On My Terms by Shirley Hailstock

From the Publisher

SHE'LL HAVE TO RETURN TO HER PAST.

Theresa Ramsey has gone to great lengths to put her hometown of Lake Royce, New York, behind her. It was a place of bad memories. But her cousin's recent death and the young daughter she's left behind have brought Theresa back to the house she grew up in-a house that now belongs to her. But when she arrives on her property, she discovers a movie crew who has over-stayed its contract. Theresa has no intention of extending it no matter how earnest, caring, and handsome the director is.

TO DISCOVER HER FUTURE.

Dean Clayton's career is riding on this film. His family has sunk a fortune into the project, and he's determined to prove himself to them, and to Hollywood. But something is missing from the plot, a puzzle piece Dean feels he can find in Lake Royce.and in Theresa, the intriguing woman he is compelled to be near. But with Theresa determined to keep their relationship all business, Dean's got to show her more than movie magic to open her heart ..

Kristin Ramsdell - Library Journal

The last place Theresa Ramsey wants to go is back to the scene of her father's disappearance and her mother's suicide. Yet when her cousin dies, leaving her young daughter, Chelsea, in Theresa's care, Theresa has no choice but to return to her vacant New York estate to give the child a chance to heal. However, the house is anything but empty as Theresa encounters a film crew that should have been long gone and its gorgeous, very persuasive director/producer. She reluctantly lets them stay, not realizing how much her life is about to change. Old traumas, dark nightmares, and a host of frightening secrets add a touch of suspense to this passionate romance that pairs a strong, independent heroine with a caring, take-charge hero and lets them find their answers in love. Charming children and meddling siblings add warmth and humor to this complex story that nicely resolves most issues by the end. Hailstock (My Lover, My Friend) is an award-winning author of popular African American romances; she lives in New Jersey.

Product Details

• ISBN: 0758213514
  
• ISBN-13: 9780758213518
• Format: Mass Market Paperback, 304pp
• Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corporation
• Pub. Date: January 2008
• Sales Rank: 257,642
• Series: Dafina Contemporary Romance Ser.

• Read a Sample Chapter

Read a Sample Chapter

ON MY TERMS

DAFINA BOOKS

Chapter One

Theresa slipped her sunglasses up into her hair to hold it back and to take in the natural beauty of the day. She breathed deeply, wishing she were anyplace else except on the road to Collingswood.

It was ironic how a place can hold years of happy memories: birthday parties, Christmases, hide and seek played in the summer sun, afternoon teas in the backyard. You only need to call it to mind for the wonderful times to roll like a movie projector. And then something terrible happens and they are wiped away as if the good times never happened. That's how it was with Collingswood, the house in Royce, New York where she had been born.

Theresa couldn't think of a single reason from her experience why anyone would want to go home again. She certainly didn't want to return. But she had no place else to take her seven-year-old withdrawn cousin. Circumstances and lack of money had made the decision for her.

The '67 Mustang's engine purred as Theresa took one curve after another. Actually, it wasn't her car. Well it was, but it didn't have her name on the registration. It had been her cousin Meghan's car. And Meghan was dead. The car was the one thing about the entire situation that brought a smile to her lips.

Glancing at her cousin's daughter, she noticed the child had not moved. Chelsea sat quietly, staring through the front window, focused on some point that was out of reach. She'd done this for the last three hundred miles, since they'd left the house in Buffalo, New York and headed east. Theresa hadn't been able to get her interested in anything for the last few months. Instinctively, Chelsea must have known the end was near for Meghan, and Chelsea died a little, too. Even her favorite sport, gymnastics, couldn't get her excited enough to attend her weekly lesson.

Slowing down, Theresa rounded the last turn. She was tired, weary from travel, and hungry. Abruptly, she hit the brake. In front of the gates was a crowd of people.

