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Her Forgotten Betrayal
by
Anna DeStefano
Coming in June from Entangled Publishing
Image by Jen Talty
Cover Art will be revealed the week before release!
Chapter One
Run!
The thought screamed through Shaw Cassidy’s mind, her entire body,
every instinct demanding that she escape.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she silently scolded herself. “Not until
this is over.”
The cramped darkness around her shrank closer, choking off her
oxygen like a fist clenching around her throat. She fought to swallow. She
crouched behind the closed closet door. On the other side, an angry
argument escalated. Unholy plans seethed like brutal, living things.
“That’s not the price we agreed upon!” someone shouted, every
syllable laced with the threat of violence. The words held a foreign accent,
even though the man’s English was impeccable.
“The parameters of our deal have changed,” answered a raspy voice
that was familiar, yet she couldn’t place it. “I’ve absorbed enormous risk to
get you what you need. Pay up, or our deal is off. And I assure you, sir, no
one backs out of an agreement with me.”
The coldness of the second man’s response made Shaw’s stomach roll
as they continued to argue. She shivered. What had she stumbled into?
If she made the slightest noise, she’d be discovered crouching amidst
surplus office equipment and supplies. Frozen to the spot, she strained to
hear each word, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. This was insane. But
she had to know everything these men were up to, even if it took all night
for them to finish so she could get away and finally alert the authorities.
The world she'd created from her empty life was imploding around
her. These bastards’ clandestine activities would ruin her. They were putting
countless lives—countries, even—at risk. Her multi-national corporation,
Cassidy Global Research, and the valuable work they did were the center of
her world—if she didn’t count Esmeralda, who condescended to being
petted twice a day when Shaw filled her geriatric Siamese’ food bowl. Every
other waking moment was consumed by her research, client conferences,
her smartphone, and an endless stream of reports and deadlines.
Her research made a difference. Her companies provided the
government and other select clients with top secret technology and
scientific innovation in various fields, while she was rarely required to
venture farther than her office or her labs. At thirty-two, she was successful.
She was content. She was as close to happy as she’d been in fifteen years.
As close as she’d ever be again. No way was she letting these men rip that
away from her.
She hunkered deeper within the cloying dimness.
The only light was a sharp seam of illumination cutting across her bent
knees from where the door didn’t completely meet the carpet. She’d been
lying in wait for these guys, certain of the timing of the meeting, even
though there was no mention of it in the Cassidy scheduling system. She
had to stop them. She needed more information, incontrovertible proof of
the security breaches she’d uncovered. Otherwise if an official investigation
was launched, the trail of evidence would lead authorities straight to her,
not these dangerous men.
She shifted her balance. Fresh blood circulated through her legs. Pain
seared up her thighs. Pinpricks of sensation swarmed like bees.
“You won’t get away with this madness!” the foreign-sounding man
raged.
“I will,” shouted the raspy-voiced man. Then he calmly added, “I
always have.”
The verbal sparring escalated to even greater decibels. She winced. At
any moment, they’d come to physical blows. Who was arguing like they
wanted to kill each other in her father's abandoned conference room?
A winter storm battered rain against the outer windows, drowning out
more and more of what was being said. One of the men moved closer to her,
a body blocking the light filtering under the closet door. She cringed, her
hand grabbing the doorjamb, until the person stepped away.
How had she convinced herself that the solution to stopping their
criminal activity was to spy on them herself? In a closet. In the middle of the
night. With an ominous wail, wind buffeted the high-rise that housed her
corporate headquarters. An agonizing cramp grabbed at her right calf. Her
leg slipped, her shoe banging into the closet's wall.
The room beyond her stilled, the sudden silence terrifying her. She
held her breath, her hands plastered against the door, hoping. Praying.
Maybe they’d think the noise had been caused by the storm.
Someone approached again. This time, she could hear his footsteps.
Steady. Measured. The tread of men's dress shoes, muffled by carpet. He
slowed, stopped, stalling mere inches from her. Another pointless wave of
fear sucked away the air around her. Her lungs burned. Her hands balled
into fists. She wanted to pound them against the door.
God, how could she have been so reckless, so stupid?
The doorknob turned. She grabbed it, as if she could prevent
whomever was there from getting inside. The knob was wrenched away.
Light from the conference room pierced her hiding place. She blinked
against the brightness, and squinted. The barrel of an ancient-looking
revolver emerged through the glare. Her gaze tracked from its muzzle up an
arm and then a man’s torso, both covered in an expensive, dark suit coat.
