Vows of Vengeance. Rita Herron
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with strawberries and whipped cream on her belly. With chocolate sauce on her thighs, and promises in her eyes.
But that eerie premonition clutched at his chest again, and he felt for his gun, removed it from his jacket and slipped inside the room. All was quiet.
Eerily quiet.
Stella was nowhere to be seen.
He glanced at the bathroom but heard nothing. Only a daunting silence. As if the air couldn’t move. As if death had taken residence inside.
His gaze flew to the bed. On top of it lay the white sundress Stella had worn to the chapel. Blood dotted the skirt. The spaghetti straps looked as if they’d been torn.
Shock and horror momentarily paralyzed him. What the hell was going on?
He rushed to examine the damaged dress, picked it up and sniffed the blood to make certain it was real. A mental image of Stella wearing it down the aisle flashed in his head. The bodice had stretched tight over her breasts, the scalloped skirt swirling around her slender bare legs.
His throat closed, confusion and fear clawing at him.
Where was she?
He scanned the room in search of a clue. Her white stilettos were underneath the bed as if she’d kicked them off. The bouquet of fresh flowers had been crushed. Tossed on the end table.
And her suitcase was missing.
Instincts honed by years of training kicked in. He angled himself sideways and approached the bathroom, his imagination going wild. Other images flashed before his eyes. Stella on the floor bleeding. In the tub, drowned. Stella with her neck sliced open. Her eyes staring into space in death.
He’d seen it all before. The horrors of mankind.
But God, not on his wedding night. Not to his bride.
His lungs tightened as he peeked through the door. But no one was inside. The shower stall was closed. She might be hiding behind it.
So might an attacker.
Inching through the doorway, he poised his gun, ready to fire, then jerked open the door.
But it was just as empty as the room. Only a bottle of Stella’s raspberry scented shampoo lay on the floor, the contents spilling over, the red color floating in puddles like blood.
Something bad had happened to Stella.
He flew back to the room, scanned it one more time. A piece of hotel stationery was crumpled on the floor as if it had fluttered there when he’d opened the door.
A ransom note? A Dear John goodbye?
One ear cocked for sounds of an intruder, he leaned over and read the note.
“Don’t come after me. Goodbye.”
The writing was shaky. The note scribbled. A drop of blood dotted the white.
Had she decided their marriage was a mistake, or had she met with foul play?
Rational thoughts kicked in. If she had left of her own accord, why would there be blood?
He grabbed the phone, called security, identified himself as FBI, then ordered them to get someone up to his room. Within minutes, a chunky man with rumpled clothing and a name tag that read Ted appeared.
Ted frowned as he entered. “You reported that your wife is missing?”
Luke nodded, and removed a photo, the only one he had. The wedding photo of them kissing at the chapel. Thunderous emotions rose in his throat at the sight.
In the photo Stella had clung to him. She had looked happy. She had wanted to marry him and be his wife.
“We’ll call the local police.” Ted cocked a brow. “But, sir, are you sure she didn’t just, er…” He cleared his throat and glanced away, his face turning red. “Leave you?”
“There’s blood on her dress,” Luke snapped. His emotions pinged back and forth between fear and panic. And there was more. He had wanted to make a life with Stella. Had finally carved a place in his heart for a woman. Now it felt as if someone had jammed a knife in his aorta, and his own blood was spurting out.
It was unbelievable. Luke Devlin was an agent, a hardass, a man who investigated cases for others. He’d never been personally involved in a case before. That is, except for his partner J.T.’s recent death.
The man glanced at the dress, then at Luke and took a step back. A wary look darkened his eyes.
Luke looked down and realized he’d made a fatal mistake. He’d touched the dress. It held the scent of his cologne. His dirty handprints muddied the white.
And his fingerprints were all over the room. His day had gone from bad to horrible to worse. He was the husband, the one who’d called in the crime.
When the police came, they’d treat him as a suspect.
As if they thought he’d killed his wife.
Just as they’d treated him after J.T.’s recent demise.
Chapter One
Thirteen months later—Savannah, Georgia
The sheets were soaked in blood.
Stella stared at them in shock, then glanced down at her trembling hands. More blood. On her hands. Her fingers. Her nightgown.
It was still wet.
Then she saw the man.
Moonlight streaked his face, a golden outline of his still form stark against the bloodstained sheets. Nausea rose to her throat, the room swirling.
He was lying beside her. Half naked. Brown hair. Average features.
Except blood oozed from his mouth. And his chest had turned crimson, a red stain spreading across his torso.
The stench of body odors assaulted her, and a scream bubbled in her throat. She scrambled backward off the bed, panic clawing at her. Her foot hit a gun and sent it skittering to the floor. She jerked it up, turning it over in horror as she realized the man had been shot with it.
Her heart pounded as she glanced back at him again. Whoever he was, maybe he was still alive.
But he wasn’t breathing. His eyes were wide open, glued to the ceiling in the cold shock of death.
Suddenly the door burst open, and a policeman raced in, his weapon drawn. Stella froze.
The officer took one look at the dead man, then her, and his ruddy face went white. “Don’t move, ma’am.”
Her hand shook violently, the gun bobbing up and down as she realized how the scenario appeared. “I—”
“Put the gun down,” he barked.
“But I…I don’t understand.”
His tone hardened. “Now. Slowly lower the weapon to the floor.”
Shock and fear washed over her as she did as he instructed.
“Raise your hands in the air.”
She swallowed hard, then lifted her hands in surrender as he trained his gun on her. It was obvious that he thought she’d killed the man in the bed.
Only she had no idea what had happened.
LUKE DEVLIN’S phone trilled, the sound cutting into the silence of the night as if announcing trouble. He reached for it, one foot already sliding off the side of the bed, his mind playing the guessing game as to the nature of the call. A new case. An old one. Somebody else found dead. Something mysterious happening at Nighthawk Island. More bioengineering related to terrorism and chemical warfare. Their newest undercover plot—or maybe the feds with information on who had killed his partner J.T. Osborne last year and made it look like a suicide.
Or something about his