“We make it look as though I’m sleeping beside him.” She waves to the sofa against the back wall. “It converts to a bed, just like the one in his bedroom in the Hamptons.”
“So you don’t sleep beside him.”
“No.”
“And you don’t sit on his knee, play with his hair, and dress up in lingerie and give him a private show.”
Her hand slides up my chest and flattens against the side of my neck. “No. I don’t do any of those things. The only person I want to play with is you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Marco
“You’re security.” The brush of her body against mine is enough to undo me, but I can’t give in to it, not yet. “You’re trying to force the attacker to show their hand by striking out at Montgomery again. And you’ve succeeded.”
I stand up and walk over to the window. Ease back the edge of the drape and scan the darkness. “We’re keeping Montgomery in hospital for his own safety right now. If we can draw them out by...”
The pieces slot into place and it all makes a twisted sort of sense. Stephen has a nerve telling me he’s concerned for Kristie, that he’s looking out for her. Anger rises, heating my blood to boiling point.
I turn to her. “They’ve set you as bait.” Stephen, Montgomery, and her father might as well have painted a target on her back. In order to close this case, they have to force a deadly conspirator out of hiding into the light.
Kristie’s throat moves in a swallow. She paces. “We don’t know who’s behind this, or why they want Montgomery dead. I suppose people will presume I married for money, so they’ll expect that I’m inheriting half of it, at least. I guess I am a target they’ll need to get out of the way before they can attack Montgomery again.”
“There’s no world in which that is even remotely acceptable.” What is her father thinking, letting her take on an assignment like this? If she were mine, I’d—
The thought draws me up short. When the hell did I stop thinking as Kristie as a gold digger and make the leap to if-she-were-mine?
I run a hand through my hair and force my mind back to business. The lawyer. Charles said there was a prenup. Has the lawyer shared details of his father’s will with Charles too?
“Who’s seen the will?”
“Montgomery says no one has. Except him and his lawyer.”
“That sounds like bullshit.” The only light is cast by the bedside lamp; it’s altogether too intimate in here. I walk to the light switch and turn on the overhead.
“The lawyer is indiscreet. He’s told Charles confidential information, he could have shared the contents of the will with any or all of them. We need to follow the money. It’s all about the money.”
“I have dossiers on everyone that I haven’t had a chance to review yet.” She takes her laptop to the desk on the corner and flips it open. Let’s work.”
So I get to spend the night with Kristie Patten.
By the time the sky is lightening with the break of dawn, we’ve read through comprehensive portfolios on every member of Montgomery’s household, and reviewed the files in minute detail. The contents hold some surprises: Amber’s paying heavy alimony payments to all three of her ex-husbands, and Jerry has a healthy monthly allowance taken straight out of their joint account every month. Montgomery is a shareholder in Sebastian’s business—a majority shareholder. And Felicity spends a fortune on shoes.
I don’t know how Kristie’s father has managed to access the family’s bank accounts, and have no intention of finding out.
It’s logical to assume the will divides his fortune three ways—a third to each of his children. There is also a copy of Sarah’s will in the files my father sent, which holds some interesting interesting bequests.
“She left Isabel a hundred thousand dollars. That seems excessive for a housekeeper.”
“She’s worked for the family for thirty years.”
“It’s a fuckload of money. Isabel’s not getting any younger. Why on earth doesn’t she retire?”
Maybe she needs the money; in which case the ordinary-looking housekeeper has more going on that it would seem from the surface. Or maybe she’s just holding out for a bigger payday when the old guy croaks. It’s always all about the money.
“There’s an earlier version of the will here. It has a section that’s been redacted.” I hold it up and check it carefully but there’s no way to see what has been comprehensively covered in black Sharpie. There’s a notation in the margin in pencil. The word no written with a flourish and an exclamation mark.
“Let me see.” Kristie takes the paper from my fingers. The scent of her surrounds me as she’s so close, and without her seeing I close my eyes and breathe her in.
“That’s Montgomery’s handwriting. Why on earth would Montgomery insist on removing a bequest from his wife’s will?”
“You need to try and find out. It could be significant. If he cut someone out of Sarah’s will, that person could be harbouring one hell of a grudge.”
“Robert is missing from the will. He’s been in the family’s service for the same amount of time as Isabel, and he and Sarah were close, having all those lunches together after shopping expeditions.” Her eyes are gleaming—she’s on the track of something and she knows it. “Surely she should have left him something if she left money to Isabel.”
Food for thought.
“His marriage messes with the will—they have to expect that there’s a new one with you as the prime beneficiary.”
“His lawyer drew up a prenup to protect his fortune. But as the wedding was fake, it’s not worth the paper it’s written on. If Charles knows about that prenup, he can’t think I’d get everything in the event of Montgomery’s death.”
“They probably think you shouldn’t get anything. And for all they know, you could decide to contest the prenup. To try to alter the terms of the agreement after his death. You might not succeed, but you could tie up the money for years, maybe even decades. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Your grandfather?”
