When Desire Turns Deadly

FIONA’S POV

It had been raining since the day my husband died, and today was no different.

I killed the engine of my car and sat there while the wipers fought, eager to get the water off the windshield.

My hands reached for the wedding band still tight on my finger.

That was it. The sign of a two-year marriage that had felt as cold as the bare ground of a prison cell. Slowly, I twisted it off, heaving a sigh of relief, as I dropped it into the glove compartment. I rubbed at the faint line it left behind on my ring finger until it burned.

“Breathe,” I whispered to myself, then grabbed my bag and pushed out into the rain.

It thrashed against my skin like whips, unstopping, no matter how fast I ran. By the time I reached the lobby, my hair was damp and my chiffon blouse was stuck to my body.

“Looks like you are having a hell of a morning,” the receptionist chirped as she glanced up.

“Morning,” I sighed, stopping by her desk. “Is Mr. Cole in?”

“He’s already waiting.” She angled her head and narrowed her eyes. “Aside from the fact that you need a hair dryer and an urgent change of clothes, you look… lighter.”

“Thank you.”

I pulled away, not interested in talking about what my life had been like these past weeks. The doors of the elevator dinged open, and I strolled in. I pushed the button for the seventeenth floor, like I did every day. It was the heart of the publishing house I worked at.

When the doors pushed open again, I walked through the hallway, leading straight to Mr. Cole’s glass office. He was my boss. He had been since I started working here as a junior editor.

“Fiona,” he called, waving me in.

He took in my disheveled, damp self, standing in the center of his office with beads of water on my legs. He didn’t offer me a seat, and I didn't even expect one.

“You’ve been surprisingly steady since the… ah….”

“Funeral,” I filled in softly, keeping my eyes glued to the floor-to-ceiling window behind his desk, overlooking the city. “Since my husband died. Yes.”

“Right.” He shifted uneasily in his seat. No one liked talking about death. Not even the cold Mr. Cole.

“I guess you are ready to move up the scale then. We have a new client who wants to self-publish through us. He has asked for a junior editor, which is really surprising considering the fact that a lot of senior editors will jump at this opportunity.”

“You can hand him over to one of them then,” I muttered before I could stop myself. That was the thing about grief. Or the lack of it in my case. It made one feel like they could take on the world without a single care.

“I wish I could,” my boss retorted. “But the client was really specific, leaving no room for conviction. And he wants someone with grit.”

“I’m guessing that is me.”

He shook his head. “You have stubbornness,” he corrected. “But I guess that works. And there’s also the fact that he specifically requested you.”

“He…requested me?” My voice faltered. That had never happened before. Mr. Cole didn’t even mention it at first.

My boss shrugged, like he didn’t understand it either. “He viewed our staff bios and for some reason…” He retrieved a folder from his desk and slid it to the other side.

Looking at my already drying body, I took two steps close and picked it up.

“Jeremy Hill,” Mr. Cole continued. “Word on the street has it that he is brooding and brilliant. Quite popular amongst true crime readers. Don’t mess it up.”

“True crime?” My eyes widened in surprise. I have never had to deal with something that… delicate. Wild. “I….”

“Are you not up for it, Ms. McCarthy?”

I blinked. “No! I can handle it. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” He pulled his gaze away and picked up his phone. “Just keep him happy. He’s in Conference room B. You’re already late.”

I pushed away from the desk so fast, turning around. “Thank you, Sir.”

“And, Fiona?”

I halted.

“Make sure you don’t miss. There are people who would die to be in your position, and then, there’s I, who won’t hesitate to hand it over to them.”

“Understood.”

Conference room B was on the floor below Mr. Cole’s office, and I got there in two minutes.

He was already there, his back to the door and his black coat hanging across a chair beside him. He was staring out through the window, his gaze unmoving.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped in. “Mr. Hill?” I kept my tone clipped and professional, but when he turned around, all of that seemed to hang by a thread on the windowsill.

I took in a sharp breath, hoping he didn’t hear it. His startlingly green eyes regarded me as my feet finally decided to work. I walked around the table, repeating to myself not to look at his mouth.

I risked one more glance as I settled into the seat opposite him. He was striking and not in a soft way. The man sitting across from me could not be described as pretty. He seemed to be cut from something darker. The kind of man you were supposed to steer clear of.

“Fiona McCarthy.” My name rolled off his lips with so much heaviness. I hate the way it made my pulse race. “You are early.”

“Am I?” The words came out breathy, and my eyes jerked up at his.

He leaned back into his seat without changing his expression. Pulling my eyes away from him, I glanced at the wall clock.

I was five minutes late. Great.

“My apologies,” I whispered, making it a point not to look into his eyes again. “It was the elevator….”

He nodded.

“So, the manuscript?”

He slid a stack of handwritten paper over to me. Even though I told myself a few seconds ago that I would not look into his eyes, I found myself doing that very same thing.

And it rattled me.

“Papers?” I murmured. “I thought… didn’t you…”

“You prefer a softcopy,” he murmured, saving me from my plight.

I nodded.

“Well, I don’t. Because murder always feels better when you can taste it through the contact of the pen and the paper.”

I didn’t even want to understand what he meant by that. My eyes met the stack again. The title caught my attention.

The Last Week.

I flipped to the first page, and everything in me halted when I took the first line.

“A widow in the rain takes off her ring, and chooses to breathe again.”