Desperate Girls Read online

  Copyright © 2018 Laura Griffin

  Cover photograph © Karina Vegas/Arcangel Images (background texture © Gordan/Shutterstock)

  The right of Laura Griffin to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Published by arrangement with Gallery Books,

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  First published in this Ebook edition in 2018

  by HEADLINE ETERNAL

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 1 4722 5992 9

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headlineeternal.com

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise for Laura Griffin

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Find out more about Headline Eternal

  About the Author

  Laura Griffin is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty books. She is a two-time RITA Award winner as well as the recipient of the Daphne du Maurier Award.

  Laura got her start in journalism before venturing into the world of romance fiction. She lives in Austin, Texas, where she is working on her next novel. Visit her website at www.lauragriffin.com and find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/LauraGriffinAuthor and Twitter @Laura_Griff.

  To hear about new releases, sign up for Laura’s newsletter at: http://lauragriffin.com/subscribe/

  Praise for Laura Griffins’ thrilling romances:

  ‘Griffin never disappoints with her exciting, well-researched, fast-paced romantic thrillers . . . An engrossing story full of twists, turns, and sexy interludes’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘Scorching-hot chemistry and a happily-ever-after you’ll enjoy rooting for’ Kirkus Reviews

  ‘A tense, exciting romantic thriller that’s not to be missed’ Karen Robards, New York Times bestselling author

  ‘A carefully constructed mystery with high-stakes tension throughout will have readers eagerly turning the pages. Once again, Griffin delivers another top-notch thriller’ RT Book Reviews

  ‘Explosive, seductive, and totally empowering’ Romance Junkies

  ‘A book to be devoured and savored with each new development. It is the perfect combination of mystery, terrifying suspense, and hotter-than-hot romance’ Fresh Fiction

  ‘Griffin has cooked up a delicious read that will thrill her devoted fans and earn her legions more’ Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author

  ‘Great lead characters and a spooky atmosphere make this a spine-tingling, stand-out novel of romantic suspense’ BookPage

  ‘The perfect mix of suspense and romance’ Booklist

  ‘Explodes with action . . . Laura Griffin escalates the tension with each page, each scene’ The Romance Reviews

  ‘Be prepared for heart palpitations and a racing pulse as you read this fantastic novel. Fans of Lisa Gardner, Lisa Jackson, Nelson DeMille, and Michael Connelly will love [Griffin’s] work’ The Reading Frenzy

  About the Book

  Defense attorney Brynn Holloran is right at home among cops, criminals, and tough-as-nails prosecutors. With her sharp wit and pointed words, she’s a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom, but in her personal life, she’s a mess.

  When a vicious murderer she once helped prosecute resurfaces and starts a killing spree to wipe out those who put him behind bars, one thing becomes clear: Brynn needs to run for her life.

  Turning to a private security firm for protection, Brynn can’t resist getting involved in the investigation. As the clock ticks down on a manhunt, Brynn’s desperate search for the truth unearths long-buried secrets and reignites a killer’s cold fury.

  For Tracy

  JEN BALLARD planned to get lucky tonight.

  The thought made her heart do a little hopscotch as she slid her Volvo sedan into the driveway and checked her surroundings. No news vans. No beat-up hatchbacks belonging to reporters. She skimmed the street in both directions but saw only familiar cars in familiar driveways. She glanced in the rearview mirror at the driveway across the street, but it was empty—which might or might not be a good sign.

  Jen pulled into her spacious garage. She gathered her groceries off the passenger seat as her phone pinged with an incoming text. David.

  Running late. ETA 20 min.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Now she’d have time to shower and change into something more alluring than the charcoal pantsuit she’d worn to work.

  She slid from the car and hurried into the house. Even laden with groceries, she felt empty-handed this evening. She had no briefs to read, no pretrial motions to consider. She’d left everything at the office, including her laptop, which felt good for a change.

  Jen stashed the steaks and the salad ingredients in the fridge, then washed the potatoes and put them in the oven. She checked the clock. Fifteen minutes. She uncorked the merlot. It needed to breathe anyway. Really. She poured half a glass, then made her way to her bedroom as she sipped a little liquid courage.

  David liked merlot. And he was allergic to bees. Funny the things you learned about your neighbors over the years. She also knew he was divorced, no kids, and he was one of the top cardiologists in Dallas.

  Jen set her glass on the bathroom counter and turned on the shower, twisting her thick hair into a bun because she didn’t have time to dry it. She stripped off her clothes and stepped under the hot spray.

  A date. Tonight. Her stomach fluttered with nerves, and she wished she hadn’t sampled the wine.

  She’d bumped into David at Home Depot last week, and he’d asked her out right there in the lightbulb aisle.

  We should have dinner sometime, he’d said with his easygoing smile.

