The Promise of Change (28 page)

While Ann put the finishing touches on her hair, Sarah took the opportunity to reflect on the past two years. Her life had changed immeasurably in that time. Those two years weren’t without their wrong turns, potholes, and seemingly dead ends, but she’d gone from being an unhappy woman uncertain of her future, her career, and more importantly her love life, to a woman whose life was on a path she could only have dreamed of.

Not only was she happier than she’d ever been in her life, she was more certain than she’d ever been in her life that what she was doing was right.

The movie was scheduled for release next month, she was halfway through her second book, and Alex was already talking about the movie. They’d agreed they would divide their time among her house in Florida, his flat in London, and Rutherford.

“How’s that look?” Ann asked, still fingering a curl into place. She’d pulled front sections of Sarah’s hair up and piled it into a mass of curls at the crown of her head, letting the rest fall down her back in a cascade of gentle waves, leaving a few tendrils to frame her face.

Becca walked up handing Ann a treasured sterling silver hair comb that had been their mother’s. Ann placed the rhinestone starburst in her hair to the right of her crown.

“The perfect final touch,” Becca said, her eyes welling with tears as she caught Sarah’s eye in the mirror.

“Don’t . . . you’ll make me cry.” Sarah smiled, taking her hand.

“Not so fast.” Ann held out a lovely white leather box. “This is from Alex . . . his wedding gift to you.”

Sarah took the box, hands trembling, and opening the lid found a strand of pearls from which hung a large tear drop amethyst pendant accompanied by matching amethyst tear drop earrings. There was a collective gasp from the three of them.

“They’re magnificent,” Sarah breathed. “Becca, would you put these on for me?” she asked, handing the strand to her. Becca fastened the necklace around her neck while Sarah put on the earrings.

“The amethyst matches your engagement ring,” Ann said.

“Yes. Alex likes me best in purple.” She didn’t elaborate on the reason he loved her in purple: it was the color of the dress she wore when we went to Stratford-Upon-Avon, the night he said he fell in love with her.

There was a polite knock on the door, and then Lady Clara popped her head in. “Sarah? Oh gracious. You aren’t even dressed yet. You must move along my dear, the ceremony is about to start.”

“Yes, m’lady,” Sarah said, using the nickname she’d chosen for her whenever she scolded her. “I’ll only be a moment, nothing left but the dress.”

Lady Clara left the room with a promise to return if Sarah wasn’t out in five minutes.

Ann had already gone to the closet to retrieve the dress, a simple unembellished silk chiffon in ivory cut in a Grecian style. Stepping into it, the whisper of the cool satin under-slip across Sarah’s skin raised goose bumps.

Becca buttoned the long row of covered buttons down the back, while Ann picked up the bouquet of Clara Louise roses, a pale lilac-colored rose her husband had named in her honor.

Sarah turned once more to look at her reflection. The dress’s lovely deep v-neck framed the pearls beautifully. The empire-waist gave way to a chiffon skirt that fell to the floor like a cloud, her ivory satin-encased toes peeping out from underneath.

“Oh, Sarah. You look breathtaking,” Ann and Becca spoke at the same time. “Jinx!” they both cried. They all laughed.

“We’d better go before Lady Clara sends in a footman to carry me bodily down the stairs,” Sarah said with a smile.

Rutherford provided a perfect location for the wedding and the reception. It was secluded enough to keep the tabloid magazines away, and it offered luxurious accommodations to the limited number of guests, all of whom were thrilled to stay in a seventeenth century manor house.

They heard the soft strains of Gluck’s
Dance of the Blessed Spirits
played by the string quartet floating through the doors from the terrace.

The Admiral waited at the foot of the stairs, a smile so wide he thought his face might crack under the pressure. “Baby, you leave me quite speechless.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” she replied, reverting to her childhood name for him.

“Nervous?” Ann whispered on the way to the open French doors.

“No,” Sarah said, without hesitation. “I have never been more certain of anything in my life.” Even the thought of being in the spotlight was not a concern today. She knew she would have Alex by her side.

