“Money is just money,” Charley said coolly. “And yes, that would help you hang on to your flat and pay for me to go to an art institute for my photography…”
“And?”
“Are you blind?” she answered, turning him to face a suitcase and carry-on open on the living-room sofa. “Ta-da.”
“I assume you’re going somewhere?”
“Guess,” she insisted.
“Switzerland?” he asked carefully. Switzerland was his first choice because John and Marlena Evans Black, two of the most amazing people on the planet, lived in Lausanne. And when the financial debacle had happened the previous summer, part of the massive fallout had been the revelation that they, not Richie and Olivia Gaines, were Charley’s biological parents.
“No…”
“Dalita Kasagian did not invite you to Anguilla, did she?”
“No…” Charley scowled. “And hanging with her crowd would be the unluckiest thing that could happen.” Dalita, God bless her, was known for being the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the world and had always been kelly-green jealous of naturally gorgeous Charley. But since the tragic accident that had taken Olivia’s life the summer before, Dalita had wanted nothing more than to be seen as sympathetic to “poor Charley.”
Dalita was constantly telling her sycophants that she felt guilty since Charley and Olivia had been on their way to her grossly ostentatious Sweet Sixteen bash when their car had careened off the Grande Corniche above Monte Carlo. Truth be told, Dalita had not felt guilty when it happened, but she had been upset that news of the accident had stolen the thunder from her celebrity-studded party.
“If not with Dalita, maybe New York,” Jackson guessed next.
“No.”
“Cabo?”
“No!”
“Singapore, Rio, Amsterdam—”
“No, no, no. I’m going to South Africa!”
“Really?” he said startled.
“Absolutely.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“How?” he stammered. To travel anywhere at the last minute was more difficult than winning that lottery.
“One of the most amazing photographers in the world is shooting the cover of The Look’s twentieth anniversary issue, and his assistant came down with pneumonia. He’s hiring me to take her place. We’re taking British Airways, and we leave tonight at seven.”
She didn’t see Jackson blanch.
“Is it Vince Castle?” he asked carefully.
“Yes! Isn’t that fantastic?” Charley was elated.
Jackson studied her luminous face. In the last year, it had had more frowns than smiles, and he was happy to see the change. Whatever issues he had with the photographer were trumped by her excitement. “You know, Sis, it really is fantastic. Congratulations.”
“Having a new start was one of my resolutions for this year, Jackson,” she said, smiling warmly. “And it’s already coming true.”
“I resolved to be less impulsive,” Jackson admitted.
“With women especially,” Charley cautioned.
“Amen,” Jackson agreed.
The handsome, charismatic heir to a fortune had been a chick magnet since he was old enough to understand the appeal of the floppy hair that skimmed his eyebrows.
“You never understood that leading a woman on is worse than rejecting her,” Charley added.
With that, Jackson’s chiseled face fell as a wave of the details of the previous night washed over him. “Uh-oh.”
“What?” Charley knew that expression.
Jackson reached inside his Brioni shirt and felt the empty chain around his neck.
“Mum’s…ring,” he stammered.
“Not again!” Charley groaned.
Jackson nodded. “Yep. I think I just asked another woman to marry me.”
Romance had always been tough for Abby Deveraux.
Her mother, Jennifer Deveraux, had never been without a man lusting after her. Jennifer, blonde and absolutely adorable from her first day in kindergarten, had never realized the effect she had on the opposite sex as she grew older.
Abby’s father, Jack, with his captivating mix of sophistication and silliness, was Jennifer’s perfect match. An adoring father, he doted on Abby who was a natural blonde like her mother, grandmother Laura, and great-grandmother Alice Horton. Especially since he’d been an absentee father during a lot of Abby’s formative years.
Abby was actually beautiful, too, though she never truly felt it. Gawky and awkward through her early teens, she was always in the shadow of her cheerleader-pretty mother.
Abby shared an apartment in London’s Primrose Hill, which in recent years had become one of the hubs for those in the media and entertainment business. Local residents included Gwyneth Paltrow, Gwen Stefani, and Ewan McGregor.
Her iPhone rang, startling her out of a deep, near-catatonic sleep. As the celebrated editor of Spectator.com, one of the hottest news and gossip sites worldwide, Abby was used to getting calls and hot tips at any time of the day from her stringers. That was something she had loved when she was starting the site, but sometimes the timing was lousy. Her cell was on the skirted table next to her bed, and she groped to answer it.
“You got me,” Abby groaned as she cleared her throat.
“Happy New Year!”
It was her father.
“What…time is it?” Abby asked as she struggled to sit on the edge of her queen-sized bed and tried to orient herself.
“Just after midnight in Salem,” Jack offered.
“Are you with Mom?” Abby asked. Her parents had separated once more, but she was hopeful.
“She has her own life now, you know, but I’m going to try to see her,” he answered. Though trying to sound confident, his voice cracked as he changed the subject. “You’ve done a great job this year, baby. I just wanted you to know how much your mother and I love you.”
“Thanks, Daddy,” Abby said, managing a smile. “I love you, too.”
