Friendly Sins

By Donna Dvorak

Friendly Sins is a powerful tale of romantic suspense filled with daring encounters, betrayals and mystery. Four friends, together by destiny and entwined by fate, struggle to maintain friendships. A Florida socialite ignores the sixties womens movement and fights all obstacles while searching for love. A Greek entrepreneur, whose face graces magazines, is a master of deceit who wouldnt rest until the voices in his head demanded action. A renowned surgeon desires obscurity, but becomes woven in an international nightmare. He leaves his wife who remarries a French Count, half her age. The chic owner of a trendy boutique and her husband, an ultimate Air Force Colonel, dream of a family. All are stunned as one night of torrid passion leads to a dangerous secret threatening to leave a waterfall of stunned survivors in its wake. Lethal lust and twisted obsessions emerge as dangerous threats become reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493175864

Donna Dvorak

Donna Dvorak is an international journalist, author, award-winning poet, former talk-show host and creative writing teacher. Her articles appear on a continuing basis in magazines, newspapers and literary journals. She has traveled around the United States and the world visiting exotic places in Asia, Europe, Israel, Africa and Hawaii, successfully incorporating her adventures into her books. Donna was born and raised in Philadelphia and resides in Bucks County, Pennsylvania.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Donna Dvorak.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2014903456

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4931-7587-1

                Softcover         978-1-4931-7588-8

                Ebook              978-1-4931-7586-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Friendly Sins © is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The events and characters portrayed are imaginary.

Rev. date: 03/18/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

BOOK TWO

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Friendly Sins has been a dream for many years. It has been written, changed, re-written and re-edited many times with other published books written in-between.

To J. Henry Warren, author of Made in America 2.0, Storm Keeper, and Until Shore, whose enthusiasm of the written word has always kept me afloat.

To Trilla Ramage, formerly an editor at The Intelligencer, Doylestown, PA, who provided me with my first chance at fame by having the faith in me to write articles, columns and features.

To Robert Waite and Bill Waite, publisher and editor of Bucks County Magazine, PA, who assigned my first magazine feature.

To Andrew Loder of Loder Design LLC, Collingswood, New Jersey, who expertly designed this amazing cover art and brought my ideas to life.

And to the many other editors, too numerous to mention, who influenced my writing and always kept me working. I thank you.

This book is dedicated to my darling adult children—Jeff, Rachel, Melissa and Brett—who have always given me the space and encouragement to ‘do my own thing’. It hasn’t been easy, but they are always here for me.

It is also dedicated to my former creative writing student, Bill Del Governatore, who is now my amazing husband. He has provided me with love, warmth, compassion and always inspires me to take time to write. He knows that writing is my passion and continues to support me in my endeavors.

To my sons-in-law and grandchildren, this is also for you! My grandchildren will not understand the romantic ramblings in here, but one day will probably wonder what the woman who wrote this book was truly like!

PROLOGUE

B reaking news trumpeted across television screens and radio stations throughout the world, interrupting regular programming. A glamorous life laden with glitter and glitz, injected with just the right slice of revenge, had brutally ceased. A waterfall of stunned survivors dangled in its wake, shocked beyond belief. The bizarre case contained all the trappings of a daily soap opera.

But, this was real.

In a chateau nestled in the Dordogne region of France, Countess Pamela was ensconced in the Count’s gilded master bedroom, snuggled between the Count and his ruby red satin sheets. Rivulets of perspiration slid down his forehead as he pumped away inside her perfect body. Pamela, totally bored, drew her hands over his head and checked her tapered nails. She’d have to call Andre for a manicure this afternoon she thought, as her husband screamed in ecstasy.

At a villa in Greece, Athena reclined on the cement patio in a yellow-and-white-striped chaise lounge, gazing at the horizon over the Aegean Sea. Ivory-capped, turquoise waves smacked against the villa’s massive Ionic concrete columns as the tide swept in, providing the peace she desired. She removed her bikini top, sensuously rubbed suntan oil over her ample breasts and lay down to worship the sun, ruled by Helios the Sun God.

In Istanbul, the call to prayer hauntingly flowed throughout the city, interrupting the action at the harbor on the Bosphorus. Two women shrouded in black veils, gazed at each other as their well-trained eyes darted back and forth on the pier. While men stopped working and turned towards Mecca to pray, the women took advantage of the situation and quickly hid stolen artifacts from the reign of Mehmet II into the bowels of the ferry.

