BLACK WIDOW (Book #1 of The Black Widow Series) Read online

  It sounded like a good cause, but I wasn't donating all of my furniture. I would need somewhere to sit when we moved it all back across the street.

  I reached in my back pocket for my wallet and handed a twenty-dollar bill to each group of men. "Can you guys take a fifteen-minute break and go somewhere and get a drink? I think there’s a store on the corner."

  "There’s also a coffee shop," Sierra piped in.

  As the men filed out, Sierra gestured for me to follow her. "You have to see this first. It's unbelievable." She walked toward a wall of windows and flung a pair of French doors wide to reveal an outdoor terrace. "Perfect, isn't it?"

  I blew past her in a direction I hoped would lead to the kitchen.

  “Okay, yeah,” she said, clipping along behind me.

  I found a glossy white folder with the words “The Remington” embossed in gold on the front of it in the kitchen. I snatched it off the countertop and flipped it open

  "Anything you might need to know about the property is inside, too,” she said hopefully. “This kitchen is state of the art. That’s a Wolfe range, and these countertops are quartz.”

  “Sierra,” I said, silencing her.

  The photocopy of the check was on top of the stack of papers. I looked at the number while trying not to have a visible reaction. “This paid for what? The apartment? Or the furniture?”

  “That’s for the apartment,” she said.

  The check was for more than sixty-seven thousand dollars. Nearly six times what a year in the other place would cost. “To rent it?” I asked.

  She blinked at me a few times before answering. "Yeah, but that covers the whole first year. And the deposit. Just like we talked about."

  I gave her a hard look before returning my attention to the folder. I dug through it in search of the lease agreement. When I found it, I scanned the first page for the renter’s name and found mine. I flipped to the last page. My eyes fell on the signature at the bottom. I wasn’t surprised to find it there, but whoever had forged my name hadn't even tried to copy my sloppy writing. The difference was so glaringly obvious I wondered how Sierra hadn't noticed.

  Then again, why would she when she clearly had only dollar signs in her eyes?

  "I know this seems like a lot of money, but it's market price and this apartment is totally worth it."

  She was still trying to give me the hard sell. I glared at her to shut her up, not caring if I was rude.

  “What else is there?” My voice reflected my annoyance.

  She reached across me and dug through the folder with shaky fingers. “The furniture invoice,” she said. “Before you ask, I don’t have a copy of the check for that. I assume the furniture company does. All I have is what those guys gave me.” She pointed in the direction of the now vacated living room.

  I skimmed to the bottom line and shuddered. The five-digit total was circled and stamped paid in full.

  I quickly did the math in my head. Bike. Apartment. Furniture. The number was somewhere around a hundred and fifty thousand. My head swam with questions, but I couldn't formulate even one. Sierra hardly seemed like the person to ask anyway.

  She pushed a manila envelope across to me. "I almost forgot this. The courier delivered it with the check and the signed lease." She emphasized signed as if it were enough to force me to stay.

  I stared at the envelope as if it might bite me, making a note of the courier company. Inside was a single sheet of paper. A business letter addressed to Scott Russell, The Remington, 1847 Green Bay St., Apartment 7C. The letterhead was that of the First National Bank of Highland Park, and Martin Marcus, the bank president, had signed it. I read the single paragraph, which requested me to visit the bank at my earliest convenience, a first and then a second time.

  “Did you read this?” I asked.

  She squared her shoulders as she nodded “It wasn’t marked confidential.”

  It wouldn’t matter. Nothing said anything of any importance. “But you didn’t find this all very strange? Me calling and asking for my new address and then requesting an upgrade when you know this place is completely outside my price range? You didn’t question any of it?”

  She shook her head. “The commission from this deal will pay my rent this month.”

  I placed the palms of my hands over my eyes and tried to find clarity in the darkness. I counted down from ten before I opened them again. “Sierra, I didn’t sign any of this. You surely realize that now.”

  She bit her lip and winced. “I shredded your check for the other apartment. And I leased it this afternoon.”

