Lyrics of Love

Lyrics of Love

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 © Francine Craft

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MADE FOR EACH OTHER

That night sitting in yellow patio chairs side by side on Joe's patio, Gina and Joe were alone again. The air around them was soft on their faces. Joe leaned over and kissed her on the neck, nuzzled her a little. He was so close to her that her senses blurred, even with the chairs separating them. He stood up and drew her to her feet and against him.

I'm being unfair again, he whispered, but when you love a woman the way I love you, you can't help it. Nature's pitching everything I've got in me toward you. What're you feeling?

She smiled. I'm way ahead of you, she whispered shakily, her voice hoarse with longing.

As she felt his body against hers, she could have melted without regret. His hands caressed her lightly, making her want to cry out as she leaned against him. Gina pressed her fingers into the back of his head and neck, caressing his hair, bringing his mouth hard against hers, tasting the sweetness of his mouth.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the following wonderful people:

Myles McSweetie, who was always there for me.

Charlie K.—ever a helpful and much appreciated friend.

June M. Bennett, who gave me all possible help. .

And with deep appreciation to Tina, in the Tahitian Tourism Office.

The Tarot cards are thought to date from the fourteenth century. Several legends exist as to how they have been passed down through the centuries.

To tell a fortune by Tarot is to read, and the Tarot is read in every part of the world. There are nearly as many ways to read the cards as there are people who read them, but there are many common threads.

The pack of seventy-eight cards (old style)—with twenty-two of them called Major Arcana (or Major Trumps)—with strange and colorful symbolic drawings, is said to reveal the hidden mysteries of the universe.

Each person who studies the Tarot cards will ultimately devise his or her own special system of reading, after studying the readings of others. Reading is both revealing and fascinating, and you will never fail to read yourself far more than your future.

—Francine Craft

LIST OF TAHITIAN WORDS AND PRONUNCIATION

Tahitians speak Tahitian and French. A large number also speak English fluently. For your ease and comfort in reading, I include a list of the words I use in Lyrics of Love and their pronunciation.

1. Atua—ah-too-a—A Tahitian god who is also a bird and/ or spirit

2. Here—hay-ray—darling, sweetheart

3. Heiva—hay-va—the several-week annual festival

4. Maitai—may-tay—very good. Also a drink and I'm fine

5. Miari—mee-ari—to be frightened. Also to know someone

6. Monoi oil—moe-noy—a gardenia-sweet, fragrant oil

7. Neneva—nee-nay-va—an absent-minded person; someone whose mind is elsewhere

8. Pohi—poahee—to die

9. Tone—Tan-nay—husband

10. Vahine—vah-hee-nay—wife

11. Nehe! and Nehe Roa! nay-hee, nay-hee-roa—Splendid! Magnificent!

Prologue

Gina Campbell studied the scene outside the arched windows of the exquisite dark rose stucco Spanish mission church she and Joe had found in the California wine country. A perfect setting for their early afternoon, late June wedding today. Nestled low on a hillside above a lush green valley, it was a great spot to steal a little time from the adoring fans she'd gained as a celebrated pop diva, and whom she adored in return.

The media would expect her to say her vows in the Big Sur region where she lived, or on Lyric Island in the South Seas where she and her brother, Carson, owned a cozy private resort. Gina hugged herself lightly. Oh, she had a wonderful rapport with her fans and the media, but this day belonged to Joe and her.

As she thought about the man she loved, her dark brown, wide-spaced eyes below straight black brows were like stars and her breath caught with excitement. In a few minutes—

I'm going to be the best wife in the world to him! she vowed. With all the success, the adulation I have, he's what I've wanted most. And just thinking of Joe waiting in a nearby room filled her with radiance.

The perfume of roses from the garden just outside the windows mingled with cut gardenias in a large crystal vase on the marble-topped table. Mission bells rang merrily, and Gina turned, smiling, as Truddi St. Cyr, her matron of honor and best friend, knocked and came into the room.

Oh, Truddi, please pinch me! Gina exclaimed. Don't let this be a dream!

