Hello. Welcome to this week’s Midweek Tease. I’ll begin with an apology for missing last week. I had a close encounter with the stomach flu I don’t ever want to repeat. Laid me out for two days.
This week, I bring you another scene from No Good Deed.
Psychological chills and thrills are woven around a heartwarming love story in this action-packed romantic suspense novel.
Escaping from her abusive fiancé, Alexa O’Brien pulls into a gas station only to walk in on an execution. She’s in protective custody until she can identify Nicoli Zabat, Montreal’s mob boss, at his trial. But her safe house has been compromised, setting in motion a dangerous cat-and-mouse game.
Lieutenant Mike Delorme on the Sûreté Du Québec has spent the last eighteen months undercover in narcotics to take down Zabat, the man he blames for the death of his wife and unborn child. He doesn’t have the interest or patience to babysit a woman whose memory isn’t clear—but he’ll carry out his assignment to show the brass he’s a team player.
As Mike and Alexa dodge danger, it appears she’s in deeper than merely being in the wrong place at the wrong time. When the mafia hit she witnessed is revealed to be just the tip of an international terrorist’s plot, they must rely on each other to survive—but only if they can learn to trust their instincts and let love map out their next move.
Alexa struggled to wake, as if she were underwater and needed to break the surface to breathe. It wasn’t the first time she’d attempted the feat, but every time she got close enough to see the light, the pain was excruciating, and she would spiral down into the numbing darkness once more. This time, she broke the surface and gasped as the world around her solidified.
She was in bed, not her own, but definitely not the last one she’d slept in, her torso sheathed in a hard casing, making her feel like a turtle in its shell. The small chamber, one wall covered by drapes, reeked of antiseptic. Moving her head from side to side, she recognized the hospital room for what it was, noting the IV pole and smart pump near the bed, delivering whatever medications she needed. Not dead—then what?
A tinny voice echoed inside the room, the urgency indicating some sort of emergency, but the only word she understood was rouge. Had she ever been in a hospital where communication was clear, no matter what language it was in? Now, the voice called for Docteur Legault, chambre 237. That must be where the crisis was.
Shifting in the bed as well as she could, considering the armor she wore, and increasing the pain in her back by doing so, she wiggled her toes, lifted her legs slightly, and exhaled heavily. Thank God. She wasn’t paralyzed. The possibility had crossed her mind … memories of what had happened to those poor men filled her with sorrow, not only for them but for herself.
How long had she been here? A day? Two?
Richard had to be on his way, and when he got here, he would be furious. Once again, despite her carefully laid plans, she’d failed to escape.
She could refuse to go with him, but considering the fix she was in, doing so would only make matters worse. Using his charm, he would convince the medical staff that she was stressed, delusional, maybe even despondent. With the language he knew so well, he would pepper his speech with words like psychotic break, manic episode, bipolar, and the faces of those listening would change. He would mention her mother, and their eyelids would droop, their gaze would drift to her and move away quickly, while the corners of their mouths would pull down slightly. Every one of them would buy his story, pitying the well-known surgeon and philanthropist with the emotionally disturbed fiancée. None of it was true, but he was a professional, one of their own, and his word was as good as gold.
But when he reached for her, she would read the truth in his eyes—the anger, the possessiveness, the smugness, and finally the madness, knowing she was his prisoner once more.