“Dr. Wilkinson, may I offer you something to drink? Tea? Or coffee or water instead?” Amita, my administrative assistant, asks.
“Tea would be fine. With a little bit of milk, please.”
We chit chat about the weather and other mundane subjects until Amita returns with her cup. Putting her briefcase aside, Dr. Wilkinson accepts it with a soft smile and a thanks.
“Tell me about yourself.” When interviewing a possible recruit, I’ve found it best to break the ice this way.
“I’m a Londoner, born and bred. But I expect you already know that. After stints at private schools, I attended Oxford. As you can see from my curriculum vitae, I wrote my Ph.D. dissertation on tribes of South America with an emphasis on the Triboni tribe.”
“I read it.” I tap the inches-thick document sitting on my desk. “Or at least the part of it which pertained to the tribe. Quite a thorough study, if I may say so.”
Smiling, she eases back into the barrelback, white leather chair. “I find them fascinating. They’ve existed for at least 2,000 years. An offshoot of the Incas from Peru, they broke off to create their own sect. They trekked to what is now Santa Maria and made their home near the Triboni River.”
“And they own the rights to the river?”
“Yes. Governments have come and gone, but the tribe retained possession of the water rights. They fought anyone who tried to wrest the river from them. You see, Mr. Storm, they believe the River God, Tutucalca, lives in the waters, and if the tribe were to be separated from the River God, the tribe would wither and die.”
“Did you travel to Santa Maria to write your dissertation?”
“No. I planned to do so, but it didn’t pan out. My mother”—she swallows hard—“she became ill. Cancer. I stayed home to take care of her. Unfortunately, nothing much could be done. She died a year ago.” She sips from her tea, perhaps to cover up the emotion flowing out of her.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“That’s why I’m so eager to land this job. I’ll finally get to see first hand everything I’ve written about.”
“You know what the position entails?”
“Yes. You’re looking for an expert on the Triboni tribe and their customs so your firm can gain their approval to build a hydroelectric plant. I’m the best candidate for the job. No one has the knowledge or the familiarity with the tribe that I do.”
She’s right. She is the best candidate, but I need to make her understand the situation she may face. I thread a pencil through my fingers, a habit which helps me marshal my thoughts. “You will be . . . advising my brother, Royce. He might resent being guided by a woman. And, if I may be blunt, Dr. Wilkinson, it’s likely he will try to—” How can I phrase this without running afoul of hiring practices? “—charm his way into your good graces.”
Her left brow hitches up. “Seduce me, you mean?”
“Your words, not mine.”
She rests her teacup on the table next to the chair and fixes me with a direct stare. “I can assure you, Mr. Storm, I will not succumb to his charms, great though they may be. My purpose for going to Santa Maria is, of course, to gain the tribe’s approval for your project. I will not allow your brother to interfere with that goal.”
“Are you sure? He can be quite charismatic when he wants.”
“Mr. Storm. How can I explain this? Let’s just say he’s barking up the wrong tree.”
She prefers the company of women? I mentally flip through the dossier Samuel compiled on her. Nothing in there hinted at that sexual preference. But then some people prefer not to trumpet it about. Picturing Royce’s reaction when he discovers that fact, I laze back into my chair and grin. A woman he can’t seduce. How very delicious.
“Well then you’d be perfect for the position. Could you be ready to leave for Santa Maria by Monday? We’d fly you down there in our private jet, of course.”
“Yes, Mr. Storm. I could.”
“Then welcome to Storm Industries, Dr. Wilkinson. My assistant is waiting outside to have you complete the necessary paperwork and fill you in on the benefits.” Standing, I offer her my hand. “I expect great things from you.”
Her grip is firm and strong. “I won’t disappoint you.”
She turns to leave, but curious about one thing, I ask, “What prompted your interest in the Triboni Tribe?”
“My mother. She was a member of the tribe.”
“There’s an interesting story in there somewhere.”
