Wicked Games: The Extended Edition (Steele Security #1) Read online

  WICKED GAMES

  A D Justice

  Contents

  STEELE SECURITY BOOK ONE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WICKED GAMES

  Prologue

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chaper Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  24. Chapter Twenty-Four

  25. Chapter Twenty-Five

  26. Chapter Twenty-Six

  27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

  WICKED TIES

  STEELE SECURITY BOOK TWO

  Prologue

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  BOOKS BY A.D. JUSTICE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STEELE SECURITY BOOK ONE

  THE EXTENDED VERSION

  Steele Security, Book 1

  A.D. JUSTICE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A.D. Justice is the USA Today bestselling author of the Steele Security Series (Wicked Games, Wicked Ties, Wicked Nights, Wicked Intentions, Wicked Shadows), the Crazy Series (Crazy Maybe, Crazy Baby), the Dominic Powers series (Her Dom, Her Dom’s Lesson), the Immortal Obsessions series (Immortal Envy) and a few stand-alone romance novels, such as Completely Captivated, Just One Summer, Envy, and Intent.

  When she’s not writing, she’s spending time with her own alpha male character in their North Georgia mountain home. She is also an avid reader of romance novels, a master at procrastination, a chocolate sommelier, a twister of words, and speaks fluent sarcasm. An avid animal lover, A.D. Justice has two horses, two dogs, and two cats.

  While the primary focus of her books has been romantic suspense, she has expanded into different sub-genres of romance. Stay tuned to read what she has in store for you!

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  WICKED GAMES

  WICKED GAMES – THE EXTENDED VERSION.

  Copyright © 2015 A.D. Justice

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. If the location is an actual place, all details of said place are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to businesses, landmarks, living or dead people, and events is purely coincidental.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  All copyrights are held by A.D. Justice and have not been transferred to any other individual. Sharing or posting of this material in any group or website is considered copyright infringement and will be reported to the authorities. Criminal and civil charges will be pursued for damages.

  Cover designed by Cover Me, Darling.

  Photograph by Eric Battershell Photography/FITography

  Cover model Johnny Kane

  ISBN-13: 978-0692467718

  ISBN-10: 0692467718:

  WICKED GAMES BLURB

  She has the story of a lifetime every investigative reporter dreams of landing.

  But the trail of incriminating evidence leads back to the only man she’s ever loved.

  When she misses her flight, she watches the plane explode in mid-air, knowing the bomb was onboard to silence her.

  Who can she trust?

  He hasn’t been the same since the day he lost her.

  Then he catches an intruder in his house, only to find his long-dead love is still alive.

  Lust, love, betrayal, and loyalty war inside him.

  Treachery, deceit, and danger threaten them.

  When an unknown enemy holds all the cards, how can they survive the wicked games?

  Prologue

  Current Day

  The beads of sweat glistened in the early morning sun, running down her forehead and along her hairline before reaching her neck. Her eyes scanned the landscape around her, constantly cognizant of her surroundings. Her rhythmic breathing matched the thumping of her feet as she ran along the familiar trail. She wore her earphones and an iPod on her upper arm, but she rarely listened to the music. She’d discovered when others thought she was listening to music they rarely tried to start up a conversation with her. It had become her diversionary tactic to avoid strangers, to appear to be engrossed in her own world, but still allowed her to make quick assessments of potential problems.

  She ran every day, regardless of the weather, but not for the reasons most others did. She didn’t want the recognition and satisfaction of completing marathons. She didn’t care about fundraisers or health awareness campaigns. She was health conscious, but knew better than anyone that she needed to push herself to her limits every day. Running had become her addiction and her only way to deal with the pain inside. She pushed and punished her body with exercise to try to keep the depressive thoughts at bay. The punishment could only last for so long, though. She couldn’t run day and night, but she definitely made her time count.

  Boulder, Colorado, normally had mild high temperatures with lots of sunshine in early May, but today the way the dark clouds rolled in felt very ominous. She eyed the horizon while she internally kept her anxiety level in check. The approaching storm held a forewarning, and the emotions that bombarded her from every direction seemed to confirm.

  Her thoughts strayed to the place she considered home. She thought, “Damn, I miss Florida,” as she continued to relentlessly pound the pavement. Thunderstorms were nothing new to her since she grew up in Atlanta and later moved to Miami. She actually loved storms–the rolling thunder, striking lightning, the sound of a hard rain, and the power of it all combined.