The disaster that happened to my family isn’t something I usually talk about. But she already knows some of it, after bumping into Jayne at the Kings’ party. “My father and uncles are still tied up in litigation and as she was made the administrator of his estate, she made decisions which are destroying the company. Dealing with a gold digger has to be a family’s worst nightmare. Whoever wanted Montgomery dead needs you in the ground first. “
“So, I’m on the hit list.” She stands up from the sofa we’ve spent the night on—examining paperwork, rather than exploring each other. “It’s morning. I need to grab a shower before breakfast, and you need to get out of here before anyone rises. Come for me at ten, and we’ll drive out to the hospital.” She stretches her arms, rolls her shoulders. “Shit, my muscles are knotted. If I were back in the Hamptons I’d go for a run on the beach right now.”
“There’s always the gym.”
She shook her head. “I need fresh air to clear my head. Maybe I’ll go for a walk later.”
“You go nowhere unless Stephen or I is with you.” She bristles, but I’m adamant. “It’s bad enough that you’re in the sights of a killer, you’re not to put yourself in any unnecessary danger.” I pull her close, feel her curves mold to me. “I wish I could come into that shower with you.”
There’s nothing to hold us back any longer. She’s pretending to be someone else, and so am I. It’s been a while since I’ve spent the night with a woman; I haven’t been a monk, but the liaisons since the engagement break-up have been of the drinks, dinner, sex and leave variety.
With Kristie, I want to peel the clothes off her skin. Take my time lathering every inch of her body under the wide showerhead’s spray. Have her do the same to me, then sink to my knees and press my mouth to her sex.
She’s kissing my neck. Her arms have snaked around my waist, and my hard cock presses against her stomach.
“Jesus, Marco, you’re
killing me.” She glances out to the rising sun. “Get out of here before the whole house is awake.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kristie
Guys take one look and presume I’m one particular type of woman. They use words like cute. Like innocent. They think that if I’m not a bitch I must be a pushover. I’ve had my drink spiked so often I could have been taken advantage of twenty times over if I weren’t super vigilant. I don’t wear much makeup but when I’m going out I always wear nail polish. The special dip-it-in-your-drink kind. If the polish color changes, it’s been tampered with. Drugged. With definitive proof right at my fingertips, I’ve nailed the bastards responsible with the help of cops and cameras. Blondes have always been underestimated, and I’ve used that to my advantage on more than one occasion.
Not all men are bastards. Not all men are predators. But a hell of a lot of men are insecure.
They act as though a competent, confident woman threatens their whole sense of self. If I’m more, it automatically makes them less.
I’ve dated jocks whose idea of fun is picking me up and carrying me around like a prize they’ve won at the state fair. Bookish nerds who have been keen to show me just how much brain they have inside their finely boned heads.
I’ve never been with a man like Marco. He charms so easily it’s impossible to keep secrets. He lays down the law, but listens to my opinion respectfully. And when I tell him to stop kissing me and get out of my room, he smiles that lazy smile that makes my stomach flip, pats my ass—and I never let a guy get away with patting my ass—and leaves.
Leaves me breathless.
Hot and wanting.
It’s not an altogether unpleasant way to be. I secure my laptop. Lock the bedroom door behind Marco, open the box, and take out the bugging device. We want them to think it’s working, so I make some waking up noises, climbing on and off the bed and yawning.
Then I head into the bathroom, and start the water running.
My back is aching from sitting all night, poring over the files. A glance in the mirror reveals yesterday’s mascara is smudged—and not in a good way—under my eyes. Yet still he kissed me. Still the evidence of his attraction was plain to feel through the fabric of his pants.
I used to think I had an under-active libido.
Seems I just had the wrong stimulus.
Steam fills the air. I strip off my clothes, and drop them on the floor. Turned up full, hot needles of water massage my body, provide welcome relief to my knotted muscles.
I need to stay sharp. Can’t let my focus drift. With Montgomery out of harm’s way, I’m the logical target. I shouldn’t think about Marco.
But I can’t stop myself.
Five minutes. I can take just five minutes. Especially if I multi-task. Showering while fantasizing. Two tasks at the same time.
Imagine if he were here, behind me, in the shower’s heat. The water tumbling over both of our slick bodies. His hands could slide around my waist pulling me back against his hard body. His fingers could play with my erect nipples.
With a sigh, I touch myself.
He could ease me forward, till my hands press against the smooth slate tile. Let one hand slide lower, to the juncture of my thighs. Between them. To rub my clit.
I bite my lip. Reach for the liquid body wash, and pour a generous handful over my stomach.
He’d smooth his other hand over the curve of my ass. Tilt me, and bend his knees slightly so his cock is positioned at my entrance.
Fuck, I’ve never been so turned on by the thought of a man before. I imagine him everywhere. The bulge of his biceps over my breasts as he holds me tight. His hard cock in my mouth. Between my breasts. Sliding between the globes of my ass, rubbing against my swollen clit, then filling me completely.
I almost feel his mouth on my shoulder blade as my hand moves faster, swirling the heat building in me into a blazing inferno that consumes all in it’s path.