"What's this?" she muttered under her breath. Cars straggled over the road and the shoulder. Crowds of people blocked the entrance. She pressed the horn for several short beeps. They looked at her but didn't move. Again she blew the horn, then moved the car inch by inch, forcing them to divide into a path wide enough for her to reach the wrought iron gates that were the last barrier between her and a hot shower.

Chelsea shrank in her seat. It was the most reaction Theresa had seen from her since they had left Buffalo that morning. Yet she wished the child didn't have to do it. She also wished she had put the top up when they had stopped at the grocery store a few miles before they started up the mountain.

"Who are you?" someone called.

"Are you part of the crew?" another voice asked.

"Can you get us in?"

Theresa rolled to the gates. A guard stood there. "Sorry, ma'am, no one except the crew is allowed in, and they are all accounted for." He gave her a friendly smile and glanced at Chelsea.

"Who are you?" Theresa asked, confused.

"Name's John Willis. Security Protection. Hired for the duration." He flashed her a smile that should have been on a billboard.

"Duration of what?"

In the background, Theresa heard someone say, "Aw, she's nobody." The crowd ignored her then, and most moved away, taking up their previous positions along the fence. Several stragglers stayed close in case there was more to the situation than appeared on the surface.

"Just the duration," he said. Obviously, whatever had brought this crowd here wasn't going to be told to her.

"Mr. Willis, my name is Theresa Ramsey. I own this house."

"I have no information about that, ma'am."

His smile was getting on her nerves. The crowd behind her moved in again. They must have sensed something was going on. Theresa glanced at them and through the fence. Then it dawned on her, security, groupies. That film company couldn't still be here. Her agreement with them ended a week ago.

Anger surged through her. "Did you hear me?" She tried to keep her voice calm. She'd been doing that since she'd come back from England to care of her dying cousin. She'd done it for Chelsea's sake, but at this moment, she wanted to shout at this man.

"Yes, ma'am. I heard you, but I have orders ..."

"Mister," she interrupted. "Here's my driver's license. It has my name and my photo on it. You can see I am Theresa Ramsey. This is my house. I've driven three hundred miles today with a child who really needs to rest. And I am going through this gate." "Is there a problem here?" Another security guard arrived. He was older than the first, but his body was just as hard. His face was set in a no-nonsense expression.

"No."

"Yes." She and the first officer spoke at the same time. "I am the owner of this property, and I'm coming in."

"We don't know anything about ..."

Theresa rolled her eyes. "I don't give a-" She stopped, remembering Chelsea. "How many guards are here?"

"What?"

"Are there enough to control this crowd?"

The two officers looked at each other but said nothing.

"Call them," she ordered.

"Ma'am." Obviously, the second guy had more authority. He was going to try to reason with her, but Theresa was beyond reasoning.

"Call them!" Although her voice was soft, there was no doubting her seriousness. "I have a remote control here." She snatched it from the visor and put her hand on the button. "If I push this button, that gate will retract." She looked around. "Do you think the two of you can control this crowd, or will they surge through in the wake of dust I'll leave behind?"

Seconds later, several men the size of linebackers came surging toward the gate. If Theresa wasn't so tired, she'd laugh. The way they came running, you'd have thought she was holding her finger on a nuclear bomb instead of a gate release. Theresa didn't wait for them to give her clearance. She pressed the button, and just as it had the last time she'd entered Collingswood five years ago, the gate retracted. Only this time, the squeak of the chain wasn't so apparent. Someone had oiled it.

As soon as there was enough room for the car, she hit the gas and flew through the opening, hoping she kicked up enough dust to blind the guards. The road was paved, but it had been left untended for years and nature had tried to reclaim it. She winged the vintage Mustang around the curve and came to a sharp stop in front of the house.

Theresa had expected the place to look as it had five years ago, or worse. It was a fieldstone-covered structure with huge white pillars supporting a double level porch. The paint on the porch had once been white, but last time she saw it, it had turned a dingy gray. Two of the steps had needed replacing. Vines had grown along the east side in an unruly tangle that had reminded her of Jack's beanstalk. But what she saw was different. The place had been repaired. The paint gleamed in the afternoon light. The vines had been cut back, and the trees manicured. The place had been restored to the way it had looked when Theresa lived here as a child. Before her father disappeared. And before her mother committed suicide.

