Legacies of Love: Six Seductive Stories to Steal Your Heart Read online

  Legacies of Love

  Six Seductive Stories to Steal Your Heart

  by

  C. L. Roman

  Terri Wilson

  Olivia Hardin

  Tawdra Kandle

  J.C. Layne

  Faith Starr

  Copyright © 2019 for each story by the contributing author.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved to the authors, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Cover Credit to Tracie Roberts

  Legacies of Love Introduction

  The items we inherit are tangible symbols of what has gone before. Reminders of our family history, values, and relationships.

  However, such articles are often transient. They can be lost, stolen, or destroyed. But the love passed down is a living thing - a permanent legacy that never dies.

  The stories in this collection all center around an heirloom. An artifact handed down from one generation to the next. Some are meant to protect, others to remind the character where they came from, or of the devotion handed down from previous generations.

  No matter what form the inheritance takes, or how it is received, each one is part of a legacy of love.

  Contents

  Legacies of Love Introduction

  The Worlds Between Us

  The Key to Valhalla

  The Way You Drive Me Crazy

  The Problem

  Fate’s Melodie

  The Sinful agreement

  The Worlds Between Us

  By

  C.L. Roman

  How can love prevail when there are worlds between us?

  —CLR

  Copyright © 2019 by C.L. Roman

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Jennifer Wedmore, who introduced me to the wonderful group of authors it has been my privilege to work with on this collection. Thank you for thinking of me. Thank you to my editors, Faith Starr and Tracie Roberts. Without your input, this tale would have been far less than it is.

  —CLR

  Dedication

  For my family. You are the legacy I leave the world.

  Chapter One

  Vietnam, 1960

  Tropical heat oppressed the squad like a wet steamroller, encasing them in sweat and dirt. Half a mile from the nearest river, and it still felt like they'd been walking under water. Staff Sergeant Jackson Delaney glanced at his men. Time to head back to base for a rest. They'd found out what they needed to know. The village they'd just cleared was empty of life, but death lay sleeping within its paths and doorways, just the same.

  "Take a break, men. Sturchek, on watch." Jackson scanned the area for hostiles while his men offloaded their packs, opening them to access rations or water. He crooked his finger at the young, freckle-spattered Corporal Allenson. "Put in a call to base. Let 'em know we need a bomb squad out here before they send any more patrols through. It's been abandoned for a couple of weeks at least, but it looks like Charlie left a few surprises behind."

  "Will do, Sergeant." Allenson knelt down, pulling the radio phone from his pack to place the call.

  Jackson never looked at him, keeping his eyes on the town instead. The energy in this place made him itch like the air was electrically charged. Something about the feeling was familiar even though he'd never been here before.

  A flicker of movement caught the corner of his gaze, dragging it to the right just in time to catch sight of a slender sprite of a child staring back at him. The kid couldn't have been more than three or four. His hair was stick-straight and carrot-red, not something you saw in Vietnamese children.

  As he stared at the little boy, the child's eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. He scrambled to his feet and ran toward the nearest building.

  Jackson was moving before the thought cleared his brain. "Hey," he shouted. "Stop! It isn't safe in there."

  The kid paid no attention, slipping around the edge of a hut before Jackson had taken three steps.

  Allenson pushed to his feet. "What'd you see, Sarge?"

  "A kid." Jackson was still moving. "Y'all stay here, keep sharp."

  PFC Porter stood up, a C-ration open in his hand. "We just cleared that town, Sarge. There ain't no kids in there."

  Jackson ignored him, racing into the ramshackle collection of huts with his M-15 in firing position. Sunlight shifted, carved into spears by the overhang of the hut on his right. He skidded to a halt at the corner of the building, edging around to look down the shadow-filled alley between two hovels that wouldn't have passed for dog houses back home. The clapboard walls leaned inward, and the thatch roof sagged.

  "Kid," Jackson called. "Come on back. I'm not going to hurt you."

  Silence was his only answer until he passed the edge of the second house and a flash of bright hair peeked around the building. The boy's eyes were enormous in the small face.

  "That's right. I don't know how you got here kid, but you need to come with —"

  The boy jumped into the road, face tight with fear, hands extended. "Stop," he yelled as a ball of light flared between his palms.

  But it was too late. Jackson knew it even before he heard the snap of the detonator under his foot.

  The explosion hit him an instant after the white light from the boy's palms surrounded him. Together, the two forces lifted Jackson off the ground, throwing him up and back into the alley. He landed flat and hard, the breath rushing from his lungs like air from a broken balloon. The luminescence surrounded him, pulsating and cool.

