He eyed the towel, a grin splitting his handsome face (how could Charlotte think of him as anything but handsome when he looked so much like Damon?) and a wicked gleam in his eyes. ‘I didn’t expect this kind of welcome but okay…’
‘Very funny, now will you get out?’ She pushed him through the door but before she could fully close it, BJ slipped his foot into the gap.
Charlotte shot him an angry look, which only made him grin more, as if her getting pissed off just amused him.
‘Have dinner with me.’
‘Are you fucking insane? No.’
She didn’t mean to get mad but he was so damned presumptuous. He hadn’t even bothered framing it as a question.
Something akin to fire sparked in his eyes and for a second, Charlotte thought he would react in kind but he had better control over his emotions than she did. ‘Consider it an exclusive interview. I’m sure your editor would be interested in what I have to say.’
She scrunched up her face, hating that he’d brought work into the equation. Somehow she didn’t think work had much to do with the invitation – she knew interest when she saw it.
He sensed her swaying and pressed his advantage home. ‘I’m offering you something very special. Something I don’t just offer to anyone - a brief glimpse into my family. You can ask any questions you want.’
She did have some questions for him but Charlotte doubted he would like them. ‘Okay, but as long as we’re clear – this is just work. Strictly professional.’
‘Of course,’ he said, his face splitting into that infernal grin again. ‘Why would you think it would be any different?’
Charlotte’s cheeks turned crimson and she wanted to curse him for making her feel foolish. ‘What time?’ She kept her voice as cool as she could manage given the fury building inside her.
‘Eight. I’ll send some clothes up for you. Wear them.’
‘Forget it. I’ll wear my own clothes.’ She closed the door, wondering why she had let herself be talked into dinner. She leant again the wood for a good few minutes, making sure he wouldn’t try to come back through, then she pushed the dresser in front of the door and, just for good measure, the bedside table and her suitcase, barricading herself into the room.
Charlotte was so intent on watching the adjoining door that she never saw the envelope slide beneath the main entrance to her room. She didn’t notice it until it was already too late.
The wind whipped Nancy’s red hair off her face, causing her to shiver.
It wasn’t the sub-zero wind of a DC winter, which tore through clothes and bone like a knife, but there was a definite chill to the Mediterranean air.
Under normal circumstances, Nancy would have relished the milder weather, not to mention the gorgeous view from the cliff tops overlooking the Genoan harbour.
But how could she think about something as routine as weather when her brain was a maelstrom of judgemental ruminations?
She was convinced every member of the press team had been given a copy of the photos. Why else would their conversations stop when she walked in the room? It made sense. People were laughing at her. She was sure of it. That’s why they couldn’t meet her eyes, as if they knew exactly what she’d been up to.
The cameras see everything. They watch my every move. They want to catch me sinning again. They see the evil blackness of my heart.
Nancy spent all morning searching her room for hidden cameras.
At first, she thought she was being obsessive, that she was looking for evil where none existed.
But an hour later, she had found evidence of thirteen hidden cameras, covering almost every angle of the room. And there were five more in the bathroom.
The discovery kicked her paranoia into overdrive.
She went to BJ Harvey, dumping the broken cameras in his hand, demanding to know when she could leave and return home.
‘You have to be patient. It takes time to arrange a private plane.’
But Nancy knew that wasn’t true.
They were supposed to be in Venice still but, on a whim, Mr Harvey changed his mind, ordering his private plane brought to the runway, rerouting them all to Portofino.
How hard could it be to get her back to Washington? She didn’t even care if she flew coach on a commercial airliner. She just wanted to go home.
Now the sun was sinking behind the million dollar yachts on the Portofino Harbour and Nancy knew for sure she was never returning home.
What was worse, she had spoken to her father and knew – she just knew – that he had seen the photographs. He didn’t say anything but she could hear the recrimination and bitter disappointment in his voice.
Nancy peered over the edge of the cliff, trying to judge how far below the water was?
A hundred feet? Two hundred?
Maybe more.
She never had been a good judge of distance, just as it seemed she was a shitty judge of character.
It’s your character that is the most disappointing.
Her sins were etched upon her soul with perma-ink. She couldn’t escape them, just as she could never return to the comforting warmth of her home knowing her parents had seen her at her worst.
That left just one option.
She stared at the water, dolefully wondering if anyone would miss her when she was gone.
What would they miss? You’re nothing but trouble for any who have had the misfortune of knowing you.
Daddy will be glad he doesn’t have to look at me, knowing what I have become.
Shame burned her insides like a cattle brand and she knew the scourge of this scandal had marked her forever; knew she would never be the same again.
Two days ago she’d had a spiritual experience in St Mark’s. Two days ago she thought she had put it all behind her.
What a fool to think that a few hurried prayers could wash away such filth.
Smut this dreadful stuck fast and no amount of whitewashing or prayers would rinse her clean again.
There was only one way out of this – forward.
