Secrets She Keeps Read online

  Secrets She Keeps

  Amarie Avant

  Prism Heart Press

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Description

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Connect with Prism Heart Press

  Connect With Amarie

  About the Author

  Copyright

  COPYRIGHT 2016 PRISM HEART PRESS

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN: Supahkawaii Covers

  EDITING: Rebelle Proofing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume and responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.

  E-books are not transferrable. They cannot be sold, given away, or shared. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in Federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr).

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  I suppose it’s fitting to dedicate this work to Brandon, my husband. He read the ‘shell’ of a story when SECRETS SHE KEEPS was just hot sex and action. Yeah, I’m still trying to force him to read the full-length novel with all the ‘feel good fuzzy moments’ and love ‘epiphanies’. He got a pretty little attitude about some of the hot Uber scenes (which I had to promise to do later). He’s still waiting on that because I had to flesh out the story. Any way, this dedication is in lieu of adding his name as an author, since he was coerced to expand on said action scenes.

  Description

  Dangerous connections and deadly roots...

  All twenty-seven-year-old Reese Dunham wants is to focus on creating a successful boutique bakery that her sordid past can't destroy. But with secret connections tied so intricately to her family's history, she may never escape the reality of her life.

  When she encounters Italian LAPD narcotics detective, Evan Zaccaro, their chemistry is undeniable, but he represents everything that she wants to forget. As the web of deceit and betrayal engulf them, Evan and Reese are entangled in a perilous trap that unearths their past and threatens their future. Suddenly, with her enemies closer than she ever realized, Reese becomes a pawn in a deadly game. But who is on her side?

  Chapter 1

  Reese Dunham

  There are things in this world that are bad for us women, but we crave them all the same:

  Venezuelan Chocolate, extra butter on anything edible, bad boys, and bacon.

  These delights don’t necessarily have to be coupled together, but I do make a mean chocolate-bacon pancake on the rare occasion that my tattoo clad one-night stand leaks over into daybreak. As a bakery owner, I hardly have time for my favorite craving which includes a heartbeat. And I have enough self-control to delight in my choice of edible sweets in moderation. But tonight my sweet tooth has a hankering for a bad boy who rides a Harley.

  It’s not every day that one goes to a dive bar looking for trouble, but then again, my pride and joy, the dream I’ve put my all into is like sand sifting through my fingers. ‘Flour Shoppe’ has been everything to me since its inception. What once was a popular boutique bakery is now the bane of my existence.

  Though there’s a slight ache within my chest cavity where my heart normally resides, I coif my hair. Reese, you’re going to have one fun night, no working the dynamics of how to pay employees. Heck, no muddling over how to pay yourself. Just one night of fun, I mentally chant as my best friend pulls into the parking lot.

  Taking out my shimmery lip gloss, I pull down the rearview visor. The tiny light from the passenger mirror throttles my attempt at positivity, while painting me in a lackluster glow.

  Sighing I say, “We should’ve just went to Jamie’s this evening instead of going out.”

  “Good old Jamie,” Sandra smiles softly, taking her key out of the ignition. The blonde, who is usually my cheerleader during high stressed times, takes a moment to consider a funny buffer between the reality of my business life. “You’re right. Instead of drinks at the bar, we could be at his place right now. You, totting a homemade chicken soup in pretty new Tupperware, and me waving a Red Box DVD and bottle of wine in front of the peephole. How lame.”

  “How funny, Jamie loves me. He might need incentive to invite you in his place on a Friday night though. But it’s just that… Sandra, you know I’m tired,” I say though I’m probably more pathetic than tired, having cried in a botched tiramisu. In my mind’s eye, I created a masterpiece. After spending so much time on the background aspect of my bakery business as opposed to crafting an edible delight, I ruined the perfect tiramisu due to very runny mascarpone. Lesson learned. NEVER bake while in a bad headspace.

  “Everyone but poor, sick Jamie has had a hard day. We need cheap margaritas,” Sandra counters.

  I chuckle. “Poor, sick Jamie, my ass. His crazy-ass texted me selfies this morning. Those photos were proof as to why he didn’t come to work today. Funny, he’s always sick on Fridays. What’s even funnier? Jamie blurs the line of our boss-employee situation, due to said dramatic selfies of him in silk pajamas as he lay helplessly on the bed. His friggen silk camisole he wears while sick is even hotter than my shoddy attempts while in good health.”

  “That diva had a thermometer cocked in his mouth for good measure.” Sandra cracks up. “Hmmm, Ferris Bueller meets Wentworth Miller. Now stop stalling, Reese over stressed and under sexed are the same thing in my book. Let’s go tip the scales in your favor.”

