Revenge for Hire

By Natalie S. Ellis

With a young girl's life on the line, can Billie and Nolan work together to save her while keeping their attraction to each other at bay?

North West Side Chicago. A man's phone rings at 3am, and it's every father's worst nightmare - his little girl is in danger.

Fort Wayne, Indiana. Belinda 'Billie' Chapman is working the overnight shift at WVOX-TV when she's called away to photograph a car that's crashed into the second story of a house. But when a little girl is spotted in the house across the street, the aggressive behaviour of her guardian piques Billie's curiosity.

Nolan Voss has come to Fort Wayne to check on WVOX-TV, the station he owns. Rich, uptight and deliciously hot, he can't keep away from the fiery Billie, and that means being dragged into her plan to help the young girl.

Each step closer to finding the truth leads them to a dangerous plot that has come all the way from Chicago. Will the danger only fuel their irresistible attraction to one another? Or will one of them get burned?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Dec 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781460706480

Natalie S. Ellis

Natalie S. Ellis worked behind the scenes in TV news for sixteen years and will always miss the rush of a breaking story. But the seduction of writing a fiery romance with twisty suspense is even harder to resist, especially when she has a new curveball for the plot. Natalie enjoys living in her hometown of Fort Wayne, Indiana, and attributes her cheerful attitude to empty nesting, a supportive family, and way too many lattés.

Book preview

Chapter One

Near West Side, Chicago

April 15th

The first blast of music jerked Chris Panyard from a 3 am fog. Stupid ringtone. His hand felt like a dead weight as it flopped around the nightstand to locate his cell as the second round of music blared. Finally on the third round, he managed to fumble the smartphone into his palm and swipe the screen.

’Lo, he grunted.

Nothing.

Who the hell is this? he croaked more than yelled.

He recognized the tiny, high-pitched whimper immediately.

Jilly?

D-da—

Jilly, what’s wrong?

The muffled sob made him sit up, wide awake now.

He softened his voice. Take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong, punkin’.

B-ba . . . B-bad, the seven year old managed between gasps.

Do you have a bad tummy ache again?

N-noooo. H-hurt.

You hurt somewhere else? Your head?

M-m-mommy!

Good idea. Go get Mommy, honey. He was surprised Joelle hadn’t heard her crying.

Chris yawned, but swallowed it midstream when Jilly’s cry elevated another octave. She stifled the sound suddenly, as if she’d buried her mouth in her pillow. What the hell is going on?

Jilly, you have to give me a clue here!

It’s M-mommy, she shrieked, ending on a hiccup.

Is Mommy hurt?

She cried softly for a moment, then finally managed, Yessss.

What happened?

Bad men. Jilly took a deep, shuddering breath. The bad m-men hurt my m-mommyyy.

Lurching out of bed, he struggled to pull on his pants with one hand as he pressed the phone to his ear with the other. He clenched his teeth to keep a stream of obscenities from escaping. Where are you? Are you somewhere safe?

She sniffed. Cubby.

Before he and Joelle split, Jilly used to hide in an attic crawlspace that she called her cubby whenever she got upset—like when he and her mom yelled at each other. The miniature attic door was located way in the back of Jilly’s closet, behind hanging clothes and a pile of toys.

Jilly? Are the bad men still there?

I th-think so.

Okay, you stay right where you are and don’t make a sound, baby. Daddy will be there in ten minutes.

Ji-i-i-lly, where a-a-are you? Chris heard a man through the phone, calling for his daughter in a fake, too-friendly voice. Shit! He had to be in Jilly’s bedroom to sound so loud.

Shhh, Chris whispered to Jilly, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

Not bothering with a shirt, he ran for his front door. Should he put Jilly on hold and dial 911? No, it would take too long and he couldn’t risk her accidently hanging up on him. If he did lose the connection, calling back would make the phone ring and give away her hideout.

Shhh, Chris said again, too afraid to utter anything more, in case the man overheard. Joelle tended to keep the volume way up on her cell phone.

