The Secret Rival

by Rachel Woods

  Leo said, “Because you wanted to get rid of Francine and have Yves to yourself.”

  Matilda shook her head. “That’s not true!”

  “Honey, we found the HemaCube and some small glass bottles that looked like they were filled with blood in Francine’s room,” said Vivian. “The bottles in Francine’s room look exactly like the bottles in your shoebox. And I’m sure that once the substance in those bottles is tested, it will prove to be food coloring.”

  “And not only that,” said Leo, “but, Wes will authorize the police to check your computer, which is his property, and they might find that you ordered red food coloring from the Internet and had it delivered to you. That purchase can be tracked.”

  Matilda said nothing as she tossed her hair again, but Leo thought she might be starting to crack.

  “And let’s say that you were smart enough not to leave a trace,” said Leo. “Not sure if you know this, but Wes has camera surveillance around the compound. Several cameras are aimed toward the cottages. We haven’t gone through the footage, but we might see you on camera going into Francine Xarras’ room, and—”

  “Wes, is that true?” Matilda demanded, glaring at him. “Are there cameras at the compound?”

  “I had them installed for the protection and safety of my staff and volunteers,” confirmed Wes.

  Cursing, Matilda jumped up from the couch, grabbed the shoebox and spiked it to the ground, shattering the glass bottles across the hardwood floor.

  “You think destroying that evidence is going to keep you out of jail?” asked Leo.

  Matilda glowered at him. “I didn’t mean for that bitch to die!”

  “Oh, God, Mattie, no,” lamented Wes. “How could you? Why would you?”

  Exhaling, Matilda sank onto the couch, shaking her head.

  Vivian asked, “What did you think would happen?”

  “You made that poor woman out to be a bloodsucker and put a pack of superstitious villagers on her scent,” said Leo. “You expect me to believe you didn’t know they would kill her? Officer Kenyatta Shenango warned you about the vampire rumors. He told you that vigilantes were capable of murder and yet you still carried out this plot against Francine.”

  “I only wanted the villagers to scare her,” insisted Matilda. “Wes, you have to believe me. I didn’t think those ignorant barbarians would hack out her heart and set it on fire! I thought she would get spooked after the roadblock and then she would leave Africa.”

  “Your twisted plan didn’t work,” said Wes, his expression pained, tone dismayed. “Francine wasn’t spooked. She was slaughtered.”

  Epilogue

  A private island in The Maldives

  “Wait a minute, there’s something I need to ask you,” said Vivian, lifting her head, breaking the kiss she and Leo had been indulging in for the past few minutes.

  “What’s that?” Leo asked, his hands roaming over her bare ass.

  “Wes doesn’t have cameras at the compound in Bingu, does he?”

  Leo smiled. “Nope. But, I’m glad when I told Matilda that lie, he played right along with me. If I hadn’t fooled her, she might not have confessed to her part in Francine’s murder.”

  “Speaking of her part in the murder,” began Vivian.

  “Let’s not,” suggested Leo. “Let’s enjoy Wes’ bountiful hospitality.”

  “Giving us a week on his dad’s island in The Maldives was nice of him,” agreed Vivian, glancing at the palm trees, gently swaying in the breeze, forming a canopy over the large hammock they’d been lounging the day away in. “I’m glad Matilda is going to spend the rest of her life in jail.”

  “Not just any jail,” said Leo. “An African jail. I doubt she’ll last a month.”

  “I can’t believe she allowed jealousy to make her homicidal.”

  “Actually,” said Leo, “I sort of can.”

  Vivian frowned at him. “You can? Are you saying …”

  “I’m saying that you’re the only woman I ever want,” he said, staring at her. “And if you ever left me for another guy, I would—”

  “Make a mob of superstitious locals think he’s a vampire?” she asked, kissing his nose.

  Leo smiled. “I was going to say that I would beg you to stay and do everything I could to make you realize that we belong together.”

  Losing herself in his blue eyes, she said, “Well, you don’t have to worry about getting rid of any rivals or begging me not to leave. You’re stuck with me, Leo Bronson.”

