I Married a Billionaire: Lost and Found (Contemporary Romance)

by Melanie Marchande

  I could sort of understand why he was still afraid, though. He'd given me a lifestyle that was difficult to walk away from. Some people might have been able to talk themselves into staying, even if they didn't have feelings for him, just for the money.

  I wanted to think he knew me well enough by now, but that wasn't really true, was it? In some ways, after all this time, we still hardly knew each other at all.

  "Thank you, Lindsey," I said. "I promise I won't tell."

  "I know you won't, honey." Lindsey leaned over and gave me a sideways hug. "Just hang in there, okay? Things are going to get a hell of a lot easier once all this calms down."

  "Yeah, but how long will that take?"

  Lindsey shrugged. "I don't know, really. But eventually, things just sort of get…normal. You'll adjust to the stress. You both will. Once the whole thing is finally over it'll be like letting out a breath you've been holding for months and months. But that doesn't mean that every day leading up to that has to be painful."

  "You sound like you have some experience."

  "Not quite the same thing," she said. "I took someone to court once. But, I know the feeling, sort of - it's just like this long nightmare and you start to feel like you're never going to wake up. But eventually, you do. You wake up, and the world hasn't ended like you thought it would. Everything's just sort of…carrying on, so you start carrying on with it, even if you don't feel like you know how anymore."

  "Thanks," I said, leaning back on the sofa with a long, deep sigh. "It’s good to know I’m not losing my mind."

  "Hey," said Lindsey, with a smile. "No guarantees."

  ***

  A few days later, I was on my way home from yoga after finally paying the stupid water bill. Blessedly, no one at the studio ever seemed interested in talking to me beyond the basic pleasantries, so I never found myself engaged in conversations about Daniel’s troubles - it remained a sanctuary for me. On impulse, I stepped into the hardware store on the way home, picking up a small bag of potting soil for the basil plants. I’d noticed the current setup was starting to look a little mildewed, and I had no idea if it had ever been replaced since I’d moved in.

  "Hello?" I called out when I walked in the door. "Anybody home?"

  Abject silence greeted me; I wasn’t surprised, really, but I had to admit it was starting to get lonely around here. I sighed, dropping the potting soil on the counter and bringing the planter over to the sink. I carefully dug each plant out of the packed-down soil, setting them down gently in the sink. They were starting to get root-bound.

  I pulled out a big garbage bag and shook the planter over it, jostling the old soil to loosen and fall out.

  Thump. Thump.

  Okay, that didn’t sound like dirt.

  I set the planter aside and peered into the bag.

  It was something in plastic. No, somethings. I reached in gingerly and snatched one of them with two fingers, shaking the loose dirt off as I lifted it out of the bag. It was a Ziploc, an old one, and there was something rectangular inside it, wrapped in foil.

  Oh, Daniel.

  "You nutjob," I muttered, knowing what I was going to find even before I unwrapped it.

  Oh, yes. It was a stack of hundred dollar bills.

  I knelt down, digging further into the garbage bag and pulling out another. And another. And another. Four packages in all - no wonder the soil was starting to get mildewed. It was amazing that the plants were doing as well as they were, without being able to drain properly. I wasn’t going to take the time to count it, but each stack was thick - maybe fifty bills or more.

  For some reason, my heart was pounding in my throat. I’d done absolutely nothing wrong, but I still felt a powerful urge to cover my tracks, and I had no idea how much longer I was going to be alone. Hastily, I set the bags of money in the sink along with the plants. I took the planter and poured a thin layer of soil along the bottom, then carefully lined up the money more or less the way I imagined it had been before.

  Something made me stop, halfway between arranging them and grabbing the soil to make the next layer.

  Without knowing exactly why, I hastily opened each bag, unwrapping the stacks and thumbing a few bills out of each. I stuffed them in the side of my bra, thoroughly re-wrapping the foil and making sure the bags were pushed flat and sealed. I poured on another layer of soil, then nested the plants in, taking the time even in my frantic state to massage the roots a little. Then, I filled the rest of the planter with soil, making sure to pack it down so it didn’t look too fresh.

