Acceptance: Confessions of a Soul, #2

By P.E. Chretien

Constance and Gabriel saga continues, as the truth of their lives and loves reveals itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.E. Chretien
• Release date: Mar 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393420569

P.E. Chretien

Lives in Burton Texas. With her family and her dogs.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The scent of freshly cut lemons hangs in the stale air of her bathing chamber. The light from the oil lamps dances across the slight ripples on the otherwise placid water, illuminating the pieces of fruit floating in the pool. Impatience hums in his veins as he waits in the corner, concealed by shadows. Waits for her arrival.

He muses that before she married the Roman, there had been no need to hide. Their rendezvous had been forbidden, but not so wrought with danger or so infrequent. The royal guards the pharaoh sent to protect her had looked the other way, believing only a pure Egyptian should have her, not a Roman. But now that she belongs to another, discretion has become necessary.

The sounds of heavy footsteps and masculine voices echo down the hall, causing his heart to race with a mix of excitement and fear. The strained creaks of the heavy wood door opening bounce off the stone walls with an intensity that heightens his senses. Adrenaline pumps through his veins at the possibility of being caught, causing his dick to grow in anticipation of her arrival.

Flashes from the torchlight streak across the water, showcasing the hundreds of lemons he has cut and placed in the pool for her. He remains hidden as the outline of a petite woman shuffles across the gritty stone. She stops, raising one hand and snapping her fingers. Without a word the door closes, sheltering the lovers from the world outside.

Sebastian sits up in his bed, and a chill triggers goosebumps on his arms. He clenches his biceps to warm himself, finding his skin slick with sweat. The dream hangs in his consciousness, clear as a bright sunny day, and he wonders if Constance can remember him the same way he remembers her. She belonged to me first, two thousand years ago in ancient Egypt. Long before the Roman came along. How can I jog her memory?

***

Bianca Cruz Vega stares at herself in the mirror, noting how tired she looks. Her husband's newfound interest in having sex with her in the middle of the night seems odd. I thought he preferred his secretary, Ruby, to me. Hey certainly reeks of her tawdry perfume quite often. She dabs more concealer under her eyes to hide the dark splotches and checks her Rolex.

I have time for coffee before I go to the club, she tells her reflection, and she marches out of her spacious bathroom, passing the bed Sebastian shares with her.

The disorderly sheets and copious pillows on the floor attest to the veracity with which Sebastian pounced on Bianca this morning, triggering a fleeting thought. Maybe I should sleep in the guest room. But her scalp begins to throb at the mere suggestion, recalling exactly how hard Sebastian can yank her hair, and she dismisses the idea. She is aware that, when they married certain things had been explained in great detail.

Sex. He could have sex with me anytime, anywhere and any way he wants.

For a poor waitress at the local ski resort, the chance to marry an American of such wealth had seemed like a dream, so she’d agreed, thinking at the time, How bad could he be? He’s sexy and skilled. But the fairytale had evolved into a nightmare of verbal and physical abuse at Sebastian's hands the moment they stepped foot off the plane in the United States. And divorce was out of the question, as Sebastian had made it clear she’d be penniless and sent back to Bolivia without her children, who were American citizens.

Bianca begins to walk down the stairs, but her husband’s angry shouts stop her midway. Fear of what she has or has not done creeps up her spine, and her hands begin to tremble.

I don't fucking care what you think, bitch. Sebastian growls. Collins can't tell me what to do.

She recognizes the tone as one he uses with his secretary, Ruby, and relief causes Bianca to sag to the step. She sits down, listening to the conversation and wondering why her husband has become so agitated with his business partner.

Order the gifts, he demands. And have Hugo deliver them. Now!

What gifts? Are they for another woman?

Thoughts of how blatantly her husband cheats demoralize Bianca even more. And an idea of how she might get away from him with her children begins to blossom in her mind.

