by Jana DeLeon
Copyright © 2021 by Owner
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
* * *
Design and composite cover art by Rene’ DeLeon using images under license from Shutterstock.com.
Created with Vellum
For my husband Rene’, my hero.
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
Tidal Wave
* * *
“You’re not a wave. You’re part of the ocean.” – Mitch Albom
Chapter One
New York City, New York
* * *
Alayna Scott looked out from the rooftop patio at the city sprawling before her. It was close to midnight but lights from the buildings, streetlights, and the holiday decor filtered through all but the darkest alleys. She pulled her coat tighter around her body as a cold December wind touched her face. A few seconds later, tiny snowflakes began to fall. It was beautiful and yet still somewhat overwhelming. The people, the businesses, the constant rush to be more tomorrow than what you were today. Even after years of staying ahead of the curve, she was still intimidated when she thought about the vastness that was this city. And the small-town Florida girl in her felt that standing there, with the glorious view, was somewhat surreal.
“It’s getting chilly.” His voice sounded behind her and Alayna turned to smile at the attractive, well-polished man as he put his arm around her shoulder. He smelled of spice, and she knew the bit of cologne he’d applied that night probably cost more than her entire outfit. Warren Patterson III was considered by the New York social scene to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the city. He came from an old-money New England family. The kind with a summer home on Martha’s Vineyard, a villa in Italy, and political ties.
He was Harvard educated and at thirty-five years of age, ran one of the most successful hedge fund firms in the city. But the list of attributes didn’t end there. Warren was handsome and never missed his gym workout. And he was charming. Everyone who met him liked him, which meant his party invitation list was almost as long as the list of women looking to land him.
When he’d asked Alayna out, she’d been shocked.
She knew the women on the social registry who’d been gunning to add Patterson to their last name thought their relationship was a fling. One of those things that rich boys did—dating beneath them for sport or entertainment value. No one took it seriously. To be honest, neither did Alayna. Not at first.
But here they were, eight months later, and they’d been exclusive since that first date. Alayna saw the smirks every time they attended one of these events, and she saw the whispers and knew they were all about her. How she wasn’t suitable. After all, she wasn’t from a prominent New England family. She wasn’t even from a prominent Southern family. She had no social standing, no connections, and Alayna knew that everyone thought she was only after Warren for his money.
They were wrong.
Alayna enjoyed Warren’s company. He was funny and preferred active entertainment, like bike riding through Central Park, over sitting in a movie theater. And even though he often had to attend social engagements because his clients expected it, he never complained that her working hours didn’t allow her to accompany him often. Nor did he take another woman because she couldn’t attend. Alayna knew the women in Warren’s social circle didn’t like her. They put on a good show in front of Warren, of course, but he saw right through it and they often laughed later about the shallow attempts to appear to be friends.
The press, however, had the opposite view. They loved Warren and Alayna as a couple. It was the classic tale of the prince and the commoner. Plus, Alayna was a top-notch chef who’d just opened her own up-and-coming fine dining restaurant in Manhattan that year. She was young and pretty and was conquering a market that many never even got to try their hand at. They were a modern-day fairy tale.
“I’ve made the rounds,” Warren said. “Heard all the boring stories that I’m required to hear. Shaken the hands I’m supposed to shake. Agreed to far too many golf dates—”
“And skirted how many offers from eligible women?”
He grinned. “I didn’t count. Are you ready to get out of here?”
“Since my face feels like it’s turning blue, I’m going with yes.”
“A rooftop party in December…not the best idea, although the view is spectacular.”
She nodded and they worked their way toward the double doors that led back into the building. Warren paused along the way to shake hands and acknowledge promises made, and it was another twenty minutes before they finally got into the elevator. Alayna, who’d worked closing at her restaurant the night before and had finally fallen into bed at 3:00 a.m., had been fighting back a yawn all night. She finally gave in once the elevator door closed.
“You didn’t get to sleep late this morning?” Warren asked.
“No. I had to go in early to do the food order, then there was an issue with the walk-in and the company was hassling me over warranty work. I finally got that handled and was about to walk out the door when André sliced his hand during prep.”
“Ouch. Is he all right?”
“Ten stitches, and he has to take the rest of the week off.”
Warren nodded in understanding. “So you ended up filling in.”
“Just for the afternoon until Marnie could get there to cover. But by the time I got home, I was too wound up to sleep so I ended up working on the holiday specials I’m adding to the menu.”
“What time do you have to be in tomorrow?”
“Midafternoon. I’m working close again.”
“Then how about a quick nightcap at my place and we crash? I can have Lawrence drive you to your apartment tomorrow whenever you wake up.”
