The Billionaire's Craving

Revenge? Maybe, and if it were, what did it matter? Justice or revenge, the outcome was the same. The responsible party would pay a bill that had been overdue for years.

The car’s tires crunched on unpacked snow as they pulled into the long driveway. It had snowed overnight and there’d been no time to clear it. Bruno, his driver, was also the groundskeeper, and the man did an impressive job keeping everything in order.

“We’ve arrived, sir,” Bruno announced as the car came to a stop. “Is there any other way I can be of assistance?”

“No, thank you.”

Colin stepped out into the brisk Swiss air and took a deep breath. At last he was back at his home away from home. He’d returned to his castle.

Before him were the hefty oak doors that led into the chalet. The handcrafted, elaborately carved wood had been one of the many unique characteristics that had attracted Colin to the property when he’d been looking three years ago, and he appreciated it even after all this time.

Colin couldn’t help but notice that one of the doors hung open a crack, just enough to allow a face to watch him from inside the warmth of the main hall.

The woman in charge of the household staff, Marie, peeped out at him through the crack.

The two of them stood there, staring at each other, despite the fact that it was below freezing and Colin was without a coat. Then, Marie drew back from the door briskly and flung it open.

“Mr. Morgan!” she called, smiling ear to ear. “Welcome home!”

Marie was a short, plump peach of a grandmother. Silver hair twisted fashionably atop her head, her cheeks were ever red and her eyes were always full of life. Colin had taken to her from the moment he’d met her at the chalet’s open house.

Expensive European property, he’d learned, came with its own servants. Often, those servants had served the household their whole lives, and some came from long lines of caretakers who’d always worked on the same property.

Only fifty years old, the Haberlin Chalet didn’t host generations of servants just yet, but Marie had already been there for thirty years. Colin was glad to have her run the house in his absence. Managing the cooking, cleaning, and other domestic affairs and staff were her specialty, and she executed each of them with tremendous grace and poise.

“Thank you, Marie. It’s good to be here,” he said.

Colin stepped forward and past the threshold of the chalet and returned Marie’s grin with a smile of his own.

“With all the storms lately I was worried your flight might be delayed or canceled. I’m glad you made it safe,” she said, shutting the large door behind him.

He regarded the entryway. Bright wood floors polished, heavy furniture arranged perfectly and dust free, the glass window panes so clean it looked like they weren’t there. The expensive carpets had been vacuumed and perfumed, and Marie had redecorated the area as per his instructions.

It was perfect. “The place looks neat and proper, Marie. Excellent job, as always,” he said.

Marie nodded, her expression pleased. “I’m just so delighted to have you back that I had to make sure everything was in tiptop shape, Mr. Morgan. Tell me, how long do I have the pleasure of enjoying your company?”

It was her way of asking if he had extended his stay or changed his initial itinerary without telling her. If he had, that would change her preparations for his visit. Marie ran the Haberlin Chalet like a business, and Colin appreciated that about her.

“A week, maybe more. You’ll just have to put up with me for the time being. Is everything that I requested ready?”

Marie nodded briskly. “I prepared the guest room next to yours, as you asked.”

She gave no intimation that he’d requested anything uncommon, or uncharacteristic. Since he’d bought the place, Haberlin Chalet had never had a female guest that Colin had a romantic interest in. Marie was within her right to be excited and curious, but she was a pro and kept her feelings to herself.

“Thank you, Marie,” he said, and he meant it in more ways than one.

Colin’s attention turned to the front door as it swung open. Bruno had returned from the garage. He told Colin the car was parked and safe from any inclement weather.

“Is everything ready for skiing tomorrow?” Colin asked.

“I think the storm tonight might close the passes, but the weather tomorrow looks perfect,” Bruno said. “We won’t have anything to worry about up here. Everything will be ready.”

As long as Sabela arrived before too much snow fell, everything would proceed according to plan. That was really all he wanted to know. He resisted the urge to pull out his phone and check the weather report again.

