ABANDONED
Rhonda Pollero
New York Boston
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Rhonda Pollero
Excerpt from Trapped copyright © 2017 by Rhonda Pollero
Cover design by Brian Lemus
Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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ISBN 978-1-4555-5541-3 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-4555-9762-8 (print on demand)
E3-20170424-DA-PC
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
An Excerpt from TRAPPED
About the Author
Also by Rhonda Pollero
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For Karen Harrison, my dearest friend, who knows all of my secrets!
PROLOGUE
The President put one hand at the First Lady’s elbow, giving it a brief squeeze before rising to join the governor at the dais. Brilliant light bathed the podium, which was flanked by the most prominent men in Florida politics.
Governor Rossner and his wife applauded politely, as did the dozen or so others basking in the delight of pulling off such an important political coup. Rossner straightened his tie as he turned in his seat and recrossed his legs. The seat right damned next to the President of the EN-tire U-Nighted friggin’ States of America, he gloated in silence. His barrel chest puffed beneath his suit coat. He wondered what his father would think, him just sitting there with the freakin’ most important man in the free world. And that man was about to tell everyone in the crowd that he—Gil Rossner—deserved another term. Stifling his grin, Gil folded his hands in his lap and stared at the president’s profile.
He took caution not to catch Maddison’s eye. His campaign manager-slash-brother-in-law shared his disdain for the party leader and current commander-in-chief. It simply would not do for the two men to erupt in laughter behind the man’s back, though he was sorely tempted. Gil enjoyed belittling the liberal Yankee in the White House.
President Kent Rawlings wasn’t much by Gil’s standards, yet women seemed to lose their good common sense whenever he was around. His guess was the rumors about Rawlings were true. He stifled a laugh by covering his mouth and quietly clearing his throat. Rawlings was too refined. He and his wife were snobby and polished. Definitely made for television. Gil tried to imagine the prissy man in the sack with that shapely, young First Lady of his. He wondered if the president screamed when he—
Pop!
Gil’s eyes bulged as incredible pain seared through him. He slumped slowly to the side. Sweet Jesus! were the only words his brain could conjure. There were two more popping sounds. Gil was now lying prone on the floor. A spray of blood blurred his vision. Then he felt crushed beneath a heavy weight as the dead president fell on him. Gil heard his own wife scream as he expelled his final breath.
CHAPTER ONE
TWENTY YEARS LATER
Conner Kavanaugh wasn’t normally given to bouts of chivalry, but then there was something decidedly different about the hot blonde currently trying to fend off Frankie’s interest. Frankie, an off-duty bartender, may have been born into money, but he was still white trash.
The round stool beneath Conner squealed when he turned back to rest his elbows against the scarred and lacquered bar. He put the long-neck bottle to his lips, taking a long pull and allowing the beer to slide down his throat.
He watched the scene in the mirror behind the bartender. Frankie had one dirty boot on the stool next to the blonde. His hat was pushed back on his head. To her credit, the blonde wasn’t even looking at him. Conner snorted and took another sip of his beer. She was obviously thinking that subtlety would work on a guy like Frankie, but Conner knew better. Frankie didn’t comprehend anything less subtle than a two-by-four against his temple.
She didn’t exactly fit the type of woman who came trolling at The Grill. First off, her clothes were all wrong. Her Harvard sweatshirt was loose enough to cover all but the faintest outline of her breasts. And those jeans, he thought as he took another pull of beer. Though they were faded from wear, the material held a distinct crease—a dry-cleaners crease, he figured with an amused shake of his head. Well, at least she had spruced up her fanciest duds for her night out.
When she finally lifted her eyes, he felt the impact as if he’d been slapped. Even in the smoky haze of the bar, they were the greenest he’d ever seen. Clear, emerald green. And shimmering with anger.
Frankie apparently wasn’t seeing it that way. Conner watched the large man anchor himself on the stool as he pushed it just inches from his quarry. Why, he wondered, couldn’t this broad have picked a safer place to find Mr. Right Now? With her looks she could have sauntered up to the Dairy Queen and found someone eager to spend the night with her. Maybe she liked slumming, he considered as he finished off his drink. He watched as Frankie continued to move in on her. The man had less finesse than a teenager on prom night in the front seat of his father’s pickup. His big palm gripped her wrist, wrestling her hand to his sloppy mouth.
The woman’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t seem to put up much of a fight. Conner’s chivalrous thoughts were dismissed when he realized he’d been wrong. “Happens,” he muttered with a shrug. Some women just liked ’em nasty.
