EXCERPT
:
The
driver glanced at the woman in the backseat through his rearview
mirror. She was a gorgeous thing, without the inflated ego
so many of his passengers had. “Nice to get out of the
city,” he ventured.
The woman started, then smiled and nodded. “It is. Yes.”
She had the prettiest, clearest skin he’d ever seen
and remarkable big, brown eyes. “This a vacation, Miss
Holmes?”
“No,” she replied hesitantly. She frowned, thinking
about how to frame her answer. “More a mystery. My brother
sent for me. I really don’t know what it’s all
about.”
Peyton Holmes ran her hand over the sleek leather seat, wondering
how much it had cost and why her brother had bothered. He
never had before. Something was definitely going on with him.
He’d done one of his disappearing acts last week; although
she wouldn’t have known if her older sister hadn’t
repeatedly called and told her for some reason she couldn’t
fathom.
She and Lisa were not close, and that was both of their choices.
Through the years, Peyton had learned to fear and distrust
Lisa, and with good reason. Lisa had always detested her younger
sister no matter how much Peyton had tried to please. Peyton
had spent years trying to figure out why, but she’d
never been certain of a definitive answer. Maybe it was because
Lisa had been more traumatized by their parents’ death,
maybe because she’d had too much responsibility thrust
upon her at too young at age, or maybe she was just a bad
seed. Who knew? She’d given up trying to figure it out.
Now Peyton did her best to avoid both her siblings whenever
possible, which was most of the time.
“Feel sorry for them,” her best friend Rebecca
had coached her for the past several years. “As human
beings, they’re bankrupt. And just remember, everything
that goes around, comes around; if not in this life, then
in the next.”
“And what good does that do me?” Peyton always
countered.
“You just have to focus on your own life and trust that
everything evens out in the end,” Bec said with that
serene smile of hers.
Saint Rebecca. Peyton didn’t really believe that Zen
crap; she’d seen way too much of the bad guy prevailing,
but she wasn’t about to argue the point with Bec, who
believed it with all her heart, soul and mind. If she had
been willing to argue, she would have asked Rebecca to explain
her life. She’d always tried to be a good person, to
do the right thing and to please others, and yet she’d
always had it tough. First, she was orphaned at six, when
her parents were both killed in a private plane crash, and
then she was left in the care, if one could call it that,
of a negligent aunt, a bully of a sister, and a brother who
didn’t give a damn about anyone but himself. Then—years
later, she’d fallen head over heels in love with the
world’s sweetest, sexiest, most handsome man, only to
have him up and leave her for another woman. So when was all
that ‘good energy’ she put out supposed to be
repaid?
She leaned her head against the window, realizing she wasn’t
being fair. She had a pure, perfect love with Sam, and her
friendship with Rebecca was strong, sustaining, and vitally
important to her. Her life was good and she was blessed. Sure,
there had been pain, but who hadn’t endured some pain
in their lives?
“Well,” the driver spoke up again. “Maybe
your brother thinks you deserve a vacation.”
Peyton chewed on the inside of her lip, and didn’t comment.
Marshall was the most self-absorbed human being on the face
of the earth. Thought she deserved a vacation? That was funny.
He never thought about her at all. In fact, the only reason
he’d summoned her now was that he was probably in some
kind of trouble and had figured out some way she could help
him out of it. How, she couldn’t fathom, but he’d
have it all figured out.
He ran a commercial real estate business and made a lot of
money, but spent it just as fast, usually because of his ridiculous
gambling escapades. He typically blew more money in a month
than she spent all year. That was probably it. He’d
gambled and lost and was hiding out from someone. But why
send for her?
Peyton stretched her neck from side and side and eyed the
small but fully stocked bar in the car, tempted to have a
drink.
“That wine was opened just before we left,” the
man said.
His voice startled her again and she jumped slightly. Then
she felt herself starting to blush. Was he watching her? It
was more than a little disconcerting. “Thank you.”
She watched his eyes in the rearview mirror for several seconds
but it looked like he was focused on the road. She was being
absurd. And what did it matter anyway?
She uncorked the bottle, reached for a glass, and noticed
her hand was trembling slightly as she poured. Damn it, what
was wrong with her? Why was she always so full of anxiety?
She looked back up at the mirror and this time she connected
with his eyes and felt herself jump slightly. “I’d
offer you a glass,” she said, trying to keep her voice
light. “But I guess it’s not a good idea.”
He chuckled. “Not allowed, but you enjoy, miss.”
He looked back at the road, thank God, and she took a sip.
