Daughters of Fortune: A Novel (35 page)

She couldn’t wait any longer. Pulling him down on top of her, she wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him into her. He began to move inside her, and she moved with him, meeting him thrust for thrust. Oh God . . . oh God . . . She couldn’t think anymore . . .

She began to cry out first. Then seconds later he joined her.

When Elizabeth woke the following morning, she was surprised and a little irritated to find Cole asleep next to her. She had expected him to leave discreetly, return to his own room. Instead, his arm was thrown over her, as though he didn’t want to let her go.

Slowly, stealthily, she slid out from under him, careful not to disturb him. She showered and dressed as quietly as possible. To her relief, he was still asleep when she slipped from the room. Downstairs, her car was waiting. She was at her desk by eight.

An hour later, Cole arrived. She glanced up briefly as he walked into the room.

“Good morning, Cole.”

Her brisk tone must not have registered, because he walked over to her desk and perched on the side. He smiled down at her.

“Hey, I didn’t expect you to run out on me this morning. What happened?”

She looked up at him blankly. “Nothing. I had some work to do.”
There was a pause. “In fact, I’m really busy right now. Is there anything in particular you wanted?”

“I just wondered if you wanted to get some food tonight?” He still hadn’t caught her mood. “My flight’s at ten, but we could go out early . . .”

“Why? Was there something you wanted to discuss?”

He frowned. “Nothing specific. I just thought it might be . . . well, nice to hang out.”

She put down her pen and sighed. “Is this about last night?” she asked bluntly.

He blinked, taken aback by the question. “I guess. I just thought—”

“You thought I left early this morning because I couldn’t handle the fact that we slept together?”

This time, Cole didn’t bother answering.

She gave him a cool smile. “Then let me save you the trouble of worrying. Last night was just about sex. Two people who were attracted to each other just doing what comes naturally. You know, scratching an itch.”

“Hey, there’s no need to talk like that!”

“Yes, there is.” She leaned back in the chair, and he could tell she was enjoying this. “You see, I just wanted to have some fun, enjoy the moment. And you engaging me in this excruciating postmortem is really rather ruining that.”

Cole stared at her for a long moment. She could see he was struggling to control his fury.

“Fine,” he said. “I get it. Whatever you want, Elizabeth.” With that, he sat down, took out his laptop, and fired it up.

They worked in silence for the rest of the day. When he left that evening to catch his plane, they said a brief, cool good-bye. Elizabeth stayed at the office for an hour longer and then headed back to the hotel.

It was only then, in the silence of her suite, with another evening alone looming ahead, that she couldn’t help wondering if she’d made a huge mistake.

_________

Rosalind Melville was dying. She knew that with absolute certainty. Death permeated every square foot of her elegantly furnished Mayfair flat, her world reduced to one room now. There were few visitors these days. Most of her friends had already gone. She remembered a time when weekends had been a constant flurry of weddings, followed by the inevitable christenings—and then, before long, the funerals had begun.

Hers should have been one of them. Most people wouldn’t have left the hospital after the second heart attack, but naturally Rosalind had had the best care money could buy. She’d been allowed to go home, and a team of nurses now monitored her around the clock. They fed her ACE inhibitors and were trained to operate the mobile defibrillator unit that occupied one corner of the bedroom, where the antique dresser had once stood.

It was only family you could really count on at the end; the dying woman realized that now. Her sons were loyal visitors—Elizabeth, too, when she was in London. Today was Saturday, so William was down at Aldringham, but Piers was here with her. Over the years she had often wished that he would marry. Now she was pleased he hadn’t. It meant he never minded the hours spent sitting by her bed, holding her hand. He was reading aloud to her from
War and Peace
, but she was finding it hard to concentrate and had lost the thread of the plot.

Feebly, she squeezed his hand. “That’s enough for now, darling.” Even she was surprised by how weak she sounded. It wouldn’t be long now, she was sure.

Piers did as he was told. Using a bookmark so he wouldn’t lose his place, he put the novel down on her bedside cabinet.

