A Shameless Little Bet

By Meli Raine

How do I prove a negative?

I need to prove Jane is innocent, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Mirrors, smoke, and lies can conjure a truth that isn’t real. Money, bribes, and power can twist reality. What we call proof is all an elaborate magic act.

So is love.
How do you prove you’re in love? How can you know with unrelenting certainty that the person you can’t live without really loves you?

It’s all about what you believe. Who you believe. And I believe Jane. I love her.

But it might be too late.

Or, worse – it might all be an illusion. If proof is just a magician’s sleight of hand, then we’re caught in a sick trick.

A deadly one.

One that doesn’t end with applause.

But with a bang.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prosaic Press
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781937544904

Meli Raine

USA Today bestselling author Meli Raine writes romantic suspense with hot bikers, intense undercover DEA agents, bad boys turned good, and Special Ops heroes -- and the women who love them. Meli rode her first motorcycle when she was five years old, but she played in the ocean long before that. She lives in New England with her family.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

SILAS

Getting shot in the heart hurts way more than you’d think.

Definitely worse than Drew said.

Someone put an elephant on my chest, resting on the head of a pin. All the weight is concentrated in this one spot.

Oxygen is gone.

My breath is trapped underwater.

The world is going white.

Jane’s screaming in my face, her hands all over me, the dropped gun rubbing up against the curve of my ear. Can’t breathe. Can’t groan. Can’t move.

But I can smile.

YOU KILLED HIM! she shrieks just as Duff appears, standing over me and looking down with the same damn expression Drew has on his face.

Bureaucratic approval.

Nimble fingers shove against my neck as Jane tries to find my pulse, her eyes wild as I look into them. She’s searching me. She’s searching for me, the blood that keeps me alive still there, still pumping away, still inside an intact system that hasn’t been pierced by Drew’s bullet.

She finds my pulse, then flattens her hand against my chest. A confused look deepens on her face, her layered hair mussed against her cheekbones as streaming tears turn it dark in licks of sticky pieces against her jaw. The pendant I gave her dangles over my head, brushing against the tip of my nose, always watching.

More palms on my chest.

I really need to breathe.

But I can’t.

Gentian, Drew mutters as he bends and retrieves Jane’s dropped gun. We’re done. Get up.

Jane turns, pivoting on heels as she crouches before me, her hands coming up off my torso, fingers gone from my neck. Before she withdraws, I feel her shaking.

Trembling. Vibrating like every piece of life force in the universe converges in her body.

WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? YOU SHOT HIM! YOU TRIED TO KILL HIM! Jane continues.

The crushing wall of rock on my chest bends. And then it breaks.

I regret the air the instant it starts to fill me.

Drew looks down at me, one eyebrow cocked, as if to say, Cut it out.

Jane is a blur, all motion and survival.

Sirens scream in the distance.

Jane screams in color.

HE HAS A PULSE! GET AN AMBULANCE NOW, YOU SOULLESS PIECE OF SHIT! she screams at Duff, at Drew, at me, at the sky. Skittering on the ground, she goes for her purse, which is near where she dropped the gun. She looks around wildly, spotting it now in Drew’s hand.

Drew shoves it in his jacket breast pocket.

He hasn’t broken a sweat.

What the HELL is going on? You’re not bleeding! You’re not dead! she yells down at me. She advances on Drew, who scrambles backward, fully prepared to defend himself. You shot him in the HEART!

Drew grunts and glares at me.

I’m trying, I want to tell him. You were wrong. This hurts.

Jane’s hand flattens against my pec as I roll on my side and try to reassemble my shredded lungs. What is this? she asks, patting my chest like she’s fluffing a pillow.

Vest, Drew replies, devolving into one-word answers.

A bullet-proof vest?

Yes.

Why?

So he wouldn’t die when I shot him with the blanks.

If you shot blanks, why is he so hurt? Jane shrieks.

A blank round can still kill at close range. That’s why he’s wearing kevlar. He just got the wind knocked out of him. Man up, Gentian. Walk it off.

I can’t make my throat generate sound.

"Why would you shoot blanks?" She’s staring at him agog. I’m trying to get the crater in my ribcage to expand back out. Sonofabitch.

Drew’s going to pay for this.

Because that’s the only way not to kill him. Drew answers her like she’s stupid.

