No children. Memories of losing their son slashed through Vicky’s chest as easily as a razor. Doctors had attributed the miscarriage to chromosomal abnormalities, but she knew the real answer was stress. From her husband’s family. From her husband.
“You okay?” Rainbow’s hand on Vicky’s shoulder drew her attention. “You look like somebody died.”
Somebody had.
Her baby. An innocent life lost to the selfishness and greed of a man convinced he was above the law. To an assassin bought and paid for by a coward. To a woman blind to the reality of her marriage.
“Christiaan murdered his wife,” Rainbow said matter-of-factly.
“What?” Vicky stared at her friend in astonishment. She’d never told anyone she suspected Christiaan had had her murdered instead of simply divorcing her.
Or at least had tried to have her murdered.
“No, it says here in the article that it was an accidental explosion,” Nelson corrected.
“No, it was m-u-r-d-e-r,” Rainbow countered in a deep, suspenseful voice then broke into laughter. “Come on. Accusing Baron von Rat Face of killing his wife would definitely put the wolves on his scent.”
Bewilderment clogged Vicky’s thought processes. Hearing her “death” discussed was strangely refreshing. And unnerving.
“I… um…” Kaitlen cleared her throat. “I was actually thinking more along the lines of closet communist, corporate fraud, sexual harassment. You know, stuff that’s hard to prove or disprove. Something just to get people talking.”
“But it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not,” Rainbow said. “We just have to create the perception it is.”
Brianna was dead. Her hopes and dreams buried by Vicky eight years ago.
“Are you sure it’ll work?” Nelson held up Christiaan’s picture. “He doesn’t look like a killer.”
No, he didn’t. The man who had asked her to marry him a week after they met wasn’t a killer. The man who had unknowingly apologized to his wife for not supporting her sobriety wasn’t a killer. The man who had swept her into his arms last night and made her feel love again wasn’t a killer.
“Who does look like a killer nowadays?” Rainbow shrugged her shoulders. “Besides, we’ll have won the hearing by the time the truth surfaces.”
Vicky traced the bruise on her wrist. The man who betrayed their wedding vows was a killer. The man who had arranged for her car to explode while she was in it was a killer. The man who had pushed her down the mountain yesterday was a killer.
“I don’t know,” Lance said. “Accusing a man of murdering his wife just doesn’t seem right.”
“Ruining Mt. Shasta for financial gain isn’t right either,” Rainbow answered.
“We’ll need to be ready for a frontal assault from his PR people,” Kaitlen interjected. “I doubt he’ll turn tail and run that easily.”
No, not Christiaan. Not a van Laere.
“But we’ll be out front first,” Nelson offered. “We’ll grab the headlines before he’s had a chance to formulate a strategy. He’ll be playing catch-up for a couple of days.”
“By then, hopefully, enough damage will have been done to his reputation that no one will want to work with him.” Kaitlen grinned mischievously. “He’ll have no choice but to give up on Mineral Springs.”
“Exactly.” Rainbow clapped her hands. “Let’s vote. Everyone in favor of accusing Baron von Rat Face of murdering his wife say ‘Aye’.”
A round of “ayes” blanketed the room.
Vicky hesitated, torn by conflicting emotions. Part of her wanted the truth to come out, for the entire world to know that she had survived her husband’s assassination attempt. But another part wanted Brianna to stay dead because Vicky had become the strong woman Brianna had only dreamed of.
“Opposed?”
Silence. Should I say something? Stop this?
“Operation Wife Murderer carries.”
Too late.
“Now what?” Nelson asked.
“I’ll take it from here.” Rainbow stood and headed into the kitchen, cell phone in hand.
Vicky caught her arm. “I’m… I’m… I’m not so sure about this.”
“All war is based on deception,” Rainbow said. “Nelson isn’t the only one that can quote The Art of War.”
Christiaan stood at the picture window in his suite, working on his third cup of coffee. Outside, Mt. Shasta still hid part of sunrise behind her majestic peak. Pastels washed across the mountain range, promising a peaceful day.
