Find Me (Corrupted Hearts Book 3)

by Tiffany Snow

  19 I screamed, then was tackled to the floor. Buck’s body had no head, and it slowly crumpled, landing with a thud on the floor. I was still screaming. I couldn’t stop. His head had just . . . disintegrated. “Oh God oh God oh God . . .” I was curled into a ball. Unable to move. “Shh, baby, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Clark was the one who’d tackled me. “B-Buck,” I stammered. “He-he’s dead. His . . . his head . . .” “I know, baby,” Clark said. His arms were wrapped completely around me. “I know.” Jackson crawled over to us. “You both okay?” “Yeah,” Clark said. “We’re good.” He looked at me. “We’ve gotta move. Can you stand?” What a ridiculous question. Of course I could stand. I’d just seen a man’s head explode hours after watching my dad get shot to death, but standing? No problem. They were both looking at me funny, and I realized I’d babbled all that out loud. “I’m okay.” The shake in my voice belied that, but I struggled to my feet anyway. “Let’s get out of here,” Jackson said. They ea

  20 I’d had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime, which was why I wasn’t a bit sorry to see the outside of this one, though I should have been glad just to be alive. It had been close. I didn’t remember much after the bomb and subsequent car wreck. Jackson and Clark had filled in most of the blanks, telling me what Rob had done. He’d bled me. Slowly. The thought still sent chills through me. Jackson was waiting for me, his arm in a sling, as we walked outside to the waiting car that would drive us to the airport. We’d laid my dad to rest yesterday. I’d gotten a pass from the hospital for the night, but had to return today for one last checkup before getting on a plane. Jackson had insisted on flying in Dr. Morris, who’d had a near fit when he saw I’d been in another accident, and had rushed me in for another CT scan. Though I was okay, he’d lectured me long and hard about “taking it easy” and giving myself “time to heal.” The funeral had been a solemn ceremony, not least because my

  Epilogue “You should be resting.” President Blane Kirk glanced up from where he was sitting behind his desk, going through the stacks of briefs and memos that had piled up during his absence. His wife had entered the Oval Office. As always, the sight of her momentarily took his breath away. A reaction he’d had from the first time he’d laid eyes on her in New York nearly ten years ago. He’d been at a charity event—a fashion show with designers with names like Versace, de la Renta, Chanel, and more—that had drawn the very wealthiest of New York’s elite. Anne was one of the models, and when she’d walked the runway—clad in a diaphanous silver gown, her dark hair cascading down her back, with eyes that were deep pools he could get lost in—he’d been unable to think of anything but meeting her. She’d proven somewhat elusive. Born to an old-money family, she’d been wary of his interest. But Blane himself wasn’t unfamiliar with those drawn to wealth and beauty. He’d persisted, even as she was f

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS A huge thank-you to my wonderful family for dealing with my mood swings, eccentricities, and unpredictable family-meal schedule. I’m so glad I get to spend time with my baby girls, who make me so very happy. I couldn’t get through life without you. To the friends who encouraged me and listened to my worries and troubles—Nancy, Marina, Tracy, Leslie, Rebecca, Jill, and Lisa. Friends come and go in life, and I’ve been supremely blessed to know all of you. Your love and laughter are the sparkles in my day. To my editors, Maria and Melody, you both help me be a better writer. I am thankful for your support and enthusiasm for my work. I’m lucky, indeed, to have both of you in my corner. You’re both a true pleasure to work with. My day is made if I can make you laugh, Maria. Thank you to Raydeen and Shannon for reading quickly and providing that essential feedback. For brainstorming and bugging me for more chapters. Thank goodness you’re fast readers! Thank you to all the Kat

  AUTHOR BIO Photo © 2014 Karen Lynn Tiffany Snow has been reading romance novels since she was too young to be reading romance novels. Born and raised in St. Louis, she attended the University of Missouri in Columbia, earning degrees in history and social studies. Later she worked as an information technology instructor and consultant. At last, she now has her dream job: writing novels full-time. Mother to two wonderful daughters and three fur-babies, Tiffany makes her home in Kansas City, Missouri. Visit her website, www.tiffany-snow.com, to keep up with her latest projects.

  ALSO BY TIFFANY SNOW

  The Corrupted Hearts Series

  Follow Me

  Break Me

  Find Me

  The Tangled Ivy Series

  In His Shadow

  Shadow of a Doubt

  Out of the Shadows

  The Risky Business Series

  Power Play

  Playing Dirty

  Play to Win

  The Kathleen Turner Series

  No Turning Back

  Turn to Me

  Turning Point

  Out of Turn

  Point of No Return

  Blane’s Turn

  Kade’s Turn

  Blank Slate

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 Tiffany Snow

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542047845

  ISBN-10: 1542047846

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  For Erica. May I always be the mom you need me to be.

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR BIO

  1

  I had a boyfriend for Valentine’s Day.

  It was Valentine’s Day, and I, China Mack, had a boyfriend.

  My boyfriend and I were going on a date, on Valentine’s Day.

