by Sandra Brown
“Don’t do that to yourself again, Alex,” he said fiercely. “None of it was your fault. Nobody guessed the extent of Sarah Jo’s insanity, not even Angus, and he was married to her. Junior… Well…” He stopped speaking, his throat working convulsively.
“You’ll miss him.”
“Miss him?” he repeated with phony nonchalance. “The dumb bastard. Running into a burning house about to collapse. Only a goddamn fool would do something that stupid.”
“You know why he did it, Reede. He felt he had to.” The tears shimmering in his eyes made Alex’s throat ache with the need to cry. She stepped forward and laid a hand on his arm. “You loved him, Reede. Is that so hard to admit?”
He stared down at the flower-banked grave. “People always talked about how jealous he was of me. Nobody ever guessed how jealous I was of him.”
“You were jealous of Junior?”
He nodded. “Of the advantages he had.” He gave a dry, derisive laugh. “I stayed mad at him most of the time for squandering those advantages.”
“We love people in spite of what they are, not because of what they are. At least, that’s the way it should be.”
She dropped her hand from his arm and, trying to keep her voice light and conversational, said, “Angus told me that he plans to go ahead with the racetrack.”
“Yeah. He’s a stubborn old cuss.”
“Your airfield will prosper.”
“It better. I’ll be out of a job by the end of the year,” he told her. In response to her puzzled expression, he said, “I resigned. I can’t sheriff and make anything out of that airport at the same time. It was time I either tackled it or let it go. I decided to tackle it.”
“Good. I’m glad for you. Angus says you’re considering incorporating with him.”
“We’ll see. I’m going to buy another racehorse with Double Time’s insurance money. I’m thinking about training it myself. Angus wants to help.”
She wasn’t fooled by his casual treatment of the subject, but she didn’t pressure him about it. If she were a gambler, she’d put her money on a future alliance. This time it would be for Angus’s benefit more than Reede’s.
“What about you?” he asked. “When will you be going back to work?”
She dug her hands into her coat pockets and drew her shoulders up. “I’m not sure. In light of my injuries—”
“How are they, by the way?”
“Everything’s healing fine.”
“No pain?”
“Not any longer. Basically, I’m as good as new, but Greg told me not to rush back to work. He knows the strain I’ve been under.” She plowed into the soft earth with the toe of her boot. “I’m not sure I want to go back at all.” Sensing his start of surprise, she smiled up at him. “You’ll find this amusing, Sheriff. I’ve recently realized how much empathy I have for the accused. I might try defense law for a change.”
“Public defender?”
“Possibly.”
“Where?”
She looked deeply into his eyes. “I haven’t decided.”
Reede began to rearrange the freshly turned earth beneath his boots, too. “I, uh, I read your statement in the newspaper. It was decent of you to close the case for lack of evidence,” he said in a low voice.
“It really wouldn’t serve much purpose to quarrel with the original ruling, would it?”
“No, it wouldn’t, especially not now.”
“Probably from the beginning, Reede.” He raised his head and gave her an appraising look. “You were right, all of you. This investigation was self-serving. I used it and the people involved to prove my grandmother wrong.” She drew a shaky breath. “It’s too late for Celina to rectify her mistakes, but I can certainly do something about mine.”
She inclined her head toward the nearby grave, the older, overgrown one, which now had a single red rose lying at the base of the headstone. “Did you put that there?”
Reede looked across the two fresh graves toward Celina’s. “I thought Junior would like sharing a flower with her. You know how he felt about the ladies.” It was healthy that he could smile when he said it.
“You know, I didn’t realize that this was the Minton family plot until the funeral the other day. Mother would like that, being here with him.”
“And he’s where he always wanted to be. Near Celina, with nobody between them.”
Emotion welled up in Alex’s throat and eyes. “Poor Stacey. She never had a chance with Junior, did she?”
“No woman did. For all his philandering, Junior was a one-woman man.”
