Authors: Jenny Schwartz
Memories of Love
Memories of Love
Memories of Love
Jenny Schwartz
In a style reminiscent of Robyn Carr, an intensely emotional story about taking chances and risking your heart.
When her family home burns down, it’s the final heartbreak for Rita Jorden who has already lost her parents. Her boss, former SAS captain and head of Tamerlane Security, Ivan Novak, steps in, offering her his home and his help. But Ivan has his own demons, and although he’s interested in Rita, there’s darkness in his past that could cause her harm. Thrown together into a situation that’s too close for comfort, this story can only end in one of two ways: in the destruction of Rita’s dreams of love — or the gift of healing and hope to two damaged survivors.
Jenny Schwartz is a Western Australian author and the daughter of a Vietnam Veteran. Anzac Day has a special meaning for her and she hopes
Memories of Love
shares with you the day’s message of courage, love and the celebration of mateship.
Also by Jenny Schwartz
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Contents
Also Available From Escape Publishing…
The shrill, insistent beep of the smoke alarm woke Rita Jordan to a nightmare. Smoke hung chokingly thick in the air. She gasped at the taste of it, and the scorch of it flooded her lungs.
“Oh God.” She rolled out of bed. Her feet hit the bare floorboards. The whole house was timber, old timber. In a fire, it would go up fast. She had to get out.
She scooped up her mobile from the bedside table. Her handbag was on the dressing table by the door. She picked it up, dropped the mobile in, and slung it over her shoulder.
She could hear the fire. It crackled in the kitchen. The orange flare of light was terrifying. “Front door.” She put an arm over her face and bent low, remembering that smoke was said to rise.
The heat of the fire reached out for her as she fled past the kitchen. The wooden floor burned beneath her bare feet, hotter than the hottest summer concrete. She clung to the front door, sobbing as she fought the deadlock. It clicked, the door swung open and she flung herself out and down the two front steps.
The cool lawn comforted her feet. Her hands shook. She had to phone the fire brigade. “Triple zero.” She had to phone 000.
But a blaze of orange shone from the side window of her kitchen and she knew the fastest response wouldn’t be fast enough. Something thudded inside the house. Flames crawled up the side of the house. Their light showed the roofline had changed.
“My house is on fire,” she whispered into the mobile.
Story to be contained within this section. The author and title should be present in the running heads of this section – title on odds, author on evens. Headers should not be present on any prelims or end matter.
The emergency operator was good. She extracted Rita’s address with calm efficiency and confirmed there was no one else in the house. She advised her to stand back. “Don’t try to be heroic.”
Rita shivered. No, she wasn’t contemplating heroics.
Her neighbours arrived. Unlike her, they lived in new executive homes, modern brick structures, safe and soulless. She’d watched the original timber cottages, like hers, be demolished to make way for a new generation.
Someone wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She didn’t know who, didn’t care. She listened to the fire captain’s grave assessment, heard the determination and apology in his voice as he addressed her.
“We’ll contain the fire, but we can’t save your house.”
She nodded. Part of her had been mourning it since she stumbled out of bed. There would be no recovering from this. Her mobile rang and she blinked to realise she still held it.
It was instinct to answer.
“Rita, I need you to come into the office. An emergency.” Ivan Novak, her boss, owner and chief executive officer of Tamerlane Security.
Late night calls were always emergencies.
Rita cleared her throat, feeling the harsh pain of the smoke she’d swallowed. “Ivan.”
“Did I wake you?” A touch of amusement lightened his voice. “You sound croaky.”
“My house is on fire.”
“What?”
Heads turned as his voice exploded from the mobile.
“My house is on fire.” She couldn’t manage anything more, anything different.
The fire captain took the phone from her. “She’s fine. Safe outside. The house, though, is finished. If you’re a friend—Yeah. Okay.” He ended the call and handed the mobile back to Rita. “He’s coming.”
She sighed, took the phone and went back to watching her home burn.
Ivan drove the way he’d been trained, and he’d been trained to survive in warzones. He’d never known a fear like this, though. Rita’s home was burning. Amazing how priorities shifted. The emergency with Kai’s son on the Gold Coast that he’d phoned Rita to come in and help deal with was now secondary. He’d called Caleb in. Caleb could hold the business together while he went to Rita.
Fire trucks framed her house. He stopped down the street, got out and jogged up. He watched the crowd. Some stood in shadow, others in the glare of the fire or gentler glow of the streetlight. He picked out Rita, huddled in a blanket. Despite the people surrounding her, she appeared alone.
He stepped over the low picket fence at the front of her house and pushed through the crowd. He gripped her shoulders and turned her so he could see her in the light. “Hey, Rita. You okay?”
“Ivan.” Her voice was a husky thread.
It broke something in him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight enough to crush ribs. After a minute, he felt dampness against his chest. She was crying, her tears soaking his t shirt.
He looked at the fire captain standing nearby. “Do you need her, here?”
“No. If you can get her to leave, she doesn’t need to watch the walls fall in. You might want to think about looters, though.”
Hell. What sort of screwed up world was it that people would steal from someone who’d lost her home?
