by Riley Banks
Now why did he do that?
Damon Harvey was an enigma.
On one hand, the money and fame repulsed her, yet if she was truthful, he was neither arrogant nor conceited.
There was no trace of the diva she had seen in others of his social status.
On the contrary, he had always struck her as compassionate and caring.
Perhaps that’s what frightened her the most.
She wasn’t accustomed to being the object of someone’s concern. She had very few lasting friendships. Charlotte had learned early in life not to let people get close enough to know her.
If they know you, they can hurt you.
A few minutes later, a maid entered the room with Charlotte’s bag in one hand –packed far neater than if she had packed it herself – and her laptop bag under the other.
Connecting to the Internet, Charlotte downloaded her emails.
Before she had a chance to read any, Miranda burst through the door and jumped on the bed.
‘I almost died. You don’t have to finish the job,’ Charlotte said, laughing as she closed the laptop lid.
‘I know. I was so scared,’ Miranda said, her voice a whisper as she hugged Charlotte. ‘I’m so glad you’re okay.’
‘Me too.’
An angry, violet contusion and numerous stitches reminded Charlotte that Miranda wasn’t unscathed herself.
‘How are you?’ She touched Miranda’s cheek. ‘I’m so sorry he hurt you too. It was my fault.’
‘Don’t say that. It was nobody’s fault. Nobody except Zac Wilson.’
His name was like a violent slap to both women and Charlotte winced.
‘Right, change of subject,’ Miranda said. ‘We’re off to Venice in a minute. I can’t believe you have to stay.’
Even though her voice was casual, Miranda looked at Charlotte with concern. ‘You’re sure you’ll be okay? I can stay behind with you.’
A part of her would have liked that, if only to protect her from falling for Damon. But she couldn’t ask Miranda to stay.
‘Don’t even joke about it. Go to Venice. Have fun. I’ll be fine.’
‘But you’ll be all alone in this big house with only servants to keep you company.’
‘Damon is staying with me,’ she said, hoping to keep her voice neutral.
Miranda’s smile was mischievous and she seemed on the verge of teasing Charlotte about it but she must have changed her mind. ‘Good. I’m glad Mr Harvey is staying with you.’
Mr Harvey? Charlotte had trouble thinking of Damon so formally.
‘Go on then. Go to Venice. And have a great time.’
‘Okay but I need to talk to you. I am working on a story that I could use your help with.’
‘Of course. We can discuss it now, if you want.’
Miranda looked at her watch and screwed her face up in disgust. ‘I’d love to Charlotte, really I would, but the plane leaves soon.’
‘Then go,’ Charlotte said, hugging Miranda and pushing her towards the door. ‘I’ll be fine, I promise.’
Zac strutted through the streets of Nice as if he owned them.
In some small way, he did.
In addition to the twenty thousand Euros (with the promise of more to come if he did as he was told), Zac had been given a ‘get out of jail free card’.
Together, they made him kind of invincible.
There was also a pre-paid mobile phone in the envelope.
Wilson checked to see if there were any numbers listed in the contacts – just in case - but the address book was blank, the call log empty. The phone had never been used.
Wilson wondered about his real benefactor, knowing the man at the police station had simply been a conduit to the real power.
Why would anyone give him such a large amount of money for such a seemingly small job?
If only they knew I would have done it for free.
A familiar itch warmed Zac’s insides.
It wouldn’t be long now and he could have all the satisfaction he wanted.
Wilson glanced at his blood stained t-shirt and pants, knowing he couldn’t exactly waltz into Castle Harvey and demand his luggage back.
What he needed was some new threads; threads that illustrated his meteoric rise into the fast lane.
Zac had good taste in clothes but his wardrobe had been largely determined by his bank account. Surf and skate labels were fashionable while still being affordable.
Not anymore.
The money was burning a hole in his pocket.
They won’t care if I buy myself a change of clothes. They did say there was more to come.
Wilson marched into the upmarket boutique. ‘I want to buy some clothes,’ he said to the plastic Barbie Doll assistant.
She eyed him up and down, as if telling him he couldn’t afford her store.
Her lip half curled in disgust but he slapped five grand on the counter. ‘Now bitch.’
‘Anything you want, sir,’ she said, smiling at him as she would any of the celebrity crowd that frequented her shop.
Half an hour later, Wilson returned to the street, a soft, calf leather overnight bag slung over his shoulder, a pair of ultra-dark aviator sunglasses on his face.
He wore head to toe Dolce and Gabbana.
Yep, he was designer all the way down to the tight little boxer shorts.
Zac had found out another thing too.
Money bought the best damned service he could get.
The sales woman had even insisted on fitting his underwear for him, cupping his balls in her manicured hands before suggesting they fuck in the change room.
Wilson smiled, knowing he could definitely get used to this lifestyle.
All he had to do now was get close enough to his target.
Chapter Twenty-Four:
Anita fell into her big brother’s easy embrace, not realising how much she had missed him until his arms were around her.
