Her Heart's Desire: Never Too Late, #2

By Roxanne Rogerson

Stuart Baxter is a loner who has never fitted in. His father labeled him a loser. His innate longing to find a woman he can submit to sexually has him convinced he truly is weird.
Michael Atherton's opinion of his talented employee (a karate Black Belt) is different. He offers Stuart a partnership in Atherton Investigations.
While Michael is away, his good friend and associate, Jim Strand, is killed in a hit and run accident. In Michael's absence, Stuart steps in to console Jim's widow, but quickly realizes she is the woman who can fulfill his longings to be a Submissive lover. He simply has to get her to realize it.

Guilt consumes Maureen Strand when she finds herself drawn to a younger man shortly after her husband's gruesome death. Long buried desires to dominate in the bedroom surface, adding to her angst. Stuart and Michael's investigation into Jim's death soon reveal it was no accident. The determination to solve his murder unites Maureen and Stuart in a common cause, but can they overcome society's censure and find happiness and fulfillment together? Or will a murderer separate them forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Markland
• Release date: Apr 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215814253

Book preview

MOWED DOWN

Nervous that anyone would be ringing her doorbell after dark, Maureen Strand switched off her kindle and went to the front door. She opened it only as far as the safety chain would allow. The motion-activated floodlight had worked for once, illuminating two uniformed police officers, one male, one female, their faces grimly macabre in the too-bright light. Her temperature soared then plummeted in the space of three seconds.

It registered in the back of her brain that Dave next door was barbecuing something that smelled delicious, and that the male police officer’s hat was tucked under his arm.

The man held up his ID. Ma’am, I’m Constable Farmer from the Victoria Police Department.

She squinted at the blurry photograph, wishing her reading glasses weren’t in the study. It was absurd. She knew deep down that what these two had come to tell her wouldn’t necessitate being able to read an ID.

This is Constable Newton, he added, turning to the female officer. You are Mrs. Strand?

His voice oozed sympathy.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

One hand clutched her throat while the other fumbled with the safety chain. She opened the door. Yes. I’m Maureen Strand.

Her voice sounded like a faraway whimper.

May we come in, Mrs. Strand?

Maureen wasn’t sure if her legs would function. Is something wrong?

Constable Newton touched her elbow. I think it’s better if we come inside, Mrs. Strand.

Jim! Jim! Jim! It could only be Jim. Please God, no!

She didn’t later recall much of subsequent events but, within minutes, she was being whisked by police cruiser to the Royal Jubilee Hospital where her husband of fifteen years clung tenuously to life after being mowed down by a hit and run driver.

She vaguely heard a siren’s wail. Was it a fire engine? She’d put Jim’s supper in the oven to keep warm. He’d been working late again. Had she turned off the stove? It was on low, but if the house burned down—

I think I left the oven on, she murmured to the policewoman sitting next to her in the back seat of the cruiser, holding her limp hand.

I turned it off. Don’t worry.

Thank you, Constable— Her mind went blank.

Newton.

Fig Newtons. You can’t die, Jim. We haven’t picked the figs off our tree yet this year.

They pulled up right in front of the Emergency entrance. The female constable bustled her out of the cruiser and through the automatic doors. The reception area was full, but she was whisked through the security doors and quickly swallowed up by bright lights, pale blue curtains, whispers, anxious, sympathetic looks, serious doctors with deep voices explaining the million pieces of tubing—and, finally, Jim hooked up to a machine breathing for him.

As soon as she saw his battered face and broken body, she knew deep in her heart he wouldn’t survive the night.

Stuart Baxter wiped the lens of his Nikon camera before nestling it back in its case. It was a ritual he’d adopted, the last thing he did every night before leaving the offices of Atherton and Baxter Investigations.

It was redundant, since he invariably took the camera out again once he got home to his apartment and repeated the task.

He scanned the office. Computer and printer off. Desk tidied. Chair tucked in. Coffee pot turned off, mugs washed, tap not dripping. Michael Atherton had trusted him to take care of the offices in his absence. Not only that, he’d made Stuart his partner.

Contrary to most people’s expectations, Stuart was determined not to screw up this opportunity. He looked upon it as a sign of Michael’s confidence in him and the future of the business that his former boss had moved his home office to this rented space.

A property management company took care of the house and garden while the Athertons were away for months at a time in Panama, but Stuart swung by there at least once a week. Michael had left him keys, though there was one bedroom he had no access to. He often paused by the forbidden room wondering what toys were behind the locked door. After all, Michael and Jessie Atherton made no secret of their kinky Dom/Sub lifestyle.

He was about to switch off the office lights when the phone rang. It was late, but prospective clients didn’t always call during regular business hours. He set the camera down and reached over the desk to press Line 1. Atherton and Baxter Investigations. Stuart speaking.