Laughing, Truddi answered, No, sweetie, it's for real. In fact, it's real enough that we had a hard time keeping Mr. Do-ter-reev from busting in here to see you. Truddi affectionately drew out the pronunciation of the unusual name. ''Now, Joe knows very well it's bad luck for the groom to view the bride on her wedding day before the ceremony. My darling Jason and I were right. You would've been mobbed by your fans and put through the wringer by the paparazzi."

Gina had a quick fantasy of the avid, never-take-no-for-an-answer celebrity photographers. It was best to ease you in here in our car with a veil covering your face.

Truddi chuckled and continued. But who can blame Joe? He's on cloud nine or maybe cloud twenty-nine— She broke off, looking at her friend appreciatively. You do look beautiful.

Gina's dark honey, silken skin warmed, heightening the coral blusher on her high cheekbones.

Thank you, she said. I'd guess my man's nervous.

Then that makes two of you, Truddi said, patting Gina's shoulder. Now, let me give you a last-minute checkover before Joe comes in and kidnaps you after all.

Gina could imagine the man she loved letting nothing and no one keep him from her, and it sent her spirits soaring. But Joe was well disciplined, too.

A quick glance in the carved mahogany-framed antique mirror over the mahogany sideboard, and Truddi's admiring appraisal said Gina had never looked better. And she felt even better than she looked. An altogether lovely woman of thirty-one, she was fairly tall with a full-hipped, slender-topped figure. She moved with assured liquid grace, yet there was something vulnerable about her, something soft and fragile in her strength.

Truddi raised her eyebrows, commenting, Eat your heart out, Mr. Fancy-designer Armani. This wedding dress would rival anything you've got to show. Miss Leila really strutted her stuff in your outfit, girlfriend.

Gina's elegant gown was form-fitting, cream-colored alecon silk lace, with a wide-brimmed cream silk tulle hat banded in satin and matching low-cut satin pumps. Leila Adams was a gifted young designer Gina was helping get to the top.

Smiling inwardly with satisfaction and happiness, Gina responded, "Ha! I've got nothing on you. You're glamour with a capital G.''

Taller than Gina, with a Junoesque figure, Truddi's rich, dark brown skin glowed with pleasure. She loved seeing to every detail of this wedding. I'd be satisfied if I could rob you of that silk skin you're blessed with, Truddi teased, not to mention the silken voice that sends millions into ecstasy.

One thing about Truddi, Gina thought, was that she liked who and what she was. An attractive woman, she'd never been mean or selfishly competitive. She was a longtime friend and a damned good hotel manager who handled Gina and her brother Carr's Pacific Island resort, Lyric Island. Truddi's husband, Jason, Joe's best man, was native to that island and was a policeman there. As Joe's best friend, Gina's brother, Carr, would have been best man, but Carr and his family were in the South Seas analyzing sales possibilities for a new company he was setting up, and he'd urged them to go ahead without him.

Gina now stood bathed in sunlight where the day had been mostly overcast. She asked Truddi, Will you pray with me for a moment?

Truddi nodded. I think that's a wonderful idea, she said, lifting her face toward the heavens as Gina had done.

Drawing a deep breath, Gina began, Lord, I ask only one thing. Help me make him happy. You know how much I love him.

She didn't end the simple prayer with an amen. It was a prayer she didn't want to end—ever. Truddi noted this and looked at her sharply. Gina was very quiet for a moment before she said, I've loved Joe for so long! Her voice broke a little.

Truddi went closer and hugged Gina gently. Believe me, sweetie, this marriage thing gets even better, and Joe is hooked on you. She smiled impishly. And, oh, yes—I've been racing around, so I forgot to tell you, but Maeva read the Tarot cards just for your wedding, and got delirious with joy for you two after she read them. She said to tell you that the cards tell her you both will get the happiness you deserve.

How sweet of her to send me that message, Gina said, thinking of Maeva. The older woman was a shaman, and a very good friend. That makes me feel even better.

Impossible! Truddi replied.

Neither woman noticed that the sun had gone back under the clouds when a soft knock sounded. The padre's wife, a petite, hazelnut-skinned woman, opened the door and stood there, smiling.

Each wedding is like the first for me, she said softly. They are all so beautiful. We're set for about five minutes from now—that is, if your wonderful husband-to-be lasts that long. I'm afraid he's anxious to get the show on the road.

