“Christiaan,” Bri’s voice dropped an octave. She placed a hand on his forearm. “Before they break through, I need you to understand that I never meant to hurt you. Then or now. I never expected any of this to happen. Over the last several days, I’ve learned so much about you and about us. Us from before, and us today. If I’d have known then what I know now, I’d have done everything differently.”
“Well, Ms. Golden. You can forget it all. I know I will.” He clenched his jaw. “I’m going to forget the last twenty-four hours ever existed.” He yanked his arm away from her hand. “In fact, I’m going to forget that the last several days ever existed.” Peeling off the ring and chain hanging from his neck, he dropped them at her feet. “Potverdomme, I’m going to forget that Mt. Shasta and Mineral Springs and ShastaWatch even existed.”
For a long while, only the sound of rescuers struggling to move boulders filled the cave.
“Let me guess,” Bri said, her voice tight with emotion. “Your life would be so much better if I were dead, wouldn’t it?”
Leaning forward, he peered into Bri’s sparkling platinum eyes.
“Yes.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Vicky was Bri. Bri was Vicky.
And Christiaan was out of here.
Zipping up the garment bag laying on the penthouse bed, he slid it over to the edge to make room for his suitcase.
Back home. Back to The Netherlands. Back to the only place that made sense to him.
Bri’s pained face from earlier this morning crossed his mind. “Let me guess, your life would be so much better if I were dead, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.” The answer had flowed from his lips as easily as it had eight years ago. The ease of its second utterance shook him to the center of his being.
How could she have done this to him? To him? The man she’d promised to love, honor, and cherish? Hadn’t they added that American touch to their wedding vows just for her?
Events from the last twenty-four hours kept running through his head. Making love to Vicky. Realizing she was Bri. Discovering he never really knew her.
That… woman wasn’t the precious Bri he remembered. His precious Bri loved him. His precious Bri never lied. His precious Bri would never have considered him capable of murder.
Christiaan shook his head. Was he remembering someone different? Obviously, because his precious Bri hadn’t loved him. His precious Bri had lied to him for eight years. His precious Bri had allowed him to believe she was dead while she built a brand new life for herself as a totally different woman.
Then made love to him without ever planning on telling him the truth.
Grabbing the suitcase from the closet, Christiaan slammed it down onto the bed so hard the garment bag bounced off the side.
“Potverdomme!” Temples pounding, he kicked the suitcase off the bed, too. It struck the wall, leaving a fist-sized hole. “Potverdomme! Potverdomme! Potverdomme!”
He stared at the damage, his throat tight and hot. Unnerved by the physical evidence of his anger, Christiaan sat down on the bed to get a hold of himself. The erotic picture of Vicky’s mouth working him like an ice cream cone flashed into his mind, tempering his anger and heating his ardor. He replayed exactly what had followed after that. How could he have not known he was making love to his wife? Wouldn’t a man know such a thing?
He and Bri had made love hundreds of times during their marriage. But it had never been like this. Bri had always been interested, responsive, and engaging. But in the cave, as Vicky, she’d been aggressive, strong, and fearless. Christiaan snorted at the cruel irony. He’d experienced every married man’s dream, hadn’t he? Making love to another woman without cheating on the wife.
The wife. His wife.
But he had cheated on his wife because Bri was alive. No! He hadn’t cheated on his wife because Vicky was Bri. And Bri is my wife.
“Potverdomme!” Was his wife. She’s not Bri anymore. And she’s not the wife I remember.
Christiaan jerked upright then rescued the garment bag and suitcase from the floor. At least he didn’t have to worry about waking Baz with these antics. When he’d gotten back earlier, his friend’s bed was still made. Christiaan checked the alarm clock. 10:45 AM. Obviously, the tryst with the waitress was lasting a good, long time.
Good for him. At least one of us is having fun with a woman.
Christiaan yanked open a dresser drawer, scooped up his socks, and flung them into the suitcase.
Home. He just needed to get back home. With an ocean between them, he’d forget about Bri. She wants to be dead? Let her stay dead. He slammed the drawer shut with his foot.