Peace. That was something he could use right now.
In the window frost, he traced a circle around the towering mountain. His future lay there. He could feel it. Exactly what was in store for him wasn’t as easy a draw.
Christiaan washed a hand over his face. The nine-hour time difference worked against him. Afternoon in The Netherlands had produced an inbox filled with messages. Bankers reminding him about upcoming balloon payments. Attorneys with ridiculously low buy-out offers from competitors. Accountants concerned with balance sheets. That damn reporter insisting he call her back.
The wolves were nipping at his heels. If he didn’t get this project closer to happening, he’d lose everything. Out in the cold, like standing on Mt. Shasta in nothing but his underwear.
He wrote in the frost on the window. H-E-L-P-L-E-S-S. Haven’t felt like this since Bri—
“Yo, bro. You’re up. All ready to go for a run?”
Christiaan erased his musing before turning around. Baz strolled into the room, long hair hanging wet from the shower, pulling a t-shirt on, that stupid tattoo staring at Christiaan. One summer with relatives living in Ireland and Baz thought he was a soldier for the cause.
“Nee. Too much on my mind.” Christiaan gestured toward the room service cart. “Brunch?”
“Just caffeine. You’d have slept like a baby last night if you’d have followed my lead at the bar.” Baz grabbed a cup of coffee before settling into a leather high back. “Summit Energy would be a secret, and Vicky Golden’s drinking problem wouldn’t.”
Christiaan winced at the honest assessment. His friend was right. One chivalrous gesture had cost them much-needed leverage, leaving the Mineral Springs project vulnerable.
“A few sips of Scotch and we’d have had what we needed to force her cooperation. What exactly were you thinking, pulling her away like that?”
“I don’t know.” Christiaan shook his head. She’d looked so vulnerable. So lost.
He’d had to stop her.
Christiaan refilled his cup then sat down across from Baz, touching Bri’s wedding ring in the process.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Baz said. “But Vicky isn’t Bri. She doesn’t need saving. She just needs to get out of the way.”
“I know.” The picture Vicky had thrown at him last night lay on the coffee table. He cringed, remembering the look of betrayal on her face when she realized exactly who she was kissing.
Christiaan slid the photo in front of him and studied it. The shot was taken the day after the helicopter crash. Despite his injuries, he’d insisted on a complete site tour by the project manager Baz had hired. The number of workers and equipment already on site had astounded him.
In the background of the photo, two men were unloading boxes marked “Blasting Caps” and stacking them into the storage building.
“I thought we were using vibration trucks instead of explosives for seismic testing.”
“We were, but…” Baz leaned forward to see what Christiaan was pointing to. “But we couldn’t get any decent readings, so now we’re leaning toward the old-fashioned way.” He grabbed his iPad from the table and sat back into the chair.
“And the drilling rig?”
“Ready for when we begin,” Baz answered without looking up.
Christiaan stared at the photo. No doubt, Vicky and her ShastaWatch cronies would use this to strengthen their position. How exactly they’d do that remained to be seen.
&nbs
p; “Take a look at this.” Baz snorted then turned his iPad around so Christiaan could read the screen. He pointed to a headline on an online newspaper.
“Trump Triumphs: Treehuggers in Boulder Drop Lawsuit. Controversial Development Back on Schedule.”
Maybe Christiaan needed to call The Donald and ask what his secret was.
“See if you can find one that says ‘van Laere van Luck: Crazy Woman Learns the Word Compromise. Much-Needed Geothermal Project Back on Course.’”
Baz laughed. “If there is, I’ll find it. I have alerts for anything with van Laere in it.”
The image of Vicky at the bar, fervently defending her position, popped into Christiaan’s head. Such fire. Such passion.
He’d tasted that and wanted more. Much more.
