Welcome to Wahoo Read online

  Chapter 1 Me

  Chapter 2 Me and Adam York

  Chapter 3 Me, Myself, and Amanda Jones

  Chapter 4 Me, Back in the U.S.A

  Chapter 5 Me, Bored

  Chapter 6 Me, Settling In

  Chapter 7 Me, Working?

  Chapter 8 Me in School

  Chapter 9 A Nasty Encounter (with Me)

  Chapter 10 Me and Mills

  Chapter 11 Me, Bonding

  Chapter 12 Me Versus Them

  Chapter 13 Me, Harvest Queen?

  Chapter 14 Rumors about Me

  Chapter 15 Me and the Principal

  Chapter 16 Me, the Spy

  Chapter 17 Me, Sharing

  Chapter 18 Me—Getting to the Bottom

  Chapter 19 Me—Plotting

  Chapter 20 Me and My Ally

  Chapter 21 Me, Alive

  Chapter 22 Friends

  Chapter 23 Huell Comes Though

  Chapter 24 Mills, Not Me

  Chapter 25 It’s Not Always About Me

  Chapter 26 Life Will Surprise You

  EPILOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Me

  My name is Victoria Julianne Van Wyck. My friends call me Jewels because of my family’s money; the European press calls me “Brat” or “La Terreur Américain”—and that’s on good days. My mother calls me Victoria: “You were named after a queen, the least you can do is act like a lady” (yeah, right), and my father mostly just calls me “you,” as in: “What sort of trouble have you got yourself into this time?”

  This is a rather narrow-minded overreaction to what I would describe as my natural thirst for adventure.

  Just because Daddy’s spent several hundred thousand Swiss Francs (which is only one or two hundred thousand American dollars) bailing me out of trouble in Germany, France, and Italy for indiscretions a more forgiving father would write off to youthful exuberance doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. Even a judge in Monaco termed me “high-spirited” after a group of us broke into the local zoo and released a dozen monkeys into the Four Seasons grand ballroom. It was hilarious (though I might have conked a gendarme with a bottle of champagne—I can’t remember).

  But enough of that.

  This story begins months ago, right after my seventeenth birthday.

  School was ever so tedious, and I needed to blow off steam.

  Unfortunately, I was stuck in L’École Suisse/Américain, a posh boarding school for girls from wealthy families. You may have heard of it; the two tabloid hotel heiresses once attended, but I’m not giving them any more publicity since: a) I don’t like them, and b) they’re dumber than pâte de foie gras, which comes out of a goose and is way overrated. L’École Suisse sits high above Lake Lucerne, in what travel agents refer to as the coolest ski spot in Switzerland. United States senators, European rulers, and Hollywood big shots send their daughters to be educated—more like babysat—as class attendance is not mandatory and grades can be finessed (a French word meaning “corrupted”).

  I know all about corruption now, having practically grown up here. Eight years is a long time to be in any institution, even one as gilded as this.

  The trouble started ten days into my junior year. I had just received a reprimand from the floor monitor for my second curfew violation, which meant automatic detention. (Ugh!) On top of which, I got a hideous letter from Mother.

  Dear Victoria,

  The flower garden looks promising this year, and Viv Rothchild says I should let Home and Hearth magazine onto the estate to photograph the dahlias. What do you think, dear?

  Oh, I had Botox on my forehead from a marvelously creepy Swedish doctor recommended by Nan Sunderland. I look ten years younger—that’s what Nan says. Almost forgot—we went to a party thrown by the Duke of Bellingham—talk about a man in need of facial paralysis. By the way, how are you getting on? Must dash. Be sure to write.

  Love, Mother

  P.S. Your father is suspending your banking privileges for three weeks. Sorry, pet. Though after your latest indiscretion in Cannes, I can’t say I blame him. What are we to do with you, dearest?

  I will try to manage a visit soon—how long has it been, four months? Time flies. XXOO

  I decided, with the encouragement of my English roommate, Stella, to burn the letter, exorcising the bad karma contained therein.