It was tempting. Warren’s penthouse was only a couple blocks away, whereas a trip to her apartment in Brooklyn, even at this time of night, was far longer. If she stayed the night with Warren, she could be asleep before she would be unlocking the front door of her apartment.
“That sounds great,” she said. “You sure I won’t be in the way in the morning?”
“Of course not. I have a ten o’clock meeting but even if I didn’t, your sleeping is hardly hindering me from going to work. Just give me a call when you’re ready and I’ll send the car.”
Alayna smiled, still slightly in awe of the lifestyle that Warren considered normal. A car with a full-time driver at his beck and call. A penthouse with a prime location near Times Square. A private jet that, on a rare three days off, he’d used to take her to the Bahamas for a quick stay at the vacation home his parents had just purchased. Vacation home, they called it. Alayna would have called the ten-thousand-square-foot home with servants’ quarters and full-time staff an estate.
Warren’s car, a new Rolls-Royce, was waiting for them up front. The driver, an older Italian man named Gino, stood beside it waiting to open the door. He greeted
them both with a nod and then proceeded to drive the short distance to Warren’s building. He let them out in the drive where the building valet opened the car door and the door to the building, then pressed the button on the elevator. The level of service that Warren received always made Alayna slightly uncomfortable, but Warren, who’d grown up with it, never seemed to notice.
The elevator opened into Warren’s penthouse condo and, as she did every time she entered, Alayna took in the incredible view of the city that the wall of glass windows offered. It was even more stunning than the rooftop view she’d had minutes earlier, and much warmer.
Warren headed into the kitchen. “Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked. “A shot of bourbon to warm up, maybe?”
“Actually, I think I’ll just take water and get changed out of this dress. I haven’t taken a deep breath in hours.”
He poured S.Pellegrino into a beautiful red crystal glass and brought it to her where she stood in front of the window.
“The shallow breathing was worth it,” he said. “You’re stunning. Every man at the party was green with envy when I walked in with you on my arm.”
“And every woman was plotting how to trip me near the balcony.”
He smiled and leaned in to kiss her. “Probably. Can you blame them? You have it all, Alayna. You’re beautiful and talented. And you have a mind for something other than the latest fashion or what a Kardashian did this afternoon.”
“One of them had salad and champagne at an outdoor café in Beverly Hills. But I don’t know which one.”
“Which outdoor café?”
“No. Which Kardashian. I always remember the restaurant.”
He laughed. “Of course you do. I’ve been thinking. Once the holidays are over and things settle down, maybe we could take a trip to Italy.”
“Seriously?”
“You’ve been wanting to add some Italian dishes to your menu. No better way to make the perfect selection than going straight to the source for an extensive taste test.”
“That would be incredible. I mean, assuming we could both get time away.”
“We’ll make it work. I’m going to take a shower before I turn in.”
She nodded and as he started to turn, she heard the ding of the elevator. That was strange. Who would be accessing Warren’s condo at this hour? Warren went completely still, and as Alayna turned, the elevator door opened and four men wearing suits and brandishing firearms rushed in.
“Hands up where I can see them,” the first man ordered.
Alayna dropped the wineglass and it shattered on the white marble floor, scattering shards of red glass across the pristine surface. She felt the sting on her legs as some of the glass connected with her bare skin, and she threw her arms in the air, completely panicked. Were they being robbed? By men wearing suits? How had they gotten past security? She looked over at Warren and saw him standing there, his arms up and his expression completely blank. What the hell was going on?
“FBI Special Agent Kurt Davies,” the man with the gun said. He pulled ID out of his pocket with his free hand and showed her before looking at Warren. “Warren Patterson, you’re under arrest for money laundering and fraud. You have the right…”
Alayna swayed as the FBI agent’s words all ran together. She stumbled a bit as a wave of dizziness washed over her, and one of the other men grabbed her by the shoulders and assisted her onto the couch.
FBI? Money laundering? Fraud?
Those words kept playing through her mind like a broken record, but they made no more sense after the hundredth repetition than they had when the agent first uttered them. It must be a mistake. They’d made a mistake is all. Warren wasn’t a criminal. He was a successful, educated businessman from a well-respected family.
“Ms. Scott?” Agent Davies’s voice sounded above her. “I’m afraid you’re under arrest as well.”
She bolted upright and stared at him, not understanding what he’d said.
“What? I’ve done nothing wrong. This is all a mistake. It has to be a mistake.”
“No mistake,” Agent Davies said. “Alayna Scott, you’re under arrest for accessory—and…”
She swayed again and this time, everything went black.
Chapter Two
Five months later.
* * *
FBI Special Agent Kurt Davies pushed the document across the desk. “All we need is your signature and this is all over. At least until trial.”
