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The WRATH of Temptation – Book










Book 9 in the Girl on Fire Series


People say it’s okay to fail in life sometimes. They say it can be a stepping stone to … blah! blah! blah! They’re right.
I’ll tell you one thing you should never fail at. Murder. Oh, no, it’s one of the worst things you can possibly fail at. Especially a carefully orchestrated one. Ask anyone behind bars for attempted murder and they will tell you, that kind of failure is not an option, and it’s a stepping stone to time in prison.
In my case, my husband had an affair. That was okay – it happens. What was not okay, was him and his mistress, luring unsuspecting me to my death, burying me alive, she assuming my identity, they living a charmed life.
You feeling sorry for me? You should. Can you think of anything worse than being buried alive? No? You’re right – there isn’t anything worse than that – it’s pure hell.
It’s okay though, because they failed at murder, so they would live to regret it, because … I’m alive.
Mirror, mirror on the wall …



The story of the married man and his mistress continues …

With a heavy heart Drover watches the train ease out of the station. He doesn’t move. Love will return to him. She will change her mind, hit the emergency stop, force them to open the locked doors and run into his arms. They will hold each other for a long time, before they venture toward their next step in their complicated future together.
It wouldn’t be easy, he knows that for sure. Nothing worth it in life usually is. So, they would make the most of what they have and be thankful that they can be together some of the time. They love each other, that is all that matters. That is all that should matter.
The train becomes smaller. Drover waits.
The train became a speck in the distance. Drover drops to his haunches and watches the moving speck. Love will come back to him.
The train disappears completely from sight.
Drover does not move. The next station – she’s going to get off at the next station, board a train in his direction and rush into his arms.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t get up to pace, he stays exactly where she left him, so she can  find him easily when she returns to him.
Minutes pass. He waits.
People filter out of the train station. He waits.
Lights on the platform are switched off. The station became ghostly. Drover feel a little cold. He waits.
“Mate, you okay?”
Drover looks up into the face of the train station conductor.
“Wha …?”
“Been sitting like that for a while now, mate.”
Drover shrugs.
“Whachu waiting for?”
Drover lets out a long breath before he mumbles. “Love.”
The conductor chuckles. “Aren’t we all?”
Drover attempts a smile, fails miserably. He looks around. The place is now deserted.
“Go home, mate,” the man says in a kind voice. “She’s not coming back. Not t’day.” Embarrassed, Drover stands up and looks in the direction of the train.
She’s not coming back. Not t’day.
He nods. Love got onto a train and left, taking his heart with.  It’s over.
Shrouded in a despair, Drover turns and ambles toward his SUV. As he drives home, different scenarios flit through his mind.  What if he had got on the train and left with Love? Just followed his heart? Like they did in the movies? Rode off into the sunset with the woman he loved?
They would have been happy, yeah, but … would he have been able to live with himself knowing that he had abandoned his wife and children? That he was shirking his responsibilities? He loves Joy, he loves his kids and abandoning them all because he fell in love with another woman, is not something he could ever do.
Do the right thing – wasn’t that what a to do? A parent supposed to do? That was important to him – to do the right thing.
Sometimes in life, when love costs too much, a mammoth sacrifice is necessary. This is one of those times, and it hurts like hell.
He will forget her – the woman who could make him laugh, make him cry and make him quake with fear whenever she held a shotgun in her hands. The one who adored his silver and gold eyes. He glances in the rear-view mirror at his eyes and smiles. Silver and gold – what a way to describe them.
He will forget her, because time will make it happen. Well, that’s what people say. He will make time his friend. He was determined to.
A dull ache lodges in his chest. Heartache? Heartbreak? He releases his seatbelt a little. It doesn’t help- the ache persists.
He drives up to his house, eases the SUV into the garage and kills the engine. Instead of alighting from his vehicle, he remains seated behind the wheel and presses his palms to his eyes.
Joy. He’d have to face her. Damn!
He looks at his phone for the first time. One hundred and seven missed calls. Damn!
His quick-thinking, analytical brain kicks into gear – He’s been away for twenty-six hours. Joy has called every fifteen minutes during those last twenty-six hours.
Being the attorney that he is, he evaluates the facts:
AWOL for twenty-six hours.
He’d turned off his phone.
He’d left without an explanation.
Most importantly, he’d spent the last twenty-six hours with his mistress. There was no doubting as to who he was with.
Joy would have a problem with that. Joy has a problem with that – a phone call or text every fifteen minutes – crap! He’s not proud of his behaviour, but he just couldn’t help it – he was losing the woman he loves, because he put his family first.
Damage control:
Apologise, explain, then assure Joy that he is back for good.
Assure her that when faced with a choice, he chose to remain with her and the children.
Assure her that he is never going to leave her. Ever. She is his wife and she will always come first in his life.
He means it. He loves Joy and he knows that she is hurting right now. He vows to make it up to her. Do everything in his power to fix their marriage. Kiss away the hurt. He wants so badly to ease her pain.
Joy’s an attorney too; she’ll also look at the facts, resolve to handle the issue in a logical and rational way. We can do this.
Suddenly, his SUV is rocked by a loud bang and the sound of breaking glass.
“What the …?” He spins around to see Joy smashing the rear window of the SUV with a baseball bat. It is a shatterproof window, yet, glass flies at him.
“Joy, what the hell?”
Snarling with rage, Joy moves to the driver’s side and swings at his window. “Cheating, lying, son of a –”
Drover jumps out of the SUV and tries to get the bat off her, copping a good few blows in the process. Eventually he manages to wrestle the bat out of her hands and flings it into the bushes.  “Christ, Joy! What the hell are you doing?”
She stands before him, chest heaving, eyes glowing with anger. “You were with her, weren’t you?”
“I … I… Joy …”
She shoves him hard in the chest. “Answer me, you lying bastard!”
“Joy, I’m sorry, things happened … but it’s over, okay? I’m back, I’m home, with you and the children. I want to make things work. Please just … under –”
“How … how dare you treat me like this?”
“—stand, okay? Please?”
Her voice is shrill, borderline hysterical and she paces as she speaks.
“I’m sorry. I am. I really am. Please, let … let’s just forget it all and start again, Joy. Please.”
She whirls around to look at him. “Forget it? You … you dog. You fucking … you son of a …”
Drover allows her to vent, and vent she does, cursing and hurling insult after insult at him. He stays silent, nods his understanding, eager to let her get everything out of her system so they can move on.
He rubs his eyes, red and tired from the lack of sleep and crying.
“What? Your eyes are tired?” Joy circles him as she rages. “Didn’t sleep last night, huh? Too busy fucking that whore? Huh?”
“Don’t call her a whore, Joy.” The moment he utters those words, he regrets it. Too late. Joy stands absolutely still, a loaded silence follows, and Drover suddenly thinks about wearing a crash helmet.
“You protecting that slut? Seriously? You protecting her, DROVER?”
Drover looks at the ground.
She pokes him in the chest, then slaps him in the face. “Huh? Answer me, you dog! You protecting that dirty whore from nowhere? Huh? The one who spreads her thighs for any married man to get what she wants? Huh? Answer me? You actually protecting? You are protecting her. The audacity of you!”
Fight or flight. Blame the weariness, blame the fact that he was feeling emotionally and physically drained, blame the fact that Joy won’t stop, Drover choses the coward’s way out. “Listen, Joy, I’m going to take a shower, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Drover strides into the house.
The house is dimly lit, eerily quiet and cold. Like something is missing. Love. She is missing. She walked into their dark, gloomy house and turned it into a home. Brightened up the place by turning on the lights, putting fresh flowers in the vases, and playing music. Add her humor, wit, goofiness and laughter to the mix, and the place became one big carousel of lights, music and laughter. Now that she’s gone, she’s taken it all with her, including that carousel.
At the thought of the days, the weeks, the months … life without her, that ache in his chest intensifies and a lump the size of a golf ball jams in Drover’s throat.
Andrew appears in front of him, eyebrows raised. He cranes his neck to look behind Drover. When he does not see Love, his shoulders sag.
Drover slaps him on the back, before hurrying on.
He sees Daisy on the top of the stairs, both hands balled on her chest, her face tear-stained.  “It’s true, dad?” she whispers. “Love’s gone?”
Drover’s shoulders lift and drop, before he whispers, “It’s gonna be okay, baby.”
She wipes away tears with her sleeve, then darts into her bedroom and shuts the door.
“Where are you going?” Joy shouts, running behind Drover. “I haven’t finished with you!”
Drover takes the stairs, two at a time, and heads for their bedroom. He strips quickly, throws his clothes on a chair and makes a dash for the bathroom.
As he showers, Joy flings open the bathroom door, a golf club in her hand.
Drover’s heart drops. If she slams that club against the shower door …
He’s unsure what to do – stay in the shower and let her vent, get it all out of her system, or leave the shower and get rid of the golf club, but risk getting into a physical altercation with her as he does?
“Yes, take shower, a hot one!” she yells above the noise of the shower. “Scald yourself, Drover, and get rid of the stench of infidelity before it further taints this home of ours! Before you further defile our marital bed with the scent of that slimy whore.”
Don’t call her a whore!
Drover remains in the shower, trapped, because there is no escaping Joy’s wrath. For a few minutes he lets both the water and Joy’s vitriol rain over him, waiting for that swing of the golf club, listening out for the sound of shattering glass.
It’s unfair, he thinks as he watches her. If the roles were reversed – if he threatened Joy with a baseball bat and a golf club, while she was in a car or in the shower, people would call him abusive, and he’d face jail time for sure. Yet, she gets away with it because she’s a woman.
He turns off the taps, steps out of the shower and moves toward the towel rack, his eyes still fixed to the golf club in her hand. Joy beats him to towel rail and snatches the towel out of it.
“Joy, please!”
“You don’t deserve anything in this house, you slime ball. Not even a goddamn towel.”
Drover yanks the towel out of her hands, wraps it around his waist and walks into the bedroom, expecting to feel the golf club in his back. Joy follows him into the bedroom.
Stay calm and keep apologising.
“Joy, I am here,” Drover says in a controlled voice. “I’m home, okay? I’m sorry for everything. I am.” He lowers his tone of voice, put his hands on her shoulders and looks into her eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry I did. I really am. You were gone for almost a year and … I was … Joy, I was lost, alone … and … she was there, and she was lonely too and … it just –”
“— happened? Is that what you’re going to tell me? You going to use that cliché as your get-out-of-jail card? Seriously?”
Drover hesitates, then continues. “I’m home now, Joy. Where I want to be, okay? How about you cut me some slack? Please. I really need your –”
“You … you … how dare you try and sweet-talk me?” She violently shrugs off his hands, then slaps him across the face.
“Joy, I am home!” Drover yells. “What more do you want from me?” He snatches the golf club out of her hand and flings it across their bedroom. It crashes into a picture frame of them on the wall and shatters it. Glass rains down on the carpet.
Joy stares for a moment in disbelief. He stares too, shocked at his anger. He’d never done anything like this before.
Joy soundlessly claps her hands. “Good shot, Drover! Bet you wish that photo frame was me, right?”
Drover doesn’t answer. With a Labrador-like shake of his head, he strides back into the bathroom, shuts the door and locks it.
“And don’t act like you are doing me any favours by being here, because you aren’t!” Joy yells, banging on the door. “You open this door, you cheating bastard!” She starts to kick the door.
With his eyes squeezed shut, Drover leans his forehead against the bathroom door. Maybe if he’s out of her sight, she will calm down, he reasons.
She doesn’t; she continues to rage, screaming profanities and abuse at him through the locked door.
Drover gets back into the only place he can hide – the shower. It drowns out her threats and gives him time to cool down. He only gets out of the shower when the water runs cold.
What was colder than the water? Joy’s shoulder – she suddenly stops ranting and they spend the rest of the night in icy silence.
This is so hard, Drover thinks as he lies in the dark at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling. If only Joy knew how hard ending the affair was on him, on his heart, she would act differently. She would put her arms around him and hold him close, help him fix the broken pieces, help him grieve the loss of the woman he fell in love with, so that he can move on with his life. With their life. That’s what he longs for – for her to understand, comfort him, make him believe that he’s made the right decision, make him think that Joy was worth suffering heartbreak over. Worth the pain. Make him believe that doing the right thing was … worth the pain.
Joy does not – her episodes of rage become maniacal. There are marathon sessions of abuse hurling (“You both are liars and thieves! Rotten to the core. Dirty cheats, that’s what you are.”), where she dishes accusation after accusation, asking questions, then demanding answers (“How was she in bed? Better than me? Huh? Tell me. Go on answer me, you son of a bitch!”).
Asking questions, then answering it herself (“Where did you fuck her, huh? I’ll tell you where you fucked her – in the car, in the bathroom, in the toilet, in the shower, in my fucking bed, Drover! In my bed!”).
Asking questions, providing him the opportunity of a multiple-choice answer, then demanding that he pick one (“How does she compare to me in the sack? Huh? I’d like to know. Tell me. Was she as good as me? Was she almost as good as me? Was she so good, so much better than me, you had to have the slut at any cost?”).
If he answered, he was in trouble. If he didn’t answer, he was in trouble. He could do nothing right. Day in and day out, morning, noon and night, Joy unleashed on him, and there were no signs of her anger abating.
Sadly, a lot of the madness was in front of their children. To spare them, Drover would often walk away during an argument, walk away from an imminent fight, hoping she’d cool down if he left her alone – it takes two to tango. That didn’t work – Joy would follow him around the house, insisting he answer, provoking a reaction, baiting him to fight back. She’d poke him, slap him, shove him and throw things at him.
When he extracted himself from a volatile situation, or a potential fight, she’d call him spineless, a pussy and a coward.
It was ugly. It was hell.
Often, he’d have no choice but to get into his SUV and drive off to some place he could hide from her wrath. Sometimes, he would leave home in the middle of the night and sleep in his SUV rather than go back and face Joy. Because of this, he now kept a blanket, pillow, a toothbrush and a change of clothes in his SUV. If he wasn’t a man, he’d probably find himself in a woman’s shelter, seeking refuge for the night.
Oh, there were times when Joy wasn’t abusive. Those times she was hostile, cold and uncooperative toward him. She would ignore his questions, turn off the light while he was in a room reading, hide his car keys, hide his wallet, hide his phone charger, hide his phone, hide his eyeglasses, hide the remote to the garage, hide the remotes to the TV, hide the remote to the air conditioning unit or change the wi-fi password for no reason.
It was as ugly. It was hell.
The saddest and most unpleasant part of this whole thing? The children – when Joy flew into her rages, she unleashed on them too. Over simple things, like Andrew spilling some orange juice on the table, or Daisy forgetting to say thank you to her. She would get in their faces and scream at them, and they would quake with fear, expecting her to hit them.
No one knew when Joy was going to explode. The family, terrorized and edgy, tiptoed around the house, speaking in whispers, avoiding Joy at all costs, and tensing the moment they heard her voice.
Before long, every inch of their beautiful, triple-story, 6,800 square-foot home was covered in eggshells.
Life was ugly. Life was hell.

