch my breath on a small gasp. He’s close—too close—and I swear I can feel heat coming off him as every nerve in my body has turned into a live wire. Although, it’s probably my stupid hormones that were unexpectedly shoved into overdrive. My God! It doesn’t help that his stunning eyes are staring at me with such intensity, I’m momentarily at a loss for words. Somewhere in the fog of my subconscious, I hear Sibel yelling, “Say something, you idiot!”

  The stare-down continues for what seems like ten minutes but is probably less than one. The spell is broken when his eyes shift down to my breasts and a sexy-as-hell smirk lifts one side of his flawless mouth. That’s when I finally notice the painful tightness of my nipples, which are no doubt casting shadows across my chest because this particular dress requires no bra. Earth, swallow me whole!

  I can’t do this. I need to get the hell out of here. He’s obviously enjoying himself, and I’m starting to feel humiliated. Regaining my composure, I ignore my body’s obnoxious response to his…his…I don’t even know what. He has to be a vampire or something; real humans are simply not this flawless.

  Finally, my brain cells snap out of it, and I say, “Surely, you’re not going to just stand here, in my space, and stare me down until I turn to ash?” The smo
oth conviction in my voice boosts my confidence. Standing a little straighter, I square my shoulders.

  With a voice as desirably masculine and beautiful as his physical being, he responds with, “Why would you turn to ash?”

  Without missing a beat, I say, “Because you seem to have an unnatural heat radiating from your body…which happens to be inside my awkwardly too-close-for-strangers zone, and the intensity of your stare has me on edge, awaiting the laser beams that will finally do me in, effectively…turning me to ash.” Honesty is the best policy, right?

  Now it’s his turn to laugh, though I wouldn’t really call it a laugh—more like an annoyingly controlled and sexy chuckle. Ugh! I’m such an idiot. Time to cut my losses and retreat. “Okay, well…I’m sorry I cut you off on the highway. Since you so rudely wouldn’t get out of my way and forced me to pass in the right lane, I almost missed my exit and was left no choice but to get in front of you.” That came out faster than I would have liked.

  The depth of his stare shifts, and his tone is commanding when he responds. “You had plenty of choices. The most important one being to have patience while control was taken from you. By doing so, you would have achieved what you wanted because I would have gotten out of your way.”

  God, he smells good, and I think his voice has hypnotized me because I just want him to keep talking.

  “Instead, you lost control by using aggression to get what you wanted. I was watching you in my rearview mirror.” The smirk returns. “Your beautiful eyes blazing. I read your lips, surprised that such language would come from such a lovely mouth.” Now he’s staring at my lips, and I swear on my life they swelled. Ho-ly shit! And dear God, I think my nipples are at it again! What the hell is wrong with me? This feels like freaking foreplay!