  “You promise?”

  Kissing him, she said, “There’s nothing you could do to make me ever leave you …”

  Message from Rachel …

  Isn’t it crazy how some people are willing to kill in the name of love?

  * * *

  Speaking of love, in Africa, Vivian and Leo were crazy about each other but in their next exciting installment, you’ll find that their relationship isn’t the only thing that has changed …

  * * *

  Get ready to travel from Africa to the Caribbean where Vivian has taken a job at an island newspaper called the Palmchat Gazette, owned by Leo’s demanding father.

  * * *

  If you enjoyed The Secret Rival, you’ll love the next book in the series – THE SILENT ENEMY!

  Vivian’s best friend Amal, visiting St. Killian for rest and relaxation, is killed, run over by a car, and left for dead on a lonely road.

  * * *

  Convinced that the vicious hit-and-run was no accident, Vivian reluctantly teams up with Leo to investigate. When the trail of secrets and lies leads to a shady crook, Vivian is targeted by the desperate criminal and kidnapped. Leo refuses to lose Vivian, but can he save her before it’s too late?

  Get your copy of The Silent Enemy now!

  * * *

  Or … swipe the page to read an excerpt of The Silent Enemy today!

  The Silent Enemy Excerpt

  Prologue

  I’m going to die tonight, he thought, gazing at the amber liquid his favorite bartender, Ratcliff, expertly poured into his glass.

  “You doing all right tonight, Mr. Jameson?” Ratcliff asked, screwing the cap back on the bottle of whiskey he preferred, the only drink he ever ordered when he patronized the Purple Gecko. A local bar on Sandy Coral Road, it was in a neighborhood called Handweg Gardens, considered the wrong side of the island, an area where tourists were warned not to wander around alone at night. He liked the Purple Gecko because it wasn’t busy during the week. On the weekend it was a madhouse of adventurous tourists and locals, deafening reggae, thick clouds of weed-laced smoke, and raucous behavior.

  “I’m okay, Ratcliff,” he said, even though he wasn’t.

  He had stopped being okay ten minutes ago, when the door opened and he’d turned, wondering who might be about to enter the seedy dive.

  “You need anything else, Mr. Jameson, you let me know,” Ratcliff said and then returned to his spot behind the bar, where he began polishing glasses as he stared at a cricket match on the small black-and-white television mounted on the wall.

  “Sure thing,” the man said, clutching the shot glass with trembling fingers as he brought it to his mouth and took another sip.

  He’d nearly gagged when she’d walked in, tall and lithe, nothing but dangerous curves beneath a clingy red strapless dress. A mane of luxurious raven hair tumbled down her back as she navigated the maze of tables, heading to the bar. He could scarcely believe it was her. Amal Shahin. For a moment, he’d thought the whiskey was giving him some sort of alcoholic hallucination, but no, it was Amal. He’d never forget the fierce, intimidating beauty.

  He let out a long, shaky exhale, staring as she stood at the bar ordering a drink. Amal would kill him tonight. Pressing the barrel against his forehead, she would squeeze the trigger.

  Amal Shahin didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer.

  She looked like what she was perfect for—a fast and dirty fuck in the back of his car followed by a hasty departure with no n
eed for awkward goodbyes. Hadn’t their first time together been quick and nasty? Tumultuous and explosive. Separation without explanation. No need for discussion when there were no ridiculous expectations like love or commitment, no need to let feelings get in the way of a good thing. And it had been damn good. Sexy and experimental, the best kind of decadent debauchery. Almost too much of a good thing.

  Now, it was a good thing about to go very bad.

  He took a drink but the whiskey which had soothed him moments ago felt like acid going down his throat and soured in his stomach.

  His mind raced. He struggled to control his thoughts, to prioritize his current predicament. He needed to figure out his next move, but her presence, so alluring and tempting, had shocked him, and options eluded him. He didn’t have a plan, didn’t know what to do other than hope he could get away before she put a bullet between his eyes. Picking up the wine she’d requested, Amal turned and smiled at him, raising the glass.

