Saving Brielle Read online

  Saving Brielle

  A Love’s Defender Romantic Suspense Novel - Book 1

  Faith Hart

  2 Of Harts Publishing

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Saving Brielle

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Epilogue

  Minding Mari: Love’s Defender – Book Two

  Also by Faith Hart

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Copyright © 2021 by Faith Hart

  Library of Congress Control Number: PENDING

  ISBN: E-Book 978-1-952008-20-7

  Softcover 978-1-952008-53-5

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  * * *

  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 any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Custom Cover Design commissioned for Faith Hart by Rocking Book Covers

  To my readers, who I hope enjoy the journey of reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

  * * *

  With Affection,

  Faith Hart

  Author’s Note

  Faith Hart's books are contemporary romance stories and contain some profanity and sensual scenes that may not be suitable for sensitive readers.

  Saving Brielle

  Love’s Defenders – Book One

  Brielle Cerver - The consummate career woman who has purposely put work first to avoid any further risk of heartbreak. But when a disturbing turn of events threatens both her livelihood and her safety, she finds herself inexplicably drawn to the man hired to protect her.

  * * *

  Allen Jones – The handsome security consultant who, after a devastating loss, has also made work his life’s passion – until he meets Brielle and discovers his priorities have shifted.

  * * *

  Can they move past their tragic histories to build a lasting love together? And can Allen find and stop Brielle's stalker before he exacts the ultimate revenge?

  Chapter 1

  Brielle

  “I seriously do not have enough wine stocked up to deal with this right now,” I mutter under my breath as I wait for the seller’s realtor to come back on the line.

  There has been a snag – again – with the closing schedule, and my buyers have officially moved past irritated into upset. When they called on my drive home, I had done my best to soothe their frazzled nerves, promising not to rest until this latest (and hopefully final) hurdle to home ownership was cleared.

  Now I am sitting behind my desk in my home office instead of in my garden tub, where I long to be, because the seller’s agent has… misrepresented some things.

  That’s putting it mildly, my sarcastic wit observes.

  I have earned a stellar reputation as one of the best realtors in the state of Texas - and with good reason. I’ve spent the last twelve years making sure my clients are treated like family; I have chosen to focus on quality of service over quantity of closings, and as a result have not had to advertise in a long time. Every single client I have worked with in at least the past five years has been a referral from a previous one.

  So, when I find myself tending to clients who become unduly stressed due to someone else’s negligence – or greed, or just stupidity, this one could really go several different ways – it angers me to my core.

  “Ms. Cerver?” the young woman says, a tremor in her voice, and I instinctively know.

  Not malicious, a rookie mistake.

  “I’m so sorry… you’re absolutely right. I transposed a really important number.”

  “And you’ll be correcting and resubmitting to the title company?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it will be in their hands in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Miss Carmichael. If you would be so kind as to also email me a copy of the correction for my clients, that would be most helpful.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll send it to you in the next few minutes.”

  I gracefully disconnect the call and sigh.

  An hour and three calls later, I sink gratefully into my garden tub at last with a glass of chilled Moscato in hand, willing away the remnants of another long day on my feet.

  Stupid high heels… those things are straight from the devil… why couldn't I have chosen a career that allows for tennis shoes?

  Down the hall I can hear my cell phone chirping, and I sigh again.

  Gonna have to keep, I decide. It can wait thirty minutes, whatever it is.

  I sip and soak until the water is lukewarm, then pull the plug and step out of the bath, feeling loose and sleepy. I towel off, wrap up in my favorite robe, and pad on bare feet back through the living room toward the kitchen to put together a light meal.

  Four new voicemail notifications greet me when I glance at my phone, and I reluctantly pick it up to listen to them while I pull together ingredients for a chef salad.

  The first three are benign. Clients who had called to say thank you or ask a question.

  The fourth is anything but.

  For several seconds there is only a rough and raspy breathing, followed by a growled three-word message that somehow manages to both anger me and chill me to my core.

