Sidney Sheldon's Reckless

by Sidney Sheldon

  “Achileas knew Bob Daley well,” Tracy said. “And so did she.”

  “Who is that?” Cameron asked.

  “I don’t know. But I went to visit Bob’s wife, Claire, and asked about her. She said her first name was Kate. She was an American, a friend of Achileas’s. She thought maybe a girlfriend.”

  “That seems unlikely,” said Cameron.

  “Very,” agreed Tracy. “But ‘Kate’ was close enough to be asked on that picnic. So what was their connection?”

  Cameron assumed this to be a rhetorical question.

  “Take a look at these.”

  Tracy brought up a string of emails, around thirty in all. Cameron instantly noticed the famous red balloon logo at the top of each one.

  “No.” He looked genuinely shocked. Pulling up a chair, he sat beside Tracy and started reading the notes. “Why on earth would a wealthy, connected, royal Greek kid get involved with Group 99? He was the walking embodiment of everything they hate.”

  “I can think of lots of reasons,” said Tracy. “Rebellion. A desire to piss off his parents. Or maybe he actually believed in what they stood for? He didn’t ask to be born rich or royal after all.”

  Cameron looked skeptical. “Maybe he was funding them? He could certainly afford it.”

  “Maybe,” Tracy agreed excitedly. “And maybe the woman in that picture is Althea. Maybe she got him involved. Maybe she helped to channel the funds. And maybe Frank Dorrien knew about it, and . . .”

  “Whoa. Hold on there.” Cameron put a hand on Tracy’s shoulder. “That’s a whole lot of conjecture. Are you sure you aren’t putting two and two together and making seventeen?”

  Turning off the computer, Tracy turned to face him.

  “Perhaps. But the point is, I’m putting two and two together. There is a link here, Cameron, a whole bunch of links in fact. Frank Dorrien doesn’t want anyone to find them. And the CIA are right behind him on that, trying to scare me off. Why?”

  Without thinking, Tracy found she had put her hand over Cameron’s. It was a long time since she’d been this physically close to anyone, never mind an attractive man. Once again desire and guilt competed for her attention.

  Guilt won. Tracy pulled back.

  “If this is Althea,” Cameron said, “it’s the only picture anyone has of her.”

  “I know,” said Tracy.

  “Have you shown it to Greg Walton yet?”

  “No. Only to you.”

  Cameron flushed with pleasure. He liked that Tracy came to him first. Only to you. She looked incredibly sexy tonight, her green eyes alight with intelligence and purpose.

  “Are you going to show Walton?”

  Tracy thought about it.

  “No,” she said at last. “Not for the moment anyway. The truth is, I don’t trust the CIA. Not fully. And I know for a fact that they don’t trust me.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” Cameron said. “They’re spies. It’s their job not to trust people.”

  “I’m not taking it personally. I’m just not prepared to work for them blind. I think they already know why Hunter Drexel didn’t get into that helicopter.”

  “You do?”

  Tracy nodded. “It was something to do with this story he was working on. Something to do with fracking. That’s the only thing that makes sense. Achileas’s family wanted to sell land to Henry Cranston, land rich with shale gas. Now Achileas and Cranston are both dead. The U.S. government has a huge vested interest in fracking. We’re talking about a multibillion-dollar business, vital to American interests.”

  “You don’t need to tell me,” Cameron reminded her.

  “You’re lucky you haven’t been hit so far,” Tracy told him. “Group 99 aren’t the only ones who want a share in those billions, a piece of that pie. People will kill for that sort of money.”

  “Nobody’s going to kill me.”

  Leaning forward Cameron kissed Tracy once, gently, on the lips.

  She didn’t kiss him back. But she didn’t stop him either.

  This is not supposed to happen. This cannot happen.

  When she opened her eyes, Cameron was smiling at her.

  “How about that dinner you promised me?”

  THEY STAYED IN.

  Cameron’s private chef had gone home for the night, but to Tracy’s surprise he whipped up a passable spaghetti supper for the two of them.

