The William S Club

  Miranda couldn’t see his eyes. They were covered with dark sunglasses but something about his smile bothered her.

  ‘Hello, Miranda,’ he said, his voice a cruel buzz in her ear. ‘Are you happy to see me?’

  Recognition came like a stampede of wild horses but it was too late to do anything about it.

  Zac Wilson was already in her room.

  The boat cut through the waves as easily as a scythe through wheat, the captain keeping a straight line through the choppy Mediterranean waters.

  ‘What is that?’ Charlotte said, pointing at a boat that kept pace alongside them.

  ‘A boat,’ Damon said, attempting to be clever.

  ‘Yes, I can see that. I saw something flash in the window. I think… I think it was a camera.’

  Damon took binoculars from a storage locker and scanned the water in all directions, sweeping the other boat’s decks.

  ‘Are you sure? Maybe they have binoculars too. It’s a fair distance from us. They’d need a pretty long lens to see over here.’

  He peered through the binoculars again, just to be sure.

  After all, Zac Wilson was on the loose.

  Am I just being paranoid?

  Charlotte was pretty jumpy around cameras - understandable given she’d had them poked in her face before she was old enough to even know what they were.

  ‘You found your mummy dead? How did that feel? Did you know your daddy is a criminal? Was your mother involved? What is the foster home like? Do you miss your parents? Or her favourite one of all, ‘Where is the money?’

  Given her earliest dealings with the media, it was ironic that she’d ended up in the industry herself.

  Then again, maybe it was the first profession she really understood.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ She finished the glass of wine in one mouthful. The last thing she wanted to think about was her past.

  She stood up, moving to the railing again, sure it had some clever name in boat-speak but having no idea what it was.

  Damon got to his feet, standing beside her, his body again so close, she could feel heat radiate out of his pores.

  She shivered, fighting the urge to kiss him. Standing so close wasn’t helping matters.

  Of course, he mistook her shivering for cold. He picked up the discarded blanket, replacing it across her shoulders, his hands lingering for just the briefest instant.

  Charlotte’s stomach went in to free fall and her heart pounded in her chest. She was acting like a lovesick teenager.

  For God’s sake. If you want to kiss the man, just do it. Don’t be a coward.

  He pushed passed her into the hotel suite, closing the door behind him.

  Evans bit her lower lip, staring at the closed door as if it had become a prison cage.

  ‘How did you get out of jail, Zac?’ she asked, trying to impart some bravado into her voice but failing miserably.

  He ran a finger along the edge of her silk negligee. It barely covered her pale, milky skin and he could see the outline of her breasts beneath the thin fabric.

  ‘Nice titties.’

  They were large and round, at least twice the size of Harlot Charlotte’s tits.

  Zac’s cock hardened in his pants, bringing the itch rushing back with a vengeance but there was no rush. He could take his time with this bitch. She said it herself. She’d asked not to be disturbed.

  How thoughtful of her.

  Zac viewed his handiwork, his smile malicious. A blackish bruise marred her face while stitches crisscrossed her cheek giving her a Frankenstein’s bride effect.

  She searched the room for an escape route but Zac stood in front of the only exit, turning the lock as he slid the chain into place.

  ‘What do you want, Zac?’ She backed up as far as she could but the small desk prohibited her going any further.

  A silver laptop sat on the desk, an email open on the screen.

  This must be the laptop his benefactor had referred to, the laptop he was supposed to finish.

  All in good time. He meant to have a little fun with Evans first.

  He lunged forward, his laugh cruel as he tore open her nightdress.

  A sinister smile curled his lips as he fantasised she was Harlot Charlotte. He knew she wasn’t but there was no harm in pretending.

  In his mind, her dark hair lightened and her short body elongated. Her curved hips became slimmer and her full round breasts shrunk to the firm pert tits he couldn’t stop dreaming about.

  In that moment, Evans became Harlot Charlotte, her bare skin dancing with sweat. She no longer feared him; she wanted him. Wanted him as much as he lusted after her.

  ‘Charlotte,’ he said, grabbing her hair, crushing his lips down on hers.

  Her knee came rushing up towards his groin but Wilson was too clever for that old trick. He caught her knee in his hand, spinning her around in one quick movement, forcing her over the desk, his other hand pulling up the torn remains of her nightdress.

  No underwear. See, she was just waiting for me…

  He fumbled with his zipper. ‘I’m going to fuck you up so bad, Charlotte. You’ll never want another man after me…’

  ‘Please Zac – no. I’m not Charlotte. I’m not Charlotte. It’s me. Miranda. Please don’t do this.’ She looked back at him, her bruised face wet with tears.

  She’s lying. Of course it’s Charlotte. She wants to confuse you.

  ‘Shut up,’ he said, slamming his fist into the side of her face.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me. Please. Please…’

  He forced her knees apart, sliding inside her, the excitement building the more she tried to fight him, the more she struggled to get away.

  But then Wilson heard a sound that was completely out of place - the electronic ping of an email sending.

  His blood ran cold, all desire melting away.

