Sweet Dreams Boxed Set Read online

  Sweet Dreams

  Foreword by Lee Child

  Featuring in Order of Appearance:

  Allison Brennan, Cynthia Eden, JT Ellison, Heather Graham,

  Brenda Novak, Liliana Hart, Alex Kava, CJ Lyons, Carla Neggers,

  Theresa Ragan, Erica Spindler, Jo Robertson, Tiffany Snow

  Sweet Dreams

  Copyright 2015

  Cover Design by Croco Design

  Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dear Reader

  Thank you for purchasing this limited-edition digital box set filled with wonderful novels and novellas from some of today’s most popular authors. I hope you will have a wonderful reading experience and discover many authors you might not have read before.

  All the proceeds from the sale of these stories will be going to fund important research at the University of Miami’s Diabetes Research Institute—because I feel as if they are currently our best bet for a practical cure. I have been involved in raising money for research for more than a decade. Usually, I run an annual online auction each May (so far, we’ve raised $2.4 million), but this “boxed set” effort is replacing the auction this year. I appreciate your support, and all those people who have supported me in the past. For more information about my efforts, please visit http://brendanovakforthecure.org

  In addition to this boxed set, I’m offering two more this year—SWEET TALK (filled with 11 contemporary romances, including my own WHEN WE TOUCH, the kick-off to my popular Whiskey Creek series as a bonus story) and SWEET SEDUCTION (filled with 13 “hot” romances a la Fifty Shades of Grey). In addition, Lauren Hawkeye, a fellow writer who also has a son with Type 1, is contributing the proceeds of the sale of her contemporary romance, SAFE HAVEN, to the cause.

  And don’t miss my very first cookbook! LOVE THAT! BRENDA NOVAK’S EVERY OCCASION COOKBOOK contains all of my healthiest recipes—the ones I used to raise my five kids, not recipes I hired someone to create—along with some recipes contributed by my friend and co-author Jan Coad, who once owned a restaurant and has published other cookbooks. It’s available in both digital and print, so order yours now.

  Here’s to making a difference!

  Brenda Novak

  Dedication:

  To all those who are fighting the same battle as my son, Thad. May we find a cure for diabetes soon! And to everyone who purchased this box set. Thanks for being part of the solution.

  Table of Contents

  Dear Reader

  Foreword

  Aim to Kill by Allison Brennan

  Until Death by Cynthia Eden

  Crossed by JT Ellison

  Toys in the Attic by Heather Graham

  Hanover House by Brenda Novak

  Dirty Deeds by Liliana Hart

  Before Evil by Alex Kava

  Bad Break by CJ Lyons

  Secret Hideaway by Carla Neggers

  Dead Man Running by Theresa Ragan

  Random Acts by Erica Spindler

  Without Malice by Jo Robertson

  Turn the Tables by Tiffany Snow

  Foreword

  I’m a thriller writer, and a thriller reader, and hence a sucker for the classic thriller plot, where an ordinary man or an ordinary woman slowly becomes aware of a looming threat: someone or something is out there, close by, infinitely dangerous; or perhaps an intruder is already in the house, mocking, violating a sanctuary, or perhaps – really creepy – he’s been living in the attic for a couple of weeks already, camping out, undetected, silent, leaving odd nighttime disturbances … who moved that chair?

  Or perhaps, for added anguish, it’s not the ordinary man or woman under threat: it’s his or her son or daughter, their child, their responsibility, the intended victim, a helpless target. What mother or father wouldn’t fight to the death? And they do … 400 pages later, an investigation has been conducted, the bad guy has been identified, close scrapes have been survived, and finally the family is sitting together on the bottom stair, stunned but finally safe, as the bad guy is put in the cop car and driven away. The end.

  Diabetes starts like that. But it doesn’t finish like that.

  It’s a mysterious malfunction. No one knows the cause. Researchers suspect an element of genetic susceptibility, and in those susceptible it’s possible the Coxsackie B4 virus kicks things off. Then a tiny balance among the human body’s billion moving parts goes slightly out of whack, and the beta cells in the islets of Langerhans (such an innocent name) inside the pancreas shut down and stop producing insulin, so the body can no longer deal with the kind of sugars we crave.

  The intruder is now in the house.

  Untreated, all kinds of complications will follow. Cardiovascular disease, and stroke, and damage to the eyes, kidneys, and nerves. And more. Including death. All in store, unbelievably, for the ordinary parent’s beautiful and vulnerable child. No one’s fault. Type 1 diabetes is unrelated to lifestyle. Most victims are thin or normal, healthy, well fed, well loved.

