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

by Melanie Marchande

  "Cheap suit," I heard myself say. "I think it’s ‘folded like a cheap suit.’"

  "Not anymore, it’s not. Anyway, they’re taking him in for questioning. He’ll probably spill everything he knows. The downside is that he probably doesn’t know much of anything. But, you’ll probably be getting another call from the station soon. Just be prepared to be underwhelmed."

  "Thanks, Kelly." I sat down on the sofa, letting my head drop back on the cushions. "I appreciate the heads up."

  "Well?" Daniel cut in, after I hung up. I wasn’t sure where he’d popped out from.

  "The broker," I said, craning my neck to look at him. "She found him, they’re taking him in. But she doesn’t think he knows anything, really."

  "Still, a confession is enough to get my case started." Daniel sat down next to me, the line of his body sagging from exhaustion, still, after all this time. "I expect to be tied up in litigations for the next ten years at least."

  "Hey," I said, patting his arm. "That’s all well and good, but don’t let it age you by another ten."

  "Right," he said, his eyes tightly shut. "Wouldn’t want to lose my good looks on account of all this."

  I chuckled. "You know, when you actually say nice things about yourself, I can never tell if you’re being sarcastic."

  "I usually am," he said. "But I’m starting to believe I’m at least good-looking enough to draw you into my web."

  ***

  Ms. Greenlee didn’t look pleased.

  "You’re familiar with the term ‘circumstantial evidence,’ yes?"

  Daniel and I both nodded.

  Her lips were pursed. "Without testimony from the broker, I don’t see how we can pin down Paulson. Unless he just…confesses, of course."

  "But the broker doesn’t know where the money came from," said Daniel. "They didn’t tell him, of course they didn’t."

  "Good for them, bad for you." Ms. Greenlee frowned. "Then again, Florence is still out there somewhere. If it’s presented to him that she’ll be found, and will testify against him anyway, which is almost certain given what she said to you, he might agree to a plea bargain. Which might be the best we can hope for."

  "You don’t think they’ll find her?"

  "Oh, they will. Eventually. But unless Paulson confesses to something quickly, they won’t even have precedence to hold onto him for twenty-four hours, let alone the amount of time it’s going to take them to track her down. You might think securities fraud, obstruction of justice, assault with a deadly weapon, and unauthorized flight is quite the laundry list of charges, but as far as INTERPOL is concerned, if she doesn’t have a bomb strapped to her chest, she’s not going to be their first priority."

  Daniel sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. "What about one of the others? The other plaintiffs? What if one of them testified?"

  Ms. Greenlee brightened a little. "That would be ideal. One or both of them. If he was in contact with them, if either of them knows enough to prosecute him - we could hold obstruction of justice over their heads until they agree to testify against him for immunity. If they can produce emails, anything like that - so much the better."

  "I’ll do my best to get in touch with them," said Daniel. "I have…a friend of sorts in the alumni association."

  "Good, good. Excellent." Ms. Greenlee was much happier now, and that made me feel slightly better, although my head was swimming with everything she’d told us.

  Daniel made good on his promise to contact the alumni association again, that very day. After he’d spent so much time trying to roll over and accept injustice, it was encouraging to see him like this again. He explained the situation to his new friend as delicately as he could, and the alumni representative promised to put both plaintiffs directly in touch with the authorities, if he could reach them.

  From then on, it was another waiting game.

  ***

  The police chief called, a few days later. He spoke only to Daniel, who looked very solemn as he answered monosyllabically.

  "Well?" I asked, as he hung up.

  "One of them came in," he said. "But he won’t testify unless he gets a chance to talk to me first."

  I bit my lip to keep from asking if I could be there, too. At this point, I felt like I ought to, but I didn’t want to push him.

  "You should come," he said.

  I didn’t realize it was that obvious that I wanted to, but I wasn’t going to say no.

  When we got down to the station, I realized I was horribly nervous and I didn’t know why. I reached down and clasped Daniel’s hand as we walked through the halls, and very briefly, I felt his fingers squeeze mine.

