Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance Boxed Set (10 Book Bundle) (19 page)

None of this was making sense to me. “But... but if you have proof that it's been Don doing the embezzling, then why don't you just show it to the FBI? That would make the problem go away.”

An expression of pure shock passed over his features. He was beautiful shocked. “I couldn't do that,” he said, and he sounded scandalized. “I told you. Don was like a brother to me. You don't just turn your brother over to the feds.”

“But... but he's the one turning
you
over!” I almost shouted.

He nodded as though he had no idea to what I was objecting. “But I couldn't do the same to my brother. We were very close. Very close, a long time ago...” He trailed off and a faraway look passed over his eyes, like a cloud over the moon.

The betrayal cut him deeply. Far more deeply than just a friend or a business rival screwing you over. This was personal. On Malcolm's side, at least.

My heart went out to him. “So that's it?” I asked, my voice softening. For want of something to do, I picked up my spoon and scooped up a spoonful of bisque and held it in front of me, letting it cool.“You were just going to let your best friend, the best friend you say is like a brother to you, steal money from your company and then frame you for it and send you off to federal prison?”

Malcolm shrugged. “No, I never have any intentions of going to prison,” he assured me. “That will not happen.”

I frowned, so confused at this point I didn't know which way was up and which way was down. “Then what did you plan to do instead? You know, before the FBI decided to arrest and charge you for a crime you didn't commit?”

Malcolm smiled at me, and it was a sad thing. “Oh, that was easy,” he said. “I'd planned to kill myself.”

Chapter Ten

I dropped my spoon. Bisque splattered everywhere, but I was far too shocked to care or even acknowledge it.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Could you please repeat that? I don't think I got it.”

“I planned to kill myself,” he said. He even helpfully enunciated the words, as though I were hard of hearing. I was anything but. His words boomed through me and echoed around inside my head.

Kill myself, kill myself, kill myself...

“Oh dear,” Malcolm said, looking at my outfit as though he were some shocked society maven. “You've spilled a bit of soup on your clothing.”

“What the fuck?” I said. “What the
fuck
?”

He blinked and took a demure sip of soup. “What do you mean?” he asked.

My fingers itched with the sudden urge to reach across the table and strangle him. “You fucking idiot,” I said. “Why would you want to kill yourself just because of some douchebag who betrayed you? Especially if you have the means to bury him?”

His eyes darkened. “I don't think I could do that,” he said. “It seems wrong. Dominic!” He turned in his seat and called for our server, who bolted immediately from the kitchen and over to our table. Malcolm spoke to him in French and Dominic's eyes darted over to me, taking in my soup-stained clothes. He clucked his tongue and hurried over to the bar where he retrieved a damp napkin before bustling back over to me where he began to solicitously dab at my clothes. Malcolm's eyes sparkled as he watched.

I was not amused. “Hey!” I said. “I'll do that!” I snatched the napkin from Dominic's hand and he made a huffy sound at me before saying something to Malcolm, who laughed, before disappearing again. “What the hell, man?” I demanded, gingerly cleaning bisque off myself. “I only let one guy invade Sadie's bubble right now. No fucking touchy.”

“I'm sorry,” Malcolm said. “I wanted to see what you would do.”

“Why?” I snapped. “So you could change the subject from your stupid plan?”

“Well, it was more that I wanted to see what Dominic had to say about you. He's seen many women come through here. He thinks you're a keeper, by the way.” He waved his hand. “And anyway, I don't think my plan is stupid. It was just a logical conclusion for me.”

The complete nonchalance with which he was treating this made me feel cold inside. “Yeah.” I glared at him. “That makes it
worse.”
I'd dealt with people who threatened suicide before. Malcolm wasn't anything like those people, which scared me, because the people who threaten to commit suicide and the people who actually do it are usually two very different types of people. He might actually mean it. In fact, I didn't have any reason to believe that he
didn't
mean it at all because he had been, so far, completely and candidly honest with me. If I asked the right questions, of course.

I had a horrible feeling that if Malcolm Ward had decided to kill himself, then he would do it without any sort of pomp and circumstance. No dramatic death threats, no leaping from a bridge into rush hour traffic, no televised gun to the head. He'd just... do it.

