Clandestine (2 page)

Classic.

Lack of Lame Extortion Notes = 0/10

The worst part? This was no idle threat.

Duir Cottage did indeed have a time portal in the cellar—a simple slab of stone which stood guard over a wormhole of sorts to the same date and location two hundred years in the past, linking 2014 and 1814 tightly together.

How had someone found out about the portal?

Marc’s younger sister, Emme, had been the first to stumble upon the portal nearly two years ago. This had resulted in a trip to 1812 where she had met her husband, James Knight, a nineteenth century aristocrat raised at Haldon Manor, the nearby estate which owned Duir Cottage in the past.

But before the spring of 2012, the portal hadn’t been traversable. And since that time, the portal had been a carefully guarded secret known to fewer than ten people, all of them family and friends. So none of them would have ever breathed a word about it.

The list of those who knew about the portal was short:

Marc, obviously.

Emme and her husband, James, the present-day owners of Duir Cottage.

Emme’s best friend and self-proclaimed mystic, Jasmine.

James’ sister, Georgiana, and her husband, Sebastian, currently living in 1814.

Arthur Knight, James’ younger brother and the owner of Duir Cottage and nearby Haldon Manor in 1814.

That was it.

No one else knew.

Except
someone
apparently did.

But how? And who? How much money would ‘silence’ cost?

And why link the portal with him, Marc Wilde?

He wasn’t the current owner of Duir Cottage and had no known obvious connection with the building beyond staying there occasionally.

He doubted Emme or James had received a similar note, as the note had been forwarded
from
Duir Cottage. The letter had been placed in the postbox, not mailed, and the elderly handyman who periodically checked in on the cottage had sent the letter along via Marc’s publicist.

If anyone else had received a note as well, Marc would have heard about it long before now.

Why
him
?

It made no sense. None.

But as he was in Australia and too far away to do anything about it at the moment, Marc tried to mentally set the letter aside. He had this ten-out-of-ten, perfectly amazing day to focus on first.

It wasn’t like the letter was earth-shattering or even life-threatening. It could wait a few hours before being dealt with.

But the knowledge of it buzzed in the back of his head. An annoying insect he kept batting away.

Focus. He could focus.

Just enjoy the weather, the scenery . . . complete the photoshoot.

Then
, he would call Emme and James and talk about what to do.

But the blackmail bad luck spread like contagion through his should-have-been-totally-awesome day.

The sun, though brilliant, had turned the humid air thick. Walking began to feel like swimming, plastering his clothes to his body. Worse, blond dread-locked wig insulated his head, sending the heat into suffocating territory. Marc wanted nothing more than to dive into the ocean.

But
that
lovely relief was definitely out of the question. Glancing down at the clear blue water, Marc searched for evidence of the box jellyfish infestation swarming the shore. Tiny, transparent and therefore nearly invisible, the jellies turned swimming into a lethal game of maritime Russian roulette. It didn’t help that the Australian photography crew had spent half the morning loudly swapping box jelly horror stories. The waves lapped a taunting litany.

To make matters worse, someone had read the tide table wrong and the tide was coming in, swirling around the rusted hull of the ship. If Marc had been allowed to keep his
boots
on, the water with its nearly invisible menace would not have concerned him.

However, after a heated discussion with the photographer, the stylist had forced his boots off, leaving Marc barefoot in cuffed, torn jeans and a military-style vest. The stylist had seemed callously ambivalent about his overall health and the death threat lurking in the water.

With the water lapping in, Marc had to continually climb higher up the rusted shipwreck, praying he didn’t cut his bare feet on the metal hull. If a box jelly didn’t kill him first, tetanus would probably finish the job.

The icing on the cake, as it were, came again from the photography crew. Every time Marc almost teetered into the water, they would all shout a teasing, “Later, alligator,” in their broad Australian accents.

Where had it all gone so wrong?

Blackmail. Ah, yes. That was it.

