Positive/Negativity (11 page)

It was the last set of pictures that caused a bit of hostility to rise in Marisol; photos of a woman with long, dark, and wavy hair.

In the last set of pictures, this woman appeared with more frequency than the previous sets sent by the investigator. At first, there were pictures of Declan smiling at this woman on the outside of this house; then pictures appeared of Declan walking on the beach with this woman, which appeared on many different days because their clothing had changed. This woman was photographed entering and leaving the house that Declan was apparently living in. Marisol picked up the corresponding report to read the details of what the pictures implied. The reports did outline this woman’s time entering Declan’s house and leaving an hour later, and at times—hours later, yet there was no report of the woman’s identity.
What the hell was she paying an investigator for if he wasn’t getting her detailed information?

The more that Marisol saw the smiles on the faces of Declan and the unknown female, the more bitter and angry she became.

Marisol immediately phoned the Investigator. She vehemently instructed him to get more information on this house, this beach town, and most importantly, this woman. Specifically, she wanted to know exactly who she was to Declan. When she had barked her detailed orders to the investigator and concluded her threatening call, she threw the phone in a fit of temper.

As Marisol paced the floor, she once again looked at the picture of the smiling woman and Declan. She had to admit that the woman was indeed pretty, but then again, Declan Sinclair was one of the most handsome men in the United States, if not the world. She wouldn’t go so far as to say that this woman was beautiful—no, she was far from it. Her hair didn’t look like it had seen the inside of a salon for ages, and her face was pretty enough for an everyday girl, but it was too pudgy.
That
wasn’t sufficient for Declan Sinclair, and Declan well knew it. The thought gave Marisol some consolation. Perhaps she was overreacting. Perhaps this woman was an acquaintance or an old friend.

Marisol picked up the horrid photo and thoroughly inspected it. As she scanned from top to bottom, she completely dismissed the woman’s clothing. They were department store at best, certainly not designer. Her shoes were flip-flops, of all things.
Tasteless! She carried no handbag!
The thought was revolting to Marisol.
What was she? A farm girl?!
Marisol looked at her again
. And her figure! It was laughable. She was much too fat to ever compete with Marisol!
A sardonic grin made its way to Marisol’s face
. They weren’t even in the same category!

Marisol threw the photos onto the floor in disgust and reclined onto the sofa. It was there, on the top of the pile, that she saw the one photo that made her take notice.

With all of the photos lying in a heap on the floor, just one stood out—a photo of Declan and this woman sitting on the beach, and he was handing her a cup of coffee. Although to someone else it may have appeared to be a simple cup of coffee, to Marisol, it appeared to be more.

Marisol’s bitterness began to rise into hostility. It wasn’t the woman in the photo that concerned Marisol. In fact, her expression was partially hidden by the cheap sunglasses that she wore, and Marisol dismissed her anyway. In this particular photo, the woman was insignificant. What was of concern to Marisol was the expression on
Declan’s
face.

In this one, seemingly innocent photo, the investigator captured what most people would dismiss. Marisol wasn’t most people. Photos were her livelihood, and she knew that a photo could reflect a product, person, or an image. These photos were taken without the subjects being aware so that the reflections were honest and genuine. As she continued to study the photo, she saw in it what she didn’t want to see—Declan’s response to this woman.

Declan’s smile directed toward this woman was one that Marisol hadn’t seen before. The lines of his mouth were soft and genuinely raised as he looked at her. His eyes were gentle and kind. Looking further down the photo, Marisol looked at his hand. She saw that, as he passed the coffee to this woman, his fingers were curved and purposely cupping hers.
What the hell!
Declan felt an affection for this woman!
TTT

Marisol felt the loathing and contempt rise up and over her as a fast-growing malignancy. The friction between her and this woman was instantaneous.
Who the hell was this little bitch, and why would Declan Sinclair be attracted to her?
The inner conflict that Marisol felt caused her to adopt a vindictiveness directed toward this unknown female. Marisol didn’t know who this chubby girl was, but at that moment, a vendetta had been conceived.