Release date: 16 January 2018

This is not a stand-alone book. It is a sequel to the Other Woman (an epic and jaw-dropping collision between a betrayed wife and a cunning seductress), which has an overall 5-star rating on Amazon U.K. and Amazon Aus. Fans of Girl on the Train and Gone Girl will love Eve Rabi’s tales of love, lust and revenge.

#RomanticCrime #RomanticSuspense #StoriesofRevenge #VigilanteJustice

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(Click on image above to read The Other Woman)

FREE for a limited time -My Wife’s Li’l Secret

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“I had it all – the loving and supportive wife, two precious girls, a

thriving business. I believed I was the luckiest bastard on earth. Turns out

I was wrong. Totally wrong.” Ritchie MacMillian

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She called me the miracle in her life, I called her my little treasure. Sounds corny, I know, but I really believed I was the luckiest bastard on earth. I had the loving and supportive wife, a nurturing mother to our two precious girls, a thriving business and the future looked rosy. I was a contented man.

But overnight everything changed. My wife withdrew from me, ignored our children, and made it clear she was no longer interested in playing the role of wife and mother. We had two children under five, they needed her. I needed her.
When her dressing began to change and she disappeared for hours, I suspected I was not enough for her. Thinking she was having an affair, I placed my wife of five years under surveillance. What my surveillance revealed shook my world, broke my heart and went on to expose a web of lies and deceit.

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My Wife’s Li’l Secret (A book by Eve Rabi Coming soon)

Love and Seduction


She called me the miracle in her life, I called her my little treasure. Sounds corny, I know, but I really believed I was the luckiest bastard on earth. I had the loving and supportive wife, a nurturing mother to our two precious girls, a thriving business and the future looked rosy. I was a contented man.

But overnight everything changed. My wife withdrew from me, ignored our children, and made it clear she was no longer interested in playing the role of wife and mother.

We had two children under five, they needed her. I needed her.

When her dressing began to change and she disappeared for hours, I suspected I was not enough for her.

Thinking she was having an affair, I placed my wife of five years under surveillance.

