In Plain Sight

 

 

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FERN MICHAELS

IN PLAIN SIGHT

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Prologue

 

 

E
verything about Lincoln Moss shrieked money, right down to his monogrammed jockey shorts. He was still on the sunny side of fifty, the half-century mark, though just barely, with three short months to go till he hit the big five-o and moved to the shady side of the calendar. He hated the thought but was wise enough to know time was the one thing in his personal life that he could not control.

Lincoln Moss was all about control.

Time marched on, and time didn’t care that Lincoln Moss was already a millionaire at the age of thirty-six. Time didn’t care that Lincoln Moss became a multibillionaire at the age of thirty-nine, and time didn’t care that Lincoln Moss retired at the age of forty-five with more money than God.

Time didn’t care that Lincoln Moss had the President’s ear and was welcome at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue any time of the day or night. Time didn’t even care that he was married to French model Amalie Laurent, dubbed the most beautiful woman in the world by the media and the face of the billion-dollar international cosmetic company
La Natural.
Owned, of course, by the very same Lincoln Moss.

Lincoln Moss, along with the current President of the United States, Gabriel Knight, a cousin three or four times removed, had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, poorer than poor, often with not enough food to eat. Lincoln was the go-getter, the hustler, while Gabriel was the worrier of the duo, who went along for the ride. Lincoln’s motto from the age of sixteen was “I want to be rich. I want to be powerful, and I won’t stop until I achieve that goal.” Gabriel didn’t care about the money per se; he wanted to go into politics and be
somebody.
Lincoln promised his cousin and best friend that he would make it happen.

On Gabe’s twenty-first birthday, Lincoln asked him if he would like to be President of the United States at some point. To which Gabe replied, “I think I could handle the office.”

At that point in time, the bond between the two men deepened even more, and both young men knew that nothing on earth could drive them apart. Nothing. They even did that blood-brother thing, where each of them cut the palm of his hand and mixed their blood. And the deal was sealed, as Lincoln said, “until death do us part.” It’s just like a marriage, he’d told Gabe, and Gabe had agreed.

Lincoln put his nose to the grindstone and within ten short years he was involved in shipping and leasing companies, diamond mines and oil. From there he branched out to banks and steel mills and dabbled in European car manufacturing. Because he was a pro at networking and knew how to schmooze
,
it wasn’t long before he was making money hand over fist—so much money that it was hard to stay on top of it all. And that’s where Gabe came in because he was a whiz with numbers. He invested the money, sought out small companies for Lincoln to buy out and build up and unload at ten times the buying price. In essence, Lincoln Moss, under Gabriel Knight’s tutelage, became his own hedge fund. But the money he was investing was his own, not the public’s. And money earned on those investments started pouring in so fast that even Gabe, financial genius that he was, had a hard time keeping up with the flow.

There had only been one disagreement between the two men, and that was when Gabe insisted that Lincoln buy a French cosmetic company called
La Natural.
Lincoln called it a dog of a company, selling cheap cosmetics, and on the verge of financial insolvency. Gabe countered that all they needed was a face for the company to send it off the charts. Lincoln continued to argue that owning a war-paint company did nothing for his image, much less his bank account. Gabe held his ground, and within three short years, the company was bringing in $10 billion a year under Gabe’s sharp eye and expert management.

Lincoln Moss hung his head in shame, clapped his friend on the back, apologized for doubting him, and promised never again to underestimate his genius.

The $10 billion a year tripled the day
La Natural
engaged the new face for
La Natural,
a model by the name of Amalie Laurent. Lincoln had met her a year or so earlier, and on Gabe’s advice, Lincoln wooed her, wined, and dined her, gave her everything a woman could want, then married her the day he turned forty-two.

The wedding was so over the top it was televised live all over the world. Women sat glued to their television sets admiring the top model’s flawless beauty, which she said came from
La Natural.
There were those who said Princess Diana’s wedding was tawdry compared to Amalie Laurent’s.

A year to the day after he and his bride returned from their honeymoon on the island of Mustique, Lincoln got down to the serious business of grooming Gabriel Knight for the presidency of the United States. Two years later, Lincoln Moss announced to the world that he was going to manage Gabriel Knight’s campaign for the highest office in the land. It took four years of steady-as-you-go politicking. He left no stone unturned. He worked tirelessly, campaigning seven days a week and making sure that all photo ops showed Amalie flanked by Gabe and himself. And that’s how Gabriel Knight had sailed into the White House the year before Lincoln Moss turned fifty.

The media stewed and fretted when Lincoln was given no titles, no special perks, and all he would say was that he didn’t want anything other than the President’s friendship. They did notice, however, that Lincoln wore out the carpet leading to the Oval Office with his frequent visits. And they noticed when he sat in on briefings, not that he ever uttered a single word. Anytime a crisis threatened, Lincoln was the first one in the Situation Room. It was also said but not proven that the President and Lincoln had personal cell phones that not even the Secret Service was privy to. Then they started to whisper about Moss’s little black book of secrets, but no one would or could confirm that there was such a book.

In the beginning, Ted Robinson and Maggie Spritzer of the
Post
very often wrote op-ed pieces and lengthy articles on Lincoln Moss as they tried to figure out if there was something no one was seeing besides themselves. As Maggie said time and again, “He’s got to have something on someone, and I do believe there is a little black book,” with which Ted agreed completely. From time to time, they questioned their own suspicious-reporter instincts and were inclined to give up their quest for a story when they couldn’t come up with anything they felt was newsworthy. So they simply shelved the effort as they waited for a break, or, as Ted put it, a mistake on the part of kingpin Lincoln Moss. It was just a matter of time, he said over and over, because everyone makes a mistake at some point. Ted was rarely, if ever, wrong. And when Maggie Spritzer agreed with him 100 percent, you could take it to the bank.

