Secret Love Read online

  Secret Love

  Tabatha Drake

  Contents

  Reading Order

  Prologue

  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

  Books by Tabatha Drake

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Reading Order

  While the Killer Love saga follows multiple couples, the books should not be considered stand-alone and are meant to be read in order of release.

  Reading Order

  1. Killer Love

  2. Secret Love

  Coming Soon…

  3. Tainted Love

  4. Broken Love

  5. Mad Love

  6. Cruel Love

  7. Endless Love

  Prologue

  Dani

  What would Fox do?

  I ask myself again as I stare down the barrel of a gun. If Fox were here now, what would he do? Would he stand and fight? Would he grab the rifle and hope the agent holding it isn’t too trigger happy?

  Would he raise his hands and surrender, willing to fight another day?

  In the end, I do nothing. I lie still with tears and smoke in my eyes. There’s blood on my hands, but I’m not sure if it’s mine. I feel pain. I hear Sofia screaming. I see Lucy punch a man in the jaw, but another agent comes in behind her and quickly overpowers her.

  I wonder where it all went wrong. I wonder if I could have done something to stop this from happening.

  Snake Eyes.

  That’s where it all went wrong.

  The rifle barrel digs into my cheek. “On your knees!” the agent shouts at me, his voice muffled through a black mask.

  I look up into his eyes. They’re brownish-black and eager, almost like he enjoys this. I wonder where he came from and who he used to be before he was recruited. What sort of life did he leave behind? Did he have a family? Friends? A lover?

  “I said, get up!”

  Somehow, I roll over and push off the floor. My white dress catches beneath my knees as I try to stand.

  The agent lunges at me and impatiently yanks me up onto my feet. “Move,” he says, digging the rifle into my side.

  I march forward. I raise my hands and surrender, but I know deep down that there will be no fighting this another day. I look around the ravaged casino floor through a veil of tears. Painful dread takes over my heart and there’s nothing I can do about it this time.

  No. This isn’t Snake Eyes’ fault.

  It’s mine.

  I fell in love with Fox Fitzpatrick.

  That’s where it all went wrong.

  Chapter 1

  Fox

  “Fox, this is Dani,” my mother says with a smile. “She’s Bennett’s daughter.”

  I don’t care.

  Ever since my mother moved the two of us to Los Angeles a week ago, it’s been one introduction after another. Her new boss. My new school. Our new house.

  And now, her new boss’ daughter.

  Still could not care less.

  The girl stares at me with a fake smile. Her blonde hair sits curled up on top of her head in a long braid, leaving the tight neckline of her purple dress exposed. Honestly, who wears purple to a Christmas party? California brats like her, I guess.

  My mother nudges my ribs and I straighten up.

  “Hey,” I say in greeting.

  Dani nods. “Hey.”

  “Dani goes to your new school,” my mother says. “I’m sure she won’t mind showing you around once classes start again.”

  “Of course!” Dani says, still fake smiling at me. “I’d be happy to. Are you a freshman, too?”

  “Sophomore,” I mutter.

  “Do you have your schedule yet?”

  “Yeah.”

  When I say nothing more, she turns to my mother instead.

  “How do you like the new job, Cora?”

  “Oh, I adore it!” my mother answers. “Your dad is so much fun to work with and the talent coming in and out of his office—” She squeals happily. “Well, you know. You’re probably used to huge stars wandering around your house.” She gestures around the tall, crowded foyer. “I mean, just look at this place!”

  Dani laughs. “A little bit, yeah. My dad hasn’t stopped talking about you since you joined his team. He seems really happy with your work.”

  My mother blushes. “Well, that’s good to know. Oh, Dani, while I have you here…” She quickly glances around and reaches into her tote bag for the red box with a silver ribbon. “I got you something. Merry Christmas.”

  Dani gasps. “Oh, you didn’t have to…”

  “I know your dad said no gifts, but I couldn’t help myself. Fox and I are both very, very thankful to him for this opportunity.”

  Yeah, sure we are.

  Dani discreetly takes the box with a grin. “Well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?”

  My mother chuckles. “Go on and open it before he comes back.”

  Dani nods and pulls the ribbon loose. She slides the lid off, revealing a red and white scarf inside. It’s thick, bushy, and ugly as sin. Fortunately, Little Miss Perfect here seems to have picked up a few acting lessons from her Hollywood agent father over the years and manages to hide her disdain of it.

  She lets out a gasp and smiles. “Cora, I love it!” she says, leaving the scarf in the box.

