A Girl Betrayed

By Russell Blake

A college friend in trouble...

...a sinister plot where betrayal is the rule.

Can Leah Mason untangle a Byzantine mystery in time to save her friend...and herself?

In the follow-up to the critically acclaimed bestseller A Girl Apart, Leah finds herself enmeshed in a deadly conspiracy where nothing is as it seems, and the stakes are life and death.

If you love Connelly, Grisham, Kellerman, and Child, A Girl Betrayed will keep you turning pages long past bedtime.

Pick it up today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russell Blake
• Release date: Jul 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463863435

Russell Blake

Russell Blake is The NY Times & USA Today bestselling author of dozens of action thriller novels, including Fatal Exchange, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Requiem for the Assassin, Rage of the Assassin, JET, JET - Ops Files I & II, JET II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, and X, The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Upon A Pale Horse, BLACK, BLACK Is Back, BLACK Is The New Black, BLACK To Reality, BLACK In The Box, Ramsey's Gold, Emerald Buddha, An Angel With Fur (pet bio), and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time. He is also the co-author with Clive Cussler of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse. Blake lives on the Pacific coast of Mexico with his 2 dogs and a bad attitude. His blog, http://RussellBlake.com contains his thoughts, such as they are.

Book preview

Books by Russell Blake

Co-authored with Clive Cussler

THE EYE OF HEAVEN

THE SOLOMON CURSE

Thrillers

FATAL EXCHANGE

FATAL DECEPTION

THE GERONIMO BREACH

ZERO SUM

THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY

THE VOYNICH CYPHER

SILVER JUSTICE

UPON A PALE HORSE

DEADLY CALM

RAMSEY’S GOLD

EMERALD BUDDHA

THE GODDESS LEGACY

A GIRL APART

A GIRL BETRAYED

The Assassin Series

KING OF SWORDS

NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN

RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN

REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN

BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN

REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN

RAGE OF THE ASSASSIN

The Day After Never Series

THE DAY AFTER NEVER – BLOOD HONOR

THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PURGATORY ROAD

THE DAY AFTER NEVER – COVENANT

THE DAY AFTER NEVER – RETRIBUTION

THE DAY AFTER NEVER – INSURRECTION

The JET Series

JET

JET II – BETRAYAL

JET III – VENGEANCE

JET IV – RECKONING

JET V – LEGACY

JET VI – JUSTICE

JET VII – SANCTUARY

JET VIII – SURVIVAL

JET IX – ESCAPE

JET X – INCARCERATION

JET XI – FORSAKEN

JET XII – ROGUE STATE

JET – OPS FILES (prequel)

JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT

The BLACK Series

BLACK

BLACK IS BACK

BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK

BLACK TO REALITY

BLACK IN THE BOX

Non Fiction

AN ANGEL WITH FUR

HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS

(while drunk, high or incarcerated)

About the Author

Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over forty novels, including Fatal Exchange, Fatal Deception, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Requiem for the Assassin, Rage of the Assassin The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, JET, JET – Ops Files, JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, JET IV – Reckoning, JET V – Legacy, JET VI – Justice, JET VII – Sanctuary, JET VIII – Survival, JET IX – Escape, JET X – Incarceration, JET XI – Forsaken, JET XII – Rogue State, Upon a Pale Horse, BLACK, BLACK is Back, BLACK is the New Black, BLACK to Reality, BLACK in the Box, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, Emerald Buddha, The Day After Never – Blood Honor, The Day After Never – Purgatory Road, The Day After Never – Covenant, The Day After Never – Retribution, The Day After Never – Insurrection, The Goddess Legacy, A Girl Apart and A Girl Betrayed.

Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.

Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.

Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.

Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog:

RussellBlake.com

To get your free copy,

just join my readers’ group here:

http://bit.ly/rb-kos

Chapter 1

The living area of the stately Georgetown townhome glowed with amber light from a half dozen Tiffany lamps. The stern countenance of a gaunt French nobleman glared from a portrait on a Venetian plaster wall as though annoyed at being framed for eternity in weathered gold leaf. Techno jazz drifted from the bar at one end of the room, providing discreet cover for hushed conversations among heavyset men lounging on rococo couches – the lobbyists and bureaucrats who ran Washington. Young women in lingerie with impossibly long legs brought cocktails to the rarified clientele, rewarding their groping and inebriated proposals with polite giggles and the dazzling smiles of supermodels.

The townhome was a mainstay of the D.C. scene, its address well known to the city’s movers and shakers – as well as the police, who steered well clear of it. Brothels came and went in a town where power was the ultimate aphrodisiac, but Number Seven had provided dependable service for decades from the same location, an oasis of pleasure and possibility, its workers unmolested by prosecution and its owners far above the law. No debauchery was off-limits for its customers – boys, girls, young, old, innocent as angels or shopworn as street whores. Whatever the fantasy or predilection, Number Seven had it on tap.

Upstairs, six suites were appointed as pleasure chambers, where the colors and finishes ran the gamut from understated elegance to lurid red velvet and black latex. In the second room from the rear stairwell, a man in his sixties with a florid complexion reclined on a divan, a brandy snifter half full of cognac on the marble coffee table before him, watching with rapt attention as a slender young woman with the lean curves of a teenager performed a slow striptease in front of a flat-panel television playing hardcore porn, her unlined face placid as a mountain lake and her doe-like eyes vacant.

She swiveled her hips to the music emanating from concealed speakers with the practiced grace of a pole dancer, and pulled a white blouse over her pigtailed head to reveal rosebud nipples that glistened with a sheen of body oil. The man’s intake of breath at the sight was audible, and he leaned forward for his drink as the girl continued to dance, the muted film behind her reflecting off her creamy skin as she performed a slow turn.

You like? she asked in an Eastern European accent, her voice childlike and musical as a violin.

Amazing, the man replied, his words thick with alcohol and desire.

The girl continued her dance. The exaggerated mascara that ringed her eyes was smeared as though she’d been crying – exactly as the client had stipulated when he’d ordered her that morning. Free of tattoos or piercings, Annika was sixteen, a veteran of Russian and Argentine brothels; her specialty was posing as forbidden fruit, a schoolgirl whose appetites were insatiable around men of a certain age. The client was a high roller and an important figure in the government – that was all she’d been told, which was more than sufficient, given the amount she would earn for a few hours of misery with the loathsome toad. For her it didn’t matter – after a thousand similar transactions, this was merely a mechanical chore that required every bit of her acting skill to keep convincing.

The man withdrew a small metal container from his jacket pocket and opened it as Annika absently massaged a buttock beneath her plaid schoolgirl skirt. He set it on the table, removed a steel tube, and dumped a mound of white powder on the marble top. Annika didn’t blink – drugs were a routine part of the job, and if they were offered, she would gladly join the client in consuming them. Anything that would numb what was to come was welcome, be it liquor or dope, although she’d fortified herself chemically before the client had arrived and was already in a dreamy state of narcotic bliss that made the job easier for her.

The client slid a credit card from his pocket and crafted four lines from the pile, only tearing his eyes from Annika for the time necessary to attend to his task. When he finished, he held up the tube in invitation.

You want some? he asked.

What is? Annika replied, swaying to the music.

Pharmaceutical-grade coke and skag. My own special mixture. Just enough heroin to soften the buzz.

Mmm. I’ve never done this, Annika lied.

It’s like heaven, the client assured her, and leaned over the table to snort two of the lines.

The powder disappeared up the tube, and he leaned back and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing from the effort. After a few moments he sighed contentedly and then motioned to Annika. Come on. You’ll love it. It’s smooth – like velvet.

Are you sure? she asked. I don’t do the drugs.

The client gave her a wolfish grin. Then I’m corrupting you.