And so they waited. Not too patiently but patiently enough.

And while they waited, Lincoln Moss went about his business of keeping his image pristine and making sure he made the front page of every newspaper at least once a week for something or other.

Lincoln Moss was a handsome, muscular, fit man. In his palatial home, he had a state-of-the-art gym and his own personal trainer, who lived in one of the cottages at the rear of the ten-thousand-acre estate. His chauffeur lived in another cottage. The day help—his housekeeper and butler, six maids, and the lawn and maintenance people—left the premises at six o’clock sharp every evening and didn’t return until six o’clock the following morning. He was fond of saying to anyone who would listen that he paid out more in salaries in one month than some people made in their lifetime. Maggie Spritzer called it bragging rights. Everyone knew Maggie took no prisoners.

Lincoln Moss was also a snob. But not in public. In public, he was Mister Benevolent, Mister Congeniality himself. Something Maggie Spritzer and Ted Robinson saw through at their first meeting.

While the intrepid reporters were waiting for Moss to make a mistake, he was on his way home in the middle of the day to check on his beautiful wife and possibly have lunch with her in the garden. The bloom was off the rose, as the saying went, and Lincoln was the first to recognize that fact. He didn’t love his beautiful wife. Never had. To him, she was just another possession. But he played the game, and the rules were all his because he was in total control. From time to time, he hauled Amalie out for the public to see and admire at some function or other at the White House. And four times a year he took her back to France, so she could do new photo shoots for
La Natural.

The time was 12:50. He’d called ahead to the housekeeper to have lunch served in the garden and make sure his wife was seated and waiting for him when he arrived. He had dictated the menu in a rapid tone, then cut the connection. There was no doubt in his mind that his instructions would be followed to the letter.

Moss galloped into the house and took the elevator to the third floor, where he’d set up the master suite. He washed his face and hands, combed his unruly locks, then admired his good looks for a full five minutes as he turned this way and that to make sure there was no excess flesh poking at his designer shirt. Mister Fitness Himself, thanks to a three-hour workout every morning and a twenty-mile run four days a week. The custom-made clothes completed his persona. He ate healthy, barely touched alcohol, and never smoked.

When he was satisfied with his appearance, he took the steps to the first floor. He walked at a leisurely pace through the solarium, then to the outdoor patio that led to a garden so rich with flowers one could get drunk on the scent alone. He rounded a path and saw his wife sitting upright at a small table set for two. She was wearing sunglasses.

Moss leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She flinched as he sat down, but he pretended not to notice. He removed her sunglasses and tossed them on the ground. Then he stomped on them. “What did I tell you about wearing sunglasses in my presence?”

“You told me not to wear them, Lincoln. But I didn’t think you’d want the staff to see what you did to me yesterday. Are you saying I made a mistake? If so, I’m sorry.”

Moss looked at his wife with clinical interest as he dug into his lobster ravioli, which appeared as if by magic. “You need to eat, Amalie, you’re getting bony. I forgot . . . I’ll have one of the maids bring you a new pair of sunglasses.” Then he laid his fork down and stared across the table at his wife. Amalie met his gaze. “Are you telling me with all that makeup you have upstairs you couldn’t cover up those bruises?”

“Perhaps tomorrow when the bruising turns yellow, it will cover it up. It doesn’t work when it’s dark purple the way it is now.”

“Well, we’re obviously going to have to call a meeting with our chemists and have them come up with something that
will
work. You need to eat. Don’t make me tell you again.”

Amalie dutifully picked up her fork and cut through one of the ravioli, hoping she didn’t choke on it. Her neck was still tender from where her husband had tried to choke her just days ago. Somehow, she managed to chew the pasta and lobster to a fine mush so that she could swallow it. She sipped from her wineglass so the food would slide down her bruised throat more easily.

“What did you do this morning, Amalie?”

“Not much. A little yoga. I read the paper. I ordered some books online. I thought you might like Robert Gates’s new book, so I ordered that for you.” She popped the other half of the ravioli into her mouth, hoping it would go down as easily as the first half.

“What are you going to do this afternoon?”

Amalie wanted to scream at the top of her lungs,
I am going to plot your death in every way I can think of.
Instead, she said, “I thought I’d stay out here in the garden and do a little reading. I thought about a swim. The water in the pool is just perfect now that it’s July. Unless there’s something you want me to do.”

“No. There’s nothing. Eat, Amalie. You need to put those nine pounds you lost back on. I’ll have the cook whip you up some nutritious milk shakes. You will drink them, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Amalie speared another ravioli and cut it in half. She managed to chew her way through it as she waited for whatever else was to come. She was so tense, she thought she would explode. She almost fainted in relief when her husband got up from the table and walked around to where she sat. He leaned over and nibbled on her ear. She flinched again, and he laughed.

“I’ll see about getting you some new sunglasses. Have a nice afternoon, my dear.” Amalie sighed heavily. Her shoulders sagged, and her eyes filled with tears. She had to grab hold of the edge of the table when she felt her husband return and stand behind her chair to slide the glasses on and settle them behind her ears. “I’ll see you at dinner. Dress nicely.”

“I will. Enjoy your afternoon,” she said woodenly.

The moment Amalie heard the engine of her husband’s Porsche growl to life, she was up and off her chair and sprinting for her room. She banged open the door and looked everywhere for her maid, Rosalee. She motioned her to come closer and whispered in her ear. The little maid nodded and whispered back. They eyed each other, their eyes misting over at what Amalie had been going through for the last seven and a half years. And now, finally, with the help of the little maid, she was ready to bolt.

Both women blessed themselves, then hugged each other.

“Please, God, let Rosalee make it happen. Please, God!”