Impossible Liaison Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Anne Ashby

  Impossible Liaison

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  Connor’s voice echoed his disapproval as, after glancing at her watch, Zoe stood. She stretched so artlessly beside him he couldn’t control the rise in his temperature. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”

  “Mmm. I’d better hurry or I’ll be late.” She turned at the door and smiled back at him. “I enjoyed talking with you, Connor.”

  Warmth spread through him even as his emotions warred. He spoke brusquely from the lounge doorway as she emerged from her room in her leathers. “I don’t like you going out alone at this time of night.”

  Warmth crept into his face as she smiled at him.

  Her eyebrows rose. “Don’t worry, Connor.”

  He flinched as she tapped his cheek lightly with her finger.

  “I won’t be alone for long.”

  Rage flared inside him. “Can’t your boyfriend come and pick you up? That’s what any decent guy would do.”

  “Ahh.” She grinned at him, her eyes dancing. “But John isn’t my boyfriend.”

  “Just some random bloke you spend the night with?”

  “That’s right, he’s just some bloke I spend the night with.”

  His teeth grated as she tapped his cheek again.

  “A girl’s got to make a living the best way she can.” She evaded the hand that shot out to grasp her arm. With a cheery “see you tomorrow,” she disappeared out the back door, leaving a fuming Connor to pace futilely around the empty house.

  Praise for Anne Ashby

  “Ms. Ashby demonstrates superb storytelling abilities as she skillfully and seamlessly weaves romance and genealogy into the parallel story-lines of this beautifully crafted novel LEATH’s LEGACY.”

  ~Joanne Guidoccio, www.joanneguidoccio.com

  ~*~

  “I love stories that take me to a place I’ve never been and allow me to feel as if I was there. Anne Ashby does an incredible job of drawing you into the story and allowing you to visually picture each scene as it unfolds.”

  ~Eat Sleep Read review

  ~*~

  “Anne Ashby can weave together a complex tale. With loveable characters and stunning settings, her stories will keep you turning the pages.”

  ~Catherine Mead, author of Running Away

  Impossible Liaison

  by

  Anne Ashby

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Impossible Liaison

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Anne Ashby

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1294-1

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1295-8

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  Especially for my mother, Merville Ashby,

  who shared so much with me,

  love of family,

  love of laughter,

  and most wondrously a love of books and reading.

  She will always be my role model and my inspiration.

  Prologue

  How long had she sat with uncontrollable tears oozing down her cheeks? Minutes or even hours might have passed. Numbness in the leg she’d tucked under herself prior to engaging the video suggested much longer than minutes.

  Zoe Turner roused enough to hit the rewind button, leaving a bright blue glow on the television screen. Using the baggy sleeve of her sweatshirt to scrub across her wet face, she wondered if she’d ever watch the image of her dying mother saying goodbye to her a second time.

  Maybe, but she couldn’t imagine it’d be any time soon. Perhaps later, after she’d re-buried the pain and anger, she might find the strength to look again.

  Varying emotions rose and crashed about inside her like a stormy Tasman Sea pounding the rocks on a west coast beach. Swirling and slamming, resurging and eddying, her fury became as uncontrollable as the mighty ocean.

  She clambered to her feet. Stumbling across the room on her deadened leg, she threw open the window, hoping the coldness of the winter breeze would suck some of that resentment away as she gasped in the fresh air.

  Zoe’s teeth ground so tight she could almost taste the enamel. Her mother’s best friend—so-called best friend, Zoe rephrased her dark thoughts—must have known about this recording. Hell, Mary probably operated the camera during the heartbreaking video.

  Now, fifteen years later, fifteen years, it had been couriered to Zoe’s doorstep with a scribbled note saying the accompanying large carton had been misplaced during numerous house shifts.

  The heartless bitch!

  Zoe stormed around the little lounge; her rage burning so powerful it frightened her. She imagined she’d long forgotten the woman who’d pledged to care for the little daughter of her dying friend. Zoe would never forgive Mary, but she’d considered she’d erased the hurt of being abandoned and callously handed over to social welfare almost before her mother’s body was cold.

  But with the arrival of this box, buried memories flooded back along with a murderous passion to make Mary pay for Zoe’s pain. Just as well she never came herself. Zoe’s whole body shook as she imagined grabbing the woman by the throat and beating her head against a wall.

  Eventually Zoe’s erratic circuits of the room slowed and her ragged breathing returned to normal, an enforced dullness descended over her. She’d taught herself to deal with pain over the years, locking it away so deep inside no one ever guessed it existed.

  Dragging in a deep cleansing breath, Zoe stopped pacing in mid-stride. She hadn’t given that woman a thought for years, and she wasn’t about to waste any more energy thinking about her now.

