by Rachel Hauck
Corina had printed it out and framed it, setting it by their bed in her flat, treasuring all the image represented.
Now, out of its frame and folded into quarters, Corina smoothed the picture on her bed. The image, bent and creased, caught her in Stephen’s arms, in their element, the emotions of their hearts all over their faces. Relaxed, laughing, in love.
She was surprised the press didn’t catch on that night. But Stephen had a clever and keen way to stay out of the media’s eye.
Lying back on her pillow, Corina held up the photo, allowing some of her sentiment to remind her how she felt that night.
Stephen was striking and swoon worthy in his dress uniform. She looked free and happy, wearing the heck out of the white, feathery Luciano Diamatia. Mama had moved heaven and earth to have the gown made for Corina’s society debut when she turned eighteen, using every wily prowess in her vast arsenal to lure the world’s most exclusive and reclusive designer out of hiding to sew her daughter a little ole dress.
But the designer failed to deliver the gown on time for her debut. Mama was fit to be tied. Corina almost wore it in the Miss Georgia contest, but Mama feared it’d start a riot with the other girls.
But five years later, when Corina moved to Brighton to be with Carlos as he trained for the international peace task force, she packed the dress, obeying the still small voice telling her she might need it.
The rare, precious gown was one of Corina’s most prized possessions. Because the first and only time she’d ever worn it, she wed her true love.
Corina lowered the photo and stared at the ceiling. Maybe they had just been caught up in the moment, swept away in the romance, the drama of being able to marry simply because they wanted.
She sat up. But no, when he proposed atop the Braithwaite Tower, Corina had absolutely no reservations or doubts.
“Yes, of course I’ll marry you. Yes!”
In that moment, they were the only two in the world. No media. No rules. No traditions. No two-hundred-year-old laws. No expectations. No aristocratic loyalties on either side of the ocean. No pressure. No deployment. No war. No obligations.
They were free to follow their hearts. And so they did.
She glanced at the photo, staring for another moment. The face smiling at her from the photo paper was hers. But the emotion of that Corina was a lifetime away from this Corina.
And her prince? He was more handsome than ever, confident and full of swagger, his physique rugby-muscled and disciplined.
But that was on the outside. He still carried pain in his eyes. The same look she saw when she flew to Brighton that New Year’s Eve.
“What happened in Torkham, Stephen?”
His crystal blues were dull, lacking life and merriment. Something ate at him deep down. But instead of telling her what it was, he ended their marriage.
Enough. Memory lane was fraught with peril. Returning the picture to the envelope, Corina spied the ferry tickets lodged in the bottom. They’d barely made the last boat to Hessenberg, their feet landing on the deck just as the vessel was about to pull away from the dock.
Laughing, they tripped their way to an inner cabin.
“Are we doing this?”
“We’re doing this.”
“Are you sure, really sure? I can wait—”
His lips covered hers, stealing her breath and her confession. “Corina, I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you. Walking across campus.”
She pressed her hand against his chest. “And I didn’t give you the time of day.”
What was she to do with her unrequited love? The man wanted an annulment.
Corina stuffed the envelope back into the secret compartment of the wardrobe and slammed the door shut. When and if she ever met a man to marry—should God be so kind to her—she’d find the courage to toss that envelope, with all of its treasures, into the river.
SIX
Gigi
Even when she was a girl running barefoot through the hills of her Blue Ridge, Georgia, home, Gigi Beaumont had a nose for news.
She’d collect all the best gossip by sneaking around the wizened mountain women—who had a knack for telling a yarn or two—as they talked in the Mast General or strolled the town square. Then she wrote their stories and mimeographed them on the machine she found in the church basement, producing her first newspaper at the mature age of ten.
When Mama read it, whoa doggies, she gave Gigi a walloping for the ages on account of what she printed about the mayor’s wife. But when it turned out to be true—an affair with the sheriff—Mama became her chief distributor and fact finder.
