Trust: Betrayed
Trust - 2
By
Cristiane Serruya
To my dear youngest daughter, Giovanna, who brightens my days with her happiness, her laughter and her unending capacity of making light and fun of everything.
Thanks, baby. For being you!
Prologue
England, London.
Tuesday, April 6th, 2010.
The City, Fleet Street.
3.28 a.m.
The sound of paper being crumpled ripped through the silence in the office.
Reaching for the drawer, long and slender fingers pulled out another cream sheet with her name elegantly printed in navy at the top of the page. The fountain pen ran smoothly over the surface.
April 6th, 2010.
My Dear,
Our relationship is doomed. I can’t carry on with it. My heart is bleeding but I have to ask you to forget me.
I’m sorry. More than you can imagine but I know that, in the end, it’s going to destroy me. You are
The pen stopped midair and the woman thinned her lips. She crushed the sheet in her hand and threw it with rage in the already full wastepaper basket.
She wiped her tear stricken face with the back of her hands, pulled out another sheet and started again.
After five more tries, she grimaced and considered herself satisfied with what she would describe nonetheless as a pathetic result. But she hadn’t any more strength in her soul to start again.
She’d never felt so ancient in her whole life.
Jaded.
Broken.
Fresh tears spilled on her purple T-shirt as she looked at the photos beside her computer. It’s a fitting punishment for what I did.
Park Lane.
4.50 a.m.
His mobile rang in the silent room. Once. Twice.
“Hello?” he answered on the third ring.
“Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but there is a situation.”
The man instantly pushed his fit and muscular body up, resting his broad back on the headboard.
“Tell me,” he said, alert.
“Something strange is going on. My contact just called, informing me she left her house after returning for just ten minutes.”
“Alone?”
“No. I guess her daughter was with her because she wasn’t in the McLaren. They left in the Jaguar, but I don’t know if she was driving or not. Sir, I’ve checked her last calls and she booked a private jet. It’s supposed to leave from Heathrow in an hour and a half.”
“Heathrow?” He flung his body out of the bed in an agile movement and went to his dressing room. “Where is she going?”
“Rio de Janeiro.”
He frowned as he picked up his carry-on and started filling it with clothes for warm weather. “Any problems with her family?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. I’d say that it’s a matter involving her.”
“Cancel her flight. I’m heading to Heathrow. Inform my driver that I’m going down in a few minutes.” He closed his suitcase with finality. “Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Did she call him?” He unlocked his safe and retrieved his passport and some money.
“No, sir.” There was a pregnant pause on the other side of the line. “Sir, if I may...”
“Shoot,” he walked into the bathroom with a white linen shirt, black briefs and a pair of dark blue jeans in his hand.
“I’d say they’ve had a fight.”
A dark smile spread over the rugged face and azure eyes flashed. “His loss. Keep an eye on her and brief me again in fifteen minutes.”
“Of course, sir.”
The City, Victoria Embankment.
10.17 a.m.
“How may I help you?” His deep voice sounded tired and despondent even to himself.
“What have you done to her?” asked the angry male voice on the phone.
What? “I...” he halted, and looked astonished at his brother, who raised an eyebrow. He put the call on speaker. “I’ve done nothing. Where is she?”
“She is gone. Nobody knows where she is. She left you a letter,” a heavy breath was exhaled.
“She is... gone,” he repeated in a murmur, frowning. Gone... Where? Why?
“Her memory’s back. She remembered the night she was shot. She may be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder,” his brother whispered to him and he repeated the information.
The man on the other side of the line shook his head and a blond lock fell over his forehead. He pushed it back in a brusque gesture. “You bastard,” he growled. “You’re the reason she’s disappeared.”
“I don’t get it.” He raked his fingers in his long, raven hair. “What have I got to do with it?” He was stupefied; the only thought that made sense was that she was gone.
The man didn’t answer his question. He was too enraged to pay attention to whatever was asked of him. His blue eyes were blistering. “She is so naïve. She went online and did a thorough search of porn videos and of disgusting sites without turning on the private browsing. I’m utterly shocked and that’s saying something. There are few things about sex that would shock me. I can’t even start to imagine what she is feeling.”
“Shocked? What was she looking at?”
“You don’t fool me. I’m expecting you here in ten minutes max and you’d better have a good explanation for all this. Or else, I’ll report you to the police. In case you don’t know, these kinds of sexual preferences are considered a crime.”
Fuck. “Now. Wait just a minute.” His nostrils flared. As did his temper. “Stay out of this. You have no right to interfere in our relationship. We are adults and it was consensual-”
His brother rose from his place and put a hand on his shoulder trying to calm him down.
“It’s still a crime. There is no such thing as consent in these cases. Ten minutes. And just to inform you, I opened the letter.”
“Violation of correspondence is a crime.”
“I don’t give a fuck. She’s gone and you’re responsible.” The blond man banged the handset in its cradle, hanging up.
“She is gone,” he whispered again, heartbroken and shoved his elegant fingers in his long hair, resting his forehead on the palms of his hands for a second before he sprung from the chair, “let’s go.”
As they waited by the elevator, his brother murmured, “You must have really fucked up this time. She doesn’t seem the type to flee from a battle.”
He looked at the taller man who looked so much like him and voiced his worst fear, “How am I supposed to live without her?”
Chapter 1
London, The City, Victoria Embankment.
The City of London Bank Headquarters.
Monday, March 15th, 2010.
9.08 a.m.
“Alistair Connor!” Tavish snapped his fingers in front of his brother’s face. “Wake up, dammit.”
Alistair looked at his younger brother and blinked away the thoughts of Sophia’s naked body. “I’m awake, can’t you see?”
“Then,” he smirked, “should we call them in or not?”
Alistair rubbed a hand on his nape and looked sheepishly at Tavish, “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got it bad, man.” A broad smile split Tavish’s rugged face and he even chuckled. “I never thought I’d see the mighty Alistair Connor daydreaming.”
“I’m not the mighty Alistair Connor. And I wasn’t daydream-” he interrupted himself and smiled, “Okay, I was. She’s everything a man could wish for, Tavish Uilleam.” And his grin turned almost idiotic with happiness.
“Have you told her about Heather?”
Alistair’s smile waned. “Fuck. You had to spoil it, Tavish Uilleam.”