A Deadly Affair—The Femme Fatale Series Read online

  She smiled, her full lips painted bright red. He smiled back and took another sip of wine. They ate in silence, the candlelight throwing ominous shadows over the walls. A cosy candlelit dinner at her place.

  Sounded fantastic to him.

  Unfortunately, unbeknown to her, it was to be the last time. She was getting a little too serious- calls and texts at all times through the day and night, begging him to spend the night with her in her one-bedroom apartment, appearing in all the places he was. He'd told her from the beginning that he wasn't looking for something serious. He had to cut her off before his wife found out.

  He glanced at her as he drank more wine. A stunning blonde with a smoking body and wild streak in the bedroom, he was sorry to see her go. He'd have to make the most of her tonight, before he dumped her.

  She'd made an effort for him this evening and he was pleased. Break-ups were always difficult, especially when the woman developed feelings for him, but he'd do his best in the bedroom and leave her with some hot, erotic memories of him. Since arriving at her apartment an hour earlier, he'd wondered what the special occasion was and had almost asked her. He'd decided against it however, deciding it was probably a one-month anniversary of the first time they'd held hands or made eye contact. Women did have their strange ways.

  Apart from the plastic sheets covering the living room carpet in preparation for the painters whom she said were coming tomorrow, her apartment was spotless with candles lit in the living room and bedroom. The tight black dress she wore made the fact she wore nothing underneath teasingly obvious. He pictured her bronzed skin beneath the clingy fabric and a surge of heat rushed to his groin.

  Yes. It would be a shame to lose this particular wildcat. If only she hadn't gotten so serious. Still, there were plenty of hot women he'd yet to sample. Regret mingled with his desire and he finished the last of his wine, politely declining her offer to refill his glass. He wanted his last time with her to be memorable, incredible. He did not want to wake tomorrow with a fuzzy head and vague memories. He intended to savour the evening and begin his search for a new mistress tomorrow. In fact, he already had one very cute waitress in mind.

  She smiled at him as she drank the last of her wine. The action drew his eyes to her breasts and a memory stirred. The last time they were together, she'd asked him to cover in body in oil before they made love. He'd obliged, taking his time as he rubbed her breasts, her stomach, the inside of her thighs. He was picturing the scene in his head, enjoying the memory of her writhing in lust under his touch when the first cramp hit.

  He gasped in shock and pain, clutching his stomach. The pain disappeared as quickly as it arrived and he straightened up, answering her question with a quick nod of his head. Yes, he was okay. But what the hell happened? Maybe something he'd eaten hadn't agreed with him?

  He looked down at his almost empty plate. She'd made spaghetti bolognaise and salad with garlic bread, hardly the type of meal one thought of in relation to food poisoning. Slightly embarrassed, he raised his wine glass and requested a refill, giving her the smile he used to seduce his way into her bed.

  Then the second cramp hit.

  He cried out in pain, vaguely aware of shattering the wine glass in his hand. He clutched his abdomen and tumbled from his seat, hitting the floor with a solid thud. She came to his side, her question of whether he was okay casting doubt over her level of intelligence. He answered, his words hissed through clenched teeth, and she reels back. Of course he wasn't okay! Ambulance. He needs an ambulance!

  He communicated his need for immediate medical attention since she's still on her knees by his side, apparently unaware of what one should do in a situation such as this. He hissed the request to call 999, once again through clenched teeth and she moves away.

  He began to writhe in agony, the pain unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. She came back to his side, standing above him.

  She begins to speak.

  Through his pain and shock, her words and their meaning became clear.

  She'd poisoned him. She knew of his plans to break off the affair. She even knew his plan to seduce the new waitress he'd hired the week before. She knew she'd been used, abused, and was about to be replaced. Her voice becomes angry and she kicks him in his side. He grunts and wheezes, trying to apologize.

  Sweet Jesus! She's poisoned me!