  “Fuck me,” I yelled. I threw the papers on the island and stomped away. “Where am I going to live? Almost nothing in this town is affordable.”

  “Here?” she whispered. The tears she’d been holding back fell then.

  I ran my hand down my face. I felt like an ass. She’d obviously been duped too, but she should have questioned a few things. Too many things didn’t add up for her not to have been suspicious. “Do you have any other apartments for rent?”

  Her shoulders heaved. “There’s a one bedroom opening on the third floor next week.”

  “Let’s go ahead and assume I can’t afford anything in this building. What’s available across the street?”

  “Nothing.”

  “When?”

  “Maybe next month. I’ll know when people start giving their notice next week.”

  I placed my hands palm down on the countertop, willing the coolness from the surface to seep into me and calm me down. I couldn’t do anything to fix this situation. She couldn’t do anything. Not at five o’clock on a Saturday night. I’d have to wait until Monday when I could talk to Martin Marcus at the bank. Hopefully, he’d be able to explain what was going on.

  My phone rang in my pocket. I groaned as I fished it out. This mix-up would end up costing me more money. I’d have to rehire the movers when I found another apartment or rent a truck and move it all myself.

  Sierra began backing toward the door. “I’ll go wait in the living room. When the guys get back, I’ll tell them not to take anything away.”

  I took one look at the phone’s screen and silenced it. I'd been ignoring my brother for days now. As soon as my family had heard I was leaving my job with the Chicago PD, they'd started putting the hard sell on me to come home. My sister had called. My mother had written an actual letter. And now, they were siccing my brother on me too. Until this very moment, I’d thought it would never happen. For all of the problems I had here, they would be multiplied in Brooklyn. Now that I was homeless, I wasn’t so sure.

  As soon as the phone went to voicemail, I returned Luke’s call with a text. I sent him my new—though, now temporary—address as my answer. Hopefully, that would get him off my back for a while.

  For the first time, I looked and really saw the room around me. The stainless steel range had six burners. The refrigerator looked like it cost more than a small car. I'd never lived anywhere like it. Probably never would.

  The thought made me tired. I'd worked hard my entire life. Slaved away at a job that had robbed me of my time, my marriage, and, at times, my sanity. I'd risked my life. I'd walked into situations no rational person would ever choose to walk into. I protected everyone else's property, never believing I'd ever have anything like this of my own. What had all of my hard work gotten me? Nothing. I'd lost my wife, my job, and if Trevor didn't do as he promised … my reputation would be next.

  Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was finally time to return home and face my mistakes.

  HER

  Just helping an old friend, I told myself as I pushed open the door at Epilogue. It had once been one of my favorite stores. Now, I had to give myself a pep talk just to get up the courage to go in.

  The bookstore was in the center of town. I avoided it as I did everything else, only venturing into public when I absolutely had to. Too many hushed whispers. Too many pointed stares. Too many stupid theories.

  It's all
in your head, my husband had told me.

  Maybe initially, but after he was gone, the voices only got louder.

  People were cruel. My brief time in the spotlight had given them license to publicly try and convict me even when the legal system couldn't. The cruelty of the small town shocked me; the brazenness of people I'd once considered friends. More than once, I'd thought about selling everything and moving. The idea of reinventing myself somewhere else was appealing. But I’d always rejected the idea because pieces of my heart were buried in Highland Park. It was hard to imagine leaving them behind, but if I made it through the next few months, I might do just that.

  As expected, the line in front of Ryder's table was already long, winding its way almost to the front door. Every sports fanatic in town had come out for the book signing. I ducked my head and worked my way through the crowd, waiting for the inevitable and wishing I'd told him no when he'd asked me to come. Ryder's fans had also been Chase's fans, so I knew it wouldn't take long before I was recognized.

  When I reached his table, a pretty blonde sat behind it with him. I could barely contain my annoyance. He’d said he needed my help. As an author, I knew how book signings worked and I’d assumed he wanted me to sit with him and shove books at him while he signed them and visited with his fans. Now that I could see he already had help, I felt sandbagged.