Annika knew better than to push her act past the point of credibility and offered him a smile of her own as she teetered over to the table on cartoonishly high heels, her unsteadiness as contrived as her hair color. A gymnast who lacked the talent to be competitive, Annika had been recruited by a criminal syndicate in the Ukraine and shipped to Moscow. She owed her appetite for drugs and freedom to a stepfather who’d molested her regularly from the ripe age of thirteen. Her awkwardness with her outfit was part of the performance the client was paying for; wanting a healthy tip, she would pretend to be right off the boat and unfamiliar with the trappings of her trade.

She sat on a cushion beside the client, accepted the tube, and hesitantly inhaled one of the lines. Her eyes teared almost immediately as the heroin burned her sinuses, and she set the tube down on the table and shook her head.

That’s…that’s strong. One is enough for my size, she said. I am only little girl.

The client nodded and smiled, his eyes skittish. More for me, he said, and did the final line.

Annika dabbed at her nose with her fingers, waiting for the burn to subside. She knew from smoking heroin what to expect, and hoped that the mixture was light enough that she wouldn’t vomit. The discomfort in her nose began to fade as the buzz of the cocaine hit, energizing her with a burst of euphoric adrenaline, and she giggled and gave the client a shy smile.

The man put a clammy hand on one of her bare thighs and leaned into her, his breath heavy with cognac. Daddy hears you’ve been very bad, lil’ darlin’.

Annika affected a pout. Oh, I have. But I’m sorry. I can’t help the way I get.

I’m going to have to teach you a lesson, he said, fondling her leg.

I promise I won’t do it again, Annika protested, staying in character.

The client looked over at the four-poster bed, silk ties already cinched into place at the corners. But you must be disciplined. Punished for your thoughts.

Annika batted her eyes seductively. From here it would be straightforward bondage, she knew. The client would insist on tying her up, Annika would comply, he would tease her with the toys she had placed on the nightstand, and then he would consummate. When they were done, he might or might not have the will to go another round, typically with the roles reversed, where he was bound and she tempted him to the point of no return. It was a common fantasy with her clients: where she was entirely powerless and subjugated by them, the scenario all the more compelling because of her tender years.

The man struggled to his feet and led Annika to the bed, where she dutifully unbuckled his belt and dropped his slacks, all the while maintaining the expression of innocent fear she’d rehearsed in the mirror for hours in order to convey just the right level of subjugation.

The client groaned and tilted his head back as the drugs kicked in, and Annika went to work. After three minutes of fruitless effort, she paused and eyed him. Is problem with me? she asked.

He shook his head and retrieved a small vial from his shirt pocket. He unscrewed the top, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes as the amyl nitrate fumes dilated his circulatory system, enabling blood to flow where required. After a long final huff, he replaced the top and motioned for Annika to resume her ministrations, his face a mask of tense anticipation.

The drug worked its magic and soon he was rigid, eyes hungry as he bound Annika spread-eagle to the bedposts. She pretended to struggle, but only a little, to add to the illusion that she was being restrained against her will.

When he finished lashing her wrists, she whispered in a small voice, Don’t hurt me too much.

He gave her a cruel grin and stripped off his suit. Annika closed her eyes, the sight of his corpulent form repellent to her even though she’d serviced far worse. He set his clothes on the divan and lumbered to the bed, and then he was on top of her, grunting like a rooting hog as she gritted her teeth and moaned appropriately.

The first slap rang out like a rifle shot and snapped her head to the side. A red welt blossomed on her cheek, and her eyes popped open, nothing fake about the fear in them. No, she cried, but another blow silenced her, and the client resumed his labor, his breathing a rasp in her ear.

Annika debated screaming, which would bring help, but decided against it due to the client’s power and prestige. She could take a few blows if the money was right. As long as he wasn’t using his fists, she’d endured worse for far less. Only when his hands wrapped around her neck and his pace increased did her instinct to cry out win over her greed. She tried to scream, but because he was choking her, all she managed was a muted groan.

She convulsed as consciousness slipped away, her thrashing at her bindings no longer an act as her lungs burned for air. The last thing Annika registered before her vision starburst and then faded to black was the painting of a bucolic landscape on the far wall, the faces of the peasants jolly as they went about their harvest.