  Pop. Into the trash can it went, and as the lovely flames subsided, Stella and I skipped out toward the common room in search of mischief, adventure, or chocolate—whichever came first. We had only been there a few minutes when the senior proctor rushed in.

  “Fire!” she yelled.

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

  The rest of the dorm began to evacuate; I raced back upstairs. By the time I arrived on the fifth floor, thick, choking smoke had filled the hallway. The headmistress and several staffers swarmed about my room, fire extinguishers whooshing.

  It seems the window curtains had caught fire … imagine that.

  “You are restricted to your room for the next month, Miss Van Wyck,” Mistress barked. “You know the rules about smoking in the dorm.”

  I was about to deny that I smoked (which I don’t), when Genevieve, the Swiss girl from the room next door, stumbled inside, blubbering. In her arms, she held her hateful little yap dog terrier, named—inappropriately—Serenity.

  “She’s fallen off the balcony—look—her leg’s broken.”

  Serenity howled on cue as Genevieve turned to me. “The fire must have panicked her. This is all your fault.” Sob.

  “How is it my fault you have a stupid dog?” It seemed a logical question.

  Mistress shot me a malevolent look. “Make that two months restriction, Victoria. You never change, do you?”

  Then she and her entourage whirled and stalked off, coughing.

  I almost laughed. Then it hit me.

  Two months?

  No way!

  I waited until they were out of sight, then dialed the cute French boy I’d met over the weekend. He told me his name was Jean Claude and that he descended from royalty (every French boy says that).

  “Come get me,” I said.

  “Jump, darling.”

  Picture me sneaking down the fire escape, halfway between my fifth-story dorm room and the ground. It’s pitch-black midnight, and Jean Claude wants me to jump. (He’s what Parisians would call an imbecile.)

  He’s sitting in my Mercedes with Stella, who’s already made it down, but I’m the one being chased by the dorm security Nazi—Hildegard—and Frenchie wants me to vault into the air, land on soggy Swiss turf, and possibly break an ankle, or worse, the heel on my new pair of Giuseppe Zanotti pumps.

  Merde!

  So I hurry down the last fifteen feet and, at the bottom, use a trick every boarding school getaway artist knows—squirt lighter fluid up the metal ladder, then set it afire.

  Voilà.

  (Incidentally, I’m not a pyro. Don’t get the wrong idea. These are just two isolated fire incidents … plus that one time in a Berlin nightclub—which was not my fault.)

  So, Hildegard (shrewdly) spots the flames rushing toward her and scampers back onto the third floor landing.

  I hop into the seat next to my pallid paramour and away we speed, heading for a night of big fun at Casino Lucerne.

  A word here about European boys. The rich ones, no matter what nationality, have one thing in common—all they want is to do you. They might not know you, they might not even like you; the point is, you are a contest for them, nothing more. American girls are especially prized. Why? Because they hate the U.S. in Europe now, and what better way to show off their machismo than with your sexual humiliation.

  My advice? Never, ever become a trophy. The moment you give in, the party’s over. You’re no longer Cinderella, you’re the pumpkin.

  My parents didn’t teach me that, although they’d be happy to know I’m still a virgin.

  Here’s a guide to continental come-ons:

  “Ma petite chu-chu. Je t’adore. I must kiss you, or I will die.” That’s the French way.

  German boys are more direct. “You like me, ja?”

  “I’m not throwing up yet, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then we do it. I haf fantastic body.” (Notice how it’s all about them.)

  Swiss boys talk about money and the practical side of sex. “You should give yourself to someone of influence, like me. Then, you could have a brilliant future. What time is it?”

  Some of my favorite lines come from the English upper class. “Shagging is ripper, luv. Keeps the motor running,” or “If you refuse me now, I could become a pooftah, and it would be your bloody fault.” Wrong!

  Where was I? Oh, yes …

  Jean Claude, Stella, and I arrived at the casino in a rush and were shown into the private baccarat room. As long as your family has money in Switzerland, no one cares if you are a couple of underage schoolgirls truant from the dorm.

  We gambled, on credit, and sipped free champagne. I was winning, since I am—I say this without bragging—a superb gambler. It’s an instinct.

