Run for Your Life
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Run For Your Life
By
Andrea Kane
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Contents
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PRAISE FOR THE SPINE-TINGLING SUSPENSE AND GRIPPING ROMANCE OF ANDREA KANE
THE SILVER COIN
"The Silver Coin leaves readers wondering what Andrea Kane can do next. . . . The action-packed story line never eases up."
—Affaire de Coeur
"The tension and suspense remain at a high level throughout the book, punctuated by the escalating romance and passionate love scenes."
—Bookbug on the Web
THE GOLD COIN
"Kane's engrossing plot and her quick-witted, passionate characters should make readers eagerly await this novel's companion...."
—Publishers Weekly
"A superb novel. . .. The story line is nonstop and loaded with romantic tension and intrigue,"
—Affaire de Coeur
"Kane has seamlessly combined a beautiful romance with an intriguing mystery.... The Gold Coin should please readers who like their romance spiced with adventure and danger."
—Old Book Barn Gazette
"Andrea Kane has created a fast-paced adventure that is sure to make these hot summer nights even hotter."
—CompuServe Romance Reviews
THE THEFT
"Kane has created another exciting mystery complete with a spirited heroine, a dashing older hero, and plenty of dark secrets. There are lots of good plot twists cleverly woven into Regency mores and styles to keep readers intrigued and entertained."
—Publishers Weekly
"Secrets, villains, and the danger [the hero and heroine] each present to the other's heart make this a rousing romance and a titillating thriller. Ms. Kane writes like no other.... A book that will steal your heart."
—Romantic Times
"The magnetism between the protagonists is contagious; it simmers and sizzles with sexual tension."
—Rendezvous
THE MUSIC BOX
"The Music Box is a trip to Wonderland, full of adventure and mystery with a magical romance to warm readers' hearts!"
—The Literary Times
"Breathtakingly brilliant! Andrea Kane... has taken intrigue and passion to new heights."
—Rendezvous
"Ms. Kane's mystery/romance will. . . bring a sparkle of love and laughter to your life."
—Bell, Book & Candle
"Ms. Kane has worked her special magic with this delightful story. . . . The Music Box is simply enchanting. Don't miss it!"
—CompuServe Romance Reviews
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Books by Andrea Kane
My Heart's Desire
Dream Castle
Masque of Betrayal
Echoes in the Mist
Samantha
The Last Duke
Emerald Garden
Wishes in the Wind
Legacy of the Diamond
The Black Diamond
The Music Box
A Gift of Love (with Judith McNaught, Jude Deveraux, Kimberly
Cates arid Judith O'Brien)
The Theft
The Gold Coin
The Silver Coin
Run for Your Life
No Way Out
Scent of Danger
Wait Until Dark (with Karen Robards, Linda Anderson and Mariah Stewart)
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Published by POCKET BOOKS
The sale of this book without Its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as "unsold and destroyed." Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this "stripped book."
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Pocket Star Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 2000 by Andrea Kane
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
This Pocket Star Books paperback edition December 2007
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or business@simonandschuster.com
Front cover illustration by Shasti O'Leary Soudant Manufactured in the United States of America 10 987654321
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5486-8
ISBN-10: 1-4165-5486-6
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To Brad,
who adds new depth and dimension to the word "partner" —with all my love and thanks
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Acknowledgments
There are a number of people who helped me provide the detail needed to make Run for Your Life all it could be. I deeply appreciate their assistance:
The Society of Competitive Intelligence Professionals (SCIP), especially Mitchell Audritsh, the New Jersey chapter coordinator, for helping me accurately weave the exciting profession of competitive intelligence into Zach's character.
Dennis Homer, an expert in electrical systems, who offered his knowledge patiently and on a moment's notice.
IBM, for providing details on Smart Card technology and how it integrates with their desktop computers.
The staff at the Plaza Athenee, for their gracious hospitality.
John Malabre, born-and-bred New Yorker and tour guide extraordinaire, for an insider's view of the greatest city in the world.
Andrea Cirillo, a great coach, there from inception to delivery—encouraging, supporting, and occasionally flogging me into producing the book she knew I could create.
Caroline Tolley, my greatest champion for more than a decade.
Wendi Kane, for fashion design, brainstorming, and emotional input.