Two minutes later the man’s back arched as he climaxed, and then he rolled from Annika, sweating and spent. He gasped for breath as he lay on his back, his chest rising and falling enough to shake the entire bed. Eventually he rolled toward her, wisps of silver hair askew, his body covered in perspiration from exertion and the rush of the drugs.

That was amazing, he said, eyelids clamped shut. When Annika didn’t answer, he glanced at her, his gaze unfocused. He blinked away sweat and squinted to better make her out, and recoiled in horror at her cyanotic complexion, blue lips, and eyes staring into eternity, the blood vessels ruptured to the point that her blue irises appeared to be floating in crimson.

He slapped her face and, when there was no reaction, tried pumping her chest in a clumsy attempt at CPR, but after thirty seconds he gave up and rolled off the bed. He cursed when he stubbed his toe on the way to the divan, and hurriedly donned his clothes. When he was dressed, he called out in a loud voice.

Help! There’s been an accident. Help!

When nobody came, he crossed the room, unlocked the door, and stuck his head into the hall. Get somebody in here. There’s…there’s a problem, he called to the woman seated beneath a painting at the far end of the corridor.

Problem? What kind of problem? the woman asked, rising and hurrying toward him.

I…she’s not breathing, he whispered, his eyes wild.

The woman raised a tiny radio to her lips and murmured into it. Footsteps sounded from the stairs at a run, and a tall man in a black windbreaker appeared. They pushed past the client into the room and froze. After a long beat, the man moved to Annika and felt for a pulse, his face impassive as he took in the contusions on her neck. He looked up at the woman and shook his head. Her lips hardened into a thin line, and she turned to the customer with a flinty stare.

The client’s mouth worked like a beached fish. I…we were…she wanted to be…she begged to be…but…I didn’t think…I didn’t mean…

The woman nodded to the man in the windbreaker and addressed the client. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything. She looked to the man. Get him out of here.

The client appeared to be in shock. I…I’ll pay whatever it takes… he sputtered.

She considered him, her face a blank. We’ll be in touch with a bill. Now please, get going. We have work to do.

The man escorted the client from the room, and the woman eyed Annika with a grim expression. Jesus… she whispered, shaking her head.

After checking her watch, she moved to the painting and spoke directly to it. You got all of that, I presume?

Her radio crackled. Yes.

Get someone here to clean this up, she snapped, and then moved to the door, feeling for her cell phone in her pocket.

Down the hall, a pair of men sat in front of a bank of monitors, their complexions pale and drawn. The one nearest the door looked to his companion and shook his head. What a nightmare. Although talk about getting leverage…

He frigging murdered her on camera, dude, the other said, his voice tight. He killed her, and we just sat here and watched.

Our job isn’t to interrupt. It’s to capture activity. You don’t like the gig, talk to the boss.

But he–

What he did or didn’t do is none of our business. We’re just the hired help. The less we have to say about it, the better.

His partner nodded slowly. Neither of them had ever seen someone die in one of the rooms, and it had shocked them, even though they watched every imaginable sort of depravity on a daily basis.

The radio crackled to life on the console in front of them. Shut off the camera, the woman ordered.

Ten-four, the first man said.

I’ll be in for the footage in a few minutes. Don’t go anywhere.

Roger that.

The men exchanged a glance, and the first rose and moved to a hard disk recording system, his face expressionless. The other rose and stood by the door, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps while the first went to work, every passing second increasing their risk.

A minute later the woman burst through the door to find both technicians seated at the console. She eyed the bank of monitors, where a variety of sexual acts were in progress, and tapped a worried finger on her cell. A cleaning crew will be here within the hour. Until then, I want you to stay on the premises. I’m locking this place down as of now. She exhaled in frustration and fixed the men with a hard stare. I don’t need to tell you what will happen if a word of this leaks, do I?

They shook their heads in unison. She nodded slowly, her eyes slits.

Good. Now go to the kitchen and get yourselves some drinks. I’d say you’ve earned it.