Jane calmly stops touching me, stands slowly, and smoothes her skirt.

I try.

I try to warn him. But my chest is made up of thousands of rocks being held back by weak mesh.

She kicks him in the balls. Hard.

Drew dodges it.

I seriously think you and Lindsay are sisters, even if the tests say no, he grouses, looking at her like she’s a gnat, an annoying mosquito, a yappie dog. Now stop this nonsense and let’s get out of here. Suck it up, Gentian.

SUCK IT UP? Jane screams. "YOU SHOT HIM!" Burrowing her hands in her hair, she pulls it up off her flushed, sweaty face, eyes dilated so wide, she’s almost an alien, her fear pouring out of every cell in any way it can.

Damn it.

It’s going to take a lot of work to make her understand.

I’m fine, I say. From the looks on their faces, I didn’t say that.

He’s groaning! He can’t even speak! Jane fumes, her chest rising and falling like a freight train.

A really pissed-off one.

He’s been through worse, Drew says, mouth tight. Come on, Gentian. Sirens getting close. Let’s get you the hell out of here so I don’t have to deal with so much paperwork.

PAPERWORK? Jane looks like she’s about to kick Drew again. PAPERWORK? You SHOT a man and all you care about is paperwork, you sick bastard?

I care about minimizing the impact of this incident, Drew says, pointing to a car Duff’s just brought around. Get in.

Fuck you, she says coldly.

Jane, I croak out, blood rushing to my extremities with that sudden, fiercely pleasant sensation I know well from combat. Listen to him.

Fuck you, too.

She’s staring at my chest. I look down.

What is this, Silas? she asks, her voice subterranean. "Was this some kind of disgusting joke? You two bored and need a diversion?"

No. Not a joke, I choke on the words, but get them out. A test.

"A test?"

You passed, Drew says with a long sigh, as if her reaction inconveniences him. A+. Now get in the car.

A test. A TEST? You SHOT Silas in the heart and it was all to test ME?

Right. Now you understand, he answers. Let’s get the hell out of here. Duff!

Wild and panicked, she meets my eyes. "You – you knew about this?"

He’s wearing a vest. Of course he knew, Drew says. He snaps his fingers. We don’t have all day.

Jane goes still with the snap, eyes tracking to his fingers.

She pivots.

She walks away.

Another long, aggrieved sigh comes out of Drew. I pull to a stand, full breaths coming now, eyes focused. I’m better. As long as I ignore what feels like a blast hole through my sternum, I’m just fine.

If there’s anything we learn in combat, it’s to ignore pain.

Go get her, Gentian.

Rather wrestle a bucket of snakes, Drew.

That can be arranged.

She’s pissed.

Who cares? His jaw sets with tension. You were right. She’s not a spy. Not part of anything deeper. Not behind all the killings.

That makes some of my pain fade. I know.

Don’t gloat.

Not gloating. Just confirming.

I don’t know why I keep you around, Gentian. You’re a pain in the ass.

"But I’m a loyal pain in the ass."

True.

And I’m a better shot than you. I rub my pec, grimacing.

"Now you’re gloating."

I am, I concede.

Get her. Sirens are on us. I’ll explain and make it all go away. You need to do the same.

Duff’s voice comes through on our earpieces. I’ve got her. She’s insisting on leaving now.

Be there in a sec, I say.

Gentian, she doesn’t want you here, Duff replies.

Drew smothers a grin.

What?

Her orders are for me to take her – and I quote – ‘as far the hell away as possible from those assholes.’

Can you define ‘those assholes’ with more clarity? Drew asks.

Pretty clear, sir, Duff says back.

Half my mind is spinning with the relief of knowing she didn’t shoot Drew after he shot me. A cold-blooded operative would have. Well-trained people in the field stick to the mission, no matter what. If Jane had really, truly been part of some deep state plan, she would have taken her chance when Drew shot me and killed him on the spot.

She didn’t.

She dropped the gun, fell to her knees, and worried about me. Worried. The true test wasn’t one of love and caring.

It was one of violence. Of death. Of treason.

The love was extra.

But the love is all I care about now.

I am so screwed, I say, running my hand through my hair, pieces of loose asphalt sprinkling on my shoulders, my earpiece coming out.

We knew the test was faulty.

Yeah.

The important part is that she’s cleared now.

