Body

Body

Trinity Trilogy - Book 1

By Audrey Carlan

Text copyright © 2014 Audrey Carlan

ISBN Electronic

ISBN-10: 0990914305

ISBN-13: 978-0-9909143-0-3

Print ISBN

ISBN-10: 0991535197

ISBN-13: 978-0-9915351-9-4

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic format without expressed permission by the author.

Dedication

For my mother, Regina…

Because you never received your happily ever after.

I miss you every day.

Special Acknowledgement

To my soul sisters Dyani, Nikki, and Carolyn

Without you, I am not me.

Without your love and undying support, this novel wouldn’t have been published.

Without you Dyani Gingerich, there would be no Maria De la Torre

Without you Nikki Chiverrell, there would be no Bree Simmons

With you Carolyn Beasley, there would be no Kathleen Bennett

Without soul sisters this book wouldn’t be as special.

I’ll always love you more.

BESOS

B
ound -
E
ternally -
S
isters -
o
f -
S
ouls

Chapter 1

I just want a normal life. One without pain. I’ve experienced more physical and emotional pain in my twenty four years than most women experience their entire lives. People take for granted how easy they have it. Running around, never worrying about when it will all come to a burning, crashing end. I envy those people. Determined to one day be like them, my new motto is to live for tomorrow. Every decision made will move me towards a future filled with light. One that cannot be dulled by harsh realities and unplanned inconveniences. I am the maker of my dreams. No longer am I the wallflower who allows myself to be hurt.

My position as Fundraising Manager for one of the largest charitable organizations for women in the United States brings me to where I am today, sitting in this bar. After an overly long travel day with two layovers, the plush cushioned seat forms to my curves comfortably. Looking around, I’m glad I threw on my work blazer and dark trouser jeans. The sky high BCBG peep toe shoes and a long beaded necklace spruce up the business casual look.

I’m a little out of my league. Men and women in pristine suits and cocktail dresses congregate in small groups of people to enjoy “Happy Hour.” This is not my scene. If the Safe Haven Foundation board of directors meeting wasn’t being held in this hotel, you’d  find me sitting at home in comfy pajamas, sipping wine, and watching a chick flick with my roommate Maria.

The deep grooves in the bullnose edge of the bar are perfectly etched in a swirling pattern. The bar is backlit, shining light through each liquor bottle as if it were a sunbeam shooting through a crystal. The different rays of colors scatter, looking more like art than glass shelves filled with a variety of alcoholic beverages. A tall ladder climbs each side so the bartender can reach the “top shelf” liquor. The stuff that’s a few hundred dollars a bottle, possibly even per glass, are placed on those shelves of honor.

Scanning the wine list, I’m reminded of my station in life. Living in wine country, I have a pretty good grasp on what’s good, fair, and straight vinegar. Everything on this menu is priced by the bottle, the cheapest close to a hundred dollars. Nowhere near my pay grade.

A furry little man behind the bar smiles at me, wipes the space in front of me with a damp cloth, and sets down a coaster. “What can I get for you?” His accent holds a very Italian Chicagoan inflection.

“Um, not sure. Do you have wine by the glass?”

“You’re not from around here are you?” His question is genuine and friendly, also straight to the point.

I figure honesty is the best policy. “Nope. Here on business.”

“Excellent. I’ll hook you up,” he says, smacking the bar. “White or red?”

“White, please. Thank you.”

The bar is really something else. I had reservations about coming down, but I’m glad I did. My weariness from today’s travel starts to wear off. The bartender sets a generous glass of wine in front of me. He gave me well over the customary four ounces. I smile wide, all teeth and gums. He grins and sets off to assist another patron.

Hidden speakers play Amy Winehouse’s lilting voice, crooning softly about her being no good for her man. People chat amongst themselves. I take a sip of my wine and am assaulted by the burst of the smooth, buttery notes in the chardonnay. Reminds me of a little winery my soul sisters and I visited last year in Napa. Their wine was just as satiny smooth on the pallet. It’s the taste of money. My only hope is that my bill isn’t over twenty dollars. Otherwise my little per diem splurge is toast.

Turning sideways, I take in the eclectic mix of contemporary art coupled with dimmed track lightening. A pristine black grand piano sits off to the corner. A soft light shines on it as if awaiting some lonely soul to tickle its ivories. A man places his hand on the glossy surface, breaking my trance. Following the hand up the arm, I find it’s attached to the most striking male face I’ve ever seen. His image could easily grace the cover of any high fashion magazine. Strong dark brows define what I suspect are dark eyes, though I could be wrong. Sculpted cheek bones rise as his head tips back in laughter. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome in the inky suit that sits on, quite possibly, one of the most perfect forms I’ve seen. In a word, he’s magnificent.

My gaze skims his body from his leather designer shoes up to the most exquisitely tailored slacks, which hang on a trim waist in that sexy way you only see on men gracing the silver screen. I gulp down the wine, letting the burn of the too large drink pierce my consciousness as my eyes continue the journey up a very broad chest. I imagine that underneath the silky fabric is a chiseled chest and abdomen. His tie is loose. He probably just finished his work day, in a hurry to meet “the guys” in downtown Chicago for a beer.