First, he’d contact his personal attorney. They’d need to be prepared to threaten her with fraud or abandonment or something should she decide down the road to reclaim her position and title.
Christiaan jerked open another drawer, grabbed everything, and added it to the mess growing in his suitcase.
Next, he’d need to talk to his finance people. Abandoning and selling Mineral Springs was possibly going to bankrupt him and the company. He’d probably have to settle for pennies on the dollar. But at this point, he and his business needed to get as far away as possible from Bri.
Vicky. Vicky! Stop calling her Bri!
Soon, running shirts and shorts were hurled into the suitcase. The sound of a door opening and closing stopped him from focusing his anger—and foot—on another drawer.
“I’m feeling fine, just fine as wine.” Baz’s slightly off-key rendition of Blackberry Smoke’s “Ain’t Got The Blues” filtered into Christiaan. “I can’t frown for grinning, I can’t lose for winning. I ain’t got the blues anymore.”
Christiaan let the drawer have it anyway. The entire dresser slammed hard enough to rattle the open Scotch bottle and almost-empty glass he’d placed there earlier.
“Wh— who’s there?” Baz yelled.
“Who the hell do you think it is?”
“Bro? Is that you?”
“You were expecting someone else?” Christiaan let out a short snort before grabbing the snifter and downing the contents. “Perhaps the maid that’s been wanting to turn down your sheets since we got here?”
Silence answered him.
“Things must have gone well with Phoebe, huh?”
More silence.
“Phoebe… the waitress… right?”
Shirt flipped over one shoulder, a bare-chested Baz appeared in the bedroom doorway, face white as a sheet.
“Wow.” Christiaan laughed. “She must have really taken you for a ride, so to speak. You look like hell.”
“I… ah… I ah…” He looked away hastily then paced around the room.
“Obviously haven’t had a cup of coffee yet. Me, neither.” Christiaan nodded toward the Scotch. “You’re welcome to partake if you think you need a bigger morning wake up. Grab something to put it in from the living room.”
“I just wasn’t expecting you…” Baz walked off then returned with an empty glass. “… I was just headed into the shower.” Hands shaking, Baz poured two fingers of the Scotch, downed it, and poured another two before leaning against the wall.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Christiaan poured himself another drink.
“No… no problem. I just wasn’t expecting you to be… um… um… drinking this early.”
Before today, Christiaan would never have considered imbibing in alcohol before evening. However, after everything that had happened, he could appreciate why Bri had turned to Scotch to ease her life as a van Laere. Tipping his head back, he savored the crisp, liquid amber kiss that joined the others he’d taken over the last hour or so to dull the painful reality of his situation.
He gestured for his friend to empty his glass so Christiaan could pour another. Baz was going to need it. “Look, I have something incredible to tell you.” Christiaan snorted. “Something you absolutely won’t believe.”
“You’re leaving?” Baz nodded toward the suitcase and garment bag on the bed. �
��Today?”
“Yes, but that’s not what I need to tell you.” He poured another drink for both of them.
“Am I leaving?”
“No.” Christiaan shook his head.
“So I’m staying to get the Mineral Springs project moving again…”
“No, but that—”
“Because I think you’re making a mistake, bro, putting this important project on hold. Just let me—”
“Baz, STOP!” Christiaan held up his hands to emphasize the point, then put his Scotch down on the dresser. He gestured for Baz to sit, and his friend dropped to the edge of the bed. Christiaan leaned against the opposite wall.
“Bri is alive.” Even aloud, the fact still sounded surreal. A vague, disquieting feeling tugged at him. A lot of questions about her disappearance still needed answered, but Christiaan wasn’t sure he was ready for that.
He studied his friend. Baz’s face was an amalgam of a hundred different expressions. Peering around the room, Baz seemed to search for the correct response to Christiaan’s revelation. Christiaan could appreciate the emotional confusion. He’d been on an emotional roller coaster since this morning. For a long while, the only sound in the bedroom was the gentle hum of the electric alarm clock on the dresser.
