Nathan's Vow

Nathan's Vow

by

Karen Rose Smith

Search For Love series, Book 1

Published
for Kindle by Karen Rose Smith

Copyright
2011 Karen Rose Smith

Revised
and Updated Edition

Original
Copyright 1995 Karen Rose Smith

Original
Title:  Adam's Vow

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

http://www.karenrosesmith.com

http://www.karenrosesmithmysteries.com

*****

Prologue

Don't answer it.

Don't answer it.

Do
not
answer it.

Gillian Moore convinced herself to
ignore the intrusive sound of the ringing telephone as the golden L.A. sun swept through her open living room window, along with the balmy June breeze.

Her phone rang a second time.

Plucking the leatherbound volumes
from her bookshelf one by one, she dusted them with a soft cloth.  She always
cleaned and straightened her surroundings when her heart or mind was in
turmoil.  With a quick glance at the phone on her end table, she knew her
mother wouldn't be calling on a Monday evening.  Madge Moore called her
daughter from Deep River, Indiana every Sunday at exactly seven p.m.

Gillian's phone rang a third time.

She swiped the cloth across the
shelf, back and forth.  In the three months since she'd relocated to L.A., she hadn't confided in anyone or encouraged close friendships.  She needed this
respite.  She needed to find out whether her "gift" would continue to
be the major force in her life or whether she had a right to keep it in the
background, maybe even completely under wraps.

Her phone rang a fourth time.

It could only be
him
--the
man who had called the past two nights, the man with the compelling voice,
tinged with authority, commanding in its intensity as it directed her to return
his call.  She didn't know what he wanted, but she could guess.  Heaven knew
how he'd gotten her number because no one in L.A. had it, not even the manager
where she worked.

Her answering machine kicked on
with her brief direction for the caller to leave a message.  Her usually
lilting tone was serious and cool.  She ran her hand through her long, light
brown hair.  Maybe she should get it cut short…make yet another change in her
life.  She'd made so many in moving here--she actually had time to herself...to
be out in the sun, ride a bike, take long walks.  She'd found peace along with
the bright California sun and she wasn't ready to let go of either.

"Ms. Moore.  This is Nathan
Bradley.  Again," he added in a deep, almost censuring baritone.  "In
case you haven't received my earlier messages, I need to speak with you
immediately about a matter of great urgency."  He paused.  "Ms.
Moore, I
must
speak with you.  Please return my call."  He gave his
number slowly, hesitated a moment, then clicked off.

Gillian stopped dusting.  He hadn't
said "please" in his other messages.  This time there was a quiet
desperation in his tone.  She recognized the emotion because the people she'd
helped in the past had all been desperate.  Nathan Bradley didn't sound like a
man who was accustomed to using the word "please," and the huskiness
edging the word made her feel vulnerable and guilty, two of the burdens from
which she'd tried to escape.

Now this man had brought them to
the surface once more.  She
wouldn't
return his call.  She deserved
unpressured time to think about the direction of her life, to have fun working
at something she'd never imagined she'd enjoy.  Nathan Bradley could find
someone else to solve his problem, someone else with a "gift" that
had begun to feel more like a curse.

Chapter
One

Nathan didn't want to be caught
dead, let alone alive, inside a beauty salon.  As he pulled open the glass door
and stepped inside, feminine chatter, strange smells, and the glimpse of a
woman with her hair rolled in blue and purple curlers was enough to make him
decide he'd rather face ten irate CEO's whose firewalls had been breached in
one day than to plow into this women's domain.  But he'd do anything to find
his daughters. 

Anything.

Nathan's determination had pulled
him out of the poverty of his childhood, earned him a scholarship to college,
and pushed him to start his own company specializing in computer security after
only a year with another firm.  He'd wanted to be his own boss, bill his own
hours, set his own standards. His determination couldn't save his marriage, but
by God, it would lead him to his daughters.  After six months of dead ends,
he'd decided money and rational strategies weren't enough.  That's why he was
here.  That's why he had to speak to Gillian Moore.

At his private investigator's
insistence, Nathan had agreed to go this route--the only route left as far as
Nathan was concerned or he wouldn't pursue it.  He wouldn't debate about
methods, not even weird ones at this point.  He'd used every skill he'd
possessed to find his daughters.  So had his P.I.  Now he had to put his logic
and wariness aside if he hoped to find his children before he lost more time
with them.

The woman at the desk inside the
door smiled as her gaze traveled from his dark brown hair, down his charcoal
pinstripe suit and striped silk tie, to his black winged-tip shoes.  She tilted
her head and her lips curved up a bit more.  "Can I help you?"

Suddenly Nathan felt as if he were
the center of attention.  Two customers on chairs in the room beyond had craned
their necks to avidly assess him along with the receptionist.  His shirt collar
felt tighter, and he resisted the urge to tug down his tie.  "I'm looking
for Gillian Moore."

"You want a manicure?"
the redheaded, perfectly coiffed and made-up receptionist asked with a
mischievous smile.

"No.  My name is Nathan
Bradley.  I need to speak with her as soon as possible," he said in his
best authoritarian tone.  "Is she here?"

"Hold on a sec," the
redhead answered, her smile flagging.  Disappearing into the room beyond, she
reappeared a few moments later.  "She's with a client.  She says she'll
talk to you in five minutes."

Five minutes.  What the heck was he
supposed to do for five minutes?  He spied several magazines in a basket in the
corner beside two director's chairs.  "Fine.  I'll wait."

