Break Every Rule Read online

  DEDICATION

  Velma Lee Radford and Mc Radford Sr., rule breakers who loved unconditionally. I miss you still.

  SPECIAL THANKS

  William H. Ray and Ron Reagan for their photographic expertise and invaluable insight.

  Ronaldo Cordova, President of Royal Choice Carriers, for his never-ending patience and knowledge of the trucking industry.

  Leo Wesley, a full blood American Indian and a citizen of the Muscogee Creek Indian Nation, and educator for the Dallas Public School for American Indian Studies.

  Karen Thomas, for remembering a long ago promise.

  Angela Washington-Blair and Carolyn Michelle Ray for always being there for me.

  Bless and thank you all from the bottom of my heart. This book couldn’t have been written without you.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Special Thanks

  The Taggart Family

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Francis Ray

  Praise for Francis Ray’s novels

  Copyright

  Prologue

  It was a night the elite of Houston society would never forget.

  Felicia Falcon and Grace Taggart wouldn’t have had it any other way. After all, over two hundred guests were invited to a black tie affair with the promise that something spectacular was going to happen. They had better deliver if they wanted to hold their heads up again.

  The heavy vellum invitation stated quite clearly that the doors of the grand ballroom at the posh hotel where the affair was being held would close precisely at eight P.M., with no further admittance allowed. That the invitees were given only two weeks’ notice was nothing short of unheard of.

  Not one single person declined. And those who didn’t receive invitations tried to attach themselves to those who did. Here again, they were stymied—Invited Guests Only.

  No exceptions.

  The seating was carefully arranged so that guests of Felicia and Grace were kept apart. Speculations at the linen-draped tables flew fast and furious. Those who knew the stylish and elegant Felicia Falcon, a transplanted Bostonian, also knew that she and her husband had reconciled after a two-year separation.

  Could they be repeating their vows, since they had eloped—much to the chagrin of her wealthy and influential parents?

  On the other side of the lavishly appointed room, those who knew the down-to-earth native Texan Grace Taggart as a devoted wife and loving mother guessed the affair was to announce the engagement of her youngest child and only daughter, Madelyn. Grace’s two older sons, Kane and Matt, were already happily married.

  All of them were wrong.

  The two black-jacketed waiters assigned to every five tables kept the guests plied with tasty tidbits and vintage wine as the clock ticked closer to eight. At precisely eight P.M., exactly three minutes after the last hurried guests were seated, the swish of a pure white satin curtain on the far left of the immense room revealed thirty-seven elegantly attired people standing side-by-side.

  Instantly, members of the Falcon and Taggart families were recognized. The faint whispers became more pronounced. With a lift of his large hand which held a fluted champagne glass, Bill Taggart, in a tailored black tuxedo, stepped forward.

  The murmurs hushed as if a switch had been flipped.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with a great deal of pride and an equal amount of pleasure that I welcome and greet you tonight. Those standing beside me join me in thanking you for coming. Would you please stand with us as I make this toast?”

  Chairs scraped the polished hardwood floor as people stood, their glasses already topped off by an efficient stream of additional waiters. When everyone was standing, glasses raised, Bill Taggart visibly swallowed, but his voice rang loud and sure and proud as he said, “Please join me in wishing health and happiness to Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Falcon.”

  A gasp was completely obliterated by the swish of another white satin curtain in the center of the room. Standing on the balcony at the end of a spiral staircase were Daniel and Madelyn.

  Daniel, his long, salt-and-pepper hair tied at the back of his neck, wore his tuxedo with the casual elegance of a man who is confident about who he is and his place in the world. Madelyn wore a showstopping, jeweled, hand-embroidered jacket over a full-length, gold satin gown with equal confidence and elegance.

  The audience erupted into thunderous applause. The couple smiled joyously. As soon as the applause had died down and the forgotten toast was drunk, an unseen man stepped out and handed Daniel a cordless mike.

  “Good evening, everyone. Thanks for sharing in this happy occasion with us. To those of you who know me, I’m sure this comes as quite a surprise. It did to me, as well.” Daniel looked at Madelyn, who smiled bashfully at the knowing laughter of the audience. “Maybe that’s why it’s taken me so long to face the truth—that there is only one woman I’m ever going to love, and you’re looking at her.”

  The applause lasted for a full minute.

  Madelyn leaned naturally, trustingly, against her husband. “Those of you who know me also know how stubborn I can be. Those of you who know Madelyn and her family know she doesn’t take crap from any man, Daniel Falcon included.”

  More laughter and applause.

  Daniel glanced at Grace and she nodded. “Madelyn is strong and independent, just as her parents and her brothers taught her to be. So it came as no surprise that shortly after we were secretly married almost five months ago that she showed the good sense to—I believe the phrase is, kick me to the curb.”

  “I don’t mind telling you that I had to work hard to get her back. You’ll never know my dismal feeling of utter despair when I thought I couldn’t have her back in my life. Finding out she was carrying our first child made the pain all the more intense.”

