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News Flash! Our Romance of the Week, Bella Andre’s The Look of Love, has just been selected for a special 60% off discount under Amazon’s The Big Deal Program! And here’s a Free Excerpt for Kindle Nation Readers! Holy Cyber Monday, Batman!

Sometimes good things come in pairs! It was already going to be a good week for Kindle Nation fave author Bella Andre, with her novel THE LOOK OF LOVE featured as our Kindle Nation ROMANCE OF THE WEEK. But now Amazon has placed the cherry right on top of the sundae by including the novel in its Cyber Monday week “The Big Deal” program, which means that the price has just been reduced to the unbelievable bargain level of just $1.99!

The Look of Love:

by Bella Andre

The Look of Love:

by Bella Andre
4.3 stars – 61 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
Chloe Peterson is having a bad night. A really bad night. The large bruise on her cheek can attest to that. And when her car skids off the side of a wet country road straight into a ditch, she’s convinced even the gorgeous guy who rescues her in the middle of the rain storm must be too good to be true. Or is he?  As a successful photographer who frequently travels around the world, Chase Sullivan has his pick of beautiful women, and whenever he’s home in San Francisco, one of his seven siblings is usually up for causing a little fun trouble. Chase thinks his life is great just as it is—until the night he finds Chloe and her totaled car on the side of the road in Napa Valley. Not only has he never met anyone so lovely, both inside and out, but he quickly realizes she has much bigger problems than her damaged car. Soon, he is willing to move mountains to love—and protect—her, but will she let him? Chloe vows never to make the mistake of trusting a man again. Only, with every loving look Chase gives her—and every sinfully sweet caress—as the attraction between them sparks and sizzles, she can’t help but wonder if she’s met the only exception. And although Chase didn’t realize his life was going to change forever in an instant, amazingly, he isn’t the least bit interested in fighting that change. Instead, he’s gearing up for a different fight altogether…for Chloe’s heart.
Bella hopes you will enjoy this free excerpt:

Chapter One

Damn, thought Chase Sullivan, it was good to get out on the open road. Sure, his windshield wipers were barely making a dent in the driving rain from this freak late-May storm, but it had been long past time to get out of his mother’s seventieth birthday party.

All eight siblings together under one roof meant lots of laughs, plenty of ribbing…and at least a couple of major arguments. It didn’t help that Zach’s date for the evening, a big-breasted blonde who almost toppled over a couple of times in her ridiculous heels, had done the nasty with Gabe a couple of months ago.

Throw six brothers between the ages of twenty-seven and thirty-six together and things were bound to get messy. But since it was obvious that neither of his brothers was serious about the girl, there was a zero percent chance that they were going to come to blows over her other than as an excuse to blow off some steam with their fists. Besides, as soon as Smith showed up, the girl had become so starstruck she hadn’t paid any attention to anyone else in the room.

Chase always laughed at the way people lost it around his movie-star brother. Smith was just as normal as the rest of them. Well, maybe owning a 150-foot yacht and filling it with young, topless starlets wasn’t exactly normal.

In any case, the real reason the party had been on the verge of implosion was that his twin sisters weren’t speaking. Hell, they hadn’t needed to say a word, not when the evil glances they were shooting at each other across the room spoke volumes.

Long ago, he’d christened Lori and Sophie Naughty and Nice. Were it not for the fact that they were physical carbon copies, Chase wouldn’t believe for a second that they were related to each other. Strangely, at the party it had looked like Nice was the one intent on murdering Naughty. If he wasn’t mistaken, Lori had actually been hiding from Sophie at one point.

Good thing he’d had a reason to get out of there before the hair-pulling started, he thought as he rounded a curve in the narrowing road that led to the Sullivan Winery–owned by his brother Marcus–in the Napa Valley wine country.

For the next four days, Chase was doing a photo shoot for Jeanne & Annie, a quickly growing fashion house that combined haute couture with homegrown style. The models and crew would be staying in town, but Chase was going to be staying in Marcus’s guest house.

A bolt of lightning lit up the sky and if there had been enough of a shoulder on the road, Chase would have pulled over to take some shots of the storm. He loved the rain. Big weather changed the way things looked, could transform an ordinary field into a marsh full of a thousand birds making an impromptu pit stop. Conditions that sent most photographers into a tizzy—especially if they depended on the perfect sunset to nail their pictures—were exactly what got him going.

It was in those moments, when everyone was cold and nothing was going “right,” that magic would happen. The models would finally drop their guard and let him see all the way past their put-on beauty to who they really were. Chase believed there needed to be a true emotional connection with the camera for real beauty—along with the beauty of the clothes or jewelry or shoes that they were wearing—to really shine through.

Of course, early on in his career, being around all that physical beauty had made Chase just as big a player as every other straight guy in the business. It was damn difficult to turn down a nearly naked girl who was so desperate for approval that she’d do anything. You never had to learn their names. Never learned if they had siblings or were good at tennis.

At first that had been one of the bonuses of his job, but then when he hit his late twenties and realized that his flavor of the night hadn’t made it a full eight hours but his photographs were forever, he’d slowed down some.

Between his recent trips in and out of Asia and the fact that there hadn’t been anyone who got his motor going, he’d actually abstained for the past month. He was planning on breaking his dry spell tonight with Ellen, one of Marcus’s head managers whom he’d met briefly while setting up details for the shoot. A fun, strings-free night of hot sex was just what the doctor ordered.

Anticipation had him almost missing the flickering light off on the right side of the two-lane country road. In the past thirty minutes, he hadn’t passed one car, because on a night like this, most sane Californians—who didn’t know the first thing about driving safely in inclement weather—stayed home.

Knowing better than to slam on the brakes—he wouldn’t be able to help whomever was stranded on the side of the road if he ended up stuck in the muddy ditch right next to them—Chase slowed down enough to see that there was definitely a vehicle stuck in the ditch.

He turned his brights on to see better in the pouring rain and realized there was a person walking along the edge of the road about a hundred yards up ahead. Obviously hearing his car approach, she turned to face him and he could see her long wet hair whipping around her shoulders in his headlights.

Wondering why she wasn’t just sitting in her car, dry and warm, calling Triple A and waiting for them to come save her, he pulled over to the edge of his lane and got out to try and help her. She was shivering as she watched him approach.

“Are you hurt?”

She covered her cheek with one hand, but shook her head. “No.”

He had to move closer to hear her over the sound of the water hitting the pavement in what were rapidly becoming hailstones. Even though he’d turned his headlights off, as his eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, he was able to get a better look at her face.

Something inside of Chase’s chest clenched tight.

Despite the long, dark hair plastered to her head and chest, regardless of the fact that looking like a drowned rat wasn’t too far off the descriptive mark, her beauty stunned him.

In an instant, his photographer’s eye cataloged her features. Her mouth was a little too big, her eyes a little too wide-set on her face. She wasn’t even close to model thin, but given the way her T-shirt and jeans stuck to her skin, he could see that she wore her lush curves well. In the dark he couldn’t judge the exact color of her hair, but it looked like silk, perfectly smooth and straight where it lay over her breasts.

It wasn’t until Chase heard her say, “My car is definitely hurt, though,” that he realized he had completely lost the thread of what he’d come out here to do.

Knowing he’d been drinking her in like he was dying of thirst, he worked to recover his balance. He could already see he’d been right about her car. It didn’t take a mechanic like his brother, Zach, who owned an auto shop—more like forty, but Chase had stopped counting years ago—to see that her shitty hatchback was borderline totaled. Even if the front bumper wasn’t half smashed to pieces by the white farm fence she’d slid into, her bald tires weren’t going to get any traction on the mud. Not tonight, anyway.

If her car had been in a less precarious situation, he probably would have sent her to hang out  in her car while he took care of getting it unstuck. But one of her back tires was hanging precariously over the edge of the ditch.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Get in my car. We can wait there for a tow truck.” He was vaguely aware of his words coming out like an order, but the hail was starting to sting, damn it. Both of them needed to get out of the rain before they froze.

But the woman didn’t move. Instead, she gave him a look that said he was a complete and utter nut-job.

“I’m not getting into your car.”

Realizing just how frightening it must be for a lone woman to end up stuck and alone in the middle of a dark road, Chase took a step back from her. He had to speak loudly enough for her to hear him over the hail.

“I’m not going to attack you. I swear I won’t do anything to hurt you.”

She all but flinched at the word attack and Chase’s radar started buzzing. He’d never been a magnet for troubled women, wasn’t the kind of guy who thrived on fixing wounded birds. But living with two sisters for so many years meant he could always tell when something was up.

And something was definitely up with this woman, beyond the fact that her car was half-stuck in a muddy ditch.

Wanting to make her feel safe, he held his hands up. “I swear on my father’s grave, I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay to get into my car.” When she didn’t immediately say no again, he pressed his advantage with, “I just want to help you.” And he did. More than it made sense to want to help a stranger. “Please,” he said. “Let me help you.”

She stared at him for a long moment, hail hammering between them, around them, onto them. Chase found himself holding his breath, waiting for her decision. It shouldn’t matter to him what she decided.

But, for some strange reason, it did.

* * *

Chloe Peterson had never felt so wet, so miserable…or so desperate. She’d been beating the speed limit for the past couple of hours, before the storm had kicked into overdrive. She’d slowed down considerably on the super-slick pavement, but her tires were old and bald, and before she knew it, her car was skidding off the road.

Straight into a muddy ditch.

It might have been easier—smarter, too—to sit in her car and wait out the storm. But she’d been too keyed up to stay still. She’d needed to keep moving, otherwise the thoughts knocking around in her head were going to catch up with her, so she’d slung her backpack over her shoulders and stepped out into the rain, just as it turned into out-and-out hail.

The hard little pellets hurt her skin, but she’d been glad for the cold, for the sting. Because it gave her something else to focus on, something besides what had happened just hours ago.

She hadn’t been sure exactly where she was—or what she was headed for–but she’d hoped she was walking in the direction of town.

All night long the roads had been strangely empty, but she’d barely starting walking away from her car when she’d realized headlights were coming up behind her.

Fear had knocked into her again as the car pulled over to the side and she’d had to stop to brace herself to withstand it. She was all alone on a dark, wet, country road. She didn’t have her cell phone, and even if she had, she doubted there was enough reception out here in the storm for it to get a signal.

And then a man–a large man–had gotten out of his car and started walking toward her, telling her to get into his car.

No way.

He’d tried to convince her that she was safe with him. He’d said all the right things, but she’d had too much experience with people like that, who easily said one thing, then did another.

“I don’t know you,” she told him. He could be an axe murderer. She had feet. She’d walk and find a place to dry off later.

She could see the frustration on his face, knew he was about to try and reason with her again, when suddenly, the sound of skidding tires came at them. Before she knew what was happening, he was pulling her into his arms. She didn’t have time to think of fighting him, didn’t even consider it when she realized a fast-moving motorcycle was practically on top of them.

She closed her eyes, bracing for impact, when the man effortlessly lifted her and jumped into the ditch, holding her tightly against him.

She opened her eyes just in time to watch the motorcycle’s back tires skid and then finally catch hold just in the place she’d been standing. Her heart, which had all but stopped, started racing again as she watched it speed away.

“Are you okay?”

Chloe looked up at the man who had shielded her from harm with his own body, and for the first time since he’d stepped out of his car, she was hit hard with the realization of just how attractive he was.

No, she silently admitted to herself. Attractive was a paltry word for a man like this. Even in the darkness, she could see that he put other men to shame. As big as she’d first thought, even in the cold rain, he was utterly gorgeous.

And her body was reacting with surprising heat.

Or maybe, she suddenly realized, that heat was coming from the fact that he was still cradling her in his strong arms.

The way he’d moved her out of the way of the too-close motorcycle had her teetering on the edge of trusting him. And on any other night, perhaps it would have been enough. But was it?

They were both splattered with mud from where he’d landed with her in his arms and now that they were safe again, she struggled to stand up, to try and right her thoughts so that she could come to some sort of rational decision.

“Wait a minute,” he said, “let me get us out of here.”

A few moments later, he put her down on the side of the road. “It really isn’t safe to be out here. Not for either of us.”

Common sense told her he was right, and yet, she was still wary. Incredibly so.

But at this very moment what other choice did she have?

Replaying in her mind the way he’d protected her from harm, Chloe finally, said, “Okay. I’ll go with you.”

She sincerely hoped she didn’t end up regretting her choice.

Chapter Two

Thank god, thought Chase, as she finally agreed to come with him. That motorcycle had scared the shit out of him. He hadn’t thought, had just acted to save her. Both of them.

Now, his instincts as a gentleman had him reaching for her backpack.

She immediately jumped back a foot. “Please don’t.” She carefully banked that quick flash of fear before saying, “I can carry my own bag, thanks.”

The way she’d leaped out of his reach could hurt a guy’s ego if he let it. At the same time, Chase knew it was just plain good sense for a woman to be on her guard with a strange guy in a situation like this.

Unfortunately, as she walked to his car, he found himself unable take his eyes off her sweetly rounded curves.

But any guy with little sisters, especially two pretty girls who got into more scrapes than he was comfortable thinking about, gave an extra bit of consideration to his interactions with women. He and his brothers might like to play—a whole heck of a lot—but none of them would ever do anything dangerous or take a woman against her will. No, they’d much rather have their women begging for it.

And this was no time to be thinking about sex. Not when he had a half-drowned woman on his hands…well, in his car, at least, since he’d promised her his hands weren’t going to come anywhere near her.

Knowing his leather interior was never going to be the same after the water and mud hit them, Chase opened the driver’s side door and slid inside. Steam rose from their clothes, condensation covering the inside of the windows, making the car feel even more intimate than it already was. Chase couldn’t help but notice that his surprise passenger smelled good, like rain and freshly bloomed flowers.

“Where were you headed?” he asked.

Instead of answering his question, she said, “If you could just take me to the nearest motel, that’d be great.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Someplace cheap would be best.”

With his plans for the evening falling apart one soaking-wet minute at a time—along with the fact that he was trying to repress the way her scent was driving his senses crazy—Chase’s voice was gruffer than usual as he offered, “Look, I’ve got a free place for you to stay for the night. We can call road assistance from there.”

It would be better to wait until she was dry and warm again to break it to her that even though road assistance would be able to pull her car out of the ditch, they probably wouldn’t be able to make it run again.

“Thanks for the offer,” she said, her words still wary, but firm, too. “Really, a motel is fine.” She shrugged, an outline of moving shoulders in the dark interior of his car. “And don’t bother calling road assistance. At this point I might as well leave my car in the ditch.”

The exhaustion in her voice fought with an underlying strength for dominance. While she clearly didn’t have the money to deal with any of this, she wasn’t sitting in his car crying about it.

Chase knew he should just take her to a motel. Lord knew she’d told him to do that more than once already. But there was no way he could leave her in some dank motel. Not if he wanted to be able look at himself in the mirror in the morning without seeing the word asshole written across his forehead.

Besides, every instinct he possessed told him she needed more help than just a ride to a motel.

Chase had learned early on from his mother and sisters not to mess with what a woman wanted. He knew better, knew this woman would be pissed off with what he was about to do.

But none of that, none of the warning buzzers that were going off in his head, were enough to stop him from deciding to help her anyway.

He turned the key in the ignition and as he carefully pulled back onto the road, he realized he didn’t know her name. Considering he was taking her to the warmth and comfort of the large guest house at his brother’s winery—whether she wanted to go there or not—he figured a couple of formalities wouldn’t be a bad thing.

“I’m Chase Sullivan.”

No sound came from the passenger seat and, inexplicably, he found himself fighting a grin. When was the last time a woman hadn’t thrown herself at him?

Then again, this one hadn’t told him anything at all, had she? Not just her name, but where she was headed.

Something was definitely up. It would be a much better idea if he could let it go, take her to a motel so that he could get on with his night of meaningless sex with Ellen at the winery.

So then, why wasn’t he doing just that?

And why the hell did he feel strangely drawn to this complete stranger?

He let the silence ride out between them, knowing she’d only answer if she felt comfortable enough with him to do so.

Finally, she said, “My name is Chloe.”

A pretty name. He normally would have told her so, but she was so touchy she’d probably take it the wrong way. He also noticed she didn’t tell him her last name.

She craned her neck to look out the window at a dimly lit sign. “Where are you going?” she asked, panic clearly threaded through each vowel. “Town is the opposite direction.”

Fortunately, right then he saw the Sullivan Winery sign, hit the remote to open the gates, and started up the narrow road.

“Chase.”

Her voice held a strong note of warning, but it certainly didn’t stop him from liking the way his name sounded on her lips.

“I told you to take me to a motel.”

He thought about the different ways he could respond, if he should make excuses or be placating. But sensing she’d see through his bullshit in a way most women rarely did, he simply said, “The guest house is closer. Nicer, too.”

She made a barely muffled sound of irritation. “Do you always ignore what people want and do what you want to do anyway?”

Again, there were several possible responses. But only one honest one. “Pretty much.”

“Your mother must be so proud,” Chloe said, sarcastically.

He liked the way the words rolled right off her tongue, as if she was getting a little more comfortable with the idea of being in his car, but a moment later, judging by the way she shifted uncomfortably in the seat, he knew she was worried about her off-the-cuff response.

Speaking as easily as he could, he said, “Fortunately, I have five brothers and two hellcat sisters to distract her.”

He hoped she’d give another unguarded response to that piece of information and was glad when she turned back to him and said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. Eight of us in all.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to grin at her.

She shook her head. “Your mother must be a saint.”

Good. He’d managed to distract her for a few moments, long enough to pull up behind the guest house. And this time, she didn’t seem to be worried by what she’d said – or how he would react to it.

“Look,” he said softly, “I know you’d rather not be here, but my brother owns this winery and I can’t see how it makes sense to pay for a crappy room in some dump on the side of the freeway when there are five empty bedrooms right here.”

“I don’t know you,” she said again.

“I know you don’t. And, trust me, if you were either of my sisters I wouldn’t want you to trust some guy who picked you up on the side of the road in the middle of a rainstorm.” He noted her surprise at the way he’d agreed with her innate wariness of him. “That’s why all I’m going to do is get you settled and then I’ll leave and head over to my brother’s house on the other side of the property.”

He waited for her to say no again. And the truth was, if she flat-out insisted on going to a motel, outside of throwing her over his shoulder and chaining her to one of the beds in his brother’s guest house, he was going to have to do what she wanted.

He pushed aside the flare of desire that tried to shoot through him at that whole tied-to-the-bedpost scenario. Lord knew if she saw her impact on him now, she was going to start clawing at the car door so that she could run screaming into town to get away from him.

“So,” she said slowly, drawing the one word out, which had the unfortunate result of drawing his eyes to her full, expressive lips.

My God, she had to be one the most beautiful women he’d come across in months. Years, maybe. And beautiful women were his job.

“You’re not going to stay with me?”

Ah, finally. It was the first time she hadn’t argued with him or told him she couldn’t stay here. Seizing the moment, he said, “I’ll just get you settled and then I’ll head over to his house for the rest of the night.”

Before she could change her mind, he reached for her bag, but she shifted and opened the door, moving out into the rain before he could help her with the damn thing. For some crazy reason, it had become a goal to carry it for her. He wanted to get her to trust him enough that she would accept his help.

She moved quickly to the covered porch. His brother’s housekeeper had left the front light on for him and he was graced with his best view of Chloe yet. Her hair, which had started to dry just a little in the car, really was like silk, so glossy she could make a mint in shampoo ads. She had a truly gorgeous figure. Not too thin, with beautifully lush curves that made his fingers itch to touch her.

What the hell was wrong with him? He needed to stop thinking like that. He’d taken her to his brother’s place to help her out of a bad situation, not help her out of her clothes.

As she waited for him on the porch, one hand holding her bag, the other placed over her right cheek again, Chase had to wonder why she was always hiding her cheek like that.

He had a bad feeling about it.

Knowing it wouldn’t help her feel any more comfortable around him if he was scowling at her, he worked to focus, instead, on the way the porch light bathed her in a faint glow. Making a mental note to set up some shots with the models the following evening right where she was standing, he walked up the steps and headed for the front door.

“Let’s go inside and warm up.”

He held the door open for her and she murmured, “At least your mother taught you one thing,” as she moved past him.

Chloe’s scent wrapped itself around him again and it was a hit of potent sensuality. Problem was, she was a gorgeous woman and he was a man who adored gorgeous women. But then her bag bumped against the door frame, pushing her hips into his groin, and he barely stifled his groan in time.

Jesus, if he didn’t know better, if she were any other woman, he’d think she’d done that on purpose. But given the way she all but threw herself across the room and away from him, he knew there was nothing intentional about her effect on him.

It had been nearly a month since Chase had had sex, but his body was reacting to Chloe like it had been a year, like he was fourteen again and hiding out in the girls’ locker room while the cheerleading team changed.

He smiled, thinking about that afternoon. Hell yeah, it had been good to be fourteen that day. Definitely one of Ryan’s better ideas.

A gust of wind blew rain up on the porch and Chase closed the door and moved inside, where Chloe was standing awkwardly next to the kitchen island.

He moved slowly into the room and worked to keep his eyes from devouring her. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head, her hand still over her cheek.

“You’re hurt.” It wasn’t a question. “Let me take a look at your face.”

She tried to take a step back but the granite counter held her where she was. “No,” she said, “I’m fine.”

He could see how hard she was trying to be tough and strong. But didn’t she get it? He was right here offering to help her. Not moving slowly this time, not bothering to make sure he didn’t spook her, he crossed to her and put his hand over hers.

The first touch had both of them sucking in a breath and he swore her pupils dilated a split second before she wrenched out of his grip.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come here with you,” she said as she began to rush across the room.

But Chase was faster, pulling her into his arms before she could get away. He was just registering her soft heat, the press of her full breasts against his chest, the heated vee between her legs that so perfectly cradled his groin, when he saw what she’d been hiding from him.

“Jesus, Chloe, did that happen in the car?”

Her cheek had a huge mottled bruise across it, all the colors of the rainbow with a long scratch through the center. Tears sparkled in her eyes, but they seemed to be more of frustration than due to any pain she was feeling.

“It hasn’t been my best night.”

Yet again, she hadn’t answered his question. But by not saying yes, he figured it was pretty safe to assume the bruise hadn’t been caused by her hitting the steering wheel when her car had landed in the ditch. Any other woman would have been crying, but not this one, even though she’d clearly had some crazy shit happen to her in the last few hours.

“No kidding,” he said softly.

The more he looked at her, the angrier he got about the bruise. He’d fought with his brothers enough times to know that it must hurt like a mother. But he knew better than to make a big deal out of it. He wasn’t going to bruise her pride…not when someone had already done a hell of a job on her face.

“Have you put any ice on it?”

She shook her head and he reluctantly let go of her and moved toward the kitchen.

After filling a plastic bag with ice, he wrapped the whole thing up in a clean, soft kitchen towel. She hadn’t moved from the spot where he’d stopped her from running. He could easily bring her the ice, but he knew it was important that she start to trust him—at least a little—if he was going to be able to help her.

Every instinct he possessed had been screaming out from that first instant he’d spotted her that her damage was a hell of a lot bigger than just losing control of her car in the rain.

Sucked to be right sometimes.

“I don’t bite. I promise.”

 Continued….

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The Look of Love: The Sullivans, Book 1 (Contemporary Romance)

(This is a sponsored post.)

Enjoy This Free Excerpt From Our Romance of the Week Sponsor, Adrienne Giordano’s Man Law

Adrienne Giordano’s Man Law :

by Adrienne Giordano
4.6 stars – 14 Reviews
Here’s the set-up:
Security Consultant Vic Andrews lives by his Man Laws: Never mess with your best friend’s sister Never get caught Never get attached But he can’t deny his irresistible attraction to Gina Delgado, a young widow with three kids and plenty of strings attached. Even so, having a physical relationship doesn’t mean they’re “in a relationship.” Gina lost her husband to tragedy; she is not getting emotionally involved with another man in a dangerous profession. Sleeping with Vic is just stress relief. Until one of Vic’s assignments goes wrong and the target selects Gina and her kids for revenge. There’s nothing Vic won’t do to protect Gina and the children—the family he realizes, too late, he wants. He’ll accomplish his mission but will he have lost his only chance at true love?

The author hopes you will enjoy this free excerpt:


Chapter One
Man Law: Never mess with your best friend’s sister.

 

“Ah, shit.” Vic Andrews, butthead supreme, listened to the churn of the ocean’s waves. Or was it his life skittering off its axis?

Gina laughed that belly laugh of hers and he couldn’t help smiling. He extracted himself from her lush little body and rolled off. The St. Barth sand stuck to his back. Yep, they’d worked up a sweat. Salty sea air invaded his nostrils and he inhaled, letting the moisture flood his system.

Jesus Hotel Christ.

What had he been thinking? He’d been heading back to his room after closing down the resort’s bar and there she was, the girl-er, woman-of his dreams, crying on the beach. No condition for her to be in after witnessing her brother’s marriage to the love of his life.

Vic didn’t mention the fact it was 3:00 a.m. and she was alone on a secluded beach where any drunken asshole, like him, could have at her. Although technically he wasn’t drunk. Buzzed maybe. Big difference. Besides, they’d been at a wedding. Buzzed was allowed.

Gina moved and he finally turned toward her. “I’m-”

“No, absolutely not,” she said. She swiped at her curly mane of dark hair. Her face gave away nothing, but that meant squat. Gina knew how to hide bad moods.

The whoosh of the ocean lapping against the shore distracted him and he stared into the blackness.

“What did I say?” he asked.

“You were going to apologize. I don’t want to hear it.”

Apologize? Him? “I’m not sorry.” He touched her arm. “Are you?”

Please don’t say you’re sorry. Please.

That would be all he needed. He’d just freakin’ obliterated the sister rule Mike had invoked nearly a million-maybe two million-times. The sister rule was Man Law, and Man Laws were about the only rules Vic followed.

He only wanted to check on her, and before he knew it, voila, the clothes were off, the condom was on and they were humping like bunnies right there on the beach. At least no one saw them. All the well-meaning people were asleep.

Gina brushed sand from her legs and stood to straighten the sliplike dress he’d shoved up over her hips. The silky fabric glided over her curves, and the activity in Vic’s lower region made him groan. A thirty-five year-old mother of three, and she was killing him. He should be ashamed.

Screw that.

She was right there. Right there. And, because he’d probably never get the opportunity again, he should grab her and-

“I’m not sorry,” Gina said. “Not about the sex. I’m sorry about other things, but this, I loved.”

Vic retrieved his pants and stood. Gina and her honesty. Good or bad, she just put it out there and didn’t worry about the repercussions. He guessed it came from losing her husband at the age of thirty-one. She had nothing to lose.

“I need to go,” she said, watching him with her big brown eyes as the moonlight drenched her face. He put his shirt on. Did she have to look at him that way? Particularly when he wanted a replay.

“Aren’t the kids bunking with your folks?”

“They are, but you know how Matthew is. He might search for me.”

Fifteen-year-old Matt, her eldest son, took his job as man of the family seriously.

“Right. Okay.” Vic motioned toward the resort. “I’ll walk you.”

Gina held up a hand. “I’ll be fine.”

Nuh-uh. No way. “I am going to walk you. It’s late and you shouldn’t go by yourself.”

Hell, she shouldn’t have been out here alone in the first place, but he knew she’d tear him a few new ones if he said it.

She stood there, peering up at him and-God-she was fantastic. She had a classic oval face with high cheekbones and a nose he knew she hated. For over two years now he’d imagined running his finger over the little bump in it, but never dared. Every inch of her seemed perfectly imperfect.

Blown sister rule.

Gina shoved her fingers through her curls. “We screwed up. I can’t believe it. We’ve been so good.”

“We didn’t screw up. We had a simultaneous brain fart. Again.”

She laughed and shook her head.

