Sworn Enemies, Secret Lovers

by Eve Rabi

  Thank you, God!

  “He’ll have to rest for a couple of months, but he’s young – he’ll be fine,” Alicia says.

  “So …” I’m still in a state of shock. “So who else knows about this?”

  “Besides Abi and I? Abi’s father, Police Commissioner Cormack – he arranged a leave of absence for Damien and covers for us in that department. All the people who helped – they don’t know that Damien is dead. They just did what they were asked to do with the promise that we will return their blackmail videos to them, once the mission is accomplished. We guaranteed them that and they, in return, were only too happy to help.”

  My mind drifts to Abeeda. “Abeeda … oh God!”

  “Abi and I talked about that, Megan,” Alicia says in a somber voice. “If she were alive, she’d be the one to bust this case, because she wouldn’t be able to let go of Reed, knowing that he was alive. She was obsessed with him.”

  That is true.

  “We’re here!” Abi announces and pulls into a driveway.

  I crane my head to look at my new home. It’s a two-story villa, surrounded by about nine others, all white.

  “According to Reed, the villa is lovely – spacious, modern, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, views from all rooms,” Alicia says. “A lovely deck overlooks the water.”

  “I heard the sunsets are to die for,” Abi says.

  My eyes scan the place for Reed. He’s all I’m interested in, but I’m scared; I don’t know what to expect.

  As we enter the villa, my breathing becomes erratic and tears run down my cheeks. Then, I see him, my Angel-man.

  It’s true, he’s banged-up all right – arm in a sling, buzz cut that makes him pretty unrecognizable, and he’s lost a tremendous amount of weight.

  When we see each other, we don’t speak. We can’t.

  We just rush into each other’s arms and cling silently to each other as tears roll down our faces.

  I languish in the arms of the man I mourned for more than a month.

  A man who took three bullets to save me and our baby.

  His shirt is wet with my tears while my shoulder is wet with his.

  Abi and Alicia quietly disappear, leaving us alone with Wyatt. Reed takes turns to hold us both and kiss us several times.

  Finally, Wyatt toddles off and Reed puts his face in mine. “No more tears,” he whispers. “No more, baby.”

  “I thought you were dead, Reed. I hurt so much.”

  “I know,” he says, squeezing me with one arm. “I felt your pain. But, baby, it’s over. We made it. I’m here to stay. I love you so much. It was agony living without you.”

  I hold him close and bask in his love. “I saw the tape – you were prepared to die for us. You are my hero, Reed.”

  He looks into my eyes. “I’d give my life for you, Megan, and I’m sorry you went through all of that on your own.” He wipes away my tears with his thumbs. “I wanted to get in touch with you, but they warned me not to. They said if I did, I may jeopardize everything and I couldn’t afford that. I’ve been here, waiting for you. It was torture being here without you.” He smiles. “Today, baby, is the first day of the rest of our happy ending. I promise. I promise. All your tears, it’s over. I promise.”

  I take Reed’s hand and place it over my stomach. As he caresses our unborn baby, his eyes once again fill with tears.

  “We’re going to be a family of four soon,” I say.

  “I can’t wait, baby. I can’t wait. I’m so ready.”

  “Me too,” I say. “I’m so ready.”

  “I love you, forever,” he whispers and crushes me to him.

  “I love you, Angel–man. Always.”

  END OF

  CAPTURED FOREVER– Sworn Enemies, Secret Lovers

  Need another Eve Rabi fix? How about The Other Woman?

  Here is an excerpt:

  Excerpt from

  The Other Woman

  An epic and jaw-dropping collision between a betrayed wife and a cunning seductress:

  A romantic crime, romantic suspense book about love, lust and revenge

  Synopsis

  "I could not put this book down, I finished it at 2:30 in the morning and I had to get up for work @ 6:30. However, it was worth every yawn. Read it and you will see why.” Reviewer

  .......................

  Question: A seductress steals your husband, rips apart your family and shatters your dreams.

