Until I Break Read online

  There was something about her expression, about the look in her light eyes that seemed incongruous with the sexually progressive woman I would’ve imagined Laura Drake to be. It was only there for a second, like she let her guard down accidentally. That or I just imagined it. Maybe I want there to be more to her than what she seems to be. Maybe I want her to be vulnerable, almost…frightened.

  While I find Laura Drake the author fascinating, I might find this Laura Drake, the person, far more intriguing. She wouldn’t be the typical type of woman I’m drawn to, the kind I’m attracted to, but parts of her could be. Obviously, something about her is appealing to me or I wouldn’t still be thinking about her this way.

  Savvy author of vampire romance novels, possessed of an intriguing mind and a more intriguing past? Or shy, possibly repressed woman I saw staring back at me from behind those glasses?

  Which is the real Laura Drake? And how do I get close enough to find out?

  CHAPTER THREE- Samantha

  Ari shuts the hotel room door behind me and I collapse onto the sofa. I lay my head back and take a deep, calming breath. I’m exhausted.

  I close my eyes and, within seconds, two intense drops of pale lime appear at the back of my mind to taunt me. My heart speeds up. Curiosity and excitement course through me. And so does a fine thread of fear. He’s so much like Mason…

  How can he be real? And be so much like someone who’s not?

  Suddenly restless, I push myself to my feet and walk into the bedroom to start peeling off the layers of Laura Drake. I tug the black bob-cut wig from my head then remove the non-prescription glasses and toss both onto the bed. I stand in front of the mirror appraising myself.

  The black two-piece suit is tailored to fit my slim build. It is every inch Laura Drake—sharp, sophisticated, educated, in control. Not at all who I am. Only when my eyes reach my head do I begin to see bits of Samantha Jansen.

  A few sprigs of dark red hair have escaped the wig stocking. The heart shaped face is pale, making the lips look dark pink. The gray eyes are heavy-lidded and red with fatigue.

  In this moment, I am neither Laura Drake nor Samantha Jansen. Or am I both? I go to extraordinary lengths to keep my identity concealed, but I sometimes wonder who the real me is.

  When I take one step back, away from the mirror, I become aware of my shoes. The strappy heels are the one bit of frivolity in my Laura Drake persona. And they’re my anchor to the one person in the world who keeps me grounded, no matter what happens to Laura—my sister, Chris. She designed the shoes. I wear them with pride. I wear them in support. But mostly, I wear them so that I never forget who I am, where I came from, and all the pain that brought me here.

  “That went well,” Ari says as he picks up my wig and shakes it out.

  “What time am I supposed to be flying out?”

  “4:20.”

  I look at my watch. Thirty minutes until I can leave. “Let’s check out early. We can get some coffee at the airport before I change.”

  Ari holds the wig out to me and bows dramatically. “Whatever you prefer, miss.”

  “Whatever I prefer?” I snort and take the silky black hair piece from his fingers. “Where have you been hiding this lovely version of yourself?”

  Ari straightens and smiles. “The domineering, control-freak publicist keeps him under lock and key.”

  “Um, I need a copy of that key. Why don’t you get right on that?”

  “Yeah, not gonna happen,” he teases. “You’d be a wreck if I listened to you very often.”

  I sigh. “But I’d be a happy wreck.”

  “No, you’d be a poor wreck who spends her days writing with paper and pencil in a padded cell.”

  “I’d be a very happy wreck.”

  Ari shakes his head. “No appreciation.”

  “Oh, you know I love you. I’d be lost without you and your domineering ways.”

  “This, I know.”

  “And your humility. Let’s not forget that.”

  “Your glasses, Clark Kent,” he says, scooping them off the bed and tossing them to me.

  I slip back into my alter ego. After adjusting my wig and straightening my jacket, I turn to the mirror. Once again, Laura Drake is staring back at me.

  Behind me, Ari smiles and wheels my single piece of luggage to the door. With a sigh, I grab my purse and carry-on and follow, leaving behind the hotel that’s only six blocks from my apartment.

