Heir Untamed

Heir Untamed

by

Danielle Bourdon

Published by Wildbloom Press

Copyright © 2012

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

For my grandma Pauline

Thanks for a lifetime of love and laughter

Chapter One

Chey stared at the pink eviction notice on her apartment door with a heavy heart. Setting the bag containing her camera equipment by her feet, she pushed up her sunglasses to read the fine print:
This is your final notice. Pay delinquent rent or face eviction on October First.

“I know, I
know.
I can't pull money out of thin air.” Chey peeled the paper off her door and fished her keys from a pocket. Letting herself inside, she set the camera case by the wall and put her purse down precisely in line with the edge of the couch.

Exhaling a long breath, she placed the eviction notice on a side table, using her fingers to align it exactly with the edge. Turned down for two jobs
and
getting threatened with eviction in one day was a little more than she could handle. Three weeks after losing her regular day job, she was still looking for work. The remaining prospects were grim.

Hands on her hips, she scanned the interior of the apartment with a critical eye. The couches, white with a soft floral pattern, had belonged to her parents. Chey inherited them along with the end tables, a hutch and kitchen table when they perished in a car accident eight months past. A coat rack, fake ficus tree and various antique odds and ends she had picked up at the local flea market. It wasn't much, but it was hers.

Where she would move it, she wasn't sure. What landlord would take her in with no job? Never mind she didn't have first and last—she didn't even have this month's rent. Walking to a calendar hanging on the wall just inside the kitchen, she glanced at the date.
September Thirteenth.
She had roughly two weeks to come up with this month and next month's rent.

Running her fingers over the close up shot of wildflowers on the calendar, Chey appraised her work. When she wasn't employed at a portrait studio, she made calendars and prints to sell through various outlets online. She'd been hoping to pull in supplemental revenue but sales had been disappointingly slow after the last holiday rush.

Flipping the calendar to the next month, she eyed the landscape of poppies. It was a good, clear shot. Somewhat whimsical. The problem was the other million or so photographers trying to make a living the very same way. Getting seen was the hard part. Maybe today someone had purchased a hundred coffee cups with hydrangea or calendars with spectacular sunsets.

Heading into her bedroom, Chey picked her laptop up off her nightstand and sat with her legs folded beneath her on the bed. Opening the cover, the machine sprang to life from sleep mode. Rubbing her palms together, sending up a silent prayer, Chey got her fingers on the keys and accessed her seller account.

She needed sales. Desperately.

With hope in her eyes, she watched the correct screen pop up.

Nothing. Not even one sale.

She checked the account on another site. Just in case.

Nothing there, either.

Bringing up the local newspaper, she surfed to the classifieds and scanned the possibilities. She really wanted to stay within her chosen field—photography—but anything that would pay the bills would suit at this point.

“Day care, fast food, fast food, coffee cafe—all part time.” Part time didn't cover her rent and utilities, much less leave enough for groceries. The rent on her apartment, located in a slightly upscale neighborhood with good security in Seattle, was steep. Before the death of her parents, when she'd worked as an assistant to a prominent, private photographer, things had been much better. Since then, everything had taken a nose dive, including losing her beloved job when the photographer moved out of state.

“Convenience store. Full time, benefits in three months. But the pay...” Chey shuddered. It just wasn't enough.

Propping her elbows on her thighs, she brought her fingers to her temple and rubbed. She could hear her mother now, rattling on about stretching the skin around her eyes. Did she want premature wrinkles?

Chey rubbed anyway. It helped with the massive headache about to obliterate her world.

Maybe alcohol was in order.

A hard series of knocks on her front door startled Chey out of her descent into self pity. The manager of the complex wouldn't send people to kick her out early, would he?

Gripped by sudden anxiety, Chey set the laptop aside and climbed off the bed. Smoothing her hands down the burgundy, long sleeved sweater she wore over black slacks, she made her way to the door. When she peered out the peephole, she had a view of a man in a strict, very expensive looking suit.

Oh
no.

Swallowing a knot of worry, she unbolted the lock and swung open the door.

Two men, hands clasped before them, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, stood waiting. One looked like he could have walked off a runway: dark hair, square jaw, straight nose. He wore a fine layer of short whiskers trimmed just so. His shoulders filled out the black suit perfectly. He held a briefcase in one hand.

The other...was frightening. Lighter haired, face craggy with a long scar slanting across one cheek, mouth a hard line. He was an inch or two taller than his companion, with broader shoulders and a thicker frame. Not fat, she could easily see, just more muscle mass.

These men had nothing to do with the apartment complex. Their clothes were too fine, their demeanor too strict.

“You're not the angels of death, are you? Because that would
really
round out my day,” she said.

The dark haired man laughed while the one with the scar cut a vicious looking smile.

“Madam, no. We're not the angels of death. I'm Allar and this is Hendrik,” the dark haired man said.

He had a smooth accent Chey found difficult to place. Instead of giving her name, she said, “Yes? What can I do for you.”

Just because they looked like a million bucks didn't mean they were on the up and up.

“We are here on behalf of the Ahtissari family,” he replied with an expectant pause, as if Chey should know who they were.

She arched her brows, searching her memory for the name. Had these been former clients? It didn't sound familiar. “I don't think I know anyone with that last name. I'm sorry—is this to do with a former shoot?”

