There was also a high-def security camera trained on the entrance, recording everyone’s moves.
Flashbulbs popped, and the night air was charged as if it had been hit by lightning. Abby was amid the banned reporters.
The celebs and glitterati kept arriving, and Richard Gaines was among them. As he’d wanted, no one from the press paid the least attention to him.
“Are you guys still in town?” Chelsea asked hopefully.
“Nope.”
Shawn and Belle were back in the main cabin of the Fancy Face IV, Belle cradling a very tired little girl.
“Oh…” Chelsea replied, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.
“Maybe we can hook up tomorrow?” Shawn asked.
Belle signaled him. “Meet her tonight.”
“Really?” he replied.
“I’m exhausted, and Claire won’t know you’re gone,” Belle said, gesturing to their conked-out three-year-old.
“Want me to come in to meet you now?” Shawn asked.
“Really?” she answered, echoing her brother.
“Where do want to meet?” Shawn asked, appreciating Belle’s offer.
“We’re staying at the Monte Carlo Beach Hotel,” she said, then quickly added, “Not the heart of Monte Carlo, but we didn’t have reservations, and apparently, Kasagian—”
Shawn cut her off. “Booked out the entire city.”
“Pretty much.”
Seeing Belle wave him off, he said, “I can meet you in twenty.”
“Heaven,” Chelsea replied.
Shawn hung up and turned to his wife. “You’re the best.”
“Have fun. But don’t wake me when you get back. I am just—”
“Exhausted,” he said, finishing her sentence.
Giving Belle a quick kiss, Shawn disappeared up the steps of the galley.
Belle cradled her sleeping daughter.
What’s wrong with me? she wondered. Why don’t I want Shawn to touch me?
Deep in her heart, she knew.
It took less than thirty minutes for Shawn to take the dinghy past the yachts, sailboats, and launches into dock, and within five, he saw his half sister.
The night was so beautiful that they decided to have drinks on the hotel’s terrace. The views were calming, and most of the tourists were out on the town, so it was quiet enough to talk.
They took a seat and ordered drinks. Chelsea asked for a lemon drop, and Shawn an Amstel.
“Abby at the party?” he asked as the waiter served them.
“Yes. Well, not sure, but knowing her, she definitely will be.”
“You’re looking good.”
“You too,” Chelsea stated. Then she wondered aloud, “Have you talked to Dad lately?”
“Texted a few times,” Shawn said. “But you know him. Not that great a communicator.”
Chelsea envied that Shawn knew Bo that well. She was a daughter Bo hadn’t even known he had until she was well into her teens, and she had caused plenty of grief for him and Shawn’s mom, Hope, when she landed in Salem.
“I heard he and Hope have had problems lately,” she said carefully. “Not that it’s any of my business.”
“You love him and want him to be happy. That makes it your business.”
She clinked her glass to his. “Thanks.”
He took a swig from his beer.
“You know, I bet he’d love a picture of us together. What do you say?”
Chelsea smiled at the idea. She liked being a part of Shawn’s family.
Shawn flagged down the waiter. “Could you take our picture?” The waiter feigned being busy and dismissed the request from the American tourists.
There was a young, honeymooning couple at the next table. They looked American.
“Think you could give us a hand?” Shawn asked. “You take our picture, we’ll take one of you.”
The handsome young groom took Shawn up on the offer.
Chelsea and Shawn glanced around for the most appealing backdrop. After several tries, they realized shooting with the harbor as a backdrop just didn’t work. The lights were indistinguishable.
“How about there?” Chelsea suggested. The jagged hills behind the hotel were lush and beautiful.
Shawn and Chelsea took their positions, and after several tries, he linked his arm around her waist.
They heard the hum of the camera’s motor and then—click!
“One more for safety,” their amateur photographer suggested. “Hold that!” he added.
All of a sudden, they heard screaming and a deafening crash high above them. Trees were being sawed in half as a car careened down the steep hillside.
