Read an Excerpt
Colliding Forces
By Constance O'Day Flannery, Anna Genoese Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2005 Constance O'Day-Flannery
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-1204-4
CHAPTER 1
Residents of Center City were certainly out in full force today as everyone took advantage of the unexpected summer-like weather this close to Thanksgiving. Should we be defrosting our turkeys, Jim, or pulling out our barbeques again?"
"I'm afraid, Deborah, this has only been a tease," Jim Carter answered, picking up his cue as he stood in front of the blue weather screen and faced the camera. "The warm weather is already on the way out ..."
As Philadelphia's top-rated weatherman began his report, D. leaned back in her chair at the anchor desk and tried to concentrate on the pages in front of her, the same lines that were on the teleprompter over the camera. Another soft story. This must be the tenth in two weeks. She found that her back teeth were grinding in annoyance and relaxed her jaw. They were feeding all these tug-your-heart stories to her because of that last focus group. Just thinking about them had the ability to raise her blood pressure.
This time they said she wasn't feminine enough. Too tough. She didn't have any softness. One of them even had the balls to say he couldn't imagine her being affectionate! If they wanted the Pillsbury Dough Boy to read hard news then they should have hired him. Affectionate! She'd exploded in her boss' office two weeks ago when Dan, along with the station manager, tried to tell her she needed to soften the edges a little. Why were they brainwashed by a group of obvious morons who had completely missed the point that she reported hard news ... politics, wars, murders, hit-and-runs, kidnappings, robberies. What was she supposed to do? Dab at her eyes with Grannie's lace handkerchief while telling the tri-state their news in order to please a handful of people they had pulled off the street?
But it was the affectionate remark that seemed to linger in her back teeth, like an irritating kernel of popcorn that couldn't be dislodged. Immediately, her brain ran over the last time she'd been affectionate. Hah! They should have seen her then ...
The encounter with Marcus Bocelli still had the ability to warm her body whenever she thought of it ... the two of them walking on the beach, how he casually took her hand, wooed her with his voice, his sensuous eyes, until she was actually preening just being in his presence. A kiss had led to being held in his arms, pulled against his lean hard body and, for the first time in a very, very long time, she had lost control.
It played back in lightening flashes ... her pulling him into a cove, her back against a stone wall as his mouth explored her and her hands tore at his clothes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd made love with such abandon. She could picture Marcus' hands sliding up the skirt of her Versace dress as she clung to him, became one with him. It had seemed as though nothing existed in that space of time except a man and a woman doing the most primal thing in the world ... humping each other like wild monkeys. It was only days later that she wondered if they'd reacted so crazily because they each seemed to have lost something at that wedding. Maggie. D. knew Marcus loved Maggie, or had loved her at some point. And Maggie would no longer be in Philadelphia after she married Julian. Not having many friends, D. hated to lose Maggie, even if it was to love and marriage. Still, the whole encounter with Marcus had left her stunned and craving more. So far, she hadn't heard from him and —
"Deborah?"
"Deborah!" she heard in her earpiece, the floor director jerking her back from a magical tropical love fest to the dark television studio in Center City, Philadelphia.
"Sorry, Matt," she breathed with a smile to her co-anchor. Squaring her shoulders, she looked into the camera and tried to soften her facial expression. "We all know dogs are man's best friend, but what happens when your precious, furry friend disappears without any warning? When we come back we'll find one woman's answer, and we'll tell you how she fought city hall to reclaim her best buddy."
They went to commercial and Matt Jordan laughed. "Now that's the first time I've caught you lost. Where were you, D.?"
She grinned. "If I told you, Matt, the rest of your hair would turn gray with shock."
"Good or bad?" he asked as the makeup crew came up to the desk and blotted sweat off his forehead.
"Neither," she answered, waving off the hair stylist who wanted to make her brown wisps even more defined. Having no desire to appear as a talking whisk broom, she said, "Thanks, Sheila, but the hair is fine as it is." And she had no intention of telling anyone about her personal life, or why she'd lost her focus. "Sorry, Alan," she called out to the floor director. "Won't happen again."
Alan nodded as he stretched out his hand to the news desk with his fingers splayed. Everyone waited in silence as they came back from a short commercial. One by one, Alan's fingers curled into his palm, until he was pointing at her. Picking up her cue, she tried to appear sympathetic. "And now we'll go to Andrea Miller, for the story of one woman's struggle to reunite her canine family, a story of persistence and love."