“Anyway, walk me to the edge of the beach. You can see my room from there and can watch me go up.”

“Gina, what’s the big deal? Nobody will know we just-” he waved his hand, “-you know.”

“It’ll be better if you don’t walk me. With his mental radar, Michael is probably waiting by the door. On his damned wedding night. I swear he’s a freak. He should stay out of it.”

Oh, boy. She was getting fired up. Maintenance mode. His friend needed protection. They were both ex-special ops, but they didn’t stand a chance against all five foot three of Gina.

“Mike loves you. He’s trying to protect you.”

“From you? You’re his best friend.”

Vic ran his hands over her shoulders. “Yeah, but I’m not right for you.”

“The circumstances aren’t right. That’s true, but he doesn’t have to keep reminding me.”

“He does it to me too.”

They strolled to the edge of the beach, and he squeezed her hand. Don’t go. Just stay for a while. All he wanted was more time with her. Not a lot to ask.

On tiptoes, she brushed a kiss over his lips. A little hum escaped his throat. What the hell was that?

“I had a great time,” she said. “You were just what I needed.”

“I think a ‘but’ is coming.”

“We can’t do this again.”

Yep. Not good. “I know.”

She pulled her hand from his and hauled ass toward her room. Away from him.

He waited while she went up the stairs and she stopped in front of the window of the room next to hers. A minute later the door opened and Matt came out. He turned and, apparently using his Spidey sense, looked straight at Vic.

And we’re busted.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Man Law: Never get caught.

 

Six Weeks Later

 

“You got me,” Vic said when Lynx picked up the phone.

Whose number had he just called? Knowing Lynx, he probably talked some unsuspecting blonde into letting him use her phone. His old army buddy now worked for the State Department and was completely paranoid about their calls being traced. When Lynx wanted to speak with Vic regarding sensitive matters, he sent a fax-a fax for God’s sake-from the FedEx store down the street from his D.C. office. Vic would call him back from a secure line-in this case a prepaid cell phone.

“You’re in a jackpot.”

Vic sat straighter in his desk chair. “Translate.” Lynx had a flair for drama, and being in a jackpot could mean a whole lot of bullshit things.

“The job you did for us last month.”

A car horn honked from Lynx’s end. He must be outdoors. “The Israel thing?”

“Yeah. The brother is pissed at you.”

“There’s a shocker. The sheikh should be pissed at someone.”

Namely Vic, who’d been hired by a secret U.S. government agency to take out the sheikh’s little brother, an Osama wannabe. Mike, the CEO of Taylor Security, liked to call them off-the-books jobs.

“No,” Lynx said. “He’s pissed at you. Your cover is blown.”

Vic’s shoulders went rock hard. He’d need a sledgehammer to get them loose again.

“What the fuck, Lynx?”

“Hey, I’m just giving you rumor mill here, but it’s coming from a good source. My contact at the agency accidentally let me find out. The sheikh threw money at someone who threw money at someone, and now he’s got your name.”

He shot out of his chair, every muscle in his body seizing. “Son of a bitch. Who gave me up? There can’t be six people who knew about that op.”

“Please. With the kind of money this guy can toss around, anyone can be bought.”

Vic grabbed a pencil from the desk, snapped it in half. “Did I get set up?”

“No. Someone got greedy.”

“My ass is in the wind?”

“Yeah. Watch your six. Gotta go.”

Vic punched the button to end the call. He’d wipe the phone clean and destroy it later. No harm in being careful. He stared out his corner office window. Just a businessman enjoying the June sun while the Chicago lunch-hour crowd swarmed the lakefront path. People everywhere.

Deep breath. Work the problem. When he’d taken the Israel job, the agency told him it was a solo mission. He’d sneak into the country as a tourist using a fake passport, and if he got into trouble, no one would pull him out.

He didn’t get into trouble.

He’d completed his mission.

For his country.

And now his cover was blown. Sure sounded like a setup.

The hammering in his ears started, and he stacked his hands on top of his head. This could be crap. Lynx said it was a rumor.

Vic hustled down the hall to Mike’s office and found him at his desk. Early in Vic’s army career, he and Mike were Rangers together and they had a history of saving each other’s asses.

“I got a problem,” Vic said as he stormed into the office and shut the door behind him. He took three deep breaths. Focus.

Mike snapped his head from his computer and stared. His dark eyes had an intensity that drove the ladies wild, but these days he was a one-woman man.

“You heard me right. I got a problem.”

Vic had maybe uttered those words three times in the fifteen years he’d known Mike. Each time, someone had been injured or dead. Mike leaned back in his swanky leather chair. Felix Unger’s contemporary twin could have decorated this place. Everything in chrome, with sharp angles and fancy art. One lone stack of paper sat neatly bundled to the left. Mike didn’t go for mess.

“What’s up?”

“Remember the job I did last month? Lynx just called. My cover is blown. The sheikh spent big bucks to find out who I was.”

Mike squinted. “Those fuckers gave you up?”

“One of them, yeah.”

“Do you know who?”

“Hell no. And it’s too damned bad, because I’d like to break his fucking knee caps.”

Pain shot through Vic’s jaw and he lightened up on the teeth grinding.

“Okay,” Mike said. “We can assume they’re gonna come after you.”

Vic stalked the office. Crap. Sweat beaded down the sides of his face and he swiped at it. He was losing it. Fear was not something he allowed himself, but this rattled him. When was the last time that happened? How about never? The last few months had been this way, though. Something gnawed at him, eating away his insides.

Five years with Delta Force ensured he could take care of this problem, but he didn’t want to do it in a city that had welcomed him when he left the military.

“We got a whole army of guys here ready to cowboy up,” Mike said. “We could even bring a few back from overseas.”

They had at least five hundred men in the Middle East protecting U.S. officials.

“Hell, I trained most of them and you want to put them on me? I can take care of myself.”

Fuckin’ A, bubba. Maybe Vic’s ego was getting in the way, but at thirty-six years old he’d had a whole career of spec ops training. Offering him protection came as an insult.

Mike shook his head. “Hey, asshole, did I say you couldn’t? All I’m saying is we put some muscle around you. Eyes in back of your head.”

Eyes in the back of his head. Mike had been his eyes for years now. Wasn’t he the one who’d given Vic a job when he needed one? Now they were partners. Mike handled high-end security, and Vic handled the civilian contractor assignments. The neutralizing-terrorists stuff.

“There’s no credible threat yet. I’m supposed to tie up man power for a maybe?”

Mike shrugged. “But you think it’s solid, or you wouldn’t have come in here.”

He had him there, and Vic scratched his head. The hammering in his ears went bye-bye, leaving behind the wilting end of the adrenaline rush.

“I brought a shit storm on us.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Are we having a moment here or what? Don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s see what happens. Meantime, put a team together and I’ll sign off.”

“We may not need them, but I’ll put something on paper.”

“Right. Let’s get someone to sweep your car and your apartment building. Just to be safe.”

Vic nodded. “Already on it.”

“Watch yourself,” Mike said.

This sucked. He should fight this alone, but knew if this guy came after him, he’d need a team. The gut shredding began. People, maybe his friends, were going to die.

And it would be his fault.

 

 

Gina had three checks for her brother to sign, one of which was for a company credit card maxed out by an overseas operative. Michael wouldn’t be happy.

A quick stop in the ladies’ room on the third floor allowed her to freshen up. She never knew when she’d run into Vic, but it always helped to be prepared. She fluffed her hair, checked her lipstick and gave herself a once-over in the full-length mirror. She wore the champagne pencil skirt and matching silk blouse her sister-in-law picked out. Not bad. Pretty darn good actually.

Roxann liked helping her choose age-appropriate clothes for the thirty-five-year-old she was, rather than the coed look she’d gotten used to. Gina liked her low-rise jeans and T-shirts, but maybe she was in a rut. A deep one. For four years now.

The romp on the beach with Vic made her realize she needed to make changes. To stop clinging to the person she’d been before Danny died. That person evaporated when a burning building collapsed on her husband and destroyed her world. Accepting the new normal hadn’t come easily, and she’d been fighting it by not altering the tangible things like wearing clothes Danny liked or hanging his uniform in the bedroom closet so she’d see it every day. Keeping things the same meant preserving some part of her cherished husband.

This included focusing on their children. On making them whole when half the parent base had disappeared. Putting their needs first and hers last. Wasn’t that what good mothers did? But somehow Gina the woman got lost, buried under the rubble of a burning building.

The time had come to dig out. Enter Roxann and her all-around good taste. Despite her penchant for classic clothes, Roxann could find things with a little funk to them. She made for a great sister-in-law, and Gina reminded Michael every day he’d better not blow it.

With a final flip of her hair, she left the ladies’ room and headed for Michael’s office. Vic stepped into the hallway, turned and smiled the slow wicked smile that always sent her heart into overdrive. Add the green eyes, the messy blond hair and the oh-so-sexy goatee, and a girl was done for.

“Hey, you,” he said. “What’s going on?”

Gina stopped a foot or two in front of him. Otherwise, she’d get whiplash trying to look up at all six foot five of him.

“I have checks for Michael to sign.”

He glanced toward Michael’s office, then back at her. Something was off. She searched his face, took in the rigid jaw, the crease between his brows and-bam-his eyes. Missing today was the twinkling mischief that promised a girl he’d put a smile on her face but wouldn’t relinquish his emotional armor while doing so.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You seem distracted.”

He smiled the player smile this time. Like that would work on a woman raising three children. Puh-lease. Surely she’d lost her mind thinking he’d admit something to her. “Forget I said anything. If you need to talk, let me know.”

She stepped around him, but he reached for her and a zing shot through her arm. Damn. After that glorious night on the beach he couldn’t touch her without her body betraying her. Not that he’d touched her since then. On the contrary, he usually acted like she had a skin rash.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I am distracted. No big deal.”

“Fine. Just know my offer stands.” She held up the checks. “I need to get these to Michael.”

He pushed a curl from her cheek. What was with him today?

“Look at you.”

“What?”

Vic shrugged. “You look…different.”

Different? What the heck did that mean? “New outfit. Rox helped me with it.”

“Ah.”

Enough of this already. Because, really, she didn’t have time. She was getting nowhere with him when all she wanted was to get somewhere. And then he went and did it. He tilted his head and parted his lips just so slightly and a burst of heat exploded inside her. Suddenly, the hallway seemed tight. Closing in as his stare filled the space. At any second, it would occur to him that he should attempt to mask his feelings. The idiot hadn’t yet realized his ability to hide from her dissolved two years ago in her basement. That had been the first time she’d noticed the look and it still tortured her. Damn him for bringing it all back.

Her fingers twitched at the memory. Kneeling on top of the dryer battling the water that had shot from the pipe and doused her. And Vic staring at her in a way that made her miss having a man to curl up with.

“Holy shit,” he had said.

The words cut through the sound of gushing water and penetrated her focused struggle with the valve. “The handle is stuck.”

His gaze traveled along the ceiling, darting along the pipelines. Slow. Considering.

“Idiot,” she screamed, “the valve is here.”

He stepped around the large puddle forming on the cement floor and stormed to the back corner of the basement. “No kidding, but I’m not getting wet when I can cut the main supply.”

“The main supply?” What?

And suddenly, the river slowed to a trickle. She stared at the pipe, gave it a whack with the wrench. Bastard pipe.

For two years she’d been living as a single mom, dealing with appliances that failed, shoveling snow, getting the car serviced. Never mind raising three kids whose moods shifted like swings in the wind. She been doing it all, hadn’t she?

Without a man.

Until the flipping water valve got stuck. With Michael not around, she’d been forced to call Vic when all she wanted was to take a bat and smash that stupid valve to a million little bits. Just destroy that piece of crap. She pounded her fists on the washer because she didn’t need this evil, blasted, hateful valve making her feel like she needed a man.

Vic stood a few feet from her, hands on his hips. Did his lips quirk? She swore they did. No, sir.

She flicked the wrench at him. “Don’t you laugh. I’ll come down there and beat you to death. You will be bloody if you laugh at me.”

He remained silent. One of his better choices, because she was just mad enough to let him have it. She tossed the wrench down, pushed her saturated hair from her face. “I’m sorry I called you an idiot. That was mean.” She held her hands wide. “Look at me! I’m soaked.”

“Oh, I’m looking.”

The rumble in his tone drew her attention and she found him, head tilted, lips slightly parted, eyes focused on her…chest.

The one encased in a soaking-wet tank top.

A white one.

With a sheer lace bra underneath. Lovely. Her very own wet T-shirt contest. She gasped and spun away because…well…Vic. Never before had he done this, and heat poured into her cheeks.

Two years she’d been without a man’s hands on her. Two long years without passion. Without sex that left her loose limbed and quivering. And he had the nerve to look at her like he wanted nothing more than to put his hands on her.

Wait a second. Why not? She deserved attention. Didn’t she?

Besides, he had great hands. Big hands that let a girl know he’d take care of her.

And then she lost her mind.

She jumped off the dryer and charged him. He stepped back. “No you don’t, pal. You started this.”

Grabbing his shirt, she pulled him down and kissed him with the furious lust of a woman who hadn’t had a good screwing in twenty-four months.

He clenched her forearms. “Whoa, Gina.” Yet his mouth was still on hers.

She shoved him backward. “Problem?”

“Uh, no. Yes.”

Again with the tilted-head thing. “You’re doing it again. The look.”

“Hell yeah, because, holy shit, you’re gorgeous. Between the shirt and the wet curls, you’re like some kind of sea nymph. It’s making me crazy.”

“Okay, so we’re on the same page here. The house is empty. Just you and me. Two consenting adults sharing some good old-fashioned fun.”

“But.”

She ran her fingers under his shirt. “But nothing. Wow, you have amazing abs.”

He stepped back again. “Do you seriously want to do this? Because I’ve been hanging back. You green light me and we’re on.”

Hanging back? “You’ve been thinking about it? With me?”

“You just never noticed. You sure about this?”

“You bet I am.”

He shoved her against the washer, dropped his jeans and hoisted her up for what she hoped would be a good, hot romp.

He didn’t disappoint. On the contrary, he left her feeling just fine about the whole basement-flooding thing. Who knew that she and her brother’s closest friend could spark that kind of inferno?

Vic set her on the floor, pulled up his jeans, and Gina dug a dry shirt out of the dryer. Where her wet one had gone was a mystery.

The sound of footsteps above slammed into her. Michael and Matt yelled and she tracked their footsteps from the living room to the kitchen.

Vic stared at the ceiling. “Crap.”

At any second they’d be down the steps. She shoved her arms into the shirt. Matthew’s. Gah! No time to find her own.

She spun around to button her shorts just as Michael and Matt halted at the bottom of the stairs. She whipped back and faced the openmouthed shock on Michael’s face. His gaze moved from Gina, then to Vic, then ever so slowly to the floor.

Tank top found.

Uh-oh.

“Mattie,” Michael said, taking in Gina’s attire. “Go grab towels.”

“The hose blew,” Vic said.

It sure did. Gina twisted her lips to cage a laugh. How ridiculous could she be? Her brother and son almost caught her having sex and she was laughing? Horrible.

Michael eyeballed Vic. “Are you fucking kidding me? My sister? The widow? With kids?”

Uh-oh again.

He shifted to Gina. “And you? You have to be nuts.”

Don’t freak. “Michael, I got soaked. I had clothes in the dryer.” Stop. She shouldn’t have to explain herself. Not to her brother.

He held his hands palm out. “I walked in here, with your thirteen-year-old son, and it appears we interrupted something. At the very least, it was reckless.”

“Mike-”

“You shut up. I’m not talking to you now.” He put his head down, cracked his neck. “Whatever this is. It’s not good. For either of you. A man with a dangerous job and a vulnerable widow with three young kids… Gina, it’s emotional suicide.” He inched a step closer to Vic. “My goddamned sister? You’ll wreck her life.”

Gina huffed out a breath. “Knock it off. You don’t know a thing about what went on here. You’re completely out of line.”

He snorted. “Am I? Have I said anything that’s not true?”

No, he hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. And now, Vic stood before her giving her the look that once again made her feel like the damned hallway had shrunk. After the basement incident Vic had kept those big hands of his, among other things, to himself. He’d been cordial. Disgustingly so. Like too much syrup on a stack of pancakes, and the sweetness made her ill. At times, she caught him staring and it infuriated her because they had never once discussed it. That was how it had been until Mike’s wedding and their second act of spontaneous passion.

Again, Vic went dark, keeping to himself, being sickly sweet. And now she was done.

She grabbed his arm, hauled him into his office and slammed the door. “Different. Could you have come up with a more generic word?”

He gawked. “What?”

“What does different mean?”

“Your clothes. They’re new, right? That’s what I meant.”

Of course. She’d given him the opening to talk about his feelings, to really go there and own up to his part in the off-the-charts sex, but nothing. Typical.

She propped a hip on the desk and sucked air through her nose. A burning sensation clawed from the pit of her stomach. “I’m in a rut. Trying to figure out who I am. All I am right now is Danny’s widow or the kids’ mom.”

Tears slid down her cheeks and she swiped at them. How could she be crying over something so minor? How did she get to this place and where had she lost herself?

“Please don’t cry. I hate that.”

He hated it? Please. “Here’s the thing, Vic. You’re back to being the guy who wants to run screaming from me and I hate that. We need to talk about what happened with us.”

He pinched his eyes shut, opened them again. “Why?”

This man was a major challenge. “Because I want to start dating again, have a man in my life, and there are times when you stare at me a certain way and it makes me think you could be that man. I need you to be honest with me.”

He pressed his fingers into his forehead. “About what? I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“I want to know how you feel. I’ve been a widow for four years and in that time I’ve had sex three times. Two of those times were with you, and if it was a blip, a way to pass time, whatever, then fine. But I need to know so I can move on.”

“Who else did you have sex with?”

Was he insane? She’d just begged him to talk to her and he wanted to know who the other guy was. Crazy. “I’m not answering that. I don’t ask you about your affairs.”

He shrugged like she had a point.

“Wait, I will answer that. Why not? He’s an accountant that Martha fixed me up with last year. Nice guy.” She boosted herself off the desk and faced him. “No spark, though, not like on a beach in St. Barth or a flooded basement.”

Vic inched toward her, his eyes on her in that way that made her cheeks fire. This was it. Finally, he’d talk to her.

“You fucked an accountant?”

 

 

Chapter Three

 

Man Law: Always duck and cover and hold on to your ass with both hands.

 

Shit on a shingle. Did he really say that? He never could deal with women. Blame it on his mother, the heroin addict.

Gina’s eyes widened into big brown saucers. At any second, she’d go off on him. And then, oh baby, her eyes narrowed and she should have had smoke blowing out her nose. He was torn between wanting to jump out the window or tear her clothes off.

“That’s what you’re focusing on?” she yelled. “Who do you think you are asking me a question like that? Are you insane?”

That was it. He was insane. Had to be. He wanted this woman like he wanted his next breath. With that amazing rack and great ass, she had curves that sent his blood bulleting to the wrong places, and all he ever wanted was to touch her.

But it would never work. Not with his lifestyle. He could die at any time and she’d be alone. Again.

He stepped out of her reach. Just in case.

One fucker of a day so far.

“News flash, jackass,” she said. “I wouldn’t have fucked him, as you so eloquently put it, if you’d made yourself available.”

Hey, now. What’s that about? He’d have to play this cool. Contain the energy. Compartmentalize. He became a machine when it came to emotions, or lack thereof.

“It’s my fault you thrashed some nine to fiver?” So much for playing it cool, but, hell, how did he catch the blame for that one?

She poked her finger at him. “You don’t get to talk now.”

All righty, then. She was on a roll, and as pissed as he was, he’d let her get it out. She had one of those tempers that burned out quick.

“What do you expect from me, Vic? I can’t do casual sex, not the way I feel about you, and having a relationship? It’s a joke. Even if you were capable of commitment, which God knows you’re not.”

“I’m capable.”

She laughed, but it was sarcastic. “A relationship requires more than four weeks of dating, and from what I’ve seen, four weeks seems to be your limit.”

“Now you get to do commentary on my life?”

That made her step back. Gina, above all else, was a reasonable woman. Mostly. If he couldn’t comment on her life, why was it okay for her to comment on his?

She sighed and her shoulders slumped. “You’re right. It’s none of my business. Besides, what an awful thing to say.”

He scratched the back of his head. “You’re mad. It’s okay.”

“No one is entitled to be cruel to someone they care about.” She leaned back into the desk. “You terrify me. With your job, I shouldn’t let you into our lives. We’d get used to having you around and then one day, you don’t come back, and my kids have lost another man. Bottom line, when you’re ready to make changes and have a relationship with me, then you can ask about my social life. Until then, butt out.”

Mike tore through the door, eyes burning. Shit.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Gina said. “We’re talking.”

“Yeah, hello, half the floor can hear you talking about fucking some accountant.” He glared at Vic. “What the hell? This is an office. I warned you about this.”

He opened his mouth, but Mike had turned to Gina. “Whatever this is, take it outside my building.”

Gina’s shoulders flew back. “Michael!”

“No. I told you too. He’s not going to give up playing cowboy. You know it. You’ll give in, though, and when he comes home in a body bag, you’ll grieve all over again.” Michael shook his head. “I guess losing your first husband in a collapsed building wasn’t enough for you.”

Now he’d gone too far. Mike had an explosive temper and sometimes said dumbass things, which Vic could tolerate, but not this time. He put his hand on Mike’s chest. “You made your point. Shut up.”

Michael pushed him off. “You’re screwing up my sister’s life.”

“He is not,” Gina said in a loud voice.

Michael grunted, locked his lips together and stormed off.

Vic eased his head back and stared at the ceiling. Could it possibly still be the same day? “Not good.”

Gina put her hands over her eyes. Please don’t cry. Please. If she started to cry, he’d put a bullet in his head.

“Are you okay?”

Heading toward the door, she said, “No, I’m not. I’m seriously pissed at you.”

 

 

That evening Vic pushed through Mike and Roxann’s kitchen door just as she slid a tray of lasagna into the oven. The smell of cheese and garlic assaulted him and his stomach howled. Roxann ordered the food from a restaurant, because, even though she enjoyed hosting family get-togethers, everyone knew she couldn’t cook.

“Sit,” she said to him.

“Actually,” he said, holding up the empty bottle of wine, “your mom wants more of this red and there’s none out there.”

Roxann pointed to one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

He stayed standing. He knew Roxi well enough to know she had something on her mind, and it most likely involved the smackdown in his office, but he wouldn’t let himself get sucked into some lame-ass conversation about how he screwed up. “What do you need?”

“I need you to have a lobotomy.”

Oh, what the fuck? “I’m outta here.”

She beat him to the door. “No, you don’t. Have a seat.”

“Rox, it’s been a hellacious day. I’m not up for this.”

“You’re not going to let Gina go, are you?”

Vic analyzed her. What the hell kind of angle could she be playing?

“You obviously have feelings for her, or you wouldn’t have behaved so poorly today.”

He sat. “Did Mike tell you? Or Gina?”

“Gina.”

“Good. I’m not sure how much Mike knows-I’m assuming you know about what happened on the beach?”

Roxi nodded and he tried to ignore the burning in his cheeks. “Like I said, I don’t know how much Mike knows. Hopefully not a lot, and I need it to stay that way. He gets fucked-excuse my French-in the head about this subject.”

“Tell me about it. I live with him.”

With his elbows propped on the table, Vic lowered his head into his hands. “I’m tired.” His Southern drawl slipped and he smacked his lips together. He’d learned to hide the accent, but at times it made itself evident.

Roxi squeezed his wrist. “I know, but you have to fix this. I’ll deal with Michael. He was wrong to interfere. It’s not fair to Gina, though. Did you at least apologize?”

Vic eyed the door.

“You didn’t?” Roxann shook her head.

“Sort of.”

She put up her hands. “Did you say the words I’m sorry? Nothing else counts.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face. What. The. Fuck. “She’s got me all twisted up. I’m trying to do the right thing. Mike asked me to stay away, given the dangerous job and all, and I do care about Gina. I don’t want her to get hurt again.”

Roxann sighed.

He had to make her understand. “Rox, I love my job and I’m good at it. I can’t throw away years of training.”

“So, it’s the job or Gina? No happy medium?”

“No. I’m alone for a reason. I don’t have to worry about anyone but me.”

Good thing too, because right now, with this Sirhan crap, he only had himself to worry about.

“Why couldn’t you help run the business rather than going into the field?”

Vic scoffed. “You’re not listening. I want to be in the middle of it. I like it.”

Gina came through the door. And glared at Vic.

“Rox, I’m sorry,” she said. “Lily isn’t feeling well and we’re going to head home. Michael said he’d take us.”

Roxann puckered her lips. That couldn’t be good for him.

“Vic can take you.”

What the fuck? “Huh?”

“I need Michael to help me here. The boys can stay and have dinner. We’ll bring them later. You take care of Lily.”

The two of them stared at her, but Rox had that blonde girl smile going for her and Vic didn’t want to argue. Not in her own home. At least some of his aunt’s lessons had stuck.

“Sure,” he said.

“Great,” Gina said.

“Wonderful,” Roxann said.

 

 

Lily fell asleep in the car. Poor kid was dead on her feet. Vic pulled his Tahoe into the driveway behind Gina’s house and parked next to her mini SUV. The narrow alley had houses packed tight on both sides, and when a car went barreling through, Vic had the urge to holler at the driver to slow down. What if Lily had been playing in the driveway? Asshole.

The evening sun faded fast, but the temperature was hanging in there. He looked up at the sky-no clouds. Stars would abound. A good night for a sail.

“I’ll carry her in,” he said.

“It’s okay. I’ll wake her up. Roxann is waiting dinner for you.”

He snorted. “Roxann is not waiting and you know it.”

Nothing doin’ on that idea. She sent enough food with Gina to feed them for three days. No, Roxann pretty much beat him over the head with the idea he should not come back. She wanted him to square things with Gina. He wanted to square things with Gina. He couldn’t take her being pissed at him.

Vic opened the rear passenger door and scooped Lily up. The kid was a peanut. “We need to talk,” he said.

“Let me get her settled first.”

He cradled Lily in his arms and got a whiff of strawberries. Probably her shampoo. Lily was obsessed with strawberries. She ate them nonstop, wore them on her clothes, her barrettes, her socks. Whatever she could think of. Sweet kid. He kissed her on the forehead.

“She feels hot. Does she have a fever?”

“I think so. I’ll give her something.”

“Is she going to be okay?” Damn, he adored Lily.

“It’s probably the stomach flu.”

Vic went through the kitchen and dining room to the living room. Gina’s house had to be a hundred years old. One of those old brick deals that could withstand the worst hurricane-force winds. The carpet had a broken-in feel he liked. He hated houses resembling museums. He didn’t want to get screamed at when he accidentally dumped a beer.

He marched up the creaking steps into Lily’s room and deposited her on the bed. He glanced around the pretty room. A typical little girl space with dolls on the shelves and pink bed linens. One tall dresser, white with pink trim, and a framed picture of her dad on top sat along the far wall. Oh, and how could he have guessed? Strawberries on the wallpaper.

He snorted. “I’ll wait downstairs. We’ll talk when you’re done here.”

Talking. His favorite thing in the world. Kill me now.

 

Vic had set food and dishes on the table. Gina stood in the doorway of her little kitchen trying to remember the last time she’d found a meal ready for her. Danny had done it, but she couldn’t place when and the agony that came with being a widow shattered her rib cage. Losing the memory of those little moments destroyed her. How could she not remember the last time her husband, her high school sweetheart and a man she’d treasured, had prepared a meal? She’d taken too much for granted back then.

After Danny died, she repainted the kitchen a bright, sunny yellow. Mealtime had been family time and they’d spent countless hours huddled around the table, laughing, telling stories, hearing about everyone’s day. In the beginning, the memories were too painful and altering the kitchen seemed like a fresh start. She and the kids still did family time, but there was now a new cherry table for four to go with the updated wall color.