“Oh my God!” the young bride wailed.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Now it was the silence that was deafening.
The bright yellow of the DBS complemented what Olivia and Charley were both wearing for the gala. Olivia had a way of orchestrating every appearance she made as though it was part of OMGs marketing campaign.
As Olivia slid behind the wheel and onto the soft leather seats, she was exhilarated.
“If Gemma sees the two of us arriving, she’ll be green with envy. And green’s definitely not her color.”
“We’ll make a statement, that’s for sure,” Charley said in agreement.
Charley snapped her seat belt and urged Olivia to do the same.
Kelsey watched from the front door as Olivia wrapped her head with a pale gold scarf that matched the highlights Joy had given her, and then started the engine of the immaculate yellow Aston Martin.
The scrolled gates opened on cue, and the women drove out onto the spectacular drive that would take them to the beach several miles below.
The night was indeed gorgeous, and there were very few cars on the road. Stars illuminated the sky, and it was a full moon to boot.
Cool jazz filled the air as they listened to Thelonious Monk on their drive. Jazz always put Olivia in a sexy, cheeky, and, sometimes, raunchy mood.
After she navigated about half a mile, Olivia started trying to gulp in air.
“I’m more excited about this than I thought,” Olivia said, gasping for air. “Do not tell Gemma. You promise me?”
Charley nodded, then noticed her mother’s hand go to her tiny waist as she grimaced.
“You okay?” Charley asked.
Olivia nodded, but weakly.
“Mum?”
“The caviar,” she said over the jazz and wind. “Probably American sturgeon. Ugh.”
Olivia tried to keep steady on the road, but it was getting increasingly more difficult. The car swayed, and Charley had to steady the wheel.
“Mummy, pull over and let me drive,” Charley insisted. She was feeling absolutely fine. If it was bad caviar, it certainly hadn’t affected her.
“No, silly, I’m—” Olivia’s voice was barely a whisper.
By now the car was beginning to swerve badly. Although they were on the treacherous Route de la Grande Corniche, Olivia was able to keep it under control.
Then a bicyclist appeared as if out of nowhere and stopped directly in their path. There was no way to avoid hitting him.
“Mummy!” Charley screamed.
The timing couldn’t have been worse, as Olivia passed out, releasing the steering wheel from her grip.
Horrified, Charley grabbed the wheel with one hand and yanked it to the right to avoid hitting the bicyclist, while desperately trying to steady her mother with the other.
She missed him within inches, but the car slammed into the side railing.
It didn’t stop them, however. Because of their speed, the DBS smashed the guardrail to bits and went airborne.
A streak of bright yellow, Charley’s piercing scream, and the sound of splintering trees caught the attention of the tourists below as the gleaming Aston Martin plummeted to the street.
To those watching in shock, it was as if it were all happening in slow motion.
The car hit the pavement on the driver’s side, then rolled twice before it landed upright.
A light hissing sound emanated from the engine. Then silence.
Charley was groggy in the passenger seat, strapped in and bleeding badly from a gash in her neck. She groaned softly and reached for her mother.
The driver’s seat was empty. Olivia had been thrown from the car.
Charley slumped back in her seat as she lost consciousness.
Lying on the side of the road, twenty feet away, was Olivia. Her soft, shimmering, lemonade-colored dress was splattered with blood, and there was no sign of her breathing. The side of her beautifully sculpted face was crushed in.
She had died on impact.
ONCE ON THE MAIN DECK OF K, SERGE KASAGIAN’S MEGAYACHT, guests were escorted to the first upper deck by white-mini-skirted waitresses and tanned shirtless waiters. With guests from all over the world, the waitstaff had been scrupulously vetted. Virtually every language was covered, so every guest would be royally taken care of.
Since no paparazzi were allowed on the ship, the blinding flash of cameras ceased once the guests made it inside—Richie Gaines among them.
