Prologue
“Walk out that door and I’m done.”
Sophia Hail’s bow-shaped mouth opened in disbelief...and heartbreak. “You can’t mean that.” Her voice was less than a whisper.
The gold flecks in Santigo Rodriguez’s uncommon ebony gaze sparkled; then his stare faltered and he was taking a seat in the armchair next to the bed, where he began slipping into a pair of black hiking boots.
“You mean that?” Sophia hated the lost and still-heartbroken tone of her voice. She was made of stronger stuff than that, but her disbelief had stunned her.
Santigo continued coolly putting on his shoes until the weight of Sophia’s extraordinary gray eyes commanded a response. “How I feel shouldn’t be a surprise, Soap,” he said.
She shook her head. “All that time I’ve been at the academy—”
“And all that time you knew how I felt.”
“Tig, it’s my first day at work—”
“If it is, then I’m done.”
Something flickered in her eyes, and she came to stand before him, arms folded over her chest. “You didn’t think I’d go through with it, did you? Didn’t think I’d finish.” She saw the muscle skip along the angle of his strong jaw, and she knew she’d correctly guessed. “You jackass.”
Santigo finished tying the boots and reclined in the chair. “You proved you have the stones to see this through. Let it go and move on.”
Sophia placed the dry-cleaned uniform across her bed and pinned her lover of six years with a furious glare. “Move on? Why? To make it easier for you to handle?”
Tigo shot up from the chair, towering over Sophia and fixing her with a gaze darker than anything she could have conjured.
“Are you that ready to get yourself shot to hell to prove what a badass you are, Sophia?”
She took a step back...crushed. “That’s what you think?” She took in the tall, seductively crafted length of his six-foot-plus frame. “When I told you this was who I am, who I wanted to be...did you think I was playing around, Tig?”
He spread his arms. “You wanna break me down, Soap? All right then, I admit it, I can’t handle it.” He shook his head; the generous curve of his mouth was a grim line. “I can’t handle it.”
“But you can handle me walking away from something I love?”
“Love? Jesus, Soap, you haven’t even started!”
“Well, that’s about to change.” She went to reclaim her uniform.
“Then we’re about to change.” He turned his back and pulled a wrinkled denim shirt across his chiseled chestnut-brown torso.
Sophia bit her lip and willed herself not to cry. She watched the uniform turn to a blur before her eyes and knew that she had failed.
“Leave my key on the counter when you go,” she said and left without another look back.
Santigo maintained his rigid stance a mere second after the front door slammed shut. Then he crumpled, returning to the armchair, where he held his head in his hands and let emotion have its way.
Chapter 1
Sophia Hail was barely halfway through elementary school when her parents began Reed House. Gerald Hail, Sophia’s father, was a well-known textile manufacturer. His factory put to work hundreds of people in and around the greater Philadelphia area.
Gerald’s wife, Veronica, was a teacher in the same school her daughters Viva and Sophia attended. But Veronica was a dedicated daughter first and foremost. She was also an only child. When her parents grew ill, she left the career she treasured to care for them. For all her selflessness, Veronica pressed her girls to always follow their hearts. She urged them to seek and live their dreams for as long as their lives allowed them the option.
Sophia recalled her grandparents’ illnesses all too well in spite of her age at the time. She also recalled her mother’s heartbreak when Veronica realized how ill-equipped she was to care for them. Supportive to a fault, Gerald Hail had told his wife to spare no expense to find them the best.
The endeavor opened the Hails’ eyes to the lack of quality care for the city’s elderly. Once more, Veronica had found a passion—a new one that far surpassed her desire to teach. As she couldn’t find quality care, she decided to create it herself for her parents and for other parents who, after a lifetime of caring for others, could no longer care for themselves.
Reed House, named for Veronica’s parents, Glenn and Estelle Reed, grew into a premiere example of senior care. Local and national news stories had followed the assisted living center from its earliest days in a quaint Victorian-style home, capable of accommodating twenty “guests,” to the impressive assisted living park, sprawled over a ten-acre tract of land just outside Philadelphia’s city limits.
Veronica Hail was committed to providing her guests with virtually every aspect of the lives they’d enjoyed before the onset of age led them to her doors. Reed House was more than a retirement home. Nonresidents raved over the fine restaurants, which were exclusive to the center. It had often been said that Veronica Hail had discovered the secret to getting people to visit their loved ones in retirement homes more often: fine food.
Movie theaters, performance halls, an eighteen-hole golf course, community gardens...virtually any interest was indulged. The center earned its reputation as the finest example of elder care. There was certainly no shortage of funds to operate such an establishment, either. Veronica worked hard so that Reed House would be able to accept all applicants regardless of financial status.
The annual Reed House Jazz Supper was but one of the ways she made that possible. The supper had been a staple in Philadelphia for years. The award-winning entertainment flown in for the Jazz Supper often took a backseat to features on Reed House itself and the awesome work it accomplished. The acclaim was always abundant and consistent, and Reed House had managed to operate without scandal since its inception.
That had all changed seven days ago.
Sophia Hail didn’t need to see or speak with her parents to know how disappointed they were by the events that had taken place during the Supper. Although a wrong had been righted, Sophia knew that her parents were more focused on where the wrong had been righted.
The arrest of Waymon Cole at the event still had the city reeling from all the revelations and backlash it had created.
Cole was a financier who was known best as business manager to Jazmina Beaumont, the owner of Jazzy B’s Gentleman’s Club. The woman’s death had roused a power struggle of sorts between Cole and Jaz Beaumont’s niece, Clarissa David. Waymon Cole wanted to maintain a stake in the club as it was his front for a complex money-laundering