“There is, but one that will have to wait for the telling. Thank you, Mr. Storm.” And with that, she strolls out the door.
That afternoon, Samuel surprises me when he drops by my office.
“My apologies, Mr. Storm, for the unscheduled visit.”
“Nonsense. You wouldn’t be here unless it was important.”
“It is.” He brushes a hand across his dark brow. “As you know, we have security cameras throughout Winterleagh Castle and the dowager house.”
“Yes.”
“Well, yesterday, your brother Edward visited your mother. Their conversation was . . . troublesome. I’d like you to listen to it. If you have the time.”
I don’t. I have a bloody meeting in a few minutes. But that must wait for now. This is more important. I ring Amita. “Can you push back the meeting with the New York office half an hour?” Miranda had set up a transcontinental teleconference to go over the projects she was working on. Obviously whatever has Samuel so concerned takes precedence.
“Yes, Sir.”
“All right, Samuel. Show me.”
He sets up his laptop on top of my desk and fiddles with the keyboard. “Here it is.”
Edward’s visit takes place over a tea tray. No surprise there. I’d urged him to accept my mother’s invitation. After the maid arranges the food to my mother’s satisfaction, she leaves, leaving only my mother and Edward in the room.
By the grim look on his face, Edward’s none too happy to be there, but he’s doing as he always has—his duty.
“Why are you sitting so far from me? Come closer,” my mother says.
Balancing his cup in his hand, he sits next to her on the cream-colored divan. “How are you, Mother?” he asks, sipping his tea.
“How do you think I am in this prison your brother has thrust me into?”
“Did you expect him to treat you any other way? You threatened his wife and their child.”
She tosses her head. “That slut. She spread her legs just to get herself pregnant with your brother’s get. He never had any sense when it came to women.”
My face heats up from hearing Elizabeth and our precious child being referred to in such a manner. Clamping down on my emotions, I remind myself her opinion means nothing to me.
Apparently, Edward’s similarly affected by her venom because he clinches his teeth. “I will not sit here and listen to your vitriol about Gabriel’s wife.”
“She doesn’t deserve to be the Countess of Winterleagh. She’s the daughter of a whore. Did you know?”
“No, I didn’t. But even if she is, it doesn’t matter. She’s Gabriel’s wife, and he loves her.”
My eyes mist at the show of support from Edward.
“You never would have married beneath your station. I taught you better than that. You should have inherited the title.”
“Gabriel is the earl.”
“For now.” The smile she directs at Edward chills me to the bone. What is she up to?
“What do you mean?” Edward asks.
“I put a plan in place.”
“A plan? What plan?”
She bites into the savory ham sandwich in her plate. “You’ll see. In time. And then you will be Earl of Winterleagh.”
“You’re wrong. Even if something were to happen to Gabriel, his son would inherit the title.”
“Not if he dies as well. I have someone on the inside. Someone who will take care of both Gabriel and that whore’s son.”
“Who?”
She cackles. “You think I’d tell you? Think again. You renounced me.”
“You can’t do this, mother. I don’t want the title. I never did.”
“What you want doesn’t matter. I want it. For you.”
“Excuse me.” Edward rises and storms off, leaving my mother to calmly polish off the rest of her sandwich. She stares right into the camera as if she knows exactly where it is, and her lips curve into the cold, calculating sneer of a snake.
Samuel stops the transmission. “That’s it, Mr. Storm.”
Such is the power of my mother to affect my emotions, it takes me a couple of seconds to return to the here and now.
“Thank you, Samuel. I’ll drive to Winterleagh. Tomorrow. And talk to Edward. To her as well. In the meantime, please reexamine the background of all the servants and security personnel who work directly with Mrs. Storm and Andrew.”
“I thought you’d issue such an order, Mr. Storm, so I’m already reviewing files, double checking histories.”
“I want you and you alone to do it, and no one else.”
