Fake Bride Wanted Read online

  Fake Bride Wanted

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  1. Julian

  2. Shelby

  3. Julian

  4. Shelby

  5. Shelby

  6. Julian

  7. Shelby

  8. Shelby

  9. Julian

  10. Shelby

  11. Shelby

  12. Julian

  13. Julian

  14. Shelby

  15. Julian

  16. Shelby

  17. Shelby

  18. Shelby

  19. Julian

  20. Shelby

  21. Shelby

  Epilogue

  More Series by Holly Rayner

  Copyright 2018 by Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Julian

  As far as gene pools go, I come from one of the finest. Not to brag, but that’s what I’m thinking as I stride through the doors of De Bij and walk toward my father and grandfather. They’re both tall, fit, well-dressed, and smiling. I’m not exactly looking forward to aging, but as I survey them, I realize I’ve got nothing to worry about. Genetics are on my side.

  My father spots me first.

  “Julian!” he calls. “Son, you made it! How was your flight?”

  “Smooth. No hiccups.”

  I don’t want to dwell on my recent flight from Germany back to the Netherlands, since I’m not ready to tell the two exactly where I was or what I was doing. They think I was on a business trip, and that’s just fine with me.

  I give my dad a quick hug and then face my grandfather. “Opa, happy birthday.” I wrap my arms around my ninety-year-old grandfather. He hugs me tight.

  “Thank you, Julian. Good to see you here. Quite a turnout.”

  I survey the restaurant. It’s filled with tall, blond individuals, glowing with Dutch good looks. “You’ve got the whole Meijer clan here, hmm? And then some!”

  “It’s a real honor.”

  De Bij, the most exclusive restaurant in Amsterdam, is filled to bursting with Meijers, but there are also a fair few people here who aren’t family members. I recognize many of them, including the group of half a dozen white-haired gentlemen, near my grandfather’s age, gabbing by the bar.

  “Are those your ski buddies there, by the bar?” I ask.

  “Most of them. We lost Hans six months ago. You remember the others?”

  “Of course! I’ll go say hello.”

  A group of women is heading our way: my grandmother, my aunt, and two other women. As the guest of honor, I know that my grandfather is in demand. I don’t want to monopolize him.

  My grandfather smiles. “They would love to see you, Julian. I’m really glad you’re here.”

  “Me too, Opa.” I pat him on the back. “I’ll let you speak to the ladies.” I turn away just as the women approach.

  As I start towards the bar, my father calls out, “Oh, Julian, make sure to find Fleur! She’s been asking about you all evening.”

  Fleur! I haven’t seen my cousin in far too long. I turn and nod, and then resume my course towards the bar, ready to wet my whistle. My trip to Germany was not a success, to say the least. I’d spent the last three days on a wild goose chase. Instead of a productive business trip, as I’d let my family believe, I was actually looking for something.

  A very valuable object, and one that I desperately wanted to find, yet couldn’t.

  Beep. My phone alerts me to a message.

  Pausing on my way to the bar, I take my sleek cellphone out of my pocket.

  It’s an email from the jeweler I’ve been working with in Germany.

  Julian. Sorry again that the ring was not a match. I forwarded your information to an appraiser in The Hague, and she may well have a lead for you. I suggest you speak with her ASAP.

  At the bottom of the email, I see the appraiser’s contact information. I sigh. Six months ago, the prospect of a lead would have excited me. But after half a year of searching for the priceless, ancient Meijer Ruby ring, I’ve become jaded. This lead is probably just like the others. Useless.

  However, the jeweler recommended that I reach out, so I fire off the email template that I’ve been using on my quest, filling in the appraiser's name, of course.

  “Is that Julian Meijer?” a voice booms out. It’s one of my Opa’s ski buddies.

  I smile, jam my phone back into my pocket, and walk towards the old man, who has outstretched arms.

  “None other.”

  I accept the hug, and then exchange handshakes all round. Soon, we’re talking about skiing couloirs all over Europe—the elderly group’s favorite topic of conversation, and one I’m more than fond of myself.

  Half an hour later, I’m into my second glass of champagne, and regaling the group with a tale of a brutal descent in France’s backcountry, when there’s a tap on my shoulder.

  I turn. “Fleur!” I exclaim, taking in the sight of my equally fair-haired cousin.

  “Julian, I thought that was you.”

  I swivel back to the group. “Gentlemen, will you excuse me? I haven’t seen my cousin in over a year.”

  “Two,” Fleur interjects.

  Champagne in hand, I walk with her towards a tall table by the windows. Panoramic views of Amsterdam’s waterfront unfold below us, twenty stories down. The sun is setting over the inlet, and the rays glint off yacht windows and ripples in the water.

  Fleur leans casually against the table. “I heard you were out of town. I thought we might miss you—again.”

  I shake my head. “I had to make it back for this. Ninety, can you believe it?”

  “He doesn’t look it, does he?” Fleur glances over her shoulder at our grandfather.

  “Not one bit. It’s like he doesn’t age. Wasn’t he walking with a cane, though, at my thirtieth?”

