“Listen, Cassie, what do you know about Brad White for certain?”
I sighed. “I know that he’s 31, and he’s the owner of Legacy, a chain of luxury hotels that has expanded worldwide. I know that he’s never been married and has no children. I know that he’s a billionaire, and that he’s very charitable. He contributes to thousands of charities regularly, and there are a few that he serves on the board of trustees and things like that. I’ve done my homework on him, Patrick,” I said.
“I believe you,” he said. “Have you ever looked through his texts? Checked his computer?”
“For what?” I demanded.
“I don’t know, for other women? Is he seeing anyone else?”
“I don’t think so, but he could be. And he has every right to; we haven’t talked about being exclusive.” I realized, bitterly, that I was feeling jealous of a woman who may or may not even exist. It hadn’t occurred to me that Brad would feel the need to withhold the fact of him dating someone else, if he was. I’d just assumed his attention to me was for me alone.
“So you’re not even curious?”
“Listen, Patrick, I’m not some stalker, and I’m not some victim. I don’t search through my man’s stuff constantly looking for ways to catch him doing the wrong thing, or to twist stuff I find into that happening. I don’t look at his texts, I don’t read his email; I don’t even know…” I stopped. I didn’t even know where he lived in London. He had a condo, I knew that. But I didn’t know where it was, and I’d never been there.
“Don’t even know what?” Patrick prompted.
“Nothing,” I said. “Never mind. The bottom line is, I’m not some sort of spy.”
He smiled at this, the corners of his mouth widening to reveal straight, white teeth. He had two small dimples that appeared and small laugh lines near his eyes. My arousal, which had stilled, returned.
“You’re better than a spy,” he said, a small laugh in his voice. “You’re a journalist.”
***
A few hours later, I was back in the hotel after leaving Patrick and stopping at the Embassy to check on the status of my passport. Brad had given me the name of his friend and said he’d texted him to let his friend know I’d be stopping by. It turned out to be a wasted trip; his friend wasn’t there. Still, I went through the usual paperwork to get an expedited replacement passport. A bored woman said that this sort of thing happens all the time, looking at me like I was an irresponsible kid, and then she said that sometimes the passports even get returned to the Embassy.
I opened the French doors to the balcony and stepped out, the moisture of the foggy air cool against my skin. I took a deep breath and blew it out. I had been telling Patrick the truth; I was not the type of woman to go skulking behind her boyfriend’s back looking for evidence he was being unfaithful. I’d always trusted my instincts about who I picked to date in the first place. And, the few times I’d been wrong, well, the guys had been doing me a favor by giving me a reason to break up with them. So, I never worried.
The one piece that was worrying me was that Brad hadn’t yet invited me over to his condo. We’d been seeing each other every day since I’d landed in London… him inviting me over seemed a logical step. I decided to put my worry to rest.
Hey baby, I texted. I’m getting bored of the hotel. Can we do dinner at your place tonight? I’ll cook.
I waited. He responded within a few minutes. Are you sure you don’t want to go out?
I’m sure.
A few more minutes passed. I held my breath, anxiety building. What would he say?
Sure, then. I’ll have to make sure the place is cleaned up before you get there, though, ;-) Meet me in the lobby at six and we can head to my place.
I grinned and texted back. Sweet, thank you. What do you want for dinner?
We spent most of the day exchanging inappropriate texts, and, around five, I went out to a market near the hotel to buy the makings of fish and chips for dinner. When I got back, I put everything in the fridge behind the front desk. As I took the elevator back to my room, Brad texted again.
Pack your stuff; no sense in you coming back to the hotel.
My heart skipped a beat and I smiled. Patrick pulled at my mind for a moment, but I pushed him away. I packed quickly and I was downstairs to meet Brad promptly at six.
Brad
“Fuck,” I sighed. “He’s here? Today?”
Simon’s voice on the other end of the phone was somber. “Yes, Sir; he’s here.”