Until she was staring into the face of a monster.
Her mind seized.
Reality seemed to contract, then expand. One second, she thought the
carpet was rising up to smack her. The next, she realized she’d crumpled to
the floor, in a boneless heap at the man’s feet. Her thoughts blanked to
nothingness, except for the conviction that it wasn’t possible. He wasn’t
possible.
“You...” said the raspy, eerily familiar voice. A menacing hand
grabbed her hair. Its grip kept her from crawling away. He jerked her head
up. The muzzle of the gun bit into her temple.
“No!” She stared at her captor and saw nothing but death. Her mind
refused to process the rest.
The ruthless, emotionless logic she’d mastered since she was a
teenager deserted her. She fought the all-consuming confusion that
replaced it. She strained to focus. To really see him. But his features
wouldn’t register. There was only the gun and the terror, the ominous sound
of a vicious storm, and the absolute certainty that he was going to kill her.
“I don’t understand,” she said. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be
happening.
“Kill the bitch,” said the man with the foreign inflection. “She’s heard
everything we’ve said.”
“No, please…” Shaw struggled against his hold, hating that she was
begging, that she once more felt like a desperate teenager—petrified,
fighting for her life, and crumbling under her fear. “I won't tell anyone you
were here. I swear.”
Pain burned across her scalp, her hair pulling out from its roots. She
tried to crawl away. Her legs tangled in something from the closet.
“Sorry, Shaw,” said the man restraining her. His tone was annoyed,
hassled, maybe even a little amused, as if killing her was a special treat just
for him. “It’s time for you to learn your true place in my world.”
She heard a click. The sound of a revolver’s hammer being cocked.
She stared up at him in defiance, wanting to spit in his face so he’d know he
hadn’t won.
Instead, she screamed when the gun fired and her world dissolved into
darkness.
***
Cole Marinos jogged through biting-cold rain toward Atlanta Memorial
Hospital’s ER entrance. The entire eastern seaboard had been socked in by
slushy winter storms. It had been a bitch of a night to catch a flight in from
New York, and then a cab to midtown from the airport.
Stepping inside, he shucked his leather jacket, which was soaked even
though there’d only been a few feet between the cab and the sliding doors
that now whooshed shut behind him. Rubbing a hand over his face and
through his longer-than-regulation hair, he dripped water onto the
admissions counter.
“Sorry.” He flashed his badge, then asked for the directions he
required.
An older woman in a starched white shirt and pink jumper consulted
her computer, then jerked a tissue from the box at her elbow.
“Sixth floor,” she grumbled. “Ask at the desk.” The button pinned to
her shoulder said she was a hospitality volunteer. Evidently, three o’clock in
the damn morning was no place for hospitality to make an appearance.
Just as Atlanta was no place for Cole himself tonight.
He draped his jacket over his shoulder, dampness soaking through his
T-shirt. The foreboding that had hounded him since boarding the plane grew
stronger as he strode to the central elevators, rode to the sixth floor, then
followed a second set of directions given by an equally irritable nurse, down
the hallway to their right. After flashing his badge twice more at plain
clothed officers who were either Atlanta Police detectives or Federal
Marshals or, like Cole, FBI, he stopped at the room’s observation window
and stared inside.
The patient was a fragile-looking blonde, even though he’d read she
hit the private gym at her corporate headquarters seven days a week, and
was a devotee of several eastern meditative disciplines. The single light
over the bed shrouded her in shadow. If it weren’t for the bandage covering
the right side of her head where a bullet had grazed her skull, the breath-
taking beauty would have appeared to be resting peacefully. Like a princess,
awaiting the hero who would kiss her back to awareness. Cole rubbed a
hand across his still-damp neck, echoes from their childhood whispering
through his mind. He brushed them away.
He didn’t have to look to know that the man stepping to his side was
his latest supervisor. Cole tensed, instinctively anticipating the worst. He’d
been summonsed to Atlanta ostensibly to offer an in-person consultation on
the their task-force’s prime suspect. But he wasn’t buying it. The escalating
stakes of the Cassidy Global situation had put their team on high alert. With
Shaw Cassidy’s shooting on top of everything else, there were too many
unanswered questions now for their investigation to continue without a
significant shift in tactics.
“You said she was hysterical, ” Cole began.