  No matter how many times and ways I said it inside my head, it still felt like a fairy tale. I was one of those people who ignored Valentine’s Day. If someone brought it up, I shrugged it off as a “Hallmark Holiday.” Then I’d go home and shoot up men on Halo. A lot of men (I was pretty darn good at Halo).

  But tonight, there would be no first-person-shooter games for me, because I had a real-life boyfriend who was taking me to a real-world brick-and-mortar restaurant for a classic, romantic Valentine’s Day date.

  I’d even been promised roses and chocolates. (Yes, I’d asked for them, but still. He could’ve said no.) There would be flowers and candy and a boyfriend and wine and dinner and fantastic, toe-curling sex afterward with my amazing, wonderful, handsome, brilliant, and, did I mention rich? boyfriend.

  It was going to be perfect.

  As soon as I squeezed into my dress.

  “Stop wriggling,” Mia complained. “You’re going to get your skin caught in the zipper, and that’ll hurt like hell, trust me.”

  “It itches,” I complained.

  “So what? You look amazing. You’re wearing it, and I don’t care if it itches. Now hold your hair so it doesn’t get caught in the zipper. And be careful! I worked hard on those curls.”

  Mia was my sixteen-year-old niece who’d gotten all those “girl” genes that had skipped right over me. My hair was coal black, thick, and long. Usually, my hair style of choice—and ability—was a ponytail. Tonight, Mia h
ad spent an hour with various heating and styling implements to turn my hair into a work of art. And I had to say, she’d succeeded.

  Long curls in an artful disarray streamed down my back, while the sides were pinned up behind my ears. Some twisting strands were left loose and framed my face, making my jawline appear delicate and feminine—two adjectives I had trouble pulling off on the best of days.

  My usual attire was jeans, a T-shirt, and a button-up shirt layered over that because I was perpetually cold. Tonight, I was guaranteed to freeze because the dress Mia was currently zipping me into had less fabric than my summertime Endor Star Wars pajamas.

  I had one “real” dress (Mia’s description) in my wardrobe, bought for a work-related-undercover-kind-of-thing. Though in reality I had four—if you counted the Dalek dress I’d had specially made for Halloween, my Uhura miniskirt dress from Star Trek, and Princess Éowyn’s wedding gown from The Return of the King. I’d wanted to wear the work dress for tonight. Mia had firmly vetoed that plan.

  “Jackson’s already seen you in that dress,” she’d said.

  I didn’t see why that was a reason for Jackson—the aforementioned boyfriend—not to see me in it again, but I’d been hauled out to the shopping mall despite my quite logical argument that if I continued with this “rule” of not rewearing garments Jackson had seen, I’d soon be out of space in my closet. Mia had ignored me.

  She’d chosen this dress, and while I’d been skeptical, she was right. As usual. It was a deep midnight-blue, which she said “brought out” my eyes, which were also blue. Silver threads were woven through the fabric (and were the source of the itching), but weren’t visible until light hit them in just the right way, so no matter which way I turned, I sparkled. It was a cap sleeve with a V-neckline that showed more cleavage than I usually displayed. And since I usually displayed none, I hoped Jackson appreciated the view, because it was darn cold. Since I barely topped five foot two on a good day, Mia said I needed a short hem, which was the only part of the dress not clinging to me like a second skin. Floaty and overlaid with a filmy blue fabric, the skirt stopped an inch above my knee and flared when I spun in a circle, which I’d done too many times to be appropriate for my age. I was twenty-four, not six.

  So, the bottom line was that the woman looking back at me in the mirror when Mia was (finally) through with my makeup looked nothing like the China Mack (that’s me) that I saw every day, which I suppose was the point. It was a holiday, after all, even if it was just a Hallmark one. Not for the first time did I wish I could handle wearing contacts instead of glasses, just to show off Mia’s mad makeup skills.

  I slipped on the silver ballet flats Mia had made me buy to go with the dress—I’d put my foot down at the mention of heels, literally—and eyed the silver clutch purse she was holding.

  “It’s not big enough to carry anything,” I complained. I never used a purse. A backpack was much more practical, and easier.

  “All you need is your phone.” She put it in the purse. “Your keys.” Those went in, too. “Lip gloss and powder.” She handed the clutch to me. “All set.”

  “When do I put on the makeup?” I didn’t usually wear the stuff, having never quite gotten the hang of “smoky eyes” and “pouty lips.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve told you. After dinner, in the bathroom. Don’t ever touch up makeup at the table, and you can reapply the lip gloss more than just once—hint, hint.”

  “For as much as it cost, I’d better.” The little tube had been almost forty bucks.

  “Jackson is going to flip when he sees you,” she said with more than a little satisfaction, looking me up and down. “I am so good.”

  I laughed outright. “And modest, too,” I teased, but she just shrugged.

  “You look stunning. Let’s take a selfie.”

  Thus began about ten minutes of her posing us and posting on various social media platforms, at one point turning us both into puppy dogs via Snapchat. Mia’s long, blond hair and Barbie-perfect face—even without makeup—were a stark contrast to me, and usually I felt dumpy next to her statuesque beauty. But not tonight. Tonight, I felt pretty.

