Redheaded Redemption
Redheads Book 2
Rebecca Royce
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Redheaded Redemption (Redheads #2)
E-book ISBN 978-1951349-72-1
Print ISBN 978-1-951349-75-2
Copyright @ 2021 by Rebecca Royce
Cover art by Lucy Smoke at Smokin’ Hot Designs
Content Editing: Virginia Nelson
Copy Editing: Jennifer Jones at Bookends Editing
Final Proof Editing: Meghan Leigh Daigle of Bookish Dreams Editing
Formatting: CBR-Services
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Rebecca Royce
www.rebeccaroyce.com
Contents
Author’s Note and Trigger Warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Untitled
About the Author
Other books by Rebecca Royce…
To Jennie Wilson, for being my friend since the day I stepped foot in Austin.
Author’s Note and Trigger Warning
In the whole of my career, I haven’t written a lot of trigger warnings for my books. There is a lot of controversy about them, which I won’t go into here. But this is a strange year in which I find myself writing, and people have enough pain. I don’t want anyone stumbling upon this book, reading it, and having the love story make anything harder for them. Because of this, I’m going to suggest if you’re a person who gets triggered by reading dark content—like a past history of rape—then you shouldn’t read this book. Skip it. Go no further. Return it. Don’t read it. The heroine has been through some stuff. The hero is not responsible for the pain in her past, and what happens to her happened off screen. However, she will recount her experiences. If you can’t read that kind of content, please don’t read this book.
This is a standalone novel in a series of standalone novels. You do not have to read Hope’s story. Layla and Bridget have not been through the kind of experiences Hope has been through. You can read Layla in Redhead on the Run, skip Redheaded Redemption, and pick back up just fine with Bridget in Real Men Love Redheads.
I thank you for your understanding.
Also, I made up a country in this book. It is not meant to be representative of any real country, but rather a compilation of many actual places and entirely unique on its own. Please don’t place political meanings where there are none or assume I’m really talking about an actual place.
Like I’ve said before in other books—it’s fiction, y’all.
Best to all of you,
RR
Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.
—A.A. Milne
Chapter 1
My nephew was the cutest kid ever born. He was. I mean, maybe every proud auntie feels that way, but they were all wrong because I was right. As I sat in the car driving me across town in five o’clock traffic, I grinned at the newest photos Layla had sent me of Noah. At two months old already, his cheeks only became more pinchable. I should fly out to Washington State to see him again soon. I’d been there when he was born. Bridget too. We were triplets—Bridget, Layla, and me—so it seemed only right that we were all there when the first of us to have a child gave birth to their baby.
I didn’t know if Layla’s husband, Zeke, particularly appreciated Bridget and me hanging around for the whole thing, but he kept quiet if it bothered him. He understood Layla, which meant that he didn’t interfere when she needed us. Or when we needed her.
We were a package deal in some ways. Always had been. Only when we tried to deny that truth did we get ourselves into trouble.
After minutes of stops and starts in gridlock traffic, we finally arrived downtown at the new, hip, fine dining restaurant Hyperion. Ever since celebrity vlogger and all-around annoying human being Amanda Hill called the chef, Max Broadley, as delicious-looking as anything on the menu, everyone wanted to see him. Well, not me. I was going because my good friend Kylie wanted to see him, and it was her turn to pick the restaurant.
So although I lived on the Upper West Side, I headed downtown to sate her curiosity. That was what friends did, after all, and if I was nothing else, I was a good friend.
It would have been faster for me to take the subway. At this point, I could hoof it there in less time, but I wasn’t allowed to do that.
Blah, blah, blah, I should be more careful about my safety. Apparently.
I sighed. It wasn’t that I didn’t know there was danger in the world. There certainly was. My sister Layla had been kidnapped for two days by the Russian mob. Those were the worst days of my life, and I could only imagine how frightening the experience was for Layla. I thanked the universe and any deities listening for her safe return all the time, but it was over. The newest worry was that my father and brother Justin were in Russia, working for a different mob over there and pissing off the original one again.
I didn’t believe they intended to harm us. If Dad had gone to Russia, it was to fix things, I was sure of it. Bridget and Layla disagreed with me, but I liked to keep a hopeful mind. I couldn’t walk dark paths for too long. It was too…hard.
Finally, we arrived at our destination. Yes, we were in the Financial District, practically on Wall Street. The place was hopping. While the restaurant was certainly a boutique establishment, it gave off the appearance of trying to be considered upscale. Fancy drapes hanging in tall windows could be seen from the outside.