“The doctors had to sedate her again,” Chief Inspector Rick Dawson
replied, unwrapping a stick of chewing gum and slipping it into his mouth.
The faint, cloying scent of tobacco clinging to the man hinted that Dawson
still hadn’t fully kicked his addiction. “Each time she wakes up, it’s as if she
realizes that she can’t remember anything all over again. It’s happened
twice already. At this point, the doctors think it will take considerably longer
for her condition to resolve itself.”
“For her memory to return?”
Dawson nodded stiffly and chewed faster.
“Like what?” Cole asked. “A few more hours?”
“Days. Weeks. It could be months, for all they know. Or possibly never,
if we push her too hard for answers, and her fucking mind closes down for
good. That’s what the experts say, anyway.”
Cole winced. He reminded himself for the dozenth time that the
spiraling-from-bad-to-worse circumstances of this case meant nothing more
to him personally than any of his others assignments had. “Because of her
injuries?”
“Because of the trauma of whatever happened. Her brain’s intact, but
it’s shutting down for some reason. We’ll try interviewing her, but—“
“Don’t you mean interrogating?” Cole snapped.
“Whatever.” Dawson shot the gum wrapper at a nearby waste basked
and missed.
The calculating look in his gaze said he’d relish the opportunity to
close this case once and for all. Any way he could. Shaw had been on their
radar since the beginning of the Cassidy Global investigation. Yet legally
they’d been unable to touch her. Most of the team would be happy to use
any means necessary to finally get some real answers.
Including ruining a woman’s mind.
Dawson’s jaw clenched in frustration. He patted his pants pockets, as
if searching for a pack of cigarettes that didn’t materialize.
“The neurologist says to give her time,” Dawson said, chewing even
louder. “Quiet. Isolation. Familiar surroundings. Additional agitation or
trauma will worsen her condition. Maybe make it permanent. Which means,
at least for now, we still keep our hands off.”
Cole gave the taller, fairer man a measured stare. Feeling as if a
guillotine had been positioned precariously above his head, he shrugged
back into his soggy jacket, already calculating how long it would take him to
backtrack to the airport. “Then me interviewing her personally is a non-
starter. Of all the people who might agitate her, I assure you I’m tops on the
list. ”
Dawson’s focus tracked back to their patient. “I didn’t call you in to
interview her.”
Cole froze. The moment that he’d somehow known was inevitable had
arrived. He let his head fall forward, picturing a razor-sharp blade swiftly
dropping toward him. He glanced into Shaw’s hospital room again. “Then
why am I here?”
“Don’t you still own that piece of junk fishing cabin up on her family’s
mountain?”
Ah, hell.
Chapter Two
THREE WEEKS LATER…
Shaw woke in the dead of night, kicking at the attacker who’d
discovered her in the conference room closet.
Awareness returned, her nightmare’s lingering hold as sickening, as
real as every other time she’d dreamed it since her shooting. But,
thankfully, there was a pile of suffocating pillows beneath her, not office
carpeting. There was no faceless man or brutal grip restraining her. Instead,
her arms and legs were tangled in linen sheets, the fabric so fine and so old
it was gossamer-soft to the touch.
She forced her eyes to open completely.
She wasn't being dragged to her death by a murderer. She was sitting
alone on an overstuffed mattress, fighting her bedding and losing her mind,
and grasping for the details of that night’s memory before they once more
slipped beyond her reach. Just as every other recollection of her life before
the shooting had stubbornly refused to return. Which left her smack-dab in
the middle of a living nightmare, in a world beyond her control that her
detail-obsessed brain refused to make peace with.
“This is ridiculous, Esme,” she said to the cat winking sleepily at her
from the foot of the bed. “And it’s not working. How did we end up here?”
Here being Shaw’s grandmother’s bedroom, on a secluded, mountain
estate she couldn’t remember any better than she did her family or the life
in Atlanta, Georgia, she’d been whisked away from.
Her body and flannel nightdress were drenched in sweat. Her mind,
her thoughts, every part of her was shivering. Not from fear. But from the
possibility that she might never remember what she had to in order to
reclaim the successful life she’d been assured she’d lived before that awful
night.
She wrapped her arms around herself and gave her mind a mental
shake
Jeez.
Maudlin much?
A bedside lamp illuminated the room. Its cheery glow was no match
for the dark spell the dream had cast. Something thudded softly beyond her
closed bedroom door, jerking Shaw’s gaze toward the hallway, then back to
her cat.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered…