A Secret in Salem (5 page)

E
VERY DAY HAD ALWAYS BEEN A FRESH START FOR
M
ARLENA
. S
HE
was one of those people who had always been endlessly optimistic. Marlena’s mother, a stoic Scandinavian, had raised her daughter to live with the belief that the world can throw you a million challenges, but life goes on. Through even the most difficult times, there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Marlena wanted to believe that desperately, but the challenges were getting harder and harder.

In the crisp morning air of Lausanne, Marlena strolled through the vineyards on their property. When she was home—and now Lausanne was their home—she did it daily to clear her head. Picking a handful of grapes, she smelled their sweet aroma.

The scent was heavenly.

Her cell phone chirped, indicating a text: “Need 2 c u.”

It was from Dr. Masters. She found herself smiling.

“
Docteur
Evans, I’m so sorry,” she heard behind her.

Marlena jumped, covering the screen, feeling a twinge of guilt. It was Desiree approaching, and there was deep concern in her voice.

Marlena’s knee-jerk reaction was, “Is it John?”

As a doctor, Marlena knew that tone.

“No, oh,
mais non;
he’s stable this morning,” Desiree assured her. “I’ve had a family emergency—that call last night—and I have to visit my father.”

“In Paris.” Marlena nodded knowingly.

“There’s a flight at two. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. Please don’t fire me,” she rambled.

“Of course we won’t,” Marlena said, surprised that Desiree would even suggest that. “I can cover whatever he needs until Kristina gets back.”

Desiree knew John wouldn’t like that.

“Is that a problem?” Marlena asked, based on her reaction.

Before Desiree could answer, the sound of a car approaching caught their attention. It was the day nurse, Kristina, and she was several hours early.

“And problem solved.” Marlena smiled reassuringly.

“
Merci,
” Desiree said as she looked heavenward and crossed herself. “And thank you too,” she added to Marlena.

“How are you getting to the airport?” Marlena asked a bit too quickly. “I have to go into Geneva, so I could take you.”

“Are you sure?” Desiree asked. The cost of a cab would be expensive, and the train schedule was tight.

“Absolutely. But we’d better hurry.”

Marlena surreptitiously glanced at Dr. Masters’s text before slipping the phone into her pocket.

Heading to the house, Marlena felt her face flush.

What am I doing?

John sat up on the end of his bed, watching the exchange between Marlena and his nurse in the vineyard.

In one of his many incarnations, he had worked out of Salem’s branch of the ISA—the International Security Alliance. While working for the secret spy agency, he had honed his observational skills. John knew how to read people.

Especially his wife.

He knew Marlena’s every move, including the shifting of her weight, the tilting of her head, and the touch of her finger to her lips. She was anxious, and there were so many things for her to be anxious about.

They had not had sex for well over a year. His paralysis was at the hands of a crazed psychiatrist who had been treating him for a condition foisted upon him by his nemesis, Stefano DiMera. Stefano, who had been revealed to be his half brother, was a man so evil that everyone in Salem knew him to be capable of the deepest, most convoluted deceptions. For now, John had to accept that he was indeed Stefano’s blood relative, and if so, his own brother was ultimately responsible for this debilitating condition, a condition so vile that it had left him virtually unable to perform even the most mundane tasks and also the most important—making love to the woman he cherished more than life.

But in the last few months, John had made impressive strides in his recovery. Improvements Marlena knew nothing about.

The confidentiality agreements he’d made with every person he hired made that possible. Ultimately, he was paying the bills, and money talks.

Watching Marlena from this vantage point made him feel safe. Slowly, he got up from his sitting position and stood.

After taking a phone from the pocket of his pajama bottoms, he dialed a familiar number. He moved cautiously to the edge of the window as the phone rang, keeping an eye on Marlena and staying out of her line of sight.

Shirtless, his sinewy body and well-defined abs were confirmation that he was in better-than-average condition.

“It’s John, and I need to see you,” he said to the voice on the other end of the phone. “When?” he said incredulously. “As soon as humanly possible.”

John noticed Marlena and Desiree heading back into the house and abruptly ended the call.

With a slow but steady gait, he made it back to the bed just as Marlena reached the top of the stairs.

Thinking John was resting, she knocked lightly.

“John?” she said.

He cleared his throat as though he hadn’t spoken for a while. “Ah, come on in.”

He settled back into the elegant chocolate-colored sheets, and Marlena entered.

“Desiree needs to go into Geneva, so I’m going to take her,” Marlena said calmly. “Kristina’s already here and said she’d cover.”

“Kristina’s good; that’s fine.”

“Anything I can get you before I go?” she asked.

“You’ll be home late?”

“I may do some shopping,” she said, “and have a quick bite before coming back.”

“In other words, yes?” he said, cocking his eyebrow.

“Maybe,” she said, then quickly corrected herself. “Yes.”

“Have a good one.”

“I will,” she answered.

A good what? Trip? Supper? Tryst with Blake Masters?

She shook off the thoughts that were making her stomach flutter, and kissed John on the forehead, then headed out the door.

