Authors: Sheri Anderson
A Secret in Salem
Copyright © 2010 by Corday Productions, Inc.
Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Danielle Fiorella
Cover images © Christoph Rosenberger/Getty Images; Ross M. Horowitz/Getty Images; Matt Henry Gunther/Getty Images; Alexey Stiop/Dreamstime.com
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Days of our Lives Publications, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
www.sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
Anderson, Sheri.
A secret in Salem / Sheri Anderson.
p. cm.
1. Rich people—Fiction. 2. Women fashion designers—Fiction. 3. Married people—Fiction. 4. Family secrets—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3601.N5465S43 2010
813’.6—dc22
2010035795
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Esther and Cliff, who taught me the value of love, family, and romance…I miss you.
A
LTHOUGH HE’D BEEN HALFWAY AROUND THE WORLD
, S
HAWN
Douglas Brady had never seen a fleet of ships like this one. While the blue-and-green-striped sails of his 45-foot Nicholson were usually impressive, he felt like a moth in the midst of monarch butterflies. But then, he was in Monte Carlo, the playground of the rich and famous.
Surrounded by Italy and France, it had the smallest, most exciting beachfront in the world at only 3.5 miles. Occupying only 1 square mile of land, the principality was considered the gem of the Riviera, if not the world.
Monte Carlo? Were they really there? It had been over a year since he and his wife had left Salem—on the yacht the
Fancy Face IV
, bought for them by Belle’s magnanimous father, John Black—for their adventure. Shawn, the handsome but oft-troubled son of two of Salem’s finest, had married the blonde spitfire Belle and then had an adorable daughter, Claire. But Belle had often fallen through the cracks in their social circle, which was dominated by her manipulative and malevolent half sister, Sami. So she
was thrilled to take to the high seas. They needed an escape, and John knew that seeing the world from this vantage point would give his daughter and son-in-law a new perspective.
“Belle, get up here!” Shawn shouted excitedly. “You and Claire have to see this!”
A curly-haired moppet popped out from the galley.
“Mommy’s in the head, Da’!” Claire squealed.
“Then you get up here, now!”
Shawn grabbed his daughter and hoisted the little girl onto the beautifully defined shoulders that topped his sinewy, tanned body.
Claire giggled and pointed at the mass of sailboats, cruisers, and yachts that filled the harbor. “Wow.” Claire giggled. “Even bigger than in Crete! Those sure aren’t ‘stinkpots.’”
Belle made her way up from below. Though a bit wobbly, when she looked around her, she was totally overwhelmed.
“Unbelievable.” She gasped.
“Both the scene and our daughter. For a three-year-old, she’s a well-traveled little girl.”
“Not little, Da. And I’m four—almost!”
Belle, looking a lovely shade of chartreuse, stroked her daughter’s hair.
“How you feeling?” Shawn asked carefully.
She smiled wanly. “As good as I look?”
Uh-oh
, Shawn thought.
“But—damned excited to be here.”
Shawn knew why. One of those yachts would later be holding a lavish sweet-sixteen party for Dalita Kasagian, the daughter of überrich Serge Kasagian, and Belle’s fashion idol was going to be there.
“Olivia Marini Gaines,” he stated emphatically. “OMG.”
With that, Belle puked all over the deck of the yacht
.
T
HE MASSIVE PALE PINK DOOR TO
L
A
J
OLIE
C
LINIQUE SWUNG
open, and a beautiful blonde of indeterminate age made her entrance.
The petite redhead behind the reception desk immediately suspected an American but had been taught to never assume. The clientele came from every corner of the world, for every conceivable nip and tuck—and some not so conceivable. It was called
medical tourism
, and Geneva was one of its capitals.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” the receptionist said.
“Bonjour,” the blonde replied. Then, in English, she said, “Marlena Evans. I have an appointment with Dr. Masters.”
“Please fill out this form, and we’ll be with you shortly. Mineral water with lemon? Or perhaps a glass of champagne?”
“Water will be fine, thank you.” Marlena smiled.
They certainly
know how to treat their patients.
As she glanced around the waiting room, Marlena noticed that the clientele were deserving of champagne in crystal flutes, or at least they thought they were. As they reclined in overstuffed down chairs with footstools, the red soles of their Christian Louboutins reeked of money.
Marlena settled in and looked at the clipboard. She knew these forms well, having offered hundreds, probably thousands by now, to her patients back in Salem. But Salem didn’t seem across the world at this moment; it seemed as if it were in another galaxy.
Marlena was in Geneva, home to some of the most well-respected clinics in the world. And not just “spas” like the one she was nestled in.
She shook her head as she saw the information they wanted. Height. Weight. Color of eyes and hair, and ethnicity. Skin type. Allergies. Medical history. She laughed softly to herself. Do you think they’d believe the number of stab wounds, pregnancies and miscarriages, accidents…the demon possession? Yep, even demon possession. Anything could happen back in Salem, and while some of that life washed over her like a nightmare, it had all been real when it happened.
Very real
, she mused. But, at this point, none of it mattered.
Marlena’s name was called, and she was ushered in for a consultation with Europe’s most discreet plastic surgeon.
Dr. Masters looked as though he had stepped out of an L.L.Bean catalog. Roughly handsome with tousled salt-and-pepper hair and a bit of scruff. His hands were the only things that gave him away. They were beautifully manicured and welcoming as he shook her delicate but strong hand. He flashed a warm smile and surveyed her quickly.
“Not sure what it is you’re here for. You have amazing skin and look to be in terrific shape.”
For a woman your age, that’s what he means.
“And I don’t mean for a woman your age.”
To her surprise, Marlena blushed.
Can he read minds too?
“Seriously. So many women—and men too these days—come in here needing a nip or tuck. Sometimes it seems crazy,” he added, touching her face gently. “You’ve probably heard about Serge Kasagian’s extravaganza tomorrow. Hence the full waiting room. But I wouldn’t want to change this face. Perfect nose, lovely full lips, great symmetry…”
She knew she should interrupt as he took in her well-toned body, but the compliments felt good. Wonderful, in fact.
Is it a surprise that the most competent, attractive, even beautiful women—even psychiatrists like me—need to hear them?
she wondered.
“Great—uh, symmetry,” he said again as he examined her body. Marlena suddenly realized his American accent was perfect.
“You from the States?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Montana.”
“Ah, I’m originally from Colorado—most recently, Salem.”
“Massachusetts.” He nodded. “Home of the witch trials.”
“A different Salem,” she countered, then quickly changed the subject. Her Salem was much too confusing to explain in a sentence or two. Suddenly she felt as if she were flirting, which she had no intention of doing, no matter how hot this doctor was. “So, I’m actually here about scar repair and tattoo removal.”
She noticed he cocked his eyebrow.
“Not mine. My husband’s. He has a tattoo of a phoenix on his back.”
“Which you hate.” Dr. Masters smiled.
“I always said I didn’t care…” she said, tears forming in her expressive hazel eyes. “And I don’t…But now I think it may be killing him.”