Cristiane Serruya - Trust: A New Beginning

He didn’t want any relationships, but if this was what it would take to have her, so be it.

Let her have her way for now.

Leibowitz Oil Building.

Monday, February 22^nd, 2010.

9.18 a.m.

“Oh, he has a wicked sense of humor and made me laugh all night.”

“I see,” he sighed, “but, still, Sophia, bear in mind that he’s not Gabriel. I’ll ask Mendes to do a-”

“Why?” Her forehead creased. “You didn’t suggest anything like that for Ethan.”

“You didn’t have this look of wonder on your face, either,” he smirked. “Since you first met him, whenever you hear his name you look like a teenager. Worse. You act like a teenager.”

“Well, I’m not a teenager anymore, Edward,” she snapped at him. “Stop talking nonsense.”

“Love, I’m sorry to scare you,” he replied sternly, “however this is not nonsense. He has captured your heart and if you don’t take care he is going to crush it with his bare hands.”

“Good heavens, Edward.”

He took out his iPhone from his inside suit pocket. “Let me call-”

“No.” She shook her head. “Don’t. Don’t do it.”

“Why not?” He asked, baffled. She had never had such scruples before. “It’s for your own protection.”

“And if he discovers?”

Edward shook his head, “Sophia, you know Mendes is a highly praised professional. His reports are completely confidential and he is very discreet.”

“I don’t see any reason-” She stopped at his dark look.

Edward rose from the armchair and circled her desk, reining back his temper with every step, his blue gaze holding her honey one.

“Stubborn woman,” he muttered and leaned over her iMac and typed Alistair’s full name into Google. Thousands of pages were listed. “Has he told you he is a Marquis? Heir to a dukedom?”

“No. But it doesn’t mean-”

“You aren’t dealing with Brazilians, Sophia. Here, in the UK, some families still value those things,” Edward scowled her.

“I don’t think it is the case. If it were, he would have told me from the beginning.”

“I checked his name and the coat of arms on the personal card he sent you. He’s the Marquis of Ells and his father is the Duke of Craigdale. And they have some other titles in their sleeves. Peerage of England, Scotland, and even the United Kingdom. A very traditional, powerful, and rich family. I would say they’re just below the Royal Dukes. His mother was the daughter of an English duke, too. His sister is married to a very important duke. Still doesn’t mean anything?”

“Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. After all, it is his social circle. If it were so important to him, he would have made it clear from the beginning, Edward.”

“Maybe.” Edward said then clicked on ‘images.’ The screen filled with photos, almost all of them of Alistair accompanied by beautiful women, in public appearances or taken by paparazzi. “Take a look. He doesn’t have relationships. He only has one-night stands.”

He scrolled until he found what he was looking for and clicked.

Her own image with Alistair leaving Gordon Ramsay at Claridge’s exploded in front of her eyes.

She gasped.

He slowly turned his face to look at her. He closed the photo and opened another. This time they were photographed in his car, at a red light on Kensington High Street, near her house.

Sophia felt a chill in her spine as she saw a photo of them taken during the weekend. And, what shocked her the most, the depiction of a smiling Alistair carrying Gabriela in his arms and holding Sophia’s hand, shown on a gossip blog with the headline, “Mysterious Woman Captures Elusive Alistair Connor MacCraig’s Heart.” The story described - with saucy details - the great number of women passing through Alistair’s life and how easily he disposed of them.

Sophia scrolled down, her heart beating fast in her chest. The article was full of images. All of Alistair’s dates were blonde with blue eyes.

“See what I mean, Mysterious Woman?” he sneered. “Want to see something even more interesting?” With a few more clicks, a younger Alistair appeared on the screen playing with a blonde, blue-eyed little girl in a park. It was probably a papparazzi shot.

Edward zoomed in on the girl’s face and Sophia inhaled sharply.

“Yeah! Digest that!”

“They could be sisters,” she stuttered in a small voice.

“I have been haunted by this photo ever since I first saw it.” He went back to the armchair and flung himself in it, smoothing back a blond lock that had fallen on his forehead. “Only a background check, Sophia, for Gabriela’s protection. And yours.”

“Edward, I don’t feel at all comfortable about this checking thing. He is not my competitor. This is a personal relationship.”

