EXPOSED
Rhonda Pollero
New York Boston
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Rhonda Pollero
Excerpt from Abandoned copyright © 2016 by Rhonda Pollero
Cover design by Brian Lemus
Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
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Forever Yours
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First published as an ebook and as a print on demand: February 2017
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ISBN 978-1-4555-5538-3 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-4555-9761-1 (print on demand)
E3-20170103-DA-NF
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A Preview of ABANDONED
About the Author
Also by Rhonda Pollero
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Newsletters
In loving memory of Russell Victor Pollero
March 9, 1947–June 4, 2014
His laughter was contagious and he was the life of the party (unless I was telling my emu story). He is sorely missed.
CHAPTER ONE
Darby’s eyes darted around the table, checking and rechecking the two place settings. The placemats were exactly an inch from the beveled edge of the glass table top. Wine glasses and water goblets were precisely placed. Utensils, hand-polished and sparkling, were laid out with precision. She lit the three candles, symmetrically arranged in descending order and then crouched down to make sure the flames flickered at exactly the correct height.
The oven timer chimed. Darby tucked her blond ponytail into the collar of her shirt, stuck a potholder on one hand and eased open the oven door. The smell of fresh yeast rolls escaped on a rush of hot air. Lifting the pan out of the oven, she placed it on a trivet next to the cook top on the center island.
The kitchen, the entire house in fact, was immaculate to the point of being austere. Like most homes in the exclusive enclave of Sewell’s Point on Florida’s Treasure Coast, the house had a large, open floor plan with picturesque views of the intracoastal. Hutchinson Island, a thin strip of barrier island, separated Sewell’s Point from the Atlantic Ocean. It served a more important purpose, buffering the estate homes from the ravages of a direct hit from the hurricanes that roared in from time to time.
Of the five bedrooms, two had been converted into home offices. The master suite was spacious and the decorator had selected a Havana-style décor for the room. It was all muted greens, distressed wood, glass and iron. The only personal item was an eight-by-ten print of the formal engagement portrait that had appeared in the paper nearly fourteen months earlier.
Leaving the rolls to cool, Darby walked through the combination living room-dining room, down the long, narrow hallway. She stopped to absently pluck a slightly wilted petal from one of three dozen roses that had been delivered the day before. She swallowed a wave of nausea as the sweet, heavy perfume of the flowers surrounded her. Normally she enjoyed the scent of fresh flowers, but ever since becoming pregnant she’d found the odor revolting.
Turning the knob, she opened the door adjacent to the master suite and smiled. A soft, pastel mural with fairies and dragonflies had been painted earlier that day and this was the first chance she’d had to admire the artwork. It was perfect. Eventually, she’d have the remaining white walls painted some shade of pink. Or maybe green. She needed to make up her mind. The baby was due next month. Not much time left to procrastinate.
Speaking of time, she glanced down at her watch as she closed the door to the as-yet unfurnished room and went back to the kitchen. A rather uncooperative schnauzer had thrown her schedule off, so she had to keep moving in order to get dinner on the table at nine P.M. sharp. The keep-moving part was proving to be difficult since her belly had expanded. Carrying around the extra weight and girth, coupled with the long hours she worked as a vet, Darby was finding it a challenge to juggle everything that had to get done.
Taking the fresh asparagus from the refrigerator, she gently broke off the woody ends. Spreading the pencil-thin tips in a single layer in a dish, she chopped garlic, added that and some salt and pepper, and then tossed the vegetables with olive oil before placing them in the oven to roast. It wasn’t until she lifted the lid on the double boiler that she realized she’d forgotten to turn the heat down on the burner. A good quarter of an inch of hollandaise sauce was scorched and crusted onto the bottom of the pot. “Beyond saving,” she muttered.
Her heart rate increased as she furiously worked to wash and dry the pan, and then hang it back on the gourmet rack suspended from the ceiling. Darby used a half dozen paper towels to dry and polish the basin of the sink. At eight fifty-six, she dressed the salad and placed it on the kitchen table. Pulling a bottle of Alsatian Sélection des Grains Nobles from the chiller, she filled the Barona wine cooler with ice, then set it on the table next to the salad bowl.
At one minute before the hour, she heard the mechanical hum of the electric garage door opening. Darby plated the poached salmon and arranged lemon slices in a semi-circle around the platter. Taking the potatoes from the rarely used microwave, she placed them on a small serving dish, then reached for the breadbasket on her fourth trip from the table. She tossed rolls in as she went to retrieve the asparagus.
