Shattered Virtue

by Magda Alexander

  “When did you figure all this out?”

  “Yesterday at the picnic. All the pieces came together. Madrigal called you ‘Uncle Mitch.’ You’re a co-trustee to Madrigal’s and Madison’s trusts. That points to someone who’s a hell of a lot closer to the family than you ever let on.”

  “What business is it of yours, Trenton?”

  “It matters to Madrigal. Therefore, it matters to me.”

  “Why? What is she to you?”

  “My client.” In reality she’s a hell of a lot more than that. But I’m not about to clue him in. “She asked me to help her investigate her parents’ murders. So you and Madrigal’s mother? It’s all true.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you end up at her mother’s private school?”

  “I didn’t have the kind of money her family had. A Good Samaritan visited my middle school and promised to pay all expenses for one worthy student. That student was me.”

  “So you met her in high school?”

  “Yes. We were only acquaintances at first. Her father made sure she was too busy with schoolwork to socialize. Later on I found out she was afraid of him. He intimidated her, imposed curfews on her, and punished her for the slightest transgressions.”

  “What kinds of punishment?”

  “Limiting her freedom to come and go, who she made friends with.”

  “So how did you end up friends?”

  “She didn’t hang out with the other girls in high school. She turned to me instead. In time, I became her best friend. She called me all the time just to talk. And then one night she called after midnight, asked if we could meet. I was surprised, to say the least. Somehow she sneaked out of the house. She was a bundle of nerves. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me she’d gotten her acceptance letter from William & Mary. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to be with me.

  “Well, that floored me. She’d never once hinted she was attracted to me. She kissed me, told me she loved me. But she didn’t know what to do about college. I’d already been admitted to Harvard and couldn’t turn that down, so I told her she should go to William & Mary and we’d marry after graduation. She was scared to be separated from me, but she did it all the same. We called each other at every opportunity, got together when she came home for the holidays and the summer whenever she could sneak away from her father.

  “But things changed after her third year. Something happened to her that fall. She never talked about it. Next thing I know she’s telling me she’s pregnant with Thomas Berkeley’s baby and we have to break things off. I tried my best to talk her out of it, told her that I would marry her, give her child my name. But she told me it was no use. She couldn’t fight them anymore.”

  “Them?”

  “Her father and Thomas. So I honored her wishes, stayed away. After law school, Holden offered me a position in his firm. Promised I’d make partner in five years. He kept his word. I wondered if he’d known about us and offered the partnership as a consolation prize. I’d see her occasionally. Mostly at the firm functions. She seemed . . . happy. And then sixteen years ago she called me out of the blue, wanting to talk. She wasn’t happy anymore. Thomas had been having affairs practically since the day they married. He’d never been interested in her, only her money. One thing led to another and—”

  “You slept with her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it only the one time?”

  “Yes. Thomas found out about us. I don’t know how, but he did. He threatened divorce and to take Madrigal from her. It was only her at the time. Madison wasn’t born yet. So she broke things off with me.”

  “But you’re managing Madrigal’s and Madison’s trusts.”

  “When Madison was born, Holden created a trust for each of the girls, and he asked me to be a co-trustee along with him. At the time, I wondered why. It wasn’t like I was an estates and trusts lawyer. Turns out Marlena asked him to do so. She used that as an excuse to include me in family gatherings so the girls would get to know me.”

  “I can’t imagine Thomas Berkeley approved.”

  “He resented the hell out of it, but there was nothing much he could do about it. It wasn’t his money.”

  “So you became Uncle Mitch.”

  “Yes. I never missed a birthday or Christmas. They always got presents from me.”

  “It must have been hell for you.”

  “It was and it wasn’t. I lived for those times when I could have a few stolen moments with Marlena. I’d given up hope she’d ever leave him. And then one day she called again.”

  “When was that?”

  “March 2002.”

  “A month before she was killed.”

  “Yes. We met at a run-down hotel in DC on H Street. The kind where you rent rooms by the hour. She told me she had something on Thomas, something she could use against him, and he couldn’t stop her from leaving anymore. We made plans. He was supposed to be going away on a business trip. I made arrangements, but then it all went to hell in a handbasket. That was the night she was killed.”

  “What happened?”

  “He canceled his business trip and scheduled another of their ‘private nights.’ He used to do that once a month, the bastard. He’d send the staff and the girls away so he could have Marlena to himself. She hated every minute of it. I told her we could leave the day before, that everything was set. I’d found a place where we could hole up and lay low. But Thomas had gotten suspicious and kept a tight rein on the girls. He knew she wouldn’t leave without them. Normally during their private nights, the girls were sent to Holden’s.”

  “But he was out of town, so other arrangements had to be made.”

  “Yes. Madrigal would have been easy enough to get. She was spending the night at a friend’s house. But Madison—she was in the house, and Marlena couldn’t take her, not without arousing his suspicion. She told me it would only be a couple more days, that Thomas had rescheduled the business trip. We could make our move then.”