***

Constance wakes to a chorus of yapping from her roommate Jerry’s Italian Greyhounds. The three stooges, Larry, Moe, and Kurly, leap onto her bed, followed by Twinkle, the tiniest of them all. You'd think someone was breaking into the house with the way they act.

Why can’t you wake your doggy dad? Constance asks Twinkle as she straightens the dog’s newest sweater. Pink-and-white houndstooth. Nice! she tells the petite pooch while the rambunctious fray continues. She pulls her pillow over her ears to stop the obtrusive racket that jerked her from fractured sleep.

But the recollection of helping her best friend out the door to catch a red-eye to Paris for a ready-to-wear buying trip of a lifetime comes into focus, and she understands why the pack has converged on her.

Stop it, guys. She groans and rolls over to her side to glance at the clock, but all she sees is a blur of red. Rubbing her burning eyes, she surmises that the hours of endless crying over Sam-Gabriel Collins, her termination from the Collins and Vega law firm, her banished status with her family, her destroyed phone, and the fact that she was now missing the start of the semester has something to do with it. My luck sucks all around. Thank God for Jerry and the fact that I’m his live-in dog nanny, or I wouldn’t have a roof over my head.

She pads her way across the worn hardwood of Jerry’s 1930s bungalow, heading to the kitchen. The pack crowds around the doggie door, and she flips the latch to unlock the panel. The dogs let themselves out, and she turns on the coffee maker. Leaning against the counter, Constance thinks about yesterday. The pot gurgles, and the first wisp of caffeine penetrates her stopped-up nose. All the disappointment and sadness come back to her in an instant.

Tears course down her cheeks. She buries her face in her hands, sobbing, and sinks to the cold, hard tile floor. She struggles with the excruciating pain lancing her body, which has nothing to do with her gunshot wounds but everything to do with her soul. It’s an ache that occupies her every waking moment.

The dogs come to her aid. Larry and Moe nip at her ears, and Kurly tugs the scrunchie out of her hair and shakes it like a toy. And Twinkle licks the tears right from her eyes.

Okay, guys. I'll stop. She giggles, pushing one dog back only for it to be replaced by another. Jeez, you won’t let me wallow in depression for even a little while?

She pulls herself together at the urging of her four-legged therapists and pours a cup of coffee. Opening the nearly empty refrigerator in search of creamer, Constance finds an ornate crystal bowl full of bright yellow lemons. The fancy dish sits on the top shelf right in the middle, as if it had been perfectly positioned not to be missed. 

The weight of the bowl surprises her, causing a subtle grunt to escape her mouth when she removes it and places it on the counter. She stares, inhaling the light scent the whole fruit emits, and the aroma triggers a picture to flash in her mind. It’s an image of cut lemons floating on water.

The single frame confuses her, and she tries recall ever seeing something similar before. One of the dogs barks, cutting her mental search short. Moe dances in front of her, his toenails clicking on the tile floor as if he’s asking a question.

I bet Stephan gave it to your dad before he left town. But what a strange thing to give another guy. Even if you are gay. She shrugs her shoulders and pats the dog on the head before placing the bizarre gift back in the fridge.

***

Gabriel inhales a jagged breath, attempting to fill his lungs and halt the sensation settling into his chest. He tries to pinpoint the exact word for it, equating it to pain. But he muses that it’s more like a hollow feeling, as if gravity no longer exists and his heart floats loose inside his chest, somehow disconnected from his body and leaving him numb yet trembling from the searing burn assaulting the vacant cavity.

The buttery soft leather of his office chair doesn't soothe the ache when he sinks into it. He stares at a series of candid shots he took of Constance, captured on his iPhone. In one, she sits in the coffee shop they frequented, waiting on him to arrive. Her pale pink lips pucker as she blows the steam off a cup of coffee. A lock of her blond hair had escaped from her loose bun and swings down, dangling close to her cheek and giving her an angelic air.

