href="#u17070ea9-66d0-545f-a01e-78ae9720a304">Chapter 7
Terrell Blackwood was picked up by a limousine and driver when he walked out of prison a semifree man on the second day of the New Year, experiencing two luxuries he’d once taken for granted. Not just the luxury of freedom to walk in the open air, but the luxury to once again enjoy the best that his money could buy.
His millions had availed him little while in prison...other than to have five years—for bribing three prison guards—tacked onto his two concurrent fifteen-to-life sentences for attempted murder. At least, that’s what the self-righteous prosecutor had called it when Terrell had gone to trial all those years ago, what the pompous judge had called it when passing sentence. Attempted murder. Terrell had called it attempted justice. Justice that had not been meted out to the man who’d murdered Terrell’s only child, or to the woman whose lies on the witness stand had gotten the man off.
Justice had been deferred for years while Terrell had rotted in prison...but now that he was finally free on parole, justice would most assuredly be carried out. Sabrina Weston had been struck by divine retribution—dying on a hospital operating table seventeen months ago—but Derek Summers would not escape that easily. Terrell would see to it. Summers would suffer the torments of the damned, just as Terrell himself had suffered for nearly twenty years.
“‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’” Terrell whispered to himself. God had been remiss where Summers was concerned—so Terrell would be the hand of God.
“What did you say, Mr. Blackwood?” the limo driver asked as he pulled away from the prison, heading for Minnetonka, Minnesota, where Terrell’s ancestral mansion awaited the return of its owner. A long-awaited return.
“Nothing,” he replied, settling back against the comfortable seat, luxuriating in the feel and smell of fine leather after all these years. “Nothing at all.” But he smiled to himself as he did so. A cold, calculating smile. A frightening smile that boded ill for Derek Summers—whom the world knew as Dirk DeWinter—and his twin daughters.
She was the most exotically beautiful woman Dirk DeWinter had ever seen. Which was saying a lot, since he worked in the movie industry, where beautiful women were a dime a dozen. Not to mention he’d starred for ten years opposite the incomparable Juliana Richardson, acknowledged as Hollywood’s reigning queen long before she became a queen in real life by marrying the king of Zakhar. Even Sabrina’s all-American blond beauty had paled in comparison—though he’d loved Bree more for the beauty of her soul than for her looks.
But it wasn’t just this woman’s perfect Eurasian features, flawless skin, and gently curving figure in a red dress designed to tease and tantalize that had caught his attention. It was what she wasn’t doing. Unlike every other woman in the room, she wasn’t trying to catch his eye.
He knew she’d seen him when he walked into the exclusive jazz club near Causeway Bay in Hong Kong, a club that was a favorite with British and American expats as well as Chinese jazz aficionados. And he’d known by the slight widening of her eyes she recognized him as internationally famous movie star Dirk DeWinter, just as everyone else in the club had. But after that first moment she’d kept her attention riveted on the older man she was with and the jazz pianist on the stage. And Dirk had been intrigued.
The strong tug of sexual attraction was there, and that surprised him. For the first time in forever he was attracted to a woman enough to want to do something about it. But he wasn’t a wolf—never had been. The object of his interest was with another man, and that made her off-limits.
But looking never hurt anyone. Neither did a question. He took a long swallow of his Tsingtao beer—he always drank local brews wherever he went—and turned to the bartender who’d been hovering nearby ever since he’d realized whom he was serving.
“Do you know who she is? The woman in the red dress.” He didn’t have to be more specific. Even in a sea of red dresses, hers would stand out for its seeming modesty that only hinted at what was beneath.
The Chinese bartender put down the glass he was polishing needlessly and said, “The class act at the table front and center? That’s Mei-li. I don’t know her last name. She comes in here from time to time. Always with the same guy, a Brit. He drinks single malt scotch straight up. She drinks club soda with a twist of lime.”
Dirk liked that she wasn’t a drinker. He wasn’t much of one himself and didn’t really care to be around those who were. He could only see the back of the silver-haired man she was with, but couldn’t help thinking he was too old for her. Dirk didn’t voice that thought, however. He wasn’t naive. She wouldn’t be the first beautiful young woman to ally herself with a rich older man. But the thought didn’t sit well with him. Somehow she didn’t seem the type, especially since she’d ignored him after that first moment of startled recognition.
He watched her through the set, enjoying both the smooth jazz music and the sight of a woman who reminded him that he was still alive, even though his heart was in the grave. A woman who reminded him that he was a man who more than once had been voted the sexiest man alive by magazines that should have known better. A woman who set his blood racing as it hadn’t since Bree’s death.
Not even the reminder of his late wife dampened his desire for the woman in the red dress—another surprise. Bree had been gone for a long time, but until now he’d never been attracted to a woman enough to want to act on it, despite the lures thrown his way almost from the moment he’d buried his wife. In all that time he’d still been Bree’s husband in thought and deed. He’d been steadfastly faithful to her all the years they’d been married, too, easily resisting the temptations that came his way because of who and what he was—“until death do us part” wasn’t a vow he’d taken lightly.
Tonight