Secret Vows. Rochelle Alers

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      Chapter 2

      Mission Grove, Oregon

      The flight attendant leaned over her lone sleeping passenger. “Wake up, Jason. We’ll be descending soon.”

      Jason opened his eyes, sat up and peered out the oval window. “Thank you, Carrie-Ann.”

      He’d asked the attendant to wake him a half hour before they landed so he could shower and change clothes. He’d flown over three thousand miles and not once had he looked out the window. When the Gulfstream G550 became airborne and the seat belt light extinguished, he’d reclined the seat into a queen-size bed. It’d become customary for him to sleep during the flight from Florida to Oregon. The three-hour time difference played havoc with his body’s circadian rhythm for several days, but sleeping around the clock the first day was the trick in keeping the effects of jet lag at bay.

      Coming to his feet, he walked into the bathroom, stripped bare and stepped into the shower stall. Turning on the faucets and adjusting the water temperature, he soaped his body with a shower gel anchored on a built-in shelf. Jason had surprised his parents when he’d announced that he’d bought property in Oregon near the Cascades on which he’d built a sprawling house he dubbed Serenity West. It was where he spent four to six months each year writing and recording new music. This year was different because he’d delayed traveling to the Pacific Northwest for two months.

      Once his father had relinquished the day-to-day operation of Serenity Records, an independent recording label, to Jason and his twin sister, he and Ana had continued the trend of discovering new and innovative musical talent. Ana handled contracts and all legal negotiations, while he worked behind the scenes as the artistic musical director writing, recording and editing music.

      Usually he left Florida the beginning of June, but when Ana had gone into hiding, it had become Jason’s responsibility to run the company. Once they had discovered there was a mole at Serenity passing information to a rival record company, he’d closed the office, relocating it from a high-rise office building to a freestanding structure outfitted with the latest high-tech surveillance equipment. He’d contracted with a security company to install cameras inside and around the perimeter of the building to monitor everyone coming and/or leaving. All employees were vetted, given electronic badges to swipe in and out, even if they went to their cars in the parking lot for any reason. The tight security was necessary to ensure the safety of everyone associated with the company.

      Jason wanted to believe the threat against Ana and Serenity Records ended with Basil Irvine’s untimely death from a massive heart attack, but something wouldn’t permit him to relax completely. The public was led to believe the CEO of Slow Wyne Records was only thirty-nine, but his death certificate indicated he was forty-three. If he’d hidden his age, then what else had the deceased concealed?

      Jason raised his head, allowing the water to flow over his face and body. The gurgling sound coming from his belly reminded him that it had been more than twelve hours since his last meal. As soon as the jet landed, he planned to eat, then go directly to sleep. Turning off the shower, he opened the shower door and reached for a thick towel from a supply on a nearby table. By the time he’d changed into a pair of laundered jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, matching thick cotton socks and Timberland boots, the Fasten Seat Belt light chimed throughout the aircraft.

      Jason made his way back to the main cabin. The flight attendant had repositioned the bed into a seat. He sat, fastened his seat belt and shared a smile with Carrie-Ann who’d taken her seat outside the cockpit door. She was one of two permanent flight attendants on the ColeDiz International Ltd. payroll, along with three full-time pilots. There was an unwritten rule that anyone claiming Cole blood was forbidden to fly commercial carriers. The edict was instituted more than forty years ago when, as a child, Regina Cole Spencer had been kidnapped and held for ransom, before she was rescued and found unharmed by her uncle and a close family friend.

      Flying in the corporate jet suited Jason’s laid-back persona. He abhorred crowds or being jostled as passengers crowded around the gate once their flight was announced. He also liked the fact that he could travel light and didn’t have to go through airport screening. All he needed was a carry-on with toiletries and a change of clothes. The closets in his Serenity West home were filled with everything he would need to dress casually, attend a formal affair or a sporting event.

      Whenever he settled into a routine at Serenity West, Jason loathed returning to Florida. He was more than content to live in Oregon writing and recording music, while someone else assumed the role as musical director for Serenity Records. He’d spoken to one of his cousins about coming to work for the record company, but Graham had yet to make a decision whether he would leave ColeDiz International Ltd., the privately-held, family-owned conglomerate. Graham had complained to Jason that Diego, CEO of ColeDiz, was a hard taskmaster and he preferred a more relaxing workplace atmosphere.

      The sound that the landing gear was activated echoed throughout the cabin as the jet began its landing. Jason smiled when he caught a glimpse of Mount Hood’s snow-covered peaks, and he chided himself for not learning to ski. However, growing up in the Sunshine State didn’t lend itself to cold-weather sports. Within minutes the plane touched down smoothly on a private runway, coming to a stop several hundred feet from a gated area with parked vehicles. Waiting until Carrie-Ann opened the hatch and pressed a button for the stairs to descend, Jason unbuckled his seat belt, reached for his carry-on and prepared to disembark. He thanked the flight crew, took the stairs and walked across the tarmac to where the rental company had parked the Range Rover he’d requested.

      He didn’t own a car outright, preferring instead to rent whether in Florida or Oregon. His family teased him constantly about his unpretentious lifestyle. He had his own apartment in the expansive Boca Raton mansion where he’d grown up; preferred jeans, T-shirts and running shoes for his work attire; and spent most of his free time either in the recording studio at the record company or in his parents’ home-based recording studio. He dated occasionally, but hadn’t had a serious relationship in more than two years. Jason was comfortable with his lifestyle because he was in complete control of his own destiny; he was independently wealthy and that was something the majority of those in their early thirties weren’t able to claim. He made his way over to a booth where a man sat watching his approach. Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he handed the stoic-looking armed guard his driver’s license. After typing his name and license number into a computer, the man handed him a set of keys to the Range Rover.

      Jason’s belly made rumbling noises again as he maneuvered out of the parking area, following the signs indicating the airport exit. Glancing at the dashboard, he noted the time. It was 3:55 p.m. Pacific Time, while his body was still in the Eastern Time Zone. Accelerating into the flow of traffic along the interstate, Jason realized he would make it to Mission Grove in time for the start of Stella’s dinner hour.

      Touching a button on the steering wheel, he turned on the satellite radio, tuning it to a station СКАЧАТЬ