Caught in Traffik

By Michelle Matte

When New York dancer Kathleen Monroe’s mother is diagnosed with terminal cancer, Kat rushes home to Pelican Beach to be at her side. Now, a year later, she must decide whether to return to New York to fulfill her mother’s dream, or remain in Pelican Beach to find a dream of her own.
Unable to decide, Kat takes a temporary job as personal assistant and part-time nanny to the young daughter of powerful attorney Ramona Cade. Kat’s life takes an unexpected turn when she meets handsome vice detective Jack Forrester, and she is swept up in a tide of romance, new friends and frightening encounters when child sex traffickers strike close to home.
When young Chelsea Cade’s friend Hunter is abducted, Kat plays a critical role in helping track down the perpetrators. In the process of helping others, Kat finds her own voice, and fosters her own dream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Matte
• Release date: Apr 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301616596

Michelle Matte

Michelle Matte is a fitness pioneer and freelance writer. She divides her time between Virginia Beach, United States, and Cambridgeshire, England.

Book preview

Prologue

Caitlin lay on the soft white cotton coverlet of the oversized bed and stared at the lacy canopy overhead. The bed reminded her of the one in her room at home, the one she had slept in since she was little. But this bed was huge, a giant version of a child’s bed.

The world had been spinning a moment ago when she had entered the room. She was not sure, but she guessed that the frosty pineapple and coconut drink she had been given might have contained alcohol. She knew that a piña colada was an alcoholic beverage, but she thought they were giving her the virgin version. Perhaps they had made a mistake, and given her the wrong one.

At first the drink had made her feel giddy and relaxed, but by the time she had finished it, she felt like she needed to lie down. Chloe had brought her to the bedroom, and told her she would be back to check on her in a little while.

On the wall, a giant mirror showed her reflection. She smiled, and giggled a bit. She looked so silly. Chloe had explained to her that they were going to dress like little girls for the party being given in her honor; a sort of costume party.

Someone had taken her jeans and t-shirt, her thong and padded A-cup bra, while she washed her hair in the shower. They were being laundered, Chloe explained. In the place of her own clothes, Aunt Rene had left lacy white underpants and a frilly cotton dress that looked like the ones her little sister wore to church on Sunday, with buttons down the back.

Caitlin felt silly in the immature clothing, especially after Chloe braided her hair into two long, blonde ropes that hung down her back. The dress had an empire waist, with tiny pale blue flowers on a white cotton background. White lace trimmed in blue ribbon encircled the high waist. In the mirror, the blue ribbon matched perfectly the blue of her un-made-up eyes. Only a light coating of pink lipgloss and a whisper of pink blush had been allowed for makeup.

The dress was cut for a child, not a young woman. Caitlin was embarrassed that she had not yet developed, even though she had already passed her fourteenth birthday. In fact, that was how she and Chloe had met. Caitlin had found a chat room on the Internet filled with girls her own age. Because they were all strangers, and her identity was anonymous, she felt free to discuss her deepest secrets.

The girls all talked about boys, clothes, sex, parents, and other topics they might not share with their schoolmates for fear of being ridiculed. One girl shared how she had started her period when she was eight, and how she was teased relentlessly when her breasts developed in the third grade. Caitlin then shared how she was fourteen, and still had not gotten her period. She was teased at school because her breasts were as flat as pancakes, earning her the nickname, IHOP.

At that point in the chat, Chloe had joined in the conversation. She told Caitlin that she knew exactly how she felt. She was now seventeen, but had only gotten her period the year before. Her breasts had finally developed, thank God, but she had been a stick until her junior year in high school.

After that day, Chloe and Caitlin developed a special bond, and chatted daily on the Internet. Even though they had never met in person, they shared photos and secrets, and Caitlin felt like she had known Chloe all her life.

When winter break approached, Chloe invited Caitlin to spend Christmas with her and her family in Ontario. Caitlin’s parents had been skeptical at first, but after Caitlin showed them pictures of Chloe and her family at home on their Ontario farm, it was decided that a trip to Canada might broaden Caitlin’s cultural horizons, and give her a memory to cherish all her life. Her mom had several conversations with Aunt Rene before confirming her flight arrangements, and everything seemed well planned and normal.

She had arrived the night before, the flight paid for by her grandmother as a Christmas gift. Before leaving for the airport, she had spent hours selecting and packing her wardrobe, then carefully dressed, straightened her hair and applied makeup. Her Victoria’s Secret bra was padded to give her what she lacked naturally, the matching thong was lacy and sexy, and Caitlin felt very grown up. When she emerged from her room, she knew she looked at least eighteen.

