INSIDIOUS
Copyright © 2014 Aleatha Romig
Published by Aleatha Romig
2014 Edition
ISBN e-book: 978-0-9914011-7-8
Editing: Lisa Aurello
Formatting: Angela McLaurin – Fictional Formats
Cover Designer: Melissa Ringuette
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is available in print from most online retailers
2014 Edition License
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PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
EPILOGUE
THANK YOU
BOOKS BY AUTHOR ALEATHA ROMIG
ALEATHA ROMIG
A Dark, Erotic Thriller
Mature Adult 18+ Only
This novel is a work of fiction and contains strong sexual situations and violence that may be disturbing to some readers.
Read at your own risk.
First and foremost I want to thank my family. Without your support and patience I would never have been able to make my passion for writing and telling stories into a career. My love for each one of you grows daily. A special thank you to my mother who, from a very young age, encouraged me to use my imagination. We’ve all heard the stories of my imaginary friends throughout my childhood. I believe that without those, I wouldn’t have been able to embrace my imaginary friends in adulthood.
Thank you to my friend Debra, RN, for her medical knowledge especially with off-label uses of medications. I can only imagine the faces of others who could overhear our fun conversations! Thank you for helping me make INSIDIOUS real.
Thank you to my trusted betas who’ve stayed and grown in knowledge with me as we continue to tackle new stories and new genres! Sherry, Val, Kirsten, Stephanie, and Angie, your help and encouragement brought INSIDIOUS to life. Thank you, also, to my dear friends who read and willingly gave me advice that has helped to make the final INSIDIOUS even better than my first draft. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your words of praise as well as those of advice! Pepper Winters, Kathryn Perez, Tia Louise, Kiki Chatfield, my fantastic editor Lisa Aurello, and my amazing agent Danielle Egan-Miller, I listened to each and every one of you—and did what I wanted! lol… Thank you. The expertise of each one is reflected in the final product!
I also want to do a shout out to all of the wonderful readers, bloggers, and authors out there. I know without a doubt that if it were not for each one of you, no one would know the name Aleatha Romig. I can’t thank you all enough for your love and support. I shudder to name names. There’s no way I can call out each and every one of you. Please know that if you’re reading this, I’m talking about you!
Now, I hope you enjoy my jump into the world of erotic thrillers! Here is INSIDIOUS!
APPREHENSIVELY, THE PATIENT settled against the paper-covered examination table and lifted her flimsy gown. Her eyes fluttered between the technician and her husband as she waited for the gel to be applied to her growing midsection. Goose bumps rose on her exposed flesh as the cold, condensing liquid oozed onto her skin. Saying a silent prayer, she closed her eyes.
“With high-risk cases, we like to keep everything monitored,” said the young woman in scrubs. “This is just routine. There’s no reason to be concerned. Have you had any problems since your last appointment?”
“Not since the last scare. I haven’t had any more bleeding or cramping since I was discharged more than a week ago,” the patient replied, trying to hide the obvious trepidation from her voice.
Squeezing her hand, the man at her side smiled reassuringly. “It will be all right. Everything has been going well. We’ve done everything the doctor said.”
Applying the large wand to the patient’s midsection, the technician smiled.
Waiting for the monitor, the man said, “Listen to that…” The room filled with the reverberating sound of thump, thump, thump.
“Yes, that’s a very strong heartbeat.” The technician responded reassuringly.
“Heartbeat?” the man asked, obviously perplexed.
The fuzzy image began to clear as the wand found its perfect spot. “Yes, sir. See right here…” She pointed toward the screen. “…your baby’s heart is strong.”
“Baby?” the patient again questioned, her eyes filling with tears. “What do you mean baby? I’m having twins! There are two babies! We’ve seen them.”
The young technician’s smile faded as her brows knitted together. “Um, the other one is probably hiding. They do that.” Her words faded as she frantically moved the wand from side to side.
“Where is it? Where’s our other baby?” The man’s voice became louder with each question.
“Sir, the doctor will be in soon. He can explain…”
“I know you know what you’re seeing. Tell us. Tell us what you see!”
The patient’s arm covered her eyes as tears continued to stream, pooling on the white paper. The image on the screen, though somewhat distorted, was clear. One baby dominated the screen. As the wand moved, a ghostly image, smaller than the other, seemed to float unmoving on its own. Between breaths, the patient asked, “Did this happen after I left the hospital? How? What’s happening with our other baby?”
“The doctor…”
The man interrupted the technician, “Tell me our son survived. Tell me that you see a boy.”
“Sir, the doctor…”
“Tell me!” he demanded.
Just then, the door opened and the doctor entered. “Excuse me, what’s happening in here?”
