The Charmers (14 page)

The Villa Mara looked like the Acropolis with double-height white columns supporting an upper verandah, lined with zebra-striped pots of flowering jasmine. A long terrace fronted onto a vast lawn clipped to within an inch of its life by the dozen gardeners our host employed and who, I'd heard, replaced every flower every week so they were only ever seen at the height of their perfection. Looking at his garden I understood that this billionaire knew what he liked and what he wanted, and knew how to get it. Money speaks, no doubt about it. But when it spoke like this, then I was the beneficiary of his perfect dreams.

“Mirabella,” the Boss called. He was alone and looked around for Verity, saw her propped on a high stool at the long bar, smiling as she was given a glass of pink champagne. I doubted she realized her skirt had hitched up to the top of her thighs. I nudged Chad, indicating what was up.

He nodded good evening to our host then departed quickly in Verity's direction.

The Boss followed Chad's progress, taking in Verity and the skirt and the champagne. “No need to worry,” he said confidently. “She is so young. My staff will keep an eye on her.”

“Not that young that she can behave badly,” I answered. I was a little upset with Verity. No woman, young or not, should drink too much.

My host took the seat next to me. We were suddenly alone, except, that is, for the shadowy shapes of two men in the background. Bodyguards, of course.

“What do you think?” I leaned closer so he could hear me over the music—dancing was well under way, heels already coming off, jackets soon too, I'd bet.

“Think about what?” The Boss signaled a waiter from the darkness to top-up my glass, and I let him. I knew good champagne when I tasted it. And I liked it. One and a half glasses. I was keeping count, as Verity was not and I knew a girl must. I was also watching Chad, who was now sitting next to Verity.

I caught her dismayed look, then her cheeky grin as she attempted to pull down the white skirt. She slid off her stool, patted Chad on the arm, said something to him, then wandered off in the direction of the house. She stopped momentarily to slip off her silvery sandals, then sauntered on her way, swinging them by their straps. I'd almost bet she was humming along as she went. I recalled the desperate, crying young woman on the train, her story about the cheater; the stolen money, such as it was; the runaway girl not knowing where she was going or how to get there or what she was going to do when she did. My little Verity was definitely coming into her own.

Chad returned, frowning as he took another look after her. “She told me she was okay,” he said. “And I told her that, as a doctor, I thought she should not have any more champagne. And she told me that champagne never did any girl any harm.”

“She should have been grateful for your medical attention,” I said with a smile. He was so handsome, so man-of-the-world and famous doctor all rolled into one, for this night anyway before he took on his other persona, back in some jungle village fixing little kids' faces so they might have regular lives.

The Boss, who was still sitting on my other side, said, “Well, how are you enjoying my little party, Doctor? Different from your usual surroundings I'll bet.”

I looked at them, pleased. For the first time in my life I was with the two most attractive men in the room. I preened myself metaphorically and took another discreet sip of the pink champagne. Perfectly iced, perfectly chosen. Nothing escaped the attention of the man of a different world from mine and Chad's.

I noticed the two guards who had been watching discreetly had disappeared. They must believe their boss was safe with us.

“Mirabella.” The Boss smiled, the kind of intimate smile meant just for me. The man knew how to charm and, what the heck, he was attractive, with that tall, dark, intense look of his. Besides, it was a good opportunity to make Chad Prescott jealous, perhaps make him take a second glance and maybe think I was okay in my floaty aqua gown that showed off my curves, and the pearls that showed off my breasts. And my hair in a red cloud that was expertly made-up-by-Verity. I didn't look so bad, even if I did say so myself.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” the Boss said. And this time it was my hand he took as he escorted me to the parquet dance floor that had been specially installed over the lawn. He slid his arm around my back and I slid against his starched shirt front, breasts crushed, hair flying. It was, I told myself, very nice.

 

25

Sometime later, Chad and I were hovering over the buffet tables, pretty in linen cloths with crystal bowls and silver platters with tiny softshell crabs, sweet shrimp fresh from the bay, grilled red snapper, and hot potato pancakes.