Scrolling to the next image, he examines every detail as she sips at the cup. Slender fingers wrap around the cardboard, so dainty and gentle. A distant trace of vanilla and brown sugar invades the air around him, and he knows it's a wistful figment of his imagination.

His somber mood of the last twenty-four hours provokes the nagging thought that he will never be able to clasp those delightfully warm hands and gaze into the depth of her serene blue eyes again. All because he took Sebastian Vega’s advice and didn't tell her who he was from the get-go.

The reminder steals what little composure he has in reserve, provoking him to pull back his arm in a baseball pitcher's stance, ready to hurl the phone across the room. But awareness dawns that it might destroy the precious images, and his arm collapses to his lap as if all his strength has dissolved.

Sitting in silence, he transfers the last photo to his desktop computer, setting the snapshot as his wallpaper. He glances at the screen, chuckling at the memory of her turning beet red when she realized there was milk foam clinging to the tip of her nose. The momentary bliss fills the void in his chest, but the amusement passes when he second-guesses the assignment he has given his best research attorney, Miss Lee. Was that the right thing to do? Do I even have a clue anymore? What am I trying to accomplish?

The chair creaks as he rises like a zombie. He wanders to the wet bar in the corner, grabbing an unopened bottle of Glen Fiddich 26. Pouring himself a shot, he lifts it to his lips, drawing in the aroma. He wrinkles his nose at the musty stench and downs the amber liquor in one gulp. It blazes a trail down his throat, and he chokes, coughing so hard it almost comes back up through his nose.

The smell of his own breath elicits a wheeze from his lungs. The fumes cause his eyes to sear and moisten. He grabs a highball glass, filling it with water, first swooshing it in his mouth, and spitting the contents into the sink. Shit! Acquired taste my ass. That's awful.

He lifts his wrist to wipe the fetid odor of peat from his lips, and his stomach involuntarily heaves. Chugging the tepid water, he leans against the counter as the alcohol begins to have the desired effect of dulling the suffering he has endured all day. His fingers tighten into a chokehold around the bottle’s neck, and he clutches it to his chest. Leaving the cap on the counter, he trudges to the couch, flops down, and props his feet on the glass table. Taking another swig, he replays the marching orders he gave Miss Lee yesterday evening. Right after being kicked out of Constance's house.

***

The best investigative attorney you have is that Lee girl. Cynthia eases down into the guest chair in front of his desk. But, Gabe, you can't take her around the clients. She's so smart that she annoys almost everybody. Hell, she even irritates me. She's just mega strange.

I have something I need her to check out for me. Will you ask her to come up here? he asks and eases back into his chair.

Cynthia grabs the phone on his desk, punching in a few numbers. Miss Lee...Mr. Collins has a project. Can you come up and get the details on it right now? ...Yes, thank you. She returns the receiver to the cradle adding.

She only works at night for some reason. Cynthia shrugs her shoulders. Gabe, sorry about your love life. Do you want me to do anything like, oh, maybe call the florist and sign one of those uber passionate cards for you?

That's not a suggestion. That's an order. He considers Cynthia’s the more traditional approach to soothing ruffled feathers, but the idea of anything other than this project seems to miss the mark. No! I'm giving Constance this research project. It’s like an olive branch.

Damn, Gabe, aren't you just the hopeless romantic? She gets up, turning to walk out. Do you need anything else? I'm going home.

Yes. He props his elbows on his desk, leaning in, and Cynthia follows his lead, meeting him halfway. I don't want anyone to know about this little foray into the twilight zone, he whispers. If Lee needs anything, use one of my personal credit cards.

Why are you whispering? Cynthia snaps and stands up straight. And what are you talking about?

This research. He grumbles and rakes his bangs out of his eyes.

Look, Gabe, I don't know what you're up to. And I'm guessing I don't want to know. But flowers, candy, cards, and especially jewelry have the power to help women forget a man's bad behavior. Just remember that. She shakes a finger at him before she spins on her heels and marches to the door. Flinging it open, Cynthia nearly bumps in to Miss Lee. The petite woman has her hand raised as if poised to knock.