  New plan: Say hello. Say goodbye. And go home.

  I was already looking forward to kicking off my uncomfortable heels, changing into some comfy pants, and curling up on the couch with a book. I had a new copy of Sunset Boulevard that was calling my name.

  "Celeste," Ryder said, standing up. "Get over here."

  I slipped past the line of people waiting in front of his table without looking at them. He pulled my rigid body against him. "You came." The relief in his voice was unmistakable.

  I melted in his arms. I'd never been any good at telling him no, and I was incapable of staying mad at him for very long.

  Someone whispered from behind me, "Is that Celeste Reid?"

  "God, what a tragedy," another louder voice said. "The team hasn't been the same since.”

  "That's not her name anymore, is it?"

  "I think she’s getting what she deserved now," a gruff voice chimed in.

  I shuddered. Why had I thought I could do this? I curled into Ryder's chest and squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could do the same with my ears.

  "Don't pay attention to them," he whispered to the top of my head. "You and I know the truth."

  I wished I believed that, but there were so many things about what had happened to me in the past few years I still didn't understand. Sometimes, I didn't know what was true and what wasn't.

  "Enough. Or I'm out of here," Ryder threatened over my head. He pulled me tighter and squeezed. "Men can be hens, too." He clucked like a chicken quietly in my ear, bringing a reluctant smile to my face.

  I pushed away from him, purposely keeping my back to the crowd. Even if he could make me smile, he was still in trouble. "I see you already have help," I accused.

  He shrugged and looked sheepish. "If I'd told you, would you have come?"

  "Probably not."

  "Definitely not."

  I glared at him, which only caused him to laugh. "I want you to meet someone." He gestured to the woman at the table. "This is Natasha Knight. She's my co-author and new personal assistant."

  "Editor and personal assistant," Natasha corrected as she stood. "He did all of the writing." She pointed at the stack of the books on the table. "It says so on the cover."

  Ryder turned his charming smile on her. "She's a jack-of-all-trades. And a liar."

  From the look they exchanged, I decided she wasn't just anything. Something was definitely going on between the two of them. I stuck out my hand to shake the pretty blonde's.

  "It's nice to meet you," I said. The smile she'd put on Ryder's face had me meaning it.

  She smiled sweetly. "You're in the book, so I feel like I already know you. It's nice to put a face with all of the stories."

  "I look forward to getting to know you, too," I said, politely.

  "Natasha didn't make this book, but she'll definitely be in the sequel." Ryder wore a sappy grin, and she gave him a bashful smile in return. I tried not to gape at the reformed man. For years, I'd hoped he would meet someone and settle down. Instead, he played the field with a different girl on his arm every weekend.

  Natasha's timing couldn't have been better. For two seasons, he'd fought back injuries. Commentators and fans were already wagering this would be his last. I knew his PR team wouldn't officially announce his retirement until later in the year, but Ryder was already preparing himself for it. Riding the last wave of fame, he'd written an autobiography called The Good Years. The title alone had me dreading what I figured was further down the pipe—a detailed account of the bad years.

  Honestly, I'd been a little surprised—and maybe disappointed—when he hadn't asked me for help with the book. I'd thought it was because an autobiography was outside my usual genre. Now, I knew better.

  "Stick around," he begged. "We can all go to dinner afterward. This should only last another hour or so."

  I looked skeptically at the line now stretched to the front door. "I don't know." Like restless bulls in a pen, I could feel them getting more and more annoyed.

  Oblivious, Ryder steepled his fingers in prayer. "Come on, Celeste. I want to catch up."

  Our relationship had ebbed and flowed during the last few years. In my grief, I'd made mistakes, and he hadn't been shy in expressing his disapproval. Until recently, things had been tense, but I hadn’t given up. He was really the only friend I had anymore.

  "Come over when you're done. I'll cook for you," I offered.

  His smile faded slightly. "I could really use a steak."

  Prime was just around the corner, but it was the backdrop for too many memories. "I don't know," I repeated.

