Deceptions and Desires

By Melinda Di Lorenzo

Well, if I'm going to die, at least it's under a man who looks like that. And feels like this.

Funny the things that leap to mind when your apartment has just exploded in front of you. Jane Greene wasn't always her name. But she left the original behind the night she finally killed her vicious mobbed-up husband and then bolted.

Eight years lying low. Now the only thing standinglying, reallybetween her and a crew of vengeful Abruzzi family goons is a man. He says his name is Leo. He wants to save her even more than he just plain wants her. Adrenaline and lust are powerful allies. So they run, together.

But more potent than the sheen of sweat between Jane and Leo is a secret. A past that one remembers with grief and regret, and that the other can't begin to guess. Both know that the Abruzzis cannot be stopped. That a tryst is not trust. And that no one will escape unscathed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781460380222

Melinda Di Lorenzo

Melinda Di Lorenzo has been writing professionally for more than a decade and is the author of Counting Scars and Racing Hearts in the Orca Soundings line. In 2013 she won Harlequin's annual So You Think You Can Write contest, which came with a publishing contract and launched her successfully into the romance world. With a BA in English from Simon Fraser University and a passion for classic love stories that feature strong (albeit sometimes problematic) female leads battling social constraints, such as Pride and Prejudice and Wuthering Heights, Melinda infuses her books with flawed characters in real, relatable situations. Bullied as a teen, Melinda sought refuge in books. She now wants to bring that refuge to others, and she draws on her experience as the parent of three teens to craft stories that reflect modern struggles without turning those struggles into stereotypes. She also supports young writers and makes an annual creative writing scholarship donation to École Salish Secondary. Melinda lives in Surrey, British Columbia.

Book preview

Chapter One

The buzz of Leo’s cell phone jarred him awake from a pleasant dream full of sand, surf and long, tanned legs. Leo tried to get it back to the beach, but his phone vibrated again insistently. So he rolled over and shot the stupid thing a glare, wondering how the hell a company could justify calling a setting silent when it made such a racket.

It buzzed a third time, somehow louder than before. This time, the phone skidded across the nightstand, slipped off and landed on his pillow. With a growl, Leo snatched the phone up, pounded on the answer key and waited.

After a second, a familiar voice—one that made him grit his teeth regularly—spoke. We’re sending the package. And it’s a big one.

Leo smiled to himself, pleased that the other man had left him the perfect opening. Dean?

What?

"That’s what she said."

There was a snarl on the other end of the phone. You’re not fucking funny, Leo.

Juanita thinks so, Leo replied. Then again she doesn’t speak a word of English. And she’s fictional.

Who the fuck is Juanita?

The girl I was dreaming about before you so thoughtlessly interrupted.

We don’t sleep ’til she’s dead, Leo. That was the fucking deal.

Leo’s obnoxious comeback about Dean’s inability to find an adjective other than fuck or fucking died in his throat as the other man’s words sunk in. "Did you say she, Dean? And what the hell do you mean, dead?"

There was a long pause, and then Dean replied in a tone that told Leo the other man had let something slip. Buy a dictionary.

I know what the word means, you tool, but my agreement was for positive identification of some escaped thug of yours. Not for a dead girl.

What difference does it make?

You know exactly what difference it makes. I have standards and I’m not in the murder-for-hire business. I never have been, Leo said angrily. "The deal was that I would find this guy for you, take the payout, then live happily ever after in Mexico with a señorita named Juanita who makes the perfect margarita and knows I don’t like tomatoes in my tacos."

Dean chuckled. Tell yourself whatever you need to, Leo. You found the guy, the guy found her. We’re the ones who are gonna take her out. If it makes you feel better, you can call it revenge instead of murder.

Leo’s mind struggled to make a connection between Dean’s words and some elusive thought. He gave up quickly, though. He was too tired, too pissed off and too damned sick of the way the Abruzzi family pervaded all the corners of his life to put that much of an effort into thinking about their motivations.

The money’s in your account, Dean announced, momentarily distracting Leo. I’m supposed to make sure you verify that.

Hang on.

Leo sat up quickly, popped open his laptop and pulled up his financials. There it was.

Two million dollars.

With more eagerness and more materialism than he wanted to cop to—even in his own head—Leo transferred the funds from his too-easily accessible American account to an offshore one that was barely traceable.

