Destiny's Choice: Destiny's Trilogy, #2

By Victoria Saccenti

He's older, his PTSD wounds run deep, and doesn't believe in second chances. She does...

As a naïve young woman, Marité Muro nearly drowned in a maelstrom of confusing emotions stirred by two very different men. One whose tortured soul tugged at her heart, another whose scorching touch made her innocent body want…more.

Vietnam left scars on Brian MacKay, some visible, some invisible—and nearly impossible to heal. His war buddy's sister-in-law has ripened into a tempting, irresistible woman, but their age difference makes her forbidden fruit.

After four years in a Spanish prep school, Marité's come home ready to fight for the man she's never been able to forget. But when Michael returns out of the past, he threatens everything Marité and Brian have started to build.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Saccenti
• Release date: Aug 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996416931

Victoria Saccenti

Award-winning and bestselling author Victoria Saccenti writes contemporary romance, paranormal romance, and romantic women's fiction. Not one for heart and flower stories, she explores the edgy twists and turns of human interaction, the many facets of love, and all possible happy endings.  After thirty years of traveling the world, she’s settled in Central Florida, where she splits her busy schedule between family and her active muse at Essence Publishing. However, if she could convince her husband to sell their home, she would pack up her computer and move to Scotland, a land she adores.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Other works by Victoria Saccenti:

DESTINY’S CHOICE

Copyright

Dedication

Quote

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

A note from the Author…

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Excerpt

Other Books by Victoria Saccenti

Other works by Victoria Saccenti:

Destiny’s Plan

Destiny’s Choice

*

Noémie’s Journey

*

Beloved Titanian

DESTINY’S CHOICE

by

Victoria Saccenti

Destiny’s Choice

Copyright 2016 Victoria Saccenti

Print Edition

ISBN-10: 0-9964169-4-3

ISBN-13: 978-0-9964169-4-8

(Kindle ISBN: 978-0-9964169-3-1 ** eBook ISBN: 978-0-9964169-5-5)

Editor: Linda Ingmanson

Cover Design: Scott Carpenter

Format: Anessa Books

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of fiction or are used in a fictitious manner, including portrayal of historical figures and situations. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The moral authority of the author has been asserted.

Dedication

To my father…the artist who made fantasies real.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. ~ Khalil Gibran

Chapter One

December 1969

You’re late…you’re late. Where the heck are you? Out of the corner of her eye, Marité Muro scanned the hallway of the chapel. To her mounting frustration, several attendees standing next to a column blocked her view. She could stare forever and accomplish nothing. Neither the people nor the column would move out of her way. Reality does stink . She didn’t have X-ray vision or mental superpowers like the superheroes in her favorite comics and fantasy novels. Her human anatomy had its limitations, and just to reinforce that concept, a painful stab attacked her temples as a multitude of sparks filled her vision. Half-blind, she tangled the tip of her elegant new shoe with the footed base of a nearby massive candleholder, and she nearly flew forward. Mumbling a curse that would’ve shocked her mother, Marité froze in place, waiting for her vision to clear.

Thanks to the futile search, she’d almost made a fool of herself in front of everyone and, worse, had missed key aspects of a ritual she didn’t know well. She should be following the ceremony. Any minute, the spotlight and all eyes would be on her, which meant ignoring the stupid voice that wouldn’t stop nagging in her mind. The incessant taunts had begun as soon as she took her place by the baptismal font: Go ahead. Turn around. Check the crowd, silly girl. How else will you know? Well, screw the voice. She had an important role and should appear focused on the celebration—same as Brian, her partner in the ceremony—or at least pretend.

Still, she couldn’t stop thinking of Michael. Why aren’t you here?

How about a little peek? the voice insisted. Shifting her gaze to the left hallway, she tried again, seeking a body, a shadow, some movement, anything that might indicate her cousin’s arrival. Nope. Nothing. Zip.

