He should’ve imagined harder.
“What do you think?” he mouthed at Caity.
“I’ll pack my winter things,” she mouthed back.
Leaning toward the speaker, Spense barely resisted the urge to salute. “That’s a yes, from us, Mr. President. We’d be honored.”
Acknowledgments
FIRST AND FOREMOST, thank you to my readers! I’m humbled and honored that you take precious hours out of your lives to spend time with my characters. I’d also like to extend my heartfelt thanks to my family, Shannon, Erik, Bill, and Sarah for your love and support. I’m so blessed to have a wonderful group of talented friends who are always there to cheer me on, brainstorm, and lift me up. Thank you to Lena Diaz, Leigh LaValle, Courtney Milan, Brenna Aubrey, and Tessa Dare for being my collective rock. Thanks to my talented and supportive Kiss and Thrill sisters—Lena Diaz, Rachel Grant, Diana Belchase, Krista Hall, Manda Collins, Gwen Hernandez, Sarah Andre, and Sharon Wray. Thanks to my incredible beta reader, Carmen Pacheco, who is always there when I need her. Thank you to my agent, Liza Dawson. I can’t wait to start a new journey with you. And finally, a huge thank-you to my brilliant and kind editor, Chelsey Emmelhainz. How lucky am I?
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FALLEN
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An Excerpt From
FALLEN
YOU. ARE. FINE.
Twenty-five hundred for a couple hours of work, Susan reminded herself. She waited, and she waited some more. The breeze in the alley was bringing her smells from the coffee shop and a pizza joint, and it made her stomach growl. The sting in her ankle was subsiding, though, so that was good. She checked her phone again and noticed it was after ten. Maybe this guy was full of shit. How was he going to get into Waxed after hours anyway? He might work there, but that didn’t add up. It was mostly kids making minimum wage manning the desk and counting the tickets. Of course he might own the place. Or maybe . . . he was one of the artists who made the wax figures. She’d heard each statue cost over 150 grand to create, so the sculptors could definitely afford a girl like her. Her phone beeped again:
Are you in yet? Lucy asked.
No, she typed back. But just then, she heard creaking, and the back door to the museum swung open.
“Hang on a minute. I gotta check in with my boss.” She raised one finger in the sticky night air, making a point that she was texting on her phone. Then she typed I’m in and hit SEND. Her phone made the reassuring blurp of a message sent. She dumped her cell in her bag and focused on the positive: They were sneaking into the wax museum. One of the perks of working for Madam Lucille was that the clientele were not only connected, they were often creative. This guy right here was wearing what looked like a custom silk suit . . . in addition to a Charlie Chaplin mask. Tonight could make for a good story, like that Oscar extravaganza.
The john was playacting at being someone he wasn’t, and she was doing that, too. After all, she’d been pretending to be Gina since she went to work for Lucy. Her real name, Susan Smith, wasn’t nearly as catchy as Gina Lola. She’d renamed herself after Gina Lollobrigida because if she was going to be someone else, she figured it might as well be someone she wished she could be—like an exotic Italian movie star with long legs. Life was so much easier when you pretended.
You got this.
Her shoulders relaxed.
Charlie Chaplin motioned her inside, and the door slammed shut behind her, sending a cool wind across the backs of her knees. Compared to outside, the air in the narrow stairwell felt heavy and oppressive in her lungs. It was creepy dark here, but she could see light seeping around the edges of a door on the landing. It was that light, and the draw of $2,500, that kept her from calling things off right there and then.
“I’m Gina,” she said, blinking hard, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the low light. Until she walked up those stairs, she hadn’t fully committed.
Wordlessly, Charlie turned his back to her and headed toward the landing, which was somewhat reassuring, as she thought this was his way of showing her that she could stay or leave as she pleased.
Damn straight.
But, apparently, he wasn’t the talkie type—probably why he was wearing a silent film star’s mask and wig—and this was not good news for her. The talkers were the ones who didn’t require much out of a girl, and since Charlie didn’t seem to want to bend her ear, her guess was he’d have plenty of other stuff he’d want her to do for him.
