Exposed

  Exposed is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  Excerpt from Flawed by Tracy Wolff copyright © 2015 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Flawed by Tracy Wolff. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 9781101884874

  Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover photograph: Claudio Marinesco

  www.readloveswept.com

  v4.0

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Tracy Wolff

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Flawed

  Chapter 1

  The phone rings at three a.m.

  I think about ignoring it. Now that I have Chloe back in my arms—and my bed—I have no interest in moving for the next century. Certainly not until dawn breaks across the sky and I set things in motion for our impromptu trip to Vegas. I haven’t slept since she left me, not for more than an hour or two, and now that she’s cuddled up against me, her even breathing pressing her breasts against my side and her strawberry blond hair tickling my cheek, I’ve finally been able to relax, to breathe, for the first time in way too long.

  But I’ve been waiting for a phone call and if this is it—if this is it, the last thing I want to do is miss it.

  Without moving the half of my body that is firmly under Chloe’s, I reach blindly toward the nightstand. My hand collides with my phone on the second try and a quick glance tells me that I really do have to take this call.

  Fuck.

  “I’ll get back to you in five minutes,” I bark into the phone the second I accept the call, and then I’m hanging up. Running a hand over my face. Trying to blink myself into wakefulness.

  It takes a good two or three minutes. Nothing like the abject relief that comes from holding the woman you love to finally put you under after a week of sleep deprivation.

  I’m half-asleep and grumpy as shit as I slip my arm out from beneath Chloe’s head and try to slide over to my side of the bed. The fact that she moans a little in her sleep and clutches at me, her arms and legs wrapping around me like a vine, only makes it harder to leave. If it was anyone else on the phone—if the call was about anything else—I wouldn’t even think about it.

  I soothe her back to sleep with a couple strokes of her hair and a few murmured words. And then I stumble to my feet and turn away, even though that’s the last thing I want to do. Even though I want to spend the next hour, day, year, beside Chloe, worshipping her beautiful body with my own.

  I walk down the hall to her living room, pull out my phone. Dial the number. And wait for the private detective on the other end to pick up—and God willing, give me the news about my useless brother that I’ve been dying to hear.

  There’s a click and then a terse, “Mr. Frost.”

  “Yes.” A long pause, like he’s shuffling papers. Or taking a drag on a cigarette. Or tossing back a finger or two of scotch. Then again, that could just be my imagination running wild—I’ve seen a lot of old-time detective noirs through the years and right now it feels like I’ve stepped into the middle of one.

  The idea makes me more uneasy than it should.

  After all, I thought I was ready to hear whatever he had to say—was anxious to hear it—yet now that the moment’s here, there’s a part of me that just doesn’t want to know. Brandon is my baby brother. I’ve spent my life protecting him, trying to keep him safe, trying to fix his problems for him. But that was before I knew what he was. What he’d done.

  Before I knew that he had raped the only woman I’ve ever loved…and gotten away with it.

  It’s that knowledge that has me grinding out “Tell me,” even as I brace myself for the answer.

  “You were right. Ms. Girard isn’t the only one.”

  My blood turns to ice, just freezes in my veins as his words hit me with the force of a precision guided missile.

  I knew it. From the moment my mom opened her mouth after seeing that picture of Chloe and me in the tabloids, from the moment I realized that Brandon was the one who—with my help—had nearly destroyed Chloe, I’d known that there would be more. That there would be others.

  Brandon’s the type to take a mile when you give him an inch. When I believed his lies—my mother’s lies—and bailed him out, I gave him more than an inch. I gave him carte fucking blanche to do what he wanted, when he wanted, to whomever he wanted.

  And the bastard ran with it.

  So, of course there are more. Of. Fucking. Course.

  For a moment, I can’t help thinking about those other women. Trying to put a face to them. A name. But that only makes it worse. Because I’ve held Chloe when she cried, I’ve seen how devastated she is. Knowing there are other women out there suffering as she has…knowing that my money—that I—pretty much gave Brandon the opportunity to do that…It makes me sick. Makes me rage. What happened to them is as much my fault as his.

  And now the son of a bitch wants to run for Congress? Wants me to use my influence to help him win a term or two in the House of Representatives, before running for the Senate? And then, when he’s a little older, a little more seasoned, I’m supposed to help him make a grab for the golden ring? For the presidency?

  Over my dead fucking body.

  Not when the woman I love bears the emotional scars of his attack and everything that happened after. Not when other women have suffered the same fate. And not when it’s obvious that Brandon still doesn’t give a fuck what he did or who he hurt.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  “Tell me.” There’s no hesitation now, not when my blood is boiling and guilt is pressing on my chest like a cement block.

