Olivia Sinclair, Book One
Sunday October 5
When the alarm blared the Sunday financial recap, the woman woke with a start. She didn’t care about the Dow Jones Industrial Average, nor did she care about market volatility. Fumbling, she unplugged the old-fashioned clock radio and tossed it under the bed. Her thoughts, as they often did, went to her lover. She rolled over and pressed her face into his pillow, taking in the scent of him, that strange concoction of vanilla and citrus that made her senses reel.
Rolling over on her back, she took a deep breath, and cradled her belly, thinking of the baby that grew inside her. The positive pregnancy test lay on the table next to her, its vertical pink line a source of unimaginable joy. She snuggled under the duvet as the automatic coffeemaker kicked into gear, filling her apartment with the aroma of the dark roast coffee her lover preferred.
She saw the card on the doormat just as she poured her first cup of coffee.
I’ve rented a beach house for us tonight. I’ll send a key and the address by messenger. Meet you there around ten?
Leaning back against the counter, the woman closed her eyes, anticipating their rendezvous. Dear God, she craved him.
She did not know she had less than fifteen hours to live.