A Dangerous Arrangement

By Lee Christine

Kicking off a brand new romantic suspense series from Lee Christine is A Dangerous Arrangement: a violinist with a secret, a billionaire with a problem and a race against time set on the beautiful Amalfi Coast.

When violinist Marina Wentworth arrives in Venice en route to a cruise ship for a short working holiday, the last thing she expects is to be confronted by a handsome stranger demanding answers. After going to great lengths to keep her real reasons for the trip a secret, Marina refuses to let her immediate attraction to Dean Logan derail her plans.

Desperate to recover his latest superyacht designs, Dean doesn't want to believe the lovely violinist is involved in the devastating cyber–attack that threatens to destroy his yacht–building empire. However his growing feelings for Marina fail to extinguish the nagging suspicion that she is hiding something.

Set against the backdrop of Italy's Amalfi Coast, Dean and Marina must navigate the dangerous waters of secrecy, attraction and the fusion of two very different worlds. Will their lives remain discordant, or will they take the chance at true harmony?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780857992611

Lee Christine

Lee Christine is a former legal practice manager and corporate trainer. An amateur songwriter in her teens, she is passionate about music, and plays the alto saxophone. In 2011, In Safe Hands won first place in the Romance Writers of America Silicon Valley Gotcha Contest, followed in 2012 with first place in The Smoky Mountains Laurie Award and the East Texas Southern Heat Writing Contest. The novel also received a Commended in the 2012 Romance Writers of New Zealand Clendon Award. In Safe Hands is Lee's first novel, and she is currently writing her second, another gripping romantic suspense. She has two grown children, and lives in Newcastle, Australia.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Mediterranean Sea, 1 kilometre off the coast of France

A Lego figurine appeared in the centre of the computer screen. The ominous character wore glasses, a khaki shirt and a menacing expression. Clutched in his right hand was a rapid-fire assault weapon, complete with multiple-clip magazine cartridge.

Dean Logan closed down the image and tried logging in to the computer network a second time. Again the mocking image of the geek guerrilla warrior materialised on the screen.

Dean blinked in disbelief, but the figure holding centre stage on his screen continued to taunt him. Turning in the captain’s chair, he looked at Hektor Rask.

‘It’s a cyber attack.’

The former detective, now chief of security for Logan Luxury Craft, paced the bridge from port to starboard. Stockily built, Rask was a hard nut, perfectly suited to the job of bodyguard and bouncer. His skill set included investigation, and he’d been hankering to use his expertise for a long while now.

‘We can’t be sure.’ Rask shrugged off his suit coat and tossed it over a chair.

‘I’m sure.’ Dean pushed himself to his feet, widening his stance as the super yacht rose on the swell and fought against the anchor. From where he stood he could see the party taking place on the bow, the first of many in a week of celebrations for the film festival. Minutes ago he’d been among the revelry, his only concern his ability to feign interest in what the actress parked at his elbow had to say.

Dean turned to the computer screen and jabbed a finger at the Lego man wearing the I-fucked-you-over expression. ‘I’m no detective, but that avatar … it’s a calling card, I’m telling you.’

Rask shoved a wireless receiver into his left ear and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve. ‘I’ve arranged a conference call with head office. I’ll reserve my judgement until we know more.’

The Icelander’s rare display of tension compounded the pressure building in Dean’s temples. He pulled at his bow tie with impatient fingers. Only yesterday he’d accessed the system after giving Sheikh Ahmad a private tour of the yacht. Afterwards, they’d drunk Cointreau in the saloon while he’d outlined the new features of the upcoming Logan Mach V.

Dean braced a hand against the teak panelling and stared at the lights of Cannes delineating the French coastline. The Arab had been impressed, enough to schedule a second meeting despite Dean’s flat refusal to haggle over price. Why should he haggle? His inclusion in Australia’s ‘Young Rich List’ had raised his global profile to the point where high rollers were salivating over his next piece of naval architecture. If the sheikh from Doha didn’t commission Logan’s to build him the finest ocean-going super yacht in the world, the American hip-hop producer certainly would.

