Lisa Harris - Final Deposit

“Sure. Why?”

“It’s my father. I found at least two dozen letters from collection agencies in his desk.”

“Does your father have debt?”

“My father’s a miser when it comes to money. I don’t think he’s ever had debt.” She knew she shouldn’t be dragging Kyle into this, but she didn’t know who else to turn to. “I’m sorry to dump all this on you. I’m sure you didn’t have this conversation in mind when you called.”

“I was thinking of something more along the lines of asking you to dinner, actually.”

Lindsey smiled. “Dinner would be nice. I—“

She was interrupted by the violent sound of shattering glass. She jumped up from the table and spun around. The metal handle on the back door shook. Someone was breaking in.

Currently, Lisa and her husband, along with their three children, are working in Mozambique as church planters. She speaks French and is fervently working to improve her Portuguese. Life is busy between ministry and homeschooling, but she loves her time to escape into another world and write, and sees this work as an extension of her ministry.

Besides writing, Lisa loves to travel. She and her husband have visited more than twenty countries throughout Europe, Africa, South America and the Far East, and have lived in Togo, France, South Africa, Brazil and currently Mozambique. One of her favorite pastimes is learning to cook different exotic dishes from around the world. Be sure to check out her Web site at www.lisaharriswrites.com or her blog at myblogintheheartofafrica.blogspot.com for a peek into her life in the heart of Africa.

Published by Steeple Hill Books ™

In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace.

—Ephesians, 1:7

This book is dedicated to Mema. I miss you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

The past year has been a roller coaster of adventure, from the tropical paradise of northern South Africa to the busy rush of a Brazilian city, and now the white beaches of Mozambique. Thankfully, none of my adventures have been quite as perilous as they were for my hero and heroine. Through all these changes, I never could have kept on writing if it weren’t for my wonderful and supportive husband and kids, my awesome critique group and members of my extended family, who are always there with an encouraging word when times get crazy. And believe me, it’s been crazy!

Thanks also to my agent, Joyce, for always cheering me on, my editor, Krista, for believing in this story, and for Louise, who did a great job—and fairly painlessly, I might add—in helping me edit this story.

Whoever said that love of money was the root of all evil had never experienced the financial benefits of working a long con.

Leaning against the light post outside his London flat, Abraham Omah nodded at the familiar face of a woman as she jogged past, iPod on her arm, Windbreaker zipped up to block the April chill. She smiled at him as he took a drag off his cigarette, and then flicked the ashes onto the sidewalk. She was definitely worth pursuing, but she’d have to be a prize for another day. He had more pressing things to consider at the moment.

His lips curled into a grin at the thought of George Taylor. Contact with Mr. Taylor had grown into daily online chats, e-mails and even an occasional phone call charged to the American’s bill. It continued to amaze him how trusting people could be. Throw out the tempting lure of easy money and watch the gullible jump headfirst into the game.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. Anyone that naive deserved what they got.

A taxi driver blared his horn as he sped down the narrow roadway congested with other cars, buses and bikers. Abraham tossed his cigarette onto the sidewalk and then sprinted up the flight of stairs to the two-bedroom flat. He loved the noise of the city, the heavy scent of exhaust from the morning rush hour that mingled with a hint of curry from the Indian restaurant across the street, and even the unpredictable spring weather. He’d come a long way from the slums of north London where he’d grown up.

He slammed the front door shut, then settled in at his computer with a cup of hot coffee and a slice of leftover pizza. The way things were progressing with Mr. Taylor, he’d soon be able to invite Miss iPod to dinner at the Crowne Plaza to celebrate. He clicked open his e-mail, anxious to read Mr. Taylor’s response to his latest request, this one for seven thousand dollars to be wired to Abraham’s account to cover the remaining transfer fees the bank had imposed. A final payment, he promised.

He scanned his in-box.

Nothing.

Abraham frowned. Normally George Taylor was prompt in his replies. If he’d decided to pull out…

Abraham gripped the edges of the keyboard and fought to stop a wave of panic. No. He would stay calm and wait—years of training had taught him that. It took months to gain people’s trust so that they were willing to mortgage their homes, take cash advances off their credit cards, sell their cars and even steal. He just needed to be patient.

Abraham blew out a long, slow breath. He had to reassure Mr. Taylor that everything was still on track, and that his help was essential to the success of the deal.

The retired Dallas engineer had already wired him thousands of dollars to cover various bogus transaction fees. Abraham had assured him that paying these fees would release assets worth millions once belonging to a dead government official from West Africa. The deal would go through, Abraham told himself—Mr. Taylor had invested too much to simply back out now.

He began drafting another e-mail. The con was far from over. Mr. Taylor deserved the chance to see the money himself. Soon, it would be waiting in a hotel room in London in a silver suitcase, with hired guards on each side. Abraham’s smile returned. Thirty-one million dollars in cash wasn’t all that would be waiting for George Taylor.

Lindsey Taylor wondered exactly how many faux pas she’d be committing by taking off her three-inch sling backs, sneaking across the terrace and stealing into the library for a short reprieve from her best friend Sarah’s wedding reception. At the moment, both feet felt as if she’d just attempted to run a marathon. And after an extended ceremony, dozens of photos and an hour and a half of socializing, it was no wonder.

Still, barring the problematic issues of her attire, Sarah and Brad’s wedding had been a success. The decision to hold the ceremony in the enclosed garden behind Sarah’s parents’ luxurious North Dallas home hadn’t gone over well at first. But, with a bit of help from a wedding coordinator, the landscaped area had been transformed into an elegant wedding and reception venue. Even Sarah’s mother had agreed that the setting—while far from traditional in her mind—was perfect for a summer ceremony.