Filthy Rich

by Virna DePaul

  The elevator finally arrived. He held a hand against the side of one of the opened doors, ignoring the beeping. He’d rather have a quick meeting with Mike now than go into the office tomorrow. He hadn’t been lying to Cara—he wanted to spend some alone time with her over pancakes and then he wanted to take her out of the city someplace special.

  He thought of the residents’ lounge on the fourth floor. Two coffees, a fast look at whatever it was that Mike thought was so important, a request for a printed report instead of a lecture, and he’d be home free.

  “Uh, I can give you fifteen minutes. But I have to contact someone, say I’ll be late. Can you hold that door?”

  “Sure.”

  Branden took out his phone and turned away from Mike to send a fast text to Cara.

  Be there in twenty. Unavoidable bullshit delay. Sorry.

  He stared at his screen, unable to deny it.

  He’d been about to add an automatic love you. Even during the intense emotions they’d experienced making love, they’d studiously avoided the slightest mention of that dangerous emotion so far.

  Branden hit send, then waited until he got her reply.

  I’ll think of all the ways you can make it up to me.

  With a smile, he slipped the phone back into his pocket. Hell, what was the point in fighting it any longer? He was in love with Cara Michal.

  But he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her that for the first time in a text.

  “You first.”

  He waved Mike into the elevator and pressed the number four. Above five, the elevator went express all the way to his penthouse.

  “Thanks so much,” Mike said in a flat voice.

  Was it because he was annoyed with the other man, or did Mike Gaunt’s voice sound more monotonous than ever?

  Branden told himself to suck it up. Mike Gaunt had put in a lot of overtime on the investigation—he didn’t seem to have a personal life, or at least he never mentioned one—and his tenacious attention to the smallest details was invaluable.

  The elevator rose and the numbers lit up. Two. Three.

  He felt a sudden explosion of pain at the back of his head.

  Felt the bone-jarring impact as he fell to the floor.

  Felt a heart-stopping moment of fear for Cara.

  Then felt nothing as he blacked out.

  —

  Cara had just poured two glasses of wine when she heard the penthouse door open and close. Footsteps came down the hallway. She smiled and called, “You’re early. I’m not ready yet.” Of course, he probably wouldn’t mind that she was barefoot and bare legged, her body concealed only by one of his big T-shirts. But she’d been planning on being completely naked and splayed out on his bed when he arrived. With a wineglass in each hand, she turned and walked into the living room, frowning when she saw Mike Gaunt.

  Confusion flooded through her. “Mike? What are you doing here?”

  Gaunt smiled. “I ran into Branden in the lobby. He’s on his way up. Howe let me in.”

  “But why would he—wait a minute.” Cara stepped back. The confusion made way for something different. Something more instinctive. Concern. Worry. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “But I am.”

  Fear. The cold sensation of dread ran up her spine, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Her eyes never left him even as she slowly edged toward a phone on a low table. “Get out.”

  “I just got here. I’d like to look around.” The tension between them seemed to vibrate in the air. He covered the distance between them before she could lift the receiver. He grabbed the phone from her hand and unclipped the cord. One swift pull and the other end of it came out of the wall jack.

  “What did you do to Howe?”

  Gaunt shrugged. “He, unlike you, believed me when I said Branden had sent me up. Big mistake.” He wrapped the cord around his hand and advanced toward her, backing her into a corner.

  Terror caused her body to tremble.

  “I like it when you look at me like that,” he muttered. “You never have. In the office you always look right through me. And when I’ve followed you, watched you, you never saw me at all, did you, Cara?”

  She swallowed hard. “You mean—the videos. You made those?”

  “Yes. All three of them. I saw you fucking awhile ago, just like you wanted me to see, but I didn’t record that. I couldn’t. So I’m going to have to record something else.”

  She seized a bronze figure on the bookcase in back of her, clutching it like a weapon.

  Mike advanced toward her, unafraid. She swung at him with it and lucked out, catching him on the temple.

