Текст книги "All of Me"

Автор книги: Kelly Moran

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Taking it all . . .

Slowly, like a predator, he strode toward her and cupped her cheeks. This time the kiss stole her sanity. The precision with which he slid his hands down to cup her breasts through the bra, the deliberate and meticulous way his fingers grazed her nipples, spoke of his familiarity with the female form. He knew how to touch, to taste, to drive her out of herself and back with crushing velocity.

She never knew being touched, being kissed, could be like this. Potent. Insistent.

Breaking the connection, he grazed his lips over her jaw, down her throat, and licked her collarbone. “I want you so badly I can’t think.”

His voice alone could make her damp and dreamy. A coarse murmur with need raking it raw. Hadn’t he said something similar, before the party? Yes. “You promised you’d make me forget to think.”

He groaned into her neck, a purely male sound of pleasured frustration. “Consider it done.”

Praise for

return to me

“Not your typical poor girl/rich boy story. An emotional roller-coaster ride I read in one sitting! Don’t miss it!”

–Carly Phillips, New York Times bestselling author

“Readers will find it impossible not to root for this couple, and the desire to see them get their happy ending will make it hard to put this book down.”

–RT Book Reviews

*Kathy Altman of USA Today on The Dysfunctional Test

Berkley Sensation titles by Kelly Moran

RETURN TO ME

ALL OF ME

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

ALL OF ME

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2015 by Kelly Moran.

Excerpt from Return to Me by Kelly Moran copyright © 2015 by Kelly Moran.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY SENSATION® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit penguin.com.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-17552-5

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / September 2015

Cover photo of “Couple” by Uwe Krejci / Getty Images.

Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

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 or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

Writing is often called a solo profession, and sometimes it is. But the characters in my head keep me company, much as they do for the hero, Alec. I’m blessed to have a great group of author friends who are supportive, and so this book is dedicated to them. Carly Phillips, Carla Neggers, Brenda Novak, Sharon Sala, Caridad Pineiro, AJ Nuest, Vonnie Davis, Mackenzie Crowne, and JM Stewart . . . Thank you!

Acknowledgments

An author doesn’t get from manuscript to book alone. I have so many people to thank. To my agent, Dawn, thanks for believing in me. My editor, Julie, and everyone at Berkley for making this the best story possible, you guys are awesome. And to a few exceptional people on my street team, a special shout out to: Hannah Duckett, Tracey Parker, Kay Megonnell, Charlotte McFall, Casey Lalkas, Elizabeth Dent, Joy Whiteside, Lesa Goodwin, Tracy Comerford, and Sally Wagoner.

Contents

Praise for return to me

Berkley Sensation titles by Kelly Moran

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

chapter twenty

chapter twenty-one

chapter twenty-two

chapter twenty-three

chapter twenty-four

chapter twenty-five

chapter twenty-six

chapter twenty-seven

chapter twenty-eight

A preview of return to me

chapter

one

It was a dark and stormy night.

Alec Winston cursed and shoved back from his desk. He swiveled his chair away from the computer and the one line he’d managed to write in almost a year. Pathetic. He’d typed it as a joke, something to propel him out of this writer’s block, or whatever it was, but the joke was on him. He’d fired his agent because the guy had demanded new material, and now he was seriously close to breaching his contract with the publisher. Deadline one passed two months ago.

Twenty-five bestsellers, twenty of them number one on the lists, three book-to-movie options, foreign language rights in fifty countries, and he’d been reduced to it was a fucking dark and stormy night.

He ran his hand down his face and rubbed his jaw. The three-day-old growth scratching against his palm was the only sound in his otherwise quiet home office. Before him, New York City bustled on outside the window, completely unaware of the pile of shit thirty floors up. Night had fallen while he’d stared at the monitor, but the city was never dark. Skyscrapers and streetlights and headlights cut through the inky blackness. So different from back home, where he could spend all evening counting stars and never catch them all.

Surprised by the tinge of homesickness, he made his way out of the room and into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Coffee cured everything.

While salvation brewed, he leaned against the counter and thought about the trilogy proposal which had landed him a seven-figure advance. The readers liked his prophecy-themed dark cult series so much that Hollywood was filming the second book. Working off the interest from that, he’d roughly sketched out a timeline for the next series and passed it off to his editor.