He knew exactly what sort of world it was; he’d built his business on the knowledge.
“Tony?” He kept an arm around Rita, pressing her into him. “Rita’s house has burned down. I need someone to stand guard against looters.” He gave the address and shoved the mobile back in his pocket. “One of my men will be here in a few minutes,” he told the fire captain. “He’ll watch the house.”
Then he stooped, picked up Rita and carried her to his car.
Inside the car, he could smell the smoke on both of them.
“My great-grandfather built the house. All my family memories are in it.”
The raw sound of her voice destroyed him. His hands clenched on the steering wheel. It was bad, but even worse when you knew Rita’s history.
“I’m sorry, baby.” He remembered her job interview, just over a year ago. She’d applied to be his secretary. He hadn’t cared that she had no background in security. He’d employed her for her calm efficiency. She’d filled in a personnel record and listed her doctor as next of kin. When he’d questioned it, she’d been carefully matter of fact.
“I’m an orphan. No parents, no nobody. It makes people uncomfortable, though, when I mention that I’ve no family. For the record, my doctor knows I’m listing her as my next of kin.”
He’d respected her privacy, but now the knowledge of how alone she was ate at him. When she said she’d lost everything in the fire, it was the literal truth. That house had been her last tie to family.
He reached out with one hand and covered her hands as they lay in her lap.
She inhaled shakily. “I can’t go to a hotel like this.”
“I know. It’s okay.” He stamped on the rage that she could imagine he’d dump her at a hotel. “I’m taking you home.”
Her hands twisted under his.
He squeezed. “Home, Rita. In the morning, we’ll sort something out. Tonight I want you somewhere safe.”
The dashboard clock said 1:30am.
Ivan’s home was an apartment in West Perth with views of the Swan River. Rita had been there before, delivering papers and once, accepting a delivery of his new dishwasher. He’d apologised for that one.
“I know it’s not what secretaries do.”
She’d smiled, because it was what friends do.
They caught the lift up together from the underground car park. She snuggled the borrowed blanket around her. For all that it was April and the weather still behaving as if summer were in full swing, she felt cold. Shock, probably. She’d only felt safe and warm when Ivan held her, but she couldn’t ask her boss to cuddle her.
“Would you like a drink? Brandy?” He opened the door to the apartment.
Well, alcohol was one way to warm up, but she sniffed and grimaced. “Could I have a shower?” She would go crazy if she had to keep smelling the smoke of all that she’d lost.
“Of course. The guest room is this way. There’s a shower and—” He stopped abruptly. She ran into his back. He turned quickly and caught her shoulders, steadying her. “Sorry. I just remembered. Mum said I ought to have shampoo and stuff for the guest room. You go on through.”
He strode off down the corridor, leaving her to follow the flap of his hand in the direction of the guest room.
She ventured in and recognised what his words had indicated. The room had a bed, a bentwood chair beside it and a built-in wardrobe. She walked into the ensuite and found it tiled in white and grey. There were no towels.
Ivan returned with two towels, an unopened yellow bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo. “Sorry. You’ll have to share my shampoo, but the soap is from Christmas. One of my cousins made it. Lemon.” His nose wrinkled.
“Lemon is girly?”
His teeth flashed in a rare grin. Then he dropped the bundle in her arms. “Toothbrush.” He dashed off.
With both hands occupied holding the towels, the blanket slipped, slipped some more and slid to the floor. She set the towels on the bathroom counter and stooped to pick up the blanket.
Ivan returned and made an odd sound in the doorway.
She glanced at him as she finished folding the blanket. He was staring and she wasn’t sure why. “I know the blanket needs washing, but I’ll just fold it and leave it here until…”
“I’ll get you a t shirt to sleep in.”
Her gaze whipped to her image in the mirror. Good grief. She’d forgotten she was wearing her oyster silk cami and French knickers. You could see her nipples beneath the silk!
She banged the bathroom door shut and turned the shower on hard. Ivan could leave his t shirt on the guest room bed.
The hot water poured over her, washing away the smell of smoke, her embarrassment and the marks of her tears. It was strange to lather up with Ivan’s shampoo. It was a scent she associated with him. Apparently sandalwood wasn’t girly like lemon. She washed her hair twice before finally accepting that she was as clean as she was going to get. She wrapped her hair in a towel turban style, dried off and wrapped the other towel around her.
Good guy that he was, Ivan had not only closed the guest room door to give her privacy, he’d left a robe beside the t shirt on the bed. She slipped into both, belted the robe tightly and ran the comb from her handbag through her hair.
There was an odd blankness in her mind. The fire had been real, her home with all its precious memories was gone, but she couldn’t seem to focus on it. She recalled the feeling from the day of her parents’ funerals. It was a self-protective mechanism, the psychologist had said.
Her bare feet sunk into the softness of the guest room carpet, her toes curling as she took a final breath before opening the door. She followed the low sound of Ivan’s voice out to the open plan living area. He was on the phone. The lights were dim, leaving him a shadow among shadows. One look at the wide expanse of windows told her the reason for the low lights; the river glimmered in the moonlight, softly reflecting the city lights. The view was beautiful.
