“Talk to me, Martin,” I said gently. “This mood—it’s because of bad news you got at your meeting, isn’t it? Did something not come together as expected?”
“It’s nothing.” He looked away as he sipped his fresh drink. His neck muscles were corded, his jaw tight.
I took his hand. “Hey, it is something. If we’re going to be a team, you need to know you can off-load on me.”
His eyes locked with mine. “A team?”
I felt a frisson of unease. When Martin let his filter drop and unleashed his full focus on something, it almost felt too intense. Dangerous. Like the sun when you got too close. But it was also this intensity that attracted me, like a honeybee to a bright, burning flower that promised life-sustaining pollen. I held his gaze, trying not to blink.
He broke eye contact and watched the lounge singer for a while, his profile set in tight lines.
“Martin. Please.”
“I don’t want that meeting to affect our last night in Vegas,” he said in a monotone without looking at me. “I’m trying, Ellie, but you keep poking at it like a goddamn boil. It’s not the end of the world, okay? One of my financial backers fell through.”
“Which one? Which project?”
His eyes narrowed and he sipped from his glass.
“Martin?” I poked deeper. “Which one?”
He cursed softly and swigged back the remaining contents of his glass. He faced me. His eyes watered. I racked my brain, trying to recall who he’d said would be at the meeting this afternoon. And it struck me.
“The Marbella guy?” I said quietly. “It was him, wasn’t it? You were meeting with him to talk more about the financing for the marina proposal in Australia?”
He sat in unmoving silence. The song changed. “You pulled the wool over my eyes . . .”
I touched his arm. He flinched, then heaved in a deep breath and said, “It was all but done. One final signature from one of his board members, but that particular member had veto power. She pulled the plug this morning.”
“Why?”
“She felt Australia was risky for them. It wasn’t in keeping with their company mandate.”
“Are you going to be in trouble?”
“No. Heavens, no. It’s . . . It was just, you know, a personal project.”
“Because it’s where you used to spend family holidays? Because it was the land your brother couldn’t develop—a project he couldn’t make happen?”
He nodded.
“So this kills it? Like totally?”
He gave an irritated shrug. “It’s the second backer to pull out after everything was almost in the bag. Could give others cold feet. Sometimes these things are all about perception and timing.”
“Is it a risky proposition, then?”
“Hell no, Ellie. This could be one of the top resorts and residential marina developments south of Sydney. It’s an ideal location. It’s got everything. It’ll cost to get it off the ground, yes, and the global economy plus the current real estate climate in Australia has made investors twitchy. But it could pay off huge.” He waved his hand in the air and motioned for another drink. The waiter appeared in seconds and set it down in front of him, ice clinking against glass. Martin sipped again. The rate he was drinking, this was clearly gutting him. I had not seen Martin like this. It set me on edge. I needed to make him feel better.
“Hey. It’ll be fine,” I said. “You’ll find another—”
“Oh, Ellie, shut up, will you.”
I blinked. Hurt washed through me.
“How much?”
“What?”
“How much were they in for?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Just tell me.”
“Twenty-six million to start.”
“Describe the project to me.”
His brow lowered. A small muscle pulsed along his jaw. I felt anger radiating off him. Caution whispered, but I insisted. “Tell me.”
He moistened his lips. “In a nutshell, three phases. One is proposed residential—very high-end marina properties. All the lots would be an acre or more. Waterfront along channels that would be cut into mangrove flats. Access would be via the Agnes River into Agnes Basin. That’s where the big expense is—digging the channels into the flats. Another phase would be a luxury eco-lodge on the beach behind the dunes between the ocean and Agnes Basin. The third phase would be rental cottages. Plus a large section of estuary land would be donated for an environmental park. The environment and ecotours would be a big part of it.”
I watched his face closely as he spoke. For a moment I saw the glimmer of excitement return to his eyes.
“Do you have environmental approval? Development permits?”