She did love them both and missed them. Her mother had gone back to the Midwest for a while to help one of her cousins, and the off-again, on-again love of Jennifer’s life had gone to Australia on “walkabout,” one of his unpredictable sojourns.
“And don’t worry, I know everything’s good at the paper.”
The Spectator, the newspaper for which Jack was publisher, had finally gotten back on its feet and was running like a top, even with the struggling economy. That was largely due to Abby’s success with its new media component, which she had started as a sideline while she was finishing her education.
“Go back to sleep,” Jack said. “I hope your New Year’s Eve was wonderful.”
The fog began to clear in Abby’s alcohol-saturated brain.
She took the phone from her ear and looked at her left hand. There it was: a four-carat yellow diamond.
“Abby…?” her dad said. “Honey, you still there?”
“I…am…” she stammered. “And, well, Dad—I got engaged!” she shouted excitedly.
“You got what?”
“‘Engaged!’ as in asked to get married!” Abby blubbered.
“Not to that playboy, unable-to-find-a-job-because-of-his-family’s-reputation Jackson Gaines, right?”
“Of course not, Daddy,” Abby said in the voice that always melted Jack’s heart. “The fabulous, funny, sexy as hell, and destined to greatness Jackson Gaines. Be happy for me.”
“You cannot marry that man, Abigail Deveraux,” Jack insisted.
“Is that an order?” Abby said as her back went up.
“Yes!”
“I love you, Daddy,” Abby said, ignoring his demand. “And Happy New Year.”
With that, she hung up and sighed heavily.
He is a good man, Daddy, Abby
thought as she gazed at the gorgeous diamond. Not like his father at all. A good man who I am going to marry!
As the realization washed over her, she broke into a huge, overwhelmed smile. “Yes, yes, yes!” Abby squealed and began to jump around the room excitedly. Just then her best friend and flatmate, Chelsea Brady, stopped into the open doorway.
“What the heck’s going on, Abs?” Chelsea asked as she fought back emotions of her own.
“Look!” Abby dashed to her best friend and thrust the exquisite ring in front of her. “Jackson asked me to marry him last night,” Abby beamed.
Chelsea’s big brown eyes widened as the reality hit her. “That’s great,” she said with a weak smile.
“And you?” Abby asked excitedly. “I know Max had something major to talk about…”
Max and Chelsea had dated off and on for four years, and he was the love of her life. Chelsea bit her lip.
“Well?” Abby asked, her eyes narrowing.
“Let’s just say he did not propose!” Chelsea blurted.
“Wow,” Abby blanched.
“Yeah, wow,” Chelsea snapped and then burst into a sea of tears.
Maison du Noir—the House of Black—was even more spectacular in winter than in summer. The villa was perfectly situated in Lausanne with the soaring white-peaked Swiss Alps on one side and Lake Geneva in front. It was picture-postcard perfect.
Though the ground was covered with a dusting of white, Marlena Evans took her morning walk through the fields in front of the contemporary glass, wood, and steel structure. The home, designed by the one of the top architects in Europe and supervised by John, was often the talk of the locals.
Marlena wrapped her arms around herself to steel herself from the cold.
“Doc?” she heard from behind, and she turned to see the man she cherished trotting toward her from their first-floor gym. John’s six-foot frame was shirtless, and he wore only workout shorts and sneakers. Behind him, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see the workout space he’d installed with every imaginable piece of equipment to keep up his rehabilitation. It was a place where John spent a great deal of time, even on New Year’s Day.
“You’re going to catch your death of cold, mister,” she scolded.
“It helps me be strong like bull,” he said with a fake Russian accent, smiling and flexing his well-toned biceps.
“That sounds like bull,” she said, shivering, and added, “Is that how the ISA trained you?” The ISA—the International Security Alliance—an organization John had once worked for in one of his many incarnations, was known for its grueling physical requirements.
“Nope, this is my own doing,” John admitted. “And you’re right, it is cold out here!”
He wrapped his arm around her slim shoulders and they headed back to the house.
“What time is that parade you wanted to watch?” he said.
Distracted, Marlena didn’t answer.
“You’re not really mad at me, are you?” he asked.
“About what?” she asked.
“Our discussion last night? My suggestion we go helicopter skiing?”
With their plans in flux, John had suggested a number of ways to spend the rest of the holiday. The adrenaline-pumping sport of helicopter skiing was one of them.
“Actually, I’d forgotten about that so of course I wasn’t mad about it,” she interrupted. “But now that you bring it up again, while I know it’s supposed to be safe, the idea of you jumping out of a helicopter at four thousand feet makes my blood run cold.”
“It’s the snow that does that,” he tried joking.
She stopped in her tracks and took a deep breath. Maybe this was a better discussion than the one she wanted. “I’ve lost you too many times, and it scares the living heck out of me.”
“Heck,” he mocked her lightly to deflect the seriousness. “You’re the one who was born skiing in Colorado, Doc.”
“I know,” she responded. “And loving snow is in my genes. But—”
“We’ve got nothing in our future but time,” he reminded her. “Can we at least think about it?”
