by Rachel Woods
The gunshot was deafening, almost as loud as Besi’s high-pitched scream in Vivian’s ear. Confused and shocked, Vivian cried out as Besi dropped to her knees.
Detective François and Leo rushed toward her.
Crying, Vivian collapsed against Leo as he grabbed her in a protective embrace and pulled her away from the chaotic scene. Cursing, Besi screamed and kicked at the deputies with her good leg. The other leg was motionless, a pool of blood spreading across the hardwood from beneath her calf.
“It’s okay, babe,” whispered Leo, kissing her forehead.
“I don’t understand,” said Vivian, staring up at her husband. “What happened?”
“Officer Fields snuck into the house and positioned himself behind you and Besi,” said Leo. “He shot her in the back of the leg.”
“Oh, God, Leo.” Vivian pressed her cheek against his chest, glaring at Besi Beaumont as Detective François, Officer Fields, and the deputies converged on Besi, wrestling the gun from her, and then arresting her, placing her in handcuffs.
Epilogue
“Derek is still sticking by Besi,” said Leo as he walked into Vivian’s office and dropped down on the couch. “It’s been a week since she was arrested, made bail, and was remanded to house arrest and he hasn’t left her side.”
Turning away from her computer, Vivian leaned back in her creaky chair. “Are you surprised?”
Leo scoffed. “Am I surprised that Derek Hennessy is pulling out all the stops to get his real fiancée cleared of the charges against her? Surprisingly no, I’m not surprised.”
Vivian frowned. “You’re not?”
Shrugging, Leo said, “After Besi was arrested and that night I had to tell Dad and Derek everything that went down at the Dove Street house in Oyster Farms, there was something about the way Derek looked when he found out everything.”
“How did he look?” asked Vivian.
Leo propped his feet on the arm of the couch. “Can’t explain it. I thought he’d be pissed and outraged, but he was … I don’t know. He was overjoyed to find out that Besi was still alive. He didn’t seem to care that she’d killed two people. He was sympathetic and kind. He was upset with himself that he hadn’t been able to realize that Elizabeth Davis was fooling him. He was eager to see Besi. He wanted to tell her that he loved her and he wanted to prove to her that he didn’t want to marry her for her money.”
“Kind of hard to marry Besi for her money when she doesn’t have any money,” said Vivian.
Leo said, “She’s not the Beaumont heiress, but Adrienne Beaumont came from money, and when she died, she left most of her money to Besi.”
“So, there’s the defense fund,” said Vivian.
“I don’t think there’s enough money in the world to get Besi cleared of double homicide,” said Leo. “But, don’t tell Derek that. He’s convinced that Besi will get off because Elizabeth Davis and Aaron Jones drove her to murder. If they hadn’t blackmailed her, she wouldn’t have turned homicidal.”
“Besi became homicidal when she found out she wasn’t the real Beaumont heiress,” said Vivian.
“Good luck getting Derek to believe that,” said Leo. “He’s claiming that the devil made Besi do it.”
Vivian sighed. “I think it’s hard for everyone to believe that Besi isn’t Samuel Beaumont’s daughter.”
“Everyone except for my mom,” said Leo.
“What do you mean?” Vivian asked, leaning forward, putting her elbows on the desk.
“I talked to her this morning,” said Leo, sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor. “She and Adrienne grew up in Paris together. Mom says Adrienne was never really a one-man kind of woman. Things only got worse when she married Samuel Beaumont, a man twice her age. Adrienne had a lot of lovers, according to Mom.”
“One of which was Besi’s father,” said Vivian.
Nodding, Leo said, “Mom says there is probably no way to figure out who Besi’s dad is. Adrienne was into one-night-stands.”
“A hit-it-and-quit-it queen,” said Vivian.
“Ironically, Mom said the one guy Adrienne didn’t sleep with was Guillermo Davis,” said Leo. “Samuel thought they were having an affair, but Adrienne and Guillermo were just good friends. When Adrienne got pregnant with Elizabeth, she thought the baby’s father was one of her anonymous hook-ups. She feared Samuel thought the baby was Guillermo’s, so she convinced Guillermo to take the child.”
