Scent of Triumph (40 page)

Abigail drew a sharp breath. “I can’t say, I really mustn’t say, Danielle.” Her voice cracked.

Alarmed by her reaction, Danielle asked, “Abigail, what’s wrong? Is Jon all right?”

Abigail shook her head.

“Please tell me.”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I promised Jon.”

Danielle’s heart raced. A thousand images rushed through her mind. Had something happened to him? “Abigail, you must tell me,” she whispered urgently.

Frowning, Abigail looked over her shoulder. “He made me promise not to tell you. Oh, Danielle, really, this isn’t the time or place.”

Danielle clutched her arm. “Has Jon been wounded?”

“No, nothing like that.” Abigail let out a deep sigh. “It’s just too awful. You can’t imagine.” She turned her head away, then spoke very quietly. “Victoria is pregnant.”

Danielle caught her breath. Had she heard right? Still, she’d known it was inevitable. The family wanted children more than anything, heirs to the family business and fortune. “I don’t understand, Abigail, what’s wrong with that?”

“Everything!” Abigail’s face was etched with anguish. “Jon hasn’t seen her in almost a year. It’s not his child!”

Danielle parked her Delahaye automobile in front of a modest red brick church. She paused for a moment, her hand on the key.
This could be the day
, she thought, then stepped out of the car. The attached playground was deserted as she made her way to the side door and went inside.

“Mornin’, Miz Bretancourt.”

As she passed the office, Danielle nodded to the pastor of the Prince of Peace congregation. “Good morning, Brother Anderson. What brings you here so early?”

“I could ask the same of you, my child,” drawled the portly pastor from behind his desk. “But I know your heart, and I wish you peace in your journey today.”

“Thank you, and good day to you.” Danielle turned, anxious to get on with her business.

“Oh, and Miz Bretancourt?”

She stopped. “Yes?”

“We appreciate your generous donation for the children.”

“It’s my pleasure, Brother Anderson,” she replied with a gracious nod.

The children of the Prince of Peace orphanage had breakfast from six to seven o’clock. On the next block, in the Temple Emmanuel orphanage, breakfast was served from six-thirty to seven-thirty. A quick walk through both to check on any new boys who might have arrived, and she could still be at her desk by seven o’clock.

Every month she visited all of the orphanages in Los Angeles County. Everyone knew her, and knew why she visited, and everyone left her alone, except for the occasional greeting.

Unfortunately, this morning was no different. Danielle swept through the dining hall, but she saw no child who even remotely resembled Nicky. She swallowed a pang of grief as she returned to her car. With a slightly trembling hand, she turned the ignition of the Delahaye and started for her office.

She’d never stopped dreaming of Nicky. In fact, her dreams had become increasingly vivid, even eerily realistic, leading her to reexamine the events surrounding his death. At the time of her dreadful encounter with Heinrich in Poland, she had no reason to
disbelieve
him when he told her he’d killed Nicky. But later, she realized she had no reason to
believe
him. Could Heinrich have lied to her? Could he have been so cruel?

Of course
, she’d admitted with painful realization. In hindsight, she understood Heinrich was capable of anything.

What if Nicky still lived? Where would he be? And how could she find him? To return to Poland was impossible now.

And so she’d had a sketch artist make copies of Nicky’s photograph, aging him several years. She sent these copies to orphanages and relief agencies on the East Coast and in England, as well as to Philippe and his colleagues. She vowed to continue her search as long as there was a chance, however slim, that Nicky might still be alive.

She turned into the garage of her office building, parked, and hurried in, deliberately turning her focus to business.

Outside her office, seven melodic chimes from a neighboring church rang out in the clear spring morning air, marking the hour. She relished the early morning solitude that allowed her to work uninterrupted.

Opening the door to her second floor office, she went in. Her office was her cocoon, sumptuously decorated to her exacting standards, and organized for work and comfort. She walked to the window and drew back burgundy velvet draperies.

A coffee urn, ready to brew, stood on a red lacquered Chinese table in the corner. She flipped a switch and while coffee brewed, she freshened a floral arrangement that graced a low table in front of a brocade sofa and two coordinating chairs. Humming a soft tune, she snipped a few wilted red roses, and shook the petals into a wooden basket to dry for potpourri. After pouring coffee into a delicate bone china cup, she seated herself at her Louis XIV inlaid desk, eagerly anticipating a productive day. She took a sip of coffee, thinking.

