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Excerpt
High on Windemere Drive, Moongate Mansion materialized out of the shifting
mist. First the six-foot granite wall and the black iron gate canted open,
daring intruders to trespass. Then the estate itself, a gray 19th century
Victorian with an eclectic mix of Italianate and Queen Anne. Each
generation of Meadowses, seeking no doubt to stamp their mark, had added to
the original two-story, four-room house until it sprawled over 13,000 square
feet, looking like some sort of Frankenstein creature.
Valerie couldn't imagine living in such a dreary place, especially with
its constant bruise of painful memories. But she also understood why Rita
Meadows stayed. For Valentina. If she came back, her home would be there,
waiting for her, lights shining bright, and her mother would be there, too,
arms open wide.
Valerie swiped surreptitiously at the moistness in her eyes. Her
mother called Valerie's tendency toward the melodramatic maudlin. But what
could she say, she liked happy endings. There were so few of them in real
life.
Mike crunched the rental up the gravel drive. She rolled the window
down for a better look at the house. The scent of decomposing leaves and
wood smoke infiltrated the car. Dark trees on each side of the lane swayed
and whispered as if in warning. Ahead light gleamed from what seemed like a
hundred windows, brightening the gloom of the day with their glow. But even
that wasn't enough to dispel the aura of decay that clung to the house's
wooden boards like ivy.
Her blood quickened as the voice-over wrote itself in her head. Cohost
Dan Millege's deep bass vibrated with gravity in her brain, hitting just the
right emotional tone for the introduction to a twenty-five-year-old
kidnapping. She ripped out her portfolio and scratched furious notes to
capture the inspiration before it vanished. "Can't you just feel the
mystery in the air? We have to get the fog on tape before it lifts."
Off to the side of the house, Mike shoved the rental into Park. "Don't
you ever look at anything without seeing it from a story angle?"
Valerie shrugged. The story was everything. She couldn't
explain it to Mike—or to her mother—but some inner force drove her to ferret
information, any information, about everything. Her mother called it a
disease and, although Valerie preferred to label her flaw as curiosity, she
couldn't quite disagree. She couldn't remember a time when she wasn't
looking for something, anything, to fill the hollowness in her soul.
We give you everything, Valerie. Isn't that enough?
It should be, and that it wasn't, truly pained her.
This curiosity had landed her the job as coordinating producer for
Florida Alive, a half-hour magazine format program that aired Monday
through Friday at seven, right after the nightly news, and showcased people,
places and things of interest in the state.
So, okay, Florida Alive was considered soft news and didn't
exactly hit life-altering issues. That didn't mean she couldn't find the
deeper meaning in a sand sculpture competition or the creation of pastry
masterpieces or the raising of camels. What fired up other people, what
gave their lives purpose, what made them feel alive fascinated her. Passion
fascinated her. And traveling all over the state to see new places and meet
all sorts of different people was an amazing bonus for a girl with
wanderlust who hadn't traveled more than fifty miles from home until after
graduating from college.
Mike peered at the massive house, no doubt gauging shot angles. "So,
you think she's dead?"
Valerie's gaze climbed up the polygonal tower, and a shiver rippled
down her spine. Crazy, but the child's frantic cries seemed to vibrate
against Valerie's chest and the child's panic to shudder down Valerie's
limbs, making her hands cold and clammy.
She reached for the French vanilla coffee she'd bought at the Dunkin'
Donuts a few towns back and warmed her hands against the paper cup. With a
fervor that rocked her, she wanted that baby to be safe somewhere. Who took
a child from her own bedroom? Who could purposely cause such grief? And
why?
Valerie swallowed and ripped her gaze back to Mike. "After twenty-five
years…"
"It's kind of sad to think of this lady pining away for her dead kid
for so long."
But what else could a mother do? Without proof of death, she couldn't
give up. As much as Valerie and her mother didn't see eye-to-eye on
practically anything, her mother would search the ends of the earth to find
her, and Valerie would do the same for her mother. Recalling their argument
that morning, Valerie winced and made a mental note to call once she got
back to the inn and apologize. "That's why we have to do the best job we
can with the story."
Mike slanted her a knowing grin. "You just want Krista's job when she
goes off on maternity leave."
Valerie had eyed the news producer's job ever since Krista had
announced her pregnancy. It was a stepping-stone to producing
harder-hitting stories, one Valerie had to cross if she ever wanted to get
to New York. "So what if I do?"