  Hopes fading, he downed the remaining whiskey, now more convinced than ever that this would be his last night alive.

  1

  It was a magical day, thought Vivian Thomas, smiling as she inhaled the salty ocean breeze and gazed toward the miles of pristine pink powdery sand and clear turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea.

  Earlier in the week, there had been predictions of rain in St. Killian, one of the islands in the Palmchat Island chain, but the weather forecast had been wrong. Bright and sunny with brilliant white popcorn clouds, it was the kind of day the Palmchat Island Tourist Board would proclaim was perfect for a “money shot”—a photograph used on the island’s official website, designed specifically to entice and mesmerize.

  Even more than the wonderful weather, the day was perfect because Vivian was in the company of one of her best friends in all the world, Amal Shahin, her closest confidant for the past ten years. They’d met in high school and had immediately bonded.

  Seated around a table at Dizzy Jenny’s, the ritzy yet casual beachside restaurant popular with the yachting crowd and local dignitaries, they enjoyed appetizers as they rehashed old tales from their days in high school.

  Amal had arrived on the island around nine this morning. Vivian had waved and jumped up and down as her friend hurried across the tarmac to the open-air terminal where she was waiting. Hugs and tears and laughs ensued. College and careers had separated them for stretches of time, but they made an effort to call each other at least once a week. Still, there was nothing like seeing her best friend in person.

  Two weeks ago, during one of their weekly chats, Amal announced her intentions to visit the island—a trip that was long overdue. Amal had been trying to fulfill the promise she’d made to visit Vivian, but most, if not all, of her time was dedicated to Phoenix—the medical spa she’d opened two years ago. She’d been too busy to carve out time for a vacation.

  A year and a half had flown by since they’d last seen each other, but Vivian clearly remembered the cold, snowy day in March. Hiding out at her mother’s winter home in Aspen, Vivian had been in the throes of self-imposed exile when Amal had shown up at the door, determined to convince Vivian not to give up on life. Vivian’s world had been shattered by disappointment and devastation, but Amal’s blunt, no-bullshit, tough love had been encouraging and empowering, rousing Vivian from the depths of misery.

  After Vivian had instructed an airport employee to load Amal’s luggage in the back of her Range Rover, she herded her friend into the SUV. Anxious to share her island home, Vivian had taken the long, winding route, pointing out landmarks and scenic spots. Several times, she stopped the Range Rover and hustled Amal out of the car for photo ops in front of gorgeous seascapes. Four hours later, they arrived at Vivian’s spacious condo, where Amal would spend the next seven days.

  “So, I know you don’t pimp the island for the Palmchat tourist office anymore,” Amal began, grabbing a goat fritter. “But, I read the guide you wrote—which was excellent, not surprisingly—and I didn’t see anything about where to get some good D on this island.”

  Shaking her head at Amal’s amusingly crude comment, Vivian followed her friend’s gaze to the bar, where several young St. Killian wait staff clustered, laughing and talking with a trio of bartenders. It wasn’t the first time Amal had glanced toward the bar. Vivian wondered if Amal had set her sights on one of the waiters? Maybe the tall guy? Or perhaps the guy with the athletic frame and lean muscles?

  Vivian had no doubt Amal would find someone suitable for her tropical fantasies. Raven-haired, tawny-hued Amal was smoking hot and never had a problem getting men to fall in love with her.

  Moments later, the waiter brought their drinks. Vivian had suggested palmitos, the local St. Killian favorite, featuring mulled pineapples, rum, and mint, but Amal had requested a glass of pinot noir.

  “Okay, Amal, now that we have libations, you know what time it is,” Vivian announced, barely able to contain her excitement. “Let’s play raise a glass!”

  The raise a glass game, which she and Amal had created following high school graduation during the summer before they’d separated to attend their respective colleges, was similar to a toast. Raising a glass was their special acknowledgment of past events, present circumstances, or future hopes and dreams.

  “So, I’ll raise a glass to the present because I’m so happy and excited to be right here, right now, with my best friend that I love and adore!” said Vivian. “You’re like the sister I never wanted!”