With Allied forces pressing into Germany, and France’s recent liberation, she was already planning for postwar expansion to meet the needs and desires of returning veterans and their families. She smiled as she thought of the recent turn of events in the war. How she had loved seeing news reel images of French tanks passing under the Arc de Triomphe in Paris! Charles de Gaulle had organized the resistance fighters into the French Forces of the Interior, which rose up against the German garrison in Paris. The Free French Army of Liberation and the United States’ 4
^th
Infantry Division had joined in, and now freedom was restored to her beloved homeland. And thankfully, to her immense relief, Philippe and Françoise had survived.

However, fighting still raged across Europe, and Poland was still occupied. She paused, holding her cup in mid-air, thinking of Nicky.

She glanced at the clock. She and Harry had a meeting with her banker after noon, and she had to complete her review of the financial statements. She forced her attention back to her work. By the time her secretary and staff arrived at nine o’clock, she would have completed reviewing projections for the next fiscal year for Bretancourt Holdings. As she reviewed the documents, she periodically took up her gold fountain pen to make changes and note items to discuss with Harry over lunch.

She thought of Harry, who was now a board member of Bretancourt Holdings. She knew he would think her projections aggressive, but every year they’d exceeded her numbers. Still, she welcomed his advice, as well as his ability to handle Cameron’s increasingly difficult spells.

Grimacing, she recalled her husband’s behavior at the mayor’s function honoring Abigail. Cameron had actually passed out on stage. The gossip columnists had gone wild with the story. She shuddered and pushed this last thought from her mind. She had important plans for the coming year, and thoughts of Cameron only depressed her.

She paused to review the revised projections. “Yes, this will do nicely,” she murmured, satisfied. She made a note for Harry, then her mind began to drift.

With a sigh, she put down her pen and opened her desk drawer, extracting a letter she’d received from Jon last week. She opened the letter; it was short, as his letters usually were now, and with no mention of Victoria’s pregnancy, the confidence Abigail had divulged to her. But from the tone of his letter, Danielle could tell Jon was deeply troubled. Her heart ached for him. Most likely, he would claim Victoria’s child as his own. It was, after all, the honorable thing to do. How well she’d come to know him through their correspondence. She bit her lip.
If only things were different.

Danielle rested her head against her leather chair. She folded his letter carefully, then rose from her desk and crossed to a tall safe that stood behind a Chinese lacquered wood screen. She spun the dial, opened the heavy door, and placed his letter on the top of a stack of his other letters. She let her hand linger on the envelopes for a moment, her fingers caressing the envelopes of cherished memories, then shut the door and returned to her desk.

With a heavy heart, she picked up her pen and returned to work. The rising sun glinted through the window, shimmering on her silver desk set and crystal perfume bottle collection. She glanced at an antique French bronze clock. It was almost eight o’clock. She still had an hour to herself.

Suddenly, she heard a bang and footsteps in the hall outside her door. She stiffened. No one else ever arrived this early.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall with such force that her prized French impressionist oil paintings rattled on their hooks. Cameron staggered in, his fine evening clothes wrinkled, his face blotched and unshaven. His eyes held a dark, wild expression.

Her heart pounding, she stood and squared her shoulders. “What do you want?”

“Knew I’d find you here,” he said, slurring his words. “Look at you,” he sneered, gesturing toward the financial statements on her desk. “Always countin’ your money. You never quit, do you?”

“It’s your living, too,” she said pointedly.

Cameron grinned. “We share the wealth, do we? Tha’s not the way I see it. You control the money, Dani, you wear the pants in this family. Hell, ever’body knows that. You don’t even want to give me a son, do ya, Dani?”

Danielle clenched her jaw.
I can’t speak to him like this
, she thought. “You have no business here, Cameron. Go home, sleep it off.”

“First, I got a problem to clear up.” He lurched menacingly toward her. “You hired Buck Jones to watch me, didn’t you?”

