Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance Boxed Set (10 Book Bundle) (28 page)

I poked around the ground floor, but found nothing, so I moved to the stairwell and climbed up the steps. The house creaked beneath my feet, groaning like an old man complaining about his tired joints. The second floor was more of the same—beautiful wood, creamy walls. A library, a music room, a long narrow game room. I peered in the closets and looked in the fireplace, but there was nothing. My heart beginning to sink, I mounted the stairs to the third floor.

Here the house became more like a home than a mansion. A honeycomb of bedrooms and bathrooms greeted me, and I started at the front, snooping around, looking in every nook and cranny I could find, but nothing greeted me until I entered what had to be the master bedroom.

It was larger than the rest and emptied out onto a terrace. The cloudy sky outside made it dim and dreary, but there was a door to the master bath that I hadn't been able to access from the hallway. I tromped to it and looked around. The light from the terrace barely made it inside, and the high, tiny windows were stained glass, giving me very little to work with. I sighed and tried the wall switch, but nothing happened. I squinted up in the darkness and saw that all the bulbs had been removed from the room.

Malcolm was a serious weirdo. I wished I didn't like him so much. Opening the door as wide as I could, I took stock.

A shower stall. A toilet closet. A bathtub and a linen closet. Nothing to do but start checking behind all the closed doors. I crossed the white tile and opened the linen closet.

And there, sitting on the shelf, was the vase.

That's the thing. It was actually there. At least, I was pretty sure it was the vase, even though there were several key differences in the vase I found and the vase I had expected to find. For one thing, it wasn't broken. For another, it was so dark in the bathroom that I could barely make it out and it didn't quite
look
like the vase that I had broken—a weird, random pattern seemed to be painted onto it—but when I reached into the closet, my heart hammering a mile a minute, cool porcelain met my fingers. Then I lifted it, tipping it toward me, and something inside it made a
clunk
sound.

Swallowing around my suddenly dry tongue, I turned it over. A small dark object slid out and fell to my feet, hitting the tiled floor with the flat slap of plastic.

He
had
left something for me. Somehow. It was like a plot twist out of a movie, which, now that I knew Malcolm, was completely predictable. Replacing the vase on the shelf, I knelt down and retrieved the object that had been hidden in it.

It was a thumb drive.

My heart started to beat faster.

Calm down,
I told myself.
Don't freak out yet.
Anything could be on this drive. Anything at all. It could be the photos of me, it could be old love letters,
anything.
Getting my hopes up would be stupid.

Clutching the drive so tightly in my hand that the sharp plastic edges bit into the bones of my fingers, I sprinted out of the bathroom, wove my way through the maze of the third floor, and pounded up the stairs, hoping Malcolm had left his bedroom intact.

He had. The computer still sat at the far wall, the screen dark but the lights still on. I prayed he hadn't left it password protected as I hurried over to it, uncapping the drive before I reached out and wiggled the mouse. To my immense relief the monitor flared to life, showing his desktop. The picture on it was one of the pictures of me that he had managed to capture—a beautiful still image of my mouth and chin, the curve of my throat, the swell of my shoulder—but I forced myself to ignore it. My fingers shook as I found a USB slot on the tower and shoved the drive in.

I waited, hopping from foot to foot until the computer
dinged,
recognizing the drive, and I clicked on it, opening up the directory.

A password dialog popped up.

I nearly shrieked with frustration, but I took a deep breath and tried to think like a dumb motherfucker.

If I were a dumb motherfucker,
I postulated,
who thought life should be like a movie and this was a great romantic plot twist, what password would I put on the critical information that would keep me out of prison?

I leaned forward and typed in “Sadie.”

The dialog box disappeared and the directory filled out.

Of course.

I began to click around.

With each file opened, I felt my mouth drop wider and wider. It was all here: offshore bank accounts, spreadsheets with discrepancies highlighted, huge documents detailing the history of this or that chunk of money and Don's exact role in making it disappear... Malcolm hadn't been kidding when he'd said he had proof. He not only had proof, but he had built a whole case, as though he were an expert in corporate law. Actually, he probably thought he was, given his self-assessment of all his other talents. But mostly I was just shocked that Felicia's farfetched theory had been right. He'd left the evidence of his innocence for me in the vase, and now I held his future in my hands.

Huh,
I thought. Somehow, I
wasn't
shocked that her thoughts and Malcolm's had lined up so neatly. They both liked life to be like a movie, chasing that Oscar-winning scene. They both had artistic souls.

...Still, the question remained: how had he done it? I'd broken the vase on a Friday night, and we had left on a Monday. There was no way the vase could have been repaired before we departed New York...

Then I remembered. Malcolm on the phone in the cafe in Dubrovnik, speaking in Japanese. The note left in French for the man whose life he had changed, along with a wad of bills as thick as my wrist.

He had
arranged
it. I wasn't quite sure how he'd arranged it, or what the exact arrangements had been, but he'd planned it all out. Before he even knew if he was going to die or not. He'd decided to put the pieces in place
just in case.
Just in case he decided to live and needed to something dramatic as hell to keep my life interesting.

It was such a
Malcolm
thing to do that I had to laugh. He was such a dumb motherfucker, and I loved it.

The realization brought me up short, but then I nodded.

Yeah,
I thought to myself
. That's right. I love it.

