Overview
Abandoned as a little girl and bounced from foster home to foster home, photojournalist Tory Lancaster has finally found someone to love in Brett Hooker, an investigator for the Oklahoma County District Attorney’s Office.
Then Tory takes a photo that triggers memories she didn’t know she had. The old man she spots standing in the crowd, with his distinctive tattoo, sets off nightmares and glimpses of a past she refused to remember.
When her dark thoughts start taking over, Brett is her lifeline to sanity. With his help she might be able to face her past, but her journey to remembering might just tear them apart . . .
A gripping exploration of the way the past shapes the future, Sweet Baby is “an amazing journey into the psyche of a scarred woman” and “[Sala] delivers a hero any woman would want standing by her through thick and thin” (RT Book Reviews).
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780795345098 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | RosettaBooks |
| Publication date: | 02/12/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 374 |
| Sales rank: | 35,383 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
It was the faint but distinct sound of a closing door that yanked Brett Hooker out of a restless sleep and sent him reaching for the gun in the bedside table. In the few moments between sleepy confusion and the return of complete cognizance, he slid the gun back into the drawer, then pushed it shut.
She was back!
The wild thump of his heart began to slow down, returning to a regular rhythm. He rose up on one elbow, staring at the open doorway and accepting the weakness within him for putting up with a woman who was more gypsy than lover, wondering what it was about her that made it all worthwhile.
Something clunked on the living room floor, followed by a softly muttered curse. A few seconds later, another less distinct sound drifted down the hallway and into the bedroom. He tensed. She was moving through the apartment, toward the bedroom — toward him.
He lay back and closed his eyes, willing her to hurry. It had been so damned long since he'd held her that it hurt.
* * *
The heaviest of Tory Lancaster's camera bags had threatened to slide off her shoulder as she thrust the key in the lock. Without wasted motion, she'd hitched it higher and turned the key.
Silently, the door swung back as she stepped inside. She paused on the threshold, unaware she was holding her breath. Had she been looking in a mirror, she would have been surprised to know there was a faint look of fear on her face. Only after she heard the familiar night sounds of Brett Hooker's apartment did she shut the door behind her and relax. She slipped the camera bags off her shoulders and then eased her duffel bag to the floor beside them, breathing a sigh of relief.
Then she stood in the quiet, listening to a clock ticking on the kitchen wall, measuring the inconsistent drip of the faucet at the kitchen sink, savoring the hum of the refrigerator motor, feeling Brett's presence, although she had yet to see his face.
Unaware of the game her subconscious mind always played with her heart, the fear faded from her eyes and she began to calm. He was home. Just as he'd promised he would be. But there was always that doubt within Victoria Lancaster's heart that even time hadn't been able to erase. Although her intermittent absences from this man and his home were part of her life-style — part of her job as a freelance photojournalist — it was the manner in which she took leave of him each time that was the telling factor in Tory's inability to commit. He'd promised he would always be waiting, but subconsciously, she kept testing his word, testing his faith.
Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes, savoring the texture of the air. It was warm and welcoming, and she shivered with sudden longing, opening her arms wide, then enfolding herself within the safety of these walls like rolling up within the folds of an old, familiar blanket. Down the hallway to her left, a bedspring squeaked, and a sudden urgency made her reach for the buttons on her shirt.
Brett!
It had been six weeks since she'd last seen him, but it felt like six months. The need to feel the tautness of his muscles and the strength of his body hammering between her legs made her weak with longing. She spun, and in the dark she stubbed her toe on the small table near the entryway. A soft curse slipped from her lips as she reached to steady the vase rocking on its surface.
Once it was settled, Tory's hands went back to the shirt buttons, then her belt, then the button fly of her jeans. Within the familiar darkness of Brett Hooker's home, she began to undress, leaving a trail of her clothing to mark her passing. When she stepped through the doorway to his bedroom, she was naked. The last thing she did was take down her hair. It spilled from her hands, sliding against her neck and then across her shoulders like a rich satin curtain, the ash- blond color a pale contrast to her smooth, white skin.
Shivering with a longing she would never have named, she stared at the sleeping man upon the bed, struggling with the ache of loneliness within her chest. Why? Why, if she loved him so much, did she keep leaving him behind? Tory closed her eyes and said a small, quiet prayer.
God, please don't let me mess this up.
And then she looked, and he was coming toward her through the shadows, his steps slow but measured, the tilt of his head a warning to the intent of his actions. When he opened his arms, she fell into them. And when he wrapped his hands in the long length of her hair and pulled, tilting her head back to meet his descending mouth, she sensed an unvoiced anger.
"Tory, Tory. My God, but I missed you."
His whisper shattered the silence in which they stood. Tears spiked beneath her eyelids as she gave herself up to his need. Her name on his lips was both a prayer and a joy. And then Brett picked her up and carried her back to his bed.
"I missed you, too," she said softly.
His voice was harsh as he pinned her beneath his hard, aching body. "Prove it."