Drama bomb,
I thought. Except it wasn't. He sat across from me, swirling a mouthful of wine and watching me carefully, as though he hadn't expected I would react with horror at the idea of his self-inflicted death.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I said. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

He shrugged. "It's not really the sort of thing you confess on a first date, is it? Happy to meet you, by the way, the moment before our eyes met across a crowded room I had resolved to kill myself that night."

I worked my mouth soundlessly. "That
night
? As in, last Friday?"

"Oh yes," he said. "It would have landed me in the papers on Sunday and everyone would talk about it Monday. There'd be a great hullabaloo and everyone would be quite happy to talk about it. I figured it was the least I could do for all the people I screwed over to make myself so rich."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Setting my elbows on the table in front of me, I buried my hands in my hair, staring sightlessly at my barely touched meal. I just couldn't wrap my head around this, that
anyone
could be so meticulous in the planning of their death. I mean... killing himself courteously on a Friday so everyone could be talking about it on Monday? As if he wanted his suicide to have the greatest positive impact on the world? It was weird. Awful. It made me sick to think about. In fact, the shellfish in my wine-basted stomach was starting to turn on me with this news. Well, as long as we were being honest, I might as well put it out there.

"I think I'm going to be sick," I said.

"If you are," Malcolm replied, "please be sick into your soup bowl. These floors are very old and it would be a shame to have to replace them."

I almost told him thank you for the sympathy, but that seemed silly to say to a man who had just confessed he wanted to kill himself because his oldest, closest friend had betrayed him. Everything seemed silly, except now every encounter with him took on a different significance in my head. The auction, the art, the freaking movers... had he made arrangements to have his house packed up to make sure no one would be inconvenienced by his death? Just... got the ball rolling on the particulars afterward? What was going on here?

"So..." I shook my head. "You were going to kill yourself before you met me, and I've convinced you to live?"

"You have... stayed my execution," Malcolm said after a moment, which sounded downright ominous. I didn't like it one bit. That was definitely not a life affirmation.

"How long?" I said.

He scooped the last bit of bisque from his bowl and ladled it into his mouth before swallowing thoughtfully. "What do you mean?" he said. "How long have I been planning my exit, or how long have you delayed it?"

"Delayed it," I said. I had to know how much time I had to convince him not to do it, though even as I felt moved toward him, moved to help him, Felicia's words came back to me:
You always fall for the broken ones. Don't get in the trap of trying to fix him.

God. I had no idea what to do. Everything depended on his answer.

He seemed to ponder the question as Dominic came out and removed our soup bowls, replacing them with large rectangular plates. Three delicate portions of food had been spooned artfully onto them in a neat little row. “I suppose,” he said, “that I will hold off killing myself until I have finished my masterpiece.”

I felt like crying. I felt like leaping across the table and tackling him to the floor where I would beat the ever-loving snot out of him.

"You're a shithead," I told him. "You really are."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he replied, and he did sound genuinely sorry. "I was hoping we could learn a bit more about each other on this trip--I think it's very important for me to understand you before I can complete my masterpiece--but if you are just going to hurl invective at me we could cut the trip short and I could turn myself into the authorities."

"And then kill yourself," I said.

He shrugged.

"That's manipulative. You are being a manipulative asshole."

A flash of pain crossed his face. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be. I am only trying to be honest with you. You are free to leave at any time. I will happily send you back to the States on the next plane out of Dubrovnik."

"You should just gift your private jet to me," I said crankily. "Since you aren't going to be using it any more, that is."

To my surprise, he smiled at that. "Yes, I suppose that's true. But I doubt you could afford the upkeep on it."

I passed a hand over my face as he began to eat his meal. Savory scents wafted across the table to me, and my mouth watered. "All right," I said. "Fine. So you're going to kill yourself, even though it's really stupid. What's all this business with seducing me and doing all the art and shit?"

He chewed thoughtfully. "I don't know," he said at last. "I enjoy your company. I like to be around you. You... make things more vivid. I told you that in that whole room of people, you were the only one who was alive, remember?"

I nodded. I remembered.