However, last night’s grand revelation ended any hopes of that. What a shame. No chance to bury himself in her hair. No chance to bury himself in her arms. No chance to bury himself in her—
Strains of Blackberry Smoke’s “Good One Comin’ On” began to play from Christiaan’s phone. He pulled it from his pocket, checked who was calling, then hit “answer”.
“Lou, tell me you have something good.”
“I wish I could,” the PI answered. “Don’t really know anything more than what I emailed yesterday. Can’t find a trace of information about your Vicky Golden anywhere.”
“She’s not my Vicky Golden. Are you telling me she just appeared on this earth one day?”
“It’s a theory,” Lou said.
Christiaan leaned forward. “Like she’s hiding from something?”
“Or someone,” Lou answered. “A good set of fingerprints would help me identify your mystery lady.”
“She’s not my— Never mind. Any suggestions on how to do that with a less-than-cooperative subject?” Christiaan couldn’t imagine Vicky offering to give him anything with her prints on it.
Except maybe a one-way ticket out of town.
“Find something she’s touched, a drinking glass, a piece of paper, anything then get it to me. If her prints are in the system, I’ll have an answer in twenty-four hours.”
Christiaan’s eyes locked onto the photo.
“I have something already. It’ll be in your hands within hours.”
Lou whistled. “Must be nice to have a private jet at your disposal.”
“Call me with an answer as soon as possible, and I’ll buy you your very own,” Christiaan said before cutting the connection. Next, he texted his pilot instructions then got the photo ready for pickup.
“Um, bro,” Baz said, tapping the screen of his iPad, tilted toward Christiaan. “You might want to check this out.”
He glanced at the tabloid website on screen. His friend’s obsession with American trash mags was almost pathological.
“Pics of nude celebrities are your thing, not mine.” Christiaan grabbed the plastic liner from an empty trashcan and an overnight envelope from the desk. He covered the photo with the bag then slipped it into the thin container.
“Chris.” Baz shoved his iPad in front of Christiaan’s face. “Now.”
Christiaan read aloud the headline blaring across the screen. “Like Father? Like Son? Did Billionaire Playboy Choose Murder Over Divorce to Save Millions?”
Anger shot through Christiaan like wildfire. Everything about Bri’s death washed over him like the horror happened yesterday. He continued reading.
“Questions recently surfaced regarding the death eight years ago of real-estate mogul Baron van Laere’s wife, before he assumed the title. She died instantly when the car she was driving exploded mysteriously. A subsequent police investigation determined a gas tank leak caused the freak accident. Accident or history repeating itself? It seems the previous Baron lost his first wife to a strange horseback riding accident. At the time, speculation he had her murdered to avoid a massive divorce settlement arose, but were never proven.
Could the current Baron have decided life with an alcoholic who’d failed to produce an heir was unbearable and borrowed a page from his daddy’s cure-to-marital-ills playbook? A divorce could have cost him millions. Perhaps murder was cheaper?”
The byline read “Paige Williams”.
The reporter. She’d found her story.
“Wow.” Baz leaned back in his chair. “Suggesting you had Bri killed to protect your fortune is cold. I mean I know you can be cheap, but—” Christiaan shot him a glare that would have melted polar ice.
“Nothing the police found in their investigation suggested I lost her to anything but an accident.” Christiaan turned away and began pacing, slowly, restlessly. “A horrible... freakish... devastating... accident.”
“You know that and I know that, but I can’t vouch for the rest of the world. It’s only a matter of time before this hits the major news outlets.”
Nobody wants to do business with a murderer. There goes my reputation, my project, my company.
“Why now? After so long?” Baz asked.
Christiaan washed a hand over this face. “Last night, that reporter threatened to expose Summit’s identity if I didn’t give her an exclusive to my story…. and my body.”
“Pfff. Figures. Women love the Baron thing.” Baz grabbed his coffee cup and headed toward the room service cart. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
“Yeah, but why this?” Christiaan said. “She already sniffed out stuff about the company’s finances. Why not go with that?”