I bite back a contrary reply.

Go, Drew orders Duff. Do whatever she says. Unless she cuts surveillance. Keep a team on her at all times. She’s more important now than ever.

More important now than ever.

Drew’s got that right.

Not quite in the same way I feel it, though.

That hurt more than you said it would, Foster, I inform him. Your test of Jane sucks. It’s an accusation. He knows it. I’m talking about more than my chest.

He knows that, too.

We watch the cop car pull up, followed by a second police SUV, and then the long line of predictable law enforcement people, all responding to reports of gunshots.

It always hurts more than we say it will. You’ll be bruised, but fine. The heart’s resilient, he says as he walks over to deal with his mess.

He’d better be right.

JANE

Where’s Lindsay? I snap at Duff, who doesn’t even blink.

I don’t know, Jane. I’m not in charge of her security.

I text her with hands that shake so badly, I drop the phone twice.

Drew set me up in a test. He shot Silas. Silas wore a vest. I know this makes no sense, but can I see you? I type. I need a friend.

Nausea rises up in me.

Along with righteous anger that comes up so strong, it’s going to smother me.

No. It’s going to crawl out of my soul and smother Silas.

What did he just do to me? I am five different versions of myself inside one body, all the angles of the different selves scraping up against each other.

He and Drew set me up? They tested me? I had a loaded gun on Drew. I could have shot and killed him.

Unlike Silas, he wasn’t wearing a vest.

Or was he?

Well, his head wasn’t. And that’s where my gun was aimed.

Those idiots! I scream. A test? They were testing me with live ammunition! The reality that I could have killed Lindsay’s husband and only love starts to seep in. He might be the biggest asshole in the universe, but she loves him dearly. I haven’t actually killed anyone, no matter what the press says.

Adding truth to those claims would be awful.

DUFF! I scream.

He doesn’t even slow the car. Yes?

I want you to take me to a hotel.

A hotel?

Yes.

But you have an apartment, Jane. A secure one.

Nothing is secure for me. I want a hotel. And I want to hire you, separate from Drew’s company.

I can’t do that, Jane. I work for him. I don’t have my own company.

I’ll pay you triple the salary Drew pays you.

That gets me silence.

As soon as Alice’s estate starts to let some of the money through, I’ll have it. In fact, I owe Hedding Stuva a call. Look, I say, realizing he’s not remotely convinced, here’s what I know. Drew and Silas set me up. They wanted to test me, to see if I was lying. I’m not. I passed their stupid test. You know that. You can trust me. And now Alice’s estate means I have financial independence. I’d rather have Alice, I ramble, but I don’t. I don’t get what I want. What I want from the universe doesn’t matter. But what I can do is make my own decisions.

You can, he says simply.

And one of those decisions involves never, ever seeing Silas Gentian or Drew Foster again.

The tires grip the ground as a very rare rain starts to fall outside. Southern California isn’t known for precipitation, and the already-thick traffic comes to a grinding halt. You would think that people were being rained on by blood, given the typical panic. Even a misting like this is disruptive.

I roll my window down an inch. The scent of fresh rain is exotic. Deep breaths help to calm me, the odor of dirt and ground rocks, of freshly cut grass and humidity, all rolling together to transport me.

I want to be anywhere else.

I feel so betrayed.

Once I let the feelings in, the tears come.

So betrayed.

Bzzz.

I look at my phone. It’s Lindsay.

Meet me at the Lilac Inn. B&B on the ocean. Duff can google it. I’ll get us a suite. The guys are being awful.

Duff, I call out. Lilac Inn. I’ll be staying there.

Lilac? His eyes narrow in the rearview window.

Oh. That’s right. Lilac is Lindsay’s code name. Huh.

Lilac Inn. It’s a place. GPS it.

He grunts in acknowledgment and takes the next exit ramp.

Thanks, I text back. I don’t have money yet, I start.

No problem. You’re good for it, she says.

I laugh, a sick sound of truth.

The drive there is slow, halting, and painfully claustrophobic. It’s me, Duff, and a rageball of disappointment lingering like its own raincloud of doom above me.

My word isn’t enough for Silas.

My body isn’t enough for Silas.

My heart isn’t enough for him, either.

What is? When will I be good enough?

Never.

Never, I guess.