  She grins at the half-growl, half-grin I provide. While getting out of the car, I pull down the yellow mini dress. No matter how many squats I do, my legs and hips
are a tad curvier than they are toned. After grabbing my sequined purse, I straighten up to my full height of five-nine, okay, I'm really five-foot-four, but heels help distribute the extra oomph.

  One foot before the other, Sandra struts beside me. Her lithe, supermodel figure makes me look like a beefed up bodyguard in comparison. Okay, more like a slimmer descendent of Pillsbury Dough Boy.

  I gawk at my gorgeous friend. She can eat the salted caramel cake, lick the batter and devour the butterscotch budino I’d currently be perfecting, at my station, all before squeaking, “Let’s do dinner!”

  While standing beneath the weak parking lot light, in a sourpuss tone, I say, “God, I hate that I love you, skank.”

  “And you look ravishing, too, my little Reese’s Pieces,” Sandra places a pouty kiss on my cheek.

  “Blahhh,” I wipe the kiss away.

  There’s a scuffed up U-shaped counter smack dab in the middle of the joint, just to break up the usual monotony. A dead jukebox to the right has become a cluttered kiosk for bottles of beer. A guy leans against it, leg locked at the ankle, while smooth-talking a pretty woman that can’t get any closer to him even if she wanted to. Their smiles remind me that this momentary reprieve is a means to do the same.

  “Shit, the cheap-ass margaritas have brought in the masses,” Sandra grumbles, eyeing all of the women flaunting around.

  She’s here to score. I’m here for a drink and to google-eye some hard candy. “I can’t hate, we’re on a budget too.”

  “Budget, that’s not even in my vocabulary, and I do not mean that in the similar fashion as Jamie,” Sandra smirks, implying that our friend is a gold digger.

  “Sandra, I came here to cuddle with a bottle of Jack instead of a guy named Jack with muscles.” Having a father who kept it real about his life of crime, I’m tough in many ways. Boning a bad boy is far from one of them, since just the thought of advising my employees that I need to cut their hours turns me into a sniveling little bitch.

  As we push past groups of patrons, my gaze is enraptured by a crew of dirty alphas at the pool tables. My gander slithers over a muscular ass, dark blue jeans which are worn in the seat area as if Mr. Muscles has spent a good amount of time on a bike. I’m betting a Harley.

  When he takes a shot, his opponents dip their heads in defeat. I smile as the guy stands to his full potential. His white tee clings to a stack of taut back muscles. He's dark, as if the sun has followed him even blazing across his taut skin at night. There's a skull tattoo on one of his bulging biceps. He gives a hurrah and places a stack of cash on the table.

  “Okay, I see where your head is at,” Sandra nods. “You get to drool over the wannabe Sons of Anarchy–which is so out of season, by the way. While the big boy at the bar has my name written all over his body. And if you’re so inclined, I’ve got a purse full of condoms.”

  “But do you know what’s better than rubbers?”

  “If you say abstinence, I will kill you,” Sandra warns.

  All the while, it takes all the strength in me to stop googling at the biker’s ass and glance at the stools. There is an array of men, but none are big enough for Sandra’s taste. I then glance at the bartender. Oh, he’s gotta be pushing three-hundred pounds. Yup, the size zero, likes ‘em to offer cuddly big-bear hugs.

  “I don’t screw bad boys,” I tell her. But I’ll google and ogle and daydream the fuck out of their glorious looks.

  “Honey, you don’t even let a plastic dildo into that cobwebbed beaver of yours.” Sandra uses a happy-go lucky tone to add, “Don’t stress, Reese, have a cock instead.”

  Without waiting for my rebuttal, Sandra struts over to the bar. I linger toward the pool game. For a moment, I’m stuck in the past. Nine years old and watching my father lean down on the edge of the woodgrain to snort up a little fairy dust.

  “C’mon boys, sweeten the pot,” The biker who’d captured my attention earlier, looks over from taking his shot. His sinful, dark-blue -blueeyes pull me back toward the present. His titillating gaze drags up and down my body. I have a wet spot in my black lace panties as a stamp of proof.

  Containing the saliva pooling in my mouth, my eyes rip away from those hypnotizing orbs. My best swagger is on display as I turn around. Yeah, buddy, I’ll fucking tease you, and that’s the extent to my over indulging.

  As soon as my ass lands onto the pealing faux-leather, Sandra hands over a double shot. Mr. Cuddles had to have skipped over the eager patrons just to get to her, and how the heck did she get seats at the bar?

  “I will leave the back door open for that,” Sandra says in this sexy, heavy lustful voice as I down the tequila.

  There’s no issue with big boys in my book, but the bartender has a bush of hair sticking from his button-up shirt. I slam the shot glass onto the counter. “Yuck!” I shiver. “Okay, let me be honest, if biker boy over there can coax me enough to get ‘er open... maybe.” No, I don’t think there’s enough alcohol on the earth for that, though.