You’re going to ruin it if you don’t show up. How could he miss the triple christening when it meant so much to everyone? The entire family had flown in from the Old Country, not to mention friends from all over. Forget the relatives, she had dreamed about this occasion for weeks, had bought this pink chiffon dress and complementary shoes, hoping to regain his attention. She wanted him to see her among adults, doing adult things like a young lady. Maybe then she’d impress the indifference out of him and the uncomfortable disaffection would end. Not so long ago, he would’ve insisted on driving her. He would’ve been full of advice on the ride over. He used to be so protective and supportive, so affectionate, but lately—

The clinking sound of the swaying censer and Father O’Leary’s voice grew louder. He’d moved from infant to infant, performing the sacramental rite: dabbing bits of salt in their mouths, sprinkling the tiny foreheads with holy water, and lastly anointing them with chrism. And now it was Rebecca’s turn, the gorgeous child cradled in her arms. Marité glanced at the beaming parents standing off to her right, Raquel and Matthew Buchanan, her sister and brother-in-law. Dismissing her earlier preoccupation, Marité sent a silent prayer on their behalf for a life full of well-deserved happiness. They’d struggled enough.

Father O’Leary recited the questions to the godparents, and Marité answered in unrehearsed unison with Brian. The sound of his deep voice, full of emotion and self-assured, rang in her ears as spirals of thick church incense wafted around her with its heady scent. A dreamy feeling overcame Marité. Each I do response seemed to roll out of Brian’s lips in slow motion. The words echoed throughout the room, then ricocheted inside her mind in giant swells. A sense of déjà vu transported her to a distant time in a faraway chamber, richly ornate and full of golden lights, nowhere she knew or had seen before… The experience didn’t last; it ended with the last question but left her shivering. She looked Brian’s way.

Brian?

He leaned forward. Lil’ godmother?

Forget it. It’s nothing, she said quickly. Whatever she’d seen, Brian obviously had not. No point in pursuing it further.

Brian MacKay, Matthew’s best friend and ex-war buddy, was the happiest person she’d ever known in all of her fifteen years. His smile could brighten the gloomiest day. In these days of the Vietnam War, men who survived the jungle came home either physically damaged or with broken spirits, sometimes both. Not Brian. His cheerful disposition had carried him through exhausting physical therapy sessions—she’d heard Raquel and Matthew talk—and conquered his wounds. She watched in awed respect as he moved or walked about, displaying his faltering step like a badge of honor and the ever-present cane like a scepter.

Despite the seven-year gap between them, Brian didn’t condescend to her. He treated her as an equal, and she liked that quality best. When she learned Brian had agreed to become Rebecca’s godfather, she’d been overjoyed and honored. The sacrament would not only bind them to the child but to each other, as compadres in a very special lifelong relationship, almost like parents. Her thoughts pivoted to her absent cousin…and yep, she was back to where she’d started.

What is it? Brian nudged her arm. That frown’s ruining your purdy face.

Marité knew he’d tried to keep his voice down but was also certain folks in the last row heard him. Shhh, she whispered, and, suppressing a rising giggle, she bumped him with her shoulder.

Brian jerked up to his full height, snapping two fingers in mock salute. Yes, ma’am.

Rebecca must have found their exchange entertaining, because she decided to join the fun. Her rosebud lips puckered, releasing a loud half-raspberry, half-spit bubble.

Not very ladylike, Marité murmured. Brian snickered, and the priest shot them both a warning glare.

Her sister, Raquel, heard the sound and flicked a signal to Matthew. As a lighted taper was presented to Marité and Brian, Matthew retrieved Rebecca in exchange, rescuing everyone from the priest’s displeasure. With little Rebecca’s explorations in sound effects successfully silenced, Father O’Leary nodded, and the baptism proceeded in its ordered sequence.

The thunderous boom of a kneeler dropped carelessly on the floor reverberated throughout the chapel like a discharged cannon. Marité tossed poise out the window and turned, peering above and beyond the curious guests to the source of the commotion.

You know how to make an entrance, don’t you?

With hands pressed against the last pew, Michael leaned forward. His shoulder-length hair, falling in the direction of his hands, concealed his features. On her next breath, Marité evaluated the situation in the room: a pale Aunt Coralina directed a wife-to-husband plea for serenity to Uncle Jonas, whose gaze emitted ice-blue fury toward his irreverent son.

An unexpected censuring scoff out of Brian startled her, and Marité pivoted, beginning to feel like a spinning top. The frown of disapproval was a rare departure from Brian’s affable countenance. Confounded by it all, Marité flipped back around just as Michael looked up, tossed back his leonine mane in obvious defiance, and smirked. Ignoring everyone present, he glared at her. A chill ran down Marité’s spine.