Good night, Gabe. Cynthia calls over her shoulder as she sidesteps around the female attorney. Remember that just the sight of a blue Tiffany's box has been known to bring on amnesia.

Gabriel stands, motioning for the researcher to have a seat. Please come in, Miss Lee.

Yes, sir. The tiny Asian woman in her late twenties strides into his office. She pushes her glasses up on her nose and brushes her disorderly hair away from her face.

Gabriel eyes her disheveled clothing, two sizes too large for her petite frame, as she moves toward the chair and takes a seat. She tightens her hasty ponytail by yanking two fistfuls of hair, not bothering with the tendrils hanging loose. Tugging the bottom corner of her sweatshirt up, she wipes the smudges from her enormous glasses.

Gabriel studies her for a moment, wondering if Jerry might like a project of his own. He banishes the thoughts, not wanting to embarrass Miss Lee. I have an oddball theory that I need someone impartial to prove or disprove. He moves around his desk to sit in the second visitor's chair. This project is never to be discussed with anyone but me. Is that clear? He wags his finger in a no-no gesture. Top secret.

Yes, sir.

I need you to listen to this audio file and see if any trace of this attorney can be found. Gabriel turns his laptop around on the desk.

May I hear it now? The small woman scoots forward in her seat. Just in case I have any questions?

Yes. Gabriel double clicks on the cassett tape icon, and the two of them listen to Constance's session with Dr. Le Blanc.

Sir, um, is that what I think it is? One of her dark eyebrows raises above the rim of her frames. Because it's not something I would ever have thought you would entertain.

Well. Gabriel clears his throat. I don't. But a friend of mine does. What a crock. I would never jump through such irrational, unprovable, and quite frankly insane hoops like these for a friend. In spite of his outright skepticism, the need to please Constance and make a soul connection outweighs his doubt. Do you think you can work with this information or not?

Yes. She leans back. But I'm probably going to need to travel to Chicago.

Fine. Gabriel stands.

Sir. May I ask which way you lean on this subject? She speaks as she types into her smartphone, not bothering to make eye contact.

That’s irrelevant. Gabriel states, with no inflection. Either this attorney existed or he did not. That's all I need to know.

You should know that I'm an atheist.

Good, Miss Lee. Because I want the kind of evidence that you would present to a jury. Names, dates, photographs, birth and death certificates. Hard evidence. Gabriel pounds his fist into the palm of his hand, emphasizing his last two words.

I'll leave tonight. She holds up her phone. There's a flight out of Intercontinental that leaves around midnight.

***

Gabriel reaches forward, eyeing the three different versions of the coffee table, trying to place the now half-empty bottle of Scotch on one of them. The thought occurs to him that he should have stopped his little pity party at the two-thirds mark. His arm waves left, then right, as he chases the surface in his vision and plunks the bottle down hard on the table’s glass surface. He ignores the sharp crack and the tinkling of fragments hitting each other as they fall to the Berber area rug. Slumping to his side, he watches the room spin for a minute before the urge to close his eyes overtakes him.

***

Cynthia's chancletas smack the pristine white marble, echoing throughout the faintly lit corridor of the seventh floor as she half-runs toward her boss's office. The phone call she received from James Dixon at 2:38 a.m. had her scrambling to pull on a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt. While James had insisted Gabriel was not injured, telling her, Take your time and don't wreck, she hadn’t followed his advice, instead breaking every speed limit to get to the building as quickly as she could.

The weighty door to Gabriel's office strikes the bookshelves behind it with a dull thud when she flings it open in her panic. JD, the firm’s head of security, sits at Mr. Collins’s desk, backlit by Houston’s nighttime skyline. Dixon leans forward, switching on the barrister lamp and bathing the room in subdued golden glow. His massive shoulders drop a fraction as he makes eye contact with her. She stares into the deep brown of his eyes, searching for reassurance.