Vic stuck his head up from the refrigerator. “Salad dressing?”

“On the shelf. Toward the back. The kids can’t remember to put it on the door.” She looked at the table again. He’d even put her place setting in the spot she usually sat. “This is nice. Thank you.”

He cracked open the bottle of salad dressing. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m eating too. I’m starved and it’ll probably take me the next hour to figure out how to convince you I’m sorry. I figure we can eat while I talk.”

She smiled at his logic. Nothing came between a man and a good meal. “You’re allowed to eat. Just because I’m mad at you doesn’t mean I never want to see you again.”

Scraping the chair back for her, Vic held out a hand and she sat down. At least they were being civil.

Gina began doling out food. “I’m confused about today. We seem to be stuck between friends and something more.”

This would be torture for Vic, but why should they beat around the bush? Sweat peppered his upper lip. Sweat? Over a conversation? This man was completely terrified of emotional upheaval.

“Here it is,” he said. “When you told me you’d been with someone else, it surprised me. I try not to think about you being on dates. I also don’t bring dates around when I know you’ll be there.”

The fork stopped midway to her mouth. “You do that?”

He huffed. “Can you give me some credit for being a decent guy? I don’t think it would be right to put some girl in front of you after what happened downstairs. And on the beach.”

“I wasn’t flaunting that I’d been with someone. At least, I didn’t set out to.”

He propped his elbows on the table. “I’m sorry for being shitty to you. Like every other time my emotions take over, I acted like an ass. I’m sorry.”

Gina took her half-eaten meal to the sink. She needed something to do. Were they really having this conversation? Would it get them anywhere? She stared out the kitchen window at the house on the other side of the alley. The Jeffersons lived there, and every time Danny would see them he’d sing the theme song from the old sitcom. She could still hear him. “Movin’ on up…” She laughed at the thought.

“You know, after Danny died, one of his firefighter friends brought me a letter he’d written.” She stopped. Swallowed hard. Let the chill running through her subside. “He must have sensed something might happen, because he wrote it a few months before he died.”

She turned toward the table.

Vic shifted in his chair. “You shouldn’t tell me this. It’s between you and Danny.”

“It’s okay. I need for you to understand.” She took the seat next to Vic. She’d never told anyone about the letter and felt a pang of something inside. Regret? Guilt for sharing Danny’s thoughts?

She shook it off. “He apologized for leaving me to raise three kids. He shared his hopes for the kids, things he wanted me to tell them, but the important thing was he asked me to give them a stable home. To make them as comfortable as I could without a dad.”

Gina stopped, cleared her clogging throat. She grabbed a napkin from the table, blew her nose.

“Please. Let’s not do this.”

Vic’s lips went white. Probably from the pressure of squeezing them shut. He had to learn to relax about this stuff. He was easygoing about everything else, but anything involving emotions seemed taboo with him.

“I need you to understand,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. Suppose you and I decide we want to be a couple, and I start bringing you around. We have dinners together, go places with the kids. They’d get used to it. They love you anyway, so it would be easy for them.”

With a nod, he said, “It would be easy for me too.”

“I don’t know what your real job is. I think I make pretty accurate assumptions because I run the company checks. I see your expense reports. I know you’ve been in Afghanistan and Israel over the last two months. Those are dangerous places. If you become part of our lives and I have to sit home while you’re on a trip, I’ll go crazy. I would always wonder if you’re okay. Heck, I wonder a little bit now. If we were a couple, it would distract me from giving my kids what my husband asked. Part of having a stable environment is having a mother who is consistent with her emotions.”

Vic shrugged. “I get that. Believe me. It’s why I’m not married. It’s why I never let myself get close to thinking about it. I don’t want to check in. I need to stay focused and I can’t do that when I get emotional. You saw it today.”

The phone rang. Gina thought about ignoring it, but what if it was one of the boys? She grabbed the cordless from the base on the wall, checked the ID.

“It’s Michael’s number.” She clicked the talk button. “Hello? Hi, Rox. Lily’s fine. She’s sleeping. Vic and I are talking… Hmmm. Are you sure? No, I don’t mind.”

She hung up. Oh boy.

“What’s up?” he asked, putting his dirty dish in the sink.

“The boys are staying there tonight. They want to watch Friday the 13th on Michael’s new television.”

Vic laughed. “I don’t blame them. It’s a kick-ass TV.”

“Boys and their toys. Anyway, are we going anywhere with this conversation?”

Leaning against the counter, dressed in his faded jeans and his beat-up sandals, he finally relaxed.

“We probably understand each other better.”

Gina went to him but stayed back a foot. No sense getting too close and self-combusting. Whenever she entered his orbit, something in her brain went whacky and all she wanted was to cuddle up with him.

“We can’t continue to avoid each other,” she said. “If we’re not going to move forward, we should feel free to date other people. You’re at all of our family functions. Why should you feel like you can’t bring women around?”

“I don’t like that idea.”

Holding her hands palm up, Gina asked, “What are we going to do, spend the next ten years not bringing dates around? That’s not okay with me. I want to be able to have someone in my life again. I don’t need a man, but I’d like companionship. I’d like my kids to have a man around.”

And if Vic couldn’t be that man, she had to let him go. Disappointment crept into her heart. Maybe she wouldn’t get over lusting after him, but she’d live with it. She’d had practice.

Gina held his attention as he took a deep breath and shook his head. “It shouldn’t be this hard.”

For a thirty-six-year-old man who’d seen so much death, he was clueless. “When you care about someone, it should be hard. We can’t continue to do this. It’s not fair to either one of us. It doesn’t mean we can’t care about each other.”

God, this sucked. Her body went numb. They weren’t even a couple and it felt like a breakup. Or maybe a loss of hope. She had hope for her children, but when it came to her own life, she wasn’t sure anymore. She had to raise three kids. Her life had to wait.

Gina swiped at her eyes. And now she was crying. Fabulous.

Vic wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. “I can’t give you what you need. I want to. I really do, but I can’t find the compromise.”

Settling her head against his chest, she inhaled. Vic always had a clean, salty-air scent and it tore something inside of her loose. She ran her hands over his back, just for a second, to savor it. He stroked her hair and she glanced up at him, the silence in the room causing her lungs to strain. She should break the contact. Step back.

And then he kissed her.

Oh, no. No, no, no. Not doing this.

But his kiss was an unexpected gentle touch of his lips, so different from the night on the beach. Last time had been fast and searing. This kiss had her falling, falling, falling. Just enjoy it. Only for a few seconds. Then she’d push him away.

His goatee pricked her chin, but she didn’t want to stop. Ever. Not when her body craved his warmth. They connected on too many levels for it to end.

“We should stop, right?” Vic asked, kissing her again.

For a man who didn’t like to talk, why the hell was he talking?

“Probably,” she replied without removing her hands from his butt. How her hands got there, she had no idea.

Then he backed her into the counter and it was all over.


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New violence arrives to the town of Climax, lurking beneath the conventions and quirks of a down-home southern lifestyle. In the middle of the chaos, Sheriff’s assistant, Emily Franklin falls in love with newcomer Nick Troy and the two embark on a treacherous journey to discover who is hiding behind an evil web of crime. Amidst kidnappings, trafficking and murder, will the lovers’ happily ever after turn into a drearily dead down under?Have you read Coming to Climax? Book One in the Climax, Virginia Mystery Series.

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PROLOGUE
“Easier than trapping the Easter Bunny.”

 

Caja stood in the forest, on a dank mat of leaves, right next to his prize. Execution, flawless.

 

The dark skinned woman, long black hair glistening in the few remaining sun rays of the day, struggled in the trap dangling from the hickory tree. Her shadow cast notched, distorted images across the rotting vegetation of the swampy woodland soil.

 

“Tengo que escapar,” she screeched, her voice echoing through the trees. “The Saints save me.”

 

“No Saints, lady, and no escaping either.”

 

At the sound of footfalls shifting leaves on the forest floor, Caja glanced in the distance. Monstruo sprinted toward them. Panting heavily, the guy halted when he saw her. Leering at the woman, he approached the snared prey.

 

“Good work.” Leaning over to the netting, Monstruo stuck his hand through it and grabbed her breast. She thrashed to escape his hand, whimpering, but he squeezed down and kissed the air. “Good set of jugs. What a pity.”

 

“Where’s her old man?” Caja stared off in the distance.

 

“Tied up in the back of that abandoned excuse for a house.” Monstruo grinned as he licked his lips. “Let’s cut her down and take her back there, have some fun.” His laughter echoed through the forest, maniacal and icily haunting.

 

Caja shuddered. This one didn’t have a single civil nerve ending. “What’re you gonna do?”

 

Monstruo wrapped his finger around a strand of her hair. “Right now, dip my stick.”

 

“Let me go, I have a child at home.” The woman struggled again against her bindings.

 

Caja’s eyes flew open. “Oh for Christ’s sake, she’s gotta kid somewhere.”

 

“He ain’t got her.”

 

Caja shifted his feet. “I thought we just wanted to get them out of the picture. Then go get a beer.”

 

Monstruo frowned at him. “We’re getting them out of the picture. After a little fun.” He grinned at the woman. “This won’t take that long. The night is young.” He laughed again. “Then, little lady, you can have your man. We’ll help you cement your relationship.”

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

The door of the house squeaked open a couple of inches, the safety chain still latched. Bright blue eyes peered through the crack. “I see by your truck you’re in construction, I don’t need any repair. Too late anyway. Feel free to visit me tomorrow at the Sheriff’s Office.” She slammed the door shut.

 

Scowling, Nick Troy turned to Grady. “That’s the oddest welcome I’ve ever had. Do you think Taylor’s sister hates him?”

 

“Try again, boss. Maybe Taylor got his wires crossed. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Nick knocked on the door. “Please open up, we’re not soliciting.” The door inched open one more time. He stared at the woman, only seeing her bright blue eyes glaring into his. “Look, we’re supposed to be here. You are Emily Franklin, aren’t you?”

 

She blinked. “If I am?”

 

“We work with your brother.” He smirked. “Taylor told us we could stay here while we’re on the project.” He fished a card out of his pocket and poked it through the door.

She snatched it with two fingers and drew it through the tiny opening.

 

At the sound of the latch coming undone, he sighed in relief. For a minute he’d thought the barrel of a shotgun was next.

 

“I…I’m sorry. Taylor didn’t tell me anything about your coming. There’s been a scam going on here in the community, and, since you drove down here for more than mile on a private road, I just…” She placed a hand on one hip and swung the door open.

 

“Never mind, come inside. Guess I’ll need to freshen up a room for you.”

 

The woman was splotched red from her upper chest all the way up her neck. However, the reddish brown hair was what caused Nick’s gut to constrict. A redhead. Jeeze. He was a sucker for the hot ones.

 

Grady stepped forward. “My friend’s been struck mute, and he doesn’t have any manners. Name’s Grady Allison. Nice to meet you ma’am.” He elbowed Nick. “This here is Nick Troy, Taylor’s right hand man.”

 

She smiled broadly and sighed. “Nice to meet you Grady. As you already know, I’m Emily Franklin, Taylor’s ill-informed little sister. I’m happy to know one of my guests is from the South.”

 

Nick ground his teeth. “I’ve lived in the South for ten years.”

 

“Sorry.” She giggled like a little girl. “You still sound like you’re from California.” Her eyes flew open. “Not that it’s a bad thing. Some of my best friends are from states outside the South. Carolina Mann was raised in New York City. Can’t get any less like Dixie. And her husband’s from there, too. They settled here. We’re friendly.”

 

“Nice to know you won’t round me up on a reservation.” Nick fisted his hands by his sides as he realized he’d made the statement out loud.

 

Grady convulsed in laughter. “You think he’s funny now, wait ’til you get to know him.”

 

Emily smiled civilly, but, as she looked at Nick, her eyes narrowed into slits. “I’m sure.” Her voice could have flash-frozen the air. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

 

Minutes later, they unpacked their things in two adjoining guestrooms and Grady joined Nick in his. “You made quite a hit with the little lady.”

 

He exhaled. “That’s me. A charmer. Women fall at my feet.”

 

Grady sat on the edge of the bed as Nick packed away the last of his tee-shirts. “They could. If you’d let ’em through that famous impervious barrier. Who did that to you?”

 

“What?” he asked.

 

“You know. Emasculate?”

 

He shook his head. “Guess it started with my mother. Don’t dig up old wounds. I am like I want to be.”

 

“Anything you say, buddy.” Grady stood and placed his hands on his hips. “When do we get started?”

 

“First thing tomorrow.” Nick turned and tucked his shirt back into his jeans. “Unless that woman eases up downstairs, I’m thinking we need to get this job done as fast as possible. I’m sure as hell not going to ask for food here. How about getting some grub at that bar up the road?”

 

****

 

“Taylor sent you a man?” Carolina stared at Emily, her eyes crinkled with amusement.

 

“Two of them, one our age and an older guy. When I called Taylor, he thought the whole thing was one big joke. He didn’t even apologize for not telling me they were coming.” Emily threw her purse on the sofa and collapsed next to it.

 

“The question is why are they here?”

 

“My brother is convinced this is a good place to build a Dazzle Distribution Center.”

 

“Dazzle? In Climax?” Carolina chuckled. “Has he taken leave of his senses?”

 

Emily nodded. “Exactly what I said. Anyway, he never listens to me, so let the giant wheels of enterprise turn. Seems this guy who’s here is a VP. I guess even Taylor realized it was going to take panache. I don’t know why he thinks they can just pop in and stay with me for like, two or three months.”

 

“I’d think you’d be happy to have company in that behemoth of a house.” Carolina rested her hand on her baby bump. “I’ve been worried sick about your being there moping around, even your cat gone. Especially since I got married.”

 

Emily nodded. “Okay, things change when your friends get hitched, but you’re still my best bud. Why do you think I came over here and told you what Taylor’s doing?”

 

“To get away from them.” Carolina grinned as Emily gave her the finger. “Okay, and to spread the word, too. You won’t ever change. You’re better than an MSNBC newsfeed. Taylor’s just conducting business. I don’t know if he remembers how anti-change this area is. As for your houseguests, give the poor men a chance. I assume they’re from Charlotte, so they’re from the South. It’s not like they’ll have four heads.” She paused. “I guess since that’s two men, it is four heads.” She chuckled.

 

“The VP’s from California.” Emily nodded emphatically. “According to Taylor, the guy’s dad was Reggie Troy, that TV weekend outdoor wonder man back umpteen million years ago. You know, the one who braved the Alaskan frontier with a kayak and a canteen of water and lived on whale blubber and melted snow when the canteen ran out?”

 

“Yeah,” Carolina breathed reverently. “Daddy Blue used to love those shows. Never missed an episode. He really liked the one down on the Amazon. Who’d have known you could do all those things with one match and the empty book they came in? If they’d had DVR then, he’d have recorded it.” She turned to Emily. “One thing I can say, though. If Troy’s son looks anything like he did back then, your hormones are going to be boinking around that house’s walls like ping pong balls.”

 

“That’s the only boinking that’ll ever happen in that house. Besides, I’m pretty sure this guy’s gay. He sure as hell wasn’t trying to exude any sex appeal. A waste of a great body.” Emily blew out a frustrated breath. “Let’s talk about you for awhile. How’s Andy doing at the elementary school?”

 

Carolina smiled. “It’s been an adjustment from college professor to principal, but he’s doing great. I think he really likes it, but he’s still trying to prove himself with the teachers. You know how self-righteous people can be. A couple of them thought they should have gotten a promotion into the position and begrudge his walking in from outside and taking over.”

 

“They’re lucky to have him.” Emily stroked her friend’s shoulder.

 

“Thanks.” Carolina’s bottom lip quivered. “I really want him to be happy here, not feel tied down just because of me and the family, though I know he loves all of them.”

Emily smiled. “That’s the only reason to be where you are. Why do you think I stayed in Climax?”

 

Carolina cocked her head sideways. “I just thought you believed you owed it to your dad after your mom died.”

 

Emily shook her head, smiling wistfully, wishing her mom were still alive. “No, truth be told, I don’t think I could ever leave Climax. Its roots have grown into my feet and up into my heart. It makes me bloom just to think about it.”

 

Carolina teared up, pulling a tissue from a box on the end table. “Sorry. Just a pregnant lady with changing moods. Andy’s got a box of tissues everywhere.”

Emily smiled. “Enjoy every minute.” I know I will, because it’ll never happen to me.

 

****

 

Caja followed Monstruo up the steps to the B&B, nauseous and shaking and desperately desiring a shower. Last night’s escapades produced a pungent after-taste in his mouth, one he couldn’t wash down with a six pack of beer. Extreme apprehension consumed him. Monstruo’s company was oppressive.

 

Caja took a deep breath and forced the images of the violated girl from his mind. As they’d bricked up the wall in the house, her bloodcurdling screams, pleas for mercy, sobs of hopelessness, filled his mind, now forever branded. Not believing in ghosts, he didn’t fear them haunting him. He feared his own mortality if he stayed near this man, the people in this scheme. And he prayed he didn’t go back to that house ’til those two were dead and the odor no longer permeated the building, marking him like a tattoo that couldn’t be erased.

 

“Hey, Mama!” Monstruo yelled at Connie, the B&B owner. “Apúrate, get us some iced tea. We’re sweating like two stuck pigs.”

 

The blonde darted him a glare. “If you want to stay in this B&B, tone it down. Iced tea is served in the dining area.”

 

“Woo, hoo. You must be on the rag, woman. Get a load off.” He stuck his elbow in her side. “Hey, you want some action, you know where my room is.”

 

She darted past him and out of the foyer.

 

“You really know how to win friends and influence innkeepers.” Caja crossed his arms across his chest.

 

Monstruo, already high from the beer he drank on the way home in the truck, slapped his arm backwards, smacking Caja in his chest. “Shit, she’s used to it. Women livin’ round here seen all sorts. And fucked most them.” He headed for the stairs and began to climb them. “I’m gonna go wash off the stink.”

 

Caja watched him ascend. “I doubt it’ll ever come off.”

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

“Land sakes, child. You look like someone just walked over your grave and spit.”

Aunt Millie stood in front of Emily with an order pad, staring at her niece with the woman’s normal x-ray vision.

 

“I have houseguests. Unexpected ones.” Emily gazed blankly at the menu. “Just give me a cheeseburger, double fries and a chocolate malted.”

 

Aunt Millie wrote down the order. “One of them must be good looking.”

 

Emily’s head jerked up to meet her eyes. “Why do you say that?”

 

Her aunt shrugged. “You always stock up on calories when you’re compensating for acting on your desires.”

 

“I’m eating out of anger.”

 

“Why’s that?” Aunt Millie leaned her elbow on the counter.

 

“Millie,” a guy yelled from the end of the lunch counter. “Stop your gossiping and bring me my lunch!”

 

She stood up and yelled back, “Your belly could wait on lunch for five days. Hang tight. I’m conferring with my niece.” Leaning back down, she smiled. “Now go ahead and spill. Hurry before Earl gets desperate and starts gnawing on the Formica.”

 

Emily chuckled in spite herself. “I have one of those irritating men in my house.”

 

Aunt Millie shook her head. “They’re all irritating, honey, unless you massage their ego and other parts of their anatomy. Give me the vitals. Looks first, then personality.”

 

Emily rolled her eyes. “Oh six two or so, lean but muscular. Blond and tanned. Pale blue eyes. Probably thirtyish. His supervisor’s not bad either. About your age, in good shape with gray eyes.”

 

Aunt Millie laughed and threw her arms open. “What’s not to love?”

 

Emily pulled extra napkins from the holder and sighed. “The older guy seems really nice and he’s Southern, but the one near my age needs manners. Even made a crack about no breakfast this morning. He said, ‘I see you’re one of those career women who doesn’t cook.’ Acidic wit. You know, how they insult you without making a direct frontal attack? All the bad and none of the good?”

 

Her aunt smiled. “Men need food in the morning darlin’, not a just a cup of coffee and a doughnut. If you feed him, he may be a lot nicer.” She patted her hand. “Let him sit awhile. I bet he just mellows out real fine.”

 

“I don’t know.” Emily glanced up at her. “How about you come over tonight? He’ll have his construction supervisor with him. You can restrain me from killing the guy and keep some civil conversation going.”

 

“Millie!”

 

“I’ll be there in a minute, sweetie,” she yelled back. Her aunt winked at Emily. “Okay I’m game. Let me go now and accidentally pour a glass of water in Earl’s lap.”

 

****

 

Nick stared at the site for the distribution plant and glowered. “How did this happen, Kramer?”

 

The guy took off his cap and scratched his head. “Don’t have a clue, Mr. Troy. Jest got in here from a job up in Roanoke and, after two wrong turns tryin’ to find where in the hell this place is, that’s what I found.”

 

The three men stared silently at the property. Trees lay sprawled across the site, huge black plastic bags of garbage strewn all over that. “It looks like somebody set off explosives and then robbed the landfill,” Kramer told them. “Never seen anything like it. Far enough from town, doubt anybody ever heard anybody do it.”

 

“From what Taylor told me about the women here, I’m surprised.” He turned and glanced at Grady. “Taylor said they know about your shit before you take it.”

 

Grady snickered. “Sounds like Taylor. But, this isn’t funny.” He glanced over at Kramer. “Have any idea who did it?”

 

The guy shook his head. “Look, man, I’m not from around here, jest a reputable demo man contracting with you. I’m based out of Richmond.”

 

“How much more will I owe you to clean it up?” Nick asked.

 

Kramer took his handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped off his forehead. “Gee, I don’t know if the garbage is hazardous, or what’s under the trees…”

 

“Ten thousand extra, assuming you still make the deadline.”

 

“Done.” Kramer put his cap back on. “I’ll go get the crew and start working.”

 

Grady chuckled as the contractor walked away. “Man, you’re quick and to the point.”

 

“We can’t waste any time. After all…”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Grady said. “Time is golden.”

 

****

 

“Smells mighty fine. Mighty fine.”

 

Emily looked up at the sound of Grady’s voice. “I’m in the kitchen,” she yelled. “Just around the corner.” She pulled a roast beef out of the oven as he walked into the room. “Hope you two are hungry.”

 

“Wow.” Grady walked into the kitchen. “Haven’t had any of the stuff that isn’t packed in a can in a powerful long time.”

 

She wrinkled her nose. “They put roast beef in a can?”

 

He nodded. “Chunks in gravy.”

 

Emily laughed. “What you’ve been eating is dog food. This is the real thing.”

 

Grady took an appreciative whiff. “Sure smells like it is. And it looks better than that.”

 

“Where’s Nick?” She peered around him.

 

“He’s on the phone with your brother.”

 

“Is something wrong?” Emily frowned. “Taylor prefers not to be bothered with business calls after hours. I know, ’cause I’ve called him when he’s been fussing about that.”

 

He nodded. “I know, but Nick had to. We ran into a cluster fuck. Whoops sorry, ’bout the language.”

 

“I’ve heard it before.” Emily chuckled. “What happened?”

 

Grady told her what they’d found at the site.

 

“Get out of here! I want to say nothing like that happens in Climax, but a few months ago, we had a flurry of madness.”

 

“Really? Here in the middle of nowhere?”

 

“Yep. This guy with two personalities, psycho, you know. He was after my best friend’s mother who’d divorced him twenty plus years ago. In the process of setting things up, he murdered three moonshiners, the woman who ran the B&B and another woman outside Chatham. The woman in the B&B was sliced to smithereens.”

 

Grady’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “Wait a minute. What kind of place is this?”

 

“It’s not usually like that.” Emily laughed. “Place hadn’t see a murder in more than fifty years before that. Anyway, the guy’s dead. Blown away.”

 

“Good thing. I was getting ready to change my plane tickets to go home.”

 

“What do you mean you’re going home?” Nick walked into the kitchen.

 

Grady slapped him on the arm. “Nick, I’m not going anywhere. But you need to get Emily to tell you about what happened here a while back.”

 

His face was solemn, lips straight across. He stared at Emily. “Guess you can cook.”

 

She wanted to smack him. Instead she killed him with Southern kindness. “I did it just for you guys. You know, just like the little homebody.”

 

Grady grabbed his arm. “Stop chiding the cook. She was just telling me about this guy who came to town and …”

 

“If it doesn’t have to do with this mess, I don’t care. Taylor just said what he always does about problems. No advice or assistance, just, ‘Solve it.'”

 

“You know, I’m aware my brother is all business, but I didn’t know he was that bad.” She carried the roast to the table. “He hasn’t been home in awhile, and he’s losing his natural Southern charm. How about putting work behind you and eat?”

Nick scoffed. “I don’t put work behind me.”

 

She turned her eyes on Nick’s face, glaring at him. He fell back one step. “Then you better learn before you die.” Emily set the roast down.

 

At Grady’s grin, and Nick’s shocked face, she felt smug. He walked to the table and sat down.

 

Emily chuckled to herself. I did it, put him in his place.Two points for me. “Everything else is already there,” she said. “And Aunt Millie will be here any minute. Chow down.”

 

An hour later, Aunt Millie was laughing, slapping Grady on the shoulder. “You’re a natural born storyteller. You fit right in here in Climax.”

 

Emily pursed her lips to keep from smiling and turned to Nick, who sat silent and glum in a side chair. “Are we keeping you up?”

 

“Huh?” Nick turned toward her, his brows knitted together. “Sorry. I just can’t understand why someone would have vandalized the property that way. What kind of nuts live around here, anyway?”

 

“In Climax?” Emily doubled over in laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is the moonshine capital of the world. We have misfits the same way other people have children.”

 

Aunt Millie’s face sobered. “Emily, that’s not accurate. We have a bunch of eccentric people, but most of us are basically normal, with a few quirks like most people.” She shook her head. “Most of the real problems stem from outsiders.” She waved her hand. “Present company excluded. Connie Miller over at the B&B was telling me at lunch how two guys staying there were mighty strange. In fact, she said one of them was bordering on getting thrown out. Seems the guy’s got a real foul mouth and is making lewd suggestions.”

 

“And to think she has to put up with that after what happened to her mother.” Emily shook her head.

 

“A man doesn’t do that to a lady.” Grady’s chin popped up. “I’ll be happy to go over there and teach the guy some manners.

 

Aunt Millie shook her head. “No worries. We women in Climax can handle most anything. Connie just got back here, so she hasn’t acclimated herself back to the community, but no mistakin’ she’s a Miller. If she needs help, she’ll holler.”

 

Nick rubbed his eyes. “I feel like I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole.”

 

“Most people do when they come here the first time.” Emily grinned. The guy had a lot to learn about her town. “You need to go and talk to Andy Mann. He’s the principal at the elementary school.”

 

“Why should I talk to him?”

 

Emily winked. “He’s not from here, either. You two have a lot in common.”

 

****

 

“You mean you came over here to see me because Emily Franklin suggested you should?” Andy chuckled as he sat down on a metal chair in the cafeteria.

 

Nick stood next to the long table. “Yep. Something she said struck a chord about my being an outsider and not knowing how things worked here. I’m going to be in the area awhile and start a business for my boss. I thought it’d help to get the skinny. And the truth is, I don’t think she’d fill me in. It seems I rub her the wrong way.”

 

“That I seriously doubt, but I’ll try to help.” Andy pulled two sandwiches stuffed with what looked like ham and cheese with lettuce and tomato, a bag of chips and two apples out of his zippered lunch sack.

 

“At least you have a lot to eat on while we talk.”

 

Andy glanced down at the food and then back up at Nick. “This isn’t really all for me.” He lowered his voice. “There’s this Hispanic kid who goes to school here. He was born in this country, but his parents are migrant workers. They desperately want him to have an education, and he’s really smart, good grades. But they must be running out of money, because he’s come to school the last few days without any lunch or money to pay for one. So, I just tell him I don’t feel like finishing mine.”

