Erica Spindler - Fortune

Also by Erica Spindler

BLOOD VINES

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

BREAKNECK

LAST KNOWN VICTIM

COPYCAT

KILLER TAKES ALL

SEE JANE DIE

IN SILENCE

DEAD RUN

BONE COLD

ALL FALL DOWN

CAUSE FOR ALARM

SHOCKING PINK

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The author of over twenty-five books, Erica Spindleris best known for her spine-tingling thrillers. Her novels have been published all over the world, selling over eleven million copies, and critics have dubbed her stories “thrill-packed page-turners, white-knuckle rides and edge-of-your-seat whodunits.”

Erica is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. In 2002, her novel Bone Cold won the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence.

For three women

it has been my incredible good fortune to call friends:

Jan Hamilton Powell, Terry Richards McGee

and

Karen Young Stone

My heartfelt thanks to the following people for helping me bring Fortune to life:

Huge thanks to Roxanne Mouton of Mignon Faget Ltd for walking me through the jewellery-making process, from design concept to finished piece, and for patiently and thoroughly explaining the workings of a jewellery production studio.

Thanks, too, to the incomparable Mignon Faget, for allowing her staff to take time out of their busy day to make my tour possible, and to the staff themselves for answering my questions and putting up with a stranger peering over their shoulders while they worked.

Thanks to my sister, Stacie Spindler, for showing me the “real” Chicago and for her enthusiasm and support.

Big thanks also to the guys at Calvin Klein Camper Sales for letting me roam freely through their trailers; to Linda Weissert for the on-the-spot information about Pittsburgh; and to Drs Leslie and Bill Michaelis for giving me a crash course in veterinary medicine.

And, as always, thanks to my agent, Evan Marshall; my editor Melissa Senate; and the entire MIRA Books staff, particularly Dianne Moggy and Amy Moore-Benson.

Chicago, Illinois,1971

Sunlight spilled through the nursery’s floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window, painting the floor the color of rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Installed in 1909 to herald the first Monarch baby to occupy the Astor Street mansion, the window depicted a hovering angel, golden wings spread, her expression beatific as she guarded the children below.

Since that first Monarch baby, the angel had protected sad few children. One tragedy after another had befallen this family, a family desperate for daughters, one seemingly doomed to watch bitterly as other families grew and multiplied.

Two weeks ago that had changed. Two weeks ago Grace Elizabeth Monarch had been born and come home, to this nursery and its waiting angel, to this desperate family. She had changed everyone’s life forever.

But no one’s more than her mother’s.

Madeline Monarch slipped into the nursery and crossed to the cradle and her sleeping daughter. She gazed down at her, love and a sense of wonder welling inside her. She reached out and stroked her baby’s velvety cheek, and the infant stirred and turned her head toward Madeline’s finger, sucking in her sleep, looking for a nipple.

A lump formed in Madeline’s throat. She was so beautiful, so incredibly…perfect. She still couldn’t quite believe Grace was hers. Madeline bent her head close to her daughter’s and breathed in her baby-soft scent. It filled her head, and she squeezed her eyes shut, nearly drowning in its sweetness.

What had she done to deserve her? Madeline wondered. Why had she been singled out for such a stroke of good fortune? Even Grace’s birth had been like a miracle. She had rocketed into the world, nearly painlessly and at a speed that had taken even Madeline’s veteran obstetrician by surprise. Madeline’s water had broken and less than an hour later there had been Grace, howling and red-faced but unbelievably, incredibly perfect.

Madeline shook her head slightly, unable to fully trust her sudden luck. But how could she? She had never done anything well, or easily, before. No, Madeline was one of those people destined to make mistakes, to choose poorly and to be hurt time and again.

In truth, the moment before the nurse laid Grace in her arms, Madeline hadn’t believed that anything in her life would ever be easy, or painless, or without flaw. She hadn’t believed that she was worthy of true love, of real devotion; she had thought she would go through life reaching for that elusive emotion but always coming back empty-handed.

The next moment had changed all that. Grace had changed it. Madeline loved her daughter almost more than she could bear. And Grace loved her back, the same way. Unconditionally. Completely.

Madeline threaded her fingers through her daughter’s silky dark hair. Grace needed her. Grace loved her. Madeline found that truth to be heady and shattering, but absolutely, positively the best feeling in the whole world. She would do anything, battle anyone or any evil, to protect her daughter.

If necessary, she would give her own life.

Madeline heard a sound at the nursery door and turned. Her six-year-old stepson, Griffen, stood there, his gaze fixed intently on the cradle, his expression strange, at once fascinated and wary, drawn and repelled. She breathed deeply though her nose, fighting back a feeling of resentment at his intrusion. Fighting back the distaste that left her longing for a drink of clean, sweet water.

She scolded herself for both her thoughts and her reaction to him. Griffen needed her, too. She had to remember that.

Yet even as the thought ran through her head, she acknowledged that something about her husband’s son unsettled her, something about him affected her like an icy hand to her back; it had from the first.

It wasn’t his appearance or demeanor. He was an uncommonly beautiful child. Bright, polite, at times even sweet. He didn’t seem to affect anyone else the way he did her. So why, when she looked into his eyes, couldn’t she suppress a shudder?

Madeline knew why. Because she was different; because she saw in a way others didn’t. All her life she had been troubled by uncannily accurate “feelings” and “visions”—about people, about events to come and about ones past. For as long as she could remember, she had been embarrassed by her ability. She had learned to manage the visions by ignoring them. Over time they had become less frequent and less vivid.

No longer. Like everything else in her life, pregnancy and motherhood had changed that. Grace had changed it. Now her sixth sense, if that was even what she should call it, neither rested nor would be ignored, as if the hormones raging through her body had kicked on a switch she didn’t know how to turn off.

And her extra sense warned her that there was something wrong with Griffen Monarch. Something terribly wrong.

Madeline chastised herself. Maybe she was the one with the problem as her husband and Adam Monarch, her father-in-law, insisted; maybe all those hormones were affecting her judgment, her sense of reality and balance.

She swept her gaze over Griffen, guilt pinching at her. His own mother was dead three years now, the victim of an “accidental” overdose of sleeping pills and booze. Madeline knew it couldn’t have been easy for him, growing up with a grandfather obsessed with having a female heir, a grandmother driven to the point of near madness by seven late-term miscarriages and a father who hadn’t the understanding or the patience for the needs of a young child. Then, as if those things hadn’t been enough, she had been introduced into the mix.