A loud thump came through the phone, then a sound like hangers pinging against each other. Chris held his breath, glad Jilly was silent. The man was obviously searching his daughter’s closet.

Show yourself, kid! the man yelled, clearly frustrated now.

When Chris reached his car in the lot behind his apartment, he muted the phone just long enough to start the engine. He listened again and heard the man yelling, but far off in the distance.

In your quietest voice, tell me if the man has left your room.

He’s gone now, Jilly’s precious voice piped up immediately. Chris winced, remembering too late that her perception of a whisper was always louder than his.

He strained to hear any indication that the man was heading back to the closet.

Daddy? she whispered, softer this time.

I’m here and on my way. He backed up the car and pulled out of the lot. Do you know who that man is?

She didn’t answer.

Jilly? His heart pounded against his chest. Had the man returned?

I’m s-scared.

He let out the breath he’d been holding. I know you are, baby. I’ll be there soon, I promise. But who are they? Who are the bad men?

I don’t know, Daddy.

What had Joelle gotten herself into this time?

Chris raced down Roosevelt Road to reach his daughter. He had no idea what he’d find in that house. But as long as Jilly stayed safe, that’s all that mattered. Even if it meant tearing through ten men to get to her.

Chapter Two

Fort Wayne, Indiana

Ten Days Later

Nolan Voss parked his rental in a visitor space in front of WVOX-TV Channel 8. The sprawling single-story television station, Nolan’s childhood haven for two months each summer, had been painted a dull shade of cream, the once technicolor peacock logo on the front wall faded to black and white. His limbs felt oddly heavy and his heart pounded against his chest wall as if he was having a heart attack. Or maybe it was simply an attack of the heart. The rundown building that resembled a seventies elementary school housed all his best memories. The place his granddad loved. The place where Nolan felt loved.

Five in the morning was an unusual time for friendly visitors, so he shook off his melancholy and moved toward the front door to properly introduce himself, and stumbled. The walkway had surged and cracked. A casualty waiting to happen. His casualty, since he owned the property. It wouldn’t be the first casualty at the station.

He pressed the buzzer three times before a young blonde appeared to stare at him through the first of the two glass doors. He reached in his pocket for his driver’s license to prove his identity, but before he could pull it out, she came all the way through and opened the outside door. He stared at her in disbelief. Could anyone gain access to the TV station this easily? Or did she recognize him?

Hi, she said. Can I help you?

No sign of recognition. He made a mental note to address the lack of security in his first meeting with management.

I’m Nolan Voss. He opened his wallet and displayed his ID.

She didn’t even glance at it. Hmm, why does that name sound familiar?

Maybe because I own this station? He didn’t try to hide the sarcasm.

That’s it! She grinned and held out a hand, the bracelet on her wrist tinkling. How do you do, Mr. Vox.

Voss.

Her giggle hit the same sharp note as her bracelet. I always get that mixed up because of WVOX and all. She said it like most people, turning the VOX into a word, rather than spelling out the call letters.

He hoped to God this bubbly child wasn’t a reporter or his station was in worse shape than he’d thought. He jerked his head in the direction of the lobby. May I come in?

Oh. She frowned. No one’s really here right now.

You’re here. He took a step back until he could see in the front window of the newsroom. Another security issue. And there are more people inside working. He checked his wristwatch. Isn’t there a five thirty newscast?

You’re not staying for that? She sounded horrified by the prospect. Yes, starting his day with a surprise visit was definitely a good idea.

I am. Excuse me. He nudged the door open wider and took a few steps past her, before turning back. What was your name?

Her big blue eyes widened. Alyssa Jenetzky.

Making a mental note to remember her name, he headed for the newsroom, but Alyssa quickly shuffled around him.

"So you’re the owner of Channel 8?" she said so loudly he cringed.

So much for the element of surprise.

Very funny, Lyss. The male voice that came from the newsroom sounded weary. Everyone knows the owner is dead. A smooth-cheeked young man, dressed impeccably in a black suit with a starched white shirt and a jaunty yellow bow-tie, stepped into the hallway, but ducked back inside when someone called him.

