Bound

  Bound

  Eva Charles

  Quarry Road Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 by Eva Charles

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without express written permission from the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Trademark names appear throughout this book. In lieu of a trademark symbol with each occurrence of a trademark name, names are used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  Cover by Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

  Dawn Alexander, Evident Ink, Content Editor

  Nancy Smay, Evident Ink, Copy and Line Editor

  Virginia Tesi Carey, Proofreader

  Stephanie Taylor, Proofreader

  For more information, contact eva@evacharles.com

  Created with Vellum

  To Sister Jackie who taught me so much, including that resources are scarce. Take only what you need. I think of you every time I reach for a napkin.

  Perhaps this is the moment for which you have been created.

  Esther 4:14, The Bible

  Contents

  A Note From Eva

  1. Smith

  2. Kate

  3. Kate

  4. Kate

  5. Kate

  6. Kate

  7. Smith

  8. Kate

  9. Smith

  10. Kate

  11. Kate

  12. Kate

  13. Kate

  14. Smith

  15. Kate

  16. Smith

  17. Kate

  18. Kate

  19. Kate

  20. Smith

  21. Kate

  22. Smith

  23. Kate

  24. Smith

  25. Smith

  26. Kate

  27. Kate

  28. Kate

  29. Smith

  30. Kate

  31. Kate

  32. Kate

  33. Smith

  34. Kate

  35. Kate

  36. Smith

  37. Kate

  38. Smith

  39. Kate

  40. Kate

  41. Kate

  42. Smith

  43. Smith

  44. Kate

  45. Smith

  46. Smith

  47. Kate

  48. Smith

  49. Kate

  50. Kate

  51. Smith

  52. Kate

  53. Kate

  54. 8 months later

  Epilogue

  After Thoughts From Eva

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More Books in The Devil’s Due Series by Eva Charles

  A Note From Eva

  Dear Readers and Friends,

  I suppose any romance book that includes a Catholic priest requires a note from the author. From the number of messages I’ve received, Bound is no exception.

  Let me begin by saying, the priest could have been a rabbi, a minister, or any clergy, really, (although nothing is quite as scandalous as a naughty priest).

  The story is not meant to cast aspersions on any particular religion, and certainly not the Catholics (note the dedication). It’s that I spent years under the tutelage of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, and then with the Jesuits—write what you know, they say. So I did.

  Bound is a romantic suspense with dangerous men and dark elements. While our thresholds are different, there are dark facets to this story. I’m not kidding. If you have reservations about the content, please don’t hesitate to contact me prior to reading.

  For those who relish the kind of evil that lurks in shadowy corners, words that make your eyes bleed, and dirty sex, welcome back to Charleston!

  Please note: While Bound can be read as a standalone, it is the third book in The Devil's Due series and is best enjoyed after reading Depraved and Delivered. Bound has no cliffhanger.

  Thank you for reading!

  xoxo

  Eva

  PS. You are going to LOVE Smith!

  1

  Smith

  Gray Wilder’s number lights up my dashboard for the fourth time today. I’ve dated stage-five clingers who were less annoying.

  My first inclination is to disconnect Bluetooth, toss my phone out the window, and go grab a beer. But I don’t. Gray’s more than a client. He’s pretty much family, and right now, he’s needier than my three-year-old niece on the brink of a spectacular meltdown. “What now?” My irritation emphasizes each word.

  “Just checking that you’re on your way.”

  Got to hand it to him, unlike his older brother, he lets my piss-poor attitude roll off his back. JD would have never let it pass.

  “Do I blow off assignments? When I say I’m going to be somewhere, have you ever known me not to show up?”

  “You weren’t exactly thrilled about taking the meeting.”

  That’s the understatement of the century.

  “Well, I’m here. Parked across the street from Tallulah’s, where I can see McKenna when she pulls into the lot.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  Gray’s anxiety level is off the charts. Kate McKenna has been hanging around, asking too many questions, pestering him non-stop. If she discovers the truth about his club, Wildflower, it will be a disaster of epic proportions. I get it. But I’m not much of a hand-holder. I expect grown men to handle their shit like grown men.

  “This is the fourth time you’ve called—not to mention all the texts. Can’t you find a distraction? You own a goddamn sex club. You must know someone who’d be willing to entertain your dick for a few hours so you can leave me the hell alone.”

  “You’re beginning to sound a lot like my brother. That’s not a compliment. Maybe it’s your dick that needs entertaining.”

  Not a terrible idea. But it’ll have to wait until I’m finished intimidating a nosy little reporter.

  I bang my forehead against the worn leather steering wheel while he drones on and on. “Just make sure you take care of this bullshit once and for all. I don’t want to hear that reporter’s name again after today.”