By tacit agreement, they turned and started down the hill toward their cars.
“Was it your idea for Stacey to move into the ranch house for a while?” Alex asked, as she picked her way across the grass.
He seemed reluctant to admit it. An affirmative rolling motion of his shoulders was all he gave her for an answer.
“That was a thoughtful suggestion, Reede. She and Angus will be good for each other.” The late judge’s daughter would never feel kindly toward her, but Alex understood and could forgive her animosity.
“Stacey needs somebody to fuss over,” Reede said, “and Angus needs that kind of attention right now.”
Having reached her car, Alex turned to him and asked huskily, “What about you? Who’ll fuss over you?”
“I’ve never needed it.”
“Oh, yes, you have,” she said, “you just never let anybody.” She took a step closer to him. “Are you going to let me leave town, walk out of your life, without making any effort to stop me?”
“Yes.”
She regarded him with love and frustration. “Okay, I’ll tell you what, Reede. I’ll just go on loving you for as long as I live, and you just go on resisting it.” It was spoken as a dare. “See how long you can hold out.”
He angled back his head and gauged the determination in her posture, her voice, her eyes. “You’re too big for your britches, you know that?”
Her responding smile was tremulous. “You love me, Reede Lambert. I know you love me.”
The wind lifted the tawny hair on his head as he nodded slowly. “Yeah, I do. You’re a pain in the ass, but I love you.” He cursed beneath his breath. “That still doesn’t change anything.”
“Like what?”
“Like our ages. I’ll get old and die long before you, you know.”
“Does that matter today—this very minute?”
“It sure as hell should.”
“It doesn’t.”
Infuriated by her calm logic, he crammed his fist into his opposite palm. “God, you’re persistent.”
“Yes, I am. When I want something badly enough, when I feel that it’s right, I never give up.”
For several long moments he stared at her, at war with himself. He was being offered love, but he was afraid to accept it. Then, swearing liberally, he grabbed a handful of dark auburn hair and pulled her toward him.
He reached inside her coat, where she was warm and soft and giving. “You make a damn strong argument, Counselor,” he growled.
Backing her into the side of her car, he touched her heart, her belly, then placed a hand on her hip and bowed her body against his. He kissed her with passion and love and something he’d always had very little of—hope.
Breathlessly tearing his lips from hers, he buried his face in the warmth of her neck. “In my whole life, I’ve never had anything that belonged to me first, that wasn’t a hand-me-down or a handout—nothing, until you. Alex, Alex…”
“Say it, Reede.”
“Be my woman.”
About the Author
Sandra Brown is the author of over sixty New York Times bestsellers, including most recently Low Pressure; Lethal; Rainwater; Tough Customer; Smash Cut; Smoke Screen; Play Dirty; Ricochet; Chill Factor; White Hot; Hello, Darkness; The Crush; Envy; The Switch; The Alibi; Unspeakable; and Fat Tuesday, all of which jumped onto the New York Times list in the numbers one to five spots. Th
ere are over eighty million copies of Sandra Brown’s books in print worldwide and her work has been translated into thirty-four languages. In 2008, Brown was named Thriller Master by the International Thriller Writers Association, the organization’s top honor. She currently lives in Texas. For more information you can visit www.SandraBrown.net.
Bellamy Lyston Price was just twelve years old when her sister was murdered on a stormy Memorial Day.
Eighteen years later, she writes a novel about the horrific experience—and a new nightmare begins…
Please see the next page for a preview of
Low Pressure
Prologue
The rat was dead, but no less horrifying than if it had been alive.
Bellamy Price trapped a scream behind her hands and, holding them clamped against her mouth, backed away from the gift box of glossy wrapping paper and satin ribbon. The animal lay on a bed of silver tissue paper, its long pink tail curled against the fat body.
When she came up against the wall, she slid down it until her bottom reached the floor. Slumping forward, she removed her hands from her mouth and covered her eyes. But she was too horror-stricken even to cry. Her sobs were dry and hoarse.