Except that’s where the inspiration had ended. Died a slow, agonizing death like his characters. Oh, the irony. No matter how hard he tried to grasp a tangible thread of his former brilliance and put words to paper, it flittered away.

He shook his head and poured himself a cup of coffee. Turning toward the living room, he sipped from his favorite mug and stared at the room that had cost him more to redecorate than his first royalty check. The ostentatious interior designer had read all his books and raved on and on about ideas, until he’d agreed to something just to shut her up. The result was the nightmare before him.

Christ, he wrote about nightmares. He didn’t want to live in one.

Slate-gray walls, so dark they made the two thousand square feet look like two hundred. A red leather sectional and creepy as fuck sculptures were supposed to bring a “splash of color.” To top off the monstrosity, framed copies of his book covers lined one wall and movie posters based off his books scaled the other.

He hadn’t had guests over in six months. Not that he’d ever had many parties. Or friends. He was a writer, and writers would rather write about people than talk to them. His own head was much more interesting. But still, it would’ve been nice to have the option of company, should he want it. He used to get a kick out of watching people, imagining their worst fears, plotting their fictional demise.

Maybe if he headed over to Central Park tomorrow, sat on a bench and observed, he’d get some ideas flowing.

The house line wailed from his desk in the other room, the ringing insistent. Just like his agent and editor and adoring fans. He almost didn’t answer, but hell, it’s not like he was getting any work done. Coffee in hand, he strode into his office and picked up the phone.

“How goes it, big brother?”

Despite the fact that his muscles were unfamiliar with the gesture, Alec smiled. “Hello, Jake. You’re calling rather late.” He leaned back in his chair, his gaze automatically falling to the shelf across the room where a picture of them in their youth grinned back at him. Two skinny, pale boys with their arms around each other on the beach.

“Am I interrupting?”

Jake was the only one who knew about his writer’s block, and the knowledge made Alec’s face heat in shame. “No. Still a blank page.”

“Maybe a change of scenery will help.”

Jake had suggested it before, but Alec was hell-bent on doing this alone. He would get through this somehow. It was just a blip in his career was all. Except it was going on a year now, and this blip had quickly become an epidemic.

“I’m fine. Just need to work through it.”

Jake grunted. “How’s that going for ya?”

Alec frowned but said nothing.

“I can hear you pouting from here.” His brother laughed, and the sound immediately jarred him back to childhood. Not an unpleasant feeling. “Come on,” Jake continued. “What can it hurt? A little sun, a little breather. It’ll do you some good to come home.”

Alec didn’t have an aversion to going home. He did, however, have an aversion to his father’s inability to display any tact whenever Alec was within a ten-mile radius. Whatever. Family was family, and his could be worse. “I need to get this book done, not go on vacation.”

“You can work from anywhere. There’s this little thing called technology—”

“Har, har.” He sighed. “I’ll think about it, okay? Happy now?”

He glanced once more at their picture, taken one hot summer day at the beach near Covington Cove. Not the actual name for the private area of Wilmington Beach, but more an unofficial nickname given by the Covington staff through the years. Alec and Jake’s father worked as a gardener for the Covingtons, back before they sold the seasonal property. Their son, Cole, owned it now. Being the good son, Jake took over the family landscaping business instead of making shit up for a living, and still worked for Cole.

Which reminded him . . . “How are things between you and Lacey?”

“That’s the other reason I called.” Jake cleared his throat. “I asked her to marry me.”

Alec stilled. Jake had had a crush on little Lacey Covington since he’d first laid eyes on her. Dad had brought them to work with him on the Covington estate when Alec was eight and Jake was six. After reconnecting recently, Lacey and Jake had been dating for about eight months.

The Covington kids were nothing like their self-righteous parents, but Alec had read Cole’s memoir, just like every other person in America, so he knew what Cole and his wife, Mia, had gone through to get their happy ending. It had taken them ten years, thanks to Cole’s mother and her threats.

The whole thing made Alec nervous. If Kathryn Covington decided to meddle in her daughter Lacey’s life the way she had in her son, Cole’s, Jake would wind up on the losing end. Jake was a hard worker and made a decent living. But the Covingtons had more money than God.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Alec swiped a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. You just surprised me. Can I assume she said yes, since you’re telling me?”