  His apology infuriates her even more and she kicks him again, this time aiming for his groin. Pain. So much pain. She watches him writhe and gasp for breath for a few seconds more before she shows him what she holds in her right hand―a large butcher knife with the reflection of a candle flame dancing within its blade. Her bright red lips laugh at his terror. She explains the true purpose of the plastic sheets covering her carpets : to catch his blood as it spills from his treacherous body.

  His agony renders him helpless as she begins to wrap the plastic sheets around him, his pleas and whimpers ignored as she focuses on ensuring that no part of his traitorous body remains uncovered.

  Sweat pours from him as a feeling of claustrophobia hovers around the edge of his agony.

  Was she really going to kill him?

  When the knife penetrated his side, he knew the answer was yes. Each brutal invasion of the steel blade in his flesh brought new agony. The cramps in his abdomen prevented him from defending himself from her merciless knife and laugh.

  Her face filled his mind's eye as darkness began to cloud his vision. He choked and gasped as the knife punched through the sheets near his head and the blade sank into his neck.

  Her bright red lips. Her toned body. The butcher knife in her hand. His eyes glazed over as death took him, yet she kept stabbing as rage took over.

  How hard could it be to find an honest, caring man? He was out there, somewhere. She just had to find him.

  And I will find him.

  Chapter One.

  Greg awoke to a bitter taste in his mouth and a cold, dark feeling in the pit of his stomach. The sound of the radio playing in the kitchen reached him, along with the voice of his wife, Cynthia, as she sang along. Cynthia's voice added further darkness to his mood and his stomach rolled.

  His wife for only seven months, and already he'd betrayed her in the worst possible way a man can betray his wife.

  Greg sat up quickly, swinging his legs around and placing his feet flat on the plush cream carpet. He covered his face with his hands, and sighed.

  How the hell had this happened?

  Mental images from the night before tormented him, stealing his breath and raising his heart rate. He could see, feel, taste everything. Last night he'd become the kind of man he despised, the kind of man he'd always prided himself as having nothing in common with, and never would. But, last night, Greg had become that man and he'd become him without a second thought for his actions, the consequences or the hurt he'd cause.

  Last night, Greg had made love to another woman. He was a cheat.

  Ashley Lane, the gorgeous temp secretary from his office had seduced him when the two were left alone after closing time. With hardly any protest, Greg had responded to her advances by making love to her over his office desk. She had gasped at his touch, writhing against his thrusts. She'd begged for him to fuck her harder, harder, harder. It began with her bent over his desk, it ended with her on her back, her legs wrapped around him as he thrust into her so hard, he thought he might break his desk.

  Greg swallowed hard as Cynthia's voice rose in tone to a new song playing and the overwhelming urge to cry hit him hard. He jumped to his feet and rushed to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him.

  He leaned heavily on the sink, panting deeply before
reaching for his toothbrush. Avoiding his reflection, he brushed his teeth until his gums bled then relieved himself before turning the shower on. The scented soap that sat on the window-sill caused his stomach to roll and he wrinkled his nose. The strong smell and the hiss of the shower reminded him of the bitter smell of stale coffee on his shirt, clogging his nostrils in the confined space of his car the whole drive home from work.

  His guilt began the moment he'd experienced one of the most powerful orgasms with the moaning, writhing Ashley Lane as she'd wrapped her legs around him tighter, making their connection so deep. He'd done something terrible. Did his guilt make him want to rush home and bear all to Cynthia and hope she'd give him another chance once her anger and tears ran out? No, it didn't. It made him want to cover his tracks the best he could and pray he'd never be caught. Immediately after Ashley left his office and he'd refastened his pants, Greg came up with the brilliantly deceptive idea of pouring a full cup of stale black coffee down the front of his shirt. Not only would the strong smell mask any incriminating odours that may be clinging to him, it was also an excuse to head straight to the shower the moment he stepped inside his home.

  Greg felt guilt at his ability to manipulate Cynthia so coldly, he felt guilt as he remembered cringing at Cynthia's touch in bed as she'd innocently placed her hand on his chest as she slept. But mostly, he felt the worst guilt over his betrayal.