 

Nick grinned. He loved people with big hearts. “That’s really nice, Andy. I like you better already.”

 

Andy shook his head. “Not trying to win any awards. I just remember some of the kids back in New York City where I’m from. Besides, my wife’s pregnant. I’d hope someone would do that for our kid if we couldn’t afford to feed him.”

 

“That’s a wonderful gesture. I don’t know if I’d have thought of it.”

 

“I’m sure you would. Especially if you were watching over all these kids every day.”

 

Nick nodded as he sank into the chair next to Andy. “Probably so. Listen, changing the subject, someone victimized the construction site where we’re going to build a distribution center outside of town. Have any idea who’d do something like that?”

 

Andy frowned as he unwrapped one sandwich. “No kidding? Nope, not right off hand. Didn’t even see it. What kind of distribution building are you putting up?”

Nick explained about Dazzle.

 

Andy whistled. “Well, there you go. It could be someone around here that doesn’t like the sounds of anything that big coming into or near our town. They’re not into a big population explosion here. In fact, some of the moonshiners may have sabotaged the site. My father-in-law would know. You need to have a talk with him. He can tell you how everyone around here ticks.”

 

Nick leaned his arm on the table. “I guess that’s it. Taylor did say I might run into some resistance.”

 

“Better watch out too,” Andy said. “These people carry guns and they know how to shoot. Not just the men either.”

 

“Sounds like Texas.”

 

“Just as bad.” Andy grinned. “But if you fit in, everyone watches your back.”

“How do I do that? Fit in, I mean?” Nick’s stomach growled as he watched Andy take a bite of sandwich and then sip from a small milk carton. He’d better go get lunch after this.

 

“How do you fit in?” Andy answered. “Just be nice to people, not gruff. Ask questions, and be helpful. As for Emily, she will be more than willing to fill you in, to the point of ad nauseam. But whatever you do, don’t make any advances.”

 

“Why?” Nick cocked his head sideways.

 

“She’s clingy. The woman wants to get married really bad.”

Nick laughed. “I run from women like that. In fact, these days I run from most of them.”

 

Andy’s eyebrows went up. “You’re warned buddy.”

 

Suddenly a little boy approached the table. Not very tall with dark brown hair, huge chocolate eyes and golden skin, he smiled at Andy and patted him on the arm. “Perdone, Señor Mann. I don’t suppose you have any sandwich you don’t feel like eating today, do you?”

 

Andy leaned down to look the boy in the eyes. “As a matter of fact, Carlos, my wife gave me too much again. Could you help me out?” He handed the boy the extra sandwich, the chips and an apple.

 

The kid’s face lit up like he’d just won the lottery. “Oh, Señor, you must want to eat some more?”

 

“No, take it Carlos.” Andy rubbed his back. “You’d do me a big favor. I can’t take it home. My wife would be mad.”

 

“I will take it off your hands, Señor.” He bowed.

 

Andy gestured to Nick. “Say hello to my friend Nick before you go eat.”

 

The little boy stared up at Nick and his face broke out in a huge grin. It lit Nick up inside, for the smile was so genuine. “You have nice hair, Señor Nick. Ladies must like you.” He stood up straight. “I wish I had hair your color.”

 

Nick laughed. “I think yours is very nice. You must like yourself for the person you are.”

 

“Sí.” He grinned again. “I try. Mama say so too. Perdone, I go eat now.” He ran off to the end of a table by himself and sat down. Ripping into the plastic wrap, the kid began to devour the sandwich

 

Nick’s gut constricted. “Doesn’t he have any friends?”

 

Andy shook his head. “The other children call him chico. They can be prejudiced at any age, but don’t tell me that’s not coming from their parents. I’ve been trying to work on bringing some education in here regarding diversity.” He exhaled. “It takes time. Rome wasn’t built in a day.” Andy glanced back up at Nick. “How about coming over to my father-in-law’s house tonight? Cindy Merriman, a friend of the family, is bringing over dessert, and my mother-in-law is a fabulous cook, now that she’s been practicing. One more is always welcome.”

 

Nick smiled. “Maybe I will.”

 

Andy shook his hand. “By the way, Emily’s invited. Just don’t let her think she’s coming as your date.”

 

Nick’s phone rang and he answered it. “Hey, Grady. What’s up?” He stood up suddenly. “You’re kidding. Jesus. We don’t need that kind of trouble, or the publicity that goes with it. I’ll be right over.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Andy asked.

Nick stared at him, in a daze. “The guys just cleaned away those bags and the trees. There was a dead body underneath.”


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Norah Johnson is at a crossroads and is in desperate need to heal after a highly publicized breakup from her major league baseball player boyfriend. To escape, she moves to her summer home at the beach with her sister and best friend where she journals, attends therapy and works on her pending clothing line. When a gorgeous stranger finds her lost journal, he seeks to find the author and make her fall in love with him. But is Norah ready to love again? Book 1 in the romantic comedy trilogy of living, loving, and laughing again; a Norah Johnson story.

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PROLOGUE
My hands shook as I took a deep breath and exhaled. I studied myself in the elaborate, gold mirror hanging on the ivory Mediterranean stone. On any other night, I would have contemplated the stone, estimated the amount of square feet, and judged how nice it might look in the boutique that I was eagerly waiting to open. Or, how amazing the mirror, perhaps full-length, would look in the beautiful, totally chic dressing rooms I envisioned for my future customers.

 

But my mind was preoccupied.

 

I looked hot. My brown, silky hair hung in nice, loose waves past my shoulders. My jaw-dropping, black strapless dress-my design-with ruffled detailing at the chest and gathered seams over my tanned skin, and Christian Louboutin heels-I’ll own up to it-made me look like a ten. I’m not a conceited person; I’m just letting you know, I put every effort into ensuring that I looked my absolute best, like any woman would out there trying to win Miss U.S.A. or The Bachelor.

 

This was a life-changing, pivotal moment. Since I was dealing with a man, the man I loved, the man I wanted to win back, I had to lay all my cards on the table, and I had a royal flush!

 

Did I mention the dress was formfitting? More like the painted-on kind, yet it was chiffon. No one had a dress like mine. I could hear Jennifer Aniston calling me in the future, wanting the dress for her next movie premiere.

 

But this time, no matter how good I managed to look even in my own prize-winning design that had landed my current career lead, the biggest lead of my life, I couldn’t calm my nerves even by reminding myself of this amazing accomplishment, one that I definitely did not take lightly.

 

My nausea made me feel like I was about to perform or give a speech in front of the whole world. I felt like I would vomit any minute! Gross, but that’s my nerves for you. On cue, my mouth started watering, and I knew what that meant-the inevitable would soon follow.

 

But I couldn’t throw up! Not here. Not now. I took a deep breath and blew out. Closing my eyes, trying to pull it together, I imagined standing on the beaches of… somewhere, Tahiti maybe, although I’d never been there.

 

I needed to be confident. I am confident.

 

I needed to pull it together. I can pull it together.

 

“Pull it together, Norah. Pull it together,” I told myself. Thank goodness, no one else was in the ladies’ room to witness that.

 

Even with all the energy I could muster, and despite my self-affirming pep talk, I still felt wobbly. I leaned forward against the cold granite. It felt warm against my cool, sweaty palms.

 

I could do this. I had to do this.

 

As if a bell from Pavlov’s experiment had rung, I snapped back to reality and looked down into my black Prada clutch in search of my lipstick.

 

Shimmery? Or sultry red? If I wore shimmery, I’d look relaxed, tanned, and glamorous. If I wore sultry, I’d…

 

With the thought of sultry, my soul filled with indignant anger at the thought of his sultry seducer, and the fact that she was in the other room. It was all her fault. She was the reason it had ended, the reason I was here in the bathroom in freezing February.

 

Shimmery.

 

I’ll wear shimmery, I decided.

 

If this were a movie, you would hear the Ting Ting’s playing, Shut Up and Let Me Go, as I exited, confident, with the footsteps of a determined lioness on a mission. Except, I was thinking, ‘Please don’t let me go. Just shut up and listen and let her go.’

 

I rehearsed my lines.

 

“Truett, it’s me. Hi… I know.”

 

Lame. Of course, it would be me.

 

“Truett, don’t ask me why I’m here. I forgive you. We can be together.”

 

No…

 

I needed to hurry because, standing ten feet in front of me, was… him.

 

His tall, muscular build fit nicely in an Armani suit. I saw the back of his tanned neck. I felt like I might faint.

 

Yes, I saw friends trying to warn him of my approach.

 

Yes, I heard the few rehearsal dinner guests seated at their lavish tables whispering as they took notice of my appearance, along with a few clanks of forks against china plates. The bride, Alicia, was greeting an elderly couple, and luckily God answered my prayers; she didn’t see me. She was as fake as ever. Couldn’t anyone else see through her façade? The fact that she was clearly using Truett’s fame for her instant acting career stardom?

 

But I knew everyone would soon find out. After, of course, she delivered their baby and joined Tracy Anderson Method workouts.

 

I saw Truett’s parents and made eye contact with his father; he looked white as a ghost and dropped his wine glass. The swing band and commotion of the excited guests were graciously loud enough, however; no one heard or thought twice about the breaking of the crystal.

 

Kind of like the way Truett couldn’t care less about the breaking of my heart.

 

But alas, there he was. There was my goal, the back of a man in a black suit. My bullseye.

 

One of his genius friends coughed under his breath, “Johnson at six o’clock.”

 

Another stretched, as he pointed and whispered, “Dude, you won’t believe who’s behind you.”

 

Then, as if in slow motion, he turned around. I had dreamt of this moment, of him seeing me, saying how fabulous I looked, of me sweeping him off his feet. But that wasn’t the reaction I received.

 

He cursed. And cursed loudly.

 

“What are you doing here, Norah?” Before a giant scene could be made, he grabbed me by the arm. Of course, not in a gentlemanly gesture, but more like a reproach of a mother grabbing her seven-year-old by the ear for back talking-and led me to the side of the white tent. Away from the heaters. Away from the few guests who had begun to take notice of Truett’s sudden change in demeanor.

 

His groomsmen, thank God, had some common sense and tried to block us from the nosy audience. But honestly, I really didn’t care who else saw me there. They all knew the story. If they’d experienced what I had, they would be there, too. Maybe.

 

“Are you trying to sabotage my rehearsal dinner? I’m getting married tomorrow.” He crossed his arms and let out an irritable, “Geez, you have some nerve.”

 

Then he began to pace, unable to stand still. He always did that when he didn’t want to think about the problem at hand.

 

I reached out to stop him and, as my hand touched his arm, he flinched. He closed his eyes and sighed annoyingly. “Well, what do you want, Norah?”

 

What do I want? I want you! I want us together again.

 

But standing there, staring into his cold, hardened eyes, I felt like an alien had abducted the man who used to love me, an alien from the used-to-be planet of Pluto, because it was the coldest one. His heart was clearly frozen, iced over. Feeling nothing. Looking at me as if I were the antichrist or something.

 

He was so different from the Truett I knew. He loved me. He was enamored with me. In the four years we dated, he never acted as if I annoyed him. He was clearly under a witch’s spell.

 

Everything in me wanted to rip him to shreds and claw his eyes out. The fire in my chest felt like heartburn, as if I was about to have an anxiety attack. But practice and rehearsing paid off. So my rehearsed speech, which my best friend in the world, Chloe, who was waiting in the car for me had heard me say over and over, went to good use.

Be calm, collected, my subconscious reminded me.

 

I will appear calm and collected. He will remember what he loved about me, that I had class, and I was always collected. I would appear as if nothing fazed me. It was me, not her, who would be the perfect, overly-exposed wife of a mega-athlete superstar.

 

And on that note, I was ready to say it. I lifted my chin with perfection.

“Truett, I forgive you,” I said ever so tenderly, yet matter-of-factly.

“What?” he asked, irritated. “You forgive me?” He laughed an utterly horrific, patronizing laugh. As I stood there, my insides screamed for me to stay composed.

I felt as if I was in a presidential debate and the ugliest jab had been thrown, yet I remained unfazed. So I continued with my mission.

 

“Look, please don’t marry her. You’ll make the biggest mistake of your life.”

 

He put up his hands in protest. I could tell I was running out of time, so I quickly got to the most important part.

 

“I forgive you. We can work on us. We can make us work. You don’t have to marry her just because she’s pregnant.”

 

Now this was the part where the beautiful music was supposed to start playing, like in the movies. Perhaps Coldplay’s Fix You, where his eyes were supposed to fill with tears, and he would open his arms and embrace and kiss me, telling me I was right. That he was glad I came. That he had been praying to God all day for a sign because of his own apprehensions, showing he was supposed to be with me.

 

Then we would leave together as the entire wedding party and guests watched in aghast bewilderment.

 

If only life were like the movies. Let me be the screenwriter.

 

Before I could even get to the good part and tell him, “Listen, she’s using you. Don’t you know anything about her? Don’t you know this, don’t you know that?”

 

He bluntly said, “No, Norah.” He said it sharply like someone would say if they were a prime candidate for anger management counseling. “You made the mistake by walking out on me when I needed you most to go to Milan.”

 

“But I didn’t walk-”

 

He didn’t want to hear it. It was too late.

 

“Get her out of here,” he said to Lewis, the Yankee’s second basemen. He turned back to me. “Get out of here, because if you don’t leave-”

 

Suddenly, that little piece of me that lurked deep inside in that little corner crevice of my heart, that piece that so wanted to give him a piece of my mind, suddenly came unfolded.

 

“If I don’t leave, then what?” Okay, my plan of remaining calm and cool went out the window. Suddenly, everyone in the room, as if they were all a part of a rehearsed, synchronized swimming team, placed their forks and drinks down and looked my way. I felt as if I were in the Twilight Zone. And for crying out loud, the band even stopped playing!

 

You could have heard a cricket.

 

My question sat in the thick, quiet air waiting to be answered. Angrily, he turned and walked away. He snapped his fingers, and the band began to play again. People whispered. Picture phones snapped. Paparazzi hiding in the bushes flashed their hot bulbs at me.

 

And with that, I was escorted from the premises. As I walked away, my heart pounded with adrenaline. The man I loved with my whole heart, the man I was supposed to marry, the man I was supposed to build a fairy-tale life with-we were supposed to be the next Posh and David Beckham!-had left me for another woman, a pregnant woman.

 

I was left to pick up the broken pieces of my seemingly never-ending broken heart, as the rest of the country had the lovely privilege of reliving my awful breakdown on TMZ, E!, US Weekly, and every other media outlet. And I felt like I had nowhere to hide.
Chapter One
Then, I woke up.

 

But it wasn’t all a dream. I awakened with my head pounding and spinning. Where was I? It all felt blurred. As I continued to lie there in the comfort of my Tempur-Pedic cloud, I knew I was either in Dubai again, or in my bedroom. My familiar alarm clock, which read 9:30 a.m. in red letters, reminded me I was home.

 

I was home.

 

I sat up slowly. I could smell the sizzling bacon I guessed my mother was making. Suddenly, I didn’t feel very well. I quickly ran to my bathroom and threw up. I wallowed my way to the sink and, as I splashed my face with cool water, Chloe entered and sat down on the toilet. Good thing she didn’t know I had just thrown up.

 

In her perfectly trained nurse-like way, she asked, “Are you okay? You don’t look so good. Pepto? Sprite helps. So does ginger beer. Pregnant women drink that a lot. Of course, the non-alcoholic kind. But it’s not like that matters or anything, because you’re not pregnant. So…” I watched her come to the sudden realization of saying the extremely sensitive word, pregnant. As in, Truett was marrying a pregnant woman!

 

“Oh, sorry. Oops.” She bit her nails, obviously wishing she could retract her words.

For a second, I felt like saying something in regards to the pregnant women drinking beer, but I just didn’t have the energy. Not only did I feel like I had been hit by a train, with my entire body aching, I felt like one must feel after competing in a triathlon-unable to move.

 

My mouth was parched. I opened my mouth to speak the first words of the morning, but she beat me to it.

 

“Your mom is bringing you a tray. We heard you get up.”

 

I slowly turned, leaning against the counter. Am I really awake? Did this really happen?

 

“It was like an elephant was stomping across the room.” As soon as she said the words, like a woman in a crazed daze, I walked back to my bed and fell facedown on the bed like a ton of bricks, sinking into the duvet.

 

Then, I spoke my first words of the day, or rather, screamed them in pure agony.

 

“He’s getting married today!” My muffled, scratchy, desperate declaration was the most pitiful thing imaginable. And then my elephant tears poured.

 

“Aw, Nor, I’m so sorry.” She came over and sat down to pat my back. Just then, my mom and dad walked in with a tray holding breakfast, coffee, and orange juice.

 

The embarrassment! Forget the day when your training bra was found, or your first box of tampons. I was crying like a second grader with a tantrum, and I was a grown woman. I did not feel like being on display!

 

My mom sat opposite me and ran her fingers through my hair as I continued sob. Dad set the tray on my nightstand and cleared his throat nervously. He didn’t do well with tears and hated to see any of his girls cry. He muttered under his breath about what a jerk that Truett Mason is.

 

“He is a jerk,” I muttered, as I rolled over and sat up. “He’s a jerk!”

 

“Yes,” Mom agreed. “He’s a horrible person, Norah. But we love you very much, and that man doesn’t deserve your beautiful heart.”

 

I looked around at the pitiful scene, Mom on one side, bestie on the other, Dad in the doorway, and for the first time, I noticed what I was wearing and how I looked-tank top and undies. Oh, no. I jumped out of bed and grabbed the robe draped over the chair next to my bed.

 

“We just wish you would have told us you were going, honey,” Mom said, unfazed by my lack of clothes.

 

I tied my robe and sat in the chair. Too dazed to even form a thought, I laid my head back and closed my eyes.

 

The next few months looked like this:

 

Wake up at, well, one or two.

 

Shuffle in my slippers to the coffee pot and grab a pop tart if my stomach could handle it. If not, I simply ate toast and drank Sprite. I was a ball of nerves.

 

Shuffle my way to couch. Cry. Moan. Watch TV.

 

Mom or Dad, or my sister Maycee try and make conversation with me. Say something about how pretty the day is, and maybe we should go out. Or how fabulous this new shampoo is, and maybe I should give it a try. Yeah, not washing your hair for seven days straight might attract some of those comments.

 

All the while, I looked like Adam Sandler in the movie, Click. I was there, but not really there. But, instead of time flying by in an instant, like it did for Adam, time dragged for me.

 

Chloe had to fly back home, naturally. My ten pieces for my line were due in eight more weeks, and I had nothing to show for it. I was beginning to see the need for great robes, however.

 

Then, my parents stepped in.

 

It all happened like this.

 

I was perfectly miserably-happy watching a Basketball Wives rerun. I think I had seen that particular episode um, maybe three times, after, of course, seeing every episode, every season, as well as every other reality show available on Bravo. As I lay there curled up in my fleece blanket, Dad took a seat in the chair next the couch.

 

“Sweetie, it’s time for a change.”

 

Like a sad dog who never got to go on walks anymore, I glanced his way, again with the Click daze. “Sweetie pie, starting next week, you’re starting therapy.”

 

“Therapy?” I gawked at him.

 

“Yes, I’m tired of seeing my bright, aspiring fashion designer so defeated. We Johnsons don’t let life get us down. Why, when I was in my fourth year residency program competing for that one spot with Dr. Chinagens, I-”

 

I blocked out everything he was saying and averted my eyes to the women lunching and drinking Champagne after a day’s worth of shopping. That was supposed to be my life. And I was supposed to be in the new reality show, Baseball Wives. No, that wasn’t technically a show yet, but I just knew it was the next sport franchise reality show. It had to be! At least, before Hockey Wives, or Soccer Wives. Baseball had to be next. And I was supposed to be the fabulous one with the design line, and chic boutique and…

 

“And that’s why Maycee had the great idea of you two living in the summer home together because, not only is it near Dr. Hood, but…” and his voice became softer and softer in my brain. I was getting good at shutting out the world. But there was only one thing I couldn’t shut out-how I felt.

 

Oh, wow. The women lunching were getting into a fight, and one was pouring an ice bucket over the other woman’s head. I wished I could pour an ice bucket over that scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, tramp of a woman, Alicia.

#
One week later.

 

“Why are you here, Norah? Tell me about yourself,” were his first words to me.

 

There I was. Vulnerable. A mess. Broken!

 

“Tell you why I’m here?…” I said slowly.

 

Let’s see…where do I even begin? Great question. Yes, I knew that was the standard question a therapist asked a new client. Before I could even answer, my memory reverted to that chilly February evening. I closed my eyes and swallowed. Even though it had been three months ago, I felt like it had just happened last night.

 

“Have you ever woken up and found it was all a dream?”

 

He nodded slowly. Yet, in that nod, I just knew he was analyzing everything.

 

“I just woke up from my worst nightmare, except it wasn’t really a dream. And I feel like I’ll never wake up again, per se.”

 

He nodded again, with great understanding.

 

I looked into his warm eyes. He made me feel okay. I could tell him, and he could help me. I desperately needed help. I just wanted it to all go away.

 

“I was on the verge of getting engaged to…”

 

Deep breath.

 

“You’ve heard of him. Truett Mason. Pitcher for the-”

 

“New York Yankees,” he finished.

 

“Yeah.” I exhaled slowly.

 

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat and repositioned himself in his big leather chair. “Kind of a big fan here. Go ahead.”

 

Ugh! Was there anyone in the entire world who was not enamored with the illustrious Yankees or, furthermore, their star pitcher? Didn’t anyone know about his former girlfriend who practically held his entire world together for him? I knew I could keep going with my rabbit trail thoughts, so I stopped and focused.

 

“Listen, I’m serious. I just want to be able to trust you not to go to the media. To not-”

 

“Norah. Patient-doctor agreement. There is no fear of that. You can trust me.” He smiled. “Or you can sue me and make lots of money.” He leaned forward and folded his hands.

 

Not funny. I didn’t know what to say.

 

“Kidding.”

 

Right.

 

“I just…” I took another deep breath. “Want to be me again. I’ve experienced recently, let’s see… betrayal, cheating, pain, sadness, disconnect, loneliness, disappointment, not being myself, feeling stuck in a rut.” I said all of this in one giant breath, as fast as Speedy Gonzales. “Really, I’m a normal, happy, successful woman.” I smiled my charming, plastered smile.

 

Again, that nod. What was it with therapists and nods? I hated silence so I continued, “I’ve been to Milan for an extensive, elite, completely exclusive fashion internship. I’m about to launch my own line because of that internship, well, after I show my financial backer the remaining ten pieces, which are not created as of now, and here I am facing this…” I searched for words to explain it.

 

“Massive roadblock.” I just want my broken heart to heal! I screamed inside. Just fix me already!

 

Gosh! This was going to be hard to explain! “I wish there was a cord you could plug into my mind and preview it all like a sitcom off of iTunes, and call it a comedy, preferably. I’m at the point where I’m ready for some comedic relief. And then be able to say, ‘And that’s why I’m here!'” I laughed nervously. Is this guy going to talk? Give me advice?

 

But, maybe on another planet where species are more advanced, he would have just read my mind, understood everything, and had the perfect solution for me, and so that therapy would be a one-time visit.

 

“Here’s what you do. Here’s how you can be yourself again. Here’s how to push the delete button from your mind and erase your awful memories.”

But who was I kidding? It’s planet Earth. We’re human. It’s 2011. Time to face reality…

 

And then, finally he spoke.

 

“You know, it’s okay. Just keep talking. You don’t have to tell me everything at once,” he explained.

 

For the next two hours, I tried my absolute best to relay to him everything. Afterward, he gave me gentle instructions to journal every day, take walks, and relax.

I replied, “But I can’t relax, I have this line I’m supposed to produce. My entire career hangs on it.”

 

“I understand,” he said kindly.

 

Uh, he understands what a line involves? Designing, creating, sewing, cutting, stitching, working. Functioning!

 

“The important thing is for you to take the pressure off. From what it sounds like to me, you’ve worked hard all four years in college, worked even harder in this internship, and endured a life-changing crisis. Your heart is broken; now you need to heal. Part of healing is simply resting. Think of this as healing after an open-heart surgery. What does one do? One doesn’t overly exert themselves. So my order for you for the next couple of weeks is journal, walk, relax, do something new, watch your favorite movies, and just relax.”

 

Um, one also doesn’t deserve this awful pain.

 

Just relax? Does he know my personality? Does he know about my career?

As if he could read my thoughts, he added, “Often, our best ideas come to us out of a rested soul.”

 

A rested soul. Not heart, but soul. So I was supposed to heal my heart and let my soul rest? Isn’t my heart my soul? I furrowed my brows in confusion. I’m not a dense person, but couldn’t one just heal without getting all philosophical and multi-dimensional?

 

“We are beings composed of mind, body, and spirit. Each component works in unison to create optimum harmony in one’s health. We need balance in all three,” he continued, as the perfect therapist would say. I wondered how many times he had told his patients that. Considering his gray hair, his robust belly, his classic sweaters, and the pictures of children and what seemed to be grandchildren on his shelves, I guessed he had said it thousands of times.

 

“Yeah, about that. Is there like some sort of special happy pill I can take?” I smiled with all the charm I could muster.

 

He laughed genuinely, then swiveled around in his chair and pointed to the vast collection of diplomas and awards hanging on his wall. “As you can see, I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. Besides that, I tend to lean on more of the holistic side of healing and treatments.”

 

He turned back around. “Trust me. You’re in good hands. You’re in a good place. You being here. You being at the summer home with your sister. You have great support. You’re going to do just fine. More than fine. You’ll see.”

Chapter Two
I had been living in the summer home for two weeks, and it wasn’t too bad. It was actually a progression, as I went from the sliding around in my slippers to flopping around in Tory Burch flip-flops.

 

I had my thrice-weekly sessions with Doctor Hood, and was reminded again to journal constantly and to take walks. But still, no matter how beautiful it looked outside, I found myself feeling lackadaisical about walking and exercising as Dr. Hood had suggested. I just felt like doing nothing, extremely not like me!

 

In college, I had been extremely athletic and always on the go. Of course, I had been extremely a lot of things pre-heart wound, pre-open heart surgery.

 

And I was reminded again to try something new, which was something I hadn’t done yet, but was planning on doing. And lastly, I was told to, oh, to love myself.

 

To love myself.

 

“Of course, I love myself,” I told Doctor Hood in one of my sessions when he had asked if I loved myself. But as I said those words, I knew I was struggling with the thought, “Why did the man I loved, my soul mate, cheat on me with such a skank?” Yes, I guess such thoughts can wreak a little havoc on one’s self esteem, more than one realizes. Yes, I guess Dr. Hood had his PhD for a reason. He could psychoanalyze, but not give me medicine. Oh, well. I did love myself, but I could love myself a lot more, considering the circumstances.

 

Anyway, I had to journal. And journaling, really journaling, required being alone with my thoughts.

 

The last thing I needed was to be alone. Yet I had to be alone to write and “think about my feelings.” Now, this absolutely did not make sense to me. Why think about feelings more than I already had to feel them? But, I desperately wanted to heal and move on, so I was doing everything Dr. Hood had told me to do. Maycee and I had already watched like fifteen movies. I was actually getting my color back from laying out in the sun. But there was an aching feeling in the pit of my stomach about the last pieces of my fashion line that were due in seven short weeks. Our giant sitting room, surrounded on three sides with floor-to-ceiling glass, had been hijacked by every fashion magazine imaginable, as well as my sketches, fabric pieces, the sewing machine, my empty coffee mugs-that is, the coffee mugs Maycee overlooked when she tried to clean. She was such a neat freak, and it drove her crazy that the room was so messy. But she never said anything to me. She already felt too sorry for me-a card I might use a few more times with her.