‘Who phoned?’ he asked.

‘The GM. They couldn’t log in this morning.’

The screen flickered and the Lego man disappeared.

‘Rask!’ Dean leaned closer to the screen, holding his breath as an unfamiliar red background appeared with the word ‘Cryptocage’ in the top left corner and a message in the middle.

‘Shit.’ Dean closed his eyes for a beat. ‘It’s ransomware.’

He’d known the risks involved with storing intellectual property on computers connected to the internet, but what choice did he have? He spent months away from Australia every year, separated from his design team while he commissioned the sale of his next yacht over the European summer. Files needed to be shared, and storing information on stand-alones was unworkable, not to mention bloody inconvenient.

Beside him, Rask began reading the message aloud.

‘Your files are now encrypted!

To decrypt files you will need to obtain a private key. A single copy of this key is located on a secret internet server.

At the expiration of the time shown below, this server will destroy the key, after which files are unable to be restored.

To obtain the private key you need to pay $1,000.

Click ‘Next’ to select method of payment and currency.’

In the bottom right corner, a digital countdown showed the time remaining as 119:53:44.

‘A thousand bucks—that’s peanuts.’ Dean yanked the black silk tie out from under his collar, undid his top button and eased the constriction around his throat. ‘Why not five million?’

‘The low amount keeps them off Interpol’s radar. This happens to thousands, maybe millions of people around the globe every year. The ransom’s low enough for companies to just pay up to get their files back.’

‘I’m not doing that. Not with five days to go.’

‘I didn’t think you would.’

‘It’s not the money, Rask, you know that. It’s the principle. Get Emerald IT to run recovery software. The last time I looked I was paying them a bomb for their remote server backup.’

Rask nodded. ‘We’re waiting for their office to open. It’s only eight-forty in Sydney.’

The soulful notes of Alicia Keys’s ‘Empire State of Mind’ rang out over the water. Laughter rose from the bow where things were getting a bit loose in the jacuzzi.

‘I thought our procedures were best practice. How the hell did the hacker get in?’

Rask shook his head. ‘It’s not hard. An email slips through, looking legit. All it takes is one unfocused staff member to click on a link.’

‘Shit!’ Dean turned away from the screen. ‘Get head office to contact every client and let them know our system’s been compromised. They’ll need to take precautions, change passwords and the like.’

‘Right, boss.’

Working his heart rate down, one deep breath at a time, Dean walked into the saloon and fixed two scotches—neat.

Back on the bridge he handed a glass to Rask. ‘He’s a smart arse, whoever he is. Signing off with a Lego figure is the geek’s equivalent of flipping me the bird. And if there’s one thing I hate more than a smart-arse, Rask, it’s a smart-arse who tries to steal from me.’

‘The GM’s already been in touch with the cybercrime squad.’ Rask paused. ‘You okay with that, considering …’

‘Considering my distrust of the police?’ Dean raised an eyebrow at the former detective. ‘That was twenty years ago, Rask. I’m not fifteen anymore.’

‘Just thought I’d check.’

Imagining the chaos in head office, Dean turned to stare at the guests dancing on the forward deck. The shock was beginning to ease, making way for the strengthening resolve he recognised and relied on.

‘Have Alain launch the tender.’ He raised the heavy-bottomed glass to his lips. ‘Party’s over, Rask.’

***

An hour later, grateful for the stiff wind buffeting the Côte d’Azur, Dean stood on the stern and farewelled the last few disembarking partygoers. The worsening weather had worked in his favour, and no-one questioned his decision to ferry them back to shore. Now, the tender dipped and rose on the growing swell while he waited for just the right moment to transfer the British film director from the yacht to the fibreglass tender.

He resisted the temptation to rush, concentrating on the safety of his guests. For all he knew the next Beyoncé or Jay Z could be among the elite mix of sportsmen, businessmen, actors and rock stars. And if they decided to buy a yacht in the future, he wanted them to come to him.