  I kept glancing at the clock. Jackson was never late, and I was anxious to see him. He’d been out of town for a couple of weeks, and though we’d FaceTimed every day, I’d missed him. Missed his arms around me, his warm kisses, and his smile that was just for me when we were alone together.

  It was straight-up seven o’clock when the doorbell rang. My stomach flipped over in anticipation, and I was across the living room and foyer of my duplex in three seconds flat, my cheeks hurting from the huge grin I couldn’t help.

  I threw open the door and stopped breathing.

  Jackson Cooper was six feet of pure male perfection, with thick, wavy hair the warm shade of chestnut and eyes the golden brown reminiscent of Edward’s “vegetarian” diet in Twilight (without the special effects, of course). His shoulders were wide, his waist narrow, and his body lean, lithe muscle. Said body was currently wrapped in an immaculate tuxedo that I knew had to be designer and tailored. Jackson wasn’t shy about liking nice things, and since he could afford to buy them, he did.

  “Wow,” I breathed. If I’d been a cartoon character, my eyes would’ve morphed into red hearts.

  He didn’t say anything at first, and his eyes widened. He looked me down, then up, then made the journey all over again . . . slower. When his eyes met mine, there was a gleam in them that made my tummy flip again.

  Shy under his silent scrutiny, I went for my nervous tic of reaching up to tighten my nonexistent ponytail.

  “Don’t touch it!” Mia called out sharply, making me jump. I’d forgotten she was in the living room behind me.

  I yanked my arms back down.

  Jackson cracked a smile, his low chuckle warming the air between us. “I see Mia’s been making you even more beautiful than you already are,” he said.

  And the man could turn a phrase. Jackson ticked all the boxes on the Man of a Woman’s Dreams list and then some. Lucky for me, he was my Dream Man . . . and my Valentine date.

  “Doesn’t she look awesome?” Mia popped up over my shoulder.

  Jackson’s gaze was still on me. “Indeed, she does.” His voice held an undertone of promise that made my cheeks grow warm.

  Mia snickered.

  He suddenly brandished a small bouquet of pink mini-roses and offered them to Mia. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said.

  She squealed with delight. “Awesome! Thanks!” Then she was off, padding into the kitchen to put them in a vase.

  I waited, expecting more flowers. But his hands were empty.

  Oh.

  Well, that was okay. Flowers were technically already dead once they were cut. Really, it was an illogical expenditure. Still, though, no one had ever bought me flowers before.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. “It’s cold. Let me get your coat.”

  He brushed past me and retrieved my one dress coat from the closet. It was also a new expenditure—a cream wool swing coat that was warm and didn’t make me look short. He held it for me to put on, his fingers brushing the back of my neck as he lifted my hair free of the collar. A shiver went through me at the light touch.

  “You might want to check the pockets,” Jackson said. “I thought I felt something in one of them.”

  I pushed my hands into the pockets, and sure enough, one of them had a small box in it. Puzzled, I pulled it out. It was a black box, to be precise, with an elaborate “HW” imprinted on the top. I glanced up at Jackson, who winked.

  “Open it,” he said.

  Carefully, I lifted the lid, then stared in shock at the diamond tennis bracelet inside. I’d never had a piece of jewelry in my life, much less diamonds. I had no idea how much this had cost, but it sure must have been a heck of a lot more expensive than flowers would’ve been. And diamonds were significant in a relationship (I’d been reading back issues of Cosmo lately). Any kind of jewelry was a Big Deal.


  “Jackson, I don’t know what to say . . . ,” I finally managed, unsure how to react or what his gift meant. “You didn’t have to spend so much money on me.” Maybe he’d bought it just because he could. Though I made a good salary—a really good salary—I wasn’t even close to Jackson’s league when talking about net worth.

  I’d grown up on a farm north of Omaha, and money had always been tight. I’d made my way through my three undergrad degrees and MIT by scholarship, so landing a job that paid six figures was a welcome relief. And even though I’d bought some pretty expensive things—my life-size Iron Man Mark IV replica suit hadn’t been cheap—I was relatively sure I could’ve bought a half dozen Iron Men for what Jackson was currently fastening around my wrist.

  “Of course I didn’t have to,” he said. “I wanted to.” He pulled the edges of my coat, making me step closer to him, slipped off my glasses, then leaned down and pressed his lips to mine.

  Now this was what I’d missed . . .

  Jackson’s lips were warm and his tongue hot. My hands slid up his shoulders to his neck as I melted into the kiss. I stretched up to my toes, trying to get closer to him, and felt his hands at my waist inside my coat.

  He smelled good, and his jaw was freshly shaven, the skin soft to the touch. His hair was cold and slightly damp, the strands like silk against my fingers. The kiss was deep and languid, making me rethink the whole idea of leaving rather than dragging him up to my bedroom.

  When he broke the kiss, it took me a moment to come back to earth from the cloud I’d been on. Nothing else seemed to matter when I was with Jackson, and when I finally met his eyes, there was more than desire in their depths. Warmth and softness radiated from him as he lifted a hand and tucked a stray curl behind my ear, then slid my glasses back up my nose.