Beautiful Dangerous

By Becky Flade

It’s exquisite torture watching you. For your sake, I hope you meet my expectations...

In the year following her brother’s tragic murder, Public Defender Hannah Patel withdrew into the comfort of family and career. As time passed, the man obsessed with her became a terrifying threat.

A fatal error caused Detective Doyle Murphy to doubt his future in law enforcement, but protecting Hannah presents an opportunity for redemption. Neither expect their forced closeness to create genuine feelings.

As their burgeoning romance grows, it pushes her stalker over the edge.

Will love win? Or will madness?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tirgearr Publishing
• Release date: Sep 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215791745

Becky Flade

no biography available at this time

Book preview

It’s exquisite torture watching you. For your sake, I hope you meet my expectations...

In the year following her brother’s tragic murder, Public Defender Hannah Patel withdrew into the comfort of family and career. As time passed, the man obsessed with her became a terrifying threat.

A fatal error caused Detective Doyle Murphy to doubt his future in law enforcement, but protecting Hannah presents an opportunity for redemption. Neither expect their forced closeness to create genuine feelings.

As their burgeoning romance grows, it pushes her stalker over the edge.

Will love win? Or will madness?

YESTERDAY'S OVER

Philly Heat Series, #3

Becky Flade

Published by Tirgearr Publishing

Author Copyright 2023 Becky Flade

Cover Art: Cora Graphics (www.coragraphics.it)

Editor: Lucy Felthouse

Proofreader: Adrienne Rieck

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please log into the publisher’s website and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.

This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

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DEDICATION

For my Mom-mom, Susan Flade

an exceptional woman

who was greatly loved

and is greatly missed.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As always: my gratitude and love for my family, friends, and fans [because I have some of those now!] overflows. My appreciation to the team at Tirgearr Publishing is undying. And I offer my support and admiration to all those following their dreams.

YESTERDAY'S OVER

Philly Heat Series, #3

Becky Flade

Chapter One

The January air was sharp as shattered glass in Hannah’s lungs. The scull sliced through the water soundlessly; the oars cut through with precision as she pumped and pushed her legs and arms in a familiar rhythm. Embraced the burn in her muscles. It was early; the sun hadn’t fully breached the horizon, but hers was not the only boat on the river. A college crew sped past, their coxswain nodding to her as they passed. She was on the last leg, approaching the clubhouse at the far end of Boathouse Row, when she pulled in her oars and let the momentum take her home as the sun glowed orange over the skyline of Center City.

I needed this. The solitude and quiet. The solace I always find on the water. I need the calm to carry me through the day.

She lifted the bow side oar and glided alongside the stage before climbing out with practiced grace. She stood and stretched, pulled off her cap and wiped the light sheen of sweat from her brow. Hannah rowed all year, conditions allowing, and though sometimes the river froze, winter was her favorite. In the dog days of summer, the algae and pollen created a pungent film on the water’s surface, which hindered the oars. Cold meant clean. This is perfect.

Pulling her single scull from the river was the hardest part, and she did it effortlessly. She’d rowed since college and had deceptively muscular legs and arms. With the oars in one hand and the boat over her shoulder, she carried her gear to the clubhouse and secured it in the garage. It had been converted into a storage area for boats and gear decades prior, but was still called the garage.

Twenty minutes later, dressed in her favorite charcoal pencil skirt and a silky blouse the color of ripe peaches, her long black hair–still damp from the shower–plaited down her back, Hannah pulled a thick wool cap over her ears and slipped into the cashmere coat her parents gave her for Christmas. She hurried across Kelly Drive and onto Lemon Hill Drive, where she’d parked her car ninety minutes earlier.

Her mother hated the Mazda. Thought she should drive something small, sporty, and feminine. Hannah considered it, and, despite her secret infatuation with the Porsche Carrera, chose the sport utility vehicle. Sculling, skiing, and her volunteer work at the Women’s Humane Society Animal Shelter in Olde City made the compact SUV the better choice. Frosty morning sunlight glinted off the chrome detailing. Hannah smiled. And she’s pretty.