  You:

  a) Wish them luck, and walk away with your head held high (because that’s what society expects you to do)?

  b) Quietly seethe, but accept that there is just nothing you can do about it (because it easier for everyone if you do nothing)?

  c) Dig up dirt on the bitch (because someone like this would undoubtedly have dirt), use it to sabotage their relationship, then sit back with a glass of Pinot Grigio and watch them burn?

  Answer: C. Oh, totally C.

  .......................

  Meet Scarlett Smyth. She’s drop-dead gorgeous, has a rocking body and has an above average IQ. She brags that she can ensnare any husband or taken male, and …she often does. She also is ambitious and has a penchant for anything expensive.

  When the shrewd and ambitious temptress lays eyes on Bradley Murdoch, she believes she has found her dream man and a ticket to the high life she’s entitled to. There are just two problems:

  1) Bradley is married to Rival. Happily at that.

  2) They have children. Adorable little girls.

  Do those facts deter Scarlett in any way? No, not at all. She is determined to steal Bradley, smoothly replace Rival in his life and show him how to really live life.

  In a calculating move, the seductress (she is so good at seduction, she is even penning a book on it) befriends the quiet and unassuming Rival and worms her way into Bradley’s life.

  There’s more: To expedite things, Scarlett the mistress, engineers a way to wipe Rival out of the picture - sends the clueless wife on a “vacation”.

  But Scarlett may have underestimated her opponent. When Rival realizes the extent of the betrayal, she decides, even though she lacks Scarlett’s genius IQ, not to turn the other cheek. In fact, she is determined to win back her husband, believing that he is a good man who is simply mistaking lust for love. She believes that someone like Scarlett has to have skeletons in her cupboards and she begins to snoop around, anything she can use against the other woman, anything that can help her exact revenge.

  What Rival doesn’t realize is: no one takes on Scarlett - no one dares. The betrayed wife and the other woman collide. The result is another gripping suspense thriller from best selling author Eve Rabi. If you've enjoyed Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, Girl on a Train by Paula Hawkins, books by Marian Keyes and Liane Moriarty, you will enjoy this 'suspenseful, romantic and entertaining tale of love, lust and revenge.'

  Read the excerpt below …

  Sydney Australia

  *****

  Scarlett Smyth

  I have an IQ of one hundred and sixty-six. To Forrest Gump, that would make me “awfully clever.” To others, I’d be a fucking genius!

  I’m charming, easy on the eye, can boast a private school education, and I have not one, but two university degrees. Soon I’ll be able to add Best Selling Author to my list of aptitudes, as I am writing a book that is guaranteed to be a hit.

  Impressed? You ought to be. It isn’t every day that you find an inspiring all-rounder like me. However, the above aren’t really my strengths. My real strength is my confidence. Let me tell you, nothing is more commanding than the elusive trait of true confidence. I have the kind of confidence that should be patented, bottled and sold to the unconfident, who time and time again have failed at plagiarizing self-assurance. It has made me who I am – the kind of kind of woman who knows what she wants, goes wrecking-ball hard after it, and gets it.

  Is this a case of me tooting my own horn? No, it isn’t. Why? I’ll tell you why. I have a tale to tell that
will blow that mind of yours. A tale based on my unwavering drive, my steely determination, and my ability to transcend hurdles to achieve my desires and wants.

  You will be regaled, you will be enthralled; you will want to jump out of your seat and applaud. Not only that, but I will be totally honest and upfront about every single thing, and in the process, you will receive an education too. Guaranteed.

  So, in the words of Eminem: “Sit back, kick back, relax homie, in fact, grab a six-pack”

  (Or a chilled bottle of Moet. Eminem is from 8 Mile – let’s cut the trailer trash some slack, shall we? On second thoughts, why the fuck should we? We made him who he is today.).

  My name is Scarlett Smyth, and I am going to be Australia’s first lady in the very near future. I plan to be the most fashionable, sexy, charismatic first lady in the world. In fact, I will draw the world’s attention to Australia like no other woman has ever done. I will do for Australia what Jennifer Lopez did for American Idol.

  And that’s Smyth with a Y. Please don’t get it wrong. It really offends me when people do.

