Heart Raider (Heartthrob Series, Book 1)

by Knightly, Sophia

  Or it could be the case she was currently investigating…

  “Answer me,” Nick prompted in a gruff voice.

  Hunched over like a cagey jungle cat, he didn’t look amenable to providing temporary refuge and definitely not an exclusive interview. He grabbed her chin and turned her face to meet his sharp gaze.

  An electrifying spark passed from his callused fingertips to her chin. He must have felt it too because he dropped his hand to his knee. Her heart raced and she could feel her pulse throbbing in her neck.

  “I, um well…” She was interrupted by a bolt of lightning followed by a loud crack of thunder. The air between them crackled with more electricity than the storm outside. She ran to the large window to get away from him and get ahold of her bearings. “Must be the outer rain bands. Storm’s almost here!” she announced breathlessly as the gusting wind swirled outside and the heavy rain pelted the house. “We’re in for a downpour.”

  Nick lumbered forward and joined her at the window. His fingers closed around her elbow. “Time to leave,” he said firmly.

  “Haven’t you been tracking Tropical Storm Abby?” she asked, disengaging from his grip. “It’s sure to be the first hurricane of the season. When was the last time you ventured into town?”

  “That’s none of your business. Why did you show up here knowing it was heading this way?” His deep voice started off low and increased with each word. While he wasn’t exactly yelling, he wasn’t whispering either.

  Veronique took a step back from Nick’s imposing form. “Do you even watch TV?” she blurted out.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Why own one if you don’t watch it?”

  She sucked in a nervous breath. Maybe he didn’t know the reason she’d been hauled out of her high-status job as foreign correspondent in Ace TV’s London bureau and sent back to the States to report filler stories. She could only hope. It hadn’t been her fault that Eric, the fact-checker, had fed her erroneous information on a major political scandal involving a prominent, conservative Senator and a call girl reported to be a spy. When the truth was revealed that she wasn’t a spy, but his longtime mistress, Veronique had been demoted and Eric fired.

  She missed the excitement of investigative reporting. Not that she minded doing human interest stories, but they weren’t as challenging or adrenaline-inducing as breaking a controversial case wide open. She’d had success in cases she’d worked on in the past including exposing a pyramid scheme among top senators, a child porn sting in a Bible belt community, and a heroin operation cover-up in a prestigious private university. The one case she’d tripped up on because of inaccurate fact checking from her trusted co-worker had sidelined her rising career and put her credentials in doubt.

  Damn the media and the public for their fickle ways. One day she was at the top of her game and the next, kicked to the curb. Whether Nick realized it or not, she could relate to how he felt.

  “I watch it once in a while, but not every day,” he said, bringing her to the present. He frowned. “Quit stalling and get going. I want you outta here before the hurricane hits.”

  “Pfft. Hurricanes don’t scare me,” she scoffed. And you don’t either. “They’re pretty exciting. I covered a few and even went surfing just before Hurricane Olga hit. What a rush!”

  Nick grabbed the remote control and switched on the news. Five seconds later, when the anchorman said the storm was strengthening into a hurricane, he flicked it off.

  “Before you go—and you will soon,” he promised curtly. “Tell me how the hell you found me. Nobody knows where I live.”

  “Well…I wouldn’t say nobody…” Veronique hesitated.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I know for damn sure Fred wouldn’t give you my address. You must’ve done major snooping in your step daddy’s office to find my whereabouts.”

  Veronique grimaced. “Who said anything about Fred? He’s your lawyer, for God’s sake! He would never divulge that information.”

  “Damn straight he wouldn’t.” Nick’s deep voice rumbled out of his chest like thunder.

  Veronique eyed the front door when he stepped closer. It was time to retreat and formulate another plan ASAP.

  Chapter Two

  “C’mon, time to fess up.” Nick’s hands closed over her shoulders and anchored her before him.

  Veronique shrugged out of his hold. “I stumbled upon it by accident when Maman insisted that I put a birthday card in Fred’s briefcase before he traveled to Europe. That’s where I found a letter with your address on it.”

