Kay David: Safe In His Arms

Anise’s fingers flew to her throat. “That isn’t necessary. I don’t need a babysitter—”

“I know that,” Bishop answered, his voice calm and relaxed. “But you were clearly frightened or you wouldn’t have called me in the first place. Why not let me sleep on the couch?” He grinned unexpectedly. “I promise I’ll stay there unless you’d prefer a different arrangement.”

Something entered her expression and then it was gone. He told himself it was his imagination. Breaking every rule he’d ever heard about maintaining personal distance, he put his hand on her cheek. “Let me stay, Anise.”

“It’s not part of your job description and I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“But maybe I’d like to take care of you. Have you considered that?”

To his surprise, she nodded. And it was his turn to raise an eyebrow.

“But I don’t want to want that,” she said quietly. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I do. But I think you’re wrong. It’s okay to need someone on occasion.”

She stared at him for a moment, then reached up and hooked her hand behind his head, pulling him closer. “I think you’re wrong,” she said, “but for one tiny second I’m going to pretend that’s not the case.”

Then her lips closed over his.

Dear Reader,

In Safe in His Arms, Anise Borden has two havens of safety—her friendship with Sarah Levy and her work. Anise was raised by Sarah’s parents following the tragic loss of her mother in a house fire. The two girls share a relationship that is special to them both. As an adult, Anise finds peace by dedicating herself to her artistic creations, the shadow boxes she sells through Sarah’s art gallery. When she is troubled or confused, she turns to these two outlets, sometimes consciously, sometimes not, for comfort and reassurance.

I believe everyone needs a place where they can go and feel safe, a refuge they can retreat to when the world becomes too difficult. For some, that haven may be a physical location: a quiet maze, the beach in winter, a church caught in the ritual of Sunday morning. For others, it may be a state of mind. They lose themselves in a good book or a movie. Sometimes a daydream will suffice. The luckiest of us have found this shelter in the arms of our loving families.

These sanctuaries aren’t just for adults, either. Have you ever seen a toddler curled up and asleep under the dining-room table after a chaotic family feast? They’re looking for a quiet place in the midst of confusion. Even animals seek places of security. My cats will sometimes hide under the bed when the doorbell rings. They aren’t sure who’s coming, but they do know where they’ll be safe.

In our ever hectic, ever chaotic life, these sanctuaries, be they imaginary or real, are more and more necessary. They keep us sane and balanced. I hope you enjoy Anise’s journey to that realization in Safe in His Arms, then go on to find your own special place.

Kay David

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Kay David is the author of over thirty books. She splits her time between the Texas Hill Country and the Gulf coast, where she lives with her husband and her two Bengal cats, Jake and Elwood.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Houston, Texas

August 1982

HER EYES WERE OPEN but she couldn’t see.

Huddled in her bed, eight-year-old Anise lifted her fingers in front of her face and wiggled them. She actually could see them if she narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose but something wasn’t right.

Because she couldn’t breathe any better than she could see. The air in her tiny bedroom was hot and smoky. Sometimes at night her mom cut the AC off to save money but the heat Anise felt now wasn’t like that. This was really, really…hot.

The realization was slow in coming but when it came, it hit her hard.

She sat up and blinked, her chest aching, her arms and legs unwilling to move. Her teacher had talked about this once at school. What to do if you were trapped in a fire. They’d read a book about a little boy who climbed out his bedroom window. He’d run down the street and gotten help but Anise couldn’t do that. She was on the second floor.

“Mommy?” Her voice sounded fuzzy. She tried again, this time forcing the word out a little louder. “Mommy?”

Her mother didn’t come but the act of speaking freed Anise from the fear that was holding her down. She sprang from the tangle of sheets and leapt across the room, the wooden floor scorching her toes.

“Mommy? Mommy?” She was yelling by the time she got to the door, her feet doing a painful dance. Her fingers found the doorknob and she gripped it hard.

A blistering heat instantly fused her tender palms to the metal. She shrieked then jerked away to stare in horror at her hands; the skin was curling back like waxed paper freshly cut from a roll. She screamed even louder.

But nobody heard.

Panic took over. Her palms throbbing, her lungs burning, Anise darted through the darkness to the corner of her room and wrenched open her closet door using the tips of her fingers. The smoke had yet to reach the confines of the closet and she gulped the air as she dropped to her knees. Crawling to the back, she drew the clothes around her in a futile attempt to hide from the growing heat, her sobs wracking her body. She cradled her hands against her chest.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…”

But it wasn’t her mommy who carried her out.

It was Sarah who saved her. Again and again and again.

Houston, Texas

May 2007

SHE SHOULD HAVE parked closer. By the time Anise reached the gallery, the makeup she’d applied an hour before was sliding off her face. Summers in Houston were brutal but heading for a meeting with a soon-to-be ex-husband didn’t help matters.

She had no reason to be nervous, she told herself, pulling open the door to the Levy Gallery. Kenneth had finally agreed that the time had come to part ways and he’d promised to sign the papers when they met for drinks this evening. He wasn’t happy about the situation—who ever was happy about divorce?—but he’d assured her there would be no more delays. He accepted the fact that their short marriage was over.

Or so he said.

She stepped into the frigid art gallery and paused under a black vent pouring out icy air. Sarah was nowhere to be seen, but Anise could hear her best friend. She let the cold blast wash over her cheeks and closed her eyes for a second.

“This isn’t the right piece for you, Mrs. Worthington, and I’ll tell you exactly why.” Sarah’s voice was full of authority. “Your home is a reflection of your standing in the community. You and Mr. Worthington are stars in the Houston galaxy. You need important art on your walls. Art that demands attention and expects to receive it. You represent the old guard. You can afford the most expensive things. Why not buy them?”

Anise could hear the murmur of another woman’s voice but her words were indistinct.

“Yes,” Sarah replied, her tone on the verge of condescension. “You’re correct there. Borden’s pieces are developing a following. But you don’t need something from an artist who’s developing. You require art from people who’ve already arrived. Anise’s shadow boxes are almost there, but not quite.” Sarah’s voice faded as she directed the customer to another part of the gallery.