Marc glanced over at the AusNTM model. Primped, painted and artlessly vapid in her clinging gold dress. She epitomized the kind of rail thin, stylized version of womanhood that Hollywood preferred. A pretty girl who hid insecurity behind a too brittle laugh, barbed comments and thick layer of make-up.

Marc had spent most of his adulthood surrounded by women like her.

They really weren’t his type.

But . . . here Marc heaved an enormous sigh . . .
Sara
was here too.

Sara—vivacious with dancing blue eyes and a quick smile.

Sara—the stylist who had offed his boots and was definitely pulling for a box jelly to do him in.

Sara—Marc’s ex-girlfriend.

He had been palpably shocked to see her when he arrived that morning, nearly fidgeting as she jammed the dreadlock wig on his head. None too gently.

Love Life = 2/10. If he were going to keep track of that today too.

Which it appeared he was.

Sara
was
more-or-less his type. Intelligent, loyal, witty. Tall and pretty without a trace of vanity, despite working as a stylist.

Their break up the year before in Bali was still a vivid memory.

“So this is it,” Sara had said, tapping a high-heeled foot. “Just like that—we’re done.” She adjusted her large sunglasses and swallowed. That hard swallow which fought to keep tears at bay.

Marc shifted uncomfortably. He hated scenes, hated strong emotions and, even worse,
talking
about them. Why did things always end this way? Ugly, messy. Hurt.

“Sara, look, I’m so sorry. Really, I am.” He truly was. “I never intended to lead you on. You want more. I get it. But I just . . . can’t . . . be more for you right now.”

“Can’t or won’t, Marc?”

Ugh. He also hated
that
question.

More foot tapping.

“Both, I suppose,” he said, knowing it was the wrong answer. “I’m just not a touchy-feely kinda guy.”

A long pause. More tight swallowing.

“Well, I hope she destroys you.”

“What? What are you talking about? Sara, there isn’t anyone else and—”

“Oh, I know there’s no one else. Not yet. But, someday . . . someday there will be. Someone who makes you
want
to open up to her.” She paused, glanced to the side and then brought her gaze back to him. “And I hope she bloody destroys you.”

So . . . yeah. That was Sara.

Marc considered all of this as he scrambled up the shipwreck, balancing above the model on the jagged edge of the hull, hefting a massive chainsaw above his head. Wig plastered to his sweat-covered face and shoulders, a heavy ammo belt slung over the vest.

The problem was this: Marc had liked Sara. He truly had.

But he just didn’t do intense, consuming emotions. It wasn’t his thing.

He wasn’t a let’s-hang-out-and-talk-about-our-
feelings
kinda guy.

More of a when-is-kickoff and pass-me-the-bacon kinda guy.

Not that he was a jerk. He loved his mother. He loved his sister. He took care of them both, respected them, laughed with them, enjoyed spending time with them. He had always felt close to Emme and his mom, particularly as his British father had up and left when Marc was only eight. They were his life and he would gladly die for them.

But when it came to women he wasn’t genetically related to, Marc struggled. It wasn’t the women he dated, really. He recognized that. The problem, it seemed, was within himself.

Though he had, at least, been smart enough to avoid saying the dreaded
It’s-not-you-it’s-me
line to former girlfriends.

Even though the phrase sorta hit the proverbial nail on the head.

He often wondered if maybe the crushing pain of his father’s abandonment had broken something inside him. Something that couldn’t be fixed. Dooming Marc to live with a heart incapable of ‘til-death-do-us-part love.

Sara and the string of girlfriends before her had all been perfectly lovely people. Women for whom he felt affection and camaraderie and attraction.

But capital-L Love? The kind of love that poets sobbed over and singers crooned about and men fought wars for . . .

Nah. Nope. Never.

Not even a glimpse.

And after thirty-two years of life, if he hadn’t felt anything like romantic love by now, he probably never would.

Marc just figured he didn’t do big emotions. Some people didn’t. That was fine. Just part of who he was, like his green eyes and love of martial arts.

He should probably settle down with someone like Sara and figure that was that.

But there was this nagging sense of . . . unease. That affection and similar goals weren’t enough to last through a lifetime of challenges. That he would end up like his father, walking out the door without looking back.