  Cara tried to dash past him but he stretched out his arms and caught her in a viselike embrace.

  “No. Stay with me.”

  She kicked and scratched at him, then bit him.

  “Ahhh, yes,” he hissed.

  Oh, God. Her fighting was turning him on! She opened her mouth to scream and he clamped his hand over her mouth. He forced his leg between hers, crushing her bare foot under his heavy shoe to keep her off-balance and under his control.

  She kept fighting.

  “The fourth video will be the best of all,” he said. “I have everything I need in my bag.”

  —

  Branden dragged himself up from all fours, using all his strength to hold on to the elevator railing. His battered brain still worked, enough so that he didn’t bother with analysis or reasons why.

  Mike Gaunt had been behind everything that had happened. He was the only one who knew everything about everyone in the office, a classic loner steeped in hate who hid it well. Paranoid. Utterly twisted. And without a doubt, a killer. Branden had only been in his way. Gaunt’s target was Cara.

  Branden stared dully at the dangling wires coming from the elevator control panel. Something was clipped to them. A flash drive. He reached for it just as the elevator descended, picking up speed until he fell down again.

  The thumb-size drive dangled, flashing red.

  What had it been programmed to do?

  He made another grab at it, then nearly passed out when the elevator jerked hard and whooshed upward again.

  Branden gasped for breath as he dragged himself up. His head throbbed with fierce pain. He put a hand to his face, staring at his bloody palm. He could barely think. There was something—he could survive—if—why couldn’t he think?

  He banged his head against the paneling.

  It came back to him.

  The manual override. Secretly installed after he’d bought the penthouse. His idea. Hidden behind the official notice of inspection in the small metal frame above the control panel that no one ever noticed.

  He braced his arms and legs, fighting the rocket ride, waiting for the jolt.

  When it came, he was ready. The frame opened at the pressure point when he jabbed it. He waited again for the ride up, staring at the override lever. Would it work? He had never used it.

  The car rose, gaining speed but not fast enough for him. Less momentum going up. The slowness was excruciating. He felt a sickening drop that lasted too long and squeezed his swollen eyes shut. Then came a full stop.

  He wasn’t aware that the doors had opened until he blinked. The car had gone all the way up to the top of the building. He staggered forward before the doors could close again, his sleeve button catching on the extracted wires, yanking off the flash drive. He didn’t know why it was there, didn’t hear it tumble through the thin gap between the car and the shaft. The doors slammed against him, pinning him hard, slamming and slamming. Branden fought free. The doors shut behind him. The free-falling car screamed down the cables.

  Branden didn’t wait to hear the crash of the elevator hitting the ground. He ran toward the penthouse door, cursing when he saw Howe, face bloody and lying prone on the ground. A quick check confirmed he was unconscious but still alive.

  Oh, God. Oh fuck.

  Cara.

  As soon as he entered the penthouse
he heard them. He ran into the living room. The thick form of Mike Gaunt was bent over Cara’s arched body as he tried to catch her hand. She was fighting him furiously, punching him with one hand, not screaming, saving her breath, trying to save her life.

  Branden reached them in a split second. Powered by uncontrollable rage, he ripped Mike away from her and threw him against the wall. He grabbed him by the shirt and smashed his face into the coffee table, shattering the glass. Blood gushed from the other man’s bristled scalp as he crawled free.

  Cara’s soft cry made him turn. She held up her other hand and Branden saw the cruel cord that bound one wrist and the blue skin and hugely swollen fingers. He kicked the crawling man in the belly and flattened him before he turned to her.

  He picked the hard knot loose and rubbed her wrist.

  Gaunt dragged himself up and got to his feet somehow, then made it to the open door. And out.

  “Stay here,” Branden commanded Cara, then ran after him.

  The man looked back just as the elevator doors opened.

  “Gaunt!” Branden yelled.