From a glass penthouse in Boston, Anna picked up her binoculars, adjusted the lens and watched the planes glide through the cloudless sky, like seagulls slicing the air. After a few moments, she checked the computer and carefully punched in her password. Jotting down the information on a special pad, she stood up and placed the papers in the safe, tucked between a stack of fake passports and cache of diamonds. She glanced at her new Rolex watch, a gift from her boss. It was almost time.

In a smoke-filled faux Middle Eastern restaurant, in Florida, Sheba seductively shook her voluptuous body. Gold coins pulsated on her shapely hips and jutting bodice, jiggling in time to the brass cymbals she clicked in her hands. Her soul was aflame as she camel-walked barefoot on incense-laden carpets from Hereke. Beads of moisture erupted on her skin; sheer eggplant harem pants clung to her long legs. Men screamed for her to dance on their table.

None of the women heard the news.

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

A sudden swell of summer winds rattled the turquoise and rose-colored stained glass window as eerie tappings reverberated throughout the bedroom. The tropical Florida storm gained intensity, promising to wallop Siesta Key with a vengeance. Hurricanes were becoming more intense, each one more severe and devastating, but Elena, lost in her own world, crouched on a pile of jade and onyx pillows atop her window seat forming a silhouette of an ancient stone tableau crumbling from life. She stared at the raindrops splashing angrily against the circle of light etched between the leaded panes. A streak of lightening flashed across the Parish-blue sky, illuminating the stretch of white beach that separated her contemporary cedar beach-home from the ocean. The untamed tide slapped fiercely against the slimy rocks of the jetty, mimicking the turbulence within her soul. Palm tree fronds crashed to the ground with one sweep, shattering the colorful mosaic patio table with matching umbrella, and her nerves. Slivers of tiny tiles scattered on her wooden deck forming a tapestry of destruction.

Elena hugged her silk paisley shawl tight against her naked body and caressed the silky, knotted fringed edges. Sadness flowed through her veins. She picked up the edge of the shawl and wiped away beads of mist that clung to her forehead. She found solace in the shelter of her room, locking out the world. It was the sixties and a new generation of women were marching for equality, boys were drafted every day to fight in Vietnam, peace marches dotted the streets, love ins, be-ins, sit-ins happened on a daily basis in parks and college campuses—yet she bemoaned her private world.

A world without Adam.

She closed her violet eyes and pondered the painful memories. Her thoughts drifted back five years to their first meeting in Siesta Key. The lush foliage and warm weather had seduced her senses; Dr. Adam Windsor Worthington, a prominent cosmetic and restorative surgeon, stole her soul.

She recalled strolling down the corridor for an interview, high heels clicking on the terra cotta floor. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door. After five minutes she boldly walked into the empty office and gazed at the Chippendale furniture, Persian rugs and Victorian lamps—a peaceful room far removed from the turmoil of the outside world. While she studied the surroundings Dr. Worthington had entered the room, crossing the floor with elegant ease. Their eyes locked. Time stood still as she held her breath trying to quell the pounding of her heart. With one glance a potpourri of passion burned beneath the essence of her body.

The doctor appeared as though he spent days sailing a yacht in the Gulf of Mexico, curled up on a pink powdered sandy beach, or swinging a golf club on the manicured greens at one of the elegant country clubs. A thick mane of dark hair, highlighted by gray streaks, accentuated his tanned skin. His emerald eyes reflected a depth of mystery and experience; muscles bulged beneath his Armani navy pinstripe suit. With a casual nod, he led her into his private office.

Sinking into his tan leather chair he removed his tie and unbuttoned his top button, exposing a thatch of salt and pepper curls. He lit a carved Meerschaum pipe. As the aroma of cherry tobacco wafted through the room Elena breathed in the intoxicating scent. Extending his hand, he broke the silence between them.

