Simply Blair: A Jet City Novel Read online

  "I won't wander far," he said. "You'll be all right? Text me if you need me?"

  "I'll be fine." I watched him walk away, trying to digest what Hazel had predicted. Trying to search my heart for the truth. I was agitated and upset. And not sure why. I didn't believe in tea leaf readings. They weren't scientific. There were just a bit of fun.

  No, it wasn't them that upset me. It was the conflicted feelings about Nigel that were growing. I glanced at the brooch again, at the entwined hearts, and smiled to myself. It was so unlike anything Nigel had ever given me. Nigel was prone to the practical and clean lines. Nothing too ornate or sentimental.

  The brooch made me happy. It had to be for a reason. It had to be because of him, Austin. And the reading—why was I so pleased that his heart supposedly beat for mine? I didn't want to hurt the man. The ruthless hand of guilt washed over me. What the hell was I doing?

  My phone rang. I glanced at it. Beth. I smiled as I answered, even knowing I was in for a scolding. She wouldn't approve of me going on vacation with Nigel.

  "Blair? Are you out of the hospital yet?" she said. "I hear the wind blowing in your phone and children's voices."

  I smiled at the sound of her voice. "I'm in Avebury, visiting the stones."

  "Playing tourist? You must be better?" she said. "Have you remembered?"

  "Not yet. Trying to."

  "Ah," she said. "The last time you were in Avebury, you got the call that I was on death's door."

  "Much better to hear your chipper voice," I said. "Or, at least, I assume. That call is one thing I'm glad I don't remember."

  "It all turned out well," she said. "Are you with Nigel? Should you be out and about so soon?"

  "Yes, I'm with Nigel." I was exasperated with her tone and very clear disapproval of Nigel. "And yes, the fresh air and exercise are good for me. As I said we were going to, we're on our way to Cornwall. To Beech House, the estate Nigel's extended family owns. We'll be staying in the keeper's cottage. In separate rooms." I shouldn't have had to clarify or feel guilty.

  I readjusted my tone, trying to lessen the tension. "Avebury wasn't far out of the way. I wanted to see where Mom and Dad met."

  Beth hesitated. "I wish you'd stay in London. I know you love the Cornish coast. But I don't like you going away with Nigel."

  "We're just going as friends—"

  "Oh, baby," she said. "How can you be so naïve?"

  I laughed. "I'm not naïve. He's the only friend and support I have here at the moment." I couldn't tell her how frightening not remembering part of your life was. And how desperate I was to hold on to something I remembered and surround myself with someone familiar. "He's been nothing but kind and amazingly patient."

  "And manipulative. He's taking advantage while you're at your most vulnerable. I don't like him squirreling you away on that private estate. I feel like he's keeping us from you."

  "Mom—"

  "Don't Mom me, Blairest," she said. "You aren't thinking clearly right now. It's my job as your mother to protect you." She let out a deep breath, clearly frustrated and not afraid to show it.

  But I knew her. Part of my stubbornness and strong sense of independence came from her. People can't tell us what to do. She was trying hard not to alienate me and push me in the wrong direction.

  "I got a call from your friend Cam," she said at last.

  "Oh? That was quick. Was it after I spoke with him?"

  "He wanted to let me know about Austin personally. We talked for a bit. He told me the sale of the app he and the others developed with Austin finally went through."

  "Yes. He mentioned it to me, too," I said.

  "It's excellent news," Beth said. "It makes them all, including Austin, wealthy young men. Multimillionaires."

  "Are you trying to impress me with Austin's wealth?" I said. "I never realized you're a Mrs. Bennett, intent on getting me a man worth a fortune. How very un-feminist of you. I can take care of myself."

  "I'm saying, be careful what you're tossing away so lightly," she said. "Austin's worth isn't in his bank account; that's just a side benefit. It never hurts to fall in love with a wealthy man. But his heart is as big as his bank account is now. And he loves you.