  ********

  Two hours later, after a cab ride to the airport, a cinnamon dulce latte with Ari at the airport Starbucks and a quick change of identity in the First Class lounge, I am unlocking the door to my apartment as Samantha Jansen. Ari is on his way back to New York and Laura Drake is tucked safely away in my bag.

  I don’t live a glamorous life, but the one thing I sprung for was a great view. It’s what sold me on this condo. From nearly every window in this unit, I can see the Battery and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

  That vista greets me when I stop just inside the doorway. White curtains billow at each of the six tall, open windows that line the wall in front of me. I breathe in the beauty of the scene, the lightly scented air, and the comforting smells of home; it’s the most soothing cocktail in the world.

  Something touches my leg. I look down. It’s my cat, Jinx.

  “Hi, Jinxy!” I croon, bending to stroke his silky body as he weaves in and around my legs. His solid black fur glistens healthfully in the light. “Did Chris take good care of you?” Even though I’ve only been staying a few blocks away, I dared not risk coming back here.

  He meows his answer, looks up at me with his bright green eyes and licks his lips. “You’re hungry already? You’re always hungry.” Another meow. “Men!”

  I roll my suitcase into the bedroom and come back out to feed Jinx. On the kitchen island, anchoring a note, is a huge vase of fresh flowers.

  The note reads: Welcome back! I know you must be EXHAUSTED from such a LONG, LONG trip. I just want you to know that I hate your cat. If I didn’t adore you, I’d have thrown him out the window. Love you!

  I snicker and roll my eyes. Chris is so dramatic. Just as I’m filling Jinx’s bowl with cat food that can surely be smelled a block away, I hear the front door open. The click-clack of heels on hardwood tells me who it is. Without lifting my head to see her, I know the instant Chris stops in the doorway; I smell her perfume. It’s her signature scent, sweet and expensive.

  “As I live and breathe, it’s the Laura Drake! Quick! Somebody call the doctah. I’m fixin’ to succumb to the vaypahs.”

  I smile. In my mind, I can see Chris standing on a wide veranda wearing a long, fluffy dress and white gloves, the back of her hand pressed theatrically to her forehead—the quintessential Southern Belle.

  “The ‘vapors’ wouldn’t have had a chance to get you if you’d killed my cat,” I respond in an equally thick accent. I set Jinx’s food on the floor in front of him. He digs in immediately.

  “What? He’s alive, isn’t he?” I straighten and eye Chris dubiously. “He’ll probably give me Cat Scratch Fever or bird flu or something similarly horrific, but I suffered through it because I know you love him.” She looks down at him and adds with a curl of her lip, “Even though I can’t imagine why.”

  I smile. “Are you ever going to tell me why you started hating cats so much? You loved them when we were younger.”

  “That’s before I knew how nasty they are.”

  “They’re not nasty, Chris.”

  “Sam, they poop in a box then walk through it and track it all over your house. They’re nasty!”

  I laugh. “They don’t walk through their poop.”

  “You’re telling me he walks around every buried pile of shit when he gets in and out of that contraption you call a litter box? What-ever!”

  “’Buried’ is the operative word there, Chris. But don’t worry. I only let him get on the table when I know you’re coming for dinner.”

  “Ack!” she spits, sc
rewing up her face. “I’m never eating here again.”

  “Fine by me. You’re impossibly messy anyway.”

  “Be nice to me or I’ll leave.”

  “Um, I don’t remember inviting you in to begin with,” I tease.

  Chris holds up her keys and jingles them. “Biggest mistake you ever made, giving me a key to your house. Just wait until you see what I did to your underwear drawer.”

  “Don’t make me tell Greg all your dirty little secrets,” I threaten in mock seriousness.

  “Don’t make me tell the world your dirty little secret. ‘Cause yours really is dirty. Very dirty.”

  Although I know it’s an empty threat made only in jest, a shiver of panic works its way through me. She knows that’s one of my worst fears.

  It’s time to change the subject.

  “So,” I begin with a quick shake of my head, “why are you so dressed up?”

