War and Love Read online

  War and Love

  Winter Renshaw

  Contents

  A Gift For You!

  Important

  Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  Dream Cast

  Sneak Peek of P.S. I Miss You

  Acknowledgments For War And Love

  Also by Winter Renshaw

  About the Author

  COPYRIGHT 2018 WINTER RENSHAW

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio

  EDITING: Wendy Chan

  PROOFREADERS: Janice Owen and Carey Sullivan

  COVER MODEL: Gilberto Fritsch

  PHOTOGRAPHER: Wong Sim

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  E-Books are not transferrable. They cannot be sold, given away, or shared. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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  Description

  My lies? Impeccable.

  My heart? Cold as ice.

  My only job? To convince her what we had was as real as the diamond I was hired to place on her finger.

  The battle was someone else’s.

  I was merely a soldier, recruited by a wealthy stranger who made it unapologetically clear that my future—and everything I’ve ever worked for—depended on the successful completion of this mission.

  I was prepared for war.

  I wasn’t prepared for Love Aldridge.

  This book is lovingly dedicated to the following members of CAMP WINTER:

  Alexis Alston

  Alisha Woolls

  Allison East

  Amanda Incles

  Amy Leibenguth

  Angela Sinclair Haley

  Anne Flammang Spencer

  Ashley Blevins

  Becky Carter Nichols

  Bobbi Schwarz

  Brandi Morrone

  Bre Demko

  Bridget Hobden

  Caoimhe Duddy

  Caroline Frimston

  Catherine Finegan

  Charlene Dalton

  Charmaine Walker

  Chrissy Blanchfield

  Christa Livingstone

  Christina Nazworth

  Christine Buczek

  Christine Godfrey

  Christine Reese

  Cindy Frazier

  Cynthia Keech McCarty

  Dana Land

  Dani Nicole

  Danielle Amos

  Deanna Dodge

  Diane Cerveny

  Donna Causey

  Elizette Guerrero-Lopez

  Erica Westerhoff

  Felicia Eddy

  Grace Forte

  Harloe Rae

  Heather Bothern

  Heather Firth

  Heidi Mowry

  Jackie Juane

  Jackie Wang

  Jacqueline Ellison

  Jacquie Czech Martin

  Jasmine Joyner

  Jeannette Bauroth

  Jen Champlin

  Jenn Allen

  Jennifer Marie Perez

  Jennifer Matthews Sharo

  Jessica Cooper

  Jill Kirtley

  Joan Day

  Joanne Blakey

  Jocelyne Germain

  Kari Hansen

  Karin Enders

  Karine Creve-coeur

  Katherine Miles

  Kathy Tucker Gutierrez

  Katie Anne Gentle

  Kelly Johnson Homan

  Kelly Latham

  Keri Roth

  Kristhia Seward

  Kristina Morgan

  Krystel Allen

  Laila Viking

  Larissa Berty

  Laura Apodaca Gonzalez

  Linda Barrett

  Lindsey Wheelon

  Lisa Nuyen

  Lisa Stark

  Lyze Gillett

  Madeleine East

  Mairim Santos

  Mandy Mitchell

  Mariah Gunter

  Martinique Martinez

  Melissa Hetherington

  Mellissa Carlson

  Michelle Mayer

  Missy Carter

  Misty Marie Schott

  MJ Villaespin

  Myla Theresa

  Natalie Ruiz McLean

  Nikki Brackett

  Nina Piatt

  Ninna Braga Moscato

  Noelle Kapuy

  Norrine Luchsinger

  Patricia King

  Pyper Davidson

  Rachel Wahl

  Rhiannon Matthias

  Ruby Morris Welling

  Sabrina Grosvenor

  Samantha Beson

  Sarah Lynn Behmlander

  Sarah Polglaze

  Savanna Bissett

  Shawna Kolczynski

  Sonaly Rodriguez

  Sonia Perez

&
nbsp; Stacey Saunders

  Stacey Timmons

  Stephanie Ditmore

  Stephanie Mashia

  Stephanie Purpus

  Suelee Lee

  Tami Garcia

  Tamra Whitecotton Mavila

  Teri Jackson

  Terri Dickey

  Tijuana Turner

  Tracie Hofacker

  Tricia Dransfield

  Tricia Marquez-Candelas

  Trina Marsh

  Valerie Heslep Fisher

  Virginia Swanson

  Wendy Livingstone

  “I can say with great certainty and absolute honesty that I did not know what love was until I knew what love was not.” — P.T. Berkey

