The Getaway

Prologue

This was not happening.

Attacked in his own home?

No.

This whole damned charade had been a mistake. He should have ended it before it began. There was no way he’d been thinking straight. Maybe it had been the anticipation of the party. Or the general optimism he felt at hosting Hamptons week again.

Or maybe he’d simply gone soft. That was something he could not let happen. Not now. Not ever. Come tomorrow he was going to lay down the law. Nobody came into his home and threatened him. Nobody.

Lincoln Foster shoved open the door to the patio and was hit with a blast of wind so fierce it nearly knocked him off his feet.

He spat blood onto the flagstone. It was instantly washed away by the torrential rain.

Had he lost a tooth? He pressed the tips of his gloved fingers against his jaw and winced.

If he’d lost a tooth, there was going to be hell to pay.

One more. He just had to get one more speaker into the house, and then he could shut it down for the night. The party planners had dealt with everything else. And honestly? If they hadn’t, who the hell cared? Everything was replaceable.

Everything and everyone, he thought.

Using his arm to shield his face from the worst of the rain, he moved toward the last speaker.

It was then that he felt it: two hands, firm on his back, shoving him from behind.

And still a little bit drunk, and still a lot stoned, Lincoln Foster tried to catch his balance but overcorrected and slipped on the slick flagstones that surrounded his custom-made saltwater pool.

His feet flew out from under him, and before he could even comprehend what was happening, the back of his skull collided with the edge of the pool.

He heard the crunch, felt the explosion of pain.

The last thing he thought before he blacked out was:

Fucking Lily.