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Back The Widow Save as PDF
Chapters (92)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. PART I
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. PART II
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. 77
  82. 78
  83. 79
  84. 80
  85. 81
  86. 82
  87. 83
  88. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  89. MORE FROM VALERIE KEOGH
  90. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  91. The Murder List
  92. About Boldwood Books

A drunken roar from the dance floor drew their attention. Allison felt the heat of his hand on her elbow. She should pull away, glare at him for taking liberties, but she wanted him to stay, to keep his hand exactly where it was. It was times like this she wished for a Cyrano to slip her the right words, a quick, sassy comment to make this incredibly handsome man look at her in admiration. Be enthralled by her. Want to stay.

By the time the noise level had dropped again, she hadn’t thought of anything better to say than a very lame, and not very complimentary, ‘Why on earth would you want to gate crash this party?’ She pulled her arm away from his hand. The patch of skin he’d touched was instantly chilled; she rubbed her hand over it. It was time to leave. This man… with his well-cut suit, a glint of gold in the cuffs of his shirt, his tie undone just enough… he was out of her league. Previous boyfriends, and there had been many, had been those who, like her, lurked on the edges of whatever was going on. This man belonged centre stage.

‘I was in the bar downstairs with some work colleagues when I saw you come in.’ He reached forward and before she could stop him, he’d gathered a fold of her dress in his hand. ‘You stood out in this amidst all the dull suits and black dresses.’ He dropped the material and raised his hand to her hair. ‘Your hair caught the light. I was curious about you, so I followed.’

She wanted to laugh, to dismiss him as an opportunist, a scam artist, one of those men who preyed on desperate or vulnerable women. Perhaps she would have done, if he hadn’t taken her hand and looked into her eyes with such intensity, she felt weak. She’d sneered at women who fell for such obvious tricks. How desperate they must have been.

‘Why don’t we get out of here and go somewhere we can talk?’

She wasn’t desperate, or vulnerable, she was an intelligent, mature woman who had no desire to become a statistic, but when he reached for her hand, she laid hers in his and went with him like a lamb to the sacrificial altar.

4

I learnt to read when I was very young and quickly discovered a fantasy world where everything was bright and cheerful. Where children were loved and cosseted by adoring parents. I would read the words, greedy for this imaginary world, reluctant to leave it, rereading my favourite stories, finishing the last page, turning immediately to the first page again, reliving a life so unlike mine.