Praise for Laura Griffin’s 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
‘An emotional, exciting page-turner. Griffin deftly balances the mystery and the love story’ The Washington Post
‘Combines sizzling attraction with terrifying suspense’ The Amazon Book Review
‘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 delicious read that will thrill her devoted fans and earn her legions more’ Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author
‘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
‘Great lead characters and a spooky atmosphere make this a spine-tingling, stand-out novel of romantic suspense’ BookPage
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/
Laura Griffin
Desperate Girls
For Lauren
CHAPTER ONE
KIRA VANCE gripped the steering wheel and navigated the slick streets. The summer downpour had come out of nowhere, catching her off guard. She’d wanted to make a good impression, and now she was going to arrive not just late but soaking wet in a white T-shirt that was nearly transparent.
Water dripped onto her shoulder as she reached a stoplight, and she glared up at her leaky sunroof. There was no denying it—she needed a new car. Her little Celica had six-digit mileage and a bad transmission, but she refused to trade it in. She couldn’t afford an upgrade, and the car had been with her through so many ups and downs she was sentimental about it.
The phone chimed on the seat beside her, but she ignored it because it was Ollie, her shrewd, rude, and sometimes infuriating boss. She didn’t want to talk to him on the phone. She needed a face-to-face.
As Kira skidded away from the intersection, her car’s engine warning light flashed on.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered.
She’d just had it in for an oil change, and the guy had said he’d checked everything.
But people lied. Often. If they didn’t, she’d be out of a job.
Kira’s work was a search for the truth—the good, the bad, and the ugly. She dug up the facts and let the lawyers deal with them in court. Or not. Sometimes her discoveries meant a witness wouldn’t be called to testify. Or the defense team would develop a new strategy. Sometimes her discoveries poked big fat holes in the case of a zealous prosecutor.
The truth cut both ways, and that’s what she liked about it. Finding that truth gave her a heady rush that made up for the downsides of PI work, such as dealing with cheating spouses and deadbeat dads and insurance scams. Those were the cases that made her pissed off and cynical.
Another thing that pissed her off? Unpaid invoices. Ollie was three weeks behind on a big one, and he was the master of the dodge, which was one reason she’d decided to track him down in person tonight to deliver her news.
Kira reached the street that turned into River Oaks, where stately houses sat far back on manicured lawns. The thunderstorm had brought an early evening, and the thick St. Augustine grass looked almost neon green in the eerie light.
Cars lined both sides of the street. Someone down the block was having a party, apparently, which seemed odd for a Tuesday. A red Jaguar glided up to the curb ahead, and a valet sprang out and sprinted past her.
Kira spotted Ollie’s no-nonsense Ford parked at the base of a steep driveway. She wedged her car between a pair of Mercedes SUVs and cut the engine as she looked around.
This was it. Mount Logan. Named for Brock Logan, managing partner at the law firm that had hired Ollie to investigate its big cases. Kira had thought the name was a reference to Brock Logan’s oversize ego, but she saw now that she’d been wrong, at least partially. The house perched atop a hill on a large corner lot, elevated above the other mansions in Houston’s most exclusive neighborhood.
Kira had never set foot inside a River Oaks home, and her curiosity was mixed with professional ambition. Besides confronting Ollie, she was here to do some business development. It was high time for her to meet Ollie’s big-fish client, who’d been keeping her in Ramen noodles and Netflix these past three years. She’d never met the man because Ollie liked her to stay behind the scenes. But those days were over.
Kira grabbed her files and glanced in the rearview mirror. This extreme humidity was not her friend. Her mascara was smudged, and her long dark hair was a frizzy mess. She smoothed her hair down and swiped on some red lipstick. Nothing she could do about her damp skinny jeans, but she grabbed her tailored black blazer from the back seat, hoping to hide the wet-T-shirt look she had going on. After trading her cheap flip-flops for strappy black sandals, she pushed open the door with a squeak.
The torrent had let up, but it was drizzling as another valet ran past her. Not far behind him was a plodding jogger in a soaked gray hoodie. Kira waited for him to pass and then crossed the street to Logan’s house.
The homes here sat on huge lots, and each seemed to have its own theme. To Logan’s left was a Mississippi Plantation with tall white columns. To his right was a Stuffy New England Brick with a steep roof, no doubt to accommodate Houston’s frequent snowstorms. Logan’s house fell squarely into the Tacky California category, a sprawling mass of yellow adobe with a red-tiled roof. Tall palm trees surrounded it, towering obnoxiously over the neighborhood’s namesake oaks.
The air smelled of rain and fresh-cut grass as Kira trekked up the stone path. She passed through a pair of concrete lions into a courtyard, where she faced an imposing carved wooden door.
This was it. Brock Logan. She had to nail this meeting. She took a rubber band from her pocket, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and hoped for the best as she squared her shoulders and rang the bell.