Her lips curved into a deeper smile. You certainly make a beautiful bride, she said to Gina, then to Truddi, and you're a lovely matron of honor, admiring Truddi in her navy silk peau-de-soie suit and pumps.

As the woman closed the door, Gina caught Truddi's hand and squeezed gently. It is finally going to happen, Truddi, she said solemnly before she fell silent, remembering in her last five minutes of

singles freedom the mixed happiness and anguish that had led to this day and to these moments of wonder.

* * * * *

Joseph Davis Dauterive paced the floor of the small pine-paneled room down and across the hall from the room Gina and Truddi were in. Today, he muttered to himself, I'm feeling like a kid, a teenager, myself as I am now, and a wise old man all rolled into one.

Just under six feet tall, Joe had a fitness-buff's physique of rippling sinewy muscles under tan skin richly bronzed by the sun he loved. His head was long and craggily molded, with a high square forehead under moderately cut crisp, jet-black, well cared for hair. His moustache was smooth and well tended with sprinkles of gray like his hair. He was a handsome, magnetically sexy man, but it never went to his head.

Thoughtful, low key, and mild mannered, he knew himself pretty well. He also knew he had depths of passion and sometimes anger that were difficult for him to control, and he prided himself on giving as good as he got. He'd met his match in Gina, and he damned the wasted years when he couldn't see his way clear to taking a chance—he knew now—on loving and losing her.

Gina. Just saying her name soothed his nerves and began the rapturous peace and excitement he'd been feeling since they'd decided to marry three months ago. He'd gotten to the place where he could summon her up at will, but his vision of her was never as tantalizing as her person. It never stopped thrilling him that she satisfied what her loving presence promised.

Joe glanced at his plain Piaget watch, bought at a department store sale with an eye to his detective lieutenant's salary. He looked at his right hand, third finger, at the heavy ring of antique gold and onyx, with a soaring eagle figure embedded in the onyx—a gift from Gina when his first marriage had broken up and his life had hit a long low.

In a few minutes, he and Gina would wear matching gold wedding bands.

Funny, he thought now. They had been great friends since he was thirty-one and she twenty-six. Five years. At first, they'd dated a few times, both obviously interested, but he'd drawn back—held back. Her brother, Carr, was his best friend from their UCLA days, but the Campbells lived in a far different world from his.

Carson Campbell—Carr—was a rhythm-and-blues record mogul, and Gina a rhythm-and-blues singer who'd gotten to the top in a hurry, stayed there a few years, and successfully gone on to crossover pop, blending with rhythm and blues. Her songs now carried a hint of the classics, country, and the Latino tejano beats. Her fans had gone wild.

From the time he'd met her, Joe had been struck by the sheer loveliness of Gina. The healthy, long, thick black-brown hair she alternately wore chemically straightened, then in natural styles of braids and locks. Her skin was like fine dark honey-colored silk, and her lissome body's stance told him she cared about her world—and later, him—a lot.

Her physical loveliness was only one string on her violin, because he'd soon come to know that her spirit was incredibly beautiful. Like him, Gina was far from perfect, but he found her something better—she was real. It was her way to be there for him, encouraging, supporting, even when they were just friends.

Too bad, he'd thought ruefully then, that she was on one lofty, living-large plane and he was on another. His parents had suffered that hassle. His mother was politically active and from a wealthy family. His father had been a great guy, intelligent, caring for them both, but earning little at the country general store he owned and ran. His father had died a broken man with his mother's divorce to marry a wealthy Midwest cosmetics manufacturer. Joe had never forgotten what caused his father's death, nor forgiven his mother.

Yeah, he thought now, the Campbells moved in a high-powered world of glitz and money that seemed endless, much like his mother, Nina's, life with her second husband. Joe's present world as a homicide detective, as satisfying as he found it, could be grim until he made the pieces fit and he could put away a dangerous and deadly human so he or she couldn't wantonly take another human's life. Then, there was no life on earth he preferred to his.

When their friendship had only begun to heat up, Joe was honest. He told Gina he couldn't live in her world and he couldn't ask her to live in his. She was young, with too much ahead of her, he told himself. This was why he wouldn't pursue her. But a small part of his heart mocked him that she would tire of what he could offer her, and leave him.

