Time's Forbidden Flower (10 page)

The view slowly ebbs, but the pain and despair felt while looking at Christopher in that jail cell linger. Just like then I have lost Donovan, and Christopher would do anything for his family.

The second I step out of the hypnotherapist’s office, I call Donovan.

“Hey, Lil. How’d it go?”

“World War I,” I say matter-of-factly, expecting him to completely understand the gutting I just experienced.

“Ugh.” His groan reinforces my misery.

“You found it too?”

“Yeah, Rose. That I did.”

“Send your notes to my personal email address. I’m coming to your office with the recording.”

The depression that fills me like flavorless jelly in a stale donut makes my drive feel ceaseless. When I finally reach Donovan's office complex, I check my email for his notes in preparation of what lies ahead.

WWI - Jonathan H. Hanover

Tried to escape the war by claiming CO status. Had the completed the paperwork signed by my pastor. I thought my stepmother had mailed it, but when my draft notice arrived she confessed burning it, claiming I should stand up for my country like a real man.

Dad works in a steel mill. Saw my two sisters, Rose and Emmy. Emmy is much younger. Long, dark brown hair. Innocent brown eyes. Always a sweet smile on her lips when she sees me. It scares me to admit that I think this is Anna.

Rose is my treasure. Her green eyes glisten like the sun. Her auburn locks cascade in soft waves around her face. Her skin is like the petal of a flower—soft, smooth, fragrant. When she moves I hear a melody. I write her letters all the time. I don’t send them all, fearing it is creepy, though I know she feels the same. She tried to tell me before I left—the last time I ever saw her. The memory of that moment, the tingle that lingered on my cheek from her kiss, graces me still.

Rose and Lily are one and the same. Mom is still Mom. She sabotaged me. I died because of her.

Donovan halts his filing as I shut his office door behind me. With hardly a hello I head to his computer and search ancestry.com for Rose Hanover in Kansas. Nothing appears. My eyes squint in hopes the heavy pressure will relieve my disappointment. “Look for Albert Hanover,” Donovan says, his words carrying a heavy weight.

The revised inquiry reveals The 1910 U.S. Census listing Albert Hanover, his wife Mary, and their three children, Jonathan, Rose, and Emily. Turning to Donovan, the suffering in my eyes is a reflection of his own. “Even then you wrote me notes. You gave me white roses before you left.”

“The neighbor let me cut them out of her yard.” Donovan’s voice is appropriate for a confessional in a Catholic church. “I chose white because I wanted you to know my thoughts were pure. The look on your face when I gave them to you was the final image in my mind as I died.”

Closing my eyes I replay the moment just remembered. Though he stands before me, my longing for Jonathan lingers.

Rushing through my front door, I’m anxious to throw my arms around the current incarnation of William in appreciation of all that we have now. However, though Christopher and the kids should have been home an hour ago, silence greets me.

My cell phone shows three missed calls from the nanny. A message revealing Christopher has failed to arrive frays my nerves. Finally, he answers my forth call, just as I arrive at the nanny’s house. “Darling, what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice laced with concern. “I just saw all the missed calls.”

Whether I am relieved he is safe or upset he has uncharacteristically forgotten the children perplexes me. “Christopher, you neglected some important people today.”
 
Disappointment rings in my voice, but not as much as it does in his moan as he realizes his error. My tone of forgiveness is forced as I take up the slack, again.

An excuse to tell my children why their father stood them up is forming when my phone plays the Looney Tunes theme. “Hey, Lil,” Donovan says upon my answer. “Anna’s sick, so I’m taking Sunshine to see the original
Incredible Mr. Limpet
at The Egyptian in forty-five minutes. You and the family want to join us?”

His timing couldn’t be better orchestrated. The angels have blessed me with the perfect diversion for the children, and myself, from their father’s neglect. “Donovan, the wonders of you never cease to amaze me. The kids and I would love to! We’ll meet you there.”