  “But that day never came. Instead, she ended up dead.”

  “Yes. If I’d only insisted, she wouldn’t have been there when those sons of bitches broke into the house.”

  “Mitchell, Madrigal and I have been investigating her parents’ murders. We talked to Michael Haynes, one of the burglars.”

  “What?”

  “He swears they didn’t kill her. That they just robbed the house. After talking to the detective involved in the case, I believe he’s telling the truth.”

  “Why?”

  “They broke into people’s houses, but they never hurt anyone. They just snatched whatever they could and got out. Plus, the way he kept talking about Marlena and how she fed them while they worked in the house and served them sandwiches on fancy plates. I think he was half in love with her. I don’t think they killed her.”

  “But if it wasn’t them, then who?”

  “Last night Madrigal showed up at my doorstep. She was hysterical, beyond upset.”

  “What happened? Is she okay? Let me talk to her.”

  “She’s sleeping.”

  “In your bed?” His accusing tone sets my teeth on edge.

  Reminding myself he’s doing it out of love, I tamp down my anger. “She’s far safer here than anywhere else. I would never harm her. And you’re a fine one to cast stones.”

  “Sorry. I can’t help it. I’m very protective when it comes to her and—Did something happen to her sister? Is that it?” He’s afraid. No, more than that. He’s petrified. Strange.

  “Calm down, Mitchell. Madison’s fine as far as I know.”

  “So what got Madrigal so upset?”

  “Last night she found her mother’s journals. And discovered more than she bargained for.”

  “What?!”

  “She read the last one.” I clear my throat. �
�During those private date nights, Thomas Berkeley abused Marlena.”

  The sound that comes through the telephone is that of a tortured animal. “God. No.”

  “You never suspected anything?”

  “No. I hadn’t seen her up close for months. And she chose that fleabag motel. The only illumination came from a lamp that barely shed any light. The secrecy. Her fear. I should have known something was wrong. I chalked it up to nerves. If I’d known the bastard beat her, I would have killed him with my bare hands.”

  “I wouldn’t trumpet that about.”

  “Why not? He deserved to die for what he was doing to her.”

  “Mitchell, use your head, for fuck’s sake. If the burglars didn’t kill him, somebody else did. And if the police discover you and she were lovers, they won’t have to look too hard for a suspect.”

  “I didn’t kill him. I wish I had, but I didn’t.”

  “Somebody did. Somebody who owns a 22-caliber pistol.”

  There’s a rustle behind me. I turn to find Madrigal at the entrance to the study. “Who are you talking to?”

  “No one.” And then I whisper into the phone, “I have to go.” And hang up.

  She crosses her arms against her chest with a mulish look on her face. “Don’t lie to me, Steele. I’ve had enough of lies.”

  “I was talking to Mitchell.”

  “Uncle Mitch?”

  “Yes. I called him to get his bead on things.”

  “Did you tell him what my father did to my mother?”

  “I did. He never suspected a thing.” That much is true.

  “You shouldn’t have told him. It was not your secret to tell.”

  I can’t tell her Mitch loved her mother. That revelation will need to come from him. “He knew your parents. He’s a trusted family friend. He cares about you and Madison. If we’re to have any hope of discovering what happened that night, we need his help.”

  She shrugs. “We know what happened. My father killed my mother.”

  “You don’t know that. And even if that’s so, we need to find out who killed him.”

  “Does it matter?”

  I walk up, put my arms around her. “Yes. It does. We must get to the truth. For your sake and your sister’s.”

  She rests her head on my shoulder. “You’re right.”

  When she looks up at me, I cup her chin and tweak it. She slept for five hours. It’s now midmorning. “You hungry? I can whip up a brunch.”

  “I don’t feel like eating.”

  “You need to, sweet girl.”

  A dark curl has fallen across her face. She swipes at it. “I’m not going to starve, Steele. It’s okay if I skip a meal once in a while.”

  Memories of my past rush through my mind. So many nights I lay in bed with my stomach cramping from hunger, praying for morning to come so that I could go to school and eat the government-supplied breakfasts. Many a time that was the only food my brother and I ate all day.

  Her brow scrunches. “What’s wrong?”

  Did I reveal my pain? I must have. But I’m not about to talk about my past with her. “Nothing. Come.” Taking her hand, I lead her to the kitchen where I pull out a stool and point to it, indicating she should sit.

  I retrieve a pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator, pop the cork on a bottle of champagne, and mix it with the juice. I pour the concoction into a flute.

  She guzzles it right down. “Ummm. Mimosas. That’s good.”

  When she stretches, the shirt she’s wearing outlines her luscious breasts. I grow hard at the sight.

  “Do you mind if I shower? I jumped in my car and came right over last night.”

  “Of course not.”

