James Patterson: Honeymoon

For Suzie & Jack.

Love, Jim

For my beautiful bride, Christine.

Love, Howard

Prologue

WHODUNWHAT?

THINGS AREN’T ALWAYS as they appear.

One minute, I’m totally fine.

The next, I’m hunched over and clutching my stomach in sheer agony. What the hell is happening to me?

I have no idea. All I know is what I feel, and what I feel I can’t believe. It’s as if the lining of my stomach is suddenly peeling away with a corrosive burn. I’m screaming and I’m moaning, but most of all I’m praying—praying for this to stop.

It doesn’t.

The burning continues, a blistering hole forms, and the bile trickles out of my stomach with a sizzling… drip… drip… drip… over my entrails. The smell of my own melting flesh fills the air.

I’m dying, I tell myself.

But no, it’s worse than that. Much worse. I’m being skinned alive—from the inside out.

And it’s only just beginning.

Like a firework, the pain shoots up and explodes into my throat. It cuts off all air and I struggle to breathe.

Then I collapse. My arms prove useless, unable to break the fall. Headfirst I hit the hardwood floor and bust open my skull. Blood, plum red and thick, oozes from above my right eyebrow. I blink a few times, but that’s all. The gash doesn’t even factor in. Needing a dozen stitches is the least of my current problems.

The pain gets worse, continues to spread.

Through my nose. Out to my ears. Right smack into my eyes, where I can feel the vessels popping like bubble wrap.

I try to stand. I can’t. When I finally manage to, I try to run. All I can do is stumble forward. My legs are leaden. The bathroom is ten feet away. It might as well be ten miles.

Somehow I make it. I get there, lock the door behind me. My knees buckle and, again, I collapse to the floor. The cold tile greets my cheek with a horrific crack! as my back molar splits in two.

I can see the toilet but like everything else in the bathroom it’s moving. Everything is spinning and I reach for the sink, arms flailing, to try and hold on. No chance. My body begins to thrash as if a thousand volts are coursing through my veins.

I try to crawl.

The pain is officially everywhere, including my fingernails, which dig into the tile grout and inch me forward. I desperately grab the base of the toilet and drag my head up over the lip.

For a second, my throat opens and I gasp for air. I begin to heave and the muscles in my chest stretch and twist. One by one, they tear as if razor blades are slashing through them.

There’s a knocking on the door. Quickly, I turn my head. It’s getting louder and louder. More a pounding now.

Were it only the grim reaper to put me out of this excruciating misery.

But it’s not—not yet, at least—and that’s the moment I realize that I may not know what killed me tonight, but I know for damn sure who did it.

Part One

PERFECT COUPLES

Chapter 1

NORA COULD FEEL Connor watching her.

He always did the same thing when she packed to leave on one of her trips. He’d lean his six foot three frame against the doorway to his bedroom, his hands buried in the pockets of his Dockers, a frown tugging on his face. He hated the thought of their being apart.

Usually he wouldn’t say anything, though. He’d just stand there in silence as Nora filled her suitcase, occasionally taking a sip of Evian water, her favorite. But that afternoon he couldn’t help himself.

“Don’t go,” he said in his deep voice.

Nora turned with a loving smile. “You know I have to. You know I hate this, too.”

“But I already miss you. Just say no, Nora—don’t go. To hell with them.”

From day one, Nora was captivated by how vulnerable Connor allowed himself to be with her. It was in such sharp contrast to his public persona—a very rich and hard-driving hedge-fund manager with his own successful company in Greenwich, with another office in London. His puppy-dog eyes belied the fact that he was built like a lion. Powerful and proud.

Indeed, at the relatively young age of forty, Connor was pretty much king of all he surveyed. And in Nora, thirty-three, he’d found his queen, his perfect soul mate in life.

“You know I could tie you up and keep you from leaving,” he said jokingly.

“That sounds like fun,” said Nora, playing along. She lifted up the top of her suitcase, which was lying open on the bed. She was searching for something.

“First, though, could you maybe help me find my green cardigan?”

Connor finally chuckled. He got such a kick out of her. Good jokes, bad jokes—it didn’t seem to matter. “Do you mean the one with the pearl buttons? It’s in the master closet.”

Nora laughed. “You were dressing up in my clothes again, weren’t you?”

She headed for the cavernous walk-in closet. When she returned, green sweater in hand, Connor had moved to the foot of the bed. He stared at her with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “I know that look.”

“What look?” he asked.

“The one that says you want a going-away present.”

Nora thought for a moment before flashing a grin of her own. She dropped the sweater on a chair and slowly walked up to Connor, purposefully stopping just inches from his body. She was wearing only her bra and panties.

“From me, to you,” she whispered in his ear, leaning in.

There wasn’t that much to unwrap, but Connor took his time anyway. He gently kissed Nora’s neck, then her shoulders, his lips tracing an imaginary line downward to the jutting curves of her small, pert breasts. There he lingered. One hand stroking her arm, the other reaching around to remove her bra.

Nora shivered, her body tingling. Cute, funny, and very good in bed. What more could a girl ask for?

Connor knelt and kissed Nora’s stomach, his tongue lightly drawing circles around her little wink of a belly button. Then, with a thumb resting on either side of her hips, he began to roll down her panties. He charted the progress with kiss after kiss after kiss.

“That’s… very… nice, ” whispered Nora.

Now it was her turn. As Connor’s tall, muscular frame straightened out before her, she began to undress him. Quickly, deftly, but sensually.

For a few seconds they stood still. Perfectly naked. Gazing at each other, taking in each and every detail. God, what could be better than this?

Suddenly Nora laughed. She gave Connor a quick, playful shove, and he fell back onto the bed. He was fully aroused. A prodigious human sundial lying there on the duvet.

Nora reached into her open suitcase and removed a black Ferragamo belt, pulling it taut in her hands.

Snap!

“Now, what was that about tying somebody up?” she asked.

Chapter 2

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, donning a plush pink terry-cloth robe, Nora descended the sprawling staircase of Connor’s 11,000-square-foot, three-story neoclassic Colonial. Even by the standards of Briarcliff Manor and the other surrounding towns of tony Westchester, his home was impressive.

It was also impeccably furnished—every room a superb blending of form and function, style and comfort. The very best New York City antiques shops meet the best of Connecticut—Eleish-Van Breems, New Canaan Antiques, the Silk Purse, the Cellar. Signature works by Monet, Hudson River School star Thomas Cole, Magritte. A George III secretary in the library that had once been owned by J. P. Morgan. A humidor originally presented to Castro by Richard Nixon, with provenance documentation. A walk-in wine cellar that held four thousand bottles and was nearly full.