John noticed her flick her hair as she glided out of his room.

Where are you going, Doc?
he thought. Then he took out his phone once again and dialed.

“Tara, hi,” he said. “You available? Marlena won’t be home for hours.”

T
HE HEADQUARTERS OF
F
INANCIAL
G
AINES
G
ROUP
, LLC,
WERE ON
the forty-first floor of One Canada Square in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets. Also known as Canary Wharf Tower, the skyscraper was not only the tallest building in the United Kingdom, but home to major media and banking institutions from around the world.

At the age of twenty-eight, Jackson Gaines, the oldest of Richard Gaines’s children, was second in command of the business. Favoring his mother’s side of the family, he had dark brown hair that matched his eyes. He was also lean and fit and, like his father, over six feet tall.

Movie-star handsome, he was impressive and imposing as he stood looking out his office window at the drizzly morning. He focused on the dome, the postmodern structure that would be housing the 2012 Summer Olympics and where ITV just completed shooting the wildly popular
Britain’s Got Talent.

“Think they’ll have this crappy weather for the 2012?” Jackson asked the pretty petite blonde who sat at his computer, busily and efficiently copying files.

“Pardon, sir?” she responded.

“The weather,” he repeated. “Sunny, but still bloody drizzle and fog. Guess it’s why we all love the south of France.”

He was making small talk, and she knew it.

“Have you been there?” Jackson asked.

“No, sir,” she answered, not looking up. She thought he was flirting, and she couldn’t help but be intrigued. But as hot as he was, this was business.

“Done here.”

Jackson turned his attention as two men, around thirty or so, entered from the conference room.

“And I,” the girl responded, moving back from Jackson’s desk.

The three agents of the Financial Services Authority had been there since seven this morning.

She shrugged, shaking her head. She’d found nothing out of line.

The two men simultaneously did the same.

Jackson laughed. “I guess that means we’re good?”

The taller of the men adjusted his glasses. “The figures all checked,” he said evenly.

“I’m sure you understand,” added his companion apologetically.

“When it comes to people’s investments, you can’t be too careful.” Jackson smiled. “Especially when it looks too good to be true.”

“Since the Madoff scandal—” the bespectacled agent started.

“No problem, guys,” Jackson interrupted. “But if you’re finished here, I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“We’re done,” the blonde responded.

Jackson hit an intercom switch on his desk.

“Jules, can you see them out?” he asked.

A statuesque redhead who could have been a supermodel in another life appeared in the doorway and indicated for them to follow her.

“The main elevators are dodgy this morning.” She smiled. “Let me take you to the private elevator.”

Jackson winked at the blonde as the three intruders were ushered out, a gesture that wasn’t lost on his assistant.

When he was alone, Jackson’s demeanor changed from one of confidence to concern as he slipped his iPad into his new Asprey portfolio. Something felt wrong in the pit of his stomach, but he didn’t know why.

His phone rang. The ringtone was “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge, and he knew right away it was Charley. She’d put that in his phone, and he had vowed to change it but hadn’t bothered. Truth was, he liked it, and his wallpaper image of her making a funny face usually cheered him up.

“Hey, Sis,” he answered.

“Puh-lease tell me you’re coming tonight,” she pleaded.

“What’s tonight?” he teased.

“I cannot be there without you and Chance.” She pouted.

“We’re on the one fifty-five, arriving in Nice at five. Plenty of time,” he confirmed.

“Are the girls coming too, or will I have you both to myself?” she asked.

“Your brothers are flying solo, Sis,” he said, unaware Jules appeared behind him in the open doorway. “With this crowd, we’d be bonkers not to come stag.”

Jackson didn’t see Jules’s reaction. She was one unhappy camper.

“We’re meeting Dad for drinks at Mont Agel. Then we’ll come up to the villa and go together,” he insisted.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“Love you,” he closed.

“Madly,” Charley said and ended the call.

Jules stood stock-still for a moment, her heart pounding faster and faster.

Jackson sighed, then turned to see her standing there. He could read her expression. He knew her well.

“You know this is about business,” he said. “We make millions off this arse Kasagian, not to mention what he spends on his slag of a daughter.”

“I know,” she answered, not caring one whit. “Business comes first.”

There was tension in the air that was palpable. It usually meant one thing: sex.

She brushed past him, gliding her hand across his crotch as she moved to the credenza in front of the window. She slipped the business card she’d just gotten into her pocket and leaned over seductively.

For a moment, he forgot about business. Jackson crossed to his office door and locked it, then loosened his Armani tie.

As Jules pulled the drapes closed, she could see down the forty-one floors to the street. From this height, she fixated on what looked like three ants crossing the street to their reasonably priced car. They were the investigators who’d given Financial Gaines Group, LLC, a clean bill of health. Why wouldn’t they, since they had only seen the books in the front of the office? The only books Jackson knew existed.

Her hand rested on the drapery pull.

Jackson moved up behind her and placed his hand over hers, shutting the drapes with force. He cupped her breasts and drew her tightly against his body.

“Don’t worry; I’ll be back to London in a flash,” he said, hiking up her skirt.

