Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue) Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Patricia D. Eddy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Deranged Doctor Design

  Cover Photo: Paul Henry Serres

  Editing: Jayne Frost

  Proofreading: Samantha Everard

  Contents

  Just for you

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Also by Patricia D. Eddy

  About the Author

  If you love sexy romantic suspense, I’d love to send you a short story set in Dublin, Ireland. Castles & Kings isn’t available anywhere except for readers who sign up for my mailing list! Sign up for my newsletter on my website and tell me where to send your free book!

  http://patriciadeddy.com.

  Author’s Note

  Hello dear and wonderful readers,

  In this book, our hero can’t hear. Because hearing loss has so many nuances, I thought I should give you a little background on why I wrote Griff the way I did.

  Please understand that while I do a lot of research before I start any of my books, I’m only as good as the individuals I talk to, the books I read, the websites I pour over. So occasionally, I get things wrong. I think I’ve done a good job with Griff and his challenges, but if you have a deaf or hard of hearing person in your life, your experiences (or theirs) may not completely align with Griff’s.

  In part, that’s because every person’s manifestation of a disability, injury, or chronic illness/condition is influenced by many factors. Basically, no two people are alike.

  Griff does not use ASL to communicate very often. There are several reasons for that, including the fact that he only lost his hearing eight months ago. ASL is a very different language than English. It has its own set of grammar rules. And it’s a two-handed language. While plenty of people who use ASL (whether they’re Deaf or want to communicate with Deaf individuals) do sign one-handed, Griff’s amputation adds another layer of difficulty to learning the language. Both physically and emotionally.

  On the subject of his amputation…Griff’s prosthetic arm is one of the most advanced ever manufactured. So advanced, it’s not widely available, nor would Griff be able to afford it if he didn’t have very well-connected friends. But the technology to let him feel with his prosthetic hand does actually exist today. There’s an amazing book, Rewired, by Dr. Ajay K. Seth, that served as my inspiration for Griff’s recovery and what he can do with his prosthetic.

  However, like Melissa in Rewired, Griff is an edge case. He’s lucky because he has resources (read: money) and contacts. He can get the best care.

  If you’re curious about some of the latest advances in upper limb prosthetics, see https://labblog.uofmhealth.org/health-tech/its-like-you-have-a-hand-again.

  Formatting note: Technically, when Griff reads lips or reads someone else’s words on a speech-to-text program, the editing style guides out there want those words italicized. However, since Griff has long conversations with several individuals in this book, especially Sloane, I made the choice not to italicize those sections. This is 100% on purpose because otherwise, there would be so much italicized, I’m afraid it would make for a negative reader experience.

  I hope you enjoy Rogue Officer!

  Love, Patricia

  Prologue

  Fifteen Years Ago

  Sophiana

  My skin crawls as I pull the sheet up to my chest. One of my regulars, Rodney—if that’s even his real name—dresses quickly and drops a handful of bills on the dresser. As soon as the door slams, I slip out of bed and scramble for the money. Counting quickly, I curse under my breath.

  Der’mo.

  Two hundred. That sicko left the bare minimum. He hadn’t bathed in days, and the things he wanted? Yet I cannot say no to him. Or any of them.

  “You are nothing, cyka! You do what I say, and you get as much out of the men as you can or you are not worth keeping alive.”

  Dimitri’s words play on a loop in my head. Every day, he threatens us. Hits us. So often, starves us. And we can do nothing. Because we are nothing.

  Shuddering, I fold the bills and rush into the bathroom. After I hide the cash in a plastic bag underneath the toilet lid, I run the tap and use the rough washcloth to scrub between my legs.

  The icy water raises goosebumps along my skin, and the towels are as stained as the sheets. This place is worse than the one room flat I shared with my mama and three sisters back in Penza.

  No heat. No hot water. Nothing but dirty sheets, stained carpets, and cockroaches hovering in the dark corners. The only good in this slice of hell? The motel owner hides candy bars in the rooms every day. He knows Dimitri does not let us eat while we are working.

  Hurry.

  I only have five minutes until my next guest, and I snake my hand under the sink, fingers stretched as far as I can until I feel the plastic wrapper. The bar comes free with a single tug and the corners of my lips twitch as I start to salivate.

  Snickers. My favorite.

  Cramming half the bar into my mouth at once, I continue scrubbing. Tits, pussy, ass. Nothing will make me clean. But I cannot smell like my last fuck when the next one knocks on the door.

  The scent of the cheap soap makes my nose burn. If I ever have money, I will buy—stop it, Sophie.

