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  HANNAH

  THE VANDENBERG CLAN | BOOK ONE

  BEATRICE SAND

  Sand Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 by Sand Publishing

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the written permission from the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Cover design by Oliviaprodesign and Sandy Jansen

  Cover Photographs: DepositPhotos

  Editing by J.S. Editing Services

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or events is completely coincidental.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ALSO BY BEATRICE SAND

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To all lovers of romance novels,

  It may not always be puppy dogs and rainbows, but I’ll promise you a happily ever after.

  PROLOGUE

  hannah

  Boston, 2006

  “You want a lift to the hotel?”

  I stare at Julia’s mom, who rolls down her car window as the windshield wipers oscillate in a menacing manner. “Thanks, Mrs. Walker, but my mother is picking me up. She should be here any minute.”

  “Try and find some shelter until she gets here, else you’ll catch cold standing in the rain in your dancewear.”

  “I’ll be fine, thanks, Mrs. Walker.” I’m not going back inside the studio. Besides, our dance teacher will be out anytime soon and close up the building anyway, so I guess I’m stuck out here.

  I wave at Julia and her mom as they drive off, and then bend over to pull my legwarmers up my tights while my mind wanders off to Ivy and Tristan. I cannot help but chuckle that my best friend is having sex with my brother. I’m sure it’s why she didn’t come to ballet class. Also, her flushed cheeks betrayed her when she told me she had the house all to herself today because her parents were out. She tried to hide it, even though we once swore an oath to tell each other everything, especially if it involved boys.

  Well, that part changed radically when she and Tristan fell in love. And now she’s doing it with my very own brother… Ew. I’m so going to give him a hard time about it for, well, probably for the rest of his life.

  I chuckle softly once more when I recall her narration of their first kiss. I was, and still am, curious about the whole frenching thing, even though I had to clamp my hands over my ears, begging her to stop when the pleasingly gory details of their kiss became steamy and sensual. I guess I just can’t picture intimacy between my brother and my bestie. So, while Ivy might be deflowered by the end of the day, I still remain ignorant on kissing or any technique implored, or how the tongue-kissing process is initiated in the first place. All I know now is it can make you dizzy and cause your knees to quiver.

  I let out a heavy sigh. Why couldn’t she be attracted to another guy? Had that been the case, I could have asked her all the dirty details tomorrow at lunch break.

  I flash a wave at my super sporty ballet teacher, who jumps on her mountain bike and passes by me. “Bye.”

  “See you next week, Hannah!”

  My eyes scan the street and parking lot again. “Where are you, Mom?” I’m getting cold, and I’m tired of standing in the drizzle in a parking lot, abandoned save for a white van. She’s never late. Better yet, she’s always waiting with the motor running. Just when I zip open my bag to get my phone, to call and ask whether she’s forgotten about her only and equally precious daughter, it rings.

  “Hey, Mom. Where are you?”

  “Hi, honey. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. Listen, I got into a car accident, and–”

  “What?” I ask, my pulse racing. “Are you okay?”

  The engine of the nearby van suddenly springs to life, increasing my heart rate even more.

  “I’m okay, honey. It was a hit-and-run. I’m talking to some witnesses who saw it happen. Tristan is picking you up. Okay?”

  “Tristan? But he’s–” I halt before I blurt out he’s getting it on with Ivy.

  “He should be there in a few minutes.”

  “Okay. Where are you? Shall I ring dad so he can come and get you?”

  “That’s not necessary, sweetie. Your father is in the middle of an important meeting and I don’t want to disturb him. Besides, I can still drive the car. See you in a bit, okay? Don’t worry about me.”

  “Okay.” I look up when I hear a car pulling into the parking lot. “Tristan is already here. Gotta go. Bye, Mom!” I sling my gym bag over my shoulder and dash toward the Volvo.

  Tristan gets out and circles the car to open the trunk. I study his worn jeans and favorite American Eagle Outfitters t-shirt. It’s a cold, rainy day, but he’s not wearing a jacket, probably quite hot at the time mom called him. Also, his dark blond shoulder-length hair, a few shades darker than mine, looks pretty disheveled, although it always looks that way, so it doesn’t prove anything, but still…

  I conjure my most innocent look. “What were you doing? I hope I didn’t mess up your plans.”

  “No worries. I’ll dump you at home, then pick up where I left off.”

  “Ivy didn’t show up at ballet class today,” I tease further. “I guess she couldn’t find her leotard.”

  A knowing smile plays at the corners of his mouth, and his mahogany-brown eyes twinkle brighter than usual. Oh yeah, he’s so busted. I stick out my tongue. “She’s my friend, just so you know.”

  “Guess we have to share her then,” he says casually. “Get that bag in here, and get in the car. You’re soaking wet. Why didn’t you wait inside?”