It’s nice to meet you, Elena. As you’ve observed, I just moved my offices and need an administrative assistant, he explained, his eyes never faltering from hers. I’m in the operating room three mornings a week and see patients here for routine visits in the afternoon. I need someone who’s dependable, friendly and can schedule appointments. The person I hire will have daily contact with my patients, and learn to distinguish between a normal telephone call or emergency. My main job is restoring maimed soldiers who recently returned from Vietnam, but confidentiality is a strict requirement. Other patients are famous movie stars and televisions personalities who don’t want the public to know that they’ve had plastic surgery. Have you had any experience in an office?

Elena altered her credentials to comply with his specifications.

I’ve never worked for a doctor, but I’ve dealt with the public and scheduled appointments at an advertising agency.

I need someone here from nine to five and there’ll be evenings when it’s imperative to follow up with emergency patients, Dr. Worthington continued, raking his hand through his thick hair. When this occurs, would you be available to work later hours? I can handle the weekend emergencies myself.

That wouldn’t be a problem, she told him, anxious for the job.

Excuse me, he stated, rising slowly from his leather chair. I’m still a bit disorganized from moving, and need to find my employment forms.

A musky scent trailed as he left the room. An expensive European cologne, guessed Elena. Her eyes scanned his various medical degrees that draped the wall, and family photographs methodically arranged on his desk. She stared at the photograph of his wife, recognizing her from the society pages in the local newspaper.

Pamela Worthington, a descendent of one of the original passengers on the Mayflower, was the epitome of perfection. She radiated a look of class that only old family money and an affluent upbringing could instill. Her delicate complexion contained a trace of makeup; her flaxen hair was pulled back into a chignon at the nape of her slender neck. A single strand of pearls, clasped with diamonds, decorated her black Chanel suit.

Simple yet elegant.

Elena glanced at the pictures of his three children. Two young boys and a girl—all wearing tartan plaid shorts, white shirts and matching navy blue beanies on top of their perfectly combed blonde hair—were posed on an Argentinean polo field against a backdrop of famous polo horses. A sign in the foreground stated, Coronel Suarez, The World Capital of Polo.

The perfect family, she thought to herself.

Squirming in her seat she suddenly realized how different she appeared from these blue-blooded souls. She felt self-conscious of her ebony hair that cascaded in wild curls around her thin shoulders, and her cheap, pink polyester dress.

Why did I wear this? she lamented. I should have worn a business suit.

Her self-confidence was never shaken.

Until now.

Her violet eyes had always pierced men’s hearts. Stunned by her beauty many men had tried to win her affection; few had conquered. Blessed with a long, thin neck and delicate body, she had a high firm bosom and a waist so tiny other women were envious. Narrow hips and firm buttocks paved the way to shapely legs. Men stared at her as she strolled down the street.

Women found her threatening.

I’m sorry this took so long, Dr. Worthington apologized as he sauntered back to the room carrying a stack of papers. I’ll be glad when I hire someone and can return to more meaningful work. Helping people through restorative surgery gives them confidence and the ability to continue with life.

He handed her an employment form and watched as she filled it out. On the surface she appeared shy and reserved, yet every instinct warned him she was like a smoldering ash waiting to be re-ignited. Picturing her in various states of disarray, he tried to contain his arousal hoping the bulge in his pants didn’t betray his feelings. Sinking back into his chair, he thought of Pamela. Her cool, frigid reserve had carried over into their bed. He yearned for a fulfilling relationship with a woman, yet had never succumbed to his desires. Drowning himself in work was the perfect solution.

I’m finished, Dr. Worthington, Elena told him, handing him the forms. She couldn’t wait to leave the office. Her palms were moist, her heart pounded. The chemistry between them was unmistakable; she knew their paths would cross again.

He thanked her and watched her walk away. The fluid movement of her body spurred a tingling in his groin. She was only twenty-two—ten years younger than he—but age was insignificant. She was feminine and sweet, unlike other women he had interviewed. One even arrived following a march for women’s equality, which he agreed with, but she was adorned in sneakers, jeans, a bandana over her head and seemed angry at all men.

After a few moments he canceled his other interviews. His mission was accomplished.

She wasn’t surprised when the telephone rang the next evening. She picked it up on the third ring.

Elena, this is Dr. Worthington. I’ve reviewed your application form, checked your references, and everything seems in order. Will you accept the job?

Yes, Dr. Worthington.

Then I’ll see you at my office bright and early Monday morning?