As the black sedan sped along the festooned perimeter fence, Marité ignored the incomprehensible chatter of accompanying Spanish relatives, focusing instead on the folks who lived in and around the Ocala area. Most were familiar with her aunt and uncle’s lavish celebrations. The present festivities would surpass everyone’s expectations and likely be remembered as the party of the century with good reason—all four families had much to be happy and grateful for. The last two and a half years had tested each one in different ways. The Reynoldses, Muros, Repulleses, and Buchanans had experienced the anguish of loss and the joy of recovery, the heartbreak of discord and the peace of reconciliation. For their trials, life had rewarded them with the birth of three beautiful children.

Today marked that occasion.

The chauffeur made a turn into the private road heading toward the shimmering glow ahead. Minutes later, the vehicle stopped at the edge of the Reynoldses’ lawn. As she accepted the solicitous driver’s hand, her relatives escaped out the opposite door and melted into the gathering, leaving Marité alone to assimilate the spectacle before her.

For weeks, she’d listened to the extensive plans between Aunt Coralina and Mamá about the yay-long list of invitations with a menu that included Texan, Spanish, and Caribbean entrees. Despite all the description, her imagination had come up short.

The ranch blazed with lights. Guests populated the grounds, some under the tents, others congregating around the buffet tables and open bars. A few traversed back and forth between groups. Elegant servers dressed in black and white maneuvered through everyone, offering hors d’oeuvres and bubbly champagne out of silver trays. The happy cacophony of laughter, conversations, and clinking glasses mixing with soft music filled her ears.

Marité didn’t know most of the people standing around her. She’d been separated from her inner circle at the end of the ceremony and would have to negotiate the crowd to find her family. She took a step forward, and someone exclaimed, Look, it’s the young godmother! From then on, she felt like she’d been thrown into a wash-and-rinse cycle. She was passed from effusive well-wishers to hugging relatives, on to kissing friends. Finally, she was released at the end of the line, where she took a moment to straighten her mistreated dress, pat her hair, regain some decorum, and move on.

She considered heading toward the house, but that required threading through yet another group, and she was still dizzy from the last one. No, first she had to gather her wits, although…there’d be no gathering of wits, no peace, and no calm, not when her thoughts were still consumed with Michael. She’d seen him stumble out of the chapel as soon as Father O’Leary said the last blessing, then lost him in the ensuing tumult.

Oh Michael…how can I help you?

The question had troubled her for months. Ever since she noticed the slow separation between Michael and his family, between Michael and her. She missed him, her cousin and buddy, the friend who’d accepted and taken her under his wing right from the start. He’d been a big brother then. With a twinge of nostalgia, she remembered the night, over two and a half years ago, when a tired and bedraggled little group—Raquel, Mamá, and she—had arrived at the Ocala bus station. Lord, a lifetime had happened since…

As the ache aroused by the memories started to constrict her throat, she shook her head. No, she’d have none of that. Not on this momentous night. She’d not dwell in the past. With that resolution firmly in mind, she stiffened her shoulders and moved forward.

Mari!

Raquel’s voice. Marité pivoted in that direction. Hey, sis. I could trek the Amazonian jungle or climb the Himalayas, but I’ll never get lost because you’ll always find me. It’s comforting, you know, she exclaimed.

Her older sister laughed and waved after repositioning Rebecca from one hip to another. The smile on her face didn’t need explanation, and neither did Matthew’s look of pride as he stood behind his wife and daughter. Marité approached, and the gnawing feeling tightened around her throat again. This gathering evoked in Marité an abundance of conflicting emotions, a curious mix of sadness and joy. She felt the twinge of tears, except these were happy tears for her sister and Matthew. In fact, her heart filled with jubilation for everyone who’d overcome life’s hurdles…then came to a dead halt. The exuberance dwindled as she realized the scene ahead was incomplete.