  Although he paused, not a whisper could be heard in the room.

  “I’m baring my soul tonight to publicly apologize to Madelyn, but also to let you know that she and our child mean everything to me. I’ll do anything to make sure both are safe and happy.” His piercing black eyes roamed over the room. Each person got the message: to harm the wife and child was to bring down the wrath of the father. No one doubted the retribution would be quick and merciless.

  At Daniel’s nod a waiter returned with a champagne flute. Daniel lifted the glass high and said, “Please join me in saluting my wife, Madelyn June Taggart-Falcon, a woman of extraordinary patience and a boundless capacity for love. I’ll go to my grave thanking God for both.”

  Daniel took a sip of wine, then handed the glass to the waiter. His arm securely around Madelyn’s burgeoning waist at four-and-a-half months pregnant, he led her down the stairs to the sniffles and applause and whistles of the guests.

  The moment their feet touched the gleaming ballroom floor, a waltz began to play. Folding doors moved aside to reveal a full string orchestra.

  The guests continued to applaud as the couple twirled around the floor. The beautiful woman and handsome man—their eyes locked in eternal love.

  Grace Taggart, in a periwinkle-blue gown, clutched the hand of her husband and watched her daughter in the arms of the man she loved. She knew the mother and daughter relationship had changed and taken another direction, but that was as it should be. The
main thing was that her daughter loved and was loved in return. Madelyn didn’t need the formal wedding Grace had always wanted for her daughter.

  She had Daniel.

  Next to Grace, Felicia Falcon, elegant in a sky-blue Valentino gown, let the tears freely fall from her eyes. Her son was happy at last. She felt the callused hand of her husband on her bare arm and stared up into his jet-black eyes. Thick black hair hung bone straight down his back and brushed across strong shoulders encased in the first tuxedo he had ever willingly worn.

  How she loved this man—a man she’d almost lost because of foolish pride. Needing to be close to him, she leaned into John Henry’s strong embrace, his arm pulling her close.

  Daniel and Madelyn stopped and invited their guests to join them on the dance floor. Felicia watched as several young men in the extended Taggart family rushed toward their youngest child and only daughter, Dominique.

  Dominique, exquisite in a sophisticated and flattering long-sleeved Mizrahi gown, put one red, manicured nail to her chin as if considering her choice of man. From beneath impossibly thick lashes she looked from one to the other, causing her long, lustrous black hair to skim over her shoulders and down her back.

  Several other men joined the group. Her exotically beautiful face drew men like the proverbial moth to a flame. Only Dominique didn’t let the men stay around long enough to feel the heat, let alone become singed or burned, Felicia thought.

  Her daughter had inherited the best features from her Muscogee Indian father and African-American mother. Unfortunately, she had also inherited their stubborness.

  Dominique’s laughter, low and husky, teased as much as her banter—about being unable to choose from so many handsome men, so she might just sit out the dance. Protests from the men rang loud and clear.

  “After all these years she still hasn’t healed,” John Henry said softly to his wife.

  “I’m afraid not. Worse, I’m not sure if she ever will, or how I can help her,” Felicia admitted, her gaze on her daughter as she dazzled her admirers with ease.

  “Do you think she will stay this time?” John Henry asked.

  Felicia’s hand tightened on her husband’s. “If we’re lucky. She seems serious about her photography, and wants to open her own studio. She’s passionate about something for the first time in years.”

  “But not about a man?”

  Felicia said nothing. The answer was obviously clear as Dominique chose the youngest person in the group, a boy of about sixteen, to be her dance partner. Felicia glanced at the disappointed faces of the men not chosen, nor would they be.

  Daniel had found love. Dominique was still running.

  Chapter One

  “I do hope this is what you wanted,” said Janice Yates, a thread of anxiety evident in her crisp Bostonian accent as she took the Second Avenue exit off Hawn Freeway in Dallas, Texas.

  Sitting beside Janice in the vintage Mercedes, Dominique Falcon nodded, her pulse kicking up a notch. Her future might be riding on what she saw in the next few minutes. It could be the beginning of what she hoped was a career, not another disappointment. After facing five such disappointments in the past month, she wasn’t looking forward to a sixth.

  “We’ll be there in two minutes,” Janice told her, taking a left into Deep Ellum, an avant-garde art district near downtown. “The neighborhood is in transition from residential to commercial, so you have an eclectic mix.”

  “It’s the studio that counts,” Dominique said, hearing the doubt in her godmother’s voice. In her search she had seen a wide range of photography studios from lavish to run-down, but it was the atmosphere for the work created within that counted, not the outer trappings.

  “It’s the building at the corner with the glass front and side.”

  Dominique, in a chocolate, double-breasted jacket, matching cuffed trousers, and long-sleeved silk bodysuit, eagerly scooted forward on the smooth, leather seat of the Mercedes. Automatically, her hand closed around the Nikon that was never far from her reach these days. She came out of the car as soon as Janice brought the vehicle to a parallel stop in front of the building.