What my surveillance revealed shook my world, broke my heart and exposed a web of lies and deceit.

My Wife’s lil Secret

Coming soon!


Excerpt from My Wife’s Li’l Secret:

Since my wife was out partying again, bedtime routine for our girls was left to me. Again.  I tucked Ally and Becky into bed and began to read a story to them. “Once upon a time…”

“Dadda?” Ally said placing her hand on the storybook and stopping me from continuing.

I paused and looked at my daughter. “Yes, Alleycat?”

“Dadda, what’s a hooka?”

“Whaaaat?” I peered at my daughter wondering if I had heard correctly.

“The teacher at preschool, she said, ‘Here comes the hooka,’ when she saw Mummy.”

Slowly, I lowered the book and stared at my daughter. “It’s …it’s …”

How do I explain what a hooker is to a four-year-old? I shouldn’t even be in a position where I had to.

“The lady shouldn’t have said that, Ally,” I muttered.

“But, Dadda …”

Two-year-old Becky spun around and clamped her hand over Ally’s mouth. “Shhh! Let Daddy read the story, Ally!”

Becky hated anyone interrupting a story, so to prevent her from getting mad with us, both Ally and I fell silent. I continued reading even though I was terribly distracted by Ally’s words.

“Talk about it tomorrow, Ally,” I muttered when the opportunity arose.

Ally nodded.

After the kids fell asleep, I sat in my lounge in the dark and pondered Ally’s teacher’s comment.

Liefie had great legs, a great figure and I had no problem with her wearing whatever she liked, but people were talking and clearly her dressing needed to be …addressed.

Of course I expected Liefie to become angry when I confronted her about it, accuse me of controlling her and after the number of arguments we had had, I was reluctant to talk to her about it.

But when I saw her the following evening, all dolled up and ready to party without her family again, hooker was the word, alright.

Her red skirt was the size of a large belt, her white top strained across her breasts and ended above her belly button, her fake tan looked like she’d dipped herself in food coloring and that garish, face paint with that dominating electric-blue eye shadow…reminded me of Braveheart.

She didn’t look pretty; she looked like an aging prostitute. Harsh words, I know, but they weren’t out of malice, they were simply an observation. (People were talking, remember?)

Tarty make-up aside, to my absolute surprise, she sported two piercings above her left eyebrows. My jaw fell.

When did that happen, I wondered? How could that happen? Why hadn’t she told me about it?

Of course it was her body and she was free to do what she liked to it, but facial piercings weren’t something I liked. She knew that.

She could have at least mentioned it to me before she pieced her face. We were husband and wife; it was reasonable to expect her to talk to me about something like that before she did it.

“What’s with the piercing?” I asked, both mesmerized and irritated by them.

She shrugged, flashed me a deal-with-it look and turned away.

With a weary sigh, I walked around to face her. “We need to talk.”

A guarded look flashed in her eyes before they hardened.

“Liefie, you need to dress more like a mother,” I said in a quiet voice. “You have two children and …”

“What?! You want to tell me how to dress now? You want to CONTROL ME?”

Just as I had expected.

“Hey, keep you voice down, will you? I’m talking to you, that’s all.”

“There is nothing wrong with my dressing, okay?! Nothing!”

“Yes, there is, Liefie. Your skirts are too short, your tops are way too tight and the people at Ally’s school are talking about it. You need to …”

“Ally’s school?” Her heavily-lined eyes slanted.


Her painted, pillar-box-red mouth twisted into a sneer. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I swear!”

She cocked her head and looked at me. “Who told you that?”

“Ally told me. She said one of the mothers or teachers, I can’t remember, after seeing you, used the word hooker.”

Her body stiffened. “Ally said ….THAT?!?”


“That bitch! Where is she?!” She turned and strode off in search of Ally. Even though she was in heels, she almost ran.

“Liefie stop!” I cried running after her, shocked she would call her little daughter a bitch. “Leave her alone!”

She found Ally playing with Becky in the TV room. “Did you call me a hooker?” she demanded, putting her flaming face in Ally’s.

“Liefie stop this shit!” I warned.

Ally’s eyes flitted between Liefie’s and mine, a terrified look on her face.

“Lief…ie! ” I hissed. “Stop this …”

Liefie suddenly backhanded Ally across the face, sending her crashing into a doll’s house.

Ally lay on the floor so stunned, she didn’t even cry. The only thing that showed her distress was puddle appearing around her waist.

For a moment, I too was stunned. Liefie had never ever hit our kids before.

Then fury overtook me – I grabbed my wife by the hair and slammed her against the wall.

Putting my face in hers, I snarled, “You ever touch my child like that and I will fuck the shit out of you, understand? UNDERSTAND?”

Her attempt to look defiant failed and I saw fear flicker in her eyes.

I had never hit Liefie before, never even called her names, so this wasn’t something she was used to.

“Don’t ever lay a finger on any of my daughters. Understand?” I pushed my face further into hers, resisting the urge to head-butt her.

“Daddy, stop! Daddy!” Ally cried, while Becky started to whimper. I looked over at my two children clinging to each other, terror on their little faces.

What am I doing?!

Quickly, I released Liefie and took a giant step back.

I walked over to Ally and Becky, scooped up both of them and hugged them to me. “It’s okay, it’s okay!”

They looked at their mother who stood holding her head with both hands, but did not try to go to her.

After a few moments, Liefie ran out of the room, shouting, “Your father is an abusive man! He just abused me in front of our children. That’s the kind of man I married!”

I looked at Ally. “Sorry, hon.”

“Why did you tell her, Daddy?” Ally whispered, holding her tear-stained cheek.

“I’m sorry, Al, I was trying to get her to do the right thing. I’m sorry.”

“You knew she’d hit me, Daddy. You shouldn’t have told her.”

I peered at Ally. “What are you talking about? She doesn’t hit you, Ally. Usually. Right?”

No answer.


“I need to change my pants,” Ally muttered, ignoring my questions.

My head jerked to look at little Becky.

Becky’s head bobbed, her eyes opening wide.

You can’t be serious?!

My eyes shifted back to Ally. “This is the first time she hit you, right? Or does she hit you? Tell me, Ally.” I shook her. “Tell me!”

Becky’s head continued to bob.

“All the time, Daddy,” Ally finally muttered. “Yesterday she hit me because I took too long to get Uncle Viggo’s beer. From the fridge.”

“WHAAAT?” She had my four-year-old daughter fetching alcohol for her brother?

Ally nodded.

“Mummy hit Ally here,” Becky said, slapping the top of her head.

I was mortified at what I was hearing.

If Liefie could hit my daughter that way in front of me, backhand her, what would she be doing behind my back? Aghast, I looked at my firstborn who I idolized. “Ally, honey, why didn’t you tell me this?”

“You weren’t here, Dadda. And Mummy said if I carry tales she’ll make me sorry.” Fat tears coursed down little Ally cheeks.

I drew my girls closer, feeling absolutely gutted to know they were being silently abused by their own mother. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Daddy will make it stop. I’m so sorry. This is not going to happen again. I promise.”

End of Excerpt

Release date will be published soon.

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YOU WILL PAY – for Leaving me


Happy to announce that this book, which is now FREE is number 4 on!

This is what readers are saying about this book:

“This is a love story more than anything else and it was funny too!”

“Excellent, held my attention, eager to find out what Arena would do next…”

“Brilliant. Felt real. Wanted to know more.”

“Revenge can be soooo sweet! Loved it!”

“Overall You Will Pay is an engrossing read, which I stayed up until the early hours to finish, holding my breath at the awesome ending.”

“a cracking good read, has elements of a thriller, although it does contain some sweet romance.”

“…a great story and steamy sex scenes!”

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A Vain and Cruel Queen, a Gay Prince, a Poor Village Girl and an Unsuspecting New Yorker …

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“…it’s like an ugly duckling meets Snow White’s bitch of a Wicked Stepmother…”
“Eve develops such wonderful characters in this series and makes you feel so much emotion that you really do wander off into the world of Henna. Another inspiring series that will stay with you long after the book is finished.”
 “Not for the faint of heart, Royal Deception is intense. Starting with a homely 13 year old village girl, we watch as she grows into a beautiful woman…the ugly duckling scenario wrapped around dysfunctional families, royal lies, a queen who is beautiful…but evil.”
 “A fascinating story.”
 “I absolutely love this book, Can’t wait until the second part!!”
 “Such a terrific lovestory..the palace scenes are so vivid everything is so vivid..and Henna is the most adorable and lively heroine i’ve come across..her dismal fate makes me teary..can’t wait to read the next part..well done!!five star book.”
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The Cheat (Warning: Strong language, sexual references, drug references, violence)

Excerpt from The Cheat – A Tale of Infidelity and Lies



When our guests left early, I breathed a sigh of relief. Now she and I could talk. Well, maybe not talk –some serious begging on my part was more like it.