I’ll be there by nine, Dr. Worthington, she told him.

She was aware of a slight hesitation at the end of the conversation.

Please, he replied in a low, throaty voice. Call me Adam.

CHAPTER TWO

A s his private jet sliced through thick Greek clouds Nicholas Aristotle Papadopoulos gazed down at the pure whiteness of his villa. Never tiring of the virginal site, he wondered how much time would elapse before he could return to his beloved village again, buried deep in the outskirts of Athens. While the jet ascended higher and higher, he watched the mountains shrink to dots in the electric hues of turquoise and emerald waters of the Aegean Sea. After a quick stop in Istanbul the plane would continue its journey to the United States.

The price of fame, he thought to himself.

Nicholas Aristotle Papadopoulos. His name conjured up images of Greek Gods, mythology and shipping empires. His pictures were plastered on magazine covers, much to his chagrin. This year his face adorned the cover of Time Magazine, an honor he knew he didn’t deserve. Famous for his import-export business that provided jobs to an undisclosed, but significant number of people, he constantly risked the fear that his underworld activities would surface and bring down his empire. The world was a crazy place right now, filled with discord and discontent that altered the fabric of his soul. His intention was to get out while he could, before he brought shame upon his family.

It was easier said than done.

His reverie was interrupted by the stewardess recently hired for her womanly attributes and lack of conversational skills. Thank goodness she didn’t insist on being called a ‘flight attendant’ like many modern women of the sixties. He didn’t understand them, and had no desire to partake of their fight against femininity. He was filled with old world European charm and liked his women soft and seductive.

Can I get you something, sir? she purred, fluttering her baby blue eyes.

He pushed back the sleeve of his silk shirt, tailor-made in Hong Kong, and gazed at his Rolex watch. It was after 12:00 p.m.

Ouzo over ice, he demanded, leaning forward to watch the swell of her hips seductively rub against her short skirt as she teetered to the galley on stiletto heels.

She returned within minutes. Here you are, sir, she whispered, handing him his drink. Will there be anything else?

Next time, he warned, his eyes slowly rolling up and down her voluptuous body.

Leaning back against the reclining seat, he closed his eyes and sipped the licorice-flavored drink. Trouble. Always trouble, he thought to himself, impatient to arrive in Istanbul.

Prepare for landing, boss, the pilot’s voice boomed over the intercom. We’re here.

Niko, as he was called, roughly extinguished a Turkish cigarette while the plane approached the runway and maneuvered a smooth landing. Simultaneously, a sleek black limousine pulled up to the tarmac. The liveried chauffeur jumped out and automatically opened the door for his important Greek passenger.

"Merhaba, nasilsiniz?" Niko muttered in Turkish, quickly climbing into the back seat without looking at the driver.

Yo, boss. It’s me, Lars, the chauffeur chuckled, tipping the brim of his cap to expose his face.

Lars? What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in the States waiting for me. Where’s Mehmet?

We had problems here, boss. The police harassed the women who were sneaking antiques onto the ferry. Mehmet had to detain them. We didn’t want to bother you with mundane details while you were with your family, so I flew here and handled it myself.

Niko gratefully sank back against the luxurious leather. What would he do without Lars? he wondered. As he stared out the smoked glass windows he saw the peaked minarets and golden domes of the mosques gleam against the setting sun. Driving along the Bosphorus, filled with packed ferries teetering on their sides, the city bustled with millions of people scrambling to jump on buses after a grueling day at work.

Niko glanced at the young girls resplendent in tight American jeans, standing side by side with more traditionally garbed women adorned in heavy black coats, stockings and veils. From a distance the Muslim call to prayer hauntingly echoed through the city. In the background Haghia Sophia, the great church, and the Blue Mosque stood resplendent as they had for centuries—ancient reminders of the Byzantine era.

Suddenly, the limousine stopped. Lars jumped out and held the door open.

Walk quickly down these steps. We’re on Yerebatan Street at the Basilica Cistern that runs underneath the old city of Constantinople. It’s dimly lit so you shouldn’t be recognized; Pavarotti tapes are played through the loud speaker so you won’t be heard. There are three hundred and thirty-six Corinthian columns. Walk to the thirty-eighth column and wait. Ahmet will meet you there.