  My tale…ah, yes, back to it. The first time I laid my predatory eyes on Bradley Murdoch, I knew then and there he was mine. No ifs, no buts – just absolute certainty. (Steely determination, remember?)

  ****

  I was at some forgettable, family-styled affair that my high-powered lawyer of a daddy was hosting. Milton Smyth, who ran one of the largest and most reputable law firms in Sydney, was out to win hearts. And wallets, of course. My sisters and I had orders from him, tacit at that, to attend and work the party. We were to serve as props, lend him some respectability, remind everyone that he had a family (Milton Smyth is definitely not impotent), and dispel the myth that Milton Smyth had a computer-operated, stainless-steel device lodged in his sixty-something chest, instead of a heart.

  Everyone around me was dull as soda water in the sun, old as Betty White, or as handsome as Rowan Atkinson or Mr. Bean.

  Then there were the brats – noisy, snot-nosed, smelly little creatures with loud voices and sticky fingers. (I like children; as long as they’re missing.)

  Here I was, busy plotting a sleek and undetected exit when my eyes fell on Bradley Murdoch. Broad-shouldered, blue-eyed, sandy-haired Bradley towered above all the men in the room and stood out in the crowd. Unaware of his magnetism, he was listening intently to an old bag with more chins than a Chinese telephone directory, lightly patting her chubby arm and nodding intently while she rambled on. Why he chose to converse with her, I had no idea.

  When he lifted his gaze and our eyes met, it was as if I was struck by electric-blue lightening. My heart thudded so loudly, I actually heard my heartbeat. That had never happened to me before. Here’s the kicker – after our eyes met, I braced myself for that look of appreciation, that intrigue that usually follows after I catch a man’s eyes, that well-hello-who-have-we-here? smile. I waited for him to saunter over and hit me with some corny pickup line, or offer to give me a ride home, all in lieu of getting into my pants – you know, the usual shit “happily” married men get up to when their wives backs are turned. Bradley Murdoch did nothing of that sort. He simply gave me a fleeting smile and turned his eyes back to the old bat. Fleeting.

  My thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, my mouth felt like I had just swallowed a ball of cotton wool, my hands grew clammy, and I tingled with pleasure from the top of my scalp to my toes. Fleeting. I was utterly fascinated with Bradley and his lack of interest in me, and just like that, my plans to escape that lackluster event dissolved like Berocca in water.

  In a slight daze, I meandered through the dulls, the borings, the blands over to Samson Goldmeyer, my father’s bitch, who made it his business to know just about every attorney in Sydney, so that he and my daddy could befriend, disarm, then fleece the poor fuckers out of every client they had.

  “Hello, Darlin’,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder.

  “What do you want?” he muttered in a surly voice, shrugging off my hand.

  Now when you hear the name Samson, your brain probably conjures up images of a fearless warrior, a Jason Momoa, Karl Drago look-alike, all six foot six and shirtless, with bulging biceps, protruding pecs, contoured quads, and a bulging crotch. A long-haired mortal who is feared and revered by all, right? Nope. Not in this case. Samson was around five foot five, weighed about the same as my mother’s Jack Russell (wet) and had beady brown eyes. His physical curses also consisted of a hawkish nose that dominated a puny face, giving rise to the nickname Birdman in school – a name he utterly despised. So, in essence, the name Samson was a pun, named in jest by his parents after guzzling a couple of bottles of Jewish, homemade raisin wine. Kosher, of course.

  “Tell me about him,” I said, jerking my chin toward the handsome and intriguing specimen in front of us.

  “Who?” Samson’s eyes followed mine to the couple in my crosshairs. “Murdoch?”

  “Murdoch?” I gasped. “That his surname?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Any relation to Rupert?” I asked and held my breath.

  “No!” he snapped. “I dunno. Maybe. Look, I don’t give a shit, okay?”

  Maybe…

  “Bradley Murdoch’s married, so leave him alone,” he hissed, before he turned his concave back on me.

  With a sigh, I shifted around until I faced him again. “I know that. I can see the frump he’s with. But tell me, why isn’t Bradley Murdoch working in my daddy’s law firm?”

