The Courage to Love, page 4
“Yes, I was astonished at the forty million, but when you and Mr. Donahue decided to quadruple your take and leave Mr. Philips out of the deal, I thought it best to end your fun before it really got started.”
Mr. Philips turned on both of his co-conspirators. “You did what?”
“We did not!” Mrs. Wright cried.
Mr. Donahue took a step toward her. “My God, you little bitch!”
Both security guards moved forward into her line of sight.
“Mr. Donahue! Let me remind you that you are under investigation here,” Mr. Blake stated, slamming his hand down on the table.
The board room turned to chaos.
She let it run its course until Mrs. Wright was pointing her finger at Mrs. Stanford and Mr. James, both veterans of the company.
“Enough.” Nicole stood once more. The room stilled as if she’d shouted. She leaned forward and placed her hands, palms flat, on the table. “I am not blind, nor am I incapable of running this empire. I now am in possession of eighty-nine and a half shares. Do not tempt me to clear this board and replace it with one better suited for this century. Mr. Philips, Mr. Donahue, Mrs. Wright, these gentlemen will see you downstairs where officers are waiting for you.”
“You little bitch. You’ve never done a thing for this company, never done a day’s worth of work and now you want to see if you can handle the reins?” Mrs. Wright snarled. “You wouldn’t know a good stock from a good nail polish.”
Nicole smiled and gestured for security to take them away. Very soon she’d be out of this room, away from New York and on a plane. Until then, she had to keep up the charade.
“And on that note”—she laughed quietly because this would be her last board meeting, ever—“we will discuss the next few items you will find on pages twenty-eight, twenty-nine and thirty.”
Chapter Four
Six days later…
Nicole’s home was silent around Ian. Only one of the many servants in her employ waited, discreetly, behind him—waiting on him to pull himself together.
As if I can. As if I ever will be right again, with her gone.
Ian put a hand on the table in front of him and tried to get enough oxygen past the pain slicing his throat. She’s gone. She’s truly gone. The morning newspaper lay at his feet where he’d dropped it. But Nicole’s face from their last Christmas together filled the entire top of the page.
Nicole can’t be dead.
His mind was blank. Nothing made sense.
From the moment he’d stepped off the plane in Vietnam, he’d known something was wrong. Even at the hotel where Nicole was supposed to stay, he’d known. The unease in his gut had grown impossible to ignore.
He hadn’t needed two of his old buddies to rush up to him, explaining that Nicole’s jet hadn’t arrived. He hadn’t needed to see their faces or the sympathy in Dare’s eyes, or the empty hotel room where Nicole would have finally learned the truth about who he was. Deep down, from the moment he’d agreed to hide who he was from his wife, he’d known something would take her from him.
“Sir? There was a call for you.”
“I know. I need a minute.” Ian focused on the file. “I have to read this first.” The proof that his life would never be the same again sat there, looking plain and ordinary. Unthreatening. But he’d never feared anything as much as opening that cover. Inside it, every detail would be written in neat, straight lines—black-and-white words that held more power to hurt him than any gun that had ever been made.
And for what? Devon was still free, still involved in the drug trade and untouchable.
Ian didn’t care. He’d had to come back to New York, to her house, even though he hadn’t believed for a second that Nicole had changed her mind and stayed in New York instead of traveling to the island. But he’d clung to it all the same. He’d prayed, even though he’d given up on such things long, long ago. Head down, hands clasped, he’d begged a god that had never listened to him before for Nicole’s life, for her to have fooled them all and stayed in New York. But even as he’d prayed for it, he’d known, deep down, that she wouldn’t be there.
And he’d been right. The news of where she’d gone instead of the island and her subsequent crash had hit worse than any bullet Ian had ever taken.
She can’t be gone. She can’t be dead.
He lifted the cover and stared unseeing at the words, more for the benefit of the servant than because he needed to read them. He knew what it would say—a plane crash in the Alps, two survivors out of the three, ashes of another body so burned that nothing, not even dental work, remained. A ring—her most beloved heirloom from her great-grandmother—found remarkably free of damage inside the fireproof safe, along with her computer and passport.
She’ll never know I wasn’t going to let her go—never know I loved her more than anyone in the world, never know I protected her the only way I could.
Tears that should have fallen were trapped by the grief threatening to tear him apart. He felt as if his entire body was going to shake itself into a million pieces.
Nicole was crucial. Without her… His fingers protested at the grip he had on the table. Why? Why were you in the Alps? You can’t have meant to leave me, to truly leave without asking me why, without fighting for me.
“The driver is here, sir. Did you hear me, Mr. Masterson?”
He jolted at the name, reminded that he still had a part to play. The name disgusted him. It was a memory of all the times he’d lied to Nicole before he’d ever faked an affair. How could I believe you’d forgive me? I hurt you long before I even knew I was.
“You’re wanted at the scene, for identification, sir. The driver is here.”
He hung his head and squeezed his fists until his knuckles cracked. “I heard you. I’ll be there.” The nightmare of the last year was fully realized now.