She kissed his cheeks three times, saying ‘I should be mad as hell at you for dragging me into this but I’m just so happy to see you again. How long has it been?’
‘Almost two years.’
‘Really? That long?’ She knew it was more her fault than his, so she let it slide. ‘Tell me again why you insisted on me?’
Damon laughed and the sound was like music to Anita’s ears. ‘Some stuff has happened on this trip – some pretty freaky stuff – and I trust you Nita. Trust you to look out for them, keep them safe.’
‘I’m hardly a fit baby sitter. I can barely look after myself these days,’ Anita said with a wicked gleam in her eye.
‘They don’t need a baby sitter. Just keep me updated. Let me know if anything happens.’
‘Ah, so the truth comes out. You chose me because you knew I’d report to you and not The William S Club.’ Her tone was light and playful but a vicious spark filled her eyes. ‘It would take a lot more than a stuffed up press trip to get me to call those bastards.’
‘Great. That’s just what I wanted to hear. Now Charlotte should be able to fly tomorrow or the next day, which means you should be heading to Portofino around then. We’ll meet with the group there.’
Little sisters might love to tease their older brothers but Anita had missed nothing of the warmth that crept into Damon’s voice as he spoke of Charlotte.
‘You’re not rescuing more stray animals, are you Damon?’
Quick fire leapt to his eyes. ‘Stray animal? The girl was almost killed on our press trip and you think it’s some childish fetish that I want to stay with her.’
The girl? Not Charlotte anymore. While Anita knew that Damon hoped to mollify her with the use of the words, it hadn’t worked.
‘Easy, Tarzan. Go beat your chest somewhere else. I know you. And I know what a sucker you are for something that needs rescuing.’
The flight attendant called down the stairs, letting her know that they were ready to depart.
‘All I’m saying is don’t let compassion cloud your vi
sion. See you in Portofino.’ She kissed his cheeks again and left him standing on the tarmac as she climbed into the waiting jet.
Anita’s eyes narrowed as she wondered what kind of woman this Charlotte was to have ensnared her brother so fast.
When Damon returned, he was aware of Charlotte’s presence in the house and his coming isolation with her.
Anita’s warning came flooding back.
Was compassion causing him to see things that weren’t there?
Was he just trying to save Charlotte?
Or had he somehow pinned his hopes on her to save him?
These were hard questions to put into perspective, especially given his volatile family history.
The William S Club might head up the company and BJ might be the oldest child but in Anita, Jodie and Carl’s mind, Damon was the true leader of the family, the font of their identity, since none of them could identify with their father or brother.
After their mother’s death, Damon had become the sole source of nurturing in a household devoid of any feeling.
Was that all he was feeling for Charlotte?
There was no denying she was wounded, that she needed protecting. But still, Damon didn’t want that to be the only thing between them.
He had to put this out of his mind. If there was something between them, it would work itself out. He didn’t need to over analyse it – another trait he was infamous for.
Stepping into his office, he closed the door, wondering whether it had been prudent to send Karen ahead with the others. But he wanted another set of eyes on the ground in Venice.
His phone rang and he put it to his ear. ‘Damon Harvey.’
Someone spoke in hurried French. The longer Damon listened, the more panicked his expression became.
‘Merci,’ he said as the caller hung up.
What a complete disaster.
His fingers stumbled through his contact list, trying to find Jacobs’ number.
I told him to make sure Wilson didn’t get out. To make sure the charges stuck. I swear to God, he better have a damned good reason why that bastard is walking the streets a free man.
He found the number, waiting with growing impatience for Jacobs to pick up.
But there was no answer.
‘Shit.’
Next Damon called the head of security, who informed him Jacobs hadn’t been back.
Damon called the pilots, now in Venice but Jacobs had not taken that or any other Harvey jet.
The man had disappeared without a trace, just as surely as Wilson had.
Damon had to talk to Charlotte and straight away.
He just prayed she was safe.
It may already be too late.
Campagni cleared customs aboard the tiny PiperJet, filling in the necessary paperwork to allow him entry to the country.
Outside the plane sat a silver Audi – a break in tradition from the ubiquitous black Mercedes but he was travelling incognito and had no desire to announce his arrival to his intended target.
He had chosen this particular private airfield because it operated on a skeleton ground crew.
A crew who could easily be bought off to say he had never been there.
Two of them dashed out to help the pilot refuel the jet and turn it around, ready for a quick departure.
As he slipped in behind the wheel of the car, he lifted the black rubber Pelican case, the kind used by photographers to transport sensitive camera gear, entering a series of numbers into the combination lock. Inside was the equipment he had requested.
Campagni drove the short distance to the target property, the ground crunching beneath his feet as he crept towards the entrance.
He took a key from the Pelican case, unlocking the door, leaving it slightly ajar.
An alarm pad flashed on the wall by the door.
