A Stirring from Salem (13 page)

Charley laid her head on the cushy down pillow, the digital clock by her bed flipped to read twelve straight up. Midnight. It had been an astonishing forty-eight hours since the midnight that had started this whole adventure. Had she left Jackson and Chance at the Trafalgar Hotel even moments before on New Year’s Eve, Vince may not have found her and she wouldn’t have been offered the job that brought her here.

She yawned widely, stretching out on the bed. It was rumored that almost everyone who was anyone had stayed at the Royal Londolani—from Justin Timberlake and Elton John to Julia Roberts and honeymooning Chelsea Clinton and hubby Marc Mezvinsky—but the rumors had never been confirmed. The Royal Londolani was discreet to the max.

Still, as she tried to sleep, Charley mulled over the fact that she could be sleeping in the same bed where entertainment royalty and true royalty had slept. It never occurred to Charley that, to some, she was actually royalty.

She wished it wasn’t so late. Call time was in less than three hours. If anyone knew that, she did. But she and Vince had had plenty to do once they got back to their suite. They had gone through all of the photos from the day, but unfortunately, not many were good. The truth was that Scarlett’s shots weren’t cutting it, and Vince was getting uncharacteristically nervous.

He’d had two hits of weed to try to calm his nerves and had offered some to her, but Charley wasn’t interested. She didn’t have an issue with smoking pot; it just wasn’t her thing. She also wanted to make sure the boundaries were drawn with Vince Castle. Vince’s reputation was legendary. Brendan was right to be protective, she thought.

Brendan. She couldn’t resist smiling as she said his name.

Brendan Fox. Charley and Brendan. Charley Fox.

She sat bolt upright.

I didn’t really think that, did I?

Though she was alone, she was mortified. Well, maybe just a little mortified, she thought. I guess it’s true: a girl meets a guy she thinks is hot, and before you can say “I do,” she’s trying out their names together.

Charley sank back into her pillow and let the name roll around in her mind: Charlotte “Charley” Fox. And he likes John and Marlena, she thought to herself.

As she turned to adjust her position on the comfy mattress, Charley caught sight of something on the bedside table. It was the family album Marlena had so meticulously put together.

Time was slipping by quickly, and Charley had less than three hours to sleep. But the book was there, staring at her. She closed her eyes, but it was hopeless. She was alone in this very safe zone, and there was no way she could get her new life out of her mind. So she gathered the book and took it back to bed with her.

For the first time, she opened the pages. As she flipped through, they told the intriguing, romantic, dangerous, heartbreaking, and triumphant story of John and Marlena Brady Black. The biological family she had never known.

There were photos of Marlena’s twins with Roman Brady, Sami and Eric, from the time they were toddlers to shots taken in the past year. Eric was always shown with family or a group of friends; he’d never married. Sami was with several hunks, undoubtedly each her husband at one time or another, and her three adorable children. Charley had heard that Sami was not only fascinating but had a checkered past, and she wondered if the two of them had anything remotely in common.

She turned the page to see photos of Carrie and Austin Reed. As Sami’s half sister by Roman Brady, Carrie had become part of John and Marlena’s extended family and was as close to them as their own children. Carrie had a beautiful smile. And by the way Austin held her in the photo, Charley knew they were in love. The kind of love she hoped she’d have one day.

With Brendan the fox? she thought. Then she shook her head and went back to looking at the photos.

Brady Black, John’s oft-troubled son with Isabella Toscana, was strapping and gorgeous. He looked like someone Chance and Jackson would like to know.

And then there was Belle. Beautiful, blonde Belle was the only other biological child of both of the people whose genes flowed through Charley’s body.

Charley had met Belle in Monte Carlo. In fact, Belle’s loving husband, Shawn, had brought Marlena into Charley’s life. Charley smiled as she thought about him. When they’d first met, the handsome sailor had dazzled Charley. He had even donated blood to her after the accident that had killed her mother and seriously injured her. Ironically, Shawn and Belle had been the ones who called Marlena to help Charley in the aftermath of the tragedy. The three of them already had a bond that none of the others could understand.