 

The only problem with such a messy room was trying to keep it off limits to the adorable puppy my insightful parents, who seemed to be always ten steps ahead, had bought for me in an effort to raise my spirits. Did I mention the puppy was a little high-maintenance? Yeah, just a tad. She was beautiful, though, a Teacup Pomeranian, who chewed everything. All of my heels were on lockdown. I put up a giant makeshift safety gate to keep Coco out of the most important room in the house, my creating room. That was after she almost destroyed a dress I was working on. But, the little tear she chewed in it actually worked out for the better, giving the dress a more eclectic character. I decided maybe she liked fashion. So, I spent an entire day-yes, instead of journaling, or walking, or working on my creation, or trying something new-sewing her the most perfect little doggie outfit. No one would look as fabulous as Coco. She wore doggie couture. I guess you could say that was something new. Doggie Couture. Maybe that counts.

 

After I made her first outfit, I decided to make a few more, as well as a luxury dog bed, one covered in silk. It was just so much fun. It was effortless. The hours flew by as I listened to music, harmonizing with the hum of my sewing machine. I had an energy to create, but to create for my dog, not my nine remaining pieces.

 

That wasn’t like me. I normally had things done ahead of time, way ahead of time. I had practically half a year to prepare my line, ever since I had come home from Milan. But considering the circumstances, I was slightly sidetracked. I had a plan, though. I would create two fabulous pieces each week for five weeks, then have the remaining week to modify.

 

It would all work out.

 

Since Maycee was off for the summer from teaching, her days were pretty methodical. Get up, breakfast, lay out in the sun, read, come in, eat, go out and tan, read, run, write on her iPad, check on me, eat, then we would watch a movie while I interjected with sobs, comments about the jerk in the movie, or the horrible cheater. Then I would rant about how all women should just join a union or something against cheaters. I was seriously super close to calling Elin Woods or starting a YouTube Channel-Women Unite against Male Athlete Cheaters. All the while, my wonderful sister never told me to stop feeling or stop saying anything. She would just smile and pat my feet, as we kept watching whatever it was we were watching.

 

Yes, I know. I had a great support system. I was truly thankful.

 

Sister, cute dog, summer home… oh, and my parents came by a few times a week with tons of food, still concerned about the weight I had lost when I literally couldn’t stomach anything besides toast, saltine crackers, and Sprite. But, hey! I was gaining it back.

 

Things got a lot better one morning.

 

There I was, up early, trying to journal since I had kept putting it off with puppy duty, sewing, sketching, and watching movies. It was the day before my next session with Doctor Hood, and I had nothing written in my journal to show him. I was tempted to Google “journal entries to show therapist” because I didn’t want to feel. Finally, I decided to get down to business and write. Live with Regis and Kelly was on the TV, with Nick Lachey as the guest host, since Regis was on vacation. Kelly was asking her energetic questions, the ever-so-perfectly-enunciated-word-questions, like, “So-is-this-your-first-marathon?”

 

“Yeah,” he replied. “It served as great inspiration for my latest album. I-”

 

I need inspiration for my line! I whined inside. My anxiety grew, and I started sketching a dress in my journal.

 

Maycee walked in and poured a bowl of cereal.

 

“Oh, he’s so hot!” she observed, as she leaned against the counter.

 

“Yeah, I miss Jessica and Nick!” I said sadly, as I worked on the sketch of a strapless dress.

 

“Yeah, but I love her with Eric Johnson. He seems like he’s always protecting her in the pictures, and they just seem like more of a match. They seem like companions. Maybe soul mates!” Maycee shrugged and dropped her spoon in her bowl. The clank was loud.

 

“You know, that’s exactly what I need!” Her face was bright, excited.

 

“You need an Eric Johnson?”

 

“No silly. Norah, that’s it. We’re running a marathon. You see-”

 

Uh, oh. I knew what this meant.

 

“No, no, no,” I replied, in uneasy protest that escalated to a stammering absolute,

 

“No! I’m supposed to walk, not run! Dr. Hood said-”

 

“Exactly! Aren’t you ready to take long strides and heal? Running will speed up the process!”

 

Huh?

 

I shook my head. Was she trying to use psychology on me? Because it was working. I was actually considering it.

 

“I’ve got to get my books out to my agent this summer. Running will shake up my brain! I haven’t done something like this in years, not since I went hiking in Costa Rica in college.” Her eyes went to the ceiling. “I miss adventure,” she said, like an old person missing the good old days. With finality, she added, “Let’s do it. You’re doing it.”

I don’t have a choice, I realized. When my sister said I was doing something, it always meant I was going to do it.

 

It was a trend set early in my life. I was four. She was seven. She wanted to play dress up, be in a play, do this, do that; I was always drawn in. I didn’t mind it. I actually liked her initiative. Life with my sister was like an adventure. That was why she was so proud of me when I went to Milan on my internship, because it was such an adventure.

 

I remember sharing my excitement with her when I found out I got in, a spot among the chosen twelve from thousands of other applicants across the world.

 

“Oh. My. Gosh. I’m so inspired to write a novel about this. I’m so coming for research,” she had said. New adventures always inspired her. That was one reason why I thought her being there for the summer with me was almost as beneficial for her as it was for me. She hadn’t pushed out a book in three years. She was a New York Times best-selling author. I knew deep down that what kept her mentally and creatively blocked was that blood-sucking boyfriend of hers, Josh. No, he wasn’t a vampire. He couldn’t hold a candle to Edward Cullen, but he did have the pale part down and could seriously benefit from a nice spray tan. He also wore the solemn, blank stare all the time. I guessed that was compliments of a doctor’s residency program, our father’s residency program. I always speculated that there was something fishy with that, like maybe he was using my sister, but I could never tell her that.

 

“Yes,” She interrupted my train of thought.

 

Oh, she agrees? He is a blood-sucking vampire? He is just using you for his residency spot with dad?

 

“Yes, we’re running. I’m looking it up right now!” She left to get her iPad. Her voice echoed down the hall. As I watched her leave, her blond ponytail bounced back and forth. I admired her silk pajama shorts with fuchsia flowers and realized three things: I love silk; my sister is perfect. Like she needs to run. And three, I seriously hoped it would rain so there would be no running!

 

Or would that last part even alter the plans? My sister would probably want to run in the rain. Even more adventure.

 

Just then, our doorbell rang, and I sighed. Saved by the bell.

 

“Are you expecting anyone?” I yelled, as I stomped to the door. “It better not be another shamefully awful reporter!” I had had quite a few paparazzi try and follow me, but Dad had given them a piece of his mind that they would never forget, a.k.a. including the threat of not only a restraining order, but of “his people” who “knew people” who “knew people” from Jersey who would pay them a nice visit. That got them pretty quiet, fast. After that, I finally felt free from the press. No more paparazzi.

 

But, no. It was not a feared reporter. When I opened the door, there stood Chloe, the best girl in the entire world, besides my sister, of course.

 

Chloe and I were like Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen. We were totally twins in our sorority house at UT Austin. We were the best of friends. No, we didn’t look like twins but I swear, we knew each other’s thoughts.

 

She was dressed in yellow rain boots, cut-off denim shorts, a plaid shirt rolled up over her arms and belly, showcasing her perfectly tanned skin. Her auburn hair with its perfectly placed highlights tumbled down her shoulders.

 

I squealed with delight. “Chloe!” I hugged her. “You’re here! What the heck? And you’re in rain boots! Look at this outfit.” I laughed.

 

“Listen, it seriously is raining a few miles out. Heading this way, it looks like. And I was cold. And well, it’s summer, and I know it’s East Coast here, but hey, a girl just has to wear shorts when she’s worked so hard on this tan and these legs!”

 

“Oh, thank God,” I muttered.

 

“What?”

 

“You said rain is heading this way. Thank God! Maycee wants me to train for a marathon with her. Come in, silly!” I motioned for her to come in.

 

She walked through the marble entryway and checked herself out in the antique mirror that covered an entire wall. “I just love antique, floor-to-ceiling mirrors.” She adjusted her flannel shirt. “Oh, marathon, huh? Guess that means I’ll be training, too,” she said in little girl fearful apprehension as she followed me to the kitchen. “Would you look at this place? Look at the view.”

 

Windows from floor to ceiling in the kitchen, living room, and sitting area were framed with cedar wooden beams, giving the home a French country vibe. The summer home really was a sight to new guests and even old guests, like me. I loved it and appreciated the view daily.

 

“Very inspirational here. I can see why you and Maycee just love being here.”

 

I led her to the kitchen bar, and she sat down and placed her bag next to her.

 

Coco ran in with the excitement of a new guest.

 

“Look how cute this little pup is!” She bent down to pick her up as Coco profusely licked her face. “And look at her precious collar! In calligraphy! And her adorable outfit! You have such style, Norah. Did you make this?”

 

“Of course.” I smiled proudly.

 

She touched the fabric, admiring the feel. “Is this satin?”

 

“Yep.” Her expression said it all. “I know, a bit overboard, but I wanted her to enjoy the soft feel. She’s my baby, after all. Girl, when I have a real child, you know she’s going to be dressed like a princess! Coco is the closest thing I have right now.”

 

“Wow. Well, this is impressive! Coco’s wearing Coco couture,” she said in a baby voice, and kissed Coco on the head. Coco wagged her tail harder.

 

“Thanks.” I smiled like a proud mother. Coco Couture. I liked it. I really felt maternal toward the little puppy, as if my life had suddenly taken on new meaning. I hadn’t taken care of an animal in years, but my heart would instantly warm just at the look of her. She needed me, depended on me, and I was determined to take the best of care of her. She was going to be the best-dressed dog in the world with my fashion designs. Funny, how when you started taking care of something, it did something inside of you.

 


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A Free Excerpt From Erik Hanberg’s The Saints Go Dying, Our Thriller of the Week Sponsor!

The Saints Go Dying, by Erik Hanberg:

by Erik Hanberg
4.5 stars – 12 Reviews

 

Here’s the set-up:

Arthur Beautyman, a computer hacker turned detective, is hunting a serial killer targeting modern day saints. Against him is an unscrupulous reality TV show and a member of his own department, who doesn’t know the hacker she’s tailing is in the office next door. It’s a deadly cat-and-mouse game set against the lights of Hollywood.

The author hopes you will enjoy this generous, free excerpt:


Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Only on TV do people get to look good at three in the morning, Arthur Beautyman thought. He dragged himself out of his car and into the Santa Monica police station, feeling like his soul was on strike, his body left to fend for itself.

One look at the bags under the eyes of the desk sergeant inside the door and Beautyman wondered if anyone ever really got used to being up at this hour. He flashed the sergeant his detective’s badge. “I’m here to see the suspect you’re holding in the Babylon murders.”

The sergeant looked at the badge and the ID photo next to it, and back to Beautyman’s face. He lingered on Beautyman’s features for a moment and checked again. Have I really changed that much? Beautyman took the opportunity to look at his own photo. It was more than the weight loss. The light pockmarks scars from his teenage acne looked deeper now against his tightened cheeks. The photo also showed no sign of the gray strands that had invaded his dark brown hair.

His green eyes were the same; other than that Beautyman was starting to feel like he was walking in another man’s skin. He closed the leather over his badge and looked back up at the desk sergeant. “You were here when they brought the suspect in?” Beautyman asked.

The sergeant nodded, reaching for the phone.

“Why was he picked up?”

“A tipster called the Watchdog hotline. We followed up and apprehended the suspect in a parking lot off the Pacific Coast Highway. He matched the description, so we put him in an interrogation room and gave him a bottle of water, just as you asked.”

The sergeant dialed the phone and left Beautyman brooding. If he’d known this had been a tip from Watchdog, he might have stayed in bed. Beautyman hated the weekly show.

Watchdog had taken the basic premise of documentary justice shows like Unsolved Mysteries and American Justice but with a new twist. Its central premise was that cops were crooked, incompetent, and possibly as bad as the criminals themselves. The show existed to expose the police’s bumbling efforts to solve crimes, when they weren’t actively covering them up, and bring the weight of public opinion down on them. It masqueraded as a public watchdog-hence its title-seeking to reform all L.A.-area law enforcement through the “light of public scrutiny.”

Had the show’s recklessness stopped there, Beautyman might have been able to tolerate it. But they started advertising their tip line as “the number to call when you just can’t trust the police.” Since the show became a hit, Beautyman knew he was not the only detective in L.A. who had run into witnesses who remained tight-lipped during questioning and declared that they would only talk to Watchdog.

The sergeant hung up the phone and said, “They’re in the back.”

Beautyman nodded. He felt the early hour creeping back over him as he waited for the buzzer that signaled he could get into the back offices of the station. He had already given up hoping that the man in custody would be a possible suspect, let alone the killer himself. In the last month alone the Sheriff’s Department and the municipal police departments had collectively fielded hundreds of tips about the Babylon murders. They never led to the man he was looking for.

A detective and a uniformed officer were waiting for him when he came through the glass door. The young officer asked, “Any chance this might be the guy?”

Beautyman looked past the young man, staring off into space. On a good day and wearing boots, Beautyman was all of 5’6″. The officer next to him had at least eight inches on Beautyman, which gave him the option of either craning his neck to see him or-Beautyman’s preferred option in these situations-looking pensive and thoughtful. He put on his best grave and serious face. “Routine police work is always bound to turn something up eventually. Does he match the description?”

“He looks like the guy on TV,” the officer said, shrugging a bit.

“Well, that’s a good start then,” Beautyman said, meeting his eye solidly this time. Calls to Watchdog had increased substantially once the show started staging reenactments of the Babylon murders. In Beautyman’s opinion, it just got them more suspects who looked like the actor on the show, not the killer. But he held his tongue in front of the young officer.

“Can I get a bottle of water for myself before I go in?” The officer ran to get one and Beautyman turned to Sam Reynolds, a Santa Monica detective Beautyman had met a few times before. “Is there a file?”

There was. Beautyman glanced through it. It contained the transcript of the call to Watchdog and the report of the officer who apprehended the suspect in the parking lot. “Is this guy even likely to be our Babylon killer, Sam?” Beautyman asked, not looking up from the file.

“About as likely as my chances were of getting laid by Farrah Fawcett in high school.”

“Swell.”

“I think you’ll have to chalk this up as another bad reason to get out of bed at 3 am.”

“I didn’t need another.” Beautyman put the file down on the desk. “By the way, your man at the desk … has he had his training yet?”

Reynolds shook his head. “The Chief didn’t want to spend the money for something as stupid as media training, but I’ll bet tonight’s going to change his mind.”

Most of the L.A. area police and sheriff departments were mandating media training classes. In a surprisingly insightful move, the lowest ranking officers were enrolled first as they were the most likely candidates for Watchdog to target for gotcha-style interviews.

The young officer returned with a plastic bottle of water that felt like it had been stored on top of a radiator.

“Was that your arrest report, Officer?” Beautyman asked, unscrewing the bottle despite its warmth.

“Yes, sir.”

“And he didn’t try to run at all? No sign of attempting to flee.”

“No sir. He was about the easiest collar I’ve ever had. Just said you’d get a laugh out of it when you got here.”

Beautyman looked up from the report sharply. “He knew me? Did he say my name?”

“He called you Beautyman, except he pronounced it Beauty Man, like you were a superhero or something.”

Beautyman put the water back on the desk. “That should have been in the fucking report, Officer. Fuck! Sam, open that door for me.”

Reynolds went across the room with Beautyman on his heels and typed in a code on a keypad next to the Interrogation Room door. Beautyman threw the door open and saw the suspect kicked back in his chair, legs up on the desk, arms behind his head, grinning like a devil at Beautyman.

“Evening, Arthur. Or is it morning already?”

Beautyman turned and whistled to the young officer behind him. “You! Officer! You see this man?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man said. He dwarfed Beautyman, but you wouldn’t know it now; Beautyman’s wrath had him cowering.

“If you’re going to watch a shit program like Watchdog, then make sure that you watch it more closely,” Beautyman spat. “This guy looks like the guy in the reenactments because he is the guy. You arrested the fucking actor.”

 

Chapter 2

On his way out of the station, Beautyman extended his hand to the young officer he had cursed at earlier. “I had no right to swear at you earlier this evening. I apologize for my language and my tone. You certainly didn’t deserve it.”

The officer nodded and mumbled dumbly. He was obviously embarrassed by such frank talk combined with physical contact-even a handshake can feel bizarrely intimate if timed well. Which, of course, was part of the reason Beautyman had extended his hand and patted his elbow. It was true that he felt bad for reprimanding the officer in front of the suspect he had just arrested, but that wasn’t why he said what he did. Experience had taught Beautyman that a little embarrassment caused by an honest apology would be helpful to him if he never needed anything from the young man.

It certainly wouldn’t work for most people in law enforcement, whose personalities seemed fundamentally different from Beautyman’s, but his demeanor was in many ways successful precisely because it was so different from his colleagues’.

“Are you going to buy me breakfast for my troubles, Arthur?” Gregory Raphael asked as he got into the passenger seat of Beautyman’s car. Raphael, even after an arrest and a couple hours waiting at the police station, still managed to look like a movie star. As far as Beautyman knew, Raphael was still a long way from the red carpet appearances, but he was incredibly handsome, a radiant golden boy, which meant he was probably going to be parading on the red carpet eventually.

“I’m just ferrying you back to your car, Mr. Raphael. I don’t want it getting round to Watchdog that we arrested one of their employees.”

“Was I actually arrested? That’s kind of exciting.”

“Sorry. Temporarily detained.” Beautyman pulled his car around and faced the street. “Which way to your car?”

“Venice, parked in front of my house. I was walking home along the beach when they nabbed me in that parking lot.”

Beautyman turned right and started heading south along the dark coast. “If I may be so bold, why didn’t you just tell the officer who you were?”

“It’s silly, but I wanted the experience … for my work. To see what it would feel like to be tossed in the slammer. I thought there might be some material there.”

“And was there?”

“Not really. It wasn’t all that scary because I knew I’d be seeing your face soon and that it would get cleared up.”

Beautyman didn’t say anything. He was wondering how much more sleep he would have gotten if he hadn’t been called out because an actor wanted the cheap thrill of a prison visit. Probably not much, unfortunately.

“Besides, the cop wasn’t going to listen to me. This whole city is wound tight because of the murders. You know that when that kid got word of the tip, he saw the same headlines all of you do. Hero Cop Saves City. Or Hero Cop Guns Down Babylon Killer. He had an itchy trigger finger in the parking lot. He was scared and there was no reason for me to test him.”

That assessment of the state of affairs, Beautyman thought, was pretty accurate. The city was on edge and the cops wanted to be heroes, if only to shove it in the faces of Watchdog.

They drove in silence until Beautyman reached Venice when Raphael started giving directions. They pulled up in front of his home just as the sky was discovering dawn. “Here you go, Mr. Raphael.” His passenger got out of the car. Behind him, Beautyman saw a slim woman emerge from the front door of the small two-story house. She was crossing her arms and looking like she’d had as little sleep as Beautyman. He couldn’t help noticing her figure and her light blonde hair. The Golden Boy had a Golden Wife. Figured. Los Angeles was a terrible place to be average.

Raphael shrugged his shoulders at his wife, as if he were going to explain everything to her soon, before bending down and looked through the open car door. The Pacific was warming to dawn and the morning light was just starting to shine on Raphael. It looked like he was backlit, Beautyman thought. Like wherever he went he was always in his own damn movie.

“You have permission to call me Greg, you know,” Raphael said, flashing his perfect teeth at Beautyman.

“Unless you join the force, you’ll always be Mr. Raphael to me. Just how I think of people, I guess,” Beautyman answered.

“I understand that. But I figured since we were colleagues now you might be willing to relax a bit.”

“Colleagues?” Beautyman echoed, even though he knew what Raphael meant. He was just pissed the actor knew already.

“Well we’re all going after the same guy, right? And now we’re on the same team. Sandy told me you were coming on board tomorrow to start filming.”

Sandy Ewson, the scumbag producer of Watchdog. Beautyman wasn’t sure his avowed humility should extend as far as a man like Sandy Ewson. Beautyman was pretty sure he was a better man than Sandy Ewson would ever be.

“I guess it’s an interview tomorrow morning. And then at some point they’ll call me in for a day of shooting the reenactments.”

“I’m looking forward to working with you. We’ll make a great onscreen duo! I’m Anthony Hopkins and you’re Jodie Foster!” Raphael laughed.

Beautyman didn’t know what to say to that. He put the car into drive and indicated the woman at the door. “Please pass my apologies along to your wife.”

“I will. And study up as best as you can before your interview, Detective Beautyman. They’re going to try to nail your ass to the back wall for the Babylon investigation. Good luck.”

 

Chapter 3

Beautyman took Raphael’s advice to heart. He left Venice and went straight to the station. By the time Watt stopped by his office, he’d been hunched over the files for two hours.

“Anything last night?” Watt asked, leaning his long body through the doorway while leaving his feet firmly on the other side of it. Not willing to commit if the news was bad, Beautyman guessed.

“They arrested the actor. The guy who plays the Babylon killer on Watchdog.”

“Christ, that’s an embarrassment.”

“Bad luck,” Beautyman said. “You know how it will play. Like a late night comedy sketch. Hollywood cops can’t catch killers, but we can find the actors who play them … It’ll makes a good joke for Leno.” Beautyman tapped his pen on the edge of the desk and tried to gauge Watt’s response. The young cop had served Beautyman for three years and in that time, Beautyman had only seen him lose his cool once.

Watt just nodded. “What’s next then?”

Beautyman wondered if he heard a note of despair in Watt’s voice. The two of them were permanently on edge; a new victim could be found any day, and with no new leads they were left in the uncomfortable position of just waiting for the next death.

“I’ll need your help for this damned interview tomorrow.”

Watt nodded again. “And for the case?”

“I’m not sure.” Beautyman checked his watch. “Want to join me for the daily briefing?”

Beautyman met daily with a representative from the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. They were called “profilers” in the movies. On film, they would look at a crime scene and tell you, “He’s in love with his mother,” or “He wishes he could be a woman” or some other character profile based on some telling detail at the crime scene. On film, these were the guys who would swoop in and claim jurisdiction and take over an investigation from local law enforcement.

But in Beautyman’s experience all they did was sit across a table and pass reports to him. They passed him reams of spiral-bound paper that he stacked in his office. He tried to read as many as he could, but with only so much time in the day, Beautyman usually only got through the first few pages. Reports with titles like Probability of Physical Defect and Known Relations of Victim 5 and Comprehensive List of Internet Based Printing Companies could only be so engaging.

Beautyman often wished the FBI would swoop in and take the case off his hands. Like today, he thought, heading down the hall to the meeting. Unfortunately the Bureau wanted nothing to do with the Babylon case and were much more interested in covering their collective asses by generating reams and reams of reports. Any report Beautyman asked for, he got. But they were in a “supporting role,” and had been since they first showed up to help.

 

“Good morning, Agent Chow,” he said, shaking the hand of his FBI contact. Beautyman sat down at the round conference table and waited for time to stand still, as it inevitably did whenever he started a conversation with Chow. The man was so cautious about committing to anything that he pieced his sentences together as slowly as if he were hunting and pecking for them on a keyboard.

“The Bureau has some … more information for you today. Most pressing … is the … ”

“Excuse me for interrupting, Agent Chow,” started Beautyman. “I mean no offense by it. But I have some pressing concerns I need to address. After last week’s Watchdog exposé, the Sheriff has decided that since we can’t beat them, we should join them. They’ll be interviewing me for the show tomorrow and later we’ll be shooting those awful reenactments. Sandy Ewson over there wants me to play myself. He says it will add ‘verisimilitude,’ but I think he just wants to screw with me. Sheriff wants me to agree to pretty much anything at this point.

“So I’m supposed to start playing ball with them and hope that gets them off our backs a bit. But I have it from a reliable source that I’m going to be ambushed. Not that I needed a tip, I suppose, to figure that out. I would have to be pretty stupid to go in there and not expect to be blindsided. What I’m mostly worried about is what they’re going to nail me on, and I’ve got a hunch they know something they haven’t told us yet. Something they won’t spring on me until the interview.”

“And you want to know … if we can … get it out of them,” finished Chow.

“If possible, yes. But I’ve got-” he checked his watch, “23 hours until I’m on set, and I want to know what they’re sitting on. Did they get a tip? Did a witness come forward? Did we, God forbid, miss something that one of their detectives stumbled across?”

“We’ll see what we can … pull out of them,” Chow said finally. “I can’t promise much … but a records request from the Bureau might … get us an idea of what they’re holding back.”

“Thank you. Preparing for this interview is my top priority. Watt will assist me in a thorough review of every pertinent fact in this case. I don’t want to stumble over a single thing. Please let me know if you learn anything. Regarding your reports, let’s tackle those as soon as I get this behind me.”

 

Beautyman left the meeting, momentarily elated that he’d cut a traditionally tedious meeting down to just a few minutes. The path back to his office took him by the white-collar crime unit, and Beautyman heard his name shouted as he passed a doorway.

He stopped. Jackie Fleet was smiling at him from behind a stack of papers. He’d noticed her before. How could he not-she was 38, only two years younger than he was, and she was still single. That was enough to get his attention, but she was also pretty cute-as cute as a cop was allowed to be-and she was full of energy. Her blonde hair was almost always tied back in a short ponytail that bobbed when she spoke with excitement, which was often. She might come off as a Valley Girl, but she had shown a brilliance in her investigations that had put some downtown bigwigs behind bars.

“Sorry to bug you, Arthur, I know it’s one of those days for you.” The end of her ponytail bobbed into view and then behind her head again.

“It’s always one of those days. What’s up?”

“I hear you’re a baseball fan, is that right?”

“The biggest.”

She laughed. “I didn’t know there was a competition.”

“You want to talk about the Dodgers?”

“Um … the Pirates, actually.” She checked a piece of paper.

“Really? How come?” Beautyman sat down.

“Does the nickname ‘The Flying Dutchman’ mean anything to you?”

Beautyman felt his neck muscles tense. His morning stretches would be in vain. “Well, there’s the ship obviously. But since you want to talk about the Pirates, I’m guessing you want to talk about Honus Wagner.”

“I’ve been on the track of this hacker who goes by Dutchman. It seemed like such a weird handle, I started researching it. I thought it was a reference to the ghost ship, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s this Wagner guy. What’s up with him? What’s the big deal about some player from a hundred years ago?”

“We still remember Chopin and Monet as great artists long after they died. Wagner’s like that. A great artist, and baseball was his canvas. Maybe one of the best all-around players to ever step onto the diamond, and certainly one of the best shortstops.” Beautyman stopped himself before he went too far.

“Huh. Still seems weird to idolize someone like that.”

“Maybe it’s not that. I mean that’s why I am an admirer, but for some it might be his baseball card, the most expensive card in the world. Someone bought one recently for almost $3 million.”

“For a baseball card! That’s insane.”

“I’m just saying that the baseball card has a certain allure to it. Someone could be obsessed with the card but not care about the player. What kind of case are you looking into?”

Fleet sat back in her chair. “It’s the damnedest thing. A security breach at Maritime Bank of L.A. Something, and we think that something was this Dutchman hacker, triggered their servers to automatically reboot. I don’t know enough to say how he did it, but when he did it, he was the new server admin. He had access to everything. The whole bank was open wide to him. And do you know what he did? Didn’t touch a penny. He just went through the ATM cameras security footage.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Each machine has a camera on it, and it appears he was just scouring the logged footage from three cameras in Hollywood. Tried to patch up the damage but someone at Maritime noticed. Once they figured out what happened they asked us to look into it. I’ve spent the last month working with them to confirm there was no actual theft of dollars. Now we’re just trying to figure out what the point of the whole thing was.”

“How’d you find out it was this Dutchman if he tried to repair the damage?”

“I had help there. We don’t have a cyber crime division, but the tech guy at Maritime Bank figured it out. He-” Just then the phone rang, and Fleet cut herself off. “Excuse me for a moment, Arthur.”

