The Charmers: A Novel(42)

He decided that the wind was not a bad thing, since it would hide any noise he’d make when he carried Verity down to the beach. First though he had to prepare her. After all, she was going to be on camera tonight, so the better she looked—or perhaps the worse—the better for him.

He walked over to take another look, stood for a minute assessing her again, then slid his arms under her and lifted her off the bed. He was shocked by how cold she felt. Had he left her too long? Was it too late? She couldn’t just die on him now, not yet, at least not until he had “saved” her. He must warm her up, get her into a hot bath.…

She was unexpectedly heavy. He put her down, took her by the feet, and dragged her across the marble floor. Her dress ruffled up. Her panties were white satin, edged with black lace. He thought she looked like a dumb young bride on her wedding night, except this was not going to be the marriage culmination that would have been expected.

She seemed to be getting heavier by the minute as he lifted her over the step at the edge of the tub and slid her legs into the hot water.

Startled, he heard her sigh. Could the drug be wearing off? God knows she’d been given enough to take care of her for the entire night, but still she was reacting.

He stood over her, waiting to see what would happen. Her eyelids fluttered and for a second it seemed she was looking at him, then she slid away again. Her head thunked on the marble step. Jesus. He did not want any marks on her; she must appear intact, unharmed, except by the tide from where, as the valiant rescuer, he would pull her. He had better hurry.

He left her lying on the floor and went to the cupboard where he kept the stretcher. He returned, knelt beside her, lifted her shoulders, and got the stretcher under them. Then he lifted her body and her legs onto it. He jacked up the lever, the wheels emerged, and the stretcher rose up off the ground. Now he was in business.

He went back to look at the bank of TVs showing the exterior of the bunker. Lights still glared from the house where he knew the Colonel would be doing his job of grilling his guests, while his half-dozen men combed the grounds. Nobody would come here though. He was safe.

He rechecked Verity on the stretcher. He didn’t want her to slide off at the crucial moment. She looked so pretty, just a girl sleeping, long blond hair mussed, cheap diamante earrings glittering. She was all his to show the world.

The secret door leading directly onto the beach opened at his command. He pushed the stretcher through, cursing as her arm slid off and scraped along the floor. Now she would have bruises and he did not want that. Still, it could be assumed she had been bruised when she was swept against the rocks in the sea.

There was no light where he was walking but he knew the path, knew every step of the way, he’d traversed it so often. Pushing the stretcher in front of him, he walked steadily down the slope to the beach. Once there, he got her—with some effort because she was dead weight now—off the stretcher and lay her down on the sand. Then he folded the stretcher and carried it back to the house where he returned it to the cupboard.

It took only minutes yet he knew anything might happen in only minutes. But nothing had. She was still lying there, eyes closed, bruised arms spread wide, exactly as he’d left her. Now, though, was the time for the main event. The rescue.

He hefted Verity over his shoulder and stumbled through the soft sand to the firmer part of the beach where the tide came in. He lay his burden down and watched the sea sweep over her. He caught a murmur as she moved her head to one side. She was good and wet and the time was right.

He hefted her in his arms, not over the shoulder this time, because she was meant to look like the maiden in distress and he was her valiant savior. Our hero.

Carrying her, he staggered back down the beach along the tide line and into the brightly lit area where his guests still mingled, drinks still in hand, worried looks on their faces. The Colonel was there, and Mirabella and that bastard Chad.

“I found her,” he gasped, staggering as he ran with her in his arms. “I think she drowned.”





34

Chad Prescott

On the beach, Chad raced toward what looked to him very much like a dead woman. She lay immobile, her jaw slack, eyes rolled back in her head. From experience he feared there was little he could do for her.

He knelt on the sand and felt for her pulse, felt it flutter under his fingers. Immediately he turned her over onto her chest, placed his hands firmly on her back, and pressed with all his might. Again. And again. Water trickled from her mouth. Then she coughed. A small thing but it meant she was returning to the land of the living. Just. He kept on pressing. A big cough. Then she vomited seawater and he knew she would live.

Standing next to him, the Boss said, “If I were a praying man, I would be praying.”

“Then become one,” Chad said abruptly. “Pray, for f*ck’s sake. Just pray she doesn’t die.”

“Not at my party,” the Boss said. “I wouldn’t allow it.”

Shooting him a disbelieving look, Chad saw from his expression the Boss meant it.

Over his shoulder he saw Mirabella, a hand clutched to her throat, a look of horror on her face.

“Tell me she’ll be alright,” Mirabella begged.

He rolled back Verity’s eyelids, noted the dilated pupils, knew she had been drugged. He recalled how she’d appeared drunk at the party, how she’d stumbled as she walked into the house, after which nobody had seen her again. Until now, unconscious in the incoming tide with the waves breaking over her.