Niko exited the car and slowly descended into the dank cistern, trying not to be conspicuous. As Lars had advised, the deep voice of Pavarotti boomed throughout the concrete maze, blending with the trickling water. Finding the thirty-eighth column he stood, hiding his face from lingering tourists. This wasn’t the time to be seen.

Pssst, he heard. Turning around he spotted Ahmet hiding in the shadow of a column, a roll of papers clasped in his hands. Niko strolled over to him.

"Merhaba, my friend," Niko whispered, offering the traditional European kiss on each side of his face. He prided himself on speaking fluent Greek, Turkish, English, French and Italian.

We must hurry; we can’t be seen, Ahmet sputtered in broken English. Here’s the list of antiques that have left the country, thanks to the women on the pier, but we detoured them through Greece this time. Most of this batch is from the Sultan’s collection that was originally in Dolmabahce Palace. That means every item is priceless. The police are suspicious, but the women won’t speak. I made sure of that. Hurry! Take these papers and go quickly.

Niko grabbed the papers and walked back up the cement steps. As he reached the top and emerged into daylight he reached into his pocket for his sunglasses, and shielded his eyes with his hand until he spotted Lars parked across the street. He walked slowly. No sense arousing any suspicion, he thought. Safely back in the limousine, he pushed the button that separated the glass between them.

To the airport, Lars, he commanded. We have to get back to the States immediately.

We’re on our way, boss.

Nike removed his jacket, pushed up his shirtsleeves, unrolled the papers and stared at the list. He’d have to pay the women more money. Their performance was extraordinary and no one was wiser. If they were foolish enough to speak to anyone about their activities they knew the consequences.

Their husbands would lose their wives, and their children would lose their mothers!

CHAPTER THREE

E lena stirred in her window seat, bringing herself back to the present. Fragmented dreams of Adam swirled in her mind as the harsh shrill of bells echoed throughout the room. She dropped her shawl, stumbled to the nightstand, and picked up her gold and ivory French telephone.

Hello, she whispered, gazing down at her naked body, illuminated by the warm orange glow of her Tiffany lamp. It was a gift from Adam during an antique crawl in Jordaan, the heart of Amsterdam.

Elena, is that you? Where have you been? asked Liz, concerned. Her voice brought a smile to Elena’s face.

As childhood friends their joys and sorrows were shared. When Elena’s parents had died Liz and her family became her guardians, and their close relationship continued. They considered themselves sisters. Liz was married to Colonel Roy Alan Buckingham; yet the bond between the women was deeply cemented.

I’m sorry, Elena mumbled. I must have fallen asleep. There was no need to tell Liz she was still pining for Adam. She already knew.

Roy and I were invited to a dance tonight at the officers’ club. The storm is supposed to end soon, and we insist that you join us, Elena. It’s time to bury the past. You’re young, beautiful, filled with life and it’s time you met new people. We won’t take no for an answer.

Elena had been enmeshed in sorrow for more than a year. Perhaps Liz was right. It was time to move on.

Damn Adam, she cursed. Damn his loyal, righteous soul. She would forget him once and for all. She was a strong woman, a survivor not a victim, and could overcome anything in life.

Elena, will you join us?

Yes, Liz. You’re right. It’s time I moved on with my life.

Good. We’ll pick you up in an hour.

Sauntering into the bathroom she ran the water-fall spigot in her forest green whirlpool bath, and sprinkled raspberry scented crystals across the water. She watched as they exploded into soothing bubbles then stepped into the steamy tub. Raw emotion gripped her heart, but the day’s tension seeped from her muscles as hot water mingled with her tears.

No man is worth this agony, she mumbled, closing her eyes and taking deep, cleansing breaths learned in Yoga class. Yes, she would survive. After all, that was part of the message from this era. She wasn’t one to partake in the women’s movement. The truth was she enjoyed being fussed over by a man.

And, that was okay.

Feeling more relaxed she climbed out of the tub, wrapped a thick towel around her body and returned to her bedroom. Dropping the towel, she gazed critically at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She had lost weight, but was still firm in the proper places. She sighed, grabbed her hairbrush and, with a frenzy she didn’t understand, brushed her hair into a popular gypsy style letting her curls cascade naturally. At her art-deco vanity with the huge round mirror she cautiously applied eye shadow to her upper lids and dotted lipstick on her pursed lips. Blusher wasn’t needed—her cheeks were permanently blushed. Her complexion was as flawless as an English rose blooming in the midst of a scorching summer night.