Christiaan’s gaze dropped to the dark tattoo on Baz’s upper right chest. Funny. He’d noticed the heart-shaped graphic before but never the tiny little words written below the ring.
“What do you mean ‘Bri is alive’?” Baz murmured.
Focus. “Vicky is Bri. Bri is Vicky.”
“Vicky…” Baz licked his lips in confusion. “The hot guide that saved our asses on the mountain then ran our asses back up the mountain on that stupid singles climb you made me go on is really Brianna?”
“Yes.” Christiaan nodded.
“Vicky…” Baz’s voice raised slightly. “The pain-in-the-ass ShastaWatch witch whose persistent meddling turned my dream project into a nightmare is really Brianna?”
“One in the same.” Christiaan poured a few more fingers of whiskey for both of them. They were going to need it.
“Vicky…” This time, Baz ground the name out between his teeth. “The recovering alcoholic that should have relapsed in the bar the other night but was saved by you is really Brianna?”
“Yep.” Christiaan tapped his glass against Baz’s. “That’s her. That’s Bri.”
“She’s… alive?”
“Always has been.”
Baz shook his head. “How did I not see it?”
“You did but couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t either. Not when Bri is supposed to be dead.”
“And you’re sure?” Baz’s brow furrowed.
Muscles leapt in Christiaan’s jaw, followed by every other muscle in his body—including the one between his legs—as he quickly replayed last night’s and this morning’s events. He needed to do less of that.
Or drink more.
He threw back the Scotch. “I’m not going into the details, but suffice it to say she’s definitely Bri.”
“That bitch!” Baz’s eyes flashed anger as he jumped up from the bed.
“Yeah. Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Alive?” Baz paced around the room, head shaking. “This whole time? How did she… then who was in the car… why didn’t she tell me… us…?” He tossed back what was in his glass. “Ah, shit. Shit… shit… shit!”
Christiaan didn’t know what exactly to say. Baz had a right to be mad. Bri had lied to him, too. And Vicky had made both their lives a living hell for the last several months. Baz stormed into the living room.
“She played us both like a piano,” Christiaan called after him. Confused on so many levels, he was certain about two things. One, that he didn’t want to relive and relay the details about Bri’s return to life to Baz. And, two, that he wanted to get as far away as possible from Mt. Shasta as soon as possible.
Jeans. Bottom drawer. He grabbed them and flung them into the suitcase. Toiletry bag from the bathroom. He tossed it into his luggage and flipped the top closed. Zipping the suitcase shut, Christiaan dropped it on the floor next to the bed then poured another drink.
“That fucking bitch!” Glass shattering against the fireplace in the living room startled Christiaan. The memory of dropping the teacup at Vicky’s lodge and touching her hand flashed across his mind.
“That fucking, fucking bitch!”
Baz certainly has picked up the American vernacular. Thanks MTV.
“This whole time… this whole time Brianna has been jerking my chain. I should have fucking known.”
The anger was understandable. Baz had been working on the Mineral Springs project since before Bri’s “death”. But the rage did seem a little irrational. Then again, he’d been under a lot of pressure lately, was short of cash, and never took the I’m-not-a-blue-blood chip off his shoulder. That and he probably hadn’t slept much last night. Christiaan nodded. In reality, this was the hotheaded, irrational Baz he’d known since birth.
Christiaan carried his suitcase and garment bag into the living room. The sound of broken glass cracking under Baz’s pacing feet grated on what remained of Christiaan’s nerves.
“So…” His friend stopped to look at the luggage then at Christiaan. “… you’re leaving. Where exactly does that leave the Mineral Springs project? Where exactly does that leave me? And what do I do about her?”
Christiaan pointed for Baz to take a seat then headed back into the bedroom to grab the whiskey bottle and snifter. Returning to the living room, he retrieved another glass from the wet bar, poured them each a few more fingers, and handed the Scotch to Baz before sitting down across from him.
“I’m done here.” Christiaan studied his friend’s face. “I’d like you to stay and see if you can find another buyer for the project. I’m going to head back home, hire some incredible accounting consultants, and see if there’s anything I missed that could save the company.”