  If Nick had any inkling of the times she’d tried to wangle information from her stepdad, who happened to be his trusted lawyer, he’d blow a fuse. But ever since she’d read of Nick’s public fall from grace, she’d wanted to use her journalistic skills to make things right.

  A man of high ideals, Nick had pulled himself up from an impoverished childhood in the backwoods of North Carolina and had never forgotten his roots. Before the dissolution of his partnership with his best friend Zack, and his divorce from his wife, Nick’s charity for underprivileged youths, the Cameron Hope Foundation, had flourished with donations, mostly his. He was generous and honest, but he was also tough and strong-minded, which made her wonder why he hadn’t stayed after the trial to wreak revenge on his ex-partner and his ex-wife after they’d sullied his good name.

  This was Veronique’s chance to reveal Nick’s side of the story and restore his public image. A blast of optimism energized her at the mere thought of it. Once he was vindicated because of her interview, he would want to rejoin humanity—she could only hope. A smile of anticipation curved on her lips.

  “Why are you grinning like that?” Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Fred doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

  From the moment he’d met Nick at Veronique’s dad’s funeral, Fred Golden had taken a strong interest in the responsible young man. Fred, her stepfather and family’s lawyer, had recognized Nick’s maturity when he rescued Veronique the night she ran away from camp. He was the only camp counselor who’d gone to her father’s funeral.

  Veronique had been a tormented little kid grieving the death of her alcoholic, drug addicted celebrity dad and dealing with a mentally unstable mom. Nick had stayed late and made sure she would be okay and Veronique had adored him for it.

  Veronique stiffened. “Fred doesn’t know my whereabouts and I’d appreciate if you’d keep it that way. I don’t want him to know I’m here.”

  “Why?”

  “He and I don’t get along much.”

  Nick slanted a hard look at her. “You better not leak my whereabouts to the public,” he cautioned.

  “I would never do that!” she said, wounded to the core.

  “Good,” he grunted.

  Nick grasped Veronique’s arm and led her to the front door. His grim face showed he meant business, but she didn’t want to leave. She wished she could wind her arms around his hard midsection and press her head against his chest as she’d done years ago when he’d comforted her in camp. But she was no longer that teenager and he had become a formidable man. Her stomach gave a little jolt at the strength of her attraction to him. Chill. Don’t let him unhinge you.

  “Please let me spend the night,” she pleaded with puppy dog eyes. “I’ll leave after the storm.”

  “No. Go back to Fort Myers while you can. You’ll be safer there.” He opened the door and nudged her outside.

  Veronique felt a whoosh of air lift the back of her dress as the door shut behind her. Damn him!

  From the doorstep, she glanced at the lush tropical foliage surrounding his plantation style mansion. Wet red bromeliads, soaked birds of paradise plants and damp yellow alamanda flowers glistened with the aftereffects of the heavy rain that had subsided—temporarily. It was typical of those outer rain bands preceding a storm. They came on hard and fast, and then slowed to a fine drizzle until the next one hit.

  She pounded on the oak door. “Open up! I need my
purse. It’s on the couch.”

  A minute passed before Nick opened the door partially and thrust her shoulder bag at her before shutting it again.

  Shaking off his boorish dismissal, Veronique took another look around and was glad she’d photographed the tropical foliage surrounding his house before she arrived. If she dared take more pictures, Nick would pitch a fit.

  Delighted at being on the tropical island, she breathed in the intoxicating scent of rain and damp earth mingled with fragrant flowers and exotic palms and fruit trees. When she stepped off the veranda, her feet sank into the thick, oozy earth. So much for the flower decorated, dainty sandals she’d splurged on. No matter. She was dying to get out of them anyway—the thin straps were digging into her feet. She took them off and wiggled her toes in the wet, sandy soil as she made her way to the rental car parked beside a coconut palm.

  Squish, squish. Her trudge brought back poignant childhood memories of playing barefoot in the beautiful gardens of her parents’ estate on the outskirts of Atlanta. She used to love it when it rained and she’d get wet and sloppy, rolling in the leaves and letting the mud seep between her toes and cover her legs so she could arrive at the front door looking like a little piggy just to outrage her meticulously groomed mother.