My head was spinning. I’d been going crazy all week with meetings, trying to balance Cassie at my condo, and keeping the front of Legacy going with the continuing pressures from Manuel Brown. And now, according to Simon, Manuel Brown was here in London.
“Well, obviously I will need to arrange a meeting,” I said. I shook my head. Manuel’s appearance in London couldn’t have been good news to any degree. “I’ll text his contact number. I’ll let you know if I’m permitted to bring an associate.”
I could almost see Simon nodding on the other end of the line. “It would be safest for you to bring me,” he said.
“Yes, but…” I paused. If I could prove to Manuel that I was meeting him alone, perhaps I could have some interaction with Antoine. “I can’t take any chances.”
“Understood, Sir,” Simon said. We got off the phone and I leaned forward, my head in my hands. The timing on this couldn’t be worse. I had just invited Cassie to stay with me for the remainder of her time in London. I’d thought that doing so might give her more patience with her passport and may even convince her to stay longer as her own idea. But, I was already hiding this secret from so many people; I didn’t need another to add to keeping my lies straight.
My phone pinged. Assuming it was Cassie, I grabbed it and looked. The number was unrecognizable, but I knew exactly who it was.
Meet me at the warehouse in fifteen minutes.
It was Manuel Brown.
My stomach jumped and my heart shot into my throat. I glanced at my watch as I stood up, shoveling papers into my briefcase and clearing off my desk. It would take me at least that amount of time to get to the warehouse if I left immediately. I grabbed my coat and flew out the door. My driver scrambled to attention and opened my door; I gave him directions to the warehouse and told him to go as fast as he could without getting us arrested.
He expertly weaved through traffic and had us to the warehouse in twenty minutes. Not good enough. I told him to wait and I stepped out of the car, nervous energy pressing through me with every step. I walked quickly to the back of the warehouse. My lips tightened, along with my jaw, as I saw a plain, black Lexus parked in the back.
A man stepped out of the car and, for the first time in years, I was face to face with Manuel Brown.
“Mr. White,” he said.
“Sir,” I said, bowing my head.
“Let’s go in.” He looked at me with intense eyes. He was just a shade taller than I was at six foot two, and he was not a small man. He had gotten far with his domineering presence, yet he also had the ability to blend into a crowd and remain unseen for a surprising amount of time. I followed him, cowed. I’d seen both sides to him.
He opened the door; how he had a key to the lock I had no idea. He pushed the door open and gestured for me to walk in.
When he flipped on the lights, I saw the same sight I’d seen the first night when the shipment had come in. This was a big one; millions of dollars’ worth of guns, ammunition, grenades, and bombs and bomb-making equipment lined the walls. Anyone who walked in would have thought it was a military base, not a private inventory.
“What does this look like to you?” Manuel asked. He wasn’t looking at me. He stood next to me as we both looked at the expanse of the warehouse.
I didn’t know how he wanted me to answer. I glanced over at him to see if his face would betray any sense of pleasure or displeasure. I had to assume he was displeased; there was no other reason for him to travel all this way.
/>
“Sir, if there’s something wrong, I’ll fix it immediately. I followed the specifications, but it’s not a problem…”
“Stop, Mr. White,” Manuel said. “You’ve done well.” He nodded his head slightly toward a floor to ceiling stack of blocks that looked like train cars. “Those are the AA-12s?”
“I believe so, Sir. Each block contains ten thousand, Sir.”
Manuel nodded and he turned to me.
“Very good,” he said. “I knew I put the right person in charge of this branch of the project.”
“Sir,” I began, emotion flooding through me at the thought of Antoine. “When will I get Antoine back? When is enough enough?” I bit my tongue to try to take the words back in, but, of course, they were already out. Manuel cocked his head at me as if he was surprised I was asking. As if I already knew the answer to such a silly question.
“Mr. White,” he said slowly. “You do very good work for me. You do good work for me because you are properly motivated. I would be very foolish to take that motivation and destroy it.”