  “I’d never have pegged you as the domestic type,” Tracy said.

  Cameron noticed she was wolfing down her pasta as if she hadn’t eaten in days. For such a tiny person, she ate like a horse.

  “When you’re divorced, you learn.” He poured them both more wine. “I’m not the next Jamie Oliver, but I can get by.”

  They ate at the kitchen counter. Tracy had assumed they’d talk more about Group 99 and what she’d found in General Dorrien’s house, but in fact the conversation quickly turned to more personal matters. It was strange how easily things flowed between them. This was only the second evening Tracy had spent in Cameron’s company, but even before the kiss, an intimacy had been established between them that belied their short acquaintance.

  Maybe it’s the shared grief, Tracy thought. Or maybe it’s the fact that I trust him. That we trust each other.

  Trust was a commodity in increasingly short supply in Tracy’s world. She suspected the same was true for Cameron. He was so laid-back, it was easy to forget that he was worth billions of dollars. That fact alone would have earned him scores of enemies, and even more false friends.

  Or maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe this is nothing more than straightforward sexual attraction.

  Certainly there could be no denying the chemistry between them. Tracy had felt it the moment she walked in to the apartment. She’d felt it again when they sat at the computer desk together. When they kissed. And just now, watching Cameron at the stove. Sex could make old friends of total strangers. It could also seriously cloud judgment.

  “What?” Cameron was looking at her oddly. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Tracy stared down at her spaghetti.

  “It’s not nothing. Your face just changed. You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you?”

  “Why would I be feeling guilty?” Tracy tried not to show how unnerved she felt. Cameron shouldn’t be able to read her like this.

  “Because you’re happy. Even though Nick is dead.”

  It wasn’t said unkindly. Quite the opposite in fact. But it was too much for Tracy. Tears swam in her eyes.

  Cameron reached over and took her hand in his, just as he had back in Geneva at the restaurant. But this time Tracy didn’t snatch it away.

  “Being happy is not betraying your son,” Cameron told her. “At least, if it is, then we’re both guilty.”

  He squeezed her hand. Tracy squeezed back.

  They didn’t need words.

  AFTER DINNER THEY SAT together in Cameron’s living room, sipping Cognac in front of a vast baronial fireplace.

  Out of nowhere, Cameron said, “I think you should show Walton the pictures.”

  Tracy’s eyes widened. “What? Why?”

  “Two reasons. One, because as long as you’re in possession of that hard drive, your life is probably in danger.”

  Tracy didn’t argue.

  “And two because this woman Althea needs to be stopped. You may be able to find her on your own. But finding her and capturing her are very different things. You can’t stop her alone. The CIA have resources.”

  Tracy studied his face. The broken nose, the intense gray eyes. Cameron had beautiful eyes. There was something honest about them, the perfect complement to the matter-of-fact, direct way he expressed himself.

  He’d be terribly easy to fall in love with, Tracy thought. If I were capable of falling in love again.

  That was one roller coaster ride that was most definitely behind her. Thank heavens.

  “What if I weren’t alone?” she said. “What if you helped me? What if we found her to
gether?”

  Cameron laughed. “Me?”

  “Why not? You have resources too, after all.”

  “I have money. That’s not quite the same thing.”

  “Sure it is. And anyway, it’s not only money. You have a vast network of contacts all over the world. Not just in the fracking industry but in politics, journalism, the charity sector. You know people.”

  “Yes, but Tracy, I’m a businessman. I’m not a spy or a paramilitary. I don’t have the wherewithal to stop terrorists.”

  “Six months ago I was a soccer mom,” Tracy reminded him.

  “Hardly.” Cameron gave her a knowing look.

  Tracy’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been researching me?”

  “Maybe a little.” Cameron smiled sheepishly. “I liked what I found, though.”

  “OK, so maybe I wasn’t your average soccer mom,” Tracy admitted. “But the point is I was a civilian. And now I’m not.”

