Praise for Vickie McKeehan’s Novels
“Strong, distinctive characters. I cannot wait to get my hands on the next book.”
Just Evil
- Coffee Time Romance and More -
“Queen of suspense…”
Just Evil
- Jill D. Hidy, author of The Old World Series -
“…an excellent storyteller…”
Deeper Evil
- Toye Lawson Brown, author of When the Music Stops -
“A must read trilogy.”
Ending Evil
- Rosalie A. Pope, author of Puppies For Sale $25.00 -
“A brilliant and rewarding read.”
Promise Cove
- Bestchicklit.com -
“For an entertaining adventure and love story,
I highly recommend.”
Hidden Moon Bay
- Marilyn Holdsworth, author of Pegasus -
“You feel Keegan and Cord’s sorrows, pain, and love…”
Dancing Tides
- John Chavez, reader -
also by Vickie McKeehan
The Evil Secrets Trilogy
JUST EVIL - Book One
DEEPER EVIL - Book Two
ENDING EVIL - Book Three
The Pelican Pointe Series
PROMISE COVE
HIDDEN MOON BAY
DANCING TIDES
LIGHTHOUSE REEF
STARLIGHT DUNES
LAST CHANCE HARBOR (Coming)
Skye Cree Novels
THE BONES OF OTHERS
THE BONES WILL TELL
THE BOX OF BONES
Exclusively at Amazon in print and Kindle format
Just Evil
The Evil Secrets Trilogy
Book One
Vickie McKeehan
Just Evil
The Evil Secrets Trilogy
Copyright © 2007 - 2013 by Vickie McKeehan
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Published by Beachdevils Press
ISBN: 978-1-4659-4329-3 - eBook
ISBN: 978-0-6156-3949-9 - Paperback
Printed in the USA
Cover art design by Audrey Mackaman
Visit the author at:
www.vickiemckeehan.com
www.facebook.com/VickieMcKeehan
For Gene and Keith,
who read and read until their eyes hurt and
offered up suggestions and critiques.
Thank you. Without you guys there
would be no books.
“Evil is unspectacular and always human,
and shares our bed and eats at our own table.”
W. H. Auden, Poet
1907 – 1973
Table of Contents
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
Just Evil
The Evil Secrets Trilogy
Book One
CHAPTER 1
So much for warm, sunny Southern California in the spring, he decided as he shivered under the jacket he wore and took another sip of hot coffee to warm his bones.
Sitting by the front window, he did his best not to stare at the reason he’d gotten up at the crack of dawn and driven in a steady downpour to check out the daughter. He took his eyes off the blonde long enough to gaze outside and watch rain pelt the glass. The wind picked up and sent loose debris flying in a gust.
It started to rain again—hard. It was just his luck he’d timed his trip to L.A. at the same time an El Niño storm arrived and dumped enough water on the area to make everything west of the 101 look like beachfront property. In a way the weather made him homesick for the land of his birth. But then, this was nothing compared to a bad-tempered Irish gale.
Sunny California my ass, he thought. Where were the bikini-clad women, the hot bodies sunbathing at the beach? Glancing out the window again, he decided that until the rain let up and the sun came out there was no chance in hell of seeing any bikini-clad bodies lying half-naked in the sun. No sun, no bikinis.
Doesn’t matter, he decided; he was stuck here, rain or shine, until he was done. He took another long look at the blonde, and couldn’t help but wonder how she’d ended up in such a backwater, out-of-the-way dump like San Madrid. How had Alana’s daughter gone from Beverly Hills to living in this Podunk little fishing village nestled up against the Pacific Ocean? If there were more than four thousand people living here, he’d give up drinking for a week. And why was she working in the bookstore-slash-coffee shop known as the Book & Bean where he was now sitting?
The shop sat in the middle of the block, off an old cobblestone main street, across from a town square complete with a picturesque free-flowing fountain.
Antique streetlights with old-fashioned street signs gave him the impression he’d wandered onto the back lot of a studio rather than a genuine town. If it hadn’t been pouring rain, he might have wandered into a few of the shops along Main Street or walked down to the waterfront to check out the row of sailboats he’d seen from the Coast Highway. But sightseeing wasn’t why he was here.
He watched Kit Griffin move with graceful efficiency behind the polished but worn oak wood counter waiting on customers streaming in out of the rain. He sipped his coffee and settled in, enjoying the ambiance of the place.