I got out of the car followed by my security guards, two of whom were provided by the same company that drove me. Michael Li, the owner of the security company, used to work for my father and I’d known him since I was sixteen. Since he started a business of his own, Zeke, Layla’s husband, hired him to take care of all of us. One of his men—Luke—would stay outside, and Theo—the other one—would find a discreet place inside to stand guard while I ate.
“Hope,” Kylie squealed. “You’re here. I thought you might be late and we’d miss our reservation.”
We air kissed each other’s cheeks. It looked pretentious, but it saved our makeup. I didn’t know why people had started doing it, but that was why I’d picked up the habit. Truthfully, I was a little bit pretentious, but I’d accepted it about myself.
&n
bsp; “You know me—I’m never late. I’m allergic to lateness, although it was a close call. You look gorgeous.”
Kylie was always the lady in black. She pulled it off too. Tonight, she wore a long black skirt and a mock sleeveless shirt that showed off all her curves. Before she started her own fashion line, she’d been a plus size model. She turned heads wherever we went because she was so gorgeous. Her long black hair and dark eyes added to the look.
I’d dressed more simply for our meal. I wore gray khakis with a white collared shirt. I’d rolled the sleeves and unbuttoned the collar, so it showed off just a bit of cleavage. At twenty-four, I wanted to feel sexy, although it wasn’t a look I cultivated most of the time. Normally, I went for a professional and serious appearance.
Layla was gorgeous, so much so that people used to follow her around to figure out how to dress and what to wear. Bridget managed to always look like the girl next door. I was sort of Hope in the middle, never quite sure how to dress, so I was trying something new. I’d even cut my hair. It was short, and I embraced my curls. Well, I used a lot of mousse to tame them, but I wasn’t trying to straighten them anymore.
All in all, I wanted the look to work. I wanted this to be how I presented myself to the world. It needed to work because I had to have something working in my life, since everything else was getting a little blah around the corners.
We went inside. Kylie had made the reservation, so we were quickly seated. No one waited by the door because it was a solely reservation based establishment. You either had a table waiting or you didn’t.
The waiter poured us water and handed us a menu.
I scanned through it. Truthfully, I loved food. Adored it. Eating was my favorite thing to do in the world. I would eat all the time if I could. Their menu aesthetically appealed to me. Someone took the time to make it appealing to the eye and easy to read with nice font and lace covered corners. Very nice touches.
“Will you be ordering wine tonight?”
Kylie eyed me. “I will. How about you, Hope?” I could hear the unspoken question in her voice. She wanted me to drink with her, but she knew I didn’t usually do so in public, not even in restaurants. From past experiences, I knew when I let my guard down, my world exploded. Because of that, I only indulged with a trusted friend or loved one at home. When I was out, I stuck to water. Maybe an occasional seltzer if I felt sassy.
“I’m going to stick with water, thanks, but, Kylie, you should order something.”
She rolled her eyes at me. As much as I liked Kylie, she didn’t understand why I chose not to drink in public, as I’d never explained and I didn’t intend to tonight.
“I’ll take a bottle of this.” She pointed at the menu. “Thanks.”
The waiter smiled, and I smiled back at him before he left to put in our drink order.
“Once upon a time, you knew wine better than anyone else. Your sister owns a vineyard. I know you’re not an alcoholic, so is it medical? What happened to you?”
I sighed. “Is it really that important that I drink? I’m not stopping you. You know, we’re having fun. We always do. I just…don’t do it all that often anymore.” I set down my menu. I could always order fast. Tonight, I’d have tuna tartare and the oyster stew the place was supposed to be famous for. I absolutely couldn’t wait.
“So, tell me about Gordon.” If I got her talking about her boyfriend, she’d get off the drinking subject.
“Well…”
The maître d’ who seated us returned to our table. The tall, thin man in his black suit blinked fast before saying, “Excuse me, Ms. Radford?”
I stared at him. Him recognizing me was highly unusual. Maybe Layla got interrupted at dinner years ago, but it never transferred to me. Not really. “Yes?”
“I have to ask you to leave.” He cleared his throat several times.
I opened and closed my mouth. I must have misheard him. He couldn’t have just said what I thought he did. That was…impossible. “Excuse me?”
“You have to leave.” This time, another voice spoke, so I turned to look. Why, it must be the chef himself. I only saw pictures of him previously, but in person, he was such a presence, it seemed all the other people in the room disappeared.
