The Quickie

When she sees her husband with another woman, Lina Stillwell's heart nearly stops beating. Their marriage is perfect, she has a great job, she loves her life. But his betrayal turns her into someone she never imagined she could be-a woman lusting for revenge.
It was supposed to be a quickie, a way to even the score. But Lina's night of passion takes a shocking turn when she witnesses an unexpected, unbelievable, deadly crime. Her horrifying secret threatens to tear her life apart pitting her need to uncover the truth against her fear that the truth may be too horrible to bear. And whichever choice she makes could cost her dearly-her job, her marriage, even her life.


1. Prologue nobody really likes surprises. Chapter one.

I knew this was a really terrific idea, I I didn't say so myself, surprising Ryan for lunch at his office down on Pearl Street.
I'd made a special trip into Manhattan and had put on my favorite "little black dress." I looked moderately ravishing. Nothing that would be out of place at the Mark Joseph Steakhouse, and one of Ryan's favorite outfits, too, the one he usually chose if I asked him,"What should I wear to this thing, Ryan?"
Anyway, I was excited, and I'd already spoken to his assistant, Julie, to make sure that he was there-though I hadn't alerted her about he surprise. Julie was Ryan's assistant after all, not mine.
And then, there was Ryan.
As I rounded the corner in my Mini Cooper, I saw him leaving his office building, walking with a twenty-something blonde woman.
Ryan was leaning in very close to her, chatting, laughing in a way that instantly made me feel ill.
She was one of those bright, shiny beauties you're more likely to see in Chicago or Iowa City. Tall, hair like platinum silk. Cream-colored skin that looked just about perfect from this distance. Not a wrinkle or blemish.
She wasn't completely perfect, though. She tripped on a Manolo on a street plate as she and Ryan were getting into a taxi, and as I watched Ryan gallantly caught hold of the pink cashmere on her anorexic elbow, I felt like someone had hammered a cold chisel right into the center of my chest.
I followed them. Well, I guess FOLLOWED is too polite. I stalked them.
All the way up to Midtown, I stayed on that taxi's bumper like we were connected by a tow hook. When the cab suddenly pulled up in front of the entrance to the St. Regis Hotel, on East 55th Street, and Ryan and the woman stepped out smiling, I felt an impulse rush from the lizard part of my twin to my right foot, which was hovering over the accelerator. Then Ryan took her arm. A picture of both of them sandwiched between the Tories hotel's frog steps and the hood of my baby-blue Mini Cooper flashed through my mind.
Then it was gone, and so were they, and I was left sitting there crying to the sound of he honking taxis lined up behind me.
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