  “Why?” he lifted and dropped his shoulders, “’Cause he’s probably not interested in selling his soul right now?”

  “A lawyer who wants to keep his soul? Wow!”

  “Pro bono,” Samson sneers. “That’s what he’s into in a big way. What’s it to you, anyway? He’s married to Rival. Out of bounds. Leave him the fuck—”

  “Rival?” My head jerked to look at the thing next to Bradley. “That’s her name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. So stay away from—”

  “Chill, Birdman,” I said, squeezing his skeletal shoulder.

  His eyes blazed with fury. “Chill? How’s your luxury car going? Huh?”

  “Beautiful.” My eyes glazed over at the thought of my magnificent set of wheels. “Just perfect. I’m the envy of just about every gold-digger in Sydney.” I winked at him. His eyes turned to slits, and he started to breathe like he was participating in a cocaine-frenzied threesome. I smiled and dropped my voice. “All thanks to you and your amazing…generosity.”

  “Blackmail! That’s the word, not generosity.” He shook two skeletal fingers at me. “Don’t confuse the two.”

  “Birdman! That is such a harsh wo—”

  “Don’t call me that!” he hissed, his face turning puce. “Don’t ever fucking call me that! How many times have I told you not to—”

  “If you don’t chill, you’re gonna have another epileptic seizure.”

  Ignoring my warning, he continued glaring at me his breaths in spurts.

  With a long sigh, I took a sip of my Vieux Carré (rye, cognac, Benedictine, and vermouth, along with Peychaud's and Angostura. I’m so fancy…you already know…) and smiled at him over my glass. After his eyes darted a dozen or more daggers my way, Birdman stormed off on two wiry legs that could have been easily mistaken for arms.

  ******

  My eyes scanned the room until they rested on Janet. Cardigan-wearing, Birkenstock-loving, booze-breath Janet, had been my daddy’s secretary for almost twenty years, which explained her dependence on cheap whisky. And cheap vodka, cheap red wine, cheap white wine, cheap beer, cheap gin, and cheap methylated spirits I’m sure. As you know, alcohol is a muscle relaxant, and Janet’s tongue loosened at the mere whiff of a drink. Then she would sing like a nightingale with a cirrhosed liver.

  Armed with a triple Jim Beam straight up, I weaved my way through the crowd to reach her. “Hey Janet, you look thirsty,” I said, thrusting the truth ser
um at her.

  Her eyes lit up and her lips trembled with gratitude. “Bless you, Scarlett!” she said, wiping the sides of her mouth with a beige handkerchief that was once white.

  “My pleasure, Janet.”

  Within minutes I had the scoop on the Murdochs. Bradley was thirty-three and had been married to Rival for seven years. His two girls, Holly and Phoebe, were five and three-years old, and they all lived in Wahroonga, a leafy suburb in Sydney.

  “Got his sights on Kirribilli House,” she said, her salt-and-pepper eyebrows wriggling.

  “Is that a fact?”

  Janet took a gulp of her drink, smacked her thin lips and looked at me. “He’s gonna be Prime Minister one day, Scarlett.”

  “Wow!” I wanted to be first lady, Bradley wanted to be prime minister – ours was a match made in political Heaven, I’d say.

  “Played squash for Australia when he was younger, too. Very fit young man.” Her eyes shone with admiration for Bradley. “Wonderful family, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, wonderful,” I muttered as I slowly drank in hunky Bradley’s six-foot-something frame, his warm smile, and his hearty laugh. I just knew that somewhere under the grey striped shirt and charcoal pants lurked a six-pack waiting to be stroked or licked, both of which I was game to do.

  As I continued observing my mark, I knew three things (in no particular order):

  a) I was going to enjoy fucking Bradley Murdoch.

  b) I needed to start shopping around for my beautiful inaugural gown.

  c) His wife – that nondescript, full-figured thing next to him with a complacent smile and a string of pearls around her squat neck, would soon be a faint memory.

  Actually, it was in that particular order.

  There was one other problem. Bradley had two kids. They had to go. (As I said before, if they’re on the back of a milk carton, I love children.) There would be no room in our high-flying lives for brats. Or pets.