“That’s good, because this is it,” Ann said as she stepped to the doorway for the opening notes of Bach’s
Sinfonia in G
.

Safely tucked behind the door so no one could see her, Sarah looked out at the intimate gathering. The late May day couldn’t be more spectacular. The English countryside was in full bloom, the air was soft and warm, perfumed with the scents of lilac, freesia, and hyacinth.

Ann stepped out, followed by Becca, each in knee-length lilac chiffon gowns, walking slowly down the aisle between the rows of white brocade-covered folding chairs.

Emma had returned from trekking in Bhutan in time for the ceremony. She looked very well. She’d told Sarah, Ann and Becca last night that she would actually set aside her hiking clothes for more elegant attire, and wear make-up and style her hair for the wedding.

Emma and Sarah’s father had hit it off very well. It seemed that every time Sarah saw one, she saw the other. Looking at her father now, she hoped he would find love again. It seemed such an incredible waste of a generous heart if he didn’t.

Lady Clara, who sat in the seat that would have been reserved for Sarah’s mother, her face glowing with the same pride Sarah’s own mother would have shown, looked lovely in a light blue dress and hat suitable for Queen Elizabeth herself.

Sarah and her father stepped into the doorway just as Ann and Becca reached their places, and the quartet began Bach’s
Suite No. 1 in G
, their cue.

As she began her slow march down the aisle beside her father, she looked at Alex’s tall frame standing beneath a flower-covered trellis, his face beaming as soon as he saw her.

She was sure hers beamed as well. He was beyond anything she could ever have imagined, dressed in a simple light gray suit, white shirt and lilac tie. Next to him stood Robert, as his best man, and Trevor, both looking dapper in dark gray suits.

After that, Sarah only had eyes for Alex, who looked at her in way that made her heart tremble with love for him.

Sure he was dreaming, Alex gave himself a mental pinch. Sarah looked like a Greek goddess come to life, all diaphanous beauty, slender grace, and timeless elegance. She glowed from within.

He stepped forward to take her hand from her father, but not before Sarah turned to give her father a kiss on his cheek, and escort her to stand beneath the trellis in front of Mr. Stanforth, the superintendent registrar who would solemnize the marriage.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Mr. Stanforth began, “we are gathered here today in the presence of these persons to witness the marriage of Alexander Tristan Sutherland Fraser, Lord Rutherford, to Sarah Anne Edwards. Alex and Sarah have duly given notice of their intention to marry in accordance with the laws of Great Britain. Are you, Alexander Tristan Sutherland Fraser, free lawfully to marry Sarah Anne Edwards?”

“I am.” Alex’s silken voice carried over the small assembly.

“Are you, Sarah Anne Edwards, free lawfully to marry Alexander Tristan Sutherland Fraser?”

“I am.” Sarah’s voice surprised her in its strength.

“Before reciting the words that will lawfully bind them, Lady Clara Fraser would like to read an excerpt from
Letters to a Young Poet #7
by Ranier Maria Rilke. Lady Clara.”

Lady Clara joined the wedding party, kissing first Sarah then, Alex on the cheek, before turning to their friends, family and loved ones, and clearing her throat. In her refined accent and measured pace she read the words:

“‘That something is difficult must be one reason for us to do it. It is good to love, because love is difficult. For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us, the ultimate task, the final test and proof, the work for which all other work is merely preparation.’

“‘Loving does not at first mean merging, surrendering, and uniting with another person, but rather it is a high inducement for the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world in himself for the sake of another person; it is a great, demanding claim on him, something that chooses him and calls him to vast distances.’

“I have seen Alex and Sarah ripen and become something in themselves. I have seen them overcome life’s obstacles, which have served as mere preparation for the ultimate task of loving one another. I wish them always only the best life and love can offer.”

“Thank you, Lady Clara.”

Mr. Stanforth turned to Alex. “And now, Alex, you may speak your vows to Sarah.”