“Yes, Sir. With due respect, Mr. Storm, you’ll need to reinvestigate me as well. I can recommend someone to do it, if you wish.”
“Don’t be absurd, Samuel. You’ve had numerous opportunities to hurt Elizabeth and Andrew. I trust you, implicitly. Everyone else is suspect, though. Have the report by early next week.” God knows I won’t get a decent night’s sleep until he confirms everyone’s credentials.
He leaves just as quietly as he arrived, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Worried sick about my wife and son, I brush my hand against my brow. Christ, when will it end? Can we ever enjoy peace? And why didn’t Edward call to let me know?
Chapter 21
______________
Elizabeth
THE MORNING AFTER GABRIEL DROPPED ME OF AT WORK, we’re enjoying another of Jorge’s sumptuous breakfasts. Trying to lose weight on my eternal diet, I stick to a spoonful of shirred eggs, dry toast, and fresh fruit. Gabriel piles his plate with all manner of calorie-rich foods—waffles, bacon, some clotted cream dish.
I drop into my chair and unfurl the napkin over my lap. “It’s so unfair.”
He looks up from his plate. “What’s so unfair?”
“Men can eat anything they want and not gain an ounce. If I so much as look at a waffle, I gain ten pounds.”
“I exercise. At work and here as well. Which come to think of it. What have you been doing with Jonathan? Samuel tells me he’s training you.”
I busy myself with the fruit. “He’s teaching me Jujitsu.”
“Why?”
“It’s great exercise. I burn up a bunch of calories.”
“Seems to me there’d be an easier way than one which would bruise your tender skin.”
Heat rises in my face. He’d noticed purple marks on my rear end, obtained while Jonathan taught me a forward flip and roll. Klutz that I am, I landed on my ass.
“I’ll get better at it as time goes by.”
“Ummm. Are you sure you can’t come to Winterleagh with me? We can bring Andrew with us and make a weekend of it.” Last night out of the blue he informed me he was traveling to his castle to visit Edward. By the tone of his voice, something’s bothering him, something he’s not sharing with me. Which means it must have something to do with Andrew or me.
The one sure way to find out what’s going on is to accompany Gabriel, but, unfortunately, I can’t. “The designers are coming to discuss my plans for the dining nook. They rearranged their plans to come here today, and I would hate to reschedule.”
Finished eating, he walks over to and drops a quick peck on my lips. He smells so good and tastes of everything delicious.
Wordlessly asking for more, I tug on his shirt and pull. His breathing harshes and I moan as we suckle, nibble, nip each other’s mouths.
When we finally come up for air, he rests his forehead against mine. “I’ll miss you.”
“Me too,” I whisper back. “Say hi to Edward for me.”
One more lick of my lips and then he’s gone.
I spend the bulk of the afternoon with Tim and Tom Worley, the couple who decorated Andrew’s nursery. The dining nook is about twelve by fourteen feet and just the right size for the table seemingly created for this space.
They practically faint when I show them into the room. “Darling, where have you been hiding this?” Tom, the taller of the two, asks.
“In storage.”
“Oh, my heavens.” Tim’s so overcome he waves his hand and fans himself.
After Gabriel showed me the room, I asked Bentley, his London townhouse butler, about the whereabouts of the original furniture. If anyone would know, he would. Sure enough, he pointed me in the direction of a warehouse where the family’s unused furnishings were kept.
At my visit to the storage facility, I unearthed the table and chairs. To my untrained eye, they appear to have been designed during the art deco period, which makes sense since that’s when The Brighton was built. I fell in love with the furniture from that era stashed at the warehouse, but especially the chandelier. Now that its prisms have been cleaned, they sparkle and shine, shooting shards of light to every corner of the room.
Tim squeals and heads straight for the divan. “Is that a Decoque Duville?”
I have no idea who or what a Decoque Duville is but obviously he does. “Umm, don’t know?”
