by J. L. Merrow
SEX, LIES AND EDELWEISS
by
J. L. MERROW
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
Sex, Lies And Edelweiss
An Amber Quill Press Book
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.AmberQuill.com
http://www.AmberHeat.com
http://www.AmberAllure.com
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2011 by J. L. Merrow
ISBN 978-1-61124-131-0
Cover Art © 2011 Trace Edward Zaber
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Pen and Jo, for your unceasing help and support. May your apple strudel always come with lashings of whipped cream!
SEX, LIES AND EDELWEISS
Bloody tourists clogging up the roads.
Matt eased open the throttle of the Honda CBR600 and let it roar. He shot past the tour coach, his open shirt flapping crazily behind him. It was tempting to turn and give them the finger, but with the sun blazing down and the Alps on either side like a Hollywood backdrop, Matt was just in too good a mood.
It was a great way to stay cool on a day like today--head up into the mountains and eat up some road. He could see Salzburg in the distance, with its bright white castle perched on a hill like the top tier of a wedding cake. They knew how to build castles around here--none of that grim stone Norman crap you got back in Britain. Which reminded him, he still hadn't seen Neuschwanstein. Maybe at the end of the season he'd head on down to Bavaria. He'd be just in time for Oktoberfest... Speaking of which, what the bloody hell was the time? Matt glanced at his watch.
Shit. He needed to get to work right now. Herr Meissner would rip him a new one if he was late for dinner service. Matt wrenched the Honda into a U-turn, then zoomed back the way he'd come. The engine purred its approval as he ate up the miles, his bare knee practically brushing the tarmac on the corners.
Matt eased off on the throttle as Lake Wolfgang opened out before him. He'd seen this view a hundred times and it still took his breath away. It was a million miles away from the arse end of south London, where he'd grown up.
Inside his helmet, Matt grinned. He'd left London behind forever, now.
Good bloody riddance.
* * * *
Reclining on the terrace of the Königshof Hotel, Simon Lavoisier sipped his iced coffee gratefully. The shadows might be lengthening, but it was still a fiendishly hot day--for a man used to Britain's rather more restrained summers, at any rate. Across the table sat Simon's adoptive mother, Miriam, whom he'd known as Mim ever since his tongue-tied childhood. Her expensively manicured fingers curled around a tall glass filled with ice and several kinds of alcohol in a stomach-curdling combination.
"You see?" Mim's voice was a purr, as she cast Simon the bland smile of the near-terminally Botoxed. "Didn't I tell you it would be divine here?"
Simon cast a languid eye over the outstanding view from the terrace. Lake Wolfgang stretched out before him, its waters a deepening blue at this early stage of the evening. Mountains reared to right and left, their pine-covered lower slopes giving way to craggy peaks. Cable cars in bright red and yellow livery bobbed serenely up the slopes and down again.
"The Italian lakes have been ruined by tourism," Mim continued, brushing away a mischievous wisp of bleached-blonde hair that had escaped from her elegant coiffure and caught on her false eyelashes. "Austria is so much more unspoilt, don't you agree?"
Speaking of outstanding views, one of the waiters had just started setting up tables for dinner a short distance away from Simon. As the young man bent over, he revealed a rather nice rear end, clad in a pair of well-cut black trousers. Simon found himself thinking what a shame it was that staff here were not required to don lederhosen--now that really would be a view to treasure.
"Ahem?" Mim's gentle cough had a certain glass-cutting intensity.
Simon wrenched his gaze away from the delights of the locality and pushed his glasses back up his nose with one finger. "Sorry. Yes, it's very nice here. You were quite right."
"Tom would have loved it here." She sighed.
Simon reached across the table to put a hand over hers. "You had three wonderful years together, remember. He wouldn't have wanted you to be sad."
"Of course not, darling." She gave a brave little smile. "After all, why else would he leave me all that lovely money?"
