Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  Praise for the novels of Judith Gould

  ". . . A sizzling novel. . . "---Liz Smith

  Judith Gould needs no botox or restalyne -- her wildly successful Sins is as fresh today as it was 25 years ago! A whole new generation now has the opportunity to savor her with this new release." Nance K. Austin, co-author of The Assertive Woman

  "Sins . . . could be a primer on how to write a commercial novel/miniseries. Not one slick trick has been omitted . . ." ---Lawrence Eisenberg, TV GUIDE

  "As always, Gould not only offers love (with some sex) but also insight into an unusual environment." LIBRARY JOURNAL

  Second Love

  A Novel of Romantic Suspense

  By Judith Gould

  Copyright Judith Gould. 1997

  Published by Vesuvius Media, LLC at Smashwords

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used ficticiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Novels by Judith Gould

  Sins*

  LOVEMAKERS - The Complete Unabridged Saga:

  Texas Born*

  LoveMakers*

  Second Love*

  Meltemi (Greek Winds of Fury)*

  DAZZLE- The Complete Unabridged Trilogy *:

  Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. I: Senda

  Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. II: Tamara

  Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. III: Daliah

  Never Too Rich*

  Forever*

  Too Damn Rich*

  Second Love*

  Till the End of Time*

  Rhapsody*

  Time to Say Good-Bye

  A Moment in Time*

  The Best Is Yet to Come

  The Greek Villa

  The Parisian Affair*

  Dreamboat*

  The Secret Heiress*

  *(Available as an e-book)

  www.judithgould.com

  Cover design by Judy Bullard at customebookcovers@gmail.com

  To

  Nancy K. Austin and Bill Cawley

  and the entire Menagerie

  Love to faults is always blind,

  Always is to joy inclin'd,

  Lawless, wing'd, and unconfin'd,

  And breaks all chains from every mind.

  —WILLIAM BLAKE

  There is no animal more invincible

  than a woman, nor fire either, nor

  any wildcat so ruthless.

  —ARISTOPHANES, Lysistrata

  PROLOGUE

  It could have been any of the thousands of uninhabited green islets that rose like dragon's teeth from the depths of the emerald-green South China Sea. Anchored in its lee, the junk was like countless others that still plied these waters, and the islet provided it privacy and refuge—as well as convenience. By helicopter it was a mere forty-minute hop from Hong Kong, yet it might have been worlds away.

  The six elders had arrived separately. Two had come by helicopter and four by small powerboats capable of attaining speeds of up to fifty knots per hour. In order to draw as little attention to themselves as possible, they had arrived at twenty-minute intervals, and their boats and helicopters had immediately been covered with camouflage netting.

  Each elder was permitted one armed bodyguard to accompany him out to the junk. Once aboard, the bodyguards remained up on deck to perform guard duty.

  Below, in the luxurious rosewood-paneled main cabin, the six elders sat around a circular cinnabar table, which symbolized that here each was of equal stature and importance. Uneasy partners and suspicious of one another though they were, they had secretly united to hatch this one plan, which was in their mutual best interests.

  They did not address each other by name. At their first meeting a bowl had been passed and they had reached inside and chosen a folded scrap of paper at random. On each was written the animal name for a different Chinese year.

  Those became the code names that they now used.

  After several hours of intense discussion, they had winnowed down their choices.

  The eldest, Honorable Ox, a Chiuchow with a wispy goatee who was the lung tao of Hong Kong's most notorious crime syndicate, bowed graciously. He spoke in halting English as had been prearranged, due to their various languages and dialects.

  'The time has come,' he said, 'to cast our votes. As agreed, we will mark our choices and vote by secret ballot in the barbarian fashion. The bird, since it soars like the human soul, signifies yes. The fish, since man cannot breathe underwater, means no. Are there any questions?'

  There were none.

  Each of the six men opened an identical teak box and extracted two short ivory chops, each pair of which had been identically carved with one of two delicate symbols—a bird or a fish.

  Selecting the appropriate chop, the men pressed it into the solid ink in the imperial jade pot and stamped a chop mark on a sliver of rice paper. These ballots they then folded in half, and waited for their code names to be called before dropping them into the blue and white Ming 'dice' bowl in the center of the table.

  'I hereby cast the first vote,' said Honorable Ox, dropping his folded slip into the bowl. 'Honorable Tiger?'

  The Laotian general who protected the rich upland poppy fields of Laos added his vote.

  'Honorable Rooster?'

  The Thai chemist whose countless makeshift laboratories processed raw opium into heroin cast his.

  'Honorable Dragon?'

  The head of the Golden Triangle's largest underground banking system added his ballot.

  'Honorable Snake?'

  The government minister from Beijing, under whose aegis the refined drug was shipped overland to Hong Kong, added his slip of rice paper.