  She’d been so shocked that she stood there staring at him for a full five seconds until I’d love to! popped out of her mouth.

  It was impulsive. And ill timed. But once the words were out, there was no going back.

  She’d told him they should probably wait until her trial was over, but his blank expression made her realize he might not even know about it. How cou
ld he not, though? Didn’t he read the papers? Maybe he was too busy saving lives to take notice of the media circus that had been going on in her courtroom for the past four weeks.

  His utter obliviousness to her professional life appealed to her. A lot. She liked the prospect of seeing someone who didn’t think of her as Judge Ballard or Your Honor. Most men were intimidated by the robe, and she hadn’t had a single date in the two years since she’d been elected to the bench.

  Jen stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. Nerves fluttered again as she opened her closet and skimmed the endless rack of suits.

  “Crap,” she mumbled, combing through the hangers. Everything was drab, even her weekend clothes.

  Very few women could exude sex appeal in the courtroom and still be taken seriously. Brynn Holloran came to mind. The auburn-haired defense attorney wore low-cut blouses and spike heels, and everyone knew she was a force to be reckoned with. Jen had always dressed down, in muted colors and sensible shoes, even during her prosecutor days. She wanted people to focus on her brain, not her boobs, but lately she’d felt sick to death of the whole conservative-jurist shtick.

  Her gaze landed on the coral sheath dress she’d worn to her niece’s graduation. It was pretty. Feminine. She remembered feeling confident in it. She grabbed the hanger and, before she could change her mind, slipped into a lace thong and pulled the dress over her head. She tugged up the zipper and rearranged her breasts because the tight fit didn’t leave room for a bra.

  Jen checked herself out in the mirror. Not bad. She freshened her makeup and fluffed her hair into a breezy style to match the dress. She slid her feet into sandals and downed a last sip of wine.

  Her phone chimed from the bedroom, and she rushed to check it. Maybe another update from David. But instead it was Nate Levinson, a former colleague. What would he want? She’d missed two calls from him while she’d been in the shower, as well as a call from a Beaumont area code. She let Nate’s call go to voice mail. It was business, no doubt, and she was taking the night off.

  She glanced at the mirror one more time before heading into the kitchen. The house felt warm, and she stopped at the thermostat to turn up the AC. The clock read 7:25. David would be here any minute, and she still needed to season the steaks and throw the salad together. She walked into the kitchen and felt a crunch under her feet.

  She looked down. What the . . . ?

  Glass. All over the floor. She looked toward the patio, and a warm waft of air turned her blood to ice.

  “Hello, Jennifer.”

  She whirled around to see a black pistol inches from her face. Her heart leaped as she looked at the man holding the gun. Dear God, no.

  The calls from Nate, from Beaumont, all made sense now.

  The man stepped forward. “On your knees.”

  “Don’t hurt me.”

  “Now!”

  Her legs folded, and she was on the floor, chunks of glass biting into her skin. This can’t be happening. How can this be happening? Her heart hammered wildly in her chest.

  “Don’t hurt me.” She gazed up at him, and the utter calm on his face made her stomach quiver.

  He brought the muzzle of the gun to her forehead. It felt cool and hard, and bile rose in the back of her throat.

  “Please,” she croaked. “I’ll do whatever you want, just—”

  “That’s right.” His eyes were flat and soulless. “You will.”

  Brynn Holloran dipped her fingertips in the warm water and eyed the clock.

  “What’s your mood today?” Chrissy spun the nail-polish carousel and glanced at Brynn’s ivory blouse. “Nude? Blushing bride?”

  “Oh, no.” Brynn picked a bottle and plunked it on the table.

  “Cha-Ching Cherry.” Chrissy smiled. “You must have a trial today.”

  “Monday.”

  Chrissy nodded. “You’ll win,” she said, snipping away at Brynn’s cuticles. “Red’s your lucky color.”

  Brynn darted another look at the clock as nervous energy buzzed through her. She appreciated Chrissy’s confidence, but it did little to quell her stress. Nothing would until she stepped into that courtroom.

  “Big case?” Chrissy asked.

  “Yes.” Big was an understatement. “It’s a murder trial, and I haven’t gone up against this prosecutor before.”

  Chrissy swiveled in her chair and took out some hot towels. Wrapping Brynn’s hands, she studied her face through the steam. “You’ll do great. He won’t know what hit him.”

  Chrissy had been a fierce supporter ever since Brynn repped her in a dispute with her toad of a landlord, who was jerking her around over the rent. Brynn hadn’t even represented her officially, just sent a nasty letter on firm stationery. The toad had backed down, and Chrissy had offered Brynn a lifetime of free manicures—which she wouldn’t take, of course. Brynn would never hit Chrissy up for freebies, but she wasn’t above coming in on a busy Friday and asking to be squeezed in.