Unable to respond, the patient looked toward her husband. Straightening his shoulders, he glared toward the screen. “She said our baby is healthy. We’re having two babies. My wife is pregnant with twins, fraternal twins, a boy and a girl. Last week at the hospital you said there was a size differentiation, but you said it wasn’t significant. Now she…” He pointed toward the technician. “…is saying there’s only one baby. What happened?”
Taking the wand from the technician, the doctor looked comfortingly toward the patient. “How have you been feeling?”
Holding back her sobs, she replied, “Tired, but the cramps stopped…”
Star
ing toward the screen, the doctor smiled. “This can be difficult. But let’s concentrate on the positive. You have a strong, healthy girl. Sometimes things like this happen. The body understands if both fetuses can’t be supported. In those cases, the stronger one survives. Your daughter…”
The man didn’t hear the rest of the doctor’s statement. Glaring momentarily toward his wife, he opened the door and walked away. The entire room fell silent as the helpless door bounced against the wall, filling the room with only the sound of the echoing slam and the steady swoosh, swoosh, swoosh of the fetal heartbeat.
THE BACKDROP OF blue did little to temper the stagnant Florida heat. Peering through the windshield, I watched the hot, muggy air ripple through undetectable waves, as the impressive Miami skyline appeared to bow and arch in the heat-induced optical illusion. Stepping from the cool car, I longed for a breeze anything to shatter the oppressive weight of the unseasonal autumn humidity. Moist air saturated every void as my heels walked upon the concrete streets and between the glass castles. I was where others longed to be. This was the best of the best: the homes, offices, and shopping mecca to the elite of Miami society. To the unknowing tourist, or even the unaware Miamian, these buildings and monuments were an enticing testament to the power of wealth and influence. However, in reality, they were but a beautiful façade waiting patiently to entrap the unwilling participant. I should know. At one time I was that unwilling participant, dragged into the depths of malevolence. That was years ago. I’ve learned my lessons well and played my role. No longer willing to be a victim, today I’m insidious.
“Thank you, Mrs. Harrington.” The saleswoman’s voice reverberated throughout the pricey boutique.
Nodding in response, I took my purchase and strode toward the door. The five-hundred-dollar shoes weren’t a necessity. Hell, they weren’t even for a purpose: a dinner, a benefit, or any other excuse to show me off and parade me around Stewart’s business associates. They were just because: because they were tall and sleek, with a slender heel, and a thick platform. And because they were red. Red, as in the color of emotion: emotion that remained pent-up until its only acceptable outlet was a mundane visible reminder, a way to flaunt the loathing within to the world outside. Oh, I had covertly exercised other modes of release, yet at the moment, a pair of red shoes would suffice.
The gentleman in uniform spoke as he opened the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Harrington. Please come back to see us again.”
“Yes,” I said, my expression inscrutable.
“Ma’am, we’re all praying for your husband.”
“Thank you.” I looked down and bit my lip before I returned his gaze, bravely smiling, and added, “I’m afraid that’s our only hope.”
His eyes dulled as he sadly nodded, allowing me to exit through the open door. Rarely did a day go by that someone didn’t offer me his or her support or encouragement for Stewart, as he fought his unwinnable battle. I’d practiced my responses well. After all, very little went unseen. While we’d made headlines when we married, mostly surrounding our age difference, we were making them again as the tabloids and magazines discussed my impending widowhood at the young age of twenty-eight.
Moving onto the sun-drenched sidewalk, I covered my eyes with the dark glasses and braced myself for the wave of heat. Up from the depths of hell, like fire fanned by the devil himself, my legs tingled with the contrast in temperature. I bit my lip again, stopping the genuine smile that threatened to shatter my mask of grief. Assuming hell was real, soon it would have another resident. Before the bun of long brown hair secured low on my neck could mold to my skin, I settled into the backseat of the waiting taxi.
Though my car was parked only a few blocks away, I knew the wonders of technology. The GPS would show that I’d spent my afternoon in the Harbor Shoppes—at least until I was ready for it to indicate otherwise.
“To ONE Bal Harbour Resort,” I instructed, as the driver pulled the car into midday traffic.
After spending most of my life in southern Florida, I found little beauty in the city of Miami. What appeal it had was completely lost on me as I scanned the screen of my phone, reading my text messages. A sense of suffocation loomed omnipresent as I read one from my husband:
“WE HAVE A GUEST COMING TO THE WAREHOUSE THIS AFTERNOON. BE THERE AT 4:30. DON’T BE LATE.”
I closed my eyes, hid my expression behind my designer sunglasses, and sighed. Thankfully, due to Stewart Harrington’s recent rapid decline in health, we’d not visited the warehouse in some time: his text was sent months ago. Nevertheless, I refused to delete it. It served as my fuel and my daily reminder: a reminder of a time I refused to forget.
I would not. I could not.
