BLACK WIDOW (Book #1 of The Black Widow Series)

by Jenni Moen

  I held up my toothbrush and hairbrush. “Give me a second to improve my situation.” I needed a moment to myself to figure out what to tell him.

  His gaze didn’t waver as I walked to the bathroom. When I pulled the door shut behind me, I wondered if I could hide in there forever.

  At the sight in the mirror, I did a double take. The rocky ground below the ledge had definitely left its mark on me. I inspected the angry looking lump on my forehead. It was large and purple, and no amount of makeup was going to cover it up. My tumble over the rocks and brush left my arms and legs covered in scratches. Dirt was smeared across my cheeks and thighs.

  I sighed at my reflection. At least, the dirt was fixable. I abandoned the hairbrush. There was nothing it could do for me in my current state. What I needed was a good scrubbing and some hair conditioner. While the water in the shower warmed up, I brushed my teeth and felt marginally better.

  As I stepped into the tub, I listened for any sound from the bedroom, but it was silent. Scott must've gone back to reading. The thought of the big guy reading my book brought a smile to my face, but it was short lived.

  The scratches burned when the water hit them, but I couldn’t complain about the sting. I was alive, and from what I remembered, that was an accomplishment. I washed, trying to think of something else—anything else—but when I closed my eyes, the memories caught up with me.

  A familiar ache formed in my chest, and years of disappointment settled on my shoulders. I placed my hands on the shower wall, leaned my forehead against the cool tile, and sobbed. The steam from the shower clouded my mind, but it couldn’t protect me from the truth. Scott had said a man had pushed me. I didn’t need to know who he was because I knew who had paid him.

  There will be consequences, my father had said.

  I hadn’t shown up for dinner two nights ago, and then I’d made the mistake of telling him about Scott. Was this the price of my insubordination? What would he do if I didn’t show up at the benefit on Friday? Or was he counting on me not being alive to attend?

  I’d been dealing with his controlling, meddling ways my entire life, but this rose to a whole new level of evil. My tears mingled with the shower water as I devised my own plan. I would show him consequences.

  A battle cry escaped from somewhere deep inside me, but the moan must’ve not been the first. The water shut off and strong hands wrapped a towel around me. Without a word, Scott lifted me into his arms and carried me into the bedroom.

  He laid me on the bed and slid in behind me. He pulled the covers over us, and I realized how utterly cold I was. Strong arms slipped around me and pulled me into his warmth. The comfort was more than I could bear. It set off another round of tears.

  If I had to be anywhere, I wanted to be here. But I knew he wouldn’t let me stay silent. He wanted answers, and he deserved them after what I’d put him through.

  But, oh, how I dreaded it. When he found out how dysfunctional my family was, a week with me would be too long.

  "Tell me,” he finally said when I’d gained some composure.

  I opened my mouth, but doubt wove its vicious tentacles around my heart. I closed my eyes and braced myself. “I think my father is trying to get rid of me.”

  HIM

  "Get rid of you?" I asked.

  It wasn't that I didn't believe someone was after her. Obviously, someone was. But her own father?

  I shouldn't have been surprised. During my life, I'd witnessed the most appalling of acts. I'd faced off with the darkest side of humanity. I knew too well the sick and twisted things humans were capable of. All I had to do was look in the mirror for an example. But I had trouble believing her father, someone who’d had Celeste’s entire life to get to know and appreciate all of the things about her I was only beginning to learn, could do such a thing.

  Something occurred to me. "Celeste, when you said ‘he put you up to this’ on the mountain, were you talking about your father? Did you think I might be working for him?”

  She twisted beneath the blankets to face me. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone got close to me to do my father’s bidding.”

  “I would never hurt you. You can count on that. Why would he do this?”

  She nodded and took a deep breath. "I told you about my trust. Well, in addition to a rather large sum of cash, it also includes a decent portion of Smythe."

  Smythe’s primary focus was luxury hotels and resorts, but I knew they were into a lot more than that. Multi-family housing being one of the main ones. The company was worth billions. Celeste was probably worth millions.

  "I didn't want you to know." Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  "Why?"

  "You already think I'm a spoiled little rich girl. This certainly isn't going to convince you otherwise."

  I shook my head adamantly. "I should've never said that to you. I was pissed off about the apartment, but you’ve never acted like a spoiled rich girl. And so what if you had; it would’ve still been out of line." I brushed her tangled wet hair over her shoulder.

  She smiled sadly and rolled on to her back to stare at the ceiling. "My grandfather set them up for my sister and me but didn’t give us any control over the trusts until our thirtieth birthdays."

  "Which is when?" I asked.

  "August second. Until then, the executor oversees everything. To be honest, I've never taken much of an interest in the business; something that has always irked my dad." She rolled back onto her side and tucked her free hand under her face.

  "At least, he likes to play it that way, but I know he doesn’t want to spend every day working with me any more than I want to with him. He complains about my lack of work ethic, but it’s all for show. Just like everything else."

  "So why go so far as to hurt you if you don't care about it?"

  "Up until recently, he's been able to do whatever he wants without any interference. He was good friends with the former trustee of my trust, and I'm pretty sure the votes were always cast exactly how he wanted them to be."