“Thank you,” he told Bruno. “You can go about your duties now.”

Marie and Bruno would see to his luggage. Unconcerned, Colin strolled from the front hall and into the first floor lounge. With huge windows from floor to ceiling, the room gave an eagle’s eye view of the mountain range sweeping off into the horizon.

These slopes, these crests, and these valleys were all his to enjoy.

Since he’d bought the property, its value had skyrocketed. Everything Colin touched turned to gold. Everything but his personal life, that was.

As he watched the slopes from the warmth of his lodging, he dug into his jacket pocket to withdraw the book of matches tucked there. He twisted the packet back and forth between his fingers, mind whirling.

The thin cardboard exterior was so well worn that its pink color had faded. The gold lettering upon it was no better off.

nkies 30th

iversar

Colin was never far without it, and the thin book had spun between his fingers more times than he could count.

Behind him, on a charming, claw-legged table, were two flutes and a bottle of champagne on ice in a hammered, silver bucket. Marie had set it out as he’d requested. Colin had reason to celebrate.

With Sabela not due to arrive for a while, he could take his time. He laid the matchbook in a crystal bowl on a side table and attended to the champagne. The top popped, and the satisfying fizz of expensive wine poured over the lip and pooled onto the silver tray which the bucket and flutes sat upon. Colin picked up one of the glasses and filled it. Then he filled the other glass.

The bottle cost thousands of dollars, making the contents of the flutes worth several thousand dollars alone. It was a small price to pay for a celebration that had been four years in the making.

He lifted one glass and lightly tapped it against the other. A single, clear note rang out, the tune of the toast.

He held the flute before himself and admired the sight of the bubbles rising behind crystal perfection. Waterford. It was from the set of flutes that he’d planned to buy for his bride to use on their wedding day. Back when the expense would still have mattered.

He tipped the glass to his lips and drank, hardly tasting the exquisite liquid.

The glass was the perfect weight in his hand. He looked at the other glass, the one that would have been hers. She would have loved them, and he would have been proud to make her happy. It was all he’d wanted back then.

What Colin wouldn’t give to go back to the man he’d once been. His biggest worry was what flutes Blanca would want for the reception.

Blanca.

Colin scowled into his drink and downed the rest of it at one go. Sometimes the anger of loss smothered the pain.

Sometimes, but not often.

Lately, he’d found a better way to manage his rage. After what would happen in the next week or so, Colin was confident his anger management issues would be eliminated.

He would finally be able to let go of Blanca’s memory. Maybe he would even be able to move forward.

After setting the empty flute back onto the table, he picked up the other glass, and returned to the wall of windows.

A bank of clouds were forming in the distance, thin dark streamers stretching out to block part of the sun. Raising his glass to the majestic mount

ains and the fluttering snowflakes that were beginning to fall, Colin spoke freely to whatever spirits might be listening.

“This is for you, Blanca,” he said. “May you finally rest in peace. Prost!”

He drank.

Chapter Six

THIS WASN’T THE AIRPORT SABELA was expecting.

The tiny strip of land was barely enough to be considered a football field, let alone an airport. A single runway ran straight down the middle of it, and on either side, off in the distance, squatted two rows of hangars.

One of the hangars was open as they pulled up. A good-sized plane rolled out of it, and came to a stop near the end of the runway.

After giving up on calling the police, Sabela had used her phone for a different purpose – she had her GPS open and was watching their progression. Willowford Airfield was little more than a blip on the radar, but here she was.

And she had a feeling that plane was for her.

No, it wasn’t a plane. She swallowed hard. It was a jet, presumably a private one.

Sabela had never imagined that she’d find herself traveling like this. Girls like her didn’t fly on private jets. What was Mr. Morgan up to?

Her mouth went dry. The stairs leading up to the cabin door lowered, and a smartly uniformed stewardess boarded. The man in the suit exited the car and yanked open the back door.