A man with a deadly past marries into the perfect, most respectable family in this riveting thriller from Love at first sight, a whirlwind Vegas wedding, a fairy-tale romance. For forty-three days, Tavish Advani has been the happiest man in the world--until his new life turns to ash, his wealthy in-laws’ house going up in a fiery explosion. His badly injured wife lies in a coma, her family all but annihilated. Tavish thought he''d left the sins of his Los Angeles life behind, but it’s not so easy to leave behind an investigation into the deaths of several high-profile women--all of whom he''d professed to love. Tragedy and death follow him no matter where he goes;.;.;.;but this time, he knows he’s truly innocent. Desperately trying to clear his name as the authorities zero in, he begins his own investigation into the fire--and learns that his wife’s picture-perfect family may have been nothing but a meticulously constructed mirage. The truth is much darker than anything Tavish could’ve imagined. .;.;.

Autorentext

New York Times bestselling author Nalini Singh is passionate about writing. Though she’s traveled as far afield as the deserts of China, the temples of Japan, and the frozen landscapes of Antarctica, it is the journey of the imagination that fascinates her the most. She’s beyond delighted to be able to follow her dream as a writer. She is the author of the darkly beautiful Guild Hunter series, the much-loved Psy-Changeling novels, and stand-alone suspense novels.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

I'd buried Susanne on this day in October five years ago.

My hands clenched on the steering wheel, my chest tight at the sudden, crushing memory of the first woman I'd ever loved. Complex, sophisticated Susanne Winthorpe, lover of red dresses and stiletto heels, who never stepped foot out of the home without her signature full face of makeup-and at least one diamond.

As different from Diya as the sun was from the moon.

The tightness in my chest evaporated as I thought of how my wife's face would light up when I handed her the box of little taster cakes on the front passenger seat. She'd asked me to pick them up from the bakery so we could choose a cake for the reception to take place after our religious wedding ceremony in six months' time; my in-laws weren't satisfied with the fact we were legally married, wanted the whole shindig.

So I'd be getting married to Diya all over again . . . and that was more than fine with me.

My heart doing that thing it did only for her, I made sure to take the corners with smooth grace to ensure the cake box didn't slide off the seat and onto the floor. Water glinted to my right as I passed Lake Tikitapu, which Diya had told me was also called the Blue Lake, the morning sunlight a bright sparkle that had already lured a couple of kayakers onto the water.

I hoped they were wearing wet suits just in case.

The end of October in New Zealand meant spring-brilliant sunshine, crisp temperatures, cherry blossoms and wisteria blooms-but the lakes still felt as cold as ice to my Los Angeles-born-and-bred body. I couldn't figure out how my father-in-law jumped into frigid lake water every morning for a vigorous one-hour swim.

"It's good for the heart, my boy!"

Then Lake Tikitapu was in my rearview mirror, with Lake Rotokākahi, or the Green Lake, coming up ahead. Nestled in the thick green bush in between was a lookout from which you could see both lakes. I continued past, my destination the far larger body of water that was Rajesh Prasad's daily swimming spot.

It didn't take long, the road all but empty today.

I'd already turned into the drive that led to the beautifully landscaped and expansive property that was the Prasad family home when I noticed smoke drifting up above the tops of the native trees and ferns that flanked the path's gentle downward slope.

Smoke in the closest township wasn't unusual-Rotorua was a geothermal city known for its boiling mud pools, hot springs, and geysers, alongside the distinctive scent of sulfur that came and went with the wind. Friends of the Prasads in the city had recently ended up with a sinkhole in their front yard. Small, it mostly blew up curls of hot white smoke-but go deeper and I had no doubt you'd encounter water or mud capable of giving you third-degree burns.

The authorities had fenced off the sinkhole and evacuated everyone from the home while they investigated, and the family involved had been joking about charging people to come look at their own personal piece of geothermal scenery. Beneath the jokes, however, was the fear that their home was sitting atop a disaster waiting to happen.

But the Prasad home wasn't in Rotorua central. It sat on the edge of the clear blue-green waters of Lake Tarawera, a good twenty-five-minute drive out of the main part of the city, longer if roadworks were in progress. Close enough to be doable for two specialists who rarely had patient emergencies, but far enough to have the feel of a peaceful enclave set apart from the city.

It wasn't that Lake Tarawera didn't feature any geothermal activity-as I'd discovered to my delight when Diya led me on an overnight hike to a hot-water beach on the shores of the lake. We'd walked out of the bush after our hike under the stars to the surreal sight of steam rising off the water, the small boats anchored on the lake ghostly afterimages.

But this smoke . . . it was too black, too dark, too high.

My mouth dried up.

I pressed my foot to the accelerator pedal and just glimpsed the Prasads' nearest neighbors-a family of three-running into the drive behind me; their mouths were open, as if they were yelling. Ignoring them, I turned the corner of the drive-to come to a screeching halt behind a bright yellow Mini Cooper.

The cake box slammed into the passenger footwell.

"Diya!" It came out a scream as I tumbled from the car in front of the elegant single-level family home that now boiled with fire.

The lake lapped placidly in the background, below a sweep of green lawn that led to a private jetty and boathouse, with the bush-clad hills on the other side casting shadows across the wide swath of water.

The Prasad home was-had been-a showpiece. Huge panes of glass, polished wood stained a rich black, landscaping heavy with native trees and shrubs, each element thoughtfully put together to create a property that fit the landscape rather than attempting to conquer it. Unlike some of the McMansions I'd seen in lakeside towns, the homes around Lake Tarawera weren't about a display of excess, but about quiet, luxurious beauty.

Tucked in between the newer builds were a number of small and well-maintained cottages from another time, pretty little chocolate-box things with planters that had just begun to overflow with flowers as spring took solid hold.

The Prasad home had been constructed only eight years earlier-from bespoke plans created by an award-winning architect. Even the attached garage and the apartment above it had been designed with care. Stained a black to match the main house, the garage's roll-up door appeared to be wood of the same shade, while the apartment's triangular facing walls on both sides were glass.

That glass was shattered now.

All the glass was gone, nothing but shards that burned with reflected fire, glowing pieces of shrapnel on the charred lawn.

Black smoke poured out of the resulting gaping holes and through the roof, which had partially fallen in, while jets of flame shot out through the side of the house that had boasted a grand open-plan kitchen designed for entertaining, complete with a dining area centered around an artisan-constructed table of reclaimed swamp kauri.

Thousands of dollars of precious wood that was now kindling.

All of it to feed a fire that might've stolen someth…