by Sandra Brown
With youthful resilience and restlessness, Graham was fiddling with the dials on the radio, not really listening.
Dillon, however, had heard and understood every word. He reached across the seat and swept the tear off her cheek. It was the first tear she had shed in fifteen years. She kissed it from his thumb and rested her cheek in his palm.
When they arrived at her house, she told Graham, “Tell Cathy that everything is all right and that we’ll be back in time for dinner.”
“Where are you going?”
“Dillon and I have an errand to run.”
“Where to? I want to go.”
“You’re not invited.”
“You just want to be by yourselves so you can kiss and stuff.”
“Out!”
Graham, giving Dillon a man-to-man grin, climbed out. Dillon said, “Set up the chess board. We’ll play after supper.” Graham smiled and dashed toward the house. “He came through it unscathed, Jade.”
“Yes. Thank God,” she whispered.
“Maybe. Mostly thanks to you.”
She waited until Graham had cleared the front door before turning to Dillon. “I want you to take me there.” He didn’t need to ask where she wanted to go, only how to get there. She gave him directions.
As the landscape slipped past, she realized how little she resembled the naïve girl who had driven the same road with her best friend on a cold February evening. Nor was she any longer the determined woman who had deftly navigated the business world like a halfback running full out on the gridiron. She had already scored and no longer had to prove herself.
The two facets of Jade Sperry were merging into one. Like the ingredients of a bouillabaisse, the separate elements of her personality were simmering together. It was an odd mixture, unique in texture and flavor, one she was gradually acquiring a taste for.
After years of driving herself toward one goal, she was back where she had begun. The townsfolk who remembered her no longer regarded her as the girl who had left cloaked in scandal. They treated her with the respect befitting what she was today. Those who had never known her regarded her as a heroine who was doing great things for their community.
All that Jade had convinced herself she hated, she was surprised to find was actually dear to her—like low-country cooking and small-town life, like summer air that was too heavy to inhale and soft breezes that were redolent with intoxicating floral perfumes and the seminal scent of seawater.
The region couldn’t be blamed for the few bad people it had bred. Businesswoman, mother, friend, lover—whatever else she was, she was a woman of the South. Her heart beat in rhythm to its ponderous pace.
The tire tracks leading off the highway were overgrown. No one had been there in a long time. Jade liked to think no one had been there since that night. The banks of the channel looked different in the daylight. The soft slapping sound of the water wasn’t sinister. There were no frightening shadows or furtive movements in the darkness.
Dillon patiently stood nearby while Jade wandered around, remembering… forgetting. At last she came to stand in front of him.
“Make love to me, Dillon.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to remember this place for the rest of my life as the scene of the rape. Whenever I do, all the degradation and anger comes back. I want to remember it while it’s warm, and the sun is shining, and I’m with the man I love.”
He pushed his fingers up into her hair. “I want you to love me. But are you sure it’s me you love, and not what I did for you?”
“I started loving you when I thought I could never express it. And if I never could have, I still would have loved you.” She laid her hands on his cheeks. “I love you. The love-making is a bonus.”
Sighing her name, he pulled her against him. His arms went around her, strong and embracing. Their mouths came together in a passionate exchange of physical desire and soul-bursting love. They undressed each other, dropping articles of clothing into the grass. Their hands rediscovered and aroused. He lifted her breasts to his mouth and left their centers raised and flushed. She fondled the warm heaviness of his sex.
Jade lay down in the grass and pulled him down beside her. “This way.”
He knelt between her thighs and gradually lowered himself on top of her. “If you don’t like it, tell me to stop,” he whispered.
“Love me, Dillon.”
He entered slowly, sinking into her by measured degrees. He made each stroke an individual act of love, almost withdrawing before burying himself inside her again. Each time he filled her was so thrilling, she began raising her hips to meet his slow thrusts. He escalated the tempo. Instinctively, Jade repositioned her legs. Her hands smoothed over his back to his buttocks and drew him closer, tighter, deeper.
When they climaxed, Jade arched her back and neck, exposing them to his lips and his hoarsely whispered vows of love and commitment.
She drew his beloved face into the hollow of her neck. Stroking his hair, she looked through cleansing tears into the sun and felt its warm rays on her smile.
About the Author
Sandra Brown is the author of over sixty New York Times bestsellers, including most recently Low Pressure; Lethal; Rainwater; Tough Customer; Smash Cut; Smoke Screen; Play Dirty; Ricochet; Chill Factor; White Hot; Hello, Darkness; The Crush; Envy; The Switch; The Alibi; Unspeakable; and Fat Tuesday, all of which jumped onto the New York Times list in the numbers one to five spots. There are over eighty million copies of Sandra Brown’s books in print worldwide and her work has been translated into thirty-four languages. In 2008, Brown was named Thriller Master by the International Thriller Writers Association, the organization’s top honor. She currently lives in Texas. For more information you can visit www.SandraBrown.net.
Bellamy Lyston Price was just twelve years old when her sister was murdered on a stormy Memorial Day.