Finally, it was the actress’s turn. She teetered towards him in five-inch heels, strands of hair stuck in her lip gloss, adorned with enough bling to sink the vessel. The guests already seated in the tender laughed as it rose in the water and banged against the stern.

Ignoring the invitation in the woman’s bloodshot eyes, Dean clasped her hand and kissed both cheeks, aware she’d hung back until last.

‘Thank you for coming, Cherie.’

He urged the woman closer to the edge and gave a firm signal to his first mate balanced in the tender. Another wave rolled in, bringing the tender level with the yacht. In one synchronised movement, Dean propelled the woman forward while Alain grasped her under the arms and half lifted her in.

Doing his best not to speculate on what Rask had learned in the past hour, Dean tossed the bow rope to Alain and raised his hand in an informal salute. Only when the tender was swallowed up by the sea mist did he turn and join Rask upstairs.

‘What have you got?’ Too wired to sit, Dean leaned over the desk and rested on his palms.

‘Emerald IT have also been hacked. They can’t restore the files.’ Rask’s Old Norse accent sounded more guttural than usual. ‘And there’s more bad news. IT suspect the backup tapes have been wiped.’

Dean felt his heart palpitate and the blood drain all the way to his soles. ‘It’s in-house?’

The faces of his Sydney staff flicked across his mind like photos on a smart phone. Most had been with him from the beginning, working alongside him as he sketched designs in the back room of his father’s house. Many were friends, like-minded people from his sailing days on Pittwater, bound together by a love of the ocean.

He turned to Rask. ‘Who hasn’t turned up for work?’

‘Victor Yu’s the only one.’

A chill rolled down Dean’s spine. ‘The Taiwanese IT guy?’

Rask nodded. ‘Cleared out save for a Lego figure standing in the centre of his desk. Identical to the Cryptocage one.’

‘The bastard!’ Dean banged his palm against the panelled wall, felt the sting in the heel of his hand.

‘The cops have swung into action, thanks to my contacts and a favour called in by your in-house lawyer. Yu’s cleared out of his apartment too. Not so his flatmate …’ Rask consulted his scribbled notes. ‘Marina Wentworth. Violin teacher. According to an itinerary found on a desktop computer, she left Sydney on an Emirates flight at ten on Friday night.’

‘Three days ago?’

Rask nodded. ‘Yu was the last person to leave the office late on Friday.’

‘If Yu’s his real name.’ Anger boiled in Dean’s chest. He’d given Yu a chance, handed him a golden opportunity, and the guy had kicked him in the teeth. ‘It’s likely his whole résumé was fake.’

Both men turned to look at the computer again, as if the machine might cough up more answers. But the ominous message on the menacing red background remained unchanged.

Rask huffed out a noisy breath and pointed to the digital countdown. ‘Often the files stay locked, even after the ransom’s been paid. Depends a lot on the hacker.’

‘Christ.’ Dean ran a hand around the back of his neck as the sky lit up and rain splattered on the window beside him. ‘This is more than me handing over a measly thousand bucks to unlock encrypted files. That’s a game for anonymous online hackers. Yu worked in our midst, had the balls to show us his face. He has to be after a bigger prize.’

‘It’s looking that way. He knows what those designs are worth to a competitor.’

An image of the yacht flashed in Dean’s mind. The graceful lines and flared bow of the Mach V was his most innovative work to date. The improved stabilisers, greater fuel efficiency and decreased emissions would help him maintain the edge on his competitors. An edge he had no intention of relinquishing.

‘The thing is,’ Rask went on, ‘we have no way of knowing if he’s a lone wolf or a hacker for hire.’

Dean’s heart pumped cold fury through his veins as he watched Rask open the desk drawer and take out the keys to the chopper. Victor Yu had made one huge cock-up the day he decided to mess with a Logan. Yu didn’t know Dean was at his best when down and dirty and fighting in the trenches, or that he’d dug himself out of deeper shitholes than this in the past.

