by Rachel Woods
The Bloodstained Bride
A Palmchat Islands Mystery
Rachel Woods
Contents
Just for you …
Prologue
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
The Prodigal Captive Excerpt
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Exclusive offer
Also by Rachel Woods
About the Author
About the Publisher
BonzaiMoon Books LLC
Houston, Texas
www.bonzaimoonbooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Rachel Woods
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN 978-1-943685-18-9 (Trade Paperback)
ISBN 978-1-943685-19-6 (Large Print)
Rachel Woods has been entertaining readers with her brand of romantic mystery suspense -- sexy dangerous fiction. Now you can get one of her short stories for FREE, when you sign up to join her newsletter:
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Prologue
The bullet slammed into his gut …
He cursed, staring at the dark, wet blood coating his palm. Blood on his hands. He’d been shot before he had a chance to beg for his life, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t have mattered. His pleading would have fallen on deaf, unsympathetic ears. And why should he think he deserved any sympathy after what he’d done. The bullet in his gut was well earned. Still, he didn’t want to die. Didn’t want to bleed out like a stuck pig.
Struggling to breathe, panicked and fearful, he dropped to his knees near the bed and peered under the mattress. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he stared at the AR-15. The assault rifle was too far away, wedged between the metal frame under the bed. He would never be able to get to it in time …
Time. Was he running out? Did he have any left? Was time almost up for him?
He didn’t want to die in a low-rent motel room that smelled like piss and furniture polish. Didn’t want to breathe his last breath in Little Turkey, an impoverished neighborhood on the island of St. Killian.
Why was everything going straight to hell? How had things fallen apart? His plan hadn’t been perfect, but it had been good enough to pull off.
But something had gone wrong.
His mind flew back in time to the beginning of the year, January, the month of resolutions, of putting the past behind, and resolving to move forth with new endeavors.
He recalled the day he’d received the first message:
I need you to look into something for me …
Had that been his first mistake?
Life was all about choices, and he’d made the wrong one when he found that damn letter. So many secrets in those words written so long ago. Instead of coming clean about what he knew, he’d decided to use the information to his advantage, for his own personal gain. And for what? What had his best-laid plans gotten him?
A bullet in the gut.
Forgetting about the gun, he tried to stand but before he could get to his feet, a second bullet hit him, this time in the side.
“Wait …” he rasped, panic and pleading in his tone. “Please … don’t—”
Another bullet put him on the ground, sprawled out on the thin, threadbare rug as his attacker stood over him, squeezing the trigger over and over, emptying the chamber.
Staring at the dirty, water-stained ceiling tiles, he lamented the mistakes he’d made, wished he’d made different decisions considering everything he knew …
The secrets he’d found out were devastating, life-changing … and extremely valuable.
Secrets in a blue file …
He coughed and tasted blood. Coughing again, he blinked rapidly as his vision blurred. He never should have trusted … but, what did it matter now?
He raised a trembling hand and stared at the blood coating his palm.
No one would ever know the truth; no one would ever know that—
Blackness shrouded him, pulling him into a deep, dark void of nothingness …
1
“I should probably warn you,” said Burt Bronson.
Wild, rampant speculations raced through Leo Bronson’s mind.
What the hell did his father need to warn him about? Had his dad taken a turn for the worse? Leo placed his fork across the fine china plate. Abandoning his half-eaten Eggs Benedict, he grabbed his champagne flute and took a quick gulp of the mimosa.
Leo stared at his father, who sat at the head of the table, framed by the unobstructed view of tranquil turquoise waters behind him. Stretching for miles, the Caribbean Sea was like a smooth pane of translucent sea glass.
Despite his weight loss, his father looked robust and ruddy. Not exactly one-hundred-percent healthy, but he was no longer the pallid, pale shell of himself he’d been reduced to after suffering a major heart attack almost a year ago.
Glancing across the table at his wife of less than a year, Vivian Thomas-Bronson, Leo noticed her narrowed gaze and saw the cautious curiosity in her warm brown eyes. She was probably bracing herself, as well, but Viv was patient, content as she waited for whatever news his father was about to unleash.
Leo didn’t want to think the worse, but something told him to prepare himself for grim tidings.
So much for a nice, relaxing breakfast in paradise.