He walked to the picture window. The sun was now above the mountain, its rays making the snow crystals hanging from the window shine like diamonds.
“Why dredge all this up? Who needs me to look like a reprehensible monster?”
“Man, we so don’t need this right now,” Baz said. “Not when we’re still butting heads with ShastaWatch.”
Christiaan watched in the distance as a line of climbers headed out to the mountain.
“Potverdomme! I know who’s behind this!”
CHAPTER NINE
The late morning sun warmed Vicky atop her favorite meditation spot, Serenity Rock. Already ten degrees warmer than her arrival an hour ago, the temperature continued to climb.
Along with her anxiety.
Publicly accusing Christiaan of murder was an incredible risk, as irrevocable as suicide. Technically, she wasn’t the one to accuse him. Rainbow had greased the wheels with the reporter. After a good bit of cajoling, Vicky added a few details. Enough for Paige to add one plus one and come up with three.
Vicky hated to admit it, but satisfaction had swept over her earlier when she’d clicked on the link the reporter had forwarded. References to Christian’s father’s marital woes were a nice touch. The “perhaps murder was cheaper” line... priceless.
Now her head swirled with confusion.
“Oh Mother Shasta—” Vicky whispered. Her emotional control close to shattering under the immense strain. “Did I do the right thing?”
She took a long drink from her canteen. Regret? A smidgen. What was the Dutch saying Christiaan used when business negotiations were running rough? Zonder strijd geen overwinning.
No victory without a battle.
Vicky could only imagine the look on his face when he read the article. That granite scowl, tight lips, hardened tendons along his jaw standing out like cables.
Exactly how he looked the last time she saw him before she “died”.
Their worst fight ever. The Baroness, Christiaan’s stepmother, had thrown a lavish birthday party for him at the estate. She’d made all the arrangements, including the seating charts. Christiaan sat next to Lady Astrid Kroon, the Dutch blue blood his father would have preferred as a daughter-in-law. Brianna was stuck on the other side of the banquet hall next to Sir Boring as Hell.
Throughout dinner, Christiaan’s attention never strayed from Astrid. Every smile, every look, every “innocent” touch on his arm whittled away at Brianna’s hard-sought sobriety.
However, the first Scotch in six months did little to
soften the blow of overhearing the Baroness tell a friend that her stepson’s silly infatuation with that barren American trash was finally over. Once the divorce was through, Christiaan would marry Astrid. The Baron would then reward his son with keys to the van Laere empire.
The Baroness had laughed. And if Brianna refused to cooperate, well, “there were other ways to end a marriage”.
So, the rumors she’d heard over the last year were true. Christiaan and Astrid were having an affair. Brianna’s suspicions were confirmed later when she stumbled across the pair embraced in the shadows of the ballroom balcony. No amount of Scotch could ever make Brianna believe her husband was only “consoling a friend” about her father’s recent death.
She’d lost it, accusing Christiaan of betraying their love, planning to get rid of her. He berated her for falling off the wagon. She screamed he was replacing her because she couldn’t get pregnant. He yelled that her drinking had made her paranoid, so unlike the woman he’d fallen in love with.
In a fit of rage, Brianna shouted, “Your life would be so much better if I was dead, wouldn’t it?” Christiaan, already halfway out the door, paused to glance over his shoulder. His face a mix of fury, desperation, and control.
“Yes.”
With that one-word answer, he was gone. She never saw him again.
Until now.
Vicky lay back on the giant rock to watch the blue sky and passing clouds. Her daybreak ritual of renewal failed to lift her spirits. Mother Shasta could do nothing to still the turmoil inside.
Christiaan’s face flashed into her thoughts. His blue eyes crinkled in laughter. His sensual mouth curved in pleasure.
A sigh escaped Vicky’s lips. Desire still coursed through her veins like liquid fire. Her mind relived the velvet warmth of his kiss on the dance floor and all it had promised. She’d fallen for him again. Despite all rational thought.
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