She blinked, feeling she was looking at an illusion, that things would fall back into place, into the disrepair she expected. But nothing had changed when she opened her eyes.

"We're here," Theresa told Chelsea. The little girl said nothing. She didn't move either. Theresa got out of the car and pulled the bag of groceries out. She'd get everything else later. Right now, feeding Chelsea and letting her rest was paramount in her mind. Then Theresa would let these intruders know that they were trespassing and that she wanted them gone.

After Theresa opened Chelsea's door, the little girl got out. "Are you hungry?" Theresa asked. Chelsea looked up at her with big, sad eyes. She said nothing. Theresa thought of those velvet paintings with bright colors that people sold on the highway or at gas stations. Usually, they were of horses with their front legs in the air or a beautiful child with one tear rolling down her cheek. That child could have been Chelsea's twin. Theresa hated those paintings. Why should children cry? Why should they be sad? Children were born to be loved, and their childhood should be filled with pleasant days and the promise of more to come. As they went up the now repaired steps, Theresa remembered her childhood and that of her brother had been nothing like the fantasy she'd just created.

The porch was large. Wicker chairs had been arranged in conversation groupings on both sides of the front door. Theresa dropped Chelsea's hand and turned the knob before she remembered the key was still in her purse. The door swung open on silent hinges.

Lights suddenly glared in her eyes, and she raised her hand to shield them.

"Cut!" a voice boomed. "Who the hell opened that door?"

Startled, Theresa dropped the bag and pulled Chelsea to her. The bright lights came from everywhere. She glanced in one direction after another, but everywhere, there were lights blinding her. Her heart raced. She could see nothing.

"Who the hell are you?" the same voice shouted at her. He was closer this time.

Theresa looked in the direction of the voice. A dark-skinned man with braided hair came toward her. A shock wave ran through her. He was striking, with long braids tied back with a leather band and light brown, angry eyes now boring into her. Theresa felt her stomach drop as if she were on a roller coaster that had just plunged down the first drop.

Squaring her shoulders but keeping hold of Chelsea, she shot back. "Who are you? And what is going on here?"

"How did you get past the guards? Get her out of here," he said, apparently to no one in particular, but a large man standing nearby moved toward her.

"I wouldn't touch me," she told him in a voice as deep and menacing as if she held a gun. The man stopped.

"Am I ever going to get this scene done?" The first man spoke. "Lady, whoever you are, please leave. We're trying to work here."

"I'm not leaving, you are," she told him.

"Why would I leave?"

"Are you in charge here?" she asked.

"I'm in charge," the light-eyed guy with braids said.

"This is my house."

"Your house?"

"That's right. This is my house. And I'll thank you to vacate it this very minute."

She reached down and picked up the bag she'd dropped, retrieving and replacing the items that had fallen out. Taking Theresa's hand, she moved through what obviously was the movie set, staring down anyone who deigned to look at her, and went to the kitchen. Placing the bag on the counter, she pulled a chair out and pushed Chelsea into it.

"Are you all right?" she asked in a low voice.

Chelsea nodded.

"Do you want something to eat?"

Again, she nodded.

"I'll fix us some omelets. You just sit still."

Quickly, she removed the things from the bag. Finding stuff in the refrigerator of dubious dating, she shoved it aside and put in fresh milk and the eggs that hadn't broken when she dropped the bag. She had already whipped up the eggs and was pouring an omelet into the frying pan when the man she had spoken to earlier came through the door.

He was tall and good-looking and carried a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Are you Theresa Ramsey?"

She looked at him and nodded.

"Dean Clayton." He offered his hand.

"Sorry." She looked at the frying pan and spatula she was using to turn the eggs.

