Where Loyalties Lie: A Standalone Romantic Suspense Read online

  Table of Contents

  Books by Jill Ramsower

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  A Note from Jill

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Forever Lies Sample Chapter

  BOOKS BY JILL RAMSOWER

  THE FIVE FAMILIES

  Forever Lies

  Never Truth

  Blood Always

  Impossible Odds

  STANDALONES

  Where Loyalties Lie

  THE FAE GAMES

  Shadow Play

  Twilight Siege

  Shades of Betrayal

  Born of Nothing

  Midnight’s End

  Where Loyalties Lie is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 Jill Ramsower

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Print Edition ISBN: 978-1-7344172-3-4

  Cover Designed by Jill Ramsower

  Cover Model, Christian Perez

  Photographer, Rafa G. Catala

  Edited by Rebecca at Fairest Reviews and Jenny Sims

  Preface

  Emily

  I had hoped dying would be less painful.

  It hurt like a bitch. But even worse than the physical pain was seeing Tamir’s chilling expression as he pulled the trigger. No remorse, no conflict, no question. With a single twitch of his finger, I was flying backward onto the asphalt, his callous glare ripping through me far more ruthlessly than any bullet.

  In such a short amount of time, my treacherous heart had latched onto him. He’d slipped into my bloodstream like oxygen bonded with my own blood until there was no eradicating him from my system.

  Despite every warning and logical argument presented by my brain, my heart had forged ahead, leading me down an inevitable path to this exact point in time.

  To my death.

  I couldn’t say I was all that surprised. From the minute I ran, I knew my life was over. I was just glad I was able to take out some of the evil in the world while I had the chance.

  With a renewed sense of freedom in my heart, my eyelids drifted shut.

  Chapter 1

  Emily

  It wasn’t just cold out. It was “pack up your shit and move to Florida” cold out. It was “question every life decision you’ve ever made to end up in this godforsaken hellhole” cold out.

  Clearly, I’d made some poor freaking choices.

  It wasn’t the dead of winter. We’d barely cracked the door on November, but at just six in the evening, my lungs winced from the cold every time I took a breath. It was no wonder the entire population of retirees fled the East Coast every fall for the sunny shores of Florida. Temperatures this cold made even my twenty-six-year-old joints feel arthritic.

  Arctic winters were the one drawback that almost kept me from making the move to the Big Apple. At least five months out of the year, you had to dress like that kid from A Christmas Story just to keep from dying. Not my ideal scenario, but after careful consideration, I had decided the city boasted enough pros to outweigh the one major con.

  Or so I thought before I’d experienced said con. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

  An early storm was supposed to push through during the week, but it was just my luck the cold had already set in. I hadn’t made time to buy a winter wardrobe. That meant I was stuck in my leggings and a jacket without a hat, scarf, or gloves, debating the likely onset of frostbite and how long it would take me to recover from the loss of my extremities.

  I’d have to make room on my to-do list tomorrow to grab some essentials, assuming I survived until then. I hunched my shoulders and tucked my chin down into my jacket to keep my chattering jaw from cracking a tooth before I reached the Krav Maga studio.

  I went to classes three times a week—as often as my shifts at the restaurant allowed. It had been three months since I started the self-defense training, but I wasn’t sure I’d made a lick of progress. The instructors had told me I was getting better, but when I saw some of the other students spar, I felt horribly incompetent. There was one woman, in particular, who gave me chills to watch. She often grappled with my main instructor, Tamir, right before our class, which happened to be the case today.

  A warm gush of air enveloped me as I scurried inside the brightly lit studio. I shook away the layer of bitter cold that clung to me like the residue of a bad dream and immediately zeroed in on the two individuals training at the far end of the large room. Over and over, Tamir and the woman struck at one another, taking turns attacking and defending without any discernable rhyme or reason. But their movements had a system, a flow only they seemed to understand, almost like dancers. An invisible energy connected them, linking their bodies in an effortless rhythm.

  She was my hero.

  Sure, Tamir could fight just as well as she could, but a woman holding her own against a man was awe-inspiring. How often did you come across a woman who could go blow for blow in a fight against a man? Maybe in the movies, but not often in everyday life. As far as I was concerned, she was a living legend.

  I found a place well away from the door to set down my jacket and gym bag, hardly taking my eyes from the woman as she transitioned smoothly from a defensive block into a wicked frontal assault. Tamir had at least fifty pounds of muscle on her, but the woman didn’t let that put her at a disadvantage. She was quick, vigilant, and didn’t hesitate to fight dirty. Of course, they were just training, so she didn’t actually follow through with the particularly unsavory strikes, but it was easy to tell the curvy beauty would be vicious if put to the test.