I’ve truly lost her.
* * * *
Nicole took her seat across from Doctor Richards and waited for him to finish his phone call. Excitement still thrummed through her as if she’d touched a live wire. She felt alive herself, for once free of everything—except the pain. Her heart ached, but the dull hurt mixed with anticipation now. She could live with that—or she hoped she could. The nights were still the worst. It was then, alone in her new bedroom, that she found her anger mixing with the sorrow. The two left her sobbing.
Across the stylish table, Dr. Richards smiled and indicated her cup of coffee. The delicate aroma was soothing, but she was already too hyped up to drink it. Still, she politely sipped a little, surprised at how good it was.
Considering the office, she shouldn’t have been. Everything about the doctor and his clinic was well-thought-out and extremely well done. The décor was more comfort than clinical. He even had a nice seating arrangement around a coffee table rather than a bulky desk with starkly covered black leather chairs.
But then Dr. Richards didn’t deal in mediocre medicines, so perhaps his clientele required a bit more than the average patient. In his early forties, he was a robust, attractive man with probably more women at his beck and call than Nicole had nail polish colors. Blond and blue-eyed, with a Romanesque nose and full, firm lips, he was beyond a doubt a catch—and as far from what she would ever think of as handsome or her ‘type’ as they came. Will I always think of Steven when I consider a man?
“Ms…Nicolas, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I trust your trip was uneventful.”
The stumble over her new name made her smile. Her flight to Amsterdam had been easy. She’d managed to get off the airplane, find the doctor’s men waiting for her as he’d instructed and left the airport without anyone knowing she wasn’t fast asleep in her cabin. The three trains she’d caught to be there, high in the Swiss Alps, secretly meeting with her new doctor, had been as uneventful. The fake passport had already passed her through several countries.
“It was. Thank you, Doctor.”
He smiled and nodded. No doubt he could hear her excitement. He should be able to. She was bubbling over with nervous energy. Besides—she shifted to a more comfortable position in her chair—she wasn’t hiding anything, ever again. It was a step, but she grinned, encouraged when his own smile grew wider.
“Good. Very good. Now…” He crossed one leg over the other and rested his folded hands on his knee. He examined her face, and whatever he saw made him nod again. “I am glad to see you are prepared to continue with our work.”
“Yes, of course.” A stab of fear squeezed her heart. If he wouldn’t fulfill his promise, she wasn’t sure what she would do. “I never make a decision without thinking it through. I assure you that this is my decision.”
“You’re leaving behind a great deal. I simply want to ensure you have considered the ramifications carefully.”
“I’m twenty-eight years old and I’ve done enough. I never asked for what my father created. I thank him for it, but I won’t give my life to it.” If I do this, I won’t hurt so deeply. I can heal and forget Steven—forget his lies, his touch, his everything. I can start to be me. Me.
“Very well. I merely wished to double-check. Once we begin, there will be no going back, you understand. No changing your mind. I wanted to reassure us both that you are one hundred percent behind this.”
“I am more than one hundred percent and more than five million into this, Doctor,” she reminded him bluntly. “If you’re having second thoughts—”
“No, of course not, my dear. But an empire like yours would be hard for most to walk away from. I trust you know what you’re doing.”
An empire like my father’s, he means. “I always know what I’m doing,” she assured him.
A knock on the door interrupted them and an older nurse with short gray hair and sharp blue eyes walked in after the doctor had murmured for her to enter. “This is Mrs. Wesley. She is the person you communicated with most recently.” Davidson took a file from the woman and opened it to read whatever was inside.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Nicolas.”
Nicole stood to shake the woman’s hand. “Ah, yes… Thank you. Sara, isn’t it? It’s nice to meet you, as well.” Sara had been the one to organize her new identity, along with her new name. It had been their little joke, Nicole Andros…Andrea Nicolas.
“Yes, and it’s nice to finally meet you.” Sara smiled and her face changed from uptight old woman to kindly mother hen. The transformation was stunning. Why such an elder woman, clearly not into plastic surgery, would work in a clinic that specialized in it was beyond her, unless it was the deep personal care she took with each person that passed through here, not only a lonely divorcee weary of working her father’s dream.
“All right then.” The doctor stood as well. “The procedure should take no more than a few hours. You should be able to go shopping within a month, perhaps two, with your fair complexion, without anyone looking twice at you for anything other than your beauty.”
Stunned, Nicole could only stare at him. “It’s that easy?”
“As far as your looks, yes. Your mind? That will take more time. You have been subjected to a great deal of stress, as well as other painful events.” He spoke gently, as if fearful she’d break down in front of him.
She could have assured him she had ever done anything remotely like that in her life.
“I know you wish to be this person you described to me so eloquently,” he said, “and I will do all I can to make it easier for you, but the hard work will be with you. And, if you will, with Mrs. Wesley. She is a highly trained and professional therapist, as well as a nurse here at our clinic. I hope you can accept her guidance.”