  Trying to balance on my too-high heels while wolfing down the candy bar and wriggling into my cheap polyester-made-to-look-like-silk dress sends me careening into the bathroom door.

  The pain sings along my shoulder and back, but I won’t let myself cry. I still have to brush my teeth.

  I can’t focus on my reflection when I brace myself against the sink. If I do, I will see a girl who’s too thin. Collar bones sticking out, elbows and shoulder blades like razors. Tits that barely fill a bra. Bruises everywhere.

  But mostly, I will see a girl who was so naive, she thought twenty-five thousand rubles could buy her a new life in the United States. A girl who didn’t realize the man making that promise would take so much more than money.

  This is no life. Dimitri owns me. He took my passport as soon as I landed in the U
nited States and tattooed his mark on the back of my neck that same night. I will never escape him. Nor will any of the dozen other girls I sleep shoulder to shoulder with whenever I am not here. He keeps us locked in a basement on the outskirts of the city. One house among ten he oversees in Philadelphia. We are never free. Never allowed to be outside alone. Forced to have sex with men we do not know, night after night.

  The knock on the door makes me choke on the last of the toothpaste, and I hurry to rinse out the sink.

  Three more men tonight, then I can shower and sleep. If I earn enough, Dimitri will let me use the hot water. Or finally make good on his promise of McDonald’s. Plastering on a shy smile and lowering my gaze, I open the door.

  It’s after two in the morning when Anton—Dimitri’s driver and our guard—pulls the van behind the two-story house in south Philadelphia. “Inside. Quickly,” he barks. The twelve of us obey without a sound, barely slowing until we’re down the stairs.

  I gave Anton enough to earn my hot shower, but before he calls me upstairs, I pull half a candy bar from a rip in the hem of my dress and hand it to the newest girl. Anya is only eighteen, and she still cries before, during, and after every man who buys her. She sniffles and swipes at her cheeks, her eyes wide as she stares at the forbidden treasure.

  “Fast, fast,” I whisper. “I hide the wrapper.”

  “Sophiana!” Anton snaps from the doorway. “Up here now.”

  I barely have time to shove the evidence of my rebellion inside the lining of my dress before he calls my name again. A third time and he will beat me.

  He curls his thick fingers around my upper arm as he escorts me to the bathroom. But before we get there, the front door bangs open with such force, it flies off its hinges.

  “Police!”

  “Be good, my little Sophie,” Rodney calls as he slips out of the dingy studio apartment, and I jump off the couch and race into the bathroom. Why, today of all days, did my savior-turned-abuser linger over a second cup of coffee?

  My hands shake, and I drop the concealer stick twice, leaving pale beige splatters all over the sink. Shit. I have to clean those before I leave. Covering yesterday’s bruise in the crook of my elbow is easy. The older needle marks aren’t so simple. Then again, at this photo shoot? No one will look too carefully.

  It’s $500 for six hours, and I cannot say no. I have to save up enough money for a bus ticket. For first and last months’ rent on an apartment. In another city. Where Rodney cannot find me.

  He was one of my regulars. Four times he came. Asking questions. I thought he was nice—nicer than most of the men who used me, though he rarely bathed and wanted me to do disgusting things to him. I thought nothing of his babbling. Some men like to talk, others like to hit.

  Until he was one of the policemen who raided the house. I know now, some of what I told him led the Philadelphia police right to Dimitri. Helped them put him in jail for more than twenty-five years.

  We were so scared. Terrified we would be deported. Or jailed. Instead, some of the older girls were offered deals to testify. The younger ones were too emotional, but they were given asylum.

  I was not. Rodney said they lost my paperwork. That I had no passport. He gave me only two options. Turn myself in to immigration and be sent back to Russia or let him protect me. I made the wrong choice. He arranged for a cheap hotel room for me. Then offered to sleep on the pull-out sofa. To protect me. Even then, I did not fear like I do now.

  It took a week for him to demand sex. The day my medical report came back clean.

  At least this morning, all he wanted was a blow job. Swishing a double dose of mouthwash, I pull out the phone he gave me. The cracked screen makes it hard to unlock, but at least I can still read the time. Shit. I have to leave in the next two minutes if I want to make the bus.

  As soon as I sling my crossbody bag over my shoulder, I race out the door and pray nothing the “director” wants from me will leave a mark.

  “Excuse me. Are you here for the lingerie shoot?” A smooth, refined voice cuts through my nerves, and I peer up into a pair of bright hazel eyes.