We’ll see
, she thought.

He thrust himself inside her.

Enjoy this one, Jackson!
Her mind was whirling, and not from the sex.
It’s the last time for both you and your dear old daddy.

Olivia and Charley were at the shop, selling ridiculously expensive last-minute frocks, belts, and bling to the celebs who’d popped over for the “Party of the century!” as Kasagian insisted on calling it. They had to be selective, though, as they didn’t want to see any OMGs in the “Who Wore it Best?” columns in the tabloids.

As she led a pouty Megan Fox into one of the white leather dressing rooms, Olivia overheard Charley talking with her brother.

“They’d better not miss that plane,” Olivia warned.

“They know better. They’re Gaineses,” Charley answered, hoisting her head high with a snobby tone.

Olivia laughed, then handed several high-end, low-cut garments to Ms. Fox. “No one could wear these like you, gorgeous.”

Charley rolled her eyes at her mother, muttering, “Especially since Jessica Simpson has passed on them.”

“It’s all about salesmanship, sweet girl,” Olivia reminded her daughter.

“I’m a Gaines, Mother. I know,” Charley said reassuringly.

Olivia’s platinum iPhone vibrated. “Don’t tell me it’s one of those tacky
Real Housewives
people.” She grimaced. Her eyes widened as she saw the text.

“Favor?” She pouted to her daughter.

“Anything,” Charley said, giving her standard reply.

“Joy Vella and Teddy have flown in from LA to do Gemma Kasagian,” Olivia started. “They’re two of the best hair people in Hollywood. And they can fit me in this morning at the house.”

They, both in unison, said, “Could you cover here for me?”

Olivia cocked her eyebrow and laughed. “You know me too well. You know how I love them.”

“You know I will, and you know how I love you,” Charley assured her always–very-catered-to and always-very-spoiled mother. She also knew that Charley loved one-upping the mega-rich Gemma and would pay anything to get them to her first. Ah, Olivia…control, control, control.

Olivia’s need to be in control was infamous. Which would have made her even more enraged if she had any idea that at that very moment, Richie was at the house, in bed with their sweet Portuguese housekeeper, Kelsey.

Olivia literally shoved Charley to the dressing-room door and knocked lightly. “How we are doing, darling?”

The door opened, and Megan Fox looked fabulous. Her curves filled out the white mini and low-cut chemise top beautifully.

“Stunning.” Olivia gasped. “Charley’s going to finish you up. I’ve had a family emergency, and she’s the best.”

“See you at the bash,” Megan stated as she stared at her
image in the mirror. The mini clung perfectly to her highly publicized tush.

“The white thigh highs,” Olivia suggested as she gave Charley a peck on the cheek and sailed out the door.

Entering as she swept by were Chelsea and Abby, trying to get a peek at the shop that currently catered to the crème de la crème in Monaco.

“
Un moment, s’il vous plait
,” Charley called to them.

“No problem.” Abby smiled. Then, under her breath to Chelsea, “Megan Fox. I thought that was her bodyguard out front.”

“Right again,” Chelsea said, impressed.

Charley returned, having delivered the boots to Megan. She couldn’t help but notice Abby’s camera.

“No cameras inside. I’m sure you understand our clients need privacy,” Charley said nicely but firmly.

“I don’t even have mine.” Chelsea smiled in assurance.

Charley blanched, realizing Chelsea’s smile and perfectly straight teeth were practically mirror images of her own.

“’Scuse me?” the famous customer called.

Charley gave the girls a “sorry ’bout that” look, and headed back to pamper her client.

“This makes it fun,” Abby said under her breath to her buddy. And off Chelsea’s quizzical look added, “The forbidden shots are the ones we die for.”

She put her phone to her ear, aiming the camera directly at the dressing room. Abby was a pro at this and got a quick shot before Chelsea knew it.

“Still trying to figure out tonight, though,” Abby added. “No
unauthorized press on the yacht, and even then, no cameras, including mobiles, allowed.”

As if in answer to her prayers, the door opened and a stunning, blond, and tanned thirty-year-old walked in. He looked as if he had stepped off the pages of a Tom Ford campaign.

“Hi.” He grinned, nearly knocking Abby’s socks off.

Charley returned and flashed a knowing smile. “Andy, here for the swag?”

“Thanks.” He nodded.

Charley unlocked the cabinet under the counter and retrieved three white leather locked boxes and handed them to Andy with the keys. His gaze was fixated on Abby.

“Andy?” Charley interrupted.

“Ah, yeah?” he said, snapping back from his fascination with the all-American blonde.

“If there are any left, Mr. Kasagian can keep them. He’s paid for them all,” she said. “You handling security personally tonight?”

“I am,” Andy responded.

“See you then.” Charley smiled.

Andy hoisted the boxes of white gold OMG key chains and headed out of the shop, stopping to glance back at Abby.

“Too bad he’s always had a thing for blondes,” Charley said, looking to Chelsea.

“Too damn bad.” Abby sighed with a Cheshire-cat grin.

Chelsea knew exactly what that meant.