Dangerously in Love
Michele Kimbrough
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 Michele Kimbrough
All rights reserved.
Cover designed by: Michele Kimbrough / Galan Graphix
Editor: Lori Draft ([email protected])
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Chapter 41
42. Chapter 42
Epilogue
About the Author
for Cassandra and Camille
Prologue
“Call David,” Amelia spoke into the voice command of her console app, her Spanish accent slightly evident. Nothing happened. She tried again. The call went directly to voicemail. “Dave, it’s me. I. . .” Her call dropped.
Lightning bolted. Meandering storm clouds darkened the sky. Rain beat against the car. Her headache was now unbearable and she could hardly see through the pain. The throbbing synced with her heartbeat which seemed to pound erratically. Nonetheless, she pushed through the thirty mile drive to her cousin’s house. He needed his briefcase that he’d left in her car the other day.
She parked across the street from David’s townhouse. Both his and Beth’s cars were in the driveway, and there was no room for hers. She got out of the car, carrying the briefcase. His garage was open and so was the inside door. Unusual.
“Dave!” she called out. It was quiet.
She nearly tripped over a planter. What was that doing there? She picked it up and set it in the corner where it belonged. In another few feet, she saw overturned tables and chairs, lamps on the floor, papers and books strewn everywhere.
“What the hell happened here?” she whispered.
“Dave!” she yelled and ran upstairs. Clothes were everywhere. His personal items had been ransacked, dumped, broken, and ripped. “Dave!” she screamed. She leapt down the stairs, nearly knocking over a misplaced vase.
Amelia ran into the living room, still screaming. Then into the dining room, which was also demolished. She stood in the corridor, panicked.
No one’s here, she thought.
Just then, she noticed the basement door was ajar. She ran down the stairs and immediately recognized that his basement had also been ransacked. In the corner, she saw David lying in a pool of his blood, mutilated. A bloodcurdling scream escaped Amelia as she fell to her knees. Who would do such an awful thing?
She heard a clunk then loud rumbling and thumping. She ran, trying to prevent her wet galoshes from squeaking on the tile floor. Crouching into a dark corner, she fell back a little when she tripped on something, still managing to balance herself while trying to quietly move the impediment. She couldn’t quite make out what was in her way as she touched something sticky. She looked at her hand. Blood. She turned and saw David’s ex-wife, Beth, slumped over. Amelia screamed into her hand. The sound of her muffled scream had been concealed by a rather large man falling backward down the stairs, tumbling to a neck-breaking thud.
Clutching the briefcase, Amelia swiftly hid behind Beth’s dead body, veiled by the shadows of the basement. She heard two, maybe three pairs of footsteps approaching. Men. Their gait sounded too heavy to belong to women. Amelia trembled, trying not to make noise. Her breathing was so hard and heavy she feared they’d hear her. She closed her eyes, frightened that they’d glimmer in the darkness and give her away.
She heard the men scrambling around. Their work boots gave her tremors with each thump. Her heart pounded with unsteady beats. Her body quaked uncontrollably as one of the men got closer and closer . . . and closer. He stood right in front of her—still for a moment, then squatting down. He was so close she could smell his putrid breath. She prayed he couldn’t see her, hoping the darkness shielded her. Slowly, she opened her eyes, which met with his. He smiled wryly.
“You picked a really bad day to drop by,” he said.
He reached his hand toward her. She thought she’d lose control of her bladder. Maybe she had—the basement reeked of urine. She tried to lean back but couldn’t go any further. Her heart leaped into her throat. Her stomach somersaulted.
He touched Beth’s hair and cheek. Sucking his teeth, he stood, kicking Beth’s legs and causing her body to shift. He stood there a moment longer until the other men headed upstairs.
She wanted to scream—again, no air. She couldn’t stop shaking.
One of the men yelled from upstairs. He turned and ran up the stairs, two steps at a time. She heard their heavy thumps above her. A door slammed. Two car doors closed, and the heavy engine revved. Its vibrations were strong at first but receded with distance.
Amelia pushed Beth’s body to the side and it fell over, stiff like a mannequin. She ran to the stairs, avoiding the puddles of blood along the way. She tripped on the man’s arm at the foot of the stairs and fell on top of him—the briefcase between their bodies—staring him in the face. She recognized him and gulped hard—she was too breathless for a scream. It was Uncle Murphee—her mother’s brother, and David’s father.
In a panic, she hastily climbed the stairs, frequently losing her footing, banging her knees as she tried to regain her balance. Still clutching the briefcase, she hightailed it to her car and sped away.
That was three years ago.