  "Come on, Celeste. I need meat." He beat his chest like a Neanderthal. "Go lose yourself for an hour. You love these things," he said gesturing to the shelves of books around us.

  "You mean books?"

  "Yeah."

  I laughed. "You should too. You just wrote one."

  "One that I'd like signed," somebody behind me muttered.

  I looked at the impossibly long line and groaned my answer. "I'll find somewhere to hide until you're finished, but I've got to say, this whole situation feels like an ambush, Ryder."

  "I got to see you, didn’t I?" he said as I walked away.

  I looked down at my watch and decided it would be all right. I was in one of my favorite places on earth. I'd simply wander around until I found a book I liked and then curl up in a corner somewhere. The next hour would be the easy part. Dinner would be another story. The scene at the restaurant wouldn't be any better than the one I’d just endured.

  At least, they have wine.

  And I wasn’t alone. I could have more words with Ryder later about luring me to the store under false pretenses, but I wouldn't. He probably thought he was doing me a favor, and maybe he was. I was lonely. So incredibly lonely. Unless you counted my parents—and time with them was rarely enjoyable these days—I hadn't enjoyed anyone's company in a long time.

  Not true. There was the man on the train.

  Hmm, yes. I'd thought about Scott Russell more during the past two days than I cared to admit. He’d had my attention even before the hero act on the train and still had it now.

  Tall, dark, and handsome didn't do him justice, though the description certainly fit. The chiseled jawline, muscular build, and vibrant blue eyes—if I were writing, he'd make an excellent muse. But the handsome part wasn’t why he was still on my mind two days later.

  It was the intense and unapologetic way he'd watched me. As if he didn't care whether I knew. The way he stepped up to protect me without a single hesitation. Both times, there'd been something dangerous and volatile in his eyes. Like he would’ve done anyt
hing to keep me safe. Some part of me relished the idea of it. Then, on the train, as soon as the roach had scurried away, it was as if a switch had flipped in Scott. The viper became the snake charmer. As much as it scared me, I was drawn to both.

  I hadn’t been myself—my mind had been muddy, still overwrought from the familiarity of the stadium and the sense of loss it conjured—but I'd almost let him, a complete stranger, kiss me. Thankfully, my common sense hadn't completely checked out, and I'd resisted him. An amazing feat, really, considering the wine. As well as the fact that it had been more than a year since a man had touched me and even longer since I'd liked it.

  But I didn’t want to walk down that road again. I wasn’t in the market for a man. That was what I’d told my father mere hours before, and I’d meant it at the time. Yet something about the police officer with the crystal blue eyes had me thinking twice.

  It was why I had to walk away. It didn't mean I couldn't fantasize, though.

  I plopped down in a chair with an idea. I popped two anxiety pills and then pulled out my phone. I began scouring the internet and was surprised at the number of hits I got back from my vague search string: romance-novel-week-stranger. Apparently, a week of passion with a stranger was a well-oiled trope written about many times. I could see why. The more summaries and reviews I read, the more intrigued I became with the idea of it.

  There were the helpless books. Desperate women in need of money who sold themselves to the highest bidder to cure their problems. There were the blizzard books. Covers depicting cabins shrouded in snow, their windows glowing romantically. I skimmed past both kinds. I wasn't interested in stranded lovers thrown together by circumstance or women with no apparent choice. They wouldn’t give me the fix I was looking for. I wanted a strong heroine who made the affirmative decision to spend a week with a stranger when she could have chosen otherwise. I wanted a book about me if I could’ve decided differently.

  Finally, I found the vacation books. Jilted brides who went on honeymoons with broken hearts and no expectations. A salacious offer at a bar and the promise of a week of passion would surely make them forget their ex-fiancés. It was close enough. I skimmed until I found one with a cover I liked. A couple kissing passionately on a beach with tumultuous waves crashing behind them. Deciding it held promise, I made my way to the romance section of the store. When I found the book, I snatched it from the shelf and returned to my comfortable overstuffed chair in the corner.