He’d no sooner turned his attention away from them when he heard the familiar sound of a bottle being smashed. “Damn!” he sighed. He was off duty and he sure as hell wasn’t in any mood to break up a drunken bar fight.
Expecting to find a couple of townies squared off by the pool tables, he looked there first. It wasn’t the townies. He shifted his gaze in the opposite direction. It wasn’t Frankie. No, the hand holding
the jagged glass weapon belonged to the Harvard blonde.
“You gonna do something?” the bartender fairly pleaded.
“Think I should?” Conner countered without taking his eyes off the standoff. “It’s my night off,” he mentioned almost casually.
“C’mon,” Bart groaned. “I can’t afford no more fights in here. Councilman Tuppman and his holier-than-thou wife are just itching for a reason to get my liquor license pulled. Anybody gets hurt, I can kiss this place good-bye.”
Now that would be a loss, Conner thought as he slowly got to his feet. His boots scraped the worn floor as he closed the space between himself and where Frankie stood, apparently ready to pounce on the woman or the weapon she brandished—or both.
Conner slipped his hand onto Frankie’s tense shoulder. A small semi-circle of interested folks gathered around the participants.
“You don’t want to get into a brawl with a woman, do you, Frankie? It sure would give Tarrant County a bad name.” Conner kept his eyes on the weapon.
“You gonna let that bitch get the best of you?” someone taunted.
“Yeah, Frankie!” another voice echoed. “Can’t be letting no woman kick your ass!”
“Take that bottle away from her, Frankie!” someone else called. “Show her what a real man does when a woman gets outta line!”
Conner knew ’ol Frankie would rise to the bait. Frankie was one of those individuals destined to spend his entire life being goaded by others. His past was testimony to that. His father had been leading him around by the nose for years. It didn’t seem to matter that Frankie was pushing forty-three.
“You really don’t want to do that, Frankie,” Conner said calmly. “Doesn’t take much of a man to beat up on a little thing like her.”
Now Frankie turned and snarled at him with eyes that were narrow and angry—just like the guy’s brain. Amazingly, the Harvard blonde was shooting him a pretty hostile look as well. Apparently, everyone was having a bad day.
Frankie snarled. “This ain’t your concern, Kavanaugh.” He puffed out his muscled chest and added, “’Sides, you’re in no position to tell me what to do in here.”
Conner sighed. “I see it a little differently,” he countered. “My mamma was real clear on the rules about boys hitting girls.”
“Your mamma was a whore,” Frankie spat.
Conner’s first response was an audible, deep sigh. “Frankie, I don’t think you want to make me mad just now. Do you?”
Conner saw a faint flicker of uncertainty pass in the smaller man’s eyes. “You don’t scare me, Kavanaugh. Never have, never will.”
“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to reason with you. Surely you have something better to do tonight than pick a fight with a girl.”
“Girl?” the Harvard blonde scoffed.
The broken bottle never wavered from her target, not even when she tossed some of that long, thick hair over one shoulder. “I am not a girl. I don’t know why you feel the need to play Knight in Shining Armor, but I can assure you, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
Conner grinned. “That must be why you’re standing in the middle of a barroom full of sloppy-drunk men with a broken bottle in your hand.”
She stiffened with indignation and he wished he had just stayed out of the whole situation. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. Sorry for interrupting your fun.”
Her eyes burned like fire as she glared at him.
“Go on, Frankie!” one of the men yelled as Conner began to move backward toward the bar. “Teach her some manners!”
Conner had every intention of leaving her to her own devices: let her learn a small lesson so long as it didn’t get truly bad. That lasted only until he saw the smallest flicker of fear on her face. He should have ignored it. She had basically told him as much. He should have let the foolish woman get her due. Lord knew she’d asked for it by coming to a place like this and giving Frankie the time of day. But as he thought about her small body being manhandled by a pig like Frankie, he knew he was going to help her. Even if she didn’t want him to.
“I’m sure you’re right capable of taking care of yourself,” he began as he stepped between her and Frankie. “But I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I—”
He hadn’t finished the sentence when he felt an explosion in the area of his ribs. His breath billowed in his cheeks. He heard the Harvard blonde’s sharp shriek. He was almost sorry that Frankie hadn’t decided to sucker-punch him in the mouth. At least then he would have had the satisfaction of bleeding all over the dim-witted woman. As far as he was concerned, this whole situation was her fault.
“That,” he warned Frankie between clenched teeth, “wasn’t real smart.”
With a speed belying his size, Conner caught the other man around the mid-section in a move that sent them spraying atop the pool table. Bracing his forearm across Frankie’s throat, Conner turned and glanced at the blonde. He caught a faint whiff of her perfume. Annoyed at the world in general and at her specifically, he asked, “May I borrow your bottle, please?”