The universe has locked me away from my husband and tossed the key into the Bermuda Triangle. The one free night Christopher has falls on an evening when we snagged a last-minute, high-profile wedding cake. Why can’t celebrities plan like normal people instead of suddenly getting married when Cindy has been called out of town and the rest of my staff is MIA?
 

I’m stacking a set of tier pans into their home base when everything goes dark via a pair of hands covering my eyes. My thoughts flash to a surprise visit from Christopher. However, an exhilarating scent sells out the true culprit. Tossing my head back, I snuggle into Donovan’s chest. “What are you doing here?” My question sounds like a moan of want.
 

“Are you complaining?”

“Never,” I say, turning into his embrace.

“I brought you something. Admittedly it’s a trite excuse to see you. You know how I’m always bringing stuff from your shop to colleagues? Well, today one of them tried to return the favor.” Donovan grabs a box that sports the imprint of Belle Boulangerie de Jour, a flashy, over-priced rival in Beverly Hills who is known more for its address than its goods. When their innovation does manage to one up us, it pisses me off for weeks. “It’s perfectly fine,” he continues, “but you could do better.”

Donovan grabs a fork as I peer inside the box. “Are you going to tell me what I’m getting into, or is this Russian roulette?” I ask of the orange-colored tartlet. “Knowing those guys it could be anything.”

“A very good, but uneventful, mango with a little passion fruit.” He leans in to whisper, “Tonight, we both need your magic.” His breath warms my neck, then slinks down to thrill my breast. Tenderly his fingers glide my chin upward, drawing my eyes into his. He feeds me a bite, then traces my lower lip with his thumb. The curiosity on his face is far more appetizing than the tart.
 

“You’re right,” I utter with heated breath. “Meet me at the baker’s table.”

“How many prep bowls?” Donovan calls as he heads off. My eyes wander down to his hips, and I wish to forgo the bowls and spoons for the curve above his ass and my tongue.

“Three,” I holler, darting for the fridge. Its chill helps me regain my focus, which quickly shifts back to his ass as he straddles a stool at the counter. “Use 70% mango, 30% passion fruit,” I say, handing him the purees and dashing off of for some juice and spices. God, I can’t get my mind off of how tightly his butt cheeks curve in, especially when he’s got me on a counter and I’m watching his back in a mirror, his hips pounding against me.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

Boy, am I ever.

After we’ve prepped the last bowl, Donovan motions me to sit next to him. Drawing our stools tightly together, he wraps his legs around mine. The urge to forgo my stool and straddle his waist nearly overwhelms. “Which way would you like it first?” he asks. My eyes flash up as he reaches for a bowl containing puree and lime juice. “How about this?”

Donovan’s eyes shine into mine as he raises a spoonful. My mouth drifts open in anticipation, my breath going shallow. The spoon glides over my tongue, and a drop of the puree slides onto my chin. A feather’s touch sends my heart soaring as he caresses it off with his thumb, licking it with an enchanting smile. “You should have avoided the middle man,” I tell him. Suddenly self-conscious of my flushing face, I fidget and touch a napkin to my lips.

He leans in, and I relish in the fluttering of his lips on my ear. “I take it you didn’t like that one as much as you could have. It’s not what I wanted, either.”

His hand goes to my knee, then slides upward, sending my heart racing. I turn my sights to the puree and our original mission, eagerly grabbing the second bowl and sweeping a spoon into the mint mixture. Raising the utensil to him my mouth slacks, and my eyes rendezvous with his. His grin morphs into a pleasure-awaiting vessel as I relish inserting the spoon. His lips clamp down with a moan, and my insides warm and tighten in delight. Languidly I withdraw, then flip the spoon into my own mouth—my tongue worshiping where his once graced.

“What do you think?” I ask, my voice deep.

“Better, but I need something more.”

“So do I,” I say, swooning.

His hand extends to the back of my head, his fingers stroking my scalp and taunting me with gingerly tugs to my hair, his lips softly revealing, “You haven’t tasted it yet.”