  ‘What the fuck did you do?’ He pulled out of her, tossing her aside. She threw her hands over her breasts and crotch, belatedly trying to cover her modesty.

  She needn’t bother. Zac had seen the photos. The whore had no modesty.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck. You stupid fucking bitch.’ Wilson ripped the computer from the wall, throwing it across the room where it smashed against the wall. Keys scattered across the tiled floor and the LCD screen cracked and went dark.

  ‘Who the fuck did you email?’ He grabbed her throat, her eyes bulging as she tried to claw his hand.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, spittle flying off his lips.

  She gasped and choked, unable to speak. He relaxed his grip. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Nobody,’ she said, her voice rasping. ‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hit the button.’

  But her eyes flashed defiance, as if to say ‘Screw you, Zac.’

  ‘You’re a fucking liar.’ He struck her with the back of his hand, the force splitting her lip and spraying blood across the wall.

  ‘You have one chance to tell me who you sent that email to,’ he said, the quietness of his whispered voice far more menacing than the shouting.

  ‘It was an accident. I promise.’

  Rage exploded like an atom bomb. He threw the petite woman against the wall. She crumpled to the floor like a rag doll, curling instinctively into a ball to protect herself.

  ‘Tell me.’ He kicked her thin body, again and again, her ribs making an audible crack as they broke beneath his fury.

  The rage that had been building for so many years found an outlet in Miranda’s body. He kept kicking, not stopping until her lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling.

  He put two fingers to the side of her throat, feeling for a non-existent pulse.

  And then the nausea broke, washing over him, replacing the rage with the bile of fear.

  Wilson felt sick.

  Not because the girl was dead. She might be his first kill but her death did nothing to him.

  It was the broken computer that had him shitting bricks.

  I just won’t tell them about the e
mail.

  He set to work, gathering the shattered pieces into a pile, scrunching up the blood splattered papers.

  Taking a screwdriver from his bag, he carefully unscrewed the back of the computer, removing the hard drive.

  Opening the balcony door, Wilson pitched it high into the air, watching it arc and fall into the middle of the canal.

  Going back into the room, he pulled a plastic, one litre container from his bag, poured the contents over Miranda and the papers around her, ignoring the fumes that overpowered the room.

  He lit a match, dropping it onto the fuel soaked pile.

  Flames sprung to life. Zac lifted the lid off the room service tray, picking up the now cold hamburger.

  The stench of burning hair and flesh filled the room. Any sane person would have found it impossible to continue eating but Zac didn’t mind. It reminded him of barbeques.

  But then the sprinklers kicked in, washing out his macabre picnic, followed in quick succession by the angry warbling of the fire alarm.

  Zac pushed the burger away, walking to the front door. Out in the hall, guests poured out of bedrooms in various stages of undress, hurrying down the fire escape to the hotel rendezvous point.

  Some screamed. Others shouted orders. Zac laughed, knowing their panicked flight would make his next task easier.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight:

  Isabelle sat on the floor of the boat, her hands shaking too much to pick the camera back up.

  When BJ insisted she follow his brother Damon, Isabelle hadn’t expected to see much.

  Damon was kind and caring and, for the most part, decent. Nothing at all like his older brother.

  But he did have that reporter on his boat, and Isabelle had seen firsthand that the tall, blonde Australian had a penchant for handsome men.

  Isabelle knew BJ would have wanted her to keep the camera trained on the boat but Isabelle was no paparazzi and had no interest in becoming one. For starters, she lacked the invasive nerve it took to continue shooting when the subject did not want to be photographed.

  But mostly, it was dirty and a tad too voyeuristic.

  So she had done what any normal person would have done when caught staring. She turned away.

  More than that, she hid, falling to the floor, too afraid to poke her head back up for fear of being discovered.

  She had no idea how long she sat there. It could have been five minutes or it could have been an hour.

  It felt like an eternity.

  The sun had already sunk below the horizon when she finally worked up the courage to get off the floor, creeping back to the window to see what was happening across from her, hoping against hope that the night would save her the humiliation of having to continue.

  Maybe they were inside, or playing cards – anything that wouldn’t require her to act like a peeping Tom.

  She repositioned the camera lens through the open glass, pressing the viewfinder to her eye.

  It was dark outside but a full moon was courteous enough to illuminate the deck of the yacht, even going so far as to create a stunning backdrop for her photographs.

  The powerful focal length of her lens put her right on the foredeck with her subjects and what Isabelle saw made her blush.

  Isabelle had no idea when Burke and Damon had started kissing or even who had made the first move.

  But things were definitely moving beyond the kissing stage now.

  Their lips crushed against each other, tongues probing and hungry, their bodies melding together as if the kissing just wasn’t enough.

  Burke’s hands were on the waistband of Damon’s pants, fumbling as she struggled to get them undone.

  He stopped kissing her, his eyes searching her face as if to ask if this was what she wanted.

  It was impossible to see Burke’s face from this angle, so Isabelle couldn’t see the answer in her eyes. She assumed it was a hearty yes as Damon’s jeans were now in a heap on the deck and Burke’s arms were in the air as Damon peeled her top over her head.