It was hard to think of a polite answer to that, so Simon breathed a sigh of relief when the waiter interrupted them. "Would you like to have dinner outside tonight?" he asked, in an accent as English as Simon's own, although admittedly rather lower on the social scale. He was wearing a name badge identifying him as Matt. "I can set up a table for you."
It sounded rather appealing. Simon raised an eyebrow in Mim's direction. "Shall we?"
"Really, Simon, you have to ask? Yes, thank you." With a gracious air, she nodded to the waiter, who smiled and set to his task a few feet away.
Simon watched idly as the young man laid a crisp white cloth with a flourish, then set up cutlery and glassware with admirable economy of motion.
"Such delightful scenery, don't you think?" Mim said archly.
"Oh--yes," Simon agreed, feeling his face grow a little hot. He was unexpectedly glad to see the waiter finish his task and walk briskly over to another table.
Mim laughed. "Too young for you, darling. He'd love you and leave you."
"I can't be that much older than he is," Simon protested. "I'm only thirty-two."
"Yes, and when your dear mother was thirty-two, you were fourteen, and if that boy is a day over eighteen, I'll eat my sunhat."
"So I'm to be banned from pursuing a holiday romance just because Mummy was an early starter? I don't think that's very fair." Simon felt his mouth form a pout and took a hasty sip of wine to cover it. "And in any case, I'm sure he only looks young. It's the hair."
They both looked at the waiter, whose mop of naturally golden curls above bright blue eyes did, indeed, lend him a rather cherubic air, although it was somewhat undermined by the roguish curve of his lips. Mim sighed. "Darling, we don't need two broken hearts on this holiday."
Simon felt like the worst sort of self-absorbed idiot. How could he even think of his own love life when Mim's had suffered such a blow? And after all she'd done for him--adopting him after Mummy died and doing a fantastic job of looking after him, despite the fact she'd always sworn she loathed the very idea of children. He put his hand back on hers. "You're right. Of course you're right. Now, why don't we talk about what we're going to do while we're here?"
"Do, darling?" Mim shuddered elegantly. "Really, Simon, one doesn't come to these places to do things. I may perhaps venture into that rather lovely swimming pool, I suppose. You'll have to make your own entertainment. I can't be running after you all the time."
Simon smiled. "You used to say that every time we went to Phuket. And you always ended up helping me build my sandcastles, just the same."
Mim glared at him over the rim of her cocktail glass. "Darling, I had hoped you'd finally grown out of the sandcastle phase."
* * * *
Most of the guests took the opportunity to dine outside. It was a truly beautiful evening, warm
and still. As the skies darkened, the scene grew yet more peaceful, if one didn't count the rather over-enthusiastic sawing of the crickets.
Matt, Simon noticed, seemed to be quite a favorite amongst the guests, English and German alike. He worked the tables with a kind of easy grace, with a smile or a joke for everyone, and got on particularly well with the children. Simon wondered what he was doing working here. On a gap year, he supposed--bucking the trend and coming to Europe, despite the fact that it seemed to be terribly unfashionable these days. Mim's friends' children were mostly around that age, and they all seemed to be heading for China and Vietnam and other worrying places.
Simon hadn't had a gap year. He'd gone straight from school to university to being an articled clerk at Schuster & Biggins, Solicitors. He often wondered what he'd missed. A rather staggering amount of sex from all accounts. Simon had always uncharitably hoped that said accounts were more than a little exaggerated, but on the other hand, perhaps it might mean Matt would be up for a little holiday fling?
"Darling, you're away with the fairies again," Mim said. "Or is that an offensive thing to say to one of your persuasion? I never know these days."
Simon laughed. "Mim, I can't imagine you ever offending me. And I'm sorry. What were you saying?"
"I was just wondering whether you weren't a teensy bit curious why I wanted to bring you here." She sipped her wine.
"Oh, I just thought you wanted to celebrate your birthday." Tactfully, Simon refrained from mentioning it was her fiftieth. After all, when she went to such great pains to look ten years younger, who was he to give the game away? "And, well..." He made an expansive gesture intended to encompass the hotel, the location and the balmy climate. To Simon's horror, it ended up instead with him inadvertently molesting young Matt, who was just walking past with a tray of glasses.
