Hidden Danger, Hidden Heart

By Blair Bancroft

A threat to an organic foods business brings together two people from diverse backgrounds—one from New England and Palm Beach; the other, a tough second-generation Hispanic entrepreneur. Their fight to save the pure foods they grow and sell is complicated by teenage relatives who are being used by a terrorist for his own ends. And also by a culture clash strong enough to resound over two continents. Even if they win their fight against terrorism and corporate greed, their personal differences may be more difficult to solve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blair Bancroft
• Release date: Jan 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999851906

Blair Bancroft

Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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Hidden Danger, Hidden Heart

by Blair Bancroft

Published by Kone Enterprises

at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 by Grace Ann Kone

For other books by Blair Bancroft,

please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

"Faites vos jeux!"

Rafael Guerrero paused, his fingers on a fifty euro chip, as his cellphone vibrated for the third time in ten minutes. He should have turned the damned thing off. He hadn’t found time for Monte Carlo in more than a year. Tonight was supposed to be all his.

Instead of placing a bet, Rafe handed the chip to the croupier, pocketed his winnings, and sought a quiet spot on the fringes of the elegant gaming room. Fishing his cellphone from an inner pocket of his custom-made tuxedo, he checked his call list. The last three, all from his brother, Miguel. Not good. If Mike just wanted to chat, he would have quit after the first call, recognizing big brother was occupied, possibly with a woman.

But Mike had called back twice. Something had happened to Mama? Or Perla? Grimly, Rafe returned his brother’s call from Florida and was promptly inundated by a torrent of Spanish.

"Miguel, take it easy. Tranquilízate! What . . . ? How long . . .? Dios! You might have called me sooner. What does Stirling say? Are you crazy, hermano? It’s a Fortune 500 company. They answer the phone 24/7 . . . If they’re giving you the runaround, get Stirling’s private cell number. The girl’s too. Find a way!"

Rafe sighed as his brother’s spate of Spanish continued, though at a slightly more moderate pace. Irrigation problems, labor troubles, immigration issues, wrecked trucks, produce scattered all over the highway. By Mike’s third sentence, Rafe’s mind was racing ahead, analyzing, calculating results, reaching for who, what, where, when, and why. And finding only one thing clear: their family’s company, Green Arbor, primary food producer for Ashley’s Choice organic foods, was behind on its delivery schedule, and Mike had been unable to contact AC’s CEO or the company president, Ashley Van Dyne.

Something was very wrong. Green Arbor and Ashley’s Choice had worked together from the very beginning of Ashley Van Dyne’s great gamble four years ago. Rafe, as a silent partner in Green Arbor, had never spoken with Ashley or her CEO, Jeff Stirling, but there had never been any serious problems before. Now . . . well, problems were Rafe’s job. He fixed things.

I’ll take care of it, he heard himself say, even as some very nasty thoughts chased through his head. What Miguel described was not bad luck. The barrage of incidents screamed sabotage.

Ashley Van Dyne stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor of Van Dyne Industries’ corporate headquarters in Greenwich, Connecticut, and paused to admire the new black wrought-iron archway framing the entrance to the east wing. A curve of graceful letters across the top read: ASHLEY’S CHOICE. Hers, all hers. She could still hear Uncle Malcolm’s mocking words four years ago as he grudgingly granted her three small rooms at far end of the corridor, overlooking the parking lot and the ugly industrial building next door. An organic foods subsidiary within the confines of Van Dyne Industries’ global food distribution business? Absurd.

But the three rooms had grown to half the fourth floor. Ashley smiled, basking in a glow of pride as she walked down the long corridor, past testing laboratories, R&D, art, advertising, marketing, sales, and accounting. At the end of line—the three original rooms that were still the executive offices of Ashley’s Choice. To the left of a very ordinary door, a shiny brass plate read: ASHLEY VAN DYNE, PRESIDENT. On a line below, in letters only slightly smaller JEFFREY STIRLING, CEO. Eyes shining, Ashley opened the door and walked in.

