First, there was the murder-suicide of Oscar Van Weldt and his wife. Or was it, as Martin suspected, a double murder? Sure, Grace Van Weldt was a boozer and a pill popper and on her way off her rocker, but the timing was a little too close for Martin’s comfort. What were the odds Grace would lose her shit and off Oscar and herself only a few days after Martin had put a bug in Van Weldt’s ear about Abbassi?
Van Weldt’s death had made Martin’s story a lot more interesting. And potentially a lot more dangerous.
And now this. Martin sat transfixed in front of his computer monitor. He took another gulp of malafu, his attention riveted to the scene unfolding on screen. When he’d enlisted Marie Laure’s help, he’d dreamed of capturing footage like this.
Again he checked his video recording program, ensuring the feed was being recorded even as he watched it live. He pulled the laptop closer, even though the privacy filter he’d put over the screen ensured no one would be able to see from the side.
Though the camera Marie Laure wore had its view slightly obscured by the edge of a tent flap, Martin had a clear shot of all the players surrounding the army truck that had pulled into the center of the mine’s encampment earlier that afternoon. Mekembe and three of his men flipped up the heavy canvas that hid the truck’s cargo. Even in the grainy shot,
Martin could see that the back of the truck was bristling with weapons. Kalashnikovs, AK-47s, and Uzis were unloaded from the truck. There were even two rocket-propelled grenade launchers with enough firepower to take down a helicopter or a small plane.
Then a tall, lean man with dark, Mediterranean features came into view. Louis Abbassi. Marie Laure had referred to him as “the Français,” though he was actually a Lebanese national who had dual French citizenship, thanks to his French socialite mother. His father was a wealthy shipping magnate. When Mohammed Abbassi died, Louis stood to inherit millions. But the promise of wealth hadn’t stopped Louis from making his own fortune in everything from diamonds to aviation. He’d painted himself as a benevolent philanthropist, allowing aid organizations and NGOs to use his fleet of South African–based aircraft to transport goods all over the continent.
But Martin knew those planes didn’t transport just rice and bandages.
Abbassi was a ubiquitous figure in the international press, flaunting his wealth and always photographed with at least one beautiful woman on his arm. He’d dated actresses and models from all over the world.
Including, according to various sources, Alyssa Miles, whom he reportedly met when he signed a deal with the Van Weldts to supply diamonds through his South African–based diamond-cutting facility.
Though Abbassi claimed all his rough came from certified mines in conflict-free South Africa, Martin knew enough about the man’s other business dealings to smell a rat. So he’d done a little digging and discovered ties to at least three illegal mines, including this one in the DRC. Once he was finished here, Martin planned to go public with the story despite the lack of real hard proof, willing to settle for implication and innuendo and let the public decide for itself.
This—this was like a gift from God.
He watched, a smirk pulling at his mouth as he saw Mekembe hand Abbassi an innocuous canvas bag. Though he couldn’t hear the audio, it was clear from the handshakes and brief conversation the men were making a deal.
He couldn’t believe Abbassi’s arrogance, the sheer stupidity, of making the delivery himself. Before, if Martin had gone public with his story, it was unlikely Abbassi would face prosecution. He could easily claim ignorance. After all, he had certificates of authenticity for his diamonds. How was he to know they were forged? And all his planes’ flight plans were registered. No one could ever prove he’d been in the DRC.
But transporting weapons—weapons liberated from a former Soviet stockpile, if he wasn’t missing his guess—for diamonds so the rebels could continue their reign of terror? No way the Lebanese bastard could talk his way out of that.
Suddenly the view jerked forward. Martin’s stomach bottomed out as Mekembe whipped his head toward Marie Laure, shouting something Martin couldn’t hear. Shit. She’d been found out. He watched, helpless, as the ground rushed up to her. Then he got a view of Mekembe’s angry face blocking the sky. His screen filled with nothing but green shirt as Marie Laure was pulled up. Then he got a view of the inside of a tent. Brown arms struggled in front of the camera.
Then the camera was buried under a pile of shifting fabric, and he couldn’t see anything.
Martin switched off the monitor and swallowed back his nausea, trying not to imagine what was happening to Marie Laure as he sat in the relative comfort and security of the hotel lounge. He looked at the flash drive curled in his hand and signaled for another cup of malafu. He had the footage he needed, and that was what mattered.
The server left his drink, and he drained it in two gulps.
