Chapter 22: Chapter Twenty Two

Dominic

Since arriving in Austria, I had to undergo two outfit changes. It wasn't easy. I discarded my snow gear and jet ski back in Svalbard and changed into a grey Juicy Couture tracksuit, pink Sketchers, and a black Khloé Kardashian headband. If I earned a pound each time I caught some bloke giving me the eye, I could end world poverty. Men are pigs, always thinking with their dicks. I should know. I could have given them a glimpse of my fake bodysuit, or let my balls hang out, but I didn’t want to blow my cover. My dick had to behave and stay strapped against my thigh. All thoughts about Bexley had to be boxed away in my brain, only to be brought out when I'm alone in my hotel room. As soon as I reached Finland, I purchased a trip to Austria, then slept during the entire journey.

My hotel was within a mile of the castle. After a bum-numbing flight, I checked-in, grabbed a bite to eat, then freshened up, ready to plan my attack. Dominique was a flamboyant character, so I turned her into a star wedding planner? I could blag my way inside, pretending to be scouting locations for a top-secret celebrity wedding. The castle played host to corporate events and other official conference meetings; they would snap up the opportunity to make a fat wad of cash. Celebs are known for blowing the budget, magazine deals, and tons of publicity. Getting in would be a doddle.

Dressed in a chic Oscar de la Renta black-and-white striped dress with pointed shoulder pads, and black Christian Louboutin heels, I strutted my stuff as I flounced in from the lakeside grounds and into the entrance hall, my handbag dangling from the crease of my elbow.

I flicked my bouncy blonde curls over my shoulder. “Excuse me, darling?” I announced to an official-looking chap who was dressed in formal attire.

My brothers always said I could pull off a feminine French accent and once suggested I could run a phone sex chat line and that men would never know the difference.

The guy glanced up from behind the reception desk and his blue eyes bulged as they landed on me, ping-ponging from my tits to my face.

“Hallo,” he replied, flashing me a welcome smile. “French or English?” he asked, unsure which I preferred.

“Ooh, I love a bilingual man, but English if you don’t mind. My client thinks I could use the practice,” I excused with a humoured shrug.

The blond, square-jawed Adonis swatted the air. “Nonsense, your English sounds perfect to me.”

I covered my mouth as I giggled, then fluttered my fake eyelashes.

His female colleague shot him a side-glance, but he deflected my attention. “My name is Lukas. How may I be of service?”

I pulled my tablet out from my bag and tapped the blank screen. “Bonjour, Lukas. I’m Dominique Moulin.” I stole the name from The Moulin Rouge. “I realize I should have called in advance, but the thing is, my client wants to make an enormous gesture to the love of his life. Football players and their popstar women; they expect us to work miracles. I’m not a magician or a fairy godmother, but I can throw a spectacular event at short notice. That’s why they all hire me. It’s what I do.” I preened my hair and let out an accomplished sigh.

This captured his interest. “Is he interested in hiring the castle for a wedding?” He sounded excited about that.

I nodded. “Hm-hm, and he sends me thousands of miles away to search for a fairy tale castle.” I splayed my hand, setting a dramatic scene. “And I thought, why not Laxenburg Castle in all its splendour? The magnifique gardens, charmant interior, I added extra ambience, using a mixture of French and English words. “I said to him... I said, David… Victoria will be over the moon to renew your wedding vows there.”

His female colleague was sold on the mention of the Beckhams, leaning her elbow against the desk in a dreamy stupor.

“Sir David Beckham?” the enthralled male spoke.

“Oui,” I confirmed. “Sir Golden Balls himself.”

I'm such a convincing bull-shitter.

“Some parts of the grounds are off-limits to tourists, but I suppose we could make an exception for such a sporting legend,” he added, with a rapid lick of the lips. “Would you mind if I gave you a guided tour?”

Ugh, no. How was I going to search the castle with an eighties version of Schwarzenegger tagging along beside me?

That wasn’t part of the plan. I would have to lose him and pray that he doesn’t come back. Like his famous film catchphrase, he was harder to shake than the common cold.

“Okay,” I replied, feebly. “I’ll be mostly taking pictures.” I held up the tablet. “Snippety snap.”

Lukas escorted me around the majestic castle, guiding me through each opulent room. I scanned my tablet to no avail, finding every embellished surface true to its nature. My heart sank with each passing hour. Lukas gave me a thorough history lesson about the arch-duchess Sophie of Austria, born on the fifth of March 1855, and died on the twenty-ninth of May 1857, age two. He was meticulous and fluent with the details, as if this place was his life. The name Sophie was vital to discovering the clue. I had to convince my rambling tour guide to show me something of great importance. An heirloom, a portrait, or a statue perhaps?

