The Millionaire's Wife

by Shalini Boland

  The Millionaire’s Wife

  A twisty suspense thriller

  ~

  Shalini Boland

  Copyright © Shalini Boland 2017

  ~

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.

  ~

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the author.

  ~

  http://www.shaliniboland.co.uk

  Can you ever really know the ones you love?

  After seeing a news report about the death of a woman on the other side of the world, Anna Blackwell realises that her past has caught up with her. That her greatest fear is about to come true.

  That it’s her turn next.

  Uncover a web of lies and deceit in Shalini Boland’s new chilling, twisty suspense thriller.

  Chapter One

  3rd January 2017, Barbados

  The man watched her hasten down the stone steps, slightly ahead of him, her bare, tanned legs lithe and slim – a combination of good genes and regular dance classes, more like a teenager than a woman in her late twenties. For a moment, he felt as though he were watching a memory, a video on his laptop of someone he used to know. He gave himself a shake and followed her.

  ‘Come on, slowcoach!’ she called, dark ringlets bouncing around her shoulders. She threw him a glance over her shoulder, a teasing grin. He smiled back and put on a spurt of speed, scooped her up in his arms and jogged down the remaining steps with her until they reached the arc of pristine sand which curved around the turquoise bay, its backdrop of trees swaying in the breeze. The sand sifted pleasantly beneath his soles, warm and soft. Later it would become a white-hot furnace, impossible to walk on with bare feet, and he’d have to dig out his flip flops from the beach bag.

  Katie wriggled out of his arms and pulled him along by the hand to their favourite spot under the morning shade of a benevolent palm, far enough away from the manchineel trees with their poison fruit and deadly sap.

  A cursory glance left and right showed two other couples already on the beach, stretched out on bright towels, and one older woman on her own, nose buried in a paperback. It was a weekday, so no sign of the weekend yachties and speedboat owners who would moor up in the bay often staying until sundown. No. Today the view was of empty ocean and sky. Perfect.

  Dropping her towel and bag onto the sand, Katie twirled her hair up into a makeshift bun, fixing it in place with a hairband from her wrist. ‘You coming in?’

  ‘Later. I think I’m going to relax for a while.’

  ‘Lightweight,’ she teased. ‘The woman in the villa next to ours said she saw whales in the bay yesterday. I’m going to swim out and see if I can spot them while it’s still early enough.’

  ‘Don’t go too far,’ he said, knowing she’d most likely ignore him.

  He’d never been on holidays like this before he’d met Katie. Yachts, mansions and ski slopes had not been for the likes of him. Katie, however, had been born to it. While he’d been skinning his knees learning to ride a second-hand bike at the local skateboard park, she and her parents had been gliding across virgin snow, flying to far-flung continents on safari, or watching prima ballerinas twirl on famous stages. She had led a charmed life.

  Surely, the parents of a girl like this should have been horrified when she brought home a nobody like him – a dirt-poor, classless loser with no career to speak of. But he had been proven wrong. The Spencers were nice people. Warm and welcoming. Non-judgemental. Nothing like his own family. To give himself credit, he did have a decent sense of humour and a beautiful face. He had always been admired. Charm was his gift.

  And so, it had been an easy thing to become absorbed into this family. He and Katie. The golden couple. Shining wherever they went. He had shrugged on her privilege with ease, taking it for his own. Long-haul flights to distant lands, skiing, safari-ing, visiting the ballet, the opera. Moving in dizzyingly high circles without once losing his balance. They were a pair. And she loved him without reserve.

  Peeling off his t-shirt, he began applying sun lotion to his torso, watching as Katie walked across the beach in her skimpy bikini towards the gently lapping ocean, its water the perfect temperature. Not like the English Channel back home which would steal your breath, needle your skin and finally give your stomach an icy punch. No, Barbados seas were warm yet refreshing. Already up to her waist, Katie struck off away from the shore, her arms powering forward. He watched her for a moment and then lay back, gazing at the palm fronds and blue sky above, trying to let his mind go blank for a while.