Beautyman waited for her to get off the phone. By the time she was off, he had decided he couldn’t keep asking her about her investigation without looking too eager.

“So it sounds like you could use a baseball primer,” he said, smiling.

“You think it would help?”

“I’ve got season tickets to the Dodgers, and they’re playing tonight. Babylon’s been taking over my life. This might be just the excuse I need to get to the ballpark.”

Fleet cocked her head to the side and appraised him, as if for the first time. If she agreed, it wasn’t going to be because of his looks, Beautyman thought.

“What time does the game start?”

“7:05. My day’s going to be devoted to getting ready for this interview tomorrow, so if you’re up for just leaving from the station, that would be best for me.”

 

Beautyman tried to put Fleet and her search for the Dutchman out of his mind. This was a complication he didn’t need. The game was going to seriously eat into his valuable time, but Beautyman didn’t feel like he had a choice. Fleet probably thought he wanted to get into her pants, but really he just wanted to learn more about her investigation.

He sipped his coffee and stared at the map of L.A. in front of him. Red pins represented the locations the Babylon bodies had been found. Blue pins represented the victim’s homes. That meant 14 pins for just the victims. The map was starting to get so crowded with pins, Beautyman was ready to stop using it altogether.

Watt walked in and slumped into a chair.

“What’s Watchdog’s first question, Watt? Do they start with the first victim? The killer? Our arrest of their lead actor?”

“They start at the beginning. Victim number one.”

“Ok, Rachel Madison is as good a place as any to start. Let’s go through it again.”

 

Rachel Madison was found a full 14 months ago. She was discovered on a Malibu beach, spread like a snow angel into the wet sand. Found nude, it didn’t take much to realize her entire body had been shaved. Worse yet, her bone white skin and the small puncture wounds in her wrists led to wild headlines about a Malibu Vampire stalking the beaches.

The coroner reported her blood had indeed been drained, but it hadn’t been sucked. She had been knocked out and then the blood had been drained from her through a crude IV inserted into each wrist.

And that’s what had killed her. She’d bled to death. She’d been drugged and while she was under, her killer had bled her dry. She wouldn’t even have wakened up.

With no grisly murder for the press to write about, the Malibu Vampire story faded away. A few were able to keep the vampirism stories going by speculating about what the killer had done with all the blood he’d taken from her. But without tell-tale fang marks on her neck, there wasn’t much to that angle anymore.

The Los Angeles County Sheriff Department never found a lead or identified a suspect, either, which meant that the remaining stories were about the bumbling police and no longer focused on the 23-year-old victim.

A graduate of Scripps College and a social worker who counseled victims of domestic violence, it was hard to imagine why such a senseless crime happened to such a caring person. She left her small apartment each weekend so that she could go to church with her parents at their family parish. Her boyfriend, who by all accounts was just as morally upstanding as she was, told the Channel 7 nightly news that she was waiting to get married before having sex. Her virginity was-tastelessly, Beautyman thought-confirmed by the coroner. So why kill Rachel Madison? And why take her blood and her hair?

Two months after Rachel Madison was found on the beach, the Los Angeles police found Miguel de la Iglesia naked, shaved, and drained of blood in a small L.A. apartment. This time, the body was accompanied by a small card, left on the end table by the couch, his final resting place. In small black lettering, centered on the thick white card stock was written:

 

I am drunk with the blood of saints

and I drink the blood of these martyrs of Jesus

 

It was the size of a calling card. The pure white card stock and the dark black Helvetica typeface that carried this awful message chilled Beautyman to the core.

 

No one doubted that they were looking for a serial killer. But like so many serial killers, this one wasn’t respecting jurisdiction. Rachel Madison was found in Malibu, the L.A. County Sheriff’s turf; Miguel de la Iglesia in Los Angeles proper, covered by the LAPD.

Within hours of finding the body, the FBI was making calls across the region and let it be known that any sign of bureaucratic squabbling was going to be met with severe consequences. The many departments were going to work as one on this case, with the full weight of the FBI behind the new coalition.

But they needed a leader. And as the first victim fell under the jurisdiction of the L.A. County Sheriff, they were anointed as primary investigators. With every law enforcement agency between San Diego and Reno pledging fealty, the Sheriff knew that he would be sharing any successes but none of the failures. If there were any single reason Barry Upright had been elected Sheriff three terms running-besides his laughably electable name-it was because he had scrupulously avoided these kinds of situations.

With no good options, Upright assigned Beautyman to take charge of the manhunt and gave him a deadline. “If this piece-of-shit vampire bloodsucker isn’t caught in two weeks, I’m going to tie you to a stake at the next full moon so he can come out and take your blood.”

“I believe you’re thinking of werewolves, sir,” Beautyman said.

“I don’t care if he’s the creature from the Black Lagoon. You’ve got two weeks.”

But that was twelve months and five victims ago.

Sometimes Beautyman caught himself hoping the Babylon killer would strike out of state. It was the most likely scenario to get the FBI to take over the investigation and give him a chance to rest. But the killer had stayed strictly local. All seven victims had been found in the L.A. area. Until he started draining the blood of victims in Las Vegas or Phoenix-or until Upright needed to shake things up to keep voters pacified-Beautyman was going to be stuck with the case.

 

After the body of Miguel de la Iglesia was discovered, it was as if the entire L.A. press corps had found a crusade worthy of their vast resources. Once his name was released, the papers ran endless feature stories about de la Iglesia’s good works, and there were many. A married but infertile man, he and his wife had adopted three daughters from China. During the five years of adoption proceedings, de la Iglesia found he had a knack for Mandarin Chinese. He went to night school to learn it so he could teach it to his daughters and bring them up tri-lingual, English, Chinese, and his native Spanish. Learning Chinese made his law degree that much more lucrative, but rather than join the corporate ranks of a multinational-and many had been calling him-de la Iglesia left his private practice and joined up with Amnesty International’s legal department.

And now he was dead. He looked at the small calling card again, secured in its plastic evidence bag.

The first report he’d requested from the FBI was an analysis of the inscription and its likely meaning.

It should not have surprised him that the card referenced a verse from the Bible, specifically the Book of Revelation. Revelation 17:6 described a vision of the Whore of Babylon, an allegorical figure of supreme evil and the Antichrist. The verse reads, “And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus: and when I saw her, I wondered with great admiration.”

But did that mean anything? All crazy people seemed found a passage in the Bible to justify their twisted belief system, Beautyman figured. And turning to the Book of Revelation was an easy place to start.

The FBI apparently agreed with him. The symbolism of the Whore of Babylon had meant different things to different groups throughout the centuries. She represented pagan Rome, Christian Rome, Jerusalem, the Catholic Church, the Catholic Church after Vatican II, the secular world, American hegemony, capitalism … that list went on and on. And she could mean something entirely different to their killer.

What everyone seemed to agree on, though, was that the Whore of Babylon was evil. And this was where the FBI report turned ugly. The Behavioral Analysis Unit had encountered plenty of people over the years who cited the Bible to explain their crimes. But those people generally saw themselves as cleansing the world and trying to make it pure. This killer identified himself with the Whore of Babylon. He could apparently recognize the supreme evil of the allegory and embraced it fully. He wanted to be the Whore of Babylon. He was most likely drinking the blood of his victims, in a horrible mimicry of the Whore of Babylon.

And there you have it, thought Beautyman. The man was killing martyrs of Jesus and drinking their blood. But he hadn’t targeted people who were Christian, or even religious. Rachel Madison was part of a deeply religious family, but the wife of Miguel de la Iglesia reported that he hadn’t been to church on any days other than Christmas and Easter. The man was a saint killer, but apparently there was no religious litmus test. He measured his saints by good works, it seemed. And if by that qualification Madison and de la Iglesia weren’t modern day saints, then no one was.

 

Two months after Miguel de la Iglesia died, a third victim was found. The same card was found by her naked, shaved, bloodless body. This time the victim was found in an alley in Long Beach, farther from the first two than they had expected. Beautyman was sick to his stomach. Chandra Pal was a kindergarten teacher who was first violin in the Long Beach Symphony Orchestra. The daughter of two immigrants from India, Pal also gave thousands every year to non-profit micro-lending organizations that helped women in India and Africa start their own businesses.

It was after her that the name for the Babylon killer became popularized. Two victims made a line, and three was most definitely a trend. Jay Leno didn’t touch it, of course, but Bill Maher looked at his HBO audience and said, “So there’s a serial killer going around L.A. killing saints-incredible people it would be an honor to meet. He’s killed three so far … which I figure means he’s probably just about finished.”

 

Two months later, Chandra Pal begat Mary Weber, who had been a nurse in a free clinic for more than 30 years in Anaheim. Mary Weber begat Tim Cathersole, back from two stints in the Peace Corp and staying with his family in Pomona. Tim Cathersole begat Jasmine Davis, a beloved youth group leader who pulled kids off the streets of the worst neighborhoods of L.A. And Jasmine Davis begat Julia Lopez, a high school student who fed the homeless on weekends in Hollywood.

It was hard not to notice that victims were getting less-saint like. Certainly they all sounded like good people, but saints? Beautyman privately wondered if Maher was right; perhaps the killer had run out of people in that category. That didn’t stop the media from holding the victims up on a pedestal, though. They became saints. And that was the scariest part. If any act of kindness or selflessness made you a saint, and being a saint made you a target, how would people react?

While L.A. panicked, for Beautyman it was starting to become almost routine. Victims’ lives would be investigated and overturned. Their last week would be nailed down to the minute, if possible. The hundreds of people who might have been in contact with them were interviewed and sometimes brought in for further questioning.

And the FBI would tell Beautyman that the killer would be getting more confident and begin to kill more quickly. But so far it hadn’t happened. It wasn’t like they were timed to the day. Once there were seven weeks between victims. Once there were nine. But they were not getting more frequent, the killer continued to wait roughly two months between his crimes.

And Julia Lopez had been found in her car in Hollywood just seven weeks ago.

 

Beautyman tried to focus on what leads they had. He wished there were more. He remembered something about Edison, who after each failed attempt at a light bulb would chalk it up as a success: he now knew yet another way not to build a light bulb. Beautyman didn’t think he could keep such a positive outlook indefinitely, but he did feel like his investigation had been successful at ruling out the leads that took them nowhere.

So where did that leave them?

Practically speaking, the Babylon killer did not appear to have any bizarre fetishes that would make him easier to track. If he had had a penchant for killing his victims with Ming Dynasty vases, finding him would be much easier: just guard all known Ming Dynasty vases until he showed up. But he used no weapon, short of the needle and catheter to draw the blood.

Almost assuredly the victims did not just lie there and let him go about the business of slowly killing them, though. And as they didn’t have marks on their bodies-wait, was that why they were shaved? To prove they hadn’t been touched? Beautyman made a note to look into the idea after his Watchdog interview. The toxicology reports showed they’d been drugged with Propofol, a quick acting anesthetic delivered intravenously.

Not that even that was easy to figure out, Beautyman remembered. The same puncture mark used to deliver the drug was reused for draining the blood. That had thrown them for a few days.

The drug was not readily accessible to the public and Beautyman poured considerable time and resources into understanding and tracking its distribution and availability. It was used for adults and children over three, as well as being a preferred anesthetic for pets. But in a metropolitan region of 12 million people, not more than 100,000 people would have easy access to the drug. Doctors, nurses, and veterinarians in all of Southern California were asked to report any vials or pre-loaded syringes of Propofol gone missing.

The next major lead Beautyman had was the man seen with Chandra Pal just hours before her death. After each murder, dozens of uniformed officers spent days conducting extensive canvassing. Every lead they turned up was eventually explained, every “strange man” or “tall fella” was identified later by a friend or a relative-“That’s right, she told me she was going to meet her boyfriend after work!” Hundreds of hours went into each of these leads. And all were eventually explained. All except the man who visited Chandra Pal’s classroom.

Two witnesses saw him with her. As Beautyman’s luck would have it, one of those witnesses was a kindergarten student of “Ms. Pal,” and the other was his older sister-older, in this case, meaning third grade.

After the students had been dismissed on Ms. Pal’s final day of teaching, one boy discovered he had left his backpack at the school. His mother turned the car around and sent him back into the classroom to get it, accompanied by his older sister. They both saw a stranger with Chandra Pal.

 

Less than 48 hours after her body was found, Beautyman sat down with the youngest child first. He chose as his interrogation room Pal’s kindergarten classroom, the child’s mother and father sitting together to the side.

“I’m Arthur. What’s your name?”

“Gavin.”

“Gavin, your parents are right here, ok? They’re going to listen to what we talk about. And what’s important, is that you think of me like you think of them. If I ask you a question that you don’t know the answer to, the right thing to do is to tell me you don’t know and not to make something up. So if I ask you what 25 plus 48 minus 3 is, what are you going to tell me?”

Gavin eyed Beautyman like he was still trying to figure out what his angle was. “I don’t know?” It was definitely a question.

“That’s right. But if you do know the answer, you’ll tell me that too, right?”

Gavin nodded.

“Three days ago you left your backpack in the room and your mom turned around and let you out of the car, is that right so far?”

Gavin nodded again.

“But she made your older sister walk you in?”

Gavin’s face seemed to wrinkle a bit at the mention of his sister, or perhaps at the mention that he had to be escorted, but he still nodded.

“Tell me, which door did you come in from?” Beautyman indicated the exterior door and the door that opened in to the school’s hallways.

Gavin pointed toward the door into the hallway. It was a wooden door with a narrow window at the top above Gavin’s head. “That one.”

“Did you open the door when you came back in or was it already open?”

This was the first question that seemed to puzzle Gavin and he thought about it severely. Finally he pronounced, “Melissa opened it.”

“Your sister opened the door? You’re sure?”

He nodded. “She was in front of me.”

“So Melissa opened the door, and did you see Ms. Pal?”

“Yes.”

“Where was she in the room?”

Gavin pointed to her desk.

“And she was in her chair there? Or was she standing?”

“Sitting, but … but on the desk.”

Beautyman’s surprise must have shown through, because Gavin nodded his head vigorously. “Really! She was sitting on the desk.”

Beautyman smiled and nodded. “Good. You’re doing great, Gavin.” Privately he was assessing the likelihood of a kindergarten teacher sitting on a desk with a stranger. It didn’t seem high. “Now, was she alone in the room?”

“No, there was a man too!” Gavin seemed to be warming to the game as he was becoming more animated. Which meant he might be more inclined to stretch a truth, possibly even unknowingly, to keep the fun going. Beautyman paused and looked at Gavin’s parents, whose faces were showing him a curious mixture of sympathy and disgust.

“Was the man a professional football player?” He asked.

Gavin’s face crinkled as he tried to figure that one out. “No,” he finally said, a little confused.

“So he didn’t have on a football uniform?”

“No … ”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Gavin said, although he actually sounded less sure of that answer than any before it. Apparently the game wasn’t as fun for him when Beautyman wasn’t asking easy questions.

Beautyman took pity, but he had stopped a potentially dangerous precedent from forming. “Show me where the man was.”

Gavin got up from the small desk and indicated a counter running along under the windows. “He was leaning against here.”

“Against the counter?”

Gavin nodded.

“Did he see you?”

“He smiled at me and said hi to Melissa.”

“What did Ms. Pal seem like? Was she angry with the man? Or happy to see him? Or scared?”

Gavin shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“That’s a good answer. Did Ms. Pal touch him like a hug or a kiss?”

Gavin shook his head.

“Did you hear Ms. Pal laugh when you were in the classroom?”

Gavin thought about it. “Yes. When I told her I left my bag she laughed and said I did that every week.”

“Did she introduce you?”

“She said he might have a son coming to kindergarten and I would have to show him around.”

“Did she call him a name like Mr. Smith or Mr. Pal?”

Gavin shook his head again. Beautyman finished up with as good of an approximation as he could get of what the man looked like: white and with hair somewhere between blond and brown.

Gavin’s sister Melissa fleshed out the description a bit more when he met with her.

“He wasn’t that big, but he looked really strong, like he worked out a lot. He had a red tie on, and it looked like he had come right from work. He smiled at me and I thought he was really-,” she shot a glance at her parents and then looked back at Beautyman meekly, “really hot. He looked like a Ken doll or Brad Pitt or something. It seemed like Ms. Pal liked having him around.”

At the time, Beautyman felt like things were moving along. Unlike the disjointed efforts after the first two victims, he had led the investigation with an efficiency and comprehensiveness that had produced the first witnesses in the case. To find them, officers had interviewed more than 400 people-her family, friends, co-workers, parents, and students; residents and business owners in her neighborhood; and residents and business owners near the alley she was found in.

After the interview, Melissa helped create a sketch for the police of a man that, by the time it was completed, did look something like a cross between Brad Pitt and a Ken doll. That sketch was taken to every person they had interviewed in the deaths of Rachel Madison, Miguel de la Iglesia, and Chandra Pal. No one had seen any of the victims with a man who looked like that. After that, Beautyman released the sketch to the press and to Watchdog. At which point some of the most handsome men in Los Angeles suddenly found that life wasn’t so great when tipsters would call in their rakishly good looks. Beautyman heard that a lot of them were starting to grow beards. Would the killer too, he wondered?

Meanwhile, Beautyman had a team that was going over the life history of Rachel Madison with a fine tooth comb. By the time Chandra Pal was killed, four months had passed since the Malibu Vampire victim was found dead on the beach. As the first victim, the collective wisdom of the FBI, Beautyman, and the L.A. County Sheriff was that the killer must have had some personal tie to her. As a rule, serial killers didn’t start with complete strangers. There must be something to tie the Babylon killer to her.

All in all, Beautyman felt like the investigation had been as successful as it could be, given the circumstances, and he expected he would be able to turn up a strong suspect soon.

Granted, each new clue was akin to grasping at straws at this early stage. These were slim leads he was looking at, but Beautyman knew from experience that this kind of investigation was a game of progressively narrowing suspects. He thought of L.A. County like a giant Venn diagram, circles layered over circles. As each known fact was confirmed, the number of people in the population that could be the perpetrator dropped substantially. So 100,000 people in the area had access to Propofol. Of them, half were male. Of them, no more than 40,000 would have the physical strength required to move the limp, drugged body of an adult male like Miguel de la Iglesia. Of them, no more than 20,000 would even come close to being described as “incredibly handsome.” Of them, no more than 5,000 could be within two degrees of separation from Rachel Madison. Keep winnowing, and eventually you’d have just a handful of people that might fit the bill.

That was a slightly comforting thought after Chandra Pal’s body was found. But after her, the remaining four victims had nothing very conclusive to add to the list of leads.

Mary Weber’s death in Anaheim gave few hints that might be of help, although nearly every patient she had seen in the free clinic had been identified and located. Tim Cathersole, the Peace Corp volunteer who had spent most of his time in Guam and the South Pacific only to return home to be murdered, proved that the Babylon killer was willing to kill both men and women-previous FBI behavioral reports had suggested that Miguel de la Iglesia might have been an outlier and that the rest of the victims would be women.

By the time Jasmine Davis was killed, Beautyman wasn’t sure that they really were getting any new facts. The most he could say he had learned was that the killer was still using Propofol. Given the dosage needed to knock out a victim, Beautyman was starting to count on him needing to restock his supplies and hoped that a lead might come from a doctor or a vet reporting a missing supply. None did, which indicated that either the killer had stashed away a substantial supply of the drug before starting or that he still had easy access to it and was a doctor or vet himself.

Things were starting to reach a boiling point in the general public. Politically it was going to be hard for Beautyman to keep his job if he didn’t act soon. Before the Sheriff-or the press-started calling for his head, Beautyman publicly asked for an independent and out of state auditor to review the investigation from top to bottom and identify any major weaknesses or flaws. If there were any places where they had screwed up by accidentally destroying a piece of evidence or some other stupid mistake, Beautyman would step down from the investigation. Some newspaper opinion pages thought it was a gracious way for Beautyman to leave without getting fired. But three weeks later, the auditor’s report was clear. No bureaucratic bickering, no stones left unturned, no reports that were languishing on the sidelines. It didn’t come right out and say, “The killer’s just that good,” but that was the truth of it.

The auditor’s report probably helped Beautyman keep his job a little while longer. The public anger was pervasive when, two weeks after the audit went public, the body of teenager Julia Lopez was discovered on the grounds of her high school. Had it not been for being publicly cleared of any oafishness or incompetence just before, Beautyman likely would have been made a scapegoat. Dead teenage saints did not sit well.

Maybe he deserved to be sacked, he thought, when he saw the naked and shaved body of Julia Lopez. The audit request had been a tactic. He knew what kind of an investigation he had run, but he had played his hand the only way he knew how-as the humble flatfoot aching to make sure he was doing the right thing. It had played well in the press-everywhere but on Watchdog-mostly because it had flummoxed everyone. But it had bought him some time, and he intended to use it.

Beautyman was at Julia Lopez’s high school within 25 minutes of the call. She was just like the other six victims, except for bright red rashes between her wrist and shoulder. It was a minor side effect that was apparently not uncommon with large doses of Propofol. Had she been in a hospital it would have been easily treated, but it was now here to stay. Against the drained, bleached look the rest of her skin had, the inflamed capillaries of her arms looked grotesquely clownish.

Maybe it was the ugly rash that did it, or maybe it was just looking at the body of a young girl so eager to change the world that she would volunteer at soup kitchens, but Beautyman broke down. He left the scene crying, and was caught by a photographer from the L.A. Times wiping his eyes, the bright yellow police tape and name of the high school in the background. It ran on the front page the next morning and the accompanying article painted him as a soft-spoken but hard-nosed detective physically pained by the death.

He was unprepared for the sympathy he received from the press and public that week. Again, the public anger had mellowed enough that the Sheriff didn’t need to pull him to appease the masses, and Beautyman kept working.

 

And now, he thought, seven weeks after Julia Lopez, I’m no closer. Watchdog has something they’re going to try to nail me with tomorrow, and if it’s bad enough, someone else will be leading this investigation.

Was that so terrible? The case had taken more than 12 months of his life. Maybe it was time to let it go. If he truly had missed something major, something that could have saved Julia’s life, then maybe someone else should be in charge.

But that didn’t mean he was ready to stop working entirely. Being taken off the case was one thing. Blinding incompetence, however, would mean an early retirement. And making sure he wasn’t going to be caught with his pants down meant finding out what Watchdog was sitting on.

Beautyman checked his watch-6:20 already? Could that be right?-and called Chow’s cell phone as he began to pack up.

Chow detailed the many avenues he had followed up during the day to check into Watchdog and try to access their information. They were definitely stonewalling. “I’m sorry, Detective … they have something … I just don’t know what.”

“Thank you, Agent. We’ve done our homework, it can’t be anything too bad, right?”

Beautyman hung up and started moving quickly. He hated to do it from his office, but he didn’t have much choice. Using his cell phone as an Internet tether, Beautyman opened his personal laptop and composed a quickly worded email to Sandy Ewson. It was going to send him sky-high, he thought.

Hi Sandy,

Just wanted to send some suggested questions for tomorrow’s interview. I thought you’d find #4 to be especially informative to the public.

Thanks for cooperating with us on this!

Sincerely,

Arthur

He attached a Microsoft Word document with some questions, waited for it to load, and pressed send. Please don’t open this on your phone, Beautyman prayed. He shut down his machine and went to find Fleet.

He had too much to do to go to a baseball game, but he had resigned himself to sacrificing yet another night of sleep. The investigation was going to be taken well outside the realm of the law tonight. There was no way he would allow Watchdog to ambush him.

 

 


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Our Romance of the Week Sponsor, Mona Ingram’s Full Circle, Offers This Free Excerpt!

Mona Ingram’s Full Circle:

by Mona Ingram
4.3 stars – 7 Reviews

 

Here’s the set-up:

Bella Thompson has news: she’s pregnant. But before she can tell her boyfriend Jeffrey, he shatters her with the news that he’s going to marry someone else. The textile mill, owned by Jeffrey’s father, is the town’s main employer, but textile mills all over the country are losing market share, and Lambert Textiles is no exception. Bella is given a choice: Go to Atlanta and give up her child for adoption, or leave town and raise her child on her own. The choice is clear, and she travels to California, where she settles in Santa Monica. Determined to make her own way in the world and return to Willow Bend on her own terms, Bella puts all her energies into building a successful business with her partner Rafael Vargas. But at what cost? Follow Bella as she struggles to balance her passion for business with the ultimate prize…love.

The author hopes you will enjoy this free excerpt:


Prologue

The private jet had been descending for several minutes now. Bella shuffled the papers she’d been holding and put them away in her briefcase. Trying to study the reports had been a waste of time…a futile attempt to divert her thoughts. She looked across the low table and into the eyes of the man who had been her partner for the past fifteen years. Sometimes it angered her that he could read her so well whereas she rarely knew what he was thinking. Those dark eyes studied her now, and she thought she caught a hint of sadness behind the sweeping black lashes.

The cabin attendant paused between their chairs. “The captain has asked me to inform you that we’ll be landing in ten minutes.”

Bella glanced up at the young woman. “Would you ask the captain if he could circle Willow Bend before we land? I’d like to see it from the air.” The flight would land at a nearby airport, the Willow Bend facility having closed long since.

“Certainly, Miss Thompson.” The attendant nodded and went forward.

Bella looked out the window. “I’ve never seen Willow Bend from the air,” she murmured. “I wonder if I’ll be able to see any changes since the last time I was here.”

Rafael watched her closely but he remained silent; she hadn’t really expected him to answer.

The aircraft made a slight change of course, then dropped one wing and commenced a slow circle around the town. Sun glinted off the river and an invisible hand tightened around Bella’s heart. She forced herself to continue looking and spotted the high school with its adjoining football field and bleachers. A few blocks beyond that was the section of town where she’d grown up but she couldn’t spot the house among the jumble of roofs. On the gentle rise across the river the homes were more stately; here and there swimming pools flashed brilliant blue in the late afternoon sun.

And there it was. The old Lambert textile mill. Silent these past ten years. She didn’t know what she’d expected to feel when she saw it. After all, her father had worked there most of his life and had lost his job along with hundreds of others in the town. She looked more closely. The heavy wire fence that had once encircled the mill was gone. In its place, strategically placed trees and shrubs lifted their leaves to the sunshine. A few cars and several pickup trucks were parked in the newly paved lot. For the first time since leaving California earlier today Bella experienced a surge of excitement. Excitement mixed with apprehension.

“You’re sure we’re doing the right thing?” she asked, uncharacteristically nervous. “It’s such a big step, opening a new production facility.”

“Bella.” She loved the way he said her name. “We’ve been over this many times.” He looked at her and his gaze softened for a moment. “You’re going to give this town a chance to get back on its feet.” He didn’t need to look down at the mill; he’d been here half a dozen times already. “Besides, it’s too late now.”

Chapter One

Twenty years earlier.

It was overcast the day Bella found out she was pregnant. Madonna was singing Papa Don’t Preach on her bedside radio and she gave a strangled laugh as the words filtered into her consciousness. She held the stick in her hand, backed up unsteadily and sat down on the edge of her bed.

The test confirmed what she already knew. The signs had been there for weeks now, but she’d clung to hope the way a man clings to a life raft in stormy seas. And her life was about to get stormy, she knew that for a fact. With one hand on her stomach she rocked back and forth, slowly accepting the reality of her situation.

She wondered what Jeffrey was doing right now. They didn’t see each other every day, but today was Friday, and they usually grabbed cold drinks and went to “their place” by the river; a quiet, sheltered spot carpeted with pine needles. They jokingly referred to it as their love nest, but it was in fact a place where they dared to dream of a future together. It wouldn’t be easy, they knew that. Bella’s mother was a skilled dressmaker who worked at home, and her father worked at Lambert Textiles, whereas Jeffrey was the son of Edward and Judith Lambert, owners of Lambert Textiles and Willow Bend’s largest employer.