He gave me a slightly condescending look, as if I were asking a child’s questions. “The enviro consultants’ report is in the works—they’ve told me it’s going to be positive. Obviously with some mitigation measures taken for environmental protection. The local mayor and shire councillors are on board. Apart from one greenie councillor who is objecting very loudly, but he objects to any development. The local trades in the community are hungry for business, and those contractors and their families tend to support new developments like this because it’ll bring more rates to the shire, more jobs for the foreseeable future. Those surfies and fishermen who live along that coast in that rural area do so because the wave breaks are spectacular and uncrowded, and the fishing is good. The weather is great. The beaches deserted for the most part. They love the lifestyle, but work is hard to come by. They see the Agnes Marina development as a godsend, to be honest. Apart from a small but loud faction of greenies—you always get someone trying to save the last toad or fish eagle. But this project would bring additional ecotourism to the area, and the greens will still get a chunk of protected parkland from the deal. We were all but ready to start presales.”
“Until this afternoon?”
“Yeah.” He eyed me. And a feeling began to grow inside me. A desire to share this part of him, this part of the world, his dream project, the memories of his past, the things that made the fires come alive inside this man. The magic show ended. Applause sounded. We finished our drinks and went up to our room. But that night we did not make love. He was too drunk and fell asleep snoring. I lay there listening to him, looking up at the ceiling. Through a small gap in the thick drapes, the never-sleeping coruscating lights of Las Vegas pulsed. And I felt something was slipping quietly from my grasp, and that if I didn’t grab on tightly now, or take some firm action, I would lose this new Ellie unfolding like a butterfly inside me.
My father’s words echoed through my brain.
“I’m serious, Ellie. Bring me an idea—any idea . . . I will finance it. You’ve won the game right there. Half the people in this hotel would like to be in your shoes . . .”
I turned my head on my pillow and looked at Martin. He’d woken up. He lay flat on his back, unmoving, eyes staring up at the roof. I rolled onto my side to face him.
“I’m going to help you,” I said.
“What?”
“I can help finance the marina.”
He propped himself up on his elbow. “No. No way. You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want you tied into my business ventures.”
“Well, then—”
“El, wait, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?”
“I’m a gambler. I win some and I lose some. I don’t want to tie you to a loss. I can’t let you take my risks.”
“But you win more than you lose, right? Like my dad. It’s the very fact that he’s a gambler, and a smart one, that has made him one of the wealthiest men in the country.” As I spoke, the urge in me to fix things for Martin—and thus for us—grew fierce. It almost became a panic, an unarticulated, raw fire in me to ensure that Martin did not lose this dream, because then we would lose us.
“Yeah, but—”
; “I want to do this, Martin. I can do this. Not just for you, but for me, too. And you’re going to accept me as a financier. You’re going to help me help you, and you’re going to make me a true partner in this marina venture.” My father had encouraged me to pick a venture. He’d offered me his real estate lawyers. I trusted that my dad’s lawyers could help me set up any partnership to my best advantage. Sure, I knew next to nothing about property development, but Doug had gotten good at it without experience and with my father’s help. I had access to those same experts, who could deliver to me what I needed to know in layman’s terms. Twenty-six million in equity was a mere drop in the bucket for the Hartley Group. I had my massive trust fund on top of that—I wouldn’t even have to touch it.
“Make me an equity partner, Martin.”
“No, Ellie.”
I stared at him in the dim light, hating the resistance that pulsed around him. He was pushing me away. I got out of bed and pulled on my nightgown. I paced and thought about my idea until dawn was a faint glow on the Nevada horizon. I yanked back the drapes fully, allowing the beautiful desert light to flood into our suite. I made coffee.
“What are you doing?”
“Making you coffee.” I brought him a mug and sat on the edge of the bed, sipping my own, watching the sky brighten.
“Tell me what it would entail,” I said.
“No.”
“Why not? Give me an honest reason why not.”
