Exposing Atalanta

Exposing Atalanta An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Suspense Molly Briar Copyright © 2023 Molly Briar All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. To the redhaired hunk I married This book features disturbing content, to include murder, staged suicide and drug overdoses of non-main characters, graphic, spicy sexual content and other things that would be typical of a book about assassins. I am also well aware that travel nursing is not accurately depicted in this fictional world. I ask the audience, and the many wonderful nurses out there, to please suspend their disbelief so that the story can happen. Contents 1. PROLOGUE 2. CHAPTER ONE 3. CHAPTER TWO 4. CHAPTER THREE 5. CHAPTER FOUR 6. CHAPTER FIVE 7. CHAPTER SIX 8. CHAPTER SEVEN 9. CHAPTER EIGHT 10. CHAPTER NINE 11. CHAPTER TEN 12. CHAPTER ELEVEN 13. CHAPTER TWELVE 14. CHAPTER THIRTEEN 15. CHAPTER FOURTEEN 16. CHAPTER FIFTEEN 17. CHAPTER SIXTEEN 18. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 19. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 20. CHAPTER NINETEEN 21. CHAPTER TWENTY 22. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 23. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 24. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 25. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 26. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 28. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 29. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Back of the Book Stuff 1 It’s show time. Ivan Leclerc thrashed, sputtered, and struggled for air in the frigid water. I pressed harder on the back of his neck. Briefly, I empathized with him as he fought for air. I’m no fan of aquatic endeavors myself, but fuck him–he made his choices, and now, he’ll die because of them. Swans sailed gracefully across the clear, cold, sky, darts of alabaster feathers shimmering in the moonlight. To the east, the island castle of Chateau de Chillon loomed like a mythical fortress guarding the gate to the pristine alps. Thirty seconds had passed. Surely, he hadn’t expected this when I ushered him down the mansion’s stone steps. He came willingly, giggling as he staggered toward the lake in an inebriated haze. He was still oblivious when I dropped him on the rocky shore. Until I submerged his arrogant, privileged ass in the lake, he had no reason to fear for his life. After all, what could go wrong at an exclusive charity gala in one of the most expensive countries in the world? The help, like me, was never a threat to men like him. One minute. He continued to struggle, flailing his arms in the icy water, alternating between attempting to pull me down and push me away. He was nearly twice my weight, and half a foot taller. If not for the drug I’d slipped into his expensive vodka tonic, it would be my lungs filling with Swiss lake water. As he thrashed, I applied more weight to his head. I extended my arms, thrusting my head and shoulders back, staring upward to the sky. The stars were bright and twinkling. Small, silver clouds drifted lazily overhead. The lake and distant snow-capped mountains resembled something out of a fairytale. Not a bad place to shuffle off the mortal coil. One Minute, thirty seconds. All things considered, there were worse ways to go. In fact, I read somewhere that drowning is one of the more pleasant ways. Those who have been resuscitated reported a feeling of euphoria and peace before everything went black. I hope I never confirm that. He finally stopped struggling; the bubbles floating up with his 2 Callum Montreux, Switzerland “Your contributions save thousands of lives each year.” His cultivated American voice was earnest; his blue eyes genuine and kind as he stared out at the grand ballroom from the large projected screen on the white wall. An amicable face, wind-swept and sunburned, smiled down on the crowd from a large screen propped on a small stage built for this occasion. His blue eyes glinted in the harsh sun. “Thank you for your ongoing support.” Alexander Baas, tech mogul and messiah to many continued to say. A dozen Baas Medical Staff in white medical scrubs stood beneath the screen, as rigid as statues. “I apologize. I cannot be with you this evening, but many of my wonderful staff will be there, ready to accept your generosity and answer any questions you may have.” He flashed that winning smile and the video’s triumphal music crescendoed. “Again, thank you for all you have given us and remember, those who have the most must give the most.” The video faded, and I was relieved that the show was over. The lights brightened. Guests clapped politely with their drinks in hand and the orchestra resumed a waltz. Uniformed Baas Medical personnel carrying wooden baskets worked the room, collecting envelope donations and freshly signed cheques from well-dressed patrons. Ivan Leclerc, an acquaintance from my Oxford days, chuckled wryly, swirling his double vodka-tonic before taking an obscene gulp of the overpriced potato-water. He was, as usual, feeling superior. When he was rat-arsed, he fancied himself quite the clever chap. And tonight, he was right and plenty rat-arsed. He turned toward me, his wide, red face contorted into a smirk. His stomach was too tight for his Kiton Blue Blazer. It was barely hanging on by the seams. He was also too short for the cut, but that was no matter. I would, as a good Oxford mate should, humor his dickless musings. He shook his head in disbelief. “You St. Michael’s kids…” he began, his nasal, royal voice dribbled with pompous arrogance. He was referring to the alumni of our boarding school, St. Michael’s. The campus was barely a stone’s throw from where we stood. I