Redemption
Authors: Kathryn Barrett
Cover
Title Page
Redemption
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Kathryn Barrett
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Omnific Publishing
Los Angeles
Copyright Information
Redemption, Copyright © 2014 by Kathryn Barrett
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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Omnific Publishing
1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor
Los Angeles, California 90067
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First Omnific eBook edition, October 2014
First Omnific trade paperback edition, October 2014
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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.
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Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
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Barrett, Kathryn.
Redemption / Kathryn Barrett – 1st ed
ISBN: 978-1-623421-36-3
1. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Hollywood—Fiction. 3. Scandal—Fiction. 4. Fortune—Fiction. I. Title
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Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna
Dedication
To all the friends along the way
who’ve encouraged me and inspired me,
and to my family,
who have always supported me.
Prologue
From the
Los Angeles Times
Hollywood Embraces Its Own as Scandal Deepens
Thousands of mourners gathered in Beverly Hills today to hold a candlelight vigil after the shocking death of one of America’s most beloved screen actresses. Not since the death of Marilyn Monroe has such an outpouring of public emotion been seen, and while police have quickly concluded their investigation, the rest of America continues to ask why.
T
HERE
W
AS
B
LOOD
O
N
H
ER
H
ANDS
. Blood and something else her mind wouldn’t acknowledge. She couldn’t focus in the soothing, protective haze that was fast numbing her to reality.
Claire stared at her blood-spattered hands, glowing eerily under the glare of the brute lamps used to illuminate the set.
Why didn’t someone turn them off?
she thought dully.
Someone needed to turn off the lights. They were so bright…
She concentrated on that thought as the noise swirled around her, urgent voices, the approaching whine of a siren. It must have been close by, waiting in case of an emergency. That happened, sometimes. People got injured on the set, prop guns went off accidentally. Even blanks could do damage, she had heard, if fired at close range.
Someone had wrapped a blanket around her bare shoulders, but still she shivered under the bright lights.
Someone really should turn them off. They must use massive amounts of electricity.
The practical thought calmed her. Absently she estimated the cost per kilowatt hour—a similar question had appeared on her Management 480 final last month. Two thousand kilowatts each, someone had said. The electric bill would be enormous. Someone would be in trouble when the bill came due and red ink spilled.
She rocked back and forth on the floor of the greenhouse, no longer conscious of her surroundings. No one noticed her in the commotion.
Her hands clutched the blanket, smearing blood on the wool.
She would have to wash her hands
. The new worry scratched on her brain. If her mother saw her with dirty hands, she wouldn’t be allowed any dinner. And if her father found out how her hands had been dirtied, there would be hell to pay.
Hell
. She had been there already, been born there. But she had escaped—hadn’t she? They wouldn’t send her back. Her breath caught, tangled in fear. Would they?
Her head tilted, and a low keening sound emerged from deep in her throat.
“Someone get her out of here—Jesus Christ, Clarissa! She’s covered in blood!” The disgusted voice penetrated her consciousness. That was a voice she knew, a voice she had come to trust. Why did it sound so shattered now?
“For Christ’s sake, get her out of here!” The voice was more urgent. “She shouldn’t be here! Oh, God, Hayley—” The words broke in a sob, but Claire knew her own tears would never fall. She didn’t cry, not ever, no matter how much she hurt inside.
When they led her out, a proud little smile lingered on her lips and the blood had already dried on her hands. The flash of light from the camera made her blink, and suddenly, she knew where she was. But she couldn’t remember what had happened, why she was naked under the scratchy blanket that covered her shoulders.
But a part of her did know. Her lot in life, she had learned, was to constantly atone for the sins of others. The devil wanted its ugly price paid again and again, and she was the one chosen to pay it.
Chapter One
From the
Philadelphia Inquirer
Famed financier Connor Forrest, recent buyer of Kaslow’s Department Store, has appointed Claire Porter as Vice President, Finance, of the twenty-four store chain. Ms. Porter, a six-year veteran of the Forrest Group staff of market analysts, was reportedly the driving force behind the addition of Kaslow’s to the FGI portfolio.
“I have complete confidence in Ms. Porter’s ability to keep a tight rein on the expenditures of the company, while at the same time advance the store’s operations into the next decade,” Forrest commented through a spokesperson.
No further details were provided regarding Ms. Porter’s background.
S
UEDE
-C
OVERED
H
EELS
T
APPED
a staccato rhythm on the floor, a patch work of marble imported over a century ago from Italy. The sound echoed against the mahogany ceiling panels four floors above, where a pantheon of Roman gods reclined, carved by a commercial artist whose name no one could remember.
Claire took a deep breath. The earthy scent of foliage, dampened by an early morning sprinkling, blended with the factory-fresh odor of new merchandise to create a unique fragrance.
The smell of new money mixed with old,
she thought, dodging an outstretched palm frond.
The last time she had made her way through the rotunda of Kaslow’s Department Store, shoppers were scurrying through the spoked aisles, gleaning the latest markdowns. At the edge of the mosaic-tiled fountain in the center sat the weariest of the lot, some with daredevil toddlers dangling over the sparkling water.
Today only a quiet goddess greeted her, a bronze figure posed in an uncomfortable-looking arc in the center of the now calm fountain. Claire averted her gaze from the too-knowing eyes as she approached. Could the goddess of Fortune possibly be considered a religious icon? Perhaps it wasn’t entirely appropriate for the store’s image.
But she could just imagine the headlines in tomorrow’s paper: “Kaslow’s New Owner Dumps Heavenly Relic Along with Pension Plan; Employees Hold Talks with the Antichrist.”
Rule number one: Choose your battles.
She gave the silent figure a conciliatory glance as she skirted the fountain. Below the surface of the water, an assortment of coins lay scattered like fall leaves. At the end of the week, they’d be collected and sent to the Make-a-Wish Foundation, where some good might actually come from the spare change tossed into the fountain.
Claire wasn’t prone to the practice herself. She’d learned early on that the only wishes that came true were those accompanied by sixty-hour work weeks.
Though, if ever there was a time when she could use a run of good luck, today—the first day of her new job—would certainly be the moment to call in a few favors from whichever gods granted such things.
Well-honed lore maintained that Kaslow’s fountain really did possess magical properties. Countless tales attested to that fact—one couple had even been married near the fountain where they claimed to have wished for, and found, their true love.
She had to admit it was a fantastic marketing gimmick.
She passed a display of orange-and-black socks, ties, and other Halloween-inspired accessories. The fountain’s legends had originated with Earnest Kaslow, the retail genius who founded the store in 1890. Claire had read about him when she’d plotted the buyout of Kaslow’s. The founder of the store, a true merchant prince, had possessed retail savvy unequaled by even R.H. Macy.
Claire paused in front of the elevator. A little of that savvy would come in handy now. Despite the majestic surroundings and the rich display of merchandise, the store was losing cash like an Atlantic City gambler on the down side of his luck. Claire intended to dam the flow. Job security for all employees had been assured in the original offer, yet she was determined to curb runaway executive salaries and limitless expense accounts along with other undue expenditures.
This
was the battle she’d chosen—and one she was determined to win.
She punched the ivory elevator button, then tightened her grip on her briefcase. An image of her first day of school, an ordeal even if she hadn’t been dressed in leftovers from the church collection box, flashed across her mind, then quickly rejoined other, darker images she refused to acknowledge.