No, that’s not right. He’s too elegant for beer. That would be the type of guy I usually date. This man, Mr. Superman, is far too classy. His tumbler is filled with a honey colored liquid, confirming his taste. Scotch or Whiskey on the rocks.

He’s sex personified as he sips the liquid. I imagine it burns as it rushes down his throat. I’ll bet the harsh alcohol warms his belly and sooths the trials of the day away. I’m thinking corporate lawyer or banker. Maybe he had a meeting in this very hotel and is schmoozing the men standing around him. Better yet, they could be trying to impress him. That’s more like it.

I allow my gaze to settle on his face and am shocked to find his eyes boring intensely into mine. I want to look away, but can’t. It’s as if he’s holding me tethered to his focused stare. Heat swirls in my gut as our gazes meet and dance around one another, assessing, considering the other. I try, but fail to look away. After what seems like an eternity, one of his dark brows tips and a sly grin slips across his face. Magnificent wasn’t the right word. He’s splendid.

Long fingers brush his dark hair. It falls in sexy layers that I’d give anything to comb my own fingers through. Chills run up my back as we continue our mutual staring contest. As I’m about to pass out from holding my breath so long, he looks away. It’s like tossing sand on a burning flame. The fire is out. Gone. Cold. Nothing but ash remains.

What the hell was that?

The day must have done a number on me. I’ve never scoped out a man before at such great length, nor have I been so taken with one
. I’ll bet he’s good in bed.
The thought flits across my mind, and I squash it. There be dragons in thoughts like that. It’s a good thing he looked away. Even better that he didn’t hear the silent siren’s call summoning him over to fill the desire pumping through my every pore. All he’d need is one match, and I’d go up in flames like a pile of fallen dried leaves.

With every fiber of my being, I face the bar and do everything I can to focus on anything other than the man in the corner. Delicately, I trace the rim of the wine glass, seeing if I can make it sing along with the music filtering through the room. Satisfaction flourishes when I’m able to circle out a soft hum, a tiny pitch to match the lyrics.

“Neat trick,” a deep, voice booms behind me. It’s one of those voices that settles in your belly and tickles you from the inside out.

I twirl so fast my wine glass skitters across the bar. A quick arm reaches across me and catches it before a drop spills. I’m caged between a broad chest and the bar behind me. Instinctively, my hands balance on the hard surface pressing into me. My nose is stuffed into a crisp shirt. Sandalwood and citrus permeates the air with a heady scent. I take a deep breath, sucking the flavor of nature and man into my being. The smell reminds me that it’s been far too long since I’ve been this intimate with the opposite sex.

A rumble destroys my happy place, and I realize the chest I’m wedged against is laughing. I push lightly and the wall moves to reveal stunning Caribbean blue eyes. The light was playing tricks on me before. They’re not dark at all. My gaze hops from feature to feature. From those blue eyes, to the sculpted cheek bones, down to the heart shaped pout. The sexy Superman is here, right in front of me, looking down at me. A halo of light behind him accentuates every delectable feature. He’s…laughing.

I wrinkle my nose and push hard against his chest to secure some much needed space. In mere seconds, this stranger has completely invaded and caged me like an animal, saved my drink, and left me without the ability to speak.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“No!” I roll my eyes at how ridiculous that sounds, even to me. He laughs and gestures to the open seat next to me.

“May I?” He proceeds to sit without waiting for an answer.

“No, you may not. I’m expecting someone.” Perfectly reasonable reply. It’s a fat lie, but it always works when an unwanted suitor tries to saddle up next to me.

“They can sit in the chair on the other side of you.” He grins. Damn his sexy face. I could look at it for days on end and still not understand how God could create something so perfect. That’s probably all he has going for him.

He snaps at the bartender, and he comes running.

“How rude. Do you always treat everyone like a dog?” I’m not even sure why I opened my mouth. I should have ignored him, finished my drink, and left. But no, I had to poke the sexy Superman.

He looks at me as the bartender waits patiently. Seems odd from a bartender. Why not just butt in and ask what Superman wants. He searches my face with his ocean eyes and speaks to the bartender without looking at him. Again, rude!

“Sam, I’ll have another. As will she.” He gestures to my mostly drained wine glass.

“Yes, Mr. Davis. Right away.” The bartender practically bows before running off to make the drinks.

“Mr. Davis? I take it you come here often?”

“Chase Davis, and, yes, I own this hotel. It’s important to check in on my investments.”

I feel my cheeks burn. I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or irritation. Maybe a little of both. Besides being distractingly beautiful, he’s pompous. I don’t care for it.

“I’m sorry if I appeared rude, but a snap did get Sam’s attention. I wanted to order you another drink before you ran off.”

Seems reasonable enough. “And why are you interested in buying me a drink, Mr. Davis?”

“Chase. You can call me Chase.”

“I get the feeling you’re used to being called Mr. Davis.” I use my most seductive tone. “You like the respect it gives you?” Where in the hell I’m coming up with this shit is beyond me. I feel like I’m playing a game I’ve never played before, and I have no idea if I’m winning or losing. Something about this man taunts my defenses to prickle and strike, but not in an uncomfortable way. More like I want to get a rise out of him.

“In my professional life, Mr. Davis is appropriate, yes. Privately, as in this conversation, I’d like you to call me Chase.” His eyes sparkle, and, when he smiles, I’m gifted an even set of white teeth. Breathtaking.