A Date With Fate Read online

  A Date With Fate

  The Adventures of Anabel Axelrod [1]

  Tracy Ellen

  TracyEllen (2012)

  * * *

  Rating: *****

  (Adult Content)

  Meet Anabel Axelrod… She’s twenty eight, owns a bookstore, and is one determined, control freak of a woman. She’s decided to take the entire weekend off to have some fun.…

  Except her unapologetically single and perfectly uncomplicated life is suddenly upside down with problems!

  Her family is meddling in her personal business

  The cheating love of her life is back in town

  An adulterous wife of a good friend has gone missing

  She’s been targeted for death by a homicidal serial rapist

  An evil aunt has gone fanatic

  Her sociopathic cousin has stolen her gun

  The macho police chief is driving her nuts

  and one not-too-tall, deliciously dark, and definitely not handsome stranger is enticing her to break all her ironclad rules on dating in the most intriguing of ways.

  Strange things are happening in Northfield, Minnesota. But Anabel’s never met the challenge she won’t stare in the eye while daintily spitting sideways in the dirt.

  Will Anabel begin to believe that life is never simple, some rules are meant to be broken, and a certain mesmerizing complication may be worth the trouble--even if it kills her?

  A Date with Fate

  The Adventures of Anabel Axelrod

  by

  Tracy Ellen

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, locations, and events portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author is not a spokesperson or receiving endorsements for any products or titles mentioned in this book at the time of publication. Nothing written reflects any opinions or descriptions other than the author’s for fictitious use.

  A Date with Fate

  by

  Tracy Ellen

  Copyright © 2012

  All rights reserved.

  [email protected]

  Dedication

  This first book could only be for My Darling

  Acknowledgments

  To the family and friends providing my everyday reasons for existing--my eternal thanks for your endless support. You know who you are.

  To the family and friends providing the fodder that fuels my evil imagination--my infernal thanks for your endless good humor. You know how I am.

  To the lovely people giving me expert advice, reading my unfinished manuscript, sharing their thoughts with me, and writing reviews--please read the above starting with ‘To the family and friends…’

  To Nana—wherever you are, can you feel the love?

  Tracy Ellen

  Table of Contents

  Table Of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Prologue

  Monday, 11/19/12

  9:00 AM

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  SUBJECT: What I did last weekend

  Dearest NanaBel,

  I’m hoping this email finds my favorite camel jockey in her usual fighting form? My mind pictures you lingering over an exotic drink by an oasis wearing a pith helmet and jodhpurs while surrounded by exotic men in long, white robes.

  Meanwhile, back here in the tundra, we’re finally getting the snow predicted for the last two days. It’s really coming down, so I’m expecting a slow day at the store.

  I’ve finished customizing the last report on the new inventory system. Total pain, but it should pay for itself in the short run. I’m flooded with data to analyze and trying to not wet my pants in excitement. Also, YTD numbers are kicking major butt over last year.

  Now, don’t fall off your hump when reading this, but I actually took this past weekend off to have fun. I know, right?

  I’m sure my weekend fun didn’t come near to comparing to the splendors of exploring the deserts of Ancient Egypt, or the splendors of exploring the personal tent of a Bedouin Sheikh. (Woman, thy name is Jezebel!)

  But since you’ve asked repeatedly what I’ve been up to, and since I am a most dutiful granddaughter, and since I know you’ll hear twenty different versions from twenty different people, and since we’re speaking of jezebels…

  On Friday night, I stayed home and was minding my own business when I fell asleep reading…

  Chapter I

  “Free Your Mind” by En Vogue

  Friday (technically Saturday morning), 11/17/12

  2:30 AM

  Before realizing I was even fully awake, I found myself sitting up at attention with my instincts screaming and adrenaline racing through my veins. My heart was beating so loud I couldn’t determine what roused me over the pressure of the blood pounding through my head.

  I live alone. I had spent a quiet Friday night at home by myself to start my weekend off from work. The last I remembered was lying on my bed, surrounded by several fluffy pillows for protection, and reading a surprisingly good zombie book. I must have dozed off despite all the grisly excitement.

  My room was pitch black. To get my bearings, I glanced at the clock on the bedside table and saw the faint illumination of red numbers reading 2:31 AM. Okay, the power was working. I didn’t recall doing it, but before falling asleep earlier I must have set aside my book and turned off the lamp.

  I concentrated on breathing to settle myself down. After a few seconds of breathing slowly I could hear again. I held perfectly still and listened intently.

  My bed faces the open doorway. There are no windows in the hallway outside my second floor bedroom. It was a yawning darkness offering no clues as to what had catapulted me from sleep.

  I was beginning to think it was a zombie-induced hallucination that had scared me awake. I was cussing myself out for reading a scary book right before bed when I heard it again. On the floor near my bed is a register vent that allows me to hear noises on the ground floor below me. Straining to listen, I recognized sounds of the hardwood floorboards squeaking below me in the main entrance lobby. The noise was distinctly audible as footsteps, if you knew what you were listening for. I have lived in this apartment since I was a kid and now own the entire old building. I know every squeak of every floorboard in the whole place--I know what to listen for.

