The Charmers (25 page)

What was also apparent to the Colonel, when he was checking this information, was that dates and times and places were not mentioned. In fact it was impossible to know where the Boss was born. Sometimes it was said the Ukraine, while an alternative version claimed the Big Island of Hawaii, or even in the gambling center of Macau, off the coast of China. No interview the Boss had given ever raised the question of his beginnings, because he always laid down the rules of what questions might be asked and what subjects might not even be approached, which made it easy for him to have the appropriate answers to hand. In fact, the Colonel thought, reading through some of those interviews on Google, the man was a complete mystery. He was only ever exactly what he wanted to be right there and then.

The Colonel did not consider this normal. He told himself everyone had parents, everyone had a past, which might include wives and children, and probably brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and grandparents. Nobody came into this life alone. So, where was the Boss's mother? His family? Did the Boss have a wife somewhere, kept out of sight, out of his social whirl?

Yet, to all intents and purposes, the Boss was a single man who lived alone, had no close personal friends, and maintained a staff that protected him like the Secret Service and who all had signed a pledge of nondisclosure, even the chefs who'd cooked the stupendous food for that party. Even, dammit, the bartenders.

From his long career as a gendarme, starting at street level and working his way up over the years to the top of his profession, the Colonel had learned never to believe in coincidence. If something bad happened, a murder for instance, there was never any “coincidence.” It was purely and simply a criminal act.

Now, sitting at Verity's bedside, watching over her as though by sheer strength of will he could make her better, he thought if there ever was a woman that needed his protection, it was this one. It had been a long hard road after his wife was killed, taking on the role of bringing up two small girls alone, returning home to those endless evenings, his children secure in their beds, some favorite music playing, a bottle of wine opened, and no one to share any of it with. Especially his emotions. There had been nights, he would admit it, when he, a grown man, the tough, vigilant cop, had broken down and cried. But wine was better without tears and time moved on. Looking at young Verity Real, sleeping like she was drugged, he felt a tenderness he recognized as the first awakenings of love.

He got up quickly, told himself he was a fool, brushed down his uniform, adjusted the tie, patted the gold stars on his epaulettes. He should not be wasting time here. The girl—he always somehow thought of Verity as a girl, not a woman, though she was certainly old enough to qualify—did not need him. Of course not, she would never need a man like him.

Without so much as a knock, the door suddenly swung open. The Colonel's hand reached automatically for the weapon at his hip, so it was the barrel of a Luger the Boss faced when he walked in.

“Well, well,” the Boss said, putting his hands up. “The Colonel is playing soldiers again. I thought we'd had enough of that at the party. Anyhow, I did not expect to see you here.”

Embarrassed, the Colonel apologized. He took out a large white handkerchief and mopped his suddenly sweaty brow, feeling like a kid caught in some nefarious act, instead of the policeman acting on his duty.

He said, “Your men at the gate were good enough to allow me to enter.” He knew he sounded like he was reading for a script, when all he'd wanted to say was the guys let me in, I came to check on the young woman who'd almost drowned and investigate the suspicious event.

There was just something intimidating about the Boss, an element the Colonel recognized from his years of investigating criminals, an invisible aura of darkness. This was a no-holds-barred man who would allow nothing and no one to stand in the way of getting what he wanted. And quite suddenly the Colonel understood that what he wanted was Verity. And he felt afraid for her.

The Boss said, “Well, as you can see, Verity is being very well looked after, right here. Anything she wants, or needs, will be hers.” He sounded impatient, as though it was time the Colonel left.

The Colonel said, “Then I suggest you have Dr. Prescott examine her when he returns.”

“Prescott?”

“The world-renowned neurosurgeon. I'm sure you'll recognize his name and his work.” The Colonel was definitely sweating. He mopped his brow again, aware that the Boss was observing him. “Besides, he's your neighbor.”

