Temptation Island Read online

  Temptation Island

  Murder in Paradise Series

  Rachel Woods

  Contents

  Prologue

  DAY ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  DAY TWO

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  DAY THREE

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  DAY FOUR

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  DAY FIVE

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  DAY SIX

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  DAY SEVEN

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  DAY EIGHT

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  DAY NINE

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  DAY TEN

  Chapter 25

  DAY ELEVEN

  Chapter 26

  DAY TWELVE

  Chapter 27

  DAY THIRTEEN

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  DAY FOURTEEN

  Chapter 30

  DAY FIFTEEN

  Chapter 31

  DAY SIXTEEN

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  DAY SEVENTEEN

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  DAY EIGHTEEN

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  DAY TWENTY-ONE

  Chapter 38

  DAY TWENTY-TWO

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  DAY TWENTY-THREE

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  Ominous Island

  Prologue

  Murder in Paradise Series

  Also by Rachel Woods

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  BonzaiMoon Books LLC

  Houston, Texas

  www.bonzaimoonbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Rachel Woods

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing by Kelly Hartigan of Xterra Web

  http://editing.xterraweb.com

  Book cover designed by Deranged Doctor Design

  http://www.derangeddoctordesign.com

  ISBN 978-1-943685-05-9 (Print)

  Thank you God for giving me creative ideas and the ability to write. Thank you to my family --- my extraordinary sister and my favorite mother!

  Prologue

  “Don’t you wanna have some more fun, baby?” Henri asked.

  My panic mutating into anger, I used the heel of my right foot to kick him in the shin. Yelping, Henri stumbled back. Encouraged by his pain, I turned, intent on kicking him in the balls, but he must have guessed what I had planned for him, because he slapped me—hard.

  Crying out in pain and shock, I lurched away from him toward the galley kitchen. Frantic, I looked over my shoulder. Henri was walking toward me. Whipping my head back toward the kitchen, I scanned the area, looking for some sort of weapon.

  There, in a plastic dish rack, I saw what I needed.

  A large butcher’s knife.

  Without thinking, I rushed toward the sink, grabbed the knife, and turned.

  An open hand cracked across my face so hard I saw lights popping and feared my jaw had been dislocated. Crying out, I stumbled back, the knife dropping from my grasp and clattering across the stained, sticky linoleum tile. Feeling nauseated from the sloshing in my head, I dropped to one knee, struggling to get my bearings.

  “Get up, bitch!” Henri grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet.

  “Let go of me!” I screamed, trying to yank away from him.

  “Shut up!” he said, and his hand came toward my face again, quick as a cobra’s strike. I felt the stinging blow of his fist near my left temple. Desperate not to lose consciousness, I struggled to keep my eyes open as darkness converged, but it was no use.

  The blackness pulled me into its boundless depths.

  DAY ONE

  Chapter One

  Someone was trying to kill me.

  They had already tried before—two times.

  The first attempt had occurred following a break during a tense settlement negotiation. My clients, Kastor-Jones Pharmaceuticals were being sued for wrongful death, accused of paying kickbacks to doctors for aggressively promoting a top-selling prescription drug which they allegedly knew had fatal side effects. I had been going head to head with the plaintiff’s attorney and was finally wearing him down from the multi-million-dollar settlement they were requesting. The pharmaceutical executives were pleased with my efforts, and as I washed my hands in the ladies’ room, I thought I was sure I could get the plaintiffs to accept a settlement the company was more willing to pay.

  A stall opened and through the mirror, I saw a woman step out. Dressed in black from head to tie, she wore an ironic smile and held a gun.

  Shocked, I faced her, raising my dripping hands, ready to tell her she could have my purse, my cell phone, and whatever she wanted, and ready to beg for my life. Before I could open my mouth, a gunshot, as loud as a bomb in the small, tiled restroom, exploded. Seconds later, I felt something hit my chest and didn’t need to look down to know I’d been shot.

  I hadn’t been killed, though. A janitor had come to my rescue, an ambulance had been called, and I was whisked away to the hospital where I underwent surgery to remove the bullet.

  A month later, they’d made a second attempt, ambushing me in the parking garage connected to the office building where I worked. I’d been wrestling with a summary judgment motion all day. Close to midnight, I finally decided to leave work. My heels echoing on the concrete, I headed toward my car. Not paying attention, a purse on my shoulder, carrying a laptop bag, and staring at my cell phone, I scrolled through my contacts, looking for the phone number of an expert I wanted to testify on my client’s behalf.