She and Jeffrey had been together since the spring, when he’d broken up with Angela Sterling. At first she couldn’t believe that Jeffrey was interested in her; she didn’t consider herself beautiful like many of the other girls, or sophisticated, like Angela. She smiled to herself, recalling how she’d been so nervous around him at first. But as the days got warmer and she began to know him better she relaxed and accepted the fact that he was interested in her…in what she thought and had to say. The sex had been a natural extension of their growing affection for one another. Bella thought of it as “making love” even though Jeffrey had never used the same term. Come to think of it, he’d never called it anything. She glanced at her watch. He’d be getting out of school and wondering where she was. She’d made an excuse for missing school this afternoon, saying she had a Doctor’s appointment. She’d never lied to him before, but he’d forgive her for this when she told him the news.

Another nervous spasm gripped her stomach. She’d better go find him and get it over with…the longer she waited, the harder it would be. What would she say and how would he respond? Oddly enough, she didn’t have the faintest idea.

She shoved all evidence of the pregnancy kit in her bag, checked her appearance in the mirror and crept downstairs. A murmur of voices reached her from the dining room…or it used to be the dining room before her mother converted it to her workshop and consultation room. When Mom had mentioned a bridal fitting this afternoon Bella had sighed with relief. It was the perfect opportunity to sneak in the back door, go upstairs, and do the test.

The back door closed quietly after her and she went through the gate at the back of the yard and down the lane that ran along the back of the properties on this side of town. Clouds were scudding across the sky and she shivered, even though it was the warmest part of the day. Within minutes she was approaching the river, and her steps quickened.

Jeffrey’s car was parked in the usual spot, partly hidden behind some bushes a quarter of a mile from where they usually met. Her pulse quickened as she pictured him there, sitting on the blanket he always brought, waiting for her.

He wasn’t there, and the blanket wasn’t spread out under the pines. She opened her mouth to call, and then spotted a flash of color down by the river. He’d been wearing her favorite shirt this morning; pale blue denim. She took a few more silent steps on the pine needles and paused for a moment to drink in the sight of him. Dark brown hair curled at the back of his neck, and what she could see of his skin was bronzed with an early summer tan. He bent and picked up a handful of stones, sorted through them and started to skip them on the tranquil waters of the slowly-moving river. Watching him she frowned; his movements were jerky and un-coordinated. Something was bothering him. Maybe his father had been on his case again; asserting himself was a constant battle for Jeffrey. His father expected him to take over the business, but Jeffrey wanted to be a veterinarian. Bella had a feeling his father would win that battle.

She took a few steps closer and he seemed to sense her presence. He turned slowly and she could see at once that he was troubled. Dark smudges of color under his eyes gave him a haunted look and as his gaze met hers the ground shifted beneath her feet. Did he know? Her fingers unconsciously clutched at her bag.

“Jeffrey?” she said tentatively. “Are you okay?”

He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “No,” he replied, his voice little more than a whisper. He closed the gap between them and took her hand. “Come on, let’s go sit on those big rocks” he said, drawing her along the bank of the river. “We have to talk.”

She followed him, heart pounding in her chest. This wasn’t the way this conversation was supposed to go. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was definitely stressed. As a matter of fact, he didn’t look anything like the Jeffrey she knew.

He settled her on a flat rock and sat down across from her. When he finally raised his eyes he looked at her as though trying to memorize her face. Prickles of apprehension crept up Bella’s spine.

The silence lengthened until she could no longer stand it. “What is it?” she asked, knowing instinctively that the answer would change her life. Even more than it had already been changed today.

“There’s no easy way to tell you this, Bella.” His gaze met hers for an instant, then shifted away. “I’m getting married.”

Bella must have heard wrong, because she thought he said he was getting married. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Her voice was surprisingly calm, but her heart was thundering in her chest.

His eyes closed for a moment. “I’m going to marry Angela.”

Bella couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Angela Sterling?”

“Yes.”

“But why?” She could hear the plaintive tone in her voice, but she didn’t care. It was a fair question, and she deserved an answer.

He lowered his head into both hands. “She’s pregnant,” he mumbled. “I found out last night when she came over to the house with her parents.”

This wasn’t happening! Bella leafed through a calendar in her mind. “But how can that be?” she cried. “You broke up with her months ago. How come you’re just finding out now?”

He sat up, his gaze darting around before landing on her face. “She asked me to drive her home after football practice one day last month and we…I…” The words started to tumble out. “She wanted to get back together; she was begging me and I was saying no, but she…” He blushed. “She got me at a weak moment, and we had sex.”

The silence was broken only by the sound of a bumblebee and the river lapping against the shore. “You had sex,” Bella repeated slowly. “While you were supposed to be with me. And now she’s pregnant.”

He nodded.

“And you’re going to marry her.” She had to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

She stared at him and it was as if she were looking at a stranger. How could he do this to her? Strangely enough, she could actually picture him marrying Angela. “And how does Angela feel about all this?”

“I don’t know.” He raked his fingers though his hair. “No, that’s not true. Actually, she seems quite happy about it.”

Bella could imagine the triumphant look on Angela’s face.

“I’m sorry, Bella.”

“I’ll just bet you are.” Where had that come from? Within the space of a few moments she’d found a backbone she didn’t know she had. She stood up and grabbed the bag that held the confirmation of the life growing within her. “You know something, Jeffrey Lambert?” She stuck her face inches away from his. “You’re not only a cheat but you’re a spineless asshole.” She climbed the bank until she stood over him. “You may think you’re sorry now, but that’s nothing compared to how you’re going to feel when I get through with you.”

“What do you mean?” He looked genuinely concerned.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to divulge our little secret. But some day I’m going to make you pay for this. I don’t know how or when, but trust me, you’ll pay.”

He looked at her as though she’d grown horns. And maybe she had. She gave him one last look then turned and walked away. It wasn’t until she got closer to home that she started to shake. How could she have gone from loving him to hating him in the space of seconds? It had been surprisingly easy, and she had the feeling that she’d need every ounce of anger she could dredge up to help her though the next few weeks.

Chapter Two

“You told him you’re going to make him pay?” Her friend Carla made a face. “What kind of stupid threat is that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Carla. I was just so disgusted by his admission that he’d had sex with her.” Bella had changed her mind about going home and was sitting with her best friend in Carla’s back yard.

“What did you expect? He’s a guy.”

“What about you and Ethan? You wouldn’t say that about him.”

“That’s different.” Carla paused. “We’re different. I mean, who’d ever think an Italian American and an Irish American could get along for this long without any major battles?”

“It’s been known to happen. Besides, we live in the south. It might be a different story if we lived in New York or something.”

“Ethan wants to go to New York.” Carla picked up her lemonade and studied the condensation rolling down the sides of the glass.

“Whatever for?” Bella had never considered leaving Georgia.

“Two reasons.” Carla put down the glass and looked steadily at her friend. “First one is that he’s got the acting bug and he knows he has to go to New York if he’s going to pursue it seriously. The second is that he doesn’t have confidence in the future of the textile mill.”

“Really?” Bella turned Carla’s words over in her mind. “What makes him think that?”

“He works in shipping, remember? He sees how much raw material comes in and how much finished product is being shipped.” She paused, watching her friend carefully. “He doesn’t think the mill has more than a few years left. He says this town is going to be hit hard when it finally closes.”

Bella spoke her thoughts. “My Dad’s always said that having only one major industry in a town is a dangerous thing.” She glanced at her friend. “It’s like that study we did in Economics this year, isn’t it?”

“Yes.  Our family bakery will be affected, but it will survive; people still need to buy bread. It’s families like yours that will really suffer. Your dad works for the Lamberts and your Mom’s business depends on people with money.” Carla took a large swallow of lemonade. “Speaking of your Mom, does she know about this?” She gestured to Bella’s stomach.

“No, and I don’t know how I’m going to tell her.”

“Ha!” Carla gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “She knows.”

“No she doesn’t.”

“Bella Thompson. Listen to yourself. Your Mom may have had only one child, but she knows what it means when she hears you puking your guts out every morning. Trust me, she knows.”

Bella placed a hand protectively over her stomach. “Do you think so?”

“Oh, yeah,”

Bella looked at her friend thoughtfully. “Assuming you’re right, it will make it easier to tell her.”

“Look, kiddo. I know you’ve only had a couple of hours to think about this, but do you know what you’re going to do?”

Bella had thought about little else. “First of all, I’m going to go to Doc Farnham and get it confirmed.”

“No, no, no.” Carla shook her head emphatically. “Definitely the wrong move.”

“What do you mean?”

Carla scooted forward on her seat. “Listen to me, Bella. We live in a small town in the south. It may be the nineteen nineties, but this is a conservative town where people gossip for a living. Your Dad works for the mill and your Mom takes in sewing.” She sat back and waited for her words to sink in. “I agree that you have to go to a doctor for a check-up, but not here. Not in this town.”

Bella looked at her friend. “How do you know all this?”

Carla shrugged. “My cousin Maria.”

“Oh.” Bella vaguely remembered the abrupt departure of her friend’s cousin.

Carla put a gentle hand on her friend’s arm. “Go home now, Bella. Tell your Mom before your Dad gets home. It’ll make you feel a lot better.”

Bella gave her friend a lopsided smile. “When did you get so wise?”

Carla shook her head. “I just wish I could be of more help.” She squeezed Bella’s arm and let it go. “Call me if you need me, okay?”

* * *

“Bella, could you come in here please?” Her mother called her as soon as she stepped through the back door.

“Hi, Mom.” Bella stood in the open French doors that separated her mother’s workspace from the rest of the downstairs. “How was your day?”

Her mother waved a hand impatiently. “Sit down, dear.” She pushed her chair back from the sewing machine. “Are you pregnant?” Her gaze moved to Bella’s stomach. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

“Yes, I am. How did you know?” It was a stupid thing to say, but she hadn’t expected such a frontal assault and needed time to think.

“I’ve heard you in the mornings.” Her mother looked away, out the window. “Have you confirmed it?”

“I did a pregnancy test today.”

Her mother looked startled. “Where did you buy the test? Not at our CVS, I hope.”

Carla had been right; it was starting already. “No, Mom. I bought it last weekend when I went to the mall near Atlanta with Carla.”

“Does she know?”

“Yes…she’s my best friend. I told her I was going to go to Doc Farnham and she warned me against it.”

“Yes, she would,” her mother said vaguely. “After that business with her cousin Maria.”

“You knew about that?”

“Bella, this is a small town.” Her mother paused, took a deep breath. “A very small town. People talk.” She looked up. “It’s Jeffrey, I suppose.”

Bella nodded. It was evident her mother had been thinking about this.

“Have you told him?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed.

“No.” It was Bella’s turn to look away. She spoke dispassionately. “I went to meet him after I took the test. I’d planned to tell him, but he had some news of his own.”

Her mother waited.

“He’s going to marry Angela.”

“Angela Sterling?” Her mother had made several items for Angela’s mother, wife of the town’s leading attorney. “I got the impression that they broke that off a while ago.”

Bella continued, dry-eyed. “They did, but according to Jeffrey, they had some sort of an encounter last month and now she’s pregnant.”

“What a mess.” Her mother pressed the fingers of one hand into her forehead. “Don’t these young people have any restraint?”

“Was it so different in your day?” Bella surprised herself, but held her ground.

Anger flared in her mother’s eyes, but soon subsided. “No, I suppose not.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in her thoughts. Finally her mother spoke. “There’s a church in Atlanta that has a home for unwed mothers. I think you should go there.”

Bella studied her mother. She couldn’t blame her, really. Willow Bend was a small town, and a pregnant daughter reflected badly on any mother. “Is that what you want?”

“It’s what I would prefer, yes.” Her mother couldn’t meet her eyes.

“What happens when I get there?” Bella was fairly sure she wouldn’t like the answer.

“You’ll go there as soon as you start to show, and live there. You’ll get medical care, and have your child in the hospital adjoining the facility.” Her mother twisted a piece of fabric nervously. “And after the child is born, it’s given up for adoption.”

Bella nodded. “And then I come back here, like nothing happened?”

Her mother looked up, startled. She obviously hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said no. I’m not giving my child up for adoption.” Her voice started to rise, but she made no effort to lower it. “How could you suggest such a thing?”

“Lower your voice.” Her mother looked nervously out the front window. “People will hear you.”

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Bella leaned toward her mother, her voice low and steely. “It’s about making sure people don’t find out. What about me?”

Her mother lifted her head. “You lost your rights when you had sex with that boy.” She stood up and walked toward a side window. “Your Dad and I have talked it over and he’s left all the decisions up to me.” She turned back to Bella. “You either agree to this, or you’re on your own.”

“Just like that?” Somewhere in the back of her mind, Bella admired her mother’s determination.

“Yes. Just like that.” Her mother braced herself against the back of the chair, and Bella noticed that her hand trembled slightly. “There isn’t any other way.”

“All right.”

Her mother took a step forward. “You’ll go to the home?”

“No, I’ll go out on my own.” Bella tried to speak calmly. “But I won’t wait. I’ll go within a couple of weeks.”

Tires crunched on the gravel at the side of the house. “Your father’s home. I’d like to talk to him alone, if you don’t mind. Dinner will be on the table in half an hour.”

* * *

Carla sat on her bed, legs crossed in the lotus position. “So where are you going to go?” Bella had gone to Carla’s place after dinner, relieved that Ethan was in rehearsals for a play.

“I’m not sure yet, but Mom suggested Florida. She seems to think that I’ll need fewer clothes if I go somewhere warm. Plus, I think she wants to be close by when her grandchild is born.”

“Those are good reasons.”

Bella shrugged. “I suppose so.” She was quiet for a few moments. “I’ve never lived on my own before, but for some reason I’m not afraid. I figure if I leave soon, I can get a job for a few months. You know, get settled.”

“What are you going to do for money?” Carla had a good head for money; she’d been paying the bills and doing the banking for the bakery for the past several years.

“Mom’s going to pay my bus fare and give me two thousand dollars.” She looked at her friend. “Is that very much?”

Carla raised both eyebrows. “Not really. You’ll have to pay a month’s rent in advance, and some places want another month as a security deposit. You’ll have to find a job right away.”

“I’ll find something. I’m not worried about that. I’ve even been thinking about getting two jobs, so I can put some aside for when I have the baby.”

Her friend’s eyes filled with tears. “You’ll let me know if you need help, won’t you?”

It was a struggle, but Bella didn’t give in to tears. “You know I will.” She checked her watch. “I’d better get going. Ethan will be here any moment to pick you up.”

Carla walked her to the door. “Remember, I’m driving you to the bus station in Atlanta.”

Bella gave her friend a quick hug. “I remember. Thanks for everything.”

Chapter Three

“I can’t believe you’re actually leaving.” Carla looked around the bus terminal. “Look at all these people!” She brought her attention back to her friend. “I want to remember you here, Bella, so I’m not going to walk you out to the bus.”

Bella tried not to show her relief. “I was hoping you’d say that. Let’s say goodbye and get it over with.” She had a tight hold on her ticket, but her stoicism was starting to slip away. “I’ll contact you as soon as I’m settled, I promise. And as for you, I want to know right away if you and Ethan go to New York. Okay?”

Carla nodded, unable to speak. She pulled her friend into a fierce hug and then turned and walked away. At the outside doors she paused and turned. Tears streaked her face, but she smiled, waved a hand and then disappeared into the brilliant sunshine.

Bella gave a sigh of relief. One more hurdle crossed. She looked up at the departures board, even though the ticket seller had told her which bay to look for. Then she looked down at the ticket in her hand. Los Angeles. Not telling Carla where she was going had been difficult, but the change of plan was something she had to do on her own…an act of defiance, perhaps. She’d write to both her mother and Carla as soon as she found somewhere to live.

* * *

Exhausted from the past ten days she slept much of the way to Dallas, where she switched buses. She washed up in the restroom, and then ordered breakfast in the restaurant, covertly watching the other passengers. Singles, couples, mothers with children; each had a different story, and she realized that hers was just one among many.

She was surprisingly content to let the hours and the countryside roll by. New Mexico, with its unique landscape was oddly appealing and before she knew it they had crossed into California. Here the names were more familiar and she sat up straighter, fascinated by the golden light that streamed through the windows of the bus. More passengers started to board, and at Indio her luck ran out; an older woman took the seat beside her. Smelling faintly of lavender, she clutched her bag in her lap with both hands.

“How far are you going, my dear?”

Bella was startled. It was the first time anyone had spoken to her other than food vendors or bus drivers since she left home. “Ah…I’m going to Los Angeles.”

“Terrible place.” The woman gave a small, almost imperceptible shudder.

“Why is that?” Bella didn’t really want to engage the woman in conversation, but she might as well hear what she had to say.

“It’s so spread out. You have to have a car to get anywhere.”

“Oh.” Bella hadn’t considered that when she’d impulsively bought her bus ticket, but it was too late now.

“But there are lots of lovely towns up and down the coast.” She fussed with her bag. “I live in Van Nuys. My son is coming to get me.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” Bella turned part way in her seat. “I mean for me…small towns?”

The older woman thought for a moment. “Santa Monica is nice; it’s not too far from Los Angeles if you’re thinking of trying to get into the movie business.”

“Heavens no, not me.”

The woman tilted her head, gave her an appraising look. “I don’t know why not. You’re quite attractive, you know.”

“I am?” Bella pulled back. No one had ever called her attractive before. “Thank you, but I don’t think that’s for me.”

“Good for you. Got your feet planted firmly on the ground, then.”

“I hope so.”

The woman fell silent and Bella realized she’d nodded off to sleep. As the bus drew closer to Los Angeles, the reality of her situation started to sink in. It would be shortly after noon when she arrived, and she had no place to stay. She made another snap decision. If there was a connecting bus headed for Santa Monica, she’d take it.

* * *

The Los Angeles terminal was overwhelming, but she finally found a helpful ticket seller who gave her instructions on how to make the final connection. When she stepped off the bus in Santa Monica she gave silent thanks to the older woman who’d suggested that she come here. Dizzy with fatigue, she studied the ads in the bus terminal, and checked into an inexpensive motel a few blocks away. She didn’t even shower before falling into bed.

* * *

Bella slept for twelve hours and awoke feeling rested and confident. A different clerk was on the desk and she approached him with a smile. “If you were looking for a furnished apartment to rent, how would you go about it?” she asked.

He gave her a quick once-over. “I’d probably check the ads in our local newspaper first. Rental agencies can be expensive.” He handed her a map. “Here, you’ll need this.”

Bella sat in a sunny corner of a fast food restaurant and studied the newspaper. Several studios were advertised, but they were too far from the center of town, and she wanted to save every penny she could by walking. She was about to give up when a small ad caught her eye. With trembling hands, she put a coin in the payphone and waited for a response. Ten minutes later she stood before a small single story home on a shaded side street. A wide veranda faced toward the street, fronted by flowerbeds blooming with riotous color. She opened the gate and walked tentatively up the steps. Before she could knock, the door was flung open and a small, dark-skinned woman greeted her warmly. She looked to be about five months pregnant.

“You must be Bella,” she said, holding the door open. “I am Sofia. Sofia Alvarez.” Dark eyes looked her over carefully. “You are looking for a rental?”

“Yes, I am.” Bella said, taking in the impeccably clean house. “You said it was over the garage.”

Something moved behind the woman’s eyes. “Yes, it used to be my husband’s hobby room. Come, I show you.”

Sofia stood back proudly and gestured for Bella to enter.

“This is lovely!” Bella couldn’t believe her eyes as she explored the small space. “Everything looks new.”

“You would be the first tenant,” said Sofia proudly. “The construction was finished last month, and I’ve been furnishing it slowly.”

“And you’re sure you only want four hundred a month?”

Sofia nodded. “From the right person, yes.”

“Well, I’d love to have it. When could I move in?”

“It’s ready now. Why should you pay for a motel room any longer than necessary? Come, I’ll get your details and give you the key.”

* * *

The small apartment had been well thought out. The kitchen opened to a small living area, but it was perfect for her needs. The bedroom was at the rear, and a small balcony overlooked the back yard. Bella couldn’t believe her good fortune. She dragged her suitcases up the stairs and unpacked quickly, eager to take possession.

After unpacking, she explored the kitchen. It contained a set of dishes for four, as well as basic utensils and a new set of pots and pans. She closed the cupboard doors, leaned back against the counter and started a mental shopping list.

“There’s a grocery store three blocks that way,” said Sofia, pointing the way. “You can probably get everything you need there.” She hesitated, hand over her stomach. “You are welcome to join me for dinner tonight. I was going to make quesadillas, and it’s no trouble to make for two.”

Bella wasn’t sure how to respond. “That’s really kind of you, but…”

“Please come. It’s your first night, and I’d like to welcome you.”

“Okay, then. I’d enjoy that.”

“Good, see you around six.”

* * *

Bella walked slowly to the grocery store. She would be careful about how much she spent, but she had the added cushion of the money her father had given her before she left home.

“I want you to have this,” he’d said, catching her outside one day. It appeared that he was fighting back tears. Bella was stunned; she’d never seen her father get emotional before. He’d clutched clumsily at her hand, passing over some folded bills. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine, Dad. Really.” She’d given him a quick kiss on the cheek and tucked the money into her pocket. “And thank you. I’ll come back one day and make you proud.”

He pulled her into a quick, fierce embrace. “I know you will, Girlie. I know you will.” And then he’d turned away, headed for his workshop in the garage.

Bella had counted the money later that night. He’d given her twelve hundred dollars. It was a lot of money for a family that didn’t have much to spare, and she vowed silently that one day she would pay him back.

* * *

“Wow!” That was great.” Bella stood up from the table and began to clear the dishes. “I’ve had quesadillas in restaurants at home, but they were never this good.”

Sofia beamed with pleasure at the compliment. “You don’t have to do that,” she said, struggling to rise. “You’re supposed to be my guest.”

Bella glanced pointedly at the other woman’s stomach. “It’s the least I can do. When are you due?”

“December.” Sofia made it to her feet. “Shall we sit out on the porch and have some iced tea?”

Bella gave her a stern look. “You just tell me where it is, and I’ll bring it out.” The two women had chatted about inconsequential things during dinner, but a bond had been formed, much to Bella’s delight.

“I guess you’re wondering about my husband.” They’d settled at the end of the porch where they were more likely to catch the evening breeze.

“I did wonder, yes.”

Sofia looked up at the rustling palms. “He was a policeman. We came up to Los Angeles from Juarez, where he was in the drug squad.” She paused for a moment, lost in thought. “He was part of a combined task force with the Los Angeles police. They were closing in on one of the big drug importers, but somebody must have tipped them off. There was a shootout, and my husband and two other officers were killed.”

“I’m so sorry.” Bella didn’t know what else to say. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”

“No.” Sofia was silent for a moment. “I still look up sometimes, thinking that I hear him in the house. It still doesn’t seem real.”

“Do you think about going home?”

The other woman looked startled. “No. I can’t go back there. His cover was that he was transferred to Guadalajara. You know, to protect his family. But I wouldn’t want to go back even if I could.” She looked at Bella and smiled. “This is my home now. I like it here and I have a good widow’s pension. It’s not a lot, but the house is paid for.” She gave a shy smile. “The other officers on the squad took care of hiring the workers to renovate your apartment and the department paid for that.”

Bella shook her head. “And I thought I had it bad.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“You are alone, yes?” Bella noticed how Sofia’s language slipped once in a while when she was unsure of herself. It was charming.

“Yup. I came as far as I could without leaving the lower forty-eight.”

Sofia took a drink of iced tea. “Someday you will tell me about yourself. But I think not tonight.”

Bella was grateful for the other woman’s understanding. “Not tonight.”

They sat in the gathering darkness, comfortable with each other.

After a few minutes, Sophia spoke. “I suppose you’ll look for a job.”

Bella gave her a faint smile. “I was just thinking about that. I don’t really have many skills, but I’m confident I’ll find something.”

And she did. Within a week, she was working full time at a fabric store, with an evening shift at a fast food outlet. Sophia waited up for her every night and they shared a glass of iced tea while Bella told stories about the day’s customers. As the months slipped by, they formed an unbreakable bond of friendship. And then one night she came home to a strange car in the driveway. Every light in the house was on, and she ran up the front steps.

She opened her mouth to ask what was happening but was forestalled when she heard the cry of a baby from the back bedroom. Sofia’s friend Consuela bustled out from the bedroom. “Is a girl,” she announced, a broad smile on her face.

“And Sofia?” asked Bella. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. She say for you to come in when you get home.”

Bella paused at the door to the bedroom. Soft light from the bedside lamp fell on her friend. Sofia held her new daughter, eyes luminous with unshed tears. “Come, look,” she said quietly. “She’s beautiful, no?”

“Hello Valeria.” Bella knelt down beside the bed and looked up. Sofia nodded; she’d finally settled on the name just a week ago. She reached out and stroked the tiny hand with its perfect fingernails. “She’s beautiful,” she murmured.

Sofia’s eyes remained focused on her daughter. “She has her father’s nose,” she said softly. Her eyelids started to droop and she shook herself awake. “I’m getting tired,” she said apologetically. “It’s been a long day.”

“How was it?” The women had speculated about what childbirth might be like.

“Not too bad.” Her eyes softened. “You’ll see.”

Bella pulled back. “You know?”

Sofia reached out a hand and stroked Bella’s cheek. “Si, I know. We can talk about it later.”

 

* * *

“Our children will grow up together.” The women were sitting on the front porch, the cradle between them. It seemed to Bella that Valeria grew every day while she was away at work. “That is if you stay here.”  The last was said hopefully.

Bella brushed a fly away from the baby. “That’s something I haven’t allowed myself to think about too much,” she said. “I mean, I’ve thought about it, but I haven’t tried to make any decisions.”

“Do you want to go back to your town in Georgia?”

“No, not really.” Bella picked up her iced tea and pressed the cool glass against her forehead. “How would I explain coming home with a baby? That’s the reason I left in the first place, so nobody would know I’m pregnant.” She placed a hand over her stomach; it was becoming a familiar gesture.

“Does it make you sad to think that you can’t go back?”

“I thought it would, but it doesn’t.” Bella stopped to consider her reply. “My parents love me, but we’re not what you’d call a close family.” She looked across at her friend to see if she understood. “You know what I mean? “My mother never told me I looked nice, or anything like that, and my Dad was kind of distant. I think I miss my friend Carla more than anything, but she’s moved to New York with her boyfriend. So I guess California is my new home.”

“Have you been to a doctor yet?”

“Yes. I went to the clinic last week. She said I’m disgustingly healthy.” Bella tapped her fingernails against the side of her glass. “I’m a bit concerned about the cost of going into the hospital for the birth, though. What made you decide to do it at home?”

Sofia shrugged. “My mother was what you call a midwife. I never considered any other way, even though I have medical coverage through Eduardo’s pension.”

“Do you think I should try it?”

“You’d have to make up your own mind about that, but Consuela is wonderful, and if she thought anything was wrong, she would call for an ambulance.”

Bella cringed. “That’s not going to happen, is it?”

“No, of course not.”

* * *

Sofia was right. The birth of Bella’s daughter took only a few hours, surprising even the experienced midwife.

Bella held her daughter to her chest. “I love you,” she said fiercely, kissing the tiny face, hands and feet. “And I will make sure you know that every day of your life.”

Sofia watched her indulgently. “Everyone says we should enjoy them now, before they start to talk.” Her gaze went to Valeria, who was lying on a quilt on the floor.

“Not me.” Bella shook her head. “I can hardly wait ’til she starts talking.”

