Mother by Fate

By Tara Taylor Quinn

To trust a stranger  

Sara Havens helps others. Mothers. Children. Those who seek to escape from violence. Her work with The Lemonade Standa unique women's shelteralso lets her forget the loss of the child who should have been hers. And when a handsome stranger strikes up a poolside conversation, it's no coincidence. 

Bounty hunter Michael Edison is tracking a former resident of the shelter. Fearing for the missing woman's safety, Sara joins the pursuit. But nothing is what it appears to beincluding Michael. As they grow closer, Sara risks losing her carefully constructed control

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Mar 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781460378816

Tara Taylor Quinn

A USA Today bestselling author of 100 novels in twenty languages, Tara Taylor Quinn has sold more than seven million copies. Known for her intense emotional fiction, Ms. Quinn's novels have received critical acclaim in the UK and most recently from Harvard. She is the recipient of the Reader's Choice Award, and has appeared often on local and national TV, including CBS Sunday Morning. For TTQ offers, news, and contests, visit http://www.tarataylorquinn.com!

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I CAN HOLD HIM, Daddy. While you get his kennel ready.

With the object of his six-year-old daughter’s attention held out in front of him, rescue kennel owner Michael Edison strode through the large converted barn, to a wall of empty cages in the back.

You know the rules. Setting the fat cat gently onto the cold metal bottom of the first cage, he withdrew his hand quickly—obtaining a scratch on the arm in the process—and closed the door.

Yes. The skinny little brown-eyed minx looked up at him, her long dark curls still tangled from her night’s sleep.

So?

I can’t touch him until Aunt Diane has a chance to examine him.

Examine. Michael enjoyed an inner grin at the sound of the very adult word coming from the baby voice with the little lisp. Shelley would be proud of him. And maybe, if people did become angels looking down from above when they died, she was. That’s right was all he said.

Mari didn’t remember her mother. But their little house in front of the kennel was filled with photos of her.

Trouble is you said she can’t come till later...

That’s right, too. His twenty-nine-year-old sister had recently graduated from veterinary school and, having just joined a practice, had to work the less-popular weekend hours.

But can I hold him right afterward?

Always looking on the bright side of things. Mari took after her youngest aunt, Peanut, that way. Made his life a hell of a lot easier.

Yep. First thing.

You want him in isolation? Twenty-five-year-old Ashleigh, the third sister in a line of four, asked, pulling a disposable cage liner and water bottle out of a cupboard on the opposite side of the room from the cages.

Yeah, he told her, raising his voice enough to be heard over the whining and barking coming from the canine end of the kennel.

While it didn’t look as if the newcomer had fleas, until he knew for certain that the cat wasn’t carrying anything the other animals in his care could catch, he couldn’t move him into the dorm area.

Mari put her hand in the treat bin and pulled out some all-natural dog treats they used for training, as he poured a little milk into a cup. Just enough to calm the cat who’d been dumped on Michael’s front porch that morning—in a box barely large enough to fit him and secured with duct tape.

While he dealt with the new cat, Mari walked with purpose to the first door in the occupied section of the kennel. Shh, Whitehorse. Your breakfast will be here soon, she said, tossing in a treat that quieted the white-and-gray Great Dane mix they’d rescued from an illegal dog-racing track a month ago.

The name was Mari’s. The malnourished female had come to them with the name Three. She’d been housed in the third cage in the facility she’d been born to.

Ashleigh, his only full-time kennel employee and main child-care provider, prepared a more permanent kennel for the new resident in a partitioned-off room in the back corner of the barn. She took the cup of milk from Michael as he retrieved the smaller cage he’d dropped the cat in moments before.

While Mari visited each of the eleven dogs in their care, he and Ashleigh got their newest resident settled.

His name is Gus, Mari announced, coming up behind them with a label for the kennel and the black marker Michael used to mark down the name of each rescue animal and the date when he or she came into their care.

Gus? Ashleigh looked from the little girl to the fat gray cat.

Yes, Gus. He looks like Gus down the street, doesn’t he? She giggled.

Ashleigh rolled her eyes.

I see the resemblance, Michael said with mock seriousness, moving on to start the morning’s chores with Mari right beside him.