  Chris’s blond hair is piled atop her head. Several long curls are hanging loose to brush her shoulders. She’s wearing a royal blue sundress a few shades darker than her eyes and stilettoes that match. No doubt they’re her design. Her face is made up in “going out” makeup and diamonds sparkle at her ears and throat. This is definitely “an occasion.”

  “Oh,” she says, looking down. “Ohmigod, I forgot to tell you. I’m meeting Greg’s parents for dinner tonight,” she explains, shaking her fingers anxiously. “I’m so nervous!”

  “Why? You look beautiful, and you and Greg are perfect together. They’re going to love you.”

  Occasionally I still catch glimpses of the insecure little girl I first met ten years ago when Social Services dropped me off on my foster parents’ doorstep. She’s blossomed quite a bit since then, but I’ve learned that some scars run deep.

  “I just don’t feel quite…good enough. But I hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right. When have you ever known me to be wrong?”

  “Oh God!” she says, rolling her eyes. “Well at least I have a date for the fundraiser tomorrow night.”

  “Oh crap! I forgot all about that.”

  “That’s because, unless you’re wearing a wig, you’re a total space cadet.”

  “At least I graduated college.”

  “Yeah and went on to use, oh let’s see, none of what you learned. Some accountant you turned out to be.”

  “Good point.”

  “You know how depressed Mom will get if she sees you show up by yourself again.”

  Over the years, our foster parents have become as attached to us as Chris and I have become to them. We call them Mom and Dad. It started off as a joke. Then it just stuck.

  I sigh. “I know, I know. I’ll think of something.”

  “You could always let me set you up with that friend of Greg’s I keep telling you about.”

  “I’m not dating a younger guy, Chris. We’ve talked about this.”

  “He’s not that much younger.”

  “He’s your age, Chris. Four years is too much.”

  “I didn’t say you had to marry him. Just go out with the guy. Who knows? You might have fun. Besides, it’s just for one night.”

  I growl. “Let me think about it.”

  “That’s a ‘no’,” she says, shaking her head and following me as I leave the kitchen.

  “That’s not a ‘no’; that’s an ‘I’ll think about it’.”

  “Which is your version of a ‘no’. Anyway, I’m off. Just wanted to stop in— Oh! I almost forgot. I saw you on TV at that appearance thingy you did, whatever you call it, and ohmigod! Sam, I saw that guy that came to the front to talk to you. You really need to find him and spend some time getting ‘inspired’ for your next book. He was so hot! And he was totally into you. I could see that all the way through the freakin’ television.”

  I feel a blush creep into my cheeks. “What guy?”

  Chris stops with her hand on the door knob and slowly turns to face me. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Are you really going to stand there and pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about? Like I didn’t see you get all flustered?”

  My face gets hotter. “Was it that obvious?”

  “Only to people who know you, who know the real you.”

  I think of Ari. I wonder if he noticed.

  “Well, that’s not gonna happen, so why don’t you concentrate on WOW-ing Greg’s parents and leave me to tend to my boring life?”

  Chris’s face falls into a pout. “That’s the whole point. I don’t want you to have a boring life, Sam. I want you to be happy. And not just on paper. I want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy, Chris.”

  She looks sad and bothered. “Not like you should be.”

  “You’re just a drama queen. Now, get out of here before you start crying and mess up your makeup. I know that look.”

  She smiles, but it trembles. I know she worries about me. She worries that the past will keep me from ever having a normal life.

  Sometimes, I worry the same thing.

  CHAPTER FOUR- Alec

  I breathe in the sea air. It fills my lungs much like the anticipation of a new project fills my mind.

  I needed this—this break. At this time of the year especially. It’s full of old ghosts, ugly demons, and unwanted memories. It’s my own personal Halloween. My own personal haunting season.

  In the beginning, my coping mechanisms were acceptable, I’m sure. But then, somewhere along the way, things went sideways. I got lost in the healing process. Suddenly, it wasn’t healing anymore. It was obsession. And immersion. And control. I chose a path that led me in a circle, constantly returning to the pain of the past. I’m still fighting it to this very day.

