The Trouble With Coco Monroe by C. C. MacKenzie Page A

poured them each half a glass and left she continued, ‘We were based in a small Gulf state. Very wealthy, but restrictive on where women could go unaccompanied. I wasn’t permitted to drive. And we didn’t live in the company compound with the rest of the executives and their families. We’d been living there for three months. Anyway, it was a difficult time for me without family or friends as support.’
    She’d never tell him or another living soul about the five days she spent in hospital while they patched up her bloodied and bruised body. At first the British consul who helped her ship Connor’s remains home assumed she’d been in the car crash too. It wasn’t until much later that he’d realised the marks were from fists and feet, and worse. Marks made by the man who’d sworn before God to honour, to cherish and to love her until death.
    And may God forgive her but death had been a viable get out of life clause that she’d seriously considered before the bastard had been killed. Even now the thought of everything she might have lost had she done the deed and committed suicide made her feel so terribly guilty. She’d never have experienced the joy of having a baby grow inside her, of giving birth, alone, to her beautiful daughter.
    Her baby had saved her in so many ways that Janine knew she’d been truly blessed.
    How could such a gift have been given to her when her child had been created not out of love but out of rape?
    Why on earth was she thinking of such things now when Jacob was staring at her with dark eyes filled to the brim with sympathy, with pity?
    If he only knew that she got on her knees and gave thanks every single day that the monster was now dead, cremated. And hopefully burning very brightly in eternal hell.
    Jacob’s hand found hers across the table and held on tight.
    Her eyes filled at the gesture of support.
    What a kind and lovely guy.
    ‘I am sorry, querida . I did not mean to upset you. They say time is a great healer.’
    And she could only hope that was true, because these days the night terrors were getting worse instead of better. No matter how hard she tried to forget, to bury herself in work, in the care of her child, the sly voice of her dead husband still whispered too loud and clear in her brain.
    Every day was a battle for supremacy in the constant war between her sanity and the internal critic who lived deep inside her psyche.
    And Janine was very much afraid that if she didn’t get help, and soon, the dark dog of depression would win. The trouble was she didn’t know where to start to get the help she so badly needed.
    The stark terror of losing her child held her too tightly in its grip.
    If she went to her general practitioner he was legally obliged to report a vulnerable woman and her child to the authorities. If she ever lost her daughter it would finish her. She had thought of unburdening herself to Bronte. But at the moment her friend was struggling with running a super successful business, motherhood, and being married to a very demanding Nico Ferranti.
    Poor Bronte, Janine shivered.
    She couldn’t imagine anything worse than being tied to a man like Nico.
    And as far as she was concerned he fell right into the category of being over-controlling and far too dominant. Oh, she knew her friend was blissfully happy, at the moment. But Janine was under no illusions that if Bronte ever got on the bad side of her husband, he would make life very difficult for her friend.
    Jacob was watching her too closely and she realised her hand was holding his too tightly.
    Forcing herself to relax, she sent him a tentative smile.
    ‘They do say time heals, don’t they. Unfortunately they don’t tell you how much time it takes.’
    His thumb rubbed the skin on the back of her hand.
    ‘I think it is different for each one of us.’
     
    ‘I’m sorry about the break-up of your engagement. Gabriella Dolman is a beautiful woman. Had you been together long?’
    In his eyes she