Rita Herron - Vows of Vengeance

“I…don’t know who you are or why you think you know me.” Stella met the man’s gaze, determined to prove her point, but somewhere deep inside, in the far recesses of her mind, something intangible registered.

A wild and primitive awareness flickered in his eyes, something predatory, an almost hungry look, as if she’d not only met him, but that he’d known her intimately.

As quickly as the moment came, it fled, and she was thrust back into the depths of lost time.

“This isn’t funny, Stella.” Luke stalked toward her, stopped and gritted his teeth. “I’ve been searching for you ever since you ran out on our wedding night.”

Stella gasped, perspiration beading her lip. Wedding night? What was he talking about? She’d never been married….

Had she?

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To all the fans of my Nighthawk Island series—

thanks for your feedback and support.

Hope you enjoy this one!

Award-winning author Rita Herron wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded her storytelling for kids for romance, and writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romantic hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write her at P.O. Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, or visit her Web site at www.ritaherron.com.

Special Agent Luke Devlin—An FBI agent who never crossed the line—until he met the enigmatic Stella Segall and married her.

Stella Segall—Luke’s wife disappeared on their wedding night without a trace. Now, accused of murder, she insists she has no memory of her traumatic past or the man who claims to be her husband—Luke Devlin.

Dorothy Segall—Stella’s mother supposedly sold her when she was an infant, but Stella’s returning memories hint at a different story.

Kat Dixon & Jaycee Short—Two hired and trained killers just like Stella—or are they?

Spencer Grossman—Luke’s superior at the agency suspected that Luke’s partner was a bad agent. Now he’s gunning to find out if Luke had joined him.

J. T. Osborne—Osborne’s death was ruled a suicide— wasn’t it?

Drake Sutton—A stranger who claims to be Stella’s guardian—his sinister secrets may destroy them all.

Marvin Andrews—This reporter who will do anything for a story—will he die trying to write it?

The Master—He trained them all to kill without a conscience—is it his turn to die now?

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

It was Luke Devlin’s wedding day. The happiest day of his life.

Nothing could go wrong.

He and Stella had arrived at the chapel just before it had closed. They’d already exchanged vows. And now his wife was waiting in the honeymoon suite, preparing for their wedding night.

A night of ecstasy he couldn’t wait to begin.

Neon lights flashed across the night sky on the Vegas strip as he rushed to the car to retrieve the champagne and roses he’d bought for the occasion. Granted, he wasn’t much of a romantic. Hell, he wasn’t romantic at all. And he wasn’t even sure he knew how to be a husband. But he’d decided to give it a try.

After all, he’d never met anyone like Stella.

She hadn’t wanted a big, fancy wedding and neither had he. She’d insisted they drive to Vegas, instead of marrying in D.C. where they’d met. They’d gotten in around eleven, picked out simple wedding bands at a jewelry store nearby and had a nice quiet romantic dinner with a bottle of red wine. After toasting their future, they’d found an Elvis chapel offering a special deal for midnight ceremonies.

Even though the chapel had been somewhat cheesy, he wanted the honeymoon night to be special. Memorable.

And it would be. After the ceremony, they’d hurried back to the hotel as excited as if they’d floated into paradise.

Heady images drifted to mind as he jogged to the elevator. Stella in a bubble bath waiting for him, sipping champagne as he licked bubbles from her breasts. Stella naked and lying on that heartshaped bed with her hair spilling across the pillow and her legs open wide. Stella whispering that she wanted to go down on him as they’d left the chapel. Him doing the same for her afterward, giving her pleasure, and hearing her long-winded ecstatic cries.

Then being inside her, all night long…

A blissful evening of making love where, for once in his life, he could forget he was FBI. That he had an endless number of cases to work. Murders to solve. Killers to hunt down. Women and children to protect.

A life of violent and heinous crimes.

One that didn’t include pleasure.

A life he wanted to share with Stella.

A frisson of anxiety suddenly assaulted him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He had this feeling often. Every damn time he went to a potential crime scene.

But not now.

Hell no. Not on his wedding night.

Exhaling slowly, he exited the elevator, cut his gaze up and down the hallway, then toward the intersection where the halls met. Nothing seemed out of place. No strangers were lurking in the corner. No guns pointed his way.

Still, his pulse accelerated as he approached his room and inserted the key in the door. The wooden panel swung open.

Maybe Stella had left the door unlocked. Maybe she was waiting in the room, naked with strawberries and whipped cream on her belly. With chocolate sauce on her thighs, and promises in her eyes.

But that eerie premonition clutched at his chest again, and he felt for his gun, removed it from his jacket and slipped inside the room. All was quiet.

Eerily quiet.

Stella was nowhere to be seen.

He glanced at the bathroom but heard nothing. Only a daunting silence. As if the air couldn’t move. As if death had taken residence inside.

His gaze flew to the bed. On top of it lay the white sundress Stella had worn to the chapel. Blood dotted the skirt. The spaghetti straps looked as if they’d been torn.

Shock and horror momentarily paralyzed him. What the hell was going on?

He rushed to examine the damaged dress, picked it up and sniffed the blood to make certain it was real. A mental image of Stella wearing it down the aisle flashed in his head. The bodice had stretched tight over her breasts, the scalloped skirt swirling around her slender bare legs.

His throat closed, confusion and fear clawing at him.

Where was she?

He scanned the room in search of a clue. Her white stilettos were underneath the bed as if she’d kicked them off. The bouquet of fresh flowers had been crushed. Tossed on the end table.