That truth hurts more than nearly losing him today. Hurts more than when I thought he was dead.

People who die are gone forever, but at least you know they can’t be with you because they’re gone.

Silas is dead to me.

And yet, he’s still alive.

He’s still alive because he and Drew gambled on the premise of whether I’m a deep state operative or not. But instead of believing me when I told the truth, they had to test me.

I had to prove my worth.

That works in business. In competition. In the military. In combat.

But it damn well isn’t how relationships work.

The smooth leather in the backseat is a cold slap against my skin.

The wind through the window is a warm caress.

And Silas Gentian is a thunderstorm that washes away every hope I ever had that he loved me.

CHAPTER 2

SILAS

W here is she? I ask Drew, the question a demand. We’re in his car now, the cops long gone, the whole mess waved away with smoke and mirrors. Literally, with smoke. A group of uniformed blues smoking in a pack. No blood on the ground, no damage from the gun. Piece of cake when it comes to cover-ups.

I wish it were so easy with Jane.

Duff said he’s taking her to the Lilac Inn. Lindsay’s meeting her there.

Lindsay? Does she know what happened?

I imagine she does. I’ve got nineteen texts from her in my notifications, and I suspect the last few will spontaneously combust the second I open them.

Your test was one big mindfuck, Drew.

Tests work, Gentian. You of all people should know that.

I go cold. Don’t bring Rebecca into this. Don’t.

I have to. You refuse to talk about the fact that your fiancée turned out to be a double agent. You’re finally in love with another woman. A woman who might have been a deep state operative. You sure do know how to pick them.

Any other guy said that to me and he’d be flat on the floor, cheekbone busted open like a blooming onion.

"I do know how to pick them. I was right. You were wrong. Deeply wrong. She’s trustworthy and innocent. She’s not the mastermind."

No. She’s not. We know who that is, Drew says with a sour look.

We do. And we need all the evidence we can get to prove it.

Not sure that proof exists.

Doesn’t help me with Jane.

Yes, it does. Because the more confident we are that Jane isn’t behind all these deaths and conspiracies, the better.

‘More confident’? How about rock-solid sure? She could have killed you, Drew, if she’d wanted to.

No. She couldn’t. But she didn’t. That’s all we need to know. Unlike Rebecca, she didn’t turn traitor and kill our own people.

Angry silence swarms around the front seat of the car like deadly bees.

And if Jane had turned out to be a double agent?

Then I’d expect you to do what you did to Rebecca. And I’d be damn sorry about it like I was then, too.

Buzzing takes over my head. A flash of the past, of Afghanistan, of the moment I realized on the tarmac, the air warped and wobbly in crystal-clear heat, that my own fiancée was on a killing mission. The lock on Drew’s eyes. The silent words communicated between us in nanoseconds. The way a buddy dropped, blood splattering from his guts. How she took out a sitting member of the United States House of Representatives, half his skull shattering next to a flag.

My gun, moving in slow motion, the sight on her eyebrow, the same one I’d kissed that morning.

How she was seconds away from killing Drew and a visiting diplomat whose death could trigger a nuclear war.

And how I didn’t hesitate.

I just didn’t.

Rain starts to stipple the windshield, the view outside wobbling just enough to test my reality. It all shifts, my head bowing down as I close my eyes. I open them quickly. Memory lives inside us, buried in places we cannot see.

We can only feel them.

Rebecca’s betrayal lives in parts of me I can’t access when I’m awake. I dream about her sometimes. In the dreams, she’s not tainted. Not a double-crosser. Not a liar. Not a bedmate who used her body nor a temptress who used my own heart as a weapon against me.

She’s just Rebecca.

And I am enough.

Then reality asserts itself.

Sitting in silence with Drew is its own form of penance. I received a medal for what I did on that tarmac. Mom has it in a drawer somewhere back home in Minnesota. That’s where my heart lived, too.

Until recently.

As we inch along in traffic until Drew takes surface roads leading closer to the coast, I let my mind wander. I’m not protecting Jane. We’re not in a meeting. Drew just goddamn shot me. I deserve to live in my own mind for a while.

Standing down is hard.

Doing it in your own head is even harder.

It never occurred to me when Drew came up with this nutso plan that Jane wouldn’t stay to hear me out. That I couldn’t rebuild the trust I’d established with her. With Rebecca, there was no hope. She put me between duty and love. She turned herself from moral to evil.