  "What changed?”

  "A new trustee was appointed about a year ago. He's not as deferential as my father would like."

  "And in a few months, you can make your own decisions, and you also may not be as deferential," I guessed. "So what happens if something happens to you before your birthday?"

  "My interest passes to him and my mother since I don’t have an heir."

  I ran my thumb across her cheek, and her eyes drifted closed. I couldn't imagine what she was feeling. My pop would've happily sacrificed his own life for any one of his kids. No amount of money or stock options or anything else could ever change that. It was the way a father's love was supposed to be. Devoted, unwavering, and unconditional.

  "We need to leave," I said, my mind made up. The plan Luke and I had come up with earlier was the only option.

  Her eyes flew open. "And go where? I don’t want to go home.”

  I could understand why the idea terrified her. "No, no. I’m not taking you home. We have the name of the guy we who pushed you from the cliff, but they haven't caught him yet."

  "What's his name?" she asked.

  "David Burris."

  "David Burris," she repeated softly, shaking her head.

  "Maybe he just wanted to send a message, but I’m afraid he’s still watching us and waiting for another opportunity to come after you. There are too many hidden spots in these woods. I can't keep you safe here."

  She pulled closer to me. "Then where will we go?"

  "Chicago."

  Her body tightened against me. "What?" she asked, her voice rising in disbelief. “He’ll find us there.”

  “No, he won’t. I got us a hotel room near the river. We’ll blend in with the tourists and get lost for a few days while we wait for the police to pick Burris up. With any luck, he’ll squeal on your father."

  “So you want to hide in plain sight?”

  “No one will think to look for us there, and if they do … I've
got people close by who can help us. I won’t let him hurt you."

  "What about your brother? Will they come too?"

  "It will be better if it's just the two of us. Burris saw us all traveling together." I was actually a little bit disappointed that we were splitting up, but it made logistical sense. He and Sierra were going to travel up around the lake somewhere like he’d originally planned and throw Celeste’s dad off in case he was tracking my credit cards.

  She was silent for a few long moments as she mulled over the idea. "When?" she finally asked.

  “Now, if you’re feeling up to it.” I approached the next subject carefully. “What did you take earlier?”

  “Take?” she asked, feigning innocence, though I could tell from the guilty glint in her eyes and the flat set of her mouth, she knew what I was talking about.

  “The pills.”

  She covered her eyes with her palm and sighed. “They’re for anxiety. My doctor gave them to me after Chase died, and I’ve had to take them ever since.”

  I nodded. Elena had taken meds for years after Daniela had disappeared and then again just before the divorce. “Well, this certainly qualifies as a high-anxiety situation.” I ran my hand down her back. “So are you up for another impromptu road trip? We can be there in less than two hours.”

  She listed every reason she could think of to delay it. It’s the middle of the night. You need sleep. We should wait until morning and tell Luke and Sierra goodbye. But all I heard was her fear. My mind was made up.

  “What about the rain?” she finally asked.

  "It quit about an hour before you woke up." I looked toward the ceiling. "Thanks again, Chase."

  She laughed. "You're one of a kind, you know that? Talking to my dead husband like it's no big deal."

  "If it bothers you, I'll stop. But he’s a part of your past. I don’t want you to think you can’t talk about him. Neither of us comes without baggage."

  She rolled over on top of me, threading her legs with mine. "You're too good to be true."

  I knew better than that, but I’d let her believe it as long as I could.

  Our reservation was at the only five-star hotel that didn’t bear her name on its marquee. I knew the extravagance wasn’t necessary, and she didn’t expect it, but after what she’d been through, I figured a little spoiling was warranted.

  Based on the incredulous expression on the receptionist's face, I was fairly certain no one quite like us had ever rolled through the front door. Celeste, who under normal circumstances would’ve fit right in, had stolen a baseball cap from my bag. My jacket was slung over her shoulders, and she withdrew inside it as she looked nervously around the empty lobby.

  The woman on the opposite side of the glass desk looked mildly suspicious. I could hardly blame her. It was after four o'clock in the morning, and many of her more respectable guests were probably already rising for the day. Never in my life had I thought I'd pay eight hundred dollars for a night in a hotel room. And I'd never thought there'd come a time when doing so wouldn't give me pause. If I could get past the shock of it, surely the hotel worker could too.

  We took the elevator to the thirty-second floor and fell into bed, too exhausted to care about the thread count of the sheets or the million-dollar view of the city we covered with blackout curtains. I curled around Celeste's backside, weaved my fingers through hers, and felt safe for the first time. It was well worth the price of admission.

  HER

  I’d opened the curtains just enough to let a small sliver of light into the corner of the room where I sat. The rest of the room, including where Scott slept, was ensconced in darkness.

  I’d spent most of the day in this chair. Sometimes reading. Sometimes just staring out the window. I was disenfranchised. With the book. And the world.

  My bad mood was probably due to the fact that I could see Smythe Tower peeking over the tops of the shorter buildings that lay between here and there. If you asked me, there weren’t nearly enough buildings separating us, but I didn’t disagree with Scott’s plan. Because it wasn’t that I didn’t feel safe. I was just sad. It was as simple as that.

