PROLOGUE

            “If you really knew the truth, you wouldn't want me,” said Sinclair   Noels as she stared up, into the dark brown eyes of the NFL quarterback and the Philadelphia Eagles' Most Valuable Player. “I am not who you think I am.  I have to stop hiding--” 

            “My love,” he interrupted gently.  “I know exactly who you are.  I can see clearly,” he said as he smiled down at his fiancee. 

            “Please listen to me--;” her voice became slightly agitated.  It was the only hint in Sinclair's  demeanor that something was wrong.  Her face betrayed no emotions.  Her eyes conveyed no feelings.

            Why wasn't he paying attention?  This was important.  This was the closest she'd ever come to telling him everything.

            “I am,” he smiled.  “You are going to be the mother of my first child.” He could not contain his joy as he softly caressed her stomach.   She was only twelve weeks pregnant, but he'd adapted the affectionate habit after hearing the news.  “That's the only thing I need to know.”

            “But I love you,” she said.  “That is why you must hear what I have to say.”

            “We will talk later,” he conceded in a playful tone, “Now dance with me.  I want to enjoy everything about you.  We are in love--; that's all that matters,” he whispered against Sinclair's neck as the slow music guided their body's around the dance floor.

            Jonathon Bey was  America's Most Beloved Athlete with his baby boy charisma and good sportsmanship. It was those qualities along with a wholesome smile that had won him the hearts of an entire country.  It didn't matter which football division he played for, Joni Bey was loved and admired by all. 

            The millions of dollars he gave to various medical societies for   genetic research endeared the five year NFL veteran to many outside of the United States as well.  He was a strong  supporter of the sciences that treated illnesses with gene therapyr--;  the use of  DNA strands to target specific diseased cells within the human body.   

            Jonathan had very personal reasons for his contributions to medicine.  His mother had died from pancreatic cancer and he wanted to help find a cure.

            The international sports star was a philanthropist who was  also best friends with most of  Hollywood's elite; as a result, he attended many celebrity  fundraisers. 

            Tonight Sinclair and he were at a huge charity event being held by the fashion house of an American apparel's designer.   She was dressed in a white tee-shirt, blue jeans and heels.  He wore  similar attire; however, the cotton shirt stretching across his wide  chest and the faded blue jeans outlining a very tall, rustic man  presented the image of a  physically committed athlete. 

            The pro-football player could not resist the flawless woman in his arms as they slowly moved around the dance floor.  He saw no imperfections.  She was astoundingly beautiful.  Her eyes were a smoky pale gray.  Her hair was long, straight and platinum. 

            He'd never seen a woman with her features and understood why she'd been so successful at modeling.   Her swimsuit posters still lined the inside of his locker even after he began dating the slim beauty. 

            “I love you, Sin.  This marriage will work,” he said losing himself in the depths of her gray eyes.  “We are the NFL's power couple. Whatever you have to tell me will only make us stronger.”

            Jonathan slowly bent down to kiss his fiancee on the lips.  She was all he'd ever wanted in a womanr--; all he needed to make his life complete.

            “But I wanted to be honest with your--; ” said Sinclair trying once more to reveal the tiny black lies that kept growing, changing.  She  wanted to explain to her wonderful fiance that she was a woman with secretsr--; hidden truths that could destroy both his career and their relationship...    

CHAPTER ONE

            The Hero's Club was a sport's bar that catered to the illusions of men.  It mirrored the world of graphic novels and action comic books. 

            The scarcely clad women in tight, plunging necklines and one piece jumpsuits served drinks as video game music streamed through overhead speakers.

            The retreating nude backs of young waitresses wearing short skirts and thigh high boots resembled superheros and arch villains as they delivered  trays of drinks while wearing masks.

            The vividly spray painted scenes  of darkened alleyways, rainy skylines and  exploding car crashes could be seen on the walls of the bar—  every mural depicted something different.  The images were too realistic, too convincing to ignore.