Holding both her hands in his, Alex looked tenderly into her eyes. “I, Alexander Tristan Sutherland Fraser, take you Sarah Anne Edwards to be my wedded wife.”

He finished with a quote from Shakespeare he’d selected for the ceremony. “‘So long as I can breathe or I can see, so long lives your love which gives life to me.’”

Mr. Stanforth spoke softly. “Sarah.”

Not taking her eyes off Alex’s handsome face, she said clearly and confidently, “I, Sarah Anne Edwards, take you Alexander Tristan Sutherland Fraser to be my wedded husband.” And, paraphrasing Shakespeare, she spoke her chosen sentiment. “So dear I love you that with you, all deaths I could endure. Without you, live no life.”

“Alex and Sarah will now exchange rings as a symbol of their union.”

Alex pulled the ring out of his pocket, and sliding it over her left ring finger, said, “Sarah, I give you this ring, as a token of my love, and a symbol of our marriage. I vow to be loving, faithful, and loyal to you, throughout our lives together.” He gently kissed her hand before releasing it.

Becca handed Alex’s ring to Sarah and as she slid it over his finger, she repeated those words to him. “Alex, I give you this ring, as a token of my love, and a symbol of our marriage. I vow to be loving, faithful, and loyal to you, throughout our lives together.”

Mr. Stanforth then spoke the words heard by thousands of brides and grooms every year, but never sweeter than now. “By the authority vested in me by the District of Cherwell, Oxfordshire County, I now pronounce Alex and Sarah husband and wife. Alex, you may kiss your bride.”

Alex cradled her face, tenderly kissing her lips, before whispering, “I love you, Lady Rutherford, Countess of Rutherford, my wife.”

His simple words sent a thrill through her.

“Ladies and gentleman, may I present to you for the first time, Lord and Lady Rutherford.” They turned to face the gathering of well-wishers.

This time Sarah didn’t just choose change. She embraced it. Now she would reap its promise.

Please turn the page for a preview of another book

by
Rebecca Heflin
:

Rescuing Lacey

Now available from Soul Mate Publishing.

Chapter 1

Fucking frogs
, Lacey thought.
I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to shooting frogs
. “I hate frogs,” she muttered, drawing unwelcome attention from the man seated next to her.

The Cessna Grand Caravan banked, tipping the wings so that the ground looked as if it were rising up to meet it. Lacey gazed out of the window at the lush green landscape of Costa Rica, her home for the next two months, or longer, if she couldn’t get the shots she needed.

The airport resembled something out of a B-movie. As the plane bumped onto the runway she expected to see a couple of aged Hummers emerge from the jungle filled with AK-47-toting drug runners. Meager though the airport was, boasting only a small terminal consisting of a row of benches covered by a tin-roofed overhang, it wasn’t the worst airport she’d seen.

She stepped off the plane and into the heavy, humid air. If it was this hot in November, July must be a killer. Hitching her equipment bag up on her shoulder, she watched as a couple of men unloaded the rest of the luggage, tossing it carelessly onto the pockmarked tarmac, confirming her decision not to check her equipment bag. Spotting her army-green duffle, she walked over to pick it up.

“Lacey Sommers?”

“That’s me.” Lacey didn’t look toward the voice as she bent to pick up the bag and toss the bulk over her other shoulder. A hand slid beneath the strap and she turned to glare with disdain at the offending appendage. The hand was large, square, and calloused. Capable. Powerful.

“I’ll get that.”

She was rarely caught by surprise, but this was one of those times. She gazed directly into a pair of aqua-green eyes as clear and deep as the waters off the Costa Rican coast and suppressed an unexpected frisson of desire.

“Why?” was all she could think to say, her eyes narrowing behind her sunglasses.

“Well, because I have two free hands, and because it’s the polite thing to do.”

A half smile accentuated the dimple in the man’s chin. His windblown, honey-blond locks were highlighted by nature’s hand. Her sister would kill for those highlights.

“I’m Luke Hancock. I’ll be your pilot, your driver, your guide, and—” He took the duffle from her as if it were packed with feathers and tossed it onto his shoulder. “—your bellman during your stay in Costa Rica.”

