Inamorata

By Maggie Wells and Margaret Ethridge

The sequel to Paramour.

 

After twenty-five years of cooling his jets in a wall sconce, Frank DeLuca figured the afterlife owed him a break. Hadn't he been a model ghost? He didn't possess little kids, screw up the television reception, or throw random objects across the room just to get attention. Hell, he never even made creepy noises in the dead of night.

All he asked was a peaceful existence where someone would turn him on every once in a while. The light, that is. He needed just a little bit of light in his afterlife. Instead, he got a sullen, silent little boy who cried for his mommy every night. The kid came with a set of hyper-tense grandparents whose marriage was crumbling under the weight of old insecurities and words left unspoken. As if that weren't enough to drive a guy to hide out in his light fixture, providence tossed in a little a spitfire of a girl who flipped his switch in every way.

Gina Ferro turned out to be the kid's mother. She also happened to be a ghost.

Thrown together by Fate and bound by history, Frank and Gina must learn to trust each other with the keys to their pasts in order to unlock their eternity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maggie Wells
• Release date: Sep 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393422297

Maggie Wells

Maggie Wells is a deep-down dirty girl with a weakness for hot heroes and happy endings. By day she is buried in spreadsheets, but at night she pens tales of people tangling up the sheets. The product of a charming rogue and a shameless flirt, this mild-mannered married lady has a naughty streak a mile wide.

Book preview

Prologue

I didn’t need the click of the lock to tell me I was trapped. I was trapped the moment I first laid eyes on Jerry Zelinski. I should have listened to my parents, but I was just nineteen at the time. Nineteen-year-old girls don’t listen to a thing their parents tell them, and I certainly wasn’t one to buck a trend. I could see that the guy was way too old for me. That was part of his charm. He was even older than my dad, which made my parents somewhat insane. Bonus points for me. But Jerry looked nothing like my dad. He acted decades younger, dressed miles more fashionably, and talked to me like I was a woman—something my parents hadn’t quite figured out yet. He was also an asshole. Unfortunately, it took me way too long to figure that out, and when I did it was too late. Way too late.

There were too many nights like this. Nights when the deadbolt’s thunk made my heart stop then slowly sink into my stomach. Things weren’t going the way I wanted—at all. I was hoping he’d come home, drink a couple of beers, and retreat to the garage. That seemed to be all he wanted to do lately, and I was more than happy to let him have at it. I had plans of my own. Plans that involved the suitcase stashed behind the front hedge, the overstuffed diaper bag I’d hidden inside the abandoned dog house in the neighbor’s yard, and getting the hell out of this house without fists flying.

Hey. I kept my voice pitched low and soft and my gaze fixed on the locked door. The flutter in my stomach wasn’t from excitement. The knot in my throat was cold enough to burn, but I melted it by swallowing my pride. Again. I had to keep it together. The last thing I wanted to do was get Jaden all wound up. Bad enough I dosed a perfectly healthy little boy with Dimetapp to get him to go to sleep early. How was your day?

Jerry tossed his keys onto the hall table and crossed his arms over his chest. Dinner?

I did my best not to flinch, but it wasn’t easy. I knew that stare and the tone. His tight-lipped smile chilled me to the bone. Um, pork chops. My voice was a wisp. I fought the urge to cringe, taking comfort in the way his smile warmed a degree or two. Jerry liked it when I let the fear slip.

I stood my ground, refusing to shrink from his hand when he reached for me. His fingertips dug into my bicep. Pork chops?

Yeah. Uh, potatoes. M-mashed. Like you like them.

I hated myself for stammering. I hated him for turning me into a babbling idiot. I wanted to bolt for the door, run down the street, and never look back. But I couldn’t do that. Not without Jaden. Never without my baby boy.

Mashed like I like ‘em, baby doll?

I sucked air, gulping the hot, fetid breath he expelled. His gut prodded my churning stomach. It took everything I had not to recoil. If I pulled away, he’d only come after me harder. Forcing a shaky smile, I nodded like a bobble-head doll. No lumps.

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Of course, I never know what it’s going to be. I had no way of knowing what the hot-button would be until his knuckles hit my cheekbone and stars imploded in my head, shimmering bright white before fading to a fuzzy black.

The backhand was just the opening act. I knew Jerry would make sure I earned my lumps with lumps—for a lack of lumps. Stupid potatoes. His smile widened. He let me go before swinging again. He always let me go at the start. Like a lion stalking his prey, he liked to tease me with the possibility of escape before coming at me. He was bigger, meaner, and he knew I had nowhere to go. At least, he thought I had nowhere to go. This time he struck with a closed fist. Another hunk of a fist landed in my stomach, forcing the breath from my lungs.

