Blamed by Edie Harris
Publisher: Harlequin Carina Press
Pages: 155
Genre: Romantic Suspense/Espionage
Synopsis:
Born into a long line
of spies, sanctioned killers and covert weapons developers, Beth Faraday
carried out her first hit-for-hire when she was still a teenager.
That part of her
life—the American spy royalty part—ended one year ago, with a job gone wrong in
Afghanistan.
The collateral damage she caused with a single shot was unfathomable and, for
Beth, unforgiveable. She’s worked hard to build a new life for herself, far
away from the family business. But someone, somewhere, hasn’t forgotten what
Beth did in Kabul.
And they want revenge.
As the Faraday clan
bands together to defend Beth and protect their legacy, Beth is forced to flee
her new home with the unlikeliest of allies—MI6 agent Raleigh Vick, the only man
she’s ever loved. And the one she thought she’d killed in the desert.
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Book Excerpt:
The blood in her mouth tasted like hot pennies.
Flinching as a secondary arterial
spray lashed her face, she kept her fingers clenched in her tormenter’s hair,
holding his head aloft for the slice of the blade she’d stolen from his toolkit
when his back was turned.
That mistake had just cost him
his life.
Her stomach lurched, and she
shoved the dead man away, wishing he’d deafened her when he boxed her ears on
the second—third?—day, so she couldn’t hear the back of his skull hit the
concrete floor with a sickening thwack. Her hand shook, the knife threatening to slip from her mangled
fingers, but once it fell, she knew she wouldn’t be able to pick it back up, and
she couldn’t afford to be weaponless. Injured knuckles white around the slick
rubber grip, she staggered back until her shoulders hit the far wall of her
prison.
Her torture chamber.
The blood cooling on her face
ratcheted her panic up a notch. Every breath was pure agony, broken ribs
prodding like iron pokers against her lungs. Every square inch of skin on her
back burned like hellfire. Her body was one giant bruise, her mind a tangled
mess. Tears spilled down her cheeks, wet and warm—and silent.
She’d not made a sound when she
slit her captor’s throat. Her family would be so proud.
The thought made her tears fall
faster. A longing for home and the Queen Anne Victorian in which she’d grown
up, the same longing she had buried deep for the past year, threatened to bring
her to her knees, but no. No. It was just like the knife—if she fell, she’d never get back up,
and eventually, someone was going to come looking for the man she had killed.
John. He’d told her his name was
John, but surely that was a lie. Monsters never told the truth.
Swallowing her nausea, she
stumbled toward John’s crumpled body. The thick pool of blood was unavoidable,
though she shuddered when red seeped between her bare toes. Dizziness swamped
her when she dropped into a crouch, the hand not holding the blade searching
the pockets of John’s cargos for his key card.
Her victory upon locating the
card was short-lived when she remembered what came next.
Each time John had “visited” her,
it had become harder and harder to stay conscious. Everything in her hurt as she’d never hurt before. The
temptation to let her eyes slide shut forever had been so strong, John singing
soothingly while he disinfected his tools from their session.
Lullabies. He sang her lullabies.
Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree top….
She had always remained awake
long enough to watch him leave, knowing he’d be back to resume her torture. The
key card was merely half the equation when it came to unlocking the door.
John’s fingerprint was the other.
When the wind blows, the cradle
will rock….
Dragging John’s body to the
scanner mounted next to the door was not an option, not in her weakened state.
Her gaze caught on his limp hand, and a tremor wracked her. There was no
choice. Flattening his palm against the bloody floor, she lowered the knife.
When the bough breaks, the
cradle will fall….
She couldn’t help it—she vomited.
But when her retching ceased, she gingerly picked up the severed finger and
rose from her crouch. She almost didn’t feel the wetness underfoot anymore,
which meant blessed numbness had nearly arrived. Key card first, then the
bloody print on the scanner’s screen, and she held her breath.
And down will come baby, cradle
and—
The near-silent snick of the steel door unlatching
shook John’s voice from her head. Freedom. Oh, God, freedom from this hellhole
was so close, so amazingly close she was dizzy with it.
Her tears fell harder. Fuck. Why couldn’t she stop crying?
With a soft whirring noise, the
door slid open, and a bunker-style hallway cast in eerie greenish light was
revealed. She was underground, as suspected. A memory flashed, of John using a
medical scalpel to dig the GPS tracker out from behind her ear. There had been
nothing clinical or precise in how he’d wielded that blade.
Can’t have them finding you
before we’re done here, little girl.
She didn’t bother looking back at
his lifeless form as she eased through the door, still clutching his finger and
key card. They might still prove useful in helping her escape this prison; John
would not.
Adjusting her grip on the knife,
she crept down the hall, ignoring the black spots clouding her vision and the
vicious pounding of her head. It felt as though her brain were trying to punch
its way through her skull, and she simply didn’t have time for that nonsense, because
someone was watching her. Her hazy thoughts pictured the camera mounted in the
corner of her cell, its little red dot blinking, always blinking. Someone would
know what she’d done to John, and she refused to wait for retaliation to find
her.
Run now. Collapse later.
The concrete was cold beneath her
sticky, blood-soaked feet, with a chill that crept up her ankles, her calves,
making her knees knock together. She was so tired. It had been at least a day
since John had given her anything to drink, and he’d never provided food. As
she slowly made her way down the empty corridor, her senses began to fail her,
the muted buzz in her ears blocking out the faint echo of her rasping breaths.
Her adrenaline rush from the kill was over.
Perhaps…perhaps she wouldn’t make
it out of here, after all.
A loud sob escaped against her
will.
The sounds of footsteps, heavy
and booted, broke through the encroaching deafness, and then there he stood in
front of her, limned in the faint glow of the bunker lights, a tall man with ice
for eyes and a nasty-looking gun.
“Beth.”
She blinked at him through her tears, her relief short-lived as a
wave of bitterness
sweeping through her battered body as she saw where, precisely,
that gun was aimed. Her voice cracked, breaking low and hoarse when she spoke.
“Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame.”
She hummed the rest.
You give love a bad name.
Edie is giving away one digital copy
of Blamed (formats available: PDF & ePub), ‘I Only Kiss Spies’ t-shirt,
‘Lincoln Park After Dark’ OPI nail polish and one bag of Van Houtte ‘Belgian
Chocolate’ ground coffee!•
Terms & Conditions:
- By entering
the giveaway, you are confirming you are at least 18 years old.
- One winner
will be chosen via Rafflecopter.
- This giveaway
begins October 19 and ends December 22.
- Winner will
be contacted via email on Tuesday, December 23.
- Winner has
48 hours to reply.
Good luck everyone!
ENTER TO WIN!
About the Author
Edie Harris studied English and
Creative Writing at the University
of Iowa and Grinnell College. She fills her days with writing
and editing contract proposals, but her nights belong to the world of romance
fiction. Edie lives and works in Chicago
and is represented by Laura Bradford of Bradford Literary Agency.
Her latest book is the romantic
suspense/espionage, Blamed.
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After writing for almost 20 years, she’s about to be an
overnight success. Her life, like her comedies, has been one big fat romantic
comedy…or errors. It’s not a matter of “if” it can go wrong, but how bad when
it does happen, and make no mistake…it will. Survival with a sense of humor is
the goal.