But Angel, without a word, grabbed her jacket (her leather jacket which she hadn’t worn in about 8 years) and car keys and stormed out of the house, leaving me with the sleeping kids.

“Where you’re going Angel?” I asked, tottering after her. When I saw that she had taken my car keys, my Porsche, I nearly had a stroke.

Again, I braced myself to remind her that she had a late model silver BMW and that the Porsche belonged to me and that if she really felt she just had to use my precious vehicle, my pride and joy, she could have at least have had the decency to ask first.

But when she glared at me, lips pursed, nostrils flaring, eyes like flying saucers, I became the pussy I am and literally backed away.

She slipped the key into the engine and started my baby – eh, car.

Then she revved it. And revved it.

“Honey, it’s not necessary to rev it so …”

She locked the doors and revved the engine so much, I thought I was going to die from a stroke.

Timidly, I knocked on the window. “Honey?” I motioned for her to wind down the window. “Honey, baby, sweetheart, you’ve been drinking – maybe you shouldn’t …”

Her response was to snarl and rev it again.

“Okay, okay!” I quickly stepped away from the car.

Fuck the revving and shit, I was worried about her. She had been hitting the bottle all night. What if she had an accident?

But I could do nothing to stop her. She sped away. Minutes later, I tried her cell phone, only to find that she had left it behind. My anxiety escalated – I didn’t want anything to happen to her.

Anxious and worried, I sat up all night, waiting for her, wondering where she could be and resisting the temptation to call her friends and start looking for her. Although I felt like a drink, I didn’t, just in case she called me to pick her up.

Alone in the dark, I paced as questions ran like freight train through my

mind – what was she going to do now? Leave? Ask me to leave? Stay, but file for a divorce? Shit, had I lost everything because of my fucking around?

I couldn’t sleep, so I crawled into bed with my girls who were sleeping in our bed. I hugged their soft bodies to mine, saddened to think what would become of them if I was gone. Who would take care of them when I was gone? Would they be embarrassed to know that their father died of AIDS? Would they be forever ashamed of me? How would Angel cope without me? Would she marry again?

The thought of that really jarred me and almost made me sit up. ANGEL IN BED WITH ANOTHER MAN? FUCKING HELL!

Guess I was that kind of guy – full of shit and totally unrealistic. It’s how I was wired.

But around 5 AM, I finally dozed off next to my girls.


At around eleven the next morning, Angel rocked up, looking like…well, last night and reeking of cigarettes, which she had given up eight years ago.

“Angel, where were you?” I asked in a timid voice as I followed her around.

She spun around to bark at me. “What does it matter to you WHERE I was?”

“Okay, okay, honey.”

Of course, I didn’t want to fight with her. Clearly she was troubled and in pain, so I was going to be very patient today.

“Where’s my daughters?” she demanded as she flung her bag on the glass table.

My daughters. The division was starting already.

“They’re with Debbie, honey.”


“Because…eh… I think we need to talk, Angel.”

She whirled around and glared at me. “Talk? Talk? I need answers and you, you need to talk,” she snapped, and once again I nodded agreeably. “But I want the truth,” she threatened. “Don’t ever lie to me again, Gabriel. From now on, have the balls to tell me the truth, okay? She was calling me Gabriel, not Gabe or honey. It meant she was pissed.

I hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”

She walked over to the bar and to my absolute horror, picked up my Johnny Walker, limited edition, $3500 a bottle, individually bottled, individually numbered, in a hand-blown Baccarat crystal decanter, given to me by a retired, murdering mafia boss whose name I threw around like crazy whenever I was in a jam, and poured herself half a glass of it. Half a glass.

Then she took a huge gulp, made a face and, guess what? She spat it back into the glass and threw the contents into the sink. Down the fucking sink!

Too stunned to speak, I could only watch as she poured herself a triple vodka and drank it neat. But I was scared shitless to say anything to her.

Instead, I glanced pointedly at the clock. Eleven fifteen – too early for anyone, other than me, to be drinking alcohol.

She downed another vodka and slammed the glass on the table.

For a while, she stared at the carpet and that hurt look I’d seen last night in her eyes returned. Shaking her head as if she was having a conversation with herself, she grabbed the bottle of vodka and poured herself another. Raising the glass to her lips, she paused and looked at me. “Why?”

I sighed loudly, apologetically, remorsefully. “I was dumb…I got carried away…I was drunk…stupid…”

After taking a gulp of her vodka, she fired the next question. “Was does she look like? Is she attractive?”

A loaded question. I scratched my face, planning to say no.

“I want the truth Gabriel! Don’t you FUCKING make up…”

“Yes! Yes! Yes …”

Her jaw trembled slightly. “How old was she?”

I scratched my brain. “Probably…I dunno…around thirty , I think…”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Angel was thirty-two, so that shouldn’t affect her that much. “H …how many times?”

“Uh…just that S…Saturday,” I stammered. “Only that day.”

“How many times that DAY?”

Night, honey,” I corrected. “Um…three …yeah, three times. Honey.”

She raised her eyebrows dramatically. “You were drunk and you got it up three times? How the FUCK did you manage that?” she spat nastily. These days we can only do it once a night, cos you’re so fucking old!”

That made me mad. I wanted to shout out that she was the problem here. She usually was too tired for sex anyway, let alone trying to do it more than once a night. I had to always beg for it! But I held my tongue. Actually, I too was baffled by the fact that I could go and go that night. I have no idea how I did it, considering I was shit-faced. But I did, and I was somewhat secretly proud of it.

I know, I know; I was an asshole for thinking that, but hey, we all know that I’m a prick.

Moving on …

She walked over to the window and stared forlornly outside. “I cook, I clean, I take care of your kids… I get exhausted, I get bored, I get lonely.” She turned and looked at me, then downed the rest of her vodka, before continuing. “There are days when I feel like giving up on being a mother and a wife, because of the repetitiveness and mon…mon…otony of c…hings. But do I do that? Noooo! But you get to. How the FUCK is that fair, huh?” She was drunk alright.

I looked away, then at her again. “I’m sorry Angel,” I said, meaning it. “I did a crappy thing and I deserve everything, okay? So let me have it.”

“Don’t call me Angel! It’s AngeLINA to you, FUCKHEAD! You’ve lost your Angel now.”

I looked away, unused to having my wife curse like a sailor or talk to me like that.

“Did you ever think about me at all while you were FUCKING her?”

Truth was; I never did, but I wanted to spare her that pain.

“Did you Gabriel?”


Her eyes opened wide.

“N…no,” I quickly added. “I dunno – I was out of it Angel.”

““Out of it”? You had a hard-on three times in one night, you FUCKING MORON! You couldn’t have been “out of it”” you DUMB FUCK!”

I kept my eyes averted while she disrespected me.

“Was she the woman in the cab?”

I hung my head, not realizing we had been spotted. “Yes.”

Her jaw trembles before tears cascaded down her flushed cheeks. “So you were kissing her goodbye, Gabriel?”

“No!” I protested, distraught to see her so broken.

“You didn’t…you didn’t kiss me on the lips that day and ever since, because you gave me some crap about some tummy bug or some shit. All that was a lie, right?” She sounded so hurt, I felt like the dog I was.

But the tummy bug really was a lie so what could I say?

“Right?” she persisted.

I nodded.

“All this while, you were fighting…and being so moody with me and I was thinking…” she looked up at me, “It wasn’t pressure at work all along, was it? You were stressed about this, right?”

I looked away, resisting the urge to say, “But wait, there’s more!”

“You haven’t slept with me since you got back and you haven’t kissed me since. God I feel so rejected.” Her shoulders fell.

“Angel, I didn’t…”

She slumped into a chair and covered her face with her hands. Then she rested her face on her lap and wept.

For a few moments, I let her. She needed this.

Suddenly, she sat up straight.

“Angel, baby, I am so sor …”

“Save it Gabriel!” she snarled and walked over to pour herself yet another drink, her …I lost count. Suddenly, she threw the heavy crystal glass and its contents across the room and into my big screen plasma TV. My big screen precious plasma television set! I watched in horror as glass from the television rained everywhere.

“What the hell, Angelina?” I cried. “Look what you did!”

“Look…what…you… did, Gabriel Sloan!” she deadpanned, before stumbling away.

I stared for a few minutes, unsure whether I should run after her or take care of the mess. Finally, I let her go and cleaned up the mess and when next I saw her, she was passed out on her bed, fully clothed and snoring like Trixie.