  Miss me yet?

  I immediately check the call log, fighting back a shudder when I see it. All the numbers but one pop up on the display, and I can clearly see that each of those calls had been forwarded from my office across town to my cell phone.

  The lone standout that reads ‘unavailable’ makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. My personal cell phone number is not publicly available. Only trusted friends have direct access to me that way. For my clients, routing calls through my office to my cell phone is my standard protocol. I have always tried to be very diligent about maintaining a bu
ffer between personal and professional, even more so lately since a good friend and fellow realtor was assaulted in a vacant property a few years ago by an infatuated acquaintance.

  So how the hell did someone get my number?

  Although I really do not want to, I listen to the message again, eyes closed, straining to hear any familiarity in the deep, snarling tone.

  Please God, not him. Please God, not him…

  But try as I might, I cannot place the voice at all, and with relief I release the breath I did not even realize I'd been holding in.

  “It’s a wrong number, or a prank call,” I mutter with conviction, and steeling my nerves, I delete the disturbing voicemail and return to preparing my salad.

  That accomplished, I refill my wineglass, pick up my bowl of salad, and move to the couch to flip channels while I eat.

  But in the back of my mind, I replay the mysterious caller’s message repeatedly.

  "Stop it," I chide myself. "That message wasn't meant for you. It was a misdial. Let it go."

  By the time I place my empty bowl and wineglass in the dishwasher and head for bed, I have managed to convince myself that it was a fluke.

  Chapter 2

  Allen

  “Why are you still here?” I ask as I pause and lean against my best friend and business partner’s open doorway.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Grant replies with a grin. “What time is it, exactly?”

  “Almost seven-thirty.”

  “Explains why I’m hungry,” he quips. “I’m about to head out. What about you?”

  “Another half-hour, tops,” I reply.

  “Careful,” he says as he logs off his computer. “I’m beginning to think you ought to just move in here and save a rent payment.”

  “Partly your fault, you know,” I shoot back with a grin. “This place has everything but a shower.”

  “Hey, I like happy employees. Happy employees are loyal employees – and productive,” he reminds me.

  “True. And we spend so much time here that it is just as well we have all the bells and whistles,” I agree. “Or most of them, anyway. See you tomorrow.”

  I wander back down the hall to my office, Grant’s chuckle still lingering in my ears.

  But I was not kidding, I acknowledge. We have made it a point to make this place an extremely attractive work environment, and it has paid off. We have one hell of a team here. Every single one of them is loyal and enthusiastic about the company’s success.

  In fact, we have such a good team in place that I think it is time to tell Grant I am leaving.

  I just hope he understands.

  A half-hour later I am heading to the parking garage to return to the apartment I hate. For a while, I had no strong feelings one way or another; it had just been a place to crash for a few hours when I wasn’t at work.

  But with new neighbors to my left that yell and scream at each other constantly, and a family to my right with a brand-new and colicky baby, sleep has been next to impossible lately.

  Really need to just buckle down and buy a house somewhere, I admit as I start my truck. But since I am not sure I’m even going to stay in Austin, there’s no point in looking yet.

  The drive home is uneventful, which is lucky, because Fight-Night Couple, as I have dubbed them, are already in full swing, which means unsolicited drama for anyone within earshot to endure. I can hear them the moment I pull into my designated parking space in front of my second-story apartment.

  “Gonna be a long night,” I mumble to myself as I walk up the stairs to my front door.

  I let myself in, throw my keys on the kitchen counter, and grab a paper plate to dump my drive-through burger and fries out onto before moving to the sofa and picking up the remote control.

  One round through the channels convinces me that throwing myself into a TV show with my headphones on is not a viable option. I sigh and move to my computer table instead. I slide my earbuds into place, then smile as the opening notes from Avenged Sevenfold’s Nightmare album kick in to drown out Fight-Night Couple.