Burt had called last night with a request that Leo and Vivian join him the following morning for breakfast. The invitation had seemed spontaneous but not surprising. His father regularly cleared his schedule to spend time with his son and the daughter-in-law he’d mentored throughout her career.
An hour ago, after arriving at his father’s mansion in Marchmont, the exclusive neighborhood located on the north s
ide of St. Killian, one of the five islands in the Palmchat Islands chain, Leo and Vivian had joined Burt on the expansive second-floor terrace. Overlooking lush vegetation that sloped down toward the private pink sand beach, the outdoor living space was the perfect place to enjoy warm sea breezes perfumed with the scent of hibiscus and pineapple.
As a quartet of staff members, unobtrusive and yet attentive, served them, they’d engaged in casual conversation, questions about newlywed life, and inquiries about how things were going at the Palmchat Gazette, where Leo had taken on the role of publisher and editor-in-chief while his father recuperated. An award-winning Caribbean daily that fit well into his father’s portfolio of publications, Burt had bought the Palmchat Gazette with aspirations of expanding his newspaper empire across the Caribbean.
Leo stroked his chin. Could the warning have something to do with the Palmchat Gazette? Was Burt about to close it? Sell it? Burt’s acquisition of the newspaper had saved it from being shut down or swallowed up by a soulless media conglomerate. Because of Burt, the Palmchat Gazette staff—a motley crew of journalists, which included Vivian, the Managing Editor—had avoided the dreaded layoffs that plagued so many other newspapers across the globe. They’d been lucky when Burt decided against staff reductions. Maybe their luck had run out. Leo hoped not.
But, then again, he wouldn’t mind.
The gig was interesting and challenging, but the business side of publishing newspapers didn’t exactly float his boat. Paradise was nice, but he often found himself getting antsy, growing anxious to get back to what he did best—investigative journalism.
Leo had made a commitment to his dad, and he intended to honor it, but as soon as Burt was back on his feet, or back on his throne, he and Vivian could pack their bags, hightail it back to Africa, and get back to reporting on the seedy exploits of third world dictators and despots.
“Have you heard from Derek Hennessy lately?” asked Burt.
“Derek Hennessy?” Leo felt the eggs souring in his stomach. “Hell, no, thank God. Why the hell would I have heard from that crazy fuck?”
“Leonard,” admonished Burt. “Your language.”
Vivian giggled as she brought the champagne flute to her lips.
“You know Derek brings out the worst in me,” said Leo. “But, actually, now that I think about it, I did hear that he’s not working at his dad’s investment firm anymore.”
“Hennessy Capital wasn’t a good fit for Derek,” said Burt.
“Surprising,” remarked Leo. “Derek is a gambler. He’s all about high risk.”
“Derek Hennessy,” said Vivian, tilting her head. “That name doesn’t sound familiar. I don’t think I know him.”
“Be glad you don’t,” griped Leo, his chest tightening. “I wish I didn’t.”
“Derek Hennessy is my godson,” explained Burt, looking toward his daughter-in-law. “His father, David Hennessy, and I are very old friends.”
“David Hennessy,” Vivian said. “The former Canadian Prime Minister?”
Nodding, Burt said, “David and I went to school together. Derek and Leonard grew up together, and both went to École des Roches.”
“Don’t remind me,” said Leo.
Vivian said, “I thought you went to Le Rosey?”
“Only because I was asked to leave École des Roches,” Leo groused. “Because of Derek.”
“That’s debatable,” said his father, helping himself to a few more slices of melon.
“Debatable?” Leo gaped at his father. “Dad, do you remember all the trouble Derek got me into?”
“I have neither the patience nor any interest, in your animosity toward Derek,” said Burt. “Neither am I in the mood to entertain this sophomoric, pedantic grudge you have against him.”
“My grudge against Derek is neither sophomoric nor pedantic,” said Leo. “My grudge is—”
“Leonard,” warned Burt.
“Wait, is that why you wanted to warn me?” asked Leo. “Because you’ve got something to tell me about Derek?”
Burt said, “He’s getting married.”
Guffawing, Leo snorted. “Getting married? Derek? Are you serious?”
“You’re one to scoff,” said Burt. “I seem to remember that you had quite an aversion to marriage at one time.”
As Vivian looked down, Leo glared at his father. He wasn’t surprised that Burt would take a pot shot at him, even though Leo’s marriage fears were largely his dad’s fault. Mentioning his commitment phobia in front of Vivian was worse than a low blow. His wife didn’t need to be reminded of the hell she’d gone through because of him and his stubborn, misguided opinions about marriage.
