Touch of Fate Read online

  As for her other sister, Karena, Deena admired her strength and her latest decision to cut down on some of her work hours and enjoy life. That could be due to the very handsome Sam Desdune, who’d worn Karena and her misguided ideas about relationships down.

  In the supermarket she’d seen a brochure tacked onto the community board. She’d taken it down because she loved the scene of an old Southern plantation boasting sandy beaches, cool water and relaxation from the moment she stepped onto the grounds. It had taken her another hour to get home and book her room. The next day she was packed and heading to the airport.

  Now she was here, sitting on the porch and for all intents and purposes enjoying the Southern air and relaxing.

  It was only when she opened her eyes to see the poor conditions of her room and the sad state of the grounds at Sandy Pines Resort that she began to rethink her decision in coming here.

  It wasn’t so rundown that she couldn’t stay. Truth be told, the place had potential. It just didn’t look well maintained. But her sheets were clean, the food was good and there was a pool that she could use twenty-four hours a day. There weren’t many guests so she had plenty of peace and quiet to work on her next book. All in all, Deena would say it was working out well. Despite the discrepancies in the brochure and what Sandy Pines actually was.

  To take her mind off the resort and her sisters, Deena decided to run herself a bath. Afterward, she lay in the king-size bed staring up at the ceiling, sleep successfully evading her. After about an hour of this she’d sighed and climbed out of the bed. Either she could work until she fell asleep or she could go for a swim. She decided to do both, in a roundabout way.

  Plotting the great romantic love affair was a hell of a lot easier than experiencing one of her own, she thought as she padded down the wrought iron stairs on the back side of the big house. That’s why she wrote fantastic love stories and took her own love life for what it was—good for the moment. Did she want the same happily ever after she wrote about? Of course she did, but she wasn’t about to spend every waking moment searching for it.

  Dropping her towel and room key onto one of the lounge chairs she stepped out of her shoes. It was a quiet night, the sky above was dark, yet calm and welcoming. The air was balmy with a slight breeze as she shrugged out of her robe and walked toward the water. Monica would put a toe in to test the temperature. Karena would probably sit on the side with her feet fully submerged first until she felt comfortable. Deena just jumped in.

  That’s how she did most things in her life. Made a decision and went for it. Some would call that impulsive. Her father called it irresponsible. Deena figured there was no other way to be and so far it was working just fine.

  The water had a slight chill to it, but it didn’t bother her as she swam from one end to the other. It was refreshing, cutting through the water as sleek as a fish, her mother would say. Each stroke had her mind emptying of where she was, or any of the other issues that plagued her life. All she could think about now was Joanna, the heroine in her new book.

  Joanna was looking for love. Not desperately looking, but hoping it would come sooner rather than later. She was twenty-eight, the same age as Deena, and had never really been in love. Of course, Joanna had boyfriends and fell in lust a couple of times but she was certain that love had never resided in her heart for a man.

  They say new authors write what they know. This was not the case for Deena. She could write about falling in love, write about lasting and satisfying relationships, but had yet to find one of her own. There was irony in that somewhere, only she didn’t see it right now.

  Instead she envisioned the perfect man for Joanna.

  Tall, surpassing six feet. Good looking was a given, drop-dead gorgeous an added bonus. More importantly, he had to be compassionate and love life as much as Joanna did. He had to appreciate and support her or their life together would never work. Success and money didn’t matter that much to Deena, much to her father’s consternation. But this was a romance novel so he’d have a steady job and be a basically good guy.

  With each stroke Deena thought more and more about creating Joanna’s hero, so much so that she had to pause…was she thinking about the perfect man for Joanna or the perfect man for herself?

  Max’s mind was on a snack. As he was on the steps that creaked when you walked down, inhaling the stuffy humid air walking through the house, in his head he ticked off an endless list of changes as he moved into the large kitchen and flicked on the light.

  He didn’t expect what he saw.

  A butterfly, full-colored wings and lavish detail, drawn on skin the exact color of a milk chocolate bar.

  On impulse his body tightened with arousal.

  But when she turned around, smiled and said, “Hello,” all the air deflated from his lungs, his mouth momentarily going dry.

  “Hello,” he finally managed when he realized he was standing like a mute.

  “I was just getting a glass of water,” she said then turned back to the cupboard where she was reaching for a glass.

  They were on the highest shelf and he thought, thank you, Lord, as the hip-riding shorts she wore over her bathing suit bottom didn’t reach upward with the rest of her body. The butterfly he’d first noticed, which was strategically located just above her buttocks, was again noticeable.

  He could hear his cousin Trent saying now, “There’s nothing hotter than a tramp stamp.” That’s what tattoos in this particular location on a female were called. And right about now, no matter how rare an occasion it was that he actually agreed with Trent, Max felt his cousin’s words were the honest truth.

  Not only was this tattoo hot, but the tight little body it was attached to was pretty damn spectacular as well. She wasn’t tall, maybe five feet four inches. But she was shaped like a woman definitely familiar with a gym. He noted her toned legs and well-defined arms. Her bottom was tight and round and his mouth was watering.

