A Kiss of Revenge (Entangled Ignite)

by Natalie Damschroder

  Her left hand found another grip, more like a fingertip hold than a handhold. It wasn’t fast going, but it was enough. When she gained the top, she whispered a fervent thank-you to Chris—husband number three—for his love of anything mountain. And another for her own shortcomings—the ones that caused her to marry so freely and learn her husbands’ hobbies so eagerly. At least they’d been good for something.

  The wall bordered directly on the property behind, and the back of that building appeared dark. She carefully dropped down onto her unbruised leg and turned to head toward the front, then stopped in her tracks.

  Oh. My. God.

  There it was.

  The clue. The evidence, staring her right in the face.

  It was so blatant, so obvious, for a moment she thought it had to be coincidence. But it couldn’t be. Joy replaced futility so fast it almost made her lightheaded.

  She’d found her would-be murderer.

  Pump the brakes, Reese. It’s just a clue.

  But her euphoria wouldn’t be deflated. Hunkered in front of her was a boat, gigantic even in the massive yard she stood in, but probably modest when tied at a dock or floating at sea. Even in the dark, the boat’s name stood out, black letters against stark white paint. Alpine Nirvana.

  It was the same name as the plane Brian had flown that day.

  Reese’s shock and joy disappeared when a Rottweiler pelted around the corner of the house. She cursed again. No way she could outrun it, even without a gimp leg. Still, she didn’t know how to give up. She darted behind a shed, hoping the dog would circle around to follow her and not be smart enough to cut her off. She ran full speed around the outbuilding and released her breath when she didn’t see the animal.

  She heard him, though, running behind her. He panted even louder than she did, his feet pounding on the grass as he closed in. She stretched her legs, clenching her teeth against the stabbing in her knee in the middle of every stride. She came around to the front of the house, down the driveway, desperately searching for a way to slow the dog down.

  There wasn’t one. There was a way to slow her down, though, in the form of a ten-foot iron gate and matching fence.

  Her lungs screaming, driven by instinct, she flung herself wide open to electricity, any electricity. The overhead wires, charged particles in the air—she didn’t care, only that her body became pure conductor. The power surged into the open conduit. Her blood sizzled in her veins, heat building into pain. No time to think. She imagined sealing her feet to close the conduit and mentally redirected the flow through her arms and outward. She released the energy—not at the dog, who was just doing his job, but straight ahead. A burst of light seared the darkness between her and the gate, striking it squarely on the lock in the center. The thud of the bolt and crash of metal echoed like a car crash in the quiet night.

  Yeah, that wouldn’t draw attention.

  She burst through the hanging gate and shoved it shut behind her, gasping for air. The dog stopped several feet back. He should have caught her, so he must have been trained to chase away intruders rather than capture them.

  “Lucky me,” she muttered, leaning against the support post. She had to think. There were cops in the area, investigating suspicious circumstances. The show she’d just put on would definitely qualify.

  A quick scan showed no immediate witnesses. The gate hung together and would take close scrutiny to detect the damage, but it would open if the dog decided to test it. She quickly stripped her shoelace half out of her shoe, testing for a frayed spot that would allow her to break it. She tore off enough to tie around the gate as high as she could reach. Not a strong solution, but workable. Now she needed a reason for the flash of light. She looked at the streetlight overhead. Knocking out the bulb took the last of her energy. Glass rained down on the pavement, and she began limping down the sidewalk, fighting shivers in the warm night.

  That burst of electricity had been unlike anything she’d ever done before. It had blasted open a gate that should have been unaffected by electricity. More like a lightning strike than her usual surge.

  Holy hell. What else could she do? And how much damage could she cause by doing it?

  She’d spent most of the time since the crash struggling to contain the electricity or to hold it at bay, scared of all that could happen if she didn’t succeed. Even after she learned to seal herself off, it didn’t take much for the seal to open on its own. The consequences were usually minor—burnt-out switches and blown lightbulbs—but she worried that eventually she’d break something more important than a coffee machine or a security system. Whenever she did open that seal, allowed herself to be a conduit, or even directed the electricity for her own purposes, she did so with great care, always striving for the smallest effects.

  Blasting open that gate substantiated all her fears.

  She walked under another streetlight and the whole pole buzzed, almost vibrating. She jerked away from it, twisting her knee, and cried out at the sharp pain. Get a hold of yourself! You’re going to black out the whole freakin’ neighborhood. She stood with her eyes closed, imagining an invisible, non-conductive barrier slinking over her skin, making her undetectable to the electricity. Slowly, the buzz in the nearby streetlamp faded to a normal hum. She sighed and continued on, but she’d gone barely a block when a police car pulled up.

  “Reese, you okay?”

  She cursed again, silently. Andrew, of course, and he’d noticed her limp. She stopped walking and grimaced at him, bending a little to see through the passenger window. “I tripped. Landed on my knee.” She jerked her head to the left. “A street lamp burst right over my head. It surprised me. Knocked me off balance.”

  “Well, hop in, I’ll give you a ride home.”

