Investigated Billionaire - The Complete Series Box Set (An Alpha Billionaire Romance)

by Claire Adams

  Unfortunately, she hasn’t been answering my phone calls.

  I left her a message last night, letting her know that I’d set up a meeting between her and Dr. Marcum, my old mentor from med school, but if she got the message, she didn’t let me know.

  “Do you need a hand in there?” Melissa calls from the living room.

  “I think I’ve got it under control, but you’re welcome to come and talk to me,” I call back.

  I really don’t hate her. I just hate what she’s been doing.

  Melissa comes in the room and she sits at the counter silently for a while. “Do you have anyone?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you have anyone on the side — a girlfriend, a what if?”

  “What do you mean ‘a what if?’” I ask return.

  “You know, somebody who you’re attracted to, but you haven’t made a move because you were in a relationship,” she says. “Do you have anyone like that?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I haven’t really been looking.”

  Now, I’m lying. I’ve never really thought of Grace as my “what if,” but being around her has been the most fun and the most frustration that I’ve endured in a long time. Call me a masochist, but that’s always been my favorite combination.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I think so.”

  “What’s she like?” Melissa asks.

  “Nothing’s happened.”

  “I’m not saying that. I really want to know.”

  I know I’m the one who offered to make her breakfast, but this has gotten to be pretty surreal.

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she says. “Although, if you’ve been fucking her behind my back, I think you and I are going to have to have some words.”

  “I told you, nothing’s happened,” I answer, but Melissa just titters.

  “I’m fucking with you,” she says. “I’m glad you have someone. I hope it works out.”

  “Things were good for a while with the two of us, weren’t they?” I ask. “I mean, we are where we are now, and that’s the way it’s got to be, but we used to be happy together, didn’t we?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve actually been asking myself that question over the last couple of days. I know that I do feel sorry for hurting you, but when I look back, all I can think is that we spent so much time trying to make each other happy or trying to stay out of each other’s way that we kind of lost sight of ourselves. That’s how I feel, anyway.”

  “I know what you mean,” I tell her, cracking an egg into a bowl.

  “That’s not to say that we haven’t had our good times,” she continues. “I just think that we were never really meant to be with each other that way. I think we made better friends than we did significant others.”

  “You’re right,” I agree. “I remember when we first started hanging out, back when you were with one of those morons from that business frat.”

  “He wasn’t a moron!” she protests. “I will have you know that Charles Vincent Dunmore III was a very intelligent man.”

  “I’d forgotten how ridiculous his name was,” I laugh. “Still, even though I was always envious of him and those other guys you dated before we got together, we really were at our best when we were with different people.”

  “I think that was our problem,” she says. “We spent so much time idealizing each other because our own relationships sucked so much that we forgot to think about whether we’d actually work as a couple.”

  “I’m glad we’re doing this,” I tell her.

  “What, that you’re kicking me out because I’ve been screwing my boss?” she asks, and I can’t believe we’re both laughing about it.

  “No, I’m glad that we’re not splitting up by screaming at each other.”

  “It’s kind of weird.”

  “Yeah, it is,” I agree. “But I think it’s a good weird.”

  “I guess so,” she says. “You never did tell me about your ‘what if’ girl.”

  “I don’t think of her that way,” I tell her. “That sounds kind of pompous the way that came out, but I guess I’ve been idealizing her the way I idealized you.”

  “Be careful there,” she says. “I don’t know her, and I certainly can’t predict the future — if I could, I’m pretty sure that breakfast and a conversation on a day like today would have still taken me by surprise — I’m just saying that we’ve both been there and look where we’re at now.”

  “Yeah,” I respond. “I would tell you to be careful, but I think it might be a little late for that.”

  “Probably,” she says and snickers.

  “Still, though, I don’t want to see you get hurt. I’m probably going to be pissed off at you for a while, and I don’t know if we’re going to be able to be friends or not, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring.”

  “You know,” she says, “I think this is the most civil, open conversation we’ve had with each other for a very long time. How’s that for irony?”

  “Maybe it’s because neither of us feels like we have to pretend that everything’s been just fine between us. I don’t know about you, but I feel like a huge load has been lifted from my shoulders.”

  “Yeah,” she says, “me, too. Jace?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think, someday down the line that we actually could go back to being friends?”

  “Honestly,” I tell her, “I don’t know. Even though we’re having this refreshingly pleasant conversation, there’s still a big part of me that wants to start yelling and throwing shit. I don’t know if it’s just instinct or what, but I think it’s going to take me a while to really forgive you for everything.”

  “That’s fair, I guess,” she says. “To tell you the truth, there’s still a big part of me that wants to go back in the living room and start tossing your shit out the window just so I can lock you out when you go down to try to salvage what doesn’t get picked up by people on the street.”

  “I think we’ve been holding each other emotionally hostage for a while, and I don’t know if we’re ever really going to be able to get past that,” I tell her. “If it helps, though, I hope we can.”