Back and forth we went until he threw back the covers and went into the shower. When he came out, something in his face had changed. There was a glow in his eyes, as if the serum of my idea injected into his veins had spread and was taking hold.
“It would entail living in Aus for a while, El,” he said, rubbing his hair with his towel. He was naked and glorious apart from a skimpy towel around his waist. “We’d need to be on-site to see the whole thing through. At least in the early phases.”
“I’ve already thought of that. I want to try it, Martin. At least for a while. My work is portable. I could secure some new contracts before we leave. I could do the work over there.”
“But—”
I went up to him and pressed my fingers against his lips. “Shh. No more buts, Mr. Tyler.”
He didn’t smile.
My own smile faded. I regretted trying to make a joke.
“I like the sound of that,” he said very quietly, darkly, drawing my body against his. Surprise rippled through me. He felt damp from the hot shower. Warm. I felt his erection against my belly. He smelled of good soap, of shampoo.
“You like the sound of Mr. Tyler?” My voice caught on a wave of desire as his erection hardened.
“I’d prefer Mrs. Cresswell-Smith, though,” he whispered over my lips.
“Martin—” I grew wet and hot in my groin. He kissed harder, opening my mouth. The idea sank talons into my heart as he cupped me between the legs, parted my folds, inserted a finger. I could barely breathe—“Let’s . . . let’s do it.”
“What?” he murmured against my mouth.
I pulled away. “Get married. Chapel—I saw it downstairs. The Second Chance Chapel next to the Second Chance Casino.”
His jaw dropped. “Wha—”
“Now! Let’s do it right now. Mr. and Mrs. Cresswell-Smith!” I was positively busting with the idea bubbling up inside me. Intoxicated with it. “Think about it, Martin—it was a sign last night—Second Chance Casino? Where we won big. So why the hell not tie the knot, cement this team thing. Go to Australia as true partners. Why should we not both get a second chance at love? Why not take the gamble? I’m divorced. You’ve just ended a long-term relationship. Why shouldn’t we score this time around?”
He forcefully shoved me backward onto the bed. I bounced against the mattress and my nightgown fell open. He dropped his towel and leaned over me, opening my thighs. And he took me in a way that was more ferocious and animal than that first night in the elevator. I matched him thrust for hungry thrust, my fingers and nails digging into his flesh with a surprising force of my own, the aggression just driving me higher until I climaxed with a cry, and he came, and we both fell back on the bed laughing, panting. Spent. Sticky and sweaty and delirious with my idea. The sun burst over the horizon and gold light exploded into the room.
By lunch we’d bought rings—his a platinum band inset with a ruby, mine a simple platinum band. And we’d filled in all the requisite forms. By that evening Martin and I stood in front of a legally ordained wedding officiant, as promised by the Second Chance Chapel website. Our “rush package” included a “fresh floral bouquet,” which I clutched in front of me. A photographer snapped photos, which he would give to us in “high-resolution JPEG files with a copyright release” so we could easily print them off to frame later. We opted out of the live online broadcast, preferring to break our news to friends and family in person later.
“Forasmuch as you, Ellie Tyler and Martin Cresswell-Smith, have consented to join in wedlock, and have before witnesses and this company pledged vows of your love and faithfulness to each other, and have declared the same by joining hands, and by the exchange of rings, I now therefore, by the authority vested in me by the State of Nevada, pronounce you wed. Congratulations! You may now kiss the bride!”
We kissed. The camera flash popped. Silver confetti rained down from the ceiling and swirled around us with the aid of a fan. I laughed. I felt deliriously happy.
Just after midnight we boarded a red-eye for Canada as husband and wife, a new marriage certificate in hand and plans for Australia in our hearts. I’d already sent an email asking to meet with my dad’s lawyers.
THE WATCHER
A red dot pulsed on the computer monitor. The app installed on the cell phone was broadcasting their GPS location. They’d landed at YVR. The Watcher stared at the dot for a few moments in the dimly lit room, a glass of whiskey in hand, then leaned over and clicked on a desk lamp.