Who would have played such a vicious prank? Who? And why?
The events of the day began to replay in her mind like a recording on fast-forward.
“You were terrific!”
“Thank you.” Bellamy tried to maintain the rapid pace set by the publicist for the publishing house, who functioned as though her breakfast cereal had been laced with speed.
“This show is number one in its time slot.” Her rapid-fire speech kept time with the click of her stilettos. “Miles ahead of its competition. We’re talking over five million viewers. You just got some great national exposure.”
Which was exactly what Bellamy wished to avoid. But she didn’t waste her breath on saying so. Again. For the umpteenth time. Neither the publicist nor her agent, Dexter Gray, understood her desire to direct the publicity to her best-selling book, not to herself.
Dexter, his hand tightly grasping her elbow, guided her through the Manhattan skyscraper’s marble lobby. “You were superb. Flawless, but warm. Human. That single interview probably sold a thousand copies of Low Pressure, which is what it’s all about.” He ushered her toward the exit, where a uniformed doorman tipped his hat as Bellamy passed.
“Your book kept me up nights, Ms. Price.”
She barely had time to thank him before being propelled through the revolving door, which emptied her onto the plaza. A shout went up from the crowd that had gathered to catch a glimpse of that morning’s interviewees as they entered and exited the television studio.
The publicist was exultant. “Dexter, help her work the crowd. I’m going to get a photographer over here. We can parlay this into more television coverage.”
Dexter, more sensitive to his client’s reluctance toward notoriety, stood on tiptoe and spoke directly into Bellamy’s ear to make himself heard above the Midtown rush-hour racket. “It wouldn’t hurt to take advantage of the situation and sign a few books. Most authors work their entire professional lives—”
“And never receive this kind of media attention,” she said, finishing for him. “Thousands of writers would give their right arm for this. So you’ve told me. Repeatedly.”
“It bears repeating.” He patted her arm as he steered her toward the eager people straining against the barricades. “Smile. Your adoring public awaits.”
Readers who had become instant fans clamored to shake hands with her and have her sign their copies of Low Pressure. Being as gracious as possible, she thanked them and smiled into their cell-phone cameras.
Her hand was being pumped by an enthusiastic fan when she spotted Rocky Van Durbin out of the corner of her eye. A writer for the daily tabloid newspaper EyeSpy, Van Durbin was standing slightly apart from the crowd, wearing a self-congratulatory smirk and giving instructions to the photographer accompanying him.
It was Van Durbin who had uncovered and then gleefully disclosed that the writer T. J. David, whose first book was generating buzz in book circles as well as in Hollywood, was, in fact, Bellamy Price, an attractive, thirty-year-old woman:
“Why this native Texan—blue-eyed, long-legged, and voluptuous, and isn’t that how we like them?—would want to hide behind an innocuous pen name, this reporter doesn’t know. But in spite of the author’s coy secrecy, Low Pressure has soared to the top of the best-seller charts, and now, apparently, Ms. Price has come out of hiding and gotten into the spirit of the thing. She’s eschewed her spurs and hat, abandoned the Lone Star state, and is now residing in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park on the Upper West Side, basking in the glow of her sudden celebrity.”
Most of that was a lie, having only filaments of truth that kept it from being libelous. Bellamy did have blue eyes, but she was of average height, not noticeably tall, as his description suggested. By no one’s standards could she be considered voluptuous.
She did have a cowboy hat, but it hadn’t been on her head for years. She’d never owned a pair of spurs, nor had she ever known anyone who did. She hadn’t abandoned her home state, in the sense Van Durbin had implied, but she had relocated to New York several years ago, long before the publication of her book. She did live on the Upper West Side, across from the park, but not in a penthouse.
But the most egregious inaccuracy was Van Durbin’s claim that she was enjoying her celebrity, which she considered more a harsh glare than a glow. That glare had intensified when Van Durbin wrote a follow-up, front-page article that contained another startling revelation.
