Dead Double

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Sahara sat up. “Are you kidding? Don’t I get breakfast?”

  “Of course, but you can’t eat wearing just…what you’re wearing, can you?” Her glance took in Sahara’s tee shirt and the sarong tossed over the end of the bed.

  “Why not? Just put the tray right here.” Sahara patted the bed. “I’m starving.”

  Jacqui’s cheeks coloured again. “Well, to begin, Mr. Wilde is in the main room as he promised he would be and that is where breakfast is being served. Also, in….” She glanced at the tiny watch on her wrist. “Twenty three minutes, the hairdresser will be here and shortly after that, the tailor and the wardrobe consultants from both Yves Saint Laurent and Gaultier will arrive.” She lifted her notebook. “There is a steady round of appointments after that. Would you like the summary sheet?”

  Sahara stared at her. “The wardrobe consultants,” she said slowly. “They’re going to give me clothes like yours?”

  Jacquie looked down at her skirt. “Goodness, no,” she said. “This is business apparel. Ms. Michealina followed fashion far more closely than I could ever afford.”

  The steady tumble of facts and clues left Sahara mentally staggering. She held up her hand, asking for silence while she sorted it out. “You knew Micky, didn’t you?” she said at last.

  Jacqui nodded. “I was her executive associate. Now I am yours.” She pursed her lips for a moment, making them thin. “I supposed I should say I am still your executive associate, Micky.” She gave an effortful smile. “We must get used to it.”

  Sahara nodded. “And do you think I look as much like her as everyone else seems to think?”

  “Yes,” Jacqui said at once. “And yet…no. But we will work together to ensure that any doubt is driven far away. As her executive associate, I was privy to many of Ms. Micky’s habits and practices. I will be able to guide you in these.” She stepped forward and lifted a slippery, flowing garment of pale green silky fabric off the back of the armchair nearby and offered it to Sahara. “Breakfast first,” she said firmly.

  Sahara slid off the mattress and drew the luxurious gown around her shoulders and belted it tightly. “Why were you so surprised when Logan got onto the plane last night?” she asked, as Jacqui consulted her notebook.

  The dark-haired woman looked up and said calmly. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilde had stopped travelling together long before she passed on.” Then she frowned and looked around the carpet at Sahara’s feet. “Oh, they failed to place slippers for you.”

  Sahara shrugged. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” Liking the feel of the thick carpet under her toes, she crossed to the bedroom door and opened it. The room beyond was even bigger than the elegant bedroom behind her. Sahara had only caught a brief glimpse of the room last night before Jacqui had hurried her into the bedroom. It was decorated with cream coloured walls divided into panels. Elegant statuary stood framed by each panel.

  Logan was sitting at a round table, finishing up his own meal. He was dressed in a dark suit but his untrimmed hair and the stubble on his cheeks made it seem less formal that it should. The casual shirt under the jacket also made it feel like he was wearing the suit for show, to meet an expectation.

  Sahara was immensely glad to see him. In the space of twelve hours he had become a familiar figure to her and very welcome among all these strangers. She almost opened her mouth to say so but Jacqui and the waiter hovering over a steaming trolley next to the table kept her mouth shut.

  She sat at the table as Logan looked up, the blue eyes skipping over her once again. She realized it was his way of sizing her up and ensuring she was okay and in one piece. It gave her a measure of the world he moved in—the world she was now part of.

  “Good morning,” she said, striving for a cheery note and failing.

  “Sleep well?” he asked.

  “Surprisingly, yes.” She looked at the hint of red in his eyes and the signs of strain. “You didn’t, though.”

  He stopped folding the paper to look at her. “You’re a scary lady,” he said.

  “Second thoughts, Logan?”

  “And third and forty-fifth” He shrugged.

  Jacqui had sat down on the sofa on the far side of the room, her laptop on her knees.

  “You’re not eating, Jacqui?” Sahara called.

  “Thank you but I ate breakfast nearly an hour ago,” Jacqui returned.

  “Well, come and sit at the table, at least,” Sahara said firmly. “I feel idiotic sitting here while you’re over there.”