  Trembling, she forced herself toward the cardboard carton sitting next to the coffee table, her heart pounding. This box contains other clues to Mum’s life. Sinking to her knees on the threadbare carpet she carefully took out treasures her mother must have lovingly set aside for her—photos, school records, cards.

  Grabbing a handful of tissues as an uncontrollable sob rose in her throat she fingered the birthday card she’d made for her mother’s last birthday. The child’s depiction of a prone figure in a huge bed ripped at her as she remembered laboriously coloring in the picture.

  Hastily setting that card, and the crunched-up wet tissues aside, Zoe stretched into the box and drew out soft table furnishings. Her fingers
trailed gently across the fancy needlework her grandmother had done, marveling at the intricate designs.

  Warmth spread through her as she touched even older handicrafts and read the little cards attached. Slumping back onto her haunches she blinked repeatedly to clear her eyes. Her mother had labeled them all so Zoe would know who had made them. Pieces of jewelry, a small painting, little knickknacks, they all had little notes and explanations of why they were being put in this box for Zoe.

  A surge of excitement rose when she reached for a pile of photos, some brown with age. With shaking hands she spread them out. These were her family, a family she couldn’t remember knowing about. Flicking through them for someone who might possibly still be alive, disappointment settled over Zoe as quickly as air escaping a pricked balloon. They were of generations gone before.

  Forcing herself to admit that didn’t matter, she fingered the faces. They were still images of her family, something she’d sorely missed. With this information, tracing my family tree will be simpler. A strange, slow comfort overcame her as she hugged her knees. She did have a family. She’d once belonged somewhere.

  Maybe during my search, I’ll also find out something, anything, about my father, too.

  Zoe shook herself out of her little daydream. A glance at her watch warned her flatmates would soon be back. She reached into the carton again. Now empty except for a taped-up shoebox, Zoe’s heart thumped in her throat as she gingerly lifted it out. The box was sealed so securely, she needed a kitchen knife to slit through the layers of heavy duty tape. Zoe’s hands were shaking uncontrollably as she eased off the lid.

  Her heart raced so fast, for a moment the room spun around her as she looked down at bundles of letters lying neatly wrapped in ribbon. The lid fell from her fingers and she pressed them against her quivering lips. Zoe stared into the box.

  She had always believed her mother would have told her about her father when she was old enough to understand. But death had arrived too soon, and Zoe had remained in ignorance.

  The answer was here in this box. Zoe shivered as the premonition washed over her. I’ll find his name at least. With a trembling breath and ignoring the painful churning in her stomach, Zoe lifted out the first buddle.

  ****

  Going through that shoebox was the most heartbreaking, but rewarding, thing Zoe had ever done. Locked away in her room, absently refusing offers from her flatmates to accompany them on various jaunts, Zoe lay on her bed absorbing a love story that somehow went horribly wrong.

  The framed photo of a young man, her father, found hidden under all the letters was now sitting prominently beside her bed. The temptation to immediately head for the nearest library and check electoral rolls for a Thomas Matthews was so strong, but she forced herself to read and re-read every letter, until she was certain of the facts.

  Her father, Thomas Matthews, hadn’t known his girlfriend was pregnant when he left on an overseas scholarship to study in England. Scrupulously keeping all his letters in chronological order, as her mother had done, Zoe read of his disappointment that she hadn’t been able to accompany him. Zoe couldn’t find a reason for this, but the early letters were full of optimism at their reunion and his love for her mother.

  Also evident from those early letters was his concern she might be pregnant and his insistence he would return to New Zealand immediately if this was the case.

  The first time she’d read her father’s words a surge of anger ran through Zoe. It was obvious her mother had written and reassured him she wasn’t carrying his child. But later, re-reading them again, Zoe picked up much more between the lines.

  Her father had worked hard to achieve his prestigious scholarship. He wrote of his gratitude Jenny had convinced him to accept it, and his determination to make up for the time they were being forced to spend apart. Zoe couldn’t doubt the depth of his feelings displayed in those letters. Her father had loved her mother. So what had happened?

  The dates on the letters became spaced further apart, yet the outpourings of love and concern continued. His worry of not being able to reach her on the phone, then later when his emails to her started bouncing, he’d sounded frantic. Then the tone began to change. Even in the last letter, he’d still professed his undying love for her mother, yet he’d also told her this would be his last.

  Zoe’s anger at her mother’s actions was mixed with sadness. As yet another rush of tears dried on her cheeks, she hoped her mother’s motives for allowing this man to pursue his dream were pure. But by doing so, she’d denied Zoe her father and a family.

  Sadly packing away the mementos of her mother’s life, Zoe made herself a promise. Thankful the genealogy course she’d taken had given her the knowledge, tracing her mother’s ancestors was going to wait. She was going to find her father.