His dark-hued skin hides his expression, and it sends a tremor up Cynthia's spine. Slapping her hand over her mouth to stop from screaming, What’s wrong? Why couldn’t you just tell me over the phone? she stops at the threshold.

He assesses her for a moment before leaping to his feet with a look of alarm creasing his forehead. "Hey, chica. I told you he was all right."

The six foot six, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man lurches toward her and wraps his warm arms around her in a tender hug.

The strong smell of alcohol floats in the air, causing her to tear her attention away from the kind gesture. She turns from the soothing embrace to search for the source of the problem. Her eyes dart around, finding that the glass top of the ultra-modern coffee table has been shattered. Nestled among the chrome base and chunks of frosted glass lies a bottle of Glen Fiddich 26 given to Gabe by a client just last week.

The bottom of the bottle is situated next to the neck in a pool of sharp fragments and high-dollar booze. She pushes against JD's chest, trying to break free of his hold, wanting to scramble toward the lanky figure face down on the Barcelona sofa.

James encircles her waist with one strong arm, sweeping her off her feet. She squeals like a little girl when he cradles her but grunts her annoyance as he plants her ass on Gabriel's desk with a thud. He grabs one of her ankles, gently propping her bare heel on his thigh. With thick fingers, he plucks a shard of glass from the bottom of her flip-flop and holds it out for her to see, warning her of the danger to her exposed toes. Then he eases her foot down, where it dangles just off the floor.

Pointing a tentative finger at her boss, she whispers, What's wrong with him?

James marches toward Gabriel, the remnants of the tabletop grinding under the soles of his boots. He shakes the prone man's shoulder, an intoxicated groan fills the silence, and he rolls Gabe to his side.

He's trashed. JD looks back at her with a questioning expression and says, But why? I don't think I've ever heard of him drinking. Much less downing that much hard liquor.

Shit, Gabe. You've got it bad. Cynthia tries to slide from the desk, but JD shakes his head.

What? James walks back to her. 

Miss Hebert kicked him to the curb last night. She crosses her arms and shakes her head in disapproval.

Why would she do that? He sits down next to her, bumping his hip into hers and inching her over to make room on the desktop.

She glances sideways, flashing him a coy grin. Oh, probably because nice girls don't like being lied to. Her fingers curl over the rounded edge of the desk, and she swings her legs like a smitten twelve-year-old.

Well, we need to take him home. He nudges her elbow and points at her passed-out boss on the couch. He's gonna feel like shit when he wakes up.

I love Gabe like a brother, he did so much for me and the boys, after Alex was mur—

Your husband? JD pauses. Did they ever catch the driver?

No. She sits up straight, not wanting to revisit the pain of her best friend, lover, and soulmate’s death.

In the years following the hit-and-run, the HPD family had been there to help her out whenever she called. But Gabe always knew what she needed without her even saying a word. He had acted like an older brother rather than a boss, giving her time to grieve and even getting her oldest son into the pricy Catholic high school when he started hanging out with the wrong crowd.

But as a woman, Cynthia says, sliding off the desk, careful not to step on any glass, despite James’s raised eyebrows, and snaps, I think he deserves to feel like hell.

***

Constance glances at the stark white walls of her new office and jerks when she hears a ring. Instinctively, she reaches out to grab the receiver but pauses to stare at the blood-red antique kettle phone from the forties. It's distinctive knell chimes again, and she notes there are no papers or even a computer atop the black lacquer desk. The bizarre telecommunication throwback is the sole item. A sense of unease hangs in the air, and the ringer sounds for the third time. Just as her finger touches the handset, it stops. But somehow she knows it's her new boss summoning her.

Standing, she rubs her sweaty palms down the side of her hips to straighten her attire, but she finds that she’s not dressed in business clothes at all. She looks down to see crude leather sandals strapped to her feet and a long, white linen dress that’s so sheer it’s see-through.

