by Cynthia Eden
Dedication
I want to dedicate this book to all of the fantastic romantic suspense fans out there. Thank you so much for all of the support that you have given to me!
And for my husband . . . Nick,
you truly are my best friend. Thanks, bestie!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’D LIKE TO THANK THE WONDERFUL STAFF AT AVON for all of their incredible support! In particular, Lucia and Nicole—you ladies rock!
I was thrilled to have the opportunity to write this story. Broken is set in Dauphin Island, Alabama, a place that is very near and dear to my heart. No, there are no serial killers on the island, and bodies haven’t been discovered there in the aftermath of any hurricane (the story is fictional, after all!), but Dauphin Island is an amazing place, full of mystery. Each time I visit this beautiful island, I return home feeling recharged and happy.
I’ve got so many terrific friends on Dauphin Island. People who work there and folks who are lucky enough to call the island home. So to Joan, Mendel, Greg, and Carrie—thanks for sharing your paradise with me.
Happy reading, everyone!
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
An Excerpt from Twisted
Prologue
About the Author
Praise for Cynthia Eden
By Cynthia Eden
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
SHE COULD SMELL THE OCEAN AND HEAR THE pounding of the surf. She could see the sky above her, so very blue and clear, but she couldn’t move at all.
Her body had gone numb hours ago. At first the numbness had been a blessing. She’d just wanted the pain to stop, and it had. She didn’t even scream any longer. What would be the point? There was no one around to hear her. No one was coming to help her.
Seagulls cried out, circling above her. She didn’t want them to fly down. What if they started to peck at her? Please, leave me alone.
Her mouth was dry, filled with bits of sand. Tears had dried on her cheeks.
“Why are you still alive?” The curious voice came from beside her because he was there, watching, as he’d watched for hours. “Why don’t you give in? You know you want to just close your eyes and let go.”
She did. She wanted to close her eyes and pretend that she was just having a bad dream. A nightmare. When her eyes opened again, she’d be someplace different. Someplace without monsters.
He came closer to her, and she felt something sharp slide into the sand with her. A knife. He liked to use his knife. It pricked her skin, but then he lifted the knife and pressed the blade against her throat.
“I can end this for you. Do it now. Just tell me . . .” His words were dark. Tempting. “Tell me that you want to die.”
The surf was so close. She’d always loved the ocean. But she’d never expected to die like this. She didn’t want to die like this. She realized the tears weren’t dry on her face.
She was still crying. Her cheeks were wet with tears and blood.
“Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me that you want to die.”
She shook her head. Because death wasn’t what she wanted. Even after all he’d done, she didn’t want to stop living.
She didn’t want to give up.
The knife sliced against her neck. A hoarse moan came from her lips. Her voice had broken when she screamed and screamed. She should have known better than to scream.
That was what he’d told her. You should know better, sweetheart. It’s just you and me. Until your last breath.
Her blood mixed with the sand. He was angry again. Or . . . no, he’d always been angry. She just hadn’t seen the rage, not until it was too late. Now she couldn’t look at him at all. No matter what he did to her, she wouldn’t look at him.
She didn’t want to remember him this way. Actually, she didn’t want to remember him at all.
Her gaze lifted to the blue sky. To those circling seagulls.
I want to fly, Daddy. She’d been six the first time she’d come to the island and seen the gulls. I want to fly like them.
Her father had laughed and told her that it looked like she’d lost her wings.
She’d lost more than that.
“I want to fly,” she whispered.
“Too bad, because you’re not flying anywhere. You’re going to die here.”
But there was no death for her yet, and she wasn’t begging.
The gulls were blurry now, because of her tears.
He’d buried her in the sand, covering her wounds and packing the sand in tightly around her. Only her head and some of her neck remained uncovered. Her hands were bound, or so he thought.
But she’d been working beneath the sand. Working even as the moments ticked so slowly past, and he kept taunting her.
He had taken his time with this little game. Tried to break her in those endless hours.
She wouldn’t be broken.
Her hands were free. If he’d just move that knife away from her neck . . .
He lifted the knife and stabbed it into the sand—into the sand right over her left shoulder. She choked out a cry as the sharp pain pierced her precious numbness.
“You’ll beg soon,” he told her. Then he was on his feet. Stalking away from her. “They all do.”
He’d left the knife in her shoulder and made the mistake of turning his back on her.
She’d lived this long . . . if she was going out, she’d fight until her last breath.
Her fingers were free. She just had to escape the sand. The heavy sand that he’d packed and packed around her.
Burying me.
She could feel the faint cracks start to slip across the sand as she shifted. Her strength was almost gone, but she could do this. She had to do it. If she didn’t, she was dead.
He was turning back toward her.
Move! The scream was in her head, and she managed to lunge up. Her right hand grabbed the hilt of the knife. She jerked the blade out of her shoulder and surged to her feet even as the sand rained down her body.