He stood a good head taller than her five-foot-ten inches and had all the markings of a beach bum: tanned; sun-kissed hair; board shorts; faded Oakley T-shirt; flip-flops; diver’s watch; even the cliché ratty hemp friendship bracelet. Just another overgrown boy, like most of the men she’d encountered in her adult life, the kind of men who made a profession out of avoiding responsibility.

“I’m quite capable of carrying my own bag.” She planted her feet in a belligerent stance, one hand on the strap of her equipment bag, her other lifted to her forehead blocking the sun.

“I’ve no doubt you are . . . capable, I mean.” Luke didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but this was definitely not it. The name Lacey Sommers, and all it implied, didn’t fit the woman standing in front of him. There was certainly nothing frilly about her. Tall, tanned, and muscular, she couldn’t be accused of being girlie, but neither was she the care-worn, jaded photographer he’d envisioned. A knot of desire formed in his stomach.

Dressed in an army-green camisole, khaki cargo shorts, and a pair of worn hiking sandals, she appeared quite capable . . . of many things. The color of her eyes, hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, piqued his curiosity.

Her only adornments were a heart-shaped garnet that hung from an antique-gold chain and an enormous Breitling watch strapped to her left wrist. He recognized the expensive brand as one he often saw on his ex-father-in-law’s wrist. No engagement or wedding ring, but there must be a rich boyfriend in the picture. A girl didn’t buy those things on a staff photographer’s salary.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Hancock, I’m no helpless female. I don’t need pampering.”

She lifted that Breitling-adorned hand to tuck a golden strand of hair behind her ear. The simple movement caused a firm bicep to ripple beneath the smooth bronze of her skin. That’s when he noticed the vicious white scar that ran across her neck; jagged at the edges, yet straight and about three inches long, very near the carotid artery.

Her short wavy hair curled tantalizingly around her throat as if to caress the scar. He swallowed hard, wondering how such a lovely neck had been so brutally desecrated.

Dragging his gaze from the scar, he said, “That’s good,” before striding off toward his Jeep without waiting for her. “I’m not the pampering type.”

After a perilous ride through the jungle in the open-air, doorless Jeep, fording flooded streams, and bouncing over muddy potholes that could have swallowed compact cars, Lacey’s right side was covered in water, mud, and who knows what else. Not to mention, her neck felt like she’d been riding a bucking bronco.

She began to wonder if her editor were secretly trying to get rid of her when they finally arrived at the gates of a resort tucked among strangler figs and Kapok trees, still dripping from a recent rain. The sign, adorned with an enormous Blue Morpho butterfly, read MARIPOSA LODGE.

Built on a thousand acres of pristine tropical lowland rain forest three hundred fifty feet above the point where the Gulfo Dulce and the Pacific Ocean collided, the eco-resort offered visitors a peaceful retreat; something she hadn’t had in she couldn’t remember when. But she wasn’t there to relax. She was there to save her career. If she screwed this up, she’d be relegated to shooting screaming kids on Santa’s lap.

The last conversation with her editor still rankled. When she’d gone in for her assignment, she’d been hoping for the story on gorilla poaching in the Congo. She should have known better after the previous incident in Africa, but she’d never expected this.

Not one to toot her own horn, she hadn’t hesitated to trumpet away under the circumstances. None of her arguments had worked on him.

“Look, Lacey, you’re the best photographer around, but I can’t have a repeat of Tanzania.” Simon shook his head, his bushy eyebrows drawn together in a unibrow.

“But frogs! Christ. It’s humiliating.” There was
no way
she was telling Simon about her fear of frogs, that the slimy little things gave her the willies.

“Damn sight less humiliating than a meltdown.” His voice became placating. “Listen, go down to Costa Rica, get some great shots of the poison dart frogs and any other wildlife you come across and we’ll see. Should be a nice, easy assignment for you. Maybe you can even squeeze in a little R & R while you’re there.”