Swinging open the closet doors she chose a short, backless lilac dress that seductively hugged her body. Without a bra her nipples pushed at the flimsy material. She found her white Roman sandals and laced them up to her knees. As she thought about Roy and Liz she became more enthusiastic about the forthcoming evening, and apprehension faded like an old pair of jeans.

Roy, a Colonel in the United States Air Force, only returned home for short periods. His high rank afforded him the flexibility of a lifestyle that was otherwise unattainable. His job involved traveling to air bases worldwide, consulting on Air Force projects. Sometimes Liz accompanied him, combining business and pleasure, but when conducting top-secret government business he traveled alone.

He dined at officers’ clubs that provided him prestige as well as the freedom he sought. When lower ranking officers stood at attention and saluted him, his chest swelled with pride.

Roy was the ultimate officer.

He stood tall, a head above the other officers. A shock of blonde wavy hair rose from his forehead and a natural white streak graced the nape of his neck. His eyes, pools of aquamarine crystals, were laced with golden lashes. Sexiness spurted from every move.

In his white and gold dress uniform, Roy cut an exceedingly handsome figure. Elena had observed the sensual way women blatantly gazed at his body, their eyes burning with desire. She never mentioned it to Liz; her best friend was too blinded by her love to ever imagine that her husband would do anything less than perfect.

Liz contrasted Roy. Her fair skin and pert face were crowned by tawny brown hair that fell over her face in layers. Her wardrobe was comprised of dark basic styles that lasted for years. The new tie-dyed skirts and floral shirts didn’t impress her, and she was not as chic or adventurous as Elena when it came to sexy styles.

Her life was devoted to Roy.

The evening began with the usual gaiety. Cigarette smoke burned Elena’s eyes, causing her to squint as she peered into the festive room. Roy located a table for three, adjacent to the dance floor. They sat down and a waiter arrived to take their order.

I’ll have raspberry vodka straight up, Elena decided, impulsively.

Liz and Roy glanced at her with surprise.

You usually drink white wine, admonished Roy, jubilant she had decided to join them. You can’t handle anything stronger.

I know, snapped Elena, flashing him a wry look. I need a change.

Fine, he growled. Come on, Liz, let’s take a twirl around the dance floor.

Elena sat alone watching couples lost in each other’s arms. The band was exceptionally talented. She couldn’t help tapping her feet on the base of the table. The lead singer, with his smooth coffee skin, long dreadlock hair, a diamond cross in his left ear and collection of gold chains around his chest, caught Elena’s eye and winked. She smiled back at him when the waiter arrived with her drink. Slowly sipping the vodka, her mind wandered back to Adam.

She didn’t mean to fall in love with him and fought her feelings right from the start. Dating a married man wasn’t her style, yet working with him induced hours of sexual tension between them. One evening after the last patient left, they succumbed to their passion, creating their own world of intimacy. It began with an innocent kiss, but the intensity overflowed. He locked the door to his office, scooped the papers from his massive desk, and made love to her on top of the desk. Afterwards, they basked in the glow reserved for lovers. From that moment on their passion was uncontained. Eventually, he purchased the beach house for her, bought her a red, two-seater Mercedes, and visited whenever he could escape from Pamela. They’d fall asleep listening to the ocean’s roar and woke to the cacophony of seagulls slicing through the sky. If she needed him, she’d call his answering service so they could page him at the hospital. Each week they changed her code name so suspicion was not aroused. Adam loved spending time with her and took her to medical conventions, never hiding her away or making her feel guilty for being his mistress.

His mistress!

She loathed that word. It made their love sound undeservedly dirty.

But, his love for her overrode anything else in his life. If he was guilty of anything, it was his overpowering love and devotion to Elena.

Even in public.

Several of Pamela’s malicious friends spotted them at a medical convention and confronted Pamela with the evidence. Pamela was shrewd. When she was ready she pounced on her prey, digging her claws in deeply. An ugly scandal erupted.

Elena didn’t stand a chance.

She was heartbroken when he chose to remain with Pamela. He had called