“Sophia,” he shook his head and sighed. “Sometimes your innocence baffles me. How can a,” his fingers made quotation marks in the air, “shrewd businesswoman be so naïve? Do you think if he were in your place he wouldn’t do it? Anyone would. Everyone does.”

Sophia bit her lip and looked at the photo again. And decided, “No, Edward. This isn’t business. I have morals and principles. Life isn’t a war.”

“Well, then. Think about it. But think hard. I don’t want to see you crying later because of principles and morals.” His blue eyes flashed with an undefined emotion. He picked up an envelope from her desk and opened it, ending the argument.

The City of London Bank Headquarters.

Tuesday, February 23^rd, 2010.

8.30 p.m.

The building was virtually empty. Heavy footsteps on the marble floors echoed on the walls.

The tall, burly man knocked on the door, observing the dimly lit room he was standing in. Conservative. So unlike the man who owned it. He laughed inwardly, darkly amused. If he liked to gossip, half of London would be doomed.

The door opened and Alistair invited the man into his office.

“Good evening, Baptist. You worked quickly, as always.” His certainty about the detective’s capacity or professionalism remained unspoken.

“Mr. MacCraig, you know that my reports are the best in Britain,” he boasted. “I informed you before that Sophia Santo didn’t exist. And that the woman you were looking for was another person, had another identity.” He handed over the file he was carrying. “But, if I may say, this was one of the most difficult jobs I ever had. Challenging. The woman is an eel.”

Alistair motioned for the man to sit down, opened the file, and quickly scanned the information inside. “Something about her family, Gabriel Leibowitz, and Leibowitz Oil. More about the Sophia Leibowitz Foundation for Women and Children. So on and so forth. Mmm,” he stroked his jaw with two fingers and perused the pages. “What about her private life?”

“Nothing that is relevant. She’s a very private person. So was her late husband. However, Mr. MacCraig,” said the man with his polite, but firm voice, “I could say the same about you. There is a lot of information available about you, but nothing vital.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Although much could be discovered through your late wife.”

Fuck. Alistair’s temper flared. He thinned his lips and he hooded his eyes to conceal his anger. Fine lines appeared around of his eyes. “Maybe. Nonetheless, Baptist, I’m not paying you to investigate me. I know all there is to know about myself and my late wife.”

He leafed through the photos provided, some new, some old and paused at one from Sofia’s wedding. She was a beautiful bride. So young, so happy. “It’s not possible that she hasn’t left any clue, any hint that you could follow,” he murmured, turning over through the few pages of the file.

“If I were to give my personal opinion based on my research, I would say she had an uneventful and happy life until her husband’s kidnapping. She is well travelled, as you can see. Her family is important and rich, though not as much as Mr. Leibowitz’s. They were originally from the state of Minas Gerais and have farms, country houses, and many properties. I couldn’t find any serious boyfriends from before her wedding. She married very, very young and quickly. Her family emancipated her for it.”

That’s not good. “Was she pregnant?”

“I cannot confirm, but I’d say she was not.”

“Facts, facts, Baptist,” he prompt.

“Well, based on the lack of the evidence,” the man rephrased, “I think she was not.”

“What about Gabriel Leibowitz?”

“Basically business information. The age different between them was great. Many previous girlfriends, but nothing serious before his marriage. No paid sex, so my contact in Brazil couldn’t retrieve much information about his sexual preferences. He traveled around the world frequently, and he either took along his partners or he kept to himself. An easy man, excellent employer, highly praised businessman.”

“I see.” Jealous and angry, Alistair snorted. “The perfect gentleman. A man of honor.”

“So it seems,” Baptist concurred. “The perfect couple. The perfect family.”

“What about his death?”

“One more kidnapping case poorly handled,” he informed. “Too many mistakes made by those conducting the negotiations and, at the end, by the police. They procrastinated too much to pay the ransom. A misfortune.”

“So, this is all you’ve achieved.” He looked again at the meager folder.

“Unfortunately,” the burly man nodded. “She’s been even more evasive in the last two years. But I’ll seek out more information. Everyone has secrets, Mr. MacCraig.” A dark smile appeared on the man’s face. “I’ll discover hers, don’t worry.”