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    The Woman in Black Lace: Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories, #3
    The Woman in Black Lace: Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories, #3
    The Woman in Black Lace: Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories, #3
    Ebook86 pages1 hour

    The Woman in Black Lace: Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories, #3

    By A.C. Davis

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    About this ebook

    Winnie's mad.

    Her wealthy husband is cheating on her and she's about to put a stop to it. She spends her days and nights plotting a way to murder him, to finally end his betrayals and lies. But when she does, she’s forced to face his lover as well. Winnie discovers that she may have made a grave mistake and there is no going back. Will this error in judgment so long ago be the end of her life too? What has this killing business gotten her into?

    The Woman in Black Lace is a Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories novella for adults only.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGray Days Publishing
    Release dateDec 28, 2014
    ISBN9781507018248
    The Woman in Black Lace: Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories, #3

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      Book preview

      The Woman in Black Lace - A.C. Davis

      Cover design by Steven Novak

      ––––––––

      The Woman in Black Lace

      A Velvet Nights and Black Lace Story

      by A.C. Davis

      Copyright 2014 A.C. Davis

      ––––––––

      All rights reserved.

      This book or any part of this book may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

      The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, names, places or incidents are coincidental and not intended by the author.

      1st Edition: December, 2014

      License Notes

      This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      To contact the author:

      angelacarlie@yahoo.com

      acdavisauthor@yahoo.com

      Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories

      by A.C. Davis

      Jenny’s Blue Velvet

      Still Nights

      The Woman in Black Lace

      Mathilde, A Woman of Circumstace

      ––––––––

      The entire compilation will be available January 24, 2015

      For more information on the author visit http://ac-davisauthor@blogspot.com

      The Woman in Black Lace

      by A.C. Davis

      ––––––––

      I'm going to kill my husband.

      The decision to make it a slow death, allowing him time to marinate in his sins against me and our beautiful son, to suffer as I have, or to make it quick and unsatisfying, showing him mercy, has yet to be determined.

      I think about it daily. In fact, not a minute goes by that I don't dwell on the agonizing fact that Leonardo Huntington II, my husband, is a lying, cheating bastard. He doesn't deserve the success he has. He sure as hell doesn't deserve the woman I've seen him with. And above all, he doesn't deserve me.

      He wasn’t always gone from my life, out tramping it up. We have boxes and albums of photos proving our happy beginnings, full of love and loyalty.

      My younger sister went missing when my son was a baby. Those were strange and unhappy times. But outside of that, our life together has been what I consider happy.

      The other woman is out on our fifty-foot yacht, Chastity, now, watching the house as I watch her from the third level balcony of our estate on Lake Washington. She stands toward the bow. The yacht, anchored on the lake with her dinghy tied to our private dock, was already named Chastity when Leonardo II bought her many years ago.

      The sun is setting on this late summer evening, creating a backdrop of ruby red and dark purple. Her black dress clings to her shapely body and her long hair billows in the breeze.

      We watch each other often when Leonardo is gone. Sometimes I'll find her at the end of the driveway, near the perimeter of the forest within the trees, with only the edge of her black dress flapping around the trunk of a tree or the bushes. Sometimes a pale arm or leg makes an appearance, but never her face. Whenever I approach, she turns and quickly walks away. It’s infuriating, this woman lurking around my house, my husband. It’s not clear what exactly she wants, why she stays near the house or out on Chastity.

      A stream of light flashes on the lake and the roaring of an engine echoes off the trees surrounding the property. Leonardo must be home. The light goes out and the engine silences. I listen ever so intently and hear his brisk footsteps on the drive before the front door opens and closes.

      Winny! His voice is muffled by the house, far away on the first floor.

      I don’t answer.

      I watch the other woman, in her black dress, on our yacht. My yacht. She watches in return.

      The disappearance of my sister, Beatrice, once haunted my nightmares, as if she had something to tell me or wanted me to find. We were children in my dreams. Running free through the wilderness of Wooded Mountain Estate, our clammy and tiny hands clasped together.

      Beatrice and I never left our hometown of Vancouver until we were teenagers, so I don’t know why my dreams had us running around Lake Washington. We stopped at the lake and Beatrice would point to Chastity, her eyes pleading for me to go out there with her, but neither of us knows how to swim. We would stand there for an eternity, lost and confused and then I’d wake. But Beatrice hasn’t been in my dreams for a while now. This strange woman with her clinging black dress has replaced my sister in the same scenario.

      Deep down, I think Beatrice may be dead, that maybe she died out on the lake, or maybe she was warning me of this woman on the yacht before her spirit went on to wherever spirits go once the body is no longer inhabitable. But dreams are strange things and maybe have no meaning at all.

      A warm hand brushes my chestnut hair from my shoulder. It tumbles over my back, sending a pulse through my body. The summer breeze has made its way to the balcony and it flows through my silk gown. It carries her scent from the yacht. Rose oil. It turns my stomach. My mother used to wear rose oil. Its floral pungency reminds me of salty copper coating my mouth and large objects shoved into unseen places they don’t belong. Pain. Hate. Jealousy. The man at the core of such emotions often

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