Amid the gaggle of Euro-trash tweens, paid famous faces, and sycophant business associates, Serge made his way to Richie immediately and personally escorted him to the first of dozens of bars that peppered all three decks of the ship. With fifty bartenders, there was one for every six guests.
Cristal champagne flowed freely, as did the most expensive liquors in the world. Evan Williams bourbon, 1926 Macallan Fine and Rare scotch. For those who favored beer, one-hundred-dollar bottles of Sam Adams Utopia were on ice. For those who sipped cognac, they were offered Louis XIII Black Pearl.
“Your wish is her command,” Serge said to Richie as he nodded to the blonde, well-endowed teenage bartender. The bar was lined with the finest crystal, including colorful Murano Carlo Moretti flutes.
“Vodka martini, straight up,” Richie requested.
Serge nodded, and the seventeen-year-old retrieved a four-thousand-dollar bottle of Diva. Richie appreciated that. Each bottle contained real gemstones like the hidden jewels in Olivia’s early designs.
She poured the liquid platinum into a silver shaker, chilling it to perfection.
“Sorry about all those cameras out there,” Serge offered.
“I’ll bill you if I need new glasses,” Richie joked.
“Damn Fortunatov,” Serge growled. “Did you hear about the Elite? That so-called boat has lasers that shoot right back in paparazzi’s lenses. No one can get a good shot!”
Richie took the stemmed glass with slivered ice crystals from the beauty, who batted her eyes at the man old enough to be her grandfather.
“Where is your gorgeous wife?” Serge interrupted with a hint of jealousy. “And little Charley? What a stunner!”
“Should be here in about thirty minutes in all her glory, I assume. And she would not like those camera-blocking lasers.” Richie smiled.
“The boys?” Serge asked.
“Running late too, but they wouldn’t miss it.”
“Gemma is not going to be happy if her schedule gets fucked up.” Serge scowled. “And there’s nothing else to buy her to keep her happy.”
“Serge!”
Russian billionaire Alexei Fortunatov interrupted them. “What a nice little boat you have here,” Fortunatov sneered. He was known for owning the Chelsea Football Club in the United Kingdom— and the most expensive yacht in the world. With its lasers.
“Serge was just showing me around, Alexei,” Richie said, pasting on a sincere but firm smile. “Perhaps we’ll chat later.”
With that, Richie led Serge away from Serge’s nemesis. One thing Richie knew was which side his bread was buttered on.
“When will Da be home?” Claire yawned to her mother as the two sat in the cockpit of the Fancy Face IV.
“Probably not for a while, sweet pea,” Belle answered. “He and Chelsea haven’t seen each other for a long time.”
“Will you read to me?” Claire asked.
“Why don’t you run down and get your pj’s on, and I’ll be there in a few,” Belle said gently. “I just want to finish up here.” Claire tottered down the steps into the main cabin.
Belle was sitting at the small teak table, poring over the sketches she’d been working on for months. If she indeed managed to get a meeting with Olivia Gaines, she wanted them to be perfect.
Belle’s career as a designer with her father’s company, Basic Black, had been short-lived, but not because of her talent. She relished the idea of working for someone other than family, and the quality of the fabrics Olivia used complemented Belle’s simple draped designs
Belle sat alone, nursing a Campari and soda to settle her stomach, watching the beauty that surrounded her. The night was indeed stunning, and there was activity throughout the glittering harbor, hotels, and casino, and it spilled onto the jubilant streets of Monte Carlo.
Shawn and Belle’s boat was moored a ways out from the main harbor, but from this vantage point, she could hear and see it all. The most activity obviously surrounded K, with the flashes of paparazzi on the dock and music pouring from every deck of the floating estate.
She wondered what had happened with Abby, and if she had been able to get into the soiree.
“Mommy!” She heard Claire call from below.
Shaking off her reverie, she called down to her daughter, “Right there, sweet pea.”
Gathering up her sketches, she went to mark the upper corner of her revisions. She’d lost track of the date, which she’d often done on their remarkable journey, so she checked her iPhone.
