No Good Deed

by Matthews, Susanne

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  Contents

  Cover

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  About the Author

  ‘The White Carnation’ Excerpt

  Copyright

  Guide

  Contents

  Start of content

  No Good Deed

  Susanne Matthews

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Praise for Susanne Matthews

  The Harvester Series

  The White Carnation

  The White Lily

  The White Iris:

  “Susanne Matthews presents a truly stunning suspense scenario with this story. The situation itself could be a main character, but Faye and Rob hold their own in this powerful romance . . . I couldn’t stop reading this book that was filled with so much evil and yet held so much hope as well.”—4.5 stars, Night Owl Reviews

  “Once upon a blog post, I asked readers if they’d ever seen Quentin Tarantino’s From Dusk to Dawn . . . an unexpected vampire tale. But I can also ask if you’ve ever read Catherine Coulter’s classic romantic suspense, The Edge. It’s also got a fantastic unexpected plot twist. If you like either of those, then Susanne Matthews’ The White Carnation will be like catnip.”—Heroes and Heartbreakers.com

  “I always like these kind of stories because I try to figure out who the killer is and see if I am right. I was quite shocked to find out that my guess is wrong . . . A definite read for anyone who likes hardcore romantic suspense books.”—Romancing the Book

  “The twists are many and scary. The plot is so well done and thrilling up to the last page! The pace is fast . . . Grab a glass of your favorite beverage and settle in . . . ”—The Reading Cafe.

  On His Watch

  “This story was very moving and I applaud Nikki for not giving up and hanging on.”—Night Owl Reviews

  “Move over Alfred Hitchcock, this wonderful suspense/romance is a must read if you love action and romance all in an incredibly well-written bundle.”—Georgianna Simpson, The Reading Cafe

  “Her writing style is to die for . . . Susanne Matthews manages to flawlessly balance mystery, violence, redemption and romance into one epic story that was entertaining and heartwarming. I can say with all honesty that this will not be my last Susanne Matthew’s novel!”—Breathless Ink

  Chapter One

  Alexa O’Brien white-knuckled the steering wheel, her foot barely touching the accelerator as she followed the taillights of the pickup truck ahead of her. She didn’t dare stay any farther back. If she did, she wouldn’t see the guiding lights at all and would end up in the ditch. Of course, if the truck went off the road, she would be up Shit Creek without a paddle.

  She snorted, fluttering her lips. “Damn you, Mother Nature. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  The tires on the old wreck she’d bought were almost as bald as her stepfather had been. What a lecture he would give her if he could see her now. Another man who’d claimed he knew what was best for her. In this case, he was probably right, but he’d been wrong too many times to count. It was her life—her mistakes to make—and while some of them had been doozies, she’d taken control once more.

  Pray God she didn’t have to brake suddenly.

  She’d planned her escape so carefully, timed it to coincide with Richard’s trip to Africa, and now this. Where the hell had a foot of snow come from? It was the middle of April. Even in Canada, that meant spring.

  The distance between her car and the vehicle ahead shortened. Alexa eased up on the accelerator. What was she doing? Twenty miles per hour? Maybe twenty-five?

  The lights ahead turned a deeper red. She was coming up on the truck too fast.

  “Holy shit!”

  She moved her foot from the gas pedal to the brake, pumping the pedal twice, but it didn’t help. She screeched. Like Bambi on ice, the car swerved, spun around twice, and then skidded to the right. Time stood still—the car didn’t.

  Think, Alexa, think. What did you learn in that damn defensive driving course?

  Heart pounding, stomach roiling, she took her foot off the brake and slowly turned the steering wheel until the tires of the car pointed into the skid, praying the damn things would grip.

  Donuts in a parking lot were one thing, but they weren’t quite so much fun at night, on an unfamiliar road, during a frigging snowstorm.

  She trembled, holding the steering wheel so tightly she was sure her fingerprints were embedded in the plastic. All she could see were the trees coming at her, but ever so slightly, the car slowed, straightened to face the direction she wanted it to, and stopped less than three feet from the pickup’s tailgate.

  Her heart thundered in her ears, and she exhaled heavily. While she wasn’t directly behind the small truck, she was back on the road, no worse for the wear, even if she did feel like a cat who’d just lost another life. Shaking so badly that she had trouble shifting the car into park, she rested her forehead against the steering wheel, waiting for her heart to slow.

  Someone tapped on her window, and she jumped.

  Who the hell would be walking on the road in this weather?

  A second tap, harder and more urgent than before, gave her no choice. Scraping away the frost on the inside of the window, she was blinded by the sudden brief flash of light in her face. Bile rose in her throat, and her heart resumed its frantic pace. Hand trembling, she rolled down the window.

  “Excusez-moi, mais le 30 est fermé. Tu dois rester sur the 20.”

  “I . . . I don’t speak French,” Alexa stammered to the police officer.

  “There has been an accident,” the woman said, her th sounding like d. “This highway, it’s closed. Turn right at my car, and follow the 20 through Dorion. There’s a motel along that road. Not a good night to drive.”

