Title: One True Thing
Author: Amber Lea Easton
About the book:
Power...it's a heady drug.
Vanessa Warren is America's favorite rebel. Daughter and granddaughter of US Presidents and sister to a future one, her family connections and notoriety are seen as leverage for manipulating the White House—if she's captured.One little lie leads to a whole lot of trouble.Reclusive international resort developer, Dominic Varga, needs a date to ward off his matchmaking parents. When he persuades the notorious Vanessa Warren to play his girlfriend for the night, he has no idea he's stepped into the crosshairs of kidnappers who will do anything—destroy everything—to get to her.One true thing...Trapped in a rapidly escalating international terror plot, Dominic and Vanessa's lie becomes the only real thing in the midst of betrayals, conspiracies, and murder. As their world falls apart, they suddenly only have each other to rely on against ruthless people who will stop at nothing to achieve their goal. Who can they trust? Who is behind the plot—her own family, a political rival of her family's, or a terrorist organization? How far will the kidnappers go—what will they be willing to sacrifice—to control the power of the White House? Is there anywhere in the world where they can find safety?
Excerpt:
Kicking
off her high heels, Vanessa ducked low against the outside of the building and
hoped like hell she wouldn't get caught in the crossfire. Gaze locked on the
back of the limousine, she darted in and out of shadows toward her goal. She
heard someone calling her name so she ran faster. The sound of blood rushing to
her ears blocked out everything else. Vision narrowed to one point—the car and
the bag she'd stashed inside.
She
tripped over a dark object on the sidewalk. Falling to her knees, she looked down
and saw Clarence's lifeless body across the pavement.
"Clarence!"
She fumbled for his wrist, conscious of how vulnerable she was and the need for
speed. A faint thumping assured her that he lived. "Gotta go," she
whispered against his ear before scanning his body and seeing the blood.
"Why weren't you wearing a protective vest, old man?"
She
shuffled to her feet and kept running. More gunfire. More shouts for her to
stop.
She
yanked open the back of the car, locked the door behind her, shimmied on her
knees along the floor, and pulled the bag out. She had no idea where the driver
was and didn't care as long as no one moved the car with her in it.
Hurriedly,
she pulled jeans on under her dress, tucked the hem into the waistband, yanked
on the leather jacket she'd brought, shoved her hair under a hat, yanked on a
pair of boots, and looped the bag across her shoulder all within minutes.
Bullets
smashed against the bullet-proof glass, the sound deafening in the empty car.
Smash, smash, smash! Cracks formed but the thick glass remained intact.
Someone
pounded on the side of the car. Simon.
"Damn
it, Vanessa, open up!" he shouted. "Ms. Warren, what are you doing?
Are you injured?"
She
wished she could trust him, wanted to, but didn't dare.
"Ms.
Warren! Damn it!" He ducked low and she heard him calling for back-up.
Sirens
ripped through the night air, drowning out the screams of innocent people
running for safety.
When
he ran around to the back of the limo, gun drawn and proceeded to fire on an
unknown assailant, she took the opportunity to sneak out the side door,
remained low dressed in her dark clothing, and ran as fast as she could into
the night. She ran and ran until her lungs ached and the sounds of chaos faded.
Needing
a break, she pressed herself into a darkened doorway and tried to be as
invisible as possible. She'd zipped up the black leather jacket to her chin.
The leather fedora hat she'd stuffed on her head tilted low over her eyes.
She
held her breath and listened for any sign of pursuit.
Nothing.
For
now.
She
needed to get to one of the stashed motorcycles she had placed in strategic
areas between the hotel and her house without being seen. Or she'd need to get
to the train station. She hadn't thought out the transportation portion of this
escape very well, she realized with an exasperated sigh.
Think, think, think! There is no going back.
A
silent sob lodged in her throat.
Deliberately,
she put one foot in front of the other and walked toward the hotel as best as
she could through the dark street. People — some couples, a few groups — walked
past her on their way to a night on the town. She kept her gaze locked straight
ahead, determined not to make eye contact with anyone.