Is there applesauce?

I stumbled back, raising my hands in a lame attempt to protect my face even though I knew that would only make him swing harder. I was right. My left ear burst into flames. I fell into the hall table. The mosaic vase that cost me two fractured ribs six months ago teetered then smashed to the floor at my feet. My muzzy brain hummed like a high-voltage wire. A low, keening wail sliced through the drone of pain, tweaking my last nerve.

Oh God, no. Don’t wake the baby.

Jerry, please!

The whispered plea fell on deaf ears. He caught my hand and squeezed until we both heard something crack. The soft snap pinged off the walls. Jaden’s cries intensified, and Jerry laughed. He loved breaking the tiny bones in my hands and feet. Maybe it was his way of keeping me from reaching for more, or a way to thwart any plans to run away. Whatever the reason, it always made him happy.

I yanked my hand from his grasp and reeled into the living room, careening off an end table in my haste to draw him away from the bedrooms. The lamp I glued together the day after I taped my own cracked ribs shattered at his feet. He grabbed me at the waist. His grip seared through my skin, melted muscle, and bit into my bones. For a moment, I thought he’d pulverize me, crushed me into dust like the bits of glass beneath his boots.

Simple question, baby doll, he said in a low, menacing voice. Is— He punctuated with a slap so gentle it stole my breath. There— Another heart-stopping tap of his fingertips. Applesauce to go with my fucking pork chops, Gina? he finished in a whisper.

Fear. Honest-to-goodness terror twisted around my heart like a tourniquet. Jaden ramped up to a full-fledged scream and I did my best not to react, but Jerry could read my mind. He shifted to the right, blocking my path to the bedroom but giving me a clear shot at the front door. I squelched the instinct for flight. He knew there was no way I was going anywhere. Not without my baby.

Did you wanna go somewhere, baby doll?

Everything inside me went hard and cold. Smokey fingers of dry ice seeped from my lungs, stealing the moisture from my throat and cracking my lips. I stared at the man I was stupid enough to think I loved once upon a time, the man I was too young and naïve to see clearly.

Now, I could see that the man I thought was a force of nature was nothing more than a middle-aged bully. Jowls quivered at his once-square jaw. The gray in his hair was overtaking the blond, and his once-muscular arms were more flab than flex. His paunch stretched his stained work shirt to its limits and verified Jerry’s love for all things fried. Danger wafted from his oversized pores, the kind of danger only a stupid nineteen-year-old girl could find intriguing. It permeated the air, overpowering the cheap cologne he bathed in each morning, and smothering every flicker of common sense her parents had ever tried to instill.

I saw you packed a bag. He hauled her up against his chest. Did you think I wouldn’t see it, Gina? I see everything. He shook me so hard my teeth clacked. Everything!

Jaden’s cries reached fever-pitch, hitting octaves that made dogs howl and his father furious. A flush of anger evened Jerry’s mottled skin tone, painting his entire face a dull tomato red. His pulse leapt in his throat. The faint throbbing captured my attention, the flash of vulnerability lulling me into a false sense of security.

Mama-mama-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma!

He called for me. The abject fear in my baby’s teary voice tore at me. I had to save him. I was the only one who could save us both. The shards of calm, cool calculation sparkling in Jerry Zelinski’s silver-blue eyes lit a fire inside me. Human. He was just a human. Not Superman, not God. He was nothing but a big bully of an old man who liked to hit women. A coward. A human coward.

I’m leaving.

His fingers went slack. He stepped back, and for one sparkling moment I actually thought he would let me go. I don’t know why I would think that. I knew better. Still, I had to try. I made it one step toward the bedroom, went for two, and almost three before he caught me by my ponytail. He wrapped it around his fist and I cursed the day I let him beat the urge to chop it all off out of me.

The savage tug yanked a yelp from me. I hated myself for giving him the satisfaction. But hating myself wasn’t much of a stretch these days. I just went with it, letting my muscles go lax as he spun me around. Leaving? he growled. Who said?

The ice in his eyes trampled my last nerve. I felt my lips quiver and clamped them shut. Tears gathered in my eyes.

Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma.

A sob tangled in my throat. I choked on the oxygen I so desperately needed. Jerry, please.

The bastard smiled. He actually had the balls to smile at me as he unfurled his hand. Please, what, sweetheart?