  “You do?” my mother asks, playfully cringing. “I don’t know you all that well yet, so I wasn’t sure on your style…”

  “No, no. It’s perfect. Thank you so much.”

  Liar.

  “I’m so glad!” My mother turns and spots someone through the crowd. “Excuse me, Dani, I need to go run something by Ted over there.” Her gaze points at me, brows teeming with a silent urge. “Fox, how about you ask Dani about your new school?”

  I bite down hard. I’d much rather hitch the next ride back up to Seattle instead.

  “Sure,” I say.

  She gives my shoulder a quick, yet firm, squeeze before wandering off to chat up Ted.

  I look at Dani and she silently shifts on her feet. She sticks the lid back on the box and we sink into an awkward silence as the party hums around us.

  So, this is Dani Roberts, huh? Hollywood’s next best thing. According to her father, anyway…

  I don’t see what all the fuss is about myself.

  I look at the box in her hands. “You hate it,” I say.

  Dani flinches. “What?”

  “The scarf,” I say. “You hate it. It’s obvious.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  I scoff. “Come on. We both know that thing is going in the back of your closet and will never see the light of day ever again. Might as well just toss it in the damn trash can right now.”

  She shakes her head o
nce. “That’s not true.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Prove it.”

  Dani opens the box again and scoops the scarf out. With a trained hand, she flings it around her neck, letting the ends hang down on either side of her. The white and red colors clash horribly with her purple dress, but the fashion faux pas clearly doesn’t affect her very much.

  She drops the empty box in my hands and walks off into the crowd.

  Okay. Maybe I was a little quick to judge her.

  Dani would wear that thing for the rest of the night.

  She’d wear it to next year’s party, too. And the year after that.

  She’d wear it every year until the day I died.

  Chapter 2

  Fox

  Eight Years Later

  “Hello? You still alive in there?”

  The bar is vibrant with activity, mostly students from the local university blowing off steam. It’s an easy place to blend into and the constant flood of people make it so the young woman across from me doesn’t get the wrong idea.

  I look at her and nod. “Barely,” I answer.

  Darla leans forward with her elbows propped on the table between us and studies me with narrow, inquisitive eyes. They wander my face, my arms, my shirt, anything that’s visible. After all this time, she’s still trying to figure me out. Can’t say I blame her, though. I’ve been paying her for this for a few months now and all she’s gotten out of me is a few free drinks and surface-level conversation. Not her usual clientele, I’m sure.

  “Why do you always request me?” she asks with her high-pitched voice.

  “You don’t have other regulars?” I ask, deflecting the question.

  “Oh, I do…” She glances around the bar for prying ears. “Most of them request me because I look like her and they always wanted to fuck a movie star.”

  I nudge the condensation on my glass. “Her?” I ask.

  “You know. Her.” She giggles. “Roxie Roberts.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  She slaps the table. “Oh, come on. Roxie Roberts. The girl from those Night Trials movies. Backseat Driver. Before the Storm. You know her. You have to know her.”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “Everybody knows her.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “She looks like… well, this.” She sits back and frames her own face, gesturing extravagantly.

  I let my eyes follow her fingers, traveling from the swooping neckline on her top to the golden crown of her head. Long, blonde hair. A slight curve to her hip. Thin, cherry-red lips that stretch out wide when she smiles. Bright, blue eyes and dimpled cheeks.

  She’s not wrong. She does resemble Roxie Roberts, other than her voice.

  I scratch an itch in my beard. “Well, if that’s true, I bet you make some good money off those suckers,” I say.

  “You bet your ass,” she says. “It’s kind of a pain, though. I have to stalk the tabloids to make sure I stay up with her looks or else I lose clients. She went red for like a month last year and my boss got so many complaints when I didn’t dye my hair quick enough to match hers.”

  I shrug. “Every job has its drawbacks.”

  “So…” She leans forward again, arms folded on the table. “If you have no idea who Roxie Roberts is, then why do you request me every time?”

  “I like consistency.”

  Her eye twitches with the slightest annoyance. “Why do you pay for this?”

  “You’d prefer it if I didn’t pay you?”

  “Why does an attractive guy like you need to pay a woman like me to come out once a week and talk to him? There’s no way you can’t just walk up to the bar right now and chat up any woman you want. You’d probably actually get laid, too.”

  Good question.

  “Too much effort,” I say.

  “Bullshit.” She smirks. “I bet you have some narcissistic drive. Like a grandiose sense of self-importance with an extreme inability to recognize the feelings and needs of others.”

  I raise a brow. “Not bad.”