“I know him. He was nice enough to attend my party, as you were yourself, Colonel. I trust you enjoyed it. I'm a hospitable fellow, I like to share what small things I can offer to my neighbors and friends, like yourself. But now, my dear Colonel, I must ask you to leave. Let us allow young Verity to get what they call her ‘beauty sleep,' though as you can see for yourself, she surely needs no sleep to make her beautiful.”

The Boss was smiling at him, holding open the door. The Colonel wanted to hit him. He wanted to punch him right between those dark eyes that were staring so mockingly into his own. It took all his self-possession to simply put on his cap and walk past the man and out through that door.

As he hurried down the path, past the main house to where his car was parked, down the gravel driveway, for the first time in his life the Colonel was uncertain what to do. In the end, he decided he needed to get in touch with Chad Prescott, and with Mirabella.

Mirabella

The Colonel met me at the Nice airport.

“Madame Mirabella,” I heard him call as I wandered from the labyrinth, dragging my wheeled duffle behind me, still lost in the gloom of leaving Chad, a man I had not so much as really even yet kissed, well, not properly anyway, let alone had a more intimate relationship with. Such as an affair. I was lost in gloomy thoughts of that, and of what I was going to do to help Verity, and now here came the very man I needed.

The Colonel took my bag and brought me up to date on Verity's welfare.

“We have to get her out of there,” he said finally.

I told him what Chad believed had happened, and how he distrusted the Boss.

I had a vision of her in that enormous bed, her angelic sleeping face propped on a small mountain of pillows, the bedside table piled with books, magazines, the chilled bottle of Perrier, even a crystal glass to drink it from; the kindling in the grate waiting only for a match to light the log fire, soft music playing, the view of trees and flowering bushes and the scent of jasmine and lilac from the bowls of flowers. It did not take a genius to know how easily a girl might be seduced by such lavishness, by such overwhelming generosity, by such power and money.

“What shall we do?” I asked the Colonel, feeling completely helpless.

“I have to speak to the Boss,” he said.

 

50

The Boss

The Boss had not gotten exactly what he wanted. He was a frustrated man, a grown-up child deprived of the promised treat, and it was his own fault. True, he had Verity shut away in his guesthouse, though now not quite “at his mercy” as she had been before. And true, he had received due recognition from the media by saving her life. The video of him walking from the sea holding the unconscious girl aloft had been featured on every newscast worldwide.
Her hero,
was the caption, along with cameos detailing his life, his homes, his wealth, his generosity, and the fact that he was single.

The party had been shown in all its expensive glory, lanterns glowing in the trees, champagne chilling in huge silver buckets, flowers trailing over walkways, over tables, over beautiful women's hair as they smiled for the cameras.

Yet here he was, alone as usual, in his bunker, sitting in his enormous leather chair, staring blankly at the wall of TV screens that showed his property. Empty now, but for the occasional patrolman with his dog. The German shepherds were intelligent, eager to be trained, to do man's bidding. Lovely dogs. He stared at the screens for a long time, frustration building up in him, twiddling a pen nervously between two fingers. Finally, he got up, walked into the bathroom, stripped off his custom-tailored black jacket, his fine pale gray flannel pants, and the blue Egyptian cotton handmade shirt that he always ordered by the dozen. Same with the shoes, Lobb of London had the wooden last, shaped precisely to his measurements. All he needed to do was call and they would get to work on a new pair, whatever he wanted. All his desires would be met. And that was at the heart of his problem. What to do to eliminate the boredom, the ennui of life, when nothing seemed to matter any more, when depression overtook like a dark dog of night? Not the beautiful German shepherd, but the great dog of darkness, the one at Hell's gate; Cerberus itself.

It was time for action.

He got dressed in the black velour sweats. He liked the way the soft fabric felt, and the fact that it did not make a sound when he moved; it never rustled or creased, in fact it was the ideal fabric for what he termed, “misbehaving.” And the urge to misbehave was overwhelming right now.

