A Secret in Salem (2 page)

T
O THE OUTSIDE WORLD
, J
OHN AND
M
ARLENA’S RELATIONSHIP
was back on track. Living as man and wife in Switzerland.

The first time they met, he was wrapped in bandages from head to toe, having undergone extensive plastic surgery. He was suffering from amnesia and had no memory of who he was.

From there, his life story made Jason Bourne’s look like a kindergarten fairy tale. But from his time as a blue-collar cop to his initiation into an elite international spy organization to his role as chief of a multimillion-dollar company, there was only one constant: his love for Marlena.

Their love affair was wildly passionate, tear-jerkingly romantic, and often so turbulent it tore them apart. They had other relationships—even other marriages—but their magnetic field always wrenched them back together.

John was always Marlena’s hero. Until he was paralyzed from the neck down.

Fortunately, the paralysis wasn’t because of a brain stem stroke, which would have meant he’d never regain movement
in his limbs. That tragedy, known as locked-in syndrome, kept its victims from moving anything more than their eyelids. Instead, while John’s paralysis was totally debilitating, he had retained a small bit of movement below the neck. They hoped for more someday, but for now it remained just a hope.

John’s paralysis stemmed from his being injected by a lunatic of a still-unidentifiable fluid. Science and technology have given the world some of the greatest cures and inventions of all time but have also placed havoc in the hands of demons.

Marlena had left that morning, after telling John she was going to Geneva for a meeting. He had nodded. Since moving to the Alps, she’d occasionally done some consulting. Once a psychiatrist, always a psychiatrist. It’s said that head doctors are more screwed up than their patients, and at times the outside world might think his Doc’s life was a little wacky. But he knew better.

“You should go,” he said in the throaty voice that was just above a whisper. “Doc’ll be back soon.”

“And you, rest,” answered the tanned and lean brunette whose hands had just slid over his entire body.

“Thanks, Tara, for everything,” John said.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked with the Dutch accent he found oddly appealing.

“If Marlena’s in Geneva, absolutely.” He smiled. “I like where this is headed. You’re a real pro.”

Tara moved to the birdseye maple armoire in the corner of the bedroom and slid open a drawer, taking out five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Then, noticing Marlena’s cream Mercedes driving up the winding path to the estate, she slipped out of the bedroom.

What she hadn’t noticed was the car following Marlena’s. And although John gazed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his massive bedroom, neither did he.

“Of all the estates in Lausanne, this is the most impressive I’ve ever seen,” Dr. Masters said as he entered the foyer behind Marlena.

“John always wanted me to have the best,” Marlena responded quietly.

“He obviously thinks you deserve it.”

The house was indeed amazing. Named Maison du Noir—the House of Black—it was a contemporary glass, wood, and steel structure that miraculously complemented the lush hillside overlooking historic Lake Geneva. Outsiders felt the name was depressing, but it was John’s last name, not to mention his condition for the last few years.

“My life’s never been about money.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he quipped.

“When you can buy anything you want, nothing has value,” Marlena added as she placed her cream alligator bag on the side table.

“Yet you spent beaucoup bucks on an OMG,” he noted.

Was he gay? Why would he know the cost of an OMG Grace handbag?

“No, I’m not gay. My wife loves handbags,” he replied to her quizzical expression.

He actually can read minds. Wait.

“Wife?” she said, realizing there was a hint of disappointment in her voice. “I mean, you’re not wearing a ring, not that all married men do, and not that it matters.”

What was she doing? He was there to see her husband.

“John’s room is this way,” she added, clearing her throat.

They made their way up the winding, free-floating staircase that encircled the living room. Behind her, he couldn’t help but focus on her shapely legs. He also knew she was flustered, and he liked that.

“And the handbag? Actually, it was a gift, Dr. Masters,” she tossed out casually. “And a knockoff. I’d never let anyone spend $25,000 on a purse.”

It took less than thirty minutes for Dr. Masters to finish his examination of John. John’s medical records were updated on a daily basis by the nurses who had quarters in the three-bedroom guesthouse on the edge of the property and took round-the-clock shifts.

“Wanna tell me what this is really about?” John asked, staring at Marlena, who had moved to the window.