  I wanted to be her for more than one reason. First, her skill was unparalleled by any woman I’d seen at the studio or anywhere else, and second, because she garnered instant respect from every man in the room. It was palpable. No one would dare treat her with disrespect or objectify her. She was power and grace personified. A warrior among peasants.

  I had no clue how many days, weeks, years I’d have to train to reach her skill level, but one of these days, I’d get there. I wouldn’t quit unless it was the only option.

  A year ago, it never would have occurred to me to learn self-defense, but things changed. We either adapted or we died—that was just life. I had chosen to adapt, which meant learning to defend myself. I had no doubt I would follow through if m
y crap luck didn’t get in the way first. And considering my track record, it was entirely possible.

  Tamir and the woman called an end to their session, leaning against the wall and drinking from their water bottles. Now that they weren’t preoccupied with sparring, I turned away to keep from staring. A group of my classmates gathered along the mirrored wall across from me. After greeting one another, they conversed about their days and the changing weather.

  I didn’t go over to say hello. It was just easier to avoid conversation than to tiptoe around subjects and gloss over questions with a thick coat of ambiguity. Sometimes, when I felt particularly lonely, I’d try to engage my fellow students, but it always left me feeling like a fraud. I wore a sugarcoated smile on the outside, but on the inside, I clung to each word like a miserly old man refusing to part with a single cent he owned.

  Words were knowledge, and every conversation I had was potential ammunition in the wrong hands. I saw small talk as a series of landmines, each one a rigorous exercise in self-control.

  When Jeff, the car salesman, gleefully told the others about the new job he’d acquired and how the hours of the old job made it hard to check in on his ailing mother, his words were unfiltered. Honest and forthright. There was no threat to Jeff if he said the wrong thing. He was simply happy to share his good news. Each class was mainly comprised of the same core group of people, so they grew to know one another, often inquiring about sick relatives or following up on stories told in prior classes. A camaraderie existed among them.

  How could I feel a part of that when they knew so little about me? I couldn’t. Every question directed my way was another reminder of the lies I’d told and how complex my life had become. A reminder that no matter how well I camouflaged myself, I wasn’t like the people around me.

  I used to be, to some extent, but anymore, I found I couldn’t relate to them. The course of events my life had taken changed my perspective in a fundamental way that couldn’t be undone. I didn’t see things the way they did, and I certainly couldn’t allow them to see me. The real me.

  Instead, I kept my comments superficial and my smiles broad, hoping to compensate for my lack of substantive contribution to the group. If they thought I was pretty and sweet, chances were, they wouldn’t examine what I said too closely. Blending in was far more important than confiding in friends. I was there to learn self-defense, not socialize.

  The Krav Maga studio was roughly the size of a basketball court. Whatever existed there before had been gutted long ago to make way for the gym. Now, only the worn window frames and ancient light fixtures remained. The dense rubber material lining the entire floor must have served some purpose besides cushioning because it was one step away from asphalt in the realm of softness. A small portion of the room contained thicker mats for practicing advanced takedowns, but I had yet to advance to those lessons.

  Krav Maga, known as contact combat, was both a way of fighting and an aggressive form of self-defense. When I first looked into taking classes, I quickly realized it was by far my favorite option. The skill set drew from several forms of martial arts and knife wielding—all techniques used in fighting someone up close. I’d come from an area where guns were commonplace, so I knew how to shoot, but fighting was a different matter. I wanted to know I could hold my own if I was ever in a threatening situation.

  That meant coming to class as often as I could. Fortunately, Krav Maga had become the favorite part of my day. The musky odor of sweaty bodies didn’t faze me a bit. I grew up in a warmer climate, so the sultry air was refreshing in a way. A small sense of home.

  My eyes drifted back to Tamir without my permission.

  His presence in class certainly doesn’t hurt.

  I chided myself for the thought. The last thing I needed on this earth was to involve myself with a man. And that man, in particular? He was regret waiting to happen. Something about the predatory grace of his movements filled me with unease. He didn’t have to ink tattoos on his skin or carry a gun on his hip to broadcast a threat. The lethal confidence he exuded did the job far more efficiently than any overt warning. He carried himself with a kind of self-possessed aloofness that distinguished him from every person around him.

  That was probably why he was the only man who’d piqued my interest since I had arrived in New York. I seemed to enjoy picking especially challenging men. It was a talent of mine. I’d had three long-term relationships, and not one had ended in an amicable separation of mutual respect.

  It shouldn’t have been surprising.

  My natural inclination was to gravitate toward swarthy and dangerous over demure and polite. I was drawn to intensity and an air of intrigue, even when I knew the combination was toxic.