Her mother began to comment on her makeup, then changed her mind and decided to leave it alone. She knew how painful it was for her daughter to be underdeveloped when all her friends were wearing a C-cup. A little makeup was harmless if it improved her child’s self-esteem.

When her flight finally touched down at the Toronto airport, Caitlin was ecstatic. She couldn’t believe she was in a whole different country, away from her parents and friends. It was as though she was cut off from her familiar world, and it felt liberating.

As the plane taxied to the terminal, Caitlin turned on her phone, noting that the battery was low. In her excitement about her trip, she had forgotten to plug it in to the charger the night before. Now it dawned on her that, despite her mother’s repeated admonitions, she had failed to pack the charger in her suitcase. Her mom would have to mail it to her.

Dialing her home number, she waited while it rang multiple times, finally switching over to voice mail.

Mom, I’m here! My plane arrived safely. I know you told me to pack it, but I accidentally left my phone charger plugged in in my room, and my battery’s almost dead. Can you please send it to the address Aunt Rene gave you? I’ll call you tomorrow from Chloe’s house. I love you!

With that, she turned off her phone to preserve the battery and shoved it in her jeans pocket as the plane lurched to a stop.

She was amazed when she finally met Chloe and her aunt at the airport. She knew from the exchanged photos that Chloe was an exceptionally attractive girl. But she was not prepared for the young woman who hugged her as she stepped through the gate. Chloe looked much older than seventeen, perhaps as old as twenty-five. And the large firm breasts that pressed into Caitlin as they embraced belied the underdeveloped child that Chloe had once been. If she didn’t know better, Caitlin might think they were implants.

When her friend’s aunt explained to her that her luggage had been lost, she was only a little disappointed, mostly because it contained a special Christmas gift she had brought for her friend, all the way from Virginia. But Aunt Renee seemed unconcerned, assuring her that it happened all the time these days, what with the airlines trying to save money and so many people flying, especially around the holidays. She was confident that the missing luggage would turn up some time in the next day or so. Meanwhile, Caitlin could borrow some of Chloe’s things if she needed them. Caitlin worried that she would not be able to fill out Chloe's clothing, but she was determined to enjoy her stay and make the most of the time away from her parents.

The sprawling farmhouse was about a forty-minute drive from the Toronto airport. It looked quaint and old-fashioned from the outside, but inside the decor was sophisticated, modern and uncluttered, almost as if no one really lived there. In the entryway, elegant gold Christmas ornaments adorned a towering tree that rivaled the professionally decorated ones at the mall. In the room Chloe called the lounge, tasteful furniture in off-white was set in scattered groupings surrounding shining glass-and-chrome coffee tables. A giant fireplace dominated the room, its leaping flames crackling a warm greeting.. Along the far wall, spotless glassware hung from a rack over a gleaming mahogany bar.

Caitlin was stunned. She had never seen any home so elegant.

That first night,she shared a room with Chloe, a small sparsely furnished room with twin beds. It lacked the usual clutter and paraphernalia of a teenager’s room, and Caitlin guessed that Chloe had chosen a guest room so that they could stay up and talk, and still have separate beds when they were ready to sleep. She knew what it was like when a friend stayed at her home, and they tried to sleep in her tiny twin bed. Someone usually ended up on the floor, and neither party got much sleep.

That night, they had talked and giggled and eaten ice cream. Chloe asked her a million questions about her life in Virginia, and Caitlin showed her photos saved on her iPhone until the battery went dead. She felt selfish in a way, because most of the evening they talked about Caitlin. She barely learned a thing about Chloe.

Caitlin was curious about Chloe’s family. So far she had only met Aunt Renee. There was no sign of other adults anywhere, and she wondered where the rest of the family was. In the family photo Chloe had emailed, her mom, dad and older brother and sister had all seemed so happy. Chloe had been much younger in that photo, Caitlin guessed about twelve or so. Perhaps her older siblings had both left home and begun careers or started college.

When she asked Chloe where her mom and dad were, Chloe confirmed her suspicions. Her parents had gone to Toronto to pick up her older siblings from college, and bring them home for the holidays. They would arrive some time the next evening.

By late afternoon of the following day, cars began to pull into the drive, and continued to do so as the sun set. The house came alive with adults drinking and laughing and munching on hors d’oeuvres. Caitlin perused the crowd, trying to identify Chloe’s parents, but she was introduced to only a few aunts, and numerous uncles. There was no sign of Chloe’s brother or sister. Most of the adults were older, and there were no guests anywhere near her age. She felt self-conscious because she and Chloe appeared to be the only two dressed for a costume party.