  Oh, Maman, you never did understand my kinship with nature. Growing up with an exquisitely elegant and beautiful mother hadn’t been easy. Veronique had had trouble relating to her on every level. As a scrappy kid who much preferred sports to dolls, her ultra-feminine, glamorous mother had always been an enigma to her.

  It wasn’t until she was an adult that Veronique learned that her mother had met the charismatic TV newsman Brett Whitcomb at a press conference in Paris and allowed him to sweep her off her feet with an impromptu marriage, shocking her pedigreed family in France. Transplanted from Paris to Georgia, Helene tenaciously held on to her cultured upbringing and privileged life.

  It was obvious to everyone who saw their mother/daughter dynamic that Helene never dreamt she’d give birth to a daughter who preferred camping to tea parties and jeans to pretty dresses. Veronique had often overheard Maman lamenting that she’d given birth to a scamp instead of a princess. It hadn’t really hurt her feelings because Veronique never wanted to sit on the sidelines like a regal princess. She’d much rather be in the thick of things, relishing life with all its bumps and challenges.

  A fat raindrop landed on the tip of her nose, signaling the rain was starting up again. She did a fist pump and leaped in the air. Yes! Mother Nature was on her side this time. A looming hurricane would make Nick’s naturally protective instincts kick in. She’d leave now because he’d mandated it and she didn’t want to antagonize him.

  Her toes dug into the soil with renewed energy as she grinned triumphantly. She’d be back—whether Nick liked it or not. He had probably never been in a hurricane if his reaction had been so blasé. His wood-framed, spacious house had a peaked metal roof, horizontal wood siding and side-hinged louvered shutters, with a wide veranda that stretched from one end to the other. The whole structure was surrounded by foliage. The stubborn mule had to realize that electrical power would be the first thing to go after the impact of sixty plus mile winds.

  Veronique noticed he hadn’t bolted the shutters down yet. Nick wasn’t prepared to weather a hurricane—or was he? She’d find out tonight. She could only imagine his reaction when she showed up at his doorstep again. This time, he’d have to let her stay, especially when he saw she brought much-needed supplies. She hoped he would realize he needed her more than she needed him.

  If he didn’t budge, she’d find a way to make him. Hell, she had survived boot camp for journalists at Camp Fort Benning and had spent two weeks embedded in Afghanistan with U.S. troops.

  She danced a little jig and did a high five to the sky. Glancing at the house, she snorted when she caught sight of Nick’s looming silhouette as he watched her from the living room window. She had probably confirmed his suspicion that she was still a wild child, but she didn’t care, especially after the rude way he’d dismissed her. Nick had sorely underestimated her if he thought he’d seen the last of her.

  She intended to ride out the hurricane with him. The tempting thought sent tremors of excitement sprinting through her. A mere hurricane couldn’t stop her—and neither could irascible Nick Cameron. She had never backed down from a challenge, and he was a formidable one. But she wouldn’t let his bad temper or dismissal of her get in the way. She’d restore his name to its golden luster come hell or high water.

  Veronique hadn’t earned her childhood nickname “Fearless Ronnie” for nothing.

  Chapter Three

  Good riddance, Nick thought as he watched Ronnie from his living room window. The bewitching stunner was raising her arms and doing a happy dance in the rain. Unlike any lady he knew, she seemed to enjoy her traipse through the mud. At twenty-eight she was still a free-spirited tomboy, though a striking one now underneath the pretty sundress, perfectly pedicured toes, and polished diction. She might have shed her southern drawl for TV work, but she hadn’t shed her reckless, impetuous ways.

  She couldn’t have left soon enough as far as he was concerned. He had only answered the door because he’d recognized her through the peephole as Fred’s stepdaughter. The girl had guts, he’d give her that much. She’d met his antagonism with a plucky attitude that hadn’t diminished in the past years. As a kid, Ronnie Whitcomb had never seemed to understand rules and limitations, or the meaning of “No.” She still didn’t. Fiery, sexy and too damned intrusive, she’d managed to get under his thick skin already. The skinny angles of a little girl had blossomed into heart-stopping curves.

