Twisted Hunger

by Marilyn Campbell

In one night, Holly had been transformed from an innocent young girl with romantic dreams to a bitter woman who would never again feel comfortable with a man.

  Holly had to give Cheryl a lot of credit for being brave enough to report the crime back then—something Holly hadn’t had the guts to do. Coming forward at this time, though, exposing herself on national television to denigrate a man who was admired by both his colleagues and the media—that went right past courage to self-destructive masochism.

  Although she’d never met Cheryl, the newspapers had supplied some background on her. She was an award-winning poetess who had inherited the large sum of money that allowed her to concentrate on her writing. The money also granted her the freedom to be as reclusive as she wished to be.

  But money wasn’t going to spare her from the ordeal she had set herself up for. It was clear from this first day of the hearing that the committee had already judged Cheryl Wallace and was planning to drag her through the mud for attempting to sully the good senator’s name.

  There was no way in hell Holly would put herself in that position.

  Yet, she couldn’t simply dismiss what she’d heard either. Twenty-one years ago, when Cheryl would have been a senior in high school, Holly had left Dominion and never returned. She had never known for certain that other young women had suffered as she had, but she had received a letter once that hinted at it.

  Some perverse quirk had made her keep that letter, though she never had any intention of doing anything about it. With Cheryl’s tale still replaying in her head, Holly found herself in her condo’s spare bedroom that she used as an office. The letter had been sent to her, in care of her parents, about twelve years ago. It was from a psychiatrist named April MacLeash and contained only one sentence:

  If the names below stir any memories, it may be to your advantage to contact me. There were fifteen men’s names below that sentence, some of which she may have recognized years ago. Now, however, only two jumped out at her—Jerry Frampton and Timothy Ziegler.

  Carnal Vengeance

  Lust & Lies Series

  Book 4

  by

  Marilyn Campbell

  ~

  To purchase

  Carnal Vengeance

  from your favorite eRetailer,

  visit Marilyn Campbell’s eBook Discovery Author Page

  www.ebookdiscovery.com/MarilynCampbell

  ~

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  Complete your Lust & Lies journey

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  Unnatural Relations

  Excerpt from

  Unnatural Relations

  Lust & Lies Series

  Book 1

  by

  Marilyn Campbell

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  UNNATURAL RELATIONS

  Praise and Accolades

  “Nerve-shattering tale of danger and suspense.”

  ~Romantic Times Magazine

  “Heart-stopping terror… a non-stop, fast-paced thriller.”

  ~Lake Worth Herald

  “What a fantastic conclusion! An outstanding story!”

  ~Rendezvous

  “George Washington was a wuss!”

  Barbara Johnson shot a disapproving glance at her son, Matthew, then returned her attention to backing their weather-beaten Honda Civic out of the driveway. After so many years of Matt being too timid to say much of anything, she hesitated to reprimand him now that he’d begun behaving like other nine-year-old boys.

  “Let me guess,” she said, as if she were giving it serious thought. “Kenny gave you that bit of information.”

  Matt looked about ready to defend his friend, but he reconsidered. “Well, sort of. But it was in the movie we saw in class the other day.”

  She shot him a quizzical glance. “The Father of Our Country was called a wuss in an educational movie? What did your teacher say about that?”

  Matt rolled his eyes over his mother’s obvious teasing. “Ma-a-aw. They didn’t use that word exactly. They just showed how when he was a kid, he liked to dance and write mushy poems. Junk like that.”

  “Oh, I see,” Barbara said, nodding solemnly. “Girl junk.”

  Something on the side of the road distracted Matt. “Where did you say we’re going today?”

  His abrupt change of subject made her grin. He knew he had stumbled into sensitive territory where Mom was concerned. Rather than repeat her equality of the sexes speech, she answered his question.

  “Since Washington’s birthday just passed, I thought we’d go see where he was born. It sounded interesting. Besides the memorial house, there’s a farm where the animals and crops are raised the same way they were in colonial days.”

  He perked up at the mention of farm animals. “Is it far?”

  “About thirty miles. The brochure said it opens at nine. We should get there a little after that.”

  When she and Matt first moved into the little house in Fredericksburg, Virginia, she had vowed they would see as much of the surrounding historic area as possible before they were forced to move again.

  So far, during Matt’s short life, the two of them had lived in eleven other cities, but had never really become familiar with any of them. Their stay in Fredericksburg had now stretched to nearly two years, and it definitely looked as though they finally would be able to stay somewhere for as long as they wished. Nevertheless, at least one Saturday a month, Barbara still selected a famous site between Richmond and Washington, D.C., for them to visit.

  The last two outings had been to the Smithsonian, where they spent the day indoors, but an unseasonable warm spell allowed Barbara a wider range of choices this weekend. And when given a choice, she knew her son’s preferences well.

  Just as his father had, Matt loved animals and they seemed to love him right back. An image of Howard being nuzzled by his horse popped into her mind and she quickly erased it. She never purposely called up memories of Matt’s father anymore. It was simply impossible not to think of him when every time she looked at her son’s face she saw the gentle, artistic young man who had once meant the world to her. Perhaps she could have dismissed the similarities in their personalities if Matt had inherited her dark features rather than Howard’s fair coloring.