1
It’s rare that love punctuates happiness
1
Hill glanced at her in snatches, trying not to stare and trying not to be too curious about the feel of her. But he was. He could hardly take his eyes off of Caitlin as she stood at the large window of her sunroom. But he had to. He was on a deadline. Besides that, her husband, Adam Church, was always nearby, guarding his most prized possession, currently on display in a window which framed her like a painting in an art museum. Look, but don’t touch, he told himself.
Rosemary, a short, matronly, middle-aged woman, approached him, carrying a platter with a tall glass of icy lemonade. He stood upright and pitched the hoe, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his arm. He’d been digging into the hard, dry ground for two hours under suffocating humidity and scorching heat. Sweat was dripping from his white-blonde hair, streaming in rivulets down his swarthy, sweat-slick skin. He smiled at Rosemary as she stood in front of him.
“Miss Rosemary,” he smiled. “You’re looking beautiful as ever.”
“Y
our charm won’t work on me,” she said dryly, her Valencian accent heavy. “The Mrs. told me to bring this to you.”
“She did, huh?” He looked toward the house and saw Caitlin smiling at him, one hand resting at her neck, the other on her hip. The skirt of her white halter dress was split damn near to her crotch, and she had legs for days. “Well, tell her thank you.”
“Hilton, right?” Rosemary asked, even though she was certain of his name.
He nodded, still admiring Caitlin’s perfectly sun-kissed skin.
“Hilton. Be very careful. The mister is a very dangerous man.”
He took the glass of lemonade and held it up, tilting it slightly toward the window where Caitlin stood. He saw her smile broaden, brightening her lovely face. She was the most alluring woman he’d ever seen.
“Thank you, Miss Rosemary. I appreciate the warning, but it isn’t necessary. And, please, everybody calls me Hill.”
“Look at me,” she said and waited until his eyes met with hers. “I like you, Hilton. I’d hate to see the same thing happen to you as the last man.”
Hill gulped the refreshing beverage, unconcerned about Rosemary’s admonition. He returned the glass to the elegant tray and watched Rosemary disappear into the well-kept Mediterranean-style mansion. It was nicely secluded behind a forest of trees at the end of a dead-end street. The rambling ten thousand square foot home sat on more acreage than the Churches could figure out what to do with, so they had contracted Hilton Parker’s landscaping company, which consisted of himself and two migrant workers, Gabe and Ty.
Hill pulled off his sweat-soaked T-shirt and tossed it onto the stone wall. His bare chest and broad back were beautifully defined, and his arm and ab muscles were dense from physical labor. He brushed his wet hair away from his face and winked at Caitlin, who stood watching—gazing intently, licking her lips. He stuffed the earbuds in his ears, turned up the music on his iPod, grabbed the hoe, and cut into the dirt.
As Bono crooned melodiously in Hill’s ears, he abruptly saw stars—not of the Hollywood type, but of the ‘something just knocked the wind out of me’ type. He dropped to the ground, landing face-first in the dirt. He rolled over, trying to get his bearings, but something impacted him repeatedly, hard and swift. He rolled onto his side to avoid the crushing blows. A sudden, sharp pain cut into his gut, then another. The yard spun. He rolled and pushed himself onto his knees and, just as he attempted to stand, his face met with the stealth kick of a steel-toed Timberland. Pain radiated from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He fell back, banging his head on the shaft of his tamper. Everything went black.
When he came to, his chest felt as if someone had parked a pickup truck on it. His head throbbed in sync with the beat of his heart—the only indication he was still alive. The sun glared in his eyes, and his vision blurred, but he could make out the blurred silhouette of a rather large man whose well-worn work boots pressed down on his chest. It was Adam Church.
Adam was an intimidating man. He was striking, like a young Marlon Brando, with a towering height of six-two. He had a slender build, and it was obvious that Adam worked out, pushing hard at forty to keep his athletic physique in top condition. He looked much younger than his years and strived to maintain the physical agility of a younger man. After all, his wife was ten years younger. Although his hard edges were softening, it remained dangerous to trifle with him.
Hill looked up at the window to see if Caitlin had witnessed his embarrassing beat-down.
“She’s not there,” Adam said. He removed his large booted foot from Hill’s chest and extended his hand to help him up.
Hill hesitated for a moment but took Adam’s hand despite his misgivings. Once Hill was on his feet, Adam reached into the front pocket of his now bloodied shirt and pulled out two cigars, handing one to Hill, who was bent forward in pain, grimacing. He noticed Rosemary standing at the door with her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. He nodded at her, a gesture to let her know he was okay. He wasn’t . . . but he saw the worry in her eyes.
Adam flicked the lighter, putting the flame to Hill’s cigar first, then his own. He pulled the cigar out of his mouth, cradling it in the bend of his forefinger, standing toe-to-toe with Hill, looking down slightly to make eye contact.
“Do we have an understanding?” Adam’s voice was steady and calm.