He turned and looked at Chelsea. "Hello."

Chelsea said nothing. She stared at Theresa, her eyes full of fear.

"It's all right, honey," Theresa assured her.

"Are you the silent type?" Dean asked her. "We need your type in the movies." He smiled at her. She stared blankly at him.

He smiled warmly, but Chelsea did not respond. Turning back to Theresa, he said, "I have an agreement here signed by Jamison Taylor as your agent for the use of this property."

"You're supposed to be using the guest house and the outbuildings." Theresa flipped the eggs onto a plate. The toast popped up, and she grabbed the pieces and slid them onto the plate.

"At the last minute, that was changed."

"And you were supposed to be gone last week."

"We're running a little behind schedule."

"That's not my problem, Mr. Clayton. This is my house, and I want it."

She put the plate in front of Chelsea. Then she opened a new container of strawberry jam and spread some on the toast. After Theresa had added a glass of milk to the side of the plate, Chelsea leaned forward, almost brushing her nose in the food, and began to eat.

"Do you think we could talk somewhere in private?" Dean asked, glancing at the child, who ate methodically and appeared disinterested in their conversation. Theresa relented, giving him a small amount of credit for considering the insecurity that could be instilled in children who witnessed arguments.

She bent down and looked into Chelsea's soft brown eyes. "I have to speak to this gentleman," she said. "We're going to go out there on the porch." Theresa pointed toward the back porch. It was an enclosed space with French doors and windows that brightened the kitchen. Theresa's father had had it built for her mother. "You'll be able to see me through the windows," she continued, ending with, "Eat your food, and I'll be right back." She kissed Chelsea's cheek and stood up.

Dean Clayton stared at her with a soft and approving look in his eyes. Theresa turned away from him and strutted to the porch. No approving look was going to soften her resolve. The people in her house were trespassing, and she wanted them out.

"We seem to be in a sort of dilemma here," he began.

"Only on your part. I am perfectly aware of my rights in the situation."

She watched as his face darkened. He stood up straighter, exuding power that grew as she watched him. Theresa felt intimidated but refused to show it.

"I have a contract here for the use of this house signed by your duly appointed agent."

She was shaking her head as he continued.

"Mr. Taylor agreed to an extension of three months. We'll be done by the end of the summer."

"Not worth the paper it's printed on." She folded her arms and stood her ground.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Mr. Clayton-"

"Dean," he interrupted her. "I have a large number of brothers and sisters. Calling me Mr. Clayton makes me want to look around for one of them."

"All right, Dean it is. I'm Theresa. But first names don't change things. Your contract expired five days ago. Mr. Taylor had only the right to act as my agent for that period. After that, I'd have to sign for it to be legal." She raised her hands, palms out. "And I didn't sign anything." Her smile was sardonic.

"I'm sure we can work things out. It's only for three months." "Three months is a lifetime, Mr. ... Dean," she corrected herself. As you can see, I have a child to consider." She glanced at Chelsea through the window. The child ate her food with the precise movements of a robot programmed for repetitive actions.

"She's been through a trauma," Dean said. His voice was low and concerned, as if he was speaking to himself.

"You're very perceptive," Theresa said. Most people who had met Chelsea recently thought she was retarded or autistic.

"What was the trauma, if you don't mind my asking?"

Theresa moved closer and stared at her second cousin.

"Her mother died last week. We buried her three days ago. Chelsea thinks it's her fault. Her father died in Iraq, she's lost the only parent she ever knew, been uprooted from her home and driven six hours away from her friends."

"I'm sorry. I understand some of what she's going through." He turned back to face Theresa. She was sorry she had moved closer to the window. It had brought her close enough to Dean to feel the heat of his body, smell his aftershave. "You must be tired, too. You should get some sleep. We can talk about it in the morning."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from ON MY TERMS by SHIRLEY HAILSTOCK Copyright © 2008 by Shirley Hailstock. Excerpted by permission.
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