The Buchanans, standing within a circle of friends, gestured for Marité to join them. But the one person she’d expected to see was absent. Brian, the constant presence, Matthew’s inseparable friend, was missing. Irritation shoved happiness aside. Brian was probably roaming around, checking out and flirting with a pretty girl. He was famous for loving the ladies. Funny…the notion churned in her stomach. Honestly, did she think Brian would spend the night glued to her side? Such nonsense. He’d never see her as anything other than Raquel’s younger sister, and yet—

Come over, Mari. Abuela Alicia wants to see you.

Oh crap, Marité grumbled under her breath.

Yes, crap. The initial meeting between the Spanish relatives and the American-born generation had been interesting. A lot of hand gestures had been used with the unavoidable, hilarious misunderstandings. Throughout the conversation, Abuela Alicia—Mamá’s mother—had stood out. The tiny woman with the thin, almost papery skin had a light of inner power that made up for her short stature. She didn’t speak a word of English, but she didn’t need a translator either. Abuela didn’t miss a detail. She watched everything with her bright brown eyes, specifically her youngest granddaughter. Marité squirmed under her knowing regard. Could Abuela read the confusion in her thoughts?

"Niña, María Teresa, acércate, Abuela murmured. Come close," she repeated in her heavy, lisping accent.

Marité didn’t know what to make of her grandmother. For someone Abuela’s age—she had to be sixty—her speech was soft and velvety. Her fingers rounded Marité’s forearm with a deceptively strong grip and pulled. Surprised, Marité resisted the tug. Abuela nodded as if Marité’s reaction had been exactly what she’d expected. Bemused, Marité relented. It was obvious who’d given Mamá her intense personality.

You resemble him, Alicia said, glancing up and down the length of her body. "Hermosa, beautiful. You take after Seve, your grandfather. Did you know?"

Marité did know. Her mother had explained a year ago when she’d hit her first growth spurt. Except for his green eyes, she’d inherited his good looks and height. She wasn’t too keen on that idea, though. Shorter girls had clear advantages. At parties, it was easier to find dancing partners, plus they could wear high heels without threatening the male ego. Although Michael’s ego wouldn’t suffer, like Uncle Jonas, he towered over everyone. Her brow tightened with the thought of her missing cousin.

"Niña, why the concern on such a pretty face?" Abuela patted her cheek.

Marité winced and turned to Raquel. Please, help me out, sis. I can’t talk to her like you can.

Of course, Mari. What would you like me to say?

Tell her…tell her I’m not concerned at all. I was only curious, wondering where our cousin had gone.

Raquel arched an eyebrow but didn’t pry further. She handed Rebecca over to Matthew, turned toward the tiny woman, and a flurry of words, accompanied by the obligatory gestures, escaped her lips.

Damn, I need to brush up on my Spanish. Matthew burst out laughing.

Abuela’s attention remained intent upon Marité.

That’s right, Abuela, Marité said, uncomfortable with the visual examination. At her grandmother’s unchanged expression, she added, "Sí, Abuela."

That is pathetic. The extent of her vocabulary was meager at best. Feeling wholly inadequate and a little miffed, Marité shook off at last her grandmother’s grip. Hoping to set her escape and change the course of the conversation, she asked, Have you seen Mamá? I lost track of everyone after church.

I saw her and Xavi under the pergola, Raquel said. They were discussing something that seemed pretty serious with Aunt Coralina and Uncle Jonas. I can help you find them, if you like. Have you noticed? Uncle Jonas is in a terrible snit. Any guesses?

Me? How would I know?

Oh, silly. Don’t get all twisted up. I was just asking, Raquel said, slipping an affectionate arm around Marité’s waist.

You can’t leave, sis. Abuela, Matthew, and Cousin Almudena need a translator.

Gosh, I guess you’re right. You’ll have to find Mom and Xavi on your own, Raquel said, releasing Marité.

Whew…close call. The last thing Marité wanted was her sister’s company. It wouldn’t take long before Raquel wondered about Marité’s behavior or asked a million pointed questions. Marité could continue her recon around the house and grounds until she discovered her elusive cousin’s whereabouts. Smiling to the group, she mumbled a few words, excusing herself. However, as she walked away, she caught one last glimpse of Abuela Alicia’s penetrating gaze. Language barrier notwithstanding, she hadn’t fooled the old lady.