  It didn’t do to overthink things.

  He lay there for some time before he heard the noise. Faint, at first, like a lazy bumble bee or a neighbour’s lawnmower. Then, growing louder. An engine, determined, fast, the random crashes of its hull against the ocean’s surface. He imagined himself sitting up and looking at the sea, searching out the source of the noise, but his body was locked in place, too tense to move. He couldn’t stop staring at the impossibly blue sky. Could barely breathe.

  A scream jolted him from his brief stasis and he jerked upright before springing to his feet. As his senses sharpened, he saw the other sunbathers running towards the ocean, their hands raised against the glare of the sun, pointing, shouting. Beyond them, a white speedboat bounded out to sea, its wake contaminating the glassy, blue ocean. His eyes scanned the water for Katie. No sign. Maybe she was hidden by the chop from the boat.

  He sprinted down to the water’s edge, shielding his eyes from the sun, trying to locate her.

  ‘Did it hit her?’ a woman with a German accent cried out to him. ‘Did you see?’

  ‘What?’ he replied, panting.

  ‘The boat out there. I think it might have hit your friend.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he questioned, his voice slow and stupid, his mind frozen. ‘The boat? It hit my wife?’ He didn’t wait for further confirmation, but dove into the water, powering through the ocean to reach Katie.

  He felt the company of another swimmer beside him – a concerned sunbather wanting to help. The boat was already a pale dot in the distance, its motor a receding hum. He didn’t know where to look for her. Stupid. He should have been looking out for her instead of staring at the sky. But the man ahead of him knew where he was going, his long, powerful strokes propelling him towards a fixed point. He would follow that man.

  A crimson stain like a beacon spread out before him, already losing its bright hue, turning pink and dissolving into wisps. Soon it would be absorbed into the ocean. But still no sign of Katie. This is where it must have happened. Where the speedboat had collided with his wife. He took a long gulp of air and dove down. He couldn’t let the other man reach her first. The crystal water showed him what he needed to see.

  Her body was whole, but had been mangled, torn up beyond repair. One side of her head was missing, ribbons of red following her descent. He looked away briefly, noticing the blurry shape of the man from the beach next to him. Then he turned back, swam towards his wife, took hold of her slippery body and kicked up to the surface, gasping for air.

  The man rose up with him, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Jesus,’ the man gasped. ‘Let’s get her to shore. That fucking speedboat, man.’ A South African accent. ‘Shall I help you . . . with . . . her?’

  ‘No. I’ve got her.’ He knew how to tow an inert body. Remembered it from his lifesaving classes. The South African swam alongside him as he carried his dead wife, the smell of sun and salt and blood in his nostrils,
a strong desire to vomit, a blank void in his brain, a trail of blood in their wake.

  Back on the beach, one of the women was shaking her head and crying, the other two had mobile phones clamped to their ears, no doubt calling the emergency services. The other man on the shore took Katie’s legs and they carried her between them, up the beach away from the shoreline towards his and Katie’s favourite palm tree. They laid her on her towel, where she’d been standing less than an hour earlier. A numbness overtook his body and he realised he was shaking.

  Someone placed a warm towel over his shoulders, but the shivering only increased.

  ‘He’s in shock.’ A woman’s voice, loud and authoritative.

  ‘It was his wife,’ the South African said.

  ‘Do you think they’ll catch them? The people in the speedboat?’

  ‘I gave the police a description of the boat over the phone. Didn’t see who was driving it, though. Surely they can track it on radar?’

  ‘No chance. They’ll be long gone.’ An English voice.

  ‘Irresponsible bastards.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. Poor woman.’

  ‘Poor guy.’

  The crush of words wove through his consciousness, but he didn’t respond. He closed his eyes and clutched at the towel around his shoulders, desperately trying to stop the shivering and act more coherently. React. Respond. Cry. An arm slid around his shoulder – the South African. ‘The police will be here soon, mate. Don’t worry. They’ll catch them. Those bastards will get what’s coming to them. Don’t you worry about that.’