One uncle in particular, Uncle Bob, was especially kind to her, offering her food and drinks, and engaging her in conversation. He was an older man, older than Caitlin’s dad, and not nearly as fit. He was probably lonely. She knew that old people often felt lonely, and wanted to talk. She conversed openly with him, glad to have someone she felt comfortable with. She normally felt awkward around so many grown-ups.

Chloe vanished for a while, but finally resurfaced. For the party, Chloe had worn her hair in soft ringlets, and was dressed in what looked to Caitlin like baby-doll pajamas. She would have looked much younger than her years except that it was impossible to conceal those breasts, and Chloe made no attempt to do so.

Once Chloe had joined them, Uncle Bob excused himself, later returning with two tall, frosty drinks for the girls. Chloe thanked him and giggled as she took Caitlin by the hand and led her to a cozy window seat. There, they watched the crowd, poking fun at the antics and appearance of some of the adults. They laughed until Caitlin thought her sides would split.

After a while, Chloe went off to get them more drinks. It was this second drink that had made her feel so strange. When she told Chloe that she was feeling dizzy, and might need to throw up, Chloe seemed alarmed and led her to the bedroom in which she now lay. Chloe made sure she was comfortable, and promised to check on her in a little while, then left her alone on the soft mattress.

Caitlin had begun to doze off when she heard the door open. She wanted to open her eyes to see who it was, but she was having a good dream, and the sleep felt so good. She heard the sound of the light switch, and knew that the bedside table lamps had been turned off. The only light now filtered softly through the lacy canopy. It had a pinkish glow that made Caitlin feel safe and happy.

She opened her eyes a tiny slit, to see if Chloe was in the room with her, and was surprised to see Uncle Bob gazing down at her. Closing her eyes tightly, she pretended to be asleep so that he would return to the party and not worry about her. She knew she would be fine after she got a good night’s sleep. She did not plan to tell anyone about the drinks that made her feel funny. She didn’t want Chloe to get in trouble.

But Uncle Bob did not leave the room as she had hoped. Instead, he sat on the side of the bed and gently stroked her cheek. Then he put his big warm hands under her hip and shoulder, and gently turned her on her belly. She continued her pretense of sleeping, thinking that he meant to cover her with a blanket for the night.

Caitlin was surprised when he began to rub her back with one meaty palm as he slowly unfastened the buttons of her dress. An alarm went off in Caitlin’s head, but still she did not move. She did not want to make an embarrassing scene. What if he was just a senile old man, trying to make her comfortable? He had been so kind to her all evening, and he seemed like such a nice man.

However, when his hand slid under the hem of her dress and caressed her leg, alarm shot through her. Caitlin pounced from her prone position, flipping onto her knees to confront the old man. She was stunned to see that Uncle Bob was naked from the waist up. His sagging chest was covered in wiry white hair. In place of a waistline, his paunchy belly collided with love handles that overlapped his hips.

Uncle Bob smiled at her, but this time his eyes had a lecherous glint that made her stomach lurch.

What do you want? Why are you here? Caitlin tried to sound forceful, but her tongue felt thick and her voice betrayed her with a childish squeak.

Caitlin, you are such a pretty little thing. Let Uncle Bob hold you for a while. Uncle Bob knows you don’t feel well.

He was speaking to her as if she were two. He reached out and grasped her thigh. She squealed and skittered away.

Don’t touch me again or I’ll scream. This time her voice was strong and forceful. Her tone seemed to anger him.

You are a wicked little girl, and Uncle Bob is going to punish you. You should respect your elders. He flung out a giant paw and grasped her by the ankle, yanking her toward him as she screamed bloody murder.

She knew that Chloe and Aunt Renee would come running to her rescue as soon as they heard the screams. She only needed to fend him off until they got there. Clawing, biting and kicking, she struggled to loose herself from his hold. He only laughed, and held on tighter. The wrestling match went on for several minutes, until he seemed to tire of the game.

Furious now, he grasped her braids and pulled her head back with one hand, pinning her wrists over her head with the other. Exhausted, and pinned under his considerable weight, she knew she was no match for him. Maybe if she stopped fighting he would no longer be angry, and would stop tormenting her.

She opened her mouth to scream once more, but he smothered it with his own disgusting mouth as he unfastened the fly of his trousers.