But it wasn’t enough to get images of Marie Laure out of his head, her slender body bloated with a kid. Lying under that animal, Mekembe, as he rutted over her. Martin wiped his face. This place was getting to him, sinking its claws into his brain, overrunning his head with nightmarish visions that no amount of palm wine or whiskey could obliterate.
He couldn’t worry about her. He had to focus, keep his eyes on the prize. Even if he did manage to get Marie Laure out of this shit hole, there were thousands more like her. Girls who would be raped, tortured, killed, as these backwater savages destroyed themselves.
He focused instead on Alyssa, her golden beauty reeking of wealth and pampering. Too ignorant to realize she was dating a diamond smuggler and arms trader. Unaware that the diamonds sparkling on her body were drenched in the blood of girls like Marie Laure.
Four days. Four days, and he would be out of this shit hole, and he would never look back. He smiled, imagining the look on Alyssa’s face when he burst her privileged little bubble and brought reality crashing down over her.
“S
ORRY I’M LATE,” Alyssa said, running down the hallway from her bedroom as fast as her high heels would allow.
Derek sat sprawled on the cream-colored sofa in the sitting room, his muscular bulk taking up most of the space.
“That’s what you’re wearing?”
“Yeah, you like it?” She did a little twirl. One look at his face told her she’d hit the jackpot with her midnight-blue sequined minidress.
“I just don’t understand how you can spend all that time getting ready and come out in your underwear.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. She’d seen the heat that had flared in his eyes before he’d squelched it. She’d had fun teasing him in the week he’d been acting as her shadow.
You’re the best—that I’ve ever had, anyway.
The words spun through her mind on an endless loop, combined with the image of his cheeks flushing red as his eyes flared with desire he couldn’t hide. Big, tough, stone-cold Derek, blushing. It was adorable.
He’d almost kissed her.
From that moment, she’d been doing her damnedest to find a crack in his seemingly emotionless facade. Tried to get a
rise out of him to see if she could get him to drop his ironclad control and let loose with the heat she knew bubbled just under the surface.
So far, no luck. Despite the awareness he couldn’t hide 100 percent of the time, he was determined to ignore the chemistry arcing between them like an electric current.
She wished she could do the same. Since Derek Taggart had reappeared in her life, she’d been wound tight as a spring. Bouncing around, buzzing with the kind of energy that came from being around someone she was wildly attracted to.
And that she knew exactly how good he looked naked and exactly how he felt sliding hot and thick inside her only made it worse.
“Don’t you have a coat or something you could wear?” he asked. “Like this one.” He pulled a floor-length trench coat from her hall closet and went to wrap it around her.
“That’s not even my coat,” she said, swatting him away. “Besides, I have my matching wrap.” She gestured at the scrap of midnight silk hanging from her arms.
“That’s a handkerchief. On top of a slip.”
“It’s not that bad. The skirt almost hits my knees.”
“Halfway down your thigh is not almost your knees,” he muttered. “Whatever happened to floor-length gowns? With sleeves?”
She couldn’t hold back a laugh. “God, you sound like an old geezer. ‘Back in my day, if a woman showed an ankle she’d be stoned.’”
Warmth curled in her stomach at his reluctant smile, complete with dimples that made her bare knees weak. How was it that making one man smile make her feel like she’d conquered the known world?
Derek looked pointedly at his watch, breaking the spell. “We need to get moving.”
He drove his own car to the Fairmont, where the party
for the WhiteLight Foundation was being held, leaving Alyssa to ride with Andy in the limo.
“He makes me nervous,” Andy said. She watched Derek’s Audi pull away and climbed in the limo after Alyssa. “The way he watches us.” She gave a little shudder.
“He’s supposed to keep an eye on me,” Alyssa answered.
“He’s watching me, too,” Andy pointed out. “It’s disconcerting, the way he lurks around like some big, angry thug.”
“He’s not the most personable guy in the world, but he’s not that bad. Besides, I kind of like having him around.” Understatement of the century. And not for the obvious reason that she could stare at his gorgeous face and body for hours on end, thinking of things she wanted to do to him.
But because, for all that he had been hired by her uncle, he made her feel safe. She liked the way he stayed close, watching her but also watching everyone else. He had a knack for picking up on when she wanted someone to keep his or her distance, and he placed himself between her and the world.