Stunned, the woman relinquished it to his free hand. Ignoring her for the moment, Conner stared down at the menacing, red face of his opponent. The room had gone still and silent. He was able to hear every rasp of breath. Conner placed the jagged edge of the bottle to the base of Frankie’s throat.
“This ain’t your fight, Kavanaugh,” Frankie gasped in a whisper.
Conner eased his pressure hold on the man. “I beg to differ.” He allowed the glass to pierce Frankie’s sweaty skin. “You threw the first punch.”
“But I didn’t mean no harm.”
“Sure.” Conner put more weight into his hold. The action caused Frankie’s watered-down blue eyes to bulge in their sockets. “I don’t take kindly to having my ribs punched.”
Frankie’s thin lips pulled back to expose two rows of capped teeth. He managed to shrug defeat from beneath Conner’s hold and the threat of the jagged glass.
Conner moved close to the man’s ear. “When I let you up, you’ll head on out the door. Understand?”
Frankie was glaring, but he nodded. Somehow, Conner didn’t find his attitude very reassuring. He decided Frankie might need just a bit more persuasion. Bracing one leg firmly on the floor, he brought his knee up and applied attention-getting pressure to Frankie’s crotch. “I didn’t catch your answer.”
The combination of the bottle against his jugular, the band of muscle against his throat, and the distinct threat to his privates, apparently made Frankie see the error of his ways.
“I didn’t really want that frosty bitch anyways,” Frankie puffed, casting his eyes in the direction of the woman. “I like my women a whole hell of a lot softer than her.”
“Then there won’t be a problem,” Conner acknowledged.
Slowly, he eased off the man, but kept the broken bottle raised just in case Frankie got another attack of the stupids. He knew from prior experience that ninety percent of Frankie’s decision-making was fifty-percent stupid.
Luckily, this wasn’t one of those times. Conner placed himself and the weapon between the Harvard blonde and Frankie while the latter collected his hat. Shoving through the visibly disappointed group of men, Frankie stomped out of the bar. Expelling a breath, Conner had a sinking suspicion this wasn’t quite over. Frankie was short on brains but long on memory.
Absently, he kneaded his ribs, relieved when he felt only mildly uncomfortable. Cracked ribs were a pain in the ass. Speaking of pains in the ass…He turned, wanting an explanation from Miss Harvard Blonde.
What she apparently lacked in common sense, she definitely had in looks. He felt the beginnings of a smile. Her hair was beautiful, spilling well below her shoulders in a simple, no-frills style. Judging from the way she had smashed the beer bottle to challenge a man twice her size, Conner assumed her hair was simply an extension of her personality—blunt.
“Come here often?” he remarked casually.
She regarded
him with something amazingly akin to defiance. He could see it in the subtle thrust of her chin and the small fists balled at her sides.
“You didn’t need to come to my rescue,” she responded tightly.
Her accent was southern, but not North Florida southern.
“I could have controlled the situation.”
“It didn’t look like that from where I was sitting,” he told her. Hell, he didn’t expect her to fall into his arms and kiss him with gratitude, but it annoyed him that she couldn’t so much as say thanks. She owed him that. She could at least show him the courtesy of civility.
“You could have hurt him.”
Was that censure he heard in her tone? “Excuse me?”
Her hands moved to her hips. “The broken bottle would have allowed me to make a quick, gracious exit. There was no need for you to hold it against his throat and incite a fight.”
His blood pressure went up a notch or two. “I prevented a fight, sweetheart.”
“Not from where I was sitting,” she returned in a near-perfect imitation of his drawl.
“This is crazy!”
“No,” she countered. “You’re crazy.”
She breezed past him as if he was nothing more than a minor annoyance. A gnat she might swat, had she been so inclined to donate some of her precious time.
The few men who still lingered parted as if she was royalty. Of course, given the regal way she swayed her tight little derrière, it didn’t surprise him. It just made him madder than hell.
“Wait a minute!”
Her step faltered at his thunderous command but she still pushed the door open and walked out into the night. He should just leave this alone. Chalk it up to a good deed for which he would eventually be rewarded. But he didn’t feel much like waiting for eventually. She owed him, and he believed in collecting on his debts.
Depositing the broken bottle on the bar as he strode by, Conner stormed after her. Like it or not, the woman was going to get his short lesson on manners.
Cool, fresh air welcomed him as he stepped from The Grill. It took him less than a second to find her. It was easy. He simply followed the chirping sound made as she disarmed her Lexus in the dark parking lot.
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