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    Love & Roses
    Love & Roses
    Love & Roses
    Ebook121 pages1 hour

    Love & Roses

    By Suzanne D. Williams

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    About this ebook

    "What are we?" she asked.

     

    He ran one hand up and down her back. "I think they call this falling in love."

     

    Ian McKinney's wife tried to kill him, and that made up his mind for good. He's out of the dating game. He has friends, a comfortable job, other things to fill his life.

     

    Then Allison Hoff walks into it. She's never recovered from the death of her spouse and is now trying to somehow move on. Maybe if she loses a few pounds, builds her self-esteem …

     

    But when she asks him to fill in as her date to the Fourth of July police dance, what seems like a beneficial arrangement to them both proves to be very, very wrong.

     

    A touching romance by best-selling author, SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS, where love blooms even brighter the second time around.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSuzanne D. Williams
    Release dateFeb 11, 2022
    ISBN9781524292355
    Love & Roses
    Author

    Suzanne D. Williams

    Best-selling author, Suzanne D. Williams, is a native Floridian, wife, mother, and photographer. She is the author of both nonfiction and fiction books. She writes a monthly column for Steves-Digicams.com on the subject of digital photography, as well as devotionals and instructional articles for various blogs. She also does graphic design for self-publishing authors. She is co-founder of THE EDGE. To learn more about what she’s doing and check out her extensive catalogue of stories, visit http://suzanne-williams-photography.blogspot.com/ or link with her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/suzannedwilliamsauthor.

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      Book preview

      Love & Roses - Suzanne D. Williams

      PROLOGUE

      The cop at the door looked like he’d eaten something that disagreed with him, and judging by his physique, whatever that item was had been coated in icing and loaded with calories. Ian gripped the door knob and attempted to look more awake than he felt.

      Ian McKinney? the cop asked, his voice brusque. Behind him stood six more policemen of similar shape and size, all in various stages of baldness. Which begged the question why so many cops looked alike.

      Yeah? Ian replied, dismissing his wayward thought.

      We need you to come with us. Your wife has contracted to have you killed.

      His breath left his lungs, and for a second, Ian wondered if there was any air left on the planet. Wheezing, lightheaded, he stumbled backward, falling down on an armchair. Steph had hired someone ... t-to kill him?

      We’re short on time, Mr. McKinney. If you could get your shoes ...

      He nodded, barely aware of his next few movements. Flip flops. T-shirt. Police car. And moments later, the sight of his front door receding in the distance. Shuttled away from home, he gazed numbly ahead at yet another shiny cop pate.

      His thoughts turned over and back again, unable to grasp reality. What had he done that Steph could hate so badly? They’d been married just short of a year, and sure, they’d argued some recently, but all couples did that. Relationships weren’t easy all the time. Were they?

      Granted, she hated his job. She’d made that plain. But that was unfair of her because she’d known what he did for a living when they met. Yet within months after their marriage, it became unacceptable.

      You’re around too many women.

      Part of his job, and it meant nothing. He’d married her, not anyone else. Besides, being faithful was part of his beliefs. No man worth anything cheated.

      His gaze widened. Her ex had cheated. He should have seen that one. But there again her own words accused her. I know I have things to work on.

      His first marriage, her second, and she’d brought along with her a pile of baggage. He hadn’t held that against her, but instead, had tried to show her things could be different this time.

      I guess not.

      The police sedan pulled up to the front of the station, and another officer, the first one with hair, motioned him into the bustling entrance. Please, follow me.

      Obedient, Ian tagged at his heels, around disarrayed cubicles, into a small room at the rear.

      Take a seat. Can I get you something? Coffee? Soda? the cop asked.

      Coffee. Black, Ian replied. And stiff. At this point, whatever caffeine he could pump into his system was warranted.

      The officer disappeared, returning minutes later with a Styrofoam cup full of a watery, black liquid. Ian took a sip and grimaced.

