The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club)

by Bec Linder

  The evening dragged on interminably. If I had been at home, I would be curled on the sofa with Regan, eating ice cream and laughing at one of the terrible reality shows she was so addicted to; and then going to bed early to take my time with her, exploring her body, pretending that neither of us had to work the next day, that the world outside my apartment had ceased to exist, that nothing was more important than the way we fit together beneath the sheets.

  That was what I wanted. Not to be here, feigning interest in the dancers and the conversations taking place around me: wives, mistresses, ungrateful children, mortgages, car leases, all the mundane parts of life that felt as far away from me as Jupiter. What did I care about mortgage refinancing? I was in love.

  I wanted to tell her. I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to go outside and call her, listen to her voice on the other end of the line, and tell her that I loved her and never wanted to be apart.

  Christ. I had to get my head on straight. I wasn’t here to daydream about Regan like a schoolgirl.

  I excused myself and headed for the restroom, intending give myself a stern talking-to in the mirror, maybe splash a bit of water on my face. The club was relatively quiet, and the restroom was mercifully empty. I took a seat on one of the incongruous velvet couches just inside the entrance and checked my email on my phone. Nothing that couldn’t wait until the morning. I sent a quick text to Regan: Dull night at the club, wish you were here.

  She replied immediately, which made me suspect she’d had her phone at her side, waiting to hear from me. The thought pleased me more than it should have. Mister are you propositioning me?

  I grinned, and was halfway through my reply when the door opened.

  I looked up. It was Hackett.

  “Good, I hoped I’d find you here,” he said. “Can we talk?”

  I put my phone away, keeping my expression carefully neutral. “Here?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He sat down on the other couch, hunched over, hands dangling between his knees. “Too many people in that room. It’s... this is sort of delicate. Confidential, you know?”

  Somewhere in my head, a siren went off, blaring loudly: This is it. I tried to silence it. Hackett had faked me out before, made me think he was about to spill everything and instead unburdened himself of some type of marital distress that he evidently thought would be beneficial to share with me. I didn’t want to get too excited over nothing.

  “Confidential, sure,” I said, voice light. “Something on your mind? Problems at work?”

  “You could say that,” he said. He was, I realized, sweating profusely. He raised one hand to wipe across his forehead. “I’m—look, Sutton, this could ruin me if it gets out, okay? But your dad was like family to me, and I trust you. You wouldn’t betray something told to you in confidence, would you?” He gave me a sharp look.

  “Of course not,” I said, lying through my teeth and hating myself for it. Hackett was slime, but I prided myself on being a man who kept his word. “But I can’t imagine it’s that bad, Richard—”

  “Oh, it is,” he said. “Look, it was all a big mistake, okay? I was desperate, and the investment seemed too good to be true, and by the time I woke up and realized it was too good to be true, it was too late. And then I thought, why stop now? I’m already fucked, so why not run with it? So I did, and now—Christ. I think I’ve got the feds after me, Carter. I think they’re tapping my phone.”

  “You’ve said that before,” I said. Careful, careful. “Doesn’t that seem a little, I don’t know, Mission Impossible? I’m not saying you’re imagining things, but maybe the stress—”

  “Yeah, maybe,” he said, wiping his face again, but then he shook his head. “No. I’m not going crazy. There’s been a white van parked outside my house for the last two months, and another one outside the office. What are they doing there, listening for signals from UFOs? Somebody’s following me.”

  “It can’t be that bad,” I said again. “Look, why don’t you tell me what happened, and I’ll see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Thanks, Sutton,” he said, with an expression of such naked gratitude that I had to look away. I couldn’t believe he was so naive, but desperation had made people do far more foolish things than this. He was a frightened, hunted man, and he had turned to me because he didn’t know where else to go.

  We sat there in the restroom of the Silver Cross while he told me everything: the insider trading, the Mafia connections. I listened, and nodded when appropriate, and prayed that my wire was picking it up.

  His torrent of words ended finally, and he sat there and stared at the floor, empty, a ruined man.

  “Let me make some calls tomorrow,” I said. “I can’t make any promises, but...” I trailed off, letting my silence make the false promise for me.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. Anything you can do. I’ll be—I’ll owe you.” He looked up, and as our eyes met, I saw in his the knowledge of how little his gratitude meant to me. What benefit could I gain from having him in my debt? He was grateful, yes, but he also hated me for it, for the fact that he had cause to be grateful.

  I looked away. The entire situation made me feel dirty. I wanted to go home and call the FBI and wash my hands of all of it.

  The party dragged on for several hours more, until finally even the most die-hard of partiers realized it was after midnight on a work night, and packed it in for home. Alone, I gathered my things, settled my bill with Germaine, and left the club—possibly for the last time.

  Well. Goodbye to all that.

  Chapter 19

  “We got it,” Hernandez said, sounding giddy. “Everything.”

  “Everything?” I asked, not quite believing my ears.

  “Everything,” he repeated. “The whole confession. This is the last piece we need to put him away. He’s going to jail for a long time. The Bureau is your debt, Sutton.”

  Too many people were indebted to me. I didn’t want any of it. “My duty as a patriot,” I said, trying to keep things light.