  Janice, stylish and slim in a fringed, glen plaid jacket and skirt, was almost as fast. She took exceptional care of her fifty-three-year-old body and liked to think she could still keep up with anyone half her age. She usually did.

  Unlocking the clear glass door, she stepped back. “Stop staring from the outside and come on in.”

  With a smile, Dominique’s long legs quickly closed the distance between them. But once she was at the entrance, her steps slowed. She wanted this to be the place.

  Her right hand trailed along the S-shaped Plexiglas that separated the tiled entryway from the polished concrete flooring of the main part of the studio. Glancing back at her godmother, who looked as anxious as Dominique felt, she faced forward and stepped around the glass … and into her dream.

  It was as if the room had been waiting for her, and she for it. She felt right. It felt right.

  Sometimes it takes a little longer for some of us to find what we’re looking for. The thought raced through Dominique’s head. Her search had taken twenty-nine years.

  Dominique slowly let her gaze roam over the enormous studio. White walls glistened. Immense, plate glass windows reaching thirty-feet high in front of her provided an unobstructed view of a small, well-tended park across the street that had a piece of modern art, three black, wrought iron benches, and several small oak trees. Working in the studio would be almost like being outside.

  One of the other properties she was shown had had a glass front, but had looked out onto a dreary office building. Perhaps because she was part Muscogee Indian, she liked space and the ability to see the faces Mother Nature painted on the landscape. Here, she could have both.

  Overhead track lights were spaced every seven feet. In the far corner of the wall were bare rods waiting for canvasses and backgrounds. Next to them was a sliding steel door for deliveries. The setup was a photographer’s dream.

  “You’re sure this place is for lease?” Dominique asked.

  “I sure am,” Janice said with a smile. “The man who was the previous tenant went to California with his wife after she was transferred there.”

  Dominique turned to the older woman, suspicion creeping in. “And you just happened to hear about it, when I’ve had realtors across Texas and the bordering states looking for a place exactly like this?”

  “Don’t you still believe in the power of a fairy godmother?” Janice asked, raising a finely arched brow.

  Dominique laughed, a rich, throaty sound. “I believe you and my family would do anything to keep me close. Houston and Oklahoma are both less than an hour’s flight from here.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “No. I’ve missed all of you.” She folded her arms. “But I need to know if Daniel or one of his associates owns the building. And if they do, please don’t tell me the tenant lost his lease because of me.”

  “What a suspicious mind you have. As far as I know, Daniel and the owner of this building have never met. I knew you were looking for a place, and I put out the word that if anyone heard of anything to let me know. I may have lost some clout in the Boston community, but I have contacts here.” The hurt was unmistakable in Janice’s voice.

  Instantly contrite, Dominique hugged Janice affectionately. Dominique hadn’t meant to bring up bad memories. Janice had been on a social and financial par with Dominique’s mother until Janice’s womanizing husband decided he wanted a younger wife four years ago. Greedy as well as immoral, Wayne Yates started a smear campaign about Janice’s character that nearly devastated her.

  When the messy and public divorce was over, her reputation was tarnished, the lavish home she had lovingly decorated and cared for had been taken away from her, leaving her bank balance pitifully low. She had left Boston, moving first to New York and then finally to Dallas three years ago to open an antique store.

  “I know that,”
Dominique finally said. “But I also know my family is skeptical about this newest goal of mine, and with my track record they have every right to be. But I also know they realize how much I want to succeed and will do whatever they can to help me achieve what I set out to do. I’ve let them help in the past, but this time I want to do it on my own.”

  “So, do it,” Janice said, the words a challenge.

  Dominique searched the steady, brown gaze of her godmother for only a moment. Duplicity wasn’t in Janice’s nature. She was too sensitive and too caring to be dishonest.

  Joy and, yes, a tiny shred of fear, raced through Dominique. This was it. All she had to do was to be bold enough to step out and take the challenge. If she were going to make a name for herself in photography, she had the place to do it.

  It meant moving, as she had so many times in the past, but this time she had a definite goal, a purpose in mind. That hadn’t always been the case, she ruefully admitted as she gazed around the room.

  Her wandering had initially begun as a means of getting away from the pain in her family’s eyes every time they looked at her. By the time she had finally taken a good look at her life, eight years had passed. Eight wasted years.

  Her delicate hands lifted and closed around the Nikon N90 hanging from her neck. Such a small object, but its power was irrefutable. With it, she felt powerful. Through the camera lens she saw what was, saw endless possibilities of what could be.

  “I hope that smile means you’re going to rent this studio and stay in Dallas with me.”

  Dominique turned toward the stylishly dressed woman a few feet behind her. “It’s perfect. I couldn’t have dreamed of better.” She smiled down at her petite godmother. “All I need now are some clients.”

  “You’ll have them once I start telling my friends here and in the surrounding Metroplex about you,” Janice said with confidence.

  A frown worked its way across Dominique’s brow. “Remember, I’m Dominique Everette.”