“Dr. Masters’s specialty is plastic surgery,” Marlena evenly stated.

John knew exactly what that meant.

“Did she tell you I’ve had the tattoo removed three times, Masters, and now it’s darker than ever?”

“Obviously not a standard ink.”

“Bright guy.”

“It’s reacting to a chemical in your system that hasn’t been identified,” Masters stated plainly, not about to let John intimidate him. “We need to find out what that is.”

“Simple as pie, right?”

“My wife’s a chemical biologist, and she’s doing some remarkable studies. I’ll take a scraping of the tattoo for analysis; then I’d like her to see you.”

Wife. There’s that word again
, Marlena thought.

“Maybe we could have a foursome.”

“John!” Marlena said admonishingly.

“My sense of humor’s a little shaky these days, Doc,” he apologized.

Dr. Masters removed a small case from his pocket. Using a sterile knife, he quickly took a skin scraping from the area around the tattoo, nicking John in the process.

“Hope it’s not too painful,” Masters said.

“Not after all I’ve been through,” John answered. Then he added, “Send your wife around, unless you want Doc to bring me to her.”

Masters knew Marlena could do that. Not only was the bedroom set up with every conceivable lift system, it had voice-activated commands for lights, heat, sound, and entertainment modules. He knew they had to have a state-of-the-art van for John to travel when the whim hit him.

“Your call,” John replied.

Marlena was pleased. At least John was receptive.

“Could I bring you some dinner?” Marlena asked John.

“Not hungry. Didn’t sleep much this afternoon, and after all this, I think I need a rest,” John answered.

“You’ve got one lovely wife, Mr. Black,” Dr. Masters said.

“Call me John. I don’t like formalities.”

John also didn’t like the way Dr. Masters looked at Marlena. He
also knew this was a man Marlena could relate to, if he were ever out of the picture.

“Then you may call me Blake,” the doctor answered. He then followed Marlena out of the room.

“You came a long way, and I truly appreciate it,” she said softly, meeting his gaze. “He’s a good man, really.”

Really
, Dr. Masters thought to himself. “As far as his paralysis…” he began cautiously.

“Able to move his hands and arms slightly, but that’s all,” she interrupted.

During his examination, repositioning John to study the tattoo, Masters had realized John was moving on his own; his muscle tone was more than sufficient to hold his weight.

“A good man,” he reiterated.
Then why was John Black lying to his wife?

M
ONEY ISN’T TO SPEND ON THE
F
RENCH
R
IVIERA; IT’S TO BURN
.

Vegas conjures up images of wild gambling, sexual liaisons that would make even Paris Hilton blush, parties, drugs, and rock and roll. All that pales in comparison to the extravagant debauchery of the French Riviera.

While the old money of Europe stays discreetly behind centuries-old gates, the new money is out for everyone to see. Fat Russian mobsters spray topless, tanned beauties with thousand-dollar bottles of Dom at La Voile Rouge. Jet-setting celebrities, hip-hop artists, and the noveau riche fill the clubs and casinos until the wee hours of the morning. Boutiques catering to their moneyed clients’ every whim will close at the drop of a ten-thousand-euro advance to pamper their most loyal customers.

OMG was one of those shops.

How odd it was that Olivia Marini Gaines, once heralded as the designer of choice for the Clinton-era
Town & Country
set, was hotter than Louis Vuitton had ever been. Passion for the beautifully
crafted Vuitton bags covered with gold LVs had been replaced by ones covered with OMGs.

Olivia didn’t mind. In fact, she ate it up.

Unlike her husband, billionaire hedge-fund owner Richard Gaines, Olivia loved the spotlight. As a child, she had wanted to be a dancer and performed with Il Corpo di Ballo del Teatro alla Scala, the resident classical ballet company in Milan. Lithe and lean, with exquisite form, she had been the upcoming star of the ballet school until puberty cursed her with 34DDs. What a curse! Later they became her blessing, and not just for the drooling stares she got when walking the streets of Milan.

Olivia’s father was a tailor, her mother his muse, and in fashion-conscious Milan, he had worked with every major designer, including Armani, Gucci, and Valentino. With nips and tucks of the finest fabrics on the planet, he worked magic on his daughter’s blossoming frame.