Nancy moved her foot closer to the edge of the cliff, feeling the rock shift beneath her gym shoes. The thought both terrified and exhilarated her.
She wondered whether Charlotte had received the envelope yet, trying not to think about the shame of Charlotte seeing those terrible photographs.
It doesn’t matter. I won’t have to see the disappointment in her eyes. I’ll be gone.
Her left foot edged over the cliff.
Can I really do it? Will it hurt? Nothing can feel worse than this.
Nancy remembered reading an article that said most jumpers died before they even hit the ground; that their hearts gave way almost as soon as their feet left the ground.
Who knew such a useless titbit of information would have such a dramatic influence on how she chose to end her life?
Nancy hoped she would be like the majority of jumpers. She hoped Fate would at least grant her an easy death since it had been determined to screw up her life.
There are so many rocks down there. What if I don’t die straight away? What if I’m still alive when I hit those rocks?
Her palms were sweaty, her heart a staccato beat, like the marching bands of her youth.
In front lay freedom. Behind, shame and degradation.
Nancy Robertson shifted her weight forward, her body buoyant as it fell through the air.
Chapter Thirty-Eight:
Someone knocked on the door.
For a wild second, Charlotte thought it was BJ trying to get back through the barricaded door but then she realised the sound was coming from the main entrance.
She swung the door open to see a man holding a simple white cardboard box. It was flat and rectangular and about a metre long.
‘Scusi. You are Signorina Charlotte Burke?’
‘Yes. How can I help you?’
‘Questo è per te.’ He handed her the box.
She had no idea what he’d said but the gesture seemed simpl
e enough.
He started walking down the corridor and was halfway to the stairs when Charlotte noticed an envelope on the floor at her feet. Thinking he had perhaps dropped it, she stooped to pick it up, running after the delivery man.
‘Here, you dropped this.’
‘Non è mio,’ the man said, shaking his head.
‘I don’t understand you.’
He placed a hand on the envelope. ‘Not mine.’
Back in the room, Charlotte threw both the envelope and the package on the bed, taking the top off the white box.
She lifted up an exquisite evening gown, made from soft silk chiffon. It was cobalt blue – her favourite colour.
A hand-stitched label proclaimed it a Jason Wu original.
Charlotte held the dress against her body, spinning around in front of the mirror, letting herself imagine what it would be like to wear such an exquisite gown.
It was exactly what she would have chosen for herself, right down to the Alexander McQueen heels inside the silver satin bag.
But BJ had picked them and she wasn’t about to let him dictate what she wore.
She put both the shoes and gown back on the bed, moving away from them as if they were coated in poison.
It’s not a date. It’s a business meeting. Stop thinking of it as anything else.
You idiot. That’s not a business dress. That’s a date dress. A bloody hot date dress.
Charlotte had no idea where things stood between her and Damon. She didn’t know if she would ever see him again – she did, after all, break up with him – but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Damon would hate her having dinner with BJ. Even a blind man could see the brothers didn’t get along.
She threw herself backwards on the bed, inadvertently bouncing everything else off onto the floor in the process.
The envelope flipped over and Charlotte saw Nancy Robertson’s name where the address should be. The name had been scratched out and Charlotte’s written underneath.
In the corner of the envelope was a tiny postscript.
Charlotte had to squint to read the tight, miniscule writing and when she did, it only made her feel more confused.
Read alone and outside. Do not read this anywhere inside a Harvey Inc building.
Charlotte slipped the rolled envelope into the back pocket of her dirty jeans, closing the door on her way out.
Watching Charlotte barricade herself in her bedroom had been amusing. Did she really think a bit of furniture could keep him out if he wanted to gain access?
She might have blocked one entry but BJ had a master key that gave him access to any room in the hotel including hers.
For the moment, he’d play along. Let her think she was in control. He was a patient man.
Besides, he still got to watch her get naked as her towel slid to the bedroom floor.
His cock reared up in his pants, throbbing at the sight of her striding around the room, completely naked, completely comfortable in her bubble of supposed privacy. He slid his hand into his pants, stroking the tip.
‘Patience boy. Give it a day – two at most – and she’ll be riding you like a horny cowgirl.’
His cock gave another throb of delight and for just a second, BJ contemplated playing the DVD again but his attention was drawn to the hall camera.
Someone was at Charlotte’s door.
The delivery guy with the package. He didn’t want to miss seeing her in that dress.
He knew the dress was her style – BJ knew everything there was to know about Charlotte Burke, as well as her alter ego, Victoria Baker.
‘Hang on. Where did that envelope come from?’
Charlotte was staring at the yellow paper, a curious look on her face, her nose getting closer and closer to the paper until she was almost face planting it.
His fingers clicked on the keyboard as he tried to bring up another angle but her head was in the way. He couldn’t see what she was reading.
He did, however, recognise the envelope. It was the same one he’d slipped beneath Robertson’s door.