  "A man, a person, can only forgive so much betrayal. I know you don't remember Austin now, but going off to the coast with another man? That won't be easy for Austin to take, no matter how innocent you say it is. Put yourself in his shoes."

  I shook my head, fighting a burst of anger, which was common enough in people recovering from head injuries. And recovering from miscarriages. "Put yourself in mine. I don't remember him. And now I'm supposed to trust this mysterious man who's disappeared. And detained by the government fighting a cyber-battle. Does that sound reasonable to a sound mind?"

  I shook my head, and regretted it as it started to pound. "Nigel is here. He's real and supportive. And I can remember when I loved him."

  "I'm sorry, Blairest," she said. "I am. I don't know what it's like to forget one of the most important parts of your life and the most important person in it. But I'm an expert at making mistakes in love."

  It was an admission I'd never heard her make.

  "All I'm saying is that I know what it's like to regret choices I've made. Choices that seemed reasonable at the time. Trust is easily lost and hard to rebuild." There was a catch in her voice. "Don't do anything you'll regret when all the memories come flooding back. It would be best, and safest for you, if you separated yourself from Nigel until your memory returns. You may not think so. But trust me on this."

  Just then Nigel appeared over the berm, waving at me and smiling eagerly.

  I waved back, smiling and glad to see him, but confused. "I see your point. I'll be careful. I promise. Nigel's coming. I have to go." I paused, surprisingly, given the tone of our conversation, not eager to break the connection. "I love you, Mom."

  Chapter 8

  Saturday

  Austin

  It was frustrating being kept in the black box, unable to defend myself against the character assassination and speculation going on in the outside world. My life, and the love of it, were being stolen by another man right out in the open. The scene playing in the public eye. The headlines and the speculation all over the entertainment media, spun and fueled, no doubt in part by Jamie's PR department. Nothing sells a drama like drama.

  Where has our cosplaying Jamie disappeared to? Has the real-world doppelganger of our hot hero Jamie abandoned his ladylove to his rival lookalike? Real life imitates fiction as Reggie steals his modern-day Elinor away!

  As rumors circulate that Blair Edwards is headed on holiday to Beech House, a secluded private family retreat on the south coast of Cornwall owned by the reclusive patriarch of the Helyer family, with her former boyfriend, Reggie lookalike Nigel Helyer, Jamie fans are in an uproar. Just a month and a half before the new season of Jamie, fans speculate on the turn of events in the upcoming season and plead with Austin MacDougall to come out of hiding and fight for his woman like the Highland warrior he cosplays.

  The Sinclair would never stand for this. No matter how much the love triangle aspect of Jamie thrills fans and keeps them coming back season after season, Team Jamie outnumbers Team Reggie in significant numbers, as is becoming more obvious by the day.

  When asked whether this was a PR stunt to raise anticipation for the new season, actor Connor Reid denied any knowledge of such a scheme. "If it is, it's bloody brilliant."

  He has a message for Austin: "Come out and make Jamie proud. Get your woman back, lad. I'll see you in Scotland, aye?"

  The mystery—or should we say mysteries—continue. American authorities want to talk to Blair in regard to the suspicious death of 67-year-old Robert (Bob) Price, the late husband of Blair's friend and colleague Dr. Erica Price, and a major benefactor of the cancer institute where Blair works. Dr. Price stands accused of killing her husband, who had a weak heart, with sex, and possibly foxglove. A salacious and provocative accusation, to say
the least. Sex has been used as a weapon since the dawn of man, but as an instrument of death?

  While Blair is not under suspicion of any wrongdoing, authorities believe she may have information that will aid the American authorities in their investigation. Is this why she's gone into seclusion? To shield her friend?

  In the meantime, neither Blair nor Nigel have been available for comment or returned reporters' calls.

  In Jamie, both the show and the books, there is a point where Elinor believes that Jamie has been killed by the British in battle. The rumor is fueled by her former fiancé, Reggie, who led the charge against the Highlanders, but had promised Elinor to spare Jamie's life if he were taken prisoner of war. Instead, Reggie claims to have seen Jamie slain and buried in a mass grave. Reggie convinces Elinor to return to England with him and marry him. Believing Jamie is dead, grief-stricken, and alone as an outsider in the Highlands, Elinor believes she has no other option. Reggie takes her to England and locks her away while he posts the bans and prepares for the wedding.