  “Thank you. I’m ready to call it a night.” Alexa rolled up the window once more, taking two deep breaths to calm herself before putting the car in gear and slowly inching along behind the truck.

  Why had she thought it would be Richard? She’d made a clean getaway this time. It would be days yet before he realized she’d flown the coop.

  After what felt like hours, her right shoulder stiffer than usual, her muscles cramped, and her head pounding, she spotted the neon sign for Les trois érables and turned into the motel’s crowded parking lot. What would she do if the place was booked? Staying in the car wasn’t an option. People died that way, and while she wanted to escape from Richard and the hell that was her life, dying to do so wasn’t part of the plan.

  Grabbing her backpack off the seat, Alexa trudged through the snow to the office. She should’
ve picked up a pair of boots when she’d bought the winter jacket. Her feet were soaked. God alone knew how long it would take to dry her shoes.

  She shuddered. Les trois érables was the kind of place they could’ve used to film Psycho. If there was an Anthony Perkins or Vince Vaughn lookalike in there manning the welcome desk, she would have to rethink her options, but only a fool would try to find an alternate route in a province where all the road signs were in a language she didn’t understand and the visibility was zero. She might be a lot of things, but she was no fool.

  The bell at the top of the door chimed when Alexa stepped inside the small smoke-filled room. The woman sitting in front of the television set heaved her bulk out of the chair and lumbered up to the desk.

  Alexa exhaled and pasted a smile on her face. It looked like she would be spending the night here after all.

  “Tu veux une chambre?” the woman asked, her voice raspy from too many cigarettes.

  Alexa coughed. “I don’t speak French. Do you have an empty room?”

  “Eighty dollars, up front.”

  “Eighty bucks?” Alexa repeated, her voice going up at least one octave.

  The woman nodded. “Take it or leave it.”

  Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Alexa reached for her wallet and laid the four twenties on the counter. The woman picked them up, shoved them in her bra, reached for a key hanging on a pegboard, and handed it to her.

  “Number eleven, on the left. When you’re ready to leave, drop your key in that box.” She indicated a plastic bin labeled clefs. Flipping the old-style registration book around on the desk, she handed Alexa a pen. “Checkout is noon. Name, address, and license number.”

  There was no way she could leave here at noon. That meant driving during the day. Besides, the way it was coming down out there, she probably wouldn’t be able to leave even if she wanted to. Reluctantly, she handed the woman another eighty dollars from her meager stash of cash. It vanished the same way as the first, and the woman hung a red plastic two on the pegboard where the key had been.

  Alexa filled in the line, giving her mother’s maiden name as she had when she’d purchased and registered the vehicle, using her driver’s license and insurance. Sometimes, it paid to look older than you were.

  After thanking the woman who’d grunted and returned to her chair, Alexa went out to find her room. Number eleven was the second-to-last room at the end of the building’s left wing. Unlocking the door, she flipped on the light and gagged. The room reeked, a combination of wet dog, mildew, ammonia, and years of tobacco smoke.

  “God. This is . . . disgusting.” She raised her hand to cover her mouth.

  The dirty, worn couch was threadbare, the sagging bed probably hosted all kinds of critters, and the tables sported water rings and butt burns.

  She dropped her backpack near the door and turned to lock it, putting on the night chain. Since the brass links didn’t appear particularly strong, she pulled a filthy, stuffed chair in front of the door, removed her wet shoes, and headed for the bathroom.

  In spite of her desperate need, Alexa took the time to toilet-paper the seat before using it.

  “What a dump.”

  Two years ago, she would’ve grabbed her bag and run as fast as her legs could carry her, but tonight, as dirty and unattractive as it was, it would do.

  Rolling her eyes, she looked up at the ceiling. “Good thing you aren’t here, Mom. You wouldn’t last five minutes in this place.”

  All of the bathroom fixtures were several decades old, and God alone knew the last time they’d been cleaned. Were those hairs in the bathtub? A closer examination suggested they might just be cracks in the porcelain. How did this place survive a health inspection?

  “Eighty bucks for a night here? It should come with a tetanus shot.”

  After changing her socks and propping her shoes up to dry, she used the entire purse-sized can of disinfecting spray on the bed before lying down, fully clothed. It was almost midnight, and the emotional toil of tonight’s drive through hell had exhausted her.

  Instead of the sleep she craved, she tossed and turned, counting every lump in the flea-bitten mattress until she couldn’t stand it a moment longer. It was just after five when she gave up and rose. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. It was much easier to plan an escape than to execute one. Too many things could go wrong once you took that first step. This was her third shot at freedom. Either she would be three times lucky—which was what she hoped for—or she would strike out again. But she would never quit trying. She leaned back in the wooden chair, searching for an English channel on the television. It was going to be a long day.

  • • •

  Alexa glanced anxiously at the clock. It was after ten. She huffed out a frustrated breath. If she didn’t get going, Ms. Personality on the desk would probably demand another eighty dollars. The longer she stayed here, the more likely it was that Richard would discover she’d escaped. He’d probably called by now, but she’d left her cell phone, and everything else he’d given her, in their bedroom.