  “No,” Cameron agreed. “Now you’re not.”

  “Please think about it. I know we could do it. We could find Althea and Hunter Drexel.”

  “The world is out there looking for Hunter,” Cameron said. “What makes you think we could find him?”

  “We have Sally Faiers. She trusts me and I think she’ll help me. Especially if Hunter wants to be found.”

  “If he wanted to be found he’d have gotten into that helicopter,” Cameron said reasonably.

  “Not if he thought the CIA might harm him. Or silence him. You and I are different. All we want is the truth. My bet is that’s exactly what Hunter Drexel’s been trying to do. Tell the truth. Remember, he was on his way to see you when he was kidnapped.”

  “So?”

  “So he had something he wanted to tell you. Or ask you. I’m guessing he still does.”

  “It’s a theory,” Cameron said skeptically.

  “Do you have a better one?” asked Tracy.

  “I guess not.”

  Cameron moved closer. Suddenly Tracy felt powerfully aware of their touching hands. The heat of Cameron’s body, its strength, its nearness. The sexual tension between them was electric and stifling at the same time, like a New Orleans thunderstorm about to break.

  Sliding a hand around the back of Tracy’s neck, Cameron pulled her to him and kissed her. Not gently, like he had earlier, but forcefully and passionately. Tracy responded instinctively, losing herself in the moment. The kiss was an explosion, wild and urgent, as if they were both racing against an invisible clock. Reaching down, Cameron grabbed the hem of Tracy’s dress and yanked it up over her head in one fluid movement.

  Tracy gasped, closing her eyes. His hands on her back felt heavenly, warm and rough. Doubt and fear and guilt all came flying at her like bullets whizzing through a jungle. But they all fell short of their target, melting into nothing against the raging heat of her desire. It was as if she’d descended, body and soul, into a thick, hot soup of longing. And she wanted nothing more than to drown.

  “Make love to me. Please. Now.”

  The back of Tracy’s hand brushed against Cameron’s leg. Beneath his jeans, his thighs were tight and muscular and rock hard, like concrete.

  “Are you sure, Tracy?” Cameron’s voice was hoarse with his own need. “This is what you want?”

  “I’m sure.”

  And suddenly she found that she was. Totally, blissfully sure.

  Cameron carried her to his bedroom. The room was both grand and oddly impersonal, all taupe carpets and black silk table lamps, like a very expensive hotel suite. Not that either of them was focused on the décor.

  Peeling off Tracy’s underwear, Cameron laid her down naked on top of his extra-wide king bed. Then, taking off his own clothes, he knelt over her, gazing down at her body in wonder. Every ounce of blood in his body raced to his groin. He was so aroused it was painful.

  “You’re beyond beautiful.”

  Tracy reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. Pulling him lower, she coiled both legs around his waist, encircling him, her willing prisoner.

  “No more talking.”

  Cameron didn’t need to be told twice.

  The next few hours were like magic. Tracy had the body of a girl half her age but the sensuality and sexual confidence that only older women possessed. For her part, she found Cameron to be an incredible lover, skilled and responsive and loving and greedy, all at the same time. They made love for hours, again and again, till it was almost light and neither one of them had the energy to move another inch. Then they lay in each other’s arms and, as the sun rose, spoke to each other about their dead sons, their grief and their guilt, their memories and their pain, each knowing that the other would understand in a way that nobody else ever could.

  As they drifted off to sleep, Tracy rested her head on Cameron’s chest.

  “You will help me, won’t you?” she whispered.

  Cameron stroked her hair. A part of Tracy Whitney would always be on the job. That was her nature. Pleasure and business went hand in hand.

  Something else we have in common, he thought.

  If I’m not very careful indeed, I’m going to fall in love with this woman.

  But Cameron Crewe was careful. He had to be.

  “You know I will,” he told Tracy. “Good night, my darling.”

  CHAPTER 17

  IT WAS A GLORIOUS morning in Neuilly-sur-Seine. The sun shone warmer than it had for weeks and the blue sky dazzled, a first promise of the coming summer and the longer, carefree days ahead.