Good morning, Nadine.

Good morning, Miss Van Dyne. Once administrative assistant to Ashley’s father, Nadine Rogers had transferred her devotion to Ashley’s Choice after Hunter Van Dyne’s sudden death in a plane crash. Her efficiency and common sense made her a treasure Ashley never failed to appreciate.

Something’s up with Mr. Stirling, Nadine said. He went out of here a minute ago like his tail was on fire.

Ashley hid a frisson of alarm behind an indulgent smile. That’s Jeff. Constant motion. But it wasn’t. Jeff Stirling was cool, calculated, and unflappable . . . except the times he went head-to-head with the president of Ashley’s Choice. And usually won.

Not to worry. Whatever the latest crisis, Jeff would handle it. He always did. With a nod to Nadine, Ashley headed for her office. Her fingers reached for the light switch . . . then, on a whim, paused as she surveyed her realm, lit only by the early morning sun.

During the birth pangs of Ashley’s Choice, Ashley had endured the cast-off furnishings Uncle Malcolm unearthed from VDI’s basement storage lockers. But eighteen months later, when Ashley’s Choice turned a profit, she dipped into her trust fund to create an office environment of her own choosing. Three rooms of junk went back to the basement, and Ashley’s Choice went upscale from new carpet to antiques and art work. In an adept exercise of mind over matter Ashley had even learned to ignore the stark view of the parking lot and the plug-ugly building next door.

Sunlight filtered through the blue-tinted glass panels that formed two sides of her corner office, the panels her father had chosen twenty years earlier for VDI’s new corporate offices in Greenwich. The panels threw blue shadows over the silver gray carpet and walls, the chinoserie cabinet and marquetry coffee table. The colored glass also highlighted the French blue leather sofa with royal blue and white scatter pillows, the matching visitor chairs in front of her desk, and the custom-made executive chair that did not dwarf her five-foot-five frame. The delightful curve of her custom desk was topped by a piece of the same blue-tinted glass that formed the building’s façade.

For a fleeting moment guilt nibbled at her satisfaction. What had she done to deserve all this, except be born a Van Dyne?

She’d worked hard. Damned hard! And suffered enough slings and arrows from Uncle Malcolm to arm both sides in a tribal war. If only her father were still CEO . . .

Enough! With a vehement snap of her finger Ashley flipped the light switch.

One more day of Ashley’s Choice.

One more day of sticking it to Van Dyne Industries.

An hour later, Ashley leaned toward her computer screen, her blue eyes alive with anticipation. With a click of her mouse she opened the end-of-month report for May. Reading it didn’t take long. She was an expert; so was Jeff Stirling, the man who wrote it. Yes! For the eighth month in a row, a significant increase in sales. Ashley’s Choice was kicking ass in the natural foods industry. Which meant they were beginning to put a dent in VDI’s sales. Malcolm was going to be so pissed.

The intercom buzzed. Mr. Townsend on Line One, Miss Van Dyne.

Perry. To use one of Grampa Van Dyne’s expressions, Perry was queer as a three-dollar bill. And a darling. Ashley’s Number One choice as escort to the many social functions a Van Dyne was expected to attend. Another trust fund baby, Perry Townsend was a fine conversationalist and raconteur. Handsome, perfectly dressed, the classic epitome of Wealthy Man About Town. He was also dependable. And safe.

Perry, Good morning!

Darling, you’re going to want to scratch out my eyes.

Perry, the ultimate drama queen. You’ve been a naughty boy?

I am so abjectly sorry.

Confess, Ashley ordered, struggling to keep her twitching lips from bursting into a giggle unbefitting the president of Ashley’s Choice. What have you done?

I’m off to California, love. Business. An investment that simply won’t wait. I can’t make the Arts Council fund-raiser. Sylvia’s going to kill me too, he added mournfully.

Business? I bet you’ve got a hot date with a Hollywood boytoy.