A bow-tie? Did he go to a wedding the night before? Or is he one of those witty weatherman? God, Nolan hoped not.

He glanced down at his gray pants, pinstriped shirt and leather jacket. He should’ve swapped his jacket for the sports coat in the car. And he should have watched the newscast clips his general manager sent him in order to become familiar with his on-air staff.

Feeling out of sorts about his lack of research, he decided to let the dead owner comment slide. As soon as the well-dressed kid came out again, Nolan gave him a nod and said, The man you were referring to was Nathan Voss. I’m Nolan Voss, his grandson. When he passed, I inherited WVOX.

The kid turned scarlet. Oh, wow. He cleared his throat and nervously shifted the papers he held so he could shake Nolan’s hand. That’s good.

Nolan quickly released the kid’s clammy hand. Why is that good?

That he’s . . . That you’re alive. That we, uh, have an owner. I heard that we did, but um, I didn’t exactly know who it was.

No surprise. Nolan had avoided the station since his granddad’s death three years ago. He hadn’t been ready to face the bittersweet memories. And what is your name and role here?

This is Elliott Watson, the morning producer. Alyssa stepped forward to rescue the kid. I’ll show you where the vending machines are. Would you like a cup of—

No, thank you, Nolan broke in.

Would you like me to show you around?

No. He held up a hand. Listen, you’re preparing for the morning show and it was rude of me to come barging in like this. Please. He motioned toward the newsroom door. Get back to work. I’ll be fine.

But we can’t just—

Yes, you can, Alyssa.

When she looked like she would argue, he shook his head in warning. Wisely, she did as he asked and followed Elliott back into the newsroom.

As soon as he was alone, Nolan allowed his twitching lips to curve into a wry smile. The owner’s dead. Ha!

Then he sobered, realizing the kid hadn’t been that far off. He certainly hadn’t felt alive recently. Bored, mostly.

It came with the territory. When the people you deal with treat you the same, day after day after day, you stop feeling. He used to enjoy being acknowledged with respect and, yes, even a little reverence. But he couldn’t seem to remember when the thrill of control had ended. And how else should his employees treat him? After all, he was the man who could change their lives with a snap of his fingers. Just once he wished he could do what his granddad had done all those years ago with this station—walk in, roll up his sleeves and work side by side with his employees.

He shook his head, bemused by his sentimental thoughts. In this economic climate, the only time being one of the guys worked was during an episode of Undercover Boss. And in the case of WVOX, the reality was that the station wouldn’t even be his much longer.

He headed down the long hallway and turned left at the break room. The director sat in the control room behind a glass partition, busy marking his script. He didn’t need the distraction of chit chat. Nolan ducked into the stairwell with an unlit ON AIR sign posted above the door. It would lead to the studio, one of his favorite places to hide as a kid.

The door at the bottom of the stairway had a window to keep people from inadvertently bursting into a live newscast. He paused there to take a look, curious to see if the studio had changed much since the last time he’d been here in his early twenties. The same lighting rig still hung from the ceiling rafters. The city skyline framing the news set had been replaced numerous times over the years with more contemporary backgrounds. He recognized the thick, black curtains, hanging bunched in front of the garage doors. Those heavy stage curtains were on runners and capable of wrapping completely around the studio. He’d hidden behind them and heard conversations boys his age never should.

The two huge studio cameras were ancient. About seven feet tall, they were mounted on triangular dollies. He glanced at the camera in front of the weather set and for the first time noticed the camera operator—a redheaded woman—sitting on the base of the camera. Wait, not sitting, sleeping, with elbows propped on her knees and her face resting in her hands. She’d looped her headset around her neck like a stethoscope. He glanced at his watch—fifteen minutes until the news started. Jesus, how did this station stay on the air?

He banged open the door. The woman’s head jerked up and she gazed at him bleary-eyed. He made a quick mental inventory of her huge brown eyes, full lips and the gold ring looped through the side of her slim nose as he strode across the concrete floor.

Excuse me for disturbing your nap time, he said, pouring on the sarcasm in case she was as clueless as the rest of the crew.