Although published as a novel, Low Pressure was actually a fictionalized account of a true story. Her true story. Her family’s tragic true story.
With the velocity of a rocket, that disclosure had thrust her into another dimension of fame. She abhorred it. She hadn’t written Low Pressure to become rich and famous. Writing it had been therapeutic.
Admittedly, she’d hoped it would be published, widely read, and well received by readers and critics, but she had published it under a non-gender-specific pseudonym in order to avoid the spotlight in which she now found herself.
Low Pressure had been eagerly anticipated even before it went on sale. Believing strongly in its potential, the publishing house had put money behind its publication, placing transit ads in major cities, and print ads in magazines, newspapers, and on the Internet. Social media outlets had been abuzz for months in advance of its on-sale date. Every review had been a rave. T. J. David was being compared to the best crime writers, fiction and nonfiction. Bellamy had enjoyed the book’s success from behind the protective pseudonym.
But once Rocky Van Durbin had let the genie out of the bottle, there was no putting it back. She figured her publisher and Dexter, and anyone else who stood to profit from sales, were secretly overjoyed that her identity and the backstory of her book had been exposed.
Now they had not only a book to promote, but also an individual, whom they had deemed “a publicist’s dream.”
They described her as attractive, well educated, well spoken, not so young as to be giddy, not so old as to be boring, an heiress turned best-selling author. She had a lot of “hooks” to draw upon, the chief one being that she had desired anonymity. Her attempt to hide behind a pen name had, instead, made her all the more intriguing. Rocky Van Durbin was relishing the media frenzy surrounding her, which he had helped create, and, never satisfied, continued to feed the public’s voracious curiosity with daily tidbits about her, most of which were either blatantly untrue, speculative, or grossly exaggerated.
As she continued to sign autographs and pose for photographs with fans, she pretended not to have noticed him, but to no avail. He rudely elbowed his way through the crowd toward her. Noticing his approach, Dexter cautioned her in a whisper, “Don’t let him get to you. People are watching. He’d love nothing better than to goad you into saying something he could print out of
context.”
When the so-called journalist came face-to-face with her, making it impossible for her to ignore him, he smiled, revealing two rows of crooked yellow teeth, which she imagined him filing in order to achieve that carnivorous grin.
Looking her up and down, he asked, “Have you lost weight, Ms. Price? I can’t help but notice that you’re looking thinner.”
A few weeks ago she’d been voluptuous. Tomorrow she would be suffering from an eating disorder.
Without even acknowledging his sly question, Bellamy engaged in conversation with a woman wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt and a Statue of Liberty spiked crown made of green rubber foam. “My book club is reading your book now,” the woman told her as they posed together for a snapshot taken by her equally enthusiastic husband.
“I appreciate that very much.”
“The rest of them won’t believe I met you!”
Bellamy thanked her again and moved along. Undaunted, Van Durbin kept pace, furiously scribbling in a small spiral notebook. Then, stepping between her and the next person waiting for her attention, he asked, “Who do you see playing the lead roles in the movie, Ms. Price?”
“I don’t see anyone. I’m not in the movie business.”
“But you will be before long. Everybody knows producers are lined up to throw money at you for the option on Low Pressure. It’s rumored that several A-list actors and actresses are campaigning for the parts. The casting couches have never had turnover this brisk.”
She shot him a look of pure disgust.
“No opinion on the subject?”
“None,” she said, stressing the word in such a way as to discourage any more questions. Just then a man wedged himself between two young women and thrust a copy of her book at her. Bellamy recognized him immediately. “Well, hello again. Hmm…”
“Jerry,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Jerry, yes.” He had an open, friendly face and thinning hair. He’d come to several book signings, and she’d spotted him in the audience when she lectured at a bookstore on the NYU campus. “Thank you for coming out this morning.”