  “But Mr. Wilde—”

  Logan got to his feet. “I’m leaving,” he said. He watched the waiter leave the room and looked down at Sahara. “Micky didn’t like staff sitting at the table and Jacqui is too well-bred to speak ill of the dead.” He put the paper back on the table. “Jacqui assures me that you will be busy in this suite for the rest of the day, at least. There are some things I must get done, so I will take this opportunity to do them.”

  “I guess your own personal affairs are probably going to have to be rearranged too, aren’t they?” Sahara asked and took a bite of her omelette. It was so light and fluffy and delicious she stopped chewing to consider the flavour and texture. She could feel her eyes widening in surprise.

  Logan was watching her, a smile forming. “Welcome to the world of gourmet cooking, twenty-four hours a day.”

  She rolled her eyes. It was all the expression she could give.

  Logan’s smile broadened and turned into a soft chuckle. He gave her a nod and left, the smile lingering.

  Jacqui sat at the table with a cup of coffee and her laptop in front of her, as Logan shut the door.

  Sahara swallowed her first mouthful and chased it down with some orange juice—freshly squeezed, of course. “Jacqui, did Logan and Micky live this sort of life all the time?”

  “What sort of life do you mean?”

  “This. Hotels, hot and cold running waiters, gourmet cooking, top fashions and…well, you. I know you don’t come cheap. You’re too good at your job.”

  Jacqui dimpled, even as another blush touched her cheeks. “They were both moving in diplomatic circles, all around the world. The hotels and waiters and elegant clothing are all part of that world.”

  “And at home? What did they do at home?”

  “Micky is the only one I could speak for.” Jacqui spoke slowly, as if she were picking her words with care. “After they were divorced, I have no solid evidence as to how Mr. Wilde lived. Micky certainly maintained the standards she was used to.”

  “But this sort of life takes incredible amounts of money.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Jacqui agreed.

  “Then Micky was rich? I’m sorry to be so blunt, Jacqui but I have to know this stuff.”

  “Yes, you do. That is why they asked me to step in. To help you with it.”

  “Then Micky was a wealthy woman?”

  Jacqui folded her hands on the table. “She was the third daughter of a mid-west independent grocer.”

  Sahara felt her heart squeeze again. “Then…Logan….”

  “His full name is Logan Alexander Wilde, the Third. His family is in New England and has been there since 1781. He is the only son of this generation and his decision to leave the family business in the hands of his cousin and join the United States Army was hailed as a disaster to the family line.”

  “Is he still in the Army?”

  “Not any longer. These things are not spoken of openly, you understand, but I believe the Special Forces and Black Ops training he received brought him to the attention of a special operations department that works overseas—mainly in Europe and the Middle East. His family connections were used to give him genuine credentials within the United States Embassy and his wife’s glamorous lifestyle gave him more connections that were exploited by his employers.”

  Sahara sat with her forkful of omelette halfway to her open mouth, her eyes wide.

  Jacqui sipped her coffee and picked up her laptop. “The hairdresser will be here in ten
minutes. Shall we go over your fitting schedule for the day?”

  * * * * *

  “Sahara Taylor-Hughes,” Nelson intoned, flipping through the one inch thick manila folder on his side of the table. “Daughter of Darryl Taylor, who was the world open champion surfer for six years up until his death in 1996 in a surfing accident. So this was taken when she was…eleven, a year before he died.” He flipped the photo over the table to land in front of Logan but he didn’t pick it up.

  It was a copy of a photo that had clearly been taken by a professional photographer. It was clear, focused and framed perfectly. In the mid-nineties, longer hair had been trendy, so Darryl Taylor’s hair was bleached white in places by sun and surf and was lifting up from his head by what was probably a strong sea breeze. In his arms, her back against his chest and as nut-brown as he, was the eleven-year-old Sahara. Her own locks were bleached almost pure white and streamed back over her father’s shoulder. They were both looking at something to the far left of the camera and a low sun was on their faces. They looked content and more than happy to be together.