“But, bro, you don’t understand. You can’t—”
“Look. I know. You’ve poured your heart and soul into this project for the last ten years.” Christiaan took a long swig of Scotch. Bri’s face on the last night he saw her alive as his wife ran across his memory, quickly followed by her face this morning when he stormed out of the cave after the rescuers had finally freed them. “But this project is over.”
“You can’t let that bitch—”
“Enough. My decision isn’t up for discussion. I’m sorry you’re upset. I’m sorry you’re feeling like the world is handing you shit, but we’re done here.”
“No! I refuse to let you screw—” A knock at the door cut Baz off. “I’ll get that.” He slammed his glass onto the coffee table and bolted.
Christiaan stared at the now-empty snifter in his hand, contemplating whether it would be smart for him to pour another one. His fifth? Sixth? Shrugging his shoulders, he poured another one. Why not? He wouldn’t be flying the plane.
Plane. That’s right. He needed to call the pilot and let him know they were to head home ASAP. Now, where had Baz put Christiaan’s phone? He peered around the living room. Desk? No. Coffee table? No. Fireplace mantel? No.
Muffled voices drifted in from the entryway.
“Who’s at the door?” Christiaan called out.
“Me, Baron Boy,” a familiar thick Irish voice called out.
“Irishman!” Christiaan called out. “Come on in. Have a drink with us.”
“No!” Baz countered. “He doesn’t need to be here.”
“Come on, now. What’s a drink among friends, right?”
Duff entered the main room, with a frowning-like-a-toddler-told-no Baz on his heels, now with his shirt on. The Irishman peered at Christiaan with a raised eyebrow. “’Tis a bit early fer a drop of whiske’, eh?” He sat down across from Christiaan.
Christiaan laughed. “Now that’s not something I ever thought I’d hear an Irishman say.” Snagging another glass from the wet bar, he poured it halfwa
y with Scotch then added some to both his and Baz’s snifters.
“What ar’ we toastin’ to?”
“De toekomst.” Christiaan raised his glass. “The future.” He wasn’t exactly sure what tomorrow held for him, his company, or his family, but as long as his feet weren’t on American soil, he’d take that as progress. He nodded to Baz.
Baz touched his Scotch to Christiaan’s. “The future.” Then he knocked Duff’s glass. “De toekomst.”
“Thet future. An todhchaí.” The Irishman grinned as he met their toasts with tremendous vigor. Whiskey from all their glasses splashed onto his left hand and dripped over a faded heart band tattooed on Duff’s ring finger.
“So, Irishman? What brings you here?”
“He…ah… he was… um…” Baz started then buried his face into his Scotch.
Duff smacked him on the back then smiled at Christiaan. “Well, I’m finally gettn’ me arse around to take me lucky jacket back.”
“I think it’s hanging in my closet.” Baz jumped up and made a beeline to the other side of the penthouse.
“Maybe you need to rename your jacket, considering…” Christiaan nodded toward Duff’s colorful cast. “How’s the arm doing by the way?” Two words—Diord Fionn—caught his eye. Where had he heard something like that? Probably from the Irishman during one of their aerial tours.
“Ach! Ni bhionn an rath ach mar a mbionn an smacht.” Duff leaned over and grabbed the Scotch bottle. “’Tis no luck except where ‘tis discipline.”
Running back into the room, Baz stumbled over Christiaan’s suitcase.
“Calm down, Dutchie. Look at thet puss on you. What’s thet story?”
“I’m closing the project.” Christiaan pushed his empty glass toward Duff. “And Dutchie here isn’t very happy about it.”
The Irishman peered over at Baz. “’Tis so?” Then he turned his attention to Christiaan. “I tot ye were hell bent to be up an’ runnin’ in a year or two, ShastaWatch an’ all?”
Christiaan smiled but said nothing. He wasn’t about to share anything with Duff.
“Oh, tha’ ought to make me Victoria as ‘appy as a clam.” The Irishman refilled everyone’s glasses.
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