Within Temptation Read online

  Within Temptation

  A romantic mystery with a dash of suspense

  Tanya Holmes

  Publisher: Virtual Acquisitions

  Cover Art: The Killion Group

  Interior Design: Joel Friedlander

  Copyright © 2014 by Tanya Holmes

  www.tanyaholmes.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Holmes, Tanya – Within Temptation

  1st Edition, September 2014

  ISBN-10: 0615936113

  ISBN-13: 978-0615936116

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Happy Reunions

  Chapter 2: Hell Freezes Over

  Chapter 3: I Scream, You Scream

  Chapter 4: Beware Of Blondes Bearing Rock Salt

  Chapter 5: Little White Lies

  Chapter 6: Poison

  Chapter 7: In The Lion’s Den

  Chapter 8: Pearly Gates

  Chapter 9: Noise Pollution

  Chapter 10: Broken Olive Branches

  Chapter 11: Promises To Keep

  Chapter 12: It’s On

  Chapter 13: Shall We Dance

  Chapter 14: Foreplay

  Chapter 15: A Slip Of The Tongue

  Chapter 16: Hand To Mouth

  Chapter 17: No Quarter Given

  Chapter 18: Dirty Little Secrets

  Chapter 19: Breakthrough

  Chapter 20: Waking Nightmares

  Chapter 21: Calla Lilies

  Chapter 22: New Memories

  Chapter 23: Woman On Fire

  Chapter 24: No Rainbows

  Chapter 25: The Fall

  Chapter 26: A Maleficent Encounter

  Chapter 27: Two Paths

  Chapter 28: The Big Break

  Chapter 29: Buried Treasure

  Chapter 30: A Smoking Gun

  Chapter 31: Waking Sleeping Beauty

  Chapter 32: Hell Freezes Over…Again

  A Note To Readers

  Appreciation

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Places and Spaces

  Sneak Peek: Temptation’s Edge

  DEDICATION

  To the wonderfulJack VanGreko, who believed in me even when I didn’t. I couldn’t have done this without you.

  “The course of true love

  never did run smooth."

  ―William Shakespeare

  CHAPTER ONE

  Happy Reunions

  TRACE

  ____________________________

  Was this a major coincidence? Or had Lady Luck just taken a piss on me? I shot forward in the passenger seat, not quite believing my own eyes. Damn. Less than four hours had passed since I’d left Gainstown Penitentiary, and who do I run into? Shannon Bradford—the last person I wanted to see.

  My brother-in-law had just dashed into CVS at Main Street Plaza when I spotted her. She pulled into the lot, parking her black Volvo sedan in the opposite row, five spaces to my left.

  I squinted past the salty film on the windshield and the trickle of snowflakes outside while she rescued the key ring she’d dropped. After a van blew by, spewing a wave of slush that barely missed her, she crossed the street and disappeared inside Noëlle’s Bakery. A few miles back, I’d seen her photo plastered on a fancy billboard along the interstate. Long blonde hair, eyes like liquid chocolate, and a killer smile.

  Beneath her picture, the caption read: Shannon Bradford of Bradford Realty: A Name You Can Trust.

  Not in this friggen life.

  My heart slowly tightened into a fist, as the air got thick. I reached for the door handle and tore outside to snatch a decent breath, but it was like the world had opened up and swallowed me whole. Cars crept by. People walked this way and that. Snowflakes pelted my face. Icy wind slapped me. There was just too much going on. Damn if I didn’t feel like an alien in a foreign land.

  I’d left Gainstown with only a few modest goals. Apart from hooking up with a generous lady for a few hours of mindless sex and diving into a bottle of Herradura, my biggest wish was not to be fucked with.

  One look at Shannon Bradford had shot all that to hell.

  An icy blast swept by in a haze of snow dust, yet I didn’t feel anything but a hot churning in the pit of my gut. No doubt about it, I was coming unglued. The trees lining the street hadn’t been this big before. Icy daggers hung from them like claws—claws that could snatch my soul back to hell. The world was closing in on me, just as it had twelve years ago…when Shannon Bradford accused me of murder.