He was yelling, screaming at her. She didn’t care. She charged forward and slammed the knife into his chest. Their eyes met. It was the only time she’d looked into his gaze since the torture had begun.
She saw herself reflected in his stare.
He fell, slumping back. She didn’t stop to see if he was still alive. She didn’t care. She raced for the edge of the beach, for the little boat that was anchored just offshore. Then she was stumbling into the surf. The water was icy against her skin, and she knew her blood was turning the water red.
She wasn’t afraid of sharks. Men were the killers. Men just like—
“Don’t leave me!” His bellow.
He was still alive. He was coming after her.
She fell into the boat. Fumbled. She’d been around boats her whole life. She could start the motor, even with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. She could start—
The motor growled. She shoved the throttle forward. The boat surged away from that little beach, jumping, bouncing over the waves.
He was still shouting. She was laughing. Crying. Not looking back.
She would never look back. Never. He hadn’t broke
n her. Hadn’t killed her.
She gazed up at the gulls. I want to fly.
Then the boat hit the rocks. Heavy rocks that she’d known were out there, but she’d tried to maneuver around them too late. The boat twisted and shot into the air.
And, in the next instant, she really was flying. Flying and then slamming face first into the water. The water was so red.
Her blood.
She tried to kick back to the surface. She wouldn’t give up.
But her body was so tired. The numbness . . . it had vanished. Pain was back. A deep agony that cut into every muscle.
The surface was farther away. She could just see the outline of the gulls above her.
I want to fly.
She tried to swim. Tried to reach the surface. She didn’t want to die.
But she didn’t have the strength to fight anymore. The waves rolled around her, and the seagulls vanished.
CHAPTER ONE
HER STOMACH TWISTED AS EVE GRAY GAZED UP at the imposing building centered on the busy Atlanta street. Heat rose from the pavement, seeming to surround her. Someone bumped her from behind, and she took a quick step forward.
Just one step, then she caught herself.
Her heart was racing so fast, too fast, and her palms were sweating. She brushed her palms over her narrow skirt, and then Eve took just a moment to smooth down her hair.
This was it. The moment she’d been waiting for. The people inside would either help her or—
No, there is no option. They have to help me.
She straightened her shoulders and headed through the big swinging doors. She kept her gaze focused straight in front of her as she marched toward the elevator. She needed to go up to the fourth floor. Suite 409.
The elevator doors opened silently. Men and women in expensive business clothes climbed on and off the elevator. Eve kept her chin up. Her clothes were older, faded, too casual for this office building, but it wasn’t like she had a lot of choice.
There were no choices for her.
The elevator dinged, and she hurried out onto the fourth floor. The lush carpet swallowed her footsteps. Then, a few desperate moments later, she was standing in front of a heavy, wooden door. Across the door, golden letters spelled: LOST.
Her lips curved in a smile that just felt sad. Lost. Yes, that was exactly what she was. And she desperately needed the people inside that office to help her.
Eve turned the doorknob with trembling fingers and crept inside. A perky receptionist glanced up at her, showing a smile that flashed huge dimples. “Welcome to Lost, how may I help you?”
Eve had to swallow twice in order to ease the dryness of her throat. “I need to speak with Gabe Spencer.” He was the man she’d read about in the paper. The tough ex-SEAL who’d made it his new mission to create LOST.
LOST . . . the Last Option Search Team. This office and all of the personnel in it had one function, just one—to find missing people. To search for those that the authorities had already given up on.
The receptionist, a pretty girl with sun-streaked blond hair, gave a small shake of her head. “I’m sorry but do you have an appointment, ma’am?”
“No.” And Eve knew that the perky lady was about to tell her to hit the road. So Eve shoved her hands into her oversize bag—the only bag that she had—and yanked out a carefully folded newspaper. She smoothed out the folds and offered the paper to the receptionist. “I need to talk with Mr. Spencer about this.” This being the series of murders that had been highlighted in the Atlanta News three weeks ago. Seven women had been abducted. Tortured. Killed.
Their murderer hadn’t been caught.
“We don’t . . . um . . . we don’t really hunt serial killers here at LOST,” the receptionist said with wide eyes. “I’m not sure what you think Mr. Spencer can do for you—”
The office door opened behind the receptionist. At the soft sound, Eve glanced up automatically and saw a man—tall, handsome, powerful—filling that doorway. His hair was jet-black, thick, and still military short, even though she knew the guy wasn’t active with the SEALs any longer.
Gabe Spencer.
She’d done research on him at the local library. Found his picture. Read his bio, again and again. Thirty-four. Single. Master’s degree in criminal justice. He’d been a decorated SEAL, but he’d left the Navy after his sister had been abducted a few years ago. Gabe had made it his sole mission to find Amy and bring her home.
He had brought her home, just not alive.
His gaze was a bright, intense blue, and that gaze focused sharply on Eve. She shifted beneath his stare as uncertainty twisted within her.