‘So, tell me something we do know.’

The detective tossed him the keys and Dean caught them deftly in his right hand.

‘Marina Wentworth booked two tickets in her name. We’re assuming the second seat was for Yu. There’s a lot of confusion. I have the airline checking its flight manifest.’

Dean jangled the keys impatiently in his hand. ‘So—where are they headed?’

‘I’ll fill you in as we go up top. Weather’s getting worse—and you need to fly to Venice.’

Chapter Two

Venice

Marina Wentworth’s violin bow hit the strings in the centre of the vibrating zone as the concerto ended in a flurry of blistering staccato notes. She stilled, bow poised as she waited for Vlad’s signal to lower their instruments.

At the cellist’s faint nod, the string quartet released a collective breath. Marina lowered her violin.

Vlad half-turned, catching her eye as he placed his cello on its stand. ‘How was that?’

She nodded. ‘Tighter than yesterday.’

‘I thought so too.’

Marina took a deep breath and looked around at the impressive interior of the Conservatorio di Musica Benedetto Marcello. A former palace, towering columns supported an ornate ceiling adorned with six enormous crystal chandeliers. On her left, two carved statues stood at the bottom of a curving staircase, while to her right a grand pipe organ was set into the wall.

‘I think Marina’s G string needs tightening,’ Harmon said with a grin.

Marina smiled at the viola player, the joker of the group. Yesterday he’d swapped instruments with his identical twin brother, Eli, the second violinist. To their amusement, she’d spent all day calling the young Americans by the wrong name. She didn’t mind. Their fooling around made her feel welcome, eased her anxiety a touch.

She was packing up when she sensed Vlad’s bulky frame beside her.

‘How is it?’ His voice was low, his back to the twins so they didn’t overhear the exchange.

Marina rotated her wrist. Two rehearsals down, and she couldn’t feel a twinge. She released a slow breath and looked up into Vlad’s concerned face.

‘It’s okay. It might get sore later on though. Hard to tell.’

‘RSI’s a snobby bitch. Only strikes the prodigious.’

Marina closed the snaps on her case. ‘If I were prodigious, it wouldn’t have happened.’

Vlad gave a shake of his head. ‘When are you going to believe it, Marina? You’re twice as talented as anyone I know.’

Heat rose in Marina’s face until her cheeks burned. ‘According to the critics there are more deserving violinists.’

‘The critics are a bunch of pricks.’

Marina shook her head, unconvinced, then smiled a little as Vlad gave a dramatic sigh and hung his head.

This is what she did to people. Exasperated them. At least with Vlad it didn’t matter. He knew her well from their student days and would suspect the RSI had been caused by overpractising.

He looked up. ‘What are your plans for tonight?’

Marina hitched her tote bag onto her shoulder and picked up her case. ‘I think I’ll just have dinner, and stay in.’

‘Have you even been on a gondola yet?’

Marina frowned. ‘You know I hate the water.’

He gave a loud laugh and rolled his eyes. ‘Come on Rina, you can’t come to Venice and not go on a gondola. They’re right across the canal from your hotel. It will lift your spirits, I promise.’

Marina’s shoulders slumped. Vlad had been his usual upbeat self from the moment she’d arrived, convinced the five-day gig on the cruise ship would ease her into playing again. How could she say that her body felt as cold as the gel pack she applied to her wrist three times a day? How could she tell him every pleasurable emotion had been erased the moment the specialist diagnosed repetitive strain injury? Vlad had gone to so much trouble to organise this gig for her, she couldn’t admit the last thing she felt like doing was playing tourist.

With a deep breath, she nodded. ‘You’re right. I’ll go, I promise.’ She shot him a glance as they walked together towards the main doors, pleased at the satisfied expression on his face. ‘And I’ll do my best to get my happy on for the cruise.’

He frowned at that. ‘You don’t have to pretend with me, Rina.’

‘I know.’