  SHANNON

  ____________________________

  Saying goodbye—yet again—to Darien at the airport an hour ago had been bad enough, but this topped everything. Trace Dawson. Now here I was trapped in Noëlle’s buying a pecan pie I didn’t want. Why? Because he was lurking in the parking lot!

  Despite the dirty windshield, I’d recognized him immediately. His shoulder-length light brown hair and hazel eyes, the chiseled shape of his jaw, and the way he always leaned to the right when he sat—everything about him was burned into my memory.

  His was a name synonymous with death. A name frightened children whispered while swapping campfire stories. His legend still haunted Willow’s Corner and Temptation, West Virginia—New Dyer too for that matter. Probably would take an eternity for folks to forget it. As if they ever could.

  Over a decade ago, on a hot September morning, I entered hell. In my nightmares, I could still smell the blood…could still see Trace Dawson clutching a garden spade while crouched over Mother’s corpse.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as “Golden Afternoon” screeched from a TV in the back of the shop. An Alice in Wonderland song—just the perfect recipe for insanity. Fear dared me to steal another look outside. When I did, my breath froze. Now he was leaning against a car, glowering at the bakery. That sent me pacing holes into the floor.

  Thinking that by the time I bought the pie, he’d be gone, I’d avoided my office, which was three doors down. But my plan had been asinine. Bradford Realty was inscribed in bold letters on the storefront glass, not to mention the six billboards that spanned the county, billboards with my picture plastered on them.

  Wait a minute. What was with this sudden case of cold feet? Hadn’t I planned to contact him anyway? For two months now, I’d been preparing myself—emotionally—to face him. So what if he’d surprised me by showing up here? Willow’s Corner was smaller than a postage stamp and Temptation was just a stone’s throw away. We were bound to cross each other’s paths eventually.

  With pastry box in hand, I left the bakery’s sweet warmth and slipped out into the bitter cold. On the surface, I was the paragon of poise, but inside, I was a mess. The scared little girl within begged me to run, yet the woman I strived to be demanded that I stand tall. Unfortunately, my churning stomach, racing heart, and sweaty forehead weren’t cooperating.

  ‘Horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glow,’ Auntie always said. Well, whatever the case, I was sweating very unladylike bullets, and it wasn’t more than thirty-five degrees.

  Like a magnet, my gaze zipped to Trace D
awson’s. He stood engulfed by snowflakes with his hands shoved inside the pockets of a navy peacoat. The white specks wafting down shone like diamonds against the dark blue wool. His collar was up, and he wore faded jeans and a stone-cold expression. Prison had transformed the easygoing boy I’d known into a dangerous-looking stranger.

  Even so, I had to walk up to him, had to prove I could do this. What did I have to fear anyway? We were out in public. Too many people were around, and he’d be a fool to risk his freedom.

  But as I headed over to greet him, desperation darkened his face. He was yelling. And running. In my direction. I tried to read his lips as he sprinted toward me, but fear paralyzed all thought. Nothing would move. My legs were frozen in place. He was almost a blur, he was sprinting so fast. Had I misjudged my safety? Had he come back to kill me?

  TRACE

  ____________________________

  The second the Jeep banked the corner, I hit the ground running. Yelling at her was useless since the howling wind drowned out my voice. As if I were trapped in a nightmare, I tried to reach her, tried to save her, yet my feet wouldn’t move fast enough. It felt like weights were holding them down.

  To my amazement, Shannon Bradford stood in the middle of the lot like a mannequin. Her eyes were doe-wide, and she was staring at me. What was wrong with this fool woman? Didn’t she see the damn car?

  Before I could catch myself, I slipped in the slushy muck and skidded headfirst into a runaway shopping cart, busting my chin on the frosty steel of its foot.