  Sheesh, I’m all mouth when it comes to my horny ass friend. Sandra and I met in college. As liberal as she was–and still is–Sandra’s creativity when it came to culinary arts had me bright eyed and bushy tailed. I can admit I had a crush on her capabilities in the kitchen. I’d bet my right arm that Sandra has had a few ménage à trios or more. If she’d make cupcakes for me for the rest of my life, I’d take her and one of her chunky lovers for a spin, no problem. She’s one of the best bakers I know. The blonde is just not too focused on the business aspect.

  “You don't know what you’re missing, Reese,” Sandra tells me in one breath then she turns to the bartender, who’s already back. Every single move she makes is doused in flirtation, she says, “Long Island.”

  Aw, here I wanted to order a strawberry daiquiri or something über sweet. I opt for an appletini just to keep it kosher.

  When the bartender isn't too busy drooling over my modelesque friend or serving people, I ask him. “So what's the story of Mr. Big Guns over there?”

  “You don't want it,” he assures, hastily.

  Nope, but dad taught me to know more about your opponent than they know about you.

  Sandra speaks up, “Oh, but we do. We want it badly.”

  The bartender licks his chops.

  At first, I assumed he was jealous when making his hurried comment. But evidently sparks are flying for him and my friend. He places his hefty elbows on the table. Sandra has said she’d take a short, fat cock any day over a pencil stick.

  Speaking of cocks, I feel his presence even before he steps up to me. It's the king of the pool table again.

  There is a row of tattoos on his knuckles, as he brings up a large, fisted hand to rub a thumb over a square jaw, lined with stubble.

  “Whiskey, triple. The gorgeous lady’ll have another.” He nods to my glass with remnants of its lime-green drink.

  I smile, knowingly. There was only a matter of time before he tried his luck. And failed. A drink or two is the icing on the cake. “Well, thank you.”

  “Hold your act of kindness, gorgeous. We’ll get to that later tonight.”

  “Cocky much? That's presumptive,” I smirk. If the King weren’t bathed in confidence and charisma, I’d have rolled my eyes back toward the bar.

  “Not at all...” he gestures for my name.

  “Reese.”

  “Like Reese's Cups?” He says eyeballing my size B cups.

  “Like Reese's Pieces, my favorite candy,” I quip.

  His laughter again adds another stamp of delicious nectar to my panties.

  The bartender places my refreshed drink onto the counter before me. I turn to mumble a quick “thank you.”

  A subtle chill curls down my spine, and the words lodge down my throat.

  “Need that Magnum?” Sandra whispers to me rather loudly.

  My eyebrows kneed together, I don’t smile at her condom joke. Something. Isn’t. Right.

  “Reese’s Pieces, I like that. Sweet enough to eat,” the da
rk stranger’s drawl submerges into my flighty perception.

  There’s nothing wrong here, there’s nothing wrong with me other than being wishy-washy. Although earlier, I had to stop myself from praying that my father had hidden any more blood money yet to be found... I push past the fleeting discomfort, since biker boy here will be tonight’s temporary remedy for my so-called-life.

  Chapter 2

  Detective Valentino Evan Zaccaro

  At the back of the bar, to the right, I’ve had a bird’s-eye view of the comings and goings. The little tart in the yellow dress definitely came into the bar to toy with the male race. From the looks that she and her hot blonde friend gave each other, I read their entire body language. The one in the red number had set her sights on the bartender. Though I couldn’t see the attraction, my gaze rove back to the exit.

  My hands are sweaty with anticipation. My unit and I have been chasing the deadly Jackals motorcycle gang who wreak havoc with narcotrafficking up and down the California coastline. Word has it that they’re preparing for a meth deal. Since the explosion at one of their main clubhouses, they’ve been hopping around from their various shoddy bars in order to complete the business aspect of their drug trade.

  My gaze glares through Riker, the leader of their gang. He’s built like a linebacker, and doesn’t have an ounce of respect, not even for his own. It curls my insides, knowing that Riker murdered his own mother in cold blood after a few rookie cops attempted to question her a few years ago for calling emergency services. His crew had been cooking meth in the basement of her house which started a fire. This was before he’d acquired land and placed a chemist on the payroll.

  Riker steps away from the pool table, and I instinctively move forward ready for action.

  “Hurrah, almost action time, Evan,” my partner, Tyrone, says in the tiny bud connected to my ear. The manager of this location decided he wanted out of the Jackals, and forewarned us about the pending deal this evening. He allowed a few of the department’s tech guys to come in earlier today when none of the other club members were around. There’s a panoramic view of the entire bar feeding to our stakeout and SWAT unit two blocks away.