I scanned back to the message I’d more recently received, one I’d first seen late last night:
“I NEED TO SEE YOU.”
I gave it one more glance, grinning at the shared sense of desperation, before I hit delete. I waited until this morning to respond:
“TODAY?”
After I’d hit send, his response came back almost immediately:
“NOW.”
We both knew that NOW hadn’t been an option, but a minor tweaking of my schedule and a slight juggle of my responsibilities would allow LATER to be a possibility. Smoothing the silk of my sundress over my lap while trying desperately to ignore the sweat-ladened stench of the taxi, I relished the reality: later was almost upon me. If only the car could fly instead of fight the midday traffic.
As Stewart’s time on earth drew nigh its end, I worried about the legalities of our prenuptial agreement. With Stewart’s network of good ol’ boys, finding an ally, someone to look out for my interests, had been difficult, but thankfully not impossible. Since I’d made my alliance with Brody Phillips, junior partner at Craven and Knowles, there was nothing I wouldn’t do to continue the flow of information. Besides, sex was nothing more than a tool, a weapon. It had been used against me, but I’d learned to use it in my favor. If sex helped me obtain my goal, there was no fucking reason not to use it.
Minutes upon minutes later, the cab pulled under the covered drive of the resort, allowing me to exit in the much-appreciated shade. With an assuming smile, I handed the driver cash for the fare and a generous tip. I confidently placed my high-heeled sandals on the steaming pavement and walked toward the resort. With the efficiency of a drill sergeant, I moved dauntlessly toward my objective. Merely a pretentious nod of my head and the door was opened. A crisp one-hundred-dollar bill at the bellman’s desk and I was armed with the key to a suite on the eighteenth floor. Walking toward the elevator, I shifted my gaze, daring anyone to question my presence. No one did. I’m Mrs. Stewart Harrington.
Within less than a minute, I was ascending the tower toward the eighteenth floor. Although I was confident that Brody had chosen the hotel suite with other goals in mind, that wouldn’t happen today. I’d opened myself up—a little—to him for one reason: it wasn’t sex.
It wasn’t as if I always denied him sex. As a matter of fact, we had an array of locations littered throughout the city where I hadn’t denied him, but honestly, there was something about Brody that made me uncomfortable. Sex was a mechanical act for me, a time to leave my body and zone out. Each time Brody and I were together, that was increasingly difficult. I didn’t want to face that reality or even the internal questions that it raised.
As I disembarked the elevator and peered down the long hallway, the fleeting sense of anticipation took me by surprise. Rarely did I find myself aroused. However, as I realized that it had been almost a month since I’d been alone with Brody, my insides involuntarily tightened.
Brody Phillips, esquire, was, among other things, my informant. As a junior partner at Craven and Knowles, the prestigious law firm that handled all of Stewart’s personal legal needs, he was privy to information that affected me. The common good ol’ boy attitude shared by most in the firm was that as Stewart’s wife I didn’t need to know, or couldn’t possibly understand, the lega
lities that affected me. Thankfully, I’d found an ally who disagreed. After all, it was my name, Victoria Conway Harrington, on the documents. Despite my husband’s obstinacy, I had a right to know.
Our alliance had started slowly. Every man was suspect, especially anyone within Stewart’s circles. I hadn’t planned on allowing Brody to get to know me—few people did. However, with time and patience, he pulled me into a sense of camaraderie. Unlike the men who saw me as nothing other than an available fuck, Brody spoke to me with sincerity. It was years into our clandestine friendship before we took it to the next level. However, once we did, turning back wasn’t an option.
A quick swipe of the key and the lock mechanism clicked. Before I could fully open the door, Brody’s strawberry blonde hair and smiling eyes stopped me momentarily in my tracks. He was the perfect man next door: innocent and sweet. Yet I knew from experience, he was equally cunning and shrewd. There was no way he’d have survived in the world of Craven and Knowles if he weren’t. However, there was something about his eyes. From the first time we’d met, I was fascinated. His eyes were unlike any I’ve ever seen. They weren’t the color blue nor were they green: they were more of an aquamarine hue. It wasn’t only the color that pulled me in: it was the way he looked at me, really looked. With a glance, even in a crowded room, he made me feel vulnerable and exposed. That did strange things to me, things I didn’t like. It was as if he could see a side of me that no one else could: he could see through my façade. Taking him in, the small lines at the corners of his eyes and the slight gleam, implored my gaze to travel lower to his raised cheeks and welcoming smile. Involuntarily, the tips of my lips moved upward.
With his suit jacket and tie missing, my eyes traveled down his starched, fitted button-down shirt to his trim waist. His dark gray Brooks Brothers’ slacks accentuated his long legs and firm physique. Hearing the sound of his voice returned my attention to his remarkable eyes.