  Amal rolled her eyes, smiling, and then glanced at her phone, face up on the table near her appetizer plate. “Funny.”

  “Seriously, Amal,” Vivian said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Amal tilted her head, her expression probing, circumspect.

  Wary, Vivian asked, “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” Amal said, voice rising an octave in mock innocence. “Just … I have a confession.”

  “A confession?”

  “Remember how I told you I was too busy with Phoenix to visit?” Amal asked as she picked up the buzzing cell phone and frowned. “Well, I lied.”

  “You lied?” Vivian asked, curious as she saw the crease between Amal’s brows deepen. “Why?”

  Amal gave her a sly smile, but it seemed a bit forced, Vivian noted. Amal swiped a thumb across the cell phone, lips pursed in disgust, and then she smiled again, a bit brighter.

  “I wasn't too busy to come,” Amal confessed. “I was just hoping you would come to your senses and leave St. Killian, and then I wouldn’t have to come here to visit you, but you’re still hiding out in paradise so…”

  “Amal, please, don’t go there.” Vivian shook her head and took another sip of her drink, her wariness turning to discomfort. “We’ve already had the ‘Vivian shouldn’t have moved to St. Killian’ conversation before, too many times.”

  “Obviously, we haven’t had the conversation enough because you’re still hiding out in paradise,” Amal said. “I still can’t believe you moved here.”

  “You say ‘here’ like I’m living in some overcrowded third-world slum,” Vivian said. She knew the reason for Amal’s disbelief, which had everything to do with Vivian’s decision to make a permanent move to the island at the conclusion of a one-month temporary assignment for the department of tourism.

  At a party hosted by the tourism minister, the editor of the Palmchat Gazette had approached her with a potential job offer, and Vivian jumped at the chance to work for the award-winning publication.

  Amal had been less than thrilled when Vivian accepted the Palmchat Gazette job. She’d accused Vivian of hiding out on an island because she was too afraid to face the disappointment which had been the reason behind her rash decision to abandon her job at The Washington Post.

  Countless times, Vivian had tried to explain why she’d chosen to live in paradise. She was grateful for the lazy, laid-back, “island time” pace. St. Killian was different from life in Africa, but she’d needed the change and wanted a new life.


  Following the personal setbacks she’d endured, Vivian had been desperate to turn her back on her former life and all the memories associated with the woman she’d once been—a woman hopelessly in love with a man she’d foolishly thought she’d be with forever.

  Leo Bronson. The man who had captured her heart the moment they’d met and then crushed it five years later.

  “Look around, Amal,” Vivian advised, snatching another fritter from the platter. “There’s nothing but blue skies, palm trees, and white sand beaches for as far as the eye can see. This is paradise. Why wouldn’t I want to live here?”

  “I don’t have an issue with you living in paradise,” Amal conceded, though Vivian suspected she was about to make a point, one Vivian wouldn’t be able to dispute. “I have an issue with why you want to live here. You and I both know that you didn’t pack your bags and head to the tropics for the palm trees and white sand beaches. You stayed in paradise because—”

  “We both know why I stayed in St. Killian.” Vivian grabbed a goat fritter and tore into it, chewing angrily. “I was offered a job with the Palmchat Gazette, and—”

  “You will never convince me that you’re fulfilled and satisfied writing puff pieces for some island rag—a job you are horribly overqualified for.”

  Vivian exhaled. “I took the job at the Palmchat Gazette because it was a good opportunity.”

  “You didn’t get a degree in journalism from Columbia University just to end up writing about the top ten things to do in St. Killian.”

  “The Palmchat Gazette is an award-winning publication, I’ll have you know,” Vivian said. “I write all kinds of stories about crime and corruption. And, no, St. Killian is not the Sudan, but I do enjoy the work I’m doing. Besides, aren’t you glad I’m not in Africa anymore? Remember how upset you were when I told you I was working on that piece about the Ugandan warlord’s son? Chasing deranged dictators is dangerous.”