Her back stiffened noticeably. Message received.

Do you always sleep at work? he demanded, stopping in front of her.

She lifted her chin and rose to her feet in an arrogant stretch, like a feline claiming her territory. A tall feline, almost on eye level with him. And obviously not concerned with keeping her job, or she’d at least try to look remorseful.

She crossed her arms tightly, her hands fisted, like she wanted to punch him. Oh, yeah, that’s me. A real slacker. I only work this shift so I can stay out all night, then sleep on the clock.

She took a few quick breaths, as if to steady herself. Her pulse fluttered wildly above the black velvet choker at her throat. Maybe not so fearless after all.

Nolan rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t felt like himself since he’d parked in front of the building. The station couldn’t be the way it was back when his granddad ran it. Different era. Different staff. And he was different now too. He needed to remember that.

He cleared his throat and tried again. Do you have a name?

"Uh, yes, but who the hell are you?"

She had no clue. That made him want to laugh. Who the hell am I? He wasn’t anyone special to her. A novel experience for him.

Hey, Billie. Alyssa’s voice echoed through the open space as she entered through the back studio door. The stage curtains puffed out as she beat them aside. You’ll never guess who just showed up—the owner!

Oh, shit. Her face flushed the same wine color as her hair, but she lifted her chin and held out her hand. Belinda Chapman, field photographer.

She had a firm handshake. Nolan Voss. He released her hand quickly because oddly he didn’t want to let go. Back to business. If you’re the field photographer, why are you in the studio and not out on assignment?

She does both jobs, Alyssa answered for her. That seemed to be a bad habit of the young reporter.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to remain polite. I believe she’s capable of speaking for herself, Ms. Jenetzky.

Alyssa released another one of those tinkling giggles. You sound like Leroy, my dad’s butler.

You have a butler? Belinda Chapman asked the same time Nolan uttered his own surprised question. His name is Leroy?

Alyssa’s eyes grew wide. Forget I said that. She turned away from Nolan and spoke to the redhead. Elliott sent me down here to run camera for the news. You need to go to Edgewater Avenue. Some guy drove his Porsche into a house.

Stupid, Belinda muttered.

Awesome, Alyssa corrected, her eyes shining. "He drove it into the second story of the house."

You’re shitting me!

How did he manage that? Nolan asked.

Ignoring him, both women rushed to the garage doors. Belinda punched in a code on the side panel and the heavy double doors slowly rose.

Edgewater’s near Lakeside Park, right? Belinda asked, opening the rear doors of the Live Unit van.

I think so, said Alyssa. Elliott said to take Columbia Avenue to Tecumseh. Edgewater is one way going west.

I know how to get there, Nolan broke in. I’ll ride along.

Belinda stilled, turning away from the van to stare at him. Her chocolate-colored eyes tilted at the corners, and were quite lovely, even with the hostile gleam in their depths.

Are you kidding me?

Chapter Three

As Billie slid into the driver’s seat next to the Boss Man, she caught the subtle scent of extravagance. Whatever cologne he’d splashed on his uptight jaw that day, it reeked of money. Lots and lots of money. Or maybe she smelled the spa products massaged into his two-hundred-dollar haircut and neatly groomed goatee. Picture-perfect. That’s what bugged her about him—besides the way he’d jumped all over her for closing her eyes for two lousy seconds—Nolan Voss was straight-up handsome.

She cracked her window, but not fast enough to ward off the stab of pain over her right eye. Just that tiny hint of fragrance made her headache flare a notch. The torture had been building for the last hour. She always got sinus headaches in the spring—some kind of allergic reaction to pollen. It had hit her while driving back from her last assignment, so she couldn’t take a pill until she reached the station. The sinus medication was finally starting to kick in, but much too slowly, especially now that she had to work with the station’s owner two feet away.

Voss had made himself at home in the van, pushing the passenger seat all the way back to allow room for his long legs. Not that he’d sprawled out or anything. His posture was impeccable.

