And to top it off, they’d found the blue pills Natasha had been giving me hidden in the silver case, as well.
With Doctor Ashe’s help, we’d discovered she’d been poisoning me while she’d cared for me. They’d had the pills analyzed and found they were Phenazepam, a benzodiazepine developed in Russia in 1975 to deal with anxiety but that could be deadly combined with depression meds, which was what Natasha was doing. She’d been giving me the benzodiazepine with an anti-depression pill each day. At the hospital, they put me on another medication because the withdrawal from benzodiazepine was apparently just as dangerous as taking it with other meds.
Sharon Long had also done me the favor of texting her daughter her suspicions about Natasha and letting her know she had plans to meet Natasha in the medina that day in Tangier. It was good enough for the authorities to press charges against Natasha for Long’s murder, Henry’s murder, and my attempted murder.
Natasha was under police guard in the local hospital.
Although there was nothing left to say or do, I went to see her one last time before my flight back to the states.
The police officer sitting outside her door told me Natasha was manacled to the bed so I’d be safe.
When I walked in, Natasha was sitting up, her silky red hair fanned on the pillow behind her. It was if she were staying in a spa, not a hospital. When she saw me, she turned her head toward the window. I caught a glimpse of a white bandage on the back of her head.
“We were never friends.” I said it as a statement not a question.
I pulled up a chair beside the bed. I watched her. She wouldn’t turn away from the window, but I saw her swallow. And blink.
“I cannot afford to have friends,” she said.
“I don’t even know what that means.” But I did. I knew it with every ounce of my being.
I waited for her to say more. She remained staring out the window, expressionless. Finally, after what seemed like a long while, her eyes closed. I listened to her breathing change. I didn’t know if she was asleep or not, but I stood.
There was nothing left for me here.
Epilogue
I Owe Everything To Pasta
Back in my San Francisco loft, eating spaghetti with Darling and Dante, I decided to never leave California again.
The sun poured through my big loft windows, and I knew life was good.
All I needed was in this room. My good friends. And my dog. Then it struck me—the names of all the people I loved started with D. I burst into laughter.
“What’s up?” Dante’s brilliant white smile transformed his face from merely good looking to knock-out model territory.
“I just had a realization.”
Darling handed me another red plastic cup of wine. “What’s that, doll?”
“My first mistake was trying to make friends with someone who didn’t have a name that starts with a ‘D.’”
Darling guffawed. She laughed so hard, tears dripped down her face. She slapped her knees, bent over.
“Okay. It’s funny, but not that funny.” I helped her to a cushioned chair. “What?”
“It’s that—” she couldn’t get the words out. She just kept pointing to my dog.
“What?”
By now all three of us were laugh-crying.
She caught her breath and swiped her tears away. She exhaled. “Okay. Okay. What I was trying to say is that even your damn dog’s name starts with a D,” she said.
“Weird, right?” I said.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dante said.
“Lots,” I said. “So much. Where to begin?”
Then Darling grew serious. “You know, there’s actually something to this.”
I took another gulp of my wine. “To what?”
“They say that names have meaning. We meet certain people with certain names in our lives. Some are evil. Some are good. Obviously, the ones that begin with ‘D’ are your lucky ones.”
Made sense to me. “Then it’s decided. If you want to be part of my life, you damn well better have a name that starts with a D.” I raised my glass high.
But I noticed Dante was frowning. “I was thinking.”
“Uh oh.”
“Why did you stop seeing that cop, James?” Dante asked. “It seems like ‘J’ might be a good letter for you.”
It felt like all the air was sucked out of my lungs. No fair. Dirty pool. I stood and headed toward the stairs to my roof. I wasn’t going to answer that. James was an old story I didn’t want to think about right then.
Dante and Darling followed me up. “He’s a good guy, right?” Dante said.
“I like him,” Darling chirped from her perch under the grape vines.
“Gia?” Dante was not going to give up. “He’s one of the good ones. Hell, he’s got his shit together and treats you like a queen.”
“That’s the problem,” I said it in a low voice and headed back inside. “Besides,” I mumbled to myself, “I’m done with men.”
A week later, all that changed. Dante invited me to a party. Well, he insisted I attend—for the business.
“Seriously. These are the movers and shakers in Silicon Valley, Gia,” he said. “If you want to do something bigger with Swanson Place, you’re going to have to get to know them. They want to talk to you. I’ve paved the way.”
“I don’t want to go to a party. I’m over parties.”
“There are some pretty powerful, attractive men at these parties,” he said, winking.
“I’m becoming celibate.”
He’d just taken a big slug of beer and laughed so hard, he choked and had a coughing fit.
I glared at him as he bent over, trying to catch his breath with tears running down his cheeks.
Finally, when he stopped, he looked at me, smiled, and shook his head.
“Oh, Gia.”
“It’s not funny. I am. No more men.”
“How about women?” he said with a raised eyebrow.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said. “The last woman I let into my life tried to frame me for murder and kill me. Nope.”