Likely things he wasn’t proud of. But the mask would also keep his secrets . . . She’d never be able to identify him.
Thinking again of the fallen angels, she hesitated.
He was halfway up the stairs, and she could turn around and go if she wanted. Lucy had a no-repercussions policy. Anytime a girl felt like it, she was free to shut things down, no questions asked.
Twenty-five hundred dollars.
She followed Charlie upstairs, her high heels clicking on the industrial metal steps, her hand trailing reluctantly along the cold railing. When she reached the top, he flung open the door, and they stepped into the A-List party room at Waxed.
Her breath caught. She couldn’t help it.
Wow.
This was probably as close to being invited to a Hollywood bash as she’d ever get. To her right, Fred Astaire, dressed in black tie and tails, was dancing cheek to cheek with a lovely, and very lifelike Ginger Rogers. Ginger was wearing a beaded brocade gown that was simply too beautiful to be true. Susan walked over, reached out her hand, and let her palm slide over the heavily textured fabric. She wondered if it was a real costume from one of Ginger’s movies.
Throughout the museum, rope lights, like those used to guide your path in a dark theater, lined the perimeters of the walls. The overhead lights were off, but there was moonlight sifting in through breaks in the drapes, imparting an eerie glow to the hordes of wax figures. They looked so real, she got the feeling they might come to life and start following her with zombie arms any minute.
Her stomach flipped over.
She really wished he’d turn the lights on, but they were not supposed to be in here, so it made sense he’d keep them off. Anyway, there was plenty of ambient light for them to move around without bumping into furniture or statues or anything, so she decided to immerse herself in the experience and enjoy her private tour of Waxed. She really did want to please her customers. Especially one like Charlie, who’d be paying well for her time. “This is cool.”
Moving forward, she all but tripped over George Clooney and Matt Damon, who were laughing and clinking champagne glasses. Closing her eyes, she sniffed. She thought she could smell their aftershave. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, or the statues, or Charlie Chaplin over there, but she liked the scent. No, it couldn’t have been aftershave. The smell seemed too sweet for a man’s cologne. In her head, soft music played. Enchanted, she swung around, wishing she had on a full skirt that would fly out as she twirled, but then . . . she remembered why she was there. She clapped her arms down to her side.
With a tilt of his head, Charlie motioned to her, and she followed him into another statue-filled room, then another and another. At least ten minutes passed, and he still hadn’t spoken. She was starting to feel like she needed to take charge, or they might be here forever. She noticed Charlie wasn’t that tall for a man, and that gave her a mental advantage, made it easier for her, someone who bought her clothes in the Junior Petites department, to assume control of the situation. “Tell me what you want,” she commanded in her sultriest voice.
He shook his head.
“Show me then.”
Still, he said nothing.
Maybe he wanted her to guess. But the clock was ticking. She still might have time to squeeze in another
client if this one didn’t keep her tied up all night. “Charlie, baby,” she whispered, then licked her lips and slowly unbuttoned her blouse, just enough to reveal the tops of her breasts and her lacey red push-up bra. Even if the john didn’t specifically request it, it was a good idea to wear sexy lingerie. Lucy had a big walk-in closet, filled with specialty and designer items for the girls to borrow. Looking down at her small tits, she thought about the $2,500 that, along with Lucy’s plastic-surgery discount, would all but pay for her implants. It wouldn’t be long until she could broaden her customer base and start making real money, like Lucy said some of her other girls did. Smiling, Susan gave Charlie a come-hither finger.
At last, an obedient Charlie closed the distance between them.
Finally!
“That’s a good boy. Now, don’t worry about a thing, baby. Just tell me what you like, and we can get started.”
He stared at her, and above the silence she thought she heard the wax figures breathing. Charlie raised an arm and gently swept soft fingertips over her eyelids. She’d just bet he was one of those guys who got manicures.
“You want me to close my eyes,” she guessed.