  I might work for Wilder Holdings, and it’s one thing to take direction from the top, but regardless of how old Gray is, he’ll always be JD’s kid brother, and I’m not taking orders from him. At least not without giving him plenty of shit.

  “I was chasing bad guys through the desert and into caves when you were still calling your pathetic hard-on a chubby. But if you think you can do a better job, by all means come on down because there are a million ways I’d rather spend a Sunday.”

  “Don’t underestimate McKenna,” Gray snaps. “She’s tenacious. Worse than a rabid little dog.”

  I glance into the rearview mirror as a car with Massachusetts tags turns onto the quiet street. “Well, I’m a Pit Bull. I snack on little dogs and I don’t give a flying fuck if they’re rabid.”

  “What’s got you so damn surly?”

  Before I can answer, the beat-up Volvo pulls into the parking lot with a redhead at the wheel. Showtime. “If you’ve got something that can’t wait, text me. Otherwise, let me do the job you pay me to do.”

  I disconnect the call and watch the woman exit the vehicle, lugging an enormous purse behind her. Why do women saddle themselves with ridiculous accessories? The thing probably weighs a ton. I could pack for six months in a
bag half that size.

  Kate McKenna presses the key fob without bothering to check if the lock engaged, and traipses through the near-deserted parking lot without once checking her surroundings. That kind of blatant disregard for safety usually drives me nuts, but today I plan to use it to my advantage.

  From here, she’s at least as good-looking as the photos splashed across social media. With all the filters people use, you never know what you’re actually going to get when you finally meet them.

  McKenna is so preoccupied, she trips over the uneven pavement. Jesus. What a disaster. She’s damn lucky she didn’t hit the ground face-first. Most people look around after they pull a stunt like that to see if anyone witnessed it. Not her. She’s too busy in her own head. Too busy to notice me stalking her. Either she’s reckless or too trusting. Maybe both. The two often go hand in hand. Getting rid of her should be a piece of cake.

  Three years ago, I was extricating high-value hostages from the jungle in a corrupt, drug-infested South American country, and flushing terrorists out of caves in the Middle East and Africa. Now, I’m chasing a two-bit reporter out of a sleepy city in the South.

  Fuck me.

  I can’t do this shit anymore. My fingers tighten around the wheel. I just can’t. I need to talk to JD, and it can’t wait any longer. He’s not going to be happy, but it’s the way it has to be—plain and simple. If it’s so simple, why is my damn gut burning like a sonofabitch?

  Red pauses in the middle of the lot to dig through that stupid purse. Her shoulders hunch forward while she rummages. She’s not tiny, yet something about her seems small and vulnerable.

  Big bad reporter. Pfft. She looks like a college kid. Nice ass, though. I’d like to sink my teeth into one of those tight little cheeks.

  2

  Kate

  The phone rings as I trudge across the parking lot. It sounds shriller than usual, maybe because I’m on edge, or maybe it’s an omen. A bad omen.

  While I root around the bottom of my tote, a sense of dread slithers into my chest, twisting and contorting the muscles as it consumes me. Please don’t be Smith Sinclair canceling the interview. Please.

  It’s only a matter of seconds before I locate the phone. But by then my hands are trembling, and I’m struggling to breathe.

  When I peek at the screen, the breath caught in my chest escapes in a long dramatic whoosh. It’s Colin, my editor at the Washington Sun. The second-to-last person in the entire universe I want to hear from right now, but at least it’s not Sinclair. I pull my shoulders back and force myself to exude more confidence than I’m feeling. “Hello.”

  “Just checking in.”

  “I’m about to meet Sinclair. Can we talk later?”

  “Kate, I know you believe in this story, but you’re out of time.” Just checking in. Right. “If the interview goes nowhere, I need you at your desk by noon tomorrow.”

  It’s a solid fourteen hours from Charleston to DC without stops. I’d have to drive all night to be there by midday. But I don’t remind Colin of this, because I have no intention of making the trip tonight, or tomorrow for that matter.

  “You can always work the story on the side,” he soothes, placating me as if I’m a disappointed child. I can almost feel him pat my head. “I’ve done all I can for now,” he adds for good measure.

  It’s a lie, and we both know it. He’s done all he’s willing to do. Work the story on the side. Right. When I get back to DC, I’ll be so inundated with fluff pieces there won’t be a second to pursue any real stories. “Warren King’s confirmation hearing is set to begin in less than a week. Supreme Court Justices have jobs for life. Once he’s confirmed, it’s too late.”