Olivia had a great eye and took note of every step of the process. When her father died unexpectedly of a heart attack, she had been devastated. She had also vowed to follow in his footsteps.

By twenty, Olivia Marini had her first smash collection. It was the ’70s and rock-glam fashions that dominated the runways. Olivia’s line had a twist. The minis and cropped jackets were of the finest fabrics and leathers, with the OMG logo in platinum thread. There were also colored diamonds and other precious jewels tucked
inside
the hems. No one but the owner knew which gems they were or what they cost. To own an OMG was like being one of the super-rich who bought stolen art masterpieces and hid them in their basements. Not everyone could afford one.

Richard Gaines could.

Called Richie by his closest friends, he was front and center at every major house during Fashion Week. He bought the entire collection for his seventeen-year-old buxom Swedish mistress and agreed to back Olivia’s burgeoning design firm. That is, if she married him.

Olivia was an independent, gorgeous creature. Flowing black hair, olive skin, and thick lashes she batted whenever the calculation caught her. She also loved money and the idea of being Mrs. Richard Gaines. Who cared if Richard had a reputation as a womanizer and had been married three times by the age of forty? His body was toned and tanned under his Brioni suits, and his friendly blue eyes mesmerizing. He was also known for showering his women with the wealth he’d obtained all on his own.

The wedding was two weeks later on his 198-foot megayacht, a yacht tiny in comparison to the one they owned now.

While Richie concentrated on his London-based international banking business, Olivia dived into her design firm. She immediately changed her logo from her scripted initials OM to OMG. Yes, she had relished the fact that in the metaphysical ’70s, her initials were the oldest and most sacred sound found in yoga, but changing them to OMG shone the spotlight on her as Richard Gaines’s newest (and she knew, very last) tantalizing wife. Little did she expect that it would eventually become one of the most popular acronyms in history.

Oh My Gosh, Oh My Goodness, Oh My God!

She loved it, and she adored her new, flashy husband.

As for Richie’s reputation as a womanizer? Olivia claimed he was totally faithful, but deep down, knew better. There were
things she would never do sexually that he craved, and whether on hops to Rio or during what he said were late-night business meetings anywhere in the world, she suspected—no, knew—that some dark beauty or two were making him happy.

Olivia was happy too. She relished the money, the prestige… and the three beautiful children who were her ultimate trump cards. Jackson and Chance Gaines, born two years apart, were well educated, well mannered, and well respected. And they were total hunks. Like many of the sons of the megawealthy, they were often seen on the pages of the tabloids, partying with Lindsay, the Olsen twins, or whoever was hottest at moment. When on business in Los Angeles, they stayed at Chateau Marmont and hung out at Soho House or Voyeur, watching the topless dancers slither on poles and paying thousand-dollar bottle tabs to stake claim to one of the prestigious tables. In New York, it was the Ritz-Carlton in Battery Park. Hip, with gorgeous views of the Statue of Liberty and close to Wall Street, where they did the bulk of their business.

Although Olivia loved her sons with all her heart, the gem of her life was her daughter, Charley.

Charlotte “Charley” Gaines, who by fifteen had often been compared to Angelina Jolie, was actually Olivia’s opposite. She had the same flowing dark chestnut hair, but her skin was like flawless porcelain, with eyes a clear blue with hazel and brown flecks. Her temperament was more like her father’s. She didn’t grab the spotlight; the spotlight grabbed her. She also had no desire to be in the
banking business like her brothers. She was content to be behind the scenes, behind the lens of a camera.

At eighteen and a graduate of Choate Rosemary Hall in the States, one of the most exclusive prep schools in the world, Charley was spending a few precious months with the family. She actually loved their sprawling vacation home nestled in the hills of Monte Carlo, and Olivia was letting her work on the marketing campaign for the next summer collection while she helped out in the boutique. It wasn’t just nepotism; Charley had her mother’s incredible eye.

As for Charley working at the shop? Richard and Olivia both believed that all three children needed to develop a strong work ethic. So ridiculously rich or not, all three kids worked alongside the normal folk every summer. Charley with her mother and the boys with dear old Dad.