"Oh my God!" Simon gasped as the contents of the tray went flying. "I'm so dreadfully sorry." He scrambled to his feet and tried to pick up the larger pieces of broken glassware whilst apologizing profusely.
"No problem," Matt said with a smile that had to be more forced than it looked. "Don't worry about the glass; I'll get a broom."
"So sorry," Simon persisted, feeling inadequate. "I'm an idiot."
"Hey, accidents happen." Matt's smile didn't falter as he strode off.
Simon sat down and glared at Mim, who wasn't doing anything so undignified as giggling, but whose eyes were blinking at a rather rapid tempo. "Not a word," he warned her.
"Darling, would I?"
"Yes, you would, and you know it. Now let's pretend all that didn't happen, and you can tell me what the big mystery is."
"Well, darling..." Mim leaned forward, a gleam in her eye and a lot of expensively perfumed cleavage on show--only to lean back again as Matt reappeared with a long-handled dustpan and brush.
Simon balled his hands into fists and shoved them into his lap to stop himself from tapping the table in impatience, as Mim waited serenely until the waiter had swept up and disappeared again before she spoke once more.
"This is where everything happened. Here, in the Königshof Hotel. Or so Serry told me."
After a five-course meal, it wasn't easy for Simon's stomach to do flip-flops, but it did its level best at Mim's portentous tone when she mentioned his mother's schoolgirl nickname. Simon had an inkling where she might be going with this. "You mean..."
"Yes! In this very hotel--or at least, somewhere on the grounds; being overly specific was never one of dear Serry's faults--you, darling, were conceived."
Simon swallowed and reached for his glass.
* * * *
Matt swung through the door into the kitchen, still struggling to keep his face straight at the thought of the English guest--Simon, that was what the woman had called him earlier--and how bloody horrified he'd looked when he'd realized just where his hand was.
"Watch out for table fourteen," he called out with a laugh. "I just got sexually harassed."
"These guests, they are all the same." Heike sniffed. She was the friendliest of the waitresses--some of the others were a right snooty bunch. She was putting together a tray of coffees to take out. "All of the time, they touch my... Verdammt, what is English for po?"
"Bum," Matt told her, making as if to pat her ample bottom in demonstration and getting his hand swatted away with a teaspoon. "And if he did that on purpose, he's a lot better actor than he looks." He grinned. "Anyway, there're worse blokes to get groped by."
Heike looked up, her pretty, round face turning a bit wicked. "Oh, you like him? He is cute, or?"
Matt sent a quick glance over to the door to the dining room, where Herr Meissner, the restaurant manager, was standing guard as usual, back ramrod straight and black hair scraped back in the world's most unlikely ponytail. He was frowning, although, as far as Matt could tell, there weren't any pissed off guests or slacking staff to merit it. It seemed to be the bloke's default expression. Maybe he had some secret sorrow that was burdening him down.
Then again, maybe he was just a miserable sod.
Heike nodded. "Ah, Herr Meissner, he would not like, no?"
"No, he bloody wouldn't." In fact, Herr Meissner had told Matt he'd be out on his ear if he was ever caught fraternizing with the guests. Matt couldn't blame him for that, given where they'd first met and how Matt had been making a living at the time. Still, Matt reckoned he was pretty good at not getting caught. "But yeah, he's cute. Must be loaded, too--or that wife of his is, anyway, judging by the rocks round her scraggy neck. Reckon she's got him properly under her thumb."
"Bitte?"
"The older woman. Mrs. Lavoisier. She's the one in charge." Matt rolled his eyes. "She must be the one with the money. Can't think of any other reason he'd have married her."
She shrugged. "Maybe he likes the boys and the girls. And also, I think she is beautiful. You do not think so?"