A halo of yellow light fell upon a pile of news articles that had been printed off the net. Amazing what a well-rounded and intimate psychological profile the World Wide Web could yield if the target had not been overly careful, or had lived a relatively public life. In this case—for a period—it had been a very public life.
Hartley Grandchild in Fatal Drowning Accident
Hartley Heiress Suffers Mental Breakdown
Daughter of Sterling Hartley Stabs Husband in Restaurant
Ellie Tyler Arrested
Hartley Heiress Divorces
Some of the raunchier tabloids featured photos of an overweight and disheveled Ellie Tyler covering her head with a jacket as police led her out of a Vancouver restaurant. Blood spattered the jacket. Another showed an unflattering image of a haggard and very overweight Ellie Tyler under a headline that read:
Court-Ordered Addiction Counseling for Hartley Heiress
Trust-Fund Daughter Spirals into Booze, Pills, Depression
One tabloid had captured Sterling Hartley and a Swedish girlfriend rushing through an airport after hearing that his daughter had been hospitalized.
In a kinder Vogue magazine feature titled “A Mother’s Grief,” Ellie Tyler spoke about recovering from the drowning death of her toddler. She was candid about her mental health and the need to destigmatize mental illness and the addictions that arose around it. And yet . . . the stigma dogged her.
Next to the pile of news stories was a file folder titled ELLIE. It had come from a PI who had also quizzed Doug Tyler’s new wife. Another file folder was titled MARTIN.
The dot began to move. They were leaving the airport.
THEN
ELLIE
Over one year ago, October 25. Jarrawarra Bay, New South Wales.
The small prop plane dropped as it slammed into another wall of turbulence. I gritted my teeth and clutched the armrests. I was flying on my own to meet Martin, who’d gone ahead of me three months ago, once our financing had come through. I’d been traveling for more than thirty-six hours over several time
zones, and I felt sick and dehydrated from too much wine and too many lorazepam pills taken in an effort to quell my anxiety. The air vent above my seat was not working. And now the storm. And the plane was too tiny. My claustrophobia was tilting toward panic.
The plane plummeted again. We were beginning a descent. Something fell with a dull thud at the back of the cabin. The object rolled down the aisle and came into view—a bottle of water. My thirst was suddenly fierce. The bottle was out of my reach. I thought of the Ativan in my purse. Another bump and rattle and the wings rocked. The clouds seemed closer. Denser. Darker. Lightning jagged through the blackness. I lunged for my purse under my seat. Hands shaking, I hurriedly rummaged in a side pocket, found the container, and popped a sublingual pill under my tongue. I closed my eyes and put my head back, waiting for it to dissolve. Sweat pearled on my brow and dribbled down the sides of my face. I struggled to breathe in, counting to four before I exhaled slowly, purposefully. A soft fuzz gradually began to soothe the sharp edges of my panic. I took in a deeper breath, exhaled more slowly. Calm began to wrap around me like the familiar arms of an old friend. I yielded to the drug. My muscles softened. My mind eased, and to help further distract myself I glanced around at the other passengers. They seemed unperturbed.
Most were casually dressed—shorts, flip-flops, T-shirts, summer dresses, jeans. A couple in more businesslike attire. All deeply tanned. Some more weathered, sun-spotted, sun-bleached than others. A range of ages. They fit with Martin’s description of Jarrawarra Bay—a rural seaside hub, historically a center for local sawmill operations and wattlebark production, dairy, beef, and oyster farming, as well as “epic” deep-sea fishing. He’d said the locals either worked in one of these industries or fell into a camp of telecommuters, retirees, holidaymakers, and second-home owners. Even Nicole Kidman, he’d claimed, owned an estate just north of Jarrawarra in one of those secluded, scalloped bays where lilly pilly trees grew tall and attracted flocks of lorikeets in startling rainbow colors.
In the Deep Page 11