She sighed, feeling the needy surge of him against her thigh. Now she was on familiar ground. She pushed at his shoulders, urging him to let her control the action. He complied with a reluctant groan. But when she straddled his legs and took him into her hands, she heard him groan again, then felt him relax. Only then did she know it would be all right.
Stroke after sensuous stroke, she stoked his passion until his control suddenly snapped. He rose up on one elbow, whispering promises to her, that, even after the three years they'd been together, made her blush. Before she could react, he had her flat on her back, his hand between her legs. After that, what was left of the night became a series of gut-wrenching climaxes that left her weak and shaking, then begging for more.
Somewhere among them, Brett shared one, taking her fast and hard, his control shattering along with what was left of her mind.
* * *
It was almost daybreak. Brett looked down at the sleeping woman in his arms and then back up at the ceiling, willing himself not to move. Just for the moment, the paradise of having her safe in his bed, of knowing that she was still alive and whole, was too precious to ruin.
And time passed.
Morning light was spilling into the room as Tory opened her eyes. For the moment, a smattering of chest hair and one hard brown nipple were all she could see, but it was enough for her to remember where she was. With Brett.
Stretching slowly like a waking cat, she closed her eyes and inhaled the essence of the man beside her, savoring the masculine smell that was uniquely his, as well as the lingering scent of their lovemaking that was still on their bodies. She snuggled against him as his deep, sleep-heavy voice broke the silence between them.
"It's about damned time."
By way of apology, Tory kissed his chin as she looked up. "It was a long drive, and you didn't let me get much sleep. I couldn't seem to wake up."
"I wasn't talking about the fact that we overslept. I was talking about the fact that you finally decided to come back."
Tory stiffened. This wasn't the way their morning-afters normally went. Then she remembered the anger she'd sensed in him last night. Old fear suddenly coiled in her belly, but she thrust it aside. With an easy smile, she reached up to cup his cheek, admiring with an artist's eye the shapely cut of his nose, the strength of his cheeks and jaw-line, as well as the near perfect conformity of black-winged eyebrows and lashes shading a shattering blue gaze. She traced the lower edge of his lip, testing the sensuous cut of it with the edge of her nail, then kissed the spot she'd teased.
"But I always come back."
Brett grabbed her hands and then rolled, pinning her beneath him.
"So far," he said harshly, hating himself for putting that fear in her eyes, yet needing to push, wanting her to say something that would take away the knot in his gut. The one that came from his own fear that one day she would leave him and never return.
Tory stifled a gasp, trying unsuccessfully to free her wrists from his grasp.
"Brett, don't!" she begged.
It was useless. He was too strong, and at that moment, too angry to hear anything but the sound of his own voice.
"You know, Tory, I'm curious."
She shifted nervously beneath him. "About what?"
"How long this is going to go on."
A quick shaft of unnamed terror moved through her mind. Her heart kicked out of rhythm as the blood began to drain from her face, but Tory didn't know how she looked, and if she had, she wouldn't have cared. Her entire focus was on the man above her and the subject of their conversation.
"How long is what going to go on?"
He almost sneered. "You know. This business of Tory calling all the shots and Brett taking the blows." His fingers tightened as his voice rose. "Goddamn it, Victoria, you assume a lot."
She couldn't speak, couldn't move. There was a sick lassitude spreading from the ends of her toes upward and she knew that when it reached her throat, she might die.
But Brett was too deep into his own rage to see the panic on her face.
"You know ... sometimes you walk out without so much as a note to tell me where you've gone. Most of the time you don't bother to call, and when you do, you never ask what I've been doing, or even if I've been sick. Usually all I get from you is a pissant message on an answering machine."
He leaned over her, yanking open the drawer on the bedside table then thrusting his hand inside. Seconds later, a handful of tiny cassette tapes showered down upon her head.
"Do you know what those are?"
Tears were pooling in her eyes, shattering her vision of his anger. She shook her head.
"Your messages. That's what they are. About a year's worth, actually. And do you know why I've kept them?"
She shook her head again, spilling a tear down her cheek.
His voice broke as he tossed the last of them onto the bed. "Because I can't bear to tape over the damned things for fear they'll be the last sound I'll ever have of your voice."
"Oh, Brett, I'm sorry. I —"
"Goddamn it, Tory, why don't you keep in touch? Do you ever think about the fact that I could be dead and buried before you'd know it? One of these days you're liable to come home and I won't be here. Then what will you —"
When her eyes rolled back in her head, Brett choked on the last of his anger. The sound that came up her throat, then out of her mouth, was something between a scream and a shriek — a cry unlike anything he'd ever heard. He flinched at the sound, trying to find the Tory he knew in the high-pitched, childlike wail of despair. And in the midst of it all she kept saying the same thing.
"But you promised. You promised you would love me. You can't break your word, 'cause you promised."
Her panic was his undoing. He'd known Victoria Lancaster for four years — had lived with her for the last three of those years — and he'd never, not once, seen her lose control like this.
Panicked by what he'd unintentionally caused, he pulled her into his arms, rocking her against his chest as he soothed her terror with a gentle hand.
"I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry. Don't cry. Please don't cry. I never said I didn't love you. Of course I love you. You're my world. You're my life."