“Buck Jones was hired to manage the tour.” Her fingers tightened on the edge of her desk. Cameron could not be trusted to remain sober, and after the mishaps of his last tour, she and Harry had retained Buck Jones, a seasoned manager.

“Why the hell do I need him?” He leaned closer and slammed his fist on her desk, rattling its contents.

Danielle drew back. He stank of alcohol and smoke. “His job is to control the tour.”

“The tour? You want him controllin’
me
, right Dani?” His face contorted and his bloodshot eyes bulged.

“You have a contract to fulfill, Cameron.”

“To hell with the contract. I’m the star, I say he’s out.”

Danielle crossed her arms and glared. “Buck Jones stays.”

Cameron cursed, snatched a crystal bottle from her desk, and hurled it against the wall. Shards shot through the air like projectiles. He smashed another one, then another.

Danielle trembled inside.
But I will not concede this to him, it would be a disaster.
She lifted her chin. “Anger won’t do you any good, Cameron. The board decided on Buck Jones. Under your contract with National Music you have no right to dispute the decision.”

He whirled around, jerked a thumb at his chest. “Yeah, but I made National Music what it is today.”

Danielle glared at him.

“Still, you call the shots, Danielle, you always have.” His face darkened. “And I’ve had enough of it.” He clenched his hands into fists and started around the desk.

Glancing behind her, Danielle realized she was cornered. Her heart raced and she fought the panic that clenched her throat. “We’ll talk about this later, when you’re sober.”

“We’re through talkin’.”

She tried to run but he grabbed her by the arms. “Cameron, don’t!”

Though she struggled, she was no match for him. She arched instinctively, twisting her face from him as a blow exploded against her cheek. She hit the floor with her palms, screaming, glass from the bottles slicing her hands and forearms as she careened across the polished parquet floor. Quickly, she rolled onto her side, blood splattering her white silk blouse.

Cameron charged toward her again.

Danielle spied the silver letter opener that had been knocked from the desk. Kicking him away, she lunged for it.

But Cameron grabbed her legs and dragged her toward him. He straddled her and pinned her to the floor. His eyes were raw and savage, her blood seemed to feed his frenzy.

Danielle tried to struggle from his grasp, but it was no use.
Mon Dieu,
she thought,
he’s going to kill me!

He gripped her neck with one hand, crushing her throat to the floor, and raised his other hand to strike her.

Unable to breathe, she stretched her fingers for the letter opener, found it, and jabbed in defense.

An agonizing wail erupted from Cameron’s mouth and his warm blood spurted across her face. The letter opener had pierced his hand, and protruded through his palm and forehand.

Frantically, Danielle tried to scramble out from under him, but Cameron threw his head back and roared with anger, clutching his hand, blood gushing from his wound.

Just then, Harry raced through the door. “My God, what’s going on?” Harry pulled Danielle free with one hand, and shoved Cameron off with the other.

“Call the police,” Harry shouted to Danielle as he fought to restrain Cameron.

With bleeding hands, she picked up the phone.

Cameron jerked away from Harry and ran from the office. Harry started after him.

“Let him go,” Danielle cried. “He’s completely crazed.”

Cameron disappeared, blood trailing behind him in the hall.

Harry pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Cameron’s blood from Danielle’s face. “Here, I’ll make the call,” he said.

Danielle collapsed into her chair, shaking her head in disbelief.
What had just happened?
Gritting her teeth, she began to pick shards from the palms of her hands.

Harry finished his call. “Let me help you,” he said gently, kneeling beside her.

“I have never been so glad to see you,” she said, her voice shaking. She grimaced as Harry tenderly removed bits of glass.

“Glad I made it when I did.” Harry pulled a long shard of glass from her palm.

“Ouch, easy.” Danielle looked up. Harry had obviously just rolled out of bed. His clothes were wrinkled and mismatched, he wore no socks, his hair was in disarray, and he needed a shave. “You’re never here this early. What brought you here?”

“Erica phoned me. Cameron had been at her house ranting and raving about you and Buck Jones. She said he was threatening you, and she became frightened for you. I had an idea he might come here because everyone knows you work alone in the morning. We’re changing the locks. From now on, all doors are to be locked until nine o’clock, especially yours.”