I told him what Chad believed had happened, and how he distrusted the Boss.
I had a vision of her in that enormous bed, her angelic sleeping face propped on a small mountain of pillows, the bedside table piled with books, magazines, the chilled bottle of Perrier, even a crystal glass to drink it from; the kindling in the grate waiting only for a match to light the log fire, soft music playing, the view of trees and flowering bushes and the scent of jasmine and lilac from the bowls of flowers. It did not take a genius to know how easily a girl might be seduced by such lavishness, by such overwhelming generosity, by such power and money.
“What shall we do?” I asked the Colonel, feeling completely helpless.
“I have to speak to the Boss,” he said.
50
The Boss
The Boss had not gotten exactly what he wanted. He was a frustrated man, a grown-up child deprived of the promised treat, and it was his own fault. True, he had Verity shut away in his guesthouse, though now not quite “at his mercy” as she had been before. And true, he had received due recognition from the media by saving her life. The video of him walking from the sea holding the unconscious girl aloft had been featured on every newscast worldwide. Her hero, was the caption, along with cameos detailing his life, his homes, his wealth, his generosity, and the fact that he was single.
The party had been shown in all its expensive glory, lanterns glowing in the trees, champagne chilling in huge silver buckets, flowers trailing over walkways, over tables, over beautiful women’s hair as they smiled for the cameras.
Yet here he was, alone as usual, in his bunker, sitting in his enormous leather chair, staring blankly at the wall of TV screens that showed his property. Empty now, but for the occasional patrolman with his dog. The German shepherds were intelligent, eager to be trained, to do man’s bidding. Lovely dogs. He stared at the screens for a long time, frustration building up in him, twiddling a pen nervously between two fingers. Finally, he got up, walked into the bathroom, stripped off his custom-tailored black jacket, his fine pale gray flannel pants, and the blue Egyptian cotton handmade shirt that he always ordered by the dozen. Same with the shoes, Lobb of London had the wooden last, shaped precisely to his measurements. All he needed to do was call and they would get to work on a new pair, whatever he wanted. All his desires would be met. And that was at the heart of his problem. What to do to eliminate the boredom, the ennui of life, when nothing seemed to matter any more, when depression overtook like a dark dog of night? Not the beautiful German shepherd, but the great dog of darkness, the one at Hell’s gate; Cerberus itself.
It was time for action.
He got dressed in the black velour sweats. He liked the way the soft fabric felt, and the fact that it did not make a sound when he moved; it never rustled or creased, in fact it was the ideal fabric for what he termed, “misbehaving.” And the urge to misbehave was overwhelming right now.
Of course he had one woman, ready and waiting. Verity, all sweetness and light and imagining she was in love with him; probably also imagining the way her life would change as the wife of a billionaire. Might as well indoctrinate her into the truth of that, but first he had to call her friend Mirabella, who was the true object of what he might call his “affection.”
Of course Mirabella had visited Verity already; now she needed to be convinced to return. He had her number. She answered right away.
“Hi,” was what she said, in the sort of soft voice that made him guess it was someone else she’d been expecting to call.
“Miss Matthews? It’s the Boss here.”
“Ohh. Ohh, my goodness. Is everything alright? Verity?”
“It’s Verity I’m calling about. She’s safe here with me, on my property—I mean, because of course she is currently in the guesthouse. I confess to being a little worried, Miss…”
“It’s Mirabella…”
“Yes, Mirabella. Well, as I was saying, I don’t like her there all alone. I’m thinking of moving her into my villa where she can more easily be taken care of, and be less ‘alone,’ so to speak.”
“So to speak.” She was thinking of what Chad had told her, and said, frightened, “Oh, well, perhaps it’s not good to do that. I mean, I can come over and get her. She can come back and stay with me now. I can look after her.”
“I don’t think there’s any need for that, she will be perfectly well cared for right here.…”
The Boss had set the trap and Mirabella had walked right into it.
“No. No, I’ll come immediately. I want her home, with me. I know she’ll feel more comfortable.”
“With her friend. Of course. Though I had hoped she might consider me a friend also.” The Boss was playing the “friend” card to the hilt. “I’ve only tried to do what is best for her.”