Ashley, my darling, you wound me.

You can always do both, she suggested, hoping her fond smile was echoed in her tone. Perry was a friend, and she wished him well. Too bad his absence wouldn’t be a good enough excuse to skip the fund-raiser altogether. But Sylvia would kill her too. Sylvia Thorpe, Ashley’s sole close friend, was an avid supporter of the Arts.

Must run, darling. They’re calling my flight. Get that hunky CEO of yours to do the honors. It’s high time you jumped his bones. Bye-bye.

Dial tone. Ashley stared at the phone, slowly returned it to its cradle. Jump Jeff’s bones. Somehow that thought was more terrifying than Ashley’s Choice plunging into bankruptcy.

Jeff, the shark. Jeff, the enigma.

Jeff, the Trojan horse?

And yet she couldn’t have made a success of Ashley’s Choice without Jeff. Ashley knew it, Jeff knew it, VDI knew it. When the up-and-coming young VDI executive had volunteered to throw in his lot with Ashley’s Choice, she came close to telling him to get lost. Hotshot executives like Jeff Stirling did not give up meteoric careers to join what everyone was calling the laughingstock New Age frou-frou company dreamed up by a twenty-five-year-old female Van Dyne, who should have been hostessing charity balls or playing in Palm Beach. Obviously, Jeff Stirling was a spy. Either Malcolm’s or Grampa Vincent’s. But when he walked into her office and volunteered that long-ago morning, Jeff had told her that a small start-up company was a challenge. And, besides, he wasn’t all that fond of chemicals in his food.

Though still skeptical, she’d caved. She needed someone with Jeff’s skills. She could use him, even if his motives were suspect. And now . . . four years later, Jeff had proved himself indispensable, and never, not once, had he made a move on his boss. He didn’t even flirt. Ashley had even wondered if he were gay, but she’d seen him too many times with some hot little number on his arm to cling to that thought for long. Others tended to consider the two of them a merger made in corporate heaven, but as far as romance was concerned, it just wasn’t so.

Which rankled, Ashley had to admit. Her mirror assured her that her considerable net worth was more than attractively packaged. She was not as tall as she would like, and her figure tended more toward her well-rounded Dutch ancestors than an emaciated runway model. But natural blond was good, as were wide blue eyes, a small nose and generous lips, a combination that fooled people into thinking she didn’t have either the brains or the guts to run a national company.

Surprise!

A wry smile tilted Ashley’s generous lips as she gazed at the swirling blues and greens of a Chihuly glass sculpture sitting on a pedestal in a sheltered corner of her office. Romance might be stalled, but one thing was now certain—Jeff’s goal stretched far beyond the confines of Ashley’s Choice. His eyes were fixed on VDI’s twelfth floor, a corporate aerie occupied solely by members of the Van Dyne family and a few minions as carefully chosen for their family backgrounds and old school ties as for their corporate skills. Yet VDI was an international giant on such a grand scale that Jeff Stirling’s stock option bonuses wouldn’t get him more than a stainless steel caster on one of the boardroom’s black leather chairs. So how else was he going to become a board member without marrying her stock, then cutting her out?

Ashley blinked. No time to worry the Jeff bone this morning, and yet . . . She bent her head, studying the vague blue shadow of her face reflected in her desk’s glass surface. She was a month shy of twenty-nine, and Ashley’s Choice was all she had.

Except Holly and Veronica. But a fifteen-year-old half-sister and a mother who appeared as infrequently in Greenwich as a hurricane and with a similar impact, could scarcely fill a longing for something more. Something male. Companionable, conversable. Straight. Someone who actually liked her and wasn’t dating Ashley’s Choice, Van Dyne Industries, or the Van Dyne heiress with the Fort Knox-size trust fund.