My stomach sank.
“The time will come when you and Antoine will have the chance to be reunited. But, that time is not now. It’s not in the near future. What you can do to get your son back,” he sneered these last words, “is to keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Nothing more, nothing less.”
His look silenced any negotiation or objection I might have come up with, and I nodded, my eyes downcast. I wondered if Antoine was near; if he had traveled with Manuel to London.
“Is he here?” I whispered.
“In London?” Manuel burst out laughing, a sound that echoed around the warehouse and chilled my bones. “Mr. White, how stupid do you think I am? If he was, I’d never tell you. But, no, he is nowhere near London. He is safely hidden away, where he will remain, until such time as I decide that having the two of you together will benefit me.”
I nodded.
“This is just the beginning, Mr. White. All of the things you see around you, all of this is just the planning stage. See the bigger picture. There is so much left to do before we’re finished. I have lots and lots of plans ahead.”
His voice, the tone and quality of it, sent shivers through me. He was an insane lunatic… and he had my son.
The Billionaire’s LEGACY
Dark Secrets
Sarah J. Brooks
Cassie
I stared at the phone in my hand in complete disbelief. There’s been an accident. The man who owns the phone… he… he’s in bad shape. The caller’s voice echoed in my mind, and I began to pace the room, all thoughts in my mind focused on Patrick, envisioning all kinds of horror about what the caller had meant by ‘bad shape.’ I immediately redialed Patrick’s number, but no one answered. When his voicemail clicked through and I heard his voice, I began to cry. I felt helpless; I thought about what hospital he might be at, but I realized I didn’t know any of the hospitals in London. I called his number again, and, again, no answer.
I wandered around the house, keeping my phone in my hand. I looked at it every few seconds, suddenly not trusting that my ringer would go off. Twice, I checked the volume. The caller’s voice kept hammering at my brain. I just came upon him like this… I called an ambulance… He’s alive… Are you his wife?...
My phone rang and I jumped.
“Hello!” I said into it without checking to see whose number it was.
“Come to University College Hospital. Take the tube to Euston Square, and you’ll be within walking distance. I would advise you to get here quickly.”
“Who is this!” I demanded, but the caller hung up immediately. I called Patrick’s number back immediately and there was no answer. Frustrated, I yelled into the empty air. “Fuck!” I shoved my phone into my pocket and ran to get my purse. I needed a way to get to the hospital, and the only other person in the house was Mrs. Wheeler.
“Mrs. Wheeler!” I yelled, running into the main entry of the house where I knew she would be able to hear me. She did, and came to the top of the stairs.
“Miss Cassie?” she said, questioning alarm in her voice.
“Mrs. Wheeler, I need you to drive me to the tube station, or to University College Hospital, wherever that is. I need to get there now!”
A look of panic crossed her face. “Mr. White?” she asked, her voice trembling
“No,” I said, “he’s fine. This is… a friend. Please, I need to go now!” I waited until I saw her begin to move, then I ran back into the kitchen. A moment later, she had her keys in hand and her coat on. We got into her car and she began to drive.
“Who is your friend?” What happened?” she asked. I knew her questions were normal, but I didn’t have answers and that only frustrated me further.
“Please just drive,” I said, my head in my hands. “I can’t even think right now.”
She drove silently for a moment, then I heard her inhale, a warning that she was about to speak.
“University College Hospital is one of the best in London,” she said, her eyes on the road. “Your… friend… is in good hands.”
I nodded and looked over at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler. And, thank you for driving.” I knew my voice had chastised her and I felt bad, a glimmer of shame pushing through my worry about Patrick. I didn’t know why I was acting this way; why I was feeling so upset over a man I barely knew, who I had very little connection to. If it was Brad in the hospital, that would be understandable. But Patrick was… well, what was he? A friend? Hardly. I swallowed hard as I realized how deep my panic ran within me and what that suggested about how I truly felt about Patrick. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, willing myself to get control.
