Greg Tenorly Suspense Series - Book 4 (novella). Suspense with a touch of romance.
When Greg Tenorly gets an invitation to his dad’s 75th birthday party, Cynthia convinces him to go, and to use the occasion to finally make things right with his estranged father.
But the war of words Greg is dreading becomes the least of his worries after he and his family cross paths with a cold-blooded killer.
--- Excerpt from Chapter 1 ---
“This will be a lot better for both of us if you’ll just settle down and cooperate,” he said. “You’re not gonna get away without giving me what I want. So, you might as well give in now. Just relax and enjoy.”
“Well…okay. Whatever. I’ve done worse guys than you, I guess,” she said calmly.
“I’m sure you have.”
“Let’s just get it over with.” She reached down and began to unbuckle his belt.
“There you go,” he said, easing his grip on her.
“I want to go down where the action is,” she said, slowly dropping to her knees as she unzipped his pants.
“Oh, Baby.” He let his arms fall to his sides.
She pulled his pants and his boxers down to his ankles.
“I knew you were gonna be good,” he said under his breath. He closed his eyes in anticipation.
She jumped to her feet.
He opened his eyes just as she shoved him in the chest with both hands. He tried to catch himself by stepping backwards, but his feet were tangled in his pants. He now realized that she had tied his belt snugly around his ankles. In the split-second that passed as he fell, he remembered the glass-topped coffee table behind him. He wasn’t sure how close he was. But if he landed on top of it and the glass broke, his body could be cut in half. He reached back with both hands to try to break his fall.
Then he realized that his butt was getting close to the floor and had not touched the table. His back had missed the table too. Maybe he would be okay. Then he would untie his feet, catch her and beat her face to a bloody pulp.
But then his head hit the table—like a watermelon that fell out of a shopping cart onto the concrete grocery store floor. Cleanup needed on Aisle Thirteen.
His body lay flat on the plush carpet, except for his head, which was tilted up at a ninety-degree angle, oozing blood down the side of the coffee table.
“Please. Help me,” he gasped. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs.
She said nothing.
“Call 911. Hurry,” he begged, choking.
Sondra’s eyes were cold as steel. “I’m not calling anybody. I’m not your secretary.”
She picked her purse up from the floor and casually walked out. She knew he would be dead before anybody found him. Oh, well, she thought. People get drunk and then they get clumsy. And sometimes they fall down and kill themselves.