  Chapter Two

  7th January 2017, Bournemouth, England

  The trouble with revealing secrets is that you never know how the other person is going to react. A secret is like gravity, pulling everything inexorably towards it in a deteriorating orbit. The bigger the secret, the bigger the pull. The people around you can feel something tugging at them, an unexplainable curiosity drawing them closer. But, until you choose to reveal that something, everyone is still just spinning in ignorance. Dizzy. Oblivious.

  As I stand on the table hanging silver streamers from the ceiling, trying to keep my balance on the slippery, polished surface, I realise I don’t want that for me and Will. I don’t want to keep secrets anymore. Our life together is so perfect, I’ve been terrified of opening my mouth and wrecking everything. Of pulling him out of his perfect orbit too fast. But we’re strong enough to endure it. I trust Will to understand why I left him spinning in the dark for so long. Anyway, it wasn’t just for him that I’ve had to stay silent. I had to bide my time. Wait until the danger passed. And now, finally, I think it’s safe to tell my husband what I should have told him at the start.

  But I won’t be revealing any secrets to him tonight. It’s his thirtieth birthday. It’s not quite the right time. Not yet.

  The thing is, now I’ve made the decision to tell him, I can’t wait. I’m nervous, excited, all those things. But I’ll have to keep it in for just one more day.

  After all, timing is everything.

  ~

  ‘Happy birthday, dear Will. Happy birthday to yooooou!’

  I’m not the world’s greatest singer, but what I lack in tone, I make up for in enthusiasm. We let off our party poppers and cheer my husband who’s making a valiant attempt to blow out all thirty candles on his cake.

  Will’s dad, Steve, rises to his feet and dings his glass several times with a pastry fork. He sets the glass back on the polished wood table and runs a hand through his wavy salt-and-pepper hair while he waits for us to quieten down.

  ‘I’d like to say a few words if that’s okay,’ he says. ‘Don’t want to embarrass Will, but, what the hell, I’m going to anyway.’

  The room rumbles with laughter, and Will’s best friend, Remy, elbows him in the ribs.

  ‘My son . . .’ Will’s dad clears his throat and gazes around the restaurant. ‘My wonderful son William Blackwell turns thirty today, and I’d like to tell him, in front of all you good people, that I couldn’t be more proud of him.’

  I can feel the collective melting of hearts around the room.

  He turns to look at Will, his eyes glistening. ‘Your mother would have been so proud of you. She’d have loved to see the man you’ve become.’ He holds his son’s gaze for a moment then retrieves his glass and raises it high, waiting for us all to echo his gesture. ‘Happy birthday, Will!’

  ‘Happy birthday, Will!’ We begin to clap and cheer and stamp our feet, but Will’s dad holds his hands out for quiet once more.

  ‘I’d also like to say a big thank you to Anna for organising this evening, managing to keep it a secret, and for making my son pretty much the happiest man alive.’

  I flush at my father-in-law’s glowing praise, uncomfortable in the spotlight. Will turns and beams at me, his lips meeting mine briefly before he, too, rises to his feet.

  ‘Thanks, Dad. Thank you. And you’re right, Anna is responsible for this,’ he says, pointing to the expanding grin on his face. Then he raises his glass. ‘To Steve, the best dad a man could wish for, and to my beautiful wife, Anna, for making me the happiest man alive.’

  ‘To Steve and Anna!’ The room erupts into more cheering.

  As everyone toasts us, I take my husband’s hand and squeeze it, a glow of happiness spreading throughout my body. A feeling that I still can’t get used to. That I still don’t feel I quite deserve.