They lingered for a while longer, discussing sections of the score that needed work, and then Vlad opened the heavy door for her. ‘Go back to the hotel and do your rehab. We’re as prepared as we can be.’

Marina stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his bearded cheek. ‘I may not sound it, but you know how grateful I am.’

A pale pink blush stained the big Russian’s cheeks. ‘Hey, it’s not every day the first violinist from the Sydney Symphony joins my string quartet. You’ll lend us some class, even if we’re playing to a bunch of inebriated tourists.’

‘Say hello to that beautiful wife of yours when you call to say goodnight.’ Marina smiled, thinking of Elena who’d only been too happy to sit this cruise out and stay home with their children.

‘I will.’ Vlad pointed an index finger at her. ‘Tomorrow. Pier three. Don’t be late.’

With a wave, Marina stepped outside and looked around the piazza. It was less crowded than when she’d arrived three hours earlier. Then, hordes of camera-toting tourists and street vendors had vied for space, while restauranteurs shouted down their opposition in an effort to coax the passing crowd inside. Now, only a handful of people gathered around the central fountain, droplets glistening in the afternoon sun as water sprayed from tridents and the mouths of fish.

Using the obelisk as a landmark she set off across the square, heading for the narrow street that would lead her back to the Rialto Bridge. Pigeons cooed from every ledge and windowsill, while the stench of diesel fume hung over the city from the thousands of watercraft using the canals.

She faltered as her phone vibrated in her pocket, then remembered no-one knew she was in Venice. With a deep breath, she continued on and let the call go through to message bank. At home she’d been careful to keep the diagnosis quiet, resting her arm during the symphony’s three-month break. But with the new season due to begin in six weeks, she needed to be certain her wrist would stand up to the rigours of performance. And if she broke down, she’d rather it happen on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean than at the Sydney Opera House.

Within minutes the stone portico of the Rialto Bridge came into view. Packed with tourists the architectural icon spanned the Grand Canal, and beside it stood the dusky pink facade of the Hotel Mercurial.

Marina sighed with relief. The breeze was hair dryer hot, but that was okay, she could handle hot. Not so wading through knee-deep water should the notorious tide decide to flood the water city.

The porter swung the door open and she stepped inside, welcoming the cooler temperature in the art deco lobby. On her approach the front desk supervisor looked up and smiled.

‘Ah, the Stradivarius.’ He straightened the cuff of his white jacket. ‘Would you like me to put it in the safe again tonight, signora?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ Marina handed over the instrument, watching as he ran his hand over the smooth surface of the slim high-tech case.

She waited at the curved wooden counter while the man opened a steel door and disappeared into the walk-in safe. On his return, he took a leather-covered journal from beneath the counter and entered in the item plus the date and time.

‘Thank you.’ Marina took the pen he offered and signed her name next to the entry. ‘It’s insured of course, but I won’t take any chances with it.’

‘Certainly, signora.’ The man spoke quietly as he closed the book and stowed it beneath the desk, the epitome of professionalism and discretion.

In her room on the third floor, Marina swallowed two anti-inflammatory tablets and fetched the gel pack from the bar fridge. The Louis chair by the window afforded an uninterrupted view of the bridge, and she sat down, yawning as she rolled up her sleeve and wrapped the pack around her left wrist. The coldness burned her skin and she thought about getting up and wrapping it in a towel, but decided against it. The long-haul flight from Sydney a few days ago was still messing with her body clock.

Taking a deep breath, she began her routine of circular breathing, using the technique a trumpet player had shown her years before. Back then he’d insisted it would help her with stage fright. Now, it was a part of her daily routine.

Before long her eyelids began to droop and she snuggled deeper into the chair, surrendering to the wonderful drifting feeling that often precedes sleep.

She sat straight, violin tucked beneath her chin, bow poised, eyes riveted on the conductor. Heat, as powerful as the Australian sun, beat down on her from the suspended stage lights. In her peripheral vision Marina could see the pale faces of the silent audience seated in the first few rows. Then the conductor