That kind of money would last Leo a lifetime in Mexico. It was also a good deal for a month and a half’s worth of stalking some poor loser who owed the Abruzzis money. When Leo added in the fact that it would sever his ties from them and their shady enterprises for good, it was—to take a page out of Dean’s book—a fucking fantastic deal.

Got it, bro? Dean’s voice pulled Leo back to reality.

Got it, Leo snapped.

It had been a sweet deal. Until about two minutes ago when Leo realized he was very likely being paid to cover up some girl’s murder.

Who is she, Dean?

Who’s who?

Leo gritted his teeth. The girl.

Oh. Jane Greene, Dean replied, just a little bit too easily and a little bit too gleefully.

It was as made-up a name as Leo had ever heard.

"Who is she really, Dean?"

Does it matter?

If it didn’t matter, you’d just tell me, Leo pointed out.

Dean sighed irritably. She’s an ex. Some unimportant little hooch who fucked—then fucked with—the wrong Abruzzi brother. And I didn’t call to talk about her. I just called to give you the heads-up that the job is done. If I were you, I’d get your ass down to Mexico before Iggy and Mauricio change their minds and ask you to work somewhere else.

There was a click on the other end and Leo knew he’d been dismissed. And damn did he want it to be the final discharge. So many times before he’d been promised release only to find Dean or Iggy—or even Mauricio himself—on his doorstep, demanding that he help with just this one last thing.

Leo let the cell phone drop to the bed and gave it another dirty look.

The beach and the sun should’ve been calling his name. Instead, he was wondering who Jane Greene was, and what she’d done to incur the Abruzzi wrath. No one knew better than Leo did how easy it was to get on their bad side.

But a girl?

Leo reminded himself forcefully that, regardless of gender, being on any of their many bad sides usually meant you’d done something pretty questionable yourself.

That, or you were linked to the family in a way you couldn’t escape.

Leo’s mouth twisted at the thought.

There was another big, far more self-centered question, too.

Would this really be it? If he let Jane Greene die and didn’t look back, would he really never hear from them again?

His years in Europe in quasi-hiding hadn’t made a difference, either. Leo had switched jobs and continents half a dozen times or more. Always, the Abruzzi brothers found him and put him to use. If he wanted to keep breathing and not be looking over his shoulder at every turn, he did what they asked.

So when Dean had called him six weeks earlier and politely offered Leo a total buyout, he’d barely blinked before saying yes. Especially when Dean told him what he wanted him to do.

One. Find the guy going by the name Jason Hess—a skittish man who never stopped looking over his shoulder and wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

Two. Verify his living arrangement—an older but well-maintained apartment building in a not-too-shady area.

Three. Send specific proof that he was there—a cell phone photo of the man in question, and a shot of the name on the buzzer wall.

Four. Keep a record of his comings and goings—report back, then collect the money.

Done, done, done and done.

Maybe I was naive to think it would really be that simple, Leo thought. Or maybe I was just so damned pleased with being free that I turned a blind eye to the idea it could be anything more complicated.

Would he really be able to enjoy the sand and the free-flowing tequila if he knew some girl was dead because he had helped track her down? The answer was easy.

No way in hell.

Leo looked down and sighed when he realized his boots were already on and laced up. Obviously, his body knew what he was going to do even before his brain caught up.

* * *

For the third time in as many minutes, Jane shot her watch a pointed look, yawned and mentioned to her date that it was Monday night and that she had an early shift at the coffee shop in the morning. The last two things were true, and—also—Jane really was tired. She didn’t sleep much, and what little she managed was always plagued by bad dreams

But her date wasn’t budging.

Jane forced what she hoped was a kind smile onto her face. Time to let him down easy.

Except another unfortunate truth was that it wasn’t all that easy. Not just because Gerry-the-Accountant didn’t seem to be taking the hint, either. Jane had to consider that her utter lack of interest in Gerry and his endless discussion of his punk rock revival band signaled another failed attempt at being normal. Yet again.

And Jane knew it was her. Not him.

She’d picked him carefully off the internet dating site because everything about him screamed of two things—a refusal to grow up and insecurity. Boys like that didn’t ask for commitment. They didn’t have expectations. Because they were boys. There was none of the meet-the-parents, wine-and-dine, sensible-shoes, your-place-or-mine bullshit that went along with secure, responsible men. And that’s what Jane believed would keep her safe. It would let her do a surface-normal thing like go on a date while not worrying that she’d be expected to do something more.