Mike cranked off the engine and shot his hands up. "Hey, I'm just
saying, word is, you've got competition for the spot."
Bailey-the-Beautiful. "Sure and steady wins the race."
"Only in fables, babe."
"Don't call me babe."
Racking up a mental to-do list, Valerie juggled her cell phone, purse,
portfolio of notes and cup of coffee. "I'll introduce myself to Ms. Meadows
and set up a time to look through her archives tomorrow. I'll see if I can
find more potential witnesses. I have that prison interview set up for
Thursday. Then we can shoot Ms. Meadows's interview on Friday." Which
would mean spending the whole weekend editing to get the package ready to
air next week. No wonder she didn't have a social life. That wouldn't be
so bad, except for the coming-home-to-only-a-dog part. "You can get started
on the exteriors. Can you get a tracking shot coming up the drive? Low
angle so the house seems to pop out of the fog? Maybe a Dutch angle to make
it look spooky?"
"No problem."
Mike had a great eye. She could count on him getting her the shots she
needed. She pointed at the third-floor room of the turret. "That's where
she disappeared from. Make sure you get some shots from all angles. And
this living room window, too. That's where the party was held. I want the
window to look as if it's glowing so the viewer can imagine the party in
full swing."
"Got it." Mike got out of the car. "Keep it short, will ya? I
haven't eaten anything all day, except for those stale airline pretzels."
Valerie nodded distractedly. She'd add festive sounds during editing
for the full effect. Sipping on her coffee, she stared at the window. What
was it like to realize that while you were entertaining guests someone had
sneaked upstairs and stolen your only child while she slept? Her heart
tripped on a beat. The guilt had to crush poor Rita Meadows.
Mike was sorting through his gear in the trunk of the rental by the
time she reached the solid-oak front door. She was about to ring the
antique bell when the door blew open and the hard body of a man, carrying a
briefcase and an air of hurry nearly crashed into her.
"Who are you? What do you want?" The timbre of his voice was deep and
vibrant, echoing in the cavern of the foyer behind him. Costumed in a
thousand-dollar suit and a hundred-dollar haircut, he exuded the righteous
bearing and win-at-all-costs menace of a corporate sharpshooter. At the
sight of those eyes, so dark and primal, a flash of awakening skittered
through her brain, and a choked jolt of something more acute than simple
recognition made her catch her breath.
Nicolas Galloway. The man Rita Meadows had hired to run her father's
investment firm after Wallace Meadows's death.
And, wow, Nick-the-Pit Bull certainly lived up to his reputation as a
rabid guardian. Voted most eligible, yet most elusive bachelor of New
England by Boston Magazine. Smooth, charming and appealing. And
definitely effective, if his investment track record was true. Although why
anyone would want to pursue a man who ran his love life like an investment
was beyond her understanding.
Somewhere over Virginia, she'd decided that he was going to be a
problem. Meeting him did nothing to change her mind. But she could put
personal prejudices aside. She pinned on a smile, freed one hand and stuck
it out. "Hi, I'm Val—"
He fired a poison eye-dart at her. "Good God, don't tell me you're one
of them—"
"I'm—"
"How did you get past the security?"
"The gate was—"
"I don't have time for this today. Go away and don't bother coming
back. We won't even talk to you unless you agree to a DNA test, and you'll
need to contact our lawyer's office for that."
He tried to bulldoze his way past her, posture straight, a relentless
quality on a face with an unsmiling mouth and a strong bone structure.
Armored with her portfolio, purse and cup of coffee, she stepped in front of
him, blocking his path. She may look small enough to squash, but he wasn't
going to step all over her that easily.
Their eyes connected like lightning, and Valerie had a sense of space
rushing dizzily. Wow, those eyes. Beneath the power, they bore a scar of
pain. And sadness. How could that be when his bio spelled out an idyllic
childhood?
Get real, Valerie. She shook her head. Figuring out what made
Nicolas Galloway tick wasn't on her busy agenda.
"I'm Valerie Zea, like sea." Her name—like her life—seemed an
abbreviation of something bigger. "I'm the coordinating producer for WMOD-TV
in Orlando, Florida. Ms. Meadows is expecting me."
"What for?" His icy calm chilled the already cool air and made her
wish she'd put on more layers under her blazer.
Stay professional. You were invited. You have the right to be here.
"We're producing two segments on her daughter's kidnapping twenty-five years
ago."
Without a word, he pulled her inside.
