Tough as Nails

By Velvet Vaughn

From the author of Face the Music and Vigilante comes the tenth romantic suspense novel in the COBRA Securities series. Tough as Nails is an intriguing mixture of pulse-pounding suspense and sizzling passion.

Construction can be hazardous to your health.

Several months ago, COBRA Securities Agent Hillary Billings was severely wounded while on assignment in Greece. Though her physical injuries have healed, her mental ones are taking longer to recover as she doubts her abilities. With her job on the line, she heads to the Outer Banks to rejuvenate her soul with her dog Kota in tow.

Former major league baseball superstar Reed Steele is now the host of a popular home renovation show. When he arrives on the Outer Banks to remodel a home, his first encounter with Hillary is a painful one. As they get to know each other, bodies start to pile up and danger swirls on the sandy shores of the Atlantic Ocean.

Coming soon from Romantic Suspense Author Velvet Vaughn: Total Surrender – the eleventh installment in the COBRA Securities Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Velvet Vaughn
• Release date: Jul 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9780986165283

Velvet Vaughn

Velvet Vaughn was born in Indiana and spent fifteen years in communications, public relations, marketing and executive management in amateur sports. Articles she has written have been published in several magazines and reprinted in most major newspapers across the country. She served as editor, writer and designer for five sport magazines including one that was distributed to over 140 countries around the world, and one that was displayed in the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. To learn more about Velvet or sign up for her newsletter, visit her at http://www.velvetvaughn.com or http://www.facebook.com/authorvelvetvaughn.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 VELVET VAUGHN LLC

ISBN: 978-0-9861652-8-3

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Visit Velvet’s website at www.velvetvaughn.com and her Facebook Fanpage at www.facebook.com/authorvelvetvaughn.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the men and women who serve our country, both home and abroad. Thank you for your service.

Acknowledgments

I would like to sincerely thank the members of my Velvet Vaughn Street Team who help spread the word: Cindi R., Debbie M., Gary A., Karen D., Karen J., Lisa B., Tammy T., and Lisa B. I’m so thankful for all of you and truly appreciate your support!

And as always, a huge thank you to my mom. I couldn’t do this without you!

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Epilogue

Notes

About the Author

Prologue

Several Months Ago

Hillary Billings inhaled deeply, savoring the enticing aromas drifting from the nearby eateries. She was in Greece, absorbing the culture and experiencing the rich history of modern civilization’s birthplace. Athens, the largest city and capital, was a bustling metropolis on the mainland, surrounded by ancient ruins dating back over seven thousand years. She could spend days here—weeks—and still not see everything the beautiful country had to offer.

Daphne Demarchis skipped over and locked her arm through Hillary’s, guiding her down the sidewalk to drool over a display of decadent chocolates in a bakery window. Daphne was the younger sister of Hillary’s COBRA Securities coworker, Dorian. Her impromptu trip overseas came about when the case Dorian was working turned personal. A man was murdered in the building his mother owned, in the apartment above his family. Daphne found the victim and almost walked in on the perpetrator in the act. When the case hit too close to home, Dorian worried about his mother and sister’s safety, so he sent them to his mother’s homeland. His aunt lived on the island of Mykonos, and she served as their tour guide. Hillary had always wanted to visit Greece. By sheer luck, she’d been available to take the case at the last minute. Having a native serve as an escort was an unexpected bonus.

Mama, you and Aunt Helen come stand next to Hillary. Daphne waved the two sisters over. I want to get a snap of you three with the classic architecture of this building as the backdrop.

Though only a teenager, Daphne was a gifted photographer with an artistic eye, capturing subjects with creativity and depth. She arranged them, tweaking positioning and placement until she was satisfied, and then stepped back, lifting her lens to frame the shot. Two men in dark clothing and sunglasses casually strolled along the sidewalk. Though they glanced around the area, not seeming to pay them any attention, awareness crept down Hillary’s spine, and she automatically fingered her weapon.

Daphne lowered her camera. Hillary, quit moving, or you’ll ruin the picture.

Everything happened in slow motion.