"Thanks, Deborah. Judith Zink's best friend had recently given birth to triplets, no easy feat for human or animal, and Judith couldn't have been more happy to welcome the adorable West Highland Terriers into her family. That is, until Junibelle went missing. Was it merely a question of a mother needing a break, or something more sinister?"
D. hated the cutesy copy, was grateful she didn't have to read it, and she truly attempted to pay attention to the feature reporter, a young fresh-faced woman who seemed to ooze softness and sympathy and probably was as affectionate as one of the puppies whose footage was being telecast out to the viewing audience. Despite the image, D. knew Andrea would stop just short of murder to sit at the six o'clock anchor desk. D. knew about ambition and acknowledged it came with the job description. She'd watch her back and the pretty blonde, who wouldn't hesitate to stick her high heels into D.'s shoulder blades to climb the corporate news ladder.
Her mind wasn't on job security or even on the reuniting of Junibelle and her puppies as Andrea's piece continued. Instead, it flirted with daydreaming as her thoughts took her back to that beach in Bermuda and to a great looking Italian who had apologized to her on the walk back to the party, telling her he hadn't meant for things to get out of hand. She had still been buzzing with electricity, feeling like she could walk on water, and had thanked him for getting out of hand and had told him anytime he wanted another play date to give her a call. She'd meant it to be casual, maybe even flippant, but secretly she wanted him to take her hand again, to walk her back to the wedding party, stay at her side, and fly with her to Philly, instead of New York, so they could continue exploring each other. It had been a long time since she'd felt that need. And that's what burned inside of her now. Need. She didn't just want to see him again. It was as if her body had a need, a hot flaming condition, an itch that required relief.
God, she was becoming pathetic.
Forcing herself through the rest of the newscast, she unplugged her mic and walked back to her office. She simply had to forget Marcus Bocelli, she thought as she sat down at her desk and began to log onto her computer. It was simply a crazy fling, not her first unfortunately, and could be filed away. Should be filed away, she mentally added, and yet her brain could easily conjure him up ... flashing his face across the screen of her mind. She could see those dark, probing brown eyes, staring into her own as if he had some special pass beyond them into her soul. Even now she could actually feel a shiver of electricity pass over her skin as desire welled up within her again. Before she'd left Bermuda, she'd handed him her business card with all her phone numbers and her email address. The ball was in his court. She couldn't even talk to anyone about her ridiculous obsession with Marcus. The only person would have been Maggie, but Maggie was out of the question. Maggie had warned her off Marcus numerous times, telling her she'd only wind up heartbroken. Well, her heart wasn't broken. Her heart wasn't even involved. It was her body. That Roman god had put a spell on her.
It was up to her, alone, to find a way to remove it, she determined as her phone rang. No man, no matter how gorgeous, was worth becoming pathetic and jeopardizing her focus at work was out of the question.
"Deborah Stark," she automatically answered.
"Debbie, hon? This is Aunt Tina."
Immediately, she sat up straighter as all her internal alarms began buzzing. "Hi, Aunt Tina," she answered in a surprised and cautious voice. No one from her family had ever called her at work. "How are you?"
"Oh, honey ... I'm so sorry. I don't know how to tell you this. It's your mom. She ... she's passed, Debbie. About an hour ago. They say it was an embolism in her brain. She was talking to Anna Devers about Thanksgiving, her turkey, how excited she was that you were coming home for the holiday and ... and then she just stopped speaking and went down. It was that quick, the doctors said, and ... I'm so sorry to tell you like this over the phone, but I didn't know what else to do." Her paternal aunt began crying.
Numbness descended over D.'s body like an invisible shield as she tried to find her voice. Her mother. Dead. An embolism. She felt like her whole world was tilting at a dangerous angle and she gripped the edge of her desk to stay centered and not fall into a chasm of guilt. "You did the right thing," she whispered as she looked at her Gucci purse and envisioned her cars keys inside. "I was planning on driving up tomorrow morning, but I'll leave tonight. I'll be there tonight."
"Come to my house, honey. Stay with us."
She had to focus. "Yes," she murmured, running over in her head everything she'd have to do. Dan would give her the time off. Go back to the apartment and pack different clothes. Something black. "I might not be there until really late. Maybe it's best if I just go ..." she found she had to force the word from her lips. "... home."
"Nonsense. You come as late as you like. We'll be up."
"Okay, then ... I'll see you tonight. I should get started here and ..." her words trailed off.
"I'm so sorry, Debbie. Even though your mother was my sister-in-law, she was like a real sister to me."
"I know," D. answered, picturing her father's sister staying in their lives, trying to make up for the fact that her brother had abandoned his wife and child. "And mom knew that too. She loved you, Aunt Tina."
