Mismatch
Page 1
Table of Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Cash: A Winning Ace Short Story
Winning Ace Blurb
Losing Game Blurb
Grand Slam Blurb
FROM MY HEART
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Mismatch
The Winning Ace Series (Book 4)
Tracie Delaney
Copyright © 2017 Tracie Delaney
Content Editing by Jessica Anderegg - Red Adept Editing
Line Editing by Sarah Carleton - Red Adept Editing
Cover art by Art by Karri
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in uniform or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Newsletter Sign Up
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Cash: A Winning Ace Short Story
Winning Ace Blurb
Losing Game Blurb
Grand Slam Blurb
Newsletter Sign Up
FROM MY HEART
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To be the first to hear about upcoming releases, news, and giveaways, I’d love to have you be part of my reader group.
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And as a bonus, when you sign up, you will receive a FREE short story prequel entitled Cash, which follows our bad boy in the days and weeks before Tally crashes into his life. This short story can also be purchased on Amazon
1
Something wasn’t right. Not only did he have the mother of all hangovers, but a sour smell hung in the air as well.
Groggy with sleep, Rupe opened his eyes a crack. Oak bedside cabinet? No, his was mahogany, and he didn’t have an ugly old lamp set on top of it.
He touched the sheets and felt stiff polyester instead of one-thousand-thread hand-stitched Egyptian cotton.
He forced his eyes open a little wider. He could just make out a sign on the back of the door. Did it say “In Case of Fire”?
His brain was foggy, as though it had been stuffed full of cotton wool that prevented it from working properly. He kept getting flashes of the previous night but no clear images. The club. Shots lined up on the bar. The pounding bass beat of the music. Nessa clinging to him like a wet towel.
Christ, that’s right. He’d been clubbing with Nessa.
He groaned and tried to turn his head. The splitting pain in his temples from such a simple movement stopped that plan in its tracks. As he dragged himself closer to consciousness, he had a vague recollection of Nessa suggesting they go back to her hotel room. Yet he had absolutely no memory of actually getting there, or what they’d got up to when they arrived. Given how bad he felt, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d passed out before his dick had gone anywhere near her. If that was the case, she’d be royally pissed off.
He patted the sheets behind him but came up empty. Had she already left? He rolled onto his back, groaning as the movement made it feel as though his brain was slamming against the sides of his skull. He winced and held his breath, waiting for the searing pain to sod off.
As the spasms receded, he reached out his arm again. This time, he touched flesh. Damn. She was still there. He hated the morning after, even with Nessa, who he quite liked. The fact she was married made him like her more. No chance of any awkward questions about where the relationship was going. Still, he preferred it when whoever he’d chosen to spend the night with left before he woke. It was easier that way.
“Hey,” he rasped, his voice sounding as if he’d swallowed several razor blades that had then sliced through his vocal cords. “Nessa, you awake?”
When she didn’t reply, he ordered his eyes to bloody well open up. After a few seconds of negotiation, they obeyed.
Nessa was still fast asleep, her skin a pallid yellow. Poor bugger. She would feel as rough as he did when she came to, especially given how much she’d drunk at the club.
“Hey,” he said again, accompanying his words with a brief shake of her arm. Her body was cold, mottled. He shook harder, a sense of unease creeping across his skin, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. He sat up, and his stomach protested at the sudden violent movement. He managed to make it to the wastebasket—just.
On wobbly legs, he staggered back to the bed, working his way to Nessa’s side. He loomed over her.
“Oh God, no.” The words erupted from him of their own accord. No forethought. His blood turned to ice in his veins. He had zero experience with dead people.
Until that moment.
With a trembling hand, he pressed two fingers to her neck even though he knew the result already. No pulse. What the actual fuck? A cold sensation crept over every single one of his vertebrae, and his stomach lurched again.
Holy shit. He’d slept next to a dead woman.
Nessa was dead. How can Nessa be dead?
How long had she been dead? How had she died? What do I do now?
Calm down, Witters. He hated the nickname his best mate, Cash, had given him when they’d met at school twenty-odd years ago, but somehow, the familiarity alleviated his growing panic.
He took a deep breath through his nose, holding the air down in his lungs until they burned. Slowly, slowly, he breathed out before repeating the process three times.