  “We may need you to testify at some point,” Hernandez said. “I hope that won’t be a problem.”

  “I would prefer not to, but I will if it’s necessary,” I said. Hackett was no idiot; he would put two and two together and figure out that I had betrayed him—and I didn’t want to face him in a courtroom and see his hatred shining from his eyes.

  “Of course,” Hernandez said. “Hopefully it won’t come to that. Thanks again. We’ll be in touch.”

  We hung up, and I rubbed my hands over my face and exhaled noisily. That was it. A year of work, and it was all over.

  I had expected to feel proud or victorious. Instead, I merely felt empty.

  I stood up from my desk and walked over to the window, gazing down at the sidewalks far below, bustling with people, all of whom had their own lives, their own stories. I had interrupted Hackett’s. Every line he wrote, from now on, would be guided by the hand of my treachery.

  I couldn’t think of it like that. I had done the country a service. Hackett broke many laws, and destroyed many people’s dreams for a secure retirement, and he deserved whatever punishment was deemed suitable to fit his crime.

  The words rang hollow even to me. I sighed and turned away from the view of the city. I was becoming melodramatic in my old age. My conscience would forgive me, surely, given enough time.

  It was 4:30: time enough to accomplish some decent work before the end of the day, but I didn’t feel like working anymore. I firmly told myself that I had been putting in 60-hour weeks for years, and it was okay to play hooky on the occasional Friday afternoon. Regan was still at work, of course, but I called her anyway.

  To my surprise, she picked up on the third ring. “Carter? Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, puzzled. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Well, you usually just send a text message,” she said. “But, I mean, I’m happy to talk to you even if it’s not an e
mergency. How was your party last night?”

  “We got him,” I said. “He spilled it. Everything. I talked to my contact earlier, and they got everything on tape. Every word.”

  “That’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Congratulations. I know how much time you’ve spent working on that case.”

  “Yes, well,” I said. “I lied to his face and told him that his secrets were safe with me. They weren’t, of course.”

  “You’re feeling guilty?” she asked. “Don’t. Obviously I don’t really know what he did, but if the FBI is investigating him, I’m sure he’s done all sorts of terrible things. He probably lied to a lot of people, right? So if you have to lie a little in order to catch him, that’s okay.”

  I let out a slow breath and closed my eyes. Regan’s absolution, for whatever reason, lightened the load I had been carrying on my shoulders since the night before. “I know. You’re right. It’s just that I try so hard to be honest in all of my dealings.”

  “I know,” she said. “And you are, right? With people who deserve it. He didn’t deserve it. This doesn’t make you a bad person! Do you want me to come over tonight? I think I should. You need some distracting. We can make dinner and, you know.”

  I grinned. Regan, for all her sensual abandon in bed, was completely unable to talk about sex in anything more than vague euphemisms. “Oh, I know,” I said. “Tell me what you’re wearing under your clothes.”

  “I’m at work,” she said, and I could hear her blushing. “I have to go. I’ll come over as soon as I’m done with work, okay?”

  “I’ll be thinking about your pussy the entire time,” I said.

  She made a strangled sound and hung up, and I laughed in my empty office, eternally delighted by the way she responded to me.

  As soon as I ended the call, my phone buzzed again. I answered without looking at the screen, assuming that Regan had forgotten something and was calling me back.

  “The prodigal son finally answers his phone,” a voice said.

  It wasn’t Regan. It was my mother.

  Oh, Christ. As fond as I was of my mother, she was the last person I felt like dealing with at the moment.

  I cradled my face in one hand, bracing myself for the conversation that was about to ensue. “Hello, Mother,” I said.

  “Yes, hello yourself,” she said. “I’m shocked that you’re still alive and haven’t succumbed to some exotic disease.”

  Was that a dig about Regan? But my mother didn’t know that I had started seeing Regan again. “I’ve been busy with work,” I said. “Mergers. Hostile takeovers. You know how it is.”

  “You wouldn’t know a hostile takeover if it bit you on the posterior,” she said tartly. “Carolina tells me you’re back with that dull girl.”

  Oh, Christ. Of course they were conspiring against me. “I’ve never dated a ‘dull girl,’” I said.

  She made an impatient noise. “You know who I’m referring to. You brought her to dinner, for some incomprehensible reason. I thought we agreed that she wasn’t a suitable partner for you.”

  I rolled my eyes, grateful that she couldn’t see me. My mother had little patience for eye-rolling. “No, you decided that, with no input from me whatsoever. And yes, Carolina told you the truth. Although why the two of you feel the need to discuss me behind my back, I’ll never understand.”

  “Well, how else are we supposed to figure out what you’re up to?” she asked. “After all, it’s not like you ever call me or come to visit, and me alone in this big apartment—”

  “Yes, all right, I’m very inconsiderate and neglectful, I agree,” I said. “I’ll have dinner with you tomorrow night, if that will somehow ease the pangs of your widowhood.”

  “How kind of you to offer,” she said. “I accept. And bring that girl with you.”

  “And subject her to your disapproval? I don’t think so,” I said. “I happen to like her quite a bit, and I don’t want you scaring her off.”