Yet Jane still hadn’t been able to enjoy herself, nor could she muster the tiniest bit of attraction for Gerry.

Jane?

She flipped her eyes up to meet his horn-rimmed stare. Gerry had leaned his narrow body against the big, glass door, effectively blocking her out of her own apartment building. And he was looking at her with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. Which was all the warning she had before he bent forward, stuck his tongue in her mouth and put his hand on her rear end. At first, Jane was frozen. Not reciprocating but not really protesting, either. Her skin crawled, and when his tongue continued to press insistently against her teeth, a gag built up in the back of her throat. And then her fist came out and met his stomach with the full force of eight years of self-defense training.

Jane watched in slow-motion horror as her date doubled over.

What the hell! he cried out.

Gerry…

"You hit me!"

You kissed me, she replied.

And your instinct was to punch me?

I didn’t know that’s what was going to happen!

"I think the words you’re looking for are I’m sorry," he said, then waited.

She tried to get the words out, but choked on them.

Gerry shook his head. There’s seriously something wrong with you.

Jane wanted to argue, but anything she said would’ve been a lie. She took a tiny step toward him, but he was already backing away, stumbling down the stairs toward his rusted-out hatchback.

In seconds, the shriek of tires on pavement echoed through the late-night air as Gerry-the-Accountant peeled away.

It might’ve been funny if it wasn’t so sad.

What made you think you could pass for normal, anyway? Jane wondered as she fumbled through her purse for her apartment keys.

Her hand grazed her cell phone.

My cell phone.

The slick little device was loaded down with contacts—the girls Jane worked with, Paula the landlord and a few other friendly neighbors. The odd acquaintance she’d picked up elsewhere. Even Gerry was in there.

And it was like a reflection of the truth.

Her date wasn’t just a failure. It was pure self-destruction.

A subconscious wakeup call to how lax Jane had grown in the measures she took to protect herself.

Two years ago, she wouldn’t have let herself think she could date. Go back three years more, and just the idea of storing a name inside something as traceable as a mobile phone would’ve sent her running.

Or creeping away into the shadows as the case may have been.

Jane couldn’t help but take mental stock of what other measures she’d unknowingly let slip.

My heels.

There was a time when she wouldn’t have dared to wear anything other than running shoes. Because she never knew when she might actually have to run.

My hair.

She no longer triple-checked its color every day to make sure the dark brown that he had preferred hadn’t magically come back.

My name.

That one she’d been conscious of, of course. She’d taken on the persona of Jane Greene, college dropout at some point, and never let her go. It seemed safe enough after so long. Nearly a decade of running and hiding and switching identities and now…

But when had she stopped looking over her shoulder, just in case?

Shit, Jane said to the open air, a mix of wonder and worry evident in the single-word utterance.

The collection of those little things. That is what made her think maybe she could pass for normal when clearly she couldn’t.

A metallic crash from somewhere up the street startled Jane and those nerves—the ones that she’d just been thinking seemed so far away—came to life. She could feel eyes on the back of her neck, and when she whipped around she was sure she caught the flash of someone rounding the corner of her building.

You’re being paranoid, she told herself.

That didn’t stop her from sighing in relief when her fingers finally closed over her keys. She yanked them out and jammed them into the lock, eager to be inside. But when she pushed the lobby door shut, her relief was short-lived. As she pressed the elevator button, the being-watched feeling came back even more forcefully. And reasoning it out as paranoia didn’t help Jane shake the nervous feeling that started at her bones and worked its way outward to her skin and made every hair stand on end.

A full minute went by, and the elevator showed no signs of moving from wherever it was currently sitting. With a silent curse, Jane decided to take the stairs. Her feet in their heels wouldn’t appreciate it, but it was only three floors and she couldn’t stand the thought of waiting one more second in the nearly dark, too-silent lobby.

Jane took two steps at a time, and by the time she reached her door, her heart was hammering in her chest. Her mind was reeling with a worry she couldn’t quite put a finger on.

Take it down a notch, Jane, she commanded herself. Breathe. This is just some weird reaction to what happened with Gerry.

She fumbled with her keys again, looking for the one that would let her in and give her access