A Secret in Salem Read online

  Really, Dr. Masters thought to himself. “As far as his paralysis…” he began cautiously.

  “Able to move his hands and arms slightly, but that’s all,” she interrupted.

  During his examination, repositioning John to study the tattoo, Masters had realized John was moving on his own; his muscle tone was more than sufficient to hold his weight.

  “A good man,” he reiterated. Then why was John Black lying to his wife?

  MONEY ISN’T TO SPEND ON THE FRENCH RIVIERA; IT’S TO BURN.

  Vegas conjures up images of wild gambling, sexual liaisons that would make even Paris Hilton blush, parties, drugs, and rock and roll. All that pales in comparison to the extravagant debauchery of the French Riviera.

  While the old money of Europe stays discreetly behind centuries-old gates, the new money is out for everyone to see. Fat Russian mobsters spray topless, tanned beauties with thousand-dollar bottles of Dom at La Voile Rouge. Jet-setting celebrities, hip-hop artists, and the noveau riche fill the clubs and casinos until the wee hours of the morning. Boutiques catering to their moneyed clients’ every whim will close at the drop of a ten-thousand-euro advance to pamper their most loyal customers.

  OMG was one of those shops.

  How odd it was that Olivia Marini Gaines, once heralded as the designer of choice for the Clinton-era Town & Country set, was hotter than Louis Vuitton had ever been. Passion for the beautifully crafted Vuitton bags covered with gold LVs had been replaced by ones covered with OMGs.

  Olivia didn’t mind. In fact, she ate it up.

  Unlike her husband, billionaire hedge-fund owner Richard Gaines, Olivia loved the spotlight. As a child, she had wanted to be a dancer and performed with Il Corpo di Ballo del Teatro alla Scala, the resident classical ballet company in Milan. Lithe and lean, with exquisite form, she had been the upcoming star of the ballet school until puberty cursed her with 34DDs. What a curse! Later they became her blessing, and not just for the drooling stares she got when walking the streets of Milan.

  Olivia’s father was a tailor, her mother his muse, and in fashion-conscious Milan, he had worked with every major designer, including Armani, Gucci, and Valentino. With nips and tucks of the finest fabrics on the planet, he worked magic on his daughter’s blossoming frame.

  Olivia had a great eye and took note of every step of the process. When her father died unexpectedly of a heart attack, she had been devastated. She had also vowed to follow in his footsteps.

  By twenty, Olivia Marini had her first smash collection. It was the ’70s and rock-glam fashions that dominated the runways. Olivia’s line had a twist. The minis and cropped jackets were of the finest fabrics and leathers, with the OMG logo in platinum thread. There were also colored diamonds and other precious jewels tucked inside the hems. No one but the owner knew which gems they were or what they cost. To own an OMG was like being one of the super-rich who bought stolen art masterpieces and hid them in their basements. Not everyone could afford one.

  Richard Gaines could.

  Called Richie by his closest friends, he was front and center at every major house during Fashion Week. He bought the entire collection for his seventeen-year-old buxom Swedish mistress and agreed to back Olivia’s burgeoning design firm. That is, if she married him.

  Olivia was an independent, gorgeous creature. Flowing black hair, olive skin, and thick lashes she batted whenever the calculation caught her. She also loved money and the idea of being Mrs. Richard Gaines. Who cared if Richard had a reputation as a womanizer and had been married three times by the age of forty? His body was toned and tanned under his Brioni suits, and his friendly blue eyes mesmerizing. He was also known for showering his women with the wealth he’d obtained all on his own.

  The wedding was two weeks later on his 198-foot megayacht, a yacht tiny in comparison to the one they owned now.

  While Richie concentrated on his London-based international banking business, Olivia dived into her design firm. She immediately changed her logo from her scripted initials OM to OMG. Yes, she had relished the fact that in the metaphysical ’70s, her initials were the oldest and most sacred sound found in yoga, but changing them to OMG shone the spotlight on her as Richard Gaines’s newest (and she knew, very last) tantalizing wife. Little did she expect that it would eventually become one of the most popular acronyms in history.

  Oh My Gosh, Oh My Goodness, Oh My God!