  Clearing his throat, Max reminded himself that he was thirty-five years old, not sixteen.

  “It’s late,” he said finally.

  She was turning on the faucet, sticking the glass she’d retrieved from the cabinet beneath it. Turning back to face him, she folded one arm over flat abs left bare by the bikini top she wore. Lifting the glass to her mouth she gave him a quizzical look. “I know. Couldn’t sleep. Since you’re standing down here with me at this late hour I have to conclude that you can’t either.”

  “True,” he responded with a nod. “How long have you been here? At the resort I mean, not in the kitchen?”

  She smiled and Max thought maybe the sun was coming out early.

  “Just a couple of days. I’m Deena Lakefield,” she said offering her free hand to him.

  Closing the distance between them, he took her extended hand. Petite would seem like the right word for her. Still, he had an idea there was much more to her than her slight size.

  “Max Donovan. I’ve been here a couple days, too. Wonder why we haven’t met before now.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been working a lot from my room.”

  “What type of work do you do?”

  She paused, like she was considering her answer, then with a tilt of her head said, “I’m a writer.”

  “Really?” He would have placed her in media or something where she could talk and smile. It seemed she liked to do both. He liked to see and hear her do both. “What do you write?”

  Her brown eyes brightened, her grin going from cordially nice to sensually soft. “Romance,” she said, her voice lowering slightly. “Know anything about that subject, Max Donovan?”

  Chapter 2

  Was she flirting with him?

  Of course she was. He was, hands down, the finest man she’d ever seen. And because she’d gotten into boys early—at around ten was when she had started noticing the opposite sex—she’d seen her fair share of good-looking men.

  But this man was like a walking god. All right, that was probably cliché, she’d
blame that on the romance writer’s mind. Still, she couldn’t argue the facts.

  He was tall—damn, she loved tall men—over six feet, like a good couple of inches above it, she concluded. His skin was the color of melted caramel, his eyes some dreamy toss-up between green and gray. It was hard to tell in this kitchen with the not-so-great lighting. He was muscled and sculpted and just basically existing as if he were meant to be painted, put in a frame and thoroughly enjoyed. His hair was great, she surmised immediately. Thick, a sandy-brown color and long. Not down his back long, but not close-cropped either. Actually, it looked as if he may have at one point had dreads or twists, because the two- to three-inch length looked wavy and soft. That was really the clincher for her since her own hair was worn in shoulder-length twists. She loved natural styles and applauded men for stepping outside the box and wearing their hair differently as well.

  She wanted to lick him, like a caramel lollipop. That made her sound like a slut with a sweet tooth.

  Yet, it was so true.

  Standing here in this old-fashioned kitchen with its linoleum floor and Formica countertops with the moonlight spilling through the windows was the perfect prelude to hot summer sex.

  And her imagination was on total overload.

  “You write romance novels? Hmm, wouldn’t have pegged you for the fairy-tale type.”

  He was talking.

  Stop ogling him and talk maturely, she warned herself.

  “Why? What’s wrong with fairy tales?”

  “Reality’s better,” he said and she knew he was being honest. She liked that in a man.

  “A fairy tale can happen in real life. It’s all about the imagination. Prince Charming can come in many forms, a millionaire businessman, a talented NBA player, a suit-and-tie corporate type, the cable guy,” she said, ticking off her answers with her fingers.

  He smiled. His eyes changed when he did, becoming a little lighter, she thought.

  “Come on, would you really consider the cable guy a Prince Charming?”

  “If he provided the heroine with everything she needed or desired, yes. It’s not about the wrapping, it’s what’s beneath that makes the package worth while.”

  There, chew on that a minute, Mr. Nonbeliever.

  He shrugged. “Okay, I guess you can rationalize your opinion. So what brings you here? Are you from South Carolina?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. No Southern accent.”

  “I’m from New York. My family runs an art gallery there.” She wasn’t sure why she’d told him this. She never used her family background to impress men. Ever. Was she trying to impress him?

  “What do you do, Max?” she asked, loving the way his name rolled off her tongue.

  “I’m in real estate,” he responded. Then, with a nod of his head, he signaled that they should have a seat at the big table across the room.

  The chairs were wooden, as was most of the furniture here. But she liked the kitchen, with its big windows and open floor plan. Cabinets lined the better part of two walls, with windows decorated with eyelet curtains at equal intervals. The floor was bright white with little blue flowers, an old design but it worked in here. Pulling out a chair, she almost smiled at the heavy feel against her hands. Old furniture, antiques, had that feel. Weathered. Used. Loved. She liked it, so she sat down.

  “That’s a vague answer. What do you do in real estate? Buy? Sell?”

  He sat in the chair right next to hers, so close she caught a whiff of what would be his cologne, a little muted because he would have put it on early this morning, after his shower maybe. Still, the scent seemed to match what she’d seen of him. Confident. Intriguing.

  “Both.”

  “Cryptic again. You don’t like talking about yourself much, huh?”

  He shrugged. “I just think there are more interesting things to talk about.”