  Reggie knows the truth—he saw Jamie fall in battle. To his knowledge, there was no way Jamie could have survived the blow. To guarantee Jamie's death, when the British win the battle, Reggie commands his troops to slay all wounded Highlanders and bury them in a mass grave in the moors.

  When Jamie manages to escape Reggie's ordered battlefield execution, he's badly wounded. He manages to hide out in the Highlands until he can recover. By the time he's well enough to return home, Elinor is gone. Jamie has to sail to the southern coast of Cornwall to rescue Elinor from the castle where she's being kept.

  The parallels were eerie. I wasn't dead. Almost worse, in Blair's mind, I had never existed. Nigel was free to feed her whatever load of crap about me he wanted. To fill her mind with lies. To win her back and rekindle their love. To take her away to a private estate that was the modern equivalent of a fortress.

  My heart should have been wounded. I should have been mad as hell at Blair for abandoning me and running off with Nigel. But how could I blame her? It was no different than Elinor thinking Jamie was dead and gone. I had to get to her. I had to win this battle I was engaged in and escape this place.

  Further hindering my cause, the building I worked and lived in was shielded with so many layers of security it was like an iron onion. Camouflaged. Its very existence denied. A more secretive Area 51. It was like working in the middle of a James Bond movie. I was entombed.

  Everything was on a strictly need-to-know basis. I worked my little code traps, checking to see if I'd caught anything. And tried not to be too nosy about anything else.

  I was working with a group of brilliant coders. A good bunch of men and women. Dedicated. Close-lipped. In our spare time, what limited amount there was of it, we gamed on a closed system to get our mind off the stress.

  I was working myself day and night, thankful for the software traps I'd set when I'd first begun to suspect Randy Dixon of sabotaging my code earlier this year. Untangling them, however, was taking longer than I'd hoped. Someone had covered their tracks very cleverly. Randy wasn't smart enough, or skilled enough, to do it. He had outside help. I was sure of it.

  On Saturday, Lazer visited under supervision. The news from home was a mixed bag. The app sale was finalized. The money transferred. I was a wealthy man. I didn't need to work again. Unless I wanted to.

  Okay. So great on the money front. Not so good on the love life.

  Lazer had been in touch with Blair's aunt, Beth, for me. Beth was rightly worried about Blair. She advised Lazer not to contact Blair, afraid of pushing her further into Nigel's arms. Beth believed, as I did, that Nigel was brainwashing Blair, in a manner. Taking advantage of her injury to cement the impression that she was still in love with him and always had been. That Blair had been about to leave me for him.

  Beth begged Lazer to ask me to forgive Blair, for "she knows not what she's doing."

  As I said, on an intellectual level, I understood. As a feeling person with emotions, I was devastated. Furious at Nigel. Determined.

  Beth was worried, but stuck in the States, unable to get a passport fast enough to fly to Blair's rescue. I was stuck until further notice, and frustrated and worried as hell.

  My original thought had been to send the guys to England to bring Blair back. To stage an intervention.

  Lazer had brought that up with Beth. She warned me off that plan. She knew Blair. She could be stubborn and determined. Beth felt I needed to be the one to rescue her. That if Blair saw me, she'd remember.

  But Beth, though single and outwardly cynical about love, was a dramatic romantic at heart. Would seeing me bring back all we were to each other? Would Blair remember me?

  I had no idea. But I had to try. As for standing down, backing off, and hoping, in the meantime, that Blair remembered, before Nigel stole everything from me—my role in the Jamie teaser and the woman I loved? Hell no.

  I had another favor to ask Lazer.