Trixie was my Rottweiler who passed on (God bless her canine soul) years ago.


Read more about Gabriel and Angelina’s story by clicking on the link below:

The Cheat – A Tale of Lies and Infidelity

By Eve Rabi


“I believe the author is very talented. After reading oodles of books, it is hard to come across a story that you haven’t read before. Her creativity shows in all the books. I love her sense of humor, and how she keeps you guessing throughout the plot. My favorite thing this author does so well is how she develops the romance and relationship in the characters. It feels so real. I always find it hard when writers give you a romance that goes from 0 to 60 in 3 seconds. It just does not seem believable. She builds the relationship right every time.”

“In this book, I laughed out loud, and found myself changing my mind about some of the characters as the book progressed. I also enjoyed how flawed these characters were. Gabrial was very self-centered and had the maturity level of a 14-year old. Again, very believable.”

“I loved reading this book. I laughed from the first page and at the turn of almost every page. That is unless I was clearing the frog in my throat or wiping away my tears. This story is about Gabriel (Gabe) who cheats on his wife and suffers the consequences. As the tale unfolded I realised that although Gabe is a cheating ass I wanted him to succeed in his quest for “redemption”.The relationship between the characters are so touching and so real that at times I found myself wanting to reach out and hug them. This is a great read. I loved it!I highly recommend.”

“An authentic, completely believable first-person narrative about a man dealing with the consequences of a one-night stand in Las Vegas. Honest, gritty, and coarse, but far from trashy; this first novella-sized installment is actually a love story that focuses on the protagonist’s marriage, rather than the affair itself. In fact, the lover –Sinead– only appears briefly in the story. I will definitely be reading Book 2.”

Read more about Gabriel and Angelina’s story by clicking on the link below:

The Cheat (Contains strong language, sexual references, drug references)



Excerpt from The Cheat

By Eve Rabi 

July 1998

I was told by friends that if you cheat on your wife, the appropriate guilt-appeasing flowers are roses. A dozen, long-stemmed.

I stood at the airport with roses – two dozen.

In twenty-five words or less: I was on ‘business trip’, she was available, I was shit-faced, she was stacked, I was flattered, she was relentless in her pursuit and…now this is a big ‘AND’ …we were in Vegas.

Been married for six years and my wife was always tired. Could only manage sex once a week. Just thinking about that made me bitter and I guess I felt conjugally deprived.

How many words so far? Oh well, who the fuck cares?

Moving on – my wife was picking me up from the airport and bringing along my two beautiful little girls. I was, as can be expected, nervous and anxious and more worried about the guilt showing on my face, than about breaking my marriage vows.

Now, before you go all harsh and judgmental on me and call me a prick, I’ll tell you this much – I am an arrogant prick.

I don’t try to be, I’m just wired that way.

Now that you know my ABC, let’s move on, shall we?

Okay, I love my wife, I really do. I only cheated on her because of opportunity. I read somewhere that most men cheat, not because they want to, but because of opportunity that lands on their lap. And last night, opportunity was a sexy, long-haired, blonde called Sinead, who was just about every guy’s fantasy and being the human that I was, I guess I erred – succumbed to temptation.

Did I regret it? Let me think. Honestly? Nope.

Hey, I did say honestly. Why didn’t I regret it? I don’t know. Perhaps, it was because …I liked it far too much to be bothered by my conscience, or the lack of it thereof? Told you I was arrogant bastard.

Armed with my guilt-appeasing roses, I waited for Angelina, my wife, (whom I call Angel) and my two daughters. Whenever I return from business trips, I usually catch a cab back home, but today, I was feeling guilty mainly because, I was guilty; so for the first time since I had kids, I accepted Angel’s offer to pick me up from the airport.

As I waited at the pick-up zone, my mind drifted back to Sinead, my unrestrained, unreserved, uninhibited and lusty partner in crime last night.


Although I showered before she and I parted company this morning, I could still smell her perfume and it added to my uneasiness. I clutched the roses tighter and willed myself to regret my actions.

Problem was, the memories of my weekend of sin weren’t bad. In fact, some of them were darned good. Okay, amazing. So amazing, that they were responsible for the contented smile across my face, which I now struggled to conceal.

Sinead was extremely flexible, amazingly agile and particularly nimble in the sack and I can’t help but think that she would be artistic with a hula hoop, if you know what I mean.

When I first spotted her, I thought she was hot, like all the guys around me thought, I’m sure. Small waist, big ass, big tits, child-bearing lips–what more could a guy ask for? Did I mention that I was human? At first, I must admit, I was just flattered when she paid me any attention. Flattered because, there were so many good looking, young guys at the club, yet Sinead, who was by far the hottest chick at the club, had me in her cross-hairs. Me, a thirty-five-year-old, overworked attorney, with a receding hairline, slight pot belly, a wife who couldn’t care if she never had sex again for the rest of her life and two kids under the age of four?

Hell, not only was I astonished, but I was even grateful that a woman would find me interesting at this stage in my life and pursue me.

Still, when she came onto me, I somehow managed to keep it together and resisted her the first night. Like the gentleman that I was, (I may be an arrogant prick but I’m a true gentleman.) I even walked her to her hotel room.

Okay, so I enjoyed her tongue in my mouth when I said goodnight. But I have to tell you, it was hard. Especially, since we were booked in at the same hotel. I kept thinking about her probing tongue, the thrust of her double-Ds against my chest, the way her hips locked with mine…if I wasn’t so plastered, I’m sure I would have been up all night just thinking about it.

The next day, we bumped into her and her friend, and when I introduced her to my work colleagues, one of my bosses immediately invited her and her equally attractive and uninhibited friend to party with us.

After a hard day of excessive boozing, we hit the club again for some serious partying and drinking. We were celebrating our win, the coveted Blakeley and Thompson account, worth more than ten million dollars and I, Gabriel Sloan, was the one responsible for that coup. Tonight, I was the star quarterback and I reveled in it, accepting all the congratulatory back slaps and high fives that came my way. An ego rush of gigantic proportion, and I loved it.

Sinead never left my side, never asked awkward questions, (like whether I was married) and by the end of the evening, made it clear she was going to fuck me that night, either in or out of my bed. I smiled and tried to tell myself that it wasn’t going to happen but, and that’s a big ‘BUT’; I waited all evening in anticipation. When exactly was it going to take place and dare I hope it would be out of my bed?

She didn’t actually say when and that was a good thing, ’cause knowing me, I was the type to chicken out. As cocky as I was, I was a bit slow when it came to women. Never had a problem getting them, but I prefer to choose, chase and nail. In that order.

In the past, when women chased me, I, more often than not, ran.

Oh, Sinead hinted, implied and touched her way through things. Her stroking and kneading under the table and her firm, bare thigh glued to mine left me a massive hard-on. Her body was warm and wanton and her breath around my earlobe drove me wild. That, coupled with the rush of winning the account and the booze gave me an all-time high.

Don’t misunderstand me; she wasn’t skanky or over the top or like some of bunnies you find at Hef’s. In fact, she was sweet and playful and kittenish and not in the least bit bothered by my wedding ring, which I kept on all the time, I must add. When she suggested we refrain from disclosing personal details about ourselves to each other, it served only to heighten the sexual thrill and I found myself grinning like the jackass I was and nodding vigorously, like one of those toy dogs you find on the back of cars that nod constantly with the motion of the car.

“Just call me Sin,” she said prettily. “Short for Sinead.”

“Just call me drunk,” I evened, “Short for very drunk.”

She laughed. I liked that about her. She laughed all the time.

My wife Angel liked to fuck in the dark or with the lights turned down really low, mainly because I think she had body issues. Boring! Not Sinead, she wanted the lights on when she slowly peeled off her clothes and when she skillfully stroked my erection and made a Popsicle out of me. There was so much of tension in my sexual vault after two days of innuendoes that I exploded within three minutes but…. I was back for an encore, I tell you. Was I proud I could deliver!

And she knew her stuff too. “Are you game for Amyl Nitrate?” she whispered, at the height of pleasure.

“Sure,” I huffed. “Bring her in. The more the merrier.” (Hey, I had been married for six years – how was I supposed to know about Amy Nitrate and stuff. I mean Amyl.)

She furrowed her pretty brow at me, then smiled at my ignorance and gave me a whiff of it in a tiny vial she got from God knows where. Now, don’t you try this at home folks, ’cause it’s not good for your heart, but it took the word orgasm to a new level and she made me scream.

Something I’ve never done. I screamed like a girl.