  “Listen, King wouldn’t have been my pick, but the national press was holed up in Charleston for weeks talking to his neighbors, sifting through his trash, following every lead, just like you’ve been doing. And despite all the diligence, and all the hunches, what did they find? Nada,” he says when I don’t respond.

  “He’s a member of a secret society. Some of those societies have ties to human trafficking. If it’s all on the up-and-up, why all the secrecy?”

  We’ve been having this same conversation for a week now. I’m tired of justifying myself, and the irritation in my voice is palpable, but Colin either doesn’t hear it, or he doesn’t care.

  “St. Anslem’s is not a secret,” he explains with his patience on edge.

  “But everything that happens inside is.”

  “Rumors. Unsubstantiated rumors.”

  “From sources with knowledge.”

  “Kate—” I picture him rolling his eyes and tapping that stupid Superman pen he loves on the edge of a yellow notepad. Patience is not Colin’s strong suit, and I’ve tested it repeatedly with this assignment. “Aside from the local press, there’s no one left in Charleston from a reputable media outlet.”

  “Big stories are unearthed by reporters who work hard and continue to dig long after everyone else has put down the shovel. I’ve heard you give that spiel dozens of times. Is it just an empty platitude?”

  The silence on the other end of the phone is deafening. “It’s time for you to come home. I’m sorry."

  I stop short at the base of the stairs, squeezing the wrought iron railing. DC is not my home. And it never will be. It’s just a place I landed when home was no longer a viable option. I don’t say that to him because it sounds ungrateful. Colin hired me when my prospects were slim, and for that, I will always be indebted to him.

  “I’m confident my meeting with Sinclair will yield fruit.”

  “It better be a truckload of fruit. Ripe fruit. As it is, I owe the Style editor a huge favor for borrowing you for three weeks during high season.”

  “You’re fucking the Style editor, Colin.”

  “That just gives her more opportunities to call in the favor. All hands on deck for the Keaton wedding—I gave her my word.”

  I swallow a groan. “Gotta go.”

  “Call me after you talk to Sinclair. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I hang up before he can say anything else. I don’t need any more reminders of how high the stakes are for me. The Washington Sun has an international reputation. After what happened in Boston, I’m lucky to have this job, even if it is at the Style desk.

  Ambassador Keaton’s daughter’s wedding. The fairy tale Washington so desperately needs to distract itself from President Wilder’s assassination and the ugly politics that followed the requisite mourning period.

  But the grief has just begun for me if I’m stuck covering that fiasco.

  I can see it now. Miles of imported French tulle embroidered with fine gold filigree, bridesmaid dresses in an array of pastels better suited to Easter eggs than to the human form, and a multi-tiered cake artfully draped in fondant, with a crumb so dry, guests won’t be able to choke it down. Like everything else in Washington, the nuptials will be encased in a glossy veneer, all for show. Where I’m from, we call that gloss bullshit.

  This is not how my career as a journalist began, nor how I envisioned it unfolding. It’s not that covering the lifestyles of the rich and famous isn’t honest work. Most of the reporters who write for the society pages are talented and hardworking. It’s just that the longer I’m covering socialites, the less likely it is I will ever be given an investigative assignment, and if that doesn’t happen, I’ll never be able to do right by my mother. Although that train veered off the track when I left Boston. But what choice did I have?

  My stomach roils as I pull open the solid oak door to Tallulah’s. Before stepping across the threshold, I take a deep breath and adjust the heavy tote on my shoulder. Smith Sinclair, you better come through big for me.

  Inside I blink a few times while my eyes adjust to the low light. The place has a kitschy charm with dark paneled walls and wide-plank floors that give it an outdated vibe. There’s a pleasant citrus scent in the air, but it’s too light to fully mask the booze, sweat, and promise of sex that’s seepe
d into the wood through the years. Tallulah’s is a working man’s bar where every tongue and groove has a story to tell. It reminds me of a neighborhood place not far from where I grew up, where off-duty cops would hang out after their shifts.

  I’m early, but I skim the room for Sinclair. I’ve never laid eyes on him, but I’ve seen enough photographs to recognize his face.

  There are only a handful of patrons in the place. A middle-aged man with an unkempt beard is working his way through a platter of fried chicken at the bar, and several stools down, three guys are watching a basketball game, hissing at the screen. All men. But no Sinclair.

  I scan the perimeter of the room, taking note of the exits. It’s a well-ingrained habit. Sources often want to meet in sketchy, out-of-the-way locations where they won’t be seen snitching to a reporter. I’m always careful, but I always go to the story—always—regardless of how dangerous it appears. That’s what good investigative journalism requires. That’s what my mother did.

  Tallulah’s doesn’t exactly feel shady, but it certainly doesn’t seem like the kind of place anyone closely associated with the Wilders would frequent.