Nicole nodded. “I will.” She’d had to go through an entire screening process to be here. One of the conditions of her makeover was that she begin therapy and continue with it for at least six months. Therapy wasn’t something she’d ever considered, but if that was what it took to end the pain still ripping her up inside, then she would do it gladly.
“Excellent. Excellent. Now, as far as your treatment with me goes, you are only having a few things done. Your face is stunning. With a slight change to your eyes and a very marginal adjustment to your chin, you will fool anyone. Remember, this is about a new you, not a true plastic surgery—tuck, snip and so on. Your bone structure is too elegant for that. But with what we do to your fingers and with your new paperwork, no one will ever be able to trace you to the woman who died in the plane crash in the mountains.”
She frowned, scanning the sketch of her new face. Her hair would remain the same. She’d grow it longer, perhaps. Her eyebrows would be adjusted, as would the shape of her jaw, but her nose and mouth would remain untouched. “So, no one, not even forty years from now, would know I had this reconstruction?”
“No. In a few months it would take a highly trained specialist in bone structure analysis to decipher a difference from before and after to even pinpoint the changes. Basically, this could be your face if you were, say, in a minor car crash. What I am giving you is more about the new name, the new location and the new you, not a new face.”
“I see.” Anticipation raced down her spine at the implication of what he was saying. “I’m ready.”
Dr. Richards smiled, revealing more of why he was such a charmer. “Then let’s give you your freedom, my dear.”
Chapter Five
A blare of a horn and shouts filtered up and into the impersonal hotel room, but Ian barely registered the sounds. The world felt as if it had been somehow sped up while at the same time, slowed to each moment. This was one of those moments.
He held Nicole’s wedding band on his palm. It was such a small thing.
Her fingers had been delicate and slender. He’d laughed and teased her when he’d had to have her finger sized for the engagement ring twice before it was perfect. The wedding band had fit from the first moment he’d slid it onto her finger.
Now he held both in his palm, seeing but not seeing them. He could picture that day, the way her delicate hand had been presented to him, how small and fragile it had seemed, and yet at the same time so powerful. Without it—without her—he’d known he wouldn’t survive.
Only he had. He stood here, in a hotel room, with life going on around him, while his wife no longer stood by his side.
The thought tore at his ability to breath. His heart alternately raced and slowed to a heavy thud.
They’d asked him to go search her house for clues as to why she hadn’t been on her flight to the island. The pain had only grown there. Seeing their home without her, never again with her there, had nearly broken him.
When he’d seen her rings, he’d taken both without a single ounce of shame.
Cynthia, her personal assistant, had been too distraught to watch him as closely as she should have. She had loved his wife—had known her from childhood—but that hadn’t stopped him from essentially stealing.
The weight of the rings was surprisingly heavy. He could feel them all the way to his heart. He’d picked them up and pocketed them thinking at the time that they would be a link to her, a piece of her. But looking at them now, days later, painful regrets tore at him.
Nicole had placed the rings on a table, with a note to Cynthia to donate them to a local women’s shelter. No doubt she would have flushed them if she’d had her way. He guessed Cynthia had stopped her.
All the jewelry he’d bought her—not much really, when compared to what she’d already possessed—had been gone, no doubt already sold or donated. The winter coat he’d purchased for her in Aspen was missing, the wedding dress she’d kept so safely treasured in the back of her expansive closet, gone. Every picture of him and of them, along with every item of his, had been erased. She’d even had his closet filled with her things, completely destroying every evidence of him except one. He’d found an old picture, one he’d never known she’d possessed, tucked away in her bedside table. He wasn’t even sure why he’d opened that small drawer. She hadn’t simply missed the picture. It had been next to her favorite things—a simple lip balm—ChapStick, of all the brands available—and her small notebook she always scribbled in before they settled in for bed, or when she woke.
In the picture, he was smiling, and behind him, the lush green of a forest spread out in a beautiful back drop. He was half turned away, his face cast in sunlight and shadow.
The location wasn’t clear to him until he’d recalled when he’d first ‘met’ her. It’d been staged to appear like a random meeting at a bookstore. He remembered the anxiousness he’d felt, how he’d worried and paced his hotel room, trying to decide on how to play his part, until finally he’d left and run right into her, knocking her on her butt.
The rest, as they say, had been history. He’d picked her up and, after getting over the complete horror of hurting her, had laughed with her—something he knew she didn’t do very often—and, all in the innocent moment, asked if he could at least buy her a new coffee.
Of all the pictures, why that one? He had it in his jacket pocket now, along with one of her from a trip they’d taken back to Denver not long after that fateful day. The picture had been snapped in a moment of her being happy and smiling. Her hair had been down and, for once, unruly and blowing in the chilly breeze. The night before, he’d made love to her, only then realizing that he’d been the first to do so. All the years of worry, of watching her and fearing she’d fall in love, of jealousy over her imagined lovers, had all been wiped clear, but in its place, a monster had begun to grow. He’d known from the first that he wanted her for his, but after that night, he’d known no mission mattered as much as the woman he was going to make his wife. And now I’ve betrayed her, failed her in every possible way.