As for me pleasing her; I wish I wasn’t so drunk, then maybe I could have really reciprocated, but I did my fair share of ramming at the end, which she seemed to like, ’cause she moaned so loudly, I worried the entire hotel would think it was some kind of low-keyed fire-drill, even though it really turned me on. Not the soft delicate sighs that Angel lets out when I went down on her, but loud, expressive, out of control cries of unabashed pleasure. A gigantic ego rush for a drunken executive. Actually three times! Yeah, even I was surprised, ’cause, as much as it pains me to admit it, I’m no stud. Not anymore.


Parting was brief and hurried, ’cause both of us had flights to catch. I was tired from lack of sleep, really hung over and in desperate need of some greasy airport food but, there was no time if I wanted to catch my flight.

As I boarded the plane, I thought of Angel for the first time since I was with Sin and felt a little guilty. That’s when I dialed her number and talked to her for a while.

Angel was late picking me up, so I hung around and people-watched. Then, across the road, I spotted Angel and the other two loves of my life; my two beautiful daughters,

two-year-old Sydney and four-year-old Indiana. I smiled and braced myself for the avalanche of hugs and kisses that usually came my way. I was looking forward to holding Angel again and kissing her and making up for all the shit I did last night. As I watched her approach, I realized just how much I loved her. Cheating had nothing to do with my love for her. Anyway, she was never going to find out so…I would just drop it and never think about it again.

Suddenly, I looked to the side and there was Sin, with girlfriend. No wonder I could still smell her perfume, she was just a few feet away from me!

“Heeeey!” she said, smiling prettily and looking as hot as ever in a tight blue, corset-type top and faded jeans that made her ass talk and made me wonder if I could have gone four rounds instead of three.

“Hey,” I mouthed, glancing at Angel, then back at Sin. “What you’re doing here?”

She jerked her lovely head towards the taxis. “Catching a cab.”

I nodded.

She followed my eyes to Angel and my kids. “Your family?”

I nodded sheepishly, suddenly wishing that Angel had dressed a little sexier. She wore a pink cardigan, a light pink top, casual jeans, black pumps and her hair was in a ponytail. Next to Sin, Angel looked frumpy, like a mother of two kids, and frankly, I was a little embarrassed.

“Nice,” she said lightly. “Well, here’s my ride. Tata!”

I breathe a sigh of relief that she wasn’t going to clash with Angel.

“Take care,” I said.

“Hope she likes the roses,” she flung over her shoulder as she and her girlfriend got into the cab and rattled off an address to the driver. I watched her fasten her seat belt as she talked to her friend. Then, to my surprise, she looked up at me and motioned me over. I nervously glanced at Angel who was fast approaching, then at Sin, panic enveloping me.

But Sin flexed her index finger at me and I felt somewhat obliged to go to her so I hurried over to the cab window.

“What is it?” I whispered, feeling my pants getting tighter around my crotch.

She put her painted lips really close to my ear. I was so sure she was going to lick it. “You might want to get yourself checked out,” she whispered.

I looked at her in confusion. “Wha …?”

“I…I’m HIV positive.”


“Sorry, I didn’t mean for things to turn out this way,” she said in a sincere voice. “It just happened. I should have told you, but I guess I got carried away. I’m sor …”

“You’re fucking with me, right?” I demanded hoarsely, hoping to God she would smile and tell me to look at the hidden camera ’cause I was being punked.

She shook her head from side-to-side and I thought – this is what it feels like to fall from the top of The Empire State Building.

“H…HIV…?” I stammered my mouth, suddenly dry as the Sahara. That’s not AIDS, right? Shit! I didn’t know much about the virus. I’m a corporate attorney for Christ sakes!

With a grim look, she tugged at her hair and to my absolute horror, her entire hair moved to reveal total baldness. She was wearing a wig. Before I could stop myself, I recoiled in revulsion and disgust.

For a moment, hurt registered in her eyes. Then she rolled up her window and the cab driver drove off.

I should have run after her and demanded she tell more, but I just stood frozen as the car disappeared from sight. 

“Daddy! Daddy!” The sound of my daughter’s voices forced me out of my catatonic state.

Forcing myself to smile mechanically, I accepted all their hugs. This distraction afforded me the opportunity to somewhat regain my composure.

Angel walked up to me and hugged me. “They’re beautiful!” she cried as she took the roses from me. When she tried to kiss me, I jerked my head so that her kiss landed somewhere between my ear and lips. I didn’t want to kiss my darling wife if I had a virus.

“What wrong, Gabe?” she asked, her hazel eyes darting all over my face.

I shook my head and waved dismissively.

“You look pale, honey.” Her frown deepened. “You okay?”

Am I okay? What a question.

I scanned my brain to find something to say. “I…I think I picked up on of those…um…” The shock of everything was too much. My brain froze and I just went blank and looked dumbly at my wife. This was most unusual behavior on my part and Angel was now worried.

She reached up and touched my forehead. “You have a temperature.”

I looked at her in horror. So quickly? Could the virus be attacking me already? Fuck!

It was enough to freak me out. “I do feel really ill, Angel,” I murmured and absentmindedly wiped my forehead.

“Poor baby,” Angel said gently as she took my hand in hers. I immediately shrugged off her hand. There was no way I wanted to contaminate my beautiful and innocent Angel, love of my life and mother of my children by holding her hand.

Startled at my behavior, she stared at me.

“Better not touch,” I said quickly. “I don’t want to give whatever I got to you, baby.”

She nodded understandingly. Did I really say she looked frumpy and plain? I was so wrong. She looked lovely and caring and concerned and… like my wife.

 “Probably the water,” she mused. “Kids, give daddy some space. He’s not well today.”

My girls looked at me, disappointment in their eyes.

“No!” I said quickly, when I see their crestfallen faces. I could take care of things later. “At least, let me get my hug, huh?”

“We already gave you hugs daddy,” Indiana said.

“We aldeddy dave you huds,” Sydney echoed.

“Naha!” I said, crouching again. “I didn’t feel anything. If I don’t get a huge hug by the time I count to say…one; I’m gonna cry like a baby. “One…”

Being the darlings that they were, they melted into me and hugged me for dear life, then took turns to look at my eyes to look for signs of tears. I loved them so much.

Angel looked down at us and smiled.

I stood up and hugged her again. “It’s good to be back, sweetie,” I said and kissed her hair. “I love you.”

“I missed you, Gabe,” she said as she rested her head on my chest.

The ride home was a boxed hell and I was struggling to wrap my brain around things, which I desperately needed to do right now. Angel talked non-stop about – I don’t know – I paid no attention to what she was saying.

Finally, I closed my eyes and lay back on my seat and she stopped, zipped up.

“I’m sorry, Angel,” I murmured from time-to-time, meaning it.

Unused to seeing me like this, she tried to get me to a doctor, but I refused. All I wanted to do was get out of the car and for a while, go somewhere where I could be alone with my tumultuous thoughts.

My mind drifted back to my fatal rendezvous with Sinead. How could I have missed the wig? Why didn’t I look before I leapt? Now everything about last night, took on a sinister undertone. Did she really fancy me or was I just easy meat? Easy meat I’m sure. Easy and dumb meat for that matter. Was it intentional? Of course! Was she lying? Without a doubt. I could sue the bitch for millions, I reckoned. Yeah, I could. If she had millions.

But why didn’t she have any of those lesions on her skin, like Tom Hanks in Philadelphia? Maybe it’s because, being the dumbass I was, I was too busy looking at her tits and ass and didn’t look at other less important body parts.

Did we use a condom? I recall using them. But I also recall that with all the agility, it did slip out once. Fuck! Sweat dripped down the back of my shirt. How the hell do I tell Angel I cheated on her? How do I tell my wife that I cheated on her and got a deadly virus in the process? Would she believe it was my first time I ever cheated? I hung my head in despair. Gabriel Sloan, what the fuck have you done this time?

Charlie! God, I need to talk to Charlie. He’s my older brother and someone I could talk to. Someone I could trust. Charlie was not as educated as I was, but he always had the answer. My parents died when we were young and Charlie became both mother and father to me, putting me through law school by holding down three jobs. I owe him everything. He’s going to be so disappointed to learn I am dying. Damn, that hurt so much.

The moment we arrived home, I mumbled something about a shower and escaped to the bathroom where I could be alone with my thoughts and even manage a call to Charlie.

I stripped, turned on the taps but didn’t enter the shower. Instead, I called Charlie. He answered on the first ring and I came straight to the point. “I need to talk to you, Charlie.”

Maybe it was something in my voice, but he immediately agreed, sounding concerned.

I didn’t want to have to tell Angel I was leaving the house; I had just returned from a business trip and needed to spend time with my family, so we arranged for Charlie to call and ask for me to come over to help out with a problem.

