by Cindy Davis
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The Wild Rose Press
www.thewildrosepress.com
Copyright ©2008 by Cindy Davis
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
What people are saying about
Final Masquerade
Dedication
Prelude to a Kill
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
A word about the author...
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His lips brushed her left ear...
As she waited at the crosswalk two blocks west of her hotel, the familiar sound of a diesel engine welled behind her. Paige spun around, crashing into a dark suited gentleman with a cell phone to one ear. The phone clattered to the sidewalk and broke in dozens of pieces. She muttered an apology as a bright yellow tractor-trailer bore down on the intersection. Paige stepped off the sidewalk and into the street.
The semi screamed to a stop not two inches from her left shoulder. Immediately horns began honking. Paige, who'd frozen at the sight of the shiny chrome grill in her face, felt herself being wrapped in strong arms and dragged onto the sidewalk.
She knew she was sobbing but couldn't hear the sound of it over the horns and the shouting. She melted against the plaid cotton shirt. The arms tightened. His head bent against hers.
"Chris."
His lips brushed her left ear. “I've looked everywhere for you."
A loud pop. Then another. Something screeched past her ear. Paige was suddenly heaved sideways. Her elbow jolted up into her shoulder as she slammed to the sidewalk. More gunshots rang out. Something heavy landed on top of her, punching the air from her lungs.
What people are saying about
Final Masquerade...
Review By: Sherry Derr-Wille
Cindy Davis has woven an intriguing story with more twists and turns than the ribbon of highway that takes her from coast to coast. This is a must read for any lover of suspense and mystery. A real page-turner, FINAL MASQUERADE, will hold your interest from its unpredictable beginning to its surprising end.
Inside The Cover Book Reviews
Review by: Amy Brozio-Andrews
The book never meanders into unrealistic plot twists; the drama of an ordinary woman finding herself in an extraordinary situation is suspenseful enough, and Cindy Davis has written a novel sure to keep readers turning pages long past their bedtimes.
Review by Tammy Falkner
Cindy Davis creates a fantastic story of betrayal, suspense and intrigue in FINAL MASQUERADE. The tension in this novel makes this book hard to put down. The reader suffers along with Paige as she tries to make a new life for herself and feels her pain when she leaves friends behind each time she is found again. This reader would like more detail at the end of the novel but it was well worth the time it took to turn the pages. Cindy Davis has certainly created a winner with this novel.
Review by: Romance Junkies
While the romance between Paige and Chris comes to fruition in the most roundabout way I have ever read in a romance, this is, at its core, a story about a woman who finds her life as she runs for her life. I found myself cheering on this gutsy and brave lady as she refused to give up in her quest for freedom from her past and for a future she could call her own.
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Final Masquerade
by
Cindy Davis
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Final Masquerade
COPYRIGHT ©
2008 by Cindy Davis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2008
Print ISBN 1-60154-230-5
Published in the United States of America
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Dedication
My thanks go out in particular to my writers group,
who nixed the original short version of this story. “Bah!” they said, “there's too much here for a short story."
So, to you Tom, Bev, Fran, Jean and Dee
—here's the long story.
Special thanks to Lyn and Patrice
for reading early drafts with as much attention as if they'd been the final product.
Eternal thanks to Bob.
Couldn't have done it without you!
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Prelude to a Kill
If Paige Carmichael hadn't been standing in the doorway of Stefano's office, she probably wouldn't have heard the sound of the gunshot in the huge rambling mansion. As it was, the heavy velour drapes, thick oak paneling, and deep pile carpet muffled the sharp crack.
She'd seen the lights in Stefano's office as her limo flew up the drive, returning her from the theater. Luther Vincent's car was parked under the portico. She knew she'd find the two of them in the office, feet propped on the shiny oak desk, tossing back Jack Daniels, and laughing at the success of their most recent numbers-running scam. Luther Vincent, head of LA's crime syndicate, and Stefano Santangelo, his best friend and second in command.
Paige stopped in the hallway, intending to say goodnight before heading upstairs. The door stood open just a couple of inches, but it was far enough for Paige to see Stefano jab the gun in Luther's chest and pull the trigger. Luther's two-sixty plus crumpled in a heap on the maroon carpet, his dark eyes holding equal measures of pain and bewilderment.
Paige watched on legs of jelly as Stefano picked up the phone and pushed a single button. “Vito,” he said, “get upstairs. I got a mess for you to clean up,” as calmly as if he were orde
ring pizza.