She clutched at his arms, staring blindly into his face. At that moment, he had the strangest feeling she was looking somewhere into her mind, rather than at him.
It took the better part of an hour before Brett had her calmed, and then she refused to look at him. He didn't know whether she was embarrassed by her outbreak or hurt by what he'd said. When she rolled over and away from him, a knot twisted in his gut.
"Victoria."
Her answer was little more than a whisper. "What?"
"I love you."
She rolled onto her back, wrapping her arms around his neck and clutching at him with a desperation he didn't understand. Moments later, she turned him loose as abruptly as she'd held him and then looked away. Brett sighed. Something was going on that he didn't understand, and she was obviously not in the mood to talk about it.
"I'm going to shower. Be back in a few minutes," he said.
She watched him intently as he moved around the room. When the bathroom door closed behind him, Tory stared up at the ceiling, her mind a total blank. Then, as if nothing untoward had occurred, she got out of bed and went into the living room to retrieve her bag. But she had a week's worth of dirty laundry inside and no clean underwear, so she came back into the bedroom, confiscating one of Brett's T-shirts and a clean pair of sweats.
She was tall, but her body structure was nothing like Brett's. On her, the sleeves of his T-shirt were inches too long and hung well below her elbows, and the pant legs of his sweats drooped around her ankles. Everything sagged in all the wrong places, but being inside something that belonged to Brett gave her a strange sense of peace. With a pair of his tube socks serving as house shoes, Tory gathered up her dirty clothes and headed for the kitchen. She would start her laundry while breakfast cooked.
A short while later, Brett came out, taking careful note of her empty duffel bag, as well as the tangled covers on the bed. He stood for a moment, anxiously listening for the sounds of her presence. It was the smell of brewing coffee that made him relax. Following it to the kitchen in the hopes of finding Tory, all he found was a pile of her dirty laundry on the floor by the washing machine.
"Tory?"
She didn't answer. He walked out of the kitchen, thinking she might be on the patio instead, but when he heard the familiar clunk of metal against metal he stopped. It was the lopsided sign hanging on the darkroom door that told him where she'd gone.
Do Not Disturb.
And it meant what it said. The significance of the closed door between them was more than accidental. Without thinking, Brett reached out, putting the flat of his hand against the surface of the door, then splaying his fingers across the wood, as if trying to hold on to Tory in the only way she would let him.
A few moments later he turned away with a weary sigh and headed for the kitchen. He needed coffee, and he needed to hurry or he was going to be late for work.
A day-old bagel with his last cup of coffee was breakfast. Then he headed for the bedroom, his mind already moving toward what he would do for the day.
As an investigator for the Oklahoma County District Attorney's Office, his job was never dull. And, for the last few days, the entire investigative force, as well as the Oklahoma PD, had been on the lookout for a missing witness for the prosecution in a murder trial.
Don Lacey, the county district attorney, was bound and determined to win this trial and, in doing so, prove a long-suspected connection to a local named Romeo Leeds. Every cop on the force suspected Leeds was behind a large part of the area-wide criminal activities, but so far, they had yet to prove it.
Nailing Manny Riberosa, the man who was coming up for trial, was the best chance they'd had in years. A known thug who would do anything for money, Riberosa had long been suspected of being Leeds' right-hand man. And the murdered man had been Romeo Leeds' stiffest competitor. If they could prove that Riberosa was guilty of the murder for which he'd been arrested, then they would have the link they needed to pursue Leeds. And finding that link was part of Brett's job.
He took a clean shirt from the closet and then stood before the mirror to slip it on. But when he looked, he didn't see himself. He was looking at the reflection of the bed behind him and the condition of the covers, remembering the near-desperate manner in which he and Tory had made love. His jaw clenched as he tucked his shirt into his slacks; then he reached for a tie, slipping it on beneath the collar of his shirt.
This is one hell of a way to love a woman. Waiting and hoping she doesn't forget to come back.
He leaned closer to the mirror, making sure his tie was straight and his collar points buttoned. One more item and he would be out of here. He opened the bedside table and took out his gun. The Glock, an Austrian-made, double-action automatic, felt light in his hand as he slipped it into the holster, then fastened it to his belt. He picked up his suit coat and headed for the living room. But as he passed by the darkroom, he paused, staring intently at the door she'd shut between them. The urge to call out to her was great, but he respected her need for privacy too much to interfere with what she was doing.
With a heavy heart, he opened the front door and stepped out, closing it quietly behind him.
CHAPTER 2For Tory, being a photographer was like being a magician, only better. The darkroom was her top hat, the place where the magic was created, yet she produced no rabbits or doves out of the air. The magic came from the pictures she'd shot.
When the developing process began, the first images were little more than faint, ghostlike shadows. But as she watched, they became so lifelike that she could almost hear the sounds of laughter coming from them. It was then that she knew she'd captured the moment precisely. But unlike a magician, what she created wasn't illusion. When Tory was finished, she had something concrete to hold.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Sweet Baby"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Sharon Sala.
Excerpted by permission of RosettaBooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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