Half an hour later, he called and talked to Angel.

“Gabe!” Angel shouted. “Charlie wants to know if you can come over. Says he needs your help.”

“Not today,” I shouted back. “Tell him I just got home and I want to spend time with you guys.”

Angel walked over, stood in the doorway and looked at me, a worried look on her lovely face.

“What?” I asked.

“Gabe, I think Charlie might need you.”

“But I just got home, Angel. I need to spend time with you guys.”

After staring at me for a few moments, she said, “Go Gabe. He wouldn’t call if he didn’t need you.”

With an exaggerated sigh, I poured myself a drink, took two aspirins, got dressed and left my house. 

To read more, click on link below:

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Don’t Call me Gringa!! (Warning: strong language, sexual references, violence)

Excerpt from, Gringa – In the Clutches of a Ruthless Drug Lord by Eve Rabi


‘Gringaaa!’ Diablo yells.

I slam the door on his hollering. Bastard can go to hell.

‘Gringaaa!’ he yells again, and again, I ignore him.

Finally, Maria quietly enters my room, a worried look on her face. ‘Senorita please …’

‘Maria, you tell him …’ I wave my finger at her, ‘tell him my name is Payton, and not fucking “Gringaaa! Gringaaa! Gringaaa!”’

Before she can respond, Diablo storms into my room and of course, hears what I say.

‘Come to lunch,’ he says in a strained, but controlled voice.

I look him in the eye. ‘No!’

He stiffens. ‘Come to lunch.’

‘No! I don’t wanna eat with you, okay?’

He grabs me by the scruff of my neck and drags me out of the room to the lunch table.

‘Leave me the fuck alone!’

He shoves me into the dining room. It’s Saturday so that entire gang is there, in the mood to party and to be entertained. Watching Diablo drag me to the table sends a hum through the room.

Humiliated and seething, I sit down and drum my nails on the table. I don’t eat or look at him.

‘Eat!’ he orders.

I ignore him and drum louder, furiously.

A man named Norman, seated next to me, leans over and says, ‘Senorita gringa want Whisky?

‘Yes please, Norman.’

Norman pours the whisky and places the glass in front of me.

‘Thank you Norman,’ I say, bypassing the glass and reaching for the bottle.

Norman’s eyes grow huge when he sees me taking giant swigs from the bottle.

It’s awful. I hate whisky. Tastes like gasoline to me. ‘Damn!’ I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘This sure is mighty fine whisky, Norman.’

‘Eh, Senorita gringa, my name …’

‘Lemme pour you one, Norman.’ I top his glass to the brim and hand it to him. ‘Knock yourself out,’ I chuckle.

Diablo’s not smiling.

Yeah, I’m supposed to be nice to him now that the FBI is involved. Well, fuck the FBI and Fuck him.

As lunch progresses, I’m feeling a little more relaxed now. Warm in my toes and even a little confident. Well, they’re eating lunch and I’m drinking mine – whisky, Tequila and some other shit on the table.

After a few more swigs from the bottles, I cross my arms over my head and whistle Hit me Baby One More Time  by Brittany bitch. Totally out of tune, but hey, who gives a fuck right now.

Diablo’s hairy face reveals little, but somehow I don’t think he’s comfortable with my drinking. Hell, I’m not comfortable with my drinking, but screw him.

They’re passing around pictures. Pornographic pictures and the conversation becomes steamy.

Usually, I pass on the pictures, but today, I snatch them out of Norman’s hand. ‘Lemme see that!’

I peer at the picture then burst out laughing. ‘That’s the fugliest flower I have ever come across,’ I say.

‘Eh, Senorita gringa, iiis not a flower, iiis a, how you say it…?’ He snaps his fingers.

‘Pussy,’ some other fucker calls out.

I peer at him. ‘What?!’ I snatch it out of his hands again. ‘Gimmee that.’ I stare at the picture. ‘Mm. Can’t be a woman’s vagina. It’s too fugly. Has to be a man’s.’ I hand him back the picture and go back to my neglected bottle.

‘So many Gringas,’ Antonio says, perving over the pictures. At the mention of the word ‘Gringa’, all eyes zero in on me.

Am I embarrassed? Hell no!

‘Hey, don’t look at me,’ I say and down another Tequila, whisky – whatever – I’ve lost track of what I’m drinking. ‘I don’t roll that way. Why don’t you ask the fugly asshole at the end of the table?’

There is a collective gasp in the room and all eyes dart towards Diablo, including mine. Now he’s gonna be really pissed. Great.

But his amused response in Spanish brings on some guffawing.

‘What? What did he say, Norman?’

Norman is pissed enough to explain. ‘Diablo say, is like a fucking a colchon sometimes. He say, is a big let down. And, Senorita Gringa, and my name is not …’

Colchon … mattress? He said that, did he?’ I let out a long, low whistle. ‘Well Norm, what the hell does he know, huh?’ I smile at Norman. ‘Can I call you “Norm?” I don’t wait for him to answer. ‘He don’t know jack. Foreplay – hell, he probably thinks it’s some kind of sugar-free chewing gum, or something to do with his car’s steering wheel. Huh, Norm?’

‘But Senorita gringa, my name is not Norm, it is not Norman, it is Lucas.’

I stare at him for so long, he flinches. ‘Lucas?’

He nods.

‘Why didn’t you say something, Norm? Okay, I’ll call you Lucas from now on, Norm.’

‘Eh …’

Santana almost falls off her chair laughing.

I look at Norm. ‘Now, Norm,’ I point to Santana, ‘she’s probably laughing at what I said. Or she’s laughing at what the fuckwit at the end of the table said about me – the mattress – whatever shit …but, you ever seen a donkey laugh, Norm?

‘No, Senorita gringa. But my name …’

‘Never? Well, it’s your lucky day, Norm, cos you’ve seen it now.’ I jerk my head towards Santana.

Well, that magically erases the smile of donkey’s face.

‘You biiitch!’ Santana screeches, half out of her chair. ‘I fargin’ kiiill you!’

I smile and raise my bottle at her. ‘Take a “fargin” number and get in “fargin” line.’

Troy comes up to me. ‘Gringa,’ he whispers, ‘come, let me take you to bed so you can sleep it  … ’

My eyebrows shoot up. ‘Take me to bed? Are you better in bed than your brother? Christ, I hope so, Troy!’

Troy turns scarlet and shrinks back, all the while glancing nervously at Diablo.

Diablo looks at everyone around him falling out of their chairs with laughter and his breathing becomes like that of an emphysema patient – raspy and labored.

‘He really is lousy in bed Troy. And you know what? I don’t like him. He’s hairy and yuuuuck! He won’t let me visit my … ’

Diablo slams his fist onto the table, rattling the table and animating plates, cutlery, glasses.

‘Fuck! Look what you did Satan – you nearly made me spill my …’ I jerk back and peer at the label on the bottle in my hand. ‘What the fuck is this shit? Anyhoo, you’ve made me lose count of how many drinks I had. Have to start all over again. In case I have to drive.’

Diablo suddenly whips out his knife and flings it ninja-style at me. I duck and it hits the wooden beam behind me.

‘Ooooh!’ I cry shaking both my hands mockingly. ‘I’m in trooouble now! Biiiiga trooouble.’

‘Go gringa, go!’ some of the men cheer.

‘Whoookay!’ I say.

Diago stands up.

I stand up too and look him in the eye, my eyebrows disappearing behind my spiky fringe.

Breathing heavily, he creeps slowly to me, but I’m ready for him. I kick back my chair and sidle around, using the table as a barrier between us.

‘Watch him move, like a … eh, what you say for walrus in Spanish?’

The men laugh harder. Even Christa laughs.

‘You will farkin’ die!’ Diablo roars.

‘And who’s gonna farkin kill me, huh?’ I ask, dancing on the spot. ‘You?’ I throw my head back and laugh.

More laughter around me.

Diablo runs to his knife, grabs it off the beam and runs towards me.

But I’m already out of the villa and racing towards the cliff.

‘I’m going to kiiiill you!’ he yells as he chases me.

‘Fuck you, motherfucker!’ I scream over my shoulder and sprint ahead. I don’t care if he kills me, I just don’t want to be assaulted by him. He’s super strong and I stand no chance against him if he does. I’ve never seen him run before and I’m hoping he’s out of shape and slow. Well, the big lunch should make him sluggish.

But to my dismay, I can actually hear his breathing. I’m surprised at my slowness. Must be something to do with the booze. I have to admit, I didn’t realize how drunk I was until I started running. Too late now.

