Bitter Retribution
Table of Contents
BITTER RETRIBUTION
Acknowledgements
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
Epilogue
BITTER RETRIBUTION
Jordan James, PI Series
RACHEL SHARPE
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
BITTER RETRIBUTION
Copyright©2015
RACHEL SHARPE
Cover Design by Leah Kaye Suttle
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-61935-918-5
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Books by Rachel Sharpe:
Cold Ambition
Lost Distinction
I would like to dedicate this book to my grandmother,
whose love of old Hollywood
and the silver screen
helped instill in me
a greater appreciation of times past.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank God for always guiding and protecting me; my amazing husband, Josh, for always helping me reach that “294th step;” my precious son for being the light of my life; my wonderful parents for the constant love, support, revisions, and vacations to the Rocky Mountains; my “Yankee” family for all the love, laughs, and wonderful memories; the amazing Harewood family for an insider’s look at Hollywood; my family and friends for all your love and support; Leah Suttle, for bringing my vision to life in your magnificent covers; and Debby Gilbert and the amazing crew at Soul Mate Publishing for this incredible opportunity. To anyone who has ever encouraged my literary aspirations, especially my teachers, and to anyone I have not mentioned by name but has had an impact on my career and life, I offer my humble thanks. Finally, I want to thank you, the reader, for reading my book. You’re the reason I wrote this. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
Prologue
Have you ever found yourself wondering if you’ve secretly got a death wish? Sometimes, I can’t help thinking that very thing. Especially since beginning my own private investigation firm. When the number of times you find yourself on the wrong end of a Smith & Wesson comes close to requiring two hands to count, it’s understandable for a person to begin questioning her life choices, speculating if she’s brought this bad karma on herself or if she’s just plain cursed. Forgive me. I have a tendency to digress. Let me start at the beginning.
Los Angeles, CA
“My life is completely ruined!” the girl sobbed, covering her eyes, thick with black mascara, with her carefully-manicured nails. “He told me he loved me and that we would be together forever. When he finds out about this, he’ll leave me. I just know it! What am I supposed to do?”
Her mother sat next to her, stroking her silky-blonde hair. “My dear, it’s not the end of the world,” she insisted, a slight smile crossing her lips. “He’s just one man. Remember, before you can build strong relationships with others, you need to love yourself. Besides, you’re overreacting. You have a wonderful career ahead of you. This is just the beginning! Don’t let one man—”
“No!” Sniffing, she sat up and stared into her mother’s eyes. “You don’t understand. It’s over. My career, all of it. I’ll never work again after this gets out.”
“Wait.” Suddenly alarmed, her mother grabbed her shoulders and studied her green eyes intently. “After what gets out?”
She turned her head away, crying. Her mother frantically shook her. Finally, more tears welling up, the teenager met her mother’s gaze once more.
“What did you do?” Shameful tears answered the question the girl couldn’t and she covered her face. She slumped on the couch when her mother released her. “My God. You wretched girl. How could you?”
Taking short breaths, the teen clung to the gold leaf pendant necklace around her neck and stammered, “My life is ruined. There’s nothing you can do to fix this.”
“We’ll see about that!” Her mother ripped off the necklace . . .
1
Boston, MA
“Jordan, are you even listening to me?”
The sound of my name thrust me back into reality. I stared at my cell phone glumly. Only moments earlier I had been thinking back to this past summer when everything was perfect. Thanks to my amazing investigative skills and, more importantly, dumb luck, Arthur Cross had been saved from a madman who not only wished him dead, but also nearly succeeded in killing Jon, Rick and myself in the process. Rick and I celebrated Arthur’s homecoming with the rest of their family during the Fourth of July weekend in Martha’s Vineyard. As we sailed along Vineyard Sound, I realized Rick’s soulful blue eyes were focused on me.
“What?” I’d asked, brushing my hair out of my face.
He reached over and caressed my cheek. “I just can’t believe my luck.”
“Huh?” I called over the sound of the waves crashing against the hull. Rick leaned closer, putting his arms around me as the warmth of the sun shone down upon us, fighting off the chill of the summer breeze.
“I can’t believe you’re mine. You’re beautiful, intelligent and amazing—”
“Right.” I’d laughed.