Suddenly able to breathe easily, I popped the thumb drive out of the computer and capped it, shut down all the programs, then unceremoniously pulled the plug. I hadn't brought my purse with me, the pockets of my jeans had holes in them, and the pouch of my hoodie was far too unsecured. I wavered with indecision, and then with a huff of exasperation I stuffed the drive down my underwear, where it nestled in Malcolm's favorite place. Fitting, in more ways than one, though admittedly not the most sanitary spot. But when you are as flat-chested as I am, hiding things in your cleavage is not an option.

I had to get this to his lawyers.

Head whirling with thoughts of the future, of the possibility that there
might
be a future, one in which he was alive and free, I jogged back to the stairs and took them two at a time down to the third floor. I paused on the landing, and then decided that if Malcolm wanted me to have the vase, then I should probably take the vase, too. I slipped into the hallway and started for the master bedroom.

I was so preoccupied that I almost didn't hear the front door opening, but my lizard brain heard it. The part of me that always listened for the bedroom door opening heard it. The part of me that slept with one eye open heard it.

I froze in my tracks.

“Hullo?”

A man's voice with a British accent floated up from the lower floors.

Someone else was in the house.

Old impulses rose up, telling me to run, to flee, but even as my legs twitched with the flight response, my civilized brain was trying to override it, telling me that not everything was dangerous.

Yeah, right.

Swallowing hard, I inched my way across the floor, praying it wouldn't creak under my weight, and leaned over the banister, trying to hear where the intruder was in the house.

“Hulloo?” the voice called again. “Sadie MacElroy?”

Whoever it was knew my name, knew I was here. They had to have been watching the house. The voice seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it. Very cultured, a bit nasally, and definitely at the front of the house, between me and the front door. Was there a back door? Not that I could get to it without being seen, and if there was it probably led into a closed garden...

I took a deep breath and tried to think.

There wasn't any reason I
couldn't
be here. I had a key. I had permission from Malcolm—albeit through his lawyers—to be here. So really, it was the other person who shouldn't be here. Paparazzo? Reporter? They must have been waiting for someone to show their face. Though usually they stayed within the bounds of the law and remained
outside.
So probably not paparazzo. Who, then?

I looked around, but I had no idea where the fire escape was, and even as I frantically tried to remember where it had been situated on the outside of the house the sound of heavy footsteps started up the stairs.

“I only want to talk! Miss MacElroy? Please, it's important. My name is Morris Denton, and I work for Mr. Ward...”

I bit my lip and backed up from the stairway. He was going to be here any second now. Why, oh
why
wasn't there a second stairwell? What kind of rich person's house was this? I didn't want to talk to him, but I was stuck.

He came up the stairs.

My first impression was of a man Malcolm's age, but far more staid and conservative. Malcolm dressed beautifully, but there was that irrepressible
something
about him, a humming energy beneath his skin that I now recognized as the creative force. This man looked far more like a successful businessman than Malcolm did. His dark hair was cut in a sober style instead of Malcolm's wild locks, his skin was pale and his eyes were dark and serious behind gold-rimmed glasses. His coat hung well on his lean body, and he seemed surprised to actually find me when his line of sight crested the stairs.

“Oh! Miss MacElroy. There you are...”

I took a step back, even though I knew it was futile. It showed I was weak, too. But instead of pressing his advantage, Mr. Denton suddenly looked contrite.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, and he spread his hands, showing me his palms. A clear, universal gesture that told me he meant no harm, and I forced myself to relax a tiny bit, but the thumb drive in my underwear was a harsh reminder that I had a job to do. An important job. I didn't have time to talk to whoever this man was.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just leaving.”

“Please!” The word erupted from him and he took a step forward, startling me. The edge in my blood came back. Who was this guy, and why was he here?

I narrowed my eyes. “Yes?”

He subsided a bit. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. You are Sadie MacElroy, yes?”

I lifted a brow. “Who wants to know?” Not the most original of lines, but I felt that, given the circumstances, it was a legitimate one.

He seemed to relax. “My apologies. My name is Morris Denton. I'm the Chief Technical Officer of Warden Industries. I've worked with Mr. Ward for a number of years and it's my belief that he is innocent of the fraud and embezzlement charges that have been leveled against him.” His British accent was pleasant and lilting, and I had to fight my natural impulse to agree with him on the assumption that someone with a British accent would naturally know what they were talking about.

“How do you know who I am?” I asked him instead.”

He colored. “Everyone knows who you are. As Mr. Ward's current paramour and alleged kidnapping victim—” He held up a hand as I opened my mouth to protest. “—which it is obvious you were not, you are in a very privileged position and I have been frantic to reach you. You are well protected by your employer at the moment, but I have to admit I asked someone to watch the house and let me know if you showed up... I thought if you did, I might be able to enlist your help.”

Oh, really?
I wasn't quite buying it. This guy had to be an undercover reporter or something. “Help with what?”

“With finding evidence of Mr. Ward's innocence, of course.”

“Why would you think I would know anything about that?”

His brow furrowed. “I've watched Mr. Ward grow increasingly erratic over the past half year. It was clear something was bothering him. Fleeing the country with a young woman is only the culmination of his behavior, and it is not entirely unlikely that he may have taken you into his confidence.”

“I wasn't,” I lied.

His face fell. “But... perhaps, as someone who knew his personal habits, you might have a guess?” I stared at him and he held his hands out, a gesture of vulnerability. “I admire Mr. Ward very much. He has been like a mentor to me. Please, help me?”

My eyes narrowed, but his face remained placid, pleading.