  A small, soft hand caressed his forehead. A pair of black-lashed eyes floated into view, their clear purple orbs dark with concern.

  Memory prodded his concussion rattled brain. "Maeve?" he croaked.

  The vision disappeared, and the memory with it, as shouts punctured the thinning light.

  "Sarge!" Porter skidded to his knees, flinging his med-pack to the ground beside Jackson. "Don't worry. We're here. We'll get you home. You'll be..."

  Whatever else Porter said was swallowed up, first by another flash of light, and then by darkness.

  Chapter Two

  Jackson hooked his stainless-steel cane over the back of the chair and took a seat. The eight-by-eight office was cramped and airless. A single window admitted dusty sunlight while a ceiling fan spun lazily above them.

  Archer Madwell, the building manager, brushed aside several used tissues and a full ashtray to shove a rental agreement across the cluttered desk.


  "You'll have to sign that before you can move in. Ain't nothing you haven't seen before. Just standard BS." He stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco into his cheek and sat back in his chair, eyeing his new tenant with suspicion. "Heard you was in the military."

  Jackson stared at him but answered in civil tones. "Yes, Sir. I just got out last week."

  Archer swiped pale fingers through his greasy hair. "Medical discharge, huh?" He nodded at the cane.

  Jackson's gut tightened. He shrugged noncommittally and pulled the paperwork closer. "Do you have a pen?"

  Rummaging around in the top drawer, Archer kept his eyes pinned to Jackson's face. "I think I got one here somewheres." He found a beat-up writing utensil and tossed it across the desk. "You gonna answer my question?"

  "No." Jackson signed both copies of the agreement and laid the pen back on the desk. "I'll be moving in this afternoon. Do you have keys for me?"

  Puffing up, Archer stood, his hands on his hips. "I got a right to know what's what with my tenants," he said. "Don't want no battle fatigued crazies riling folks up and —"

  "I was honorably discharged," Jackson said, his voice low and threaded with steel. "You don't need to know anything more than that, and you'd be wise not to ask again." He stood up and held out his hand. "The keys."

  Archer craned his neck, straining to hold Jackson's icy gaze. At five foot ten, with a professional soldier's muscular physique, Jackson towered over the smaller man.

  Archer spat into his cup and rubbed his hands through his hair again. "Didn't mean no offense." He lowered his eyes to glare at the desk. "Just trying to look out for the other folks in the building." He clambered to his feet and, with trembling fingers, lifted a set of keys from the pegboard behind him.

  Jackson accepted them and folded his copy of the lease agreement into his pocket. Picking up the cane, he turned to leave but stopped at the door. "No one has anything to worry about from me," he said, his eyes locked on the doorknob.

  "Well now, that's real good to know," Archer said, trailing off as the door closed.

  Outside in the hall, Jackson took a deep breath and limped toward the front entrance, his eyes scanning for threats as he moved. After a few steps, he stopped, shook his head and counted out the positives, as his Gran called them.

  This wasn't 'Nam. No one was hiding under the stairs to his left, or behind the door ahead on the right, to jump him. No little kid was waiting to lure him into an empty village to be blown up.

  This apartment building in Pilot Mountain, North Carolina wasn't fancy, but it was as safe as he was likely to get. Archer was no prize, but at least he wasn't the Command Sergeant Major who had discarded Jackson like a spent shell less than a month before the end of his tour.

  Jackson could still hear the CSM's words. "You're no use to me, Delaney. Your leg is trashed, and it isn't coming back. Not only that but any Staff Sergeant who unnecessarily leads his men into dangerous situations —"

  "I told them to stay behind," Jackson said.

  "And then got yourself blown up looking for some imaginary kid."

  "He was real!"

  "He was a figment of your nutso imagination. Your men risked their lives to rescue you. And then they had to cut short a vital recon-mission to bring your sorry ass back to base." The grizzled face glared down at him, still in his hospital bed. "You're going back to the world, Delaney. The Army doesn't need lunatics running our squads. We got enough of that in-country as it is."

  Jackson shook off the memory and emerged into the sultry August morning. It wasn't a long walk to his hotel, but by the time he got there his leg ached with fatigue. A glance at his watch told him he had another three hours before his interview for a management position at a local glassworks plant.

  Time enough to shower and change before driving over there, he thought. I'll move my stuff over to the new place after that.

  Packing up took even less time than he thought, and he stowed his cases in the bed of his fifty-eight Chevy truck before heading over to Gillespie's for lunch.

  The diner was all glass and chrome with black and white linoleum laid out on a checkerboard floor. The waitress sauntered up, popping her gum, notebook in hand.