  I folded up what remained of the soil in the package and shoved it into the garbage bag, tying it up quickly and rushing it to the garbage chute down the hall. Back inside, I swept up the stray dirt into the dustpan and tossed it out the window, finally replacing the planter in the exact spot where it had always been.

  There - no one would be any the wiser.

  I washed my hands, which were still trembling a little. I had no idea why I felt like a criminal, other than the fact that he obviously didn’t want me to know about this money. But that wasn’t exactly my fault. If he didn’t want me to stumble across it, he should have done a better job of caring for his plants.

  I walked upstairs, still feeling nervous and guilty, and carefully folded up each of the bills I’d taken. I tucked them into the very bottom of my makeup bag, underneath the old stuff I hardly ever used, and zipped it shut. There was absolutely zero chance of him ever coming across it in there.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed. There was no doubt in my mind that he had other stashes of money, elsewhere in the apartment. Whatever he’d been dipping into to pay rent and bills obviously wasn’t this; it clearly hadn’t been touched in a long time. So it stood to reason that he wouldn’t he dipping into it for a while longer, to notice that anything was gone.

  Anyway, I had a right to look after my own interests. Especially with Daniel behaving the way he was, and our future being so unsure, I had every right to make sure that I was taken care of.

  If I kept telling myself that I didn’t feel guilty, perhaps I could make it come true.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I still hadn’t told Daniel about my placement at the show.

  At first, I’d been telling myself that I was holding onto it until things "calmed down," but then I realized nothing was going to be calm for a long, long time. After that, I actually tried a few times - I’d open my mouth to speak, and then I’d look at him, and I’d think - why? He wouldn’t care. He was too busy with everything he had to worry about. There was no use in me mentioning it, only to see the underwhelmed look on his face. The hollowness in his voice when he congratulated me, the distracted way he’d kiss me on the forehead.

  But telling Lindsey was another matter entirely. I considered not doing it - there was a chance she’d tell Daniel, even if I asked her not to. But I supposed I didn’t really mind if he found out. Maybe I wouldn’t even mind if he cared enough to show up unexpectedly…

  Okay, no, that wasn’t going to happen. But maybe telling Lindsey was a good idea.

  I waited until Daniel was out, approaching Lindsey in the kitchen while she was puttering around with something.

  "I got a gallery placement," I said. "At a show next month."

  Lindsey squealed, running over to hug me. "That's fantastic! I'm so happy for you, sweetie."

  "Thanks," I said. "Yeah, I just…I wish it had come at a better time."

  "Well, I guess," she said. "But in a way, this is perfect, right? A really nice distraction. You could hardly ask for a better one. Does Daniel know?"

  I shook my head. "I don't think I'm going to bother telling him," I said. "He's just…he's got too much to worry about as it is, you know? And he wouldn't be able to go, anyway. Too risky to show up somewhere in public, he could get accosted by every journalist in the city. I'd rather just do this myself."

  Lindsey looked at me for a moment, like she was trying to comprehend the whole thing. "Okay," she said, finally.
"If you don't want me to tell him, I won't tell him. But I really think you should share this with him. I know how much he worried about you getting a showing."

  I frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, he was talked about it all the time, when you started submitting your portfolios. About how beautiful your work was, but he was afraid you'd get overlooked and discouraged. He'd be so proud if he found out."

  "Proud? Really?" My head was swimming a little bit. I'd always assumed that Daniel was enduring my endless prattling about my submissions and strategies thereof just to be polite - I didn't know he was actually taking an interest in my career as an artist.

  "Of course he would. But…I understand, sort of. This is something just for you. Maybe it'll be a jumping-off point." She smiled. "By the time all this calms down, you'll have a showing every night of the week, and he'll be appearing at all of them."

  "God, I hope not." I had to laugh. "I'd hate for pimping my own art to become a full-time job."