Sensing impending danger, Hillary’s instincts kicked in, and she urged Mama Demarchis and Helen inside the chocolate shop while yelling for Daphne to run. One of the men lifted a gun before she could draw and fired. The bullet slammed into the Kevlar vest her bosses insisted all agents wear on assignments and knocked her backward. She crashed into the building with the classic architecture, struggling for breath. The next shot pierced her non-shooting arm. The pain was excruciating, but she blocked it out and fired at the shooter, satisfied to see him fall. Her relief was short-lived when the other man grabbed Daphne and thrust her in front of him as a shield.

Daphne put up a good fight, throwing a sharp elbow into his stomach. He doubled over but didn’t lose his grip. Then she stomped on his foot, but he was wearing combat boots while she donned a cute pair of gladiator sandals purchased on Ermou Street. Hillary wore a matching pair. Daphne smashed the palm of her hand in the kidnapper’s nose, and he grunted. Then she swung her arm down to punch him in the groin. The man oofed but kept his hold.

Mama Demarchis and her sister were screaming. People had stopped to gawk, but no one wanted to interfere in an altercation, much less a gunfight. Tires squealed as a car screeched to a stop, and the passenger door swung open. Another man jumped out. Hillary fired before he could, and he tumbled to the ground. The kidnapper shoved Daphne inside and dove in after her.

No!

Hillary lunged, but this time, the bullets that slammed into her stole her breath and consciousness.

Chapter One

Rocky Dixon pounded the receiver, ignoring the harsh glare from the guard who had just escorted him out the penitentiary doors. He’d been planning this day for over five years. When they finally unlocked the steel bars, signed over his meager possessions, and led him to freedom, he’d strolled straight for the phone attached to a metal pole outside the facility. Frankly, he’d been surprised the thing still worked. With everyone and their dog owning a cell, payphones had become dinosaurs.

Using the bottom of his shirt, he’d lifted the fingerprint smeared receiver and fist-pumped when a dial tone sounded in his ear. The first call he’d made was to his old buddy, Calvin Grimes. Calvin had only visited once in the early days of his stint in the joint. He hadn’t heard from his so-called friend in years. When he couldn’t get in touch with Calvin, he’d tried Calvin’s old man. Martin Grimes was a mean son-of-a-bitch, but Rocky was willing to deal with the devil himself to find Calvin. He owed him. He owed him big. And Rocky was coming to collect. Except, he couldn’t get in touch with the older man, either. His phone had been disconnected.

Rocky turned away from the booth and glanced around the area. Nothing but dry brown grass, bare trees, and flat land for miles. He checked his pockets. His only source of cash was what he’d had on him when he went inside. It wasn’t enough to purchase a bus ticket to his grandmother’s house across the state. God knows she’d never send him the money. He’d have to take his chances hitchhiking. He didn’t even have a jacket to stave off the chilly spring air.

With a frustrated exhale, he headed down the dusty road leading to the highway. Thanks to hours of lifting weights in the yard, he was in great shape. There wasn’t much else to do. However, he concentrated on building muscle, so his cardio was severely lacking. He was breathing heavily and sweating profusely by the time he reached the interstate. From what he remembered, there was a rest stop close where he could hitch a ride or pass out, whichever came first.

Vehicles sped by him as he plodded along the side of the road. Exhaust choked him, and he ignored the taunts from a school bus full of annoying brats. When one thrust his chubby little hand out the window and flipped him off, Rocky returned the gesture. He almost wept in relief when he spotted the blue sign announcing the rest stop a mile away.

He trudged to a picnic table in front of the information building and dropped. His feet were killing him. Unlike the famous song, his boots weren’t made for walking. He glanced around, looking for an opportunity to bum a ride. The area was shockingly deserted. He plopped his arms on the table and lowered his head. Nothing was working out for him. What was he supposed to do now?

Air brakes whizzed, screeched, and popped, drawing his attention to a lengthy semi as it slowed and angled into a long, narrow parking space. A burly dude with a black buzz cut and tat sleeves that rivaled his own jumped down with an agility that was impressive for the man’s girth. The guy was maybe five-three or five-four and looked as wide as he was tall. He followed the man’s trek to the john, his eyes bulging when the guy ambled straight into the women’s restroom. Dude was a dudette. Huh. He hadn’t seen that one coming.