As soon as they got to the Fairmont, Derek took up his position a few feet away from Alyssa. She moved through the crowd and greeted Marianne Caruso, the director of White-Light and the organizer of the evening’s event. “My, that’s quite a dress,” the older woman remarked, and Alyssa wondered if she’d miscalculated and crossed the line from tastefully sexy to inappropriate.
She thanked Marianne as though she’d been complimented and scanned the crowd, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw Kimberly. Kimberly looked elegant and sophisticated in a simple black sheath, and Alyssa noted that most other female guests were dressed similarly. Suddenly Alyssa felt like a flashy peacock in her blue sequins and lethally high heels.
“You look amazing,” Kimberly gushed as she rushed over to greet her.
“I don’t think Uncle Harold approves.”
“He’s been under so much stress lately, since Daddy…” Kimberly’s voice trailed off, and Alyssa placed a comforting hand on Kimberly’s shoulder.
Alyssa felt her own throat tighten. It had been almost a month, and that night was never far from her mind. She dreamed about it almost every night, saw herself stumbling into the room, all the blood, her ears ringing with screams and the wail of the police sirens.
Dreams haunted her, dreams that the shadow she saw running across the lawn was a man, a murderer fleeing the scene.
She always woke up in a cold sweat, terror mingling with guilt over the fact that she hadn’t come home that night until it was too late. Despite Kimberly’s reassurances, Alyssa knew that if she’d arrived a few minutes earlier, she might have been able to stop her stepmother from going over the edge.
Kimberly blinked back tears, and Alyssa gave her arm a comforting squeeze. “I know. I miss him, too.” At least Kimberly had had an actual father to miss, Alyssa thought, unable to completely curb her jealousy. All Alyssa had had was the idea of what she’d hoped their relationship could be.
She’d been close, but not quite there. Not before he died.
Now she wanted to make it up to his memory, prove to him—hell, prove to herself—that she was worthy of being part of this family, no matter what stupid, immature things she’d done in the past.
Accepting tonight’s award was a good start, though Alyssa wasn’t completely comfortable taking on the role of family spokesperson. “I still think you should be the one accepting the award,” Alyssa said, steering herself and her sister away from the subject of their father.
“It makes sense for you to do it,” Kimberly said. “You’ve done much more work with the foundation than I have. Besides, your involvement will generate more press coverage.”
As if on cue, a photographer appeared in front of them.
“Ken Hayes,
San Francisco Magazine,
” he said. Alyssa barely managed to paste a smile on her face before the flash blinded her. Several others from different publications followed suit, and a correspondent for an entertainment program asked her to comment on the cause.
“It’s an amazing organization,” she said, choosing her words very carefully. She’d learned the hard way that if she didn’t think through everything she said, statements could be edited to make her sound like she had an IQ of about fifty. “WhiteLight provides a great opportunity for under-privileged girls to explore professional careers, and I’m very honored to be a part of it.”
Alyssa took a grateful sip of the sparkling water Andy handed her. The crowd pressed in, too close. Her gaze darted around, and she saw her uncle staring, always watching, waiting for her to mess up.
“Smile,” her sister admonished softly. “Remember, you’re the guest of honor. You’re happy to be here, raising awareness.”
Alyssa nodded, shamed by her sister’s reminder. Of course she was happy to be there, accepting an award on behalf of the Van Weldt family and their generous support of the White-Light Foundation. She’d initially gotten involved at her father’s behest, agreeing it would be a good way to boost her public image, make her seem “a bit less self-centered,” to quote her father.
But after several months working with Marianne and the girls, she found she genuinely enjoyed using her celebrity for something useful. Though she did find it ironic that she, who had never technically held down a day job, was supposed to give the girls career advice. Still, she could talk to them about overcoming feelings of inadequacy and had used her connections to arrange internships in fashion, publishing, even in software companies.
She looked around the room for some of them, glad a
few of the girls had come tonight and that the crowd wasn’t solely made up of uptight donors.
She felt Derek stiffen beside her as a body burst past the reporter. A petite girl with waist-length dark hair and a caramel-colored complexion froze, dark eyes wide as Derek stepped in front of Alyssa and pinned the girl with a cold, forbidding stare.
“It’s okay,” Alyssa said hastily, reaching around Derek to grab Maya’s arm. Maya gave Derek a wary look as she returned Alyssa’s hug.
“He’s not going to throw me out for touching you or anything, is he?”
Alyssa shook her head and shot Derek a dirty look. “Derek, this is Maya Castillo, one of the recipients of WhiteLight’s scholarship this year. She’ll be starting at UCLA this fall. Maya, this is Derek. He’s my bodyguard, so you’ll have to forgive him for being a little overprotective.”