  I love Cynthia. Why the hell did I cheat on her?

  Wishing with every fibre of his being that he could turn back time, Greg stepped into the shower and prepared himself, prepared himself for facing Cynthia downstairs, then facing Ashley at the office.

  *

  Greg and Cynthia lived in a 3 bedroom new-build in a suburban area. Though they had no children yet-the only source of friction in their marriage-they'd decided to purchase a family home as Cynthia had made it clear that she wanted children and wasn't too pleased about having to wait for Greg to decide that he was ready.

  Greg had fallen in love with the house the moment he'd reviewed its sale file. With five months remaining until their wedding day, he and Cynthia purchased their dream home with the savings left to Greg by his grandmother. By all accounts, Greg's life was perfect: successful career, nice house, beautiful wife. So again, the question arises.

  Why did he cheat?

  As Greg descended down the stairs, he realised he could lose all this someday soon, and all because of one mistake, one wrong choice, one betrayal.

  He walked along the corridor and hesitated before entering the kitchen. The radio was still playing, but Cynthia wasn't singing along. The only noise to indicate her presence in the kitchen was the clanking of pots and pans. Cynthia was very neat, clean, and organised. Before she left for work at 8.30 AM, one hour after Greg, she'd have the housework done, bed made, and dinner in the slow cooker. The feeling of dread that gripped Greg was so powerful he could almost taste it.

  He imagined Cynthia furious with him, having found out about his betrayal. He imagined the pans she used to prepare his meals instead being used as weapons as she launched herself at him, her actions fuelled with pain and rage. He imagined her eyes, always so full of trust and love for him instead glazed over with hate as she beat him with her fists.

  The mental image played out in his mind in minute detail, detail he knew wasn't being exaggerated by his immense guilt: this would be very close to the reaction he could expect from Cynthia if she ever found out.

  He knew with all his heart and soul that he wouldn't ever cope if he lost her, and he made a vow right then and there, a vow that promised never to betray his wife ever again, followed by a wish that his infidelity would forever remain his deep, dark secret if he made good on his vow.

  Greg felt only slightly better as he took a deep breath and entered the kitchen. The smell of bleach and washing powder greeted him. Cynthia's back was to him as she wiped down the work surface with a white cloth.

  He admired her from behind and felt his stomach cramp and tighten. Her outfit was simple : a purple chunky-knit jumper, a pair of skinny jeans and ladies' biker boots, yet she made the outfit look like the most devastatingly sexy attire ever to be worn by a woman. Her long dark hair hung loose down her back, shining where the light caught it. His eyes were drawn to her ass as she scrubbed an apparently stubborn stain.

  The night he'd met her, he'd gone for a quiet couple of drinks with his co-worker Mike. Both men had spotted the dark-haired beauty as she sat drinking glass of wine and laughing with the 3 other females seated at her table. Of the two men, Mike was the handsome ladies' man. A charmer and a smooth talker with a love-them-and-leave-them attitude, Mike had approached the table of women with his sights on Cynthia. Mike experienced rejection for the first time that evening as Cynthia brushed him off and began a conversation with Greg.

  Greg left the bar with her phone number that night. Soon after, they announced themselves as a couple to their friends and family.

  Though no harsh words had been spoken between the two men, their relationship had never been the same since.

  Greg remembered the sense of pride he'd felt at beating Mike out and winning the prize. His feelings for Cynthia were genuine from the first night and he didn't view her as just a prize, but the sense of male pride he'd felt was powerful, especially as Mike had set out to get her. He imagined Mike's glee if his fling was made public and he lost Cynthia.

  “Bastard,” Cynthia suddenly said, startling Greg.

  She did know! She had found out! Had Ashley called, or emailed...

  Cynthia grunted as she scrubbed harder. “Gotcha, you bastard.”

  Greg's shoulders sank in relief when he realised she was addressing the worktops and the stains that defied her. She turned and spoke in baby-talk to her black Labrador, Jesse, who was always by her side.

  “Dat won't do, will it Jessy Wessy. No, it won't do.”