‘What the fuck…’
Mild alarm coursed through his veins.
Did she leave the photos in there?
God, if she did, Charlotte will know we were blackmailing Robertson. She’ll want to know why. She’ll start asking questions.
BJ willed Charlotte to tear the envelope open. He had to know what was inside. He had to know what he was dealing with.
But instead of doing as he wanted her to, Charlotte slipped the envelope into her back pocket and left the room.
Charlotte walked three kilometres away from the Portofino Paridiso, up a long, sloping road to a public park at the very top of the tall cliffs.
From here, she could see all the way down to the town of Portofino and if she squinted, she could just make out the Mon Petit Bateau down on the water.
Somewhere down there, sirens screamed as emergency services rushed to somebody’s aid.
She glanced over her shoulder, making sure she hadn’t been followed, though not really knowing who would have followed her.
Get a grip girl. You’re not in a spy novel.
The second she tore the top off the envelope, she realised how wrong she was.
Her legs buckled beneath her as three photographs tumbled out; photos of Nancy in a series of compromising positions.
Charlotte sank to the cool, wet grass, bile rising in her throat as the gravity of the photographs sunk in.
It wasn’t the content that bothered Charlotte. It was the implications behind them.
Someone had been watching Nancy.
Have they been watching me too?
Worse still, they hadn’t just watched; they had taken the time to print out the photos and give them to Nancy.
Who on earth would do something so sick and depraved?
Charlotte remembered the moment on the yacht; the moment she was certain a camera had been pointed at her and the bile came rocketing out of her mouth.
She puked in the grass, feeling sick to her stomach.
The images stank of extortion but who would want to blackmail Nancy?
She was sweet and kind. A little naïve. Not your typical person of interest – not to a family as rich as rich and powerful as the Harveys.
A thought took hold in her mind, growing and festering until it became a cancer.
What if Damon did this? He had access.
Don’t be stupid. What would he have to gain?
Positive press? Maybe he wanted to ensure we wrote nice things about his family.
No. It didn’t make sense.
Why go to the trouble of setting up a press trip for a group of journalists that, until four days ago, had no prior dealings with his family?
You do.
Harvey Inc. Harvey Inc. Harvey Inc.
Oh, don’t be ridiculous. That was a lifetime ago. Nobody is chasing you down.
She turned the envelope upside down and a note fell out in her lap.
Charlotte unfolded the paper.
There were surprisingly few words but the weight of those sentences was like being body slammed by a blue whale.
They took everything. My pride. My family. My future. I couldn’t go on without them. I’m a coward but please tell my family, I never meant to hurt them.
We didn’t know each other long, Charlotte, but I trust you will know what to do next.
News of Nancy’s suicide spread through the group like the Black Plague, striking fear into the hearts of even the most hardened cynic.
Hank Williams stood on a narrow stretch of sand, a hundred metres from the rocks where police divers had retrieved Nancy’s twisted, broken body.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
It was as if the grey sand had welded to his feet, turning to quicksilver as it iced his veins and arteries, speeding to the centre of his heart.
He was Lot’s wife, unable to turn away as a vengeful God obliterated Sodom and Gomorrah, his curiosi
ty turning him into the proverbial pillar of salt.
It had been easy enough to shrug off the other incidences.
Miranda Evans was linked to Charlotte Burke, who for whatever reason had pissed off Zac. Her death, while tragic, wasn’t that surprising. Zac was just striking out.
The other chick – the Harvey chick – she was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe she saw Wilson scurrying away from Evans’ room. Maybe she’d threatened to call the police, and Wilson had acted out of self-defence.
None of those events had the first thing to do with Hank. He could detach himself from the horror and know his conscience was clean.
But this…
It’s your fault. You did this to her. You knew what kind of girl she was – the innocent kind.
It had seemed so harmless at the time. He probably would have done it even without the offer of money.
A hundred grand is a lot of money.
Hank didn’t have some bullshit hard luck story of a mom struggling to put food on the table and a dad who had been laid off from the local grease ball factory.
Quite the opposite in fact.
Hank hadn’t seen his dad in fifteen years. The dickweeb sent money every month to pay for Hank’s little sister and he paid for Hank’s education but if Hank never saw the pathetic loser again, it would be a day too soon.
No, it had been greed, pure and simple, and good old fashioned lust, that had driven him to accept the strange offer to fuck Nancy Robertson.
The public bit was Hank’s idea. The butler dude wanted him to do it in the bedroom – something about there being a camera to catch the action.
Fucked if Hank was going to be caught on camera.
So he’d done it out in the open. It had fulfilled his commitment and eased his conscience about accepting the money.
Sure, he’d felt like a shit the next day. And he hadn’t been able to look Nancy in the eye since.
He’d seen her changing, getting more emotional by the day.
Now she was dead and it was all his fault.
Chapter Thirty-Nine:
Food was the last thing on Charlotte’s mind as she sat in the chair opposite BJ.