August 16.
With her charcoal pencil, she scrawled the date on the three sketches she’d revised.
“August 16?” she thought aloud.
She was five days late.
“Must be all the excitement,” she added.
Putting away the sketches in a watertight sleeve, she started making her way to Claire. But before she reached her daughter, something caught her eye in the distance.
Through binoculars, she could see the flashing of white police cars hurtling toward the base of the hills. A huge red fire truck behind them. The sounds barely audible over the cacophony of Dalita Kasagian’s party.
Little did she know, Shawn was in the midst of the action.
The Aston Martin sat teetering on its passenger side and looked as if it had been put through a vise. Every one of the aluminum panels were crumpled, the hood twisted like a piece of used foil.
Shawn was first on the scene and horrified by what he saw. Charley was strapped in her seat, blood spurting from a massive slice in her neck, but at least she was breathing.
“Call 911,” he shouted to Chelsea.
“Do they have that here?” she blurted as she frantically dialed the number. “Hello! Hello!”
Before she could finish, she heard sirens in the distance.
“Mummy?” Charley groaned softly as she began to regain consciousness.
“Stay quiet,” Shawn said, avoiding her question. “Help’s on the way.”
To stanch the flow of blood, he pulled off his T-shirt and pressed it firmly to her neck.
By now, Chelsea had reached Olivia’s limp body and was checking her vitals. She’d been a candy striper at Salem University Hospital and knew to check Olivia’s neck for a pulse. Even though she didn’t feel one, she tried to administer CPR.
It was just too late.
Olivia had been thrown from the car because she wasn’t wearing a seat belt. She always refused to do so when going to an event in which she would be photographed. She knew how everyone loved to see even the slightest flaw in celebrities, and she thought she was one. So no seat belt for her.
Now she was dead, the left side of her stunning face caved in. She would not look her best in the pictures soon to be taken.
A crowd was gathering, and there were gasps of horror and d
isbelief. The paparazzi from Dalita Kasagian’s party were already on their way.
From high above the scene, on the Route de le Grande Corniche, the bicyclist watched the chaos below, then casually rode away.
“There’s been an accident. Bright yellow Aston Martin,” the German photographer whispered to his partner excitedly. “Gotta be something good there!”
The news spread like a wildfire in a parched forest, and the paparazzi scrambled to their scooters, vans, and cars to be first on the scene.
The majority of the well-heeled partyers had arrived on Kasagian’s yacht, and with no access inside the event, the paps were hungry for scoops.
Abby stayed put and sidled up to the hottie Andy, who’d flirted with her at the boutique. He had no idea who she was.
“Vultures,” she said, cringing. She was grazed by one of the desperate parasites and feigned nearly falling at Andy’s feet.
Andy had not seen the disturbance in the hills, so he opted not to notify Serge Kasagian that something had distracted the paparazzi and they’d left. The music was so loud inside the yacht that no one would have heard an atomic bomb. And if it was nothing, there’d be hell to pay and a job to lose.
“This is too dangerous,” Andy said. “Get her inside,” he instructed one of his other security guys.
Abby dashed up the gangplank and into the party. No one checked to see if she had a camera.
For the moment, the party seemed to be wilder than ever. Abby took a lobster roll from the tray of a passing waiter, who asked, “What’s going on out there?”
Abby shrugged. “Just some paparazzi climbing all over each other.”
Abby took a glass of Cristal in one of the brightly colored hand-blown champagne flutes and headed to the upper deck.
Knowing how to blend in or stand out were tricks of Abby’s trade. She’d learned from her father that the best journalists were the best observers. Like John Black had learned in the ISA, Abby had learned by working side by side with her parents just what was important to take in.
She passed the elite partygoers who had pasted-on smiles and chattered endlessly one-on-one, group-on-group as they scoured the room for more important guests to talk to. Dalita, the gnome, was in the midst of it all.
A Secret in Salem Page 6
