A tenacious reporter. A billionaire philanthropist. And all-access secrets that won’t leave anyone safe fuel Camryn King’s relentless new thriller . . .   Mallory Knight knows all too well how perfect lives can be illusions. Her best friend, Leigh, seemed to have it all. But then she’s found dead. Suicide, or so they say. Mallory isn’t convinced, and decides to put her investigative journalist skills to use in a whole new way.   To the rest of the world, superstar athlete Christian Graham seems perfect—he is kind, honorable, and easy on the eyes. But after discovering his name in Leigh’s journal, Mallory wonders if there are secrets behind his megawatt smile. If every generous public gesture is a lie.   Challenging the popular superstar puts Mallory’s career and reputation on the line. But she won’t back down in her pursuit of the truth—even if the cost is her job . . . or her life. Before delving into the world of suspense, intrigue, and inconvenient attraction, Camryn King was the senior writer and managing editor for a lifestyle magazine. An avid world traveler, she’s lived in or visited more than two dozen countries and forty-two states, and acquired endless fodder for upcoming novels. Stiletto Justice was her debut. Her website is CamrynKing.com. Triple Threat By Camryn King KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. Copyright © 2018 Camryn King All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4967-0220-3 CHAPTER 1 A year ago today, Mallory Knight's world had changed. She found her best friend dead, sprawled on top of a comforter. The one Leigh had excitedly shown Mallory just days before, another extravagant gift from her friend's secret, obviously rich lover, the cost of which, Mallory had pointed out, could have housed a thousand homeless for a week. Or fed them for two. Leigh had shrugged, laughed, lain back against the ultra-soft fabric. Her deep cocoa skin beautifully contrasted against golden raw silk. That day, when the earth shifted on its axis, Leigh had lain there again. Putrid. Naked. Grotesquely displayed. Left uncovered to not disturb potential evidence, investigators told her. Contaminate the scene. With what, decency? She had ignored them, had wrenched a towel from the en suite bath and placed it over her friend and colleague's private parts. Her glare at the four men in the room was an unspoken dare for them to remove it. That would happen only over her dead body. She'd steeled herself. She looked again, at the bed and around the room. Whoever had killed Leigh had wanted her shamed. The way the body was positioned left no doubt about that. For Mallory, the cause of death wasn't in doubt, either. Murder. Not suicide, as the coroner claimed. But his findings matched what the detectives believed, what the scant evidence showed so ... case closed. Even though the half-empty bottle of high-dose opioids found on Leigh's nightstand weren't hers. Even though forensics found a second set of prints on one of two wineglasses next to the pills. Even though Mallory told investigators her friend preferred white wine to red and abhorred drugs of any kind. She suffered through headaches and saw an acupuncturist for menstrual cramps. Even though for Leigh Jackson image was everything. She'd never announce to the world she'd killed herself by leaving the pill bottle out on the table, get buck naked to do the deed, then drift into forever sleep with her legs gaping open. Details like those wouldn't have gotten past a female detective. They didn't get by Mallory, either. Beautiful women like Leigh tended to be self-conscious. What did Mallory see in that god-awful crime scene? Not even a porn star would have chosen that pose for their last close-up. The adrenaline ran high that fateful morning, Mallory remembered. Early January. As bitterly cold as hell was hot. Back-to-back storms in the forecast. This time last year, New York had been in the grips of a record-breaking winter. Almost a foot of snow had been dumped on the city the night before. Mallory had bundled up in the usual multiple layers of cashmere and wool. She had pulled on knee-high, insulated riding boots and laughed out loud at the sound of Leigh's voice in her head, a replay of the conversation after showing Leigh what she'd bought. "Those are by far the ugliest boots I've ever seen." "Warm, though," Mallory had retorted. "I'm going for substance, not style." "They'd be fine for Iceland. Or Antarctica. Or Alaska. Not Anchorage, though. Too many people. One of those outback places with more bears than humans. Reachable only by boat or plane." Mallory had offered a side-eye. "So what you're saying is this was a great choice for a record cold winter." "Absolutely ... if you lived in an igloo. You live in an apartment in Brooklyn, next door to Manhattan. The fucking fashion capitol of the world, hello?" Mallory had laughed so hard she snorted, which caused Leigh's lips to tremble until she couldn't hold back and joined her friend in an al