“Didn’t Samuel wonder what happened to the baby?” asked Vivian.
“Mom said that Adrienne told Samuel the baby was stillborn,” said Leo. “A few months later, she and Samuel were having relations again, as my mother put it. But, at the same time, Adrienne was secretly sleeping around.”
Vivian shook her head. “So, when she got pregnant a second time, she assumed the baby was Samuel’s?”
“Either that,” said Leo, “or she didn’t want to send another little girl away to live with Guillermo Davis.”
Standing, Vivian walked to the couch and sat down on Leo’s lap. “Adrienne Beaumont’s lies have ruined so many lives. Besi and Elizabeth never got a chance to be sisters. Elizabeth grew up without a mother. Samuel never got to meet his real daughter. Besi has no idea who her father is.”
Leo slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. “Lies do ruin lives. That’s why they shouldn’t be told. Truth hurts sometimes, but a lie is always worse.”
Vivian said, “So, let’s promise not to lie to each other, no matter what.”
Caressing her cheek, Leo said, “No lies. Veritas omnia vincit.”
“Truth conquers all,” said Vivian, pressing her mouth against his.
Message from Rachel …
The villain almost outsmarted Leo and Vivian, but they managed to discover the truth—and not get themselves killed in the process!
Can’t get enough of Vivian and Leo? Ready for your favorite journalists to tackle another exiting investigative story?
If you couldn’t stop turning the pages of The Bloodstained Bride, then you won’t be able to put down THE PRODIGAL CAPTIVE!
When a billionaire’s estranged son goes missing, Leo and Vivian must figure out what happened to the troubled young man. Did he walk away on his own? Or was his disappearance the result of foul play?
Swipe or turn the page to read an excerpt of The Prodigal Captive today!
The Prodigal Captive Excerpt
Prologue
Dressed in blood red patent leather, the dominatrix, tall and lithe, entered the room, breathing in the fragrant musk from dozens of lit candles placed about the spacious boudoir.
The dominatrix approached the man who lay handcuffed to the bed, his naked body stretched into an ‘X,’ wrists and ankles shackled to the bedposts. Straddling him, she wrapped her hands around his limp penis and stroked him with deft precision. Moving her hand up and down with increasing velocity, she smiled as the shaft responded to her touch …
The dominatrix scrutinized the column of thick, veined flesh.
A muffled, strangled moan escaped his lips despite the ball gag shoved into his mouth.
Stiff and turgid, the phallus would be a good and worthy sacrifice, she decided, smiling at the man.
Eyes wide with fear behind the black mask, the man wrestled against the leather restraints. Moving away from him and off the bed, she grabbed her leather whip. Raising the whip, she brought it down upon his flesh.
A wrenching, smothered moan of pain filled the fragrant bedroom.
Smiling, she lashed him again. His thrashing intensified, and he wrestled all the more, bucking and arching his body. With practiced intent, she whipped him with little mercy until the moans became whimpers.
Bored with the whip, the dominatrix opened the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed and took out her favorite instrument of pain.
A razor-sharp rapier.
A moaning wail issued from the man, a sound of terror the dominatrix ignored as she straddled the man again. Despite his vigor
ous bucking, she grabbed his shaft in an iron grip. Focused on her task, she placed the knife at the base of his penis.
Seconds later, laughing triumphantly over the man’s muffled howling, the dominatrix clutched the bloody, severed phallus and hurried from the room.
1
“The son of a bitch probably stole that story idea and now he’s going to win a Pulitzer for it?” Leo Bronson shook his head. “You can’t be serious!”
“He hasn’t won yet,” said Vivian, growing worried by the scowl on her husband’s handsome face. “He’s just a finalist for the award. He’s facing stiff competition. There’s no guarantee he’ll win.”
Cursing under his breath, Leo paced back and forth from one end of their bedroom to the other.