Chapter 2

Emeryville, California

Leah Mason sighed as she finished her work for the day. Fatigue and tension had tightened her shoulder and neck muscles to the point where they were rigid. She rolled her head slowly and closed her eyes, the movement relaxing her even as her mind continued to work on the two stories she was researching. After several rotations she opened them and glanced out a window at the slate mirror of the bay in the distance, and then switched off her computer, her back protesting another long sedentary stint seated in front of a monitor – albeit in a chair that cost as much as her old car had back in Texas.

After a series of friendly negotiations with her new employer, Leah had agreed to move to the Bay Area in exchange for an unprecedented salary and stock option package, which, if the start-up did as well as everyone hoped, would catapult her into an entirely new tax bracket. Simon Garr, the billionaire entrepreneur who had created and funded Valliant News Service, had been more than generous and had covered all of her relocation expenses as well as paying her a signing bonus. Leah had turned in her notice to the El Paso Examiner and accepted the offer as a calculated move, and she’d had no regrets about moving to an online publication rather than a traditional paper; the future was obvious to her even as she waxed nostalgic about the good old days.

As one of a core staff of six senior investigative reporters, she had discretion over what she covered, which was unimagined freedom after her days working for traditional newspapers. Valliant’s editor, Monte Simmons, gave her a host of possible stories each week, but she was free to decline anything she didn’t find interesting and could also propose stories of her own. So far she hadn’t come across anything that tickled her fancy, so Leah was working two of the threads Monte had handed her, putting in fourteen-hour days while hoping for a lightning strike of inspiration.

She’d been in the Bay Area for a month and had found a cozy apartment over the hill in Concord, about a half hour away from the office. Leah liked the area, which she’d have described as hipster suburbia, even if the rent was a small fortune, as it was pretty much anywhere within commute distance of San Francisco. Monte had set her up with a realtor friend, who’d located the apartment on Leah’s third day in town, and she’d known the moment she’d seen it that she’d found her new home.

The company had leased her a car as part of her compensation package, and Leah was piloting a Honda CR-V ten times nicer than anything she’d ever driven and a daily reminder of how drastically her fortunes had changed. Every morning she pinched herself to confirm she wasn’t dreaming, that she was now a verifiable mover and shaker in the news world. Which, of course, created enormous pressure on her to follow up her groundbreaking El Paso Examiner exposé on the cartel kingpin with something even bigger – the problem being that those kinds of stories came along once in a lifetime. Everyone on her team understood that, but she still felt the burden of Simon’s expectations, given the amount she was being paid.

Footsteps approached along the aisle between the cubicles, and Leah looked up as Adam, the company’s tech guru and director of operations, stopped at her station. He grinned, his blue eyes and tanned skin making an attractive combination, and she managed a small smile in return.

Pulling another long one? he asked.

Actually, I’m just finishing up, she replied.

Working on anything interesting?

I’ve got an angle on the Pope being an extraterrestrial that looks promising, she kidded.

Must be one of Monte’s, he volleyed.

I could break it wide open. It’ll be big. Huger than big.

Bigly huge, Adam answered with another smile.

She switched off her monitor. What’s up, Adam? The NSA send you to shut me down?

Nah. I just heard something stirring at this end of the building and figured it was probably you. The rest of these slackers are out of here right at five.

Leah raised an eyebrow, waiting for Adam to get to the point. He shifted from foot to foot and cleared his throat.

Seeing how late it is, I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner, or maybe a drink, before you start your commute.

She exhaled slowly, considering the question with obvious fatigue. Thanks, Adam. It’s tempting, but I’m beat. I haven’t been sleeping all that great in the new place yet. Sort of getting adjusted to everything.

You sure? I know all the wrong people in all the worst places.

I have no doubt. But yeah, I have a ton of stuff I need to get done. Maybe another time?

For the record, this is a business proposal, to discuss business stuff, nothing else.

She smiled again. They should issue little sexual harassment cards to everyone, like for Miranda rights. Leah paused. Did Monte make you say that?

His face grew serious. What was the giveaway?