  “I swear, Trist, if you break her heart, I–” I stop when I see someone coming toward us from the corner of my eye. Instinctively, I glance to my side, and immediately feel the hairs rise on my skin as I watch two creepy people with ski masks pulled over their heads approach.

  “Run, Hannah!” Tristan yells, with a hint of panic lacing his voice. “Run into the street!”

  I drop my bag and break my stance into a sprint, heading for the road in front of me, but before I can reach my destination for a getaway, an arm grabs me from behind and drags me back to the parking lot. “Help! Somebody, please help us…” I scream at the top of my lungs while trying to kick myself free.

  I sink my teeth into my assailant’s arm who holds me in a headlock, but my vicious action is futile as I bite into nothing but thick leather covering instead of the flesh I intended.

  “Be quiet, stupid bitch!” The man covers my mouth with a gloved hand to prevent me from screaming further.

  A few seconds later, the do
ors of the white van swing open, and the man tosses me in like a discarded rag. I land on the van’s floor, left shoulder first, with a loud and painful thud.

  “Get the boy inside! We take him too.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind? That’s not what we–”

  “Do as I say! Now!”

  I grab an opportunity to peek outside, and see Tristan desperately fighting off his attacker. He manages to plant his fist into the attacker’s eye, but the short man is much stronger and overpowers my brother.

  Oh God, they’re taking us both…

  They shove Tristan next to me, and when the rear doors shut and the lock clicks, I know we’ve lost. The one keeping me in check slaps the panel between the front and back of the van. “Go!”

  One moment I was looking at this van while talking to my mother, and the next I find myself inside. Everything is happening so insanely fast, my brain struggles to comprehend the situation, but here we are, snatched from a parking lot, now lying on the filthy carpet in the back of some vehicle.

  My eyes search desperately for Tristan’s pair. His eyes, now the color of hot chocolate, are already fixated on me. In them, the soft twinkle and the ever-present glow of humor are gone, and I feel like breaking down into tears.

  Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, one of the men pulls a woolen cap over my head and darkness settles. A groan escapes my mouth as my hands are jerked behind my back and roughly tied together with what feels like cable ties. I struggle to inhale.

  “Let my sister go!” Tristan orders in a guttural roar. Instead of sounding scared, his voice shakes, even though our kidnappers are in control. A moment later, I hear them tying Tristan up as well.

  “She’s just an innocent, young girl. You only need me! I’ll cooperate fully.”

  “Stay quiet!” one of them snarls.

  “Is this about money? You’ll get it,” Tristan continues, ignoring the kidnapper’s command. “You’ll get all the money you need. All you have to do is let her go. My father will reward you for it, I swear. Please,” he suddenly begs in a softer tone.

  “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll make you stop, you understand?”

  The threat mellows Tristan, and he stops talking. At that moment, my heart reaches out to him. He so much wants to get us out of this situation; even at the expense of sacrificing himself, even though it’s obvious they wanted just me. He’s helpless with his hands tied behind his back, but right about one thing; if this is about money, Dad and Uncle Max will get the money together, and we’ll be free in no time.

  Still, I can’t stop my body from trembling with fear as we drive farther away from the studio and into the city traffic. Like us, the only sound from our kidnappers is heavy breathing, and the stench of sweat and cigarette smoke. A nauseating feeling overcomes me and I feel the urge to vomit, but even engulfed in darkness I can still sense the nervousness of our kidnappers, and it’s probably not wise to rile or piss them off by throwing up all over myself. Also, I certainly don’t want Tristan worrying over me. If he’s strong for me; I can be strong for him.

  Instead of focusing on wondering where we’re going and what they want from us, I focus on how much time will pass before our parents notice our absence; or before Ivy realizes Tristan isn’t coming back and raises an alarm when he doesn’t answer his phone. I try to convince myself that by now, someone found Tristan’s car with its doors open and engine running. My gym bag is lying on the ground next to the car, and it won’t be difficult to learn our identity and that something happened to us. The very thought that someone, at this moment, is notifying the police or my parents, helps qualm the fear.

  I am worried though; how will they know the direction we’re heading? How will they trace us? As far as I know, no one saw us dragged into a van.

  I squeeze my eyes shut as tears prick them, willing myself to keep it all together.

  ***

  After a thirty-minute drive, the car slows down and comes to a stop. The doors are unlocked and swing open before we get pushed forward. Somebody tilts me outside, and I shiver upon feeling a pair of big hands groping and touching me. Through the small openings in the knitted cap, I see the vague contours of a colonial style house, and without being certain, it’s painted a green or bluish shade. I get helped up a few steps, which I think lead to the front door.

  Seven steps.

  I count seven steps while I’m praying there’s another house nearby, with someone watching from behind the curtains.

  The door squeaks open, and when I’m shoved from behind, stagger forward into what seems to be a hallway. Our captors lead us up another staircase and turn to the right. After another few steps, a hand grabs my shoulder and forces me to the left, which causes me to trip over a threshold.