The reds first today, Mari said, standing with him as he opened the main gate that would allow the dogs, once they were released from their individual runs, out into the three-acre mowed and fenced play park behind the barn. He watched as Mari opened the cages one by one, waiting for each dog to reach the park before releasing the next, just as she’d been taught.

The reds were on the right side of the kennel area, so designated because of the red paint Mari had chosen for the cement surrounding the kennels.

The five reds played outside as six blues got fed. And since Michael was there to help that morning, Ashleigh tended to the cats at the same time.

Which meant that if all went well, they’d be done in time to get to Peanut’s yard sale at the dance studio where she worked. They were raising money for the senior girls’ dance company to go to a competition.

Don’t forget Maya’s medicine, Daddy, Mari said as she looked at the card on the poodle’s cage and measured her food according to the color code Michael had designed to help her know what size cup to use. She’d named Maya after a dancer mentor of Peanut’s. The poodle was on antibiotics.

Thanks for the reminder, squirt, he said, taking the pill bottle out of his pocket as she bent to the feed bowl. He’d remembered. He always remembered. But didn’t mind a bit that his daughter had a penchant for bossing him around.

Truth was, he was proud of her ability to take control. Her desire to give rather than take. And he loved that he was still on the list of those she cared about the most.

It would change. He knew that. At least in part. He savored every single second that he had with her.

Can we go to the beach after we stop by to see Peanut? Mari slid her hand into his as they headed out to whistle for the reds to come in to eat so they could let the blues out.

We’ll... His see didn’t make it out. Michael’s phone vibrated and the hopeful expression faded from his daughter’s eyes as she dropped his hand and watched him while he talked.

She knew the ropes, that wise little girl of his. He was her daddy. A kennel owner. Until the phone rang and he became Michael Edison, bounty hunter.

And then, for however long it took, she had to let him go.

* * *

IT WASN’T OFTEN that Sara Havens had a moment to spend in the sun. Fact was, in the more than two years of living in the quiet, upscale condominium complex on California’s coast, that August Saturday afternoon was the first time she’d actually been to the pool during daylight hours.

Most of her days were spent counseling women and children who were victims of domestic violence. And when she had a day off, she always managed to fill it with taking care of personal business. Shopping, mostly. For food. Shampoo. Things a woman liked to buy for herself. And cleaning.

She swam late at night—when the balmy Santa Raquel air permitted her to do so without freezing. And, occasionally, she would sit in the hot tub with a glass of wine—also late at night.

The niggling pain pulling at the right side of the back of her neck that morning had driven her out to the pool. Working late, as she had the night before, wasn’t new to her. Or unwelcome. The detour from normal had come in her inability to find peace once she’d come home.

Sara wasn’t a workaholic; she’d simply answered her calling and loved what she did. And she’d found a place where she was needed.

Who didn’t want to be needed?

She had a calming effect on people. An ability to assess their internal struggles and help sort them out.

Last night’s domestic-abuse victim, Nicole Kramer, had been...different. Her genuine desperation had drawn Sara in more than most. The woman was alive only so that she could see her son to safety. Her own life didn’t seem to hold all that much value to her.

Sara valued that life. She’d brought Nicole’s situation home with her. And let it keep her up most of the night.

You have to understand, Nicole had said. In Trevor’s reality, he is a god. He has hundreds of strong, armed and angry young men who will do whatever he tells them to do...

Sara knew about victims being manipulated to the point of feeling as though their abusers were the rulers of their worlds. But she’d never come up against a victim whose abuser truly was that powerful.

Nor had she ever counseled a victim who not only had low self-esteem due to abuse, but who also valued herself less because of her cultural environment. To white supremacists, women were second-class citizens...

He has a cop on the LA police force, a dirty cop, who supports the cause. I’m not sure, but I think there are others, too. Trevor gives them information and they protect him. Anytime I do anything that Trevor doesn’t like, there’s another trumped-up charge against me. The charges are always dropped, but only after I’m so beaten and hopeless I comply with Trevor’s demands...

Nicole had come armed with a flash drive filled with photos that, she said, would verify everything she was telling them.

While Sara had been sitting with Nicole, Lila McDaniels, managing director of the Lemonade Stand, the shelter where they worked, had called the High Risk Team—a newly formed team of professionals who tried to bridge the gap of noncommunication between official reporting agencies in an effort to prevent domestic-violence deaths. Sara was the Stand’s representative on the team. There were police officers, medical personnel, lawyers, child-protection workers and school guidance counselors.