  In the car, I turned the ignition and—

  An eruption of glass exploded behind me, sending chunks and shards flying as white-hot pain seared into the back of my left shoulder. Screaming in shock, I caught an image of something in the rearview mirror and looked behind me. Pressing my hand against my throbbing shoulder, I saw someone standing a few feet from the trunk of my car.

  A woman dressed in black, pointing a gun at me. The same woman who’d tried to kill me before.

  Two more bullets had me scrambling to hide beneath the steering wheel. Another bullet slammed into the gear stick. One hit the sun visor on the passenger’s side. The fifth bullet smashed into the center console. Terrified, I struggled to breathe.

  Faintly, I heard sirens and then footsteps running away from the car. The cops had been alerted by the building security, and as the police officers questioned me, the paramedics tended to my injury. A flesh wound, the EMS worker told me. I’d been lucky. The bullet had only grazed my shoulder.r />
  Hours later, lying in bed, still shell-shocked and unable to sleep, I tried to think of who might want me dead, and I wondered why they hadn’t been able to kill me yet. Their first and second attempts to end my life had failed.

  Hopefully, the third time would be the charm.

  Because, honestly, I deserved to die for what I had done.

  Exhaling, I squared my shoulders, shook the macabre thoughts away, and forced myself to focus on the task at hand, which wasn’t as daunting as it was disappointing. Presently, I was in a courtroom, giving closing testimony to twelve jurors charged with the laborious task of weighing scientific evidence against compassion and sympathy for the plaintiffs, a group of seven individuals who had accused my client, Du Vert Industries, a billion-dollar pharmaceutical conglomerate, of committing consumer fraud by deceiving doctors about the health risks of a popular anti-depressant.

  Standing before the jury box in my conservative yet classic navy Chanel suit and matching ballerina flats, with my hair pulled back in a smooth, neat bun, and wearing reading glasses I didn’t really need, I implored the jury to reject the plaintiffs’ claims of negligence and find in favor of my client.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the plaintiffs bear the burden of proof, and after weighing the evidence, if you cannot decide that something is more likely to be true than not true, you must conclude that the plaintiffs did not prove their claims against my client,” I said. “You have a choice to examine and evaluate the scientific evidence, and I am confident that you are intelligent enough and capable enough to do so despite the enormous amount of scientific evidence presented to you throughout this trial. Ladies and gentlemen, it may be difficult to find against the plaintiffs, but your oath as jurors is not to be swayed by sympathy but to logically and rationally evaluate the evidence and come to the reasonable conclusion that my client, Du Vert Pharmaceuticals, should prevail in this cause of action. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you once again very much for your time and your service.”

  Walking back to the defense table, I stopped in my tracks, paralyzed, horrified.

  A woman dressed in black stood at the back of the courtroom, smiling, pointing a gun at me.

  I opened my mouth to scream.

  The bullet hit me in the chest.

  Chaos broke out in the courtroom. Chairs overturned as my support team and the opposing counsel jumped to their feet. The judge banged his gavel, but order would not be restored.

  Dropping to the ground, I looked past the Du Vert executives, shocked, realizing I knew the woman with the smoking gun. The bitch who had shot me was—

  “Miss, are you okay?”

  Dizzy and disoriented, I blinked a few times, trying to remember where I was, trying to open my eyes. It took me a minute to realize someone was asking me a question and then another minute to respond. “Huh?”

  “You were asleep, but then you screamed,” said the woman, a slim, gorgeous Sports Illustrated babe. “I think maybe you had a nightmare.”

  “A nightmare,” I whispered, groggy and confused.

  “Want me to call the flight attendant?” the woman asked. “She could bring you some water.”

  “Oh, no, thank you,” I said, embarrassed, slowly becoming aware of the attention from my fellow first-class passengers. Beneath their worry and concern, I noted traces of suspicion, imperceptible frowns, and slight narrowing of the eyes, non-verbal clues indicating doubt. Maybe. Maybe not. I wasn’t quite sure.

  Unbuckling my seat belt, I stood and made my way down the narrow aisle to the first-class lavatory.