My scalp pulsed with relief even as my heart threatened to leap from my chest. I wasn’t proud of the tremor in my voice. The whimpering plea wasn’t my finest moment, but fine moments weren’t my specialty. It seemed all I’d done for the past four years was dig myself deeper and deeper. I had to go. I had to get out. For Jaden’s sake I had to go, no matter what.

Let me go.

His eyebrows sprang up, etching deep furrows in his perma-tanned brow. Let you go? A laugh rumbled from his chest. "Let you go?"

I took a hasty step back, desperate to put a little distance between us, anxious to get to Jaden. Every cry pulled at me, tugging my heartstrings, permeating every fiber of my being. I knew where this was going. We’ve been here before. Jaden was my rock, and his father was my hard place. Before I could think them through, the words tripped from my lips.

"Let us go. You don’t love us. Let us go."

You can go whenever you want, baby doll, but if you try to take my son... He shook his head. Try it, Gina. Just try. The implied threat snuffed my hopes for a peaceful exit. His only-when-it’s-convenient need to recognize his paternity fueled an inferno of resentment.

"My son! I flung my arms wide, fear and frustration overruling common-sense and crushing what little instinct for self-preservation I had left. He’s my son. I carried him. I gave birth to him. I take care of him. My voice trembled with rage and resignation. This time, nothing was going to stop me. Jaden and I would be free. I had to do this. For once, I had to stand up. I’m the one who loves him. He’s mine!"

Then I made the biggest mistake of my life. I turned my back on Jerry Zelinski.

The first blow buckled my knees. The second sent me sailing.

I heard my skull crack inside and out, but I didn’t feel a thing. My mind kept racing, Jaden kept crying, but I couldn’t get to him fast enough. Random bits and pieces of me were escaping, leaking out onto the floor. I tried to cling to them. Even as the soles of his boots scuffed the floor beside me, I did my best to gather my thoughts, feelings, and tidbits of information before he trampled them. Those tiny little fragments of this and that were mine, not his, and I’d be damned if I left them scattered all over his floor. They were mine. Like Jaden.

Stupid bitch, he grumbled. I heard his knees creak as he knelt beside me. His scent enveloped me. The mixture of motor oil, drugstore aftershave, and danger flooded my senses and left me paralyzed.

The thump of tiny feet hitting the floor jolted me from my stupor. I gave up on my brain and focused on my heart. I had to move. I had to get to him before Jerry did.

Get up, Gina.

Sleeper-clad feet whispered across hardwood. I wanted to call out to him, to warn my baby that the monster wasn’t under the bed or in the closet, but right here, pressing his greasy, smelly fingers to my throat.

Mamamamamama.

The sweet lilt of his tiny voice was carried off by the roar of blood in my ears.

Fuck. Jerry drew his hand away as if he’d been scalded. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck. His breath came rough and ragged. The floor shook when he fell back on his ass.

I turned to stare at him. His eyes grew round as saucers, and his face blanched. A rush of pleasure prickled my scalp, racing through my veins and stirring up an almost sexual tingle low in my belly. Jaden slid to a stop beside him, but Jerry scrambled away, crab-walking his way to the foyer where he dug in his heels and used the door as the leverage he needed to push to his feet.

Fuck! The word exploded from him as he flung the door open wide and backpedaled as fast as he could.

All I wanted was my baby. I had to stop him. There was no way in hell I’d let Jaden go through that door. Not without me.

Jaden.

My lips formed his name, but no sound came out. I scrounged up a little more strength and tried again. I know I did it right. There was no way I’d forget how; I’d crooned it every morning and every night. I whispered it while he slept. I snapped it when he squashed my patience. Still, my baby reached for his father, stretching up on his tippy-toes and lurching forward.

No.

I think I got the word out. I must have because Jaden stopped. I heard a thump as he fell to his hands and knees, still a slave to momentum. Something brushed my hand as his little feet shuffled toward the door. I reached for him, my fingers closing reflexively around his magical little hand. He was warm and soft. Only my baby could be so soft. And sweet. Too sweet.

The door latch clicked. Silence hummed. A car engine roared to life. Tires squealed. I sucked in a shallow breath, grounded by the plush warmth of my baby beneath my fingers. It took another full minute to register that I wasn’t holding Jaden but the floppy plush rabbit he slept with every night.

Of course, that name came too easily. George.