  I blamed my father. You sought what you knew, and I had only ever known a shadier side of life. But that was before. Now, I was turning over a new leaf. I would make a conscientious attempt to give demure a chance and let dangerous latch on to some other sucker.

  Releasing a long exhale, I chewed on my lip as I picked at the red sweatband on my wrist. I had to stop beating myself up over the past and focus on all the progress I’d made. For three months, I’d been in the city, and I’d acclimated rather well, considering where I’d come from and the fact I’d had to start from scratch all on my own.

  I’d taken self-improvement to a whole new level. Why improve on who you were when you could start over and be someone completely new? My face was the same, but that was about it. New apartment, new job, new friends, and a completely new past I’d conjured in meticulous detail.

  I’d taken the term “new year, new me” to a whole new level.

  My gaze reluctantly drifted back to Tamir as he greeted my classmates and initiated our session. I shouldn’t have been watching him, but I couldn’t help myself. Like was drawn to like, and I sensed a familiarity in him. He was just as good at playing his role as I was at playing mine.

  He smiled and shook hands with the students, perfectly executing the motions of an interested instructor. No one suspected he wasn’t genuine in his regard. If I hadn’t been putting on a show of my own, I never would have seen his act for what it was. A front. A fake.

  I knew the signs all too well because I had to guard against them every time I talked to someone. The slip of a smile a fraction too soon after the close of a conversation. Eyes that do a sweep of the room rather than focus on the person speaking. The practice of asking questions while avoiding answering any of my own.

  Maybe the others couldn’t tell, but it was obvious to me that his actions were guarded. Insincere. He was going through the motions for the sake of the show, and I knew exactly what that felt like. The part that made me uneasy was the motive for his veiled behavior. Someone suffering from depression might put up a front, but that scenario didn’t fit with Tamir’s easy confidence. He wasn’t just attempting to function under a crimpling emotional illness; Tamir was actively keeping the world at bay. But why? What was he hiding?

  There was a sliver of a chance I was entirely wrong and merely projecting my own complicated past onto him, but I didn’t think that was the case. Something complex about him lurked beneath the surface, and that something could be summed up in one word. Danger. The precise thing I’d told myself I would stay away from.

  I tried to remind myself of that each time I went to class, but it was hard for me to think when I looked at him. It was as if my brain short-circuited from an overload of hormones. I did my best to work around it when I was in class, but it was always there. My awareness of him. His ability to distract me.

  He was an excellent teacher, but he also made learning ten times harder than it would have been if someone else had been issuing instruction. Someone like Creepy Carl, my building mailman, who bypassed my box and brought mail to my door out of the kindness of his perverted heart. I’d have had no problem unleashing my anger on him in the gym.

  Instead, I soaked up everything I could about the enigma of a man, trying to put his pieces together and sol
ve the puzzle. He had an unfamiliar accent that almost sounded French, but I wasn’t sure that was accurate. I felt like knowing where he was from might give me some insight into why he was the way he was, but I’d never allowed myself to ask him directly about his origins. He had rich copper skin with dark hair that could have come from just about anywhere.

  His coloring reminded me of the men back home. So did his intensity. But a worldliness and sophistication separated him from the men I’d known. Maybe it was the accent, or maybe our age difference—I guessed he was a good ten years older than me—but something distinguished him as being different from anyone I’d known before. He was shrouded in mystery and had the ability to pulverize anyone who crossed him. It was a seriously intoxicating combination.

  Intoxicating and dangerous.

  As if on cue, his eyes sliced in my direction, colliding with my own greedy stare. The ghost of a smile played over his mouth as if he knew I’d been watching him. What had I been thinking by openly gawking at him? He was far too aware of his surroundings not to notice my stalker behavior.

  I cursed my normally well-honed self-control and lined up with the other students. As usual, my stomach churned with anticipation. Would Tamir work with me directly? Would I be able to execute the proper movements or just end up making an ass of myself?

  It took all my concentration to ignore the melodic lilt of his words and focus on his instruction. It could have rained down monkeys outside the large plate-glass windows, and I wouldn’t have noticed. Each of my senses were totally fixated on Tamir, and my brain was tasked with the impossible mission of ignoring that feedback and learning the day’s Krav Maga lesson. It was a monumental challenge, but one I was slowly growing accustomed to surmounting.

  Once we’d gone through our warmup and a series of drills with pads, we started the practice portion of class where we paired off and simulated specific attack defenses. First on the list was the hair-pull defense. When an attacker grabbed our hair, we were supposed to reach behind us and grab their wrist, then turn to punch them and kick them in the groin to escape. We took turns practicing the technique, both a rear hair grab and a front hair grab, then we moved on to a gun take-away drill.