  Stunned, I rose on one elbow and wheezed out a breath. The sound of squealing brakes echoed in my ears. My hands burned with cold. My chin throbbed with white-hot pain. That’s when I saw the blood—my own—melting into the snow. The drip of scarlet was slow but steady.

  I shook out the fog in my brain while the wind smacked my face. Once I raised my head, I squinted across the lot, blurry-eyed, and the sight stole my breath. Shannon Bradford lay on the sidewalk. She wasn’t moving.

  SHANNON

  ____________________________

  No more than two minutes could have passed, two of the most terrifying minutes I’d ever had. The left side of my face was numb with cold. My lips and hands ached too. I couldn’t seem to make anything move.

  The details came in pieces. How I’d almost been run over. How a stranger shoved me to safety just before a Jeep playing target practice could send me flying.

  Then as if someone had flipped a switch, sensory explosions filled the void. Horns blared. Somebody screamed. A baby was crying. And the wind howled while sounds burst forth in a crush of voices.

  “I swear the brakes locked!” a teenage boy yelled. “She ain’t dead, is she? Oh, jeez. Daddy’s gonna kill me!”

  “Don’t just stand there. Call 911!” a girl shrieked.

  A cell phone chimed and someone started pressing numbers.

  Next, an old man with a rough-and-ready voice said, “Pushed her out the way just in time. Another second and—”

  “Is she dead or not?” the teenager demanded again.

  While this was going on, I sat up, taking my time to ensure I was in one piece. Except for a sore hip, a bump on the head, and a scraped knee, I was fine. A woman standing nearby helped me, and as I got to my feet, realization dawned.

  Trace Dawson had tried to save me.

  I fought to see past the crowd into the parking lot, spotting him instantly. He’d just struggled to his feet and was staring right at me, his chin dripping blood. The people scurrying about and the cars streaming through the slush faded. Nothing but the two of us existed.

  Memories flooded my mind, of the quiet riot he was, of the secret crush I’d had on him, and the extraordinary friendship we’d shared so many years ago. As fast as those images came, others replaced them.

  I was thrust back to the crime scene, back to Mother’s corpse and the shirtless eighteen-year-old roaring obscenities while Sheriff Gray and a deputy dragged him away in handcuffs.

  Trace Dawson the man glared at me now, and his eyes were hard and accusing, eyes brimming with fire and ice. A chill wind rumbled past him, but he stood as still as a statue. Only his eyes moved while he looked me up and down with agonizing thoroughness. The rage. The pain. It was all there.

  “Trace?” I whispered.

  In chilling silence, he walked away without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

  The crowd reacted in an explosion of chatter, their tongues empowered by his retreat. Hate-filled words like “psycho,” “killer,” and “bastard” flew unrestrained.

  Trembling with emotion, I gathered my things in silence and melted into the growing sea of onlookers. People were so busy gaping and murmuring epithets at Trace that they didn’t notice me fleeing the scene.

  I’d almost made it to Bradford Realty when a conversation between four store clerks stopped me cold. A clutch of women on a smoke break were huddled in a corner, unaware I could hear everything.

  “You know he killed a man in prison,” one woman spouted.

  “Probably turns her on,” dished another with a ten-pack-a-day voice. “I heard her and that fossil she’s marrying are into S&M and stuff.”

  “But did you see the way she was lookin’ at ‘im?” the first rattled back.

  A third piped in, “Yeah, like he was cookies and she was milk.”

  “Not surprising,” number one concluded. “The mother was the same way. Her and Dawson used to go at it like dogs.”

  A fourth woman cackled. “Who can blame her? Word has it he’s got an anaconda between his legs.”

  They roared with laughter and their vile assertions grew more offensive by the second. Lilith Bradford, my mother, had been linked to half a dozen men before her death, Trace Dawson being one of them.

  Rising above Mother’s salacious reputation proved quite the challenge. Talk had even followed me to college. It added up to a womb-to-tomb legacy of degradation, and Trace’s return had resurrected it.