A surge of panic burbled inside me. I tried to move but the giant anvil someone dropped on my chest pinned me to the floor. Bile rose in my throat. I tried to form my baby’s name again, but my lips were fat and fuzzy. Just when I thought I would explode, sleeper-clad toes rammed my bruised ribs and I melted into a pile of mommy-goo. The hands that pressed my cheeks were damp with that little boy stickiness that never washed off.

Ma-ma-ma-ma. Geddup.

I tried to smile. I wanted to get up, but my eyelids were heavy. Too heavy. The acrid scent of ancient ashes filled my nostrils. The rough brick of the fireplace surround pulled at my hair. The smoke alarm announced that the pork chops were now officially over-cooked.

Not to be outdone, Jaden went into full-on meltdown mode. Big, fat teardrops rained onto my face and neck. The oppressive weight of distraught toddler squished the last breath from my lungs. I didn’t care. All that mattered was that Jerry Zelinski stumbled out into the night without his precious pork chops and without his son.

My hand clenched into a tight fist, crushing poor George-the-stuffed-rabbit’s foot. A smile twitched the corners of my mouth. I clung to the bunny, my baby clung to me, and all was finally right in my world. George brought us all a little good luck that night.

Jerry was gone and Jaden was safe. I could die a happy woman.

I win.

1

Elise Ferro held her breath as she watched her grandson turn in a slow circle. Jaden’s wide brown eyes skimmed over the walls of the freshly painted bedroom. Her knees popped when she squatted beside him. Half-afraid he’d bolt for the door, she wrapped her fingers around toothpick-skinny arms. She missed the soft, sweet rolls of baby fat that melted away to reveal the solemn little boy at her side. She surveyed the room, trying to take it all in from his perspective, but she couldn’t quite swing it. Too many hours were spent obsessing over every little detail, choosing every puzzle and game, debating this color or that fabric. It was stupid, really. At barely three and a half, Jaden couldn’t care less about any of it.

Still, she couldn’t give up. She never gave up. Scanning the room, she searched for something, anything that might make an impression. It didn’t need to be big. All she needed was a squeak or a grunt. It didn’t even have to be a word. Any little noise would do. If she had to, she’d die trying to break the unnatural silence before it swallowed her whole.

A bookcase loaded with toys, games, and cheerful picture books stood against the far wall. His dark gaze tripped right over it, unfocused and unseeing. Ignoring the pang of panic tweaking her belly, she turned him in that general direction. Look at all the toys, Jay.

Her grandson was unimpressed by the bounty. His eyes filled with tears as he hugged the ragged stuffed rabbit to his narrow chest. Her stomach sank to her toes. She eyed the grungy plaything with distaste, her gaze drifting to the clean, new plush animals lining one of the shelves. How sad was it for a grown woman to have a stuffed bunny for an arch-nemesis? Yeah, pretty damn pathetic.

Gulping her pride, she patted his arm. The gesture was jerky and awkward. Even after eight months in her care, every interaction with her grandson felt as stiff as a new pair of jeans. Hey, it’s okay. No one is going to take your bunny.

Jaden clutched the rabbit tighter and backed out of the room she’d so painstakingly furnished for him. Everything new—the bed, the bedding...Hell, if she could have ordered bedbugs online, she would have, just to be sure they were new bedbugs and not the bedbugs leftover from a life best left behind.

The therapist said not to push it, so she didn’t. Or she tried not to push it. Sometimes it was just too hard to pull back. She was all he had now. Well, she and Nick. His mother was dead, and his father… Well, the monster who killed her baby would never hurt anyone again. Watchful neighbors had put Jaden’s father at the scene at the time of Gina’s murder. A savvy police detective procured a confession, and the prosecuting attorney pushed the judge to order the maximum sentence on Jerry Zelinski’s plea bargain. He wouldn’t be seeing even the possibility of parole until he was a very old man. Jaden was safe. Now it was her job to make sure he felt safe enough to open up to the grandparents he hardly knew.

Ignoring the creak and crackle of her knees, she pushed to her feet instead. She dried her damp palms on the seat of her jeans then offered her hand. Jaden tipped his head back, his expression wary, but the tiny palm that pressed against hers was heartbreakingly familiar. His pinky slipped into the crease between her index and middle fingers and a lump rose in her throat. Just like his mother, all those years and just a few seconds ago. Casting one last glance at the loaded shelves, she pasted a bright smile on her face.

Want to go watch Grandpa and the big guys unload the truck?