  Then again, perhaps not. She was a realist and the fact was, Matt’s existence, regardless of his appearance or behavior, was a constant reminder of Howard and how falling in love with him had turned her pleasant life into a roller-coaster ride through heaven and hell. But none of what had happened was Matt’s fault and she never allowed memories of the father to diminish her love for their child.

  As she drove onto the bridge that would take them across the Rappahannock River, she could see the downside of the week of sunny weather. Rapidly melting snow and ice had caused the river to rise higher and flow faster than usual. Last night, the weather report predicted rain by the end of the weekend and warned of a possible flood.

  “Hey, cool,” Matt said, pointing at the railroad bridge that spanned the river a short distance from the bridge they were on. A long, sleek passenger train had started across moments ahead of them. “If you could make all the other cars on the road move out of your way, which would get to the other side first, the train or us?”

  Barbara smiled as Matt began counting the railway cars. Trains came right under animals on her son’s favorite things list. “Hmmm. I think that’s one of those trains that carry people and their cars, so it’s probably too heavy to go very fast.” She gave the dashboard a loving pat. “I bet this old girl would win even on a cold day.”

  Unable to make all the other cars vanish, however, they were only halfway across the car bridge when the train’s engine reached the other side of its bridge.

  “Maw!” Matt shouted, and tugged on her sleeve.

  Barbara shifted her gaze back to the center of the railroad bridge to see what Matt was pointing at. For a second she thought her eyes were playing tricks on h
er as she watched one of the concrete pillars buckle and collapse. Like a row of dominoes, the cars of the train tipped and tumbled one after another into the raging river below, while only a whisper of sound leaked inside the Honda to accompany the horrendous sight.

  “Maw!” Matthew exclaimed again and she managed to slam on the brakes a heartbeat before colliding into the car in front of them. Everyone had stopped to gawk.

  Eventually the line of traffic began to creep along again. By the time they were across the bridge, the initial shock had worn off sufficiently for Barbara to absorb the reality of the situation. There were people inside those train cars bobbing in the river and overturned on the banks, people who needed help.

  As she turned the car toward the railroad bridge and pulled off the side of the road, she was relieved to see that she was not alone in that realization. Dozens of other cars were already parked and a crowd of men and women were heading for the crash site.

  “What are we doing?” Matt asked, his bright blue eyes filled with curiosity.

  “I’m going to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Me, too,” he declared, pushing open the passenger door.

  As Barbara stepped out of the car, she considered ordering him to stay there but with his new sense of independence, she wasn’t certain he’d obey. “All right. But you hold my hand.” Though he grimaced at being treated like a baby, he went to her side and took her hand.

  Hurrying toward the accident, Barbara noted a number of people talking excitedly into their cell phones and one trucker using his CB radio. Professional help would surely be arriving any moment. But she also saw a lot of people using their phones to take pictures and videos. There were even a few using iPads to record the catastrophe.

  For the next four hours, Barbara, Matt and scores of other volunteers assisted the rescue workers in any way they could. They fetched and served hot coffee, comforted terrified children, and ran errands for anyone who voiced a need. They prayed for the victims trapped inside the railway cars as they began sinking into the icy water, cheered each time someone was pulled out alive, and ached for the families of those who were not so fortunate.

  When their assistance was no longer needed, Barbara and Matt drove home feeling good about their contribution, yet too exhausted to proceed with their original plans for the day. At any rate, the experience had been worth more than a hundred trips to historical monuments.

  Before Matt went to sleep that night, Barbara told him one more time, “I’m so proud of you, honey. You were as helpful as any of the grownups there today.”

  “I keep telling you I’m not a baby anymore.”

  Tucking the blanket under his chin, she smiled and kissed his forehead. “I know, sweetheart, but it’s hard for me to remember that after so many years of taking care of you.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I’m going to start taking care of you now.”

  Barbara laughed and gave him a hug. “Don’t be in such a hurry to take over. Making all the decisions isn’t half as much fun as you think.” She gave him one last good-night kiss and left the room, his promise echoing in her mind.

  Once, before he was born, because she was too tired and sick and broken-hearted to keep going on her own, she had accepted someone’s offer to take care of her. She discovered too late that the price of that care had been her freedom. Although Russ Latham proved to be a man of his word, he also turned out to be brutally possessive and dangerously unbalanced.

  It took a long time but she finally made a new life for herself and Matt, without giving up her independence. Even if she met the perfect man someday and fell in love, she would never allow him total control over her or her son.

  * * *

  As soon as Barbara opened the front door to bring in the newspaper the next morning, she felt the extreme drop in temperature. Wondering if it would be enough to prevent the predicted flood, she pulled the newspaper out of its plastic wrapper to see what the weather report had to say. The photo on the front page banished all thoughts of the weather, however.