He looked into my eyes earnestly. “I’m serious. I love you, Jordan. Nothing will ever change that.”
“Jordan?”
“Sorry,” I grumbled, peeking through my living room blinds at the snow blanketing the outside world. “What’d you say, Heather?”
“How are you doing?”
“Considering my stupidity has completely ruined my life? I could be better.”
“You’re not stupid.”
I crossed the living room and fell onto my couch, clutching a nearby throw pillow. “I just broke up with the most amazing man alive.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
“Kidding!” she laughed. “What happened? I don’t think you told me last time we talked.”
I grabbed the remote and turned on the television. An episode of my favorite show, Magnum, P.I., had just started. I became caught up in the show until Heather yelled at me. So, I recounted the pathetic tale of how I destroyed the best thing in my life. “He got this job offer in London and asked my opinion. What could I say? No, don’t take the greatest job opportunity ever? I mean, that’s what I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I told him to take it. Then, he popped the question and . . . I don’t know, I panicked. I told him no. I said I thought we needed a break.”
“That was last week?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Has he left yet?”
“Yeah.” I nodded again, although she couldn’t see me. “He wasn’t supposed to leave ‘til Friday, but Jon told me after what happened, he left on Monday.”
“Well,” she paused, clicking her tongue. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You could say I’m cursed,” I groaned. “I mean, what’s wrong with me? I’ve dated, like, a million and one jerks. I must be a freaking jerk magnet. The first nice guy who shows interest, I push away!”
“You have dated some serious losers.”
I frowned at the phone. “How exactly is this supposed to cheer me up?”
“Jordan, you’re so not ready to get married. Neither is he. Rick loves you, but proposing the way he did was wrong. You did the right thing.”
I turned my attention back to the screen. Magnum was chasing two large Hawaiians through Chinatown with Higgins in tow. Even Higgins’ comical bantering couldn’t cheer me up. “If I did the right thing, why does it feel so wrong?”
“Because you love him.” After a pause, she added, “Come skiing with me. For Thanksgiving.”
I turned away from the television. “Say that again.”
Heather laughed. “Seriously? You may have a keen eye for detail, but your hearing is off.”
“I heard you, I just couldn’t believe what I heard,” I frowned. “Again, thanks for the ego boost.”
“Anytime,” she chirped. “Look, I know you and Rick were planning to go to your parents’ place or whatever, but . . . I kinda doubt he’s gonna make it now.”
I cringed. Until that moment, I had managed to repress the reality that I would soon be facing my family and forced to admit to them that I was once again single. Now, I feel the need to explain my interesting relationship with my parents. They are great people. Really. Still, they have not always been overjoyed with my choices in life.
When I decided to leave New Orleans and go to college in Rhode Island, they weren’t happy. When I decided to stay in New England after college to become a private investigator in Boston, they were even less thrilled. For the most part, I only had to listen to my mother’s mournful lamentations, that I was living up north, all alone, and not a married, expectant mother in the south like my pediatric neurosurgeon older sister, Alicia, during an occasional phone conversation. Having to spend an entire week with them, in the same house, meant I could expect a full on “time to move back home and start a family” intervention.
“I don’t know, Heather,” I hesitated. “It might be difficult to get out of a family holiday. My mom practically made me sign a notarized, legal document I’d never miss one when she agreed to let me go to Brown.” I paused as a curious thought crossed my mind, “Speaking of, how did you get out of yours? I can’t believe your mom was cool with your blowing off her turkey for the slopes.”
“I have an excuse,” she declared. “Work.”
“Work?”
I stretched out on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. Trying to put my arms behind my head, I felt a sharp pain in my left shoulder. I lifted the sleeve and glanced at my arm, frowning. It had been nearly six months since a bullet penetrated my arm during my case in London and left me with a permanent scar and a script for six months of physical therapy, but every time I moved it, the searing pain returned, reminding me of the incident which led to the wound. But that’s another story. Resigning myself to using several throw pillows for support, I sighed.
“I’m missing something here. You’re a writer for a sitcom. And you live in L.A. Why do you have to go snow skiing for work?”
After a few moments of silence, she exclaimed, “Because I was just named head writer for the show and next week’s episode will be my first!”
