A Love to Kill For Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Part One

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  A Love to Kill For

  ISBN # 978-1-78651-073-0

  ©Copyright Conor Corderoy 2016

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright August 2016

  Edited by Jamie D. Rose

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2016 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Simmering and a Sexometer of 1.

  Heat

  A LOVE TO KILL FOR

  Conor Corderoy

  Book one in the Heat series

  For Murdoch, women are bad news. Trying to stay alive in war-torn Andalusia, tracking a vanishing femme fatal, hunted by The Brotherhood, the last thing he needs is love…

  In Liam Murdoch’s world there is no room for love, only the thrill of the game and the fast buck. So when a fascinating client persuades him to be the bagman in a blackmail payoff and he winds up with a bag full of fifty grand in cash and a box whose contents are worth more than that, Murdoch smells the chance to make a stash.

  As Europe slides into bloody chaos, Murdoch must travel to war-torn Andalusia in search of the elusive Mary-Jane Carter and the even more mysterious Sinead Tiernan. He must get the answers only they can provide about the box and the sinister Brotherhood of the Goat, who are hunting for it. But once there, what Liam finds is the last thing he needs—love—and his world turns upside down. Instead of chasing cash, he’s fighting to save the life of the woman he loves.

  Suddenly nothing and nobody is what they seem to be, and Liam finds himself fighting not only a mysterious enemy he cannot understand, but also his own turbulent feelings. He must battle to save a priceless treasure for humanity and the woman he’s learned to love from a fate far worse than death.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my beautiful daughters, Aisling and Róisín, whom I adore, and who bring me joy every single day.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  TVR Daemon: TVR Manufacturing Limited

  Camel: R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company

  Zippo: Zippo Manufacturing Company

  Martini: Martini and Rossi Corporation

  Virgin Atlantic: Virgin Atlantic Airways Limited

  Smith & Wesson: Smith & Wesson

  Magnum: Smith & Wesson

  Driza-Bone: Driza-Bone Pty Ltd.

  Jameson: Irish Distillers Limited

  BlackBerry: BlackBerry Limited

  JFK Airport: City of New York

  The New York Times: The New York Time Company

  IPCC: World Meteorological Association

  Sam Spade: Dashiell Hammett

  The Daily Graphic: H.R. Baines and Company

  The Cumberland: GLH Hotels Management (UK) Limited

  Stilton: Derbyshire, Leicestershire & Nottinghamshire

  Bushmills: The Old Bushmills Distillery Company Limited

  The Telegraph: The Telegraph Media Group Limited

  Al-Andalus Petroleum: Al-Andalus International

  The Continental: LCH

  The Berkeley: Maybourne Hotel Group

  Hello: Hello!

  Audi A8: Audi Aktiengesellschaft Corporation

  The Da Vinci Code: Dan Brown

  Patriot SAM: Raytheon

  Hertz: The Hertz Corporation

  Mustang: Ford Motor Company Corporation

  San Miguel: San Miguel Brewery Inc.

  Toyota: Toyota Motor Corporation

  Cadillac: General Motors Corporation

  Giorgio Armani: Giorgio Armani S.p.A.

  Lost World: Jules Verne

  IKEA: Ikea Svenska Aktiebolag Corporation

  Chanel: Chanel Inc.

  Land Rover: Jaguar Land Rover Limited

  Jeep: FCA US LLC

  Hammer House of Horror: Hammer Films, ITC Entertainment and Cinema Arts International

  CSI Miami: CBS Broadcasting Inc.

  Yale: Assa Abloy Group

  Chubb: Assa Abloy Group

  Apple: Apple Inc.

  iPhone: Cisco Technology Inc.

  Jell-O: Kraft Foods Group Brands LLC

  Godzilla: Toho Co. Limited

  Mickey Mouse: Disney Enterprises Inc.

  The Sorcerer’s Apprentice: Disney Enterprises Inc.

  Benson & Hedges: Philip Morris Incorporated

  Bic: Bic USA Inc.

  The Hulk: Marvel Characters Inc.

  Krug: MHCS Societe en Commandite Simple

  Game of Life: Hasbro Inc.

  Casablanca: Warner Brothers

  BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke Aktiengesellschaft Corporation

  Jaguar: Jaguar Land Rover Limited

  SEAT Ibiza: SEAT

  AK-47: Palmetto State Armory LLC

  Dirty Harry: Malpaso Productions

  Sikorsky Hawks: Sikorsky Aircraft Corporation

  RAF Puma: Aerospatiale

  Benny Hill: Thames Television

  RAF Brize Norton: Royal Air Force

  Range Rover: Jaguar Land Rover Limited

  Ritz: Ritz-Carlton Hotel Company LLC

  Sonnet 116: William Shakespeare

  Mercedes: Daimler-Benz Aktiengesellschaft Corporation

  NASA: National Aeronautics and Space Program

  PART ONE

  Maid of Truth

  Better to rule in Hell

  Than to serve in Heaven.