  By the time she emerges fragrant from her bath wearing one of my college football jerseys, I’ve whipped up chocolate chip and peanut butter pancakes and beaten eggs, gruyère, and Black Forest ham into an omelet. I slice a baguette of French bread and smear it with fresh butter to complete our feast.

  After I serve her, she polishes off the plate of food in nothing flat.

  I smile. “I thought you weren’t hungry.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Um, no. That’s not what I want.”

  Walking up to her, I run my hands over her bare thighs. She’s wearing nothing underneath my jersey. I pick her up, and she wraps her legs around my waist as I head for the bedroom. She kisses my open mouth. “You taste like maple syrup and coffee.”

  “And you taste like orange juice and champagne.”

  “I like your mimosas. I like your food. I like you.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Madrigal

  “Like?” He quirks a brow. “I suppose that’s progress. You hated me at first.” He falls backward on the bed with me on top of him.

  Straddling his hips, I lean forward, suckle his bottom lip. “Not hate. Dislike. Your arrogance turned me off.”

  “And you resented being forced to spend the summer at the law firm.” He nibbles my lips while rolling his hips beneath me. He’s thick and long and hard.

  “Yes. But it turned out for the best, in ways Gramps could never imagine.”

  “It’s fair to say your grandfather never imagined me doing this to you.” He sits up, curls his hand around the back of my neck, and devours my mouth.

  As huge and insistent as he is beneath me, I’m cramping with need to have his cock inside of me. I want him there more than my next breath. When did this happen? When did I become this ravenous, sensual creature who craves sex this much? “I want you.”

  “Good. That makes two of us.” He flips us, and I’m below him. After tossing his sweats to the side, he rubs his cock across my slick clit, and I moan.

  A gorgeous smile teases his lips. “You like that, sweet girl?”

  I nod, breathless. “You know I do.” I want him so deep in me that he’ll touch my heart.

  He opens the nightstand drawer and retrieves a foil-wrapped package. They’re so readily at hand. “If you never bring other women here, how come you have those stashed in your night stand?”

  That wicked grin of his makes an appearance. “Easy to grab on the way out.”

  “So you’re always prepared?”

  “Have to be,” he says, rolling it over his erection. “I don’t intend to have children.”

  “Never?”

  “I’d make a lousy father.”

  “How do you know?” Why am I asking? It’s none of my business. I don’t intend to have children with him. But still, I’m curious. Maybe it’s the legal beagle in me.

  “I’m selfish, self-centered, arrogant.”

  I cup his cheek. “And yet with all your faults, you’re helping me. And you’ve represented many pro bono clients.”

  “That’s different. I only represent those unjustly caught in the system—and friends.”

  “And me. I’m none of those things.”

  “Your parents’ case fascinates me.” He pushes the hair off my throat and licks the vein throbbing there. “And so do you.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.” His tongue explores a fiery trail over my jaw, my chin, and ends up at my lips, where his mouth takes possession in a heated kiss.

  “Why?” I’m not asking for vanity’s sake. I’m just trying to understand. According to the office grapevine, he dates women in their thirties who are infinitely more sophisticated than me.

  He curls his big, masculine hand around my face and drops kisses on my brow, the corner of my eyes, my cheeks. “I love the way you taste, your scent, the things you cry out when I make you come.”

  I flush with heat. “What do I cry out?”

  “Moans and yes and please. I especially like that last one.” Right on cue he inserts a finger in my pussy, and I cry out wi
th need. My hands clutch his shoulders as he inserts another finger and circles my hot button with his thumb. “More, sweetheart?”

  “Yes. Please,” I gasp.

  He leans forward until his breath tickles my nipples. In the next second he sucks one into his mouth. “Ummm, ambrosia.”

  Sobbing with need, I grind my pussy against his cock while he jams his fingers in and out. It won’t take much for me to come, which I do in the next minute, bowing off the bed and screaming his name.

  Leaning over, he mumbles something into the valley between my breasts, but I’m so lost in the aftermath of passion, I can’t make out the words. “What did you say?”

  “I love—”

  My phone rings, interrupting what he’s about to say.

  “Let it go to voice mail, Madrigal. I need you.” With his cock rising proud between us, I want to obey him. I do. But I left home hours ago. By now they’ve probably discovered I’m gone. I reach for the phone, which I’d dropped on his night table. Caller ID tells me who it is. “Gramps.”

  Grunting, he rolls off me. “Of course it is.”

  “Hi.”

  “Where are you?” Gramps’s voice is gruff, angry.

  I trot out my same excuse. “With Cristina. She called late last night with a crisis.” No way can I let him know I’m with Steele. No telling what Gramps would do.

  “You need to come home,” he barks.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Come home.” This is the second time I’ve vanished without letting him know where I am. Of course he’s upset.

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  Which means I can’t linger in bed with Steele.

  He stands and takes me in his arms. He’s hard and aching for me. No wonder. He gave me satisfaction while I gave him nothing in return.

  “I’m sorry . . .”