Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

How had she thought footwear costing thousands was worth the price of this hollow marriage? Along with the shoes, deeper into the wide walk-in were racks and racks of dresses, slacks, suits, sweaters, you name it, all designer, all expensive, all hung neatly, the gowns encased in plastic to protect them, purses, too. From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the white gown she’d worn at her wedding—well, her second wedding if anyone was counting—and she saw the sparkle of beads, the cut of French lace, and cringed inwardly as she remembered wearing that gown and feeling as if her life, finally, had turned a favorable corner as she’d swept down the aisle to meet her handsome, successful groom. Despite his flashes of anger while engaged, his need to dominate, the warning knell from her sisters, she’d been determined to give herself and her toddler daughter a new, “perfect” life.

She’d had no idea how wrong she would be.

And now . . . now she needed to do something about it. Before it was too late. As it was, she was already over forty, for God’s sake, her kid nearly grown. She stepped out of her robe and let it puddle on the floor. Turning sideways to the full-length mirror, she noted that her belly was flat and hard, her breasts high with the help of surgery and enhancements, her nipples pert and dark, her legs long and lean, even showing a bit of muscle, her posture erect. She was still very attractive, could compete with women ten, maybe even twelve years younger than she . . . well, maybe. If she had to. Not that she was looking for a new man. No way. At least not until she was single. She didn’t want the hint of impropriety on her part. She’d already spoken to one of the best lawyers in town; she just hadn’t pulled the trigger and filed for divorce yet.

“Tomorrow,” Brindel said, mouthing the words as if her husband, who was in the next suite, could hear her.

More than slightly buzzy, she finally took out her contacts and finished getting ready for bed, which was basically undressing to slip between the soft sheets completely naked, a practice her husband had once found exciting, then disgusting, then had totally ignored. That had been before the remodel of the second floor into two master suites. His and hers. It had seemed perfect at the time, but now was claustrophobic. Silk wallpaper, coved ceilings, crystal chandelier, huge four-poster bed and private bathroom with its grand walk-in closet, all part and parcel of her jail cell.

And Brindel needed freedom.

More than anything else.

She’d only stayed as long as she had because of her daughter . . . and now . . . well . . .

She slid beneath the thick duvet, felt the polished cotton smooth against her skin, and turned off the bedside lamp. Her appointment was at nine, when she was certain her husband would be in th

e midst of his rounds at the hospital attached to the medical school, a short walk through the park from this house. She’d tell her attorney to file the papers and then let the chips fall where they may.

Smiling at the thought that she was finally doing something, well, actually the one thing he would abhor, she burrowed under the covers and drifted away, her dreams lulling her only to be interrupted by . . . what? The sound of footsteps? Oh, God, surely Paul wouldn’t try to come into her room and slide into her bed.... Physically shuddering at the prospect, she opened an eye to darkness, the room lit only by the glow of the bedside clock.

Was that breathing she heard? Soft and low over the pounding of her racing heart?

She swallowed back her fear and stared, eyes narrowing, fingers curling at the edge of the duvet.

For a second she thought she saw movement—a shadow crossing in front of the armoire—but realized it was the mirror mounted over the antique, reflecting the sway of branches from the window on the opposite wall.

Don’t be neurotic. You have one more night and then you start the fight for your freedom . . . and half of Paul’s estate. He owes it to you for giving him almost fifteen of your best years. In her mind she calculated what she might receive, less attorney’s fees. Three million? Maybe four? She’d earned every penny of it being married to the jerk-wad.

And it would be enough to last her the rest of her life.

Slightly calmer, she still listened for any sound that he might be stealthily walking down the hallway to her bedroom door, but she heard nothing . . . all her imagination. Her nerves were strung tight, that was it. Because of her meeting in the morning. She was alone. Safe. In her own damned bedroom. Closing her eyes again, she started to breathe easier.

And there it was.

The whisper-soft scrape of a footstep. Then another.

And a new smell. Musky and male and . . .

Brindel’s eyes flew open and she gasped, saw the muzzle of a gun just before it was pressed to her forehead.

What??? NO!

She opened her mouth to scream.

Her attacker pulled the trigger.

An ear-splitting blast.

Then nothing.

* * *

“No, no, noooo!” Ivy threw a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

The carnage was horrible. Mind numbing.

Backing up quickly, the image of death seared forever in her brain, she wondered how everything could have gone so terribly wrong.