  My anger burned hot, but propriety stayed my tongue. The last thing I needed was another scene. Father would be spinning in his crypt. Auntie and Uncle wouldn’t be pleased either. Mead would have plenty to say too.

  He always did.

  So I limped to my office intent on disappearing inside. However, the wails of a police siren and an ambulance stopped me dead in my tracks. Two minutes later, a police officer peppered me with questions. Yes, I was okay. No, I didn’t need medical attention.

  Yet when an EMT bullied me into an ambulance, I was too drained to argue. During the hospital ride, my mouth responded to his questions, but my thoughts hovered over the first piece of an intricate puzzle. Far from wanting me dead, Trace Dawson had tried to save my life. But why?

  Hadn’t I destroyed his?

  TRACE

  ____________________________

  “What the hell happened back there?” Wrapped from neck to nose in a tangle of scarves, floppy hat, and earmuffs, Icky gripped the wheel and glared at my bloody chin as the windshield wipers thrashed. “Trace!”

  “Just get me to the hospital!”

  I wrenched the frayed seatbelt across my chest and snapped it home. Then I snatched a bandana from my pocket, wadded it, and set the thing over the gash in my chin. Blood covered my jacket and my cut ached something fierce. Everything pained me. Bones, teeth, gums—hell, even my hair hurt. The lumpy seat cushion was little comfort. My ass smacked the floor at every bump.

  I’d yet to get a handle on my thoughts and feelings. Both were miles ahead of me, and I wasn’t in the mood to hunt them down. But if I didn’t say something quick, Icky would bust a gasket. So I skipped over the unnecessary details and gave an abridged account.

  Afterward, Icky asked, “Why’d you try to help her?”

  I shrugged. The question surprised me. “I don’t know.”

  When we were kids, I’d nicknamed her “Shadow” because she used to follow me around like a lost puppy, but she wasn’t my Shadow anymore, if she ever really was. As it st
ood, she was nothing to me now.

  “Well? Was Ms. Bradford okay?”

  That snapped me out of my reverie. “Miz? You know her?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Icky’s brows bunched into a frown. “She ran an ad for this real estate course, but I couldn’t get a license because of my felony. So she got me a data entry gig at Kingston Realty, over in New Dyer.” Icky slowed for a stop sign as an ambulance screamed by. He flashed me a toothy white grin. Big improvement over the yellow jigsaw of a smile he’d had in prison. “I’m up for a promotion next month. Administrative assistant. For the lead realtor.”

  Well, whoopty doo. “Shannon know about us?”

  “Yeah. I laid it all out when I called her. That I married your sister. That you and me were cellies. She knows everything.”

  I set my jaw. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

  “Y’all’s history has nothing to do with me.”

  So he said, but I had doubts. Patrick “Icky” O’Dell had been my cellmate way back when. We’d drifted apart because of a fight we’d had over my big sister Bev, and it looked like the fight wasn’t over. Case in point: after I paid my parole officer a visit today, Icky had insisted on stopping at the plaza for a prescription.

  I glanced at the backseat. Nothing there but my pillowcase. It held all my belongings. “You forget your pills?”

  Icky’s guilty pause was answer enough. “Um…they won’t be ready for a couple more hours.”

  “You think I’m stupid?” I smiled bitterly. “You planned this, didn’t you?” Silence. “You drove me there ‘cause you wanted me to see her.” When Icky wouldn’t even make eye contact, I knew it had been a set up. “This is about Bev, isn’t it?”

  “You’re crazy,” Icky mumbled, but his shifty eyes said something different. “I’m just the driver. Amber’s car broke down. She called Bev. Bev called me—”

  “Save the spin. The truth, Icky. Now.”

  His angular face was as red as the curls dripping from beneath his floppy hat. He yanked the gearshift. “I told you the truth. And I got no reason to lie either. Seriously, man. I found Jesus.”