“Not a former shoot,” Allar said. “New clients, should you agree to come photograph the family and their estate. Is there a coffee shop or somewhere we might sit and discuss business, Miss Sinclair?”

Chey, surprised that he knew her last name, held up a hand. “Excuse me a moment. How do you know who I am?”

Allar opened the briefcase and pulled out one of her latest calendars. The one of old structures at sunrise around Seattle.

“You
are
the Chey Sinclair who shot the photos for this, yes?” Allar asked.

“I'm...well yes, that's my calendar. Who did you say you're working for again?” Chey glanced between men. She wished she could see their eyes behind the shades.

“The Ahtissari family, Madam.” Allar slid the calendar into the case and withdrew a business card that he extended between two fingers.

Chey accepted it and glanced down. The royal blue card sported a family crest—two rearing lions back to back surrounded by ivy—and neat silver script:
Allar Kusta. Security.

Security?

Hendrik also produced a card from an inner coat pocket. He handed it over.

Chey accepted it, noting it was the same crisp color and design.
Hendrik Vello. Security.
Both cards had nothing on the back. They also had no phone numbers or other identifying marks.

“Let me grab my purse and we'll go down to the clubhouse here. It should suit for discussing business. All right?” Chey slid both cards together and glanced at the men. She couldn't afford not to at least listen to their proposal.

“At your leisure, Madam.” Allar bowed his head.

Chey eased the door closed, pushed the cards into the slim pocket on her slacks, and bent down to pick her purse up off the floor. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she plucked her keys off the table and stepped out. Locking the door behind her, she led the men down a flight of stairs and across a cobbled courtyard to a set of french double doors. Here she depressed a code into the keypad specifically issued to residents. Hendrik opened one door before she could reach for it.

Murmuring her thanks, she led them into the main part of the clubhouse. A stone fireplace took up half of one wall, while a kitchen and several conference rooms took up another. Under a vaulted ceiling with heavy beams meeting in the middle sat an array of couches, four overstuffed chairs and a coffee table.

Perching on a chair, she set her purse at her feet and addressed the men as they smoothed their ties and sat down.

“All right then. What are the details of the job?” Chey wasn't surprised when neither man removed his glasses. Allar was the one who replied after balancing the briefcase next to his polished shoe.

“A liaison for the Ahtissari's discovered your work during a search, presented it to the family, and they narrowed down their choice to you. It's a rather intensive offer, Miss Sinclair. They will request your presence at their estate for the next four months. You will photograph the family in various settings, at various times, along with an extensive portfolio of the house and grounds. They're looking for fine detail, unique perspective and imagination.”

Chey twitched in surprise. “Four months? Why so long?”

“They would like snaps of the seasons, Miss Sinclair, and the family engaged in activities suitable to fall and winter. You will need to be there as the foliage turns and the snows set in. I daresay, after viewing your work, that it's right up your alley.” Allar smiled.

Four months sounded like an eternity. That was an enormous commitment she wasn't sure she could make. Living on site would prevent her from finding another job in the meantime. As if he read her mind by watching her expression, Allar spoke up before she could.

“They are willing to pay you thirty-five thousand dollars, Miss Sinclair. Half now, and half when you're through. They expect all rights to the photos, as well, just so you're aware.”

Chey's mouth fell open. Thirty-five thousand dollars? Stunned into silence, she stared at the two men. That would easily salvage her apartment and allow her to sock a good sized chunk away for savings. She could return in four months and have the luxury of finding a job at will rather than rush to take whatever she had to.

Maybe fast food wasn't in her immediate future after all.

“I'm—wow. That's a very generous offer. I have no problem giving them the rights to the photos.” It wasn't standard practice, but for that price, Chey was more than willing to make an exception.

“So you're considering it, then? They're also paying for all travel expenses and any new equipment you might need.”

“Travel expenses. I see. Where, exactly are we traveling to?” Chey wondered if the family lived in an exclusive neighboring city. They had money, there was no doubt about that.

“To Latvala, Miss Sinclair. You will be photographing the Royal Family.”

“...excuse me?” Chey wasn't at all familiar with the country. She knew it was small and in Europe. That was about it. And what was this about Royals?

Allar's lips ticked like he was fighting off a smile. “The King and Queen? You will be staying at the castle, in your own quarters. Very nice accommodation, I might add. Not every guest is allowed to actually stay in residence with the Royalty.”

It all felt like a surreal dream. The Royal family wanted
her
to take their pictures? What might that do for her career?

Light it on fire,
an inner voice insisted. What an incredible addition to her resume. She might even be able to go into business for herself when she returned with that kind of experience in her background.

Four months suddenly sounded terribly exciting. “Yes. I accept.”

Allar smiled. Reaching down into the briefcase, he withdrew a packet and extended it to her. “This is the contract and confidentiality agreement. All it really says is that you agree to give up rights to the photos and that you will not discuss anything you see or hear with outsiders regarding the family. Obviously, taking 'extra' photos to sell to anyone else, such as a rag, is off limits.”

“A rag?”

“Tabloids, Miss Sinclair.”

Chey took the envelope. “Oh, of course. No, I wouldn't dream of it. When do we leave? I have a few affairs to get in order.”

“As soon as possible. The family is offering a five thousand dollar bonus if we depart within twenty-four hours. When you've signed the contract, I'll issue you your first check. If you need a passport, we'll expedite one. The private jet is waiting at a local airstrip.” Allar and Hendrik stood at the same time.