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Chapter One

  I parked my TVR Daemon outside Noddy’s Diner on the Portobello Road, put my ‘Doctor on Call’ sign on the windshield, loped through the gray rain and pushed through the door. Chandler once described a woman as the kind who’d make a bishop kick holes in a stained glass window. This one would have had him burning down the Vatican with th
e Pope strapped to the roof of the Sistine Chapel. It wasn’t just that she was a drop-dead looker. She was. She had all her curves in the right places, bobbed black hair, crimson, Cupid’s-bow mouth and slow sea-green eyes. But more than that, she managed to look vulnerable and lethal at the same time in a way that stirred your primal urges till you had smoke billowing out of your sphygmomanometer. Yeah, look it up.

  In my book, all women are bad news. They make you feel this thing called ‘love’, so you’ll let them chew you up, suck you dry then spit you out before they move on to their next victim. But even by those standards, I could see this lady was the kind of bad news they interrupt regular broadcasts for. Fortunately, I’m immune to bad news.

  She and Noddy both saw me as I pushed in, but I noticed his eyes pleading in a way I had never seen before. I ignored him and eased onto a stool next to the vamp, pulled out a Camel and asked Noddy for a Martini, dry. He stared at me like he was astonished I wanted that drink instead of another and said, real urgent, “This is Caffrin, Liam. Caffrin ’oward. I told you abaht her.”

  I nodded that I knew and he went to get the Martini. While he put it together, I flipped my Zippo and lit up. She watched me do it the way a cat watches a fly—cute and patient, and ready to eat it alive the minute it gets close enough. Finally, I blew smoke and said, “Noddy thinks I can help you. Want to tell me how?”

  She made a slow, green blink. When she spoke, she had that absence of accent the English call cut glass, but husky with it.

  “I’m being blackmailed, Mr. Murdoch. I’ve arranged to make a payment and collect the incriminating material, but I’m afraid that when I do, I may be murdered.”

  I’m not easily fazed and this didn’t faze me, but I wasn’t expecting it. I took a moment to study the olive in my Martini. It floated, so I bobbed it up and down a few times. I took a sip and, as I put the glass down, I said, “So you want me to get murdered for you.”

  She didn’t even have the decency to blush. Whether she said yes or no, it was going to be the wrong answer. So she said, “Not exactly, Mr. Murdoch. I’d like you to make the drop and collect the material. I shall pay you very well for that. Clearly, I don’t want you to get murdered.” Something like a smile played across her face. “That wouldn’t help anybody, would it?”

  I nodded. “Especially me. You want to give me some background?”

  She hesitated and pointed at my glass. “Can I have one of those?” While Noddy fell over himself in four different directions assembling a second Martini, she gestured at my cigarettes. I nodded and pushed them along the bar with the lighter. It’s hard for a woman to make a Zippo look graceful. In her hands it was triple-X-rated exquisite. She let the smoke drift out through red lips and read my face for a while. I put a blank page there. After a moment she said, “I used to work as a high-class prostitute. I had highly placed clients. I was expensive…”

  I said, “Class usually is.”

  She blinked sea-green at me and carried on. “I didn’t waste the money. I put myself through university. I read biology and did a master’s in business. Just over a year ago I bought myself into a biotechnology research and development company as a partner.” She sucked on the Camel, frowning at the ashtray. “There are films and photographs. They’re held by a man. We used to call him the Don. He used to be my…” Her look turned resentful, like it was the ashtray’s fault she’d once had a pimp. She tapped a little ash into its mouth and said, “Manager. I bought myself out a couple of months ago, but now he wants money for the films and the photographs. If I don’t pay, he’ll send copies to the board.”

  I took a long drag on my cigarette and squinted at her through the smoke. “I’ve known a few pimps in my time, Miss Howard, and a few blackmailers too. Most of them weren’t smart enough to know a biology degree from an amoeba’s ass, but most of them weren’t dumb enough to kill a goose that laid golden eggs, either.”

  She tilted her chin and smiled. Her voice was so husky it could have pulled a sled across Alaska. It was getting to me. She said, “You don’t believe me.”

  “Me and Descartes, sugar. I believe I exist because I can hear myself think. Outside of that, I don’t believe shit. I’m not a hit man, Miss Howard. I’m not going to kill your blackmailer for you.”

  Outside, the rain had turned torrential. A rumble of thunder shook the ceiling and the lights in the diner winked off, so we were sitting in shadow. She shook her head. “That isn’t what I’m looking for.”

  “If everything you say is true, he can keep the squeeze on you for years. Why should he want you dead?”

  She stubbed out her cigarette, smoke trailing from her nose. She sipped and licked her lips with a very pink tongue.

  “It’s a little more complex than that.”