  'And I,' said the man named after the year of the Horse, who controlled the major poppy-producing highlands of Burma, 'add mine.' He held out his hand and let the ballot flutter into the bowl.

  'It is done,' said Honorable Snake.

  'The die is cast,' added Honorable Ox. 'Honorable Dragon, would you be so gracious as to empty the bowl?'

  Honorable Dragon upended it, six tiny folded slips of paper fell out, and he unfolded them.

  'Ah!' Honorable Dragon nodded in approval. 'It is unanimous. You see? The gods are already smiling upon our endeavor. We shall enjoy very good joss.'

  'I believe we have voted most wisely,' added Honorable Tiger. 'This shall give us unprecedented money-laundering facilities in over a hundred countries and a thousand cities around the world. Forty-four million dollars per day. Illustrious Dragon can see to it that the funds necessary to finance the first'—Honorable Tiger searched his mind for an appropriately delicate euphemism—'phase toward our legitimacy will be taken out of our special account. I believe Honorable Ox is in the best position to recruit the necessary talent.'

  They all looked at the leader of the Hong Kong crime syndi
cate.

  'We must use no one of Asian descent,' Honorable Ox decided thoughtfully. 'Not even some Korean or Japanese devil. I shall send one of my men to recruit a Western barbarian.' He looked at the others. 'By using a Westerner, we will be yet another step removed, and Oriental involvement will not be suspected.'

  Honorable Rooster nodded. 'This is most wise. We cannot be careful enough.'

  'Good,' Honorable Ox said. 'It is decided.' He paused. 'We shall depart separately, just as we arrived. As host, I shall be the last to leave.'

  He and the others placed their chops back in the boxes and pocketed them. Then he stood up and bowed.

  He said: 'Until the next time, Illustrious Elders. May the gods of fortune attend you.'

  Honorable Ox waited until the others were long gone before he had his bodyguard row him ashore. Five minutes later they were airborne, skimming above the sea in the black Jet Ranger helicopter. As they flew past the anchored junk, he counted to ten before pressing the remote control in his hand.

  Behind the helicopter, the junk exploded in a blossoming fireball, tossing lengths of timber, as if they were toothpicks, hundreds of feet into the air.

  Within minutes all signs of the clandestine meeting were obliterated. It might never have taken place.

  Book One

  THE COLDEST WINTER

  1

  It should have been an uneventful flight.

  At Aspen's smart little airport, the departing Learjet was unremarkable on all counts. At an airport where private birds had to be double-parked, everyone had long become inured to the comings and goings of the rich and famous in their luxurious aircraft: the rock star and his entourage stumbling out of a Challenger 600 in a pharmaceutically induced Rocky Mountain high, the European royals swooping down without fanfare in a Citation III, the multibillionaires zipping in and out on their big Gulfstream IVs and Falcon 900Bs, the planeload of elegant hookers flown in from Vegas on a Falcon 200 for a visiting Arab, and the film stars commuting from Hollywood and Palm Springs in a veritable private air force—Hawker 700s, Falcon 50s, Learjet 31s, Citation Is, and Gulfstream IIs.

  Freddie Cantwell—who was not a movie star, and who cultivated a low profile—had not rated a single glance as he'd boarded the small Lear 35, a stepchild among the impressive array of flying heavy metal. Even the flight plan his pilot had filed—Aspen to San Francisco—was unworthy of meriting attention.

  In fact, the only notable distinction about this flight was that the predicted snowstorm had already begun, all incoming flights had been rerouted, and the Learjet was the last aircraft to take off before the runway was closed down. Thick swirls of powdery snow had reduced visibility to a hundred feet, obscuring the usual spectacular view. The weather reports had predicted ten to twelve inches, and airport employees were battening down the hatches.

  Undaunted, the Learjet hurtled down the runway and climbed steeply through snow and clouds and then burst through the woolpack into a cerulean sky where the sun shone brightly and the world below was one endless mass of fluffy white cotton.

  A normal takeoff in all respects.

  Freddie Cantwell unbuckled his seat belt, placed his IBM ThinkPad on the walnut fold-down table in front of him, flipped up the screen, and switched it on. He hit a few keys and brought up the massive file devoted entirely to the Hale Eden Isle Resort, currently under construction on an island off Puerto Rico.

  He'd left there yesterday morning, after spending two grueling days on the site . . . two exhausting days of cracking the whip, inspecting the construction, attempting to ferret out ways to slash costs.

  Costs.

  Somehow it always came down to costs. Finding ways of cutting corners without compromising either safety, comfort, or the overall plan.

  He sighed to himself, mentally inventorying what he'd accomplished—precious little, considering it was a billion-dollar project financed privately, and without shareholders.

  A billion dollars.

  Madness!

  No wonder he'd stopped overnight in Aspen. He'd craved resuscitation from the oppressively humid tropical heat of the Caribbean, the pressures of a billion dollars' worth of responsibilities. His business in Aspen had helped.