As Marisol stared at the look on Declan’s face in the photo, the fury grew. He had never looked at her that way.
Never!
They had been photographed together for years, by some of the world’s top photographers, and some of those photos had been in the scantiest attire. Marisol had rubbed up against Declan in some of the most provocatively posed positions. She had flaunted herself at him. She had made certain he saw her half naked when preparing for a photo shoot. She had suggested sex to him after parties where they had both been present—Hell, she had all but tied him down and tried to screw him senseless! He brushed her off because he said they were friends. This picture showed her exactly what she didn’t want to know—
Declan Sinclair didn't want her!
With that, she picked up the Murano glass on the table, and with a loud scream, she hurled it against the wall where it shattered into tiny shards upon impact.

After several moments, Marisol took a deep breath and composed herself; then she quietly raised the photograph. Marisol looked at the woman and contemptuously dismissed her as insignificant. This woman wasn’t even a worthy opponent for a world renowned beauty such as Marisol and she would be dealt with accordingly. She couldn’t compete with Marisol in any way. She could be—and would be—easily dismissed. Marisol justified that the affectionate gaze Declan directed toward this piddly, inferior woman in the photograph was only because she, herself, hadn’t really put forth her best effort to try to
get
Declan Sinclair. She just needed a little time to form a plan. She smiled, thinking that she would most definitely get what
she
wanted. She was, after all, Marisol Franzi.

…and as she snuggled securely into the strong arm that was holding her close, Aria Cole felt that Declan Sinclair was everything in a man that
she
had ever wanted…

T
I Got Lucky – Susannah Blinkoff

TT
Start of Something Good – Toni Price

TTT
In a Sentimental Mood – Duke Ellington & John Coltrane

I love waking to the sound of the Ocean. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds in the world to me. No matter the difficulty I faced, I have always been lulled into peace and contentment by the sounds of waves crashing on the seashore, seagulls singing, and a faint ocean breeze. A brand new favorite for me would be listening to the beating of Declan’s heart as my head rests on his chest. Lying here, in Declan’s arms, seems like the most natural thing in the world. His arm is draped over my body, lovingly and protectively.
T

Before last night, I had never seen Declan naked. Now, as he lays sleeping, I knew I’d have an unobstructed view of him if I just moved a little bit. I wiggled from under his arm and turned on my stomach, carrying the sheet with me as I turned, leaving him uncovered. It was as I suspected. Declan had the body of Adonis. His muscles were firm and hard—everywhere. His bone structure was fierce, severe, and chiseled. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. His upper body, chest, and arms were covered in a very unique pattern of tattoos. My eyes followed my fingertips as they traced the lines and curves of the tattoos in mindless, unconscious exploration. I sighed as my imagination wandered along with my fingers, down the deep “V” of his abdominal muscles, and further and deeper still…

“You could get into trouble like that, beautiful girl,” came the deep, rough voice of the glorious man lying beside me.

His unexpected voice startled me and made me jump slightly. I went to pull back my hand, but he grabbed it and lifted it to his lips for a kiss.

“Good morning,” he said as he pulled me on top of him.

“Good morning,” I said much more softly than he.

“Maybe I want to,” I teased.

“Want to what?” he asked, confused.

I giggled. “Get into trouble.”

“I can accommodate you. I’m a man who likes trouble.”

“I’ll have you know that I can hold my own with the boys, Mr. Sinclair,” I said as my hand traveled down his abdomen and toward the part of him that was rising beneath the sheet. “I order men about for my livelihood.”

With that, he playfully flipped me over, and I rested beneath him.

He brushed my hair out of my face, cupped my chin, and addressed me with a wicked grin.

“I might look like a pretty boy to you, and everyone else may tell me what to wear, what to do and where to stand for my living, but in here, with us, I like to take the lead.” Still grinning, he added, “Okay?”

Oh!
The intense look that man gave me turned my libido into lava. I knew this was a turning point for us, and it could have proven to be an issue in our relationship. It wouldn’t be, not with me. I was a woman who liked a man who made me
feel
like a woman. I knew by looking into his gorgeous eyes that he would never take advantage of his control in the bedroom; they reassured me that I could trust him.

“As long as your standards are as high as they were last night, I have no problem at all,” I answered in a hoarse whisper. My body began to pulsate and tightly clench from his playfulness alone.

He lowered his lips to mine and kissed me. Then, looking into my eyes, he said, “
Excellence
is my middle name.”

“How do I know that you’re qualified?” I teased.

He tickled me just enough to hear me giggle; then he gave me his most roguish smile and flipped me over his knee…