  She hesitated, still out of breath. She would have cooled down in the time since the flash of light. She probably stank just from the run, never mind her anxiety. And she’d just committed a couple of crimes. But the longer she hesitated, the more suspicion she drew, so she climbed in and sighed when she stretched out her leg.

  “You’re jogging a little far from home,” Andrew said, putting the car in gear. “Kinda late, isn’t it?”

  What was he getting at? Was this casual conversation, overprotective concern, or suspicion? She shrugged and leaned her head back, choosing casual. “Nah. I like running when it’s quiet. The dark keeps me focused, too. Centered. And the hills are more exercise than the flats in town.”

  “How far do you run every day?”

  “Varies.” She’d clocked several distances from her place to The Charms. “Four to six is my average. Less when I’m tired, more when I’ve been sampling too much of my stock.”

  Andrew chuckled. Her mind raced. She needed to act normal. What would she say to him if she weren’t hiding something?

  “So, how come you’re working street patrol tonight?” she asked. “I thought the boss got to work day shift.”

  “Filling in. One of my officers just had a baby, so until she’s back on duty we’re taking turns covering.” He stopped at the main road and waited for a pickup to pass before turning left toward town. “Had a call one street over. You see anything?”

  Her heart slammed hard, once, before resuming its normal beat. “Anything? Like what?”

  “Anyone you didn’t recognize, acting suspiciously.” He glanced at her and flicked the turn signal. “Keeping to the shadows, a car that didn’t belong up there, that kind of thing.”

  “Nope. Didn’t see anyone until you.” The truth always slid from her mouth more easily than the lies, and she was grateful for it. No matter what she did, she didn’t want to become like the evil bastard she was after.

  Andrew spent the rest of the ride on the radio, coordinating the deputies who’d been on site at the Snakewells’. She climbed out quickly when they got to her house.

  “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you in the morning!” She turned and limped into the house, conscious of Andrew’s eyes on her the whole way, an
d prayed she hadn’t intensified his interest. Whatever kind it was.

  …

  “Did you hear about the Snakewell place?” was the question of the next morning, with “What happened to your knee?” running a close second. Reese poured coffee and smiled with a shake of her head, letting each customer tell her their version of the rumor they’d heard, and saying only that she’d banged her knee against something hard. Each retelling eased her mind a little more and released tension from her neck and shoulders. No one had seen her, and none of the gossipers had any idea what had actually happened.

  The tension returned when Andrew and one of his officers came in. She served him a cranberry nut muffin with his black coffee and tried to avoid his piercing stare.

  “Hey, what you know, Chief?” Bob Haker, Reese’s old-man-by-the-wood-stove, called out. Andrew dropped his hat onto a nearby table and sat to unwrap his muffin. Reese positioned herself to be able to watch him while she filled filters with ground coffee, stacked and ready to go into the machine.

  “’Bout what, Bob?” Andrew didn’t look up, didn’t frown, but she could tell he was paying close attention to everyone in the room.

  “’Bout the Snakewells, ’course. I heard they got their system fried, just like the Potters and the Franklins.”

  Dammit. They’d made a connection between systems. The other three houses hadn’t had one to fry, and she’d hoped the amount of time between break-ins would make them assume power surges.

  “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” Andrew said. “But if you know something, you should tell me.”

  Of course, Bob hitched himself right over and began spilling everything he “knew” to the chief. Andrew nodded and took notes, but Reese decided he was humoring the old guy when he nodded just as seriously at Bob’s theory that it was a migrant seeking a place to stay. She carried the pot over when Bob walked away, looking smug, and refilled Andrew’s cup.

  “What do you think?” she asked. “Plausible?”

  Andrew shrugged. “We’re not ruling anything out.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Seriously?”

  He shrugged, then one side of his mouth quirked up. “Okay, no, not plausible. There’s no evidence anyone got inside, nothing obviously missing. Could even just be a power surge, but we can’t figure that one out.”

  She allowed a small sigh of relief. Overall, she had to be grateful for the way things had gone last night, injury and dog and cops aside. If they hadn’t shown up, she wouldn’t have gone over the back wall and seen that boat. She wouldn’t already have a new plan, and new hope.

  One more break-in, that’s all she needed. But first, a little research.

  As soon as she got home, she pulled up the county’s website and property mapper. A couple of minutes later, she had the ownership record.

  “Hell,” she muttered, staring at the name “Alpha Corporation.” “How generic can you get?”

  She’d have to have Griff try to find out who owned the boat, but she suspected it would also be Alpha Corporation.

  She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

  Chapter Two

  Reese covered her ears, bombarded by the explosion of rain on metal. She couldn’t hear Joey, smiling at the door, saying goodbye. Somehow she knew it was the last time she’d see him. He opened the door and they were outside, in the dark, still surrounded by noise but with no rain. Another cop loomed ahead, aimed his service revolver at Joey, and fired. She screamed, a silent rasp. Instead of a bullet hitting his chest, electricity crackled around his jerking, flailing body. He fell to the ground, dead.

  The thundering rain changed. An engine. Tires squealing. She whirled, saw Erik’s car careening toward her, watched him bend to do something on the seat beside him. A truck slammed into the front corner of his sedan. White light flared, and then he was next to her, limp and staring. Dead.