After what seemed like a tortuous eternity, he finally lifted off of her. Numbly, Caitlin thanked God it was over. She stared listlessly at the canopy above. She felt so ashamed, so violated. She wanted to go home. She wanted her mother.

She wanted to die.

Chapter One

Jack Forrester had just begun to doze. The monotony of his job coupled with the cathedral-like silence of the early afternoon hallways at Pelican Beach Middle School had lulled him into the early stages of sleep. Arms folded, his chin rested on his chest, causing him to snore softly.

From the vantage point of the school’s entryway, the young cop appeared to stare intently at the screen of his computer monitor, his tortoise-shell reading glasses resting halfway down his nose as he focused on his work.

He had descended into a half-dream state, a bizarre blend of consciousness and fantasy. In his dream, Frank, his partner, was taking fire. His body lay jerking and writhing on the waxy linoleum of the school's foyer as bullets pummeled his flesh and a pool of blood spread beneath him. The gunshots were sharp and rhythmic, like the cadence of a march. Jack's eyes darted to and fro, trying to discern the source of the barrage, but he could not locate it.

Jack tried to rise, to dive to his partner's aid, but his left leg screamed with pain and he fell back to his seat, helpless and frustrated. He tried to draw his weapon, but his arms were paralyzed. He called out for help, but could muster only a muffled whimper, his voice as useless as his arms and legs.

A low drumming sound penetrated his consciousness, like rain blown by the wind against a glass pane. The rain pelted against Frank's now-still body, and a small river of blood streamed across the linoleum toward the large double doors of the school.

Jack sobbed, knowing that he had let his partner down. Frank was gone, and he had been powerless to help him. Jack knew he would live with the guilt forever, and dropped his chin to his chest in shame.

When his chin dropped, he jerked awake.

Before him, drumming her fingertips on the desktop to get his attention stood a young woman with a clear creamy complexion and cupid-bowed lips. Her piercing green eyes, accented with liner and fringed with dark lashes, turned slightly upward at the outer corners. Her expression was one of tempered patience, like a cat waiting to pounce on its quarry.

Jack jolted to full alertness, his glasses dropping to the desk as he tried to shake off the dream's bad vibe. Had he actually fallen asleep on the job?

Yes, ma’am, may I help you? Jack pushed himself to an erect posture, wincing as a sharp pain stabbed viciously deep within his left thigh. Damn leg always stiffened up when he sat for too long. Or slept. Proof, he thought, that he did not belong at a desk job.

Are you alright? She leaned toward him across the desk, concern for his apparent pain showing in her clear green eyes. Did he just call her ma'am?

Yeah, fine, leg fell asleep. Embarrassed, he overcompensated by attempting to look professional and cop-like, returning his glasses to the bridge of his nose and poising his wrists on the edge of his keyboard.

Looks like more than just a leg drifted off. The green eyes twinkled with amusement as the corners of her mouth curved upward in a mocking grin.

Jack’s expression softened, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he regarded her, accepting the friendly ribbing. Yes, ma’am. Now how may I help you?

Did he just call her ma'am again?

I’m Kathleen Monroe. I’m here to pick up Chelsea Cade from the school clinic.

Yes, ma’am, one moment. Jack’s fingers tackled the keyboard, entering Chelsea's name into the computer.

Kat cringed at the third ma'am. Maybe the cop thought she was Chelsea's mom. Did she look old enough to be the parent of a middle-schooler? She would have to start taking better care of herself. She would definitely hit the gym on her way home, once she got Chelsea where she needed to go.

Jack took pride in the fact that, in the short couple of weeks since he’d been posted at the school, he already knew so many of the thousand-plus students by name and/or reputation. His ability to process and retain important details was a skill that had served him well in the field. Now, he kept his skills honed while his leg healed by playing memory games with himself about the students and staff at the school.

He knew that Chelsea Cade was a popular girl, the daughter of a well-heeled and well-known local attorney. He also knew that, for a rich spoiled kid, she was friendly, polite, and easy-going, and seemed to get along with everyone.

Kat continued to smile patiently as Jack abandoned the keyboard and fumbled through the disordered pile of papers heaped on his desk. Finding the list of students waiting to be picked up from the clinic, he scanned it until he found Chelsea's name, then turned again to the computer, scrolling to the link that showed classified information, including who could and could not remove a child from the protective arms of the school. In addition to the child's mother, Ramona Cade, the file listed two other persons authorized to retrieve Chelsea Cade: Kathleen Colleen Monroe and Arthur Thomas Moore III.

