In Safe Arms
Authors: Lee Christine
In Safe Arms
Lee Christine
Lee Christine
Smooth, seductive and savage: Lee Christine returns to the dark, criminal underbelly of Sydney with her follow-up to
In Safe Hands.
Legal secretary Josephine Valenti has no idea why a notorious bikie president would be contacting her, but when he is murdered in front of her eyes, she knows that she is in very deep trouble. Fleeing to her home, she’s intercepted by Nate Hunter, a man she used to know and lust after…a man she used to care about.
However, Nate has changed. His leathers and his bike tell of a lifestyle that Josie can’t begin to accept or understand. His is a life of drugs, money laundering and prostitution.
But all is not what it seems, and Josie must fight harder than she ever has before — for the truth, for what’s right, and, ultimately, for the man who still has a hold of her heart.
Lee Christine is a former legal practice manager and corporate trainer. An amateur songwriter in her teens, she is passionate about music and plays the alto saxophone. Her first Romantic Suspense novel, “In Safe Hands”, was chosen to be a launch title for Escape Publishing in 2012. “In Safe Arms” is her second novel in the Grace and Poole Lawyers series.
Lee has two grown children, and lives in Newcastle, Australia with her husband.
I would like to thank my critique partner, Linda Hills, for her tireless and valuable contribution over the last three years.
I would also like to thank the authors in my on-line loop, Helen Lacey, Jane Beckenham, Patti Shenberger, Kelli Finger and Lesley Millar for their advice and support, especially in the early years.
Thanks also to my mega talented friend, Jaye Ford, for being such an inspiration and for asking me to take part in her writing group.
To Paula and Kerrie, my readers, a big thank you for your input and enthusiasm.
And lastly, to my amazing family, Damian, Danielle and Adam, for their constant love, support and encouragement. You guys rock!
For my special mum, Bonnie
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…
9:30 p.m. Sunday
Hidden in a darkened recess at the rear of the tattoo parlour, Nate Hunter studied the garden variety flatland lock. ‘More light, Kennett.’
Mitch Kennett adjusted the angle of the torch, a stench of garlic on his breath, nervous eyes scanning the alleyway. ‘Get a move on, Bolt.’
Nate pulled his tools from the back pocket of his pants and addressed the lock, holding his breath against the bikie’s sour body odour. He slid the pick into the keyway then gradually withdrew it, using sound and touch to visualise what was happening inside the mechanism. He inserted the pick a second time, sliding it over the pins and applying just enough torque with the wrench until one by one the pins set at the sheer line. Then, with a gentle flick of his wrist, he opened the lock.
‘There she goes.’ Nate glanced at the president of Sydney’s legendary motorcycle gang, the Altar Boys. ‘Sweet as a woman coming.’ He shoved the tools back in his pocket and retrieved the can of petrol he’d left on the ground. ‘Patience and a deft touch never fail.’
‘You’d know.’ A leering smirk split Kennett’s ruthless face as Nate followed his hulking frame into a dreary looking kitchen, decades past its prime. On the bench, an autoclave steriliser stood beside a microwave oven, while surgical gloves, ink and needles lay in a cluttered heap around the sink. Startled by the torchlight, cockroaches scuttled from an open food container left in the centre of an old laminated table.
Nate swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He couldn’t imagine going anywhere near those needles, let alone eating in a room like this. The quicker they torched this dump, the better.
With a growing sense of unease, he watched Kennett set the Maglite down and take a pistol from inside his vest. ‘What’s with the piece, man?’
The bikie put an index finger to his lips and cocked his head towards the front of the property.
Muted voices filtered down the hallway.
‘No-one’s supposed to be here,’ Nate hissed, a cold sweat breaking out on his body. Ignoring the revolver, he pushed the heavy fuel container into Kennett’s chest, forcing him back against the cupboards. Nate wasn’t a small guy, but Kennett was a tower of granite, built like a world champion wrestler, and it took all of Nate’s strength to keep him there.
Kennett’s eyes turned to hard little marbles at the blatant challenge to his authority. ‘Mulvaney’s in there. You got a problem with that, pretty boy?’
Nate had a problem with a lot of things, the escalation of Sydney’s bikie war first and foremost. Only last week, Mulvaney’s gang, the Southern Cross, had peppered the Altar Boys’ clubhouse with bullets and beat three of their members senseless.
Kennett leaned closer, gold tooth glinting from behind a full grey beard. ‘You want your vest or not?’
Nate’s gut tightened, his mind filled with a dissonance he couldn’t reduce in any way, shape or form. He’d waited so long to be offered this upgrade in status, this progression, from nominee to fully fledged member of the brotherhood. And he shouldn’t be surprised Kennett had planned this operation knowing Lizard Mulvaney would be on the premises. It was part of the Altar Boys’ culture to use retaliatory strikes as initiations into the inner sanctum.
He’d supported Kennett’s idea to torch the tat parlour, owned and operated by the Southern Cross, but now he wasn’t so sure. The president of the rival gang wasn’t supposed to be here.