  Then Brian in the airplane, pain and paralysis and, inside her head, screaming, screaming…

  Reese’s eyes popped open. The dim gray of predawn was a startling contrast to the blinding light and darkness of her nightmare. Nausea welled and her head pounded, but slowly she acclimated to reality and the symptoms subsided.

  That wasn’t her usual nightmare. The plane crash invaded her dreams on a regular basis, but they rarely touched on her past beyond that. The images from the nightmare flashed in her head, triggering memories of the last time she’d seen each of her husbands. She sat up and dropped her legs over the side of the bed, loss and grief and acceptance cascading over her in an unending cycle. She buried her face in her hands, but the images wouldn’t stop.

  Joey. Erik. Chris. Brian. Interspersed and vivid, no matter how much time had gone by. As unique as her four husbands had been, each as individual as her marriages, the symbolism was the same. Subversion. Dependence. Obligation. She sank into the memories, letting them catch her and bombard her with their lessons all over again, as if she still hadn’t learned them. Maybe never would.

  She’d been nineteen when she met Joey Bastiani. He was a local cop, barely more than a rookie. She’d interviewed him for the community college paper, and they’d fallen in love. As soon as she graduated—which she did early, to make him happy—they moved to New York City. A few months in, he stumbled across a payoff and was shot by the corrupt officer. Their marriage had been so young, but he’d taught her basic safety, to be suspicious of everyone, and how to use a gun. She learned those things because they were what he’d wanted to teach her.

  But the city wanted to swallow her, so she’d taken her insurance settlement and driven west, seeking small-town central. Only twenty-three, she’d had no confidence in her ability to survive on her own. Erik Booth—a medical supplies salesman with a passion for competitive archery—sat in her section every time he drove through town. Three months later, they were married. She loved learning how to shoot a bow, and since Erik kept horses on his family farm, she combined the two interests, practicing archery from horseback. She’d been grateful for the latter during her recovery from the plane crash—riding had been both physical and emotional therapy.

  Erik died in a car wreck on a sales trip far from home. Joey’s death had been tragic, but with his line of work, always a risk. Erik’s death had devastated her. She’d sold the farm to his parents and hit the road again, seeking something—new state, new job, new landscape—that would distract her from her untimely losses. She told herself riding and archery club memberships weren’t clinging to the identity Erik had given her. That it was only partly an homage to his memory, that she did it because she loved it. And as a woman alone, it was only sensible that she enrolled in self-defense classes. They had nothing to do with Joey.

  But she wasn’t stupid. She recognized the patterns she kept falling into—trying to figure out what would make the guy happy and changing herself to fit that ideal. Eventually, with the right self-help books and some basic psychology, she figured out why she was so susceptible. Her father had died when she was a baby, and her shattered mother had been determined to make it on her own. She had, and then some, but left her only child desperately lonely and devoid of skills in relating to men of any kind. Joey, whom she’d met while her mother battled cancer, had been sweet and gentle and perfect for her first lover and husband. He’d sheltered her, and she’d developed the habit of forming her life around his, partly by nature, partly by necessity. Later, with Erik, he made enough money that she didn’t have to work. She’d become his unpaid assistant, and all her personal interactions stemmed from his relationships.

  She’d decided never to be at anyone else’s mercy again. She’d come a long way from the timid waitress who was never afraid physically, but always emotionally. By the time she met Chris Kryszka at a mutual friend’s New Year’s Eve party, she’d considered herself confident and able. Actually, she’d met Brian there, too. But he’d been dating Chris’s sister and Reese had barely talked to him then. Ironic, how lives could get braided that way.

&n
bsp; Still seeking something she’d never found, but remembering all the lessons of the past, she stretched their long-distance relationship out for a full year. There were long phone calls and video chats and constant text messaging and weekend visits mostly spent in bed. It was her first non-spouse physical relationship, and she’d found it so freeing she fell head over heels for what she thought was the first time, and married the guy.

  Chris didn’t die on her. She’d had her own identity by then, so she refused to get trapped in her old patterns. But Chris hated her working and not having things all nice for him in the house, hated that she might be too tired for sex on the fourth night in a row, hated that she wouldn’t ski. Six months after the wedding, he asked for a divorce because he’d met someone else.

  It was her first loss by rejection, and it hit her hard.

  She waited two years before even dating anyone else. She moved to Washington, DC, and kept to herself until she ran into Brian through her job. He’d talked her into drinks so they could catch up and commiserate on their failed relationships with Kryszkas. One thing led to another, and into what she had thought was a nice, comfortable marriage.

  And then it led to her secret life in Crestview, Massachusetts, on a quest for revenge.

  Everything’s different now. The plane crash was like a giant watershed between her old life and now. She couldn’t even feel the person she used to be, couldn’t imagine making the choices she’d made in the past.

  Yeah, so explain your “friendship” with Griff.

  Reese jerked upright and blinked at the sun, now flickering around the edges of her blinds. Where had that come from? Griff hadn’t been in her dream. He didn’t want more than friendship from her, and she didn’t want more from him. There was no insincerity in their relationship.