Sara turned her head on the lounge chair. She had to clear her mind. To relax. Or she wasn’t going to be any good to anyone.

She gave herself up to the sun’s relaxing warmth. Mmm. The rays touched the bare skin of her back, sliding over her bikini-clad butt to her thighs. She focused on the heat, willing it to relax muscles that were determined to remain at strict attention. Ready for action.

She listened to the sound of the ocean, of waves gently washing to shore. The privacy wall between her and the vastness beyond the affluent complex in which she lived muted the sounds from the beach below.

Her upper back and shoulders weren’t nearly hot enough yet. She’d opted for the easy-to-undo pink-and-green bikini top for one reason only. The straps, both at the neck and around her back, were easy to undo. She didn’t need any more pressure on muscles already stressed beyond anything she’d ever felt.

Focus. She repeated the word. Willing her pores to open and soak in the vitamin D being offered, as best they could with the high-level SPF she’d smeared all over herself.

Accept the heat. Accept the help...

Metal scraped against cement. Sara’s eyes flew open. The small private pool boasted eight luxury pool loungers—one of which she was lying on. The other heretofore-unoccupied seven were spread out on either side of her. The one to her far right was no longer empty.

Sara closed her eyes as quickly as she’d opened them.

Damn. She’d hoped to have the pool to herself. Though she’d known it to be unlikely on a warm Saturday afternoon. Still, it was August. Beach weather. There’d been the possibility that everyone else would opt for the private beach just a few yards and a long stone staircase away.

Sara feigned sleep.

It was no good.

The nebulous peace she’d been seeking had been invaded. She’d started to relax, to give herself up to the healing energy of the sun’s heat, but every time the stranger moved, she was catapulted back to the netted fabric of her chair. When her nerves started to crawl around inside her and lying motionless was more painful than not, Sara gave up, reached behind her to fasten the straps at her back and neck, turned over and sat up.

The thirtysomething, dark-haired, bare-chested source of her irritability glanced her way. But left her alone.

He was a stranger to her, as were a good many of the owners with whom she shared common ground. She appreciated his respectful distance.

But...what was he doing? Usually when someone sunbathed they didn’t just sit straight up like that. And if that someone was a guy and he wasn’t reading, or drinking and socializing, if he didn’t have kids to watch, or women to ogle, he laid back and closed his eyes.

She knew these things. Human nature was her business.

Have you lived here long? The sexy tenor of his voice broke the silence.

Two years in this complex. Three in Santa Raquel. You? Might as well talk. It was better than sitting there thinking about Nicole. Wondering what effect she could have on a woman running from her white-supremacist husband.

Her question garnered no more than a shake of the handsome stranger’s head.

Are you a guest? Sara didn’t typically socialize with men at pools. In her current life—working in a secured shelter filled with damaged women—she rarely dealt with men at all.

This whole day was turning into an aberration. She couldn’t find her calm. Was lying at the pool. And encouraging a man to get to know her better.

No. He was shaking his head again.

You’re an owner, then, she ventured, coming to the only other conclusion available. There were only two ways to gain entrance to the pool. As an owner. Or as the guest of an owner.

Part of the exclusivity of Sara’s community was that it didn’t allow units to be rented out. Her brother, a financial guru in LA, had made certain of that stipulation before he’d reluctantly agreed to quit badgering Sara over her choice to live in a condominium complex rather than in a far too big luxury mansion like everyone else in the family did. She’d owned her place for over a year at that point—and had known without his help that property values would remain steadier if rentals weren’t allowed.

The man had fallen silent. He was clearly a man of few words.

Nice. Sometimes the best company—at least for someone like her, who spent her days, and a lot of her nights, listening to other people talk about their problems—was the silent type.

Sometimes, but not that afternoon. Sara was restless.

She needed to rest.

He wasn’t wearing a ring.

She didn’t care. Hadn’t needed to know. It was just what she did—notice all of the little things about people. They were the tells.

His were telling her something she wasn’t prepared to hear.

It didn’t matter that he might be available. She wasn’t looking.