  The colder Colorado spring weather had taken some acclimation, and she still wasn’t crazy about it. She loved the beach, the water, and the warmth. After she’d lived in the landlocked state for three years, she’d decided that was enough to make someone crazy. Winter was absolutely depressing in every way. Miami winters were mild to say the least, and it never snowed. However, in Boulder, there was always winter snow, and the white fluff covered everything of color. She’d recently decided to learn to snow ski in an effort to develop a new appreciation for winter weather. She knew most of her dislike stemmed from a severe case of homesickness, added to the fact that she’d never really given the city a fair chance.

  She’d had an uneasy feeling for the last few days, but she couldn’t pinpoint any specific incident that would account for it. She just knew to trust her instincts. They’d served her well in the past. As she continued along the
trail, the hair on the back of her neck suddenly stood at full alert, and she knew someone watched her. She allowed her eyes to slowly scan the area as nonchalantly as possible. She only saw other runners and families enjoying the spring weather in the grassy areas, but no obvious bad guys lurking about.

  They don’t usually wear a big sign to announce themselves, though, she thought sarcastically.

  She’d been through too much in her twenty-seven years to dismiss the feeling as nothing. Something was wrong, even if she didn’t know what just yet. She continued her run, intent on finishing before the rain started. She ticked off in her head each errand she needed to complete and the bills she needed to pay, but her eyes scanned the scenery as she continued on her path.

  She rounded the corner of the trail and backtracked toward her townhouse. When the thoughts tried to crowd in her head, as they did now, she pushed her body harder and faster. She dug deeper, increased her pace, and controlled her breathing. She continued until the jogging trail ended then she crossed the street and continued up the sidewalk, not slowing until she reached home.

  Home, this isn’t home. I can never really go home, she thought.

  She walked the short distance from the sidewalk, up her driveway, and toward her front door. Her neighbor, Mrs. Elizabeth Stanton, called her name to get her attention, just as she did every morning after her runs. She knew the older lady was probably lonely and had very few visitors to keep her company. Mrs. Stanton’s husband had died of a heart attack several years ago. She had grown children and grandchildren, but they were all busy with their lives. They didn’t take much time out of their lives to visit her. In her mid-sixties, Mrs. Stanton still looked and acted like she was in her forties. She had such spunk and a zest for life.

  “Hello, Kris! Out for your morning run again, I see!” Mrs. Stanton always had such a friendly tone, never prying or nosey.

  “Yes, ma’am! I think it may rain soon, and you’ve fussed at me enough for running in the rain!” No matter how long she lived here, she knew she could never get rid of her Southern drawl and slang. Her accent was evident to everyone, but so far, no one had really pushed her on why she had moved here. She genuinely liked Mrs. Stanton and often wished they’d met under better circumstances.

  “Glad someone listens to me,” she replied with the laughing tone she always used.

  Kris bent over to pick up the morning paper lying in the driveway as Mrs. Stanton continued to talk to her about how she hoped the rain came soon to water her newly planted flowers and shrubs. She was naming the various newly planted flowers as Kris absently removed the rubber band from the newspaper and unrolled it. She smiled and nodded at Mrs. Stanton, trying to keep up with all the names of her landscaping, when she looked down at the headline and pictures glaring back at her.

  Oh. My. God. It’s him! It can’t be!

  Richard Hollingsworth.

  Kris tried to quickly gain her composure as her heart beat so hard against her chest that she would’ve sworn Mrs. Stanton could hear it. She could barely hear Mrs. Stanton’s jabbering over the loud swishing sound in her ears from her elevated blood pressure and pulse rate. Her eyes darted from point to point as she tried to locate the source of her anxiety. She recalled the feeling that pricked the back of her neck and thoughts that eyes watched her as she ran just mere minutes before. She knew she’d been found.

  Mrs. Stanton abruptly quit talking about her flowers and gasped. “Kris! Are you all right?”

  Breathe! She mentally commanded her body to comply.

  “Yes, yes. I just feel a little sick all of a sudden. I think I need to eat a little and maybe lie down. I’m sorry to hurry off.”

  With a worried look, Mrs. Stanton offered her food, but Kris politely refused and excused herself. Mrs. Stanton promised to check on her later.