            The background view had an uncanny ability of pulling its male clientele into a phantom world of good and evil— right and wrong. 

            Sinclair Noels descended the metal fire escape ladder which connected the three levels of the bar.  The heels of her patent leather boots clicked against the steps and announced her presence. 

            The short cape she wore swished gently behind the beautiful woman with long flowing hair and smokey gray eyes.    She concealed her face and identity with the artistry of  makeup.  The lipstick she wore was applied in such a way that it hid the slight droop at the left corner  of her mouth and gave the striking woman the appearance of a smile.

            The different shades of gray and green eyeshadow lifted the corners of Sinclaire's eyes and encouraged the illusion of that smile, but beneath the mascara and blush lay the face of a young woman who couldn't show any facial emotions.

            She was physically incapable of expressing laughter.  A frown was also impossible for this undauntedly  beautiful woman who could not move the muscles in her forehead.

            Sinclair Noels could not do something as simple as whistle.  Her lips would not pucker or pout.  She wasn't even physically allowed to twitch her nose or blink an eye.

            These inabilities, however enormous and strange, had been an asset to the foster child who hadn't been able to find a permanent home until she'd reached the age of eleven and by that time she had perfected the art of lying. 

            She hadn't found deception such a hard thing to do since her face never betrayed the volatile, confusing emotions she held inside or the rage she felt at being rejected by her biological parents— not one person in her family had tried to claim her.  They had all willingly given her to the state.

            In the years since, nobody had come along looking for her. Not one person had tried to follow the paper trail through SHS— the State Health Services which had accepted the 14 day old abandoned infant.  The Safe Haven Laws of Sinclair's state had allowed her parents 28 days to make that decision without fear of imprisonment as long as they had not  physically abused the infant and they had  left her with an appropriate person at a safe haven location. Which had been the case. 

            The tiny, premature baby had been left at Sinclair's Urban Hospital.  She had been handed over to a stunned security guard and SHS was called.

            However, SHS had its own problems.  The governmental agency was so mismanaged and disorganized that it would have taken an internal audit of vital records, city government and a prayer to track her down if a relative had tried.   Even determining who her original parents were  and her black ethnic background would have proven difficult. 

            The birth certificate filed away in a Center City storage room was the only proof that existed connecting the 19-year-old to the boy and girl who'd rejected her at birth. But that too had been lost— replaced by the one filed by Sinclair's Urban Hospital.

            Her parents had just reasons for what they'd done. No one could have faulted the teen couple of a very sick baby.

            Sinclair Noels had been born with Möbius Disease, a rare neurological condition that affect the 7th cranial nerve which controlled her facial muscles. The weakened neuronal tissue  prevented any outward show of emotion and hindered her ability to communicating physically with another person.  As a child with the condition, her life had been unbearable.  Not foster parent would keep her for long. 

            She was constantly rejected.  However, like so many other changes in the young woman's life; she'd eventually learned to adapt.

            That's when her new life began...

            The platinum beauty approached a table that seated  four  white men who were all wearing different degrees of business attire.  Some of them were missing ties or had open dress skirts. 

            One man in the group wore glasses and never took his eyes off of the costumed waitress.

            “Marc, I have your vodka and tonic,” announced Sinclair in a husky voice as she set the drink before him. 

            He adjusted his frames and took up the drink as his eyes followed Sinclair around the table.

            “T.K. tap beer.  Benny, your usual and Tom, a club soda and a platter of buffalo wings just the way you like them.” 

            The men all greeted her familiar attitude with varying degrees of approval— some boisterous— some flirty.

            “Mobbi you are the only reason I come here,” declared Marc with a whistle.  “You never give bad service and you're the best damn eye candy in this city.”

            Sinclair responded in a playful attitude, “If I could only believe that, but I know better.  I heard you tell Rex the same thing last week.”

            “Ohhhh Marc.  I think she's got you,” laughed Tom reaching  for his drink and the chicken wings.