There is no conflict once someone shows you they are evil.

Say something, Gentian, Drew demands as we get closer to the ocean, the salt air seeping into the car whether I like it or not.

I do.

You’re a hair’s breadth away from asking me what I’m thinking. You turn into a woman overnight, Foster?

Nope. Not so lucky. But I know a man lost in the past when I see one.

That a crime?

It is if you’re blaming yourself.

I’m not.

Good.

You blame yourself for what happened with Lindsay, I lob back. Most people foment conflict to separate themselves. To put distance between them and others. To isolate and alienate.

To separate.

Guys like us do it for the opposite reason.

To get closer. Connect. Be in tune.

I do. I’ll never forgive myself for what happened.

She’s forgiven you.

Thank God.

Wasn’t your fault.

Neither was Rebecca yours, Gentian. You know that.

Yep.

And now you know Jane’s clean.

Yep.

Which means you’ll never have to kill her.

And there it is.

The gut punch.

JANE

Lindsay’s already there at the Lilac Inn when Duff escorts me in. The place is tastefully decorated in a retro style, with floral prints and fresh flowers everywhere, an emphasis on lilacs, of course.

A silent hug greets me, her tight embrace saying more than any words. Duff stays back, tasteful like the decor but ever-present. He’s a theme we can’t shake.

I am so sorry, Jane. I knew Drew was paranoid, but this takes the cake. She leads me to a small semi-circular table with tea service already set up. Little cakes and sandwiches dot a three-tiered serving tray, and it turns out coffee is in what I thought was a teapot.

My stomach doesn’t just growl. It roars.

Hungry?

You would think I’d have no appetite, but I guess I do, I confess as we sit down. She pours me a cup of java while I shove a tiny, really yummy triangular sandwich in my mouth and sigh. Something with hummus and roasted red peppers does my mouth – and heart – good.

"You’re human. Unlike some people," she says pointedly.

They tested me, Lindsay. Your husband pretended to shoot Silas in the heart in front of me, to see if I would kill Drew instead of drop the gun and take care of Silas.

The teaspoon in her hand falls, banging on one of the sandwich tiers, clang clang clang.

"Drew what?"

Right? I could have killed him! If I were evil. You know, I mumble at the end. She’s a little shocked. My words after what I told her about Drew don’t matter.

But you didn’t, Lindsay says calmly. She finds the spoon and stirs her milk-filled coffee. He set you up to see if you would.

"I had an unlocked, loaded gun pointed at Drew’s head in a three-person standoff. Drew and Silas were wearing vests. They set the whole thing up. If Drew shot Silas and I tried to shoot Drew, I was guilty. If I didn’t, I was – am – innocent."

It’s like the Salem witch trials! Sink and drown and you’re innocent.

I KNOW! I sip some coffee, hands still shaking. You didn’t know Drew was doing this to me?

"No! I knew he was paranoid about you and wanted to figure out if you’re part of the deep state or not. Obsession doesn’t quite cover the extent of his concern. But I never expected him to do this."

It’s disgusting, I say, shoving another sandwich in my mouth, willing my heart to slow down.

And Silas, she says quietly. Why would he do such a thing to you?

You can’t cry easily with your mouth full.

Easily.

I swallow quickly, knowing the feeling of doom and despair is about to overwhelm me. The coffee helps get my system out of the danger zone. The sandwich is a heavy lump in my stomach. Lindsay can tell she’s upset me.

Except she didn’t upset me.

That’s all on Silas and Drew.

As I fight tears, she drinks more coffee, absentmindedly munching on a cookie. I feel unmoored. I am only grounded when I look at her.

So I do.

She looks healthy. Happy. We’re never going to be the nineteen-year-old innocents we were before that fateful night nearly five years ago when Stellan, Blaine, and John ruined everything. You can heal from damage.

Scars, though – scars are forever.

Reminders of the pain, they are trail markers. We know who and where we were by the spaces these physical memories inhabit. I can only imagine how littered with marks and tears the skin along Lindsay’s bones must be.

And then there’s the mind.

The damage done there isn’t visible.

Until we behave our way into visibility.

You know, Lindsay says, interrupting my thoughts. Her tone is apologetic. "I think it’s time to tell you something you should have