He nodded, and she did what he wanted. In the next few seconds, she heard a faint rustling of fabric followed by a tearing noise. A spasm of unease closed her throat. What was that? Did he open a condom? Whatever he was doing, he was taking his time, so she let her lids flutter slightly open and peeked out from beneath her lashes. First, her heart stopped beating entirely, then it began to jackhammer in her chest.
Charlie was wearing latex gloves.
Unable to fully process what was happening, she froze. He raised both gloved hands toward her neck as if to strangle her
Now you panic?
Adrenaline jetted through her blood, unlocking her paralyzed limbs. She thrust her knee into his groin. Grunting, he doubled over with pain. She didn’t miss her chance. She barreled past him, racing for the door. Behind her, she heard him panting. She ran faster.
Faster.
She passed a statue and from instinct, threw out her arm and knocked Richard Gere to the floor. A loud thunk was followed by a muffled cry. Daring a look over her shoulder, she saw Charlie sprawled on the ground over the statue.
Where are those stairs?
She flew to another room and realized she was going the wrong way. The stairs were in the party room. Then she heard them. Slow, deliberate footfalls coming toward her. Trapped, she spun around, desperately searching for a weapon. Anything she could use to defend herself. A few feet to her right, moonlight bounced off a shiny object.
A sword!
She grabbed it from a statue’s hand.
But when she touched the tip, her heart sank. It was square and dull. Still, the sword was heavy, and it was all she had, so she hung on to it anyway. Wait, she had her pepper spray!
Thank God!
She reached for her shoulder bag and hot tears filled her eyes. Somewhere, somehow she’d lost her purse. With each passing moment, the footfalls grew louder, more menacing. Slow, taunting steps told her he was in no rush—promised her there was no escape.
Hide.
Edging around the room, she mashed her back against the wall, trying to find the darkest corner. That’s when she felt cold steel pressing against her spine. Too scared to breathe, she found and turned the knob, then eased through the doorway behind her before closing it softly. There were no windows inside this new room, therefore no light seeping through the drapes. Only the rope lights guided her now. It took time for her eyes to adjust, a few seconds, maybe more, then, too late to cover her scream, she clamped her hand over her mouth.
Before her, on a long table, stood an entire row of heads. Her heart jumped to her throat. She couldn’t pull air into her lungs, and after a minute, her fingers begin to tingle. Dizzy, she fell to her knees.
Get up, Susan!
Using the sword as a fulcrum, she managed to pry herself off the floor. Suddenly, her common sense kicked into gear. She was in a wax museum. Those heads—they weren’t real. Her chest loosened, and she resumed breathing. This had to be the art studio. Maybe there was another entrance. It made sense the artists would want to avoid walking through the public areas. Squinting against the darkness, she felt her way along the wall again until she was stopped by heat wafting toward her, warning her not to touch what was up ahead. In the dark, she saw shadows. No, not shadows. White vapor dissolving into black air like smoke into a night sky. That sweet scent she’d smelled earlier was so strong here—as if someone had set a thousand candles aflame. The vapors triggered a spasmodic, uncontrollable cough. When her fit finally subsided, her mouth opened in a gasp. Then, as if compelled by some unknown force, she reached out her hand, waving it over what she now could see to be a bubbling cauldron of molten wax.
Those footfalls again.
The door creaked open.
He was coming for her.
About the Author
CAREY BALDWIN is a mild-mannered doctor by day and an award-winning author of edgy suspense by night. She holds two doctoral degrees, one in medicine and one in psychology. She loves reading and writing stories that keep you off-balance and on the edge of your seat. Carey lives in the Southwestern United States with her amazing family. In her spare time she enjoys hiking and chasing wildflowers. Carey loves to hear from readers so please visit her at www.CareyBaldwin.com, on Facebook www.facebook.com/CareyBaldwinAuthor, or Twitter www.twitter.com/CareyBaldwin.
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Also by Carey Baldwin
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Judgment
Confession
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Fallen copyright © 2015 by Carey Baldwin.
NOTORIOUS. Copyright © 2016 by Carey Baldwin. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition FEBRUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780062387080
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062387097
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