  Chapter One

  Love

  “A man, when he wishes, is the master of his fate.” The plaque on the fountain outside my new apartment quotes Andrew Young, and if he were still around today, I’d tell him exactly how wrong he is.

  If mastering my fate were as simple as closing my eyes and wishing on stars and throwing pennies into water, I wouldn’t be standing here right now.

  I throw a quarter toward the trickling water that collects into a mosaic pool of chlorinated water. Wishes have never been my thing, so I let it fall with a gentle plunk. Retrieving a second coin, I flip it in the same direction, only this time it falls short, ricocheting off the granite ledge and rolling down the cement until it disappears beneath a wrought iron bench.

  Crawling on my hands and knees, I reach beneath the empty park bench in search of the runaway quarter, only to come up empty-handed. Literally.

  When I was a little girl, long before my father passed away, he'd take me to this fountain just off the main drag of our quaint little town and we'd have coin tossing contests.

  He'd assign points: ten for hitting the spitting fish. Twenty if I could slice through a stream. Fifty for whoever could manage to land a coin on the top of the bronzed mermaid’s outstretched palm. The loser was supposed to carry the victor home on their shoulders.

  Magically, I won every time.

  If Dad were still around, he'd hate the hell out of New York City but he'd love the hell out of this fountain outside my apartment. A sculpture of a couple ducking beneath an umbrella centers the display, the man’s arm around the woman as water trickles from the top. They’re smiling, their marble clothes giving the appearance of being soaked as water splashes up around their feet.

  I bet Dad would say it’s romantic, much like he was. The man was obsessed with all things love, which was how I got my name—or so the story goes.

  Rising, I dust my hands off on my jeans and glance toward the dark windows of my new place just across the cobblestoned, carriage-lighted plaza.

  "Here.” I thought I was alone, but the velvet tenor of a man's voice proves otherwise. "Take mine."

  I wait for my palpitations to settle before turning to face my generous benefactor.

  Men and their money …

  A disarming smile comes into focus first, under the pale flicker of moonlight and streetlamps, followed by a chiseled jaw with the slightest indentations where dimples should be. His eyes, partially hidden by a pair of tortoiseshell frames, are defined with thick, dark lashes that contrast against his classy machismo.

  "No, thank you," I say once I gather my composure. "I was just leaving."

  His head tilts and he studies me, and then he turns a shiny quarter between the pads of his fingers.

  "You know, your wish won't come true if the coin doesn't hit the water," he says, a hint of a smirk in his tone.

  "Is that a fact?” I arch a brow.

  “Proven.” The handsome stranger nods. “You didn’t know that?”

  I think he’s trying to flirt, but I don’t have the energy to tell and even if I did, I wouldn’t have the nerve to flirt back.

  “Fortunately, I don’t believe in wishes,” I say.

  He slides the coin back into his suit pant pocket, followed by his hand, and he stands there, relaxed, like he’s got all the time in the world to dedicate to this pointless conversation with a stranger outside a sparkling water fountain. I’m guessing he isn’t from the city. Most New Yorkers don’t take the time of day to say “excuse me” when they push past you on the sidewalk, let alone offer a replacement quarter to some woman they’ve never met.

  "So you were just ... throwing money into a fountain for … no reason?” he asks.

  "Basically." I sling the strap of my bag over my shoulder, sensing the heavy weight of his stare, and then I turn to leave.