“It’s someone I met here in London, who also knows Brad.” I added that last bit to show, I hoped, Mrs. Wheeler that I wasn’t trying to keep any secrets. “I’ll have to call him when he’s done with his meetings for the day; he’ll want to be informed.”
Why was I lying? I didn’t have anything other than a sensation of energy coming off of Mrs. Wheeler that the words coming out of my mouth were the right ones. I had always been a big believer in intuition and feeling, and I knew that the last thing I needed was for Mrs. Wheeler to drop me off and immediately contact Brad.
“I’m sure he will,” Mrs. Wheeler said. “Would you like me to call him so you can focus on your friend?”
“No, thank you,” I said sincerely. “I’ll get a feel for the situation when I see our friend and call him.”
Rather than drive me to the tube station, Mrs. Wheeler drove me directly to the hospital and offered to wait. I managed to gracefully get out of that by reminding her that I didn’t know how long I would be, and Brad would be expecting dinner when he got home from his meeting. Finally, I entered the hospital.
I was directed to the intensive care unit, where a nurse asked me how I was related to Patrick.
“I’m his sister,” I lied.
“I’m going to need to see some identification,” the nurse said. She was severe, her hair pulled straight back. She looked at me as if I was the person who had hurt Patrick coming to finish the job.
“That I’m his sister?” I said, thinking fast. “Isn’t the fact that we’re practically identical enough for you?” I was grateful for my reporter instincts and the fact that I didn’t scare easily. The best defense being a good offense and all that.
“Even if you did look identical,” the nurse said grimly, “I’m afraid you don’t anymore.”
My eyes must have convinced her that, if even not his sister, I was someone who was important to him; I felt my stomach jump into my chest and I nearly burst into tears.
“Go ahead on in,” she said quickly, looking around. “You have five minutes. Don’t speak loudly to him, don’t startle him, and, whatever you do, don’t touch him for bloody sake.”
I nodded and walked in the direction she’d nodded. The ICU had only three rooms, and I walked to Patrick’s door, took a deep breath, and walke
d in.
My gasp was loud in the room, standing out against the machines, beeping and pumping. I bit my tongue to keep from fainting. The door closed behind me.
“Patrick?” I whispered. I walked to his bedside. Whoever had beaten him had done it with the intent to kill, and may have very well done it; I had the sense that if I was going to get any information out of Patrick, it needed to be soon. His face was unrecognizable, swollen beyond belief. Black eyes, a jaw that needed badly to be reset, and a nose that I could tell was broken through the layers of bandages. His collar bones were twisted, and I could tell that he would need surgery, perhaps multiple surgeries, to repair the damage.
He didn’t stir. I reached out to touch his hand, stroking the skin between the blood pressure monitor attached to his finger. His skin was cool to the touch, and stretchy, not at all like the strong, firm hands I realized I’d committed to memory.
“Holy fuck, Patrick, who did this to you?” My voice was a whisper, but I felt as though it echoed through the entire hospital. I bit my lip.
Out of the corner of my eye, something moved. I glanced over and nearly screamed when I saw a man sitting in a chair in the corner, so dark and hidden I may have walked out without seeing him at all had he not flicked his watch, catching the light.
“Who the fuck are you?” I exclaimed. “I’m getting the nurse.” I began to walk toward the door.
“Stop,” the man said. I stopped in my tracks; his voice was non-negotiable and sent the blood in my veins to chilling.
“Who are you?” I whispered. I realized I had, unconsciously, stepped between the man and Patrick; Patrick was protected behind my back.
“My name is Mavin Toller,” he said. “I’m the one who called you.”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “The man who called me didn’t know Patrick. If you don’t tell me who you are right now, I’m going to get the nurse and I’m going to call the police.”
“You’ll do absolutely nothing of the kind.” The man made a move to stand, and I jumped, startled. He laughed and shook his head, settling back into his chair. “Easy, there, Cassandra.”
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