Of course he had one woman, ready and waiting. Verity, all sweetness and light and imagining she was in love with him; probably also imagining the way her life would change as the wife of a billionaire. Might as well indoctrinate her into the truth of that, but first he had to call her friend Mirabella, who was the true object of what he might call his “affection.”

Of course Mirabella had visited Verity already; now she needed to be convinced to return. He had her number. She answered right away.

“Hi,” was what she said, in the sort of soft voice that made him guess it was someone else she'd been expecting to call.

“Miss Matthews? It's the Boss here.”

“Ohh. Ohh, my goodness. Is everything alright? Verity?”

“It's Verity I'm calling about. She's safe here with me, on my property—I mean, because of course she is currently in the guesthouse. I confess to being a little worried, Miss…”

“It's Mirabella…”

“Yes, Mirabella. Well, as I was saying, I don't like her there all alone. I'm thinking of moving her into my villa where she can more easily be taken care of, and be less ‘alone,' so to speak.”

“So to speak.” She was thinking of what Chad had told her, and said, frightened, “Oh, well, perhaps it's not good to do that. I mean, I can come over and get her. She can come back and stay with me now. I can look after her.”

“I don't think there's any need for that, she will be perfectly well cared for right here.…”

The Boss had set the trap and Mirabella had walked right into it.

“No. No, I'll come immediately. I want her home, with me. I know she'll feel more comfortable.”

“With her friend. Of course. Though I had hoped she might consider me a friend also.” The Boss was playing the “friend” card to the hilt. “I've only tried to do what is best for her.”

“And you have. Oh, goodness, yes, you have, sir. Boss, I mean.”

He laughed then, genuinely amused. “You and I should get to know each other better. It seems we have a sense of humor in common at least.”

Mirabella was dying with anxiety and not a little fear, thinking frantically of what to do, while trying to maintain the conversation with the Boss, who was being so sweet and nice, so charming she almost did not want to believe what she knew was the truth. That was the trouble with charmers, they could sweep you into their safety net and then zap you over the head, like a dead fish. Oh God, she had to go and get Verity out of there.…

“Well then,” she said, quickly formulating a plan. “All I can say is thank you for caring so much about her. First you rescue her from the waves, and now you're saving her all over again, by giving her the best of care. I think that makes you a friend for life. Boss.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe even more than that. After all, every savior needs a reward.”

Mirabella froze. What did he mean by that? Did he
want
Verity? Did he mean to keep her drugged for good, in that high, wide bed, looking like a golden angel? That familiar response of anger and fear roused her.

“I'm coming over right now, to get her,” she said. “Please have her ready. I won't need an ambulance, I'll just take her in my car.”

“If I remember, your car went over the edge of the canyon. Quite a disaster, Mirabella. We would not want that to happen again, now, would we?”

Chills ran suddenly down her spine. Could he be threatening her? “I have another car, my little SEAT. She'll be just fine.”

“You could always ask Chad Prescott to give you a lift in his beautiful Jaguar.”

“Ohh, well, Chad is still in Paris. He had an emergency, a child, a road accident…”

“Ahh, yes. Good thing the surgeon was around. A man like that, a master of his profession.”

“Dr. Prescott is one of the best neuro-cranial surgeons there is. The child was lucky to get him.”

“I have no doubt.” The Boss knew he had her exactly where he wanted her. He could almost smell it. It had worked for him all his life, that sixth sense, both in business and pleasure, and he was about to put it to use again now.

“Well, of course, my dear, I could send a car for you.” He had no intention of sending a car for her, certainly not. He wanted no one to know she'd come here. Nobody would so much as see her. Of course he knew she would refuse.

“No, no, I'm already out the door, on my way.”

He could hear her in the background, collecting her stuff, keys rattling. “Better arrive at the back gate,” he said, smooth as butter that wouldn't melt in her mouth. “Drive up the first lane, make a right, and you'll come to a door. It's covered in ivy, the darn stuff grows like weeds, just can't seem to stop it. Anyhow the sensor will recognize you and the gate will open automatically. Just drive in.”