©Kristel Ralston 2020.
Flirting with Revenge.
Original Title: La venganza equivocada (2016).
All rights reserved.
Safe Creative N. 2008125004413.
Cover design: Karolina García Rojo. ©AdobePhotoStock.
Translator: Sabina Bruckner.
Editor: Selch&Co.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This is a literary work of fiction. The places, names, circumstances and characters are a product of the author’s imagination, and the use made of them is fictitious; any resemblance to reality, commercial establishments (businesses), situations or facts are merely coincidence.
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
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
To my readers in different parts of the planet, thank you so much for your support. Without you, I would not be able to keep writing novels with happy ever afters.
CHAPTER 1
Maine, United States.
The sun had set in Ogunquit, a beautiful beach town in the state of Maine. It was a fairly touristy place, with a relatively small community. The lights of the beachfront homes were on, and the summer breeze, steeped in the salty smell of the sea, drifted from one side to the other. That July evening, taking advantage of the good weather, Rachel Galloway’s friends convinced her to go to the beach.
The local authorities had issued a ban on bonfires along the area’s beaches. Perhaps that was precisely what made Mitch, Roger, Lynda, and Tamera even more enthusiastic about carrying out the plan. For the first time in ages, Rachel agreed to ignore her cautious side. After all, you were only nineteen once in your life.
With the graceful agility she was known for, Rachel put on comfortable shoes to protect her feet from the rocks, and dressed in the summer clothing she usually wore: shorts and a fitted cotton blouse. In the past three years, she’d gotten used to living in a sunny town on the beach, so Rachel took good care of her white skin. With red hair and blue eyes, she had an exotic appearance and did not want for suitors, but she had no interest in any of them. The silly kisses she’d shared with town boys had meant nothing to her. Besides, she had different priorities on her mind.
Rachel did not plan to stay in that small community. Ogunquit was the place that had adopted her three years ago when, after a nefarious incident had separated her from her older sister, Piper, she came to live with the only family she had left: her aunt Ariel. She was filled with pain and hate by the memory of how, in an instant, everything she ever knew was disrupted by an injustice that had sent Piper to prison.
Rachel missed Chicago, its large stores, libraries and restaurants, and her friend Delaney, but more than anything, she wanted to be far away from the typical small-town gossip. She was not interested in knowing what everyone else did with their lives in Ogunquit. She’d placed all her professional expectations on her return to Chicago.
She wanted an anonymous life in a city where only her professional talent could make her stand out. She yearned to conquer the financial markets. And she had applied, several weeks ago, to the University of Chicago, where she planned to major in business. Every day that went by without an answer was agony. She tried to stay optimistic, but she preferred not to get her hopes up too much, in case the result wasn’t what she expected. Life had taken so much from her, that Rachel preferred to be pragmatic. And that pragmatism was what prevented her from going crazy while she waited for a letter back from Chicago.
The evening breeze played with her hair. She adjusted her ponytail and took a deep breath. The sea air was revitalizing.
She could not complain about the nature that surrounded her, because she loved it. And it would probably be the one thing, other than her aunt Ariel, that she would miss the most if she managed to go back to Chicago soon.
“Won’t that be a bit risky?” she asked when her friends started to go into an area with few houses. Rachel’s eyes darted from side to side, trying not to trip. They had already been walking for a while.
“Of course not, Rachel. We’ll build the bonfire there,” said Roger Moorehouse, pointing towards a sort of clearing. The freckle-faced buy was strong-willed. “First we have to go through the area with those five houses way over there.”
“That would be invading private property,” Rachel replied, crossing her arms.
Lynda, the most popular girl in the class, frowned at her.
“The beach is public property.”
“Yes, but the tide has come in a bit, and if don’t want to risk it, we’ll have to cross some gardens, which are not public property.”
“No problem there,” said Mitch. His father was the owner of the only supermarket in the area, as well as a five-star casino frequented by people who wanted to bet large amounts of money in a safe, discreet location.
“Stop talking, guys, and let’s keep going,” interjected Tamera, a brunette who loved being a cheerleader for the town’s football team. She took Rachel by the arm pull her along. “Everything will be fine. We’ll roast marshmallows, and then we’ll go back home, and that’s it.”
“I just hope we won’t get in trouble,” whispered Rachel, following the path Roger was setting for everyone.
They walked for several more minutes, stealthily made their way through some private gardens, and then kept going towards the enclave.
They built a bonfire with ease, and stayed there for a long time, talking and laughing about the season’s antics, until, before they realized it, the fire started dying down. It was a relaxed evening, and Rachel was glad she’d put her misgivings aside. They ate s’mores, drank some soda, and when Tamera pulled a few sausages out of her bag, they all laughed; even so, nobody refused the offer when the smell of roasted food hit their senses.