Chapter Two

Stretched out on the rumpled bed, Michael Reynolds listened as George Harrison’s plaintive voice filled the dark room. With eyes closed, he mouthed the lyrics he knew by heart. Lucky for him, his bedroom was at the back end of the ranch. With the music at full volume, he’d managed to drown out the racket from the party outside. Now he could properly torture himself as he concentrated on every note and word in Harrison’s Something. He lifted a trembling hand, stabbing his fingertips cruelly into his face. Could he dig in and pull chunks of skin away? Maybe that pain would distract his attention from the feelings that obsessed him. Nah, no pain could make him forget. He relaxed the hand. It slipped to his brow, and finally, with a listless thud, he let it fall to his side.

I am a fucked-up son of a bitch.

Harrison’s magical guitar wailed the gripping melody while the bemused singer attempted to describe the unique style and charm of the woman who’d captured his heart. Did Harrison peer into Michael’s mind? How in hell had he learned about the beautiful creature holding Michael’s soul within her small hands? Damn it, he had no right to feel this way. None. Dear God, when did it get so out of control?

Please stop, Michael begged as Harrison’s lyrics pounded on him without mercy. I can’t stay away from her. Never. How could I? She owns me. She owns me. The aching words flitted through his mind. Sinful or not, he’d give up half his soul for a brush of her lips on his.

A touch, just a slight touch.

He grasped and released the sheets erratically. Didn’t he have a joint somewhere in this dingy room? He needed a hit or something similar, anything to take the edge away from his insanity. Jumping to his feet, he rummaged through every corner and possible hiding spot with a methodical precision born of desperation.

He reached his dresser, yanked the top drawer open, and, like a madman, rifled through the contents until he found the plastic envelope tucked at the bottom. Yes, pills would work. Inside the small, abused envelope, Seconal capsules promised much-needed stupor. How long had these been around? Didn’t matter. Downers might not be his preferred choice, but they offered relief and discretion, preferable to dope. His father was on to him and waited for any excuse to chew his ass. If he lit up a doobie, the acrid scent would reach his father’s nostrils from miles away.

He tilted the envelope, and a pair of old-looking caps rolled out. Perfect. When in doubt, two ensured the job. Clutching the Reds safely in one fist, he flicked through his treasured cache of photographs with the empty hand. He picked one up and stared. She’d turned into such a beauty. He remembered when she was a cute, sassy little person… He scoffed, shoved the photograph back inside, and slammed the drawer shut.

He swiveled around, fingers threading maniacally through his hair as he hunted through the wilderness of his messy room for something to drink. Man, he’d swallow the caps dry, even if they got stuck and burned his windpipe. He couldn’t wait any longer. The glorious vision of Marité, framed in the ethereal chapel light, threatened to shred his control, and he couldn’t allow his secret to come out. A semblance of propriety still existed in him.

He continued scanning and was relieved to spy a bottle of Coke tucked behind a pile of magazines. The forgotten beverage, if any remained, would be flat and tasteless. He didn’t hesitate. He reached for it, popped the pills, and swallowed a mouthful of the horrendous liquid.

And the song started again.

Fuck you, George Harrison, he screamed at the turntable. Why would the stupid device be stuck on the same song? With a forceful slap, he propelled player and disc to the floor. Both items crashed loudly, and he cringed at the shattered mess. He had to be out of his wits in order to destroy anything his beloved Beatles created.

As luck would have it, seconds later a soft tap on the door snapped him out of his destructive frenzy.

Whaaat, is iiiiit? he thundered.

Michael?

The devil should take him, this instant. The sweet tremulous voice on the other side of the door was too much and too soon. Not enough time for the pills to take effect. How was he supposed to face her in his present condition and not scare her to death?

Wha’d’you wan’, Marité? he answered, hoping he’d added enough roughness to his voice to intimidate her away. If she said another word, he would allow her in and may God have mercy on them both.

Michael, may I come in, please?

Of course she would insist. Of course. She would press, ask, and plead until she demolished his defenses, until he had no strength left to push her away.

Come in, he said, more gently this time. Door’s open.

Michael stood rigid as a board, watching his bedroom door swing open. When the tips of her dainty fingers curved around the edge, he didn’t move a muscle. He attempted a breath but couldn’t find any air when a thick lock of her shiny hair dangled forward. His heart wailed when the fabled Muro-Llorenz uptilted eyes blinked shyly at him.

