Taken by Storm
Chapter 1
Simone Whitfield got up at the same time every day regardless of the season. This morning, rather than prepare to work in the greenhouses on her property, she readied herself to go to a nearby park. She’d waited months for spring and the return of warmer weather to resume jogging.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror over the bathroom vanity, she pul ed a large-tooth comb through her hair, securing it off her face in an elastic band. It’d been years since she’d worn her hair off her shoulders, but had been reluctant to cut it because her ex-husband said he liked long hair. Their on-again, off-again relationship from high school sweethearts, to marriage, divorce and a failed reconciliation spanned sixteen years, and Anthony Kendrick no longer had a place in her life.
Now at thirty-three, she’d moved on and had no intention of ever looking back. She’d given Tony more chances than he deserved to get his act together and his last plea of just one more time had fal en on deaf ears. Besides, she had other things on which to concentrate. She was involved in running her own floral business, Wildflowers and Other Treasures, while planning her sister’s wedding that was only seven weeks away.
Simone couldn’t believe her very staid younger sister was planning to marry. Tessa Whitfield, the preeminent wedding planner for Signature Bridals and Event Planners, Inc., and who’d coordinated countless weddings, was now going to be a Signature bride.
A week before Simone had been maid of honor for her cousin Faith Whitfield-McMil an, who’d just returned from honeymooning with her husband, Ethan. Beautiful, elegant Faith had eloped over the Valentine’s Day weekend after a two-month whirlwind courtship; then two and a half months later, she and Ethan repeated their vows for friends and family members in a church ceremony.
Faith had invited her, Tessa and Micah Sanborn, Tessa’s fiancé, to her Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey home for dinner Saturday evening, and she looked forward to sharing the smal , intimate gathering with family members.
Flicking off the bathroom light, she walked into the adjoining bedroom and scooped up a set of keys and a cel phone off the dresser. Simone left her bedroom and took the staircase downstairs to an area of the large farmhouse where
she’d
set
up
a
laundry
room
and
workshop/mudroom. Sitting on a wooden bench, she slipped her sock-covered feet into a pair of running shoes.
At the last minute, she decided to take a smal canister of pepper spray. Coyote sightings in several Westchester County communities had prompted her to purchase the spray, which she prayed she’d never have to use. Putting on a hooded sweatshirt, she pushed the spray, cel phone and keys into the deep pockets. Depressing a button on the keypad on a wal , she activated the property’s security system and stepped out into the warm, spring morning.
The panoramic view from the two-story house with a wraparound porch that overlooked the Hudson River was why Simone had decided to purchase the foreclosed, three-acre dilapidated property for a fraction of its worth.
It’d taken more than seven years and an incalculable amount of money for her to restore the century-old house and surrounding landscape to its original beauty.
She set off down the hil at a brisk walk toward a wooded area that led into a park with a track, tennis and basketbal courts and a basebal diamond. A layer of moisture had dotted her body under the sweatpants and hoodie as she increased her pace along the narrow, paved path.
The sound of footsteps behind her prompted Simone to glance over her shoulder. She recognized the tal , slender man with salt-and-pepper hair. “Good morning, Judge Fischer.”
“Good morning, Simone,” he said, breathing heavily as he joined her, their rubber-soled feet keeping pace.
The greeting was barely out of his mouth when a large form sprang from a copse of trees. Within seconds, Mitchel Fischer’s throat was caught in a savage grip. Early morning sunlight glinted off a shiny object as it came down once, then again.
Simone couldn’t move or scream; she stood stunned as she watched the horrific scene. Fear held her in a stranglehold until the limp body of her neighbor crumpled to the ground and his assailant turned toward her. Reacting on instinct, she reached into her pocket and took out the pepper spray. Her gaze locked on a pair of glittering gold eyes before she noticed the large tattoo on the back of his right hand. The blade of the knife he’d used to stab Judge Fischer was covered with blood. Pressing the red button on the canister of pepper spray, she aimed it directly at the man’s face. There came a high-pitched scream fol owed by a gurgling sound. The knife fel to the ground as he stumbled around blindly before fal ing into the underbrush.