Alayna eyed the papers as if they were a venomous snake. And that wasn’t far from the truth. It had been five months since the FBI burst into Warren’s condo. Five months since she’d learned that the man whom she’d thought was near perfect was as big a fraud as the crimes he’d committed. Five months since her entire life had begun to fall apart, leaving her with even less than she’d had the first day she set foot in New York City. In the city that never forgot, no reputation was infinitely better than a bad one.
She lifted the pen and twisted the top back and forth. The DA had assured her that her testimony was required but by no means the only thing that would put Warren in prison. In his opinion, she was safe from retribution. Alayna still wasn’t convinced that the word ‘safe’ applied, but the DA and the FBI had been insistent. Warren was a white-collar criminal, not a serial killer. The FBI had accumulated tons of evidence against him. Hard evidence—paperwork, bank transactions, even recorded conversations.
But despite all the reassurances, Alayna still felt vulnerable, as if by signing the document that kept her out of the hot seat with federal law enforcement, she was autographing her own death warrant. Or maybe she was just beyond exhausted and had seen too many movies.
Davies, sensing her hesitation and the reason behind it, leaned forward in his chair. “Remember everything we discussed. We have solid evidence to support the charges against Mr. Patterson. You don’t really have much to help our case because you were unaware of Patterson’s business practices. I know you feel this puts you at risk, but there are simply too many people he’d need to eliminate to even attempt to save himself, and he can’t make the paper trail disappear, so adding a bunch of murder-for-hire charges to his sheet isn’t the smart move.”
“Laundering money for drug dealers wasn’t the smart move, either.”
“The smart ones never think they’ll be caught. Regardless, there’s a whole list of people with more pertinent testimony than what you can offer.”
“Yeah, but none of those people were dating him,” Alayna said, almost choking on the words.
For eight months, she’d dated a man she didn’t even know. She’d thought she did, of course, but when the FBI had led them both out in handcuffs, she’d been made painfully aware that Warren’s carefully constructed life was all an illusion and she’d simply been part of the scenery. One of the many items Warren surrounded himself with that made him look normal.
But the FBI and the DA had laid out the facts—Warren had been laundering money for a Colombian drug cartel, creating shell companies complete with unknowing investors, in order to clean the money. She’d been so shocked she didn’t believe it at first. Warren barely even drank and never smoked. He’d never been arrested or even accused of a crime. How could he be involved with something as sordid as drugs? But then the DA showed her some of the evidence against him, and her shock had slowly shifted to overwhelming humiliation.
How had she missed this? She’d shared her life, bed, and dreams with a man who wasn’t at all who he pretended to be. The Warren she knew was a hedge fund manager with a stellar reputation for making his clients an excellent return. He was a philanthropist who contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars to charities every year, a patron of the arts, and he attended Mass almost every Sunday. How could that Warren and the Warren that the FBI exposed possibly be the same person?
Agent Davies had assured her that Warren was one of the best he’d ever encountered at presenting a different face. It was one of the main reasons it had taken so long t
o lock onto him. And even if some cast a side-eye at the speed of his success in the finance industry, she figured they’d put it down to his old-money connections. No one would have guessed that he was laundering money for Juan Rivera, the head of one of Colombia’s most notorious cartels.
Warren had asked to speak to Alayna after his arrest, but she’d refused even though the FBI would have allowed it. She figured they probably would have liked to listen in and see if they could get more dirt, but she didn’t want to see Warren. At first, she’d been too shocked, too frozen with disbelief, and then later, she’d been overwhelmed with hurt and disappointment, mostly in herself. He wasn’t supposed to have any way to contact her, but he’d managed to send flowers—two dozen roses—with a card that read simply, “I’m sorry. Warren.”
She’d taken the flowers from the delivery guy, called for a car service, and taken them straight to FBI headquarters, not even wanting the toxic bouquet to cross the threshold into her apartment. Even though she’d purged the unit of everything that had reminded her of Warren, it was still hard to be there—sitting on the same sofa where they’d shared a glass of wine and tales of their workday, dining at the same kitchen counter where they’d discussed one of her latest creations. She hadn’t even attempted to sleep in her bed, opting for the couch instead. Too many memories, and none of them real.
Because Warren wasn’t real.
His family had immediately distanced themselves from the public following his arrest and issued a statement to the press about the sadness and disappointment they felt over their son’s actions. Then they’d gotten cleared by the FBI and retreated to Italy. Alayna didn’t know if they’d ever returned to New York. They’d never made an effort to contact her, even when the FBI had made it clear that Alayna was not part of Warren’s dealings. But then that was hardly surprising. She’d never spent any time with his parents or sisters except for the occasional charity event and even then, it was all surface level.