Take it to the Grave Bundle 1 Read online

  At his offer of help, my anger fades. The truth is, I can barely stand to look at myself these days. This sad, frumpy woman with the dark circles under her eyes—she isn’t me. I’d love to wear some of the gorgeous things in my closet again instead of these shapeless sack dresses.

  “If you took Elliot for an hour in the afternoon, I could go for a walk along the beach. Maybe even swim a bit once I’ve regained my strength.” I adore my son with an intensity I’d never thought possible, but the idea of an hour of freedom makes my head spin.

  He coaxes my sundress aside to kiss my shoulder. “Done.”

  My joy is short-lived as he begins to work on the buttons, trailing kisses down my neck. I try to pull away, but he presses himself against me. His erection prods my thigh. “Warwick...don’t.”

  The kisses stop. My husband gazes down at me, looking wounded.

  “But it’s been three months. I need you. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not ready.” The reality is worse—I’m terrified. Elliot’s birth was incredibly painful. What if my son ruined me? I can’t bear to find out. But, like any man, my husband has needs. If I can’t satisfy him, he’ll search for someone who can. With Warwick’s looks, the search won’t take long.

  “The doctor said it’s fine. You’re just scared, which is understandable.” His face brightens. “Wait here. I’ve bought you a present.”

  Before I can tell him that yet another gift isn’t necessary, my husband disappears into the closet, returning with a large gold box.

  My heart sinks. The box is distinctive, unmistakable. There’s no doubt where it came from.

  This isn’t a gift for me at all.

  Doing my best to seem thankful, I open it to find a red velvet corset, complete with garters and stockings. I’m so exhausted I can hardly hold my head up. The skintight costume presents a challenge that makes me long to curl into a ball and sleep.

  A dimple appears in Warwick’s cheek as he watches me open his present. At times like this, he resembles an imp. A kinky, twisted imp. “Maybe this will get you in the mood.”

  Doubtful. Still, what choice do I have? I don’t want my husband to be miserable. And it has been three months. He’s waited long enough. “Give me a minute.” I do my best sashay to the dressing room, hoping it’s sexier than my usual waddle. Sure I’m tired but children are tiring—everyone says so. It’s not like taking care of Elliot will get easier as he gets older. If we’re going to get our romantic life back on track, there’s no better time to start.

  I try to convince myself of this as I wriggle into the corset. It’s every bit as uncomfortable as it looked, and it’s doing not-so-nice things to my new figure. My breasts protrude until I feel like an overstuffed sausage. Sexy is not the word I’d use to describe it.

  Releasing my long hair from its clasp, I fluff it around my shoulders and endeavor to act more confident than I feel. When I open the door, I’m relieved to see my husband has dimmed the lights. This will help with the illusion.

  Warwick waits for me on the bed, his toned body gleaming. He licks his lips when he sees me, and reaches for my hand. “Darling, you are good enough to eat. Come here.”

  I feel a moment of panic. I can’t do this. It’s too soon.

  His expression is so eager, so hopeful. He’ll never understand how I feel. My husband has counted the days until we can be together again. I should be grateful he still finds me this attractive when I gave birth a few short months ago.

  Seeing my hesitation, his smile falters, and I do the only thing I can to keep him happy. I go to him, summoning the memory that has always kept me safe.

  When Warwick touches me, I am transported to another place.

  I’m a little girl again, wearing a patterned sundress instead of a corset. I sit cross-legged in a field of daisies, watching while my father shows me how to make a chain of the blossoms, his dark head bent over the project. Once the crown of flowers is finished, I will wear it in my hair and spin in the sunlight, proclaiming myself Queen of the Meadow.

  My mother smiles when she sees what we’re doing, and says she’d like to have one once we’re finished with mine. She spreads a blue blanket on the ground and unpacks our picnic basket as Maisey crawls nearby, cooing and pulling up fistfuls of grass.

  As my beautiful husband invades my body, my mind drifts further and further away.