  She loved it, and she adored her new, flashy husband.

  As for Richie’s reputation as a womanizer? Olivia claimed he was totally faithful, but deep down, knew better. There were things she would never do sexually that he craved, and whether on hops to Rio or during what he said were late-night business meetings anywhere in the world, she suspected—no, knew—that some dark beauty or two were making him happy.

  Olivia was happy too. She relished the money, the prestige… and the three beautiful children who were her ultimate trump cards. Jackson and Chance Gaines, born two years apart, were well educated, well mannered, and well respected. And they were total hunks. Like many of the sons of the megawealthy, they were often seen on the pages of the tabloids, partying with Lindsay, the Olsen twins, or whoever was hottest at moment. When on business in Los Angeles, they stayed at Chateau Marmont and hung out at Soho House or Voyeur, watching the topless dancers slither on poles and paying thousand-dollar bottle tabs to stake claim to one of the prestigious tables. In New York, it was the Ritz-Carlton in Battery Park. Hip, with gorgeous views of the Statue of Liberty and close to Wall Street, where they did the bulk of their business.

  Although Olivia loved her sons with all her heart, the gem of her life was her daughter, Charley.

  Charlotte “Charley” Gaines, who by fifteen had often been compared to Angelina Jolie, was actually Olivia’s opposite. She had the same flowing dark chestnut hair, but her skin was like flawless porcelain, with eyes a clear blue with hazel and brown flecks. Her temperament was more like her father’s. She didn’t grab the spotlight; the spotlight grabbed her. She also had no desire to be in the banking business like her brothers. She was content to be behind the scenes, behind the lens of a camera.

  At eighteen and a graduate of Choate Rosemary Hall in the States, one of the most exclusive prep schools in the world, Charley was spending a few precious months with the family. She actually loved their sprawling vacation home nestled in the hills of Monte Carlo, and Olivia was letting her work on the marketing campaign for the next summer collection while she helped out in the boutique. It wasn’t just nepotism; Charley had her mother’s incredible eye.

  As for Charley working at the shop? Richard and Olivia both believed that all three children needed to develop a strong work ethic. So ridiculously rich or not, all three kids worked alongside the normal folk every summer. Charley with her mother and the boys with dear old Dad.

  “Diddy and his entourage are running late,” Olivia told her daughter as she hung up her platinum iPhone.

  “They’re usually on time,” Charley said, surprised.

  “They’d planned to helicopter over from Nice, but with so many people here for the party, a Bentley brigade felt safer.”

  “And more flashy,” Charley added.

  “He can’t help it if he likes people to know he’s successful,” Olivia said, smiling and crossing herself. “What says success more than a one-of-a-kind OMG handbag?”

  Charley knew her mother was right. Even other top designers craved them.

  Diddy and his posse were out of OMG in less than thirty minutes, after spending over $87,000. They made quite a stir as they exited the Lalique crystal doors. Paparazzi were at a safe distance—but everywhere.

  It had always been common to see them in Monte Carlo, even though they had restrictions. The principality had security cameras of its own scattered throughout the entire area. Aside from hoping to keep its residents and tourists safe, Prince Rainier wanted to give at least a modicum of protection to the celebrities who’d added such panache to the mile-square city.r />
  Diddy, his off-again, on-again girlfriend, Kim, bodyguards, and several of Diddy’s kids headed to the dock for the skiff to the hippest new superyacht, WHY 58, the latest in luxury. The yacht was shaped like a horseshoe, and light flooded in on every deck. It wasn’t as huge as the nearly 400-foot RM Elegant, which he’d rented numerous times, but it was just him and his family there for Dalita Kasagian’s sixteenth-birthday bash. He wasn’t performing this time; he was just a guest. Besides, everyone had ridiculously scaled yachts. This was an eye-catcher.

  The guest list was a who’s who of young Hollywood and the international jet set. Everyone from the Twilight stars and the Kardashians to Princes William and Harry with off-and-on girlfriends Kate Middleton and Chelsy Davy would be there.