“I’ll send over a dress that is appropriate for you to wear.”
“I’ll handle it.” I said and turned.
He put his head down. “Please let me.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to wear my leather pants.”
“Well, thank God for that, but seriously, let me handle your outfit for the night.”
“Fine. God, you’re so bossy.”
When the package arrived the day of the party, I’d completely forgotten that I’d agreed to wear Dante’s outfit choice. But when I lifted the lid of the box, I smiled. It was a stunning, navy velvet gown with an open back. Just my style. It would do.
When the car pulled up in front of my building, a low whistle emerged from the lowered back window. Dante.
“Damn. Am I good or what?” he said.
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to hide my pleasure as I slipped in the back seat with him.
He wore a sharp, black Armani suit. Thirty minutes later, we pulled up to a large home in Marin Valley with sweeping views of the ocean.
After being escorted inside by a doorman, we were led to the entrance of a large ballroom.
Pausing in the doorway, my gaze swept the room. My dress was perfect. Dante had turned and was talking to the man beside us when I felt someone staring.
I looked across the room.
The crowd blurred in a haze of colors and movement. All I could see was the piercing gaze of the most magnetic man I’d ever seen. From twenty feet away, his look pinned me to the spot.
We stared for what felt like an eternity. It was as if there was nobody else in the room.
His powerful gaze had mesmerized me.
After a few seconds, I realized that Dante had been speaking to me. But I couldn’t tear my eyes from the man across the room.
Finally, I said to Dante in a low voice.
“Who is th
at?”
He was making his way through the crowd, headed my way. Everyone and everything else in the room fell away.
“That’s Damien,” he said.
I smiled. Of course.
Things just got interesting.
Want more? Gia’s story continues soon in
A Taste for Vengeance where she runs into Sydney Rye, a badass dog walker turned assassin. Turn the page for a sneak peek.
Sneak Peek
Taste of Vengeance
Prologue
Rio de Janiero
Carnival
Every which way I turned, it seemed there was a masked figure leering at me, reaching for me, hands and eyes and mouths stretching and elongating to the throbbing beat of the samba music.
Fingers caressed me intimately as I squeezed my frame through the mass of bodies swelling the street. I shrank from the inevitable petting, a cupped hand reaching to fondle my breast, a lingering caress. My nerves were electric, my body tense as I imagined the cool blade of a knife sliding between my rib cage. As I wove through the crowd, a popping sound made me jump. It was all too easy to imagine the crack of fireworks as a volley of gunfire. I kept walking. I didn’t have time to fight off the sensual assault coming at me from all sides. I could only hope the man who hunted me wasn’t the next body I brushed against.
The pulsating, movement of the parade gave me more refuge than the sidewalks, where someone running among the stationary spectators would attract attention. That type of exposure could be fatal. So, I ran into the thicket of bodies. I bore the stroking of strangers, slipping through the squirming mass, emerging slick with their sweat only to be embraced by the next clump of costumed humanity.
Ahead, I could see a massive float spreading across the entire street. To get around it, I’d have to mingle with the crowd on the sidewalks. I’d have to take my chances.
That became clearer when the parade abruptly ground to a halt for the start of a new samba school performance.
Afraid to move my head and attract attention, I strained to see, using my peripheral vision to scan the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a tall figure I would’ve recognized anywhere. He was headed my way.
Despite the bauta mask—a white grotesque face with a large nose, no mouth, and creepy beak-like chin—I knew it was him.
At that moment, he looked up and our eyes met. Both of us masked but instantly recognizing one another.
We held each other’s gaze for a second before I darted, toppling people as I went, throwing apologies over my shoulder as I created a human domino effect to stop the man trying to kill me.
I reached the sidewalk and paused. A door lay before me, but it could be locked. To the right of the door was a passageway. But it could be a dead end.
There was no time for indecision so I started toward the passageway. Before I could take a step, I felt cold steel on my neck.
I’d run out of time.
Chapter One
Before …
Ocean Beach, San Francisco
Sydney Rye woke at dawn so she could take Blue for a run before anyone else hit the beach and could bitch about leash laws. She wasn’t sure what the rules were in San Francisco so it was best to avoid anyone else out running for now.
Without turning on any lights in the small cottage, she did a series of stretches and a smattering of yoga.
Blue stretched beside her, mimicking a few of the poses. He was a Great Dane-sized dog with the furry white coat of a wolf and a Collie’s nose.
Sydney tugged a black fleece jacket on over the layers she’d already donned. Today would involve a shopping trip for warmer clothes. The bitterly cold wind pierced right through the clothes she’d brought from the tropical island headquarters of Joyful Justice. When she’d flown in late last night, she’d shivered the entire ride from the airport to the beachfront rental.
But she was used to missions and leads that sent her around the world. Syria. India. Mexico.
She’d lived in caves, tents, motorhomes.