  Tempting as she was, he just wanted to be left alone. He was tired of corporate corruption and tired of lies—from his colleagues and especially his loved ones. Make that his ex-wife. His emotions had run a gamut of disbelief, rage and contempt as the events of the last year had unfolded. When he realized nothing mattered to him anymore after the trial, he retreated to Starfish Island on Turquoise Bay, a remote inlet that isolated it from the Gulf.

  He’d arrived in mid-March when the air was cooler and a bit drier. Whenever he ventured out for walks or swims in the ocean, it was early in the morning or at sundown to avoid the lingering snowbirds and visiting spring break revelers. By April, most of them were gone leaving behind the few local families who lived there year round. He didn’t mind the steamy heat and mosquitos that summer brought. The fresh salt air in his lungs and the hot sun beating on his skin felt good. He was here to heal, to bring back meaning to his life—if that was possible.

  Each day he spent hiking, fishing or swimming in the gulf brought him closer to some sort of harmony. He knew every inch of the island and often marveled that he had landed in paradise. The ocean’s many moods, sometimes placid with still turquoise waters and other times turbulent with white frothy waves, never failed to fascinate him. When he swam in the gulf like a fish, he wouldn’t go back to land until his lungs were spent from the vigorous exercise.

  He mostly kept to himself, only interacting with others when necessary. In his past corporate life, he used to be friendly and enjoyed meeting people. Now he treasured the quiet solitude so much he couldn’t imagine going back to Manhattan. He didn’t want to either. He had little human interaction and he planned to keep it that way. For how long he didn’t know, but for now it suited him just fine.

  He’d paid cash for the sprawling mansion burrowed in deep vegetation. It was a solid structure, built to withstand high winds and rain and surrounded by enough land to be insulated from the public eye. When the garden became a jungle overcome with long grass and weeds, he hired a local gardener and paid him handsomely so he’d respect Nick’s privacy. Later, he hired the gardener’s daughter as his housekeeper to clean the house and do the marketing.

  Nick had felt safe letting only one person know his whereabouts—Fred Golden, his trusted lawyer. Fred was the best. He specialized in handling the weal
thiest of clients and one of them had been Brett Whitcomb, Veronique’s celebrity father and heir to Whitcomb beauty cosmetics. Fred had watched over Helene like a hawk after Brett’s death and eventually married her while Veronique was away at boarding school. She never knew of her mother’s pill overdose after her dad’s death, and Fred had sheltered her from Helene’s demons as best he could.

  He had also been Nick’s attorney for five years before Nick’s public and nasty divorce, and the fall of his financial empire. For the past six months, Fred had provided Nick with the strictest confidentiality and had afforded him with the privacy necessary to dodge the media. He put a plan in motion to fool everyone into thinking that Nick was jet setting around the globe by feeding the media misleading information. He’d also sent postcards written and signed by Nick from key locations to comfort his mom, who worried about her demoralized son.

  Demoralized was too weak a word to describe how he felt after being trounced by the events of the past year. Enraged was more like it. After a salacious trial in which his ex-partner and best friend, Zack, was sent to jail for insider trading and Nick narrowly escaped being framed, he found out that his ex-wife Elizabeth had been having a long-term affair with Zack.

  He felt like throwing up every time he recalled Elizabeth’s last words to him. “See this bump?” she’d sneered, pointing to her barely rounded belly. “I’m having Zack’s baby and I want a divorce.”

  When the tabloids leaked the demise of New York City’s beautiful power couple, Nick distanced himself from the public eye, which led to more juicy speculation. Revolted that he’d always expected the best of others and had blindly trusted Elizabeth and Zack, Nick left town.

  Otherwise, he would have killed Zack.

  The wisest thing he’d done was to install a punching bag in the gym upstairs and pound it every morning while visualizing Zack’s treacherous face. After the first month of boozing, Nick quit cold turkey one alarming morning when he couldn’t remember what day it was. Disgusted that he’d almost finished off the destruction that Zack had begun, he dumped the booze out. He’d since gone back to drinking wine once in a while, but not to that kind of excess.