My eyes dart to the bowl. Quickly I grab a spoonful. As the cool puree and mint slides over my taste buds, Donovan tucks his favorite cluster of hair behind my ear, pulling me back into his beckoning eyes. “You’re right. Much better, but we’re not there yet,” I say, craving his hands on my breast.

From the last bowl, Donovan brings forth a spoonful. My breath turns deep and soft as my mouth widens in anticipation of mango and lemon, wishing I had the courage to cast the spoon aside and taste him. Suddenly he yanks it away and thrusts it into his own mouth, bringing forth my groan of jealousy. It’s me his lips should clap on.

“Wipe that smirk off your face,” I scorn before sounding breathless. “Actually, please don’t. It’s rather captivating.” My head drops, and I turn a little flush. His teeth tug at his lower lip, and I become jealous of their capture.

“Fun, but still not what I crave.”

“What do you crave?” I ask.

A dirty grin crosses his face. “You, and the way you used to make me feel,” he says, feeding me another spoonful. “Be sure to savor it this time.”

Reluctantly, my brain shifts its focus from the man to my taste buds. “Hmm…the best flavor was when there was nothing left on the spoon but you.”

His eyes fill with a blaze that causes my insides to melt down, and my legs squeeze together. If he doesn’t touch me soon, I think I may die. I try to snap myself back into our project. Jetting my hands out, my fingers flail toward the bowls as my eyes lock their focus, but Donovan doesn’t let me back down. “Casting a spell?” he asks.

“Stop it!” I giggle. “You’re making this hard.”

“No, that’s what you’re doing,” he says, nearly derailing my brain.

Again I strain to focus on my job, not an alternate universe where I’ve been tossed onto the counter and am matching every one of his hard thrusts with my own downward lunge until swirling colors dance behind my eyelids.

With a forced snap, my flavor affinity skills kick in, and I take the bowls containing mint and lemon, mix them together, then head off to add a speck of pepper.

“Try this.” I slip a spoon of the puree into Donovan’s mouth, the only passion exhibited being culinary. The flavor slaps him back into reality.

“Umm,” he utters. “That’s fantastic!”

I taste it, this time remembering to put some on the spoon. “Wow, you’re totally right,” I tell Donovan as Jenny enters the back, bringing the day’s remaining desserts to the refrigerator. I completely forgot we weren’t alone. Actually, I almost forgot a lot of things.
 

“Oh, hey, Donovan. I didn’t know you were here.” Jenny looks down at the display before us as she blazes past. “What are you two up to?” she calls while opening the door to the walk-in fridge.
 

“Donovan had an idea for a new dessert,” I yell before turning to him. “Thank you. I needed this creative boost.”
Actually, I need you.

“Sure thing, Lil.” Rising from his chair, he grabs the napkin that once touched my lips and slips it in his pocket. He eyes Jenny as she dashes to the front before he addresses me. “You free for an extended lunch day after tomorrow? I thought we could try that new restaurant that opened down the street from my office, if you have time.”

“I always have time for you,” I tenderly moan before realizing my tone and squishing thoughts of him licking puree off of my breasts out of my head. He places his hand to the back of my neck and draws me in so he can kiss my forehead. The kiss lingers a beat, sending a feeling of pixie dust spiraling down around me.

“Bye, Jenny,” he calls to the front. My eyes cling to him as he departs. It’s going to be a long two days.

Gazing at the spoons on the table, I wish one still had his taste so I could savor it again. It’s been years since I’ve had that much fun being creative. Donovan fuels all of my passions.

Jenny returns with a tray of cookies and places them on the counter before heading off for some plastic wrap. “It’s amazing how well you and Donovan get along. Most married couples aren’t as connected as you.”

“Boy, isn’t that the truth,” I muse. “We’re pretty odd.”

“Odd? If we all didn’t know better we’d think you two were dating.”

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry. That sounded really bad, huh?” Jenny rips off a sheet of plastic wrap with a flourish. “It’s just that with how Donovan pays you little visits, brings you trinkets, and takes you out, if we didn’t know he was your brother we’d think he was Christopher’s rival.”

Rival?

I have a boyfriend.

Oh, crap!