The Charmers: A Novel(38)

Farther along the beach, above the tide line and away from the lights, he made out the shape of a building—square, boxy almost. No lights shone from it. No men guarded it.

He stood for a while, watching. Nobody came out. Nobody went in. Which made him wonder exactly what it might be. A generator room, perhaps? But no, that was well away from the house, the monstrosity called the Villa Mara, which the Boss called “home” and from where a DJ was now blasting hot dance music the party crowd found hard to resist.

Undecided, he wondered whether to go back to the villa, check every room one more time for Verity, but somehow he knew he would not find Verity there.

He slithered down the slope to the pebbly beach. It was much darker and he waited for his eyes to adjust. The square building was about a hundred yards away. He might have thought it was a storage unit, a place for garden equipment and the like, but this was on a prime bit of shore, worth many dollars per square meter. Not even a billionaire, especially a sharp and successful property developer like the Boss, would squander such top real estate on a garden shed. This had to be important. More, it had to be of great importance to the Boss himself.

He walked silently, the way he’d learned in the jungle, no sound of a footfall or a twig snapping, his dark jacket held closed over his white shirt, head down. He had spent half a lifetime under these circumstances; knew exactly what to do, how to make himself invisible, how to stalk a prey, how to find his way in uncharted territory. This Mediterranean garden was easy.

Now he could see the building close up. There were no windows, not even the old arrow slits of medieval times. This was a modern building, and it was windowless for a purpose. Either the Boss did not want anyone to see in, or he did not want anyone to see out.

A faint noise came from behind. Chad flattened himself against the trunk of a jacaranda tree whose purple blossoms fluttered onto his head. He wanted desperately to sneeze.

A man came hurrying along the gravel path leading to the bunker. It was dark but from his height and his bulk, Chad recognized the Boss. Keys clanked as he walked past, so close Chad could hear his breathing, rapid breaths, as though he’d been running. He stopped in front of the bunker, keys rattling in his hand. He pressed a button and a swathe of ivy-clad wall slid magically to one side, revealing a steel door. The Boss inserted his key, stepped through the door into darkness, and the ivy-covered wall slid back into place, as though the door had never been.

Chad waited a few minutes to see whether the Boss might be coming back. When he realized he was not, he ran silently to where he’d seen the door. He grappled with the ivy but could not get it to move. For all intents and purposes the door did not exist.

Chad wondered if the Boss could be holding Verity captive there. But why would he? He was a well-known philanthropist, a man of the world, businessman supreme. The Boss could call the shots, have almost any woman he wanted; many women at his own party tonight would have been only too delighted to share his bed, share his fame, his glamour and his money. Yet if there was one thing Chad had learned it was that appearances could be deceptive. Money did not make a man. A man was where he was born, how he was raised. In the end that was what he was.

The door to the bunker was suddenly flung open. Chad slid deeper into the darkness of the trees. The Boss strode out. He slammed the door and locked it behind him, and again the door disappeared behind the ivy. He was no longer wearing his tuxedo. He had changed into a black turtleneck, running pants, and sneakers. As Chad watched, he strode down the slope to the beach and began to jog in the direction of the villa.

For a second Chad wondered if he had gotten him all wrong; could the Boss still be intent on his search for Verity? Was he so concerned he needed to have looser clothing so he could check the farther reaches of the shore, the wilder parts of the extensive gardens himself, though a dozen men had already checked? Yet this was the Boss’s own house, Verity was his guest; she was his responsibility and perhaps he was now taking that responsibility seriously.

From the grassy rise Chad saw the Boss swing up from the beach, then up the steps to the Villa Mara. Chad followed, stopping when he rounded the corner of the villa and saw the assembled video and TV cameras, the pressmen already taking quick shots of the Boss standing there in his special searching-for-the-lost-young-woman outfit.

Unsmiling, the Boss looked into the cameras directed at him. He held up a hand. “I know you are all here for a good reason. Our sole purpose is to find the missing young woman. You will need her name for your reports. She is Verity Real and she was—she is—a guest of Madame Mirabella Matthews at the Villa Romantica.”

“Jolly Matthews’s old place,” someone said, catching a quick picture as the Boss glanced his way.

“Exactly. Mirabella is the late Jolly Matthews’s second cousin. She inherited the property and has recently come to stay, bringing with her, her friend, Verity. Both were guests at my party tonight. The Colonel, who you all know, of course, is now organizing the search so I’m sure you will excuse me. I’ll just let everyone get on with their work.”

He paused, one hand held up in front of him. “One more thing. I am heartbroken that this event has taken place on my property. I feel somehow responsible. I should like to make it known that I am offering a reward for Verity’s return. I am speaking to you all, and possibly to someone here that might have taken her from us. That reward is one million dollars.”

A stunned gasp fluttered through the crowd.