Eighteen years later, she writes a novel about the horrific experience—and a new nightmare begins…
Please see the next page for a preview of
Low Pressure
Prologue
The rat was dead, but no less horrifying than if it had been alive.
Bellamy Price trapped a scream behind her hands and, holding them clamped against her mouth, backed away from the gift box of glossy wrapping paper and satin ribbon. The animal lay on a bed of silver tissue paper, its long pink tail curled against the fat body.
When she came up against the wall, she slid down it until her bottom reached the floor. Slumping forward, she removed her hands from her mouth and covered her eyes. But she was too horror-stricken even to cry. Her sobs were dry and hoarse.
Who would have played such a vicious prank? Who? And why?
The events of the day began to replay in her mind like a recording on fast-forward.
* * *
“You were terrific!”
“Thank you.” Bellamy tried to maintain the rapid pace set by the publicist for the publishing house, who functioned as though her breakfast cereal had been laced with speed.
“This show is number one in its time slot.” Her rapid-fire speech kept time with the click of her stilettos. “Miles ahead of its competition. We’re talking over five million viewers. You just got some great national exposure.”
Which was exactly what Bellamy wished to avoid. But she didn’t waste her breath on saying so. Again. For the umpteenth time. Neither the publicist nor her agent, Dexter Gray, understood her desire to direct the publicity to her best-selling book, not to herself.
Dexter, his hand tightly grasping her elbow, guided her through the Manhattan skyscraper’s marble lobby. “You were superb. Flawless, but warm. Human. That single interview probably sold a thousand copies of Low Pressure, which is what it’s all about.” He ushered her toward the exit, where a uniformed doorman tipped his hat as Bellamy passed.
“Your book kept me up nights, Ms. Price.”
She barely had time to thank him before being propelled through the revolving door, which emptied her onto the plaza. A shout went up from the crowd that had gathered to catch a glimpse of that morning’s interviewees as they entered and exited the television studio.
The publicist was exultant. “Dexter, help her work the crowd. I’m going to get a photographer over here. We can parlay this into more television coverage.”
Dexter, more sensitive to his client’s reluctance toward notoriety, stood on tiptoe and spoke directly into Bellamy’s ear to make himself heard above the Midtown rush-hour racket. “It wouldn’t hurt to take advantage of the situation and sign a few books. Most authors work their entire professional lives—”
“And never receive this kind of media attention,” she said, finishing for him. “Thousands of writers would give their right arm for this. So you’ve told me. Repeatedly.”
“It bears repeating.” He patted her arm as he steered her toward the eager people straining against the barricades. “Smile. Your adoring public awaits.”
Readers who had become instant fans clamored to shake hands with her and have her sign their copies of Low Pressure. Being as gracious as possible, she thanked them and smiled into their cell-phone cameras.
Her hand was being pumped by an enthusiastic fan when she spotted Rocky Van Durbin out of the corner of her eye. A writer for the daily tabloid newspaper EyeSpy, Van Durbin was standing slightly apart from the crowd, wearing a self-congratulatory smirk and giving instructions to the photographer accompanying him.
It was Van Durbin who had uncovered and then gleefully disclosed that the writer T. J. David, whose first book was generating buzz in book circles as well as in Hollywood, was, in fact, Bellamy Price, an attractive, thirty-year-old woman:
“Why this native Texan—blue-eyed, long-legged, and voluptuous, and isn’t that how we like them?—would want to hide behind an innocuous pen name, this reporter doesn’t know. But in spite of the author’s coy secrecy, Low Pressure has soared to the top of the best-seller charts, and now, apparently, Ms. Price has come out of hiding and gotten into the spirit of the thing. She’s eschewed her spurs and hat, abandoned the Lone Star state, and is now residing in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park on the Upper West Side, basking in the glow of her sudden celebrity.”
Most of that was a lie, having only filaments of truth that kept it from being libelous. Bellamy did have blue eyes, but she was of average height, not noticeably tall, as his description suggested. By no one’s standards could she be considered voluptuous.
She did have a cowboy hat, but it hadn’t been on her head for years. She’d never owned a pair of spurs, nor had she ever known anyone who did. She hadn’t abandoned her home state, in the sense Van Durbin had implied, but she had relocated to New York several years ago, long before the publication of her book. She did live on the Upper West Side, across from the park, but not in a penthouse.
But the most egregious inaccuracy was Van Durbin’s claim that she was enjoying her celebrity, which she considered more a harsh glare than a glow. That glare had intensified when Van Durbin wrote a follow-up, front-page article that contained another startling revelation.
Although published as a novel, Low Pressure was actually a fictionalized account of a true story. Her true story. Her family’s tragic true story.
With the velocity of a rocket, that disclosure had thrust her into another dimension of fame. She abhorred it. She hadn’t written Low Pressure to become rich and famous. Writing it had been therapeutic.
Admittedly, she’d hoped it would be published, widely read, and well received by readers and critics, but she had published it under a non-gender-specific pseudonym in order to avoid the spotlight in which she now found herself.