  We’re celebrating Will’s thirtieth at Blackwell’s, a charming French bistro that belongs to Will and his dad. They must have the magic touch where food is concerned because Blackwell’s is the place to go in Westbourne. They’re always booked solid – and that’s no mean feat considering there are around two hundred cafes and restaurants in this small, affluent suburb of Bournemouth. Good job I blocked off this Saturday in the bookings diary months in advance, or we wouldn’t have been able to hold his party here. We filled the date with bookings under fake names so Will wouldn’t find out.

  One of the waitresses, Louise, comes and takes the birthday cake away to cut up into slices. My phone buzzes on the table, but I ignore it, slipping it into my handbag on the back of my chair.

  ‘Thanks for arranging this, Anna,’ Will says. ‘It’s an absolutely brilliant night.’

  ‘Your dad’s speech was lovely. I thought I was going to cry.’

  ‘Me too. Who knew the old man could be such a softie.’

  Will’s mum died from a brain tumour when he was nine and he rarely talks about her, so I’m not surprised he got choked up hearing his dad mention how proud she would’ve been of him. I love how close he and his dad are. I wonder if Steve will ever meet anyone else, but he once told me that Helen was the love of his life and could never be replaced. He seems content with his son, his restaurant and his friends from the tennis club. Maybe that’s enough.

  ‘There’s something else.’ I say. I take Will’s hand and then nod at his dad.

  Will gives me a quizzical look.

  ‘Okay, guys!’ Will’s dad calls out. ‘Follow Will and Anna out the back door please.’

  I give Will what I hope is an enigmatic smile, and lead him out through the restaurant, past the bar and through the set of swing doors which lead into the kitchen. The waiting and kitchen staff all wear big grins.

  ‘I feel like the Pied Piper,’ Will says as everyone follows us.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ I say, as we reach the back door.

  He does as I ask. Steve comes and stands on his left side, while I’m on his right. We each take one of his arms and lead him outside into the chill night air, making our way carefully through the small patio area and out through the gate into the car park beyond. There are gasps and sighs from our friends when they see what’s on the tarmac.

  ‘You can open your eyes now, Will,’ I say.

  ‘Happy Birthday, son,’ Steve adds.

  Will opens his eyes and blinks a couple of times. Remy is standing to the side, videoing Will’s reaction to the immaculate 1969 che
rry red Ford Mustang sitting in the car park, done up with a huge, white bow.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he whispers.

  ‘Do you like it?’ I ask.

  ‘Like it?’ He straightens up and grins. ‘It’s a beast. I love it.’

  It was my idea to get him the car as a birthday present as I know Will has a thing about American classic cars. But I’d spoken to his dad about it first to see what he thought. ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ he’d said. ‘As long as I can borrow it!’

  ‘It’s the 429 Boss model,’ I say to Will, ‘Had it shipped over from The States. Sorry I couldn’t manage to get one with right-hand drive, but―’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he says, dark eyes gleaming as he turns to kiss me. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

  I hand him the keys and he walks towards the car, shaking his head. My heart fills with joy to see him so happy. He runs a hand along the bonnet before opening up the driver's side door.

  ‘Gonna take her for a spin, mate?’ one of our friends calls out.

  ‘He’s probably too pissed!’ someone else cries, and everyone laughs.

  Will gets into the driver’s seat, but leaves the door open, his muscular frame filling the small space. He slots the key into the ignition and starts up the engine, revving it, letting the engine growl and roar. We stamp our feet and cheer, laughing at Will’s schoolboy glee. But, whoever called out a moment ago was right – Will is most definitely over the legal limit to drive. He reluctantly slides out of the Mustang and closes the door. Then he kisses his palm and touches it to the car roof.

  Sloping back towards us, he hugs his dad, then wraps his arms around me and whispers, ‘I love you, Mrs Blackwell. You’re incredible.’ We kiss, hard, almost forgetting the world around us. I reluctantly pull away, remembering what I’ve got planned for the rest of the night.

  ‘Later,’ I promise.

  He sighs and runs a thumb down my cheek.

  I check my watch. They should be ready by now. ‘Okay,’ I say, taking his hand once more. ‘Let’s go inside. It’s chilly out here.’