And last, but always first—to Brad, Wendi, and Mom and Dad, for sharing, caring, and understanding. My love and gratitude abound.
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1
Central Park, New York City
Saturday, April 15
6:15 a.m.
They were closing in on her.
She could feel it.
Like a hunted animal she whirled around, backing away from the danger that threatened. Her eyes darted around furiously. Cowering in the shadows of the trees, she searched the path, terror vibrating through her.
Nothing.
She ran. Sweat drenched her body. She staggered and nearly fell. Regaining her balance, she suc
ked in short bursts of air, her burning lungs unable to get enough oxygen to satisfy her racing heart. She stopped; unable to go on, gasping as she stumbled down the footpath.
Not a second to waste.
Daylight was beginning to overtake night, the New York City skyline coming into focus.
Detection would soon be a certainty.
Even the oncoming rainstorm wouldn't be able to conceal her. They'd followed her. They knew just where to look, and what to look for. Her bright yellow robe beckoned like a bull's-eye. They'd find her. They'd punish her. She was terrified of that. But she was more terrified of what was happening to her.
She was desperate. She needed help. Now. Before it was too late.
She had to get to her sister.
A few raindrops fell, a welcome chill against her overheated skin. The relief was short-lived. The droplets intensified to a steady drizzle, dampening her robe and causing it to cling to her skin.
Her teeth began to chatter.
Her limbs faltered, and her knees buckled.
Reeling, she grabbed a tree trunk for support. She fought the nausea and the dizziness, blinking as she tried to clear her head and regain some strength.
It was no use. Her body was losing its fight. Her heart was bursting out of her chest. She had no energy left to run. And nowhere to run to.
Her sister, She was her only chance.
Why isn't she here yet? she thought, scanning the park with eyes barely able to see. Where is she?
The path was deserted. The rain was coming in a thin, steady stream now. Maybe she'd stayed in bed. Maybe the rain had dissuaded her. Maybe this entire reckless attempt had been for nothing.
In that case, it was over. The desolate park grounds would make it easy to find her. To catch her. To imprison her for good.
They'd be here any minute now.
Hysteria bubbled up inside her.
Nearly blinded by dizziness, she staggered down the path, no longer certain where she was going, but propelled by the will to live.
A twig snapped in the distance.
Her head jerked up.
Rhythmic footsteps sounded from around the bend. Plod. Plod. Definitely footsteps. She hadn't imagined them. Not the rapid strides of one in pursuit, but the measured gait of a jogger. The tempo drew nearer—not from behind her, from ahead. It continued to approach, the strides close enough now to be accompanied by the metered pants of someone dedicated to his or her run.
God, let it be she.
Black spots were dancing before her eyes. Her heart rate had accelerated to the point where she couldn't regulate her own breathing. Her body was shaking uncontrollably. Please, she prayed silently. Please.
A flash of color.
Red. A red jogging suit with a white stripe down the pants legs—the gift she'd given her sister for her last birthday.
Thank God.
She lunged forward, determined to be seen. Her limbs failed even as she did. The ground rushed up to meet her. She felt its impact slam against her shoulder, then her back. A stick jabbed into her arm.
Raindrops struck her face. A gentle hand wiped them away.
As if from a great distance, she heard the familiar voice calling her name. She opened her eyes, but, try as she would, she couldn't see anything. Only the blackness.
Her lips moved, and she heard her own broken gasps. Or did she? She was speaking. Then why couldn't she hear herself?
Again she tried. Her mouth formed the numbers.
But, like a suffocating blanket, the darkness choked them into silence.
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2
Victoria Kensington had almost ignored her alarm clock that morning.
It had been an exhausting week at work. Three new clients, all matrimonial cases, all emotionally distraught women exploited by their husbands.
She'd heard their stories more times than she cared to recall. There was Faye Larimore, the victim of her husband's drunken rages. Then Marlene Scallery, an emotionally abused thirty-two-year-old who'd finally worked up the courage to take her two small children and leave. Finally, Doris Webster, a classic case of a middle-aged woman who'd devoted thirty-five years to her husband and children, sacrificing her identity to stand behind her husband during his successful corporate career, only to have him dump her like yesterday's garbage and take off with their bank accounts and his twenty-three-year-old assistant.
The world might be more sophisticated, but people never changed. Especially scum like these men. They only got worse.