  "Nonsense, you can still actually make art during the day." Lindsey grinned. "But your nights will be exclusively for shilling. That's how Rembrandt did it."

  ***

  It was half past ten at night, and someone was pounding on the door.

  A second later, whoever-it-was seemed to remember there was a buzzer, and started leaning on it. Daniel was muttering to himself as he hurried to answer it, and I wasn’t terribly envious of whoever he was about to come face-to-face with.

  Then, as the door swung open, his face changed completely.

  "Gen," he said, in surprise, as Genevieve charged through the door, waving a manila envelope above her head. Lindsey perked up, over on the sofa.

  "We got them," said Genevieve, breathlessly, throwing the envelope down on the kitchen island. "I haven’t even looked at them yet, not that they’d mean anything to me anyway. But I couldn’t wait to come and show you." She stopped to catch her breath, looking from my face to Daniel’s and seeming to notice our confusion for the first time. "Pictures," she said, "pictures of whoever your broker’s been meeting with."

  Daniel snatched up the envelope and ripped it open. I watched over his shoulder, and Lindsey came over from the living room to join us.

  They were very distant and dark, but from the first few shots I could tell that it was a woman. Daniel started spreading them all out on the counter, leaning down and staring at them closely.

  "I know they’re not the greatest," said Genevieve, "but he really did the best he could without getting spotted. It’s better than nothing, at any rate."

  "Yes," said Daniel, slowly. I came closer and started studying the photos too. They certainly weren’t anything to write home about, but as I let my eyes drift across them, something was nagging at the back of my mind.

  Finally, I reached the last one, and a pang of recognition hit.

  "Well?" said Genevieve. "What do you think? Any idea who it might be?"

  Daniel was shaking his head. I’d opened my mouth to reply, but I quickly shut it again when I saw him.

  "Sorry," he said, "I don’t think so."

  "No, I’m sorry," said Genevieve, sighing heavily. "I was really hoping this would be the breakthrough. God damn it."

  "Well," said Daniel. "I’ll keep them, at any rate. Maybe something will come of them."

  "You could try hiring a private investigator," Genevieve said. "I mean - it couldn’t hurt."

  Daniel nodded. "Thank you, Gen. I do appreciate it."

  I followed him as he showed her out, and as soon as the door was shut, I grabbed his arm.

  "Are you fucking kidding me?" I asked.

  "What?" he said, frowning at me.

  "Are you telling me you don’t see it?" I went back to the kitchen and picked up the last of the pictures, thrusting it at him. "Really?"

  "You’re making an assumption," he said. "Based on paranoia."

  "So you do see it. And you know it’s only paranoia if you’re wrong." I waved the picture for emphasis. "And I’m not wrong."

  Lindsey was walking over. "What the hell are you two talking about?" When neither one of us said anything, she grabbed picture out of my hand.

  "Oh," she said, after a moment of frowning at it. "Oh, my God."

  ***

  After Daniel switched the bedroom light off, I was only able to lie there in silence for a few moments before I spoke.

  "You have to say something," I said. "Tell someone. You have to…you have to do something."

  He let out a long, slow breath.

  "We don’t know," he said. "We don’t know for sure."

  "We both saw it," I said. "It’s her."

  My eyes hadn’t fully adjusted, but even without being able to see him, I could tell his jaw was clenched tight. Maybe his fists, too.

  "Maddy, we can’t," he said, softly. "After what happened, you and I both…we’re going to see her around every corner. Tell me this hasn’t been in the back of your mind since that phone call came."

  "It hasn’t," I said.

  "It’s confirmation bias," he insisted, rolling over. "You can’t even see that woman’s face, in the picture. We have no idea if it even has anything to do with me."

  Well, all right then. If that’s how he was going to be.

  I hardly slept that night, rolling out of bed early and sneaking out before Daniel even woke up. I crept into the bathroom, snaked the cash out of the bottom of my makeup bag, slipped on some clothes, and stole down the stairs and out the door.