At the third name, the hair on the back of Jack’s neck stood on end, a primal reaction he had learned to respect. Where had he seen or heard that name before? He pushed the query to a back burner, knowing that his sub-conscience would gnaw away at it until the answer came to him.

Turning his attention back to the young woman before him, he surmised that she must be Kathleen Monroe. She looked far too young to have a daughter Chelsea's age. Maybe an older sister?

"Yes, Ms. Monroe, the clinic is down the hall and to your right. I’ll just need to see some ID, and you’ll need to sign the form stating that you removed Chelsea from school. He pushed a standard form in her direction and handed her a pen.

Now it was his turn to be amused as she rummaged through her large, pricey-looking handbag in search of her driver’s license, pulling out tissues, a notepad, a cosmetic bag and a couple of other female items that almost made him blush.

His amusement was lost on her as she searched, finally waving her driver’s license overhead in triumph before setting it down on the desk in front of him.

Curious, he picked it up and scrutinized it closely. Height: 5'2"; Weight: 112; Birth Date: June 14, 1988. That would make her almost 25, he calculated; slightly older than she looks, and three years younger than he.

He looked up as she cleared her throat, tapping the pointed toe of her hot pink pump impatiently on the linoleum. Why was he studying her driver’s license so closely? Did he really doubt that she was authorized to pick up her employer’s daughter?

Smiling, he handed the license back to her, gazing into the green depths of her lovely eyes. Returning the smile, she thanked him, then spun about with the grace of a ballerina, her blonde hair swishing enticingly, her heels beating a cadence of retreat as she strode purposefully toward the clinic.

Watching her walk away, Jack took in the snug jeans that hugged her bottom and caressed her slender legs. In that moment, he experienced a modicum of gratitude that he had been placed on school patrol.

A vice detective, he had been injured in the line of duty six weeks earlier during a major drug bust, shot in the upper thigh. The bullet had come precariously close to his femoral artery, grazing the femur and lodging in the soft tissue of his quadriceps, along with tiny shards of bone.

After three weeks of aggressive post-operative physical therapy, Jack was eager to get back to work, but he knew it would be awhile before he was back on the street. In lieu of a desk job at the precinct, they had placed him on school duty, a rookie street cop’s job, and a humbling demotion for an eight-year veteran with five years’ experience working undercover vice.

His wound was slowly healing, but he still experienced sharp stabs of pain at unexpected moments, and he walked with a slight limp. Determined to recover fully, he spent his evenings at the gym, running and pumping iron, ignoring the pain and refusing to succumb to weakness. As one of his fellow cops, an ex-Marine, had advised him, pain was nothing more than the weakness leaving one’s body. He recited that adage each time the pain shot through his leg.

He knew the boss wouldn’t put him back into undercover work until he lost the limp, a distinguishing characteristic that could compromise an operation and put him and others in danger. And he knew that hard relentless training was the fastest route to full recovery.

Jack was deep in thought, planning that evening’s workout, when the crisp staccato once again penetrated his consciousness. Glancing up, he spotted Kathleen Monroe striding determinedly toward the exit, a sullen-looking twelve year old in tow. As Kat leaned into the crash bar on the heavy door, she seemed to sense his gaze. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled and waved at him, then pushed her charge ahead of her into the bright spring afternoon.

Kat walked briskly toward the car, rapidly increasing the distance between her self and the dawdling teen. Chelsea schlepped along at a snail’s pace, doing her best to look unwell. The otherwise perky girl had a history of faking sick, especially around that time of the month, which Kat strongly suspected was the case today. Chelsea had been uncharacteristically grumpy earlier that morning when Kat drove her and her friend Briana to school

On most days, Chelsea was a lovely child, though somewhat spoiled. Only beginning to develop, she still had narrow hips, long skinny legs and high tiny breasts. The carefully chosen and meticulously applied makeup, funky hairdo and fashion-forward accessories she sported made her look like a miniature super-model. Her café-latte complexion, long dark curly hair and startling blue eyes suggested she might be Brazilian, or southern European, but she was actually spawned from a gene pool brewed of her mother’s African American roots, and her father’s Scandinavian.

Chelsea's sperm donor, as she called biological father, was a law professor at Harvard, where Ramona Cade had earned her degree. Ramona had been seven months pregnant when she walked across the stage of Harvard Law’s graduating class of 2000, and had kept on walking.