Michael. I need to speak to Michael.

The voice was female, distraught, but he didn’t recognize who it was.

I’m sorry. Michael isn’t available at the moment. Can I help?

A long pause followed. He got the feeling the woman was choking back tears. Who’s calling?

Maureen. Maureen Strand.

Stuart had first met Jim Strand at Michael and Jessie’s wedding four months previously in Panama and had got to know him through the company’s contract with the Ministry of Health. Jim, a long time friend and colleague of Michael’s, was the man he reported to. Maureen hadn’t accompanied her husband to Central America for the wedding.

Jim’s dead. Hit and run.

Goosebumps marched across Stuart’s nape. Her voice had flattened; he sensed shock was setting in. His brain went into overdrive. Michael’s still in Panama. He’s due back next week. I’ll call him right away.

Thank you, she rasped.

He was about to hang up when a thought occurred. Is anyone with you?

No, she sobbed.

I’ll be there as soon as I can. Royal Jubilee or Victoria General?

Jubilee.

Stuart dodged heavy raindrops as he ran from the hospital parkade to the Emergency department, irked that the powers that be hadn’t yet provided designated parking spots for mini cars. Just about everywhere else in Victoria had woken up to the fact they took up less space than a full size car. He’d driven up four levels before finding a space, his frustration growing.

He identified himself at the Emergency desk and was ushered through security doors by a young woman whose eyes were full of sympathy. Mrs. Strand notified us to expect you. Her husband didn’t make it, I’m afraid.

He felt like a fraud. He barely knew Jim, but when he’d called Michael to tell him the bad news, his boss had urged him in a voice choked with emotion to go to Maureen’s aid.

He couldn’t put his finger on the unpleasant smell that caused a gag reflex. He’d always hated hospitals. The nursing station was a hive of activity, but voices faded as they walked to the rear of the department. He hesitated on the threshold of the cubicle, his stomach churning when the clerk held the curtain aside. Jim lay on a gurney, only his mangled head visible. He looked like he’d been beaten to death. If there had been heroic efforts to save him, evidence of them was gone. Everything seemed eerily quiet and empty. The petite redhead huddled on a plastic chair with her head on the gurney didn’t look up. She must be Jim’s daughter, but hadn’t his wife said—

He cleared his throat to alert her to his presence. I’m Stuart Baxter, he murmured, extending his hand. I’m sorry for your loss.

Green eyes welling with tears turned to look at him. She came to her feet slowly. Thank you. I’m Maureen, Jim’s wife.

It was a kick in the gut. She was stunningly beautiful in all the right places, but looked lost standing alone, gripping the white sheet covering Jim’s body, her face ravaged by tears. An overwhelming rush of protectiveness flooded him. He put his arms around her without thinking twice. She sobbed into his damp windbreaker while he stroked her hair.

His dick stood to attention.

He could almost hear his Dad’s sneering voice as guilt and shame washed over him. Another royal fuck-up, Stuart. Can’t you do anything right?

Maureen wished she could clear the fog from her brain and stop crying. Sounds drifted to her ears from somewhere nearby yet far away. Nurses’ voices, moans of pain. Life went on elsewhere. In her world, it had come to a screeching halt.

The young man whose jacket she was slobbering all over must be uncomfortable, finding himself in an unexpected role with a woman he didn’t even know.

She’d lived her whole life in a city she loved, yet, in this extreme moment, solace lay in the arms of a stranger who couldn’t be any older than twenty-five.

She clung to him like a shipwreck survivor, drawing strength from the warmth of his strong body. If she tried to stand without his support she’d collapse to the floor. I had to give consent, she babbled.

He waited.

Her breath hitched in her throat. For the life support to be unplugged.

You did the right thing, he murmured into her hair.

But had she?

Maybe they could have saved him.

But hadn’t the doctor advised—

It was all too much.

She refocused her attention on the young man with his arms around her. Michael was always singing his praises, but he was taller than she’d expected. The cleansing smell of recent rain invaded her nostrils, helping dispel the clouds of despair that threatened to swamp her. Rain meant life.

He stroked her hair, an unexpectedly intimate gesture that was overwhelmingly comforting.

Closing her eyes, she swayed into him, taken aback to feel something hard and unmistakably masculine pressed against her.

Guilt spiked as her treacherous hips moved to respond.

He broke away abruptly. Sorry, he mumbled, his face red.

She missed his warmth. He was probably mortified that his body had responded to having a female pressed against him. Better to say nothing, but it was astonishing that, at her age, she could make a young man’s body react. For the most part, Jim had lost interest in that sort of thing. She glanced at her dead husband, horrified at the train of her thoughts. Grief did strange things to people.

Thank you for coming, Stuart, she murmured.