“Come on, Simon, please—”

“Damn it, Lacey, this is it. You either do this, or . . . you’re out. I’m sorry.” He’d held his palms up in resignation.

Luke’s big hand jostled her shoulder, snapping her back to the present.

“Hey, Sommers, we’re here.”

No sense brooding over her situation anymore.
It is what it is.
She’d get the best damn pictures of frogs the magazine had ever seen and then she’d go back to the high-risk assignments she preferred.

“
Buenos dias,
José.
Como estâ usted
?” Luke asked one of the resort’s friendly employees as he and Lacey stepped into the lobby’s relatively dim interior.

“
Pura vida
, Luke.”

“
Bueno
. José, this is Lacey Sommers. She’ll be staying with you for several weeks.” Turning to Lacey, he said, “José will take it from here. We have an early start tomorrow so get some sleep. I’ll meet you here at five-thirty a.m. And don’t worry, you’ll be awake.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a slight smile.

She’d taken off her sunglasses, and he saw for the first time her eyes were an indigo blue of infinite depth, rimmed by lashes so thick they looked like they belonged in one of those cosmetic ads. He stared into her eyes longer than he’d intended.
Christ
, he thought as he dragged a hand through his hair,
like the Bahamas’ great blue holes, a man could get lost in those depths
.

Lacey shifted from one foot to the other. Luke’s intense stare made her uneasy. She returned his gaze with a bravado she didn’t actually feel. He stood within inches of her and although he wasn’t touching her, the sensation was just as disconcerting as if he had been. The heat rolled off him in waves, carrying the clean, salty scent of the beach.

“Right.” She narrowed her eyes, something she did whenever it seemed like someone was trying to pull something over on her. How did he know she would be awake at that hour?

“See you.” Without a backward glance, Luke strode out to his Jeep with the easy gait of an athlete.

She had to admit, he had a nice ass, even in those baggy board shorts. “Uh, José, can I have coffee in the morning?”

“
Claro
, of course,” José said with a bright smile, watching her watch Luke.

Busted. Damn.
“Uh, thanks. At that hour it will be the only thing standing between me and unconsciousness.”

Lacey surveyed her new living quarters. Her thatched-roof bungalow could only be described as rustically opulent. Built of bamboo and mangrove, both sustainable hardwoods, the interior gleamed as if it were polished copper. The floor-to-ceiling screened walls offered a hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the turquoise water below.

Mosquito netting draped two queen beds, while ceiling fans whirred in the heavy air. Despite its openness, once occupants crossed over the threshold of their bungalow, they had total privacy. That same privacy extended to the wraparound deck.

Nestled in the middle of a private nature reserve, the resort could boast one of the top spots among the world’s eco-resorts, but it wasn’t for the faint of heart. There was no TV, telephone, radio, Internet, air conditioning, or blow dryer. Electricity could be hit or miss, with the lodge depending on solar panels and a biodiesel-powered generator.

Hence, the box containing her laptop computer, a satellite phone for Internet access, and a solar-charged power station, had already been delivered to her room. All the necessary accoutrements to upload her photos and send them to her editor in New York.

She unpacked the box and set up her work station on a modest-sized bamboo desk that faced the expansive deck, which boasted a private outdoor shower, hammock, and lounge chairs. She stepped outside, the cooling breeze a respite from the heat. The spectacular view of the ocean could prove a little distracting if she weren’t careful.

“Speaking of distractions,” she mused aloud. Luke Hancock could prove more than a little distracting. He could prove to be downright dangerous, especially for her. Why did she seem to be always drawn to the sexy heartbreakers, the ones who were all form and no substance? Despite her feigned disinterest, being near him set her heart racing and scattered coherent thought.

“Keep your mind on your work, Sommers,” she chided. “Get it done and get out of here.”

A cool shower and dinner in her bungalow sounded like the perfect way to wind down. Unless you liked to party with iguanas, the nightlife around here looked to be nonexistent, which was probably a good thing since she had to be up at the butt-crack of dawn.

The shower, like the ocean side of the bungalow, was screened, giving the occupant a view of the rain forest.