Exhaling, Vivian closed her laptop. She wished she hadn’t read the email she’d received moments ago. A close friend she’d worked with at the Washington Post had heard that she and Leo had gotten married and was surprised considering Leo’s aversion to tying the knot.
While Leo was in the shower, Vivian had taken the opportunity to explain how a terrible tragedy and a tragic loss made them realize they belonged together and had never stopped loving each other.
Following congratulations and well wishes for a bright future, her colleague brought up a rival reporter. In other news, guess who I ran into? Carl Simeon! Can you believe he’s up for a Pulitzer? Who would have thunk it?
Vivian had gotten the details about Simeon, a rakish rogue with questionable writing skills who was notorious for poaching sources—and stealing story ideas. Sharing the latest update on Simeon with Leo, she’d thought her husband would get a good laugh from the news. She’d been wrong.
“I could have done a much better job with a story like that if …” Shaking his head, Leo walked to the wall of French doors that opened to the terrace.
Early morning sunrays flooded the bedroom, casting a golden glow over her husband, highlighting the unruly waves she loved to run her hands through. Vivian hated to see him so upset about a journalism award. Of course, she knew the Pulitzer was prestigious. Winning it could make a journalist’s career but Leo was a damn good writer, whether he received accolades for his work, or not. Leo was a much better writer than Carl Simeon, whose reporting was often careless and reckless.
But Leo hadn’t been doing much writing in the past year. After his father, Burt Bronson, the legendary publishing tycoon, suffered a heart attack, he’d taken a leave of absence from The New York Times. Since taking over as Editor-in-Chief of the Palmchat Gazette, which Burt owned and where Vivian worked as the Managing Editor, her husband had yet to publish even one investigative report.
Vivian stared at her husband’s muscular physique. Was Leo really upset about a rival possibly winning an award? Or was Leo angry because he felt forced to take on more and more responsibility within his father’s publishing empire while Carl Simeon was still a foreign war correspondent? Vivian hoped not, considering that his father needed him now more than ever. A few weeks ago, Burt had suffered an unexpected setback after he’d been doing so well in his recovery.
A sultry reggae beat interrupted Leo, and he cursed. “Where’d I put my phone?”
“On the dresser, I think,” said Vivian as a soulful version of Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry,” performed by CoCo, the St. Ceran recording artist, filled the bedroom.
“Dad,” said Leo, walking to the loveseat in the recessed sitting nook. “No, you didn’t wake me. What’s up?”
“Tell Burt I said ‘good morning,’” Vivian said as she sat up and reached for her phone, lying on the nightstand.
Arranging the pillows behind her, Vivian leaned back and checked her text messages. Among the texts from friends, family, and colleagues, one message stood out. Sophie Carter, a junior reporter at the Palmchat Gazette, had been tasked with manning the police scanner at the assignments desk overnight and had sent Vivian something very interesting:
dead body found, man missing penis. Will send u email w/more info.
“Everything okay?” asked Leo, joining her in bed again.
“Not for the dead guy that was found early this morning,” said Vivian, assessing her email account to retrieve the message from Sophie. “Apparently, he was missing his penis.”
“Missing his penis?” Leo made a face and covered his man bits with an accent pillow. “What the hell?”
Opening Sophie’s message, Vivian said, “Sophie was listening to the police scanner, and she emailed me more information. Some tourists found a body washed up on Fleur Rouge beach at about five this morning. The decedent was male, and his genitals were missing. Cops think the penis was chopped off.”
“Ouch,” Leo said, holding the pillow firmly against his privates.
“What is your problem?” Vivian asked, glancing at the pillow.
Leo shuddered. “Just the thought of a penis being whacked off makes me feel very protective of my own junk.”
Chuckling, Vivian closed Sophie’s message. “I’ll check out the story after I shower and make us some breakfast.”
“Sounds good,” said Leo. “I’m going to pass on that story, for obvious reasons.”
“Chicken,” Vivian teased, smiling at him.