Each new client had required hours of consoling before Victoria could even broach the issue of her legal rights. Those were hours she willingly gave and would never bill for, no matter how badly her fledgling legal firm needed the money. She, Megan Stone, and Paul London were in full agreement on that. It was one of the reasons they'd started this practice—to represent people whose cause meant something to them, regardless of the opportunity for financial gain. They'd planned for years, talking about little else all the way through law school and after. Even when they'd each taken jobs at separate firms and were working grueling hours to establish their reputations, they'd meet every week for a drink at Hurley's, where they'd map out their partnership on the back of a cocktail napkin.
It was an altruistic dream, they well knew. But it was a dream they were determined to transform into reality.
Now, after three years of conforming to the system, they'd saved enough money, acquired reputations, and secured enough clients to go out on their own.
The law practice of London, Kensington & Stone had opened its doors last autumn. Their offices were modest— one level of a small brick building just north of Midtown that they'd rented at a steal just by being at the right place at the right time. Modest-sized or not, they attracted a respectable number of cases. The firm was beginning to hold its own—just barely, perhaps, but enough to provide a small amount at the end of the month that allowed for each partner to scrape by.
She, Paul, and Meg each had specific types of clients to whom they were particularly sympathetic.
Paul's were struggling entrepreneurial companies whose principals had grand ideas and empty pockets.
Meg's were elderly people whose fears and questions outweighed the size of their estates.
And hers?
Hers were emotionally crippled women.
It didn't take a therapist to figure out why.
Not if one knew the way she'd grown up.
After last week, it wasn't a surprise that her sleep had been restless, broken by unpleasant dreams. She was weary, her mind preoccupied with the plights of her new clients and how best to address them.
With so much to think about, her ritualistic jog would probably be the best thing for her. She ran every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday; she had since her days at Columbia Law. Running cleared her mind and renewed her in a way sleep never could.
On the other hand, she really needed sleep. Saturday had finally arrived. The office was closed. And it was about to rain. The ugly gray clouds gathered outside her window told her that within the hour, it would go from overcast to wet. . By the time she finished her two-mile jog and returned to the apartment, she'd be drenched.
The arguments in favor of sleep were compelling.
Except that she wasn't sleeping. She was awake—wide awake—lying in bed, debating whether or not to get up.
She might as well put her energy to good use.
That decided, she'd turned off her alarm, yanked on her running clothes and shoes, and headed out.
She left her brownstone at 5:45 a.m., same as usual. The quarter-mile walk to Central Park was early-Saturday-morning quiet, quieter still because of the weather. Only a spotty dose of traffic trickled down East Eighty-second Street. On the sidewalks, an occasional determined patron hurried along, stopping to buy his or her newspaper or dashing in for a first cup of much-needed coffee. Mixed among the patrons were dog owners, taking their overly exuberant canines for morning walks. The owners tap
ped their feet impatiently as their pets stopped to sniff every tree, hydrant, and sign. No one lingered; everyone hurried along, obviously eager to get home.
And with good reason.
The skies were about to open up.
A fine mist was already falling when Victoria reached the Seventy-ninth Street entrance to the park. She didn't waste time on a full warm-up. She just stretched a few stubborn muscles, then broke into a jog.
It didn't take long to find the rhythm that worked her body and relaxed her mind. Slowly, all the fragments of yesterday's meetings, which had been plaguing her, seemed to fall into place, the actions she needed to take becoming clear. Her tension began to dissipate, washing away with the first sizable drops of rain.
She was just rounding the first bend when a flash of yellow caught her eye.
She stopped in surprise as a woman wearing a lemon-colored hospital gown teetered toward her, tumbling to the ground just fifteen feet away. The woman's hair was tangled about her face, and she made a painful sound, arching upward and reaching out her arm as if trying to grasp Victoria. Then her arm fell to her side and she lay still.
Victoria rushed forward, bending over the woman's form and brushing the hair off her face. A sharp cry lodged in her throat as she saw who it was. "Audrey!"
Everything inside Victoria went cold and numb. Audrey—how could it be? Audrey was in Italy. No, this woman couldn't be Audrey. And not only because she was here in New York. But because she looked different, almost eerily so. This woman was oddly bloated, her complexion mottled, and her eyes glazed, open but unseeing.