Somber and silent, Jaden nodded. His tiny tennis shoes scuffed hardwood, almost as if he was reluctant to leave. When he cast a longing look over his shoulder, she smothered a smile. Perhaps this move might not be such a bad decision after all.

The scent of fresh-cut grass wafted into the kitchen, announcing her husband’s presence before the storm door hissed and clicked behind him. Camellia Stafford Mitchum took a deep hit, inhaling a greedy gulp as she turned to greet him. The man was shirtless. The fact that the calendar flirted with October mattered naught. Thank the lord for Indian summer.

His skin was as sun-kissed as the day she first laid eyes on him, his dark hair was burnished with the hints of red that made her fingers itch to touch, and he still moved with a loose-limbed grace that made her heartbeat dance a mambo. In her book, there was nothing sexier than sweaty Brad Mitchum fresh from a run.

Hey, Eugene. She used his nerdy middle name to take him down a notch when he looked a little too tempting. Brad thought she did it just to annoy him. She figured it was a bonus, either way.

Moving van out there, he reported with a nod toward the front of the house. He mopped the sweat from his forehead with the balled-up t-shirt in his hand. Looks like they have a little boy.

The news squelched the urge to ogle her husband. Leading with her belly, and momentarily forgetting her lack of X-ray vision, Cam whirled toward the front of the house. They’re finally moving in?

He caught her before she could bolt for the picture window in the living room. His hand skimmed her side, streaking over the broad expanse that was once her waist and sliding down to settle on her hip. His lips brushed her hair and she forgot where she was going. Looks that way.

The scent of grass clippings tinged with the musk of masculine sweat tingled her senses. Her knees went wobbly, but that was nothing new. Her hormones were zinging all over the place these days. She exhaled slowly, sinking into his embrace. I’m so glad.

Nuzzling her ear, he brushed her hair back with his nose and tickled her sensitive skin with his warm breath. A serene smile tipped her lips when those long artist’s fingers molded to the curve of her stomach. He held their unborn baby in the palms of his warm, sure hands. I know.

He did know. Brad knew better than anyone why the vacant house two doors down left her feeling unsettled. That was her house. Well, not anymore, but for over twenty years it was. She’d sold her childhood home nearly three years before when she agreed to marry the guy almost-next-door. Only Brad knew how much it pained her to see the only real home she had ever known standing vacant for much of that time.

The older couple who purchased the home from Cam won a quarter of a million dollars on a lottery ticket mere weeks after taking up residence. Just a year from retirement, they took their winnings in a lump sum, bought an RV, and planted a For Sale sign in the front yard before taking off for warmer climes. She couldn’t blame them. The prospect of another long Warrenton winter loomed on the horizon, and she wasn’t looking forward to the short, bleak days. Now, at least, she had a hot guy to keep her warm. Not that this pregnancy hadn’t already turned her into a human oven.

Turning her head, she pressed her nose to the smooth skin of his arm and inhaled deeply. Being the excellent neighbor that he is, Brad agreed to keep an eye on the property, knowing it would bother her to see the house standing empty. Cam suspected he was happy to reclaim Jim Stafford’s yard. She had to admit, she wasn’t opposed to the sight of her shirtless husband handling his equipment. Lawn care equipment, that is. Those happy glimpses always reminded her of the day they met. He’d been shirtless and sweaty, just the way she liked him. And in the shell-shocked days following the sudden loss of her father, Brad proved to be exactly what she needed.

I guess I won’t need to mow that lawn today.

The studied casualness of his comment did nothing to hide the hint of sulk in his tone. She smiled, tipping her head to allow him easier access to her neck as a consolation prize. Secretly, she believed he had designs on indoctrinating the entire block into the Mitchum Method of Lawn Maintenance.

When the housing market went into the toilet, even old-established suburbs like Warrenton with its tree-lined streets and superior school system were having trouble attracting new buyers. Not that it mattered too much; most of the owners couldn’t afford to sell, anyway. It seemed their area was particularly hard hit. Once a realtor’s sign was planted in a yard, the damn thing took root. One family two streets over went so far as to plant flowers around their perma-sign in hopes of upping their curb appeal. It must have worked. They sold…eventually. Two months after the petunias sold the Peterson house, Cam’s old home sold again. But the buyer never moved in. According to their neighbor, Mrs. Kelly, the property changed hands again just a month before in a private transfer of title.

What makes you say there’s a little boy?

Boy toys.

He murmured the words against the nape of her neck then chased the shiver he caused with his lips. Cam hummed softly, covering his hands with hers, pressing his palms snug against