Superstition
Table of Contents
“WHEN YOU SEE KAREN ROBARDS’S NAME ON A NEW BOOK,
GRAB IT
!”*
Praise for the novels of Karen Robards
Superstition
“Robards is . . . guaranteed to deliver an entertaining, must-read, can’t-put-down story. And she does it again with
Superstition
. This has all the earmarks of a Robards story: a compelling mystery, an engaging cast of characters, and a strong hero and heroine with amazing chemistry.”
—*
The State
(Columbia, SC)
“This is another winner from the popular and prolific Robards, who delivers a great romantic thriller filled with interesting characters in a classic edge-of-the-seat read.”
—
Booklist
“Karen Robards is one of the best writers of romantic suspense available today. Fans of Tami Hoag, Iris Johansen, and Kay Hooper will love
Superstition,
a fascinating romantic police procedural with supernatural elements that add an extra dimension to the story line. Nicky is a wonderful protagonist, a reporter in the tradition of Lois Lane who will do whatever is necessary to get her story. Ms. Robards always delivers a thrilling reading experience.”
—
Midwest Book Review
Bait
“Romantic suspense at its absolute best. I didn’t want
Bait
to end.”
—Janet Evanovich
“Veteran romance/crime bestseller Robards delivers another hold-your-breath drama, this time starring FBI agent Sam McCabe and advertising executive Maddie Fitzgerald. Her pacing is excellent, and regular infusions of humor keep the story bounding along between trysts and attacks. This one is sure to please fans.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Fans of police procedural romances will enjoy the action-packed thriller that does not slow down until the final confrontation ties up all loose ends. . . . Readers will enjoy this solid suspense story.”
—
Midwest Book Review
“Robards returns once again with a pulse-pounding novel. Nonstop suspense amidst sensual romance heats up the pages of this captivating novel. Top-rate suspenseful action and sizzling romance form the backbone of this spectacular read, one of Robards’s all-time best.”
—The Best Reviews
“A top-notch thriller filled with humorous characters and diverting subplots that leave the reader engrossed until the very end, this is another coup for Robards.”
—
Booklist
“Maddie and Sam are two extremely likable and compelling characters, which makes this a love affair worth rooting for.”
—
Romantic Times
ALSO BY KAREN ROBARDS
Bait
Beachcomber
Whispers at Midnight
Irresistible
To Trust a Stranger
Paradise County
Scandalous
Ghost Moon
The Midnight Hour
The Senator’s Wife
Heartbreaker
Hunter’s Moon
Walking After Midnight
Maggy’s Child
One Summer
This Side of Heaven
Dark of the Moon
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a G. P. Putnam’s Sons edition.
First Signet Printing, June 2006
Copyright © Karen Robards, 2005 Excerpt from
Vanished
copyright © Karen Robards, 2006
eISBN : 978-1-101-16606-2
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is for Jack, who is always so good,
with lots and lots of love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
MANY THANKS TO ALL who made this book possible: Peter Robards, for indefatigable technical support, without which, frankly, I would be stumped more often than I care to admit; Christopher Robards, for invaluable critiques of my plot points and/or humor; Jack Robards, for always seeing the sunny side of everything; Doug Robards, who holds down the fort while I’m lost in my writing; Peggy Kennady, for research assistance and for always being there; Robert Gottlieb, agent extraordinaire; Christine Pepe, who is an absolutely wonderful editor; Lily Chin, for keeping track of everything; Stephanie Sorensen, for doing such a good job with publicity; Dan Harvey, who gave so unstintingly of his time while I was in New York; Sharon Gamboa and Paul Deykerhoff, for working so hard to sell my books; Leslie Gelbman, Kara Welsh, Claire Zion, and the entire New American Library group; and, of course, Carole Baron, with many thanks and much appreciation for her kind words and support.
1
“
G
ET AWAY FROM ME! Oh, God, somebody help me!” Tara Mitchell screamed, glancing over her shoulder as she fled through the dark house, her widened eyes seeking the blurry figure of the man chasing her.
She was slim. Tanned. Blonde. Seventeen years old. Blue jeans, T-shirt and long, straight hair: In other words, she pretty much had the average-American-teen thing going on. If it hadn’t been for the terror contorting her face, she would have been more attractive than most. Beautiful, even.
“Lauren! Becky! Where are you?” Her cry was shrill with fear. It echoed off the walls, hung shivering in the air. No answer—except for a grunt from her pursuer. He was closing in on her now, narrowing the gap between them as she fled across the living room, the knife in his hand glinting ominously in the moonlight that filtered in through the sheer curtains that covered the French doors at the far end of the room. Tara reached the doors and yanked frantically at the handle. Nothing happened. They were locked.
“Help!” Glancing desperately behind her, she clawed at the dead bolt, her nails scraping audibly over the wood surrounding it.
“Somebody help me!”
The doors didn’t budge. Giving up, Tara whirled. Her face looked ashen in the gloom. A dark stain—blood?—spread like a slowly opening flower across the pale sleeve of her T-shirt. Her back flattened against the French doors as her eyes fixed fearfully on the man stalking her. He was no longer running. Instead, having cornered his prey, he was slowly closing in on her. The sharp pant of her breathing turned loud and harsh as she seemed to realize that she was out of options. Besides the locked doors at her back, the only way out of that room was through the pocket doors that led into the hall—the doors through which she had run moments earlier. They were ajar, admitting just enough light from some distant part of the house to enable her to see the outline of shapes—and to backlight her pursuer.
Big and menacing, he stood between her and the door. It was obvious to the most casual observer that she had no chance of getting past him. He clearly realized it, too, and savored the knowledge that he had her trapped. Murmuring under his breath, the words not quite audible, he talked to her. The knife waved slowly back and forth in front of him as if to leave her in no doubt about what was coming.
For the space of a couple heartbeats, her fear shimmered almost tangibly between them. Then Tara broke. Screaming, she bolted for the door, trying to dodge the man. He was too fast for her, jumping toward her, blocking her exit, catching her. His hand clamped around her arm, yanking her toward him. She screamed again, the sound an explosion of terror and despair.
The knife rose, sliced down . . .
Watching from the couch, where he had sat bolt upright after having been awakened by who-knew-what from what must have been his third involuntary catnap of the day, Joe Franconi broke out in a cold sweat.
“Like I told you before, pal, you’re losing it,” Brian Sawyer observed wryly from behind him. Brian was thirty-five years old, six feet tall, blond, and good looking. He was also dead. That being the case, Joe ignored his comment in favor of listening to the TV reporter, who was now alone on the screen. Violence, even televised violence, was no longer his thing. True crime might be the TV flavor of the month, but to someone like himself, who had seen way more than his fair share of crime in real life, it didn’t qualify as entertainment. Didn’t even come close.