  While Scott slept, I’d had plenty of quiet time to myself. What had happened in Starved Rock had affected me on some sort of molecular level. I was devastated.

  Destroyed.

  Changed, though I wasn’t sure what it meant.

  I’d also run out of my medicine the day before. A careless move on my part. After everything that had happened, it was a miracle, really, that I wasn’t having a complete meltdown. But instead of feeling anxious, I felt detached. As if I were floating above the room, merely watching the sad woman below read a book about two lovers discovering themselves in each other.

  It was already Wednesday.

  I watched him while he slept. Watched his chest rise and fall under the covers. Listened to his slow breathing, steady as a heartbeat.

  It was midafternoon before he stirred. He stretched and yawned like a lazy cat before his eyes found me in the darkened room. “Hey, gorgeous.” He sounded relaxed and sleepy. Apparently, five-star hotels agreed with him.

  We shared a smile as he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom.

  I listened to the toilet flush and then the water run. When he came out, he stopped in the doorway and stretched his hands over his head, gripping the trim of the doorway above him. It was one of those moves men unknowingly do, such a casual thing but entirely magnificent. Light poured around his darkened silhouette, highlighting the angles and curves of his body and leaving me awed.

  He was powerful, strong, and unflawed.

  The complete opposite of me.

  He rubbed a hand through his tousled hair and then crossed the room to me. I moved over on the chaise to make room for him beside me. He draped an arm around my waist and pulled me closer. “You look upset.”

  “No,” I lied. “I was just doing some reading. And a little thinking.”

  “Sounds dangerous.” His voice was still rough and raspy from sleep.

  I tossed the book to the side.

  “Hey, don’t defile the book. I’ve grown sort of fond of it,” he said, picking it up and flipping to where my bookmark lay inside. He skimmed a page. “Her fiancé is about to show up. Don't you want to know what happens?"

  "Obviously, she'll choose Samson and everything will be exactly as it should be." There was an edge to my voice.

  "You think she should go back to her fiancé?" he asked, surprised.

  It was the Casablanca conversation all over again. Fitting.

  "No, she should choose Samson. He's handsome and smart, and the best lover she's ever had."

  He looked over at me with a signature Scott smirk. "Are you sure you’re still describing Samson?"

  I smiled. "Sometimes, it's hard to tell the difference. It’s a terrible bookwormish hazard, confusing fiction and reality.”

  He picked up my hand, flipped it over, and kissed my wrist. "So they’ll get their happy ending. Isn’t that why you’re reading it?”

  I sighed. "Usually. But it will end like all of the others. She'll choose Samson, and then they'll ride off into the sunset together. They'll get married, have two-point-five perfect kids, and grow old together."

  "And you don't want that for them?"

  "Of course, I do. It's what we all want, right? The elusive fairy-tale ending."

  He shrugged. "Except for the perfect kids part, I guess so."

  He’d surprised me. "You don't want perfect kids, or you don’t want kids at all?" I asked.

  "Not at all." He arched a brow and studied my face for my reaction.

  I’d finally discovered why this perfectly good man was single. I mean, I knew he had commitment issues because of his ex-wife. He’d been honest about that, but it was possible no woman who’d come along before me had put in the effort to help him get over those issues because he had bigger ones. For most women, the promise of kids or the refusal of them was a deal breaker.


  I wasn’t most women.

  "Why not?" I asked. "You seem to really love your nieces and nephews."

  "I do. They're amazing little monsters."

  "But you don't want your own little monsters? Some perfect, little dark-haired boy with disarming blue eyes who wants to grow up to be a cop just like his daddy?"

  "Especially not that."

  "Why?"

  He rolled onto his back and propped his head in his hand. "I've seen too much. There's so much evil in the world. It's nearly impossible to protect kids these days, and I've seen what happens when you fail."

  "But there's a lot of good in the world, too, Scott. You're good."

  "So are you. You'd make a great mother one day if that's what you want." He was giving me an out.

  "I don't want kids, either,” I said flatly. It was why I’d always insisted on a condom with every man before him even though I was on the pill. I couldn’t take any chances.

  "You’ve seen how dysfunctional my family is. I can’t bring an innocent child into this madness. I don’t have the first clue what normal is. How could I even try to create it?"

  I looked out the window at Smythe Tower, dark and looming in the bright Chicago sky.

  He massaged my hand, rubbing small circles in my palm with his thumb. “I completely get it. In fact, it's one more thing we agree on. You know, not every happy ending is a fairy tale, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a happy one. If you don’t like the book’s ending, write your own."

  “I did once,” I said.

  “I bet it would be a bestseller.”

  “It was.”

  He sat up. A grin spread across his face. “You’re serious, aren’t you? What kind of book?"

  “A filthy romance novel. You like those. If you really want to know, it was a romantic thriller. Think Week with a Stranger meets Rear Window."

  "So sexy murder?"

  "Most books have some element of romance in them. Even horror. Love is a powerful motivator. People will go to crazy lengths for it."

  He lay back down again. "I can certainly attest to that. Is it published?"

  "Yes.”