Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author
CHEYENNE MCCRAY
THE FIRST SIN
“Has it all—action, romance, eroticism, and a compelling plot.”
—A Romance Review
“A sexy, fast-paced action-packed adventure.”
—Night Owl Romance
“A gritty tale of suspense, The First Sin will keep readers on the edge of their seats. A gripping story.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“[McCray] launches a gritty and scorchingly sexy suspense series. McCray truly kicks butt and takes names!”
—RT BOOKreviews
DARK MAGIC
Winner, RT BOOKreviews Reviewer’s
Choice Award for Best Paranormal
Action Adventure of the Year
“McCray does a stellar job layering the danger, passion and betrayal. Awesome!”
RT BOOKreviews
(Top Pick, 4½ stars)
“Action, romance, suspense, love, betrayal, sacrifice, magic, and sex appeal to the nth degree! Her heroines kick butt and run the gamut from feminine to tomboy, and her heroes . . . well, they’re all 200% grade-A male. YUM! Her love scenes left me breathless (and wanting a cigarette) and I’m surprised I have any nails left after the suspense in this last book.”
—Queue My Review
“Vivid battles, deceit that digs deep into the coven, and a love that can’t be denied.”
—Night Owl Romance
“Besides a fabulous finish to a great urban fantasy that subgenre fans will relish as one of the best series over the past few years, the romance is the one readers have been waiting to see how it plays out since almost the beginning. Master magician Cheyenne McCray brings it all together in a superb ending to her stupendous saga.”
—Harriet Klausner
SHADOW MAGIC
“A sensual tale full of danger and magic, Shadow Magic should not be missed.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Erotic paranormal romance liberally laced with adventure and thrills.”
—RT BOOKreviews
(Top Pick, 4½ stars)
“Cheyenne McCray has created a fabulous new world. You won’t be able to get enough!”
—Lori Handeland, USA Today bestselling author
WICKED MAGIC
“Blistering sex and riveting battles are plentiful as this series continues building toward its climax.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4 stars)
“Has an even blend of action and romance. . . . An exciting paranormal tale. Don’t miss it.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Cheyenne McCray shows the best work between good and evil in Wicked Magic. The characters are molded perfectly . . . sure to delight and captivate with each turn of the page.”
—Night Owl Romance
“A sinfully engaging read.”
—A Romance Review
Other St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles By
CHEYENNE MCCRAY
Lexi Steele Novels
The First Sin
Night Tracker Novels
Demons Not Included
The Magic Novels
Dark Magic
Shadow Magic
Wicked Magic
Seduced By Magic
Forbidden Magic
Romantic Suspense
Moving Target
Chosen Prey
Anthologies
No Rest for the Witches
THE SECOND
BETRAYAL
Cheyenne McCray
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE SECOND BETRAYAL
Copyright © 2009 by Cheyenne McCray.
Excerpt from Luke copyright © 2009 by Cheyenne McCray.
Cover photograph © Royalty Free Image / Veer.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-94645-7
EAN: 978-0-312-94645-6
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / August 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Jo Carol Jones for being a good friend
and kicking my ass into gear.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
They say it takes a village . . . and I have a wonderful support system of individuals who help me with the smallest of details. In every book I write I thank those who are a part of the genesis, the foundation of my writing career—because without them this journey wouldn’t be the same.
Writing for the most part is a solitary career. Many authors sit in a recliner at home, or at a PC on their desk, or with a headset on while at a table in a coffee shop. Perhaps they write in a library where it’s ultraquiet. Some are even able to write with a roomful of noise and the TV on. (I don’t fit the latter group!)
For many of us, our closest friends are the authors, readers, and booksellers whom we have come to know so well online. Sometimes we get to meet them in person at conferences or conventions—and if we’re lucky enough to live near each other, we can meet over coffee.
We have the World Wide Web to thank for bringing us all closer and making this a smaller world where together we can be a part of the fruition of a novel.
When I thank those who are a part of my career as an author, I do so with love, respect, and gratefulness to have each and every person as a part of my life.
Jo Carol Jones, this book is for you, and I want to thank your family, too, for your wonderful hospitality in offering “the cave” and your entire upstairs as my writing retreat and making me come down every now and then for air. Especially Johnny for your homemade ice cream and chocolate chunk bread pudding! Oh, and I cannot possibly forget Jo Carol’s fabulous chocolate martinis. I want the recipe!
My critters Anna Windsor and Tee O’Fallon, and of course my editor, Monique Patterson, and my agent, Nancy Yost. Always. Each and every book.
Mop and Pops with love from Dop. You are the most amazing parents in the world, Karen and Robert Tanner. Mop, you are a lifesaver in too many ways to count.