“Actually, I’m going to pass on the story because Dad has summoned me to his lair.”
“Summoned you?” Vivian asked, worried by his word choice and the frown creasing his handsome features.
“He was very cryptic,” said Leo. “Says he needs my assistance with a very urgent matter. I am to come at once and not delay.”
“What kind of urgent matter?”
Leo ran a hand through his thick, unruly waves. “Guess I’ll find out when I get there. But listen, babe, I’m sorry I went off about that hack Carl Simeon,” said Leo, his smile self-effacing. “I shouldn’t let stuff like awards and prizes get to me but I just …”
“You just?” prompted Vivian.
Leo gave her a quick kiss. “Nothing, babe. Doesn’t matter.”
2
“Nothing ruins a beautiful sunrise like a dead body on the beach,” said Detective Baxter Francois, a tall, good-looking Palmchat native known for his deductive reasoning and his raging Casanova complex.
Shielding her eyes from the strong morning rays, Vivian nodded her agreement as she glanced from the shoreline, where gentle aqua waves broke against the sugary white sand, to the coastline where beach roses bloomed between the sand dunes.
“Coroner estimates the guy’s been dead for several days,” said Detective Francois. “Most likely killed three, maybe four days ago, then dumped into the ocean. The tide brought him ashore. Couple of tourists taking a run on the beach at sunrise found him along the shoreline.”
Looking away from the detective, Vivian gazed at the tourists who’d found the dead body—two college-aged guys, most likely European. Brawny and blonde, they appeared shaken as they spoke to two St. Killian police deputies. Several yards away, closer to the shoreline, a team of technicians from the forensics department crowded around the naked, lifeless body.
“So, I’m guessing you don’t have any leads?” asked Vivian, focusing on the detective again.
Shaking his head, Detective Francois said, “Which is why people like to bury bodies in the ocean. Even if the body does wash up, usually, most of the evidence has been washed away. Don’t even have an ID on this guy. Forget about who might have killed him.”
Vivian asked, “Mind if I take a look?”
Frowning, the detective asked, “You okay with looking at a dead body?”
Smiling, Vivian rolled her eyes. “Detective, I came across all sorts of mangled, mutilated, bloody corpses when I was working in Africa. I can handle a dead body on the beach.”
“Well, if that’s the case, then why don’t you to take a few photos of the body,” said the detective. “Maybe have a sketch artist at the Palmchat Gazette do a rendering from your photos. You publish the rendering and we’ll see if anyone recognizes the guy.”
Detective Francois led her to the dead man. Vivian wrinkled her nose and her stomach rolled at the putrid smell wafting from the body. She prayed for a nice St. Killian breeze to blow away the stench but the waters were calm and the atmosphere hot and humid.
“I expected the body to be more decomposed,” remarked Vivian.
“When you toss a body into the sea,” said the detective, “there’s not much bacterial growth. The corpse doesn’t decompose so much. The tissues turn into a soapy fatty acid which stops putrefaction. Medical examiner says it’s called ‘grave wax’.”
Vivian reached into her cross-body purse for a rubber band. After tying her long braids back into a ponytail, she approached the body. As a small crowd of curious spectators formed near the scene, she took photos with the camera app on her phone, careful to stay on the fringes of the work being done by the forensics team. Employing the zoom function, she took close-ups of the man’s face. His mottled, sagging skin made it impossible to determine his age but the dark wet hair suggested a man in his late thirties to early forties. His head was large and his face was craggy with a bulbous nose, thin lips and prominent chin marked by a pronounced dent.
Lowering her phone, Vivian glanced at the long, red welts across his chest and thighs. “What are those marks on his torso?” she asked the detective.
“Not sure,” said Francois. “Looks like he was hit with a long, thin object that broke the skin.”
Continuing the grim photo shoot, Vivian walked sideways as she took pictures of his thighs, legs, and ankles. Moving to face the man’s feet, Vivian peered at a strange marking on the man’s puckered heel. “What is that?”