  Maisey

  “Say ‘Ah,’” I said, pulling my mouth into an exaggerated O and crossing my eyes in an attempt to relax my young patient. It worked. It gave me a slight headache, but it worked. The little boy sitting on the examination table giggled, and his mother smiled briefly. She held the boy’s baby brother, and for a moment I was distracted. The skinny legs pumping in his mother’s arms reminded me of another baby, another time. I shook my head, surprised by the unexpected memory. I returned my focus to my young patient. Arinya, the Thai nurse I’m training, smiled. She was tiny, slender and so stunning, with dark brown eyes and long dark locks that should have looked sweaty and lank and tangled in this heat, but didn’t. Not for the first time I envied not only the length of her glossy hair, but her built-in air-conditioning that didn’t allow her to wilt in the humidity.

  I grinned, then winked. “Ahhh.” I tried again, crossing my eyes harder (cue stronger headache), and the little boy obediently opened his mouth, his shoulders shaking in mirth as he tried to copy me. I used the tongue depressor to quickly scan his throat and tonsils, and nodded as I disposed of the thin wooden stick, not for the first time thinking I should have bought shares in that tongue depressor factory—we went through so damn many of them.

  “His throat looks good and healthy, no spots, no redness,” I told Arinya, who quickly noted the details on the boy’s medical chart.

  I winked at the boy again. “Good job, dude.” I reached for him, tickling his ears as I gently felt around his throat, easily locating his lymph nodes. I chuckled as the kid squirmed. “Hey, you have to sit still,” I told him, tickling him some more, and his mother laughed as he let loose with a peal of giggles.

  “Glands are fine,” I said to Arinya. I conducted the rest of the examination as quickly as I could, trying to make the boy laugh at every opportunity. This was his first-ever visit to a health clinic, such as it was, and I wanted to make the experience a positive one. We wanted this new program to work. That meant people needed to come back. I decided I’d hold off on breaking out the syringes for his inoculations until his next visit. No sense traumatizing the poor kid—or his mother, not on the first visit. No, that stuff was best introduced slowly. Suck the locals into a false sense of security, I say.

  The sounds of hammers and saws, men’s voices speaking in a language I still could not master and the dull wash of waves on the shore a short distance away permeated the elevated hut. No, clinic. I had to keep correcting myself. We were making this place a clinic. I eyed the gaps in the wall between the reeds of bamboo. It rained a little every day, and then the temperatures soared north of thirty-five degrees Celsius, which I automatically convert to ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit in my head. Today was hot, and I could feel the prickle of heat, the slide of a drop of perspiration down my spine. I loved it. Give me a cold beer and a hot guy on a sandy beach, and I’m in heaven. I looked at the reflex handle that Arinya was holding out to me and smiled. Plenty of time for that later. Right now, we had a little champ waiting to see what the weird lady was going to do with this funny-looking hammer.

  After testing his reflexes, then letting him hit me with that damn reflex hammer, and after measuring his height and weight, head circumference and general health overall, I finally nodded, giving the kid a thumbs-up signal. I pulled a lollipop out of the rear pocket of my denim shorts. Out of all the supplies I’d arranged to have shipped over, it was the candy that seemed to be the item in most demand. And
soccer balls. Candy and soccer balls.

  “You’re in good shape, young man,” I said. The kid was cute, shy and a little too skinny, with a grubby smile that could melt your heart. He needed good, regular meals, and regular baths wouldn’t hurt, but he was in a lot better shape than some of the other kids I’d seen. I glanced at his mother briefly. He may not be well fed, but it was clear he was well-loved. I wondered briefly what that would feel like, then shook off the self-indulgent thought as I turned to Arinya. “Invite his mother to the nutrition classes, but tell her I think her little man is doing fine.”