“Oh, my word. It is. See?” He points to one of the legs on which a marking is carved. “His signature mark. A dove.” He rests his hand on his chest. “I do believe I’m having heart palpitations. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to repair it?” I ask. “There’s some damage to the cloth, and it’s come undone from the frame in a couple of places.”
“Darling, absolutely.” Tom pats my shoulder. “We’ll move heaven and earth to restore these pieces to their shining glory.”
I mean to recreate an exact replica of the room as it existed back in the day. I’d dug into the family photo archives and unearthed a picture of the nook. A black and white. Still, it showed me where all the furniture had been positioned. Once Tim and Tom work their magic, I’ll invite Gabriel to an intimate dinner for two. I’ll wear some diaphanous lingerie, put some scratchy records on a gramophone I bought online, and allow him to plunder my body while I drink champagne.
Overcome with emotion, Tim kisses my hand. “It will be an honor to decorate this room for you and the Earl of Winterleagh. Once we’re done, I hope you’ll agree to feature it in London Design magazine.”
I normally eschew publicity, but they’re so excited about this project, I don’t have the heart to say no. Still, I have to get it past Gabriel. “My husband will need to approve it.”
“Of course.” Unlike Tim, Tom settles for shaking my hand. “You will not be disappointed to have placed your trust in us.”
“I’m sure I won’t.” While Tim is the more artistic of the two, Tom’s the businessman. He’s probably anticipating the new customers it will bring them.
After they leave, and I feed Andrew, I’m debating whether to take a much needed nap when my cell rings. Sebastian’s number. Odd. He never calls me at home.
“Sebastian.”
“Good afternoon, Elizabeth. Are you doing anything this evening?”
“Umm, no.” Other than going to bed early, I hadn’t planned a thing.
“May I impose on your good nature then?”
“What’s up?”
“That potential acquisition Trevor had you analyze—the boat builder?”
“Yes.” For some reason, Sebastian had gotten it into his head to acquire an American boat building company. He usually bought properties which could be improved and sold at a pretty penny, or companies which had been run down due to terrible management or lack of capital, but the boat company doesn’t meet those requirements. It’s doing fine. I found a weakness in their financials, however, which somebody could use to take
over the company if they wanted to. And Sebastian very much wants to, except that I sense a reluctance to take it over completely. It’s more like he wants a partnership with the boat builder.
“He’s in town. I talked him into a meeting. But you’re the one most familiar with his financial situation. Can you come to dinner and a meeting? I promise not to keep you late.”
Oh, geez. I’d told Gabriel I’d be turning in early. After working much longer than my twenty hours a week and rushing home to take care of Andrew and spend time with Gabriel, I’m pretty exhausted, but this is a primo opportunity not to be passed up. “Sure.”
“Brilliant. I’ll send a car for you. Say seven o’clock?”
It’s six now. I’ll have just enough time to shower and dress. “Fine.”
“He’s old school, Elizabeth. So he might not take kindly to a woman’s input.”
“Don’t worry. He won’t know what hit him.” I’ve done my fair share of schmoozing the old boys’ network back at Smith Cannon. If it hadn’t been because I’d gotten pregnant with Andrew, I’m sure I would have gained enough brownie points to be hired as an associate. I certainly don’t intend to waste this opportunity. Whatever it takes to convince the owner of the boat company to sell to Payne Industries, I will be more than glad to do.
Chapter 22
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Gabriel
“GOOD MORNING, TRAVERS.”
“Good morning, m’lord.”
“Sorry to arrive unannounced. I hope it won’t prove a problem.”
“The castle is always in readiness for his lordship.” Spoken like a true and faithful retainer.
“Good.” My sudden arrival at Winterleagh Castle does not raise the slightest of brows among the staff, but then they’ve been trained to expect the unexpected. After decades of turbulent years filled with my mother’s never-ending parties and my father’s endless carousing, I hope they’re enjoying the more peaceful environment. I suspect, though, some prefer the hectic pace more.
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