            “But I didn't mean it,” continued Marc as he readjusted his glasses in a nervous manner.  “Not like I do now. You are the only woman for me.”

            Sinclair wanted to smile, but couldn't.  So she instead allowed her voice to convey the humor she felt inside, “I don't mind sharing you Marc.  You are a loyal customer,” then she leaned forward and whispered in his ear.  “And I won't tell Rex what you say.”

            He smiled up at her and then slowly began to frown as he noticed a slight trickle of blood running down her arm, “Did you hurt yourself?”

            Sinclair looked at him and then followed his eyes, “Huh? I didn't realize I'd scratched myself.”

            “That looks like more that a scratch,”   he said handing over a paper napkin.

            She tucked the empty tray under her arm and dabbed at the blood wiping it away and then applying pressure, “It's nothing.  I'll take care of it.  Thanks.”

            “It looked pretty deep,” said another man from the group.

            “Stop worrying about me— enjoy your night gentlemen.  Can I get you anything else?”

            “Yes,” said T.K eying the tray of hot, spicy chicken wings.  “Get me a cheese steak hoagie with everything on it.  Let me try the house special, pizza fries with jalapeno peppers”

            “Make that two orders,” said Benny.

            “I'll be right back,” she said in a warm voice and left the table of men who all watched her retreating form.

            Sinclair delivered her orders to the large, clean kitchen and then headed for the employee bathroom.  She stared down at the napkin which had absorbed a good amount of blood.  She applied more pressure as she moved through the door and toward the bathroom sink.  The first-aid kit was on a shelf within reach.  She rinsed the wound and wondered how she'd gotten it.  She did not remember scraping against anything. 

            She'd have to be more careful. She couldn't afford to get another infection.

            The slight facial paralysis was not the only medical problem Sinclair had.  She also had another birth defect—one which complicated her life just a little bit more.  She had analgesia or as the E.R. doctor once described it— congenital insensitivity to pain.

             Sinclair could not feel physical hurt.  Her body could not detect pressure or force.  She couldn't even experience  the symptoms of pain.  The older teen did not have that fundamental protective mechanism which warmed against danger.  That genetic piece of DNA  most crucial to human survival had been mutating throughout her body  while she grew in her mother's womb.

            “Damn it,” she swore reaching into the medical kit for a brown bottle of peroxide.  She spilled in liberally over the cut and bandaged in quickly.  “I am a walking  accident.”

            “Don't be so hard on yourself,” said Rex as she entered the bathroom and caught the tail end of the comment.  “Last night I almost walked into a moving car— arguing with my boyfriend.  Stuff happens.”

            “I am going to need another tetanus shot.  I'm sure the old shot has expired by now.  The last thing I need is to get lockjaw from a dirty cut.”

            “Stop thinking so negatively.  People don't get that now-a-days,” then she paused before entering a stall. “Do they?”

            “I have not intention of finding out,” said Sinclair shoving the first-aid kit back in its place on a nearby shelf.

            She checked her makeup in the mirror, washed her hands and asked, “Do you still need a ride home after work?”

            Rex responded behind the closed door, “Hell yeah.  At least until the end of the week.  I can't get my car until payday.”

            “Meet you at the side door after closing,” said the platinum blonde as she exited the employee's bathroom.

            Sinclair returned to the kitchen, retrieved her orders and headed back to her customers.  This was the sixth night in a row that she'd worked, but she was not complaining.   

            The pay was great, the tips crazy and the men outrageous.  Sinclair had so many cell phone numbers that she could start her own dating service and the job offers she received were as strange and unique as her illnesses.

            One customer wanted to feature her in a men's magazine— clothes off of course.  Another wanted her to be strip at a gentleman’s club scheduled to open in a few weeks. The man did not care that she knew nothing about sliding down poles or taking her clothes off.  Hell, she couldn't even dance, but that didn't even stop the guy. He'd promised to hire someone to teach her and generously absorb the cause of the lessons. 

            Sinclair loved her new job and it kept her mind away from her bizarre real life.