Why would he free such a monster?
What did he hope to gain beyond instant dismissal?
There were other questions that bothered Damon.
Where did Jacobs disappear to? Why had his father sent Jacobs in the first place? A trusted personal butler accompanying a group of horny young adults on a press trip. It didn’t make sense.
Charlotte’s eyes bored into him and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep her in the dark, as much as he wanted to.
‘It’s Wilson. They dropped the charges. He’s out.’
Storm clouds of fear darkened her features. ‘Why?’
Damon wished he had an answer. His thoughts were racing ahead, trying to make sure he had everything covered. ‘We need to go.’
‘But I’m not allowed to fly. The doctor…’ Tears glistened in her eyes for a second but she refused to give in to them.
He grabbed her suitcase, taking her hand in the other. ‘We will take the yacht.’
‘Take the yacht where?’
‘Portofino. We can be there tomorrow morning. You will be safe there,’ he said to reassure her.
But how could he be certain?
Jacobs’ disappearance troubled him. The man knew too much about his family including the location of all their properties.
Five minutes later, as they scurried down the path to the waiting launch, Damon scanned the hidden coves of the small isthmus, his eyes searching any other boat out on the harbour.
He hoped he was doing the right thing moving Charlotte; hoped he wasn’t walking into a trap.
Chapter Twenty-Five:
Ivory snowflakes swirled in the cold, alpine air, dusting the exterior of the chalet. Located just outside Interlaken, in the Swiss mountains, the private house was the perfect place to hide.
Nobody used it anymore. Not since the Harveys purchased a fairy tale chalet in the hip town of Gstaad.
Jacobs poured himself another two fingers of 20-year-old single malt whisky from the cellar and took a seat in front of the roaring open fire.
How many years had it been since he had spent time alone? Most of the year Jacobs split his time between London and Paris; his role as personal steward to Bill kept him close to the property magnate’s side.
He liked to think he knew his boss as well as anyone did, but the man was a walking book of secrets and manipulations – and now Jacobs had been drawn into the middle of it all.
Bill had made him an accessory to his crimes.
Still, Jacobs liked Bill. His boss had always treated him well and even if he had cajoled and controlled Jacobs into doing things he wasn’t comfortable with, he more than made up for it with rewards.
Very generous rewards and an above average wage.
And in this house, a well-stocked bar Jacobs had sole access to.
It wasn’t quite lunchtime yet. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking so early but it was lunchtime somewhere in the world.
Besides, he needed the drink. Needed it to calm his frazzled nerves, to lessen the feeling that a guillotine was about to come crashing down around his ears.
Damon would know what he had done by now and would be gunning for his head.
Lucky for him, Jacobs didn’t answer to Damon.
Bill would protect him. Wouldn’t he?
The wind picked up outside, causing the front door to crash open.
‘Holy shit.’ Jacobs almost dropped the cut crystal glass of expensive whisky. ‘Damn these old houses.’
He got up to close the door.
Zac was within spitting distance of the villa on St Jean Cap Ferrat, poring over the plans of the sprawling mansion, searching out the easiest way to Charlotte.
He knew Harvey would have her protected but he couldn’t watch her every second of every day.
Eventually, he had to slip up, and Zac would be there waiting.
But his revenge plans took a serious battering when the object of his obsession and her knight-in-shining armour hurried down the stone steps to a waiting boat.
‘Fuck,’ Zac said, kicking the side of the cliff face.
Don’t give up that easy, Zacky Boy. If you hurry, you can be on the boat before it departs.
Yes. It was perfect.
On the boat, Harvey was sure to let his guard down. He’d think Charlotte was safe, out of Zac’s reach.
And then he’d pounce and end both their pathetic lives.
He was just about to make his move when an unfamiliar vibration buzzed in his hip pocket.
‘What the hell is that?’
He had almost forgotten about the phone his mysterious benefactor had provided.
But there on the screen was a message.
The message was brief.
It read ‘Retrieve laptop and take care of girl.’
He scrolled down, wondering which girl his benefactor was referring to. Did he mean Charlotte? Was he being given permission to act?
And just what did take care mean?
Attached to the message was a file.
A photograph to be more precise.
He waited for the image to download, whistling as he recognised Miranda Evans – or at least, parts of her.
Her face was only just visible, obscured by the three men taking it in turns to go down on her naked body.
Zac recognised the décor of the club. The photo was from that Jardin place in Paris.
He smiled, remembering his initial fantasy involving Charlotte and Miranda in a Parisian threesome.
Judging from the photo, he’d picked the wrong bird to go after. Evans was much more game for some kinky action.
Take care of her.
The itch between his legs had become a permanent feature, always lingering below the surface, eager to be fed.
He had an idea what the message meant, the thought of taking care of Evans in that way turning his erection into a towering inferno.
His fingers trembled with anticipation as he sent a text back.