“She did. She said yes.”

Alec could hear the smile in Jake’s tone, which caused his own lips to curve. His little brother, getting married. “Congratulations, man. I’m really happy for you.” And he was. Lacey was a lovely girl. But . . . “Don’t you think it’s kind of soon? You’ve only been together a few months.” His own haunting experiences rose up to choke him.

“You know when you know.”

He’d have to take his brother’s word for it. Love had never slapped him upside the head. He preferred to keep it that way. He’d come close to love once, and he was still paying for it. “Well, I am happy for you. Did you tell Mom and Dad yet?”

“Yep.” Jake laughed. His brother was always laughing, it seemed. Jake was light where Alec was dark. Amazing they got along at all, really. “They’re excited. Lacey wants to do it at the end of summer.”

“This summer? As in three months from now?”

“Yeah. She wants the ceremony right here on the beach. Something small.”

Alec propped his feet up on his desk and crossed his ankles. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but she is a woman and a Covington. Is small even an option?”

Jake’s silence was lengthy. “Things have changed since you were home last. Lacey and Cole aren’t in contact with their mother, and their dad is trying to be more a part of their lives. He’s not the arrogant prick he used to be.”

John and Kathryn Covington’s divorce had been splashed all over the society pages and newspapers alike. John had bowed out of politics, claiming he wanted to spend more time with his family. Meanwhile, Kathryn turned into America’s most hated bitch, both from her reaction to the divorce and how Cole had described her in his memoir.

“Come home,” Jake implored again. “Get to know Lacey a little better, spend some time with the folks. Heck, sit on the beach and drink piña coladas. Stay for the summer. You can leave after the wedding. Maybe it’ll help get your head back into the book.”

It did sound good. His life was in New York now, but nothing imminent tied him here at the moment. What he’d been doing to write his next book sure wasn’t working. Alec reached over and swiped the nose of his Derek Jeter bobblehead, thinking as he watched the toy swivel.

“You can stay in our guesthouse, so you don’t have to worry about Dad. You’d have it all to yourself.”

“Is the house finished?” Alec could’ve sworn they’d just broken ground on Lacey’s McMansion not long ago. She’d designed it herself, according to Jake, and planned to build on an unused area of the original Covington property.

“Yep. They finished it last month. I’m just touching up some landscaping.” He paused to clear his throat. “I moved in with her when she asked.”

Alec tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps a trip down the coast was in order just to ensure Jake knew what he was getting into. To guarantee his little brother wasn’t making a mistake, like he had. “I’ll drive down this weekend.”

Jake paused. “Really? You can make it work?”

He looked at his computer monitor. It was a dark and stormy night. “Yeah, I can make it work.”

When he hung up with Jake, Alec transferred his files to a flash drive and shut down his PC.

The weekly call to Laura’s group home went as always: polite to the point of sterile, and it took him three attempts to dial. The night manager didn’t seem concerned he was leaving town for a few months. Out of respect, Alec never visited, but he did check in to see how she was doing. Laura’s father would raise hell tomorrow when he heard Alec was gone.

His anger couldn’t be helped any more than Alec’s attempts to right things. Both futile.

Alec made arrangements for someone to come in once a week to keep an eye on the apartment and then shot off a text to his editor. He packed up his laptop and shoved some clothes into a suitcase, setting them by the front door. After checking that all the lights were off, he went to stand by the window and take in the skyline view of New York.

It was a beautiful and ugly place down below. Filled with crime, poverty, and desperation. It also held sprawling parks, generous people, and easy access to anything the heart desired. Before his first book hit the bestseller list, he had moved to this city, known as the center of the publishing world, to immerse himself in it. To keep his edge and his finger on the pulse of the industry.

He had to admit, people recognized him wherever he went. He brushed elbows with producers and screenwriters. Booksellers and editors and marketing people, all willing to bend over backward to accommodate him. Adoring fans with blogs and websites and Facebook pages. But there was no one he could call at two a.m. just because. No one to argue with over a bad call in the Yankees game or grab a beer to discuss their day.

A city full of eight million people. It was all rather lonely sometimes.

He shook his head. It was only Thursday, but he didn’t have anything else to do. He could take his time driving down to Wilmington, unwind a bit. Besides, now that he had a plan of action and an objective set forth, he wouldn’t be able to focus on much else. Why delay his departure?

