Take Me Back

Book 4: Give & Take

by Kelli Maine

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A Give & Take Novella



DESIRE THAT CAN'T BE DENIED

Rachael DeSalvo is haunted by the past. She's come home to her beloved Turtle Tear Island, where she looks forward to happy days and bliss-filled nights in the arms of Merrick Rocha. But when she finds a trunk full of old photo albums and handwritten notes, Rachael soon realizes that the island has not given up all its secrets . . .

For long before Rachael and Merrick made Turtle Tear Resort their home, this historic island was a haven for sensual, forbidden affairs. As Rachael and Merrick work to restore the grand hotel to its former glory, they will be caught in the perfect maelstrom of conflict and desire.



"I love the banter between Rachael and Merrick throughout the book..... some steamy scenes that will not leave you disappointed." --The Indie Bookshelf

Release date: June 4, 2013

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 100

Sample

Ingrid’s here. I can feel her in the air, like the first time I stepped foot inside the ruins of Turtle Tear. It’s a special kind of magic. A whispered language only I understand.

Only we understand.

It’s a bond we share with Archibald and Ingrid Weston, like we share the island they called home so many years ago.

Scanning the old, yellowed newspaper article in my hands, I’m startled by your arms wrapping around my waist from behind. “Reading that again?” you ask. Your warm breath tickles the back of my neck.

I turn and lean into you, resting my head against your chest. “You know I’ve always felt a special connection with her.”

You squeeze me, holding me tight against you. We fit together perfectly. “You’re kindred spirits,” you say, reminding me how our minds piece together as well as our bodies do. You get me like no one ever has.

“You know what this means?” I say, nodding at the article. “Her spirit isn’t at rest. She wants to go home to Turtle Tear.”

You take the newspaper clipping out of my hand and scan it, your eyes running quickly across the words as you mumble the words to yourself.

“Outside St. Petersburg sits an old antebellum plantation house that used to be home to the Weston family. The Weston Sugar Plantation operated from the 1830s until 1865, when the mill burned down near the end of the Civil War.”

I stand closer to your side and lean my head against your shoulder as you read, letting the deep, rich timbre of your voice rumble through my ears.

“Attempts by the current owners to renovate the plantation house have been thwarted at every turn by a ghost they call Ingrid.”

You gaze down at me and kiss the top of my head.

“Legend has it,” you continue, “the woman is Ingrid (Burkhart) Weston, wife of Archibald Weston, son of the original owners of the plantation. The Westons and the Burkharts were Florida’s Civil War version of the Montagues and Capulets, making Ingrid and Archibald true star-crossed lovers.

“Archibald built a home for his beloved on Turtle Tear Island in the Everglades, where they lived and raised their own family.”

You run your hand up my back and thread you fingers under my hair, massaging my neck. “They forgot the part where he whisked her away,” you whisper in my ear, sending chills down my back.

I tilt my chin up and kiss you. “That’s a part I never forget,” I say, and kiss you again. I can never get enough of your full, soft lips.

“Are you going to let me finish reading this?” you tease.

I give you one more kiss before leaning my head back against your shoulder.

“Although Ingrid died while staying at the Weston Plantation, her body is said to be buried on Turtle Tear Island.

“ ‘She’s not with her body,’ the current plantation owners say of Ingrid’s spirit. ‘She’s here, but she wants to go back.’

“How do they know Ingrid’s wishes? She’s told them,” you read.

“ ‘Take me back to Turtle Tear was written in the condensation on the attic window after a storm,’ they say. ‘She’s written it in the dust on the attic floor, too, and every time we bring a crew in to remodel the attic she shows herself, scatters their tools, barricades the stairs, and scares them away.’

“ ‘I feel bad,’ the current owner says of Ingrid’s predicament. ‘I’d take her to Turtle Tear if I knew how.’

“For now, she’s stuck at the Weston Plantation, desperate to get back to the island home her Romeo built her.”

You turn toward me and wrap your strong arms around me. I let my head fall back and look up at you as you look down at me with those dark, soulful eyes that see right through to the center of me.

“You believe this?” you ask, cocking a dark brow.

My heart drops a little. “You don’t?”

Conflicted, you run a hand through your hair, like you always do when you’re frustrated. You’re at odds with what you know I want to hear and the truth. “I don’t believe in ghosts, Rachael.”

“I know it’s her.” I step out of your arms, tug the clipping out of your grip, and turn back to the steamer trunk where the newspaper was found along with a lifetime of memories tucked in the pages of photo albums, written in letters from the war, embroidered on pillowcases, and engraved on silver trinkets.

“Don’t be angry with me,” you say, brushing my hair aside and placing a kiss at the base of my neck. Goose bumps blossom across my shoulders and down my chest. Even when I’m trying to be irritated with you, my body can’t help but react to your touch, your kiss.

“You know I feel it; that whatever it is,” you say, “when it’s quiet at Turtle Tear and I’m standing in the entryway surrounded by the Spanish murals, or when I get a whiff of lime in the air, or hear the gentle rush of water falling from the fountain.”

You press your lips to the side of my neck then whisper in my ear. “I know it’s only for us. Something that can’t be explained. Something that comes from somewhere bigger than us.”

I lean my head back and gaze up into your dark eyes. Whatever it is—a ghost or something timeless from the earth itself—Turtle Tear binds us together. “I wonder if in a few hundred years another couple will be saying these things about us?”

You kiss the tip of my nose. “I guarantee it.”

“Well, they will believe in ghosts, because I’m never leaving that island, even after I’m dead!”

Your deep laughter echoes through the run-down plantation house you bought as a surprise for your son.

“I love that you gave this place to MJ. It ties him to Turtle Tear, the past, and our future. It feels—”

“—right,” you say, leaning your forehead against my temple. “If we have some strange connection to Archibald and Ingrid, then so does he.”

The front door opens, letting a block of light stream across the scuffed hardwood floor. MJ and his girlfriend, Maddie, come inside looking happier than I’ve ever seen them. She can’t stop gazing at the platinum ring on her finger. Not an engagement ring, but one that means just as much—a promise of keeping no secrets. A promise of someday. A promise that nothing will ever come between them again. “He gave it to her,” I whisper, glancing up at you.

You smile, making those Rocha dimples dent your cheeks.

“You all knew about this!” Maddie says, grinning and holding up her hand to show off her new ring. She and MJ have been through more than their share of pain, being kept apart by the manipulations of Enzo Rocha, MJ’s grandfather.

I’m so proud of you for helping him find a jeweler in Atlanta to handcraft it. It’s beautiful and one of a kind, just like you. Just like MJ. Both of you are one of a kind, even if the two of you could have been made in the same mold.

“Let me see,” I say, rushing forward. I saw the ring when MJ first brought it home from the jeweler, but seeing it on Maddie’s finger gives it a whole new look, a shine and a purpose behind the platinum. “It’s gorgeous.” I squeeze her hand in mine. Her blue eyes are wet with unshed tears of joy.

“Thanks,” she says. “I think so, too.” She turns to MJ with so much pure love on her face, my breath catches and I spin back around to find you standing behind me watching them. It rarely happens, but right now I can’t make out the expression on your face, what’s going on behind your eyes. Then those black orbs shift to me and I know instantly. It’s pride. Love. Awe.

You reach out, take my hand, and pull me to you. “I have more than I’ve ever dreamed of,” you whisper in my ear. “It used to be just me and a hotel in ruins on an abandoned island. I can’t stop thinking I. . .