  Chapter One

  Six Months Later

  “Connor’s coming home.”

  Zoe Turner hadn’t even turned off her spluttering motorbike before her grandmother was beside her.

  “Pardon?” Zoe flicked up her visor, uncertain she’d correctly heard the older lady’s words. Hoping she’d misheard.

  “Zoe.” Bess’s freckled hands grasped at Zoe’s arm with all the strength of a hawk’s talons. “His mother just called. Connor’s coming home.”

  Although the words were soft, excitement burst from Bess, as she jiggled about like an excited little child.

  Zoe’s heart sank. A chill settled over her.

  As she slowly—very slowly, so she had time to disguise her feelings—pulled off her gloves and unbuckled her helmet, her world began crumbling around her, just like before.

  Cursing under her breath as her stomach churned, she summoned up a smile to fool the older lady as she lifted off her helmet. Why did I ignore that ominous feeling this morning? It was back, the same cold, gripping pain in her stomach that always signaled the disintegration of her life.

  Ignoring that sense of impending doom had never worked before. Ignoring, hoping, even praying, had never helped.

  Just because years had passed since she’d felt this way, she still should have heeded the warning. She should have been preparing herself for the hurt; not fantasizing her life would ever be anything but a bloody mess.

  What a crock. Thinking now might be different. Just because I’m happier than ever before.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she straightened her back. She’d survived so many hurtful times. She would survive this also. She’d learned to hide behind a joke or a smile. People don’t look for hurt if you’re laughing. You can keep the pain locked away inside.

  She dragged in another deep breath, her gaze flashing around, seeking inspiration. Her grandmother must never guess how she viewed this exciting news. She plastered a big smile on her face.

  “That’s great news, Gran. I’m so pleased for you.” Pleased? Bess is almost beside herself with joy. Zoe ducked her head, witnessing her grandmother’s happiness.

  Within days of meeting Bess, Zoe had heard all about Connor. Connor was the most wonderful grandson. Connor was a brilliant doctor. And Connor was every woman’s dream.

  Bess’s fascination with Connor’s charity work in Asia meant Zoe’s cousin had often dominated the conversation between her and her grandmother. Zoe had very soon decided she hoped this paragon of virtue would stay in Asia forever.

  But again fate had thrown mud in her face. His homecoming would mess everything up. She could never compete against someone like Connor oh-so-perfect Matthews for Bess’s love.

  “He’s flying into Wellington to spend some time with Warren and Maria—”

  Thank God. Zoe breathed, only to bite her lip in distress as her grandmother continued.

  “—then he’s coming up here. He’s going to be teaching at the medical school. He’ll stay with me until he finds a place of his own. I told Maria to tell him there’s no hurry. He should stay with me, like when he was at university. Although I don’t suppose he’d want to spend too much time with an old foge
y like me.”

  But what about me? Zoe wanted to wail, I want to spend every spare minute with you, to make up for all those lost years. I don’t want anyone else intruding…

  Left slumped astride her bike, as Bess rushed inside mumbling about airing the spare bedroom, Zoe sucked in an unsteady breath. Stuffing her gloves into her helmet, she ripped apart the buckles of her op-shop leather jacket, allowing the broken zipped front to fall open. She hoped some fresh air would cool her burning body.

  Her gaze fell to the little packet she’d nursed all the way from Bess’s favorite bakery. Her fingers clenched around its top as she transferred her glare to the rubbish bin beside the laundry door.

  Shaking her head in self-disgust she swung off her bike and dragged it back onto its rack. It wasn’t Bess’s fault she couldn’t wait to see Connor again after years overseas. She loved him and had missed him. Zoe shouldn’t expect Bess to hide that joy.

  Zoe’s irrational fear—the imminent arrival of this shining example of humanity would destroy the happiness she’d found—shouldn’t upset the rapport between her and her grandmother.

  “I bought something for your waistline, Gran,” Zoe called as she headed through the kitchen toward her bedroom. “I know how much you enjoy marshmallow shortcakes. I left it on the bench.”

  “You mustn’t waste your money buying me things.” Bess’s head popped out of the spare bedroom. “Although you’re right.” She chuckled. “I do love them.”

  Zoe smiled. Nothing she could do for Bess would ever be wasted. Bess had inadvertently given her something no one else had ever been able to, faith in herself as a person.

  As a child she’d resolved something vital must be wrong with her. Why else couldn’t she bond with the foster families she’d been assigned? But Bess had shown her she wasn’t incapable of love, because she loved this lady.

  Bess was so alive, so vibrant, such fun to be around, and Zoe would do anything for her.

  Heartbroken to discover her father had drowned, over five years earlier, Zoe had continued researching his life and discovered this amazing lady. It had been days before she’d found the nerve to phone Bess, suggesting vaguely their family trees intertwined.