An
explosion sounded far off in the distance. Flames shot up over the tops of buildings
and cathedral spires. The dull roar caused the people who were walking
leisurely on sidewalks to roam to the center of the street, all looking at the
golden glow in the sky.
She
had nowhere to go and whoever masterminded this assault knew it.
Who the hell are these people? The
idea that Barcelona had fallen under a terrorist attack gnawed at her
conscience.
A pit
formed in the center of her stomach. She increased her pace, alternating
between speed walking and running, all the while trying not bringing too much
attention to herself.
She
doubled-over with agony at the sight in front of her. The top two floors of
Dominic's hotel were engulfed in flames and guests flooded out the doors and
down the stairs. People screamed. Smoldering embers flitted down like snapping
glitter. Sirens cried out through the night.
She
tasted vomit in her mouth. Guilt hammered her mercilessly. Clenching her
stomach, she backed up until her bag collided with a wall behind her. All hell
had broken loose and she had nowhere to run.
Aware
that the perpetrators were most likely scouring the area for her, she shoved
her hair further beneath the hat and double-checked that her jacket had
remained zipped to her chin. She felt like a fox hunted by bloodhounds.
The
stashed motorcycle was off limits now that the streets and alleys filled with
screaming civilians, anxious government agents, and emergency vehicles.
They—whoever
they were—were forcing her toward the train or bus station. She knew this with
absolute certainty. She couldn't fly out, not without tipping her hand and,
unfortunately, her delinquent skill set had never included hot wiring a car.
When
her bag vibrated against her back, she remembered stashing her cellphone there
earlier. Despite knowing she shouldn't answer, she wanted to know who called.
Without removing the bag from her shoulders, she shifted it to the front,
unzipped it only enough to dig around for the phone, and looked at the caller
i.d.
Clarence.
But
that wasn't possible. She'd seen him face down on the pavement, had tripped
over his body, had his blood on her hands.
The
phone vibrated again in her shaking fingers.
She
answered but remained silent.
"Mike's
truck in twenty minutes."
Dominic.
She
frowned, breathing came in harsh, labored bursts.
The
line disconnected.
She
looked at the phone before realizing she needed to abandon it. With another
glance at the flames snapping high into the air, she moved toward the sea and
away from the scene. Mike had been working construction on her house, Dominic
had said.
She
dropped her phone in the nearest trashcan and walked as quickly as she could
away from the chaos. Every inch of her shook with fear. Her mouth had gone dry.
Blood rushed through her eardrums creating a white noise effect that amplified
the sound of her own breathing in her head. One hand gripped the bag's strap
looped across her chest.
She
couldn't trust anyone she'd known before the threats had started arriving. She
could only trust Dominic. Each step in the direction of her house was a step
toward an uncertain future. What did she really know about him? Until an hour
ago, she hadn't known that his late wife had murdered his child. What kind of
hell must that have been to experience? She couldn't imagine, but she instinctively
knew that trusting women probably wasn't easy for him...or his parents.
Yet
here he was — with one of his signature hotels in one of the most beautiful
cities in the world literally going up in flames — helping her.
Careful
to walk a block out of the way to avoid crossing the sightlines of her house,
she snuck up on the Varga Developments truck, crouching low to the ground and
testing the passenger door. When it opened, she climbed into it as slowly as
possible, not willing to release the bag or be seen.
No
Mike. No Dominic.
Hunched
in the front seat, she felt around for keys but didn't find anything. Sighing,
she rested her forehead against the dash before peeking at her house. Every
window was lit up. The front door opened and Cleo ran out flanked by two men
she didn't recognize. She stayed low, eyes barely above the steering wheel, and
watched Cleo gesturing madly toward the direction of the hotel.
Pam
appeared on the stairs, phone pressed against her face as she ran past Cleo and
toward her car. Vanessa assumed she was on her way to the hotel.
Agents
were inside — but who else? If she ran there, would she be safe or at risk?
Dominic's construction crew was inside, would they be in danger if she set foot
across the threshold? Would it burn, too?
Purchasing link: http://amzn.to/25BasPo
Amber Lea Easton
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