  Performing? Nick Jonas, Demi Lovato, Miley Cyrus, and American Idol “loser” Adam Lambert. Rihanna would make an appearance, only after assurances that Chris Brown was nowhere in the south of France. Jay-Z and Beyoncé had made sure Kanye had him in Los Angeles, recording.

  All were paid to be there, of course, flown in on private jets by Dalita’s nouveau riche daddy. The price for entertainment alone was over five million dollars.

  It was going to be one enormous, gaudy, pretentious bash.

  When Diddy swept out the door, one tourist did manage to snap a picture. Shawn and Belle were in the courtyard outside the opulent, petite boutique located to the right of the Hôtel de Paris, and he had his iPhone. Not a platinum-gilded one like Olivia’s, but technologically just the same.

  Belle didn’t care about Diddy. She couldn’t believe she was within yards of her current designer icon, Olivia Marini Gaines.

  When she was one of Basic Black’s top designers, Belle had a soupçon of recognition. Her designs were clean, crisp, and safe.

  Olivia’s designs were clean and crisp too but never what you’d call “safe.” Like any of the great actors who always concealed a secret within a character, OMG had them too. Many of them.

  From the secreted jewels in the hems to the numbers and addresses of all the hottest clubs sewn on the labels, OMG designs were always a surprise.

  “I think she’s in there,” Shawn said, giving Belle a nudge. “Go in and say hi.”

  “Are you insane?” Belle replied.

  “Sometimes I think he is, Mommy,” chirped their almost four-year-old.

  “Let’s go,” Belle begged, then ducked behind Shawn as Olivia exited the shop with Charley behind her. “Please.”

  Shawn knew his wife well, and when she was feeling insecure, he knew not to push. They’d had enough ups and downs in their relationship, especially when it came to the triangle they had endured with his wealthy nemesis back in Salem, Philip Kiriakis.

  It was also nearly time for the evening summer concert, and patrons were streaming into the palace courtyard.

  “Come on, CB,” he said as he swooped up his increasingly weary little girl. “Let’s find you a hot dog.”

  “Steamed mussels, Da,” she pleaded. “With pommes frites!”

  “Four next month, huh?”

  “Yup!”

  The roar of Olivia’s Aston Martin DBS caught Shawn’s attention, and he turned to see that Olivia and her daughter were leaving. For the first time, he got a good look at Olivia’s pride and joy, sitting in the passenger seat of the custom shiny yellow sports car. He’d heard of the young heiress before but had never actually seen her.

  She took his breath away.

  As Olivia pulled away from the shop, Charley caught his eye and flashed her perfect smile. In that split second, Shawn felt as if he knew her.

  It didn’t take long for Claire to gobble down the dinner they’d brought back to the boat. She was dozing off on her plate when Belle joined her and Shawn at the teak table in the main cabin.

  “She made you that nervous, Belle?” Shawn questioned his bride as she returned from the head.

  “To quote our daughter—yup!” Belle answered. “Do you mind putting her down for the night?”

  Shawn kissed Belle on the tip of her nose and carted the little one to the back of the yacht. It was only a matter of feet. This wasn’t a megayacht, after all. The three separate cabins gave them enough space to move around in, but even Shawn would have to admit that at times the quarters got tight for two adults and a rambunctious almost-four-year-old.

  Shawn and Belle were especially careful with Claire, who’d endured a tumultuous first few years and once nearly drowned at the hands of her mother’s ex-husband, Philip. Although Claire was only two at the time of the accident, she seemed to have adjusted. But they still always feared being on the water would bring back terrible memories in the mind of their precious little girl.

  Within minutes, Shawn was back.

  “Out like a light,” he said, whispering so as not to awaken Claire. “Even with all that’s going on up there,” he added, nodding to the deck. “Join me?” he asked with a smile.

  Belle was exhausted but decided not to argue. She knew that every now and then she needed to give in.

  Monte Carlo Harbor was rocking. August in Monte Carlo was the most spectacular time of the year. Tourists from around the globe rubbed shoulders with the few thousand permanent residents and swelled the population to over a hundred thousand. Most of them stayed in rental homes, villas, and the magnificent hotels that dotted the coastline. Others lived on the hundreds of boats, from thirty-footers to the block-long yachts with live-on crews numbering in the dozens, most of which bobbed quietly and empty during the low season.

