Sabotage (eBook)

Prologue

Savannah, Georgia, United States of America, December 24th.

Sitting alone in the cozy cocktail lounge of the Savannah Sun Hotel and Resort overlooking the Savannah River on a rainy night, Victoria Lawrence Ward glanced at the door for the hundredth time and then at her watch. It was after 10 p.m. Annoyed, she drained her Cosmopolitan mocktail while rapping her fingertips on the table. She should have known better than to expect the agent for renowned artist, Dylan McManus, to show up for an impromptu meeting—on Christmas Eve, no less.

Victoria unclipped the bun at the back of her head and ran a hand through her long dark brown hair, shaking it loose. She sighed; even if there was a remote possibility of McManus’ scout considering this Georgia venue for hosting an art exhibit, it was worth the wait. They had recently opened an exhibition center in the newly built wing of the hotel.

Looking over at the bartender, she simply raised her finger, ordering herself another drink. The man nodded and turned to reach for a Martini glass on the mirrored shelf behind him. There were only about half a dozen patrons left in the lounge readying to retire to their exclusive suites for the night, and, fortunately, no awkward guest-related incident or dire commotion to deal with. Phew!

After this shift, Lawrence Ward was planning to retreat to her family’s magnificent ranch, aptly named Serenity, on the outskirts of Savannah where she would spend Christmas and New Year.

Victoria was the most senior executive on-site and prided herself in this family-run business she co-owned in an equitable partnership with her parents and three siblings. The Lawrence Ward children were all born a year apart; a girl, followed by a boy, and then the same pattern again. From a thirty-year-old Olivia who was a secretive first-born, jet-setting, Pulitzer Prize winning journalist, to Emerson with his gift for numbers as a chartered accountant and the chief financial officer of the company, and lastly, to her younger brother, Liam, whose law degree made him an invaluable asset heading their legal department. Only Olivia had ignored the calling of close family ties, and instead of joining the family business, she pursued a very different globe-hopping career path.

In recent years, their entrepreneur parents, Grayson Lawrence and Harriet Lawrence Ward, had steadily handed over the reins of the family empire to her and her two brothers, who were all closely involved in the daily operations and future business planning of the hotel. Having obtained a master’s degree in interior design, coupled with a flair for architecture and aesthetics, Victoria was tasked with upkeep of the premises and revamping the facility’s interior. She had helped design and closely supervised the expansion of the newly built telecommunications hub, conference center, and exhibition hall. This prime venue had already attracted major functions in the three months since opening. The resort came across as European chic but with a uniquely welcoming Savannah flair. In addition, they offered off-site mouth-watering catering options for select private functions.

Victoria Lawrence Ward thanked the bartender who exchanged her empty mocktail glass for a full one. Next, she glanced at her smartphone; three hours late and still no explanatory message from the artist’s agent. I guess that’s a bust.

The mysteriously reclusive Dylan McManus was all the rage and had risen from obscurity after prominent A-listers had procured his work, touted his skill as a painter, and labeled him the next wunderkind.

From her internet search, McManus had been whisked around the globe in superyachts and private jets while commissioned for a series of exclusive oil on canvas paintings by the world’s elite. The only grainy telelens stalker tabloid pictures she could find of the thirty-one-year-old was of the artist wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. Even his official website and the rare magazine interview he gave, was strikingly devoid of a clear image of the man. At best, you could get an obscure rear view of him busy painting, if that even was him... She had skimmed through his impressive portfolio and considered purchasing some of his work, until she saw the six- and seven-figure price tags that came attached. He was a ghost on social media, and no selfie postings existed with him and his high-end clientele, at least, none that she could find.

The web of intrigue surrounding McManus was enough to set speculation abuzz. Rumors were rife that Dylan had a face made for radio complete with an unsightly hunchback, and not surprisingly for when dealing with the sensationalistic gossip rags, that he was romantically involved with many of his high-profile clients—both male and female. Whether any of that was true... well, who knew? Not that his private life was anyone’s business.