  I listened absently as Arinya spoke quickly in Thai to the mother. In the few months I’d been in Thailand, I’d managed to pick up hello, goodbye and thank you—and not much else. Okay, maybe some scorching swear words. The Learn to Speak Thai app on my phone seemed like such a great idea, but only worked if I had reliable access to a phone network, which I didn’t, out here in a remote coastal village that was closer to Malaysia than it was to Bangkok. Still, the singsong sounds were relaxing as I packed up the items I’d used, and prepared the treatment room for our next patient—whenever they chose to appear.

  It was still a challenge to get some of the locals to trust us enough to come for a checkup—but we were gradually breaking down their resistance. Some of the people here had never seen a doctor, which was something that I, as a nurse, found difficult to relate to. Although as far as I was concerned a good nurse was better than a doctor any day—but I’m biased. I smiled. The main building was almost finished, Arinya and two other nurses had nearly completed their training, and it wouldn’t be long before the clinic was operating in earnest. Another successful build. I straightened my shoulders. Yep. This program was going to save lives, and I was darn proud to be part of it. It felt so good to do good. I rubbed my neck, tilting my head back to stretch my muscles, and looked up at the ceiling. Well, maybe ceiling was a stretch.

  Our temporary clinic was located in the barely used village school while the main building was constructed. The roof was thatched from what looked like banana leaves, palm fronds and some mud-like ingredient that could easily have been dried cow manure. I wasn’t going to look too closely.

  “Hey, Lucy, that order of bamboo has arrived, and the builders want you to tell them where to start with it.”

  It took a moment to realize someone was talking to me. I turned. Jake Danning, one of the backpackers helping with the construction, stood in the doorway. From his expression, he’d been waiting a little while for my response. Damn it, after all these months, I still forgot my name. Luckily, all supplies and equipment were addressed to Nurses Without Borders, so no one here knew my real name. I’d managed to laugh off most hesitations with some casual comment, but I knew I’d given a lot of these people an impression of being quite the ditz sometimes. Fortunately, I’d managed to prove myself with the program setup, training and implementation, so I wasn’t seen as a complete ditz.

  My eyebrows rose as Jake’s comments registered. “You’re the site manager, why don’t you tell them?”

  He folded his arms as he leaned against the door frame. I’m surprised it held his bulk. The blond American was considerably taller and more solid than his Thai contractors, and this hut looked like the next typhoon could wash it away.

  “They want to talk to the nice lady,” he drawled, then chuckled.

  I tried to frown, but my lips curved. Right. The builders wanted a break, and this was the most expedient way of getting one.

  I gestured to the door and followed him and Arinya out to walk along the raised veranda. The sun was bright, the humidity thick, the sea breeze pretty much non-existent. As I trotted down the stairs to the ground below, one of the village kids cried out, and I waved back. These interruptions were becoming a habit, but I didn’t mind. Everyone seemed to work on a relaxed schedule, and I’d learned it was easier to work with it than against it. I may be here in my capacity as nurse and trainer, but I’d also discovered some unique negotiating skills to get builders and tradespeople to do what needed to be done—in due time.

  “Some of the gang are organizing a Fourth of July party...” Jake commented casually, referring to the rest of the team of travelers involved in the health clinic program. “We weren’t sure if you’d be here, or back home in...?” His voice trailed off, and I didn’t miss his obvious attempt at getting more information out of me. At least Rich was more subtle, kept me on my toes. Jake was easy to handle.

  “Oh, that sounds fantastic, what a great idea,” I exclaimed, neatly sidestepping the question. “You know I’m always up for a party—any excuse will do.” I turned my attention to greet Chatri, the local man in charge of the build. It took several minutes of gesturing and intent listening, deciphering, laughing and finally translating with the help of Arinya to communicate where the bamboo poles should go, and I brought Jake into the conversation as we turned to look at the newly formed building.

  The concrete slab for the new health clinic had been poured, and most of the cinder blocks were already laid. I walked over to the newly delivered bamboo poles that would be used to partially frame up the roof, and spent the next half hour discussing the structure with the local men involved on the project, along with the university students, backpackers and medical professionals who were using their break to contribute to the remote Thai communities who very much needed this clinic.