Glancing around for an alternative option, he didn’t spot another car, truck, or human for miles. Sighing, he resigned himself to the task. She certainly wasn’t his first choice, but hell, he hadn’t had sex—with a chick—in over five years. Calling the husky trucker a female was pushing it, but desperate times and all that. Plus, he needed to get to his granny’s house, where he’d have access to cash and a set of wheels.

Rocky positioned himself directly in her path so she’d have to walk right past him to get to her truck. With jerky movements, he rolled the sleeves of his T-shirt and flexed his impressive-if-he-did-say-so-himself biceps, shaped and honed from all those tedious hours pumping iron. She emerged from the restroom, wiping her hands with a brown paper towel. She noticed him for the first time, her eyes widening before darkening with interest. Keeping her gaze trained on him, she deposited the wipe in the waste receptacle and headed his way.

Hey, sugar, he drawled, treating her to a full-body scan. Don’t suppose you could help a guy out?

The woman stopped inches away and eyed his tattoos. They were abundant. Nice ink.

He winced. Her voice sounded like James Earl Jones. Yours too. He nodded at the colorful sleeves that ran the length of both her meaty arms.

What do you need, sugar?

You to quit talking. A ride to my granny’s house across the state. She’s very sick, and I want to see her one last time before she passes.

Aw, that’s too bad, James Earl—er, the woman commiserated. She eyed him up and down. I got room.

My wallet was stolen, so I can’t pay you.

We can work something out.

During the next few hours, Rocky discovered her name was Leslie, and she had a predilection for whips and chains, which she kept stowed inside the sleeping compartment of her rig. His ass still stung as he navigated the steps to his grandmother’s house. Rocky had talked Leslie into stopping by a thrift shop so he could pick up a suit to wear—on her dime. Hey, he figured he’d more than earned it. Hazard pay. Then they’d hit a truck stop for dinner and a quick shower. He’d even shaved.

When he was five, his druggie parents had dropped him off at his pop’s mother’s house and hadn’t looked back. They’d died soon after from overdoses. The old bat who raised him had washed her hands of him when he got locked up. Fine. He didn’t need her or her Bible-thumping ways. He was so tired of her accusing him of being a minion of Satan. Hell, maybe he was because all he wanted to do was take that holy book out of her hands and bash her over the head with it. Repeatedly. Still, he adjusted the lapels of the suit jacket and slicked back his hair. His tats were covered for the most part. Not much he could do about the ones climbing the sides of his neck. Granny decried tattoos as Satan’s handiwork. Leslie had loved them.

Gripping a bouquet of fresh flowers he picked out of some yard down the street, he rang her doorbell.

Who’s there?

It’s your grandson.

Who?

Your grandson. Ricky. He hated that stupid name, which was why he’d changed it to Rocky. It sounded tough, like him. He’d given himself the moniker after watching his hero Stallone beat the ever-loving daylights out of Apollo Creed, never mind that Creed won the fight in a split decision. Stupid movie writers. Stallone should’ve prevailed.

The door creaked open, and a frizzy cloud of white hair appeared. Granny had been ancient when he’d gone into the joint, but now she looked positively decrepit. Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled something foul. He opened his arms wide. Granny!

Go away.

He barely managed to wedge his foot in the door before she slammed it shut. But Granny, I’ve missed you. It’s been over five years.

And whose fault is that? Satan has a hold on you, boy. You ain’t nothing but the devil in disguise, just like your good-for-nothing daddy.

Rocky gritted his teeth and spouted the one lie that was sure to win her over. But Granny, I found Jesus.

Granny pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, judging his sincerity. He pasted on his most innocent smile. Granny was big on people finding Jesus. She considered it her mission in life to spread His word with her holier-than-thou attitude. He knew the key to getting her to let him in, and he wasn’t ashamed to use it.