 

Click here to buy Full Circle, by Mona Ingram

A Generous, Free Excerpt From Our Thriller of the Week Sponsor: N. S. Wikarski’s The Granite Key

The Granite Key, from The Arkana Series, by N.S. Wikarski:

by N. S. Wikarski
4.1 stars – 11 Reviews

Here’s the set-up:
Forget everything you thought you knew about ancient history. The real facts have been buried… Until now! Imagine yourself a nineteen year old college student. Your life is normal in every way until a bizarre set of events drags you into a hidden world of danger. You are recruited by an underground society questing for artifacts that reconstruct the lost history of the human race. You are being pursued by a fanatical religious cult intent on acquiring a legendary relic before you do. A relic that, in the wrong hands, has the power to destroy the world.In a treasure hunt that spans twelve thousand years of human history and covers every continent, the Arkana series digs deep through the layers of fabricated history to reveal a past we never dreamed we had and a future we never dreamed we could have. A secret society. A fanatical cult. A telepathic girl.All vie to unlock the mysteries of the granite key. The quest leads halfway around the globe to the ruins of a forgotten civilization and a secret it has guarded for millennia. The fate of the world depends on who can get there first.

The Granite Key (The Arkana Series)

The author hopes you will enjoy this free excerpt:

Chapter 1 – Night Vision

 

Cassie felt herself sinking. She tried to drag herself to the surface. “Wake up stupid! It’s just a dream. This can’t be real. Wake up!”

She was standing in the shadows in her sister’s antique shop. It was late. Long past midnight. The room was dimly lit by a green banker’s lamp near the cash register. Sybil was standing in front of the glass showcase with a cell phone in her hand. There was a man standing near the door. A man wearing a Stetson hat and he was pointing a gun at her sister.

“Where’s the key, sugar?” His voice sounded lazy, casual. He had a southern drawl.

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sybil stammered. Her sister put the phone down and started inching her way along the showcase toward the rear storeroom.

The man shrugged. “Don’t make no difference to me but you don’t want me tearin’ up your neat little shop just to find it, now do you?”

“I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Sybil’s reply was shrill, unconvincing.

Cassie wanted to rush forward to pull her sister away from the man with the gun. Her feet were glued to the floor. She couldn’t move. She tried to scream a warning. “Get out of here, Sybil. Run!” but all she felt was a rasp in her throat where the words should be.

The man advanced out of the shadows. He was close to six feet tall, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. Cassie knew this had to be a dream because of his strange outfit. Aside from the cowboy hat, he wore a short denim jacket, a string tie around his neck, jeans and snakeskin cowboy boots.

The gun flicked slightly in his hand. “I tell you what. The service in this establishment ain’t very friendly.” He flipped his hat aside and it landed on an oak sideboard. His dark brown hair was combed back in a high wave. “I guess if you don’t want to help me, I’ll have to roll up my sleeves and help myself.”  He moved forward toward the glass case.

Sybil darted past him and ran toward the front door. He was faster. He grabbed her by the arm. “Now that’s no way to treat your clientele, honey. Tryin’ to run off and shirk your responsibilities like that.” He twisted her arm behind her back.

Cassie could see Sybil wince in pain. Her sister looked around wildly for some other way out. The man tightened his grip with one hand and pointed the gun to her head with the other. Sybil struggled but he only wrenched her arm harder behind her back until she stopped struggling.

“It seems to me like you can’t hear what I’m sayin’.” The man cocked his head slightly, considering the matter. “Maybe we should go someplace private where I can get through to you better.”

He shoved her toward the door but she twisted out of his grip, running toward the back of the shop. He lunged after her, tackling her. She fell hard against the showcase, head first. Glass shattered and she lay still, face down on the floor.

Cassie could feel a cry of despair rising in her throat but no sound came out. She willed her feet to move. They seemed to twitch slightly but nothing more. All she could do was watch.

The man raised himself to a crouch position. A look of annoyance crossed his face. He reached forward to check Sybil’s pulse and frowned.

He stood back up, shaking bits of broken glass from his jacket. “Well, that ain’t no help at all,” he said in disgust.

In a flash, the scene changed and Cassie was back in her dorm room. She could feel the mattress beneath her. “Wake up, dammit!” she commanded herself. This time when she clawed her way up to the surface of consciousness, her mind obeyed her. She sat up shakily. Her skin felt clammy. She tossed off the covers and sat forward rocking, holding her head.

On impulse she grabbed her cell phone and started to call her sister. “It was just a nightmare, stupid! What are you going to do? Wake her up in the middle of the night to tell her you had a bad dream?” She snapped the phone shut and tossed it on the nightstand.

Gradually her breathing slowed and she lay back down. Curling herself into a fetal position, she drew the covers up to her chin. “It wasn’t real.  It was just a bad dream… Just a bad dream… Just a bad dream…” She chanted the words like a mantra for several minutes until she started to dose off.

Then the phone rang.

 

Chapter 2 – A Wake

At about three o’clock in the morning far outside the city, four people were staring bleakly at one other around a kitchen table. It was an old style oak table in an old style country kitchen. The kind with tin ceiling tiles and tall glass cupboards above the sink. A single yellow nightlight glowed from the wall.

At one end of the table sat an elderly woman in a terrycloth robe and slippers. Despite the late hour, she had managed to roll her white hair into a neat little bun at the nape of her neck. She sighed heavily. “I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it. Sybil’s dead.” The abrupt comment came from a blond man in his mid-twenties at the opposite end of the table. He sat slouched despondently in his chair, arms crossed, his legs sprawled out in front of him. “She called me and she sounded scared. She thought somebody was trying to break into the shop. Then the line went dead. I got there as fast as I could but the cops beat me to it.” He exhaled tiredly. “It’s my fault.”

“How do you figure?” The question came from a middle-aged woman with bushy red hair sitting to his left. There were distinct frown lines around her mouth. She took a long drag on an unfiltered cigarette.

The blond man glanced up. “If I’d just gotten there five minutes sooner maybe we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Maybe she’d still be alive.”

“Did she give you a physical description of her attacker?” The question came from a young man in his early-twenties seated to the right. He spoke with a British accent.

“Nope,” said the blond man succinctly. “For the past week or so she told me she had the feeling somebody was following her but she never knew who it was.”

“I think we all know who was responsible.” The elderly woman rose stiffly out of her chair. She walked over to sink, filled a kettle and put it on the stove to boil.

The other three stared at one another in shock. Anger flashed in the middle-aged woman’s eyes. “Those bastards! What do they want from us now?”

“Take it easy, Maddie,” soothed the blond man. “We don’t know for sure it was them.”

The woman called Maddie snapped back at him, “Then who else?” She ground out her cigarette and immediately lit a new one. “What the hell was she working on? Didn’t she tell you anything about it, Griffin?” Her sharp eyes focused on the Brit.

“No, nothing,” the young man whispered with regret. He rubbed his forehead distractedly. “Maybe if she had I could have helped her, or better yet, persuaded her to stop.”

The elderly woman shuffled toward the cupboard over the sink. “There’s still the matter of her sister,” she observed quietly. “Poor child, as if she hasn’t lost enough already. This is too cruel.”

“Does she know anything?” The blond man at the far end of the table sat forward in his chair.

The woman at the sink turned around to glance at him mildly. “Do you think you could find that out for us, Erik?”

Erik sat up at straighter, alert now. “What exactly do you have in mind, Faye?”

The kettle rumbled to a boil. The old woman rummaged around in the cupboard for cups and saucers. “I think you should follow her at a discrete distance. Keep out of sight but let us know immediately if anything unusual occurs.”

She went over to the stove to switch off the heat. “Griffin, it might prove useful to know what Sybil’s latest recovery was.”

“Yes, of course,” he agreed readily. “Anything I can do to help.”

Faye was now spooning loose tea into a porcelain pot.  She paused to consider. “What could they possibly want of ours? What, to them, would be worth killing for?”

 

Chapter 3 – Prayer Meeting

 

In the silent hour just before dawn, Abraham Metcalf was standing in his study, scrutinizing the spine of a volume of sermons on his bookshelf. Actually, his study was more the size of a public library and his home more the size of a medieval castle. It had to be. He was the head of a very large extended family. Despite the barest glimmer of light in the east, Metcalf was expecting a visitor. Fully dressed in a black suit, he cut an impressive figure. A mane of white hair swept back from his forehead, trimmed just long enough to reach the top of his collar. A white moustache and beard shaped into a precise goatee. Despite his seventy years, he possessed a muscular build and ramrod straight posture. His eyes were a frosty shade of blue. They bore a fierce expression under bristling white eyebrows suggesting very little escaped his notice or gained his approval.

A young man sporting a crew cut tapped lightly on the door. “A visitor to see you, Father.”

“Send him in.”

A man wearing a Stetson hat advanced into the study. Metcalf turned to face him. “Hats off indoors, Mr. Hunt,” he instructed curtly.

His visitor smiled lazily and doffed his hat. “Now that’s right kindly of you to remind me, sir. My momma, God rest her, would pitch a fit if she saw me forget my manners like that.”

Metcalf sat down behind his massive oak desk. He did not invite his visitor to be seated. He studied Hunt in silence for several seconds. The younger man did not flinch under his gaze but stood grinning, his stance relaxed.

“I don’t see the key in your hands, Mr. Hunt.” Metcalf observed.

“No need to stand on proper names now, is there? How about you call me Leroy and I’ll call you Abe?”

“You may call me Father Abraham if you wish,” Metcalf offered stiffly.

“Sorry, sir, but you ain’t my daddy. Don’t rightly know who he was, come to think on it.”

Metcalf’s face remained impassive. “I don’t see the key, Mr. Hunt.”

Leroy Hunt shrugged off the implied rebuke. “Well, sir, it was like this. I encountered a bit of trouble in obtainin’ said object.”

Metcalf had picked up a letter opener and was examining it intently. “Define trouble,” he commanded.

Hunt selected one of the chairs in front of Metcalf’s desk and sat down. “That gal you set me to followin’ had herself an unfortunate accident. We got into a tussle and she fell and bumped her head and well, sir, she’s dead.”

“Dead!” Metcalf echoed in disbelief.

“That’s right, sir. Not to rise again til Judgment Day.”

“Dead,” Metcalf repeated somewhat less emphatically.

“Yup, dead,” Leroy concurred, smoothing the wave in his hair.

The older man considered the problem in silence for several moments before he spoke again. “You did manage to search the shop at least?”

“That I did, sir. I spent about a half hour diggin’ around before somebody called the cops. I had to high tail it when I heard them sirens but I was through lookin’ anyhow. That key you set such store by, well sir, it wasn’t to be found.”

Metcalf stood up and towered over Hunt. “I’m most disappointed in your report, Mr. Hunt.”

Leroy chuckled. “I guess, if I was you and I wanted that key so bad, I’d be a bit down in the mouth too, sir.”

“I hardly think this occasion calls for levity, Mr. Hunt.” Metcalf’s eyebrows bristled in disapproval.

Hunt looked up at him appraisingly. “I don’t expect there’s much in your life, sir, that you’d think would be a fit occasion for levity.” Before Metcalf could supply a retort, he continued. “Now don’t you go worryin’ yerself to pieces over this. I still ain’t done. Gal’s got a sister, don’t she? How bout I follow her around for a bit. Maybe see what’s what?”

Metcalf relaxed his scowl by a hairsbreadth. “Yes, that would seem to be the proper course of action to take at this juncture.”

Leroy stood up and gave a mock salute. “You got it, chief.” He retrieved his hat and turned toward the door.

“Before you go, Mr. Hunt…”

“Sir?”

“Let us say a prayer together.”

A flicker of anger crossed Leroy’s face. “Like I said, I ain’t one of yours.”

Metcalf was already on his knees behind his desk, hands folded. “Yes, I know. That’s why I’ve entrusted you with a matter like this.  A matter that requires divine assistance to complete. You will pray with me now.”

Wordlessly, Hunt returned to the opposite side of the desk, knelt, folded his hands, and screwed his eyes shut as if in anticipation of a bad tasting medicine.

Metcalf addressed his remarks to the chandelier overhead. “Oh Lord, guide this man’s hand that it may do your bidding. Let him smite down those who oppose your will. Let the wicked be put to shame that the Blessed Nephilim may inherit the earth. Amen!”

 

Chapter 4 -Sisters And Other Strangers

 

Cassie was sitting cross-legged on the living room rug in her sister’s apartment. There were stacks of paper piled around her. Boxes of magazines and scattered articles of clothing littered the couch. Tears were running down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to brush them away. She had been crying for days now. Maybe it had been a week. She couldn’t remember. It started right after the phone call came. The police were at Sybil’s shop. They needed her to identify a body. But she already knew who it would be. The dream had been a 3-D Technicolor preview of the real thing.

She felt as if she was still inside her nightmare when she arrived at the antique store. The green banker’s lamp was on. Her sister lay sprawled across the floor face down exactly where Cassie had seen her fall. Only now there were photographers and police swarming like flies over her sister’s remains.

Rhonda, her sister’s business partner, was there too. White-faced and shaking, she came up to hug Cassie. The two clung to each other for several moments, too much in shock to speak.

The detective who questioned her sounded like he was standing in an echo chamber. His voice was distorted, coming at her from a distance. “What was Sybil doing in the shop alone at such a late hour? Was anything of value missing from the shop? Did she have any enemies?”

Cassie gave the same answer every time. “I don’t know.”

Even now she marveled at how little she knew about anything her sister was doing or why. “What were you involved in, Sybil?” Cassie didn’t know much about antiques but she did know that a lucrative black market trade existed. Had Sybil been doing something shady? Smuggling artifacts into the country illegally? Again she didn’t know.

The only thing she did know for certain was that a man in a Stetson hat wanted a key and her sister was dead because of him and she’d dreamed the whole thing while it was happening. But she didn’t think that was the sort of information the detective was looking for. He probably wouldn’t believe her. She didn’t believe it herself. She wasn’t given to weird, paranormal experiences. In all her life she’d never been accused of having so much as a hunch about anything. She was a rational person, more or less.

Her mind skipped forward to the present. She was sorting through a box of old bills and papers. The easy stuff. She couldn’t bring herself to sort through the clothes yet. She had tried earlier that day but it had been a mistake. She’d realized that the minute she pulled open a drawer of sweaters. There was lavender sachet inside. Her sister had always smelled like lavender. It was a comforting, familiar scent. Someone once told her that people remember the way things smell long after they’ve forgotten how they look or taste or sound. That the sense of smell is primal. Like blood, like family, like death. She shoved the drawer closed and left the bedroom in tears. She doubted she would ever smell lavender again without crying. It was safer to sort through the papers. They didn’t smell like lavender. They didn’t smell like anything at all.

She blew her nose and tossed the used tissue onto the pile that was accumulating on the floor. How many boxes had she gone through? Like the number of days she’d spent crying, she’d lost count of that too. It had all become a blur. Even the funeral. That mother of all ordeals. The service had been small and quiet because they hadn’t been living in Chicago long and there was no family. Aside from Rhonda, there was nobody who could be called a friend either. Sybil had been Cassie’s only anchor to this place and now the girl felt like a boat drifting with the current. When other people lost a sister, there was always somebody else to fill the void. Cassie doubted if anybody could understand what her particular brand of loneliness felt like. The word “orphan” didn’t begin to cover it. She broke down and started to sob.

“Enough!” she commanded herself sternly. She looked up at the ceiling to blink back the tears. For a few minutes she focused on nothing but breathing. Just breathe and don’t think. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Finally she calmed down enough to focus on the matter at hand. She reached for another box of papers. It looked like a bunch of old charge card receipts. Why Sybil had kept this junk was beyond her. She dumped the box upside down on the coffee table. As the pile of papers spewed out, something hard fell on top of them.

Cassie cocked her head sideways, examining the object. Strange looking thing. It was shaped like a ruler. About a foot long and about two inches wide, only it had five sides. Solid in the middle but five-sided. What would you call a shape like that? A polygon? She looked at the surface of the ruler lengthwise. There were strange markings inscribed in the stone. Some looked like long hash marks and some looked like pictograms. Like Egyptian hieroglyphics only they weren’t Egyptian. She’d seen enough of those in museums to recognize them. Along the sharp edge that divided the ruler into five sides, were more hash marks and loops.

Cassie made no move to pick up the stone ruler. She dismissed it as something from the shop that Sybil had decided to keep. Her sister did that all the time. She’d come across another “treasure” that she just had to have for her own. The apartment was full of things she couldn’t seem to part with. African masks on the walls. A rare Chinese vase in a niche by the door. Fragments of Greek friezes. It begged the question of where the money came from for Sybil’s expensive private collection. Cassie frowned and regarded the stone ruler again for a few moments. Maybe she’d ask Rhonda about it when she saw her next.

Her eyes swept the room. The papers and the clothes and the antiques and the artwork. So much more stuff to get through. Suddenly she felt very tired and a bit overwhelmed. Nobody else to do it but her. She sighed.

Without bothering to clean up the tissues on the carpet, she got up, grabbed her purse and left the apartment. She wanted to head back to her dorm room for a long, long nap. She could come back tomorrow. Everything would still be waiting for her. More memories to pop out of a drawer or jump off a shelf to remind her that she was alone in the world. It would keep. She’d cried enough for this day.

 

Chapter 5 – Corvette And Model-T

 

A dozen hours after Cassie fell into a restless doze, dawn broke over a suburb on the far outskirts of the metro area. It was a hamlet that had once been rural and still retained a few of its American gothic homesteads. Daylight crept toward the oldest of these original structures–a two-story farmhouse standing on an acre of green land. It was surrounded by one hundred and twenty acres of tract housing but had so far managed to resist being engulfed by the neighborhood. A high wooden fence surrounded the backyard which encompassed both a flower and a vegetable garden. The front lawn was wide and deep enough to accommodate massive shade trees that had been old long before the first cornfield was plowed.

Light advanced across the lawn to the house itself which was concrete stucco painted a shade of cornflower blue. A cupola in the middle of the roof had attracted a flock of burbling pigeons who hoped to warm themselves in the early sun’s rays. When an elderly woman emerged onto the Victorian gingerbread porch, the pigeons flapped off. Broom in hand, she immediately set about sweeping the front steps. An apple tree growing close to her porch was shedding its blossoms. It appeared as if her stairs were covered in bits of pinkish white confetti. She swept briskly, if absentmindedly. It was clear that she was lost in thought. She didn’t register that someone was coming up her front walk until he stood directly in front of her.

“Faye?” the young man asked tentatively.

“Oh, Erik, you gave me a start.” Her hand flew involuntarily to her heart. Then she smiled and motioned him towards the house. “Please do come in.”

He preceded her through the door.

“Why don’t we sit in here.” She directed him to the front parlor. In anyone else’s house it would have been called the living room but Faye was different. She radiated a sense of having skipped back in time. She was wearing a cotton housedress — the kind that was spattered with giant flowers in garish colors. It was topped with a green cardigan whose front pocket sagged from the weight of an oversized handkerchief. Her white hair was molded into a smooth bun at the back of her head. She might have been in her eighties or she might have been one hundred and ten. It was hard to tell. Faye had always been ancient. But her eyes were very bright, cornflower blue like her house, and they missed nothing.

The young man who visited her couldn’t have provided a starker contrast. If people were automobiles, he would have been a Corvette to Faye’s Model-T. He had a lean, muscular frame. Not extremely tall but not short either. His dark blonde hair was shaggy and perpetually in need of a barber. Maybe it was an image that Erik wanted to project. He was so good-looking that he didn’t have to worry about how his hair was cut. In his mid-twenties with elvish green eyes and a cleft in his chin, he was the stuff of which movie idols are made. Whether he was consciously vain was open to question. He liked to pretend he didn’t notice how women reacted to him. He believed he had a mission in life.

Erik removed his suede jacket and tossed it on the couch. His car keys landed on top of the coat.

Faye gestured for him to sit down. “Can I get you a cup of tea, dear?”

She was about to shuffle off to the kitchen but her guest stopped her. “No thanks, Faye, I’m fine.”

The elderly woman settled herself into a plum armchair opposite him. It had a doily perched on the headrest. The kind that was once known as an antimacassar. The chair itself might have dated from the time when men still used Macassar oil to dress their hair and the doily kept them from soiling the furniture. Faye probably expected that patent leather hair would come back into vogue someday and was prepared for it.

“Well then, what can you tell me?”

Erik shrugged. “Not much. She lives in a dorm at school. Keeps to herself a lot. I’ve been following her around ever since…” He trailed off.

Faye sighed. “Yes, we all miss Sybil, dear. It was a terrible shock. A terrible loss.”

Erik continued. “Anyway, ever since it happened, I’ve been following her. Went to the funeral but I kept out of sight. I didn’t see anybody odd. She went to Sybil’s apartment yesterday. I guess she was sorting through stuff. I stayed out in the hall for awhile listening.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I heard a lot of crying.”

“Poor child,” Faye said quietly. She smoothed the folds of her housedress. “Poor lost child.”

Erik hunched forward on the couch. “Do you think she knows anything about Sybil’s recovery? About us?”

Faye shook her head. “No, Sybil was most emphatic. She told me that she didn’t want her sister involved. She wanted to keep her safe. She believed the less Cassie knew, the better.”

Erik looked skeptical. “I don’t see how keeping somebody in the dark is going to keep them safe. They’re more likely to do something stupid when they don’t know what they’re up against.”

The young man stood up and began to pace. “It just seems wrong. Somebody ought to tell her.”

Faye fixed her gaze on her visitor. Her expression was mild, almost curious. “Exactly how could we explain ourselves in a way that she would understand?”

Erik ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. We probably can’t. But this whole thing is making me edgy. I don’t like it. Just hanging around and listening to a girl cry.” He threw himself back down on the couch, exasperated. “Can I quit yet?”

“I’d like you to keep watching her for awhile longer.”

Erik picked up his car keys and jingled them distractedly between his fingers. “What exactly do you expect will happen?”

“I expect that sooner or later the person who killed Sybil will reveal himself.”

“He probably found what he wanted in the shop. He’s probably long gone by now.”

Faye stood and walked over to the picture window. She watched the morning breeze shake loose another batch of blossoms. “And if he didn’t obtain what he was looking for, how long do you think it will take him to find Cassie?”

Erik stopped jingling the keys. He looked down at his hands. “I guess I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“Nor would I, dear.” Faye turned toward Erik. “Let’s watch her a little while longer just to be sure.”

 

Chapter 6 – Compound Interest

 

Despite her best intentions, it was after sunset the following evening before Cassie found her way back to Sybil’s apartment. Time to put all this in the past, she told herself decisively as she got out of her car and crossed the street toward the Gold Coast high-rise. Yeah right. She was so eager to put things behind her that she’d procrastinated until nightfall to avoid confronting the residue of her sister’s life again. And she didn’t even have the excuse of going to classes anymore. School was on hold indefinitely. There was still the tricky matter of deciding where to live. She would probably move out of the dorm and into Sybil’s place. Right now that thought made her shudder. Not quite ready to deal with that idea yet.

She got off the elevator on the fourth floor and headed toward Sybil’s flat at the end of the hall. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the bottom of the door. There was light coming from inside. Had she forgotten to switch off the power the day before? Who knew? She shrugged and sorted through the keys on her ring. When she turned the lock, she thought she heard a click coming from inside. Cassie swung the door open wide. She stood on the threshold listening for a moment. The place was dark, completely still.

She walked across the room toward an end table to turn on the lamp. Something or someone slammed into her, shoving her sideways. She hit the wall, the breath knocked out of her lungs. Scrambling to her feet, she caught a glimpse of a man fleeing through the open door. Cassie gasped. He was wearing a Stetson hat and in his hand was an object she remembered seeing the day before.

He was down the hall, through the fire exit door and halfway to the ground floor before she could move.

“Hey, hey you! Stop!” She started to run toward the lighted hallway when she collided with another man. He shoved her back into the apartment. She didn’t think she recognized this one but the place was still dark so she couldn’t be sure.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Who are you?” she countered. “Where did you come from? What are you doing here?”

“No time for that now!” His voice was urgent. “What happened?”

“A..a man. He must have broken in. He…he was wearing a cowboy hat,” she stammered.

The stranger grabbed her by the arms and shook her to get her attention. “Now listen! This is important! Did he take anything?”

Cassie was having a hard time thinking clearly. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. “Yeah, I think…”

“What?” the man shook her again. “What was it?”

“It was a stone ruler. Five-sided. About a foot long with weird markings all over it.” She twisted away from his grasp. “That’s all I could see. Now who… ” Before she could get the rest of the question out, the man vanished.

She heard him shout back at her from down the hallway, “Call the police!” Then she heard the fire exit door slam and heard feet clattering down the emergency stairs.

Cassie was shaking. Delayed shock. She collapsed on the couch and switched on the table lamp. She looked around at the contents of the room. Trying to get her eyes to focus. To get her brain back to the present. Everything was just as she’d left it the day before. Except for one thing. The stone ruler was gone. Stolen by the man from her nightmare.

She got up weakly and crossed the room to a bombé chest that held a telephone. When she picked up the receiver to dial 911, she noticed an envelope underneath the base of the phone. It had been hand-addressed. All she could see was the initial letter “C”. Putting the receiver down, she slid the packet out from its hiding place. In Sybil’s script, the letters “C-A-S-S-I-E” were scrawled across the front. Her hands were trembling as she ripped the envelope open.

***

Erik could hear footsteps ahead of him at the bottom of the stairwell. He waited until the man had gotten to the ground floor before he moved forward. He didn’t want Cowboy to know he was being followed.

Once the exit door slammed shut, he raced forward. Outside he saw Cowboy climbing into a red pickup parked across the street from the highrise. It tore away from the curb, heading north. Erik noted the license plate number. Shouldn’t be too hard to follow. He jumped into his car and tailed the thief, careful to keep several vehicles between them. With all the early evening traffic on the roads he didn’t think he’d been spotted. Cowboy got on the northbound expressway. He drove past the looming shadows of downtown highrises, past the suburban bedroom communities, past the overcrowded shopping malls, past the point where any expressway lights remained to illuminate the road. It was almost an hour before the pickup took a westbound exit that led to nothing but farm land. Erik knew it would be harder to keep from being noticed out in the middle of nowhere. He got behind a semi-trailer that was going in the same direction. Cowboy drove on for another half hour through pitch black countryside then turned right onto a side road marked with a yellow Dead End sign. Erik couldn’t follow him in there. It would be too obvious.

He pulled his car off to the shoulder and got out, hoping he wouldn’t find one of those “Do Not Park Here” stickers plastered on his windshield when he got back. He started walking. Fortunately, lights appeared in the distance almost immediately. The road turned out to be a very, very long driveway. The building at the end of it couldn’t be more than a quarter mile away. Erik kept to the shoulder, in the shadows.

The road ended in front of a pair of iron gates about ten feet high. Each of the gates was decorated with a capital letter P with an X through the middle of it. Erik didn’t know anyone with that monogram. He noticed the guard shack with security cameras mounted on either side of the gates and quickly ducked farther into the shadows. A ten foot chain link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the property. Company was clearly not welcome in this place.

He couldn’t be sure how long the fence was but he could guess it stretched around several acres. Beyond the gate at the far end of the gravel drive, Erik could see Cowboy’s car. Somebody had been expecting his visit.

Erik headed for the trees that bordered the fence to the east where more of the layout was visible. He focused his attention on the house, if you could call it that. The building was as big as a castle, or maybe “fortress” would be a better word. It looked as if it could withstand a siege. The design was squat and square with a flat roof, like a massive cinderblock. Towers flanked the building on either end. Erik guessed there might be two on the back end as well. The building was studded with tall narrow windows recessed deep into the walls. Light glowed through drawn curtains making it impossible to tell how many people were inside. Floodlights bleached the limestone façade to a blinding whiteness.

Aside from the main building, Erik counted at least eight other structures around the perimeter–smaller replicas of the main house. Then he noticed an odd assortment of sheds, garages and trailers that must have been used for storage. A compound. He smiled to himself. It had to be them. Nobody else would live like this. Now he knew for certain who had hired Cowboy to steal Sybil’s find. The only thing he still couldn’t figure out was why.


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