  But it was too late. Gaunt stepped forward. He screamed as his arms windmilled and he tried to regain his balance but failed.

  His body fell out of view.

  A feral howl of despair echoed. Grew fainter. Then, from far below…a thud.

  Branden slowly walked toward the elevator shaft and peered down, jumping when he felt a touch on his shoulder.

  It was Cara, her face drained of color. “Back up. Please back up.”

  He did, dragging her with him and pulling her into his arms. She buried her face in his neck.

  “Thank God,” he breathed. “Thank God you’re okay.”

  She nodded. Looked up at him almost dazed. “You saved me, Branden.” She looked over his shoulder. “Please. Can we go inside?”

  Branden remembered Howe. “We need to call an ambulance. Get help for Howe.”

  Cara clutched his hand. “He hurt you. I want you to go to the hospital, too.”

  He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Fine. But I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  —

  Hours later, he was still watching her. He’d gotten medical attention, and then they’d made their reports to the police. CSI had already come in and photographed the crime scene. Finally, because it was apparent Cara was swaying on her feet and suffering from an adrenaline crash, he’d drawn Cara a long bubble bath and then put her to bed, where she’d conked out immediately. Branden had made himself a stiff drink of subzero-temperature vodka splashed with whatever was in the smaller green bottle. That way he could think of it as a martini and not just a belt of booze.

  He’d taken the drink into the bedroom, wondering if he was already a little buzzed just from the vapors emanating upward from the iced glass. Maybe so.

  There she was, sleeping right in the middle of the huge bed, the superking coverlet tugged around her in a puffy white whirl. He could discern her shapely form all the same. She lay half turned so that her bare breasts, which he couldn’t see, were up and her hips to the side, one leg bent at the knee and the other stretched out. One bare foot was visible. Her round ass almost begged to be patted, even though it was completely covered.

  Earlier, he’d tried to kiss her when he tucked her in, but she’d turned her face away and his kiss had landed somewhere on the side of her mouth. He’d reached for her, but she’d pulled her arms in tight, as if unable to touch him. To be touched.

  He understood.

  Nearly being killed did odd things to a person, and he’d give her whatever time she needed to bring herself back up from the depths of wherever her mind had taken her to survive.

  Exercising manly self-control, he pulled on the coverlet and covered up her foot, too. After changing his clothes, he settled himself into the armchair nearest the bed to begin his midnight vigil.

  Eventually he’d crawl in beside her. He was so tired he might not have to finish his drink, so tired he thought he might drop off sitting up.

  Branden tossed the vodka down, shivering from the cold feeling in his gut. He warmed right up when he looked at her again.

  Cara was stirring. She dragged the coverlet higher, revealing not only the foot he’d so tenderly covered but her entire bare leg. The way the other leg was bent gave him a fantastic view. Fortunately for his sanity, she stretched that leg out over the one beneath it and settled into a more modest position.

  Which didn’t keep his stupid cock from springing upward. Branden put a decorative pillow over it and rested his drink on top, holding it in both hands. His cell phone buzzed—he pulled it out from his back pocket where he’d stuck it earlier and noted a text from his youngest sister.

  Big Sis said you all had guns to your heads today. Dude, you still alive? Can I have your condo if you’re not?

  He gave a crooked smile. Apparently, Deena had informed their sisters of what had happened. It was clear Jeannette knew he was alive—just messing with him. She’d group messaged, and his other sisters started chiming in.

  If Jeannette gets the condo, I get the Maserati—that car totally goes with my actress glamour, was the text from Bethany.

  Don’t be dead, dude—I need my older brother to chase Alex away. Actually, scratch that. Croak all you want, Branden, I wanna jump Alex, came a text from Leslie.

  Hah! She did want to date his friend, even though she’d claimed otherwise.

  You little idiots. Big Bro is alive and well, like I told you all earlier. Now go to bed. That one was from Deena.

  How’s your girlfriend holding up? Trust Rachel to remember Cara.