“Oh, that poor little bébé,” I whimpered. “You know, I love children. I just haven’t met the perfect man to impregnate me in all the right places . . . by that I mean the womb,” I spoke in a low, sultry husk, almost giving away my manliness.

Lukas didn’t seem to notice. He seemed aroused.

“Do you believe in fate, Dominique?” he replied, his voice sounding a little laboured and breathless.

I brushed my palm across the lapels of his jacket, ridding him of non-existent dust. “You know something, Lukas, I think I do.”

He leaned closer, moistening his lips as if he was about to pucker them up for a kiss. My heart jump-started in my chest and I veered around to admire the wall of portraits.

“This is beautiful . . . Posh is going to love it . . . all of it,” I mentioned. “It's perfect.”

As I turned to face Lukas, I saw him composing himself. “Uh, yes, that’s wonderful news.”

“You’ve got me wanting babies, Lukas,” I told him, giving him a playful tap on the shoulder.

His lips curled into a side smirk. “How so?” his tone suggested sex, and he glanced around as if he was checking to see if we were alone.

“You naughty, sexy man,” I chuckled. “I know what you want, but I’m not that easy, you know. If you want a date with me, at least buy me dinner first.”

I held the tablet up as if I was taking his picture, seeing his full skeletal system on the screen. Another tap displayed a heat-censored image, displaying his white-hot crotch. I had to take an actual picture just in case he wanted to see it for himself. The time was running out. We had trawled from room to room and I had found nothing of any interest yet.

“Would you like me to show you the doll that Elisabeth of Bavaria had made in the memory of her beloved Sophie?” he asked, wanting to impress me. “It is called “Sophie” after the late duchess.”

A doll?

The excitement on my face must have shown.

“There’s a doll? I love dolls,” I lied, recalling the time Braxton had forced me to watch Annabelle.

Chucky, Annabelle, Dolly Dearest, and Toy Soldiers, they were all as freaky as fuck.

Lukas led me into an ornate nursery with a hand-crafted crib and a threadbare rocking horse. Brass railings created a walkway between the furniture, and they placed signs in Austrian warning people not to touch anything. He unbolted a railing and ushered me through a door disguised as a bookshelf, guiding me through the darkness.

Lights flickered on all around us, and my eyes danced around the plain cream walls, landing on the glass cabinet in the centre of the room. The doll was a nightmarish depiction of horror: pale porcelain, awful hair, and a frock that Vivian Westwood could have designed while she was drunk. I sucked in a sharp intake through flared nostrils, hoping Lukas didn’t catch the grimace on my face.

“Just one second,” I excused as my phone rang inside my bag.

I called myself from the tablet, purposefully as an excuse to retrieve my tranquillizer pen. A single click sent a dart the size of a needle flying through the air and sticking into Lukas’s neck. I acted fast, catching him before he hit the floor, then placed him on the ground.

"If I was a woman, I would, mate," I said to him while he was out cold.

The cabinet wasn’t locked, but even if it was, I could have easily picked the lock. The doll’s body wasn’t soft and full of stuffing, it was hard and something rattled inside it.

“Shit, please don’t fucking haunt me,” I muttered as I pulled off the head.

I tipped the body upside down and a memory stick fell into my hand.

“Bingo,” I celebrated, dropping it into my handbag.

I stuffed the doll's head back into place as good as I could. It wasn't perfect. Then I placed it back inside the cabinet and closed the door.

With my chaperone out like a light, I had to remember the way back by myself. The woman at the reception desk was on the phone, too busy complaining about Lukas's flirting. She didn’t notice me leaving. Kicking off my killer shoes enabled me to run as fast as I could back to the hire car and away from Castle Freak Show.

Once I was back in the safety of my hotel room, I checked in with Dad to update him of my findings.

“Well done, Dom. That’s two down, three to go,” he informed me. “Braxton got lucky too.”

Yeah, but I bet he didn’t get hit on by the Terminator.

“What’s the plan from here?” I asked, slumping down on the queen-size bed.

I was missing Bexley and hoped that Dad's next instructions would lead me back to her.

Dad’s breathing rattled down the line. “I’m sending you an address in Paris. Travel safely and be careful,” he advised. “Braxton is on his way. We're just waiting on Cruz, Asher, and Bexley to find the remaining clues.”

Paris? The city of love? Maybe I believe in fate after all.