  It was not surprising that the headlines of the Washington Herald focused on the train accident. What she hadn’t expected to see was her face beneath those words. Shards of panic pierced her mind and froze the air in her lungs. Quickly she skimmed the caption beneath the photo—Fredericksburg residents, Barbara and Matthew Johnson, lend a hand to drenched survivor, Louise Pilcher.

  She recalled the moment pictured—Matt placing a blanket over the elderly woman’s shoulders while Barbara handed her a cup of steaming coffee. She even remembered telling the woman their names and where they lived. But she had not noticed anyone taking their photograph. It could have been anyone with a phone.

  “Maw!” Matt called from the doorway. “What’s taking you so long? You always yell at me if I leave the door open.”

  Barbara pushed aside the paralyzing fear and hurried back into the house. Forcing a smile, she said. “Looks like we’re celebrities, kiddo. I guess somebody thought you were so cute yesterday, they decided to put you on the front page.”

  Matt’s eyes opened wide with delight when he saw the photo. Then, just as suddenly, he frowned up at his mother. “Do you think he might see this, too?”

  At times like this, she wished her baby wasn’t quite so smart. Keeping her smile in place, she did her best to reassure him. “I doubt it. I’m sure they only used it in the Herald because we’re local residents. There’s no way he’d see this paper.”

  Matt looked at her suspiciously but he wanted to believe her badly enough to let it go. “Good, ‘cause I like it here. I don’t want to have to move again.”

  She gave him a quick hug. “Neither do I, kiddo. Neither do I.”

  * * *

  Russ Latham squinted at the photo on the front page of the This joke was very, very private.Boston Times, then abruptly laughed out loud, despite the fact that he sat alone at the table in the coffee shop. The handful of other Sunday morning regulars turned toward him expecting to be let in on the joke but he waved them off. They wouldn’t see the humor in the touching picture, nor was it something he could share with them.

  The last name was different but that didn’t mean anything. She had used other names before and he’d found her anyway. But she had learned how to cover her tracks better and better over the years, until she disappeared completely and he was forced to give up the hunt.

  Apparently, fate decided it was time for him to get back to his original plan and the photo was just the help he needed. He immediately thought of several other people who would be extremely interested if they saw it and realized who the Good Samaritans were. He would just have to move faster than they would.

  He took a long drag on his cigarette and snickered more quietly as he thought about the new angle he had come up with to gain Barbara’s sympathy. He wondered if her different last name might be due to a marriage, though that wouldn’t matter. Any man she might have married would be a mama’s boy like Howard Hamilton had been—someone she could push around. Russ didn’t even consider Howard’s kind men, let alone obstacles to his goal.

  A bitch like Barbara needed a real man to control her. He had known from the first that he was that man but she kept running from the truth. He knew what was best for her and this time, no matter what he had to do, he was going to make her accept the inevitable.

  She was his, and always would be.

  The boy, on the other hand, was a Hamilton and, as such, his value could be measured in dollars. But to Russ, the child represented something greater—the means to pay back the Hamilton family for what they’d done to him and his mother.

  It took several phone calls to track down the source of the newspaper photo, but he finally reached a helpful person at the Washington Herald. “This is the Main Street Flower Shop in Fredericksburg,” he told the woman. “We have an order for Barbara Johnson, whose picture was in the paper this morning, but no address. I was hoping you could give it to me.”

  “I’m sorry.
You’re at least the twentieth call we’ve received about her, to say nothing for the emails! We’re trying to locate her ourselves, but in the meantime, if you deliver it to our office, we’ll see that she gets it.”

  Though Russ had hoped for more than that, he thanked the woman and hung up. A second later, his sense of humor returned.

  All he had to do was take a special bouquet to the Herald then follow their delivery person to Barbara’s door.

  * * *

  Simon Decker stopped his Mercedes sedan beside the guardhouse and waited for the security officer to emerge. Once upon a time, he had been impressed by the elaborate iron gates, the high brick wall and the screening process required to enter the huge estate. It wasn’t long, however, before the routine irritated the hell out of him and he started calling the grandiose mansion the mausoleum.

  He had been the Hamilton family’s senior legal advisor for nineteen years, ever since his father had retired from that position, yet they still treated him like an outsider.

  “Simon Decker,” he told the young man, as if the guard couldn’t recognize him on sight. “And yes, they are expecting me.” He noted the time on his Rolex and pinched the bridge of his nose as the guard went back inside the compact brick building. Simon didn’t need to see him to know he was buzzing his entombed employers to announce the presence of a visitor. As required, the attorney had called his only clients for an appointment before heading there, but they still insisted on going through the whole routine before letting him drive onto the hallowed Hamilton grounds.

  The gates began to open and Simon glanced at his watch again. Only thirty-two seconds had passed, barely half the usual time. Perhaps they knew what he wanted to speak to them about.

  He hoped not. He was counting on his news to surprise the normally unflappable couple, while proving to them that their best interests were still of primary importance to him. Nothing specific had been said by either Howard Hamilton III or his wife, Edith, but in the last year or so, Simon had the distinct impression that they were no longer satisfied to pay him an enormous retainer for doing little more than standing by.