Tracey West, what would I do without you? You can never leave me! Phyllis, you are awesome and you have to stay, too!
My sons, Tony, Kyle, and Matthew, for putting up with Mom’s hiding away to write and escaping on writing retreats, and for being proud of their mommy. Er, Mom. Even though my twenty-one year old likes to call me Mommy.
To Frank. You will always hold a special place in my heart.
Every person at St. Martin’s Press: I can’t possibly begin to list all of you who touch my novels, but I want you to know how much I appreciate you for the magnitude of what you do. Every single one of you.
To my readers and booksellers. I think of you when I write and craft my novels and hope they bring you enjoyment.
Thanks beyond thanks to the following gentlemen for answering my often inane law enforcement questions:
Officer T. J. Leonard, patrolman with the Boston Transit Police Department—my Bostonian education is all the better for you!
Texas police officer Jerr
y Patterson Jr., you totally rock.
Phoenix police officer Kenneth J. Meadows—what a match. ;)
RED wouldn’t be the same without any of you.
Of course, all the stuff I make up that strays from reality is my responsibility and mine alone!
Ha!
AUTHOR’S NOTE
One of the little-known facts about New York City is that no helicopter can land on any building in Manhattan as a result of 9/11. Manhattan has three public heliports that are used for any helicopter-related transportation.
The hotel used in this novel has a helicopter pad thanks to my imagination. I also made up a few other things, like how to get to the imaginary helicopter pad via the fifty-second-floor penthouse.
Unfortunately, I’ve never had the opportunity to visit said penthouse. Or any penthouses that live up to the luxury of the Trump Tower. I really would like to, though. I’m willing to accept any legitimate offers . . .
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
—Hamlet
by William Shakespeare (1564–1616)
THE SECOND
BETRAYAL
PROLOGUE
Dasha
A new life. She would no longer live in poverty as she had in Moscow from the time she was born. Now she was in New York City, a place that would give her a new beginning.
Cold late-September rain slashed against Dasha Orlov as she stepped out of the bus and moved past the other girls to get a look at the magnificent sight.
The cold stung her cheeks and her bare legs, yet the chill was nothing but enticing wet kisses compared with the freezing temperatures she had known in Russia.
Only twenty girls had been chosen by the American modeling agency that came to Moscow. It seemed almost unreal that the Americans had paid her way to New York City and would give her money to model beautiful clothes. It could be nothing more than a perfect dream.
“Can you believe it?” Yulia squeezed Dasha’s fingers as she laughed and looked up and around at what the bus driver had told them was Times Square. “That we are finally here?”
“It is so . . . ,” Dasha answered in Russian as she searched for something to say that could put into words every feeling of hope, joy, excitement that she felt at that moment. It didn’t matter that she was nervous, too. All that mattered was that she was finally in America. “It is all so magical,” she said, then grinned at her brown-eyed new friend.
Yulia laughed, her long brown hair swinging into her eyes when she rose up on her toes and swept her gaze around them. The petite girl’s face, hair, and plaid coat were as wet as Dasha’s own, but it was too precious of a moment for either of them to care.
“When do you think they will take us to the modeling agency?” Yulia asked.
“I hope now.” Dasha grinned. “It seems so much time has passed since we were chosen.” Her words were almost drowned beneath the sound of the deep-throated throb of the bus’s engine, the other girls’ giggling, and the voices of the men who had taken them all on the bus from John F. Kennedy Airport.
Yes, Dasha thought again, into what must be a dream. A perfect, beautiful dream.
Thump after thump from luggage being unloaded from storage bins beneath the bus and thrown onto the concrete sidewalk made her turn slightly. She hugged her handbag to her chest. Three men were tossing their luggage out of the bus so hard she was afraid the suitcases would fly open and all of the girls’ belongings would be strewn across the dirty asphalt street. The men flung the cases as if they were garbage.
She shook her head. Silly. They were just in a hurry.
Gray exhaust puffed from the back of the bus. Hard slamming sounds could be heard over the girls’ laughter as the men shut the doors of the luggage compartments.
Dasha looked back at the amazing flashing signs around them. ABC News, Target, Coca-Cola, Virgin (an odd name to be flashed in the street), Cingular, Swatch, Planet Hollywood, CNN, NASDAQ . . . And there were the familiar golden arches of a McDonald’s! Along with a hundred more advertisements.
“Into the vans.” A man’s rough voice came from behind Dasha as she was shoved toward one of the two long, white, and windowless vans.
Dasha stumbled when the man pushed her, but Yulia had a hold on her fingers and Dasha didn’t bump into Jenika who was in front of her. Who was this man with the rough voice and even rougher hands?