  “Yes. Is there a problem?” Instinctively, my shoulders hunch, and I tug at the hem of my miniskirt. The man doesn’t belong in this place. His suit fits, and though he wants something from me—it’s in his gaze and the way his lips curve into not quite a smile—I think maybe...he is not all bad.

  Withdrawing a shiny business card from his jacket pocket, he holds it between two fingers. “I represent the Harvey Ulstrum Agency.” With a more genuine smile this time, he sinks into the chair next to me. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I was told...” My heart hammers against my chest, and I can’t get the next words out. Not in English anyway. Russian tumbles from my lips, faster than any American could understand.

  “No, no. There’s nothing wrong. You’re not in any trouble. What’s your name?”

  “Sophie,” I whisper, glancing around at all the other girls sitting in the hard plastic chairs lining the hall.

  “I’m Max. Max Snood.” He offers me his hand, the one still holding the business card, and we shake, but he doesn’t let go, his gaze on the crook of my elbow. “Do you want to get clean, Sophie? Have a career you can be proud of? Be able to show your friends what you do?”

  Jerking back, I wrap my arms around myself. Men like this are how I ended up here. Alexi was the first. Back in Russia. He sold me to Dimitri. Then Rodney “freed” me only to hide me away. Max is no different. “Leave me alone.”

  Max sighs, and I tense, ready to run. One call to the police and I will be deported. Or worse. Rodney will know what I’ve done. But instead of threatening, Max simply stands and drops the business card on the chair. “If you change your mind, my number’s on there. You have access to a computer?”

  I nod. The library down the street offers free use for an hour a day, and I go often. Though I can speak English well enough, my reading ability is limited to street signs and what I can learn from commercials. Still, I go whenever Rodney is at work and look at fashion magazines, newspapers, and children’s books. If they have pictures with the words, sometimes I can read them.

  “Go to my company’s website. You’ll see what we do. If you change your mind, call me.”

  And then he’s gone, striding away with all the confidence I’ll never have.

  “Sophie Lebdev!” a portly man with greasy skin and bad teeth shouts from the door a few feet away. “Get your ass in here.”

  After two steps, I stop, turn around, and lunge for the business card on the chair. I don’t know why. But maybe...Max will be different.

  Sloane

  “Are you ready to see the new you?” Dr. Foster asks.

  It has been eight months since I called Max, and the last six have passed in a private clinic in upstate New York. Detox, counseling, then four surgeries. A new nose, chin, and cheekbones, and dozens of laser treatment sessions to hide my scars and the tattoo on the back of my neck.

  The trees—so green they don’t look real—sway gently in the breeze outside my second-floor window. A few minutes ago, two men came to install a mirror in my bathroom—the first one I’ve seen since I came here.

  Max leans against the wall next to the door, a wide smile on his face. “You’ve outdone yourself, Foster,” he says, then turns all his attention to me. “Go ahead, Sloane.”

  I cannot get used to this new name. According to Max, Sophie Lebdev cannot ever become a model. Her passport was scanned entering the United States two years ago, and immigration knows she never left.

  So now I am Sloane Sanders. New name. New face. And now that my surgeries are done, soon I will have a passport declaring me an American citizen.

  Every day I have taken classes. How to walk. How to speak without an accent. How to read and write flawless English. I worry what will happen when I leave this place. Will Max turn out to be just another bad man pretending to be good? Can I really pass for an American? Or will everyone I meet s
ee right through me?

  Some nights, I lie awake with these fears. But since I fled Rodney’s dingy apartment with only my purse and my mother’s locket, no one has hit me. No one has fucked me. My room here is small, but I have a collection of books, a brand-new cell phone, a sketchbook, and an expensive set of charcoal pencils. When I told Max I used to draw as a child, he showed up with art supplies the very next day.

  Dr. Foster removes the last bandage—the one over my nose—and grins. “Turn around, dear.”

  I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. It’s not only the surgeries. Her shoulders no longer hunch. Her eyes are clear and bright—and blue, thanks to contact lenses—and for the first time, I think maybe Max was right. I will be a model, and I will never have to spread my legs for a man again.

  Chapter One

  June

  Griff

  “What the hell is the Ambassador doing here?” I let the door slam behind me, then fasten the top two buttons on my white dress shirt. My boss, Major General Austin Pritchard, keeps things at the office casual most days. Polo shirts and black pants, the occasional button-up. But we all keep a change of clothes on site for occasions like this.

  “No fucking clue.” Pritchard smooths the wrinkles from his khakis, then unlocks his desk drawer and pulls out a shoulder holster and an M9 Beretta. “But she’s headed back to the Embassy in twenty minutes, and we’re her escort.”