The Book & Bean, with its scuffed hardwood floors and retro furnishings, seemed to be a gathering place for everyone in town even in this miserable weather. Since he’d parked himself near the front door, harried soccer moms and dads rushed in and out with children in tow as a contingent of older folks tried to squeeze in around several small oak tables or stand to the side, waiting for one of the comfy, overstuffed chairs to open up. The place felt homey on a rainy day. Even the artwork hanging on the walls had him feeling melancholy. When he finally decided to retire, give up this lifestyle, he might enjoy living…
He scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to shake off his wistful mood. Jesus, what was happening to him anyway? Enjoy this backwater dump? Not in this lifetime. He needed to get a grip. This tendency to reminiscence had to stop. Jesus, the place was starting to get to him. No, he thought, not the place, the damned miserable weather was making him crazy. He needed to see the sun.
He took another long look at Kit Griffin—and relaxed. He’d purposefully saved her for last. And now after getting a good look at her up close and personal, he decided the two-hour drive in the pouring rain had been well worth every second he’d spent sitting behind the wheel of his rented Chevy.
He continued to stare at the pretty young thing with smooth, golden s
kin and soulful green eyes the color of fine Irish heather. Tall, maybe five eight or nine; it was hard to tell exactly as he watched her move behind the counter. Her silvery-blonde mane neatly tied back into a ponytail kept it from falling around her face as she diligently worked the counter, filling orders for the customers standing in line.
He couldn’t say she favored her mother. No―Alana Stevens, the former actress, had lived in the fast lane too long to make a good comparison. And at this stage of the game there’d been too many trips under the knife to get the skin tightened. Yet, Alana’s face showed the damage one would expect for a woman her age in spite of the Botox factory and every brand of wonder cream that promised to keep her skin looking supple. No amount of expensive cream could wipe away the damage that too many drugs and too much booze had wrought on her body. Nothing could bring back how she’d looked in her prime. And up to now, Alana had pretty much lived a life of excess, done whatever she pleased and with whom, but tonight he would remind her that all good things must come to an end.
That brightened his mood. As he sipped his coffee, he put down the newspaper he’d pretended to read and went over his plans again in his head. Biting into the tasty apple tart the pretty blonde had recommended as the house specialty, he tasted heaven. He momentarily forgot about his prey. The cinnamon-nutmeg combination had him smiling into the goddamned rain outside. Sitting back he relished the moment because he knew the drive back to L.A. in this stuff would be hell.
Taking another bite of his pastry, enjoying the view of the blonde from his seat by the window, he began to anticipate the night ahead.
Kit wiped down the counter for the umpteenth time that morning before she poured a fourth cup of coffee for Mr. Planter, who had to be ninety if he was a day. Nodding politely at his comment about the foul weather as if he’d been the first person to walk in off the street that morning and want to discuss it, she glanced out the window to check the nasty weather in question―and smiled.
At least the storm wasn’t keeping her regulars away. Squeezed around one of the six little oak tables, they drank espressos or lattes, ate the homemade pastries she’d baked the night before, or simply lounged in several of the oversized chairs, reading the best sellers they’d purchased in the bookstore―her bookstore.
In spite of the dreary weather, Kit took pride in that.
And it was about damn time.
She knew even a glimmer from the past could send her into an abyss―if she let it. She didn’t intend to let it. Whenever memories of childhood tried to jam their way inside her head, she simply pushed the bad to that corner of her brain where the vault kept the awful past locked away.
After all, she hadn’t sampled normal until twelve, when her aunt Gloria had finally moved out West and provided an alternate place to go at times when life with Alana became unbearable, which too frequently had. But that was living life with a viper, one that could strike without warning, and was certain to leave a scar.
There was no point in dwelling on what was.
She forced a smile for her customers and worked her way through the tables and chairs, picking up empty coffee cups and trash along the way. With a determined push to her shoulders, she stepped behind the counter to make fresh coffee for the late morning rush still streaming through the doors.
In his Westlake Village office, Jake Boston sat at his desk putting the finishing touches on a multi-million dollar deal he’d been working on for the better part of a year—in Tokyo. It hadn’t really taken a year to close the deal. Nor had it been necessary to fly six thousand miles to get it done. But being away from L.A. had given him distance and time to think about what was missing in his life.
A year ago, he’d been tempted to dip his toes into water he had no business getting near. He’d gotten close. She would have let him take her to bed.
It had been twelve long months since he’d seen her. He’d been back two weeks and had yet to pick up the phone. He’d never lacked confidence in anything before, but the idea of confronting her had him feeling—edgy.
He got up from his desk to pace. He’d had a year to think about Kit, sort things out. But he’d had to leave. Get out of L.A. Get away from the stain left by Claire. He’d gone to Japan without so much as a farewell adios. And that he knew had hurt Kit.