  “Welcome to paradise, Tink,” Shawn said as he helped Belle to the deck. There was a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot, Belle’s favorite champagne, and fresh strawberries.

  “Got this idea from your mom and dad.”

  Belle’s eyes clouded.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” Shawn said in a comforting tone.

  “Mom says he’s better, but I’m not sure,” Belle answered, and then added, “You know my mother. Always keeping a stiff upper lip for us kids, whatever she’s going through.”

  “We’ve got a week until we see them,” he said as he popped open the champagne. “For now, let’s just think about us.”

  Shawn kissed her, his tongue darting inside her mouth. She smiled warmly and then kissed him with more passion.

  “I love you, Shawn,” she said with conviction.

  “Same back.”

  They sipped the Veuve Clicquot.

  “What should we do until then? There are so many places to see. Any thoughts?”

  “You already know,” Belle answered.

  “The aquarium, the museum, of course—oh, and Club 55 is supposed to be amazing. It’s a two-hour trip by sea, but Princess Stéphanie’s there whenever she’s home. Or La Colombe d’Or. Great food and real Matisses, Renoirs—all those guys—bolted to the walls, and it’s less than an hour to get there by boat.”

  Belle laughed. “As if you care.”

  “You do.”

  “It’s really not our scene, but thanks.” She brushed the brown floppy hair from his forehead, then added knowingly, “Tell me where I really want to go.”

  “Princess Grace’s grave.”

  She nodded. “How she influenced fashion is still phenomenal. Like Katharine Hepburn or Coco Chanel.”

  “To die so young…such a tragedy,” she added.

  Shawn clinked his Riedel champagne flute to hers, the only two nonplastic glasses on the boat. “But a great love story.”

  Belle looked into his eyes. As impetuous as Shawn had been when they were teenagers, he could be incredibly romantic.

  He slid his hand under the back of her polo shirt and pulled her close. Then he unfastened her bra with a flick of his fingers.

  Belle knew where this was going and bristled slightly, which he felt. They’d only had sex once in the last few weeks.

  Just then, brilliant fireworks exploded in the Monte Carlo sky.

  Through the shower of silver and gold, a bright yellow streak caught S
hawn’s attention.

  It was Olivia’s Aston Martin convertible winding its way up the hillside.

  Looking closely, he could see Charley’s hair flowing freely in the wind.

  IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT WHEN MARLENA LOOKED AT THE clock. She’d been tossing and turning in her bed for over an hour, but her head was spinning, and she couldn’t sleep.

  The Pratesi linens and down comforter covering her DUX bed were luxurious and comforting. John had insisted on the best for her, of course. For Marlena, however, his arms around her was all she wanted.

  Restless, Marlena crawled out of bed and went to sit at the Biedermeier desk that looked out to the lake. It was a beautiful moonlit night.

  “Why does this make me feel even more alone?” she pondered, then shook off the thought as she noticed there was a new text on her BlackBerry. It was from Belle, texting that she and Shawn were safely in the south of France.

  Marlena kissed the phone, then flipped through the photos Belle had recently sent her from her round-the-world journey. It had been much too long since she’d seen her youngest daughter in person, and she hadn’t held Claire since the precious thing was a toddler.

  Of all her children, Belle had a special place in Marlena’s heart. She could never voice that to anyone and would deny it if asked, but because she was Marlena’s only biological child with John, it was true.

  Her twins, Sami and Eric, had seemed to always have strong, independent lives since they popped out of her womb. Sami, so mercurial and uncontrollable, with her constant neediness and desire for control, rarely leaned on her mother. Ultimately she was as headstrong as Roman, the man who had once swept Marlena off her feet and who she’d always love in some part of her heart. Eric, more sophisticated and intelligent, flourished away from the lifestyle of Salem and his divorced parents. Marlena had also raised two stepchildren, Carrie and Brady, as though they were her own.

  Belle was named Isabella as a tribute to the luminescent young woman who had borne Brady and who John had married when Marlena had been presumed dead. Isabella, who had succumbed to the torture of pancreatic cancer, had a beautiful soul, and so did her namesake.