The door is closed. The water is running. The intruder who listens can’t hear anything. So as my inner core spasms with my release, I don’t bother holding back the sounds that burst from my lips. The sighs and groans of a woman lost. Wrapped around his name.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Marco
Stephen calls the extension in my apartment at ten to nine. “Felicity and her husband want to be taken to the hospital to see Mr. P. Bring the car round in ten minutes.”
He’s snarky, bossy, curt and abrupt. I’m glad this job is not for real—I’d have one hell of a problem with Stephen’s attitude if I had to work with him every day.
“That’s not going to work for me. I’m supposed to take Kristie there in an hour, and there’s not enough time to do two trips.”
Stephen huffs. “Someone else can drive Kristie.” I bite back the retort on my tongue. The burning question: who? Because the only other guy who seems to drive any cars around here is currently in the hospital with our employer.
Deep breath. Don’t let this prick get to you. “We need time together to talk—it makes sense I drive her. Don’t the others usually drive themselves?”
“Felicity doesn’t drive, and he’s feeling lazy today.” Stephen’s tone is flat. “If Mr. Patten wants Kristie at the hospital I’ll take her. It’s only been a couple of hours since you left her bedroom, I doubt you’ve much to update her on.”
“So you saw me leave.” The guy has already warned me off a couple of times. I believe him when he tells me his interest stems from concern about his friend’s daughter, but I’ll be damned if he’ll dictate to me about our relationship.
“Plain as day on the corridor camera. Five forty-five. Cutting it fine. Charles gets up at six-thirty.” If they gave awards for snarkiness, he’d take home an Oscar. “You want to tell me what you were doing in there all night?”
“Why don’t you fucking ask her if you’re so interested?”
“I can have you out of here so quick...”
“Yeah. Yeah. Sure. Does her father know you’ve changed her role from protector to prey? You say you’re looking out for her, but you’ve put her in danger. I get that she’s okay with it. That she takes her job seriously. But apart from a couple of cameras, where’s the backup, huh? I’m the backup.”
The look he shoot my direction would freeze ice. I’m unmoved. “The Pattens are ready to go. Get to the front door, I’ll take Kristie to visit her husband at ten.”
“Her pretend husband.”
Silence stretched for long minutes.
“I know the truth, Stephen. Kristie told me. She’s undercover. I’m undercover. And she’s breaking no laws if she decides to have me in her room all night, so...” I don’t need to say it—fuck off is implied.
I text Kristie to let her know about the change in arrangements, grab my jacket from the back of the chair, and head for the door.
Felicity and Sebastian are obviously so used to being driven they’ve forgotten that drivers have ears. They don’t even try and keep their voices low as I drive at a sedate pace to the hospital.
Sebastian is clutching a briefcase. Felicity has a large box of chocolate covered Brazil nuts, and a bunch of grapes.
“You know his teeth are shit. He’ll never be able for those chocolates. I don’t know why on earth you...”
“I had them, okay? I had a box on the top shelf of the cupboard. Left over from Christmas. I haven’t had a chance to go out and buy my father anything.” She picked a couple of wrinkled grapes from the bunch, carefully lowered the window, and pinged them out into the traffic. “We just have to make do with what we’ve got.”
“Fine. I’m just sayin’.”
“Why are you bringing paperwork? You can’t really be bringing work for Dad to look at are you? He’s exhausted, he’s in hospital.”
“He’s been out of contact for two weeks. I need to brief him on the last board meeting, talk him through the minutes, and get him to sign off on a few things.”
“I thought he was supposed to be a
silent investor.” Her mouth is pursed like she’s been sucking a lime or something. “Can’t you get him to take more of a back seat?”
Sebastian laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound.
“You know as well as I do that your father insists on being in control of every bloody aspect of my company’s business. The concept of being a silent investor is completely alien to him. I’d love to see his reaction if I didn’t jump when he told me. He’d go fucking ape.”
“Well, if it wasn’t for him...”
“If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have a business. I know.”
I glance up and see him shoot her a venom-laced glare. He’s said this before. More than once. It has the sting of being an issue they’ve bitched about constantly. There’s no love lost between these two, the way they talk to each other shows they barely tolerate each other.
Traffic’s heavy. I try not to look as though I’m remotely interested in their conversation as we slow to a crawl.
“Where were you last night?” Felicity asks.
“You know perfectly well where I was last night.”
“You weren’t around before dinner—I looked. And you didn’t come up for hours after I’d gone to bed. I stayed up late and watched a whole movie before turning my light off. I was dimly aware of you coming into the room in the early hours, what on earth were you doing?”
I’m interested in Sebastian’s answer. Too interested. Our gazes connect in the rearview mirror before I can turn away.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Sebastian mutters.
I don’t need to see his face to know he’s warning his wife in facial expressions and gestures that today’s driver is not above a spot of eavesdropping.
The rest of the journey passes in awkward silence. I pull up outside the hospital and leap out, but by the time I round the car both of them are on the sidewalk. “I’ll park the car.”
“Yes, Marco. Do that.” Felicity’s mouth twitches, she’s either having a micro-stroke or attempting a patronising smile, it’s difficult to tell. “We shall be half an hour or so. Wait in the lobby so we can find you when it’s time to leave.”
The Gold Digger Gambit: A Honeytrap Inc. Romance Page 10