  “There are seven other women who have leveled accusations of rape at your brother. Three of the seven accusations came before Ms. Girard’s, and like hers, are sealed since your brother was underage at the time the allegations were made and no arrest was forthcoming.”

  “What about the others?”

  “They’re from your brother’s time at Boston College—all dismissed, all with nondisclosure agreements signed on both sides.”

  “Because my mother and his father paid off the girls.” Was it any wonder they’d been tapped out of disposable income by the time Chloe came around and needed me to pony up the money? Brandon had been working his way through the entire femal
e population of Boston, one terrified young girl at a time.

  The rage churns in my stomach. Makes me nauseous. Makes me burn.

  “He’s been accused of rape eight times and none of the allegations have stuck?”

  “Technically, it’s only been seven. In the last one, there was no rape complaint made—”

  “Then how do you know about it?” I interrupt. Not that I doubt him or what he’s telling me. Because I don’t. But I damn sure want the big picture, want every one of my ducks in the fucking straightest row I can put them in before I decide what I’m going to do with the information.

  How I’m going to use it to bring my baby brother down—and keep him from being elected to the House of Representatives, when he’s got good looks, slick charm and a hell of a lot of old-money donors on his side.

  “I followed the money. She got the biggest payout yet. Almost three million dollars. But unlike the others, her medical bills took a pretty decent-sized chunk of that.”

  “So he graduated from rape to rape and assault.”

  “That’s what it looks like, yes.”

  There’s a dull pain in my hand and I glance down only to realize that I’m squeezing my fist so tightly that my fingers have all turned white from lack of circulation. Sheer will alone has me uncurling the fist, one slow, painful finger at a time. “Is there anything else?”

  A pause. Then, “Yeah.”

  Jesus. Of fucking course there is.

  I’m braced for it, and still the word is like a blow. I thought I was prepared, thought I was ready to hear the worst of what Brandon was. What he is. But more than rape, more than assault? I’m not sure I can handle knowing that.

  Still, that’s why I hired this guy, after all. To dig up every speck of dirt he could find on my brother so that I could know it all. I just didn’t want the “all” to be this much.

  “Tell me,” I grind out.

  “He’s dirty. Even by Washington standards. He’s taking money from a couple of shady lobbies for his campaign, but everyone does that at one time or another. However, his largest campaign contributions—and a significant portion of his own, personal money—is coming from what appear to be a couple of shell corporations set up in Vegas.”

  “Vegas?” I ask, baffled. Brandon’s running for Congress from Massachusetts, the state he was born and raised in. What the hell does Vegas have to do with that?

  But even as the question crosses my mind, the answer hits me like a two-by-four. “The Vegas mafia? He crawled in bed with what’s left of the Vegas mob?”

  “I’m still digging. But he and Nico Valducci have a lot of business interests in common—including some big money invested in a couple of casinos with very shady backers. Plus there are those big campaign contributions.”

  “Business interests?” My mind is racing as I try to figure out this new and unexpected development. I found Brandon in Vegas a few weeks ago, when I’d gone looking for him after I’d learned about Chloe. I’d assumed his trip had been for pleasure, but now that conclusion seems pretty far-fetched. “Why the hell would Brandon get involved with these guys? He wants to be president someday.”

  “Yeah, well, so did Kennedy.” I can all but see him shrug. “Valducci has deep pockets. He’s not your typical Vegas mobster—those guys all got shot or sent to prison a while ago. He’s smart and brutal and he and a couple of his friends have been building their organization in Vegas for the last twenty-five years.”

  “Still, Brandon should be smarter than that. A lot of people have deep pockets besides the mob!” Me included. God knows he’s tapped me for contributions any number of times in the last year or so.

  “Yes, but Brandon didn’t run up ten million in gambling debts to a lot of people. He ran them up with the Vegas mob.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I scrub a hand over my face, shake my head as I try to find a way to think through the fear that’s started racing through me. Fear for Chloe. And fear for my brother.

  It’s that fear that makes me angriest. I want to hate him. I do hate him for what he’s done to the only woman I’ve ever loved and to all of those other women. I want him to pay, want him to go to prison for a long time for what he did. Want him and our mother to lose their reputations—their precious standing in the community—and with it any and all political aspirations they’ve been harboring.

  But the mob? They aren’t about taking reputations when you cross them. They aren’t about prison. They’re about violent retribution. Torture. Dismemberment. Death.