I sat straight up, grinning. “Heather! Congratulations! That’s so awesome! How’d that happen?”
“Well, the previous head writer . . . he got into this argument with Nancy, you know, the executive producer? He actually gave her an ultimatum! Can you believe that?”
“That’s pretty dumb.”
“Next thing I know, he’s fired and she’s telling me I’m the head writer. Jordan, I am so psyched!”
“I’m psyched, too. Beyond, actually. Best news all week.”
“Know what would make this perfect? If my best friend were there, too.” When I didn’t respond, she groaned. “Come on, please? This’ll be good for you. A little vacation . . . away from family and work and . . . you know. Come on! Say yes!”
I chewed on my lip, considering the possibility. In all honesty, it sounded like a lot of fun. It had been at least three years since Heather and I took a trip together. Plus, I liked the idea of watching a television show being made. “Well . . .”
“Yes!”
I laughed. “I haven’t agreed to anything!”
“You will.”
“Right,” I laughed. “Oh, there is one little thing. How do I break it to my mother?”
“Oh yeah,” she whistled. “Hmm. Just tell her I’m being forced to work and you didn’t want me to be by myself during the holidays. Remind her how single I am. Anyway, she’s so focused on Alicia and the baby, I doubt she’ll even notice you’re MIA.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied. “So you’re in?”
I smiled, nodding to myself. “Yeah, I’m in.”
As I ended the call, I stood up and looked around my apartment. It suddenly didn’t feel so dark and depressing. I crossed my living room and headed towards my bedroom. After taking the past few days off, I decided to go to the office and get a little work done before preparing for my trip.
I smiled as I grabbed a gray Brown Bears t-shirt, a heavy, lavender sweater and a pair of blue jeans. This trip is gonna be great. It’s about time I do something spontaneous and live on the edge. Little did I know that in less than a week, I would find myself not only “on the edge,” but also a key player in the center of a deadly game with very, very high stakes.
2
After a hot shower, I hurried out of my apartment building, pushing open the glass door which led to the street. Frigid winds greeted me. I shivered as I hurried down the street toward the subway. Despite the cold, holiday shoppers were out in droves when I emerged near Fenway Park. My office is located in an office building several blocks from the park. It isn’t uncommon to hear collective cheers and groans during all hours of the day when baseball is in season.
As I approached the double glass doors which led to my building, I suddenly realized that this month marked the two-year anniversary of opening my private investigation firm. It’s amazing to think how many cases I solved in a mere twenty-four months. It’s even more amazing to reflect on how much life can change in such a short time.
In two years, I managed to create a successful business, gain national acclaim for solving one particular case, meet the man of my dreams, and then lose him. Sighing, I pushed the elevator button and climbed inside the silver box. The ride to the sixth floor took longer than usual
as I stared at the pictures of Rick in my phone. When the doors of the elevator opened and I stepped out, I found myself seconds away from calling him. Shaking my head, I shoved the phone back in my pocket.
We both agreed a break would be best. Besides, Rick has enough going on, setting up the new branch of his accounting firm in London.
I unzipped my parka as I walked the long hallway. As I approached my office, the letters etched in my opaque-glass door, which announced Jordan James, P.I. worked here, glistened.
I unlocked the door. Stepping inside, I was startled to find my associate, Jon Riché, sitting at his desk, scanning several photos. Even if I hadn’t seen him sitting there, I couldn’t have missed the strong scent of his Acqua di Gio cologne. He turned and grinned when our gazes met. I nodded, but didn’t maintain eye contact for long, opting instead to throw my parka on the chocolate-leather couch as I hurried to my desk. It was important to keep professional distance from Jon, considering recent events.
My relationship with Jon could best be described as an emotional roller coaster. In short, the man has more mood swings than the late Joan Rivers during Oscar season. After he professed his love for me, while Rick and I were still together, I knew the only way to maintain our relationship was to keep things professional. But forgive me, I tend to digress.
Jon overlooked my snub by smoothing his jet-black tresses and adjusting his blue, argyle sweater. He watched as I walked around my desk and sat down. I opened my laptop and punched in my password. My desktop suddenly appeared and there before me was a photo of Rick and me standing near the Gay Head Cliffs on Martha’s Vineyard.