“Why? What did she do?” Kyrie sounded downright hysterical. I didn’t answer her, too busy staring at Max Broadley.
He was tall, dark haired, with an arrogant expression on his face that radiated confidence and not giving a shit about the world. His gray eyes stabbed all the way into my soul, and I actually rubbed my chest as if they’d injured me.
“Chef, hello.” I put on my best manners. The nannies had done their jobs. I knew how to behave in public. “Is something wrong? I was just admiring your beautiful place.”
Flattery frequently got me where I needed to go. I knew how to make people feel good about themselves to the point that they didn’t even notice me doing it.
“Yes, there’s something wrong. We reserve the right to not serve whomever we want, and I don’t want to serve you, so get your ass out of my restaurant before I physically haul you out.”
I gasped. My security arrived at the table. Theo looked between us. “Everything okay, Ms. Hope?”
I shook my head. “No, I guess I’m being thrown out.”
This had never happened to me in my entire life. I couldn’t… That was… I didn’t? “Why are you doing this?”
He turned without answering me and left me stunned with no answers. In a daze, I grabbed my purse off the side of the chair and exited without another word. I didn’t want to make any more of a scene.
Kylie took my arm and waited until we were outside to speak again. “What just happened? What did you do to Max Broadley?”
I didn’t have a clue, but as I glared at the restaurant, I vowed to find out. No one threw me out of places. Like it or not, I was Hope Radford. That name came with a lot of things that sucked. My father was a fugitive from the law. My sister had been hurt. My mother killed herself when I was a baby. I’d… No, I wouldn’t think about the last one. I wouldn’t even let myself think it.
Regardless, I was a socialite who used my influence to raise money for causes very rich people cared about. I got things done, I made things better. I’d be damned if one temporarily trendy chef took the chance to humiliate me.
“I’m going to find out.”
Kylie hugged me. “What an asshole.”
I didn’t say anything, but I agreed.
I made it home in half the time it took to get there. After toeing off my heels, I stormed to my computer. As quickly as I could, I typed his name into my search engine.
A lot of things popped up, mostly articles about his restaurant. I scanned page after page until I stopped at one that caught my attention.
Broadley’s restaurant closes after rumors of trashy food is spurred by Redhead.
What? That didn’t sound like Layla. She wouldn’t say things like that. Did he think I was Layla? Is that why he’d thrown me out? Because he thought I was Layla?
I spotted a video, so rather than read the article, I clicked on it, hoping for answers. The link proved to be Amanda Hill’s most popular video. Why had I never seen it before? Millions of views on the one video, even more than the one she’d posted when Layla ran away from her first wedding, and that had gone viral.
What had…? I gasped.
It wasn’t Layla. No, it was me. I saw myself wearing a red dress I hadn’t worn for years. Sparkly. I could never pull off that kind of dress now, but five years ago, it was briefly in fashion. Layla had bought it for me. I paired it with red heels, and my hair, which had been long at the time, was pulled back in a messy bun.
Five years ago. I caught my breath. Oh fuck.
In the shot, I knelt on the sidewalk puking into a gutter. Gross. I mean…really bad. I could practically feel the burn of bile in my throat, but I couldn’t remember the moment captured on film. Not a second of it. Months of that year were just gone. What had my psychiatris
t called it? Major depressive disorder and anxiety. Sure, it was all those things, but also so much more.
It was just that I couldn’t let myself remember.
A man with a camera filmed me puking. “Hope,” he shouted at me. “Why are you puking?”
I could see the background. The name of the restaurant was Hayley’s. My stomach clenched. What had I said?
Fuck me, what had I said?
“Well, the food inside Hayley’s is trash. I ate there, and now I’m puking.”
I groaned and closed my eyes. No. No. No. Why had I said that? I didn’t even have to search hard to find the answer. I hadn’t wanted anyone to know the real reason I was puking at the time. I was pregnant. If the date was right, I would be for four more days before I lost the baby. That would have been the end of that time for me.
I’d gone to the hospital with the miscarriage, and someone had noticed I wasn’t okay in ways that had nothing to do with losing the baby. Help had come after that, because I was rich, and things like that happened for people like me. They’d tested me for all kinds of things, and somehow, even though unprotected sex had gotten me pregnant, I hadn’t picked up anything else from the night I never let myself think about. I was free of any infections or permanent issues, even the baby gone like none of it ever happened. The whole experience was a giant, permanent blur in my consciousness.
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