Dead Shot
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2007 by Wylann Solomon
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First eBook Edition: March 2007
ISBN: 978-0-446-55371-1
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Contents
Acclaim for Annie Solomon’s Previous Novels
BLACKOUT
“FOUR STARS! Fantastic story! . . . Tough, suspenseful, and we have a heroine who is even tougher than the special-agent hero. Whew! Never a dull moment. Solomon has outdone herself this time, and that’s not easy to do.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Twisty and diverting, with well-written action sequences.”
—
Publishers Weekly on Blackout
“Talk about edge-of-the seat! I have never read a book with such relentless suspense . . . . A superb example of showing over mere telling of a story. I highly recommend Blackout.”
—
Romantic Reviews Today
BLIND CURVE
“FOUR STARS! Riveting and emotionally intense.”
—
Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“Aperfect ten . . . nail-biting, intense drama that will leave you breathless with anticipation.”
—MyShelf.com
more . . .
“Annie Solomon does such an outstanding job creating taut suspense. From the very first page . . . to the riveting climax, you can’t help but be glued to the story.”
—RoundTableReviews.com
“An action-packed novel . . . a feast for suspense fans, and the added mixture of romance . . . . another winner for an author who clearly has a gift and is on the rise.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
TELL ME NO LIES
“Infused with raw emotion and a thirst for vengeance. Excitement and tension galore!”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“Full of simmering emotions that lovers of romantic suspense will devour.”
—Rendezvous
“Another success! Miss Solomon’s latest novel is a testament to her gift for crafting intelligent, sexy novels.”
—RomanceReadersConnection.com
DEAD RINGER
“Just the ticket for those looking for excitement and romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“An entertaining . . . exceptional . . . emotionally taut tale . . . offers twists and turns that kept me enthralled to the last page.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“Thrilling and edgy . . . Dead Ringer delivers excitement, suspense, and sexual tension . . . Highly recommended.”
—RomRevToday.com
LIKE A KNIFE
“A nail-biter through and through. Absolutely riveting.”
—Iris Johansen
“Fast-paced . . . exciting romantic suspense that . . . the audience will relish.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A powerful character study . . . [Ms. Solomon] blends the elements of romance and suspense . . . with the skill of a veteran.”
—The WordonRomance.com
A
LSO BY
A
NNIE
S
OLOMON
Like a Knife
Dead Ringer
Tell Me No Lies
Blind Curve
Blackout
To Larry, who helped me pull another one out of the hat.
I’d like to thank Katie Wellborn of the Frist Center and Nathalie Lavine who both gave me their time and their insight into the world of art museums.
Thanks also to photographer John Guider, who explained the mysteries of the 8 x 10 camera, and shared his beautiful photographs of his river trip to the Mississippi.
And once again, I’m indebted to Detective Patricia Hamblin of the Wilson County Sheriff’s Department.
From the edge of the angry crowd, he watched the fat black limousine crawl to the entrance of the Gray Visual Arts Center. The place blazed, lights piercing the night like knife points. Flags celebrating the art museum’s first anniversary flapped against poles in the night breeze, snapping like skins.
Someone bellowed a chant. “De-cen-cy! De-cen-cy!” The crowd joined in, fisted arms raised in time to the beat. “De-cen-cy!”
A protester broke from the police lines and rushed the car, attacking the windshield with a homemade placard on a stick. The man couldn’t read what it said, but he could guess from the others around him:
GO HOME, SICKO, NO TO DEATH ART, JESUS IS THE TRUE SACRIFICE
. A phalanx of uniformed cops pried the scraggly man off the car and dragged him away.
Amid the swirl—the multitude of TV trucks with their satellite antennas, the angry crowd, the police trying to maintain a barricade—the man stood still, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. The eye of the hurricane.
He inhaled deeply, absorbed the chaos through his skin. It leached into his veins and up his bloodstream, pumped hard and fast through his heart. The noise, the excitement, the energy of the night juiced him with a seething envy he could hardly contain.
For her. All for her.
The crowd pushed against the police line as the limousine stopped at the foot of the museum steps. He stood in the back, and from that distance, the four passengers appeared like tiny dolls climbing the stairs. But he imagined them. Wrapped in silk and glitter, six-thousand- dollar tuxedos, three-thousand-dollar shoes.
And her pale, white body, such fragile beauty, soft and perfumed.
A swarm of reporters descended from all sides of the steps and overwhelmed the four passengers. The shape of the swarm bulged and contracted as people shoved each other for position.
Jealousy churned into white-hot resentment. It should be him up there. Him in the newspapers, him on television. It should be his name the crowd chanted.
She was a liar, and a cheat.
He was the real thing.
She only imitated death.
He created it.
Be careful what you wish for.
As the limousine crept through the enraged protesters, that little piece of irony reverberated in Gillian Gray’s head.
Outside the car, the protesters formed pockets, dispersed, and re-formed again, like a giant snake undulating in fury. Gillian narrowed her eyes so the group’s edges blurred. She imagined a dragon. A monster. As if she’d summoned Godzilla from the depths.
Maddie leaned over and murmured, “Regrets?”
Gillian could smell the perfume on her. Something strong and spicy. Venom or Vengeance. She smiled. “Are you kidding?”
Maddie smiled back. “You are not a nice person.”
“Look who’s talking.”
It was Maddie who had convinced Gillian to come in the first place. Maddie, with her long, scary face and Morticia Addams hair, who, as Gillian’s assistant, had taken the message and passed it on to her. “It’s the museum’s first anniversary,” she’d said. “They want to bring in a local.”
Oh, Gillian was a local all right. Not born, and because of boarding school, not even bred. But branded just the same. The way the building they were creeping to was branded. Gray. Gillian Gray. Daughter of a murdered daughter. Photographer. Aristocrat. Demon. Artiste.
But not Maddie, lucky girl. She was from some other godforsaken place. Some other nightmare. One where food itself was scarce. Not rich, not famous. Just glad to go to school with them, be friends with them. How long had she known Maddie? Longer than she wanted to count.
Gillian watched her friend out of the corner of her eye. She was pouring a small snooker of liquid courage for
les grandperes.
Helpful Maddie. Lean and spare and strong as a tree limb weathered by winds.
Of course, Gillian had initially refused the invitation. She’d shrugged and climbed the ten-foot ladder to the platform in her Brooklyn studio where a bulky eight-byten camera sat on a tripod overlooking a set of a kitchen. An ordinary, commonplace suburban kitchen. But nothing in this life was ordinary, a kitchen least of all.
“The museum has your name on it,” Maddie had said.
“My grandfather’s name,” Gillian had corrected.
“It would be a great tie-in. Good publicity.”
“I don’t need publicity.”
Too true. Her name and face had been famous since she was a child and, as an adult, her work had always been controversial. So, she couldn’t avoid publicity even if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to. Not really. How could he find her if he didn’t know where she was?
