Excerpt from Deadly Offerings by Alexa Grace

Excerpt from Deadly Offerings

Anne peered into her refrigerator.  Not a piece of junk food in sight. She opened the freezer.  How could she be out of ice cream at a time like this?

She had to get out of the house.  Tonight bad memories hung over her like a thundercloud.   She relived the humiliating divorce hearing over and over, becoming angrier each time.  

She tried to sleep.  No success.  She got out of bed and pulled on a pair of jean shorts, a black glittery Lady Gaga tank top and her Reeboks.  She’d go for a drive to clear her head.  It was close to midnight but with any luck, she’d find someplace open to stock up on junk food.

She backed her SUV out of the garage, shoved the gear to drive and moved down the street, windows down, the breeze whipping her ponytail about her face.  She drove down Route 40 until she reached a section of fast food restaurants, bars and a mini-mart.  The mini-mart didn’t look busy so she parked in front.

She grabbed a shopping basket and strode down an aisle of the store picking up Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Butterfinger candy bars, tortilla chips, a jar of salsa, and a quart of soda as she went.  She moved to the refrigerator case and eyed the selection of ice cream.  She pulled out a couple of cartons of Ben & Jerry’s Red Velvet Cake then headed to the teenaged cashier whose eyes were plastered on her long legs.

She paid for the items, whirled around and slammed into the hard chest of a tall man entering the store.  Her items tumbled from the bag.  The salsa jar rolled across the store as did the bottle of soda.  The man uttered “sorry” as he bent to help her pick up the items.  He picked up the salsa and put it in her bag.  He moved down the aisle to get the soda that had rolled under a freezer then turned toward her. In a black leather jacket and snug faded jeans, he was one of those men that radiated testosterone.  And wasn't it just her luck, or lack of, that Michael Brandt, her jerk ex-husband's attorney was heading toward her holding her soda, sending her a dazzling smile that sent her stupid heart racing.  She yanked the soda bottle out of his hand, thanked him and resisted the childish urge to kick him in the shin. Instead, she rushed out of the store.

She opened the back of the car to place the groceries inside.  She pulled a Butterfinger bar out of one of the bags and got into the front seat.  As she opened the candy bar, she glanced at Michael Brandt, still inside the store, who was now staring at her with an odd expression on his face, hands on his hips. 

She heard movement in the back seat then felt something hard slam against her face.  The candy bar flew out of her hand and landed on the floorboard.

“Drive.” 

She looked in the rearview mirror and gasped; a sliver of panic cut through her.  A man in a black ski mask was slammed against her seat thrusting a gun in her face.