She eased the door shut, steeling herself when Stefano's eyes flicked in her direction. Forcing her feet to move, she ran lightly up the circular staircase, closed, and locked her bedroom door. She leaned against the raised panels, eyes closed, chest heaving, trying to force the image of Stefano's deed from her mind. She'd never seen anyone die before—except on television—and this certainly wasn't the same thing. This was perpetrated by her lover, her friend, the man she planned to marry in just three weeks. How could she now?
They'd met four years ago at a performance of Les Miserables. He was the most elegant, passionate, and exciting man she'd met in a long time. Three months later, she'd moved into his fabulous Santa Barbara estate overlooking the bright blue Pacific. Paige knew what he did for a living: laundering money, high interest loans, and numbers-running—not killing, never killing—he'd promised. And now this.
She sat in the dark, staring out at the twinkling stars, wondering how her life could have gone so wrong. Luther was Stefano's best friend. How could anyone kill his best friend? If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes...
It was after two a.m. when Vito's taillights disappeared down the crushed oyster shell drive, and another three quarters of an hour before Stefano's bedroom door clicked shut at the other end of the hall.
Paige waited through sixty changes of the digital clock, wondering when he'd come to her, what he'd say. Would he care that she knew what he'd done? He knew she loved him; he could trust her. Right?
But this was murder.
She nodded, agreeing with herself. Murder was different. When the big guys got wind of this, it would blow like Mount St. Helens. She hadn't made too big a deal when he told her what he did for a living. He'd been so nonchalant about it, she hadn't questioned further. How stupid was she not to realize murder was involved? If someone didn't pay up—poof, they flew over the Santa Barbara cliffs into the pounding blue Pacific.
She had to leave before he got it in his head to take care of her too. They did that to witnesses, right?
But after investing four years of her life, she wasn't leaving empty handed.
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One
By five a.m. Paige was finished packing. She stashed the suitcase and two things appropriated from Stefano's safe in the recesses of her shoe closet. Stifling the urge to climb into her Mercedes and speed off to Mexico, she lay awake, staring at the ocean's reflection on the ceiling, watching the undulations of the bashing waves, until the first beep of the alarm at 6:30.
She was nursing her second cup of coffee when Stefano sauntered into the dining room, a handsome figure in tan Armani. She was barely able to contain her disgust when he kissed her on the cheek and slid into the padded chair at the opposite end of the long polished table.
Carlotta poured his coffee and filled his plate from the silver dishes on the sideboard, then departed. Between tall silver candlestick stems, Paige watched him open the paper and begin to read, holding it in his right hand while the left occasionally moved a morsel of food to his mouth. Stefano usually ate like a horse in the mornings. Why wasn't he eating today?
"Something wrong?” he asked, not raising his eyes from the headlines.
"Er, no. I, er ... just woman troubles."
He folded the paper, laid it aside, pushed away the half empty plate, and leaned forward on his elbows. “You sure there's nothing wrong? Nothing you want to talk about?"
Paige's insides contracted; the half muffin she'd eaten turned a somersault and sent a current of acid into her throat. Slowly, deliberately, she pretended to think about his question. “No. Nothing I can think of.” Had she put too much intonation in the sentence? Not looked certain enough? If so, he didn't seem to notice.
Stefano rose. Instead of picking up his briefcase and heading out the door, he strode the length of the table, raised her chin roughly in his left hand, and kissed her lips, pressing his mouth hard into hers.
She gazed into his gray eyes. Eyes that, before last night, she hadn't realized held such disregard for others. He finally unclenched his fingertips from her chin. Five tingling sites sent his message to her brain. It was a message she understood well.
"You look exquisite this morning. Why don't we do the town tonight?” He slipped his wallet from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and tossed a wad of bills on her plate. “Get yourself something slinky—um, blue. I want to see you in blue today.” He kissed her again, first on one cheek and then the other. “See you at seven."
She forced her lips into a smile and nodded.
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By eight a.m., instead of wandering barefoot along miles of silky sand beach, picking up the occasional conch shell, and filling her lungs with salty morning air, Paige was transferring a white number 10 envelope and Gucci overnight bag from her closet to her trunk. She had to make a second trip for the thickly wrapped package, about the size and weight of a cinder block. Its heft made her feel both uneasy and secure as it thumped down into the trunk. She put the envelope on the front seat, then settled herself in the drivers’ seat.