  ‘What the hell…? Had someone really broken into my building?’

  I quickly pictured the layout downstairs. The entrance lobby is a large, rectangular room situated in the northwest corner of the building. In the lobby are three doors. The first is a main set of double doors leading to the outside sidewalk at the corner of Division Street and Fourth Street in downtown Northfield, Minnesota. A second set of similar interior doors opens into my shop, Bel’s Books. The bookstore encompasses the entire ground floor of the building. The third door is the entrance to my place. This nondescript, steel door opens to the stairway leading up to my second story apartment over the book shop. All three of these doors are locked.

  I sat frozen unable to move. I was still in denial over the sounds I’d identified and not yet reacting. The sof
t squealing noise I heard next meant the intruder had somehow unlocked the door leading up to my apartment. The acoustics of the high ceiling in the open staircase amplified every sound.

  Now I was reacting. I was whispering out loud, “Oh my god, Oh my god!”

  I had been meaning to get someone to fix the sticking door for the last week. Thanks to being a slacker, I knew someone was coming up the stairs.

  When I’ve been in tight spots in my past, I’m perfectly willing to bargain my soul and convert right then and there. I vow fervently to be a good girl for the rest of my life. In my head, I recited my lifetime litany of these negotiations.

  ‘Oh, please, please! Get me out of this in one piece. I swear I’ll never do anything bad again...’

  It seemed like I waited an eternity, but it was probably only another heartbeat before my brain took over my wimpy, codependent subconscious and shouted, ‘Get your butt up and do something yourself!’

  Thinking weapons, my next immediate thought was to grab my gun from the nightstand drawer. A stellar idea except for the fact my Glock 9 mm was currently with my cousin on a gun safety and handling retreat up north in Duluth. I swore silently at the irony Candy was learning how to safely use my weapon while I had to handle a home invader with my good looks.

  My mind racing a mile a minute, I pushed aside the chenille throw I had been dozing under and reached for my phone. In the dark, I patted all around the surface of the nightstand. I felt my book and my empty gelato bowl, but no cell.

  Then I remembered what I’d done and it made me want to throw something in a frantic panic. I’d left my cell sitting in the bathroom down the hall on the vanity, plugged in and charging. The bathroom was located across the hall between my room and the stairs, but closer to the stairs. I couldn’t take the risk of trying to sneak over there without being heard and possibly intercepted. Also, my phone had been dying intermittently lately and I may need a new battery. It was possible even if I did make it there without being heard, I could end up being trapped in the bathroom with no cell signal or weapons.

  With a heart beating a frenzied double time in my chest, I tried not to feel cursed.

  I stood up and concentrated on listening. There’s a full flight of hardwood stairs, a landing, and then a switchback up another shorter flight to reach my foyer. It wasn’t long before I detected another stealthy sound. The creak I heard was near the landing.

  ‘Crap, crap, crap!’ I bit my lip, hurriedly thinking over my options. I desperately needed a plan right about now. The urge to freak out was not a plan. I suspected it was not a good idea to give in to the temptation to lie on the floor and play dead like I do in bad dreams when monsters are chasing me. I could hide, but probably would be easily found since my bedroom has no great hiding spots; like a secret panic room complete with a big, red button.

  I am majorly bumming I didn’t pay more attention when my girlfriends were talking about the importance of always having an aerosol can and a lighter within easy reach. Tipsy on vodka tonics at the time, it had seemed unwieldy, and a tad brutal, to choose to set someone on fire with a Rube Goldberg flamethrower as a defense when you could simply shoot them. What I wouldn’t give now for a supersized can of Raid and a Bic.

  Sadly, I’m not a secret ninja or a supernatural female. All 5-foot-1-inch and a hundred and four pounds of me is an entirely mortal, girly-girl. The odds were decidedly stacked against me winning over most men in a physical fight. No matter how I looked at it, without my gun to scare off the intruder, I was screwed.

  A flash of inspiration had me dropping to my knees on the rug. I urgently felt around under my bed for the forgotten weapon of choice before I purchased my pistol.

  ‘Yes!’

  I sprang back up. I immediately felt a little tougher with the Louisville slugger in hand. A crack with a bat could give me some time, although not as much as a bullet in the chest. If anyone came into this room my plan was a simple one; hit and run.

  Outside my bedroom windows were bright streetlights. I need total darkness to sleep well. At night, lined draperies were always pulled tightly closed across the windows on either side of my bed. Right now, I was really happy with this quirk of mine. As long as the intruder wasn’t wearing night vision goggles, the blackout conditions could give me the advantage of surprise.