“Diddy and his entourage are running late,” Olivia told her daughter as she hung up her platinum iPhone.

“They’re usually on time,” Charley said, surprised.

“They’d planned to helicopter over from Nice, but with so many people here for the party, a Bentley brigade felt safer.”

“And more flashy,” Charley added.

“He can’t help it if he likes people to know he’s successful,” Olivia said, smiling and crossing herself. “What says success more than a one-of-a-kind OMG handbag?”

Charley knew her mother was right. Even other top designers craved them.

Diddy and his posse were out of OMG in less than thirty minutes, after spending over $87,000. They made quite a stir as they exited the Lalique crystal doors. Paparazzi were at a safe distance—but everywhere.

It had always been common to see them in Monte Carlo, even though they had restrictions. The principality had security cameras of its own scattered throughout the entire area. Aside from hoping to keep its residents and tourists safe, Prince Rainier wanted to give at least a modicum of protection to the celebrities who’d added such panache to the mile-square city.

Diddy, his off-again, on-again girlfriend, Kim, bodyguards, and several of Diddy’s kids headed to the dock for the skiff to the hippest new superyacht,
WHY 58
, the latest in luxury. The yacht was shaped like a horseshoe, and light flooded in on every deck. It wasn’t as huge as the nearly 400-foot
RM Elegant
, which he’d rented numerous times, but it was just him and his family there for Dalita Kasagian’s sixteenth-birthday bash. He wasn’t performing this time; he was just a guest. Besides, everyone had ridiculously scaled yachts. This was an eye-catcher.

The guest list was a who’s who of young Hollywood and the international jet set. Everyone from the
Twilight
stars and the Kardashians to Princes William and Harry with off-and-on girlfriends Kate Middleton and Chelsy Davy would be there.

Performing? Nick Jonas, Demi Lovato, Miley Cyrus, and
American Idol
“loser” Adam Lambert. Rihanna would make an appearance, only after assurances that Chris Brown was nowhere in the south of France. Jay-Z and Beyoncé had made sure Kanye had him in Los Angeles, recording.

All were paid to be there, of course, flown in on private jets by Dalita’s nouveau riche daddy. The price for entertainment alone was over five million dollars.

It was going to be one enormous, gaudy, pretentious bash.

When Diddy swept out the door, one tourist did manage to snap a picture. Shawn and Belle were in the courtyard outside the opulent, petite boutique located to the right of the Hôtel de Paris, and he had his iPhone. Not a platinum-gilded one like Olivia’s, but technologically just the same.

Belle didn’t care about Diddy. She couldn’t believe she was within yards of her current designer icon, Olivia Marini Gaines.

When she was one of Basic Black’s top designers, Belle had a soupçon of recognition. Her designs were clean, crisp, and safe.

Olivia’s designs were clean and crisp too but never what you’d call “safe.” Like any of the great actors who always concealed a secret within a character, OMG had them too. Many of them.

From the secreted jewels in the hems to the numbers and addresses of all the hottest clubs sewn on the labels, OMG designs were always a surprise.

“I think she’s in there,” Shawn said, giving Belle a nudge. “Go in and say hi.”

“Are you insane?” Belle replied.

“Sometimes I think he is, Mommy,” chirped their almost four-year-old.

“Let’s go,” Belle begged, then ducked behind Shawn as Olivia exited the shop with Charley behind her. “Please.”

Shawn knew his wife well, and when she was feeling insecure, he knew not to push. They’d had enough ups and downs in their
relationship, especially when it came to the triangle they had endured with his wealthy nemesis back in Salem, Philip Kiriakis.

It was also nearly time for the evening summer concert, and patrons were streaming into the palace courtyard.

“Come on, CB,” he said as he swooped up his increasingly weary little girl. “Let’s find you a hot dog.”

“Steamed mussels, Da,” she pleaded. “With
pommes frites
!”

“Four next month, huh?”

“Yup!”

The roar of Olivia’s Aston Martin DBS caught Shawn’s attention, and he turned to see that Olivia and her daughter were leaving. For the first time, he got a good look at Olivia’s pride and joy, sitting in the passenger seat of the custom shiny yellow sports car. He’d heard of the young heiress before but had never actually seen her.