John knew he didn’t need Marlena’s permission to do anything. He never had, and she would never want him to. But he also knew that, as a loving husband, he needed to be sensitive to her and to any fears she had about him being in dangerous situations.
“We’ll think about it,” she said, smiling wanly. “Now let’s get inside. You’re freezing! And that parade is at noon London time.”
The parade she wanted to see was the London New Year’s Day parade, which had become her favorite. A small-town girl at heart, she had grown up watching the Rose Parade every year, and this was a damned good substitution. No magnificent flower-covered floats but the same exuberance with London as its backdrop and participants from every corner of the world.
What could be better?
***
They entered the exquisite villa that had been their home for the last few years. They had moved to Switzerland for the most comprehensive medical care John could get after he’d been paralyzed from the neck down at the hands of a lunatic. By the time he’d recovered, they had fallen in love with the location and decided to stay.
The cut-glass door closed behind them, and the warmth of the home enveloped them.
“Better,” he admitted. “Smells good in here.”
“Oven pancake.” She smiled. Marlena had never been a great cook, but she had mastered some simple holiday staples. “Then the pre-parade show?” she asked.
“Sure,” John agreed, smiling. He knew Marlena loved her family traditions, and he was ready to share them even though they drove him a bit crazy. For the last few years, she’d devoted herself totally to him, so it was the least he could do. “Lemme get showered.”
“Please do,” she managed to respond, smiling back at him.
“I love you, Doc,” he reminded her and kissed the tip of her nose. “And that face…”
Her eyes met his. He cocked his eyebrow, as he’d been known to do on more than one occasion, and smiled the smile she found irresistible.
“And I adore you,” she answered.
John leaned in to give her a deep kiss that reminded her why and then bounded up the staircase to the massive suite he had designed just for her.
She watched him go and for a moment focused on the magnificent eagle tattoo on his back. The elegant bird of prey had been inked over a phoenix tattoo that had marked John as the pawn of his nemesis, Stefano DiMera. Now it was a symbol of the man he’d become again in the last six months.
After shrugging out of her jacket, Marlena moved to the ceiling-high Scots Pine with thousands of lights that had stood in front of the window since a week before Christmas.
Marlena sighed and moved to take in the entire vista. The city, with its charm and warmth and history, was coming alive. As for Marlena? She wasn’t.
Life is supposed to be perfect now, she thought. Then why am I starting to feel so empty?
***
John Black’s life had been an enigma since he was born. He was a beautiful child who had turned into a more beautiful man, but his tumultuous path had made him the man he was today: a man of integrity, a man of strength, and a brilliant mind behind a movie star–handsome face.
A man so in love with Marlena Evans that he did not want to lose her and would never do anything to risk that. But still, thoughts lingered…
Steaming water in their hundred-thousand-dollar bathroom streamed over John’s body, warming him from his chilly jaunt outside. After he’d finished buffing his skin with the finest men’s products, he stepped out of the shower to the marble sink to shave. As he turned on the water, John noticed the tip of the eagle’s wing on the top of his shoulder.
Not a phoenix to rise but an eagle to soar, he thought to himself. Then wh
y am I feeling grounded?
Bill Horton had opened the Tom-Ali Clinic in the mid-’90s after he’d gone on a trip with Doctors Without Borders and fallen in love with Africa. The incredible beauty and serenity to be found in the Limpopo province was only matched by the desperate need that he could help fill.
Positioned on the outskirts of the small hub city of Hoedspruit, the privately funded clinic had helped thousands and thousands over the years. Though now in need of repair, it had a reception area, two exam rooms, a small emergency room, and storage, plus a barbed-wire-walled outdoor space where patients would line up for the free medical services offered by volunteers who came from around the world.
An armed guard was at the locked building twenty-four hours a day to discourage theft and squatters. Tom-Ali had also added a fully equipped mobile van several years earlier to go into the African villages that still dotted the outskirts of the mainly Afrikaner towns and cities.
Recently, Kayla had committed to being at Tom-Ali for two years, with occasional trips back to the States as time permitted and others filled in for her. And of all the doctors who’d been there, Kayla Brady was far and away the favorite of the locals.
Compassionate, caring, and gentle, and with skills comparable to those of the top general practitioners in South Africa, Kayla treated black and white, male and female, young and old with the same level of care and the same smile she gave her own children.
Steve was loved in a different way. While Kayla was the healer, Steve was the clinic’s protector. A jack-of-all-trades, he was the master of many. In an area sometimes gripped with fear, he had none. He was the ideal balance for Kayla. While Steve was quick to anger, Kayla was the epitome of cool.
Except today. Today she was furious. Bill Horton was nowhere to be found.
The last she’d heard from Bill had been the call well after midnight. To top it off, when she and Steve had arrived at the clinic in the dead of night, the mobile van was missing. The security officer’s wound had been much more severe than Bill had told her. She had staunched the flow of blood and pumped the man full of fluids and morphine while Steve alerted emergency personnel to medevac the dying twenty-five-year-old on an hour-long flight to Johannesburg General Hospital. Now the sun was up and she was exhausted.
A Stirring from Salem Page 2