  “I would never,” my mother said. “I’m a delight. All of the best people agree. If you’re seeing her again, you’re obviously serious about her. I want another look at her. Maybe there was something I missed, the first time.”

  I sighed. If I put her off now, she would just keep bothering me about it until I gave in. But Regan had been so unhappy after her first meeting with my mother that I had little desire to ask her to do it again. “We’ll see,” I said. “I’ll mention it to her. I’m not making any guarantees, though.”

  “So I’ll see you both tomorrow night at 6:30,” she said, as though I hadn’t spoken. “Wonderful. Don’t worry about bringing anything. All my love.”

  And then she hung up before I could protest further.

  I took my phone away from my ear and stared at it as though it was a junior executive who had just fumbled his first merger. My mother really was becoming impossible to deal with in her old age. I would have to be sure to tell her that.

  I set my phone down and scrubbed my hands over my face. On the upside, I wasn’t angsting over Hackett any more. On the downside, I would have to ask Regan to brave the dragon’s den again, and I had a feeling she wouldn’t be pleased.

  I strategically waited until after we had made dinner and made love, and were lying together in bed in the afterglow, Regan resting with her head on my chest. I stroked her hair and said, “I spoke with my mother today.”

  She stretched her legs out and rubbed her cheek against my sternum. “Oh?”

  “She wants us to have dinner with her tomorrow night,” I said.

  Regan went very still, and then she sat up and stared down at me, expression unreadable. “What?”

  “Look, I know,” I said. “She can be... difficult. But she’s my mother, and I love her despite her foibles, and it would mean a great deal to me if the two of you were able to get along. And she specifically requested that I bring you. She told me that she might have misjudged you the first time you met.”

  Regan made a humming noise. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “If she’s truly awful, we’ll leave,” I said. “I won’t tolerate her treating you poorly. But if you would just give her a chance—”

  “Oh, how can I refuse when you look at me like that?” Regan asked, and covered her face with both hands.

  My sweet girl. I drew her hands away and kissed her until she was smiling again.

  * * *

  The next evening, we arrived at my mother’s a few minutes late. It was a deliberate move on my part: I wanted to assert my independence, and remind my mother that I while I would always be her son, I was no longer a child, and no longer required to march in lockstep with her notions of propriety. If I didn’t feel like showing up to dinner on time, I damn well wouldn’t.

  She was waiting for us when we exited the elevator, dressed relatively casually in a pantsuit and minimal jewelry. I raised one eyebrow, surprised. I had half-expected her to be dressed to the nines in an effort to intimidate Regan as much as possible. Instead, she seemed to have gone in the opposite direction.

  “Wonderful to see you again, my dear,” my mother said, giving Regan a firm handshake, and only then turned to me to give me a hug and accept the kiss I planted on her cheek. I glanced at Regan and saw that she looked surprised and pleased. Already off to a good start, then.

  My mother led us into the dining room, where the table was set with the everyday china, for use with family instead of guests. Even the flower arrangement at the center of the table was subdued: a simple array of pink tulip buds. She was making an effort, then—but for what purpose? I found it hard to believe that my mother would do anything without some ulterior motive. Was she planning to set Regan at ease, then corner her and demand that she steer me into politics? Would she offer to pay Regan some large sum of money if she agreed to never see me again?

  God, I was being paranoid. Maybe my mother was simply trying to be nice, although the idea was so foreign that it was difficult for me not to automatically reject it as anathema.


  “I’m not sure what you prefer to drink, dear,” my mother said to Regan. “I have white wine and red, and an assortment of hard liquors, and soda, if you’re a teetotaler, although I can’t imagine anyone could possibly be so dull.”

  “Um, white wine is good,” Regan said. “Thank you.”

  An unsophisticated drink, my mother would be thinking: real wine aficionados drank red. But she simply said, “Of course,” and went off toward the kitchen.

  I gave Regan an encouraging smile, and squeezed her hand. “Not so bad, right?”

  She let out a breath and smiled weakly. “I guess not. Carter, I never know what to say to her. I must seem like such a bumpkin.”

  “Then fuck her,” I said lightly, and was rewarded with Regan’s wide eyes and startled laugh.

  My mother returned with a bottle of white wine in one hand and a bottle of my favorite Scotch in the other. She poured drinks for the three of us, and then I stood and helped her into her chair. Old-fashioned, maybe, but my mother appreciated the chivalry, and it was a simple gesture that inoculated me from a lecture about how nobody had manners anymore.

  Carla, the maid, brought the food in shortly, and I smiled at her in thanks as she set my plate before me. In keeping with the apparent theme of the evening, the food was simple—chicken and vegetables—albeit elegantly plated and impeccably cooked. My mother would never serve a meal that was less than world-class.

  “So, Regan,” my mother said, “tell me again how you and Carter met. I don’t seem to recall.”

  That was a polite fiction, of course. She hadn’t asked, the last time we were here. She hadn’t asked Regan a single question, actually, and in retrospect, I didn’t understand why I had allowed her to be so rude. I was distracted, maybe, or so desperate for Regan and my mother to get along that I willfully ignored any evidence that their meeting was going less than splendidly.