Gloria had given him hell about that for the better part of a year. Now that he was back, he could just imagine how Kit would react when he picked up the phone. It was only a matter of time before he had to face her, face the fact that he’d left her without a word. How was he supposed to tell her how much he’d missed her in the year since he’d been gone? She wouldn’t buy it. And who could blame her? He’d have to do something about that. Buying the old Crandall House might be a start. But it would take more than renovating an old relic of a house to get her to believe he’d finally put his ghosts to rest, put the past behind him and was ready to take the next step—with her.
He thought back to that night a year ago when he’d taken her to dinner, how talkative she’d been—just like at fourteen. Back then she’d worked summer vacations in the file room at her uncle’s law firm, just a kid, a very talkative kid. Three summers in a row he remembered now, from fourteen to sixteen. He’d been just starting out then, developing the software application that Gloria’s husband Morty had encouraged him to create for his law firm. His company, Billing-Pro Software, had come from that. He’d used Morty’s firm as his first beta site, coming and going on a daily basis as he tweaked the software and the lines of code, working the bugs out and testing the application before mass marketing it to bigger clients, larger law firms.
Kit had been a gangly teen who couldn’t keep her mouth shut for five minutes without rambling on about movies or music or virtually anything that happened to pop into her teenage head. She’d had a major crush on him back then that had both flattered and embarrassed him.
That had been another lifetime ago: before Claire, before his marriage.
God, what he wouldn’t give to go back and replay that part of his life, correct his mistakes. Unfortunately, he’d learned the hard way that you were stuck with the consequences of your fuckups.
He ran a hand across his face. Jesus, could he get any more maudlin for chrissakes? It had to be the miserable weather. He stared out the window at the rain and the traffic on Westlake Boulevard. He had a house in San Madrid under renovation. The woman he wanted was there. When was he going to face her? He was tired of waiting. He checked his watch.
Screw this, he thought as he headed out the door. Now was as good a time as any.
Jake was still going over the plan, how to play this whole thing out, when he pulled his Mercedes to a stop in front of the Book & Bean. Groveling might not be his first choice, but it was definitely on the agenda. He hadn’t been worried on the drive up, but now his chest tightened as he shoved the gearshift into Park and cut the engine. For several minutes he sat there staring out the windshield, listening to fat drops of rain fall on the glass.
What was he doing here anyway? She’d probably take one look at him and tell him to go to hell. She had every right to feel that way. He hadn’t exactly been nice to her. When he first met her she’d been far too young, but so…sweet-natured…so…eager to please. Through the years the timing for both of them always seemed to be off. But no more, he thought, as he sucked in courage, opened the car door, and stepped out into the pouring rain.
Tucking his keys in his jacket pocket, he pushed open the door to the bookstore. Once inside he glanced at the rows and rows of neatly organized books, at the people milling around the aisles. The aroma of coffee had him drifting toward the coffee shop where a busy crowd lingered, some with their noses stuck in a book.
And then he saw her.
She stood behind the counter working the espresso machine, her back to the entrance. He’d recognize that silvery blond hair anywhere. Dressed in jeans and a white cropped T-shirt, she moved with graceful efficiency doing two things at once. When she turned arou
nd to wait on another customer, Jake’s attention moved from her body to her face. The heat of the machine gave her skin a healthy, golden hue, as well as making wisps of hair curl around her face. He watched her full mouth move as she tried to dissuade the flirtatious attempt of an infatuated teenage boy trying to act much older by ordering a double espresso. Jake couldn’t blame the kid his efforts. A year of being away from her, of missing her, had him fighting for control to keep from embarrassing himself in front of a room full of strangers.
Seeing her again energized him. The nerves slipped away.
While he stood a couple of customers behind the teen, he worked on his opening line. He’d say something clever and funny, something about old times. He’d be smooth, confident, self-assured.
But when he watched her take the money from the customer ahead of him and count out change—he realized the nerves were back—enough to have him second guessing this whole scene.
When she turned back, he was face-to-face with her. She looked up, met his eyes, and blinked. Shock registered on her face. She started to say something. He knew because her mouth moved but nothing came out. In the next instant, he saw annoyance simmer in those jade eyes. How had he forgotten her eyes, the darkest shade of green he’d ever seen?
And they were boring holes through him.
“You snake-in-the-grass son of a bitch.”
So much for sweet-natured, he thought, as he opened his mouth to speak, but the only word that slid out from the software genius was a weak, “Hey.”
Before he had time to say anything more, she snarled, “You come crawling through my door after a year? Why are you here?”
He quickly regrouped. “Getting coffee.” He hadn’t choked like that since he’d struck out with bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth back in high school. The man standing behind him asked, “Hey buddy, do you intend to order any time soon? Some of us have things to do.”
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