Fuck!
No-one was supposed to be here.
But he was out of time. Kennett was waiting for his answer.
Nate took a step back and pulled the container off Kennett’s chest. ‘I want the vest.’
The chapter leader sneered and pushed past him, light on his feet for a big man, leaving Nate no option but to turn and follow him out of the kitchen.
Moving with stealth for men over six feet, they inched their way down a dim, central corridor, walls covered in a floor to ceiling collage of photographed body parts, complete with designer tattoos.
Stomach churning, Nate sucked in stale air, heavy with dust particles and strained to hear over the tribal beat of his heart. He picked up the words “search” and “it wasn’t hard”, Mulvaney’s voice transmitting into the hallway from behind a scratched wooden door.
There was a pause in the conversation, and Kennett froze, listening.
Mulvaney’s companion spoke, voice a quiet hum.
As was expected of a nominee, Nate looked to Kennett for direction, nodding his understanding when the leader of the Altar Boys raised two fingers. It was unspoken bikie law that Kennett would take out the rival leader, leaving Nate to shut down the second person in the room.
Hard as it was to follow direction from a man he loathed, Nate tightened his grip on the plastic container. One well-timed swing and he’d lay Mulvaney’s guest out cold.
Kennett raised a fist, kissed the brass knuckleduster on his finger and threw open the door.
Light spilled into the corridor from a single, exposed bulb in the middle of the ceiling, and over Kennett’s shoulder, Nate could see Lizard Mulvaney sitting at a desk, his back to them. Startled, the man turned at the sudden commotion, half rising from his chair.
But they didn’t call Kennett “the viper” for nothing. Two long strides and he immobilised Mulvaney with his signature headlock, revolver rammed into the hollow of his throat.
Poised for an attack, Nate slipped into the room behind Kennett. He scanned the space in seconds, sweat trickling between his shoulder blades.
Mulvaney was alone!
Tightening his grip on the fuel, Nate checked every corner of the run down office, but the room was empty, the door through which they’d come the single point of entry.
A chair crashed to the floor beside him, Mulvaney’s booted heels scuffing the worn out carpet as Kennett hauled him backwards.
And then above the din, a woman screamed, the sound oddly electronic, as if coming from a distance.
And suddenly everything made sense.
Nate turned his head and stared at the computer monitor.
From the open Skype program, a woman watched in horror, eyes stricken, fingers pressed against her mouth.
Skirting around Mulvaney’s thrashing legs, Nate zeroed in on the computer. The woman’s eyes widened and she jerked backwards, as if he could somehow reach across the digital divide and physically grab her.
Mulvaney was making gurgling sounds low in his throat, and the woman tore her gaze from Nate to focus on what was happening at the back of the room.
Nate swung around, the same instant Kennett crushed Mulvaney’s windpipe in a sickening crunch of bone and soft tissue.
The bikie leader turned his back to the computer in an obvious effort to hide his identity, and lowered Mulvaney’s dead body to the floor. ‘
Find
her, and shut her up.’
Nate let the container slip from his fingers and turned to face the woman. She lowered her hand, and in the moment before she killed the connection, Nate glimpsed her face.
Jesus Christ!
He dived for the outdated mouse on Mulvaney’s desk and clicked on the woman’s profile, the implications of the unfolding horror assaulting his mind like death metal music.
Behind him, Kennett splashed petrol over the shabby, mismatched furniture.
Contingency plans flooded into Nate’s mind.
This was bad.
This was really bad
.
‘I witnessed a murder — on Skype.’
Josephine Valenti sat hunched over the mahogany kitchen table and stared at her wide-eyed face in the blackened laptop screen. It had taken all of ten seconds for the emergency number to connect her with Mona Vale Police.
‘Okaaay,’ replied the male police officer — like she’d spent all weekend snorting crack. ‘Take a deep breath, Miss, and tell me what happened.’
Josie fought off her panic and tightened her grip on the phone. ‘A man was strangled — or had his neck broken, I’m not sure — it was quick.’
‘Your name?’
Josie spelled out her name before the policeman could ask, closing the computer lid with a snap. It made her feel better, like the action might trap the horrifying images inside and leave them there.
‘Your location please?’
‘Rainbows End.’ She couldn’t
think
, her overstimulated nervous system out of sync with her disbelieving mind. ‘Andrew Road, Cottage Point.’
‘Is that your place of residence?’
Not for a while now
.
‘It’s my parents’ home.’ Josie steadied her trembling hand as the receiver clattered against her earring. ‘I’m looking after the place.’
‘Is the alleged victim known to you?’
Alleged?
‘Yes. Lloyd Mulvaney.’
A pause. ‘As in
Lizard
Mulvaney, the president of the Southern Cross?’
‘Yes.’
‘Miss Valenti, what is your relationship to Mr. Mulvaney?’
Josie moistened her dry lips with her tongue and cleared her throat. ‘I’m Allegra Greenwood’s P.A. at Grace and Poole, Lawyers. She’s acted for the Southern Cross for years.’