It was close to eleven when they collected their garbage and put it in bags. They distributed the bags equally among themselves and then started the walk home together. The moon was shining brightly and seemed to guide them. But none of them were stupid; they all carried flashlights. The stars lit the skies, but not the path.
“Hey, you there!” yelled an authoritative voice; it sounded very close, all of a sudden. Frightened, the teens looked at each other. “You can’t loiter on the beach at this hour!” insisted the stranger’s voice.
The group of friends all turned at the same time when the bright beam of a flashlight hit them. The same light led towards the spot where they had sat around the bonfire; they had not gotten far. Rachel squinted. No, it was not a bright flashlight, but the headlights of a police car that was patrolling the area around the beach.
The teens looked at each other. And ran.
“Stop!” ordered another commanding voice. Neither of the officers managed to get the kids to obey. “Roger Moorehouse, I recognize you, wait until I get my hands on you!”
Nobody turned or stopped. They swerved, and each teen focused on saving their skin. Rachel felt disorientated, anxious, and was scared of going headfirst into a rocky ledge and hurting herself as she fled. ‘That’s what I get for being foolish and adventurous,’ she thought moodi
ly. She ran on the uneven sand until she was out of breath. She knew that the officers were after them, so Rachel did not stop running. She was desperate because she had no way of knowing where her friends were, except for the beams from their flashlights that turned on and off.
Thanks to those flashlights, she managed to see some sort of giant rock. She hid behind it and tried to slow her breathing as if that could betray her position.
A few seconds later she heard the police officers walk past, very close to her hiding spot, a couple of beams bouncing off the dark sand. When Rachel felt safe from her pursuers, she knelt for a few moments, her hands resting on her knees. With her head bent down towards the sand, she tried to catch her breath.
Once she was sure she was no longer in danger, she lifted her eyes and left her hiding spot.
She saw one of the nearby houses and decided to look for a shortcut and find a quicker way to the street. All the homes in that neighborhood were designed with two main doors: one leading to the beach, and the backyard door, leading to the street. This house could not be an exception.
Relieved to have found a solution to get home safe and sound, she started to walk briskly. The breeze was cool, and she was only wearing beach clothing. She was usually cautious, but the evening temperatures could vary wildly.
Once she was hidden in the garden of that quaint two-story house, she waited. She perked her ears, wary of any movement nearby. Absolute silence.
She breathed slowly as if breathing hard could cause a problem. She hated being paranoid, but she had been truly scared. She slowly crept along a backyard side alley, when her blouse got caught on something.
The scratch she felt on her skin forced a nervous, high-pitched squeal from her throat. She turned her flashlight on and focused the beam on a sharp steel hook. She untangled herself, but one side of her blouse ripped. She ran her finger over the wound. Blood. It wasn’t a deep cut, she could feel it, but it was bleeding and hurt like hell. She bit her lip to avoid crying out. One scream in the night could be ignored, but not two. She hoped that the owners of the house stayed quiet. The lights were out, and there was no sound.
She advanced carefully through the alley and found herself in the garden. She was almost out onto the street. She only had to take a few more steps, exit the backyard, and open the door. She pointed the flashlight in front of her. A lock. She was good with hairpins. She pulled a few hairpins out of her hair, and as she did, wavy locks cascaded down her back. She did not care. All she wanted was to get back home to clean her wound. Now she remembered why she never listened to her adventurous side, and why she preferred to keep it dormant.
In pain and annoyed, she struggled with the lock, mumbling curses under her breath.
The lock would not yield. It looked rusty as if the door to the street had not been used in years. She looked around, aided by the flashlight. If she used the shovel that was propped up in the corner of the yard, she could open the lock and leave faster. It was a perfect idea, she thought.
She started walking towards the corner, but instead of finding fresh air, her body bumped into a hard and unequivocally living fortress. She was about to scream when a large, heavy hand clapped over her mouth, while another squeezed her arm, twisting it behind her back, before forcing her to walk forward and pressing her, with no remorse at all, against what seemed to be a metal fence.
She tried to scream, but she was held tight. Her face was pressed against the metal. She clenched her jaw as if that would help her contain the sting and the tears that fought to burst out due to the pressure this hulk was putting on her.
“If you don’t stop kicking, I’ll toss you to the ground, but not before breaking your arm, you little weasel,” said a strong, deep male voice behind her. “Now, shut up.”
His warm breath close to her ear unsettled Rachel. ‘What if this stranger strangled her?’ Seized with panic, but heeding the threat, she stopped defending herself. But she did not stop trying to break free. A futile attempt, because the man’s strength was superior. She could feel his power surge from the position she was in. He was at her back, and she felt completely defenseless and unable to breathe. She was sure that the blow from that brute slamming her inconsiderately against the metal fence would leave bruises.
“I’ll let go of your mouth,” the man told her. “If you try to bite me or yell, I’ll drag you just as you are to the police station. Now, will you remain calm?”
