CHAPTER 9
Cassiopeia Vitt waited outside the Swedish royal palace.
According to the clock another Scandinavian day was waning, but the sun remained in the western sky, masked by a thick shroud of clouds.
Summer here meant days when sunlight lingered until long after midnight.
All in stark contrast with winter, when the sun barely made it above the horizon before disappearing midafternoon.
She’d received a call yesterday from Stephanie Nelle, who explained the situation, then said, “We’re going to push John Westlake.
Hard. Once he leaves the palace, I need you to stay with him and see where it leads. ”
“And Cotton?”
“He’s going to try to find Lysa. I need you both on this one. Just on different angles.”
So she’d booked a private charter and flown to Stockholm, arriving hours before Westlake made his appearance. Stephanie had emailed a photograph. Five minutes ago a text came that told her Westlake was leaving the palace along with, You’re on.
She surveyed the square with an even stare, standing before a colonnade at the southern entrance.
The last changing of the guard for the day was happening, which had drawn a crowd of camera-toting spectators.
The wind whistled past and whipped the remaining light rain that filled the air.
In the distance she caught the steady, strong, somehow reassuring tone of a bell.
Cotton had told her all about what happened in Italy.
She’d not been pleased with the risks he’d taken in the Palio, but he was a big boy and could take care of himself.
That was the beauty of their relationship.
Neither crowded the other. True, they worried.
But both understood what they were capable of doing, and neither one of them was foolish.
She was in love.
For the first time in her life.
With her person.
She’d never really been close to anyone.
In every relationship that had ever meant a commitment, she’d been the one who’d ended things.
When nothing they gave was returned, they always moved on elsewhere.
A vicious self-destructive cycle that Cotton finally broke.
A few years ago admitting that would have seemed a weakness.
Not anymore. Instead, she’d come to understand that having him was a strength.
One she no longer wanted to live without.
And the best part? Cotton felt the same.
A few months ago they had a long talk, unfettered, unrestrained, everything on the table.
For two people who found it hard to express their emotions the discussion had been difficult at first, but easier as they opened up.
Would they marry? Hard to say. Both seemed content in the current state of the relationship.
But it was not out of the question. Not anymore.
She would follow him anywhere, anytime, and he would do the same for her. They were a team.
Like here. Both working the problem from different sides.
Fifty meters away John Westlake exited the palace, back out into the rain.
He’d been purposefully directed to that exit as it was busy and crowded outside, no way for him to notice her among the umbrella-toting throng watching the changing of the palace guard.
It was also meant as a parting shot of disrespect, hammering home the points the king had made.
Westlake turned left and avoided the ceremony, heading for the building’s east side. He wore a raincoat but carried no umbrella. She moved that way too, giving him a wide berth. No need to crowd him.
Just stay back, nice and easy.
She loved Stockholm. Its name meant “island cleared of trees,” which was precisely how the original settlement had been created.
Many called it the Venice of the North and it was easy to see why.
The city occupied fourteen spits of land surrounded on the north by the clear waters of Lake M?laren and to the south by the Saltsjon, a brackish inlet of the Baltic.
One of Europe’s great locales, filled with a sprawl of buildings and churches that formed a protective girdle around narrow lanes and hairline-like alleys.
She’d spent time here on both business and pleasure.
She wished she was here now under better circumstances.
Though she would never admit it openly, in private she was a bit of a royal fanatic.
She loved to read about the various families across the globe.
The Windsors in the United Kingdom, the Grimaldis in Monaco, and the Borbón-Anjous of Spain, along with other fascinating monarchies in Africa and Asia.
Like Japan’s Emperor Akihito, who broke twenty-six hundred years of tradition by marrying a commoner instead of choosing an aristocratic bride.
More recently his granddaughter Princess Mako had followed his example and given up her royal status completely so she could marry the man she loved.
She knew about Princess Lysa of Sweden, who also chose love over duty, which had been relatively easy to do considering she stood little to no chance of ever being queen.
Westlake turned a corner, now headed down an inclined street labeled Slottsbacken toward the water.
She stayed back, keeping her target in sight.
The rain had devolved into more of a drizzle, her head and hair protected by a hood from her coat.
At the bottom of the incline Westlake crossed the street and turned left, walking parallel to the water across a long bridge toward the mainland.
The summer air had cooled. Back at her castle rebuilding project in France the weather was hot and muggy.
When she’d left there earlier today, work was progressing on not only the outer walls but several of the interior buildings.
It all took time, since they only used tools, materials, and techniques from the thirteenth century.
It also drained money. But she had that part covered.
Her parents had left her with enormous wealth, along with ownership and control of one of the largest corporations in Europe.
Business was not her forte, though. Luckily she employed competent people, paid them generously, and allowed them to do their job.
Westlake made another turn at the end of the bridge and walked toward the famed Grand H?tel.
A Stockholm landmark. A place she knew. Five-starred.
Built in the late nineteenth century. One of several that populated Scandinavian capitals with the label grand.
It sat next to the national museum, facing the royal palace across the water.
Famous as the place where Nobel Prize laureates and their families stayed, as well as countless world leaders.
The hotel was enormous, with something like three hundred rooms. Easy to lose him in there.
Westlake entered through the front doors.
She hustled ahead and made it inside the main lobby just as Westlake left the front desk, a bellhop in tow pushing a cart with two pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage.
She slipped off her wet coat and drifted to the other side among people coming and going.
Westlake entered the elevator, and the doors closed.
She approached and watched the indicator.
The car rose and kept going until reaching the top.
The Flag Suite.
She’d stayed there before. A spacious room in the Old World style with high ceilings, delicate moldings, and comfortable furniture.
It also came with access into the glass cupola that topped the building, which offered spectacular views of Stockholm.
To her? Finest room in the house. Okay. Westlake liked the best. But the man was wealthy.
Time to settle down.
And wait.