  “You’re right. I suppose he’s doing without it tonight for show. Us Meijers have a streak of vanity in us, don’t we?”

  I smile. “Sure. But I think it keeps us in top form. That was the last time I saw you, wasn’t it? My party?”

  She puts her chin in her hand, thinking. “I suppose it was. Two years ago…whew. Time flies. I hear that the brewery is doing well? International distribution?”

  I nod. To say that my company, Vermaak N.V., has been doing well is an extreme understatement.

  “We signed a contract with one of the world’s leading distributors shortly after my thirtieth,” I say. “Now, you can purchase a blue-bottled Vermaak beer in one hundred and three countries around the globe,” I say, playfully mocking our ad (in which I am the star).

  “Just one hundred and three?”

  I laugh. “Don’t worry; we’ll nab a few more soon enough, I’m sure.”

  She chuckles too, but it’s forced. I can tell she feels obligated to ask me about the business, but also that she’d rather not talk about my success. The frown line on her forehead and her slumped shoulders give her away. Fleur and I grew up together. As the only two Meijers in our generation, we were more like brother and sister than cousins when we were kids. It’s always been easy to read her.

  “What about you?” I ask. “How’s Napoleon?”

  I expect her shoulders to bounce back up a
nd the crease in her forehead to smooth as she begins talking about her cherished, beyond-spoiled, long-haired lap dog. Instead, the opposite occurs. Her thin eyebrows rocket upwards and her blue eyes well with tears.

  “You didn’t hear? Sir Napoleon—he…he…died.”

  Oh, crap.

  My cousin dissolves into tears, a sight that confuses me; she used to be so tough, back when we were kids. At the same time that she’s sobbing, she’s trying to soak the tears back up, wiping her eyes furiously with a paper cocktail napkin as if trying to stop a leak.

  It’s useless to console her, though I try.

  She launches into the story of her treasured pet’s tragic demise—which isn’t so tragic in my opinion, since the dog led a life most people would have been jealous of, and he was nearing fifteen, after all.

  I’m relieved when the long tale turns a corner. “It has left me with such a vacuum in my schedule, Julian. Thankfully, I have a new passion that’s helped to take up most of my time.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?” I take a sip of my drink, waiting to hear about a new obsession with gluten-free baking, crocheting, or Pilates.

  “The Meijer Ruby,” Fleur says.

  I nearly choke on my champagne. The liquid careens down my windpipe and I give a dramatic cough. “What?” I manage. “What about it?”

  “I’m looking for it,” Fleur says matter-of-factly, delicately blotting away the last of her mascara-stained tears and then squaring her shoulders.

  “You are?”

  I can’t believe this! We’ve been hearing about the ring since we were kids, and she never once expressed interest in it. I was always the one who asked questions when my grandfather recited the family legend to us.

  “Yes. I am. I have some time on my hands, and I feel that ring belongs back in our possession.”

  “Our possession?” I question. “The ring is said to belong to the heir to the Meijer house. The…the successor. Me.”

  Fleur stands up a bit straighter. Is that a glare she’s shooting my way?

  “When Opa told us that story, he said that the ring belongs to a Meijer…one continuing the legacy of our noble house. He never said ‘male heir’, just ‘heir’. I have news for you, Julian. If I find that ring, I’m going to keep it.”

  So much for fragile!

  I feel my eyes narrow, meeting her own frosty look.

  Our silent standoff is interrupted by the sound of my father’s voice.

  “Friends, family!” he says. “If I could have your attention for just a moment!”

  What follows is directions to take our seats. Without another word to my cousin, I follow the flow of the crowd and migrate towards a table. I make sure I’m not seated next to Fleur—I need time to think over what she’s just said.

  I raise my glass along with all of the other party guests, and offer a salute to my grandfather. Among cheers and a standing ovation, he takes the microphone from my father.

  Standing in front of panoramic views of the sky, city, and bay, he looks more like a man in his prime than a senior citizen.

  I’m not surprised when a few flashes go off. As Dutch nobility, my grandfather may not hold outright political power—those days ended with the constitutional reform of 1848—and yet, the Meijer name is known in every household across Amsterdam. As one of the few high-society families in the Netherlands, we manage to hold onto our fair share of influence. I’m sure Opa’s photograph will be in the papers in the morning.

  My grandfather oozes cultivated class as he thanks us for being with him to celebrate his ninety years. He goes on to recognize friends, political figures, and a few relatives by name. Ever the diplomat, he even makes a subtle plug for his favored member of the Cabinet, a man who is also in attendance.

  After pausing to let our group clap in support of his endorsement, he scans the crowd.

  “Lastly,” he says, “I want to address something that many of you have heard me speak of before, but never with such a sense of urgency.”

  The applause dies down, and a hush fills the room. Even the soft classical music that’s been playing is now paused, and the room fills with a weighty silence.

  “What is it that I feel such urgency about?” Opa asks.

  We’re all holding our breath, waiting to hear.