“Nice to meet you, Maya,” Derek said, flashing a dimpled smile that made color rise on Maya’s cheekbones.
Maya turned back to Alyssa. “I wanted to tell you—I got the internship at
Ravage
! I can get school credit for it and everything.”
Alyssa squealed and gave Maya another hug, ignoring the popping of flashes. After learning about Maya’s interest in recording and producing music, she’d set Maya up with an executive at a record label in Los Angeles. “I knew they’d love you.”
Maya pulled back and shot her a knowing look. “I never would have had a shot at something like that without you, and you know it.”
She was probably right. A foster kid, moved around all her life, Maya was lucky she’d found WhiteLight and the scholarship program. But even that wouldn’t have helped her land a job in an industry where networking and connections got you in the door. “Anything I can do to help, let me
know,” Alyssa said. “I still have lots of friends in LA.” She made sure Maya had her cell-phone number before the girl went back to join her friends.
After Maya left, the anxious, suffocated feeling that had overcome her the moment she’d entered the party returned. She was the guest of honor, the most famous person at the party—she should expect to be the center of attention.
Still, her skin crawled with the feel of hundreds of eyes on her. As she greeted people and walked away, she heard the whispers, the speculation. No one cared about the fund-raiser; no one cared about the cause they were there to celebrate. Everyone was talking about her father and stepmother, rehashing the whole sick tale. She could sense them speculating whether she’d make a spectacle of herself again tonight like she had at the AIDS fund-raiser two weeks ago.
Usually she could take it, but lately she felt like she needed to escape, to get away someplace where she could be anonymous, not have her every move tracked.
She needed to disappear. It was difficult, but not impossible. She had the perfect place to go and had pulled it off in the past, but not since before she’d moved up to San Francisco. Maybe…
Alyssa scanned the room and saw her uncle watching her, his watery blue eyes narrowed, and felt her shoulders slump. No way she could get away with it without her uncle going totally ape shit.
“Are you okay?” Derek’s deep voice washed over her, instantly calming.
“Just a little nervous,” she said. “I’m not really looking forward to getting up and speaking to everyone.”
He cocked a skeptical brow.
“Yeah, I know,” she said with a laugh. “Me, shy in front of a crowd?” She shook her head. “You ever have that dream where you have to speak in front of a group, and you realize in the middle of your speech you’re not wearing any clothes?”
He nodded, his lips quirking with the hint of a smile.
“Now imagine that thanks to your ex-boyfriend, everyone in the room
has
seen you naked.”
Derek nodded in understanding.
“I hate speaking at things like this, knowing no one will take anything I say seriously, that they’re just waiting for me to do or say something stupid.”
Before he could reply, a waiter appeared at her side with a glass of champagne. Alyssa accepted it with a heartfelt “thank you” and drained it in two gulps.
Derek grabbed the glass from her hand, his thick brows pulling into a frown. “Better knock that off, or you
will
be in trouble.”
Alyssa rolled her eyes. “Just one glass to take the edge off isn’t going to do me in.”
He glared down at her. “Yeah, well, if you make a fool of yourself on my watch, my ass is on the line, too.”
“Right,” she said, hating the little stab of hurt. “I’ll do my best not to contaminate you with my sullied reputation.”
Something like regret flashed in his eyes, gone in an instant behind his usual expressionless mask.
Despite Derek’s protective presence, she felt the crowd start to close in on her. “I need to go to the restroom,” she said, turning quickly on her heel and making a beeline for the ladies’ room. She gave a weak smile to the other patrons and escaped into a stall. Her breath was coming too quickly, and her heart pounded. She knew if she didn’t get ahold of herself, she’d melt down in a full-out panic attack.
That’s all she needed, she thought as she bit back a hysterical laugh. She could see the headlines now:
PARTY GIRL ALYSSA MILES HAS NERVOUS BREAKDOWN AT CHARITY EVENT
.
She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, practicing the relaxation exercises her therapist had taught her to combat her frequent headaches and occasional anxiety
attacks. The exercises hadn’t done much good in the weeks since her father had died, but Alyssa refused to take the next step and go on antianxiety meds. She knew the press would get wind in a heartbeat and made sure she was never seen consuming more than one drink at a party.
It still didn’t stop them from speculating about her drug use, but Alyssa could control only so much.