Carla Neggers: Betrayals

But Jared understood. “They’re both alive.”

“We’ve got to get them warm,” Rebecca said.

Jared nodded grimly. With a jackknife from his pocket, he deftly cut the wet, cold rope binding Thomas’s hands and feet. He looked over at Quentin. “You’re in no shape to carry him. Can you get Mai?”

Without a word, Quentin took Jared’s jackknife and hurried back over the rocks to where Mai and Jean-Paul were. Jared lifted Thomas onto his shoulder and steadied himself before starting up to the house.

“R.J., I’ll be back for you as soon as I can.”

She climbed agonizingly to her feet and gave him a quick smile. “The day I let anybody, even you, Jared Sloan, carry me when I can walk…” She caught her breath and winced. “Just don’t wait for me.”

It was Quentin who called the police and the ambulance, who got out blankets while Jared and Rebecca peeled off Mai’s and Thomas’s soaked, tattered clothes. Ignoring their scrapes and cuts for the moment, they wrapped them in the blankets. Jared held his daughter and tried to will his own warmth into her.

“Nothing will change, Jared,” Quentin said softly. “She doesn’t have to know who I am.”

“Yes, she does. I can’t keep lying to her. Before it was to save her life. Now…there’s no reason.”

“I won’t try and take her from you.”

“Good, because I’d fight you every inch of the way.”

“I just…I just want to be a part of her life, Jared. That’s all. She’s my cousin’s kid, right?” He looked at the pale, pretty face. “She’s going to be okay.”

On her way up to the house, Rebecca had stopped to help Jean-Paul Gerard, but he’d shooed her off. “The rain’s letting up-I’ll be fine. Take care of your grandfather.”

But now there was nothing more she could do for Thomas beyond what she and Jared and Quentin had already done, and so she grabbed a blanket and a first-aid kit and headed back out to the rocks. She’d taken a couple aspirin for her ribs. For now, it’d have to be enough.

The rain had stopped, and already the tide had begun to ebb. Rebecca went straight down to the black rock where she’d left Jean-Paul.

He wasn’t there.

She scoured the immediate area and scanned the gray swells, but saw no sign of him. How far could he get in his condition? Frowning, she started back up to the house, hoping he hadn’t just given up and lowered himself into the sea. But that wasn’t Jean-Paul Gerard’s style. He’d survived too much to give up now.

By the time she reached the grass, the police and ambulance had arrived. Jared pointed her out to a paramedic, and she tried to protest, but there was no arguing with medical types.

As they draped a blanket over her, she noticed that her truck was gone.

She grinned. Jean-Paul Gerard had stolen it.

The sky was an impeccable Mediterranean blue and the rose garden behind the stone mas in full bloom, a riot of pinks and yellows and reds. Annette enjoyed their scent as she came out onto the terrace. She would miss this beautiful old place, but sacrifices had to be made-and there was still the possibility everything would work out to her advantage. Already she’d cabled Quentin, letting him know that she’d left for France in a total state of shock, unable to fathom all the accusations being flung at her, and promising she’d fight to clear her name. No one had yet offered a shred of proof she’d done anything more than left for her annual trip to the Riviera a bit earlier than usual. Both suffering hypothermia and head injuries, Thomas and Mai hadn’t yet been able to give their version of what had transpired at her oceanside house on the North Shore. Jean-Paul Gerard was missing and presumed drowned, and Kim’s body had washed ashore.

Naturally Jared and Rebecca had come out unscathed. Didn’t they always?

Annette had the glimmer of an idea in which she could blame everything on her dead Vietnamese bodyguard, even ordering Mai’s hands and feet bound. I had to…he was going to kill me!

Hmm, she thought. The story needed work, but it had possibilities.

But meanwhile, she had her contingency plan of last resort. Thirty years ago-after her brush with being “found out” as Le Chat-she had set up a Swiss bank account for herself and purchased a beautiful chalet in the Alps to which her ownership couldn’t possibly be traced. Retreating there would mean giving up everything: Boston, Winston & Reed, Quentin. She would have to begin a completely new life-and at sixty years of age. It wouldn’t be easy. At least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing Thomas Blackburn would finally have to acknowledge that she indeed knew what it was to suffer.

She planned to leave for Switzerland this afternoon.

However, she had one last loose end to snip off in her mas garden.

The sharp thorns of the rosebushes dug at her gloved hands and her sleeves as she reached among them, feeling around until she grasped the edges of a tall, heavy terra-cotta urn. She rocked it onto its edge and rolled it out onto the terrace.

The cremated remains of my pets are in there, she’d told various gardeners over the years. Just leave it right where it is. Of course, they had. They’d thought her quite the eccentric.

The plastic cover she’d taped carefully over the top was still in place. She grimaced at the layers of dead insects and grime, but just shut her eyes and peeled back the plastic. The top half of the urn was filled with hundreds of bits of cork, which she scooped out. In spite of the close call she’d just had on Marblehead Neck, she could feel the excitement building in her.

At last her fingers struck the familiar softness of the plastic-wrapped leather pouches she’d dropped into the urn in 1959. She hadn’t touched them since.

One by one she brought them out: Le Chat’s plunder. Diamonds, pearls, emeralds, gold, sterling silver-beautiful pieces of jewelry of every description. There was even one particular Art Deco piece, an interesting snake bracelet, that had caught her eye. It had belonged to a St. Louis socialite, one of Annette’s Radcliffe classmates, who was still whining about its loss.

Nothing in these pouches, however, came close to equaling Empress Elisabeth’s incredible Jupiter Stones.

If Annette had known Tam had swiped them all those years ago, she wouldn’t have waited until 1975 to deal with the sneaky little brat.

Still, it wasn’t the monetary value the jewels represented that made Annette’s heart trot happily along as she indulged in the memory of those thrilling days. She hadn’t become Le Chat for the potential profit, but for the excitement-the daring of it all. If she could go back to 1959, she wouldn’t change a thing, except perhaps not shooting Jean-Paul when she’d had the chance.

“Was it worth it?” a female voice asked.

Annette jumped, startled out of her reverie.

Rebecca Blackburn looked stunning in a navy wrap-dress and flats, her hair pulled back, no sign that her beloved grandfather was on the brink of death.

“Get off my property,” Annette said, “before I call the police.”

“Oh, don’t worry. The police are already on their way.”

Annette shot to her feet. “I want you out of here!”

Rebecca was unmoved. “Scream and throw a fit all you want. I’m not leaving. There are all kinds of warrants out for you in the United States, and the French police know you’re here. They’re going to detain you for questioning. I just thought I’d mosey on over and make sure you didn’t try and make an exit before they could get here. Those are your suitcases on the walk out front?”

Annette didn’t speak.

“Grandfather’s going to recover. Mai’s already talking like crazy. I know what you’ve heard, but it’s not true. I thought you might like to know that.”