  In the tight, cramped space, I splashed cold water on my face, staring at my reflection. Surprisingly, I didn’t look like a stark raving lunatic. Despite having just escaped a nightmare, I looked pretty good. I could be beautiful, when the situation called for it, but usually I was just pretty with dark brown hair styled in a sassy Tinker Bell pixie cut, delicate features, a heart-shaped face, and expressive eyes. People sometimes claimed I had a sultry sweetness. Or, was it a sweet sultriness.

  Moments later, struggling to shift to a more comfortable position in the plush, leather first-class seat, I tried not to dwell on the nightmare I’d had, but I was worried. I was flying to paradise, the island of St. Mateo, specifically, which was supposed to be the cure for my paralyzing anxiety, so I couldn’t understand why I’d had another nightmare. The anxiety dream hadn’t been invited to my tropical getaway. Why had it invaded my subconscious?

  Sighing, I replayed the dream, trying to make sense of it, which would probably be a pointless endeavor.

  Being shot to death during closing arguments was actually one of the many nightmares I’d been plagued by for the past five months. There was another one in which I exited the courtroom, triumphant and arrogant, having scored a victory for my client, a powerful pharmaceutical company, and was promptly shot by a woman in black. Despite being hit in the chest, the bullet didn’t kill me. In my hospital bed, I stared at the morning news headlines on my iPad, one of which read, “ATTORNEY SHOT IN COURTHOUSE EXPECTED TO RECOVER.” And then, inexplicably, I was transported into the point of view of the woman who shot me, who was also reading the newspaper, pissed because she hadn’t killed me, and thinking, The bitch is still alive.

  The nightmares had become more prevalent and potent, robbing me of the ability to relax and disturbing my sleep. Though reoccurring, the dreams weren’t exactly repetitive, but during my struggle to interpret the dreams, I realized they featured two disturbing similarities.

  The lawyer who was shot in the dream was always me, Harlequin Miller, Esquire, senior associate at Ellison, Zupancic, and Cox, LLC, a premier full-service defense firm with offices around the globe, founded more than a century ago, focused on complex commercial litigation.

  And the shooter was always me.

  I’d been having anxiety dreams about killing myself. I should have been able to figure out the meaning of, and reasons for, my disturbing nightmares. What made me a hotshot litigation superstar— deductive reasoning and strategic thinking—was no match for these crazy dreams. Besides, my legal super skills actually weren’t as effective as they had once been.

  All the weapons in my arsenal were misfiring lately. My complex problem-solving skills, logical decision making, and discriminating judgment were also on the fritz. Everything that had made me the envy of the law firm was failing me for some reason I couldn’t seem to figure out.

  The plane shook. Worried, I clutched the armrests. Usually, I wasn’t a nervous flyer, but just in case, I grabbed the seatbelt, trying to fasten it with trembling fingers. Shit. Why couldn’t I fasten the seatbelt? What the hell had happened to my hand-eye coordination and fine motor skills? I needed to calm down, but I couldn’t. Not only was I still dwelling on my nightmare, but now I was thinking about the so-called cure for my anxiousness, worrying about what would happen when I got to the island of St. Mateo.

  Once the plane touched down, my fabulous fantasy getaway would begin, according to the letter I’d received from the hotel where I would be staying.

  It had arrived yesterday afternoon while I was in the middle of my large hexagonal walk-in closet, surrounded by a sea of clothes, furiously trying to pull together a decent wardrobe for my trip to paradise.

  Made of sheepskin, the envelope was pale aqua with an embossed heliconia flower on the front and sealed with an iridescent wax stamp. Inside, words in fancy, flowing calligraphy outlined what was in store for me, with enough detail to get me excited and a fair amount of mystery to leave me breathless with anticipation.

  Thinking about the letter, tucked away in the Chanel bag under my seat, I was both jittery and terrified. But mostly terrified. Maybe this fantasy trip would end up being a huge mistake. I couldn’t help but think of the old television show, Fantasy Island, where the guests would fly to a secluded island to have their wishes come true. But in the end, those fantasies sometimes became nightmares. Or, maybe not always nightmares, but definitely not what they’d thought they desi
red.

  Still, part of me thought a fabulous, relaxing getaway might be just what I needed, a grand plan to get rid of my anxiety so I could get my mojo back. Said mojo being the most important weapons in my legal arsenal—critical thinking skills, discernment, deduction, and sound decision making.