  "What can I get ya?" she asked, perusing his chiseled features with approval.

  "Hamburger and a pop," he said, handing her the menu.

  She nodded and a few minutes later brought him his food. "You new in town?"

  He restrained himself from sighing. "Just moved here."

  She stood there, clearly waiting for more information, and frowned when he didn't provide it. "You don't talk much, do ya?"

  "No."

  After a moment, she wandered off, and Jackson ate his lunch in peace.

  ***

  By four that afternoon. he was parked outside the Cherish Apartments, wrestling his suitcases out of the trunk. He'd taken the second-floor apartment, figuring it would be good exercise for his bum leg. Now he wasn't so sure. Might have been better to just go to the doctor ordered rehab.

  He snorted.

  Not that I could've afforded it, he thought.

  Leaving one case in the car, he limped across the street and inside the brick building. The second trip left him winded, but the move-in was complete. Lucky for him the apartment was already furnished -- though as he looked around, he could see the term furnished was not strictly accurate.

  The living room contained a couch with a TV tray serving as its lone end table. Gray curtains hung limp against the room’s only window. A quick survey of the kitchen revealed the requisite appliances, two plates, one fork, and a stolen glass from the local burger joint.

  "I guess utensils and plates aren't furniture," he muttered.

  The bedroom held a bed, lumpy mattress intact but suspicious. "Guess I'll be using the suitcases for a dresser. At least for a while."

  Still, he thought. It could be worse.

  He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

  'Nam was definitely worse.

  He went back down to the car and grabbed the last of his possessions -- linens and essential toiletries purchased on the way over from the hotel. Making his way back to the apartment entrance, he saw a young woman walking up the street. Knee high boots and a matching miniskirt accentuated her lean height. Under a French beret, long, black hair swung in a sleek fall down her back. Though he was right behind her by the time she reached the front doors, she didn't look his way but hurried inside.

  He followed her in and enjoyed the sway of her slim hips as she climbed the stairs. At the top, she turned left and let herself into the apartment across from his.

  Jackson smiled. That kind of neighbor he could live with.

  Chapter Three

  The tooth-jarring ring of the telephone jerked him out of sleep like a marionette under the control of a drunk puppeteer. Rubbing his eyes, he grabbed for the phone and succeeded only in knocking it off the nightstand.

  When he finally picked it up and said hello, the line was dead.

  He glared at the clock. "Who calls a person at six o'clock on a Saturday morning?"

  Jackson grumbled his way into the kitchen and put up a pot of coffee. While it perked, he checked outside his front door for the paper. A sound on the stairs drew his attention, and he straightened with a smile.

  "Hey," he said. "Good morning."

  As if she hadn't heard him, his attractive neighbor continued down the steps and out the front door.

  His smile slipped away. Then he shrugged and went back into his apartment. Some folks just weren't morning people.

  By the time he came out again an hour later, he had a list in his hand of the things he needed to make the apartment livable. The day’s shopping left his bank account depleted and his leg aching. But his accommodations were significantly improved.

  A trip through the wash turned the curtains a surprising white with pale blue trim. End tables and a bookshelf rounded out the living room. A set of pots and pans, along with additional
dishware and cutlery, brought new life to the kitchen. A replacement mattress would have to wait until after his first paycheck, but he started on Monday, so that wouldn't be too long in coming.

  Jackson grabbed a beer out of the frig and pushed the curtains aside. Planting his butt on the window sill, he looked out at the street and took a long swig from the brew.

  Kids ran up and down the sidewalk. The occasional car rolled down the street, but other than that it was quiet.

  On the horizon, the sun settled to Earth, untroubled by the mass of humanity that trundled homeward beneath it. The clear, open blue beckoned, assuring him that if he reached for it, he would feel the wash of cool light spilling over the edge of the world.

  A sub-flesh hum filtered through him and the beer bottle descended into his lap, unnoticed. Jackson gazed at the receding light of day until...

  He blinked, shoving the sensation away. The last time he'd felt that weirdness he'd gotten blown up. Not going there again. He knuckled the ache in his leg absently. It wasn't his only scar, just the newest.

  Brushing a hand across his forehead, he rose, then stopped, the bottle halfway to his lips. There she was.

  The red and black polka dotted mini-dress caught his eye at first, but there was no mistaking the long black hair. He leaned out the window and waved.

  She looked up, shading her eyes with slender fingers.

  "Hey there," he said, then grimaced. Great line, idiot, he thought.

  She didn't answer; just frowned and kept walking. In another six steps she was inside the building, and he could hear her light footfalls coming up the stairs. By the time he made it across the living room and fumbled open the door, she was at hers.