A door mysteriously opens in the previously blank wall across from her empty desk, and she wonders where it comes from. Apprehension builds, but despite her angst, she walks through the threshold into a room that looks more like an old-world library than an office.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, stuffed with volume after volume of dusty law books, flank a massive fireplace. The scale of the black marble hearth can only be compared to a garage door, and it blazes with an entire cord of wood. The heat it generates burns her skin, and she recalls the sun searing her pale flesh in the Egyptian rock quarry.

The flashback makes her tremble, and the need to flee struggles with the compulsion to uncover the truth, to uncover an answer to a question that dances on the fringe of her mind—a question she can't put into words yet.

Two wingback chairs face the inferno, both covered in deep oxblood leather, and situated between the pair sits a small round table. She can't tell who’s seated in the chairs, but the deep masculine laughter that emanates from the unknown occupants unnerves her. Wary, she continues her approach in a slow and measured gate.

The man to the right places a half-full crystal highball on the table, and the smell of expensive Scotch assaults her nose. Cigar smoke billows upward from the chair on the left, and an arm reaches out to tap the ashes from the hot end into a glass bowl.

Come ’ere, baby. The voice originates from the seat on the left, and she steps in next to the man. He reaches out, snaking a long, suit-clad arm around her waist and yanking her closer, and she sees the face for the first time.

The flames from the fire reflect in one of his amber eyes, but a lock of dark coarse hair obscures the other. She searches her soul, trying to understand why he appears so different when she knows it’s Gabriel Collins. Her throat tightens, and she tries to swallow the developing lump when she realizes this is her Roman general.

He holds a thick cigar between his index and middle fingers while still cupping the glass in his palm. He gestures a cheers toward the man opposite him, and she glances his direction. Her visceral response to the sight of Sebastian Vega slams into her chest, making her stomach roll. She squirms, trying to inch from Gabriel's grip, but his hold only tightens.

Gabriel raises the cigar and puffs, releasing a billowing cloud of smoke that almost chokes her. He slides his hand to her ass and begins to massage it, a show clearly for his partner, and says with a husky laugh, What's mine is yours, Sebastian. Just like we agreed prior to the start of this round of our little game. But I do believe the rules established the winner gets first crack.

Sebastian nods, smirking at her, and licks his lips before tossing back the remainder of the amber liquid in his tumbler. The men break out into jeering chuckles, and she pulls away from Gabriel, running back in the direction she came. But the door has disappeared, and she cannot find a way out.

Constance awakens to the strangled cry from her own mouth, tears flow down her cheeks, and she gasps for air. Would he really do that to me?

The answer bubbles up her throat with a tsunami of bile behind it, and she sobs the words, Y-yes, yes he would.

***

She stands straight with her chin high as the water of her bathing pool laps at her full hips. Circling her naked body, he carefully washes the sand and grit from her delicate skin. He squeezes the water from her long black hair and twists it into a messy knot at the nape of her neck. Retreating one step, he admires the flawless alabaster skin of her back. The warm flicker from the torches bounces off the limestone walls, accentuating the silky smooth texture, and his need to touch her grows between his legs.

He clutches a jar from the pool’s chiseled edge and pours a few drops of the contents into his palm, beginning to rub his hands together to coat them in the fragrant oil. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he massages the tight muscles until she begins to moan.

Snaking his arm around her waist, he walks her to the edge of the pool. With one hand securing the back of her neck, he pushes her chest to the stone. She rubs her perfect ass against his erection and groans. His hand, still slick from the massage oil, moves between her butt checks, and he pushes two fingers inside her hot folds, finding her body ready for him.

The piercing sound of Sebastian's alarm clock interrupts his reverie. He slaps at the snooze bar, knocking the clock to the floor with a crash. Rolling to his back, he grips his erection and strokes as he stares at the coffered ceiling above his head. He closes his eyes and imagines sinking into Constance from behind. Aftera few quick swipes of his rough palm, he comes with a growl.

Panting,