  Jean Claude attempted to distract me by fondling my derrière, but I kept him at bay with a few kicks to his skinny shins.

  “I cannot keep my hands from you,” he whispered as he put his tongue in my ear.

  “Just keep your paws off my chips!” I spritzed champagne on the side of his face.

  SPLASH.

  (See how he likes a wet eardrum.)

  He dried his head on the jacket of an accommodating waiter and return
ed to the table.

  After an hour, I was up thirty thousand Swiss Francs, Jean Claude down about the same, and Stella long gone in the company of Count Somebody from Palermo. That’s when the worst thing in the world happened—Adam appeared.

  “Come along, Victoria. Your father wants a word.”

  “Can’t you see I’m winning here?”

  “Leave her alone,” Jean Claude bluffed.

  But Adam and the pit boss were already sweeping my chips into a casino deposit bag.

  “Stop! ‘Alf those chips are mine.” Jean Claude lunged for the money—pig!

  POW.

  Adam’s fist found its mark, and down the French boy fell. I laughed. Sometimes Adam can be a giggle.

  “Are you coming the easy or the hard way, Vickie?”

  I hate that nickname—rhymes with “icky,” which I’m certainly not—but something about his steely expression convinced me he wasn’t in the mood to be corrected, so I stepped over Jean Claude, and followed Adam out of the casino.

  Someone always wants to stop me having fun.

  Chapter 2

  Me and Adam York

  At twenty-five years old, Rhodes Scholar Adam York must have thought he had a bright future when my father hired him to work for Van Wyck International. Don’t ask me what my father does—something to do with trading currency in a process called arbitrage (fleecing the unwary).

  Adam is tall, lean, and kinda cute for an older man—he’s thirty now—but is far too serious and has no sense of fun or imagination, since I’m sure when he was assigned to the Loss Prevention division he never imagined he’d end up having to chase me all over the continent, “rescuing” me from “Euro-trash playboys”—a term I don’t care for, since I’ve met plenty of trashy playboys in New York and L.A.

  When he pulled me from the casino, I could tell he was in one of his moods. All the way to the airport he remained silent, glancing at me only once to shoot a dagger stare when I said, in my most innocent voice, “I feel a headache coming on. Do you have any medication?”

  We pulled onto the tarmac where my father’s Gulfstream was fueled and ready for take-off. (Not a good sign. It suggested urgency, and one never wants urgent parents, since that invariably means trouble.) Adam shoved me up the gangway and ordered me to sit in the back—with all the engine noise.

  He scowled. “I’ve got a ton of work to do. Try not to be a pest.”

  If he were the waiter at a five-star restaurant, I’d have had him fired. I took a nap instead.

  Forty-eight minutes later, we touched down at fogbound Brussels airport, and a limousine carried us to the International Hôtel on Place Vendôme.

  “Why are we stopping here?” I asked.

  “Get out.”

  “But I don’t have my clothes, toiletries—”

  “All taken care of,” he replied, pointing to a packed overnight bag. (Like I said, sometimes Adam is a hoot, the rest of the time he’s a pain.)

  The grand lobby was deserted at four in the morning, and so was the glass elevator whisking the driver, Adam, and me twenty flights skyward.

  At the door to 2040, Adam turned to the chauffer. “Stand guard here. If she tries to leave, sit on her.”

  To me he said, “Your parents will be here in the morning. Stay put.”

  The room (not even a suite, mind you) was so nondescript I almost wanted to take up knitting. (Never.) No balcony, no chandelier, no Jacuzzi, no servants—it was a dump. I knew what I needed, but the minibar was empty.

  I called room service—my room had been quarantined. I explained I needed wine on doctor’s orders—hacking cough, emergency, blah, blah. I even feigned diplomatic hysteria.

  “The king of Morocco arrives in TWENTY MINUTES! If you don’t want an INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT, which will certainly result in your hotel being EXPELLED FROM TRAVELOCITY.COM, I suggest … Hello? Hello?”

  The moron hung up on me, Adam must have gotten to him.