Liar! She’d met more than her share of something mores. Gone out with each once or twice, let them fall by the wayside. She couldn’t afford the time. And after a ten- or twelve-hour day in her office, she had nothing left to invest in a relationship. Each time she heard the echo of ball-busting bitch, she’d breathe a defiant, Damn right. She had, in fact, worn the icicle cloak for so long, sometimes she almost believed it. She was cold, cold, cold. Yet not cold enough to use a man just for sex. Hell, girl, you’re no fun at all! was one of Sylvia’s favorite scolds.

And it was true.

Sylvia insisted Ashley ignored men because she had a secret passion for Jeff, but it wasn’t true. Not that her pride didn’t suffer a qualm or two when he consistently treated her like the boss she was—his asexual, stone-cold boss—and not as a woman. Yet did she really want any more from a man who had his eye fixed on the brass ring that was rightfully hers?

Spy, Trojan horse, or corporate shark, Jeff had given Ashley’s Choice four years of exemplary service. Was it her fault that not once had their heated policy debates generated a different, more scorching kind of heat?

Ashley’s face twisted into a grimace. Was it possible she was one of those poor mixed-up kids who couldn’t get over daddy? Sick, definitely sick.

Or was it . . . fear? Memories of that Christmas vacation with Veronica?

Don’t go there. Long ago and far, far away. This was twenty-first century Greenwich, not Palm Beach in the wicked nineties.

She’d gotten over it. She wasn’t a stone-cold bitch. She wanted, she needed, just like everyone else.

Sure she did. That’s why her customary escort was a flaming gay. Coward!

Jump Jeff’s bones. No way, no how. Not in this millennia. Though why she couldn’t do it remained a mystery. Van Dyne Industries desperately needed new blood to oust Uncle Malcolm, and no one was better qualified than Jeff Stirling.

Perhaps, Ashley thought, her problem was more fear of marriage than fear of men. The track record for Van Dyne marriages didn’t exactly inspire confidence in the institution—

Miss Thorpe to see you, Miss Van Dyne. Nadine’s tone voiced her approval of the visitor.

If only she had Sylvia’s inches, Ashley thought as her friend burst through the office door with all the surety of welcome of a long-time friend. Her willowy five-feet-nine-inches showed to advantage as she dashed across the soft carpet and threw herself into one of the blue leather chairs facing Ashley. If Sylvia hadn’t been her best friend since they were roommates at Foxcroft, she’d hate her. She was everything Ashley had once hoped to be. Tall, strikingly vivid. Outgoing. Always colorfully dressed, with impeccable make-up and style, the whole enhanced by an intelligence that sparkled and a sense of humor that made her an excellent foil for Ashley, whose Van Dyne arrogance, they both agreed, needed taking down a peg or two every once in a while.

Sylvia, whose family wealth was a flickering candle to the Van Dyne’s flaming sun, had made her own niche in the arts world by establishing a new business along with a new word: Artiques. Sylvia’s elegant shop, Artiques—Fine Collectibles From Art to Zarathustra, was filled with an eclectic assortment of high quality items. And since Sylvia’s taste was as elevated as her prices, the shop had been an instant success among those who had so much money they needed help spending it. At Artiques they could be certain their need for one-upmanship would never be denigrated by the guardians of good taste.

Today Sylvia wore a slinky black silk dress liberally splashed with oversize red and white poppies. Her long dark hair was tamed at the nape by a red scarf that perfectly matched the flowers, as did her scarlet lipstick, not overly bright against skin several shades darker than Ashley’s. Her lively brown eyes, like her personality, sharply contrasted with Ashley’s blue.

I’m disturbing you, mea culpa, Sylvia breathed in the husky voice that tended to bring even the most sophisticated men to their knees, but Perry called me, and I couldn’t wait. He’s absolutely right. Now’s the time to make a move on your resident hunk.

Ashley glanced at the Intercom light, praying Nadine wasn’t listening in. The LED wasn’t glowing, but did that really mean anything? She squeezed her eyes shut, forced herself to breathe. She was a Van Dyne, she could do this. Her office, her company. She was boss.