Upon learning of the pregnancy, Dr. Ethan Karvonen had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with a bastard child, and begged Ramona to have an abortion. He had three teenagers of his own at the time of their illicit affair. God knew his wife would never have tolerated it, and he did not want a divorce. Despite his philandering, he relied on his wife to manage his life.

Ramona had taken his reaction in stride. Breaking off the relationship, she proceeded to set the wheels in motion to begin collecting child support the day the child was born. Rather than risk exposure, Dr. Karvonen, who was widely known in his field and who had authored numerous books, had wisely offered her a hefty cash settlement in lieu of a court order.

After much negotiation, which more than doubled the ante, Ramona accepted his generous offer. In addition to a cash payment of over a million dollars, she would receive a percentage of royalties from his publications for as long as Chelsea was a minor. Dr. Karvonen would also pay for Chelsea’s entire education, no matter how far she went in school.

Ramona had used half of the money to set up her law firm and invested the other half in solid up-and-coming companies like Microsoft, Apple and Starbucks, establishing a nest egg for herself and the child that promised financial security and stability for the rest of both their lives.

Not that she needed any help. As a prominent and busy trial lawyer and senior partner of her own firm, Ramona Cade had made millions of dollars from lawsuits against the government and large corporations. She was sometimes accused of exploiting the greed and opportunism of those less fortunate as a springboard to her own success and wealth. But the truth was that Ramona was a crusader. Having grown up in the public housing projects of Washington D.C., she was well acquainted with the myriad ways in which Corporate America exploited the poor and disenfranchised.

Ramona exhilarated in her success and fortune, but work was all consuming, and she relied heavily on hired help to raise and nurture her daughter. Carefully chosen nannies and housekeepers had always been a mainstay in Chelsea’s young life, but when her nanny of several years had given notice, Chelsea, then aged eleven, begged her mother to not treat her like a baby by hiring another.

Ramona thought long and hard about Chelsea’s request. She appreciated that Chelsea wanted to be more like her middle class friends, and did not want a middle-aged nanny hovering over her. At the same time, Ramona was increasingly strapped for time, and was seriously thinking of hiring a personal assistant to take up some of the slack by doing banking, shopping, and running various and sundry other errands that mortal folk tend to for themselves.

One nanny-less evening, while picking up her daughter from the ballet studio, Kat Monroe, Chelsea’s jazz and hip-hop teacher, caught up with her to remind her that costume fees were past due. Ramona had always liked the young woman, and Chelsea idolized her, babbling non-stop about Ms. Kat said this and Ms. Kat wore that, and on and on.

The late costume fees were just one more reminder of how Ramona no longer had time to see to the mundane details of daily life. As she dug in her Prada bag for her checkbook, Chelsea ducked under Kat’s arm, wrapping her arms affectionately around the teacher’s waist.

Are you really leaving the studio after recital, Ms. Kat? I don’t think I want to come to dance classes anymore if you won’t be here. Kat had just announced to her students that she would not be returning to teach the following fall. She loved her job, but it was only part time, a filler until she found a real job. Since the studio would be closed for the summer, she felt this was a good time to make a break.

She looked at the lovely young girl who was begging her to stay and felt a deep sadness. It was as though she were looking at herself at that age. She missed her mom so much!

I wish I could stay and be your teacher, Pumpkin, but I need to get a full-time job, she explained to her bereft student.

As Ramona filled out her check, she took in the exchange between her daughter and the dance teacher. The wheels in her sharp lawyer’s brain were rapidly turning. Not one to waste time or mince words once she arrived at a decision, she scrawled her private cell phone number on the back of a business card and handed it and the check to Kat. In her blunt and direct manner, she said, Ms. Monroe, call me in the morning. I would like to offer you a position.

Chapter Two

Up until the previous year, Kat had been dancing professionally with a modern dance company in New York City. When her mother became ill with terminal pancreatic cancer, she returned to Pelican Beach to be at her side. Her mom had passed away the previous January, just after the holidays.

Colleen Monroe had been a dancer in the corps of The Washington Ballet when she met the dashingly handsome Bobby Lapinsky. Though not overly tall at five-eleven, Bobby still towered over Colleen’s lithe five-foot four-inch frame. With the jet-black hair and intense blue eyes of his Lithuanian forebears, Robert Lapinsky was the handsomest man Colleen had ever seen.

Colleen Monroe was a delicate nymph, with emerald eyes, luminous ivory skin and curly red hair that hung to her waist. A true flower child of the 70s, Colleen lived life in a dream-state that always exposed the silver lining of