Bloodline (2 page)

“You’re like me,” Sam Roffe had said. “We want to own the world. I’m going to show you how.” And he had.

Sam Roffe had been a brilliant mentor. Over the next nine years under Sam Roffe’s tutelage, Rhys Williams had become invaluable to the company. As time went on, he was given more and more responsibility, reorganizing various divisions, troubleshooting in whatever part of the world he was needed, coordinating the different branches of Roffe and Sons, creating new concepts. In the end Rhys knew more about running the company than anyone except Sam Roffe himself. Rhys Williams was the logical successor to the presidency. One morning, when Rhys and Sam Roffe were returning from Caracas in a company jet, a luxurious converted Boeing 707-320, one of a fleet of eight planes, Sam Roffe had complimented Rhys on a lucrative deal
that he had concluded with the Venezuelan government.

“There’ll be a fat bonus in this for you, Rhys.”

Rhys had replied quietly, “I don’t want a bonus, Sam. I’d prefer some stock and a place on your board of directors.”

He had earned it, and both men were aware of it. But Sam had said, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t change the rules, even for you. Roffe and Sons is a privately held company. No one outside of the family can sit on the board or hold stock.”

Rhys had known that, of course. He attended all board meetings, but not as a member. He was an outsider. Sam Roffe was the last male in the Roffe bloodline. The other Roffes, Sam’s cousins, were females. The men they had married sat on the board of the company. Walther Gassner, who had married Anna Roffe; Ivo Palazzi, married to Simonetta Roffe; Charles Martel, married to Hélène Roffe. And Sir Alec Nichols, whose mother had been a Roffe.

So Rhys had been forced to make a decision. He knew that he deserved to be on the board, that one day he should be running the company. Present circumstances prevented it, but circumstances had a way of changing. Rhys had decided to stay, to wait and see what happened. Sam had taught him patience. And now Sam was dead.

The office lights blazed on again, and Hajib Kafir stood in the doorway. Kafir was the Turkish sales manager for Roffe and Sons. He was a short, swarthy man who wore diamonds and his fat belly like proud ornaments. He had the disheveled air of a man who
had dressed hastily. So Sophie had not found him in a nightclub. Ah, well, Rhys thought. A side effect of Sam Roffe’s death. Coitus interruptus.

“Rhys!” Kafir was exclaiming. “My dear fellow, forgive me! I had no idea you were still in Istanbul! You were on your way to catch a plane, and I had some urgent business to—”

“Sit down, Hajib. Listen carefully. I want you to send four cables in company code. They’re going to different countries. I want them hand-delivered by our own messengers. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Kafir said, bewildered. “Perfectly.”

Rhys glanced at the thin, gold Baume & Mercier watch on his wrist. “The New City Post Office will be closed. Send the cables from Yeni Posthane Cad. I want them on their way within thirty minutes.” He handed Kafir a copy of the cable he had written out. “Anyone who discusses this will be instantly discharged.”

Kafir glanced at the cable and his eyes widened. “My God!” he said. “Oh, my God!” He looked up at Rhys’s dark face. “How—how did this terrible thing happen?”

“Sam Roffe died in an accident,” Rhys said.

Now, for the first time, Rhys allowed his thoughts to go to what he had been pushing away from his consciousness, what he had been trying to avoid thinking about: Elizabeth Roffe, Sam’s daughter. She was twenty-four now. When Rhys had first met her, she had been a fifteen-year-old girl with braces on her teeth, fiercely shy and overweight, a lonely rebel. Over the years Rhys had watched Elizabeth develop into a very special young woman, with her mother’s beauty and her father’s intelligence and spirit. She had become close to Sam. Rhys knew
how deeply the news would affect her. He would have to tell her himself.

Two hours later, Rhys Williams was over the Mediterranean on a company jet, headed for New York.

Berlin.

Monday, September 7.

Ten a.m.