Belle had discovered she was pregnant about that time, and Shawn had been over the moon, as was their adorable almost-four-year-old moppet, Claire.

A niece or nephew, Charley realized. Soon she was going to actually be an aunt—again. A biological one, in any case.

She moved slowly from page to page, finding that each one held a story. Every one of them was fascinating to the girl who’d been avoiding them.

Finally, she reached the last page of the book. It was empty, but it still had a page number and the header that read “Our Loving Family.” It held a handwritten inscription. Charley hesitated a moment before she read it.

“Charley, This page is held for the time you wish to be included in our extended and sometimes crazy family, should you ever decide to do so. In the meantime, we wanted you to get a glimpse of who we are to better help you know who you are or can be. Merry Christmas.”

It was simply signed “John and Marlena.”

The alarm went off next to Charley’s bed, startling her. She realized she had been poring through the album for nearly two and a half hours.

Charley hadn’t had a wink of sleep, but there in the still of the night in darkest Africa, she’d been given glimpses into John and Marlena’s trials, tribulations, and heroics. As she began to get dressed, calmness came over her. For the first time, she felt she was beginning to understand a bit about them and the new cast of characters in her life.

Maybe the worst is behind us, she thought. Maybe life can be good again after all.

The Mahiki Lounge was a favorite of the über-trendy, über-wealthy, and über-chic set, especially during the bleak, blustery London winters. For those who could afford it, this sumptuous and exotic tiki bar in Mayfair was like an undiscovered private island. Bamboo walls, tiki torches, and rattan furniture added to the Polynesian ambiance.

Abby was, of course, a regular.

Fruit drinks with paper umbrellas had always been one of her favorites, and the piña coladas in pineapples at Mahiki were her poison. But tonight, with the love of her life joining her and four carats on her left hand, she ordered the Lover’s Cup.

Jackson was more of a straight scotch kind of guy, but when he saw the massive pink drink for two filled with tropical fruit and orchids on the table, he indulged her. The day had been confusing for him since their lunch at Soho House and the unexpected call from Charley. Thankfully, Abby had let the Scarlett debacle drop.

“Hey.” She smiled as he plopped beside her in the high-backed green booth overlooking the dance floor below. The room was already filled with London’s elite.

“Hey, Gorgeous,” he said and smiled back. Abby did have an engaging smile, and her eyes sparkled. She was a woman in love.

She leaned in for a kiss, and he accommodated her. Her lips were inviting and warm, and she nibbled his top lip sensuously.

His body tingled, radiating from his pelvis and reaching from his toes to the top of his head. It startled him and he pulled back.

“What’s wrong?” Abby asked.

“Nothing,” he said. But the tilt of his head made her pull back. “Really,” he insisted. “Actually something’s very right.”

Jackson took her left hand in his. “It’s more right than I expected.”

“I guess that’s a compliment.” Abby smiled.

“I feel like I’ve been pulled out of hell and landed in paradise,” he admitted.

“It’s the tiki torches,” Abby answered.

“No, it’s you,” Jackson corrected her.

“To us,” she said, handing him one of the long straws from their oversized cocktail.

As Jackson took a long, sweet sip from the rum concoction, he spotted Chance on the first floor. His brother was alone, which was unusual for him at this time of the night. Chance was scouring the club for something. He moved through the gyrating dancers but ignored them all.

“Little brother’s here,” he said to Abby, indicating Chance in the crowd.

Jackson let out a quick whistle with hopes of getting his brother’s attention. Abby had a better idea. She fished an ice cube from her frothy bowl and targeted her future brother-in-law. The wet square hit him right on his shoulder.

Chance looked up to see the lovers waving him up to join them. He shook his head no and pointed for Jackson to join him instead.

“Well, this could be interesting,” Jackson said to Abby. “Be right back. I hope.”