He turned his back on New York, gathered his luggage, and locked the door on his way out.

*   *   *

“Ginny is so excited you’re coming,” Mia said. “She’s beside herself. When do you get in?”

Faith held the phone to her ear and traced a lazy pattern over her comforter with her finger, calculating the distance between Charlotte and Wilmington. “I should get there in a few hours.” Her head whipped up with a thought. “I hope that’s okay. I know it’s a day earlier than we discussed.”

Mia Galdon—no, make that Mia Covington—had contacted Faith a couple months ago, asking if she’d be interested in the opportunity to be Ginny’s private tutor. Faith had been one of the people who had worked with Mia’s sister at St. Ambrose before Mia pulled her out of the private school. Faith was the first person Mia called for the job, but Faith had had to finish out the school year and tender her resignation, thus the delay. The decision had been eating away at her ever since, until she was pretty certain she’d developed an ulcer.

Faith had missed working with Ginny when they’d moved to the coast. The teenager was a sweet, chipper girl who’d struggled with her disability in the public school system. At St. Ambrose, she’d flourished, learning to read and write and do the simple activities of daily living.

But that wasn’t the only reason Faith had agreed to take the position and move hours away from everything she knew. It was also because Mia genuinely loved Ginny, was an active part of her life, and had once given up everything she’d had for her sister. Faith could relate.

“Of course that’s okay,” Mia assured. “Like I told you, the guesthouse is ready for you.” She paused to say something to someone in the room and then came back on the line. “It’ll be nice having someone work one-on-one with her again. The Down syndrome groups and programs here just aren’t cutting it for her. You were always her favorite teacher.”

Faith, never really comfortable with compliments, didn’t say anything and knew all this, as Mia had told her more than once. Mia seemed to need the reassurance of the repetition, though.

“I’m looking forward to it. See you soon.”

They disconnected and Faith looked around her bedroom. The walls were the same white they’d been as a child. A functional desk, dresser, and bed were the only furniture pieces. There were no pictures on the wall, no little trinkets or baubles. No life, because she’d never had one.

Nerves swam in her belly at this new venture. She’d never left Charlotte before. She’d never left her parents’ house and lived on her own. At twenty-seven years old, if she didn’t do it now, she never would. The opportunity was perfect. The Covingtons were matching her old salary at St. Ambrose, and accommodations were included. She wondered what it would be like, living alone. Probably no different than home.

She sighed and stood. It was time to let go, and in doing so, maybe her parents would, too. She’d been stuck in this rut for too long, not moving forward because she feared her parents needed her presence. But that was her own wishful thinking.

Faith doubted they’d notice she was gone.

She closed her bedroom door behind her, as her parents preferred it, and stopped outside Hope’s room. Her bedroom door was always open, as if their parents expected her to one day return. But Hope was never coming back. If not for the silence and disappointment etched in her parents’ eyes, Faith would assume she was the only one who knew that.

She didn’t know why she did it, but she stepped just inside the doorway of her sister’s room. Unlike her own, splashes of color were everywhere. The walls were a fading rose, the bedspread a deep lavender, the curtains navy blue and homemade. It would seem like a mismatch to anyone who hadn’t known Hope. The wood of the dresser, shelves, and bed was painted a moss green. Pictures of Hope adorned every nook and cranny. Stuffed animals were neatly lined up on the bed.

The room hadn’t changed in years. A thin layer of dust coated the dresser to her right. For a fleeting moment, Faith considered writing her name in the dust, but shook away the impulse.

Descending the stairs, she moved past her luggage stacked by the front door and made her way into the living room. It resembled any other family room in small-town America: powder-blue walls, country-style plaid couches in cream and navy, plush beige carpet, and a white mantel with family portraits.

The pictures drew her eye. She inspected the photos in their mismatched frames, feeling like a spectator in her own house. Her parents after they brought Hope home from the hospital. Hope, cheerleading at a homecoming game. Hope, posing in her senior prom dress, her many friends gathered at her side. They’d all shaved their heads, too, to match Hope’s. The last picture was Hope and Faith sharing a hospital bed after a treatment.