  Lexi Peters had had misgivings about spending the year in France. Turned down by Teach for America—You have a lot of promise. It’s just that the bar was set really high this year. We’d love you to reapply.—she still wanted to make a difference. She’d been about to take a post at a tiny school in rural Kenya when her dad told her about the Camp Paris job.

  “The pay’s great. You could actually save something. And Teach for America specifically said a second language would boost your application next year.”

  Lexi still wasn’t sure. Yes, the pay was great, but that was because the camp for wayward teens in the exclusive Parisian suburb of Neuilly was so outrageously expensive, only the super-rich could afford to send their kids there.

  “I’m not interested in pandering to a bunch of spoiled, entitled rich kids,” she told her father. “I want to do something meaningful.”

  “Don’t be such a reverse snob,” Don Peters countered robustly. “You think rich kids don’t suffer? You think addiction and mental illness give a shit how much your mom and dad are worth? Camp Paris kids all have problems, Lex. Helping them would be meaningful. I think you’d learn a lot.”

  Well, he was right about that, Lexi thought, leaning her bicycle up against the stable wall. I’ve learned so much here. I’ll be sad to go home.

  The château that housed Camp Paris was a ridiculously grand, pre-revolutionary pile, complete with stable blocks for equine therapy, three different swimming pools and six of the most perfectly manicured lawn tennis courts Lexi had ever seen. Most of the staff left their bikes or cars at the stables, a short walk up a beautiful tree-lined drive to the school.

  Pulling a pile of psychology books out of her bike basket, Lexi started towards the stable yard gate when a dark gray Nissan pulled in.

  The driver stepped out and looked around him. He was very handsome, and oddly familiar, although he didn’t work at Camp Paris. There were only fifteen full-time staff and Lexi knew them all.

  “Bonjour,” she said cheerily. “Vous êtes nouveau ici?”

  “You could say that.” He smiled back.

  “Oh, you’re American. Me too. I’m Lexi Peters.”

  “Hi, Lexi.”

  “I’d be happy to . . .”

  The first bullet blew a hole in Lexi’s chest the size of a plum. She staggered backwards. The second and third shots hit her shoulder and neck, and the fourth cleanly bored through her skull.

  It had started.

  CAMERO
N CREWE WAS ON a business trip in Poland when the news broke. Tracy was his first call.

  “Have you seen the reports?”

  Tracy’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “I’m watching the news right now. Twenty-six dead, they’re saying. Four teachers, twenty-two kids. I can’t bear it.”

  “It’s definitely Group 99?”

  “Looks like it. Four gunmen. One shot at the scene, but three still unaccounted for. How is that possible? How did the French police let them get away?”

  Cameron said grimly, “I don’t know.”

  For a moment both he and Tracy were silent. The senseless slaughter of teenagers with their whole lives ahead of them had revolted the entire world. But Cameron and Tracy felt it more keenly than most.

  “I wish you were here,” Tracy heard herself saying.

  “Me too. I miss you. Has Walton said anything? About what happened in England?”

  “No. Everyone’s focused on Neuilly now.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m actually on my way into Langley,” Tracy said. “Most of the kids were American. President Havers is expected to make a statement in the next few minutes.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Just one.”

  Cameron’s ears pricked up.

  “According to our sources, guess who popped up in Paris last week?” Tracy said.

  “Who?”

  “Our old friend Hunter Drexel. Have you noticed how, wherever Drexel is, people start to die?”

  Cameron Crewe had noticed.

  He put the phone down with a deep sense of foreboding.

  ALTHEA WAS AT HOME in her New York apartment when she saw the news flash up on her computer screen ticker.

  Tragedy in Paris suburb. Group 99 massacre 26 in school shooting.

  She turned on the television. Children, screaming, bloodied and terrified were running into the arms of police. Teenage corpses, some not even covered, lay where they fell, brutally murdered as they tried to flee.