  “Okay, well let’s talk about the company you work for, what do they do?”

  He smiled and she smiled back.

  “Persistent. I like that.”

  His words sent little shivers dancing down her spine.

  “My cousin and I are partners in a company that purchases properties, refurbishes and resells them.”

  “Oh, you’re house flippers. I’ve seen them on television.”

  His quick frown was unmistakable. “We’re not house flippers. We buy properties such as large estates, office buildings, resorts. We’re a much higher class than those you see on television.”

  Because he seemed a bit bothered by her assessment of his business, Deena pushed on. She couldn’t help it, it was just her way. “You’re into the ‘class’ thing? Like you’re better than them because you don’t buy houses that everyday people would want? What class are your clients? Better yet, what class am I?”

  He straightened in his chair, those intriguing eyes keeping her still, frozen in his gaze.

  “First, that’s not what I meant. I do not abide by any class system. I was referring to the level of real estate work I do in comparison. Second, I never judge people by their circumstances. And third, I like your tattoo.”

  Deena opened her mouth, fully prepared to blast his response, but then she snapped it shut. “Okay,” she said finally, clearing her throat. “Ah, thanks.”

  He’d seen her tattoo. When? Probably when he’d first come into the kitchen because she knew she’d been alone at the pool. She shifted in her chair and tried to keep her gaze steady with his. But she had to admit, his compliment had thrown her off.

  “Do you like butterflies?” he asked, his voice suddenly somber.

  “Butterflies and moonlit walks.”

  He lifted a brow. “Are you asking me to walk with you under the moonlight?”

  She stared at him a second longer, thought about what he’d asked and what she wanted. He was fine, but he was also sure of himself. Sure that he could have anything and anyone he wanted. Of course, this was her quick assessment of him and she could certainly be wrong. But for right now it was what she thought, and so, she needed to react accordingly. “No, I don’t think so,” she replied. “I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”

  Standing, she extended her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Donovan.”

  Max, still in awe of her quick wit and spirited personality, not to mention her pretty face and sexy tattoo, stood, taking her offered hand. Before he could examine the action, he was lifting her hand to his lips and placing a tender kiss on its back. “The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Lakefield,” he said.

  Slipping her hand easily out of his grip, she said simply, “Good night.”

  Yes, Max thought when she’d left him alone in the kitchen. This had turned out to be a good night. And if he had his way it would end up being a very good trip.

  New York

  “She’s where?” Monica Lakefield slammed her briefcase onto her desk before pulling out her chair and taking a seat.

  “Hilton Head, South Carolina,” Karena replied in a tone that was too nonchalant for her.

  “What’s she doing there?”

  “Probably writing her next book.”

  “Book? Are you serious? When is she going to find a job?”

  Karena sighed. “Writing is her job, Monica. Her book’s in the stores in case you didn’t know.”

  “I know about the book. I’ve ordered a couple hundred of them in the past week. But really,” she said, her coral-painted nails moving swiftly over the keyboard, “is she making this a full-time permanent thing?”

  “Yes. I think she is. Actually, I think she should. She’s good, Monica. You should read one of those hundreds of books you bought. This might be what she really needs to do.”

  “She really needs a steady income and a pension plan.” Monica sighed. Why was she the only person in her family who thought along the lines of responsibility? Well, there was her father, Paul Lakefield, but he was more like a dictator in Monica’s book. She, on the other hand, was just being practical. br />
  “Deena will be fine. She has her trust fund that she hasn’t touched. And besides, Deena’s always done whatever was necessary to take care of herself. She doesn’t ask us for anything.”

  “You’re right,” Monica agreed. Her youngest sister never asked her for help. Truth be told, Monica was a little hurt by that fact. But she’d never let anybody else know that.

  “Well, does she at least have an agent or an attorney to make sure she’s not signing her soul away on one of those publishing contracts?”

  “Last time I talked to her she was interviewing a couple of prospects. Don’t know if she’s actually signed with one yet, but it’s one of her priorities.” Monica chuckled.

  Karena looked at her in a funny way.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I just can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh.”

  “Well, I’m not the one shacking up with the handsome detective so maybe I don’t have anything to laugh about. But you’ve got to admit, Deena with priorities is funny.”

  Karena smiled. “At one time you would have been right but I think she’s changing.”

  Karena had reached into her own briefcase, no doubt to pull out the sales report they were meeting to go over. That was to signal the end of the discussion on Deena.

  Monica still wasn’t certain she liked the idea of her sister being so far away by herself but recognized there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it at the moment. Maybe Deena was changing, maybe she could handle things on her own. No, her little sister was still naive to the world and all its pitfalls. For that reason she vowed to keep a close eye on her, to make sure that nothing or anyone would ever hurt Deena, the way she’d been hurt.

  She’d done something different with her hair today. The shoulder-length locks had been pulled up in the front, twisted into some kind of knot, a red flower adding a splash of color. The flower matched a long flowing skirt of red and white and a skimpy red halter top that showed more skin than was probably legal. On her feet were a combination of sassy straps and sexy heels.