скачать книгу бесплатно
Dying for Love
Angel Nicholas
Death is preferable to what awaits in her forgotten past…Coffee is the only thing standing between Grace Debry and a straight-jacket since she gave up swearing in honor of her foster mom. A rash of break-ins makes her wonder if caffeine is enough. Especially when the notes left behind make it personal. Her brand-spanking new life is more nightmare than dream-come-true.All Matthew Duncan has wanted since hiring Grace is to have her in his passenger seat, his arms, and his bed. As they grow closer, the feisty brunette proves to be a handful—one Matt is happy to hold. He’s determined to give her the happily ever after she stopped believing in years ago. Unfortunately for Grace, it will take more than Matt’s considerable resolve to keep her safe.Three’s a crowd—not that he cares. Every move she makes, every breath she takes … he’s watching. Waiting to reclaim what he lost.Angel Nicholas pens another wildly passionate romantic suspense with Dying for Love.
Dying For Love
ANGEL NICHOLAS
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016
Copyright © Angel Nicholas 2016
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Cover design by Michelle Andrews
Angel Nicholas asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International
and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
By payment of the required fees, you have been granted
the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access
and read the text of this e-book on screen.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,
downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or
stored in or introduced into any information storage and
retrieval system, in any form or by any means,
whether electronic or mechanical, now known or
hereinafter invented, without the express
written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780008126261
Version 2016-03-01
To Grace
Table of Contents
Cover (#u7cedf413-9d34-5ad2-a446-31fd597bf0e6)
Title Page (#u613bffed-082f-5265-a665-93a6db3e050c)
Copyright (#u8c56406a-7ce3-5717-9bd1-f6a8d07ebad5)
Dedication (#u6f082944-a88f-5f8a-aaa6-60efd909299c)
Prologue (#u19f8ca46-e90b-5d73-882c-d624c8cc1cc9)
Chapter One (#u84ef63eb-8271-50c4-9391-d6c8666f9c09)
Chapter Two (#ub20f4ab6-64ea-56ef-bfbf-e9c91307859f)
Chapter Three (#u8fb168aa-f658-5857-893d-f8b8692913f5)
Chapter Four (#ub78370d6-737b-592a-972f-2c2d523db9f8)
Chapter Five (#uc5c00047-3d3b-5274-93ca-9cae313f7794)
Chapter Six (#udef0cfcf-e9e9-5675-b629-e4bf32592984)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Angel Nicholas (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#uefeb9126-c91e-593a-8c3a-2a24a9c125f0)
April 19, 1986
Cassandra’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. A wild hare hopped across the rusty train tracks and a gentle breeze blew through the open windows, mixing freshly bloomed jasmine with the smell of poverty.
She turned. Sober gazes met hers over the worn bench seat, her children’s little faces pale in the unusual spring heat. Her sweet babies had learned early in life to be very, very quiet. If they managed to blend into the woodwork, Daddy might not notice them. Being noticed was never a good thing. Not in their home.
Sandra swallowed the sob threatening her tenuous calm and tore her gaze away.
Where was the train? Closing her eyes, she pictured the train schedule—and easy feat, thanks to her photographic memory—then glanced at the dusty clock set in the dashboard. Pointless, since it had stopped working two years ago on October 9. The night her youngest, Gracie, was born.
Hoss had flown into a rage when her water broke and soaked the car seat on the way home from a high-school football game. He insisted on going to every game even though their children weren’t old enough to play and they didn’t know anyone on the team. Reliving his long-gone glory days always put him in a foul mood.
“Don’t you have any self-control, you pathetic cow?”
Spittle flew from his mouth and his big fist slammed into the dashboard clock. She shrank against her door and wrapped her arms protectively around her swollen belly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I knew the baby was comin’. I just didn’t want to interrupt the game for you.”
Mollified, he swung the big boat of a car around. The county hospital was on the opposite side of the small, downtrodden town, a full thirty minutes from where their sagging trailer sat in the woods outside the town limits.
Hoss said they lived so far out because he liked his privacy, but Sandra knew better. He didn’t want anyone to know what went on in their home. Like it was any secret. She’d seen the way folks looked at her and her ever-increasing brood of children, curious gazes lingering on shabby clothes and the dark bruises peeking from long sleeves before sliding away.
She knew better than to expect any help. People she’d grown up with, known since she was a baby, turned their backs on the obvious signs of abuse and neglect. They still thought of the man she’d married as a hero. They saw him or heard his name and got that look in their eyes.
The quarterback who’d put their small town on the map. Took the team all the way to the state championship and brought home the big trophy. Even with the evidence right in front of them, they didn’t want to believe the good ol’ Sathers boy would beat his pretty little wife and sweet babies. Or worse.
“Momma, I have to pee.”
The soft whisper startled Sandra.
She stared down the tracks again, then sighed. “All right, Suzy.”
Putting her shoulder into it, she shoved open the car door and stood. Her five-year-old scrambled over the front seat and out of the car. It had to be urgent or Suzy wouldn’t have said a word.
“Hurry, baby.” She glanced down the tracks again.
Suzy rushed to the side of the road and slipped behind a bush to take care of business. She’d been going to pee a lot lately. Sandra rubbed her arms, worried there might be a problem.
Suffocating guilt rose. Guilt was her constant companion. What kind of mother couldn’t take care of her children? Take them to the doctor. Protect them. She tried to intervene. She always tried. Even if he beat her unconscious, it was worth it if he left her babies alone. She never succeeded, though.
The first time, their oldest was just two years old and on a crying jag from the pain of cutting a handful of teeth all at once. Sandra had seen the rage in his eyes and stepped in front of him when he reached for the baby. Hoss threw her across the room, bruising her entire backside black and blue and knocking her unconscious. But the worst had come after. When she’d opened her eyes again, hell had risen from the bowels of the earth and taken over her living room. The sight of him hurting their little girl was seared into her brain.
She wouldn’t have to worry about her babies much longer. She glanced again at the tracks. From a long way off, a piercing whistle blew. Her nerves trembled—almost broke.
Squaring her shoulders and firming her chin, she took a deep breath.
Panic crawled up her throat, so she took another breath. She smiled through the open window at her little ones, sitting so quiet in the backseat. Gracie, her precious blue-eyed girl, sat on the farthest side of the car in her high-backed infant seat. There weren’t enough seat belts, so as the littlest, she was the only one securely buckled in.
The train whistle blew again.