‘Please clarify,’ it read.
The responding text message made the answer clear. ‘Finish both.’
Anita Harvey stepped off the plane at Marco Polo International Airport in Venice, Italy, her heart feeling heavy.
The flight was only short but it seemed to stretch into eternity the minute she started speaking to Miranda Evans.
I only spoke to her in the first place to grill her about Charlotte Burke.
Anita had no idea how the subject moved from Burke to her mother but she’d listened with growing anger as Evans told her about her investigation and her suspicions the death was not accidental.
The girl suggested someone may have tampered with the brakes on her mother’s car but her innocent ribbons and bows mind couldn’t conceive what Anita immediately knew to be true – that her mother was murdered by her own husband.
Anita was eight when her mum died.
Young enough to forget what exact shade of blue her mother’s eyes were, or what particular scent her hair smelled of after she’d taken a bath, but not too young to recall the look on her father’s face at the funeral.
It wasn’t one of grief.
The bastard actually smiled as they lowered the coffin into the ground, a look of supreme satisfaction on his handsome face.
Nobody else saw it and Anita never told another soul, but it was why she hated her father with such intensity.
Ten years later, on her eighteenth birthday, they had a blazing row.
Whether it was the alcohol she could legally consume or a decade of festering doubt, she finally worked up the courage to accuse him of being happy that her mother was dead.
He didn’t even have the decency to deny it.
She walked out of his house and never looked back.
Anita had known all along her father was happy about Jacqueline’s death. Until today, she had never imagined he was so callous to have killed her himself.
Now there was no doubt in Anita’s mind.
Hatred burned in her belly and she was de
termined to make her father pay for everything he had put their family through.
Icy rain pelted the slated roof and double paned windows of the two hundred year old mansion near Trafalgar Square.
There was a clear view from the upper windows all the way to the Thames River, with Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey his neighbours.
Four floors below, in the hushed, sound proofed basement, the only evidence of the storm brewing outside was the blustery temper of his eldest son, Bill.
His son had spent the last twenty minutes on the phone, and each call increased his rage until he was a volcano ready to erupt.
BJ, back from Paris, was staring at the downloaded files from the flight to Venice.
The files did nothing to improve anyone’s mood.
BJ ranted and raved at his father, calling him every name under the sun while Bill raged back.
It some perverse way, William found their fight humorous, particularly Bill’s anger.
In fifty years, he had never seen his son throw so much as a temper tantrum.
There were times his coldness chilled William to the bone, especially where it concerned the family but he was far too calculating for something as lowly as temper tantrums.
William had loved and lost, felt pain and emotion, been filled with rage and passion. His life had in no ways been an emotionless existence.
Make no mistake; William had his fair share of shameful secrets.
His life was built around them.
He had hurt those he loved, driven them away – at times deliberately – and done things for which he knew he’d burn in hell.
Ah hell. If only he believed in such a place. Perhaps he was already there.
Yet there was one major difference between William and his two namesakes.
He had a life before the secrets.
Both Bill and BJ were defined by their secrets.
William knew he was to blame. He had enlisted them as gatekeepers before they even knew what they were getting into.
He created this closet society, made them grail guardians and actively encouraged them to throw off emotional connections.
Now he had to face the very monsters he had created.
When did I start to feel this way?
William knew there had been hints for a while, but he had resisted his conscience. How could he not resist? His mind was telling him to throw open the curtains and expose the very thing he’d spent half a century covering up.
His conspiracy ran deep, and had affected many lives but until two decades ago, it had only ever been an ethical dilemma.
It had not become criminal until Paul Baker entered the picture.
With Baker came a subtle change in the emphasis of their activities. Somewhere along the way, their conspiracy stopped protecting the past and started sheltering criminals.
But now William was tired of all the lies. He was tired of this life. Tired of being a prisoner of his own making.
Most of all, he was tired of this argument between his two heirs.
‘That’s enough,’ he said, his watery voice raised as he stepped towards them both. But in closing the gap, William was now able to pick up the thread of their fight.
He heard the bitterness in BJ’s tone as he said, ‘You fucking bastard. You never told me you had her killed.’
Had who killed?
He couldn’t be talking about Helen Baker. BJ had known for years about their role in the woman’s death, even though he was still a child when it had happened.
Ice crept up William’s spine as BJ continued.
‘She was my mother, goddamn you.’
No. It couldn’t be true. Jacqueline died in a horrific car crash. Bill was devastated. They all were.
‘And she was my wife. I had to do it. She knew. It was for the greater good.’
The greater good.
How many times had William heard that excuse bandied around? Bill had used it to explain away Helen Baker and Scott Critchlow’s deaths. He had brought it up a few days ago when he’d ordered the young girl’s death in Sydney.
Murder had never sat right with him but William had turned a blind eye. It was easier to swallow the lie than face the truth about the man his son had become.