Forty-six years later, she still crawled around behind the storytellers and gossips, hoping for the scoop. The scandalous story that would turn the world on its ear.
Mercy knows, Beaumont Media needed a break. A big one. Hiring Mark Johnson was just one stealth move to reignite her newspaper’s faltering brand.
Twenty years ago, she was a pioneer in the online news game.
Fifteen years ago, she was the lead dog in the ever-growing pack of Internet news outlets.
Ten years ago, the bigger, old print dogs jumped off the porch with the power and might of their long traditions and stocked bank accounts and edged past her.
Last year, her books ran with red ink.
She was failing. Losing. A place she’d never been in all her adult life. Things were so bad she’d almost, almost, prayed this morning as she showered, dreading the morning meeting with her CFO.
What she needed was a scoop. A big story. Get her back on top in the reality, gossip news business. That’s where Corina was worth her heiress weight in gold.
So were Gigi’s thoughts as she entered the Beaumont offices eight thirty Friday morning, a latte in one hand, a brown bag containing a scone in the other. The place was quiet. The party for Mark ran late last night. When Gigi left River Rock at eleven, most of the staff was still there.
She didn’t mind a quiet Friday as long as everyone got their work done before Monday.
As she crossed the lobby, Jones, still on security, psst her over. Gigi had a good mind to keep going, but she yielded with a telling exhale. “Yes, Jones, good morning. What can I do for you?” Admittedly, he was a great source of information and gossip about the Melbourne staff. Gigi leaned over his security desk, listening with a keen ear. She was suspicious her director of IT was stealing from her. Seems she was signing for an awful lot of new laptops lately.
“I thought you’d like to know that a gentleman met Miss Del Rey in the parking lot last night after you left.”
That’s it? His psst news? “You don’t say? What kind of gentleman?” Corina was a goody-two-shoes. How? Gigi would never know. The girl ran with the likes of Paris Hilton when they were teens and never once got busted for drinking, smoking, or sex taping.
Gigi raised her latte for a sip, already bored with this conversation, just as the edge of her nose twitched. Well, well . . .
“Can’t say what kind of gentleman. He seemed like an all-right dude, though Miss Del Rey appeared a might tense. I called out to her, asking if everything was all right. She assured me it was, but Ms. Beaumont, I think they was arguing about something.”
Gigi gave Jones an approving smile. “Did you hear any of their conversation?” So Corina, what are you hiding?
“No, can’t say as I did, but I’m thinking something serious was going on between them.”
“Thank you, Jones. You’re a good man. Remind me to give you a raise.”
“Yes, ma’am. Anytime.”
He nodded in a way that told Gigi he was more delighted that he knew how to fit into her scheme than over the idea of a raise.
As she turned to walk away, Jones offered an oh-by-the-way. “Did I mention there was another man too? Big and burley, reminded me of my brother-in-law in the Special Forces. He waited for the man by their car. Being in the security business, I knows a bodyguard when I see one.”
“A bodyguard? Are
you sure?”
“Would wager that raise you promised.”
“Hmm . . . See what else you can find out, Jones.”
He flashed his large, white grin. “You can count on me.”
At the elevator, Gigi pressed the Up button. How-do, but if the plot didn’t thicken. She’d not planned on working a mental puzzle this early in the morning, but Jones’s news fascinated her.
“Then the roses came.”
Gigi spun toward Jones. “Roses?”
“Up on her desk. A man delivered them at eight this morning. Can you believe that? Eight a.m.”
“Really, Jones?”
“My bet, someone fancies her a great deal.”
“You’d probably win that bet.” A man in love? Gigi rubbed the tip of her nose. Yep, love. She’d bet her fortune on it. “Thank you very much, Jones.”
“Anytime, Ms. Beaumont.”
“I’ll have accounting put that raise through for you.”
“Why, thank you very much. Very, very much.”
This was how she expanded her empire, won folks over. By paying them what they were worth. Paying them for their knowledge, loyalty, and on occasion silence.