  “Really?” Her face lights up. “I knew I’d figure you out. I’m only a year into my degree and I’m already really good at it.”

  “What degree?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You’re dodging my questions.”

  “You’re not entitled to answers.”

  She sits back and huffs. “Okay, fine. You’re right. I’m not. It’s just weird, that’s all. And intriguing.”

  “Intriguing?” I repeat.

  “Yes, you intrigue me.” She gestures across the table. “You’re obviously in great shape, so it’s not like you don’t want to fuck me because you’re self-conscious. We’ve talked for hours, but you’ve never really said anything about who you are or where you came from. It’s like you’re running from something, but I don’t feel unsafe around you. Sometimes, I even think, ‘Wow, he might actually like me,’ and yet, you won’t even tell me your name.”

  “You know my name.”

  “Your name is not Channing Tatum.”

  I smirk. “It could be.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Look, I get it. You’re the walking personification of the tall, dark, and handsome stranger and you obviously like it that way.” Her shoulders bounce in defeat. “I guess it would be easier to hate you if you were more of an asshole to me.”

  I reach into my back pocket for my wallet and pull out a small stack of twenty-dollar bills. “Sorry,” I say as I fold it up and set it on the table in front of her. “I’m not that kind of guy.”

  Darla eyes the money but doesn’t take it. “And you always pay cash, so I can’t trace your payment.”

  I breathe a small laugh, drink the last sip of my beer, and stand up. “Goodnight.”

  “Wait.” She turns in her chair toward me. “One more question. I promise it’ll be the last time I ever ask.”

  I pause. “What?”

  “Why do you really request me every time? Do I remind you of someone?” She chews on her lip. “You know, someone other than a glamorous movie star?”

  “No,” I lie. “Like I said. Consistency.”

  Her eyes narrow, not believing a word of it as she grabs the money off the table. She reaches into her purse and withdraws a pen, quickly scribbling something on the top dollar before holding it all out for me to take back.

  “Well, whoever she is,” she says, “I hope you two are happy someday.”

  I take the money and turn it over to read what she wrote.

  Her phone number.

  “If all you wanted was a friend, Channing,” she says, her voice calm and warm, “then, it’s a whole lot cheaper than this. You just have to let someone in.”

  I place the money back into her open palm. “That costs a lot more than you think,” I say before I turn and walk away from the table.

  She cringes, obviously hurt by the rejection, but I catch her shoving the money into her purse as I exit the bar.

  Sorry, Darla. It’s not you. Letting people in is just something I don’t do anymore.

  Roxie Roberts. Of course, I know who she is. Everyone has a movie star they’re head over heels in love with. Mine is Roxie Roberts. Every guy wants to date her. Every girl wants to be her best friend. They wait in line to see every one of her movies. They cry with her when she wins her awards because she’s just so darn relatable, it makes them believe that one day they could be in her shoes. She’s the perfect role model for young girls, a walking billboard of body positivity and confidence. The perfect storm of talent and beauty.

  I knew her before the fashion and fame.

  Before all that crap, she was Dani.

  Beautiful, off-limits Dani Roberts. The girl down the hall.

  It’s been five years since I’ve seen her. I’d love to go home and see her face again, but that situation is about as complicated as it can get. Some light conversation with a look-a-like once
a week was my attempt at dealing with it.

  In retrospect, not my greatest idea.

  I climb into my car and drive away from the bar, leaving Iowa City behind me. I rarely enter the city at all anymore. I travel in about once a week for groceries or to run an errand for Mrs. Clark on the days when her hip is acting up on her. I suppose I’ll have to limit my trips in to see Darla now, too. It’s not personal. I do actually enjoy our conversations, but she’s getting too attached.

  I turn off onto a dirt road and flick my brights on. Mrs. Clark has lived on this land for nearly fifty years. I know this because it’s always the first thing she mentions at the start of every story involving her and her late husband, Larry. He died in his sleep early last year. That’s how I met her. She wanted to upgrade the guest cabin and rent it out to help pay taxes on the land. I offered to do both, along with help her with maintenance on the main house, and I’ve lived out here ever since. It’s quiet, secluded, and completely off-the-grid, which is exactly what I was desperate for about six months ago.

  The farmhouse comes into view along with Mrs. Barbara Clark herself. She glides back and forth in the rocking chair Larry built for her with his bare hands. She raises a pale salute and waves at me while I park near the cabin across the driveway.

  Her husky dog, Sammy, stands up as I approach. The ever-watchful protector. His lips part and he growls at me.