Hill nodded, wiping the blood that dripped from his nose. He was a little unsteady on his feet, woozy. His head still throbbed. Cigars weren’t his thing, but there was something audacious about it. He probably would’ve enjoyed it more sans blood and pain.
“Good talk, then,” Adam said. He put his cigar in his mouth, holding it between his teeth, shoved his hands in his pants pockets, and walked away.
Hill heaved a sigh of relief.
2
After a cup of tar-like coffee and nearly-burnt toast slathered with apricot marmalade, Perry stuffed his dirty laundry into a duffle bag. Sorting colors didn’t matter to him—it would all go into one load, no matter how dingy the clothes became afterward. The clothes that mattered, his suits and dress shirts, were laundered at the cleaners.
Perry Chadwich was huge, fit, tough, and bold. At over six feet and two hundred sixty pounds of solid muscle, he hardly encountered an aggressor. There were a few who had tried to trifle with him, to their detriment. But that was rare.
Despite his machismo, going to the laundry room in the building where he lived was always eerie to him. It was as if someone had dropped him into one of those Freddie Krueger horror movies, trapped in a dark, dank basement where someone scary, egged on by a menacing soundtrack, could jump out with a machete at any second.
He noticed every dark doorway, storage room, and air vent. As he passed the super’s closet, the tingling in his spine heightened. Walking past that metal door gave him the creeps. He imagined a deranged, masked janitor leaping from the hollow shadows of the corridor, aiming razor-like fingers at him. Silly. But it was a real fear.
Finally in the laundry room where there was a garden window and a little light gleaming through, he felt a tad less horrified. He dumped his clothes into the washing machine, shoved six quarters into the slots, and started the wash cycle.
Back upstairs in the safe haven of his apartment, he flipped through the cable channels and stopped at ESPN when his phone rang. He almost never looked at the caller ID. It didn’t matter to him who was calling, he would answer. A lot of cases either went cold or were drawn-out by folks not answering their phones. That one phone call could have provided the missing link, the smoking gun, the lost puzzle piece. He answered. It was Agent Reeves. “Mindy’s here,” Reeves said.
Once Perry had folded his clothes and put them away, he put the top down on his faded red convertible and headed to the precinct.
***
Mindy sat across from Perry, popping her gum and toying with her embellished acrylic fingernails. Her deep V-neck T-shirt exposed her ample braless cleavage which drew Perry’s attention long enough for Agent Reeves to notice where his eyes had focused. Mindy didn’t care. She liked the attention, even though she pretended not to. She leaned forward on her elbows to give Perry a better view.
Agent Reeves had downloaded the audio surveillance from the devices Mindy had retrieved for him. She was Agent Reeves’ confidential informant, and also one of Adam Church’s housekeepers. Reeves found her to be an effective CI because she had access to every nook and cranny in the Church mansion. She was the only person able to place and remove bugs and surveillance cameras without detection. Mindy managed to tear herself away from Perry’s gaze long enough to reach for the small electronic devices that Reeves was returning to her.
“I want to you to place them where you had them before. It was perfect. The audio was clear,” Agent Reeves said.
“That Rosemary broad is always watching me. It’ll be hard to do it again.”
“I’m not interested in how difficult it is for you. I just want it done. Do whatever you need to do,” Re
eves commanded.
Perry motioned for Reeves to calm down then looked at Mindy, starting at her cleavage and roving up to her tired eyes. “We understand the difficulties and the fact that it might be dangerous for you. But just do your best. Call me,” he said with emphasis on ‘me’ as he glanced at Reeves then returned his attention back to Mindy, “After you’ve placed each of the devices. Okay?”
Mindy nodded as she popped her gum.
3
“Counselor,” the judge said.
“Judge,” Hill replied.
Hill hoped his father wasn’t there to lecture him about his life’s choices—how he should be practicing law with a respectable firm rather than playing in the dirt like a child. He’d heard that lecture more than he’d care to admit, ever since he had announced he wanted to pursue landscaping. He had an undergraduate degree in architectural engineering. He liked designing things, using his hands to build and create. His father, the Honorable Leonard Parker, didn’t understand that. It was bad enough that Hill had chosen to go to a state college rather than an Ivy League university, which he’d had plenty of offers to attend. But that was a different lecture, reserved for another time.
“What happened to your face?”
“An accident at work,” Hill said impatiently, suspecting his father’s visit wasn’t a social one. “What do you want, Dad? Because if this is going to be another lecture about law school or going back into practice, save your breath.”
“I just wanted to see my son. That’s all.”
Doubtful, Hill thought. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He twisted off the cap and took a swig. When he closed the refrigerator, his father, who had followed him into the kitchen, was standing at the other side of the door.
“Would you like a beer?” Hill asked.
Dangerously in Love Page 1