  He continues. “It is, as some of you might have guessed, the Meijer Ruby. As you all know, the ring was crafted in the 1300s, when the Meijers were among the first living along the River Amstel. It was passed from generation to generation, only to disappear some two hundred years ago.”

  He clears his throat, and I swear his eyes find mine, though I’m several tables back in the crowd.

  “It is time to find and reclaim this ancient piece of our family history. It is time to find the Meijer Ruby. It is my deepest hope that one of my dear grandchildren will find the ring, while I am still alive to see it.”

  Heads swivel in my direction, and I find myself nodding resolutely. I see Fleur, at a table nearby, receiving almost as much attention as I am. We are his two grandchildren—he’s clearly giving us a task.

  We’re way ahead of you, Opa.

  There’s a tense moment as Fleur and I meet each other’s eyes, and not in a friendly way. I wonder if the crowd can sense the fact that we’re rivals in the quest he is laying before us, not comrades. I’m relieved when attention goes back to my grandfather, who finishes his speech on an uplifting note and is met by a second standing ovation.

  As the first course is served, my phone alerts me to another message. I hold my device low so that no one can witness my faux pas of reading emails at the dinner table.

  My heart starts to race as I read the message. The appraiser has gotten back to me, and her response is very promising. She recognizes the detailed description of the ring that I’ve provided, and she gives me the exact name of the bank in The Hague where she believes it is being held.

  It could be nothing. But given the fact that Fleur is now actively searching for the ring, too—and plans to keep it if she finds it—I am certainly going to follow up with the bank. The Hague is only an hour’s drive from Amsterdam, and I resolve to make the trip the very next day.

  I slip my phone into my pocket, and tuck into the côte de boeuf before me, mentally going over some preparation for my trip. I’ll have to call the bank first thing in the morning, and hope that I can secure an appointment for the same day.

  The sooner, the better; I don’t know how far Fleur is in her search, and it’d be a disaster if she got there first. Instead of making me nervous, the impromptu competition with Fleur has given me a jolt of energy.

  The race is on!

  I leave the party earlier than most, opting out of tequila shots with my grandfather’s ski buddies. I want to be fresh for the hunt in the morning.

  When my alarm goes off at six the next day, I waste no time. I’ve gotten a full workout, hot shower, and healthy breakfast in by eight. I call the bank just minutes after they open and secure an appointment for later that afternoon.

  I’m feeling smug as I pull my sports car into a parking spot right in front of Van Boor N.V., one of the oldest private banks in the country. Fittingly, the building is the oldest on the street, and looks distinctly squat and out of place between the two modern skyscrapers that sit either side of it.

  The stone steps have a time-worn path carved into them, leading up to two elaborately carved wooden and brass doors. I pull them open, trying to guess by the architectural clues just exactly how old the bank is. Seventeen hundreds? Earlier?

  A plaque in the lobby answers my questions. Van Boor N.V. was established in 1798. Twenty years before the Meijer Ruby disappeared, according to my research. This fact is promising, and I’m in high spirits by the time a clerk shows me to a back office for my appointment.

  A round, grey-haired gentleman stands up from behind his desk to greet me. I step forward and shake his hand.

  “Mr. Meijer, it’s an honor,” he says. “Please, tell me what I
can do to help you today.”

  I’m well prepared to answer this question, and I take a seat while laying out the facts I’ve memorized.

  After providing the banker with a history and description of the ring, as well as the legal information of the last known person to possess it, I finish with a question.

  “Do you think it is here?”

  The banker is younger than my grandfather, but doesn’t have nearly the same athletic bone structure or youthful smile. He’s hunched, crumpled, and creaky. His jowls waggle as he considers my words.

  “Well, let’s see.” He fumbles with his reading glasses and fixes watery eyes on the computer monitor in front of him. Tap, tap, tap. “Hmm, look at that. Well, yes, there’s that…well. Interesting.”

  What?

  I’m dying to know, but I don’t want to distract him. Minutes pass, but it feels like hours.

  Finally, he speaks to me. “Mr. Meijer, it seems that your relative did indeed store his valuables here. If you’ll give me one moment, I’ll have one of our clerks gain access to the vault. I also need to summon one of our lawyers to join us to go over the contents before they are released to you. I’m sure you understand; cases like these are very sensitive.”

  “Yes, yes. Whatever you have to do.”

  This is it! This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. And, best of all, the old banker has said nothing of another relative who has been in recently. I’m sure he would have mentioned it by now if Fleur had already been in to inquire. I’m first! I’ve won!

  Half an hour later, a lawyer enters the room. He’s just as stooped and wrinkled as the banker, and I wonder if all of the employees of Van Boor N.V. are required to be as time-worn as the structure itself. It certainly makes for unified branding.

  I lean forward as the lawyer shuffles some papers around, impatient to hear what he has to say. He takes plenty of time reading over items silently before speaking aloud.

  “Well,” he says, lowering his reading glasses and peering at me over them. “Our records show that the ring you seek is indeed within the vault, along with a set of terms of inheritance, as set out by the former owner.”