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  Beneath This Mask

  Meghan March


  Beneath This Mask


  About This Book

  1. Charlotte

  2. Simon

  3. Charlie

  4. Simon

  5. Charlie

  6. Charlie

  7. Simon

  8. Charlie

  9. Charlie

  10. Simon

  11. Charlie

  12. Charlie

  13. Simon

  14. Charlie

  15. Charlie

  16. Simon

  17. Charlie

  18. Charlie

  19. Charlie

  20. Simon

  21. Charlie

  22. Simon

  23. Charlie

  24. Charlie

  25. Simon

  26. Charlie

  27. Simon

  28. Charlie

  29. Charlie

  30. Simon

  31. Charlie

  32. Charlie

  33. Simon

  34. Charlie

  35. Simon

  36. Charlie

  37. Simon

  38. Charlie

  39. Simon

  40. Charlie

  41. Simon

  42. Charlie

  43. Charlie

  44. Simon

  45. Charlie

  46. Simon


  The End

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  Beneath This Mask

  Meghan March


  Copyright © 2014 by Meghan March LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design: © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com

  Photo: © Merydolla (http://www.shutterstock.com/gallery-1134161p1/)

  Editor: Madison Seidler, www.madisonseidler.com

  Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com

  About This Book

  Former Navy fighter pilot. Son of a congressman. Successful businessman in my own right. With a résumé like mine, women have never been a challenge.

  Until I met her.

  This sexy, tatted-up bad girl wasn’t part of my plans, but that punch to my gut every time I see her tells me I have to know more.

  She’s a mystery. An enigma. A challenge.

  I’m going to figure her out—and then I’m going to make her mine.

  We'll find out what she's hiding . . . beneath this mask.



  I stepped off the witness stand feeling like I’d been skinned and gutted, my insides laid out for public viewing. I refused to meet my father’s piercing aqua stare—the same one I saw every time I looked in the mirror. Instead, I focused on the sleeves of his navy pinstripe Armani suit jacket and his gaudy diamond cufflinks winking in the buzzing fluorescent light of the courtroom. My father was a general, flanked by his army of thousand dollar an hour defense attorneys. Not that they could save him. The disgust on the jurors’ faces spoke louder than any convoluted defense they could mount. I slipped through the swinging wooden gate and glanced at my mother, sitting primly, ankles crossed and hands folded, in her favorite Chanel suit and tasteful gold jewelry. Lisette Agoston was the quintessential picture of a woman standing by her man. She expected me to take the seat next to her. The seat I’d vacated hours before, hands sweating and stomach churning, to give my testimony and endure the brutal cross-examination. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit down and be the supportive, naïve daughter anymore. So I kept walking. I didn’t look at the gawking members of the press or the scornful sneers of the victims. I pushed open the heavy, carved wooden door and took my first deep breath of air that wasn’t laced with lies.

  I was done.

  With them.

  With this life.

  With all of it.

  It had all been a meticulously constructed fairy tale, and I’d been too blind and trusting to see through the façade. I was done. Burning shame swamped me. The Assistant U.S. Attorney’s words rang in my ears:

  How does it feel to realize your privileged life has been paid for with other people’s dreams?

  The objection came too late to prevent the cutting words. But no objection could erase the fact that he was right. My life had been paid for with money diverted from the hard-earned savings of tens of thousands of innocent victims. Move over Bernie Madoff. Alistair Agoston figured out a better way. Exponentially more complex and devastating, because the moment the scheme started to topple, $125 billion disappeared into thin air. Or hundreds of offshore accounts. No one was really sure. My father refused to admit anything, but the dozens of charges leveled by the Securities and Exchange Commission and the Department of Justice would ensure he spent the rest of his life in federal prison.

  And after the cross I’d just been subjected to, it was clear the Assistant U.S. Attorney thought I should be joining him in an orange jumpsuit. If trusting your father was a crime, he’d be right about that, too.

  I exited the courthouse, running down the marble stairs through the gauntlet of shouting reporters, dodging the microphones and cameras they shoved in my face.

  “Charlotte, did you know—”

  “Charlotte, where’s the money?”

  “Charlotte, are you being charged? Did you cut a deal?”

  They battered me with questions until I dove into a waiting cab and slammed the door.

  “East 60th and 3rd, please.” My plan was simple: have the cabbie drop me off a couple blocks away from home and sneak into the service entrance of our building without being seen or recognized. My strawberry blonde hair—heavy on the strawberry—was too distinctive. That would be the first thing to go as soon as I got out of this town. I clutched my purse to my chest. My future, a one-way ticket to Atlanta, where I could disappear to my final destination, was tucked inside. I was flying coach for the first time in my life—a fact I wasn’t proud of. I bundled my hair into a low bun and fished a giant pair of sunglasses and a scarf out of my purse. Somewhat disguised, I kept my head down until the car slowed to a stop. Tossing some bills at the cabbie, I slid out of the taxi.

  The service elevator trundled its way up fifty-one floors, stopping at the penthouse. My hand shook as I typed in the code required to enter. Pushing the door open, I stepped into the cavernous, ultra-modern space that was my family’s Manhattan home. After the inevitable guilty verdict came down, it’d become the property of the federal government along with the rest of the meager assets that the FBI had managed to find and freeze. To finance my escape, I’d cashed in $20,000 worth of savings bonds I’d found tucked into my First Communion bible. I tried not to dwell on the irony of my salvation being found in the good book.

  My one bag was already packed, but a casual observer would never know I had taken anything from my walk-in closet. The racks of designer suits and couture my mother insisted I wear were untouched. The shelves of