Victoria palmed her phone, swiped at the screen, and texted her sister and brother-in-law, Olivia and Joshua Hunt, who would be joining the rest of the family for a superb Lawrence Ward Christmas feast in a dozen hours or so. The couple was currently staying in their recently renovated remote Georgia hunting cabin inherited by Olivia from her godfather, the late Stuart Grady, situated over a two hours’ drive inland. Victoria shuddered; complete with lack of cellular network reception, the barest of necessities, and with the nearest neighbor twelve miles away, their cabin lay far in the woods where retail prospects were non-existent and any and all communications required a satellite phone. Not even the mailman ventured out there.

The word ‘rustic’ came to mind, and that was notably after the extensive renovations.

‘Merry Christmas! Let me know when you are ready to upgrade that awful sofa; you’ve kept it long enough to make Stuart smile. Now the joke’s on you, and it’s high time to heed fashion #self-respect. See you tomorrow. Victoria. XOXO’

The less-than-subtle hint of Victoria’s generous sofa replacement voucher had been lost on those two. That unsightly vintage 1970’s plaid couch with matching footstool squarely belonged in a junkyard or as a prop for some retro show, albeit ripe for the slashing in a horror movie.

As little as a few months ago, and for a conservative Southern community, Olivia had rather audaciously sprung her secret—and outrageously distant—nuptials on them. Since then, she had been working hard on mending fences vaporized by such a decisively nuclear revelation. Considering that their mother was the daughter of a prominent and charismatic Southern preacher, and had been planning Olivia’s society wedding since she turned sweet sixteen, her sibling had escaped mostly unscathed. This unexpected development also put the rest of the Lawrence Ward offspring in the direct firing line for Harriet’s terrifyingly enthusiastic matchmaking meddling. Needless to say, their blood connection to their grandfather, George Ward, had come with strict, non-negotiable public conduct and behavioral expectations. Online dating, partying, and hookups were most definitely a no-no. But who’s perfect, right?

Victoria pinched the bridge of her nose and then texted McManus’ agent; ‘You’d better not leave me hanging!’ She smiled at the corny art pun. A few seconds too late, she realized she had texted Olivia in error, this was followed by a frantic: ‘Oops! My bad; wrong number... ignore that text. Vic.’ She resent the message to the correct recipient this time.

An hour ago, Victoria had given up on inquiring whether a message had been left for her at the front reception desk. They know where to find me. She glanced at her wristwatch again; it was five minutes until the cocktail dining lounge was due to close its doors for the night.

“He’s an idiot.”

Startled, she looked up into serious hazel eyes, framed by similarly colored neatly cut hair, and a carefully crafted stubble on a masculine face. The ruggedly handsome man appeared a couple of years older than her, and half a foot taller. Her eyes drank him in. A dark blue cashmere wool sweater and designer pants covered an unmistakably muscular torso.

Victoria blinked twice. “Excuse me?”

A glint of humor sparkled in his eyes. “The man who stood you up; he’s an idiot.”

A pause passed them by. “I was thinking ‘schmuck,’ to name but one polite adjective, but ‘idiot’ will do.”

“So, I was right: It was a man.” A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of those full lips. No ring was evident on either of his hands, not that those items could not be removed easily. “May I have the pleasure of joining you?” He seemed oddly tense.

“I...” was just about to call it a night. Intrigued, Victoria bit her lip. “Sure.”

He pulled the seat out opposite her while rambling, “I couldn’t help but notice you sitting here alone all night, checking your phone, glancing at the door, your watch... I would offer buying you another nightcap but from what I’ve seen, you’ve had plenty.” He gave her a suspicious look. “Though, if I may say so, you look surprisingly alert, and I can’t say that I detect a trace of a slur in your voice.”

Like that, he went down in flames. Very suave: judgmental, presumptuous, brutally honest… nervous.

Victoria drew back, her tone flat. “Are you disappointed that I’m not drunk?”...