Dasha glanced over her shoulder and saw that the man’s expression was as hard as his voice. Her belly clenched as he met her gaze with a strange look in his eyes. She didn’t want to know what it meant—it was almost as if she were staring into the eyes of the devil. She shuddered and hurried to sit in the van with Yulia, Jenika, and at least seven other girls. The harsh man climbed into the front next to the driver.
Disappointment stirred inside her as she sat in the confines of the van. No windows. She wouldn’t be able to see much of her new city on the journey to the modeling agency, because it was difficult to get a good look through the front windshield from where she was sitting. Well, there would be time enough for sightseeing later.
The driver pulled out behind the other white van, and they started moving through traffic. Excited chatter filled the enclosed space as most of the girls spoke in Russian about their new lives in New York City.
Bubbles of excitement tumbled in Dasha’s belly as Yulia chatted next to her. Dasha barely heard her friend as thoughts of earning lots of money made her excitement grow. She would be able to send Matushka and Otets, Mother and Father, money to make their lives better. Her father had lost his job months ago, and they barely got by with her mother working as a maid in a Moscow hotel.
The van came to a stop that caused Dasha to jerk forward and back in her seat. She grabbed the seatback in front of her to steady herself. The harsh man jumped out of the passenger seat, and the driver turned the engine off and got out, too. The van door slid open, and she met the gaze of the harsh man.
“Get out,” he said to all of the girls in a way that made Dasha flinch.
She hurried to climb out with the others, who suddenly went quiet when they all stood on the sidewalk. One of the men walked from the vans and through a polished wood door after passing beneath a red awning with ELITE GENTLEMAN’S CLUB scrawled across the street-side flap of the canvas.
A sick feeling that something wasn’t right churned Dasha’s stomach. She glanced at buildings to either side of the club. The buildings were made of brick coated in grime from pollution; shuttered windows were like staring, blank eyes.
To the left of the building they faced was Rocco’s Pizza. On the right was another business—One-Day Dry Cleaning. Garbage bags were piled on the sidewalks up and down the street in front of the buildings, probably to be taken away.
Where was the modeling agency? Dasha’s English wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough to read each sign and not one business had a name that would tell them they were at a modeling agency. Dasha tipped her head up to look at the blank windows again. Five stories. Maybe there were apartments above where they would live when they weren’t working.
She looked at the sign that said ELITE GENTLEMAN’S CLUB again. A sudden cramp in her belly shouted at her that something was wrong.
Dasha clutched her handbag tighter and took a step back. She bumped into someone hard and tall, and she looked over her shoulder to see the harsh man.
He grabbed her upper arms, leaned down, and pressed his lips against her ear, his breath hot and foul. He said in accented English, “Don’t make a sound or I will kill you.”
Panic rose in Dasha so fast her heart throbbed hard enough to hurt. Kill her? Why would he kill her?
The harsh man gripped her upper arms tighter and shoved her forward through the now silent group. Men surrounded the twenty girls. At least ten or eleven men, all hard-featured, and all had eyes filled with threats . . . and something she couldn’t read. Maybe she didn’t want to read.
Shudders started racking Dasha’s bod
y as the harsh man pressed his fingertips hard enough into her arms that she gasped. He propelled her forward. He didn’t take her into the gentleman’s club, but opened a recessed door to the left of the building and shoved her through the open doorway.
Dasha stumbled in a darkened hallway but didn’t fall. What was going on? What was happening? Her heart raced and her throat tightened. She blinked to get used to the dim lightbulbs strung down the length of the hallway. It smelled of filth and as if someone had urinated on the cracked, chipped, and stained linoleum tile.
Her heart beat impossibly faster and faster and her chest hurt. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be right. The man pushed her past closed doors on their right and took her all the way to a staircase. He pushed her up the staircase, and the sound of all the girls’ shoes clinked against the stairs as they went up past floor two, then three, and stopped at the fifth and final floor.
The harsh man opened the first door on the right before he flung her to the floor.
Dasha cried out as she landed hard on her hip and elbow. Her handbag flew from her fingers, and the contents scattered across the floor of a large room that was just as ugly and smelled as bad as the hallway.
Vaguely she was aware of two brown tattered couches with stuffing squeezing through tears. An old television was on a stand against one wall, a long table behind one of the couches.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the harsh man as all the girls were shoved into the room and the door slammed shut behind them. The way the harsh man looked at her made her want to scrabble back on the floor away from him, but something in his eyes told her that wouldn’t be a good idea. He would hurt her if she did. She knew it with everything in her heart.
Cheyenne McCray - [Lexi Steele 02] Page 1