He only nodded, his stare unsettling her further. She could drown in eyes the color of sapphires.

She gripped the side of the gurney. The room seemed to have tilted alarmingly. It was a hit and run. Perhaps she’d already told him that?

He took hold of her arm, steadying her. Have you said your goodbyes?

She looked again at Jim’s battered face. It was too late to say goodbye. Yes.

I’ll drive you home.

She glanced back at her husband once more, unable to swallow the tight knot in her throat, then let Stuart lead her to the reception area.

He settled her in a chair. Wait here. I’ll bring the car round. It’s raining.

She wanted to run out into the rain, feel its cleansing power, and inhale fresh air. But her body felt heavy, so she nodded woodenly and watched him stride through the automatic doors. His long legs looked good in jeans. She couldn’t recall the last time Jim had worn jeans

KNIGHT ERRANT

Stuart turned the key to unlock the door to his bachelor apartment, pushed it open, and hesitated. It was something he always did before entering—another hard to explain ritual he’d unconsciously adopted.

It was as though he had to fortify himself, pluck up his courage before going into his own home.

It was puzzling. As apartment buildings went, this one was pretty nice. It hadn’t been in existence long enough to become impregnated with the odors that haunted many multiple dwelling units. The cream corridors were wide and well lit with discrete fluorescent lights—not the kind that buzzed and flickered. The richly patterned carpets felt good underfoot, and they were vacuumed daily by the super’s wife. The soundproofing was good. He rarely heard anything from his neighbors. In fact, he didn’t know who lived either side of him or across the hall.

He’d moved in after Michael’s incredibly generous gesture, feeling tentatively secure about his future for the first time in his life.

Why then did he feel no sense of homecoming?

He pulled his keys out of the lock, shoved them in his pocket, stepped inside, and flicked on the lights. The usual emptiness washed over him. He didn’t have a lot of possessions, but he’d bought simple furnishings he liked and put several of his better photographs on display.

Maybe he hadn’t lived here long enough to feel at home. Perhaps if he painted the place a color of his own choosing.

Tonight felt bleaker than usual. The pale yellow walls were closing in. Perhaps the exhaustion of today’s dreadful events had finally caught up to him. He put his Nikon on its shelf, deciding to check the lens later, then tossed the bag with the remains of a Big Mac into the trash. The fries had tasted like straw. What little he’d eaten of the burger might come up his throat any second.

He’d loved his little Mini from the first moment he’d test driven it, but tonight he’d felt like a clumsy giant cooped up in a sardine can with his petite passenger.

She’d stopped sobbing about half way up Shelbourne Street and just stared ahead, peering through the rain-spattered windshield, the plastic bag with her husband’s belongings clasped to her chest.

They’d completed the journey in total silence. He’d had no idea what to say, still embarrassed by his arousal. Even his skin prickled where their elbows touched. She was so near, yet a world away from his grasp.

In an effort to settle his restlessness, he reached for the one thing that might bring him peace—the cello propped against the wall in its quiet corner. He pulled out the vinyl chair of the kitchen suite Michael and Jessie had given him, settled the instrument between his legs, tuned it quickly, closed his eyes, and launched into the music that had rescued him from many a dark moment.

As he drew the bow across the strings, belting out the lyrics to Queen’s We Are The Champions, he inhaled the lavender scent lingering on the damp jacket he hadn’t taken off. He was bone tired, but something else plagued him, a vague yet unshakable sense that the petite redhead to whom the scent belonged would change the direction of his life radically and unalterably. It was at once exhilarating and terrifying.

Gripping the edges of the stool at the breakfast nook, Maureen swayed. Her head was stuffed with cotton wool, her throat raw. Her next door neighbor, whose first name she couldn’t remember— Tanya-Tina-Trudy, or something like that—fussed about in the kitchen.

An inexplicable fury had swept over Maureen when they’d pulled up in the driveway—she and her knight errant in his cute little car—and Tanya-Tina-Trudy Roberts had rushed out of her house, murmuring condolences, grabbing the key out of Stuart’s hand, ushering her into the huge house she didn’t want to enter. She couldn’t fathom how her neighbors already knew of the tragedy.

She’d have invited Stuart in had the well-meaning woman not been there. She’d sensed he’d been on the verge of asking to accompany her inside, and heaven knew she didn’t want to face the empty house alone.

She’d hesitated on the threshold, gripping the door jamb, on the verge of making a hysterical scene. But respectable widows didn’t cause commotions, and Stuart would think she was a madwoman.

Why did his opinion matter? She’d known him only a few hours but doubted she would have kept it together at the hospital without his calming presence, his strength.

She’d leaned on him—but only because Michael and Jessie weren’t there. Poor Stuart. What a situation to find