Deceptions of the Heart
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Deceptions
of the Heart
by
Denise Moncrief
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Deceptions of the Heart
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Denise Moncrief
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
RJ Morris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2013
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-914-8
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Denise Moncrief
“I finished the book in a few days and I was completely enthralled in the story and couldn’t read the book fast enough. I was wrapped up in all the twists and turns and definitely surprised by the ending. Overall, this book is a quick, entertaining and very suspenseful read.”
~Sara, Chick Lit Plus
“What a unique story line. I love how the secrets unfold and are effortlessly stitched together to paint a suspenseful mystery. Rhonda is a flawed woman as is Jennifer, but the combined personality that emerges is very likable and sincere. I like Anson and feel bad for the man. Many mysteries I have read give up clues too easily, but not
DECEPTIONS OF THE HEART
. I have been left guessing until the very end. Wonderfully done, Ms. Moncrief.”
~HC Harju, Coffee Time Romance
“
DECEPTIONS OF THE HEART
is a very thought-provoking story that keeps you guessing and will surprise you a bit in the end.”
~Stacey, Sizzling Hot Book Reviews
Dedication
For Larry, the most wonderful husband in the world.
Chapter One
My subconscious threw slumber off like a heavy comforter until the sudden awareness of unfamiliar surroundings jerked my eyelids open. Fine Egyptian cotton brushed my skin. Soft morning light filtered through the blinds on the floor-to-ceiling windows. Rich mahogany furnishings gleamed with a reddish-gold glow. Real wood. Not the fake stuff. Not a veneer in sight. Across the room, a chaise offered relaxation in front of a fireplace with the promise of a warm fire and a comforting throw.
My hands pushed against the tension building in my chest. Sliding over the side of the bed, I held my breath until my bare feet hit the hardwood floor. The splash of running water trickled from behind a closed door. The tension in my chest relaxed. Alex was whistling as he often did in the shower. I crossed the room and nudged the door open, a question hovering on my tongue. Steam shrouded the bath in wisps of billowy white. The rush of water ceased and the shower door popped open. I opened my mouth to speak. Water dripped from his body as he reached for a towel. Above average height. Medium build. Light brown hair. Not Alex.
A scream wedged in the back of my throat.
I whipped my eyes from his nakedness and scanned the room for an escape route. The king-sized bed blocked my path to the bedroom door. I rolled onto the mattress and pulled the soft sheets up to my neck. My breath escaped in huffs and puffs while I tried to steady my nerves.
Perceptions floated through my mind as if I’d been drugged. No broken bones. No aches or pains. No apparent violation.
If he’s a kidnapper, would he allow me the luxury of sleeping late? No. Wouldn’t I wake up in a dungeon, or under a dark hole on a cold, stone floor. Maybe even on a filthy pallet or a mangy cot?
I checked my wrists. No abrasions from duct tape.
When the man emerged from the bath, I shuttered my eyes, daring to peek from beneath my lashes. He disappeared into a walk-in closet. I pushed up on my elbow. One of my feet dared to peek from beneath the comforter, then the other. Before I could wiggle to the edge of the mattress, he returned to the bedroom and stood in front of the dresser. He sighed as he stared into the mirror, sucked in his gut and released it, then ran his fingers through his hair. I drew first one foot then the other beneath the covers while he buttoned his shirt sleeves and straightened his tie.
He hovered near the bed as I feigned sleep. Poised over me for a horribly long time, he never uttered a word. I stifled a flinch when he brushed the hair from my face. The gentle glide of his fingertips across my cheek sent a shock racing through my limbs. He dragged in a deep, ragged breath and then lifted a suit jacket from a chair. After he shut the door behind him with a near silent swoosh, I lowered the bedcovers from my chin and released the breath I’d been holding.
While I waited for my pulse to return to normal, the hum of early morning slipped under the bedroom door—the comforting, everyday noises of a household starting the day. The drone of conversation ebbed and flowed, floating toward me from beyond the bedroom door. Sounds drifted through the window from outside the house. The churn of a garage door opener. The roar of a high-powered engine. The crunch of wheels on gravel. I leapt from the bed and threw back the heavy drapes. A Jag pulled into the street in front of the house. I stood stock still, breathing in and out.
Hysteria insinuated its warped fingers into the convoluted whorls and ridges of my psyche. Tears welled in the corners of my eyes, but I swiped them away. I clawed at the flimsy lingerie that threatened to slip from my shoulders as if it was eating my skin, pulled the top over my head and threw the offending garment on the floor, leaving my upper body exposed. My eyes traveled down my torso. A rough trail dissected the middle of my chest, right between the ribs. I stared at the oddity, fascinated, horrified, and perplexed. My nail traced the scar. The surgery was months, maybe years, old.