“Jesus!” As she reached for her towel she nearly lost her footing on the slick stone floor. A squirrel monkey watched her with grave curiosity.

“What the hell?”

The tiny monkey, whose head markings resembled Eddie Munster, continued to stare at her with no sense of shame. “Pervert.” Wrapping the thick towel around her, she stepped out of the shower and sighed. “This is going to be a long assignment.”

On time as usual, Tony pulled into the narrow dirt driveway adjacent to the beachfront house, right behind the Jeep.

Luke smiled. He could always count on Tony.

Best friends since Luke’s family started spending their winters in the cozy house at the tip of the Osa Peninsula, he and Tony were thick as thieves.

For years, he and Tony had spent their days swimming the uninhabited beaches of the Peninsula and running the palm swamps and virgin forests with Luke’s twin sister, Lisa, tagging along.

A deep welcoming bark from Luke’s new resident greeted the men as they strode toward the house.

“Hey,
amigo
.” Tony wore his perpetual grin. Dark skinned, not only from his Hispanic and Boruca heritage but also from his time spent in the tropical sun, Tony’s toothy grin sparkled stark white in contrast. Hair, black as pitch with eyes to match and a stocky muscular body, Tony was a hit with the women. Not that Tony noticed. He only had eyes for his wife of five years, Alejandra, or Allie, as she liked to be called.

“
Hola
.” Luke clapped Tony on the back.

The two ambled toward the kitchen door, the dog’s barks becoming more insistent.

“Stand back. She explodes with the power of Walter Payton off the line.” Luke opened the door and eighty pounds of squirming, barking, whining, yellow fur bolted a good fifty yards, then circled back to the men.

Luke knelt down and gave the lab an affectionate tussle, allowing her time to calm down before she greeted Tony. By the time it was Tony’s turn, her pent-up energy had been reduced to mere shivers of delight as her whole body wagged in opposition to her tail.

“
Hola
,
señorita
Sandy.”

Sandy’s tongue lolled as her face split into a big doggie grin. Tony bent over to grab her silky ears and give her rump a warm pat.

Luke was already in the kitchen at the fridge. “Want a beer?”

“Sure.”

After taking the first satisfyingly frosty swig, the men stepped out onto the deck to relax in the lounge chairs, Sandy by their side. At a signal from Luke, Sandy laid down, her head on her paws.

“How’s our new client?” Tony asked.

Luke hesitated, then at Tony’s questioning glance, he felt a sly grin spread across his face.

“That good, huh?” Tony shot him a questioning look. “Are you going to bang every female client who hires us?”

“No, not
every
female client, just the sexy single ones,” he said between pulls on his beer.

“With your track record, some could accuse us of running an escort service instead of a guiding service.”

Luke shrugged. “One of the perks of the job.”

“You ever going to settle down?”

“Been there, done that. Don’t see any reason to do it again.” His chest tightened as he thought about
her,
his rash mistake, never to be repeated
.
Caroline Clarkson. They’d married shortly after being college sweethearts at the University of California Santa Barbara. A cool, tall blonde who’d secretly harbored materialistic tendencies. Just one of the many reasons why Caroline was his
ex
-wife.

“So, she’s sexy and single?” Tony asked, bringing him back to the present.

“Oh, she’s sexy. And she appears to be single. No ring of any kind.” Luke frowned, remembering the necklace and watch. He took another pull on his beer before continuing. “She’s what I imagine Lisa would be like if she were still here. Tall, athletic, fresh. Nothing artificial about her.”

“Yeah, I miss Lisa.”

A masculine silence descended, the kind of silence that acknowledged shared emotions without the need to speak of them.

A day didn’t go by that Luke didn’t think about Lisa, miss her. Like with a phantom limb, he often had the sensation that she was still there, still a part of him, her body moving through the forests in tandem with his.

“But our client’s got a chip on her shoulder.” Luke broke the silence. “You know the type: stubborn, independent, doesn’t want or need any help.”

A beat passed in silence.