Anna Roffe Gassner knew that she must not let herself scream again or Walther would return and kill her. She crouched in a corner of her bedroom, her body trembling uncontrollably, waiting for death. What had started out as a beautiful fairy tale had ended in terror, unspeakable horror. It had taken her too long to face the truth: the man she had married was a homicidal maniac.

Anna Roffe had never loved anyone before she met Walther Gassner, including her mother, her father and herself. Anna had been a frail, sickly child who suffered from fainting spells. She could not remember a time when she had been free of hospitals or nurses or specialists flown in from far-off places. Because her father was Anton Roffe, of Roffe and Sons, the top medical experts flew to Anna’s bedside in Berlin. But when they had ex
amined her and tested her and finally departed, they knew no more than they had known before. They could not diagnose her condition.

Anna was unable to go to school like other children, and in time she had become withdrawn, creating a world of her own, full of dreams and fantasies, where no one else was allowed to enter. She painted her own pictures of life, because the colors of reality were too harsh for her to accept When Anna was eighteen, her dizziness and fainting spells disappeared as mysteriously as they had started. But they had marred her life. At an age when most girls were getting engaged or married, Anna had never even been kissed by a boy. She insisted to herself that she did not mind. She was content to live her own dream life, apart from everything and everyone. In her middle twenties suitors came calling, for Anna Roffe was an heiress who bore one of the most prestigious names in the world, and many men were eager to share her fortune. She received proposals from a Swedish count, an Italian poet and half a dozen princes from indigent countries. Anna refused them all. On his daughter’s thirtieth birthday, Anton Roffe moaned, “I’m going to die without leaving any grandchildren.”

On her thirty-fifth birthday Anna had gone to Kitzbühel, in Austria, and there she had met Walther Gassner, a ski instructor thirteen years younger than she.

The first time Anna had seen Walther, the sight of him had literally taken her breath away. He was skiing down the
Hahnenkamm,
the steep racing slope, and it was the most beautiful sight Anna had ever seen. She had moved closer to the bottom of the ski run to get a better look at him. He was like
a young god, and Anna had been satisfied to do nothing but watch him. He had caught her staring at him.

“Aren’t you skiing,
gnädiges Fraülein?”

She had shaken her head, not trusting her voice, and he had smiled and said, “Then let me buy you lunch.”

Anna had fled in a panic, like a schoolgirl. From then on, Walther Gassner had pursued her. Anna Roffe was not a fool. She was aware that she was neither pretty nor brilliant, that she was a plain woman, and that, aside from her name, she had seemingly very little to offer a man. But Anna knew that trapped within that ordinary facade was a beautiful, sensitive girl filled with love and poetry and music.

Perhaps because Anna was not beautiful, she had a deep reverence for beauty. She would go to the great museums and spend hours staring at the paintings and the statues. When she had seen Walther Gassner it was as though all the gods had come alive for her.

Anna was having breakfast on the terrace of the Tennerhof Hotel on the second day when Walther Gassner joined her. He did look like a young god. He had a regular, clean-cut profile, and his features were delicate, sensitive, strong. His face was deeply tanned and his teeth were white and even. He had blond hair and his eyes were a slate gray. Beneath his ski clothes Anna could see the movement of his biceps and thigh muscles, and she felt tremors going through her loins. She hid her hands in her lap so that he could not see the keratosis.

“I looked for you on the slopes yesterday afternoon,” Walther said. Anna could not speak. “If you
don’t ski, I’d like to teach you.” He smiled, and added, “No charge.”

He had taken her to the
Hausberg,
the beginners slope, for her first lesson. It was immediately apparent to them both that Anna had no talent for skiing. She kept losing her balance and falling down, but she insisted on trying again and again because she was afraid that Walther would despise her if she failed. Instead, he had picked her up after her tenth fall and had said gently, “You were meant to do better things than this.”

“What things?” Anna had asked, miserable.

“I’ll tell you at dinner tonight.”

They had dined that evening and breakfasted the next morning, and then had lunch and dinner again. Walther neglected his clients. He skipped skiing lessons in order to go into the village with Anna. He took her to the casino in Der Goldene Greif, and they went sleigh riding and shopping and hiking, and sat on the terrace of the hotel hour after hour, talking. For Anna, it was a time of magic.