  * * *

  Cornwall

  Blair

  Nigel's family home, Beech House, near the village of Fowey, was named for the tree, not the sandy beaches nearby, though many people confused it when they heard it. It was natural enough to assume the home was on the beach. The extensive estate lands certainly reached that far. But it was actually nearer the majestic cliffs and the walking paths on the cliff crests than any beach.

  Beech House was nestled far off the main car path, deep in the woods, and surrounded by grand grounds and gardens. The house was built in the 1700s in the Georgian period and style, and named, in a manner, for the nearby town of Fowey, which means beech tree. The house had been renovated and added to many times during the course of its life.

  I had only been in it once. And considered myself lucky to have had the honor. Nigel's great-uncle, who owned the estate, was a reclusive man. Generous, but definitely a misanthrope who preferred his own company to that of others. As a consequence, whenever he was in residence, which was nearly always, any thought of stopping by the house was mere folly.

  The solitary, withdrawn nature of the owner, and the house's secluded setting, gave it an almost gothic, forbidding beauty and feeling. Which wasn't at all out of character in this cliffy area of the country known as the setting of many of Daphne du Maurier's novels of mystery and intrigue. Fowey even held an annual festival for her. Tourists flocked to it. The beauty of the cliffs, seas, and countryside made a perfect setting.

  Although he kept to himself, Nigel's uncle was generous with the two holiday lets on the property. He lent them to family at no charge and was known to bump paying guests when a member of the family wanted the use of one of the cottages. Someone must have been bumped for us. It was the height of summer and the tourist season.

  Cornwall was known for its sandy beaches and water sports. This time of year it was filled with tourists, which was its main industry. Holiday lets were booked well in advance and hard to come by on short notice.

  After the experience of being recognized in Avebury, I was eager to go to a private spot. Unlike so many registered houses, the estate was never open to the public. Access to it was off a gentle country lane and through a gatehouse that was regularly staffed, the access code changed randomly. After a leisurely drive to the coast and dinner in town, we arrived late in the evening, almost at sunset, but still with enough light to find our way down the road. With no streetlights on the lane, it could get very dark once the sun went down, particularly on a moonless or rainy night. Fortunately, this was neither.

  Once inside the gates, you had to drive a narrow woodland track, skirt the edges of the manicured part of the house's grounds, hoping to catch a glimpse of the house, and take a fork in the road through a copse of dense woods, until finally you broke into the open and a lovely cottage came into view.

  I say cottage, but it was as large as any home I've ever lived in and full of character. Which meant it was nearly as old as the estate house. It was a two-story affair with three gables and a
flat front, no porch. There was a pond, terrace, and lovely tiered garden. The house sat on an outcropping of land between a lake and a sandy cove with a private beach within a short walk of the cliffs and a scenic footpath. I'd always thought the keeper's house had the best location on the estate. Nigel and I had vacationed there several times.

  It had space for three cars in the lot. The only access to the cottage was either through the estate or by cove and boat. We weren't likely to be disturbed here.

  Cell coverage was spotty. But there was a landline. Internet and cable were nonexistent. The only way to enjoy TV was to watch a DVD. It was like stepping back into another century.

  Nigel parked the car and opened the trunk to get our bags. "Is this perfection, or what?"

  I stepped out of the car and shielded my eyes as I looked at the sparkling water in the last of the day's light. "Perfection, of course."

  This was what we said every time, and was something of a joke between us. The atmosphere between us, even after the long drive, was awkward. Not exactly tense, but not natural and comfortable, either. Conversation didn't flow.

  I blamed it on my head injury and the medications I was on. On Nigel treating me with kid gloves. And me not being able to think properly. Headaches came on suddenly when my painkillers started to wear off, and lurked in the background the rest of the time.

  We'd picked up the keys to the cottage at the gatehouse. Nigel let us into the ground floor of the house, what we Americans would call the first floor. The curtains had been opened, letting the last of the evening sunshine stream in.

  The house was made of stone and brick and relatively cool inside. It had been aired and cleaned recently. It smelled of lemon cleaners and sea air. Fresh flowers from the estate gardens sat on tables around the cottage.