  No matter how much I want Brandon to pay for what he’s done, I don’t wish him dead. I taught him how to ride a bike, for Christ’s sake. How to surf. How to drive. All that doesn’t just go away, no matter how much I wish it would. No matter how much I despise him.

  “Did you find out anything else?” I demand after the silence has stretched too long between us. I keep my voice flat, brusque. I can’t afford to show weakness right now.

  “I’m tugging on a few other threads, but that’s all I’ve got that’s concrete.”

  “Other threads?”

  “Yeah.” He sounds reluctant. “Look, they aren’t very substantial right now. Give me a couple days and I’ll have more for you.”

  I start to push him—I want to know what he knows, even if it’s just a suspicion. But at that moment, I hear a noise at the doorway. I turn to find Chloe standing there, staring at me. She’s nude, except for a robe she’s loosely belted at the waist. Her eyes are wide, her strawberry blond curls tumbling over her shoulders. Her skin is flushed an inviting pink color and though she’s smiling sleepily at me, there’s an uncertainty in the way she’s holding herself that tells me we’re not completely out of the woods yet.

  We’re back together, but trust is a long road, one that for us has had its share of potholes. That most of those potholes were my fault is a truth that weighs heavy on my shoulders.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say, ending the call before the detective on the other side of the phone can say anything else.

  “Everything okay?” Chloe asks, and her voice is as sleepy as she looks. It makes me hard. But fuck, everything about her makes me hard. It’s been that way since the first time I saw her and nothing has changed. Even as everything has changed.

  “Yeah.” I cross the living room to her, then pull her into my arms. “Everything’s great. Just business.”

  I bend my head, brush my mouth across hers. I mean it to be just a light peck, but the moment our lips meet, I’m lost. I had to live too many days without her and I’m not ready to let her go yet. Not ready to be without her again, even as past hurts loom dark between us.

  I bring my hand up to her jaw, cup her cheek as I deepen the kiss. There’s a part of me that still expects her to pull away, still expects her to tell me that she’s changed her mind and can’t be with me, after all.

  I wouldn’t blame her. It would kill me, but I would never—could never—blame her.

  Desperation sweeps through me at the thought, and I spread my other hand against her lower back. Maneuver her even closer, until her long, lush body is pressed tightly against my own. And then I kiss her like I’ve been dying to for days, for weeks. I kiss her like she’s the most important thing in the world to me. Like she’s my everything.

  Because she is. Dear God, she is.

  Her lips part on a gasp and I take advantage, sliding my tongue inside her mouth to lick and stroke and take. She tastes like lemonade—sweet and tart and so, so good. Like mint and honey. Like the wind that rips across the still dark beach right before I dive into the Pacific for an early morning surf. I don’t want to let her go. I want to stand here in the middle of her best friend’s living room and kiss her like this forever.

  But Chloe has other plans. She kisses me once more—long and lingering and so, so good—before pulling away. “Just business?” she asks, and this time her eyes are clear, direct, the last traces of sleep gone from them.

  I don’t want to tell her the truth. The past
is finally settled between us—or as settled as it’s going to get—and I don’t want her to worry about Brandon coming back into her life. Don’t want her to worry about him, or my mother, ever hurting her again.

  Because I’m not going to let that happen. There’s no way my brother—no way anyone—is ever getting close enough to Chloe to cause her any more damage.

  “It’s the middle of the business day in Tokyo.” Which isn’t a lie. It’s just not necessarily pertinent to the discussion I was having with the detective.

  She nods, takes hold of my hand. Starts to tug me back toward her bedroom. I follow willingly—I’d follow her anywhere, even straight into hell if I had to—and she doesn’t stop until she’s standing next to her bed. A dim light from her dresser gives the room a shadowy feel that echoes deep inside of me.

  I don’t want to fuck this up again.

  She looks up at me then, and there are tears in her beautiful eyes. Tears, and pain and fear—so much fear. It nearly breaks me. Nearly has me sinking to my knees in front of her and begging her forgiveness all over again. For everything that happened before she met me—and everything that’s happened since. I don’t deserve this woman. I never have, never will. But I’m not man enough to let her go. Not when she’s the very air that I breathe, the blood that runs through my veins.

  “Baby.” I bend my head, press soft kisses to her cheeks, her forehead, her eyes. Her tears are warm and salty-sweet and their very existence makes my gut twist. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

  “I know.” Her hands come up to cup my face now, to tilt my head so that we’re looking straight into each other’s eyes. “I love you, Ethan.”

  My heart melts. “I love you, too.”

  “I know you do. And I know, too, that love means protecting me. But I need you to promise me something.”