Men tended to feel a bit intimidated by her job—as if they feared she’d see some sign of aggression in them, or assumed she went around assessing all men and spotting abusive tendencies. Her last date had had a problem taking a backseat to her work. But when a battered woman showed up at the shelter, you bet she was going to leave a dinner date to tend to her.

Glancing the stranger’s way, Sara tried to get a read on him. What kind of man was he? Other than quiet. Respectful of her privacy. Her space—he’d chosen the lounger farthest away from her.

He lacked nothing in the attractiveness department.

The thought made her uncomfortable, though why it should, she didn’t know. She was busy. Not dead.

How long had it been since her last date?

It had been the interrupted dinner date. They’d been on the terrace of La Mange, a coastal restaurant between Santa Raquel and Santa Monica, and it had been warm outside. Definitely summer...

So that made it, what? A year ago? At least.

Wow.

The delicious-looking stranger was still sitting there, his arms at his sides, wide-awake, glancing her way now and then. Accessible was how she translated his body language. Are you new to the area?

No. I grew up in Santa Raquel.

A native. She envied him.

You’ve lived here all your life?

I left to go to college and lived in Santa Monica for several years after that.

And now you’re back.

Yep.

No ring. Recently moved home. A breakup, she surmised.

Living in an adult-only complex. No children.

Hot and still looking at her.

Nice.

* * *

HE HAD HER INTEREST. Michael Edison allowed himself a satisfied inner smile as he relaxed back to reel in his prey. The involuntary thought bothered him.

He wasn’t reeling her in. He wasn’t like that. Studying the crystal-clean kidney-shaped pool before him, with the waterfall cascading over boulders at one end, he had a sudden vision of Mari there. She’d be climbing the boulders in no time, just to show him she could.

And then jumping off them—in spite of his admonition to get down—to make the biggest splash a sixty-pound body could make in that glistening pool.

She was who she was because he was teaching his daughter to face her fears lest she become prey to them. His mother never ceased to point out this fact to him. Each and every time Mari did something the slightest bit dangerous. Taking another year off his life while she was at it.

Several more minutes of silence passed, and Michael knew it was time for him to make his move. Lest she think that he wasn’t interested.

He did what he did—lying and conniving when necessary to get access to bail jumpers—for Mari. He was keeping the world a safer place in the hope that she’d never again come face to face with a bogeyman in the dark of the night who was as real and dangerous as any monster one could conjure up.

There’s no ring on your finger, he said. Because he’d seen her gaze linger rather pointedly on his hands. He already knew that she wasn’t married. That she lived alone in the upscale complex. He knew she’d owned the place for two years.

Not anymore. That quiet tone again. Every time she opened her mouth it struck him anew. Made him think of a meadow where breezes blew soft and cool.

Were you married or just engaged? He already knew that, too, but asked anyway. Because if this meet had been genuine, he’d have asked.

Married. The answer didn’t surprise him. The few questions he’d asked in the right places on the street the day before when he’d seen her with his mark had given him what he needed to find the rest on the internet.

Me, too. Number one rule in getting information out of someone. You had to give some to get some.

But not anymore? He liked the way she was looking at him. Kind of hopeful, as though she wanted him to be single.

Not part of the plan. Her hope. Or him feeling glad that she was hoping.

He sat there in the swim trunks he’d dug out of the laundry after his phone call that morning and quickly washed in the big sink at the kennel, contemplating his next move. The guy he’d hired to watch Sara Havens had interrupted feeding time with his call saying that she’d headed down to the pool in her complex, five miles from where he and Mari lived. Michael had one goal: to find out what he needed to know as quickly as possible. The flirtation was carefully calculated. It wasn’t real.

Nope, I’m not married anymore, he said lightly. But for once in his life he was tempted to say more.

He wasn’t the type to bare his soul. Most particularly when it came to talking about Shelley.

Was the breakup recent?

Three years. The same time she’d been in Santa Raquel. Chosen deliberately for that reason. To give them more in common. In reality, Shelley had been dead for four. Which was why her daughter didn’t remember her.

Your choice or hers?

He hated sympathy. Detested it. But wanted to be honest with this woman with her unfussy dark blond hair, no makeup and a body that tempted him like he couldn’t remember ever being tempted.

He watched her. Was she a witch? Doing some kind of voodoo on him?