Sylvia, she said carefully, I know you mean well, but this is no big deal. Jeff’s been my escort before when I needed a last-minute substitute—

And he’s always been available, hasn’t he? Always ready and waiting, as if he has no other life. Sylvia’s body seemed close to quivering, like a hunting dog pointing a target.

Jeff Stirling is a corporate executive, devoted to his job, Ashley responded, prim as a Victorian virgin. So, yes, I expect he’s rearranged his schedule a time or two to accommodate his boss.

"Hah! That man falls all over himself to accommodate his boss."

Ashley rolled her eyes. I can’t imagine Jeff ever stumbling over anything. He never puts a foot wrong. In fact—her lips curled into a rueful little smile—he’s almost as cold and calculating as I am. Bad match, Sylvia. Sorry.

Her friend’s sharp cheekbones drooped. How Sylvia managed that little trick Ashley couldn’t begin to guess. Oh, hon’, she murmured, I know you like him.

Ashley glanced at Jeff’s end-of-month report, looked past Sylvia toward the Chihuly Seaform, its graceful waves of glass almost flying across the silver gray background. Yes. I do, she admitted. Very much. But not the way you and Perry are thinking. He’s . . . he’s my CEO, Sylvia. The best anyone could wish for. And that’s how things are going to stay.

No upsetting the applecart, huh?

Not a chance.

The Intercom squawked. The office door flew open so hard it banged against the wall. A young man paused three feet into the room, obviously frustrated by the sight of Ashley’s visitor. I need to talk to you, he hissed through gritted teeth.

No problem, Sylvia declared. I was just leaving. As she stood, she turned back to Ashley, leaning in to whisper for her ears only. "You think about what I said. The man’s gorgeous. Don’t toss him away."

On her way out, Sylvia grinned at the angry young man. Watch it, Brandon. This is one of her stubborn days.

He winced, then nodded. Ms. Thorpe. Van Dynes, raised by certified English nannies, were very polite.

Aren’t you supposed to be working? Ashley asked her cousin, who was still standing just inside the door. Brandon, Malcolm Van Dyne’s only son, was interning in Marketing. On the eighth floor. On the far side of the tall blue tower that was Van Dyne Industries corporate headquarters.

Ash, you’ve got to help me! Brandon approached her desk but didn’t fling himself with a sullen scowl into one of her chairs as he usually did when issuing one of his complaints about his father.

What now? With Brandon it was always something, except work. For some reason he seemed to think Ashley had influence with Malcolm, which was about as far from the truth as it was possible to get. Yet he was her sole first cousin, and she had managed to help him out a time or two. Ashley supposed she was stuck with the role of intermediary.

I want to go to Europe. His classic Van Dyne features—tall, broad-shouldered, blond and blue eyed—revved up to all the appeal a handsome seventeen-year-old could project. In Brandon’s case the effect was considerable. For a moment he almost looked grown up, instead of a wealthy, petulant prep school boy who didn’t care to labor nine to five.

You’re committed to Marketing, Brandon. It’s part of who you are. You can’t just chuck it all to run off to Europe. Having some experience with teenagers, Ashley was struck by inspiration. And how would a defection from VDI look on your college applications?

As if they’re not going to take a Van Dyne. Brandon’s customary sneer deepened.

Believe me, you won’t make the Ivy League with a blot on your record, no matter how much money your daddy donates.

It’s not fair! he wailed, sounding more like seven than seventeen. Holly’s out there swanning around the Med with some shaikh, and I’m chained to Marketing for the whole miserable summer. It’s not fair, I tell you. It’s just not—

Stop! Ashley nearly bit her tongue, shocked to discover she’d yelled at her cousin. She pointed to one of the blue leather chairs. Sit. When Brandon, sulking, was sprawled in front of her, Ashley folded her hands to keep them from shaking. Now, she breathed, what was that about Holly and a shaikh?