  “That’s more like it,” I say, grinning, as I take a bite of my bacon cheeseburger, then open my email account and begin to type.

  I work and hum along to the music for an hour, and when I stand and remove my earbuds, I am pleasantly surprised to realize that the noisy couple next door opted to call it a draw early.

  “Things are looking up,” I observe wryly as I throw my paper plate away then head to the bedroom. A quick shower precedes my pulling on pajama bottoms and crawling into my king-sized bed.

  I have just about drifted off to sleep when the Johnson’s newborn begins to wail, and I can’t stop myself from laughing softly at the irony even as I grab the spare pillow and put it over my head to help muffle the noise.

  No matter what else happens, I have got to find another place to live.

  Chapter 3

  Brielle

  After a deep sleep with no dreams that I can remember, I wake breathing heavily, exhausted to the bone, and covered in a thin but cloying layer of sweat. I immediately stretch my right hand out to tap the button on my alarm clock, silencing the aggressive, noisy peal that threatens to lead off my long day by conjuring a headache.

  Why am I so tired? It's not like I was up late…

  A glance down at my tangled sheets provides a clue.

  Huh. Must not have slept as peacefully as I thought.

  I throw back the twisted cotton, swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up, rubbing my eyes as I yawn. I have never been that much of a morning person, and still find it hard to believe I chose a profession that many times calls for being not just awake, but functional, before ten a.m.

  Chuckling to myself at the familiar battle in my brain - Six o'clock. Seriously? Is the sun even up yet? - I make myself stand up and stumble toward the bathroom for a quick shower.

  "If people only knew what it costs me to set eight o'clock appointments," I grumble under my breath, then yawn again as I turn the handle and wait for the water to come up to an acceptable temperature.

  The cool dampness of my skin reminds me I had been sweating when I woke. I frown at myself in my bathroom mirror as I quickly brush out the tangles in my shoulder-length brown hair.

  They said I would probably hit menopause quickly after my hysterectomy, but that was years ago… lucky it took this long, I guess. I need to remember to ask Dr. Adranis if there is anything that can help with night sweats at my next appointment.

  My frown deepens when the memories of why the surgery had even been necessary threaten to surface, and I tamp them down.

  Hard.

  Nope. Not today, I tell myself firmly, and make myself concentrate instead on getting rid of every tangle.

  A faint ripple of movement in the mirror catches my attention, and I notice a small cloud of steam rising from the open top of the glass-walled shower behind me.

  Finally. It's taking longer and longer for the water to get hot. Note to self - may be time for a new water heater. Sigh. Another addition to my 'fixer-upper-when-I-have-time' list…

  Turning, I close the distance to the shower. I slide open the glass door, step in, and slide the door closed again, reveling in the warmth that immediately wraps around me like a blanket. Putting my back to the showerhead, I tilt my head back and wet my hair thoroughly before pumping shampoo from the dispenser into my hand and lathering it into my hair. The familiar fragrance of vanilla soothes my semi-sleepy awareness, dragging me softly and gradually toward fully awake.

  By the time I rinse out the shampoo, replace it with equally fantastic-smelling leave-in conditioner, and reach for my loofah and body soap, my brain has snapped to attention and is racing down the list of the day's tasks.

  Let's see… meet the Millers at eight at the Esters property for the first of four showings. Two conference calls - or was it three? I need to check that - followed by the open house on Prescott Avenue from noon to two today. Then two closings. Oh, and I
need to follow up with Anne at some point today about the bidding war on that warehouse...

  The frown I had worn earlier returns as I step out of the shower and towel off, then blow-dry my hair before I twist it upward into a sleek chignon.

  The warehouse property has me puzzled. While its location is decent - at the edge of a well-established and high-traffic industrial complex - I personally do not think it's worth the extreme attention the site has garnered of late. What started off being a relatively easy set of circumstances veered into complication overnight. My client and at least one other party that I am aware of are fighting to claim that location as their own.