So Gina married her manager, Paul Winslow, and later, Joe married Carr's special assistant, Jasmyn West. There was no bitterness now in remembering. Jasmyn had left him and quickly gotten pregnant with Carr's child—his best friend, Carr, her first love. Her leaving had hurt, but not the way Gina's leaving would have hurt him.

Joe began to pace again, his breath coming faster. Gina and Paul had divorced and Joe's life had changed. A lonely thirty-six, Joe still loved his job as a detective. It was what he did superbly well, but it wasn't who he was. And it wasn't enough to fill his life the way it once had. He'd let himself know then that he'd loved Gina from the beginning. Now he was willing to give it all he had to build a life with her.

Just outside the church window lay a gently sloping hill. Yellow and red and coral sunrays touched the deep emerald leaves and green and purple fruit of the many grape arbors. A big pond glittered in the afternoon sunlight, and a few sheep grazed in a nearby meadow, attended by a buff and tan German shepherd.

Joe had focused on the scene to quiet himself, but his heart still raced with happy anticipation. Don't be greedy, my man, he said to himself, because he wanted it all with Gina now. The fast life had never interested him. He'd always wanted a deep life of love and mutual sustenance and at least one child. He smiled broadly—or as many as she wanted—from that wonderful, luscious body. It was something they often talked about. But if there could be no children, as much as anything, he wanted her by his side for the rest of his life.

Joe sat down on an old black leather sofa, leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. He couldn't stop a roguish, pleased grin. In a minute he'd have it all, come whatever. With Gina as his wife, he was on top of any world he'd ever known!

Chapter 1

The big, silver-colored plane flew low over Lyric Island, its engines purring. Shading her eyes, Gina Campbell leaned back and watched it as she sat on the white-sand beach under a grove of pandanus palms. The plane would land in Papeete, the much larger town on Tahiti, a mile away, and a motorboat would bring vacationers or visitors or natives back to Lyric Island, this island.

Excited, Gina put her guitar on a thick beige cotton pad and stood up for a moment. Her sister-in-law, Jasmyn, had called last night from Papeete to say that she and Gina's five-year-old niece, Lyric, might be in today, or—typical of Jasmyn— they might wait until tomorrow or later; she really couldn't say. Jasmyn loved to shop. She had asked Gina not to meet her.

Gina sat back down and put her arms behind her head, the way Joe, her husband, used to do, and leaned against a pandanus tree trunk. Sharp tradewinds blew in from the Pacific. And sharp pains knifed her at totally unexpected intervals when she thought of Carson, her brother, who'd been killed in a highly suspicious automobile accident three months ago. Fortunately, Lyric had not been with them. Jasmyn, Carr's wife, had been thrown clear and had escaped deadly injury but her wounds had left serious scars.

Don't think of the accident, she warned herself, but not quickly enough—for to think of it was to think not only of Carson but of Joe. Gina felt angry tears sting her eyes. Joe. Her husband whom she'd been fool enough—no, don't beat on myself, she thought. God knows I need and deserve kindness. Let me just say I was unwise enough to love and trust him more than I have ever loved anyone, or ever will love again. Gina brushed back the long, black-brown windblown curls. Her round, dark honey-colored face with its high, square forehead, its straight black eyebrows and dark-brown eyes tilted upward at the corners, was thoughtful—the shapely lips were pursed a bit.

To get away from her inner pain, Gina studied Lyric Island and thought about her reality. It seemed to her that all her life Carson had talked about his dream of owning and developing a South Seas island, devoted to the utter enchantment of all who came. Carson had been a trusting soul—too trusting. Someone he'd believed in had betrayed him with deadly malice. How he had loved this island.!

Of surpassing beauty, Lyric Island had a character of its own. In every shade of verdant green and glorious color, the lagoons, the dark blue Pacific Ocean, purple bougainvillea, red hibiscus, the omnipresent red frangipani, pale yellow tiare blooms, and wonderful gardenias, all radiated a magical beauty that never failed to bring gasps of admiration from those seeing it for the first time.