With the fob in her hand, she remotely started the car, used her foot to open the liftgate and tossed her duffel bag in the back. She’d had it customized for transporting animals and no matter how funky her gear got, or muddy, or sandy, she wouldn’t damage her interior. She shivered, closed the hatch, and unlocked the doors. With one foot in the car, and her body half in the seat, she froze.

A standard piece of paper, folded in half and tucked under the windshield wiper, fluttered in the icy breeze. Dread curled in her stomach. The coppery taste of fear coated her tongue. She reached for it, slowly, cautiously, as though it would bite her if she moved too quickly, and picked it off her windshield. She checked the back seat. Empty. Checked it again. Hopped into the driver’s seat, and locked the door. She waited a second, two, before unfolding the sheet.

It’s exquisite torture watching you. Wondering how those powerful legs will feel wrapped around me. How the muscles in your arms will quiver under restraints. I’ll know soon. For your sake, I hope you meet my expectations.

* * *

Guilty. All counts.

Hannah’s stomach dropped. She’d expected the guilty verdict. But her client, Anthony Jayne, hadn’t. She turned to address him. Pain exploded from her eye to her jaw. Knocked back on her heels and off balance, Hannah tumbled to the floor. She grabbed a chair to stop herself and it fell on top of her.

The gallery erupted into a chorus of shouting as the court bailiff and the sheriffs who’d escorted her client from holding grabbed him as he struggled and screamed threats directed at her, the judge, and the jury. The chair was kicked in the scuffle and clattered across the floor.

Here, let me help you. A woman grabbed under her arms from behind and lifted her to her feet. The sheriffs dragged Anthony. The jury scrambled into the juror room as the judge shouted directions. Hannah’s head spun and the world grayed. Oh, no you don’t. She was shoved into a chair, and her head pushed, not gently, between her knees. Breathe.

Take her into my chambers. Stay with her, Judge Seeger’s voice boomed. It always did. It didn’t normally bother her, but now it reverberated in her brain like a painful cavity. Before Hannah could think, she was pulled from the chair and ushered through the courtroom, behind the bench, and into the judge’s private office.

My bags…

I’ll get them. The Samaritan lowered Hannah to a couch. Wait right there. If you get woozy again, put your head between your knees and breathe slowly, from your diaphragm.

Hannah glimpsed serviceable black slacks and low-heeled boots. How embarrassing. Getting struck by a client. In the courtroom, no less.

Here.

A cup of water was thrust into her hand. Hannah raised her head.

Damn. You’re gonna have one hell of a shiner.

The owner of the low-heeled boots was a criminal investigator for the district attorneys’ office and a former homicide detective famous for bringing down a notorious serial killer. Alexandra Danvers squatted in front of her, with a first aid kit propped on her knee.

I know you.

Yeah, most everyone does, thanks to the stupid twenty-four/seven news cycle plastering my face and name everywhere. Danvers opened the kit. Let me look at your face, Counselor.

Call me Hannah. You moonlight as a doctor?

No. I box, amateur league. And have seen enough fractured noses, cheekbones, and eye sockets to judge whether you need an emergency room or an ice pack. She pressed her fingers to the area. Hannah sucked in a breath and jerked back. Don’t be a pussy, Hannah.

Oh my God.

Danvers laughed. Alright, you’re going to have a doozy of a black eye, but nothing’s broken. She folded an ice pack in half until it cracked, shook it, and applied it to Hannah’s face. Hold it, there. That’s right. Drink the water. I’ll be back in a second.

Great. Perfect. Hannah leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. The skin under the ice pack stung, but the cold soothed. A courtroom full of people, the judge, the jury, her peers, and a super-cop turned investigator witnessed her humiliation. So much for carrying the calm throughout the day. I never should have got out of bed this morning.