I ripped through the room until I found a huge walk-in closet full of women’s clothing. Row upon row of shoes were arranged neatly on the floor, handbags lined the top shelf. The Fendi I’d been gazing at for weeks lay toward the back of the stack as if it were yesterday’s toy. My shaky hand snatched open the nearest drawer filled with every accessory imaginable. I slammed the drawer shut.
I borrowed a matching shirt and skirt. With another woman’s clothes on my back, I dared to look into the full-length mirror. I tensed. Someone was in the closet with me. I touched my cheek. She touched hers. I blinked, she blinked. The face reflected back at me wasn’t mine, yet there I stood, facing the mirror, gazing at my own reflection.
I stuffed my hand in my mouth and dropped to the floor. Every hard thing I’d endured in the past few months came barreling out of my tear ducts, cascading down my cheeks, falling onto someone else’s expensive couture. I rubbed the unwanted moisture away with the flat of my hand, then closed my eyes and forced them open again. Nothing changed in the interim.
****
When I entered the kitchen, I braked as soon as I crossed the threshold. A woman hovered over the stove, stirring something in a large cast-iron skillet. She startled and spun on her heel. I gasped and stepped back, bumping into the closed door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Cristobal,” she said in an East Indian accent. “Will you take breakfast in your office this morning?” A jewel adorned the middle of her forehead, over the bridge of her nose. Her dress glimmered with rich tones embellished with gold embroidery. Neat and tidy, her dark, black hair was knotted in a bun at the nape of her neck. She studied me with surgical precision.
I was speechless for an awkward moment, gathering my wits like so many scattered marbles. A throbbing pulse beat against my temple. Rubbing at the growing ache, I tried to concentrate on the woman’s question. My stomach protested at the thought of eating.
“Um…yes, of course,” I mumbled.
“Aren’t you feeling well?” She blinked her cat eyes at me.
“No. I don’t quite feel myself.” I waited for her to mention how odd I was acting, but she didn’t.
“You scared us last night.” Irritation accented her words, as if scaring her was an inconvenience she must tolerate. The threat of danger fell over my shoulders. I shrugged it off, but fine fibers of dread clung to me like pet dander.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Don’t you remember?”
Brilliance caught my eye. A large diamond on my ring finger glittered in the morning sun that streamed through the kitchen window. She cleared her throat. The pounding in my head increased in pitch. A dull roar throbbed against my eardrums.
I shifted my eyes back to hers. “No. Not really.”
“You fainted.” Doubt edged her words.
“I did?”
“We were afraid you were having another episode.” She lowered her head, but not quite soon enough to hide her disdain. “Your color is off this morning. Maybe you should lie down.”
I shook my head. “I’d like coffee with cream, no sugar…please.” My voice cracked.
“I have already drained the coffee.”
“Why?”
She smiled with what appeared to be restrained indulgence. “When did you start drinking coffee?” She reached for the decanter and prepared to make a fresh pot.
“I’ve…” I stopped, unsure of my answer. “I would like some this morning.” My demand was crisp, much as would be expected if I had been used to giving servants instructions all my life.
By the time I made my desire known, the pot was already dripping. “As you wish,” she murmured.
“I’ll be in…my office.”
She nodded—her back to me.
Did I dismiss her or did she dismiss me?
After opening several doors along a hallway off the kitchen, I found an office. The stationery on the desk had a large embossed
J
engraved on the surface in shiny, gold metallic foil. I sat in a comfortable leather chair, examining J. Cristobal’s day planner. She planned to meet someone named Marnie for lunch. I studied the notation—underlined twice in red ink—grooved into the page as if J had pushed anger into writing Marnie’s name.
I swiveled in the chair as the housekeeper entered the room on the pads of her cat-paw feet. She carried a silver tray laden with cantaloupe slices, oatmeal, and cheese. Next to the breakfast feast rested one tightly budded red rose and a rolled newspaper. A silver carafe gleamed in the light, emitting the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She set the tray on a side table, leaving as quietly as she entered.
As I hesitated over the food, my eyes strayed across the room. Hanging on the burgundy wall was a portrait as light as the wall behind it was dark. The arch of a gazebo rose above a smiling couple on their wedding day. Ivy covered the lower reaches, obscuring the bottom of the structure. The couple appeared to float out of the greenery below them. The bride was not much younger than the face I saw in the mirror. Her dress in candlelight-white swirled around her feet, a long cathedral train fell from her back and cascaded down the short steps. The sun shone golden around the newlyweds as if nothing in the world could ever tear them apart.
Her husband was the man who stood over me while I faked sleep.
Chapter Two
The handsomest man I’d ever seen barged into the office without even a polite tap on the door. His sudden appearance yanked the breath from my lungs. I had always considered my husband Alex gifted with good looks, but this man was Hollywood gorgeous. Broad shoulders, azure eyes, unblemished skin, a pleasingly shaped mouth. Perfect for a camera close up.