Gigi rode the elevator to the second floor, mulling over this development. Typically, she’d not give a second thought to one of the women talking to a man in the parking lot. But Corina Del Rey was no ordinary woman.
Gigi entered the bull pen, aiming for Corina’s desk, where the most beautiful bouquet of red roses captured the sun falling through the skylight. Two dozen if there was one.
She snapped Melissa’s arm as she slunk past. “Who sent these?”
“You tell me, boss. You’re her lifelong friend.”
“What do you know about Corina’s love life?” Gigi’s nose itched like a flea-bitten dog.
“Uh, that she doesn’t have one?” Melissa leaned across the desk and sniffed the silky flowers. “I’ve never seen roses that shade of red.”
“Get on her Facebook,” Gigi commanded, leaving no room for disagreement. “See if she’s posted anything about a date or an ‘old friend’ coming into town.”
Melissa balked, trying to walk off. “I’m not going to spy on her, Gigi. Even for you.”
“If she posted on Facebook, darling, how is it spying?” Really, she was going to have to break down and join the Facebook generation. She’d be done already if she just surfed the site herself, but this was her MO. Using, rather, working with people. Getting them on her team. Gigi motioned for Mel to sit at her computer. “Just take a quick look. Is she on Instagram? Twitter?”
“I don’t know, but if you want to know, ask her when she comes in.”
“She won’t tell me the truth.”
“Then leave her alone.” Melissa dropped her bag on her desk and sat, waking up her sleeping Mac with a jiggle of the mouse. “And just so you know, she rarely posts on Facebook.”
“Fine, then this exercise should leave you guilt-free. Come on, aren’t you curious?”
“A little.”
Gigi peered over Melissa’s shoulder as she brought up Corina’s Facebook profile.
She had a feeling, a gut instinct, that she was onto something. But what? How big?
Since the day Corina walked into the bull pen, Gigi sensed she hid a story in her heart. A secret. But in the last six months, Corina had been nothing more than a faithful, boring, steady writer and editor.
What good was it to hire one of the wealthiest young women in the world if she wasn’t going to provide any fodder?
Ooh, maybe the man was the boyfriend, or perhaps husband, of one of Corina’s friends? And the roses were a bribe. Gigi was cooking with gas now.
“Nothing,” Melissa said, sitting back, slapping her palm on the top of her desk. “She’s not posted since last week, and then it was just a repost of a Remembrance Day fund in Brighton Kingdom.” Melissa clicked on the link and popped open to a Liberty Press article on a new War Memorial and the defense minister’s plans for a grand Remembrance Day next spring.
“Thank you for trying, Mel. Remind me to give you a raise.” Gigi started toward her office with her scone and latte, her Gucci bag swinging from her arm.
“Didn’t Corina do some postgrad work at Knoxton University? In Brighton?” Melissa said, almost as a by-the-by. Gigi stopped and backed up.
“Indeed she did. When her twin brother, Carlos, was stationed there for military training. She did some freelance work for me back then. Reported on their art show, film festival, fashion week.”
“She has a twin brother?” Melissa peered up at Gigi.
“He was killed in Afghanistan. Apparently in a shroud of mystery.” His death had to be the source of the clouds in Corina’s eyes. The root of her secret.
Was the man from last night connected to Carlos? Perhaps a gay lover? Oh, wouldn’t that be a headline of all headlines? Gigi imagined all the black ink returning to her accounts.
“She never mentioned him to me.” Melissa scrolled farther down the Facebook page. “Seems she has an affection for Cathedral City. She’s posted a picture of King Nathaniel on his wedding day. But that was two years ago. Can you believe he married an American?”
“You’re going somewhere with this? Where? What are you thinking?”
Mel clicked out of Corina’s profile. “Nothing, Gigi. Just that maybe the flowers are from someone in Brighton. I mean, she did live there.”