That was the only photo Faith was in. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear it was a shrine to Hope’s memory, but the mantel had always held these reminiscences, or ones like it, since Faith was a toddler. If Faith wasn’t next to Hope in a picture, she wasn’t displayed.

She tried to draw bitterness from deep inside, allow herself to grow angry, but neither emotion would come. Because she knew her place in this family, always had. Knew why she was conceived. And it wasn’t for a photo on the mantel.

From the other room, the murmurs of her parents’ conversation rose. A quick glance at the clock told her they were sitting down to dinner. Five-thirty on the button, every evening. They’d started without her. Not the first time.

Faith’s plan was to eat with them and then hit the road, but her stomach clenched and she didn’t think she’d be able to keep anything down. Still, she should try. Their last remaining child was leaving home. Surely they’d want some time together first, to talk about her new adventure and wish her luck. They must be giving her time to finish packing.

When she stepped into the kitchen, her parents were standing by the small oak table, their backs to her. Faith glanced at the stove. The casserole dish, which had been used to bake chicken and vegetables, was empty.

Mom had only made enough for two.

Her chest grew tight, and she tried to inhale a deep breath, yet tears burned her eyes anyway. Tears. She hadn’t cried in ages. Such a useless action.

Mortified, she took in the familiar kitchen to level her emotions. White pine cupboards, green tile counters, checkered laminate floor, fruit bowl next to the wine rack. Faith never drank wine. Maybe she should start.

When she felt more in control, she cleared her throat and walked over to the table. The years had been kind to her mother. Her wavy brown hair, which once trailed down her back, was cut in a bob and interlaced with gray, giving her a distinguished look. Because she’d been a stickler for healthy eating, her lean, lithe frame resembled that of someone much younger. Until you looked in her eyes.

Her dad turned to look at her, by all accounts seeming confused. He had stormy hazel eyes, just like Hope’s, and thick white hair that had once been chestnut, like Faith’s. He, too, had remained in fit shape, though his shoulders sagged as often as his smile.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you. I . . . just wanted to say good-bye.”

It dawned on her, too late, that he’d thought she left already. Without a good-bye? Without a hug and kiss and I’ll miss you? If she’d been more rational, she would have remembered they didn’t hug or kiss in her family. Not anymore.

“Should I make you a sandwich for the road?” Her mother didn’t meet her gaze, but her tone was as formal and polite as always. Like she was speaking to a member of the choir instead of her daughter. “I got a pound of that shaved turkey you like.”

Faith didn’t care for turkey. That had been Hope’s favorite. “Thank you, but I’ll be okay. I had a late lunch.”

“Well, drive safely,” Dad said. He opened his arms to offer her an awkward hug and wound up patting her on the back instead. “Bye for now. Call us when you get there. Don’t forget to wear sunscreen. UV rays on the beach can be brutal.”

She wouldn’t know. She’d never been to the beach.

“Yes, do drive safely.” Mom’s focus returned to her meal as they both sat down. “Good-bye, Faith.”

She opened her mouth to say . . . something, but the words wedged in her throat when she realized that’s all she’d get. But what had she expected? A total personality change?

Slowly, she nodded her head.

A hot ball of pain burned in her stomach. She had walked through each room of the house before entering the kitchen, as if her brain knew this was a semipermanent good-bye, even if her heart held out hope. She’d wanted to take in the details of home so she could remember it, store away the visual in her mind’s memory box. It was a silly, fruitless notion. There was no imprint of her here.

“I love you,” she whispered, because she did. She’d loved them with the same childish heart that had dreamed of a way out. Or a way in.

“Back atcha,” Dad called.

Mom hummed her response, a cross between agreement and dismissal.

Without further ado, she walked down the hall and gathered her luggage by the front door. One suitcase held her books, a lovely escape she thoroughly enjoyed, and the other her clothes. There were two boxes of therapy materials in her car, and another box with cosmetics. Still, after twenty-seven years, there should be more to pack. More to a life than this.

Anxiety clawed at her throat. She could still tell Mia she couldn’t accept the offer. She hadn’t signed a contract. Maybe she could get her old job back at St. Ambrose. A comfortable, albeit lonely, existence here had to be better than what was out there. What did she know about being out in the world? Failure loomed. Humiliation at every turn.

She surprised herself by opening the door, then paused. She strode over to the mantel, grabbed the picture of her and Hope, and left.