  “So tell me the complex bit. I can recognize an amoeba’s ass.”

  “How colorful…” She watched me a while in the half light. Then the lights came on and somewhere a fridge began to hum. “During the time the Don managed me, I accumulated a lot of information about him, his operations and his clients. I told you some of them were important men—and women. People in the public eye. If I should ever decide to write my memoirs, Mr. Murdoch, it would cause a lot of people a great deal of embarrassment. More than that, it could bring down important political careers and, with them, the Don’s power. I don’t think I need to paint you a picture. It’s in the Don’s best interest—and his clients’—to make me very dead.”

  I nodded. “Have you anything more concrete than a general theory of his motives?”

  “Yes, the way he’s set up the drop. He’s done it before to other people. I’ll be extremely vulnerable.” Her cheeks flushed incongruously and she smiled. “I’m between a rock and a hard place, Mr. Murdoch. I daren’t risk not going—not making the drop. But I know if I do, he’ll kill me. He has to.”

  What she said made sense. A man like she described could not afford a loose cannon, especially one as smart as Catherine Howard. But even so, I knew she was lying. For one thing, if she were for real, she’d work for Russian Pete, not some anonymous Don. And Russian Pete would have introduced her to me by now. My gut told me that every word out of her mouth was a lie that concealed layers of deeper lies. But I also knew, as I sat looking into her level, green eyes, that I didn’t give a damn. I crushed out my cigarette and said, “So what do you want me to do?” And just so she didn’t think I was as soft as Noddy, “And how much does this caper pay?”

  She took a swig of her Martini and said, “I just want you to go in my place.”

  “What makes you think he won’t kill me?”

  “Does that worry you?”

  “Yeah. I don’t like getting killed. It gives me a headache.”

  She didn’t smile. She shrugged. “Why should he? He has no interest in your death. In any case, he is expecting a weak woman, not”—she paused and gestured at me with a look that was both insulting and flattering—“someone like you. And even if he should try, you are forewarned and I’m sure you can take care of yourself. I’d advise you to be armed.” Now she smiled. “Have you got a weapon, Mr. Murdoch?”

  The innuendo was obvious and vulgar and made me unreasonably mad. I grunted. “Yeah, I have a weapon. What if he won’t give me the material?”

  “Again, you’re a big boy. I’m sure you can persuade him. In any case, I think he will. The money he’s asking for is considerable.”

  “Okay. What makes you think I won’t take the money for myself and leave you in the lurch?”

  She turned to Noddy. She went a little pale and her eyes were beseeching. She should have been in Hollywood. She deserved an Oscar. He looked deep into her oceanic green eyes, read a thousand impossible promises there, swallowed hard and turned to me, stabbing a big, ugly finger in my face. “’Cos if you do, Liam, I’ll kick you dahn the fahkin stairs, tear yer fahkin ’ed off and stuff it up yer fahkin backside, so you’ll be watchin telly fru yer fahkin arse for the rest of yer miserable fahkin life! Don’
t mistreat the lady, awright?”

  Noddy was from the East End of London, where they speak a language all their own. She smiled at me, telling me silently that she could make him do it. I gave Noddy a look that told him what I thought of him and his ‘fahkin telly’ then sighed. “Okay, how much does it pay?”

  Something strange happened to her face then. I want to say that it went hard, but that doesn’t even begin to describe it. I had the feeling I was looking, not at a woman, but at an animal. If you’ve seen the dispassionate expression on a cat’s face when it goes for the kill or a lizard swallowing a live insect, you’ll know what I mean. She had the alien eyes of a goat in that moment and the stillness of a snake. She spoke with no feeling at all.

  “If you fail—or are only partially successful—the job pays nothing. Partial success is of no use to me. You bring me all the material—original and any copies—and it pays twenty thousand pounds, sterling.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “Twenty grand?” That was thirty-five thousand bucks.

  “Naturally, I will cover all your expenses.”

  Outside, the rain had slowed to a wet tapping. “Expenses?” I frowned. “What expenses?”

  She reached into her snakeskin handbag and pulled out a surprisingly large manila envelope. From that she extracted a Virgin Atlantic ticket and a smaller, white envelope that smelled like cash and was reassuringly fat. She handed me the ticket.

  “That is a flight to New York. It departs tonight. I’d like you to be on it. You will be there for twelve hours and return with the material. I suggest you do your sleeping on the plane. All the instructions are here.” She pulled an A4 sheet of paper from the manila envelope and handed me that too, along with a locker key. I put the key in my pocket and slipped the A4 in with the ticket to look at later. She said, “Go to Left Luggage at Heathrow Airport. The key fits a locker. Collect the attaché case from there. It contains fifty thousand dollars. That’s the payoff.” She held up the white packet. “This is two-and-a-half thousand dollars in small and medium bills. It should more than cover your needs. If there is any over, consider it a tip.”