Lyric Island was nature- and man-made. Tiare Mountain— on the far side of the island, rising majestically above The Lyric, as Carson always called it—was only the beginning. Carson and Joe, both with a keen interest in architecture, had helped design the many pandanus-thatched cottages and the big and stunningly designed island-stone hotel.

Glancing down at her specially made navy Gibson guitar with her name and ivory musical notes stenciled on it, Gina plucked one string, drawing a discordant note. What was it Joe had said to her when they had been drawn together as lovers on the brink of their engagement and marriage?

Take a chance, Genie, he'd told her, his roughhewn face easy and warm, his big, muscular body lean and agile. I'm five years your senior, so I'm wiser. Gamble, but be smart about it. You may win. You may lose. Either way, you learn.

Yes, she thought bitterly now. I did learn, Joe. I learned from trusting you.

Yet the more damnable thing was that she could never shake a deep gut-and-bone-marrow feeling that he was trustworthy. Something in her held to that even when the media headlines had screamed, speculating that he was a rotten LAPD top cop on the take from record pirates. Gina's breath slowed with remembered pain when the media people thought that they knew it all, that her Joe had betrayed the man he was sworn to help—his friend and her brother, Carson.

One scandal mag had shrieked the question: Was It Envy of What He Had, Joe? And another had lashed out: With Friends Like You, Loo, Who Needs Enemies?

That was before Joe had been shot in another facet of the record pirating scandal investigation. He had lain there, drained, on that high, white hospital bed, his richly tanned, leathery skin ashen and without luster. Panic-stricken, she had gripped his unresponding hand and stroked him feverishly, willing him to live, afraid to ask the doctors what hope they had, refusing to leave his side. Then—

There was no escaping the bitter memories. The hardest pain had been when he began to recover.

Abruptly he had told her, I was wrong to marry you, Gina. I know that now. I want you to file for divorce.

Stunned, she had stared at him. Divorce? She'd looked at him blankly, reeling with shock. But we love each other!

He'd nodded coolly, his expression unlike any she had ever seen on his face. Yes, and I'd never deny that, but love isn't always enough.

When she'd continued to protest, he'd said cruelly, I might not be lying here now if it weren't for moving too much in your world. Then through clenched teeth, I was careless, Gina. My God, I'm losing my edge in my investigations, in my life! This shouldn't have happened. With his good hand, he pointed to his shoulder, then said through clenched teeth, I won't let it happen again.

Completely numb, she'd quietly asked him, Are you feeling guilty, Joe? Carson's dead and you couldn't help him.

Don't you listen to the media? he'd come back. How do you know I didn't kill him?

Because I know you, she'd cried. Joe, please— To her shock, he'd rung for the nurse, who'd brought his doctor, who said, I'm sorry, Mrs. Dauterive, but you're upsetting him too much. I have to ask you to leave. I'm sorry.

But I'm his wife, she had protested, still reeling from the verbal blow.

I know, the doctor had answered, but Mr. Dauterive wants it this way. He cannot heal with upsets like this. Believe me, I am sorry.

She'd started toward Joe's bed, but the doctor's firm hand stopped her—that and Joe's cold eyes on her.

Gina wrenched herself back to the present. Aching, she hugged herself, her slender body cool in the late May air. How much weight had she lost in those months since Joe had stopped loving her? And what did anything matter anymore? Except for darling little Lyric, who, oddly enough had often seemed to prefer Joe and Gina to Carr, her father, and her mother, Jasmyn, much to Jasmyn's annoyance. It had always amused Carson.

Listen, kid, Carson used to tell Lyric when Joe and Gina were there. You run to Uncle Joe and Aunt Gina like you love them best, but never mind, I'm a patient man. I've got a lifetime to work to be the father you deserve.

A lifetime. Gina's eyes were dry with pain.

Down the beach she heard drums roll and noseflutes trill in practice for the coming June fete days. The music saddened Gina because, grieving Carson, she gave no concerts now, and had just begun to sing again. Carson had died three months ago.

Gina's thoughts continued to press in on her. She had continued to try to see Joe, to plead with him, until his captain, Ron Alderson, had asked her not to try to see him again and had handed her Joe's brief, cryptic, impersonal note:

Gina,

Sometimes it is better that the past remain only the past. Get a divorce for both our sakes.

I'm sorry.