The minute she heard the door slam, she felt that sick knot of dread lodged in her throat. She turned and did one more visual scan of the table. Perfect. Just the way he wanted it.
Plastering a smile on her face as she pulled the elastic tie from her hair before giving it a fingertip fluff, she turned, folded her hands over the bulge of her stomach in an almost protective gesture, then waited for him to come through the garage entrance.
Sean Grisom was tall, muscular, handsome and smart. Light brown hair framed his darkly tanned skin. His shoulders were broad without being overly muscled. Thanks to good genes, he had a trim frame built for the designer clothing he favored. As usual, he didn
’t have a hair out of place.
That was one of the things that Darby had noticed about him at their initial meeting. He’d walked into her clinic, carrying a stray dog he’d found injured on the side of the road, and even under those circumstances he hadn’t had so much as a speck of blood or dirt on him. When he’d asked for her help his voice had been deep and smooth, but it was his eyes that had melted her on the spot. When Sean Grisom looked at you, he was totally engaged—as if there wasn’t another person on the planet. He was generous, too, promising to pay for whatever treatment the dog needed if she would just help him before the poor mutt died from his injuries.
To an animal lover like Darby, hearing the concern in his deep, sensual voice was payment enough. Of course she treated the dog. Some jerk had shot the poor thing with a BB gun. The surgery had been fairly simple and when she was finished, she was surprised to see that Sean had stayed, waiting patiently on news of a dog that wasn’t even his. The next thing she knew; they were having dinner. Six weeks later, they were married.
“You worked late again,” Sean said.
His voice was still deep but instead of smooth, it was laced with thinly veiled censure. Faux concern etched between his brows. A little over a year into the marriage and Darby knew him well enough to know that everything about this man was calculated and played precisely for whomever his audience happened to be at that moment in time.
Maintaining eye contact, she shrugged. “I had a problem patient but I was only there a little late.” Ten minutes talking to a frightened little girl about her old dog’s death. A few minutes well spent, as far as Darby was concerned. Except Sean wouldn’t see it that way. Nobody should be more important to her than her husband.
“We’ve talked about this,” Sean kissed her cheek as he placed his hand on her belly. “You’re pregnant, Darby. It’s time you stopped working. That’s my child you’re stressing.”
“Pregnant, not disabled,” she teased, hoping to ease the tension as she moved away from him to get the asparagus before they lost their crunch. “Would you open the wine, please?”
Sean went to the table and uncorked the bottle with practiced finesse. “Have some with me.”
“I shouldn’t,” she said, adding the vegetable dish to the table.
“One glass a week,” Sean countered, reciting the passage he’d read in one of her pregnancy primers.
She shook her head. “I had a glass at the restaurant two days ago, remember? Besides, I’m tired and wine would put me right to sleep.”
“You’re tired because you stand on your feet all day taking care of pampered pets when you should be here, at home.”
What could she say? They’d had this argument many times since she’d found out she was pregnant. It always ended the same way—badly. While she was happy about the baby, the pregnancy had been unexpected. She’d been religious in taking her birth control pills but apparently she was part of the point-zero-one percent exception that proved the rule. Giving up her veterinary practice would mean giving up the only piece of herself she had left.
“I’ll get a second wind,” she promised as she sat in her usual chair and unfolded her napkin. She needed to steer him away from the whole working conversation. A knot was forming in her stomach and she felt the beginning of fear. For her safety and the safety of her baby, she had to calm Sean down before this took a serious left turn. So with a calm belying her true fear, she asked, “How are things at the restaurant tonight?”
Sean’s eyes narrowed. “Is that some sort of polite way of pointing out that your practice is thriving while my business is stagnant?”
“Of course not,” she said as her heart rate began to quicken. She took his plate to serve him so it would be ready when he sat down to join her. “I was just making conversation.” Conversation she hoped would keep him from exploding.
“A new restaurant takes time to build a clientele.”
“I understand that.” Darby placed a portion of fish on his plate.
“It’s going to take time.”
She added vegetables and a potato. She tried to sound positive. “It’ll be a success.”
He glared at her. “Don’t patronize me, Darby. I’ve got serious cash flow problems. Unlike you, I can’t serve my guests kibbles and bits.”
She drew in a breath and said mildly, “I’d be happy to write another check.” Her trust fund was just sitting there. She didn’t begrudge him the seed money for the restaurant. Paying him was a far better option than suffering the wrath of Sean.
“I need more than your monthly draw. Almost all of my vendors have upped their prices; some doubled, tripled the prices they were charging a few weeks ago.” He began to pace. “If this guy I’m meeting in New York in the morning doesn’t come through, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep the doors open for more than a month or so.”
