Title: Selective/Memory (The Depth of Emotion, #2)
Author: D.D. Lorenzo
Release Date: April 3, 2014
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Cover Artist: Regina Wamba, http://www.maeidesign.com/
“Selective/Memory”
Reception or retrieval of only some of
the events in an experience.
Darkness Descended…
After tragedy claimed love as its victim, Declan and Aria struggle to move forward alone. They each have endured hurt and devastation inflicted and influenced by circumstance.
Rebuilding Slowly…
Aria’s inner strength is brought to the surface as she regains control of both her emotions and her body, but Declan’s supremacy over her heart is a consequence as a result of loving him so completely.
Blatant Trivialization…
As thoughts of Aria continue to haunt him, Declan attempts to minimize their effect on him using whatever means possible, no matter the effect on himself or its impact on his relationships.
An Agenda of Evil…
Revenge reigns supreme in Marisol’s agenda. Her satisfaction is found in the bitterness she cultivates as she grows in her contempt for Aria and her manipulations of Declan. Will she be successful in total annihilation of two people who have already suffered the crushing weight that sorrow and guilt can deliver?
Join Declan Sinclair and Aria Cole in “Selective/Memory”, Book Two in “The Depth of Emotion” series and witness the conclusion of their story. They will attempt to restructure their individual worlds, but fate continues to intervene by bringing them into the atmosphere of each other. Are they willing to bear love again? Will their emotions sustain the depths that their relationship exposed? Will their feelings for each other be strong enough to sustain a love that will last a lifetime?
Only Fate can Decide…
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“Selective/Memory” by DD Lorenzo
The furnishings had arrived earlier in the week. She didn't inconvenience herself for their arrival—there were people who handled that sort of thing—and she hated mingling with those that didn't matter. Money took care of them and what they did to suit her.
As she walked from room to room, she took in some of the mediocre choices she had made—all for his taste—so she could achieve her ultimate goal—him.
How did that beach bitch ever stand the look of this shit? she thought as she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the overstuffed sofa and chairs in the living room. It was a bit more elegant a display than was in Declan’s home. Of course it would be—she was Marisol Franzi! Her taste was much better than Declan’s or his former plaything. That was evident to even the most mundane decorator.
Walking through the kitchen, she snickered at the coffeemaker, thinking it almost blasé.
Did he never think of cappuccino, espresso? Did the man even remember he had been all over the world?
The kitchen looked adequate enough, but no matter, she wouldn’t be there long enough to think about it—and she certainly didn’t cook! The idea was appalling.
As her stiletto heels made a clicking sound on the shiny hardwood stairs, Marisol ascended as a queen in a kingdom. The master bedroom suite at the top of the stairs held a breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean, its iniquitous waters as black as the void in her soul. The dark night sky held not a single star, to spare her a flicker of hope in her malevolent beauty. An imposing full moon cast a sinister light into the room. It beckoned her to walk up to the large window, which could be seen from the massive bed, the wood expertly carved in the four posters.
“Oh…the things you will see me do, Mr. Moon…” she said suggestively as she reached up, first one arm, then the other, behind her to unzip her dress.
Letting it fall to the floor, Marisol made her way to the bed and crawled like a cat into the middle of its grand size as a contemptible shadow followed her from the window.
Lying there, she stared out at the moon, reveling in the knowledge that she could hear nothing but the objectionable ocean, and that no one would be able to hear the screams and moans that would come from this house. The thoughts that crossed her mind gave her the most delicious sensation running through her veins. She closed her eyes to savor the mental pictures. She had been tolerant, compliant, and even passive until she felt she would scream, but for this, she had planned every small detail. She shivered with the intensity of joy that flooded her, knowing that her efforts would not be in vain, and the time was coming soon. She’d finally get what she had planned and waited for.
Nothing—and no one—could stop her. No one ever could.
When she had come to this country, and she, Marisol—THE supermodel—was created, they told her she’d never want for anything again—and they didn't know how right they were.
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