Frowning, Brandon sat taller in his chair. No need to get excited, cuz. She’s with Aunt Veronica and that tame shaikh of hers. Cruising the Med and having a ball.

And just how do you know that when I don’t?

Holly texted me, positively gloating, the little wretch. A hundred-foot yacht, crawling with rich VIPS, all thinking she’s really grown up. And she’s got global coverage, and I haven’t, Brandon added on a further note of disgust. I can’t even text her back.

For a moment Ashley feared she might bring up her breakfast. She blinked, fought for control. How to reply without condemning her mother?

Was it possible this was what Brandon had come to tell her? He did, after all, know what chucking his summer internship would do to his college resumé. He might care about Holly. Then again, this was Brandon, Malcolm’s chip off the old block. He might have come to watch Ashley squirm.

Brandon, Ashley said, struggling to keep her signature icy façade, I can’t champion your cause. I don’t think Holly has any more reason to be in the Mediterranean this summer than you have to be in Europe. In fact, I’m going to do my best to get her home, if I have to go over there and bring her back myself. So, sorry, you’ve struck out. But thanks for the info.

Yeah, right, he muttered. Something flickered behind his eyes. Satisfaction? In spite of his hangdog look, it might even have been relief. And then he was gone, closing the door carefully behind him.

Oh. My. God. Holly. Fifteen. On a sinboat in the Med. Veronica could not have been that stupid.

She could not be pandering her daughter.

So what had changed? Nothing. Veronica Wyethorne Van Dyne Reyes Kenilworth had less regard for her children than her lover.

Could Ashley convince her mother to put Holly on a plane home? Could Veronica—even if she agreed—convince her royal shaikh to put into port? They’d been an item a long time, longer than any of Veronica’s other lovers . . .

Perhaps long enough that Shaikh Jaffar was looking for a younger model . . .

Ashley ran for the executive washroom, where the acid remains of breakfast punctuated an agonizing series of dry heaves.

Ash? Ashley? The urgency in Jeff’s voice, coming from her office, cut through the chaos jamming her brain.

Steadying herself with both hands on the sides of the porcelain sink, Ashley called, I’ll be right out. Sure. Sometime next month. She looked like hell, as white-faced and sick as she felt. She should tell Jeff to come back later, but after four years working with him, she recognized a tone that set off alarm bells. Something had spooked her usually unflappable shark.

Ashley opened the washroom door, keeping her hand on the knob to steady her shaky legs. Hi, what’s up.

Jeff took one look and was across the room in an instant, grabbing her up and depositing her gently at her desk. Summer flu?

Personal, Ashley ground out. No, not that, she sighed, catching the shock in his amber-green eyes. It’s Holly. I may have to go to the Mediterranean and bring her home.

Jeff’s eyes went dark, shuttering his thoughts. How much did he know, or guess, about the Van Dyne dirty linen? Veronica didn’t exactly shun publicity, and Jeff was known for his extensive stable of corporate spies.

She heard him draw a deep breath. I’m sorry to do this to you, he said. Call me an insensitive s.o.b., but I can’t ignore it. Did you know there’s a board meeting going on upstairs?

What? Her mind refused to take it in.

Board meeting. Upstairs. Now. Why aren’t you there?

Ashley forced her finger toward the Intercom. Nadine, am I missing a board meeting?

A shocked, No! followed by a pause while Nadine checked her appointment book. Not a peep about a board meeting, she confirmed. Not Word One.

Thank you. Ashley cut the connection, dragging her scattered synapses back in line with all the ruthless determination of a true Van Dyne. What makes you think there’s a meeting? she challenged, wondering, as she always did, how Jeff managed to appear sinfully luscious and deadly calm, no matter what insanity raged around him. Oddly enough, he had the Van Dyne build, which was big enough to be intimidating, a square jaw and a nose that could have come off a Roman coin. His hair, on the dark side of sandy blond, used to fall in waves over his forehead until he’d had it cut so short he could pass for