Supple leather–it must be leather–under her palm. She opened her eyes. Old leather, dark brown, like coffee with a touch of cream, cracked and worn from years of use. Throw pillows kept it from appearing austere across from the massive antique desk and wall of built-in shelving. She glanced down. The throw rug was an exquisite reproduction of a Persian, as were the knock-off Tiffany lamps set on occasional tables scattered around the room.

Danvers returned with her bags. The judge followed. How’s she doing, Lex?

She’ll be okay, Your Honor.

I’ve told you before, it’s Tom in private.

Not while you’re still wearing the robe. Danvers placed Hannah’s bags at her feet. The briefcase tipped over and rested against Hannah’s calf.

First time being assaulted by a client, Miss Patel? Judge Seeger asked.

No, sir. But the first time wasn’t intentional. His stare required an explanation. I had a client a few years ago, a paranoid schizophrenic who was off his meds. I went to see him before arraignment, but he wasn’t stable yet. Didn’t understand who I was or why I was there and swung on me. I chose not to press charges. It wasn’t his fault. Not really.

You will not have a choice on this one.

Yes, sir.

The sentencing will be postponed until new counsel is assigned to defend Mr. Jayne.

But sir—

It’s not a suggestion. You’re now a victim and witness against Mr. Jayne in an unrelated criminal matter, and your continued representation of him in this matter is a conflict of interest. I’d like to avoid creating further appealable issues.

Pardon?

The assistant district attorney, Mr. Carmichael, advised he offered your client a generous plea deal? She nodded. I assume you encouraged him to take it. Why didn’t he?

He was convinced they offered the deal because they knew they wouldn’t win.

I assume you tried, and failed, to disabuse him of that nonsense.

I did, yes.

His next attorney will probably plead ineffective counsel, regardless. You see how your continued representation following a physical assault could complicate the issue?

She sighed. This keeps getting better. I do, yes.

I have to get back out there. Take all the time you need, Miss Patel, but you are required to give a statement to the police. He turned to Danvers. Get pictures of her face, Lex. The hearing you were due to testify in today has been postponed. We’ll be in touch with your office when a new date is set.

Thanks, Your Honor. Danvers pulled out her phone as the door closed behind him. Ready for your close up?

You know Judge Seeger? Hannah asked. Danvers snapped photos.

He used to be a cop. Friend of my late husband. They were in the academy together. Turn toward me a little.

She shifted and her briefcase fell over. Manila folders and papers slid out and fanned across the judge’s rug like a deck of cards at a Vegas casino. Hannah bent to scoop them up. Her head spun.

Whoa. Danvers stabilized her shoulders. I’ll get them, relax. She squatted. Maybe you should go to the emergency room. Rule out a concussion. Not from the punch, but the fall. What the hell is this?

She held up the note Hannah removed from her windshield. She reached for it, but Danvers pulled it away. It’s private.

It’s a threat. And harassment, at a minimum. She cocked her head to the side, assessed Hannah. Hannah held as still as she could, kept her expression as blank as she could, but suspected the investigator saw right through her. Danvers handed her the note. And not the first one you’ve received. Have you reported this?

Not this one. Yet. It’s new. But the others before it, yes.

And?

And what? Hannah shoved it in her briefcase. I don’t know who it is, and even if I did, the police can’t do anything until I’m the victim of a crime. But they’ll happily investigate after I’m maimed, raped, or killed was the compassionate response I received. They were less kind after realizing I’m a public defender. I’m feeling better. Thank you for your help. She stood and paused, waited for the lightheadedness, and when none occurred, took a step toward the door.

Danvers grabbed her arm. Wait. This is serious. Is it an escalation or have all the letters you received been similar?

It’s been escalating. I went to the police when the letters changed from creepy to scary. And was essentially told it’s probably one of my clients and what did I expect? She shook free. He was probably trying to scare me. The implication was I deserve it.

I’m sorry, and I won’t make excuses. But let me put you in touch with someone who will take it seriously and treat you with respect. Whoever this is could be dangerous.

I appreciate the offer, but I’ve experienced enough professional humiliation today.