How long have you worked at Channel 8, Belinda? Voss asked.

Billie, she mumbled. Six years.

Hmm.

She just barely bit back a mimicking, Hmm.

And how long have you been a multimedia photojournalist?

Of course he had to rattle off the complete job title. Couple of months. You know I’m not a one-man band, right?

So, you don’t report on air? He didn’t sound surprised, even though combining jobs was the growing trend these days. But she didn’t exactly have the TV news look.

No. No reporting.

Do you do any writing?

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Mostly shooting and editing.

Is that your assignment this morning? he asked To shoot and edit the story? Or will you do a live shot?

Elliott will decide after I report in, she said, gripping the steering wheel and pressing harder on the gas pedal. Was this guy going to jabber the whole time?

He grabbed the dashboard as she breezed through a light that was closer to red than yellow. Oh, that made her want to laugh. Cautiously, she rolled her shoulders. Yes, the headache had dulled to a throb. Thank God for drugs!

Who takes care of the social media side of the story? Do you do that as well? he continued.

Why? You planning to ‘friend’ me?

His humph sounded frustrated. Imagine that. A man frustrated with her.

What’s your status? she asked him.

I’m the owner of the station.

As if she could forget. "Not that status. What’s your Facebook status today?" Billie did stop for the red light at Lafayette, a much busier intersection. This early in the morning some bozo drunk was liable to ram her side of the van.

Boss Man didn’t answer for a moment. He turned in his seat and looked down that hawklike nose of his. Her pulse jittered in response. Why didn’t the damn light hurry up and change?

What do you think my status should be, Belinda?

Billie, she murmured, stalling for time while she tried . . . she tried . . . not to . . . Don’t say it.

I’m sure you have an opinion, he pressed.

Oh yeah, she always had an opinion. Her brother Ryan called her Billie Blabber because the filter control on her mouth constantly malfunctioned. She clenched her teeth to keep the babble inside. Remember, Billie, you work for this man. Don’t insult him. Even if he deserves it for accusing you of slacking.

The light turned green. She pressed on the gas too hard and the tires spun before catching and jerking them into motion.

I hope you shoot video better than you drive, he said.

God damn uppity bastard. God damn uppity bastard. God damn uppity bastard.

What was that, Belinda?

Oh, crap, did she say that out loud? She shot him a quick look. Was he trying to provoke her into saying something stupid? I was just thinking your status should be something like ‘Media King slumming it in The Fort.’ There, that wasn’t too bad. Probably right on the mark too.

This is the only TV station I own and my parents grew up here. You’re not implying that riding along with you is ‘slumming it,’ are you?

Her father would’ve thought so. She lifted her chin. No, Boss Man, uh, Mr. Voss, as you’ll soon see, I take pride in my job.

Billie parked on Tecumseh Street, pulling to a stop behind the CBS news unit, a few yards from a barrier of yellow police tape. As she unhooked her seat belt, she looked over at Voss. He was staring at her face, as if he couldn’t figure her out. Frowning too, like he wouldn’t stop trying. The guy was intense. It made her feel off-balance, jittery. And challenged to shake up his world in return.

She slammed out of the van, annoyed by her stray thoughts. And her sweaty palms. An extremely attractive older man—around forty to her twenty-six—found her interesting enough to figure out. That didn’t mean she turned him on. And the buzz she’d felt when she made the mistake of shaking his hand was probably just her meds kicking in.

The breezy April air kept the temps in the mid-fifties, so she shrugged into the station-issued WVOX windbreaker she kept rolled up in her camera bag. Close call. She’d almost forgotten the rule about always wearing her uniform in public and that would’ve contradicted her claim of taking pride in the job.

Voss grabbed the tripod from her hands when she pulled it out of the back. I’ll carry this. You get the rest of your gear.

Pushy bastard.

She snatched up the camera and the bag with her light kit, extra batteries and other odds and ends. When she spun around, she almost bumped into a cop that reminded her of Spock, with straight black bangs and pointy eyebrows. Luckily, he didn’t have Vulcan ears or she’d wonder how he made it through