The thought was preposterous.

So maybe the chance meeting by the pool hadn’t been his best move.

It was mutual. Mutual in that neither he nor Shelley had chosen to end their marriage. Neither of them would ever have done so. But this wasn’t about truth. It was about answers.

And it was time to get them.

With his degree in psychology, Michael knew a thing or two about human behavior, body language and how to use interpersonal communication to his favor.

Manipulation, his sisters called it. Of course, they also claimed they were immune to his skills. And were proud of the work he did. The way he used his gift as they’d termed it.

His sisters were nuts. Mostly.

You happy to be back home? She smiled. And for a brief second, no more than a breath, he wanted that smile to swallow him up.

Yes, he told her. The plan had always been to move home when he finished medical school. Shelley, his beautiful, funny, sexy wife, had loved Santa Raquel. She’d loved his garbage-collector father, stay-at-home mother and four younger, nosy sisters, too...

Shelley. He had a job to do.

What about you? he asked, determining that he’d spent enough time establishing the parameters of this seemingly chance meeting. He was there to get information. The sooner he did that, the better. You like Santa Raquel?

Very much.

So you’ve lived here since your divorce?

Michael was a hunter of people. Sara Havens was going to lead him to his target.

Yes, she said, holding his gaze. Her eyes were blue.

He allowed his eyes to express his appreciation of the woman he was just meeting. Feigning an interest that wasn’t supposed to be real.

He asked her about her favorite restaurants. Pretended that one of the three she named was his favorite, too.

We’ll have to go sometime, he said without thinking. What the hell? Conversations didn’t usually get away from him.

I’d like that.

You free tonight? If not, he could ask where she’d be, with whom, and possibly get what he needed so he could scram.

Her pause gave him hope. That he’d have a dinner date with the first woman who’d made him think twice about sleeping with someone who wasn’t Shelley? Or that she’d give him what he’d come to retrieve?

Or we could do it another night, he suggested, rescuing them both.

Another night might be better.

Because she was harboring a dangerous criminal? A woman on the run whom bounty hunter Michael Edison was going to catch.

I’m...uh...possibly working tonight. She smiled again.

She wanted him to know she wasn’t brushing him off. He wanted inside the door she’d just opened. He’d seen her on the street with his perp the day before. He’d asked around the area—at a thrift shop, a car maintenance garage, a computer repair shop—and finally found a young girl, a shop clerk, who, when he’d described his target, had replied, Oh, you mean Sara? Sara Havens?

He’d gotten a name. After which the girl, while still congenial, had clammed up completely in terms of giving him any pertinent information.

Everyone on the block had been that way. They couldn’t have done better if they were trained. Impressive, really, that the general public of Santa Raquel was that aware. Or scary that they had to be.

What do you do for a living? Using her lead, Michael turned his conversation in the direction he needed it to go.

His online national reporting service told him Sara Havens was a licensed professional clinical counselor. He knew her address. Her former address. The fact that she’d once gone by the last name Stover and her phone number was unlisted.

I’m a counselor. She hesitated, a somewhat tentative expression on her face, as though she expected some kind of negative reaction. On another day he might have been curious.

A therapist? She and Nicole Kramer, an unstable and armed felon, could be old friends, he supposed. Ones who hadn’t been in touch for many years. They’d both grown up in LA.

If they were friends, did Sara Havens even know who and what Nicole had become? Sara could be in danger and not even know it.

If he showed his hand to her, and she did know what Nicole was up to, he’d lose his only real lead...

I...counsel women, she said slowly, clearly choosing her words.

Only women?

And children.

But no men? He tried for a smile. Maybe to tease her. His mind was too busy assessing what she’d just told him to pull it off. What kinds of counseling services excluded men?

She looked away and then back at him. I counsel victims of domestic violence.

His mind played a fast-motion visual of all the people he’d met on the street where he’d seen her the night before. There’d been men about. But a lot of women. Women who’d crossed their arms when he’d approached them, or looked over his shoulder instead of meeting his gaze. He should have noticed then. And would have, if he hadn’t been hell-bent on nabbing Nicole before she got away.

No wonder those women had been so reluctant to give out any information to strangers. They were protecting their own.

Do you work at a shelter? he asked.

Her pause this time told him what he needed to know. He could hardly stay still