  “Where’s her mother?” Logan said. He looked up and saw Nelson’s puzzled expression and Elias’ annoyed one. “What?” he asked.

  “I just went over that,” Nelson said gently.

  “Pretend I didn’t hear it.”

  Nelson looked down at the file. “Gina Hughes, sometimes surfer, sometimes photographer and journalist and general camp follower. Died of the bends in a diving accident off the coast of Australia, in 1992.”

  Logan looked down at the photo. “She was eight, then.”

  I know how to take care of myself, her voice whispered softly in his mind. Yeah, she probably did know how to look after herself in a normal world. He’d just dragged her into the rear end of hell, though.

  He cleared his throat. “Foster parents?” he asked Nelson and saw his pained expression. “Sorry,” he added. “I’ve got a few things on my mind.”

  “We noticed,” Elias said mildly.

  “Kansas farm folk,” Nelson said. “Norma and Gene Smith. She went through junior and part of senior high school there. Gene died of a severe cerebral aneurism when she was sixteen and Mrs. Smith killed herself the week after.”

  She’d lost both parents…twice. Logan shook his head. He hadn’t been through it once, yet. What did it do to a sixteen year old?

  “She had a round of foster homes after that, until she did a bunk not long after she turned seventeen. She popped up in Ocean Beach about a year later when the juvenile courts weren’t interested in her any longer. Moved into the apartment next to her father’s old friend, a naturalized Australian surfer called Bruce Holden and his lover, Jocquim Morales. A year after that, she opened up the store beneath her apartment. It’s a surfing gear store and one of the most popular ones in Ocean Beach. But she doesn’t sell surfboards—“

  “She won’t compete with her father’s old friend,” Logan finished, remember her offer to set him up with the surf shop next door, if he was interested in buying.

  “Right.” Nelson shut the file. “Pretty slim file, all in all.”

  “And the reason we’re reviewing her file at all is…?” Logan demanded for the second time since sitting at the table.

  Elias stirred. “We have to know who we’re dealing with. If we need leverage—“

  “God, I don’t believe this,” Logan said, anger stirring.

  “If we need leverage,” Elias repeated firmly, “then it’ll be here in the files.”

  “She’s doing it. Hell, we’re both doing this despite our better judgment. How much more leverage do you want? Is there something about this you haven’t shared?”

  “You have all the details you need,” Elias said. But there was something about the way he said it. It was too flat, too studied. Logan just stared at him, waiting him out.

  Elias sighed and threw the paperclip he had been mangling onto the table top. “Seoc talked to me last night, before I flew down here.” He spread his big hands flat on the table. Looked at them. “Zaram has been silently running Seoc for about two years now.”

  Everyone tried to speak at once but Logan stood and bellowed, “Just shut up for one minute!”

  They dropped back to silence and Logan felt his lip trying to curl into a sneer as he looked at Elias. “Were you going to drop that little morsel on us, if I hadn’t asked?”

  Elias stood up too. “Yeah, I wasn’t in a hurry to spill it, because I knew you’d react exactly the way you’re reacting. So Zaram has been running Seoc. So what? We’ve still got a live game, we still have a conduit to Malik and his notebook. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “Having Zaram in on this doesn’t change anything? Are you out of your friggin’ mind?”

  “We don’t know that Zaram is in on it.”

  “We don’t know anything at all.” Logan shook his head. “Every assumption we based this operation on is now questionable. For all we know, Zaram is sitting there pulling the strings, running the whole show and we’re the puppets.” He reached for his jacket, hanging on the back of the chair.

  “Sit down, Logan,” Elias said softly.

  “There’s no way we can shove Sahara out into the middle of this.”

  “I said, sit down,” Elias repeated.

  Logan expelled a mirthless laugh. “Sit down and do what? Discuss this?”

  “There’s no discussion to be had. This is my operation, Logan and I told you to sit down.”

  Logan stared at Elias and realized that he was sweating in an air-conditioned room. His heart was a runaway train. “For crissake, Elias. You can’t do this.”