  Kris entered her townhouse and closed the door as quietly as possible, leaving the front door unlocked in case she needed to get away quickly. Directly in front of the door were the stairs leading to the second level. With an open floor plan, the living room and kitchen actually looked like one big room with a bar and barstools acting as the room divider. To the right, just past the staircase, a short hallway led to the master bedroom and bath. Upstairs there were two more bedrooms and a hall bath.

  She quietly moved through each room, silently checking off in her mind that everything was where it should be. She turned toward the short hallway that led under the stairs. It was always dark under there, regardless of the time of day. She inwardly cursed the builder who designed it this way. She reached in, flicked the light switch, and slowly walked into her bedroom.

  When she turned her bedroom light on, she saw a sheet of paper lying on her pillow. Her eyes quickly scanned the room to make sure she was alone. Her feet fell lightly as she searched her closet and under her bed. She didn’t really know what she would’ve done had someone actually been hiding in there. Her nerves were on edge as she gingerly picked up the paper. There was only one word written on it: “Brianna.” Her heart skipped a beat, and her breath caught in the back of her throat.

  She finished her search of the rest of the house with a butcher knife in her hand. She realized if a man wanted to overpower her, he could do so even though she had a knife. It still made her feel better to have it ready. Satisfied she was in her house alone, she quickly locked the front door and grabbed her cell phone. She scrolled through her contacts until she found the name she needed and hit send.

  On the second ring, she heard a familiar voice. “Stevens.”

  “What the fuck, Stevens?”

  No introductions were needed. After she read the headlines splashed across the front page of the newspaper, and found the note in her bedroom, she decided no pleasantries were needed either.

  “We’re still assessing the situation.”

  “Assessing the situation? That’s government speak for ‘we fucked up and don’t know how to explain it!’ Do you have any idea what this means?” She knew that screaming and crying like-well, like a girl, would get her nowhere with a hardened U.S. Marshal. So she used her anger to keep her voice low and serious. She was practically growling at the man.

  Mocked by the pictures on the front page of the newspaper, she stared at the man who was thought to be dead by everyone except her. This man was the reason she had entered the WITSEC program and left her entire life behind three years ago. He was also a very bad man with a very good reputation and had worked hard to hide his sins. Sins she had uncovered as an investigative reporter, but never shared with the media. Very few people knew she had discovered his illegal dealings, but he was one of them. Here he was, alive and well, and home.

  Home….

  “Look, I know how you must feel. He claims he was abducted just before getting to the airport that day. Says he’s been a prisoner for the last three years and finally escaped from his captors. Could be true, could be a lie. I’m looking into his story. Just sit tight until I figure out what is going on.”

  She had already read the same story in the paper. He didn’t tell her anything that any other person across the country couldn’t readily access. With her anger at the boiling point, she kept her voice controlled, but allowed the anger to flow freely. “You have no damn clue what is going on! Think about it, Stevens. Look at him! First of all, did his captors trim his beard and his hair for him? Don’t you think it should be a little longer, if he was a ‘prisoner’ for three years?”

  “Second, does he look the least bit emaciated to you? What, did his captors run out of filet mignon and caviar, so he had to survive on rib eyes instead? And then there’s his appearance in general. Even Tom Hanks was dirtier in Castaway than he is, after supposedly spending three years as a prisoner in a Third World country!”

  Taking a deep breath, she continued. “Third,” she could hardly get these words out, “do you really believe he would suddenly show up, out of the blue, if he didn’t already know exactly where I am?”

  “Just stay put until you
hear from me.” His voice held no emotion in it—no concern, no surprise, and no intention of helping her.

  “Stevens, there was a note on my bed when I got home. It has my real name on it.”

  Stevens had tried to calm her fears, but he finally admitted the situation could be dangerous, and the way it all came about was very suspicious. He didn’t want her to make any rash moves that would draw attention. She knew the feelings of being watched earlier were no coincidence. She didn’t believe in coincidences, anyway. The note was left while she was out running. Whoever left it had been watching her, waited until she left her home, and then slipped into her house undetected.

  A professional.

  After hanging up with Stevens, she quickly showered and dressed. She packed a backpack with enough clothes and toiletries to last for several days. She opened a small hidden area in the wood floor and retrieved a small fireproof safe she’d hidden there three years before. It contained her alternate identification, complete with a driver’s license, birth certificate, passport, credit cards, and cash. She’d prepared the stash ahead of time in the event her identity was ever compromised and she had to run with a moment’s notice.