I run up the hill and through the dense foliage, passing startled villagers tending the cannabis crops. They stop and stare when they see Diablo chasing a gringa with a knife in his hand. Behind Diablo are his family and just about all of his men, some on horseback and some on foot, not wanting to miss the moment Diablo finally kills the insolent Gringa.

‘Go, gringa go!’ I hear.

‘Go, Diablo!’ I hear Christa say.

I run faster than I ever did in my life.

‘You will die!’ Diablo threatens behind me, still brandishing the knife. His breathing is getting louder and I know I have to do something.

The rock pool! I know for sure that Diablo is no match for me in the water. Very few people are. I head for the pool.

Changing route confuses Diablo and for a few moments, the gap between us increases, allowing me some respite.

I’m desperate to reach the rock pool so that I can shake the enraged animal behind me.

But to my dismay and my surprise, he catches me.

‘Let go of me, you fucking freak!’

We grapple for a few moments, but somehow, I manage to break free. Minus my dress.

He’s holding it in his hands and I’m running in just my bra and panties. I don’t give a fuck though – too drunk to care.

I’ve never been so relieved to see the rock pool and I dive in and swim frantically. I don’t stop until I’m in the middle of the pool, then only do I turn to look back, expecting to see him close by.

To my surprise, he’s standing on the banks of the rock pool, with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. Behind him a group of villagers laugh and point at me.

I do what anyone would do – I give him the finger.

He doesn’t react.

I play an air guitar and start to sing. ‘I win! I win! I win! Yeah! Yeah!’

He glowers at me and waves his knife threateningly.

I’m confused as to why he isn’t trying to get me, though.

Then I hear jeers from some of the crowd. Something about Diablo being scared of water. So that’s it – this brutal slayer, this nightmare of a monster feared by all, is scared of water? How bizarre is that?

‘What, Diablo, you scared of water, eh? You fucking baboon! Yes, you’re a monkey.’ I tap the top of my head. ‘Hee, hee, hoo, hoo!’

Diablo’s mouth twists.

‘You wear clothes and you walk upright, but that is the extent of your evolution – you’re still a fucking baboon. Get it? A baboon that allows men to do drugs in his home. You’re nothing but a pathetic murderer. You kill women – how tough does that make you, huh? What about children? You kill them too? Huh? I wouldn’t be surprised, ’cos you’re such a fucking coward!’

Nobody is laughing now.

Two of the men, start wading into the water to get to me, but Diablo stops them.

Someone hands him a lit cigarette and he puffs away, never taking his eyes off me.

The crowd hums.

Usted es un pesimo laicos, Diablo. How’s my Spanish, El Bastido?’ I ask proudly. ‘I learned that from the Spanish Dictionary of Dirty Words I brought in LA. Means you’re a lousy lay. Funny eh?’

‘Two minutes then it’s all over. Two minutes, then it’s finiiiito!’

His drags on his cigarette are longer now.

‘You should stick to her,’ I say, pointing at Santana. ‘She thinks you’re great. She’ll always tell you how fabulousa you are in bed and how you’re the greatest lover she’s ever had in her whole life. You like that, right? Egotistical bastard!’

Santana is fuming. ‘Shoot her Diablo,’ she hisses, circling him. ‘Pegarle un tiro!’

‘Me? I’ve had better,’ I jeer. ‘Ten times over. My boyfriends were soooo much better than you, El Monstero. You just take what you want, you fucking low-life. As for killing me – whose gonna kill me? You? Ha! You shot me, but guess what? I’m still here, motherfucker!’

I look at the crowd. ‘Eh, how do you say in “You’re a lousy shot” in Spanish? Anybody …?’

Of course, none of the fuckers have my balls right now, which emanates from the copious amounts of alcohol I consumed.

‘You shot me because I was a spy? What spy? Some intelligence you have there.’

To my utter amazement, he smiles. For a moment, I’m not sure if I’m imagining it. But upon closer examination, by way of an intense stare on my part, I see that he is indeed smiling – an undisguised, genuinely amused smile.

He looks at the others. They appeared to be just as surprised to see him smile and they too smile. Some of them chuckle. A few of them even laugh.

But not Santana and Christa. They are not smiling.

‘What d’ya want me here for, Diablo?’ I ask, feeling a little tired by now. ‘I don’t fit in here and I’m like, so not impressed by you or your crew or your tequila or your Ponderosa. Okay, maybe your tequila. But I’m never gonna like, marry you and be your wife and have your children. Lord no! I have plans for myself. I gonna like, fight bad guys one day.’

He raises his eyebrows.

‘Keep her instead of me.’ I say and point again at Santana. ‘She’s mucho impresso with you and your … your ability to burn down a village of defenseless old men and women and children with the strike of just one match.’

He glances at Santana as if seeing her for the first time.

Santana’s smirk disappears. ‘What? Don’t listen to her, Diablo.’

‘The only time you will ever get anything out of me El Stupido, is if you steal it from me like you did. Other than that, you have a hope in hell!’

Somebody hands him another lit cigarette and he smokes, looking blankly at me.

‘I hate piercings and you’re like a fucking tea-strainer. I dislike tattoos and look like a badly sketched road map. I hate hairy men and you have dreadlocks and a beard. Uggh! You need an extreme makeover, Amigo. Oh, and some serious exfoliation.’

‘And you …you need to put on some clothes,’ he growls.

I look down at myself. Crap! I become especially conscious of Tongue’s leering smile and quickly drop below water level.

Diablo picks up my dress and holds it to the skies.

I shake my head from side-to-side. ‘I’m gonna stay here forever now that I know you’re scared of water.’

‘My men, they are not scared,’ he reminds me. ‘They can bring you to me.’ Then he looks over his shoulder and rattles off in Spanish to the people behind him. I grow nervous. The bastard’s actually going to send his men after me?

But, to my surprise, the crowd starts to slowly thin. I stare, confused. What the hell’s he up to now?  He turns and looks at me, and I realize he’s messing with me. He’s not sending them after me. I giggle, then float on my back, while he watches. I’m in no hurry to leave the water. I just wish he would leave, but remember to leave my dress behind or I’d have to walk back to the villa almost naked. Not a pleasant thought since the alcohol is wearing off and I’m developing a mother of a headache.

When I look back at him, he’s smiling at my antics.

‘You have cojones,’ he says. ‘No one talk to me like that.


He nods.

‘Yeah, cos you’ll probably shoot them for telling you like it is?’

He thinks before he answers, ‘Si.’

‘Gosh, you’re such an arrogant prick,’ I say more to myself. I raise my hands in a surrendering motion. ‘Go ahead. Shoot. But please – I’d like to die with the first bullet, not the thirty first.’

He grins. Then his smile disappears. ‘You don’t like me?’


‘You like Him.’

“Him? You mean Austin? Eh …’

His nostrils flare at my response. ‘Why?’

‘’Cos he’s nice. He’s a good man – pleasant, intelligent, educated … a gentleman.’

‘He must be gay.’

‘He’s not gay! He just … dresses nice.’

‘He is your sister’s husband. How you do this?’

I drop my gaze.

‘He got a baby.’ His voice is edged with reproach.

You getting all moral on me? You?’

Cords appear in his neck.

‘What? You gonna kill him now?’


‘Don’t you dare. Be nice for once.’


‘Yeah, good, nice. You know …?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

He shakes his head. ‘Teach me.’


Si. Teach me how to be good, nice.’

I stare at him. ‘Why? Why do you want to be nice now?’

He drops to his haunches and stares at the ground. Then he looks up at me. ‘Imatired.’

‘Of what?’

He shrugs. ‘This life. I want to be good. Teach me how to be nice Payton,’ he says softly. ‘I want to learn how to be good.’

His words surprise me. ‘Teach you how – that’ll take decades. I don’t think you’re teachable.’

Si?’ His disappointment is visible.

I nod but then I feel really bad. ‘You really wanna learn how to be nice?’



He looks me in the eye. ‘For you.’

He suddenly looks so vulnerable and sincere and even human, that I feel a little sorry for him. I don’t know why I’m feeling this way considering he’s such an asshole, but I do.

‘You swim good.’

‘Swam for University of California, Los Angeles two years in a row,’ I brag, treading water.

He nods and raises his busy eyebrows. ‘Time to go now,’ he says softly.

This is the first time we’re actually having a conversation and I realize I’m no longer afraid of him. If he wanted to kill me, he would have done it already. Frankly, if he kills me, he’ll be doing me a favor.

I slowly emerge from the water and walk up to him.

He helps me into my dress and steadies me when I stagger.

I giggle as I fight for balance.

We stumble back to our villa in silence. He walks me into the bedroom. I stand in front of my bed and look at it. The bed rises and hits me in the face – knocks me out.

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