You seem a bit sad, Maeva said, coming up behind her.

Gina turned, her face still grave, but Maeva's warm, beige-skinned, attractive-fifties presence always made her feel better.

I guess I am, she said.

You were thinking of your husband—of Joe?

It was question and statement.

Gina nodded, willing her eyes to stay dry. Yes, of Joe, she answered.

Maeva stroked Gina's arms and shoulders with a deftly compassionate touch.

I wanted to believe him as I believed in him, Gina told the older woman, for the first time telling her verbatim the words of his note, her voice breaking.

Don't talk now if it hurts too bad, Maeva said soothingly, continuing to stroke her. Written words can conceal more than they tell.

I want to talk about it. I loved Joe a long time before he loved me—but he finally did and we married.

Maeva nodded, remembering how happy Joe and Gina had been on their honeymoon on this island.

Gina was silent for a moment, struggling against bitter tears before she began again. ''He said perhaps our marriage was a mistake, that he couldn't live happily ever after in my glitzy world. And he kept saying I didn't really know him, when I was sure I did. Was I so wrong, Maeva?"

Maeva shook her head. No, I don't think so, she said quietly.

He was so ill; he'd lost so much blood, I thought he was delirious. I told him how much I loved him, and I insisted on staying there with him, but the doctors asked me to leave.

There had to be a good reason for his saying you didn't know him, Maeva said. Joe's feelings are deep and he worships you.

No, I don't think he does anymore. Maeva, he was the only one I've ever really felt close to when I'm creatively depressed. Everyone else runs from me when I'm really down. She paused a moment. "Joe came in closer, comforted me. He had blue spells, too, and I got very good at comforting him.

A cop, he used to say, and he'd laugh, Hell, I can educate you about depression because we're among the world's most creative people. We've got to be. We carve out a whole new world every day we're out on these crazy, mean streets—cops on the beat, undercover guys fighting it out with the killers, or us solving a murder.

''I hated hearing him say it because it reminded me of just how dangerous his life could be. We'd better be creative, He'd say, "because if we aren't, we ride the underground trains permanently.''

Under the grove of swaying pandanus palms, Gina and Maeva found a further-in spot by a heavenly smelling red frangipani bush and sat down. Gina propped her guitar against the tree trunk as Maeva reached into her straw bag and took out a pack of seventy-eight brilliantly colored Tarot cards.

Hiro, a medium tall and thin young island man not quite in his right mind, but who was considered harmless, came up to them, smiled broadly, then said pleasantly, One day I will sing again. He retreated quickly, his shoulders hunched.

Maeva opened her mouth to say something, but didn't. The young man was Chief Ituri's first cousin, closer to them because their only child, a son, was an architect in Paris.

Maeva, so tranquil, with her silken gray hair arranged in braids around her square-jawed face, said quite wistfully, I always liked Joe. People change, I know, but Joe is special. I have always loved the sinner and hated the sin. What they accused him of doing hurt you and I hate that, but I cannot hate him.

Well, I hate him enough for both of us, Gina came back.

And in hatred, there is much love, as you know.

Gina was silent as Maeva shuffled the cards on a large, woven, polished straw mat. What a story the cards told, Gina reflected, willing her sorrow to lessen, and Maeva never tired of telling that story. An ancient tale said the Tarot deck held the wisdom of the ages, known at first to only a few. When wise men wanted many others to share this wisdom, they drew up pictures that told old stories and gave them to a gambler, asking that he hide them, show them to no one. And they told him the history of the cards and, as they expected, the cards were constantly played and the wisdom passed down through the ages.

Now you shuffle, Maeva said. "As I always say, think deeply of what you wish for, what you fear, what you need. What frightens you? What angers you? What pleases you? Is it love you want? Or riches? Or wisdom? Or wisely, all three?''

Gina shuffled the cards, her mind actively seeking knowledge and personal power, to help this woman she had come to care so deeply about read her fortune.

Perhaps it is because we talk of him, Maeva said, frowning, but I feel Joe's presence. Oh, I have felt it before. He throws a long shadow, that man, over a wide ocean. I will tell you something after I have used my humble gift to say what I see in the cards for you. She paused, frowning, before she said, "As you know, I am as often wrong