  “Yeah,” she says and smiles, “me, too.”

  I finish making her breakfast and we eat one last meal together. We don’t talk much while we’re eating and even less while we’re waiting for the moving guys to show up, but all things considered, I think things went pretty well.

  The movers load everything up faster than I would have expected, so when it’s time for us to say goodbye, it comes and goes very quickly.

  I don’t bother lecturing her, but I do tell her not to let her heart get broken by someone who’s never going to make himself completely hers. We both know what that’s like.

  Now, as I’m closing the door behind her, I can’t help but think of what she said about Grace.

  How much have I been idealizing Grace and how much of what I feel toward her is based on who she actually is?

  Maybe there’s no easy answer to that problem, but Melissa was right: that’s exactly what we were doing with each other before we got together. “Look where we’re at now,” she said.

  As I look out the window of the apartment, it’s easy enough to see exactly where we are now.

  I wasn’t lying when I said that I don’t hate her, but after all we’ve been through, despite what wonderful friends we used to be, I can’t look at her, even now from four stories up, without feeling a mixture of anger and this sick feeling that I can’t quite put into words.

  Is that what’s going to happen to Grace or are we ever going to get even that far?

  I guess there’s no use speculating about it. The only thing I can do is see what happens and try to keep my eyes open.

  Still, there’s a sour taste in my mouth that was never there before, even when I first found the video.

  I don’t know if I’m going to be able to really trust anyone right now, e
ven Grace.

  It’s not her fault and, really, it’s not entirely Melissa’s fault, either. It’s the result of the simple truth that I don’t know how to be happy with the person I’m with.

  It could be that that’s just the way I am, that it’s never going to change. It could be that that’s the result of a multitude of past failed relationships.

  Either way, it’s there and I don’t see it going away anytime soon.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dr. Marcum

  Grace

  When Jace told me he’d set up a time for me and his doctor friend, I was expecting something in a back alley or a darkened parking lot. I wasn’t expecting to discuss perpetrating a fraud involving a clinical trial over seafood on the bank of the river.

  I haven’t talked to Jace in a couple of days. Really, I don’t know what to say to the man.

  A man comes over to my table and sits down.

  “Dr. Marcum?” I ask, but the man doesn’t look up.

  The waiter comes over and asks if me and my friend are ready to order, but I tell him we’re going to need a few more minutes.

  “Excuse me, are you Dr. Marcum?” I ask the man across from me after the waiter leaves.

  The man is reading a newspaper and completely ignoring everything I have to say. Maybe I’m just not saying the right thing.

  “We’ve already got the scans,” I tell him. “I don’t know what more you thought we should discuss, but I’m ready to hear whatever you have to say.”

  The man looks up at me for a moment, but then turns back to his paper.

  “I get that this is supposed to be a covert op kind of thing,” I tell him, “but I really would appreciate some guidance as to what to do next.”

  “Excuse me, miss?” a man behind me says, tapping my shoulder.

  I turn around. “Yes?”

  “Are you Grace Miller?” the man asks.

  “Yes,” I answer. “And you are…”

  “I’m Dr. Marcum,” he says. “I was under the impression Dr. Churchill had told you who I was.”

  I look across the table at the man sitting there with his newspaper. He’s still ignoring me completely.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I ask the man sitting across the table.

  The man looks up, cocks his head to one side, and, with a loud burst, he says, “What?”

  “We’re going to need that chair if you don’t mind,” I tell him.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the man says, but doesn’t get up. He just returns to his paper like I hadn’t said anything of consequence at all.

  I look up at Dr. Marcum, saying, “Maybe we should find another table.”

  “Let’s take a walk,” the doctor says.

  “You know, I was really looking forward to the sushi,” I protest as I rise to my feet. “I’ve heard that it’s spectacular here.”

  “Well, it appears that man is more than willing to hold your table for you,” Dr. Marcum says. “I’d really prefer discussing this in a more private venue.”

  “What did you have in mind?” I ask as we walk back through the restaurant.

  “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he asks.

  “I guess so,” I answer. “Where would you like to talk?”

  “You know,” he says, “you ask a lot of questions for someone planning what you’re planning.”

  “Do I?” Okay, now I’m just screwing with him.

  He scoffs and we exit through the front of the restaurant.

  We continue along the sidewalk until we’re walking on grass, no more than thirty feet from the river.

  “Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?” he asks.

  “Dr. Churchill gave me a pretty good idea.”

  “Well, I don’t think a general idea is going to cut it,” he says. “Now that you’ve involved me, I hope you’re aware my license is at risk, as well.”

  “I do realize you’re putting yourself in quite a position, and-”

  “Oh, I’m happy to do a favor for one of my star pupils,” he says. “What I’m more concerned about is you and whether you actually possess the ability to apply discretion when needed.”