Fettucini was piled with morsels of lobster. The french fries were scattered with herbs and cheese, and slow-roasted pork was sliced to order and soft as butter and twice as fragrant. All the elegant, thin women who lived on salads tucked in, saving room for the desserts, a pyramid of chocolate and cream profiteroles.

He had put on the great all-American barbecue when everybody had expected something fancier, and I saw he was very much enjoying the astonished looks on his guests' faces when they inspected the serving tables, trimmed with orange and yellow unscented marigolds and purple pansies and other common or garden flowers, not the expected orchids and roses flown in from South America. First came the looks of shock. Then the frowns of worry that all was not correct, then the murmurs of delight as compliments came his way. Somehow, it all just worked.

Of course his guests were used to the best, that's why they were here. Many of them the Boss did not even know; his party planner had a list of accessible people who were always up for freebie top-drawer events, and who looked good and had the right clothes to qualify.

“But how wonderful,” I said as Chad and I inspected the lavish spread. “And how beautiful it all looks, so simple and pretty, like a real back garden on the Fourth of July.”

The Boss smiled at me, pleased at the compliment, but Chad was not looking at the buffet.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” he said. “I need to check something.”

I wondered what it was he needed to check so urgently. Then I remembered he was keeping an eye out for Verity.

I excused myself and edged through the perfumed crowd, aware that the women were eyeing me. They'd seen me talking to the Boss; he was the prime catch and any one of them—the unaccompanied ones anyway and probably some of the married ones too—would like to catch that “catch.”

I caught up to Chad as he was coming back from the house.

“She's not there,” he said shortly.

“But I could swear I saw her go in.”

“And so did I.”

“I mean, I just thought, well, a bathroom break, you know.…”

“She's not in the bathroom. Not in any bathroom. There's staff everywhere, guarding the doors to all the rooms so nobody can make off with the silver, I guess. They all claim not to have seen any woman of her description. I even checked with the one in charge of the ladies' room, who threw me out and said I had no right to be in there. Well, of course I didn't, but she had not seen Verity either. What worries me, Mirabella, is that we both know she'd had too much to drink and that she went into the house. And now everybody is saying she did not. What the fuck is going on?”

He glared at me like it was my fault; that deep penetrating look that earlier I had taken as interest, or lust, or love at first sight, something along those lines. Obviously this was not the case.

“Nothing could have happened to her,” I said. “I mean, look at this place, there's enough armed guards to stop a tank attack. And a girl doesn't just get lost at a grand party like this.”

“Well, it seems this girl has gone missing at this grand party, and I'm going to ask the man in charge about it.”

I grabbed his arm. “You think something has happened to Verity? But why
should
anything happen to her?”

He shook his head. “Mirabella, your own Aunt Jolly was murdered, almost next door, in your Villa Romantica, and you are asking why I am worried that Verity disappeared from the party? I come from a different world. I see danger behind me, in front of me, over my head, everywhere I go. I've learned to trust my gut when I feel something's wrong and that's probably why I'm alive today. And trust me when I say something is wrong here.”

I thought of Aunt Jolly's still-unexplained and violent death, of my lovely, unworldly aunt, who in fact was so like Verity in her nature they might have been related. Aunt Jolly had been killed. A violent attacker was still on the loose. The Colonel, who I could see across the yard, smart in what must be some kind of dress uniform and attractive as all get-out and didn't he know it, was chatting up a group of women who seemed attached to his every word. Even he had failed to find the killer.

Beyond the magic circle of light around the villa, the hills loomed dark. Not a light shone past our enchanted surroundings. The sheer blackness was foreboding and I shivered. Anybody might be out there, watching.

I saw Chad prowling the edges of the party crowd. The music played on, ice tinkled in glasses, laughter rang out, chatter and gossip, women admiring each other's dresses, stilettos dangling from their hands, bare feet cool on the grass. Everything looked normal.