  The Jasper on Fifth has been my home for three weeks this Wednesday and it still feels like some unfamiliar vacation rental I’m only inhabiting temporarily. Mom keeps reminding me it won't feel like home overnight and that I need to keep "feathering my nest,” but I've already filled it with all the things that no longer remind me of the life I left behind the day I signed those papers, things that help me remember the girl I was before I became the girl I grew up to be. But so far I can't help but feel like an impostor in someone else's clothes, in someone else’s home, existing in someone else’s world.

  I imagine it’ll get better with time.

  "Hi, Raymond." I greet the nightshift doorman with a small wave as I pass through the lobby.

  “Ms. Aldridge.” He nods, offering me a smile stained with compassion.

  Everyone thinks they know what happened.

  They think they know my story.

  They think they know me.

  They know nothing.

  "Good evening, Mr. Warner," Raymond says a second later.

  Reaching for the elevator call button, I catch a glimpse of the man who walked in behind me, staring at his expensive shoes and ending with his messy, sandy blond mane and those thick frames that mask the mysterious eyes I met only a moment ago.

  The handsome stranger from the fountain stands beside me.

  Had no idea he was a neighbor, but then how would I? No one’s taken the time to introduce themselves, to welcome me to the building, or to nosily scope out my place under the guise of delivering a tray of Neiman Marcus cookies.

  Not that it comes as a surprise.

  New York isn’t really known for its warm, fuzzy population, and I’m just some woman they read about on Page Six from time to time thanks to my ex.

  Clearing my throat, I stare at a set of silver elevator doors emblazoned in monogrammed J’s, waiting for the soft chime to tell me this awkward moment will be over soon enough.

  One thousand one ...

  One thousand two ...

  One thousand three ...

  One thousand-ding.

  The doors part and an older woman carrying a white toy poodle under her Chanel-jacketed arm squeezes past us, placing her dog on the tile floor once she’s through. The bells on its crystal-studded collar tinkle as it scurries toward the exit.

  Raymond pretends to give the dog directions to the nearest restroom. The woman doesn't laugh, but the stranger does.

  Stepping inside, I clear my throat, press the button for the seventh floor, and clasp my hands in front of my hips. Staring straight ahead, I avoid eye contact as he takes the spot beside me, unmoving.

  “Which floor?” I ask, still staring ahead.

  “Seventh. Same as yours.”

  Interesting. I’ve been here three weeks and I’ve yet to see him around because I definitely couldn’t forget a face like that.

  “Did you just move in?” I ask.

  “Few days ago actually.”

  The elevator deposits us on the seventh floor and the stranger motions for me to step out first. Turns out my generous benefactor is not only my neighbor, but a gentleman to boot.

  “Have a nice night,” I say, turning down the left hall.

  Reaching into my purse, I retrieve my apartment key and head to the last door on the right, only once I get there, I sense a presence behind me. From the corner of my eye, I watch the handsome stranger retrieve his key and slide it into the lock of the door directl
y across the hall.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” I say. I can’t complain about the people in this building being cold and unfriendly and then do the same thing to him after he’s been nothing but polite to me.

  He turns to face me, capturing my gaze for a moment. “Jude Warner. And you are?”

  “Love Aldridge,” I say. I’m still not used to going by my maiden name. I’ve been a LeGrand for almost the entirety of my twenties—the better part of my adult life thus far. But Love LeGrand doesn’t exist anymore. I signed her death warrant by way of divorce papers last month, hardly sorry to say goodbye to a poor soul, stuck in the shadows of a disgustingly rich husband who broke every promise he ever made. “Welcome to the building.”

  With that, I show myself in.

  I simply wanted to be cordial, neighborly. Jude seems like a decent man, friendly and approachable, which is rare around these parts, not to mention easy on the eyes … but meeting new people—men in particular—is the furthest thing from my mind and it’s going to be that way for the foreseeable future.

  I finally got my heart back from the lying thief who stole it all those years ago, and I’ll be damned if I give it away to the first guy who so much as smiles in my direction. I might not be back to my proverbial fighting weight, but I’m not weak by any stretch of the imagination.