  Chrissy unwrapped the towels. She pumped lotion into her hand—eucalyptus mint—and started massaging Brynn’s forearms. It felt so good she wanted to drop her head on the table and weep.

  The massage was over way too soon, and Chrissy thwacked the bottle of polish against her palm before twisting off the top.

  “The trial’s in Dallas,” Brynn said. “I have a thousand things to do, but I couldn’t leave town without stopping in.”

  Chrissy raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Not if you’re going to Dallas,” she said, expertly stroking red over a nail.

  She understood the importance of appearances. She was in the image business. Thanks to skin treatments and relentless workouts, the sixty-two-year-old salon owner didn’t look a day over fifty, and Brynn hoped to be as lucky someday.

  If she didn’t work herself into an early grave first.

  A text landed on Brynn’s phone from Ross, her law partner. She swiped the screen with her free pinkie.

  Perez is missing.

  “Damn it.” She looked up. “I have to make a call, sorry,” she said, tapping Ross’s number.

  He picked up on the first ring. “Where are you?” he demanded.

  “In a meeting. What do you mean, ‘missing’?”

  “We were supposed to have a video conference at nine to practice his testimony, but he blew it off, and he’s not answering his phone.”

  “Try his girlfriend.”

  “I did. That’s what worries me. She hasn’t seen or heard from him since Tuesday, and she has no idea where he is.”

  Brynn bit back a curse. “Did you tell Reggie?”

  “I’m headed to the office.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” she said. “We’ll figure out what to do.”

  As soon as the phone was down, Chrissy took Brynn’s hand and swiftly finished the first coat. She examined her work and did a quick second coat before switching on the drying lamp.

  “I have to run. I—”

  “Five minutes.” Chrissy’s stern look shut down any objections. She borrowed another lamp from a neighboring table and arranged Brynn’s other hand beneath the heat before walking into the back room.

  Brynn gazed longingly at her phone. She wanted to call Reggie. And check her e-mail. Shit. How could Perez be missing? Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was sleeping off a hangover somewhere. But a tight ball of dread formed in Brynn’s stomach as she thought about all the implications. Her eighteen-year-old client was going on trial for his life, and their star witness was MIA.

  She took a deep breath and tried to relax, letting the lingering eucalyptus scent calm her. That worked for about a minute, and then she cast a furtive look over her shoulder. Chrissy had disappeared, and Brynn made a break for the cash register. She pulled out the credit card she’d left on top of her purse so she wouldn’t have to rummage with wet nails. After leaving an extra-big tip and signing the bill, she stepped from the cool salon into the sweltering summer heat.

  Brynn slid into her black SUV and headed across tow
n, which wasn’t a long drive. Pine Rock was a sleepy bedroom community just north of Houston—six stoplights and two churches.

  Her sister’s Wonder Woman ring tone emanated from the speakers, and Brynn answered.

  “Have you left yet?” Liz asked.

  “We leave Sunday.”

  “Perfect!”

  “What is it?”

  “Mike’s got a college friend in from out of town. We’re taking him out for Tex-Mex tomorrow night, and we want you to come.”

  “I wish I could, but I’m slammed,” Brynn said.

  “You’re just saying that because you think it’s a setup.”

  “Well, isn’t it?”

  “It’s Tex-Mex and margaritas. Totally casual. And this guy’s cute. I know you’ll hit it off.”

  Liz and Brynn had a special language when it came to men. “Hot” meant drool-worthy alpha. “Cute” meant a teddy bear, and the last “cute” guy her sister had set her up with had been three inches shorter than Brynn.

  Not that it should matter. Who cared what he looked like if he was decent and smart and managed to get through the evening without burping or bad-mouthing his ex? Brynn was the problem.

  “I really have to work,” Brynn said. “I have a whole new fire drill, as of ten minutes ago. Our star witness is missing.”

  “Damn. Really?”

  “Really.” She turned into the parking lot beside her building and whipped into her usual space.

  “Well, call me if you catch a break and want to go out tomorrow.”

  “I will. Love you.”

  Brynn strode across the lot, careful not to catch her Jimmy Choo sandals in any of the potholes. She dropped her phone into her purse as she mounted the steps to the converted Victorian that housed the offices of Blythe and Gunn.

  Reggie had bought the property three years ago when he moved his law practice from Dallas to Pine Rock. From the street, the place looked charming. But years of dealing with leaky windows and temperamental plumbing had dampened Brynn’s enthusiasm for the architecture. The building was originally a boardinghouse, but Reggie had renovated it to accommodate six lawyers, two paralegals, an administrative assistant, and a receptionist—not to mention the steady flow of clients who drifted in and out seven days a week. Big trials were the firm’s gravy, but Saturday-night arrests were its bread and butter.