I hurried across the lawn to where the Colonel stood in his merry group of admirers, grabbed his arm, and said, “I need you.”

The women glanced at each other, smiling at my forwardness, my deliberate cutting out of anyone else.
“Bitch,”
I heard someone mutter as with my hand still on his arm, I dragged him to a quieter place, beyond the reach of the music and the banter and the drinkers.

“It's Verity,” I said. “Verity, you remember?”

He nodded. “How could I forget?”

Of course, he had been one of the first there, in the canyon, after the accident. “She's gone,” I said. “Disappeared. Just went into the house and then … gone.”

“I imagine she went to the restroom.” The Colonel spoke mildly, at the same time removing my hand from his coat sleeve.

“You don't understand.” I was panicking now. “
Verity is not here.
Chad went looking for her. She's nowhere to be found. We saw her go into the house half an hour ago. She never came out.”

“But we are in the garden at the back of the house,” the Colonel explained, exasperated. He obviously thought women like me got endlessly into trouble. “Does it not occur to you she might have left of her own accord by the front door, which I assume is the way she came in?”

“And does it not occur to you that my aunt was murdered almost next door, by person or persons as yet unknown? Is it that there's a curse on the Villa Romantica, Colonel? Do you believe in mumbo jumbo like that? Well, I can tell you, I for one, do not. Unless Chad is able to find her, we have to believe somebody took Verity, some madman…”

The Colonel put a calming hand on my shoulder. “You are jumping to ridiculous conclusions. Why would anybody want to ‘take' Verity as you put it? She's simply a guest, and I'm betting she'd had a little too much to drink and decided bed was the place for her. Someone would have driven her home.”

“How can you say that? How can you just stand there and not do
something
?”

The Colonel's eyes were suddenly unsmiling. “Tell me why you think anything should have happened to her.”

I stared back at him, wondering why I should. But Chad was uneasy too; he'd felt something was wrong.

“Gut instinct,” I said.

Our eyes linked for a second. “I've always been a believer in that.” The Colonel took my hand in its silver crochet glove, with the large sapphire on the right middle finger. His hand was warm, strong, comforting.

“Let's go find her,” he said.

 

26

The Boss

At the edge of the party crowd the Boss observed the sudden whispering, the hands across mouths as the story of the missing girl spread from woman to woman. The men seemed unconcerned, still busy with men-talk: golf and boats, cars and the stock market. So, Verity's disappearance had been noted. Time now for him to take over, to become the crusader, the man intent on finding the lost girl, the man who would become her savior. Even if ultimately it did prove too late to find her alive.

The fact was, it had not been Verity that had been his original target. It was the elusive Mirabella, who had escaped twice already, and now another time. Of course Verity was a lovely substitute. Such a nice young woman, still a girl really, all blond bounciness and wide smile and those amazing round boobs that were unmissable—her greatest asset in fact, and one he appreciated. He was about to let her know that. The thought of the sharp point of his knife between Verity's breasts excited him and he stepped quickly behind the bar to hide the evidence. He was a well-endowed man, as many women had told him. Which was fine, in the right place at the right time. In public it was not correct and he would be taken as a pervert.

“Pervert.” An odd word for a state of mind, of body, that to him was acceptable. How else would a man enjoy himself if not for a few perversions? There were women that catered to his brand of sexuality; the dominatrix in London was a favorite, as was the Russian housewife in his old hometown of Minsk, where it had all started. She had known instinctively what he liked, the whip, the knife, the threat, the danger. The knife edge of danger was what he called it, with a knowing smile. God, how he enjoyed it. The only thing he enjoyed more was money.

A quick sprinkling of Rohypnol had disappeared in Verity's third glass of champagne, sufficient to send her wobbling away, into the arms of his handlers who'd caught her before she made it to the bathroom.

He'd watched from the library door, heard her quick cry of surprise when they came from behind; saw one throw an arm around her neck, the other lift her feet off the ground, then both run with her out through the sliding glass doors, into the darkness.