"Hey, let go of me!"
He slammed the door shut behind them. Panes in the narrow windows
framing the door reverberated in their casings. Light glazed the walls of
the foyer with false warmth, clouding details, reviving that dizzy feeling.
For a moment, her system went haywire at the thought of being caged with him
inside this house. Reaching for the closest solid thing, she steadied
herself on the firm bicep of her captor, then recoiled with pinball speed at
the thought of seeking safety there.
She yanked her arm to free her elbow from the hand he'd clamped around
it and frowned at him when he didn't immediately let go. "I'd say a
refresher course is in order."
"Pardon me?"
"Manners. Last time your style was in, men wore mammoth skins and
carried clubs."
He jerked her arm down as if to plant her in place and gave a sharp
growl. "Stay here and don't move."
Movements tight and controlled, he spun on his heel and headed into the
bowels of the house.
"Sure thing, Mr. Galloway. I'll be right here when you come back to
apologize."
Unmasking Scams
Here’s how a scam
works: a total stranger somehow convinces you to place your trust in him
and give him something for nothing. That’s what Gordon did with his real
estate scam in Pull of the Moon (Harlequin Intrigue, December 2006.)
The con artist doesn’t care if you’re old, poor or ailing, because he has no
conscience. And should he have a tiny pinch of remorse, he finds a way to
rationalize his actions. If you gave him something, he feels you were a
sucker and you deserved to get swindled. Hey, it’s a dog-eat-dog world and
you’ve got to do it to them before they do it to you. And sweat is for the
other poor shlubs who haven’t figured out how the real world works.
He’s accomplished at finding marks—the elderly, the sick, the believers. He
knows where to look for you, how to talk to you, win over your confidence.
He knows which buttons to push to activate your greed, your desire to trust
and flatter your ego. And once you figure out you’ve been had, he counts on
that ego to keep you quiet. Who wants to admit, even to themselves, that
they were swindled?
What’s a mark to do? If you do get caught up in a scam, swallow your pride
and report the loss to the police. Unfortunately, small scams are usually
considered low priority by budget-strapped law enforcement departments and
you’ll get nothing more than a report number. So why humiliate yourself?
If enough people are brave enough to report, a pattern can emerge and the
collective losses can add up to something big enough to get attention.
Publicity is a scam artist’s kryptonite. He depends on anonymity and
secrecy to get his work done. When his method and his face are splashed
across the media, he’ll have to move on to less public pastures.
Of course, the fastest-growing scam is identity thefts. This scam is
especially vicious because the victim is often treated like a criminal and
it can take years to clean up a credit history that a con artist took days
to destroy. He steals your information everywhere—from your mailbox, from
the rejects in your garbage, from your credit card (which he cloned) at that
restaurant where you went out to celebrate your anniversary. Then there’s
the Internet where phishing, pharming and email pitches for fast riches are
multiplying faster than fruit flies on rotten bananas.
Who’s at risk? Everyone. Your newborn son with his virgin social security
number. Your elderly mother with clear and free title to her house. Your
daughter with her college website’s online directory and resume-posting
page. Your CEO spouse with a tempting bank account. Even being a celebrity
doesn’t exempt you. Ask Tiger Woods, Oprah Winfrey and Steven Spielberg.
Your best defense is to rabidly guard your privacy. Shred any paperwork
with private information. Don’t give your private information to anyone—at
home, on the phone, online, out and about, on vacation—unless you initiated
the contact and know who you’re dealing with and why they need that specific
piece of information. Check your bank accounts, credit card accounts and
any other financial account you may have on a regular basis. Get a copy of
your credit report once a year (www.equifax.com;
www.experian.com;
www.transunion.com.) Opt out of
prescreened credit card offers (888-5-OUTPUT) and the Direct Marketing
Association’s list.
If someone’s stolen your identity, contact the fraud departments of each of
the three major credit bureaus (see above). Order copies of your credit
report from all three bureaus. Close any financial account that’s been
tampered with. File a report with your local police. File an ID theft
affidavit with the Federal Trade Commission’s hotline (877-IDTHEFT). Follow
up every call with a letter to establish records of your actions. Notify
your creditors about the disputed bills. Don’t pay any disputed bills.
Check the Identity Theft Resource Center (www.idtheftcenter.org)
and the Federal Trade Commission (www.consumer.gov/idtheft)
for more tips on how to protect yourself and how to deal with scams once
you’ve been a victim.
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