“Did I tell you what that Cole Greenway’s been up to?” he asked.

Rosalind smiled faintly. He could never simply sit in amiable silence.

“No,” she said. “I don’t believe you did.”

Without prompting, he started to complain about Melville’s head of strategy—some minor slight that Rosalind could hardly fathom. She knew what was really eating him. William could be fickle with his affections. This Cole person was his new closest adviser—and that was a role Piers liked to keep for himself. He hated anyone coming between him and his brother.

As he launched into a convoluted explanation of the takeover defenses that were being put in place, Rosalind realized she no longer cared. The company she had once loved now seemed so unimportant. All those years spent chasing money and power seemed senseless in the face of death. It was her epiphany; something that had come to her during the long days spent in this bed. All that mattered to her now was dying in peace.

She had been thinking a lot about the consequences of her actions lately—like the changes to her will. She knew how much they would hurt William, and she didn’t want that to be her legacy to him. Especially as her reasons for changing, which had seemed so crucial five years ago, no longer felt important. She was also beginning to question the wisdom of giving Amber shares in the company, even if they were going to be held in trust until she was twenty-one.

But resolving her will was only a minor point. There was something else on her mind, too. Something that she should have told William a long time ago. About what had happened all those years ago with Katie O’Dwyer.

Rosalind had planned on broaching the subject with Piers today. She knew he wouldn’t like what she had to say. Five years ago, she had sworn to him that she would never utter a word of what they had done, because she knew that it would jeopardize his relationship with William. But now she wanted to go back on that promise. She didn’t want to die with a guilty conscience. She needed to make things right with her eldest son.

Looking over at Piers, who was still chattering on, she realized she was too tired to tell him today. But she would have to do so soon. Before it was too late.

_________

Sex was the best sleeping pill Billy Rainer had ever found. There was something about a good, hard screw before bedtime that always made him sleep like a baby. It was all to do with chemicals. Ejaculating released some hormone in the brain that put you out like a light. He’d read that somewhere once, which was surprising, because he didn’t read much as a rule. On second thought, maybe he’d heard about it on
Ricki Lake
. Yeah, he nodded thoughtfully; that seemed more likely.

He took one last drag on his cigarette—postcoital smoking was a ritual he’d never been able to break—then dropped the butt into the nearest beer can and settled down on the sofa bed. The thin covers hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine since he’d moved in and carried the stale, sweet smell of his semen. God, he was looking forward to getting out of this dump. Once the payment came through next week, he and Jack would be moving on to bigger and better things. All thanks to Amber Melville.

Meeting Amber had been a stroke of luck. He’d known right away she was going to be a little goldmine. Young, naïve, and filthy rich: it was like manna from heaven. They’d had some fun with her along the way. There was the night they’d convinced her to come over dressed in her school uniform. Hell, that video was going to make them a fortune. Her angel blonde hair in pigtails; adolescent breasts straining through her too-tight shirt; that gym tunic with nothing on underneath . . . He felt himself growing hard just thinking about it. He slipped his hand down the front of his shorts to his semierect dick, still wet from earlier.
He looked down at the girl sleeping next to him, whose name he couldn’t recall, and wondered if she’d be up for sucking him off.

Billy was about to shake her awake when he heard a car coming up the driveway. He looked up to see a beam of headlights sweeping through the curtains. Right away he knew that something was off. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and as far as he knew, neither was Jack. Maybe the driver had simply taken a wrong turn. Any moment now they’d realize their mistake and turn around.

But that didn’t happen. Brakes screeched, and the hum of the engine died. The slam of car doors and the crunch of gravel on the path told him there was more than one person outside.

The footsteps stopped at the front door. The bell was out of order. It took a moment for them to figure that out. And then the knocking began. Three short, loud raps echoing on the hard wood, followed by an ominous silence.

Instinct told him not to open up. There were no lights on inside the house; no car in the driveway. As long as he didn’t make a sound, then they—whoever
they
were—would assume he was out and give up.

He lay in the darkness, waiting. The only sounds now were the insistent tick of the clock and the thump of his heart beating faster and faster. For one hopeful moment he thought they were leaving. But then he heard a hard bang against the front door.