  Except, of course, when it gets the better of me and I just give in.

  CHAPTER FIVE- Samantha

  Chris and I wait to place our coffee order.

  “Why did I agree to this?”

  “Because every other morning we go where you want to go. And because I have to get some work done today. And because you love me. And because I love this place. Is that enough? Or do you want me to keep going?”

  Chris rolls her eyes and sighs like I’ve just asked her for a kidney. “You’re lucky all of those things are true or we’d be outta here.” She leans to the side and looks around at the guy in front of us. “What’s taking so long?”

  “Shhh,” I say, looking around to make sure no one is listening to her gripe. It appears no one is. Everyone is either messing with their phone or their iPod or flipping through the paper as they wait. “I happen to like this place and would rather not be forever shunned because I brought a whiner in with me. In-line harassment is not on the menu.”

  “I think they’d be doing you a favor if they shunned you,” she whispers loudly.

  Ignoring her, I glance ahead at the familiar face behind the counter. His name is Sean and he’s a barista.

  Or baristo. Or whatever the masculine version of a barista is. If there is one. Let’s just say he’s the guy who makes and serves me coffee on a fairly regular basis.

  This shop is one of my favorite places to come when I need to get some work done and don’t want to sit at the house.

  When we finally make it to the counter, Sean greets me enthusiastically. “Hey, chica! What’s it going to be today?”

  “Hi, Sean. Um, I hate to admit it, but I’m going to be predictable today. This is like comfort food to me.”

  “Predictable? So you want the usual? A grande nonfat cinnamon dulce with extra whip?”

  I smile. “You got it!” I look to Chris. “What do you want?”

  “Umm, I think I’ll have the same,” she says, suddenly agreeable as she turns on a bright smile for Sean.

  I have to work to hold back my snicker. Chris is happy with Greg, but she’s an incorrigible flirt. What I’ll have to tell her later is that she is soooo barking up the wrong tree.

  “Go sit,” he says. “I’ll bring them out.”

  I pucker my li
ps at him and he mimics the action. We both smile and I turn to get napkins, and find me and Chris a table.

  Sean is very handsome. His hair is dark and his skin is golden, and he has a delicious accent. He’s discernibly Latin. Some might think he’s flirting with me. I happen to know he prefers blonds instead of red heads. Blond men, that is. That doesn’t bother me at all, though. It’s our camaraderie that I love.

  The only empty table is situated near the door. I put my bag in one wooden chair and I slide into the other. As Chris takes the seat across from me, I pull out my notebook and glance around the small cafe.

  People are scattered throughout the room—sitting, standing, leaning—chatting casually over steaming cups of their favorite coffee. The smell of dark beans and rich sweeteners fills the air. I inhale deeply, letting the aroma soothe me. This is one of my most beloved places on the planet.

  I hear the bell over the door jingle as it opens. I don’t think anything of it until I hear Chris’s exclamation.

  “Holy shit! It’s him!”

  I turn around to see who’s got her so excited. My reaction, although not audible, is much more profound than hers.

  My heart flutters. My lungs freeze. My stomach contracts.

  It’s Mason.

  I mean Alec. Alec Brand.

  I think I’d recognize him anywhere, from any angle. He’s as familiar to me as the characters I live with every minute of every day. He’s the embodiment of my hopes as well as my fears, my dreams as well as my nightmares.

  I thought of him no less than a dozen times last night. Then, after finally getting him out of my mind long enough to doze off to sleep, I dreamed of him, of the real-life Mason Strait.

  I woke thinking of him, too. But since then, I’d just about managed to convince myself it was a trick of the light. I just knew there was no way I was remembering him correctly, that there was no way he looked that much like Mason.

  But today shows it wasn’t the lighting. Or my imagination. Or my faulty memory. He’s as breathtaking as I remember him being, as breathtaking as I’ve always imagined him to be. As Mason, that is. When he walks toward the line of people waiting to order, I see that he even swaggers like Mason. It’s insane!