Five days after they had met, Walther took her hands in his and said, “Anna,
liebchen,
I want to marry you.”

He had spoiled it. He had taken her out of her wonderful fairyland and brought her back to the cruel reality of who and what she was. An unattractive, thirty-five-year-old virginal prize for fortune hunters.

She had tried to leave but Walther had stopped her. “We love each other, Anna. You can’t run away from that.”

She listened to him lying, listened to him saying, “I’ve never loved anyone before,” and she made it easy for him because she wanted so desperately to
believe him. She took him back to her room, and they sat there, talking, and as Walther told Anna the story of his life, she suddenly began to believe, thinking with wonder, It is really the story of my own life.

Like her, Walther had never had anyone to love. He had been alienated from the world by his birth as a bastard, as Anna had been alienated by her illness. Like her, Walther had been filled with the need to give love. He had been brought up in an orphanage, and when he was thirteen and his extraordinary good looks were already apparent, the women in the orphanage had begun to use him, bringing him to their rooms at night, taking him to bed with them, teaching him how to please them. As a reward the young boy was given extra food and pieces of meat, and desserts made with real sugar. He received everything but love.

When Walther was old enough to run away from the orphanage, he found that the world outside was no different. Women wanted to use his good looks, to wear him as a badge; but it never went any deeper than that. They gave him gifts of money and clothes and jewelry, but never of themselves.

Walther was her soul mate, Anna realized, her doppelgänger. They were married in a quiet ceremony at the town hall.

Anna had expected her father to be overjoyed. Instead, he had flown into a rage. “You’re a silly, vain fool,” Anton Roffe screamed at her. “You’ve married a no-good fortune hunter. I’ve had him checked out. All his life he’s lived off women, but he’s never found anyone stupid enough to marry him before.”

“Stop it!” Anna cried. “You don’t understand him.”

But Anton Roffe knew that he understood Walther Gassner only too well. He asked his new son-in-law to come to his office.

Walther looked around approvingly at the dark paneling and the old paintings hanging on the walls. “I like this place,” Walther said.

“Yes. I’m sure it’s better than the orphanage.”

Walther looked up at him sharply, his eyes suddenly wary. “I beg your pardon?”

Anton said, “Let’s cut out the
Scheiss.
You’ve made a mistake. My daughter has no money.”

Walther’s gray eyes seemed to turn to stone. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“I’m not trying to tell you anything. I’m telling you. You won’t get anything from Anna because she hasn’t got anything. If you had done your homework more thoroughly, you would have learned that Roffe and Sons is a close-held corporation. That means that none of its stock can be sold. We live comfortably, but that’s it. There is no big fortune to be milked here.” He fumbled in his pocket, drew out an envelope and threw it on the desk in front of Walther. “This will reimburse you for your trouble. I will expect you to be out of Berlin by six o’clock. I don’t want Anna ever to hear from you again.”

Walther said quietly, “Did it ever cross your mind that I might have married Anna because I fell in love with her?”

“No,” Anton said acidly. “Did it ever cross yours?”

Walther looked at him a moment. “Let’s see what my market price is.” He tore open the envelope and counted the money. He looked up at Anton Roffe
again. “I value myself at much higher than twenty thousand marks.”

“It’s all you’re getting. Count yourself lucky.”

“I do,” Walther said. “If you want to know the truth, I think I am very lucky. Thank you.” He put the money in his pocket with a careless gesture and a moment later was walking out the door.

Anton Roffe was relieved. He experienced a slight sense of guilt and distaste for what he had done and yet he knew it had been the only solution. Anna would be unhappy at being deserted by her groom, but it was better to have it happen now than later. He would try to see to it that she met some eligible men her own age, who would at least respect her if not love her. Someone who would be interested in her and not her money or her name. Someone who would not be bought for twenty thousand marks.