Feeling more composed, he quickly dressed. He picked up his phone. Damn. He didn’t know where he was. He scanned the room, his eyes alighting on the hotel directory nex
t to the TV.
Baroque Hotel.
Where the hell was that?
He stabbed the name into Google and wrote down the street address before opening the hotel door. Room 422. With clammy hands, he called the police.
The boys in blue took less than fifteen minutes to arrive. He’d bet if he’d called about a burglary, he’d still be waiting for them a week later. A dead body, however, was a lot more interesting—though to him, it was a nightmare.
“Mr Fox-Whittingham.” The lead copper shook Rupe’s hand. “I’m Officer Davies.” He pointed to his colleague. “This is Officer Sullivan. You called us about a body?”
The copper’s casual delivery, as though he were talking about fixing Rupe’s guttering or selling double glazing, left Rupe amazed.
“Come in,” he muttered.
Right behind the police, a couple of paramedics carrying a stretcher headed straight over to Nessa. Rupe glanced over his shoulder and shuddered.
“We just need to ask you a few questions,” Davies said.
“Sure.” Rupe waved a hand at the only two chairs in the room. He remained standing, his back to the bed. He could hear the paramedics busying themselves behind him, and he tried to shut his mind off from the reality of what they were doing.
Davies took out a small notebook and a pencil. “Can you tell us the deceased’s name?”
Rupe grimaced. “Vanessa Reynolds.”
“And how long have you known Miss Reynolds?”
“Mrs Reynolds.”
The officers shared a look. Rupe bristled and pulled himself upright. “Don’t tell me you’ve never shagged a married woman, Officer Davies. Or at least wished you had.”
A tinge of pink touched Davies’s cheeks. “My apologies, Mr Fox-Whittingham.”
Rupe took pity on the young guy. He only looked to be in his midtwenties. Probably his first dead body. Rupe almost laughed. It was his first dead body, too, and hopefully his last.
“I’ve known her about a year, on and off. More off than on, if you catch my drift.”
Officer Davies cleared his throat. “And did you spend the whole evening here in the hotel room?”
Rupe tried to focus. He dug his fingertips into his temples and massaged in circles. “Sorry, terrible hangover. No. We went to a club. The Vault, I think. At least that’s where I usually go when I’m in London. I honestly can’t remember. The head bouncer knows me, so he’ll be able to tell you if I was there.”
“I see. And were you and Mrs Reynolds with anyone else?”
“I usually meet up with a few acquaintances when I’m in town. No one stands out. I had a lot to drink.”
The officers shared another look. Davies scribbled with his pencil, the scratching noise against the paper like a pneumatic drill boring through Rupe’s skull. Didn’t all coppers use iPads now? The whoosh of a nylon belt strap being pulled through a buckle made him look over his shoulder. The paramedics had transferred Nessa to a gurney and were strapping her in. His stomach churned, and Davies’s voice faded into the background. How did a young, seemingly healthy woman simply croak in the middle of the night?
“Mr Fox-Whittingham.” Davies’s sharp voice broke through his reverie.
“Sorry, what?” Rupe frowned.
“Maybe it’s better if we do this down at the station. Would you mind accompanying us?”
Rupe’s eyes widened. “Am I under arrest?”
“No, no, not at all. It’s routine. We need a statement from you, and, if I may say, you seem a little distracted. Not at all surprising, given the circumstances,” Davies added quickly when Rupe fixed him with a stare.
“Sure.” He shrugged. “Which station? I’ll follow you down.”
Davies raised an eyebrow. “We’ll give you a lift. Probably not a good idea to be arrested for drunk driving, Mr Fox-Whittingham.”
Rupe gave him a faint smile. “Fair point.”
Davies stood, followed by Sullivan, who hadn’t said a word. Rupe briefly wondered why he had come, unless travelling in pairs was routine. He snatched his jacket off the back of the chair and followed the officers into the hallway. Rupe closed the door behind him, leaving the paramedics tending to the dead body.
Rupe woke to find he’d slept all day. It hadn’t taken very long to give his statement, and as soon as he arrived home, he flopped onto the sofa and passed out. The living room was cast in darkness, and the coffee cold in the mug beside him. He moved his head slowly. No stabbing pain. At least his hangover had fucked off. His stomach rumbled painfully—not surprising, given that he hadn’t eaten all day, although for many hours, food had been the last thing on his mind.
He wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. His housekeeper was off that day, but she hadn’t let him down. The fridge was jammed full of freshly prepared food, all labelled with heating instructions and use-by dates. Abi was a bloody marvel.
He spied a portion of Abi’s super-healthy chicken curry at the back and rearranged the fridge until he could reach it and pull it out. He turned the dial on the oven to the right temperature, opened the door, and shoved the foil carton inside.
He scoffed the lot, even though the portion size would easily have fed two. He’d go to the gym the next day and work it off. After years of being on the burly side—Cash would say fat, which was unfair—he’d finally succumbed to a life of healthy eating and gruelling workouts. After the first few months, he’d discovered he actually liked going to the gym, helped no doubt by the fact it was full of smoking-hot women. And although his sex life before hadn’t exactly been on the meagre side, he had to admit that toned abs worked wonders for attracting the ladies.
His thoughts turned to Nessa. Poor bitch. But did she have to breathe her last on the day he’d bedded her? He cursed, kicking himself for such a selfish thought. At least she didn’t have kids. Her marriage was a sham, one of convenience rather than love, as she’d repeated to him on more than one occasion. He shuddered, his skin crawling as he thought back to spending the night next to a corpse.
The following morning, he felt a lot better, and after a workout at the gym and three regular meals, the horror of the previous night began to recede. The police hadn’t called with any news, although he didn’t expect them to. He wasn’t even a witness. He’d heard nothing, seen nothing, knew nothing.
As the evening drew in, Rupe settled in front of the TV, a beer bottle dangling between his fingers. The All Blacks were playing the Lions. The game had been on for about ten minutes when a loud banging on the door interrupted his viewing pleasure.
Rupe climbed off the couch and went to answer the door. As he walked down the hallway, whoever was outside banged again.
“Hang on, will you?” Rupe shouted as he slid back the bolts. He drew open the door. Outside stood two guys, suited and booted. They both thrust their identity cards in his face.
“Mr Fox-Whittingham. We need you to come to the station with us, please, sir.”
Rupe frowned as he glanced at the cards. “What’s this about?”
“We have some questions, sir, about the death of Mrs Vanessa Reynolds.”
Rupe shook his head in irritation. “I already gave you my statement yesterday.”
“Yes, sir. I am aware. I’m afraid we need to ask you some more questions.”
A feeling of dread started at the base of Rupe’s spine and crept upwards until it curled around his neck like a scarf—one that was beginning to cut off his air supply.
“Am I under arrest?”
The detective gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No, sir. Just helping us with our enquiries.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you’ll give me no choice but to arrest you.”
2
Jayne shifted the enormous stack of files in her arms to her left hip and managed to remove her keys from her bag without dropping them. A minor miracle. She unlocked the door to her apartment and kicked it open.
After dropping the heap of papers on the di
ning room table, she headed straight for the fridge. She opened it, and a smile of relief crept across her lips. Putting a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in to chill before she’d left for work that morning had been nothing short of miraculous foresight, especially as she’d had to work the previous weekend to try and make a dent in her enormous caseload. Divorce made for good business—as her own divorce lawyer could attest to.
She poured herself a glass, and after two or three sips, the slug of anxiety in her gut began to dissipate. She sank into her favourite chair next to a floor-to-ceiling picture window with a fabulous view of the river. The view—along with the open-plan style, which made the room big enough for her beloved dining room table—had been the clincher when she’d chosen the apartment, even if the place was ridiculously expensive for having only one bedroom and three hundred square feet of living space.
She kicked off her shoes and tucked up her feet. Her latest case would be the death of her. Something didn’t smell right with the wife’s story, and Jayne had learned over the years to trust her instincts. They rarely let her down.
Unlike husbands and best friends.
She shook her head. Nope. Not going there. Not tonight. She needed to be kind to herself after the week she’d had. Wine, case review, bubble bath, bed. In that order.
With a deep sigh, she got up and picked the first folder off the top of the enormous pile that was mocking her from the dining room table. She sat back down, opened it, and began to read. Occasionally, she made notes in the margin. The remainder of the time, she tapped her pen against her teeth, a habit her partner at work hated—which made her do it more often. She and Darren loved to wind each other up.