  The fight back begins with maintenance. Sometimes diet is enough; more often, insulin must be provided. An endless round begins: testing and injecting, testing and injecting. Most sufferers do OK for a long time, but only OK. Quite apart from the social and organizational burdens of diet and injection, they can feel under the weather a lot of the time. But in thriller terms, we can at least get them barricaded in a safe house, at least temporarily, doors and windows locked, guns drawn, with the bad guy lurking outside in the yard.

  But how do we get the bad guy in the cop car?

  Research is the answer, but it’s fantastically expensive. All around the world, teams of biochemists are working hard, but they have to pay the rent. And eat. Their funding comes from governments and institutions and drug companies – but also from hundreds of thousands of concerned individuals. Many of them are parents of diabetic children, and it’s easy to see why. The primeval instinct that makes a mother or father fight to the death is a powerful one – perhaps the most powerful among our emotional inheritance. But in the case of diabetes it’s frustrated. There’s no identifiable antagonist, no role for a gun or a blade. There’s no bar fight to be had. If only it was that easy. I know of no parent who wouldn’t gladly smash a long-neck bottle and join the fray. But they can’t.
Such parents have to channel their natural aggression into a long, patient, endless struggle for progress. They raise awareness and money any way they can.

  This anthology is an example. It will help fund the search for a cure. All good. In fact better than good, because whatever else, there are some great authors and some great stories here to enjoy. So if you buy it, you’ll get some excellent entertainment – but also you might just get the chance to be that mysterious character on page 297 of our notional thriller, who contributes the tiny but vital clue that eventually leads to the big reveal on page 397. Your few cents could make the difference. You could be the one.

  Lee Child

  New York

  2015

  Aim to Kill

  Allison Brennan

  Chapter One

  The interview had not gone well.

  Alex Morgan walked out of the hotel’s third-floor suite of offices in a daze. She simmered with an odd blend of anger and defeat. Why had she expected anything different?

  She felt nauseous and sidestepped into a restroom at the end of the hall. Thankfully, it was empty. She splashed cold water on her face and closed her eyes.

  She’d like to blame her frustration on the ridiculous questions that came from the three person hiring panel. Maybe she’d been out of the job market too long, but did it really matter what her hobbies were, how she spent her free time, or the last book she read? They were hiring a security chief, not a best friend. Her resume spoke for itself: she’d graduated with a degree in criminal justice from U.C. Davis; she’d been a decorated street cop for seven years; and a detective for five. She was more than qualified to manage security for a major hotel.

  Then came the zinger.

  “Ms. Morgan, can you please tell us more about why you left the Sacramento Police Department?”

  She’d been expecting the question. Of course they would ask why a thirty-four year old detective in her prime would leave a good job to work hotel security, when nearly every other applicant for the position was a retired law enforcement officer.

  “I needed a change,” she’d said.

  Why the hell had she said that?

  The three panelists had looked at each other, the truth written all over their smarmy faces.

  It was the female assistant manager who asked:

  “Would you please talk a little about what led up to that decision of needing a change? Were you reprimanded for abuse of authority and illegally discharging your weapon?”

  That had been a smokescreen by her direct supervisor to cloud the D.A.’s case against Alex’s partner. And someone had leaked it to the press.

  “That was a personnel matter. The reprimand was removed from my file as being unsubstantiated.”

  The woman pursed her lips. Glanced at her colleagues, then said:

  “So much of your employment file is sealed, Ms. Morgan, we don’t have a lot to go on as to why you might be a good fit for us. Perhaps if you can explain the circumstances that led to your firing?”

  “I wasn’t fired, I resigned.”

  “According to the newspaper—”

  “The newspaper was wrong.”

  “We called your former supervisor—”

  “I didn’t put Sergeant Young down as a reference.”

  “We always contact previous supervisors.”

  And that was it. She walked out in the middle of the interview. Sergeant Young hated her so violently that when he found out she’d been keeping a log about her partner’s illegal activities, he’d leaked false information to the press. He denied it ... but not convincingly.

  Why had she thought her past wasn’t going to bite her in the ass?

  She wiped her face with a paper towel that felt like sandpaper, and told herself to grow up. She’d done the right thing turning in her corrupt partner ... but she’d made a lot of mistakes in the process. She had to take the good with the bad, suck it up, and deal.

  Maybe she should have listened to her father and applied for a Lieutenant position in the Sacramento County Sheriff's Department. Her father’s closest friend was the Sheriff.

  You really want to be indebted to your father for the rest of your life?

  Even worse than using the Judge’s clout, everyone would know how she got the job.

  Oh, you’re the disgraced daughter of Judge Morgan. He’s a great man. Are you adopted?

  Ha, ha, ha. Funny, boys.