But killing a family member, the woman who had borne Bill’s children?
Was there anything that excused that?
Yet even as he had the thought, William knew there was something perverse about the notion that one death was more justifiable or nobler than another.
Be honest with yourself William. There is only one reason you agreed to those deaths. To protect your empire – your secret.
It was a disconcerting idea but one he forced himself to face.
If he had known about Jacqueline, would he have stopped Bill? Or like the others, would he have convinced himself it had to be done?
Family. It was the reason behind everything William had done, or at least, that is what he told himself.
The cruel irony was that the two he loved and nurtured the most, the two he had spent all his time with, had become vicious wolves capable of untold horrors while the remainder of his family despised him.
Truth be told, he wasn’t that fond of them either. They had grown fat and lazy on the largesse he had provided.
But while he might not feel warm and fuzzy about his family, he would never wish them harm.
Would he?
Moisture pooled in William’s eyes as he approached his son, wondering how he would handle this latest revelation.
He had to say something. He couldn’t just pretend it had never happened.
But what Bill did next made the murder of Jacqueline Harvey seem like a traffic misdemeanour in comparison.
William’s bowels turned to water and he stared at his son, his mouth wide open and jaw slack as Bill sent a new target to the lunatic he had set loose.
The only noise that came out of his throat was a strangled ‘Why?’
‘She knows. She can’t be allowed to survive.’
William staggered backwards, wondering if he had ever truly known his son.
Bill’s cruel eyes mocked him, saying ‘Of course you knew, Dad. You created me.’
Chapter Twenty-Six:
Zac was still fantasising about the diminutive brunette when another message came through on the phone.
A second photograph.
A new chick to ease his itch.
He’d never seen this woman before but he didn’t think he would have a problem adding her to his stable.
She was a looker all right.
Almost as hot as Harlot Charlotte.
He’d have a lot of fun taking her down.
When his phone beeped again, Zac almost blew in his pants.
Was he being given a third girl?
No. It was airline tickets.
First Class Air Italia tickets to Venice.
Zac had never loved his life so much.
Yet sitting in the taxi on the way to the airport, he wondered if he was ready to become a killer.
Sex and violence was one thing. Most of the time, the bitches asked for it.
But he’d never killed anyone before.
He closed his eyes, remembering the pleasure he had felt as Harlot Charlotte’s life slipped between his fingers.
A sadistic smile spread across his face.
He was more than ready.
When they first reached the wharf, Charlotte had thought the twenty metre speedboat they boarded was the Mon Petit Bateau.
It was a beautiful vessel, the type one sees on the cover of boating magazines, not that Charlotte had read many.
She was soon to discover that the speedboat was just a tender, a means to reach the mother ship – the real Mon Petit Bateau.
Damon was right. The moniker was a complete misnomer.
My Little Boat was neither little nor could it be adequately described as a boat.
Cruise liner would be more apt.
It
had to be at least 80 metres long. Perhaps longer. Bigger even than some of the ferries that ploughed the waters of Sydney Harbour.
The driver steered the speedboat alongside the larger vessel, halting at a boarding deck long enough for Charlotte and Damon to climb aboard.
He then drove the tender into the belly of the ship, parking alongside two other similar sized tenders and a fleet of jet skis.
In addition to the tenders below deck, there were four orange and white high-tech life rafts strapped to the rear.
Damon led her into an elevator and Charlotte tried hard not to laugh when she saw the long list of features on each of the five levels.
The lower deck with its gymnasium, private cinema, massage rooms, swimming platforms, recreational centre, games arcade, kitchens, storage areas and crew quarters; the main deck housed the swimming pool, hot tub, sun decks, alfresco dining, bar, ballroom, and staterooms 21-30; level one had the upper galley, three separate dining rooms, three salons, a library and staterooms 11-20; level two, the button Damon pressed was just staterooms 1 – 10 and the top deck held the communications towers she had seen rotating in the squally wind along with the upper sundeck, upper dining and upper bar.
Damon hurried along a long corridor and up a short flight of stairs, stopping outside Stateroom 1.
‘You’ll sleep here,’ he said, throwing open the door.
‘Holy shit.’
Charlotte had spent a night on a boat before – crammed into a microscopic cabin with three other twenty year olds, stacked one on top of the other in anorexic bunk beds like sardines in a tin can. With typical Australian humour, the owner had even named the boat ‘Tinned Fish’.
Tinned Fish had one small bathroom to meet the needs of everyone on board, and it was nothing more than a cramped toilet with a handheld shower and basin.
Her memory might be a little fuzzy but Charlotte was pretty sure that whole boat would have fit in this one bedroom.
Huge picture windows showcased the sparkling Mediterranean Sea, offering 180-degree water views and leading on to a private sundeck at the very front of the boat.
A king size bed tried to hold its own in the cavernous room but somehow ended up being swallowed up by the enormity of space.