  “To you, or her?” Elias asked softly. He pointed at Logan. “Look at yourself, man. You really have to ask why I sat on this factoid?”

  Logan licked his lips. “I’m fine.”

  Nelson cleared his throat. “Sahara isn’t Micky, Logan.” His tone was mild. “Besides, if Zaram knew about the notebook, he’d have already tried to take it. There’s no reason to shove us around a chessboard.”

  “Not if Micky’s the only one that Malik will give it to!” Logan roared.

  The silence that greeted his shout was full of awkwardness. No one was looking him in the face except Elias.

  Logan took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, striving for something that sounded controlled and reasoned. “All right. Zaram is a player now. We can’t assume otherwise.” He hefted his jacket. “I’m going back to the suite.”

  “Sit down, Logan,” Elias said. It was the same monotone he’d used the first time he’d said it.

  “I said I would protect her, Elias. I promised her.”

  “She’s fine in her room. No one can get onto the floor without a passkey and all the staff have been vetted. We’re right next door.”

  Logan couldn’t bring himself to sit, even though Elias was right. The need to get back to the suite, to check for himself that Sahara was still breathing was almost overwhelming.

  “I need your expertise,” Elias added. “If Zaram is a player, we need to out-think him. No one knows him better than you, Logan.”

  Logan reluctantly sat down.

  Chapter Ten

  Although Logan had not said he would return for dinner, Sahara wanted him to be there. But as the day wore on, she grew more and more nervous about seeing him again.

  Under Jacqui’s competent management, Sahara’s appearance evolved into a creature that Sahara kept looking at in the mirror in endless fascination, for the creature was not her…yet it was.

  The biggest change was her hair. The hairdresser went into raptures over the soft naturalness of her hair and wanted to know what treatments she used and which hairdresser she had been consulting with. Sahara had shrugged. “I just wash it,” she confessed. “And a friend lops off an inch or so every year or so.”

  This sent the hairdresser into a fit but once he had calmed—and Jacqui managed to calm him with a simple look—he assembled his equipment and began to work quickly to trim
off nearly six inches of her hair, so it stopped just above her shoulder blades and feathered around her face. For the first time in her life she had bangs. Strangely they seemed to make her eyes greener. The hairdresser had coloured her hair so that she was a light blonde all over. Any hint of red was gone.

  “You’ll be able to wear pink and red now,” Jacqui pointed out. “With your eyes, they’ll be wonderful colors for you.”

  As Sahara swiped doubtfully at the hair around her eyes, Jacqui held out one of the new outfits that had been delivered only a little while before. It was a deep red dress in a soft fabric that clung to her legs and cinched in her waist. Sahara had let Jacqui coax her into it, along with stockings and high-heeled shoes that made Sahara feel more feminine the moment she put them on.

  She had a full range of makeup on the bathroom counter and had taken part one of three scheduled lessons to teach her how to tend her skin, how to wear makeup during the day if she had no official appointments and for going out on casual appointments.

  “What about official appointments and evenings?” Sahara had pointed out.

  The makeup artist simply shook her head. “We’ll come in to do it for you, of course.”

  So as the day wore on and dinner drew closer, Sahara kept looking in the mirror at the changes and wondering what Logan would make of them all.

  Late in the afternoon, there was a flurry at the door and the sound of raised voices. Jacqui looked at her watch and raised her brow. “That will be Sven. He said he’d try to give us thirty minutes.”

  Sahara listened to the ruckus at the door. “Is someone arguing with the guard, out there?”

  “Oh, Sven always sounds angry.”

  The door thrust open and a rolling, muscled imp of a man entered. He almost seemed to bounce into the room. Sahara’s first impression of him was a short, completely bald man with deep suntan marred by the fine wrinkles people developed from too much sun over the years. He was wearing a black tee shirt with the sleeves hacked out of it and black jeans. His arms and upper body were thick with muscles that only came from dedicated weight training over a long period of time. He entered talking and Sahara wasn’t sure if he was still speaking to the guard outside, or Jacqui, who he was looking at.