“But why would someone send her flowers? Are you thinking perhaps an old flame?” Gigi stepped back around to Corina’s desk, set down her latte, and peeked into the roses. Sure enough. A card. Why didn’t she think of that before? Carefully she slipped it from the bouquet. The envelope was white. Plain. With absolutely no intel whatsoever. Not even the name of the floral shop.
“You’re giving this a lot of energy, Gigi. It’s just roses.”
“There’s where you’re wrong, sugar.” Gigi snatched up her latte and started for her office. “Those roses are a statement. And I want to know what they are saying.”
In her office, she closed her door, set her breakfast aside, her blood pulsing with the thrill of a news story, and fired up e-mail.
Deanna Robertson was her girl on the ground in Brighton. She worked at the Informant, but Gigi had launched the woman’s career when she came begging to write for the Post right after college. Deanna was well connected too.
Then there was Madeline Stone. Goodness, how could she forget Maddie? She was the cohost of the popular Madeline & Hyacinth Live! show—Gigi caught an episode on YouTube now and then—but ten years ago, Maddie was a Beaumont Post intern.
If Deanna and Maddie came up empty, Gigi would widen her reach to London and New York, but for now these two carefully selected, well-paid informants would serve nicely. She sent a private e-mail to Deanna, then Madeline, with her clandestine subject line.
Subject: Love this recipe!
On the DL. Corina Del Rey, an international socialite, is also a Beaumont Post staffer. She attended Knoxton University, you may recall, and freelanced for me.
I would love some stories or tidbits about her. Where she lived, who she socialized with, how she got on in the aristocratic world of Cathedral City.
Any ideas, connections, thoughts? I believe there’s a story here. Just can’t get a thread to pull. Your help is greatly valued and will be well compensated.
Sincerely,
GB
SEVEN
Friday morning, Stephen walked the beach, his phone pressed to his ear, waiting for his brother to come on.
He leaned into the stiff breeze and listened to the rumble of waves crashing down on the shore. The storm—Anna, was that it?—was making her way ashore.
He wanted to leave this afternoon, before the storm locked them in, and had Thomas on the telly with the pilot to lay a plan, but he must get Corina’s signature before he left or he feared he’d never get it.
Corina. This jaunt to America was to be simple with a defined task. “Please sign t
hese annulment papers.” But whatever possessed him to believe such a thing would be simple? Without complications?
Careful of his ankle, freed from his walking boot, Stephen’s footsteps sank into the cool wet sand, the wind pressing his Brighton Eagles T-shirt against his chest. Blimey, Nathaniel, did they have to track you to the loo?
“Stephen?” Finally!
“What took you so long?”
“On another call. So how’re you getting on with Corina?”
Stephen ran his hand through his hair, facing the wind. “They’re predicting a tropical storm here.”
“Is that some kind of sign? You’re experiencing a storm with Corina?”
“She won’t sign.”
“She what? Why not?”
“Said she wants me to find out what happened to her brother.” Stephen sank a little deeper as the waves washed the soft sand from under his feet.
Nathaniel whistled. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her I don’t know anything. She argued my brother is the king and I have access to the Defense Ministry, so I can find out.”
“Stephen, the events of that day are sealed. You know what’s at risk. Mum doesn’t even know the details.”
“Don’t preach to me. I’m giving you an update. Besides the details being a matter of national security, and I dare say my future in rugby, I don’t want to tell her. If she hates me now, she’ll despise me with the whole truth.” And rightfully so. He believed that with his whole being.
“Not to mention she’s a member of the media. Didn’t you say she works for Beaumont?”
“She’d not betray us, Nathaniel. She’s not the sort.”
“Perhaps, but we’ve seen trusted reporters and presenters breach trust before. Intentional or otherwise. Be very leery, Stephen. On your best guard. I don’t want to see the palace gone up in smoke and lives lost.”
“We don’t know that will happen, Nathaniel.”
“We never believed it would happen in Torkham, either. One whiff of the whole sordid thing and we’d have more copycats on our hands.”