"It's that. I want to borrow your warmth for a while. You warm me up. I don't feel so cold when you are around. And you submit to me so readily... it has been a long time since I felt in control of my life. The company runs itself, the press runs away with stories on me, my own trusted people are not to be trusted, and my emotions..." He trailed off. "Well, let's just say that I am not used to having my emotions run away from me, though I believe I have been able to effectively let them go. Betrayal does strange things to a man. But you reminded me what it's like to have something under my control. With you, I can indulge in a bit of pleasure. You are alive, and you make me feel alive. And the things we create..." He sighed. "I don't know. The photographs are just bits and bytes. Your painted body didn't last. Our sculpture will last until it breaks. And yet for some reason I don't feel as if that is the thing I am striving for. I am impermanent, and I want my art to be permanent, a reminder to the world that I was here... but it all feels empty, somehow."

I wanted to reach across the table and take his hand in mine. No man had ever spoken so frankly and candidly with me before, except one man, and he didn't count.

"You have to figure out what you're trying to say first," I said.

His eyes darkened. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to say. A lifetime of grabbing for every dollar, reaching for things that are reachless... Perhaps it's just turtles all the way down. A hole in the middle of me that I keep trying to fill with sex or philosophy, possessions and money and fine wine." He lifted his wine glass and took a sip as though to emphasize this point. "I'm afraid I am just empty, Sadie. I was hoping art could help me find what it was I wanted to leave behind, but maybe there isn't anything to leave." Then he smiled. "If I could figure out how to express
that
in art, I'd have my masterpiece."

Yeah, right. We both knew he was going to get arrested and go to prison before that ever happened.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm having a hard time processing this."

"I know," he said gently. "I didn't want to bring it up. It's not your burden to bear, but, well... I feel my hand was forced. Don is good at that."

"So why'd you give control of your company over to him?"

"I wanted to help him. We both tried to outdo each other in business, and I suppose I won in that regard. After he'd lost everything I offered him a job with me. Comfortable, good benefits, pay to make the richest man green with envy, but most importantly something to do. His failure was just bad luck; he's a brilliant businessman.”

He stared at his wine glass. “He was always my closest friend, and about a year and a half ago I'd decided that I'd worked myself to death enough for a while and that I needed an extended vacation. I left Don in charge... it went organically from there.” He sighed and put a forkful of asparagus tips in his mouth. He had already cleared one portion of food—the seafood dish—and was starting on the middle dish, a delicate slice of some hapless farm animal. From the green sauce on it, I had to deduce it was lamb. He carved a slice, then, noticing I was watching, gestured to my plate. "Please, eat," he said. "You'll get sick if you don't have something in your stomach after all that wine."

Too late,
I wanted to tell him, but I didn't. "So... what do you want me to do with this information?"

He looked surprised. "I don't want you to do anything with it. I told you under duress, as you might recall. Why, do you feel the need to do something about it?"

"Of course!" I said. "Who wouldn't?"

His mouth twisted. "Well, plenty of people. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to cut and run right now. I'm wanted by the FBI, I am a self-admitted empty shell of a human being, and there is very little I have to offer you. If I were in your situation, a lovely young woman with a good job and a sense of self and purpose, I would cut myself off so fast I wouldn't even pack my toothbrush."

Well
, I thought,
that just makes me sad.
"You just cut off people who become a problem?"

He shook his head. "Of course. That's human nature. Connections become anchors. Love becomes a burden. I wouldn't want to be an inconvenience to you."

Jesus Christ.
What had happened to this guy to make him this way? Was this why he always seemed just a little disconnected, a little apart from the world? I had to help him somehow. I knew, of course, that probably be the best thing for me to do
was
cut and run because I couldn't save someone who didn't want to save themselves. I knew that much. But I just don't learn. That's a problem I have.

“Don't be a shithead,” I advised him. “I'm not going to cut and run.”

“Oh?” he said. “Then you'll stay? Enjoy fine wine and good sex and the high life with me for a little while? 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may?'”

God, he really was kind of a shithead. But there was hope for him. I'd seen it in him, glimpsed it under his distant exterior, in his moments of candor. I didn't want him to die, and if the only person who knew his plan was me, I had to try, right?