Abby nodded as Jackson left the banquette.

Abby took it all in. The music was pulsating, the crowd enthusiastic. She rested her chin in her hands, elbows on the table. Suddenly she realized it was vibrating.

Jackson had left his phone on the table. It was on silent mode, and someone was calling.

Abby reached for it but then pulled back. It was nearly three in the morning, so who would be calling? Answering someone else’s phone, especially her fiancé’s, would be an invasion of privacy, and she knew better.

The vibrating stopped and she stared at the phone for a long moment.

She could see Jackson and Chance below engaged in deep conversation.

Finally, call it reporter’s instincts or impulse, but she couldn’t help herself. She picked up Jackson’s phone and saw there was a new voicemail. Against her better judgment, she listened.

“Hey, lover, when you get a chance, call me…”

Abby clicked off the phone and was heartsick. She didn’t dare hear any more. She couldn’t resist seeing who it was from, though, so she quickly scanned Jackson’s recent calls. It was the same number she’d seen earlier: Royal Londolani.

Her heart sank. She knew it was Scarlett.

***

On the floor below, Jackson was being given bad news.

“This has got to be a nightmare,” Jackson groaned. “Someone wake me up!”

“You’re as awake as I am, bruv,” Chance said as he pinched his brother hard. “We’re still on the hook legally for some of the money Dad swindled, so our flats are going on the auction block.”

“When?” Jackson sighed.

“We have thirty days to get out,” Chance said as he handed an envelope to his beloved brother. “And any gifts from Mum and Dad have to be turned over.”

Now Jackson was the one who was heartsick and very, very confused.

He ran his hand through his dark brown mane as he tried to grasp the reality. He tipped his head back and caught sight of Abby looking down at him and Chance from her perch.

She blew him a kiss with her left hand.

Mum’s ring, Jackson thought as his mind started swirling. Bloody hell.

A dense breeze was rolling through the darkness of the Timbavati. Throughout the bush, exotic animals foraged for food. While elephants picked at brush and branches, hippos wallowed in shallow mud eating sticks and leaves. A pack of multicolored wild dogs ripped the flesh from a fallen gazelle several miles away, their howling and piercing barks celebrating their catch. Leaves rustled and snapped as antelopes scampered through the terrain.

Then a muffled shot rang out from a Browning A-Bolt.

What sounded like a trumpet blare indicated that the prey had been hit.

A gloved hand reloaded the rifle. Then another muffled shot blasted out of the gun barrel.

The pattern was repeated, and after one more shot there was a groaning sound and a heavy thud. Then a squeak like a wail.

“Shit,” the shooter said.

Rustling could be heard nearby before another shot was loaded and another target hit.

There was another thud, but this one was not as heavy.

The breathing of the man behind the gun was heavy, though. Labored and anxious.

“Make sure they’re dead,” the hushed Afrikaans voice demanded. “But hurry.”

Black hands took a hatchet from the truck and then hacked at the animals with intensity. Within minutes, two rhino horns had been severed. One was half the size of the other.

A mother rhino and her calf were dead, their carcasses left for the scavengers.

***

The sound of the vehicle’s engine stopped ten feet from the Falcon 200 parked on the Royal Londolani landing strip. An African tracker unloaded four cardboard boxes from the rear of the vehicle while the driver waited.

One by one, he took the precious treasures to the foot of the private jet’s stairs.

He waited until a man appeared in the open doorway up top and nodded.

One by one, he brought the boxes up the stairs and into the cabin.

After a moment, the driver appeared behind him. With an X-Acto knife, he swiftly cut open each of the boxes.

Each one held an African white rhino horn, severed at the base. One remarkably smaller than the others.

“What’s this?” Wen asked, pointing at the small horn.

“Didn’t see the calf at first,” Cornelius answered.

“Pity,” Wen scowled. “Worth a third of what it would have gotten two years from now.”

And that was a barrel of money.