Waiting wasn't something Nathan did
well.  He hadn't become a successful CEO with company locations across the
country by waiting.  As he flipped one glossy page after the other, he was
vaguely aware this publication didn't advertise fast cars or designer clothes. 
Tuning in to the sound of feminine voices in the next room, he tried to pick
out the one belonging to a woman who had helped police departments solve
missing person cases.  As he had many times in the past few days, he imagined
what she might look like.  Probably fuzzy, wild hair with a red scarf tied
around her head.

He could feel the receptionist
watching him as she pretended to study the schedule book.  Finally, a customer
with bright crimson nails emerged from the room beyond and gingerly opened her
purse at the desk.

"Gillian can see you
now," the desk-keeper informed him.

Gillian Moore's lack of response to
his phone calls had irritated and frustrated Nathan.  He was accustomed to
being in charge.  But his reason for being here brushed all that aside.

Striding into the busy room, he
took it in with one glance--the chairs, mirrors, blow dryers, three hairdressers
chatting to their customers.  But then his gaze fell on the small white
wrought-iron desk in the far corner and the woman sitting behind it.  Her face
turned away from him, she slid a pack of acrylic nails to the side of the glass
top and straightened her manicure paraphernalia.  At his approach, her gaze met
his, and he almost stopped short.

She didn't look like a psychic.

Her long, light brown hair was
laced with sunny blond highlights.  A few tendrils wisped along her cheek. Her
bangs wafted across her honey brows.  But it was her huge brown eyes that
almost immobilized him.  They didn't appraise him physically…they looked into
his soul.  He didn't like the invasion.

Gillian had wished her client a
good day and unnecessarily organized her work table, hoping Nathan Bradley had
decided not to wait.  When she turned her head and saw a tall man with resolve
shouting from his furrowed dark brows, the set of his mouth, and his slightly
squared jaw, she realized it would take more than a few unanswered phone messages
to deter this man.

Taking a slow breath and
maintaining eye contact, she slid her hands into the pockets of her white
apron.  Nathan Bradley wanted something from her, all right, and she couldn't
give it.  Not right now.

"Ms. Moore."

It was more statement than
question.  She nodded.

"Could we talk for a few
minutes?"

She gestured to her desk. 
"I'm working, Mr. Bradley.  I really don't have time--"

"You don't have a client at
the moment," he countered, his blue eyes steady, his voice firm.

This man could be intimidating. 
But she was used to dealing with hard-nosed cops, jaded private investigators,
and a disbelieving public who wanted her help anyway.  "No, I don't.  But
I am working.  Now, if you'd like a manicure..."  She almost had to smile
at his expression of distaste, but then his next words made her heart beat
faster.

"I want a few minutes with
you.  You're the last option I have."

"For what?" she asked,
though she sensed what he needed.

"My two daughters.  I need you
to help me find them."

As she stood, Gillian glanced
around the shop to make sure no one was listening.  "Where did you get my
name?"

"Does it matter?"  As he
asked, he slipped a photo from the inside pocket of his jacket.

His movement was quick, but Gillian
caught a view of a narrow waist, slim hips, and a physique probably as taut as
his demeanor and voice.  When he offered her the photograph, her attention
returned to the situation at hand and she took a step back.

The two young girls in the snapshot
had their father's blue eyes and brown hair.  She could tell that he loved them
from the way the camera had caught Nathan Bradley's expression as he crouched
down between them, one arm around each daughter.  The pain in his eyes now
attested to the fact.

He tried to hand Gillian the photo,
but she wouldn't take it.  She knew what might happen if she did.  She might
see images and feel emotions she didn't want right now.  Folding her hands in
front of her, she said, "I'm no longer doing that type of work."

But it was difficult for her to
tear her gaze from the picture.  When she did, the sadness in Nathan Bradley's
eyes was almost as difficult to ignore.

"Why?"

For some reason, she couldn't hedge
or lie to this man.  Checking again to be sure no one eavesdropped, Gillian
lowered  her voice anyway.  "Since I was sixteen, Mr. Bradley, my life
hasn't been my own.  I came to L.A. to escape the type of work you want me to
do and to make decisions about my future."  She stopped and tears pricked
her eyes as she thought about the last few months before leaving Indiana.

Regaining her composure, she
swallowed and went on, "For almost ten years, I've helped others when
they've asked.  Now I need time and breathing room before I decide if and how I
want to use my gift again."

As she spoke, she could tell he
listened.  There was a spark of empathy in his eyes, but, of course, his need
was more important.  "Take this one case," he insisted.  "I'll
protect your privacy if that's what you're concerned about.  Your help doesn't
have to be public knowledge.  I'm an internet security specialist.  I know what
safeguards we can take.  No one else has to know you're here."

She steeled herself against the
man's masculine appeal and turned away from the wonderful smiles of the
children in the photo as well as the hurt still lingering in her heart.  That
hurt sprang up every time she remembered Brian Reston and the search for his
son, the months she'd dreamed about a future for the three of them.

Despite the time that had passed,
despite the miles between L.A. and Deep River, Indiana, she knew she wasn't
ready for Nathan Bradley and his search...for any of it.  The general public
thought psychics could "know" anything they wanted, that they could
answer any question, even their own personal ones.  That just wasn't true. 
Gillian had realized early on that she couldn't use her "gift" for
her own benefit or to predict events.  All she could do was tune into
impressions and use them along with her intuition.  Words, pictures, and sounds
sometimes popped into her head, but she never knew when that was going to
happen.  It hadn't happened since she'd left Indiana.

With the need for self-preservation
being her overriding concern, she said, "If you found me, others will be
able to.  And I'm not only concerned about privacy.  You make my help seem
simple, as if all I have to do is close my eyes and give you the answers you
want.  The process is much more complicated than that.  Try a private
investigator, Mr. Bradley.  It will be best for both of us."