The wine was slightly tart but good, and she was determined
to relax. Ever since she’d gotten the strange, cryptic
message from Marshall through the answering service at work,
she’d been scrambling to rearrange her schedule and
her life. To put it mildly, it had stressed her out more than
usual. Marshall never seemed to grasp that she couldn’t
just drop everything at a moment’s notice and take off.
She chewed on her lip as she mentally replayed the message.
Need you to come. Alone. Don’t tell anyone. Will send
car to your apartment at four. Plan for a three-day stay.
No special dress necessary. It’s a casual lodge. It’s
really important. The message had been so baffling; she’d
called the service to talk to the operator who took it. “That’s
right,” the operator had confirmed. “That’s
how the man said to write it. Word for word. It sounded like
a telegram, I know. He made me read it back to him, too. That’s
just how he wanted it.”
Now she tried to shake off the trepidation she felt and relax.
Deep breaths, in and out. That’s right, relax. It had
been a grind to arrange everything but she’d managed.
There’d be no problems and, if there was, everyone who
needed it had her cell phone number.
Everything would be fine. She sipped the Chardonnay and looked
out the window at the scenic countryside.
Chapter 2
The
dark haired man stood at the front window, his body tense,
his eyes trained on the driveway. A flash of movement caught
his eye and he looked around and realized it was beginning
to snow. He hadn’t planned on that, but it didn’t
really matter.
Not everything in life is planned, baby. You try, but—
He shook his head. What would have made him think of his mother
now? He’d been twelve when she died of cancer, and those
had been some of her parting words to him. Not everything
in life is planned—
“Yeah, well, this is planned,” he said aloud.
The words seemed small in the big empty room. “This
is well planned.”
He’d loved his mother, both his parents. He was lucky
to have been the son of Bob and Sylvia Pentaudi. Credit where
credit’s due, that was his motto. Sylvia Lord Pentaudi
had been a beauty with dark eyes and hair, like his, although
her hair had started turning silver prematurely. That was
another thing she’d said as she’d wasted away:
I would have liked the chance to go completely gray.
She’d been spunky and original with a great sense of
humor, and she’d kept her humor until the end. He’d
admired that about her. He had been named after her—in
a weird way. Her maiden name became his first, Lord. Lord
Steven Pentaudi. Like royalty, she’d always quipped.
Even though he went by Steve, she’d prepared him well
for the first day of the school year, when teachers always
used students’ full names.
“Lord Steven Pentaudi,” she’d said in a
stern voice.
“Yes, peasant?” she’d then replied in a
sweet voice.
They’d made jokes about royal privileges and bowing
and so much more. Sylvia had done her job well, and Steve
had possessed the confidence, style and humor to handle the
name.
How long had it been since he’d laughed? A long time.
And that was the fault of the woman he was lying in wait for.
And Marshall and his goons, of course. Steve narrowed his
eyes at the sound of crunching gravel. A large black sedan
drove around the circular drive and stopped in front, and
Steve felt a tightening through his shoulders and chest as
the driver’s car door opened. The driver, an older man
in an ill-fitting navy suit, got out and opened the back door
for the passenger.
“And out comes my lady,” he murmured.
Indeed she did, and he blew out a long breath to steady his
nerves. His plan had worked. He’d spent five weeks and
three days tracking down all the details and putting it together—not
counting the fourteen months after the attack, during which
time only the thought of revenge had kept him going.
She was still as beautiful as ever. Damn her. Her chestnut
brown hair had been cut to just above her shoulders since
he’d last seen her. It looked different, but it suited
her slight frame and her delicate bone structure.
No—he couldn’t, wouldn’t, think in terms
of delicate and beautiful. She had seemed that way to him.
She’d also seemed sweet and honest and kind, but it
had all been a ruse to draw him in. She’d been in on
his attack with her conniving brother, his ex-friend and former
business partner, and she was with Kyle Sexton now. But not
for the next three days. For the next three days, she’d
be his, and he would exact his revenge on her.
* * * *
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s here,”
the driver said. “Want me to wait?”
“Just until I get in, if you don’t mind,”
Peyton replied. “I’m sure this is the right place.”
“It’s the right address, alright,” he replied.
“One sweet place,” he added, although it was more
to himself than to her.
“Thanks,” Peyton said again. “I enjoyed
the ride.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Holmes. It was my pleasure.”
She hoisted her overnight bag over her shoulder and hurried
toward the sprawling wood and stone lodge. It was an absolutely
magnificent place. She loved the wooded seclusion. There were
no sounds except those of nature—birds and the crisp
rustle of the winter wind. Maybe, for once, Marshall had been
thinking of her. This was her kind of place—not his. |