  A moment later, Tristan stands next to me, and brushes his shoulder against mine to assure me I’m not alone.

  Abruptly, my mask comes off, and I squint into focus. I stare at the tall, hulky man who took us. He’s still wearing his three-hole ski mask, revealing his cold blue eyes and thin shaped lips. The terrifying sight makes me jitter endlessly within, but it’s nothing compared to when I see the short one, who’s fixed himself in the doorway, arms crossed and holding a gun. I’ve never seen a gun in real life.

  “We took you because we want some of your family’s money,” the tall one says, snapping my attention back to him. His voice has a slight Boston accent. “We’re going to call them in twenty-four hours.”

  “Why don’t you give them a call now?” Tristan voices exactly what I had in mind, as though we were telepathic. Why would they wait that long?

  Our kidnapper stares Tristan down. “This isn’t a two-way conversation, so shut the fuck up!”

  Tristan, who almost matches the man’s height at six-foot-two, tilts up his chin. “I’m just saying, if you want money, it’s not an issue. We can settle this in twenty-four hours.”

  My heart rages as Tristan continues to push the man’s buttons.

  “Just as fucking arrogant as the rest of his family.”

  Everything goes quiet for a while, and then the tall one glances at the short one.

  “Cuff him!”

  He covers the distance in three steps, grips Tristan by the arm, shoves him to his knees in the corner of the room, and chains him to a heating pipe. With a knife, he cuts the cable ties, and Tristan’s left arm falls free. It’s only then I notice the two boarded-up windows, and the light-blue foam mat lying on a stained carpet.

  My God, these men are animals. Is this how they plan to keep us?

  “Now,” tall one continues with a heavy voice, “if you open that big mouth of yours again, I’ll have you gagged. Understood?”

  Tristan, still on his knees, bobs his head.

  “As I said, we’re going to inform your family that we have you.”

  His gaze remains fixated on Tristan’s, as though I don’t exist or not in the room. “We only wanted your sister. You just had the bad luck to be present. Now, our price has doubled. Let’s see if your family thinks you’re worth it.”

  Finally, he turns his eyes my way, and I shiver again as they seem to penetrate me, expressing even more horrid things to come. “We’ll cut some of your hair to prove we have you. We expect you to be calm and quiet as long as we keep you here. If you scream, we’ll gag you, but let me tell you up front, no one will hear you. We hope we can wrap this up in a few days, but if your family involves the police, prepare for a longer stay.”

  His awful eyes move back to Tristan. “So get comfortable!” he says, then directs his gaze to his henchman. It’s obvious who’s calling all the shots. “Take the girl to another room.”

  “No, please…” I beg, “I wanna stay with my brother. I’ll do anything you say, but let us stay together. We’ll keep quiet, I promise.”

  Without warning, he pulls the mask over my head again, and I’m dragged out of the room, hearing nothing but the sound of the metal chain clinking against the heating pipe behind me. r />
  “Bastards!” Tristan yells.

  CHAPTER ONE

  hannah

  The first chapter is always the hardest. You get just one shot to capture the reader’s attention, so you had better make it count, but for the life of me, I can’t come up with the first line. I’m steeped in Puritan history, even this morning visited the alleged site of the witch hangings to reflect, and of course, pay my respects, yet my motionless hands rest on my laptop keyboard, prepared for that magic moment of inspiration only to face continued frustration and disappointment.

  Sighing, I return to study the map of Salem in 1692, struggling to think of a catchy first phrase, while the scent of jasmine invades my nostrils.

  “How about some witch’s cake and mint tea?” utters a sweet voice. “Maybe it’ll help you focus.”

  I look up from the map to stare into the unusual face of a woman with gorgeous ginger-colored hair, and white pale skin heavily adorned with freckles. She gestures to the blank page on my laptop. Well, it’s not entirely blank. I wrote two words: “Chapter One.”

  “I know a writer dealing with creative slowdown when I see one,” she says with a smile. “I made the cake myself. The herbs are fresh from the garden.”

  “I would love some tea. Cake, hmm, I’m not so sure,” I say, then break eye contact, and rummage through my notes. I know I wrote something down earlier about the so-called witch’s cake. “Ah, here… The witch cake was made from rye meal and urine from the afflicted girls. It was fed to a dog.”

  The woman in the green maxi dress bursts into laughter. “I see you’ve done your research. The part about the rye is true, but I assure you, I use entirely different ingredients these days.”

  “You know what? I think I’ll have some. So far, the food has been fabulous.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be right back.”

  I lean back into the receiving couch, and stare into the cozy fire. Witch cake, I think, then it dawns on me to begin the story with a prologue, where the dog eats the cake, and identifies my protagonist as a witch, perhaps with freckles. Or something like that.