She finally relented and pushed the screen door open. Smells from his childhood hit him in the gut, making him swiftly nauseous. Lemon furniture polish—Granny considered cleanliness next to Godliness. Burned microwave popcorn—Granny’s favorite snack. Why she couldn’t figure out that if she removed the damn bag ten seconds earlier, it wouldn’t scorch was beyond him. Cat shit—Granny might like to clean, but the dozen or so varmints wandering around made her house reek like a giant litter box.

Have you been saved?

Rocky gaped at one limber orange cat licking himself and turned away in disgust. Huh?

I asked if you’ve been saved, boy.

Yes, of course. I just told you that. Was the old bat’s mind going?

She crossed the toothpicks she called arms and glared at him. No, you told me you found Jesus. To be saved, you have to be baptized and pledge your life to Jesus.

Well, hell. Not a thing wrong with her mind. It was a steel trap. Uh… Suddenly, a plan formed in his head. Well, not officially. Yet, he tacked on when she narrowed her bird-like gaze at him. I met a priest who offered to baptize me, but he lives in North Carolina. I have to go to him, and then I’ll be saved. He smiled victoriously.

Granny pursed her lips. Priest? You becoming Catholic, boy? Our family has been staunch Baptists for generations. You going against the family?

A slip of the tongue, Granny. I said priest, but I meant uh, minister? When she nodded, he knew he used the correct term. I need to get down there so I can fully immerse myself in the Baptist religion. He’d be lucky if he didn’t gag on his words—or if God didn’t strike him down for the lies.

That’s more like it.

There’s just one teensy problem. He held his thumb and index finger an inch apart.

Granny’s frown was back in full force and her fists perched on her rail-thin hips. What’s that, boy? You having second thoughts about accepting our Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior?

No, no, nothing like that, he quickly assured her, using his hands to emphasize the point. I’ve accepted Jesus. That’s a done deal. But I was just released today, and I had to see you. I’ve missed you so. Gag. You’re my first stop. I haven’t been able to look for a job, and I’m a little low on funds.

You asking for a handout, boy?

Of course not, you old biddy, he almost voiced aloud. She was trying his patience something fierce. If that gigantic Bible were within grabbing distance, Rocky would be tempted to launch it at her and wipe that disapproving glower off her prune-like face. If you could spot me the money, you could consider it a donation to the church. I’m even thinking of becoming a minister when I return. He shot a glance out the window, hoping there were no storm clouds brewing. God would surely strike him dead for that whopper. When Granny remained silent, he chanced a look at her. He feared he’d gone too far when her thin lips puckered. He forced a smile, and finally, she nodded. Don’t you need to check in with a parole officer or something?

No, I was released for good behavior. He even managed to keep a straight face while delivering that lie. He’d caused so much trouble in the joint he was denied parole at every turn. Not that she’d know since she never visited him. He’d served his entire sentence, plus a few extra months tacked on for various indiscretions. Hey, in his defense, it was dog-eat-dog in there.

Fine. I’ll lend you some money.

He gave an exaggerated sigh and slapped a hand over his chest. Thank you so much. But, uh, Granny, there’s one more thing. To get to North Carolina so I can be saved, I’ll need to borrow Gramps’ old truck.

You’re pushing it, boy. Fine. I’ll give you one week. If you’re not back in seven days, I’ll report the truck as stolen by my felon grandson.

You miserable old bitch. Rocky ground his teeth. I’ll be back.

And call me every day to check in. If you miss a day, I’ll call the police.

God, what was he, twelve? Hell, she hadn’t cared that much about his whereabouts when he had been twelve. Of course, he gritted out.

Granny reached for her purse. It was boxy and white and looked like it was made of wicker or something. She handed him two fifty-dollar bills. Rocky looked from the cash to her face. A hundred bucks? Was she punking him?

It’ll take that much in gas. Gramps’ truck sucks…er…guzzles it.

She sighed like it was an enormous imposition and added a twenty to the pile. That’s all I can afford. I’m on a fixed income, you know. She waved her skeletal hand at him in a shooing motion. Now be going so you can accept Jesus.