Rachel nodded vigorously.
“Good,” he replied, gently opening his fingers. She gasped in a mouthful of air, trying to calm her nerves. A very complicated task, since the stranger was still holding her tight, her back flush against him. “Who are you, and why are you robbing my home?”
“I... I’m not stealing,” she murmured, with hardly any air in her lungs. “I... my name is Rachel...”
Michael had already realized she was a girl. But man or woman, thieves were scum, all the same.
He’d been looking for a keychain in his study when he noticed a light coming from the side alley. Without thinking twice, he quietly crept down to the backyard, and when he saw someone trying to open the lock on the back door that led to the street, he did not hesitate to grab the intruder from behind and pushing them ruthlessly against the door. He could have punched and winded an intruder, even shot them, but the last thing he wanted was to be prosecuted for homicide. He had enough problems.
The area where he lived in Ogunquit was very quiet; in fact, that was why he agreed to stay at the holiday home on the beach, which he had received as part of an inheritance some time ago. Intruders were not usually an issue, and the police kept the area under control because it was a very exclusive neighborhood with few visitors.
“Rachel,” he repeated her name as if he were digesting it. He still hadn’t fully let her go. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen...” She gulped. “Will you... will you let me go?”
“No. At least not until you tell me what you were doing here at this hour,” he answered calmly. She was no danger to him. He felt the warmth of the girl’s body and liked the way she fit into his arms. It was a stupid thought, but he could not help it.
Grudgingly, Rachel gave him a quick summary of what had happened just moments before. She hated having to explain herself. Michael’s hand brushed her wound as he let go of her arm, and she let out a cry of pain.
He jumped back the moment he felt something sticky between his fingers. He did not need to ask what it was. Without hesitating, he took her in his arms and took her into the house. Rachel’s protests did not faze him at all.
He pushed the door to the alley open with his shoulder, walked into the house and turned on the living room light. He put the girl on the sofa and took a step back to finally see the face that, until that moment, had been a mystery.
When he looked at Rachel, he was surprised. ‘A beauty,’ was his first thought. Full lips on a mouth that seemed to prone to pouting, flashing blue eyes, and wavy red hair that fell below her shoulders. His gaze stopped on her torn, blood-stained blouse. He cursed under his breath.
Rachel looked at him, nervous. He was a very handsome man. His appeal did not lie in the perfection of his features, but in a virile way, they came together. He looked nothing like her skinny friends, or like her suitors, who went to the gym, mistakenly thinking that they were fit and muscular. The man that stood before her, examining her just as closely, had rumpled hair and wore gray slacks and a black sleeveless t-shirt. The outfit emphasized his athletic build.
The way he wore his black hair, rumpled, in contrast to his striking green eyes, made an impression. And Rachel considered herself hard to impress. She could not remember seeing him at the regional market or in local meetings.
“I’m Michael,” he introduced himself with a smile when he noticed how Rachel was studying him. “Did you hurt yourself anywhere other than your side?”
What mess had she gotten herself into? she thought uneasily. Perhaps this Michael seemed harmless,
but did not serial killers look harmless too?
“No... no. Only the side and a few minor scrapes,” she lied. They were not minor scrapes, since they stung. She did not like to complain, so she planned on enduring the pain. After all, who could she blame for the situation she was in, other than herself?
“Good. Wait here a minute. Don’t try to escape. That was a bit foolish, walking around on the beach at this time of night. You could have fallen on the slippery rocks and hit your head,” he admonished her.
“But...” Rachel started to complain; however, she could not get the words out. She was overwhelmed. Michael was already walking down the hallway, so she would not have been heard anyway.
Despite the pain, Rachel relaxed into the worn cushions. The living room was paneled in wood, and the décor demonstrated good taste. You could say that Michael was a man of significant means.
She tried to stand up to examine the details on a beautiful piece of ceramic on a cabinet, but when she moved, she felt a sharp pain on her wounded side. She heard Michael’s steps and decided to stay where she was.
Michael came in holding a small first aid kit. He sat next to the girl, and when he did, he had no choice but to sit right next to her.
“I need you to take off that blouse,” he asked, indifferently.
Rachel gulped.
“I don’t...”
“I’m not trying to seduce you, Rachel. If I was, you’d know it,” he stated in a firm, pragmatic tone. “Here,” he handed her one a blue shirt, which he had pulled out of his chest of drawers, “if you’re reasonable, you’ll realize that your blouse is ruined. You understand?” She nodded. “Good. I’ll dress your wound, and then I can tell you where the bathroom is, so you can change. Agreed?”
Rachel nodded again and looked at him. She had no option other than to trust him.
“While I take care of your wound, you can pour a bit of alcohol on a cotton ball, to disinfect your hands and arms.”
“All right,” she murmured. She hated to be ordered around, but arguing was useless. Besides, he was right, and she was wounded.
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