And given what a mess
that
decision had made of his own childhood, he couldn’t risk doing something similar to anyone else.

So yeah. His love life wasn’t in the best of places.

“Higher if you can, Marc,” the photographer called. “I need the chainsaw to clear your head. Oh, and keep that right shoulder down. I don’t want the ammo belt drifting over your face.”

Marc made the adjustments, ignoring the burn in his biceps. He had given up trying to understand what the ammo belt had to do with a chainsaw. He secretly thought it was Sara’s passive-aggressive way of sabotaging him. Making him look ridiculous while simultaneously sending him into heatstroke with all the extra weight.

The whole day had turned into just a little bit of Hell wrapped up in taunting tropical splendor and topped with a generous dollop of blackmail.

But Marc, being Marc, did what he always did in such situations.

He smiled. He was easy-going, game for anything. The man that could brush anything off. It was the reputation that gave him his living.

“How hot does it have to get before I
want
to be jellyfish bait?” he called to the lighting crew, grinning at them.

“Sara, it’s really nice to see you. How’s your mom doing?” Fine. Her mother was just fine.

And didn’t blink when every five minutes he heard, “Layteh, allagayteh,” followed by raucous laughter.

Humor and deflection. It was like breathing.

Did anyone notice that his smile was somewhat strained? That his nonchalance wasn’t exactly non-chalanty?

Someday he would laugh at the absurdity of this day.

Someday
. But not yet.

Finally, the art director called a break, and Marc, gratefully, jumped his way to shore.

Marc sank into a beach chair under one of the awnings, gulping down an absurd amount of water, wishing desperately for a cool breeze to relieve the heat.

His mind circling back to that note.

Blackmail was an ugly business. The monies paid would never stop. And what evidence did this unknown person have? Who were they?

And with all his contacts, did Marc know a guy who knew another guy who could effectively ferret out the answers for him?

Swallowing more water, he pondered his options, staring sightlessly. People were still standing around in small groups, discussing (more like arguing) model posing and running mascara.

Marc’s phone chirped. A text from Emme.

DO NOT read FauxPause today. Just don’t.

He sent her back a smiley emoji because Emme hated emoji and would be less likely to ask probing,
concerned
questions if she were annoyed at him.

Standard emotional deflection.

Of course, that didn’t mean Marc actually
trusted
Emme’s advice.

Sara and the photographer were now arguing with the art director. It sounded like Sara wanted to add ninja knives and a quiver of arrows to the ammo belt (definitely passive-aggressive sabotage). Fortunately, she was getting some pushback.

In other words, nothing was happening any time soon.

So Marc instantly went to the bookmarked website on his phone: www.FauxPause.com. (Tagline:
Grab a coffee and sit for a Pause
.)

The loading icon spun and spun. Cellar wi-fi was slooooooow on Fraser Island. Text messages, however, were not.

Marc, I know you’re not listening to me. I am serious. DO NOT GO THERE. For once, trust me.

He texted back a kissy-lips emoji.

Marc loved FauxPause. Granted, pretty much anyone with an internet connection loved FauxPause. It was
the
website right now. Hip. Current. Everyone who was anyone found their way into its commentary.

I mean it, Marc. Don’t ignore me.

Marc ignored her.

He was having a bad day and if anything could cheer him up, it would be FauxPause.

With sections entitled
Faux Sure
(modern culture in the
now
) and
Fashion Faux-ward
(fashion trends, bad and good), FauxPause curated all the ephemera that made modern civilization, well, modern.

Slick and ironic with often biting humor, all reflected in the website’s design: black and white Parisian-inspired minimalism with punches of mustard and teal. Marc had this secret fantasy that someday he would be featured on the website. A glowing review under
Faux Sure
.

The managing editor, La Pochette, wrote a section dedicated to cultural missteps:
Oh the Urbanity!
Her charcoal image in a retro teal dress peeked cheekily at the viewer, hand reaching into a mustard purse slung on her shoulder, ready to pull out another biting piece of hilarious media satire.