Campagni’s fingers flew across the keys, inputting a five-digit security code. The green light flashed from green to red as the system deactivated.
He fought the urge to call out ‘Ready or not, here I come.’
Baker spent twenty years locked in a tiny cell, his every movement, even his bowel movements, governed by others.
He still shit to the prison timetable, still expected someone to come and tell him what to do next.
But nobody was coming. Nobody would tell him what his next move should be.
He had to figure that out for himself. He had to figure out why Harvey wanted Victoria.
Had to figure out what Harvey hoped to gain.
Think Paul. What the fuck does Harvey get from taking her?
It had always been a mystery why Harvey had allowed Victoria to live.
A blessed mystery but a mystery all the same.
Victoria was a loose end.
Was that why Harvey had taken her? Was he just trying to finish what he’d started?
But why now? Why not when she was a child?
Not just a loose end. He wants something from her.
No, not her. He wants something from me. He thinks I have information. Doesn’t he know I already gave him everything? He took my wife, my freedom, my money. Now he has my daughter too. What more could he possibly want?
Harvey was never content to just take those things from Paul. He had to rub his nose in it, make sure Paul knew he could take more if he chose.
He had even sent his goon, Campagni, to the prison with photographs of the crime scene, grainy images that were seared into Paul’s mind forever.
What did he say again?
Campagni had said something else but Paul was too consumed with guilt and grief to compute at the time.
Think Paul. What did he say?
He somehow knew Campagni’s words were the key.
His brain hurt for trying to remember but he forced himself to push through, to remember what the man had said.
With startling clarity it all came rushing back.
‘Tell me where she stashed it and you’ll never hear from us again.’
‘Stashed what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘The documents and photographs you stole. They weren’t in the room. If you know where she hid them, you better come clean.’
‘Or what? What more can you do? You’ve already taken everything from me.’
‘Not everything. There’s still Victoria.’
‘You touch my fucking daughter and I swear to God I’ll rip your throat out through your asshole.’
‘Then tell me where it is?’
‘Go to hell.’
‘Fine. Don’t tell me. But know this, Baker. We’ll find it. I guarantee you, we’ll find it. Nothing stays hidden forever. And when we do, you and your fucking daughter will die.’
Was that it? Had Harvey found the documents?
No. Something told him that if that were the case, he would have died at the same time as Joanne.
So if they didn’t have it, maybe they still thought he knew where it was.
When it became apparent that he was going to do time, he had charged Helen with evidence that proved William Harvey had fraudulently acquired property as far back as the Second World War, telling her to take it to their friend, Scott Critchlow, a journalist with The Sydney Morning Herald.
Scott and Helen were working together to get the evidence into the paper when Scott’s car went over a cliff.
The official story stated he was over the limit and driving too fast but Paul knew the truth.
That was when Helen went to ground, taking Charlotte and going into hiding. They agreed that the less Paul knew the better, that they would cut all ties until she could prove his innocence.
Of course, she died before that ever happened.
You’re a fucking grim reaper. You bring death to everyone you meet.
And the evidence…
Paul had no idea what had happened to the paperwork. All this time, he had assumed Harvey had it, that if it hadn’t been found on Helen when she died, that it would have been discovered shortly afte
r.
If Harvey didn’t have it…
Baker had his why.
It all made sense now. The timing. The fake press trip.
It corresponded with his release from prison.
Bill Harvey still thought Paul knew where the evidence was. He had taken Vikki to use as leverage.
There was just one problem. Paul didn’t have the first clue where to start looking.
He picked up the telephone, putting through a call to the probate office to check his wife’s will, a knife twisting in his stomach. He pushed it away, knowing he couldn’t change the past. His only hope was to change the future.
Ten minutes later, when he hung up the phone, he had his answer.
A bank in Washington DC.
Helen had opened a safe deposit box the day before her death, and made Paul the sole beneficiary.
No wonder Harvey had waited all this time. He needed Paul to get the contents.
He alternated between feelings of guilt and relief. His wife had been killed because of the papers he had given her but at least Harvey didn’t have those papers yet. It was the only reason he was still alive, and the only reason Victoria was still safe.
Now he just had to get to the US, which was easier said than done considering he was now wanted by the police for a murder he never committed.
He knew he was playing into Harvey’s hand but what choice did he have?
Harvey had Victoria. He’d walk over hot coals to get her back.
Damon found Charlotte sitting in his bedroom, just where he had left her.
She was propped up against the pillows but seemed agitated by his frenzied entrance.
‘What is it?’
He didn’t bother trying to soften the blow. ‘We need to move. Now.’
‘Move? Where? What’s going on?’
Damon hesitated. How much should he tell her? Should he tell her that Wilson had been released, against his orders, in the early hours of that morning and that she was no longer safe here?
He was furious; at the incompetence of the French police but mostly at his father’s long-term butler, Isaac Jacobs, who had gone behind his back and organised for all charges to be dropped against Wilson.
Why?