Without looking back, she steered the freshly waxed Mercedes between the marble columns, down the driveway, and north on Route 101. She had to be quick, but rational, without drawing attention to herself. Paige stopped only once, at the post office to mail the letter and ponderous package containing $650,000, taken at 4:15 a.m., from Stefano's office safe. The act brought tears to her eyes. She dabbed at them with her fingertips.
Normally Paige loved traveling this highway through Santa Maria and Mission San Luis Obispo. Many evenings while Stefano was busy with another of his perpetual meetings, Paige would go for a drive, stop, and sit on the steep cliffs to watch the kaleidoscope sunset drop into the roiling black Pacific.
She steered with a white-knuckled left hand while the right drummed nervously on the console. Bronze eyes darted often to the mirrors, memorizing the vehicles both ahead and behind, not knowing what she'd do if she spotted one that appeared to be tailing her, but needing to know all the same.
She stayed to the left at San Luis Obispo letting the tourists with their recreational vehicles, surfboards, and jet skis, exit for the Pacific Coast Highway. Sweat trickled from her underarms and soaked her bra.
The ocean breeze teased her billowy blue-black tresses, occasionally sending a stray strand across her nose. She turned the radio to a soft rock station, frowned, and searched for something with a beat, stopping when she came to an Oldies station. Paige smiled and her drumming became more rhythmic. She even broke into tune, singing in a strong contralto voice, suddenly stopping mid-word and pulling to the side of the thoroughfare. The tires skidded on the loose-graveled shoulder.
She laid her forehead on the steering wheel. What had she been thinking? When he realized she was gone, he'd check his safe and see what was missing. Then he wouldn't stop until he found her—and did the same thing he'd done to Luther. Her body trembled while cars whizzed past, oblivious to the angst in the silver Mercedes on the side of the road. There was still time to go back. She could put the remaining hundred thousand back in the safe, go to the spa, act like nothing ever happened; ride this thing out. Maybe he really wouldn't care that she knew about Luther. Maybe this morning he was just feeling her out, seeing how she'd react.
A light pressure on her left shoulder startled her so that she almost hit her head on the ceiling as she instinctively threw off the hand reaching for her. A sharp shriek escaped ruby lips, one hand groped for the button to shut the window; the other attempted to shift the car into gear.
"Stop!” commanded a voice as fingers clamped like claws into her flesh.
Her car shot forward several feet. The hand didn't let go, its owner ran alongside the vehicle. The firm, deep voice said, “Ma'am. Stop."
In the left side mirror Paige caught a glimpse of the crisp tan uniform of a California Highway Patrolman. She blew out the breath she'd been holding and braked, dropping her forehead down on the steering wheel
. Stefano couldn't have discovered her disappearance yet; he had a meeting at nine. She'd timed everything so carefully. The only one who saw her leave was Carlotta, and Paige had told her she was flying to Oakland to go shopping. Stefano wanted her to buy a blue dress. No one ever batted and eyelash when she went shopping.
Paige lifted her head and leaned part way out the window, memorizing the officer's name and badge number. Why, she didn't know; if he worked for Stefano, what difference would knowing his name make? She'd be dead before she could report it. She blotted her hands on her slacks. “What is it?"
His lips remained in a tight line. “License and registration, please."
"What did I do?” Paige leaned across the seat and yanked a leather case from her purse, then slashed it toward him.
"Take them out of the case, please."
Paige sighed and slipped the items from the plastic holder and pushed them out the window. She watched in the rearview mirror as he got back in his cruiser. Officer Shea's mouth was partially hidden behind his microphone, but she could tell he was talking to someone. She sighed. An image of her Mercedes’ tires squealing and a high-speed chase flashed through her head. Paige shook the vision away and drummed her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.
Many minutes later, he returned, bending to hand her belongings through the window. “Would you get out of the car, please?"
"What?"
"Get out of the car, ma'am. Now."
Paige's next thought caused her fair skin to blanch and her hands to cling tightly to the steering wheel. He wasn't a cop at all. Another vision popped into her brain: being herded into the back seat of the patrol car, driven into the desert, and disposed of.
Heart racing, she unhooked the seat belt and fumbled with the door latch, eyes scanning for a possible escape route. Down the highway? Surely he wouldn't shoot her with so many witnesses. Over the railing? Maybe she could disappear in the thicket below.
"What's going on, officer?"
Officer Shea backed several feet as she climbed from the car, the heels of her black Corredo Marettas sinking into the stony gravel. An insistent pinging reminded them both that her door was still open.
