Introduction

BUTTERFLY EFFECT, by Jill Elaine Hughes Book Two of THE DOMINO SERIES. When we last left Nancy Delaney and Peter Rostovich, they were on the run from violent criminal overlords in the former Soviet Union. Our hero Peter Rostovich is an elusive, enigmatic international artist/playboy, originally from the Ukraine, who may or may not have ties to the Russian/Ukrainian mafia. Not only that, he has a taste for bondage, and uses BDSM imagery in his art. Virginal young heroine Nancy Delaney is a budding reporter, and tries to crack hero Peter Rostovich's very tough nut (he hates reporters, and art critics especially), but instead she captivates him. Bondage erotica/50 Shades fans will find lots to like in the familiar character setup and plot framework, but then they'll get taken on a thrill ride that goes halfway around the world to the darkest recesses of the former Soviet Union---Mafia dens, radioactive waste sites, Vladimir Putin-style corruption, sex trafficking rings, and more. BUTTERFLY EFFECT involves real and imagined international crime figures and a fast-pasted caper plot that will keep you on the edge of your seat. And in Peter Rostovich, readers will find a sexy artist whom nobody can quite figure out---not even the man himself.

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Excerpt

Chapter One

Rostovich and I always managed to get tangled up together, it seemed.

Our escape plan from the House of Pleasure had failed. Our driver was dead, and the getaway Jeep had crashed into a tree and flipped upside down. We were trapped inside, our bodies intertwined like a pair of snakes around a pole, awaiting our fate.

“They’ve found us,” Rostovich whispered. A stray piece of shrapnel had sliced open his temple, and a thin rivulet of blood ran down his cheek. “It’s only going to get worse from here. Prepare yourself.”

Prepare yourself. For what? I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to think. I just wanted to disappear. I closed my eyes and tried to think of something pleasant—warm blankets, hot chocolate, the tabby kitten I’d raised as a child, sex. But all I could think of was gunshots and screeching tires.

In the dark forest silence I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The frozen grass and dead leaves crunched underneath the upside-down set of leather boots I saw outside the shattered window. A set of boots I recognized. Polished black patent leather, with high heels and thick platform soles.

Elzbeta.

I gasped and then tried to speak, but Rostovich clapped a hand over my mouth. “Don’t say anything until I figure out what’s happening here,” he whispered. Then he said something in Ukrainian that I didn’t understand. Elzbeta replied back in the same language. Her tone wasn’t at all angry or threatening either—quite the opposite.

Rostovich released my mouth. “It’s all right,” he said. “Elzbeta is on our side.”

I stiffened. “On our side? Is that why she shot at us?”

By way of responding, Elzbeta pried open one of the Jeep’s buckled doors. “I didn’t shoot at you,” she said in flat, almost American-sounding English. I knew now that her British accent was fake, a show she put on for the House of Pleasure’s staff and clients. “The guard did. But I managed to kill him before he killed you. He had an extra gun tucked in his belt, I grabbed it and used it against him before he could stop me. I’m sorry if you were frightened, but I had to play both sides in order for any of us to have a chance.”

Elzbeta extended a hand and helped me out of the Jeep first, then Rostovich. “Us?” I asked her, incredulous. “I thought you liked staying at the House of Pleasure.”

“I wouldn’t say I liked it, but it was better than the alternative.”

Rostovich nodded in agreement, as if he knew what that meant.

“Peter, I’m very sorry about Boris,” Elzbeta went on. “I know he was a good friend of yours from the old days.” I guessed she was referring to our dead driver.

Rostovich sighed and shook his head. “He knew the risks. I’ll take care of his widow and children.”

I put myself between them. It was high time I got some answers. “I take it you two know each other?”

Rostovich nodded again. “Elzbeta is my cousin.” He went to embrace her. He muttered something softly in Ukrainian in her ear, then switched to English. “Thank you, Elzbeta, from the bottom of my heart. Nancy and I both owe you our lives.”

Elzbeta waved her hand in dismissal. “Let’s get back to the safe house before we talk about anyone owing anybody anything,” she said. “It’s another four kilometers to the main road. We can take the House of Pleasure’s Range Rover, but we’ll risk getting caught that way. All of Bluschencko’s cars are marked and will be recognized by the authorities if we’re seen. We’ll need to dispose of the vehicle as soon as we get to the safe house.” She paused. “There’s room for Boris’s body in the trunk, but we’ll have to dump the guard.”

Peter winced. “I’ll take care of it. You look after Nancy. She’s cold and badly bruised. And see if you can get her something else to wear.”

Elzbeta offered me her overcoat and produced a pair of wool socks, but had no extra shoes. Peter dumped the guard's dead body in a ravine; given this was Bluschencko’s private compound, it likely wouldn’t be found for days. He then bundled the driver’s broken corpse in a tarp he pulled from the back of the ruined Jeep and tucked the bloody baggage into the back of the House of Pleasure’s black Range Rover. I didn’t see any of the betraying marks on the vehicle that Elzbeta had referred to, and figured she must be talking about something else. But what? The license plate? A tracking device?

The slam of the Ranger Rover’s trunk jerked me out of my reverie. “Get in,” Rostovich ordered, wiping blood off his hands with a handkerchief. His entire shirtfront was splattered with gore and the coppery scent flooded my nostrils, threatening to make me faint. “We don’t have any time to waste.”

I obeyed, and so did Elzbeta. I took the rear seat and she rode shotgun. Rostovich took the wheel and drove us off into the night.

Exhaustion set in. My body had endured more of its share of stress over the past several days, and as the Range Rover bumped along, I found myself unable to stave off sleep. The last thing I remembered hearing before nodding off was Elzbeta and Rostovich chatting back and forth in Ukrainian. I recognized only one phrase.

Richard Darling.

* * * * *

I came to in a small, dark room. I lay on a makeshift pallet made of old quilts. The place smelled of dust, ammonia, and simmering beef stew. The spot beside me had been slept in recently but was otherwise empty. I leaned over, breathed in deep of the bedclothes, and smelled Rostovich—musk, expensive cologne, a hint of rum, a trace of the coppery scent of blood. He’d slept close beside me.

Not only that, he’d come halfway across the world just to rescue me. My body warmed all over at the very thought of everything he’d done for my sake. But I still didn’t know what his true intentions towards me were. Was I his lover, or a mere plaything? Or a tool he used for other, more sinister purposes? There was so much I still wanted and needed from him—would he be up to the task? Or would he just keep throwing up those impenetrable walls of his, always keeping his true self hidden? view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

Why do you think Nancy Delaney is attracted to someone as dangerous as Peter Rostovich?

Do you have a moral or ethical problem with what Nancy does to survive when she is kidnapped? If so, what would you have done instead?

What would you like to see happen next in this series?

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