  “Dr. Marcum, I can assure you-”

  “You were halfway to telling a deaf stranger sitting across the table from you what you and Churchill have been planning,” the man says, and I’m really starting to feel like a British secret agent, circa 1941.

  “I thought he was you,” I tell him.

  “Yes, but you didn’t confirm that, did you?” he asks. “I assume Churchill gave you my general description, did he not?”

  “He did not,” I answer. “What does that-”

  “The man at the table is a friend of mine,” Dr. Marcum says. “He was put there to see if you’d bother trying to verify that you were talking to the right person or not and how much information you would be willing to let slip in a crowded place. Needless to say, you didn’t inspire much confidence, my dear.”

  “I’m not your dear,” I tell him. “And, I really don’t appreciate the spy games or whatever this is that you’re doing.”

  Dr. Marcum laughs. “Oh, I think you’ll find that with certain things, it’s best to know exactly what you’re doing,” he says.

  “What does that even mean?”

  He stops walking and, in a hushed voice, he says, “Look, you don’t know what these people are like. They’re all about power,” he says. “That’s what gets them up in the morning and that’s what lulls them to sleep at night. They dream about it, they fantasize about it. Power is everything to them.”

  “Who exactly are ‘them?’”

  “Administrators,” he says in his quietened tone. “Administrators and doctors involved in clinical trials. Did you know that less than a quarter of drugs that are tested in clinical trials are actually safe to introduce into the human body?”

  “No,” I answer. “Is that true?”

  “No,” he says. “With a few exceptions, there’s usually pretty good evidence to suggest that a drug is at least some degree of safe before they’ll start testing it out on people.”

  “Then why did you-”

  He grabs my arms, giving me a slight shake in the process. “Don’t you get it?” he asks. “We’re talking about getting you into a trial where you don’t belong. You don’t have the history of the illness required and Churchill says he’s not sure yet whether chemotherapy is going to be effective for you. What you’re proposing — what you’re both proposing is hitting these people where they make their money, and you know what they say about money…”

  “Money is power?”

  “No,” Dr. Marcum says. “Knowledge is power. You young people really need to learn your platitudes.”

  “Dr. Marcum, I’m not sure where you’re going with — well, any of this,” I tell him, “but if you’re having second thoughts about-”

  “No,” Marcum interrupts, releasing my arms and turning to face the river. “I’ll do it,” he says, looking out over the horizon. “I feel it is my duty to help those whom I’ve taught help people.”

  “Dr. Marcum?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Here’s what I need you to do,” he says. He turns to look at me, but he doesn’t finish the thought.

  “What do you need me to do?” I ask.

  “That’s exactly the kind of question you should be asking,” he says.

  Okay, I think I can safely say this guy’s a few kernels short of a cob.

  “What I need you to do,” he says, “is I need you to give me your scans — they have the altered dates, do they not?”

  “They do,” I tell him. “They’re back in my car.”

  “Not now,” the doctor says. “You can’t be too careful.”

  “All right,” I say, wondering if this guy is actually a doctor or just another plant like the guy at the table.

  “Okay,” he says, “let’s go.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I don’
t know what’s going on, but I really don’t think that you’re the kind of person I want to have involved in something like this. I appreciate your time, but it’s just not going to work out.”

  I start walking away, but before I’ve made it ten feet, behind me I hear the doctor giving the slow clap.

  I turn around and he’s standing there with a smile on his face.

  “Very good,” he says.

  “You’re out of your mind,” I tell him.

  “No,” he objects. “I was just having some fun with you. Churchill told me that you were expecting some big subterfuge, and I thought I’d make it happen.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I say, searching his face for any sign that this is just another ruse.

  “In all seriousness, if you just get me the scans, I think we’re good to go.”

  “Who was the man at the table?”

  “I just paid a guy in the restaurant twenty bucks to sit at your table and ignore everything you said,” he answers. “I thought it was a nice touch, don’t you?”

  “This whole thing was seriously just an act? You’re an ass,” I tell the doctor, but I’m laughing all the same.

  “Churchill told me that he gave you both the films and a flash drive with the digital files. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “He also said that you and I should get to know each other a little bit so if anyone asked one of us about the other, we wouldn’t-”

  “Sounds like Churchill’s the one who’s getting paranoid,” Dr. Marcum says. “Do me a favor and tell me how much you know about the doctors you’ve met throughout your life — Dr. Churchill notwithstanding, of course.”

  I think for a minute.

  “Not that much,” I tell him. “The conversation’s never really been that personal.”

  “Exactly,” he says. “The only one in a doctor patient relationship that has any substantial knowledge about the other in any given situation is the doctor, and the information he has is almost exclusively regarding the patient’s symptoms or their diagnosis. Churchill gave me his notes on your file and, once I get those scans, I’ll have just about all I need to know.”

  “If this is just a big waste of time, why’d you come?” I ask.