  He typed out a quick response: No one gets the condo or the Maserati—earn your own goodies. And do what your older sister says and go to bed. Cara’s safe and with me now, right where she belongs.

  He dropped the phone onto the nightstand and glanced back at Cara. His wanton angel slept on.

  Then Cara sighed.

  Not in a sad way. The sound was breathy and sexual. What was she dreaming of?

  If only he knew. He couldn’t help thinking of the hot, raw, turbocharged sexual connection between them. Couldn’t help hoping that it could soon be given free rein. But right now he wanted only to share his strength with her, body to body, bring her back to him in every sense of the word. And go further still. Tell her how much he loved her. That he was serious about making her his forever.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “They found something interesting in Mike Gaunt’s office,” Deena said to Branden a week after Gaunt’s death. “Come and look. It’s all set out on his desk.”

  Branden glanced at the clock. It was past seven o’clock. He’d already texted Cara that she should have dinner without him. If she kept to the schedule she’d been on the past week, she’d be getting ready for bed soon.

  She hadn’t been herself since Gaunt’s attack. He knew that would pass, but this feeling of helplessness? This feeling that there was an invisible wall between them, one that grew taller and stronger with every day that passed?

  It drove him crazy to think about. Which is why he’d finally returned to work a few days ago. She seemed to need the time to herself or with Iris, who’d popped in several times, plus at least work managed to be an intermittent distraction.

  He sighed and nodded at Deena. “His desk, huh? He kept that little room neat as a pin. I heard he emptied out his own wastebasket.”

  Branden had conceded to Gaunt’s request at the onset of the investigation that he would be given the smallest space available at Dubois & Mellan, with no windows and no art on the walls. The man had his few possessions strictly organized in a black bag he brought in every day—and took home with him, now that Branden thought of it—and kept straight things like pencils aligned with the edges of the immaculate desktop. Branden had noticed the quirk but considered it nothing more than a hallmark of an old-school Fed like Mike Gaunt. Extra points for extreme neatness.

  “Really?”

  “I d
idn’t follow up on it. So what was there to find?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Branden had no trouble keeping up with Deena’s long-legged strides. But she didn’t usually move this fast. His curiosity was piqued. There were a lot of unexplained things about Mike Gaunt, in life and in death.

  “A place for everything and everything in its place. Didn’t he used to say that sometimes?”

  “Yes,” Deena said. “As if he’d just invented the motto, too. I never knew whether I was supposed to agree with it or not.”

  They stopped at the open door to the tiny office.

  Branden held out a hand, silently asking Deena to give him a minute. He could barely swallow past the sudden lump that had formed in his throat. Unlike Cara, he hadn’t been plagued by nightmares of Gaunt’s attack, but now, faced with the prospect of seeing God-knows-what evidence of Gaunt’s insanity…Faced with the very real possibility that it would involve Cara…

  Branden closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

  Cara.

  Every night since the fatal confrontation, he’d curled around her, bodily protecting her from danger that no longer existed. Cara lay still, offering no resistance when he gently pulled her against him, her back to his chest, her bottom nestled against his thighs.

  Sometimes they woke up that way. Or rather, he did first. She had taken to sleeping much longer than he ever could.

  But that was because of the pills. Before she’d begun taking them, she’d barely slept at all.

  “These are stronger than what we usually prescribe,” the doctor had said. “She can’t get addicted but she may experience some side effects.”

  It seemed to Branden that she did. After what had happened, her distant manner and reluctance to say much broke his heart. All he could offer was purely physical warmth and comfort, an instinctive, animal response that she seemed to welcome when she was asleep, as if taking shelter inside his arms.

  She refused to see her mother—would just walk out of the room when he mentioned a trip to Brooklyn.

  Denied that her brother needed her. Calls from Glenn’s assisted-living facility were ignored. Brushed off, as if they meant nothing, but Branden knew better. Just that Cara couldn’t deal with Glenn’s needs right now.