So, she was eager to get rid of the criminal grandson, was she? Well, too damn bad. He glanced around the room. Cats everywhere. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stand even one night with the furry beasts. It’s getting late, and I’m hungry. I would love one of your home-cooked meals. I’ve missed them so. Not. And I could use a good night’s sleep, so I’ll be at my best when I meet Jesus.

What are you, slow? You ain’t meeting Him, boy. You are accepting Him into your life. She tsked. You’ll be lucky to meet him when the time comes.

Right. Right. That’s what I meant. God, she was draining. He’d almost rather be back in the pen than standing here with her. How about it, Granny? I’ll be out of here first thing in the morning.

Fine. I’ll cook us a pot pie. I know they’re your favorite.

Rocky’s gag reflex kicked in. He loathed pot pies. Always had. Granny forced them down his throat when he was growing up. He had to sit at the table and finish it before he could get up. They were always undercooked and over-salted. He sighed. He’d eaten worse in the big house. Most of that slop wasn’t fit for an animal, let alone a human being. He’d choke it down and do whatever he needed to stay the night. Little did she know, he remembered all her secret hiding places. One hundred and twenty bucks wasn’t nearly enough. Stingy old broad had thousands tucked away in hidey-holes all over the house.

After praising Granny for her disgusting dinner, Rocky retreated to his old room—which wasn’t so much a room as it was a closet. He’d had more space in his jail cell. All his belongings had been removed. He wondered what the old bat did with them. Oh well, not like it mattered. She hadn’t let him have anything like normal kids his age—no gaming systems, comic books, or sports posters. He plopped down on the mattress and winced as a spring poked him in the back. He adjusted and shoved his hands behind his head. As soon as the television clicked off, he’d scour the house for her hidden loot. Granny liked her game shows. Not only did she jack the sound to ear-bleeding levels, but she shouted out the answers. He grabbed a pillow and stuffed it over his head, ignoring the musty smell and the cat hair tickling his nose.

Rocky woke with a start, knocking the pillow from his head. He shot to his feet and took a defensive position, one he’d perfected in prison. No one would get the better of him or sneak up behind him again. He was no one’s bitch. When no threat presented itself, he glanced around. Where was he? Oh yeah, Granny’s house.

He craned his neck, listening for the television, but it was blessedly silent. Showtime. He tiptoed from the room, checking the hall to make sure it was clear. He had to pause until his eyes adjusted to the dark. Granny didn’t have so much as a nightlight. When he saw no signs of movement, either from the two-legged or four-legged variety, he tiptoed to the kitchen. A sudden noise had him swinging around and lashing out. The damn coffee pot kicked on. He’d almost knocked the carafe to the floor.

Rocky’s mouth dropped open at the digital readout. It was nearly six in the morning. He’d slept through the night. Granny would be up any minute. She-it. He planned on hitting every one of her hiding places. Now he’d be lucky if he raided one.

#

Hillary Billings bolted upright with a gasp, knocking the blanket from her shoulders. Sweat coated her skin, plastering her T-shirt to her body. Goosebumps erupted along her arms. Kota, her Belgian Malinois, scrambled from his padded bed on the floor and leaped onto the mattress. He whined and licked her face, providing comfort. She rubbed him absently, still shaken from the gruesome dream. Her other hand strayed to the raised flesh on her chest, a remnant of the emergency surgery that saved her life.

The nightmares had lessened over time, but they were vivid and frightening when they crept into her REM sleep. After months of intense physical therapy and dogged determination, her physical injuries had healed. She’d passed all of Dante Costa’s grueling tests. The former Navy SEAL oversaw training and conditioning for all COBRA Security agents. He didn’t go easy on anyone, regardless of age or sex, and more than one recruit had labeled him an evil drill sergeant. He demanded the best from everyone, and he got it, or you didn’t become an agent.

Her shooting skills were back on par, maybe even better than before. It was her mental injuries that caused her grief. She’d failed on her last job. Her charge had been kidnapped at gunpoint, and she hadn’t stopped it from happening. The girl had eventually escaped unharmed, with no thanks to Hillary. She’d been lying in a hospital bed in Greece, fighting