Because you’d be the one I’d have to report you to.

No system’s perfect. He grinned again. Let me know if you have a change of heart.

Will do, Adam. It sounds great. I’d be all over it if I wasn’t tired. Just the wrong timing.

I understand.

Leah watched him depart, feeling conflicted. He was definitely a charming guy and, even if six years older than Leah, definitely the most eligible male in the company. But Uriel was still fresh in Leah’s mind, and even though she’d reconciled herself to the idea that a long-distance romance wasn’t practical for either of them, she wasn’t in a hurry to see anyone else. She imagined her aunt’s reaction in her head, and the remnants of her smile turned into a frown.

I have plenty of time, she whispered, unsure whom she was trying to convince.

She made her way out of the building, offering the security guard a smile when she passed, and walked to her Honda. The sun was a red ember dropping into the bay as she started the engine and buckled up for the drive home, up a winding freeway and through a tunnel that still gave her the willies when she navigated it daily. Her claustrophobia was always lingering in the background, and while ordinarily not a problem, she was reminded of it whenever she had to take an elevator or pass through a tight space and her throat tightened and her breathing became shallower.

Traffic was miserable, which was a constant regardless of what time of day or night she planned her commute. The relatively short distance always afforded an exercise in patience-building, as well as an opportunity to catch up on whatever the locals were outraged about on talk radio. The approach to the tunnel was an endless procession of crimson brake lights as far as she could see, the steep climb to the opening a mass of frustrated drivers all converging on the subterranean funnel.

By the time Leah made it to Concord, her stomach was growling and the light was leaching from a plum-colored sky. She stopped at a Chinese restaurant that did decent takeout, and fifteen minutes later was rolling toward her apartment, anxious to slip into some sweats and relax with her meal, the smell of dim sum mouthwatering in the cabin of the SUV.

Leah could hear her phone trilling from inside the apartment while she fumbled with her key at the front door, but by the time she got it open, the ringing had stopped. She shouldered through the door and locked it behind her, and had barely made it to the dining table with her food when her cell began warbling from her purse. She cursed under her breath and rummaged for it with her free hand, and then stabbed the call to life as she set her dinner down and moved to the kitchen and the bottle of cheap white wine that awaited her in the fridge.

The voice of her friend Heather emanated from the speaker. Leah?

Was that you on the other line? Leah said.

Yes, that was me. Heather paused. Listen, I wanted to tell you that I got your email last week, but I only just now got a chance to reach out.

Leah had sent an email to all her personal contacts with her new contact information. Heather was a friend from college who’d been somewhat close while they’d been in school. But the two had drifted apart after graduation, when Leah had pursued her journalism career and Heather had returned to her parents’ home in the Bay Area to try her hand at an art gallery that had been a modest success.

No problem, Leah said, pouring herself a large goblet of wine. I’m glad to hear from you. How’re things?

Oh, you know, trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. That hasn’t changed, Heather said. But, Leah – I’m calling because I’ve finally got a little me time. So…what are you doing this weekend?

Leah didn’t have to think. Cleaning my windows. Why?

It’s been so long since we spent any time together. What, five years?

Leah had been at Heather’s wedding, which was the last time she’d seen her. Yeah. About that. Time flies, doesn’t it? She hesitated. What did you have in mind?

I was thinking maybe a girls’ weekend up in Napa might be fun. I know some of the winemakers there, and a bed and breakfast that’s completely amazing.

Leah took a long sip of her wine and set the glass down. She hadn’t thought about Heather in years; they weren’t even connected on social media. It sounds great, but with everything else going on, trying to get settled…

Oh, come on. What’s more important than good wine with friends? It’ll be awesome, if the weather holds. Heather paused. My treat.

Leah considered the invitation. The truth was that she didn’t have anything she really had to do, and she’d heard great things about the wine country. She had no real reason for declining.

When were you thinking of meeting up? she asked.

Tomorrow. We could meet in Napa for lunch, hit a few wineries, and then check in whenever we felt like it. I know all the best restaurants.

Of course Heather did.