When Anton Roffe arrived home, Anna ran up to greet him, tears in her eyes. He took her in his arms and hugged her, and said, “Anna,
liebchen,
it’s going to be all right. You’ll get over him—”

And Anton looked over her shoulder, and standing in the doorway was Walther Gassner. Anna was holding up her finger, saying, “Look what Walther bought me! Isn’t it the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen? It cost twenty thousand marks.”

In the end, Anna’s parents were forced to accept Walther Gassner. As a wedding gift they bought them a lovely Schinkel manor house in Wannsee, with French furniture, mixed with antiques, comfortable couches and easy chairs, a Roentgen desk in the library, and bookcases lining the walls. The upstairs was furnished with elegant eighteenth-century pieces from Denmark and Sweden.

“It’s too much,” Walther told Anna. “I don’t want anything from them or from you. I want to be able to buy you beautiful things,
liebchen.”
He gave her that boyish grin and said, “But I have no money.”

“Of course you do,” Anna replied. “Everything I have belongs to you.”

Walther smiled at her sweetly and said, “Does it?”

At Anna’s insistence—for Walther seemed reluctant to discuss money—she explained her financial situation to him. She had a trust fund that was enough for her to live on comfortably, but the bulk of her fortune was in shares of Roffe and Sons. The shares could not be sold without the unanimous approval of the board of directors.

“How much is your stock worth?” Walther asked.

Anna told him. Walther could not believe it He made her repeat the sum.

“And you can’t sell the stock?”

“No. My cousin Sam won’t let it be sold. He holds the controlling shares. One day…”

Walther expressed an interest in working in the family business. Anton Roffe was against it.

“What can a ski bum contribute to Roffe and Sons?” he asked.

But in the end he gave in to his daughter, and Walther was given a job with the company in administration. He proved to be excellent at it and advanced rapidly. When Anna’s father died two year’s later, Walther Gassner was made a member of the board. Anna was so proud of him. He was the perfect husband and lover. He was always bringing her flowers and little gifts, and he seemed content to stay at home with her in the evening, just the two of
them. Anna’s happiness was almost too much for her to bear.
Ach, danke, lieber Gott,
she would say silently.

Anna learned to cook, so that she could make Walther’s favorite dishes. She made
choucroute,
a bed of crunchy sauerkraut and creamy mashed potatoes heaped with a smoked pork chop, a frankfurter and a Nuremberg sausage. She prepared fillet of pork cooked in beer and flavored with cumin, and served it with a fat baked apple, cored and peeled, the center filled with
airelles,
the little red berries.

“You’re the best cook in the world,
liebchen,”
Walther would say, and Anna would blush with pride.

In the third year of their marriage, Anna became pregnant.

There was a great deal of pain during the first eight months of her pregnancy, but Anna bore that happily. It was something else that worried her.

It started one day after lunch. She had been knitting a sweater for Walther, daydreaming, and suddenly she heard Walther’s voice, saying, “My God, Anna, what are you doing, sitting here in the dark?”

The afternoon had turned to dusk, and she looked down at the sweater in her lap and she had not touched it. Where had the day gone? Where had her mind been? After that, Anna had other similar experiences, and she began to wonder whether this sliding away into nothingness was a portent, an omen that she was going to die. She did not think she was afraid of death, but she could not bear the thought of leaving Walther.

Four weeks before the baby was due, Anna lapsed
into one of her daydreams, missed a step and fell down an entire flight of stairs.

She awakened in the hospital.

Walther was seated on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. “You gave me a terrible scare.”

In a sudden panic she thought, The baby! I can’t feel the baby. She reached down. Her stomach was flat. “Where is my baby?”

And Walther held her close and hugged her.

The doctor said, “You had twins, Mrs. Gassner.”

Anna turned to Walther, and his eyes were filled with tears. “A boy and girl,
liebchen.”

And she could have died right then of happiness. She felt a sudden, irresistible longing to have them in her arms. She had to see them, feel them, hold them.

“We’ll talk about that when you’re stronger,” the doctor said. “Not until you’re stronger.”