  And everything behind schedule and way, way over budget. Christ! What had he and Dorothy-Anne been thinking? he wondered. Why hadn't they been satisfied? They should be downsizing!

  Meanwhile, the Eden Isle Resort loomed in the future like a curse. Too far along to stop, yet too far behind to see a light at the end of the tunnel.

  He rubbed the weariness from his eyes, shook his head as if to clear it. Then gazed abstractedly out the porthole at the field of clouds.

  The jet was heading directly into the sun, and dusk was fast approaching; soon the clouds would do their disappearing act. He glanced around the compact cabin made posh by portholes with walnut tambour shades, six seats in fragrant butterscotch glove leather, generously sized fold- down tables, custom carpeting, and recessed lights.

  Nothing had been overlooked. The jet was equipped with all the latest safeguards and state-of-the-art navigational aids.

  Convenience, comfort, luxury, safety.

  Freddie glanced at his watch. It was three p.m. Rocky Mountain Time. The 900-mile flight would take approximately two hours, perhaps longer, depending upon the jet stream. Time enough to stall the inevitable for an hour and a half before shaving for a second time that day and changing into his formal wear. Then, the moment he landed at SFO, he'd transfer to a waiting helicopter. With the rooftop landing, he'd make the grand opening in time.

  Freddie knew how important his punctual arrival was. This is one occasion for which I can't be late, he told himself. Dorothy-Anne's counting on me. We're supposed to perform the ribbon-cutting ceremony together.

  The inauguration of the newest and brightest jewel in the Hale Hotel empire had been planned to achieve maximum publicity. The guests included the governor of California, both senators, assorted congressmen, the mayor, celebrities from Marin County, and four hundred of the Bay Area's richest and most influential people. Plus, the press would be out in full force to cover the event.

  And an event it would be.

  The San Francisco Palace, located in the heart of the financial district, took up an entire square block, and no expense had been spared. It boasted four identical, architecturally pure Palladian facades of limestone, with two stories of arched shopping colonnades interspersed with Ionic pilasters. From the core of this immodest landmark rose the all-suite hotel—forty-two stories of earthquake-proof high-rise topped by a recessed penthouse with private rooftop pool, wraparound terraces, and helipad.

  There was a lot riding on the San Francisco Palace. It had been conceived as the standard by which all future hotels would be judged, combining Pacific Rim luxury with European hospitality and the best of American conveniences.

  Per square foot, it was the most expensive hotel ever built.

  A splashy grand opening was essential for its success. And it will be a success, Freddie thought, especially since Dorothy-Anne has everything to say about it.

  He thought of her again and sighed. Chairman and chief executive of the Hale Companies, Inc., whose core business was Hale Hotels—the largest privately held hotel empire in the world—Dorothy-Anne was nothing if not a shrewd businesswoman.

  She's never come up with a turkey yet, he thought. Nor will she ever.

  And he should know; he was president and chief operating officer of the Hale Companies as well as Dorothy-Anne's husband, and father of their three children.

  I can't spoil the grand opening party. Too much is riding on it.

  Outside the porthole, the winter afternoon was rapidly dwindling. Twilight was at hand, the sun into which they were headed sinking into the sea of fleece. Far back, the first stars were beginning to prick the purpling eastern sky.

  The jet engines droned healthily; up here, miles above the blizzard- lashed Rockies, he couldn't have asked for a smoother fli
ght.

  Meanwhile, time was fleeting.

  Better use it to advantage.

  But first things first. Dorothy-Anne was expecting his call.

  He reached for one of the satellite-linked telephones and called San Francisco.

  Dorothy-Anne sounded overjoyed. 'Oh, darling! I was so afraid you wouldn't make it. I was told the Aspen airport's been closed.'

  'You know me,' he said. 'I've got the luck of the devil. Made it out just in the nick of time.'

  'I'm so glad, darling,' she said softly. 'This evening's meant to be shared.'

  'And it will be, honey. I just called to let you know I'm on my way.'

  'Where are you now?'

  'Somewhere over Colorado.'

  'Darling,' she said, 'I can't wait to see you. I must confess, I still don't understand why you had to stop in Aspen,' she was saying. 'You made it sound so mysterious! I'm simply dying to know what it is.'

  Deciding it was time to deflect the subject away from Aspen, he said, 'How's everything going at your end?'

  'Oh, you know. Frantic, as expected . . . all your typical last-minute problems. Just minor ones, thank God. I'm so keyed up, I don't know how I'd handle a major crisis if one popped up.'

  'And the monsters?' he asked. 'Have you spoken to them?'

  Dorothy-Anne laughed. 'Actually, I just got off the phone with them. Talk about getting an earful about being left home alone! Liz is especially consummate at making me feel guilty. Nanny said what they need is a drill sergeant.'