Free The Negotiator by Chris Taylor

Stewart’s fucking name. Jack Brady , that’s who he was. Jack Brady, his son.
    He thought of his wife, Tiffany and his other son, Luke and then remembered them as he’d last seen them: Cold and gray and lifeless on matching stainless steel tables. He’d been asked to identify them at the morgue. A stab of familiar pain went through him at the memory. He couldn’t believe they’d gone.
    Okay, he may have told Tiff they were getting a divorce, but it didn’t mean he wanted her dead. It may have made things a little easier, but he’d have paid her whatever she wanted if it meant his son hadn’t died in the same accident…
    He gritted his teeth and forced back the moan of pure anguish. Lukie, poor little Lukie. He’d always hated the dark. Now it surrounded him. It wasn’t fucking right and it sure as hell wasn’t fair.
    Just like his discovery of the other bitch’s deceit.
    Renewed fury gushed through his veins. He had to find Cally Savage. She’d stolen his son. A son who was still breathing. A little older, but a son who could replace the one he’d lost. Steel determination surged through him. He’d find both of them and when he did, he’d make her pay. Of that, he had no doubt.
    * * *
    Nikki Simons stared at the white satin and lace wedding dress that mocked her from the rail inside her closet. The dress was all she’d ever dreamed of: perfect in its utter simplicity, with tiny, hand-sewn pearls. It had cost her most of two pay packets. She’d owned it for more than a month. She’d been so certain Andy would propose to her; that it was only a matter of time.
    They’d been together for twelve months. Long enough to decide they were right for each other. They had so much in common and usually managed to have fun. Okay, so perhaps the sex hadn’t been spectacular, but she’d done all she could. It wasn’t her fault Andy wasn’t into threesomes or that he didn’t want to share.
    She ought to be flattered he wanted her for himself and she had been, most of the time. Every now and then, she’d caught herself wishing he was different, more exciting, more willing to live it on the edge.
    Still, at thirty-five she couldn’t afford to be so picky. She was desperate to have children and her biological clock was winding down. He would have been perfect father material, despite her boredom with him in the bedroom. She’d seen the way he interacted with the children of their work colleagues. She’d seen the yearning on his face. On top of that, he was wealthy, too. What more could she want?
    He’d never shared his childhood with her, but she’d sensed it hadn’t been great. He’d said as much the night he’d broken up with her. She was still annoyed he wouldn’t let her in. Twelve months of her life she’d given him and it had all been for naught. She was back where she started, single, old and afraid.
    She didn’t want to end up alone, dependent upon alcohol and friends to get her through the day. She had a good job and a shapely figure many female workmates envied. She was a good catch, dammit. It was a shame Andy Warwick hadn’t seen it that way.
    Recalling how he’d dumped her, in the back of a taxi, no less, her anger bubbled to the surface. She reached for the bottle of rum that stood on her nightstand and tilted it toward her throat. A mouthful, two and it was empty. She tossed it to the carpet in disgust. It only seemed like moments ago when she’d opened it. Her gaze returned to the wedding dress and fury and disappointment overwhelmed her.
    She staggered to the chest of drawers that stood on the other side of her bedroom and wrenched open the top drawer. Her fingers glanced over a hairbrush, a compact, two lipsticks… She thrust them all aside. With her fingers working more frantically now, she at last gave a triumphant yelp. Taking an unsteady step backwards, she brandished a pair of large scissors in the air.
    Turning on her heel, she stumbled to the closet and took hold of the wedding