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Swamp Island by Mildred A. Wirt

Chapter 1 PAGE

1 THE BEARDED STRANGER 1

2 ALERTING ALL CARS 7

3 UNFINISHED BUSINESS 16

4 A TRAFFIC ACCIDENT 25

5 THE RED STAIN 33

6 AMBULANCE CALL 42

7 AN EMPTY BED 50

8 IN SEARCH OF JERRY 58

9 THE WIDOW JONES 64

10 INSIDE THE WOODSHED 73

11 AN ABANDONED CAR 81

12 A JOB FOR PENNY 91

13 INTO THE SWAMP 100

14 A CODE MESSAGE 107

15 BEYOND THE BOARDWALK 113

16 TREED BY A BOAR 121

17 RESCUE 128

18 WANTED-A GUIDE 136

19 PENNY'S PLAN 146

20 TRAILING HOD HAWKINS 153

21 THE TUNNEL OF LEAVES 160

22 HELP FROM TONY 166

23 LOST IN THE HYACINTHS 175

24 UNDER THE FENCE POST 183

25 OUTWITTED 192

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I woke up in a blindingly white hotel penthouse with a throbbing headache and the taste of betrayal in my mouth. The last thing I remembered was my stepsister, Cathie, handing me a flute of champagne at the charity gala with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Now, a tall, dangerously handsome man walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips. On the nightstand sat a stack of hundred-dollar bills. My stepmother had finally done it—she drugged me and staged a scandal with a hired escort to destroy my reputation and my future. "Aisha! Is it true you spent the night with a gigolo?" The shouts of a dozen reporters echoed through the heavy oak door as camera flashes exploded through the peephole. My phone lit up with messages showing my bank accounts were already frozen. My father was invoking the 'morality clause' in my mother’s trust fund, and my fiancé had already released a statement dumping me to marry my stepsister instead. I was trapped, penniless, and being hunted by the press for a scandal I hadn't even participated in. My own family had sold me out for a payday, and the man standing in front of me was the only witness who could prove I was innocent—or finish me off for good. I didn't have time to cry. According to the fine print of the trust, I had thirty days to prove my "rehabilitation" through a legal marriage or I would lose everything. I tracked the man down to a coffee shop the next morning, watching him take a thick envelope of cash from a wealthy older woman. I sat across from him and slid a napkin with a $50,000 figure written on it. "I need a husband. Legal, paper-signed, and convincing." He looked at the number, then at me, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. I thought I was hiring a desperate gigolo to save my inheritance. I had no idea I was actually proposing to Dominic Fields, the reclusive billionaire shark who was currently planning a hostile takeover of my father’s entire empire.

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