"You be careful driving, Debbie. All that holiday traffic."
Debbie. No one, not even her mother, had called her that in decades. "Right. I should get going. I have to speak to my boss about getting some time off."
"I love you."
She felt the first stirring of emotion as tears welled up in her throat and burned her eyes. "I love you too," she answered, watching her hand as she hung up the phone.
Her mother. Dead. Gone ...
She sat for a moment out of time, stunned by the news delivered by her aunt. Her body didn't feel capable of moving as years of regret and guilt swept over her. How fucking ironic that this was the first Thanksgiving in three years that she had arranged to spend with her mother. Within seconds her brain fired off reasons, good reasons, for not seeing more of the woman who had given her life ... but deep down, in a place she wasn't ready to explore, Deborah Stark knew she had relegated her mother to the past, a place she rarely wanted to visit.
It hit her with the force of a bat to the back of her knees, bringing her down to reality. It was time to be the adult. There was no one ahead of her any longer being sensible and grown up. All her life other people took care of things like this. Births, deaths, weddings ... when her mother had informed her of family news she'd called a florist and sent a huge arrangement of flowers, but her lifestyle and work had kept her from anything more personal, like showing up in person.
She couldn't back out of this one or expect anyone else to take care of it. Now it was up to her. She wished for a moment that she believed in a Supreme Being, someone to call upon for assistance, but in truth she only believed in herself. Long ago she had learned the lesson of depending on another for answers or help. She was too intelligent to blindly place her faith in anyone's dogma, but for a moment — a split second — she wished she was a religious person who could lay their troubles at the feet of a savior.
That wasn't her. She had already laid the foundation for her life and now she had to walk her talk. She had to be strong, push away the pain and also the guilt. She had to pretend to be what everyone expected, what she had worked so damn hard to make them believe.
And now ... now she truly was alone.
Marcus Bocelli closed the lid of his wireless phone, disconnecting his call, while looking out the window of his apartment and watching a squirrel deftly climb the delicate limbs of an maple tree, moving quickly, only stopping momentarily to test the strength of the next link on his journey. For a moment he thought that's what his own life has been like, moving quickly, only stopping briefly as he tested his next course of action. He placed the tiny phone back into his trouser pocket and knew he'd made the right decision. The last place he'd wanted to be was Senator Burke's farm in Maryland.
Maggie would be there. And so would her new husband. It would be a family Thanksgiving dinner and, even though Gabriel's invitation had been sincere, Marcus knew he wasn't family. Not really, and not anymore. Not with Maggie discovering Gabriel was her father. This Thanksgiving should be a private celebration for them.
He liked the American tradition of taking one day to be grateful. It was at times like this he yearned for his own family. His mother and sisters and all his nieces and nephews crowding the family home in northern Italy for holidays, creating noise, laughter and love to bounce off the old plaster walls. He missed his home, his family.
At thirty-seven, he'd seen enough of the world to realize how blessed he had been to have been born to his parents for he had grown up surrounded in love. This American holiday was a time to take stock and to be grateful. And he was, very, very grateful.
He was the only son in a family of four sisters, along with eight aunts and more female cousins than he could count. His father, an international banker, had spoiled him and was gentle with his discipline, leaving him to the females in the family to raise ... and Marcus, being cherished by all those around him, came into manhood with a great fondness for the feminine gender. His early life had been a great influence, for he'd matured loving the way women smelled, the softness of their skin, the sound of their voices, the miracle of their bodies to create, sustain and nourish life. At eleven he found out about the pleasure and joy they could bring him. From that time on he had spent his time devising ways to be in their presence. By seventeen he'd had multiple affairs at the same time, in Italy and across the border in Monte Carlo. It hadn't mattered to him if the women were married or single, young or older, rich or poor. He had loved them all. And he had especially loved to see how they would blossom into fragile, fragrant flowers, offering up their unique, innate beauty under his expert hands. His skill with women had come naturally and he'd perfected it with each encounter. Romance had been his natural high, pleasurable and powerful. He'd been, to put it simply, a ladies man and life had been gloriously sweet until the summer he'd left for university.
Even now, twenty years later, just thinking about his father caused his body to tense with grief and regret. Returning home from his bank, Emilio Bocelli had been cruelly assassinated by remnants of the Red Brigade, an extreme leftist terrorist organization that had been intent on destructuralization of the capitalist economy by kidnapping and killing scions of Italian government and business.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Colliding Forces by Constance O'Day Flannery, Anna Genoese. Copyright © 2005 Constance O'Day-Flannery. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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