At length, the door opened, allowing María Teresa Muro in all her youthful splendor to invade Michael Jonas’s sole shelter. She was a vision in her shimmering new pale pink minidress. The belt around the high waist delineated the beauty of her tender breasts.

She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies . . .

Michael wanted to fall on his knees in worship, and for a moment, they almost buckled. She was breathtaking, and he was going to burn in hell forever. How could he fall in love with his cousin? His first cousin no less. Any closer in the relationship and they’d be brother and sister. Damn his perverted, twisted soul forever… But he loved her. He did, madly.

Michael?

The sweet voice prompted him to seek an escape. Like a frantic, wounded animal, he swiveled around but found no means of egress. Not unless he opened a window and jumped out. So he waited, a condemned man, while she continued her relentless, step-by-slow-step approach.

Cousin?

Her delicate fragrance assaulted his senses. He found himself defenseless and exposed. For in that instant, the downers he’d ingested exploded within his system in a barbiturate swell of gigantic proportions. Instead of the desensitizing effect Michael hoped would protect him from his need of her, the high worked against him. The rush brought all his restrained desires to the fore. He was overcome by a warm, sensuous wave that unfettered his inhibitions and emotions. All his senses were focused on her, her scent, her warmth, and her body.

Rallying his few surviving threads of decency and restraint, Michael managed to turn around. With his back to Marité, the connection was severed, and granting him the tiny respite he needed. Air returned to his lungs and moisture to his mouth. This, however, would only last for as long as the innocent young woman remained distant.

Please, talk to me?

Shyness and doubt quavered in her voice. Her hesitation shook him to the core, and when her hand touched his shoulder, he felt like a meteor had crashed upon him. He whirled, fists pressed tight against his thighs, holding back the urge to kiss and devour her lips. He wanted to feel her, crush her within his arms. He wanted to shove her away.

For the love of God, Marité, can’t you see I’m busy? Michael hurled the words, hoping she would step back.

Marité’s eyes widened. Busy? How, may I ask? Her beautiful lower lip trembled, yet she stood her ground. She stared at the ruined turntable on the floor and the untidy bed. I thought you might be worried. We haven’t spoken much lately, and now that you’ve turned nineteen, and the results of the lottery have been released… Uncle Jonas said you shouldn’t—

The draft lottery. Is that why you’re here? I’m not worried, Marité. My number was high, and if I wanted or needed company, I would’ve asked.

He was hurting her, but he had no choice. He was at the precipice, ready to fall over. For the first time since this draft lottery business was announced, he wished his number had been low and chosen in the first group. Maybe out there in the jungle, a bullet with his name on it would find him and end his worthless life. He could always enlist…ah, who was he kidding, he wasn’t heroic and honorable like Matthew and the see-it-all cowboy, whatever his name was.

Go now. Play your boring little-girl games somewhere else.

Oh, Michael. Marité’s voice was strangled. She clutched her hands to her chest and took a step back.

He’d done it, hurt her at last. Michael stared as her lower lip continued to quiver, her bravado faded, and her eyes gleamed suspiciously. If tears coursed down her face, he would lose it entirely.

Marité blinked, and Michael’s control snapped like a dry twig.

He reached out to her and brought her against his chest. Her fragrant locks came under his nostrils, and he buried his face, inhaling deeply. Her sweet aroma dizzied him, and he swam within churning currents of sheer happiness and remorse.

Mari… I’m sorry. Sweetheart, he murmured, squeezing her tighter. And now, a second Seconal rush released yet another disarming wave in Michael, and he was utterly helpless. He slipped an arm around her waist as he held up her chin and gently lifted her face to his. Michael’s fevered wish became a reality. His lips descended on her virginal mouth, and a sense of divine perfection filled his soul.

And all that’s best of dark and bright…

Yes, that was Marité to him: all that was best, bright, beautiful, and innocent.

He expected Marité to retreat, push away, and refuse him. But she didn’t, and Michael extended the kiss, brushing softly, side to side, nibbling and inhaling her sweetness. God help him, he was so lost. She was everything to him.

He smiled, savoring her lips yet restraining the impulse to laugh in sheer delight. Holding