Leo still hated how he’d broken her heart, but they’d moved beyond the heartbreak.
Still, his father was not above throwing his bad decisions and stupid mistakes in his face. Leo took a swig of his mimosa, and grimaced, wishing it was a Screwdriver. He needed something stronger than champagne-spiked orange juice to tolerate his father’s sly, sardonic barbs, especially at eight in the morning.
Leave it to Burt Bronson, the cunning, conniving publishing magnate, to ruin a beautiful Caribbean morning.
Leo guessed his dad couldn’t help taking jabs, even at his own son. Pugnacious and brash, Burt was notorious for fighting dirty, hitting below the belt. A thug in a custom-tailored suit was how his father had once been described in a Forbes magazine profile. Part of Burt’s successful business strategy involved identifying weakness and exploiting shortcomings and character flaws.
Finishing the mimosa, Leo raised a hand, signaling the maid, standing several feet away, near the outdoor kitchen.
“Another mimosa, please,” Leo requested.
“Yes, sir,” said the maid.
“But, instead of champagne, use vodka,” said Leo, adding a smile before he turned to his father, and asked, “Who the hell would be desperate enough to marry Derek?”
“Bessemer Beaumont,” said Burt.
“The grocery store heiress?” asked Vivian.
“Besi Beaumont?” Leo shook his head. “She’s pretty desperate, but I still didn’t think she would sink so low.”
His father frowned at him. “Leonard—”
Shaking his head, Leo said, “Can’t believe they’re getting married. If Samuel Beaumont didn’t have dementia, there is no way he would let his daughter marry Derek Hennessy.”
“I heard he has a very advanced case,” said Vivian, spearing a chunk of mango with her fork.
“Samuel is being cared for by round-the-clock nurses,” said Burt. “Unfortunately, he is unable to remember or comprehend one moment from the next. Samuel’s grim prognosis has been hard on Besi especially since her mother died a year-and-a-half ago.”
“So sad that her dad won’t get to walk her down the aisle,” said Vivian.
“Besi was an only child, as was her mother, Adrienne Elizabeth,” said Burt. “Samuel’s siblings are all gone, so she won’t have any family at the wedding, unfortunately.”
“When are they tying the knot?” Leo asked.
Adding a few blueberries to his steel-cut oatmeal, Burt said, “Derek and Besi plan to be married this coming Saturday, and the ceremony will take place here.”
“Here?” Leo took a swig of the Screwdriver. “In St. Killian?”
“At my home,” said Burt. “They want a sunset wedding on the beach, which will be my wedding gift to them.”
Leo stared at his father. “Are you serious?”
Frowning, Burt exhaled.
“David Hennessy has a private island in the South Pacific,” said Leo. “Why can’t Derek get married there?”
Burt said, “That’s not an option.”
Leo questioned, “Why not?”
“Leonard, the arrangements have already been made,” said Burt. “Invitations have been sent, and guests are on their way.”
“A sunset wedding on the beach,” said Vivian, smiling. “How romantic.”
Burt said, “Derek, Besi,
and their wedding party of six will arrive tomorrow, and I’ll be hosting them for the week leading up to the ceremony.”
Grunting, Leo took another long gulp of his drink.
“Leonard, if you’ll recall, I mentioned that I needed to warn you about something,” said Burt, his smile predatory. “I expect you to attend Derek’s wedding, and I must warn you that if you don’t—“
“If I don’t, then what?” Leo asked, his irritation quickly turning to ire.
Burt sighed. “Leonard, if you don’t attend the wedding, then Derek will be very disappointed. Despite your animosity toward him, he has always been very fond of you. He looks up to you and, believe it or not, he regards you as a brother. Your presence would mean the world to him, so I am sure I can count on you to put aside your bitterness for his benefit on such a grand and auspicious occasion.”
2
“Where’s Derek Hennessy?” Vivian asked Leo, who leaned over the waist-high balcony of the east terrace, where they stood, on the third level of Burt’s sprawling mansion.
Below them, gathered around the infinity pool, more than a hundred guests milled about, laughing and mingling, enjoying the festive atmosphere of the cocktail party, thrown by Burt, to welcome Derek Hennessy and his bride-to-be, Bessemer “Besi” Beaumont.