  Something slammed into my butt, and I whirled. Four kids giggled, and I could see more running up behind. A baby crawled in the sand behind them, and once again a startling memory of another little baby, crawling along the ground, slammed into me. Just as quickly, it was gone. It’s okay, don’t worry, the soothing voice in my head whispered.

  One of the boys bit his finger, then pointed to the ground and I looked down. A sad little soccer ball in need of inflation lay at my feet, and I grinned.

  “Oh, it’s on.” I kicked the ball back to them, then ran up, trying to sweep it out from between their feet. It wasn’t long before we were playing an impromptu game of soccer on the beach.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur—much like every other day here.

  * * *

  I tilted my head back as the hot breeze teased my short hair, listening to Jake’s gentle guitar strumming. It was nine o’clock, the sun had long since set, but the heat and humidity were unrelenting. So unrelenting that Rich’s arm around my shoulders felt more like a hot clamp than a gesture of affection. The campfire was low, and I could see the stars twinkling in the night sky. Only the light from the fire illuminated our group, and there was an intimate feel to the evening, cloaked in darkness. Or maybe that was the alcohol, bringing us together, lowering our inhibitions, our filters. My current flame tugged me closer, and I tried to get comfortable, reminding myself that a cold beer and a hot guy on a sandy beach were supposed to be my idea of heaven.

  “I miss my bed,” Rich said as we shared our secret longings to stave off homesickness. Okay, they shared their secret longings; I just listened. I wasn’t homesick. One needed a home to get homesick about. Rich rubbed my arm, waggling his dark brows suggestively. “It’s huge, with just the right amount of bounce.”

  I shook my head, grinning. “And you probably change the sheets maybe once a year, right?” I joked, and the others laughed, including Rich. He may be great in the sack, but he was little help outside of it, at least when it came to housekeeping, I’d noticed. He was great on the building site, not so much in the hut we now shared.

  “I miss my mother’s pumpkin pie,” Stacey, a college student from Sacramento, commented.

  “Oh, my mom used to make a fantastic pecan pie,” Harry, a young med student from New Orleans, interjected. I moaned at the thought of a slice of good old pecan pie—with lashings of whipped cream.

  The tie of my bikini top dug into the back of my neck, and I lifted the cotton tank top away from my chest, trying to allow so
me of that breeze to brush against my skin, no matter how heated it was. It was hot, and my head was beginning to feel just the slightest bit fuzzy. I wasn’t sure if it was dehydration, drunkenness or a pleasant mix of both.

  The breeze shifted, and some of us sitting around the campfire moved to get out of the way of the smoke. I tried to shift, too, but Rich sidled up alongside me, that heavy, hot arm tugging me closer to that solid, heated body. He was doing that a lot lately, as though signaling to all and sundry that we were an item. Normally I don’t mind public displays of affection. Kiss me, hug me, get me hot and panting, but this was beginning to feel just a little bit more than a casual PDA. I raised my glass to my lips and took a big sip of the home brew Chatri had left for us. I still couldn’t pronounce its name, but I’d acquired a taste for it. This was my fourth and I was feeling a pleasant buzz. Well, almost. I could also feel the suffocating weight around my shoulders. I swallowed some more. Yep, there’s that buzz now. I relaxed into the warmth that spread through my chest. Chatri’s home brew could pack a punch, if you let it. It made it easier to forget.

  “I miss my sister,” Stacey said softly. “There are so many things I’d love to tell her about this project...”

  Nope. I wasn’t going to think about my sister.

  Harry nodded. “My dad would love this whole thing,” he murmured, staring into the flames. “He’s an awesome handyman, too. We built this bookshelf together for my mom when I was twelve, for the fabric she uses for patchwork.” His expression turned sombre. “She died a few years ago.” He blinked, then smiled. “But that bookshelf is still standing.”