San Francisco was posh in comparison.
Her latest mission was to find a San Francisco woman who had last been seen partying in Rio with some Silicon Valley big shots. A family attorney had contacted Joyful Justice saying that Alaia Schwartz was missing and he believed she might be the most recent in a string of missing Bay Area women. That piqued Sydney’s interest.
When Sydney learned the names of the Silicon Valley luminaries the woman had last been with—Damien Thornwell and Richard Zimmer–she’d arranged a “chance” meeting with the men at the Cannes Film Festival.
While there, Sydney finagled a dinner seat next to Thornwell. During small talk, he asked what she did. She made up a story about a business she thought would interest him—high-tech developments in private security forces.
She left France with an invitation to call on him when she so coincidentally happened to be attending a meeting in San Francisco a few weeks later.
As she ran along the San Francisco beach, Sydney received the text she’d been waiting for from Dan at headquarters.
“The caretaker is waiting for you at the Schwartz house. I told him to expect you there this morning,” the text said.
“Thanks,” she wrote back and thought, caretaker?
Sydney double-checked the address before she lifted the huge Gargoyle knocker. The brass thudded dully on the wooden door. Blue looked up at her expectantly.
The Pacific Heights neighborhood perched on the north side of San Francisco. The drive over had revealed spectacular views of the Golden Gate Bridge as the sun rose casting the iconic landmark in a pinkish orange light. The neighborhood was old money. Huge mansions crammed onto tiny lots.
She waited for somebody to answer the door.
Nobody came. She lifted the knocker again, but put it back down gently. That wasn’t going to work. The surrounding walls were enveloped by trailing branches of ivy. There had to be some type of doorbell somewhere. She lifted one branch to the right. A white intercom lay beneath.
She pushed the button.
“Schwartz residence.”
“It’s Sydney Rye.”
The door clicked open with a buzzing sound. She waited and then pushed it open with the toe of her shoe a few inches, revealing a slice of Persian carpet.
A second later, the heavy door swung open, and a man stood there blinking. He was balding with a paunch and wore black pants, a white shirt, and a black vest.
“I’m Cyril. Ms. Schwartz’ manservant.”
Sydney bit back her retort and settled on a simple smile.
The man jumped when he noticed Blue.
“Don’t worry. He won’t bite.”
Cyril pursed his lips in disapproval.
“Really,” Sydney said.
Exhaling loudly, Cyril shook his head. “When Mr. Schwartz was alive, animals were not allowed, but I suppose we could make an exception today.”
Blue loped in beside her. He touched his nose to her thigh—a gentle tap to let her know he was there.
After Cyril shut the door behind her, he turned and walked down the hall, speaking over his shoulder.
“We are besides ourselves with worry. I hope you can find her.”
We? The royal we? Or did he mean himself and the family attorney?
As they passed open doorways, Sydney peered inside. Old money. Old everything. It didn’t seem like the home of a twenty-three-year-old heiress.
They reached a kitchen area—obviously, Cyril’s part of the house. A small table was pushed in one corner with a Dashiell Hammett paperback splayed open.
“I just made some tea and mini croque-monsieurs. We will take them in the sitting room.” He grabbed a tray and kept walking.
Sydney, with Blue pressed close, followed him into an alcove containing an upholstered couch, love seat, and chair. Where they weren’t covered with massive oil paintings, the walls radiated a peaceful buttercup yellow.
Very. Old. Money.
Cyril settled
into an armchair in the far corner, placing the tray on the coffee table.
Sydney settled on the edge of the loveseat closest to the chair. Blue sprawled at her feet. She reached for a croque-monsieurs, took a bite, and then dropped the rest at her feet. Blue swallowed it whole. When she saw the horrified expression on Cyril’s face, she was secretly pleased.
“Sorry, he didn’t have much breakfast. We got in late last night and I haven’t had time to buy dog food.”
Cyril nodded and swallowed. He handed her a small white cloth napkin. Sydney realized she had dropped a crumb on the coffee table. She placed it in the napkin and leaned back in her seat. Manservant. More like uptight baby man.
“Has Alaia lived here long?”
Cyril paused. He blinked rapidly. “She only moved back when her father, Mr. Schwartz, passed last December.” A small tear dropped down one cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it.
Two months.
“Pardon me,” he said. “If you count when she returned from Europe to be with him during his final days, it would be more like November.”
Three months.
Alaia had not only inherited the house—she’d apparently inherited Cyril.
“How long did you work for Mr. Schwartz?” Sydney asked and took a sip of her tea. Mint. Surprisingly good.
Cyril sighed and shook his head, pressing his lips together. He fanned his eyes with his hands to prevent the tears. It didn’t work. “I’m sorry. It’s really hard.” His voice was thick with emotion. “I was with Mr. Schwartz for twenty years.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sydney said.
He sniffled and nodded his thanks.
“What can you tell me about Alaia and the last time you saw her.”
Black Widow Page 11