  As the wind had howled and the sleet and snow lashed the windows, she’d immersed herself in the old paperback she’d found in the nightstand under the French Bible. By early afternoon, the storm had stopped, and she’d hoped to catch four hours of sleep. Unfortunately, she’d made it eight, which was why she was running late.

  Despite the tub’s despicable condition, she opted to shower to clear her head. As she washed, something dropped onto her, sending her scrambling naked out of the bathroom, squawking in as big a panic as any hen with a fox in the roost. Nude, wet, cold, and shivering, she grabbed her shoe and went back to destroy the monsters and felt like a fool when she realized her spiders were nothing more than flakes of paint from the ceiling, not the clear, whitish spiders she occasionally found in the kitchen or bathroom at home.

  Using both hands, she shoved her damp hair off her face and pulled it into a low ponytail. She’d dressed in clean clothes, but already the odors in the room infiltrated everything. Time to get back out there and hope the cold would get rid of the stench.

  Inching open the drapes, she smiled. This was more like it. Stars sparkled in the clear night sky and four-foot snowbanks lined the road. She’d given herself four days to get to the Newfoundland ferry terminal, but after two of them, she was still on the western outskirts of Montreal, a good fifteen driving hours away from where she needed to be. Since she didn’t dare travel during the day and had lost six hours of driving time tonight, it was going to be tight.

  Closing the curtains, she inhaled deeply, regretting it as the stale tobacco smoke made her cough, the aftertaste lingering in her mouth.

  Her stomach growled. The bag of chips, chocolate bar, and two cans of ginger ale she’d gotten from the vending machines before she ran out of change hardly constituted a balanced diet. While she craved a decent meal, most of the restaurants were closed now, and she wasn’t up for another greasy burger and fries.

  Footfalls outside her room froze her in place. They were coming this way. Since the last room was already occupied—and judging by the squeaking bed, so were its occupants—there was no reason for anyone to be out there, especially at this time of night. Fear gnawing at her insides, she scrambled to find a place to hide, squatting down beside the bed, her gaze fixed on the door.

  A single sheet of yellow paper shimmied under it before the footsteps moved on. She exhaled heavily, shoved the chair to the side, and picked up the flyer for L’hibou noir, a twenty-four-hour convenience store and gas bar. She dropped down on the edge of the bed. Her hands trembled.

  She was jumping at shadows. It had only been some kid delivering flyers. Hell of a way to earn a few dollars. She glanced at the notice once more. Perhaps she should stop there for fuel and get tea and a couple of muffins before heading out. Since the car was down to a quarter of a tank, she wouldn’t get far unless she did.

  After packing her meager possessions, she donned the secondhand winter jack
et she’d bought at the Salvation Army in Kingston two days ago, put on a baseball cap, and pulled the brim down low. Her shoes were still damp, and her feet would be wet and frozen in no time.

  Once she’d dropped her room key into the box in the motel office, she scanned the parking lot to make sure she was alone before crossing to her car. How long would she keep looking over her shoulder like this?

  She turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed twice before starting, and she let out a sigh of relief. While the heater did its job on the windshield, she brushed the sticky snow from the rest of the sedan. Ten minutes later, her feet wet and cold, she got into the car and drove off in search of L’hibou noir.

  The road was deserted. Signaling a right turn, she pulled into one of the two fueling bays, and got out to gas up. Why was it still so damn cold? Her teeth chattering, she fumbled with her new debit card before inserting it into the slot to unlock the pumps. The cheap, dollar-store gloves did nothing to keep her hands warm, and her fingers were almost as frozen as her feet. She accidentally punched in the wrong pin number at first.

  Minutes later, the nozzle jerked in her hand as the pump shut off. Alexa anchored the spigot to the side of the gas pump, grabbed her receipt, wrinkled it up into a tiny wad, and shoved it in the pocket of her jacket. The place wasn’t busy enough to warrant moving the car, so she locked it and headed toward the convenience store with its red neon ouvert sign flashing in the window next to one announcing Biere Froide. The last thing she needed was cold beer, but hot tea or cocoa was a different story. If she had to, she would drink coffee. With enough cream and sugar in it, it might be palatable.

  Approaching the store, she noticed the back end of a black SUV parked on the far side of the building. That baby might have Quebec tags, but it sure as hell didn’t belong to the owner. The vehicle was probably worth more than this whole business was.

  Stepping inside the store, she rubbed her cold hands together. In contrast to its dowdy exterior, the interior was clean and divided into four aisles, each one with shelves laden with foodstuffs and household products. Floor-to-ceiling refrigerators and freezers hosted a variety of nonalcoholic beverages, packaged meats, and boxes of frozen foods, including ice cream treats. A large sign suspended from the ceiling indicated customers who wanted alcohol should go to the rear of the store. The aroma of pine cleaner was strong, as if someone had just washed down the wooden plank floors, reminding her of Christmas at her grandmother’s house a lifetime ago. A French radio station played in the background, the announcer’s voice replaced by that of a pop song she’d heard recently.