He was handsome. No, almost too perfect. But his features had looked softer in the pictures she’d seen online. In person, his jaw was sharp and square, his cheeks high, his nose a strong blade . . . and his lips were sensual. The man had a deep, powerful appeal that seemed to fill the air and—
And she was just staring at him. Heat stained her cheeks. What is wrong with me?
“I don’t think we can help you,” the receptionist told Eve, giving a sad shake of her head.
But Eve wasn’t really paying attention to the blonde any longer. She was too aware of Gabe.
Gabe was still staring straight at her, too. His gaze dipped from her face down to her toes—the toes that peeked out from her high heels—then it slowly rose to study her face once more. His voice was a deep rumble as he asked, “Have we met, Ms. . . . ?”
She almost laughed at his question. “I’m afraid that I don’t know if we have.”
One dark brow lifted as confusion flashed in his blue gaze.
“I’m here to meet with you, Mr. Spencer.” The words came out in a rush, but this was her chance. She had to take it. Eve grabbed her newspaper back from the receptionist. “Please, can you spare a few minutes to talk with me?”
That bright stare seemed to weigh her. Eve tensed. She was used to people assessing her. It was all they seemed to do lately. Assess. Judge. Find her lacking.
“She doesn’t have an appointment,” the not-so-perky-now blonde said. “I was just telling her—”
“Melody, I think I can spare a few minutes,” he said, and stepped back. Gabe gave a little wave of his hand, indicating the open door. “If you’d like to come inside, we can talk privately.”
Eve’s knees were trembling as she hurried forward. At least she didn’t trip or do anything to embarrass herself. Yet. This meeting was important. No, this meeting was everything. She had to get Gabe Spencer to help her. If he didn’t help her, she had no idea what she’d do next.
The office smelled of leather. A bright expanse of windows looked over downtown Atlanta. Gabe’s desk was huge, taking up a third of the room. She sat across from that big desk, sinking into one of the leather chairs. She expected him to assume a position behind his desk. Instead, he strode toward the left side of the desk, the side close to her, and he paused. His arms crossed over his chest as his gaze raked her once more.
“Is someone missing?” His question was low, sympathetic.
Eve gave a small nod, then offered him her newspaper.
Frowning, he read the headline. “The Lady Killer?” Gabe shook his head. “I know they recovered some bodies after the last hurricane swept through that area, but I don’t see—”
“They haven’t recovered all of the bodies. S-Some are still missing.” Her fingers twisted in her lap. According to the newspaper, there were seven suspected abductions and murders. But only four bodies had been found so far.
Three women were still missing.
His gaze scanned over the article. Then, after a few moments, he glanced back up at her. “You want me to find one of the missing women?”
He wasn’t getting it. “O-Open the paper.”
Frowning, he opened it. Pictures of the missing women were inside. Grainy pictures. Black and whites but . . .
“I don’t need you to find a missing woman.”
“That’s what we do
.” His gaze was on the photos, not her. There was a slight southern drawl beneath his words, just a little growl of sound, barely noticeable. “We search for the missing. We—” He broke off and she saw his gaze widen. Slowly, very, very slowly, that bright blue stare came back to her face. This time she felt his stare like a physical touch on her.
Eve licked her lips and said, “I don’t need you to find a missing woman . . . because I’m pretty sure . . . I think—I think I am one of the missing. I’m one of the Lady Killer’s victims, only I’m not dead like they say in the paper.”
Gabe Spencer wasn’t talking. So Eve let her words tumble out. She didn’t want him to think she was crazy. She needed his help too much. “I’m not dead. I just . . . I don’t remember anything. I can’t remember anything that happened to me before June third of this year.”
“And what happened on June third?” he asked, voice lacking all emotion.
“That was the day I woke up in St. Helen’s Hospital.” She’d woken to a room of white. To the sterile scent of cleaners and disinfectants. To the steady drone of machines.
And it had felt . . . wrong.
I should have heard the waves. Should have smelled the ocean. Those had been her first thoughts, but after them, she’d remembered nothing of her life. No names. No faces. No memories at all.
He just stared at her.
Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. “I’m not lying.” Desperation cracked beneath the words. “You can check at the hospital, and they’ll verify everything that I’ve told you.”
Dissociative amnesia. That was what one of the doctors had told her she had. She’d sustained a strong blow to her head. Some memory loss was common after an injury like that.
But she wasn’t just talking about some memory loss. She’d lost everything.
“I need your help,” Eve told him, and she knew it sounded like she was begging—she was. “Because what’s missing . . . my life is missing. I’m missing.” She stood on trembling legs and went to his desk. She looked down at the paper that had fallen to his desktop. Her fingers touched the picture of the beautiful smiling woman. A woman that could be her. “If that’s me, then I want to know what happened.” She glanced over at him. “I want my life back, Mr. Spencer.”