  She flicked the camera to video mode, realising with sick dread that she was now filming live action sex tapes, certain she’d burn in hell for it.

  Damon scooped the blonde into his arms. Isabelle prayed he would carry her inside and thus grant her a reprieve.

  But they never made it to the doorway. They crashed into the sunbed, their desire for each other no longer gentle but frenzied and urgent, Damon stopping only long enough to search his discarded wallet for the obligatory condom.

  Only one thing kept Isabelle from turning away: her fear of upsetting BJ.

  She held the shutter release down, the camera recording every movement, an ache in her own body as she witnessed the private scene.

  Burke’s legs encircled Damon’s waist, her fingernails digging impatiently into his skin as the two of them climaxed together.

  Only when they had finished, when they lay naked beneath the blanket on the sunbed did Isabelle put the camera away.

  She imagined someone watching her intimate moments with Pierre and hated what she had become.

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘No sir. Not yet.’

  ‘Then keep trying until you get her.’

  Highgrove hung up his phone, dread balling in his stomach.

  He couldn’t really force Lucy to stay much longer. She’d already worked back three hours to help him track down Burke and was well within her rights to tell him to bugger off.

  Knowing Lucy, the sky would fall before that ever happened.

  The two of them had been calling, texting and emailing Burke all day, like a pair of stalkers.

  Not a single reply.

  If Highgrove wasn’t so worried, he’d be seriously pissed off about now.

  She was pretty pissed off herself. Maybe she’s just avoiding you.

  If that were true, she could kiss her career goodbye.

  His waiting had proved fortuitous in one regard. It gave him plenty of time to read the files Walsh had dumped on his desk.

  He’d immersed himself so deep into the Harvey Empire he would need a dozen showers to wash off the filth.

  Affairs, drug arrests, sexual assault, stints in rehab.

  And that was just the extended family. Second, third and fourth generation Harveys who had little to do with the running of the business but were still treated like celebrities because they had a famous last name.

  Vultures.

  Britain was full of them. Silver spoon billionaires who had money to burn but had done nothing to earn it.

  Unable to reach Charlotte, Highgrove had done the next best thing. He’d called Harvey Inc, demanding to be patched through to Burke immediately.

  The receptionist had all but told him to go fuck himself, assuring him that Ms Burke was fine and would ring the first chance she got.

  To make matters worse, The London Times had run a piece this morning about a journalist being assaulted on a press trip in France.

  So much for non-disclosure agreements.

  Unfortunately, the paper stopped short of naming anyone, the omission ensuring they hadn’t legally violated the NDA.

  Or maybe it was completely unrelated. It might have nothing to do with Burke or Harvey Inc. There were probably dozens of press trips happening throughout Europe. Why did he immediately imagine the worst?

  He knew the answer before his mind asked the question.

  Because he’d had no communication in more than sixty two hours.

  Even given Charlotte’s volatile temper, it was too unusual not to make him worry.

  He called her phone again, cursing as it went straight to voicemail.

  The hotel fire alarm pierced the night with its continuous bleating.

  Mark Barclay staggered from his room into the corridor. He had no idea if the alarm was for real or some sick Italian joke – a fire drill in the middle of the night.

  If the latter, he wasn’t amused.

  It was cold and he’d been asleep for… He glanced at his watch.


  Shit Mark. You’re getting old.

  It wasn’t even 10pm.

  A couple of months ago, a press trip full of boozy parties and horny girls would have been his idea of Nirvana but a lot had changed since then.

  For starters, he’d taken a leave of absence, backpacking around the globe with the girl of his dreams.

  Eden James – the only slice of heaven he would ever need again.

  Since meeting her, Barclay no longer wanted to fuck a different girl each night or consume his body weight in alcohol and party drugs.

  She was his spiritual awakening, making him realise how empty and pathetic his former life was.

  A week ago, they’d been making love under the Nepalese stars.

  Mark was trying to work up the courage to propose when the helicopter arrived with a missive to return him to London.

  Like hell he was going back. Not yet. He wasn’t ready.

  But the pilot patched a call through to his editor and…

  His editor had been quite persuasive, letting Mark know in no uncertain terms that if he wanted a future in journalism – anywhere in the world - he’d get his ass on that chopper.

  He missed Eden with every fibre of his being but after seeing that the press trip would end in Sydney, they had made plans to meet up Down Under and continue their spiritual journey together.

  ‘Hey watch where you’re going,’ he shouted as a group of Japanese businessmen made a mad dash down the stairwell.

  Judging by their panic, they thought the alarm was real enough.

  Is that smoke?

  When Mark reached the sixth floor, he saw smoke billowing out from underneath the door, filling the stairwell.

  A blond guy emerged from the fire exit, a leather bag slung over his shoulder.

  But rather than head down like everyone else, the man climbed the stairs, his gait more a strut it was filled with such arrogance.

  It was oddly familiar.

  ‘Hey you. You’re going the wrong way,’ Mark called. ‘The rendezvous point is downstairs.’

  The man put his head over the railing, his lips curled into a derisive sneer. ‘Fuck you.’