“You don’t have to go to New York with your hat in your hand, Sean. I can ask my father to increase my allotment.”
“Right,” he spat, standing perfectly still as his fingers went white where he gripped the back of his chair. “Run to Daddy and tell him I can’t support you.”
“It’s my money, Sean,” she said as she reached out to pat his arm with her hand. “He’s just the trustee and anyway, my father understands a new business requires cash. He knows there are times when you have to spend it to make it. And it is only money. He’ll understand. He’s a very—”
It took a second for Darby’s brain to put it all together. Her cheek was on fire. She was on the ground, the chair teetering on top of her. The back of her head hurt where she’d hit the tile floor. As if in slow motion, she looked up in time to see Sean lifting the edge of the table.
Scrambling to her knees, she skidded along the floor as plates and food rained down on top of her. Shards of glass pelted her skin like a thousand tiny pebbles as the tabletop crashed down, shattering all around her. Darby was vaguely aware of screaming as she curled into a fetal position when Sean yanked the chair off her and flung it through the air. It landed with a thud against the back of the family room sofa.
Then he was standing over her, his feet planted on either side of her body. He began thrashing her with something—the placemat, maybe. All she knew was that each successive snap of fabric bit her through her clothing.
“You stupid, stupid bitch!” Sean yelled.
“Sean!” she called, wrapping her arms around her belly as the beating continued. “I’m sorry. Stop!”
She pleaded with him, whimpering over and over. There was no response in his vacant eyes as they narrowed while he continued to thrash at her torso.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. Just like always. Only this time was somehow different. It was the first time he’d attacked her while she was pregnant. She lay there, terrified, wondering if this was just the calm before the storm, or if he still intended to dole out more punishment.
Sean stepped away, tossed the napkin in the pile of food and debris, and then straightened his tie and smoothed his hair.
Darby remained cowering in the corner, following his every move like the trapped animal she was. When he reached for her, she flinched. Annoyance and disbelief were clearly painted on his features.
“Take my hand.”
Hesitating for only a second, she reluctantly took the hand he offered. Gently, he helped her to her feet and made sure she didn’t lose her footing or cut herself on the glass and food strewn all over the alcove. Sean circled her in his arms and forced her cheek to rest against his chest. She felt his heartbeat. It was even and rhythmic. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought she’d imagined the whole ugly scene.
The feel of his hand stroking her hair as he kissed the top of her head made her skin crawl but she didn’t dare pull away. Not when she was this vulnerable. Not when one well-placed punch could harm or kill her unborn baby.
Darby wondered how she’d gotten to this point in her life. She woke up in the morning afraid and fear followed her to
bed every night. The only time she felt safe anymore was when she was at work. It was her haven. And yet here she stood, in the arms of her abusive husband, wondering for the umpteenth time how she could get out of this hell of a marriage.
“I forgive you,” Sean said.
“W-what?” Darby was startled. What did she have to be sorry for?
Bracketing her shoulders in his hands, he set her back a foot or so and flashed her a brilliant smile. “It’s okay,” he said, using his fingertip to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”
“D-do what?”
“Burn the hollandaise.” His finger hooked beneath her chin and he pushed her face up so their eyes met. “I smelled it the minute I walked into the kitchen. You should know better than to try to hide things from me, Darby. That’s not how a marriage works. Now, come help me finish packing. I have to stop by the restaurant to pick up Roxanne on my way to the airport.”
Darby was fairly sure he was taking Roxanne along for more than just assistance. She was also well beyond caring. As far as Darby was concerned, Roxanne was welcome to him.
“I think taking my assistant along will impress this guy. Send the right message, you know? After all, the key to this kind of deal is making the other guy think you’re doing him a favor by letting him get in on the ground floor.”
* * *
An hour later, sobbing, Darby dialed the phone, hiccupping as she struggled to speak. “M-Mom?”
“Darby, honey, what’s wrong? Is it the baby?” her mother asked. “Will! Pick up the extension. Something’s wrong with Darby and the baby.”
Then her dad was on the line. “Did you call your doctor?”
“Not…the…baby.” She hugged her belly protectively. “It’s Sean.”
“Something happened to Sean? Is he hurt?”
“No, Mom. He…he hit me.”
“That son of a bitch,” her dad said. “Where is he now?”
She could almost imagine her father’s gritted teeth and see his blue eyes narrowed with fury. “Gone. Business trip.”
Exposed Page 1
