Kidnapped Hearts
Authors: Cait Jarrod
Evernight Publishing
Copyright© 2013 Cait Jarrod
ISBN:
978-1-77130-291-3
Cover
Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor:
Marie Medina
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING:
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is
illegal.
No part of this book may be
used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a
work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
Few people come
into your life, take interest in your journey, and inspire who you become.
People whose presence stays with you forever, people like my mom and dad who
not only took interest in my life, they were the springboard to what was yet to
be.
This book, my
first, is dedicated to my mom, Janet England.
I miss you
every day.
Special
thanks to my husband and daughters who are my rocks, to Norma Redfern for
endless support and encouragement, to Kelly Gibson, the first one to ever read
one of my books and boost my confidence.
A huge
acknowledgement to The Evernight Publishing team for all of their hard work and
all they’ve done for me with special thanks to Editor Marie Medina.
Scribophile
critiquers: Shelly Hickman,
Cheers
to a special group of talented women: The Coffee Talk Writers,
coffeetalkwriters.com. Their support and guidance has been invaluable.
Here’s a
shout out to my WWC friends, another dear group that has supported me from the
beginning.
KIDNAPPED HEARTS
Band of Friends, 1
Cait Jarrod
Copyright
© 2013
Chapter
One
Thunder boomed outside The Memory Café.
Pamela pushed her chair from the desk and crossed to the window. Lightning lit
the darkened August sky, illuminating the fragile trees bowing in the wind
along the historic streets of
She should have left with her employees.
Instead, a half-hour after the café closed, she had watched them climb into
their cars and drive away. Her heart had pounded when she twisted the deadbolts
before heading to her office.
Why had she stayed alone? Her father said
she needed a backbone, so she stayed, trying to live up to his motto:
Be strong. Be brave
.
She sucked in a deep breath, settled in
the chair behind her desk, and looked at the picture of her grandparents, dad,
and herself on her laptop. Though they lived in
them were her inspiration.
A loud rumble vibrated the office. Pamela
jumped. She should have checked the weather channel before deciding to stay
late, but the skies had been clear earlier.
Don’t
be scared of what you can’t see
. Another one
of her father’s sayings reverberated in her head. Those words, along with
defense classes her dad had paid for, gave her courage but not in a storm.
Thunderstorms reminded her of the evil in people, one in particular.
She clicked the mouse, opened the
bookkeeping application, and started entering the night’s figures. Lightning
cracked, lights flickered. Her heart pounded to the beat of the rain hitting
the windowpanes.
Enough was enough; backbone or not, she
needed to get out of there. She switched off the computer, grabbed her purse,
and then headed toward the back door, turning off the light on the way. She
grasped the doorknob with one hand and unlocked the first deadbolt Panama Jack
had installed four months ago. The doorknob moved under her hand. Jerking her
hand away, she backed off.
The knob twisted again. Her heart leaped
into her throat. Not again.
She relocked the deadbolt, ran into the
kitchen, and snatched a knife from a drawer before squatting behind the
stainless steel island.
The storm rumbled outside. Minutes passed
with no sign of movement. Pamela peered around the island. The window in the
back of the kitchen lit up. A face stared in. She screamed. Her purse fell to
the floor with a loud thud.
Sam?
It couldn’t be—he was in jail.
The window illuminated again. The man
grinned, his teeth gleaming.
Not Sam
.
Fear knotted her stomach. She lost her
balance and fell. The knife clattered across the concrete floor, hitting the
wall. Afraid, she sucked in gulps of air, trying to calm her nerves enough to
move.
After a few minutes passed, she surveyed
the window. A flash of light cast the outside in a beam of light, followed by a
loud clap of thunder. The face had disappeared. She bit her bottom lip.
Where did he go?
She scooted to the
knife on her bottom, not an easy task in a form fitting skirt. With the knife
secured in her hand, she rose and pressed her body against the wall.
Slowly, she inched toward the window
where the teeth had gleamed at her. Not wanting to see him, but also not
wanting to remain scared that the intruder was still out there, she peeked
around the window trim. The parking lot came into view. The lights in the back
lot glowed while the spaces bordering the building remained dark. The bulb
outside the back door had blown since her employees left.
A hissing sound escaped her. The fear she
experienced the night of the attack recurred tenfold, as the familiar scene
unfolded, and the pressing question popped into her mind. Why did she think she
needed to stay alone?
Be strong. Be
brave.
Her dad’s words replayed in her mind.
Someone pounded on a door.
The knot in her stomach jumped to her
throat. Kitchen lights were on, making it easy for whoever was outside to see
her. She pulled off her stilettos, ducked under the window, then inched toward
the switch. Lightning beat her to it.
The emergency lights blinked on, but not
in the kitchen. It remained in darkness. Only the glow from the dining room and
the hallway seeped through, giving little light.
The knife clutched at her side, she slid
her hand along the kitchen wall to the receiver.
The phone line was dead.
It
can’t be.
Phone lines were underground in the
city. With a trembling hand, she reached for her cell inside her purse, coming
up empty. Her purse lay on the other side of the kitchen.
Another thump on the door, and her knees
buckled. She slumped to the floor.
This
can’t be happening.
The coldness from the concrete floor penetrated her
skin. The night of the attack roared into her mind with the sound of thunder.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the room
and bringing the image of Sam’s angry face to mind. Pamela flinched. The memory
of Sam’s reaction to her when she refused his unwanted advances still unnerved
her.
The rain came down harder, drumming even
louder against the roof. She had to leave.
Glass shattered across the kitchen from
the window the intruder stood at minutes ago. A loud thud followed.
She screamed.
Be
strong. Be brave
.
On shaky feet, Pamela stood. She clutched
the knife in her hand like the killer in
Psycho
.
The Memory Café’s security alarm whirled.
A shattering sound from the dining room penetrated the volume of the alarm.
This
wasn’t good.
On the night Sam busted in the back door
and attacked her, the police had arrived quickly. She blew out a puff of air,
blowing sweat-dampened, dark hair off her forehead, and prayed they would
arrive as fast as last time.
A light seeped into the kitchen through
the swinging doors that lead to the dining room. A figured moved. The doors
swung closed, and the light from the dining room disappeared, taking the figure
with it.
Her heart thumped wildly in her chest.
A hand slid over her mouth, and another
grasped her wrist. The knife clanked to the floor. The hand left her wrist and
slid across her stomach, holding her firmly against a hard body.
“I’m FBI.” A man’s voice whispered next
to her ear. “Is anyone else here?” He lifted his fingers away from her mouth.
“Don’t scream.”
She swallowed the scream he warned her
against and tried to take control of the fleeing instinct as she wondered how
he found her so easily. “How do I know you are who you say?” she whispered
back.
“You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.”
Trust, not something she did easily.
“Why?”
“Either trust me or don’t, the choice is
yours.” She felt his hot breath as he leaned closer. “If I was going to hurt
you, don’t you think I would have already?”