  Jesse chuffed and wagged her tail in response, her whole back-end swaying side to side. Cynthia bent down and planted a kiss on the dog's large black head before turning towards the worktops and commencing with the battle of the stains.

  As Jesse sat down and watched Cynthia, a look of pure adoration on her goofy face, Greg felt a stab of regret as he remembered the fuss he'd made when Cynthia announced she was getting a puppy. He liked dogs well enough, when they belonged to other people, but to have one living with him? Shedded hair, chewed furniture, dog waste and dog smell-in his beautiful new home?

  Cynthia had first been amused by his strong opposition, then she'd realised he was being serious. Greg believed her sudden urge for a puppy was because he'd argued against trying for a baby the week before, a theory he'd presented to her when the simple discussion turned into an argument.

  It was, to date, the worst argument they'd ever had. She'd been hurt and furious by his implication of a surrogate baby. Even now as he looked back, he couldn't understand how that particular argument had become so intense and angry. He had backed down and apologized and spent the next week viewing litters with Cynthia. Three was certainly the charm for Cynthia as she fell in love with Jesse in the third litter they viewed.

  Though he'd never admit it, he'd be lying if he denied feeling some affection for Jesse, though he still felt that unconditional love and loyalty in exchange for ridiculously high vets bills, dog hair all over his clothes and dog waste in his beautiful garden was a pretty shit deal. Also, Cynthia had pointed out that having a dog around would be good for security― the dog would protect the house from burglars or anyone who intended to cause harm.

  Well, he'd been standing right here in the doorway for a while now, and Jesse hadn't noticed him. He shook his head. “Good job I'm not an axe murderer intent on chopping your fine body to pieces.”

  Cynthia and Jesse both jerked their heads towards him. Cynthia grinned and Jesse jumped up and bounded over to him. As he always did, he placed his hand on her head to prevent getting dog hairs all over his suit. “One condition of free room and board was securit
y duty,” he told Jesse, who struggled against his hand. “I could have been anyone standing there.”

  Though Greg thought that Jesse was not the smartest dog in the world, she did possess some basic manners and understood what was expected of her. She knew if she calmed down enough to give the impression that Greg's suit would leave the room as hair free as it was when he entered, she'd be released and allowed to greet him. Sure enough, she calmed down and sat, looking up at him with her big doe eyes as she wagged her tail. He patted her on the head then walked to the kitchen table.

  “Here's your toast and coffee,” Cynthia said, placing a plate and mug in front of him. The thought of eating anything made his stomach turn and the smell of the coffee brought memories of the night before rushing back-pouring the stale coffee down his shirt moments after Ashley dressed and left his office...

  “Are you okay?” Cynthia asked, frowning at him.

  “Yeah, of course.” Greg shook his head slightly. “My stomach is in knots this morning. Hope I'm not coming down with anything.”

  “So do I. It's your works Christmas party tonight.”

  Greg's stomach cramped in such a way he thought he might need to run for the bathroom. The Christmas party. Cynthia had been looking forward to going for weeks. All his colleagues would be there, including Ashley.

  Oh shit.

  “Greg? What's wrong? You're looking really pale.”

  He shook his head at her and tried to smile. “I'm sure I'll be okay later. Don't worry.”

  “I love you. It's my job to worry about you.”

  This conversation needed to end quickly. It was digging into a lot of tender areas.

  “So, what's going on with you today? You have the wedding coming up?”

  Cynthia smiled. “You do listen when I talk about work. I'm impressed.”

  Greg listened for the next few minutes about how Cynthia was going to be rushed off her feet. She was the assistant manager at a florist shop on the edge of town. A very expensive and classy florist. They were providing the flowers for a wedding the coming weekend and everyone agreed the sheer volume of flowers was excessive. But, the customer gets what they pay for and Cynthia liked to see her customers happy. “Everything's on track, but you know me, I always worry that something will go wrong on the last minute because that's how it seems; just when you think everything is right-boom!-something goes wrong and you're left wondering what you should do next.”