  Her dad was a criminal court judge, respected by both the defense and prosecution. He was fair, honest, and tough. He was also judgmental and rigid about rules and procedures and believed in the letter of the law. She was deeply proud of her dad and all he’d accomplished, especially considering his poverty-stricken background. But she’d never been able to live up to his high standards. She always fell short in some way.

  You had every advantage growing up. Use it.

  Meaning: look at what I’ve done when I started with nothing.

  She didn’t want his favors or protection. She’d thought about leaving Sacramento for another jurisdiction, but where could she go? She’d have to leave the state if she wanted to keep what happened here private; even then, cops talked. It wasn’t like shooting her partner had been a big secret. Didn’t matter that he was a corrupt S.O.B. who shot her first. She’d crossed the invisible line. She’d turned on one of her own. And Tommy Cordell was in prison and she was walking free, something that many of her former colleagues thought was a mistake that should be rectified.

  The truth was, she missed it. She missed the bull pen. She missed her friends. She missed the damn job. All she’d ever wanted was to be a cop. She went to college to please her father—she’d wanted to enroll in the Police Academy right out of high school.

  College first. If you still want to be a cop when you graduate, I’ll support you.

  And he had, without reservation. Because Judge Morgan was a man of his word. Hence, the love him part of her love him/hate him relationship with her dad.

  The door opened and she caught the reflection of the female suit who’d asked her the obnoxious questions. The woman was surprised to see Alex there, opened her mouth to speak, but Alex walked out without a word. She had a temper—it had gotten her into trouble in the past—and the things she wanted to say to that uninformed bitch would have done no good, for Alex or her reputation.

  She bypassed the elevators and pushed open the door leading to the stairs, surprised when it hit the wall with a metal bang-bang. She glanced around to make sure no one had heard her little temper tantrum, then jogged down three flights to the main floor of the five-star hotel across from the California State Capitol.

  The stairwell opened at the end of a wide lobby. Natural sunlight streamed through tinted two-story windows, bathing the pale, contemporary décor in warmth. To her left, a step-down lounge dotted with mauve couches and gray chairs overlooked the pool. A shot of tequila sounded tempting right about now, but she just wanted to go home. Except going home to her small apartment meant sulking, and she wasn’t going to indulge in self-pity.

  Vigorous exercise to sweat out her overwhelming sense of failure and anger might just be the ticket. Running on one of the river trails? Or the track at Sac State? Maybe she should drive to Placerville and tackle rougher terrain.

  She weighed the pros and cons of each venue, irritated that a large group of people stopped her from reaching the main exit. They didn’t seem to be doing anything but blocking her way. She frowned as she surveyed the lobby. A press conference by all appearances, large enough to be for the governor or maybe even the new owner of the Kings basketball team. She hated crowds, both as a person and as a cop. She glanced around looking for another exit, but to get to the parking garage, she had to go through this group, anyway. She should have walked to her interview. It was only a mile, but she hadn’t wanted to be sweaty. February wasn’t supposed to be this hot.

  She’d just have to push through the damn crowd.

  “Excuse me,” she muttered. No one budged. Sh
e assessed the group and the surroundings.

  Once a cop always a cop.

  Most of the people were reporters, with notepads and cameras and recorders. God, she hated reporters. Was that a national reporter? Maybe—she rarely watched any news, especially after she’d been vilified in the press last year. Several people in the crowd were bystanders, either by invite or curiosity. Everyone stood waiting for someone to enter. Men in suits—private security?—framed the main doors. No getting out that way. She moved around toward the back of the crowd, aiming for the far staircase that would take her back upstairs where there was another exit into the parking garage.

  Her subconscious registered something … off … the moment before her eyes caught what was wrong. She scanned the balcony above the foyer and spotted a lone man at the railing. He was watching the crowd. He wore gloves.

  Why is he wearing gloves inside?

  He moved slightly and she saw the briefest flash of metal in his waistband.

  Gun.

  Whoever had done advance for this little shindig had done a piss-poor job. Alex began to push her way through the crowd, planning to alert security and keep the dignitary from entering the lobby. Several people shot her nasty looks and one foul-tongued woman issued a verbal attack as profane as any drug dealer Alex had arrested. Before she got to the front, the group around her began talking all at once and stepped toward the door as if they were a single unit. A television cameraman nearly knocked Alex over.

  Alex followed their lead. The glass doors slid open as two men and a woman entered. The man in the center commanded everyone's attention. Tall, broad-shouldered, with curling dark hair Alex thought was a little too long for a politician, California’s Lieutenant Governor Travis Hart strode in. He raised his right arm in a trademark wave even Alex recognized.