  Once I was a few blocks down the street, I sat down on a bench and started searching on my phone. What I needed, clearly, was a private detective. The hard part would be finding one who wasn’t some kind of scam artist, or just plain useless. Despite the romantic notions I’d picked up from books and movies, I knew that most P.I.s weren’t anywhere near as glamorous or as impressive as in fiction. But all I needed, really, was someone who could answer a question.

  Who was the woman in the picture?

  I knew the answer, of course. But I couldn’t prove it.

  So I was going to hire someone who could.

  I ended up choosing someone a few miles away - the first local one who had a website that didn’t look like it was designed in GeoCities in 1994. He said he had a ninety-percent success rate, whatever that meant. As if I could verify it. After a few minutes of trying to hail a taxi, I decided to go it on foot.

  It was a beautiful day, with just enough of a light breeze to whisk away the sun’s heat. I kept a brisk pace. I knew there was at least a passing chance I’d be photographed by someone, but it wouldn’t matter. My hair was pulled back and I held my head up high, and although I was wearing my sensible walking shoes, I was confident I’d come across a little better than I had on the blog.

  I couldn’t believe that was something I actually had to think about, these days.

  When I finally reached the office, I actually walked past it a few times before I doubled back and realized what it was. The building looked abandoned - there were actually a few boards nailed over some of the first-floor windows, although in a haphazard-enough way that I wasn’t sure if they were meant to signify vacancy or possibly ward off very lazy thieves. There was no address number above the door, but judging by the ones I could see, it had to be the place.

  I stepped up to the door. Alongside it, there was a long strip of little black buttons. Not a single one of them was labelled.

  "Great," I muttered.

  I wasn’t about to stand outside a building like this and just buzz random doors, so I decided to try jiggling the door handle, on a whim. It didn’t give, of course, but through the filthy frosted glass windows, I could see someone or something stirring inside. Well, at least I was making progress.

  The door creaked open. An enormous, greasy, sullen man stared me down in complete silence.

  "Hello," I said, smiling. "I’m here to see the detective agency?"

  He grunted, turning and shuffling away but leaving the door open. I took this as a signa
l to come in, and followed him.

  "Second floor," he wheezed, sinking back into a lopsided folding chair in the lobby. "There’s a sign."

  "Thank you so much," I said, shutting the door behind me and then immediately wishing I hadn’t, when the smell hit me.

  I made my way up the ancient stairs, beginning to think I’d made a horrible mistake. But I’d walked all this way; I had to see it through.

  There was, in fact, a sign on one of the doors. It was scrawled on cardboard, with what looked to have been a ballpoint pen, so that I had to get close before I could read it.

  PRIVATE EYE

  Fantastic.

  I raised my hand to knock on the door, and just as I was about to connect, it swung open.

  "Oh," I said, startled. "Hello, you must be-"

  "Kelly," said the woman standing there, flatly. "The private eye. Come in."

  I stepped into the tiny, tiled mudroom and looked around. The smell didn’t seem to be as bad in here; there were stacks of newspapers all over the place, but I supposed they might have been for legitimate research purposes. We briefly passed by the kitchen, which was grimy in the way that only 40-year-old kitchens could be, with mustard yellow appliances and dishes piled in the sink. In the back of the apartment, there was a cluttered desk with an old banker’s lamp and many overstuffed manila folders. I sat down gingerly in an industrial-grade padded chair that looked as if it had been stolen from a ‘70s office building. Inwardly, I berated myself for assuming that Kelly must be a man, just because she was a detective. After all, I’d wanted to be a detective when I was a kid. Kelly was living the dream.

  "Hello," said Kelly, sitting down heavily behind the desk. Her tone was flat, but not in a hostile way - it seemed to speak more of general exhaustion and irritation with the world. She was slightly disheveled, but it was obvious she was making an effort. Her hair was smoothed back, and she’d dabbed on enough eye makeup to make herself appear somewhat awake, if you didn’t look too closely. "How can I help you?"