"Have you seen her close up? She's got to be ten years older than him at least. Maybe fifteen. More plastic on her than a bloody Barbie doll."
"You are jealous." Heike gave him a knowing smile as she sing-songed the words, pushing the door of the dining room open with her hip. Matt didn't dare answer as she waltzed out of view--too much chance of Herr Meissner overhearing.
* * * *
Simon found it an effort, after Mim had dropped the bombshell, to continue with appropriate dinner-table conversation. Thankfully, Mim was more than capable of keeping silence at bay single-handedly. It didn't take her long to tell Simon all she knew about his mother's eventful holiday at the tender age of eighteen.
"Your father's name was Gerhardt, and he was German, not Austrian. From Berlin--or so he claimed. But I'm afraid the poor girl never found out his surname." Mim tapped her finger on the table, her nail lacquer glinting in the candlelight. "Let that be a lesson to you."
Simon blinked. "Mim, I'm not an expert on childbirth, but I really don't think I'm likely to get myself knocked up, even in the extremely unlikely event I ever have unsafe casual sex."
"It's the principle of the thing, darling. And poor Serry wasn't casual about it. Simply rather disorganized."
Simon took a long swallow from his wine glass. "She was in love with him?"
Mim shrugged. "Well, she thought she was at the time. It's why she kept you, of course."
"I never... Why did she never tell me about him? I thought she must have hated him." She'd always become so upset when Simon had asked about his father. He'd never realized there might be more than one reason for that.
Of course, he'd been very young when she'd died. Ten-year-old boys weren't exactly noted for their emotional insight. "Why have you never told me this before?" he demanded. "And why tell me now?"
Mim looked out over the lake, her eyes growing misty. "In answer to your first question, darling, you never asked. And as for the second..." She took a delicate sip of wine. "Since Tom died...I simply felt perhaps I should tell you all I could. Just in case."
Simon wasn't sure whether to
put an arm around her or to roll his eyes at the melodrama. He settled for putting a hand over hers where it rested on the table. "You're hardly at death's door, you know. Tom had a heart condition." He sighed. "So what else do you know about him? My father, I mean."
"Very little, I'm afraid. Serry wrote to tell him about you, but she never received an answer. Of course, in all likelihood, he'd simply finished working at the Königshof and gone elsewhere."
"Or he just didn't want to know," Simon suggested cynically. "Teenage boys don't always leap to embrace parental responsibilities. I presume he was around the same age as Mummy?"
Mim shrugged, the graceful motion of her slender-to-a-fault frame making a strange contrast with the eerie immobility of her face. "I suppose so. Serry never mentioned him being older. She didn't say very much about him, in fact, except that you got your dark hair from him--which was obvious, really. Serry, poor thing, was the classic English mouse." She patted her impeccably highlighted hair with a satisfied air. "Although your skin tone is all her--pale as ivory, the both of you. The combination makes you look quite striking, darling." Mim smiled.
Simon blushed.
"Except when you do that," Mim added. "And this, I'm afraid, is it for me." She drained her glass and rose.
Simon looked at his watch. "So early?"
"Darling, you know I never manage to sleep more than one hour in two when we're on holiday. The sooner I start, the better." Her tone turned roguish, as if to compensate for the blankness of her expression. "You needn't feel obliged to walk me to the room. Stay down here a while, and perhaps your little waiter will come out and see if there's anything he can do for you."
Simon gave her a rueful smile, rising in his turn. "I imagine he'll be avoiding me for the rest of the week. I'll see how I like the bar."
The hotel bar, Simon found after he'd wished Mim good night, was filled with a raucous crowd of English guests who all seemed to know each other well. Ear-shattering peals of laughter came constantly from their direction. Simon didn't begrudge them their fun, but after what Mim had told him, he felt the need for some reflection. He headed back out to the terrace, which was now in complete darkness, save for a few little alcoves that nestled into the side of the hotel. The temperature had dropped significantly, and Simon could feel his head clearing in the cool, fresh air.