Low Pressure had been eagerly anticipated even before it went on sale. Believing strongly in its potential, the publishing house had put money behind its publication, placing transit ads in major cities, and print ads in magazines, newspapers, and on the Internet. Social media outlets had been abuzz for months in advance of its on-sale date. Every review had been a rave. T. J. David was being compared to the best crime writers, fiction and nonfiction. Bellamy had enjoyed the book’s success from behind the protective pseudonym.
But once Rocky Van Durbin had let the genie out of the bottle, there was no putting it back. She figured her publisher and Dexter, and anyone else who stood to profit from sales, were secretly overjoyed that her identity and the backstory of her book had been exposed.
Now they had not only a book to promote, but also an individual, whom they had deemed “a publicist’s dream.”
They described her as attractive, well educated, well spoken, not so young as to be giddy, not so old as to be boring, an heiress turned best-selling author. She had a lot of “hooks” to draw upon, the chief one being that she had desired anonymity. Her attempt to hide behind a pen name had, instead, made her all the more intriguing. Rocky Van Durbin was relishing the media frenzy surrounding her, which he had helped create, and, never satisfied, continued to feed the public’s voracious curiosity with daily tidbits about her, most of which were either blatantly untrue, speculative, or grossly exaggerated.
As she continued to sign autographs and pose for photographs with fans, she pretended not to have noticed him, but to no avail. He rudely elbowed his way through the crowd toward her. Noticing his approach, Dexter cautioned her in a whisper, “Don’t let him get to you. People are watching. He’d love nothing better than to goad you into saying something he could print out of context.”
When the so-called journalist came face-to-face with her, making it impossible for her to ignore him, he smiled, revealing two rows of crooked yellow teeth, which she imagined him filing in order to achieve that carnivorous grin.
Looking her up and down, he asked, “Have you lost weight, Ms. Price? I can’t help but notice that you’re looking thinner.”
A few weeks ago she’d been voluptuous. Tomorrow she would be suffering from an eating disorder.
Without even acknowledging his sly question, Bellamy engaged in conversation with a woman wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt and a Statue of Liberty spiked crown made of green rubber foam. “My book club is reading your book now,” the woman told her as they posed together for a snapshot taken by her equally enthusiastic husband.
“I appreciate that very much.”
“The rest of them won’t believe I met you!”
Bellamy thanked her again and moved along. Undaunted, Van Durbin kept pace, furiously scribbling in a small spiral notebook. Then, stepping between her and the next person waiting for her attention, he asked, “Who do you see playing the lead roles in the movie, Ms. Price?”
“I don’t see anyone. I’m not in the movie business.”
“But you will be before long. Everybody knows producers are lined up to throw money at you for the option on Low Pressure. It’s rumored that several A-list actors and actresses are campaigning for the parts. The casting couches have never had turnover this brisk.”
She shot him a look of pure disgust.
“No opinion on the subject?”
“None,” she said, stressing the word in such a way as to discourage any more questions. Just then a man wedged himself between two young women and thrust a copy of her book at her. Bellamy recognized him immediately. “Well, hello again. Hmm…”
“Jerry,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Jerry, yes.” He had an open, friendly face and thinning hair. He’d come to several book signings, and she’d spotted him in the audience when she lectured at a bookstore on the NYU campus. “Thank you for coming out this morning.”
“I never pass up an occasion to see you.”
She signed her name on the title page, which he held open for her. “How many copies does this make that you’ve bought, Jerry?”
He laughed. “I’m buying birthday and Christmas presents.”
She suspected he was also starstruck. “Well, I and my publisher than
k you.”
She moved on and, while Jerry fell back into the crush, Van Durbin boldly nudged people out of his way so he could stay even with her. He persisted with the question about a possible movie based on her book.
“Come on, Ms. Price. Give my readers a hint of who you see playing the key characters. Who would you cast as your family members?” He winked and leaned in, asking in a low voice, “Who do you see playing the killer?”
She gave him a sharp look.
He grinned and said to the photographer, “I hope you captured that.”
* * *
The rest of the day was no less hectic.
She and Dexter had attended a meeting at the publishing house to discuss the timing of the release of the trade paperback edition of Low Pressure. After a lengthy exchange of opinions, it was decided that the book was selling so well in the hardcover and e-book formats that an alternate edition wouldn’t be practical for at least another six months.
They’d gone from that meeting to a luncheon appointment with a movie producer. After they dined on lobster salad and chilled asparagus in the privacy of his hotel suite, he’d made an earnest pitch about the film he wanted to make, guaranteeing that if they sold him the rights, he would do justice to the book.
As they’d left the meeting, Dexter joked, “Wouldn’t your friend Van Durbin love to know about that meeting?”
“He’s no friend. T. J. David’s true identity was supposed to be a carefully guarded secret. Who did Van Durbin bribe to get my name?”
“A publishing house intern, an assistant to someone in the contracts department. It could have been anybody.”
“Someone in your agency?”
He patted her hand. “We’ll probably never know. What does it matter now who it was?”
She sighed with resignation. “It doesn’t. The damage has been done.”
He laughed. “ ‘Damage’ being a matter of opinion.”