  On TV, it shows green lights flickering around their heads like lightening bugs if people are wearing those creepy, alien-looking goggles. In that event, Plan B would be to flip on the overhead light, blind them, and then continue with my Plan A of hit and run.

  I felt a bubble of hysteria rising in my throat when realizing I was basing my escape on the accuracy of a freaking television show.

  ‘Why would green lights be flickering around anyone’s head if they were wearing NVG’s? Wasn’t the whole blasted point to have the advantage in the dark, not be lit up like a neon sign?’

  I was losing it and seriously contemplated nailing myself in the head with my own bat, so I could pass out to avoid whatever was coming my way.

  Standing there, I was chilled and shaky, goose bumps popping up all over. I’m not the type that gets cold easily. I knew it was from being hyped-up. It didn’t help my long hair was still damp from my earlier bath, and I was wearing a little nothing of a nightgown so short it barely covered my shivering butt. I almost shrieked when hearing a faint rustle of clothing and a definite creak of the top stair. The sound galvanized me into action.

  I swiftly crossed the floor of my room while making sure to stay on the thick pile of the area rug to avoid noise. I stood slightly behind the halfway open door. I didn’t want to try and close the door; it would serve no purpose. It didn’t lock and was squeaky like everything else in my old building.

  I hefted the bat in readiness. It was possible I’d only get one, good swing at the intruder and I needed to make it count. If I missed--well, my mind wouldn’t even go there.

  A few agonizing seconds later, I heard the intruder pause on the threshold of my doorway. I held my breath. I heard a soft footfall, and then another. With the third step, he was now squarely in my bedroom. My eyesight more adapted to the darkness, I guessed it was a man by his general height and width of shoulders. His vague outline seemed tall, but it was hard to be sure. Even under the best of circumstances, most men seem tall from my vantage point.

  I tried to ignore my churning gut and keep a level head. Would projectile vomiting the bowl of caramel sea salt gelato I had earlier tonight be a turn off, or just make me easy prey? I didn’t know the right answer, but I hate puking. I swallowed my saliva and strove to feel a little calmer, more coherent. I’ve always sworn I wouldn’t be that girl that fell down in her high heels and cried when being chased by a bad guy. Now was the time to prove it.

  These thoughts were all a quick flash across my racing brain as I acknowledged one, indisputable fact with a gut-tightening sensation. By coming straight to my room as he unerringly had, this person proved he meant to come after me.

  Within the first moments, I realized it was too iffy to go for his head in the dark. I readjusted my aim and went for the vicinity of his knees. Even as I swung the bat, I sensed movement in the air around me. My swing was prematurely halted against something solid with a loud WHAP! It sounded like an open hand. My heart plunged. I had somehow broadcast my intent. I felt a sharp yank and the bat went flying out of my slippery grip. I heard the muffled thud of the bat when it landed on the rug somewhere in the dark room. My only weapon may as well be on Mars.

  Above me, a man’s voice softly hissed, “That wasn’t a very nice way to greet me.”

  ‘Holy Freakin’ Moly!’

  I didn’t wait around to chat. I pivoted and took off running for the open doorway behind me. I hadn’t gone two feet when I was caught mid-stride by arms locking around my waist like bands of steel. I let loose with a startled scream as I was swung around like a rag doll. My feet were off the ground, and my back was pulled tightly against a chest that felt as hard as granite
.

  My attacker started to walk with me, carrying me easily back into my bedroom. I fought against him while shouting for help at the top of my lungs. It was a knee-jerk reaction. My building is located on the main street in Northfield, but it is mid-November and both my windows were closed tight. Even if I could be heard, there is no foot traffic in downtown this time of night. It’s a college town, but last call was long over. The bars stop serving at one in the morning and there are no all-night diners nearby.

  I knew it was me against this man.

  My next move was another knee-jerk reaction; it was a Déjà vu move from my childhood fights that always resulted in a quick getaway. I pried up one of his fingers at my waist with both of my hands. I wrenched it backwards with a jerk.

  “Goddammit!” his voice spit out in the darkness. He snatched his hand away from mine.

  ‘It worked!’

  Unfortunately for me, it didn’t work for more than a second. I had no chance to get at his other hand to free myself before he quickly maneuvered and repositioned his hold. He now entrapped both my arms against the front of my body. One of his arms was across my chest and the other around my hips.

  I kicked at him backwards as hard as I could. I tried to twist my body to knee him in the jewels. Like a vice, his arm clamped across my hips prevented that move. I couldn’t get at him. If his low laughter was any indicator, kicking him furiously barefoot wasn’t doing him any damage but really hurt the hell out of my toes.

  He stepped us nearer to the vicinity of my bed. Right at that very instant, I learned something new about myself I’ve never before had a reason to know. I hated being bound without the use of my arms. My response came from deep within me at some primal level never consciously experienced. Instinctually, my reaction was to fight like a wildcat. I bucked my body, kicked my legs, and tried to smash my head back against his face—anything to throw him off stride and give me an opening to get loose.