Chapter Two

It wasn’t late, but it was dark. Lights glowed from the windows of the restored centurion Victorian-style homes with classic pillars and brick columns behind bare trees, their limbs climbing into the clear sky as though reaching for the stars. Doyle liked to imagine the families inside. Kids fighting over the game console, mom shouting at dad to take out the trash. He needed the image. Cleaved to it. Far too often, families weren’t the safe place they should be.

He used his cell to shine a light on the slip of paper where he’d written Hannah Patel’s address. This was it. The property sat mid-block, and like those around it, was built with brick and mortar, but there the similarities ended. It was shorter and less ornate, without landscaping, like an odd duck among swans. It’s a converted garage, a small stable or an old carriage house. There wasn’t a door visible from the sidewalk, but there was a decorative black gate, at least ten feet tall, with a mailbox emblazoned with the house number and what looked like a door buzzer at eye height. The few windows on the street side were shaded. The interior was shielded from the street.

Cedar Avenue was empty but for him and a woman walking a small dog. It was a wide, quiet street in an affluent section of the city. The houses probably had security systems, but the occupants didn’t live in fear. Not part of a bus route and it wasn’t near any businesses or shopping centers. Foot traffic would be light. A stranger may be noticed if they lingered too long or kept appearing during the daytime hours, but one person standing on the curb line across the street in the shadow of a tree after nightfall wouldn’t cause alarm.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Like crab claws racing toward him. Doyle looked down when the sound ceased. A small, wrinkled dog with lopsided ears, gigantic eyes, and a smushed face wagged its tail at his feet, its tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. Doyle smiled. Hey, buddy.

A high-pitched whistle sent the dog into a circular sprint. His owner stood several feet away, next to the gate, one hand folded in a fist as though gripping a key fob or something similar. Mace or pepper spray. Bundled as she was against the chill and the bitter cut of the wind, with the moon behind her, he couldn’t see much. If she hadn’t called the dog by name, he’d have been uncertain of the figure’s gender, but he suspected this was Hannah Patel.

Miss Patel?

Don’t come any closer, she warned.

I’m Detective Doyle Murphy, Philadelphia Police, Special Victims Unit. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and held it out, badge showing. She used the flashlight feature on her cell to illuminate his credentials without coming near. Smart. Alexandra Danvers asked me to speak with you.

Damn it. The dog let out a series of short, happy yips. She double clicked her tongue and the dog came to heel beside her. With her back to him, she keyed in a code and opened the gate. Come on in.

She disappeared into the darkness, the dog trotting along behind her, but the gate stood open. Guess she was talking to me.

He went in and closed the gate behind him. A beep and mechanical whirring signaled the gate’s automatic lock engaging. Darkness surrounded him, but his eyes adjusted as he followed the click-clack of her dog’s claws. Cobblestones cut a path through foliage. Ivy grew over a trellis, creating a ceiling of greenery, a topiary tunnel. It opened into a beautiful courtyard, with bare flower beds, evergreen bushes, wrought iron benches and bistro sets . Like a secret garden hidden from the street, Discreet lighting washed the courtyard with a warm glow, as though casting it in perpetual dusk. Sliding glass doors opened into her home. On the opposite end of the courtyard stood the back of a three-story traditional Victorian.

Doyle stepped inside, slid the door closed in its track, and manually engaged the lock. Her view out was amazing, reminiscent of a fairy garden. He turned. The room was elegantly decorated but felt lived in, with peach walls, a massive sofa the color of wheat, and an open floor plan organically leading into a large kitchen, with tile reflecting the same peach and wheat tones offset by turquoise appliances. Potted plants sprinkled throughout brought the courtyard indoors in a continuous flow. She removed her hat and shook out her long, black hair. His stomach tightened in response.

Her latte complexion, flawless—despite the abrasions, swelling, and bruises—stretched over high cheekbones leading to eyes the color of rich imported chocolate. Her plump lips were pursed in irritation. He hid his smile. Average