Boom-boom-boom.

His heart contracted. Oh God. They were kicking down the door.

He was on his feet now, searching desperately for the clothes he’d carelessly thrown on the floor earlier. In bed, the girl stirred. “What’s going on?” she asked drowsily. But Billy was too busy panicking to answer. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could get out the back . . . But then there was one last almighty crash, the sound of wood splintering.

He stood frozen, one leg in his jeans. Jackboots pounded through the house. It didn’t take them long to find him—three heavies, with baseball bats and blank expressions. They didn’t say anything, they didn’t even bother to ask his name. They just did what they’d been paid to do—beat the crap out of him.

The first blow hit him straight in the stomach, winding him. With the second, he dropped to his knees. His resolution to take the beating like a man evaporated when the bat made contact with his face, shattering his left cheekbone. He screamed out in pain.

“Please don’t!” he whimpered. “There must be some mistake. Just tell me what you want—we can sort something out . . .”

But they weren’t interested.

The girl was wide awake now. She wasn’t known for her brainpower, but even she realized the situation straightaway. Gathering up her clothes, she sensibly slipped out of the door. As she left, Billy finally remembered her name. “Michelle!” he cried out. But she ignored him. She didn’t know him well enough to get involved.

It didn’t take long to break him. Five minutes later, the intruders had barely worked up a sweat, while Billy was lying curled up on the floor, sobbing like a little girl. The bats were covered in blood and pieces of skin. Two teeth lay on the rug. They looked like incisors, but he couldn’t be sure exactly where they came from. Everything hurt like hell.

Finally, the men stood back. He lay quietly, wondering what they were waiting for. And then he heard another set of footsteps in the corridor. A figure appeared in the doorway. Through his swollen right eye Billy saw an older man in a charcoal suit standing above him. Unlike the other three, he clearly wasn’t a thug. But there was something about the cold expression on his face that frightened Billy even more. With the others, it had been business. With this guy, it was personal.

The man held out his hand for one of the bats. He raised it up high, and Billy braced himself for the blow. He closed his eyes, hoping that this would be the final one. And then everything went blank.

William Melville nudged the inert body of Billy Rainer with his handmade leather shoe. A low groan escaped from the beaten man, confirming that he was unconscious, not dead. William wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

His little girl. The things those bastards had done to her . . . He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the thoughts. Luckily, when Billy had passed the tapes on to his contact, he’d been stupid enough to brag about who was playing his leading lady in the movie. The porn distributor—Randy Dickson, if you believed that—had recognized the Melville name, seen a chance to make a quick buck, and gotten in touch with William, guessing correctly that he’d be prepared to pay a small fortune to keep the videos off the market. A little more cash, and William had the names and address of the two animals who had orchestrated it all.

He could have gone to the police—but there was no way he would risk the publicity. So instead he’d decided to deal out a little retribution of his own. The Old Kent Road was full of guys willing to do a bit of dirty work for cash in hand, no questions asked.

They’d dealt with Jack first, caught up with his truck and left him on the side of the M6, bleeding badly. Then they’d paid this little visit to Billy. William had never considered himself to be a violent man, but he’d gotten a great deal of satisfaction from delivering those final blows.

Unfortunately, that had been the easy part. Now he had to deal with Amber. He’d picked her up from Beaumont Manor earlier that evening, having made up his mind that she wasn’t ever going back there. Right now, she was outside in the back of the Bentley, crying. He still hadn’t decided what he was going to do with her.

Isabelle wanted her home with them for a while. She said that Amber had low self-esteem and that, rather than punishing her, they needed to show her how much they loved her. “Unconditional love,” she’d kept going on about last night. What nonsense! No doubt that charlatan of a psychiatrist she saw every other week had put that rubbish into her head. William didn’t agree. In his opinion they hadn’t been firm enough with Amber. Now they needed to crack down. “Before it’s too late,” he’d told Isabelle in no uncertain terms. They’d argued about it into the early hours of the morning.