  Damn.

  This was becoming tiresome. I turned on the telly, but Belgian TV is dead boring, so I fell asleep on the lumpy couch and dreamt about that Italian race car driver—what’s his name—Berlusconi? I was in the cockpit with him racing the streets of the Italian Grand Prix. I kept saying, “Faster, faster …” Then we crashed, and I was thirsty.

  “Victoria, wake up, sweetheart.”

  “Thirsty,” I said as my eyes snapped open.

  It was Mother, rubbing my cheek. A worry frown clung to her face.

  “Do you want some water?” My father stood behind calling me “you” again.

  “What?”

  “You said you were thirsty. Do you need water?”

  My head throbbed. It was the devil, no doubt, reminding me of that casino champagne.

  “Yes, Father. And some aspirin, too, please.” I sat up as he retreated to the minibar for Perrier.

  “Get dressed, dear. We brought you traveling clothes.”

  Was that fear I detected in my mother’s voice?

  “It’s so early,” I managed.

  “It’s six-fifteen precisely,” Father said, shoving the bottled water into my face.

  I drank. It tasted good. “Think I’ll have a bath.”

  He sat heavily, his tone practically operatic. “There is simply no time. Your mother and I have distressing news. We’ll talk as you dress.”

  “Look, Daddy (always say “Daddy” in your best little-girl voice when you sense trouble coming—trust me, it works).

  “Be quiet and listen!”

  (Oops.)

  “Let me tell it, dearest, will you?” Mom pleaded.

  “All right, but quickly, we need to dye her hair.”

  A shiver shot straight up my spine … dye my hair?

  Father turned away. I pulled on the clothes they’d brought—a cashmere turtleneck, a gray pleated Cavalli skirt, and a black Chanel blazer. (I adore Chanel. I make her fitted jackets look sooo good.)

  Mom blurted the story, with Father interrupting to add a detail here and there, or to cut her off altogether. It seems something had gone terribly wrong with Daddy’s business. When Mother uttered the word “disaster,” my mind shut down. I watched through a haze as she fluttered about the room, jabbering and flapping her arms, while Father stood to one side, arms folded, glaring at me as if it were all my fault.

  “… embezzled company funds … persons unknown … bank foreclosure … hundreds of millions lost … the Sicilians blame your father.”

  That brought me up short. “Gangster money?” I tried.

  “Hush,” Father replied.

  Long story short—the Cosa Nostra had decided to kill the Van Wyck family as revenge—which meant me too!

  “W-Why don’t we just go to the police?” I stammered.

  “Because we’d be dead in an hour,” Father said.

  The little shiver in my spine was now a full-blown shake, rattle, and roll.

  Adam walked in wearing a face like an undertaker. He carried two suitcases, which he set next to me.

  “So w-what do we … do?” My voice had changed to an adolescent squeak.

  “Disappear,” Father said.

  Mother began crying—no, sobbing.

  I never imagined I’d see such a thing. Father pulled a wad of American money from his pocket, handing it to Adam. “This is our last five thousand dollars. Every account is frozen; it will have to do.”

  Then, he did the unspeakable. He dug into my purse, found my wallet, yanked out every single credit card (including my black American Express), and cut them up.

  That’s when I lashed out. “Do you mean to say that after years of telling me to be a good girl, you were doing business with criminals? Hypocrite!”

  “Victoria—,” Mother blubbered.

  Father interrupted. “Is that what you think of me?”

  The expression on his face was not anger, far from it. He actually appeared wounded, and this cut more deeply than any rebuke could have.

  When Father does get angry, there are never shouts or temper outbursts. He simply becomes glacial, and the room temperature drops to zero.

  I bit my tongue, avoiding his stare.

  A million troubling questions buzzed inside my head. Then my stomach decided to join the party, forcing me to run to the sink and vomit.

  Mother blew her nose. “You’ll have to go back to America, sweetheart; lay low for a year or two. Adam will look after you.”

  Adam’s expression was as sour as my throat. What must he be thinking? I rinsed, then wiped my mouth. This was all happening way too fast.