      The officer settled himself in a chair. Mr. McKinney, we were notified of your wife’s intentions by a parolee. She apparently solicited him for anyone he might know, and he told her he’d make inquiries. He flipped open a file folder on the fold-out table in front of them and ran one fat finger down the page. He notified us instead, and we sent our man in to pretend he was the hire. We have all her words on tape.

      Dazed. Ian stared outward and yet at nothing at all. She’d actually done this.

      I know this is a shock, the cop continued. But right now, they’re in the process of arresting her. They wanted her to believe it was done, that you are gone, and get her reaction. Then she’ll be told the truth and arrested.

      After she’s given rope to hang herself. Smart. Ian rubbed one hand through his hair.

      She’ll be brought here for processing.

      Divorce. He would be divorced, and he’d never planned for that, never thought he’d become one of the statistics. His parents had been married fifty-two years, his grandparents longer than that. He had good examples to live by with plenty of godly counsel as a foundation and what he’d thought was love for her.

      Relax, the cop said. This is going to take some time. He rose and left the room, the door swinging closed behind him.

      Relax? How did he do that, knowing his wife, who’d pledged to honor and love him ’til death, had chosen to speed up that death. For what? Money? He had a small life insurance policy, but that wouldn’t get her far. Freedom? If she was that unhappy, they could have worked something out.

      He leaned back in the chair, resting his head on the hard plastic edge for what felt like hours. He startled when the door opened and the cop returned.

      The officer waved him upright. Follow me.

      Trudging after him, Ian wound around the sea of desks to another room of similar size and came to a halt. There his wife sat. Pony-tail stuck through her ball cap, tight, pink tank top, running shorts.

      You’re alive? she said. I’m so glad.

      He eyed her. Was she for real?

      They said you were dead, but there you are. Oh, Ian, I’m so glad.

      He made no move, couldn’t move.

      Ian?

      He crossed one arm over his chest and clasped it on the forearm of the other, slowly reversing his steps away.

      Ian? Don’t go. I’m so glad you’re okay.

      No, she wasn’t. Because she’d tried to have him killed. His wife who he’d stood at the altar with, lain beside at night, and spoken of the future with – their future – had hired somebody to snuff him out.

      He was done with females. Better to live alone than risk his heart to anyone else. Things simply weren’t love and roses anymore. That was reserved for the past, black and white old-timey images that, like his marriage, would never return.

      CHAPTER 1

      Despite her sixty-odd years, Mrs. Schumacher’s grip could take down a bear. Or at least a grown man. Ian McKinney well imagined her pinching many a young boy’s ear and putting him in line.

      Ooh, she said, a cackle rising in her throat. I may be old, but I’m not dead. She dug her fingers into his upper arm and squeezed.

      A crooked grin arose on his lips. See you next week, Mrs. Schumacher.

      Betty. Call me Betty, and I’ll call you anytime.

      He shook his head and chuckled, one eye on her exit.

      She scares me, Matthew Forrester said from the workout bench to Ian’s left.

      She ought to. Somebody’s got to watch over you.

      This remark earned him a laugh and a sweaty gym towel tossed toward his head. It fell far short, flattening in the aisle. Ian kicked it away and sat down on the padded seat of a similar bench.

      You done for today? Matt asked.

      Ian swigged from a water bottle he plucked from between his feet. No. He tossed his head, flicking sweaty brown locks out of his eyes. I have a new client, should be here in ...

      Are you Ian McKinney?

      A female voice speaking to the back of his head turned him around. The girl, a petite blonde somewhere in her early thirties, sporting fitness wear straight off the rack, smiled at him uncertainly.

      I am. You must be Allison.

      Allison Hoff, she said. Your next victim.

      A sense of humor. That’s a good start.

      She wrinkled her nose, a definite sparkle in her eyes. Well, then let me say I’m prepared for physical torture, but not to smell like dirty socks.

      The dirty-sock scent would be my friend here, Ian replied, jerking his chin at Matt.

      She transferred her gaze.

      On that note, Matt replied. I’m off to the showers. He swiped the gym towel from the floor and ambled down the aisle.

      Ian rose, wiping the back of his hand across his

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