  The man who was waiting for us in the interview room had sandy blond hair and tired eyes. He didn’t look up, not even when Daniel’s chair scraped loudly against the floor as he pulled it out to sit.

  "Well," he said, after a moment of silence. "They said you wanted to talk to me. Here I am."

  The man swallowed, audibly. He finally looked up.

  "I’m sorry," he said. "I went over it in my head, a million times, but now I don’t know what to say anymore."

  Daniel’s mouth twisted. "Well, I’m glad I came all the way down here."

  The man sighed, his head resting in his hands. "I don’t know. I don’t know where to start, exactly. I got a phone call yesterday telling me I could be facing up to five years in federal prison, and then I drove all night to get here. My head’s not exactly…"

  "It’s fine," said Daniel, flatly. "It’s going to be fine, all you have to do is tell them what you know."

  "They’re sending over a public defender," he said. "After that, I’ll figure out what I’m going to do."

  Daniel drummed his fingers lightly on the table.

  "It wasn’t right, how we treated you," said the man, finally. "I’ve…I wish I could say I realized it right away, but it’s been gradual. I think about it a lot. Especially lately. It’s hard to even walk down the street without seeing your name on some headline."

  "I’m aware," said Daniel.

  "I just thought you should know." He looked at the wall for a few moments. "You know, if I’d thought Jim was serious about this, I would have told him to leave you alone. But I had no idea. I thought he was just…venting." He took a deep breath. "But apparently, he was serious about it. I didn’t realize until he started asking me for money to help out with ‘the cause.’ That was what he called it. I explained to him that I was still paying off my student loans, and barely making my rent every month, but I guess I should have told him what I was really thinking. A million times I ranted about it to my wife, I told her how he needed to just let go, and leave you alone, but I never said it to him. Maybe if I had…but that’s not the point, I guess. I can do something about it now. I just wish it hadn’t gone this far."

  "Well, you couldn’t have known," I put in, since Daniel didn’t seem like he was going to respond anytime soon.

  Silence reigned, for a few more minutes.

  "Is that all?" Daniel said, finally.

  "I just wanted you to know I’m sorry," said the man. "And I don’t hold it against you."

  Daniel straightened, suddenly. "Don’t hold what against me?"

  The man looked up, blankly. "I’m sorry," he said. "I shouldn’t have brought it up."

  I looked over at Daniel; he waited for another moment, and then stood up abruptly and went towards the door. I followed him, glancing back at the other man as we left. But he didn’t look up as we left. He just kept staring at the table, his head in his hands.

  "He feels bad," I said, when we were out in the car.

  "Yes, well," said Daniel. "Try as I might, I can’t drum up too much sympathy."

  I knew he had a right to feel that way, but there was still something unsettled in the pit of my stomach.

  We came home to a notice on the door. They’d tried to deliver a certified letter, something overnighted. Daniel hurried to the post office, and I stayed behind, updating Lindsey on eve
rything that had happened.

  Daniel came back in a little while, with an expression on his face that looked like it might almost become a smile.

  "They granted the petition," he said. "I’ve got a new judge."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "Congratulations, Danny. Have I said that enough times yet?" Lindsey was so excited she could hardly contain herself.

  "You know this means we have to start over completely, don't you?" said Daniel, but he was smiling. "I'm going to be up all night tomorrow working with my lawyer, we have to completely re-build the entire case and present the whole thing over again. This essentially resets the timetable."

  "But this time you have a judge who's not determined to crucify you," I said. "And that makes all the difference." So he’d be working all night. The night of my showing. I had no idea why a feeling of sick disappointment blossomed in my chest; I’d already decided he wasn’t invited.

  "Do you really have to work all night? Can't it wait?" Lindsey wanted to know.

  "The new judge is fitting me in starting next week," he said. "And my lawyer's got cases booked during the day until then, so we have to work after-hours. Otherwise I'd have to wait for months and months to even get started. This whole thing has thrown the trial schedule for a loop."

  "Well, that's ridiculous," said Lindsey. "Can you at least relax and celebrate tonight?"

  "Maybe," he said. "As long as 'celebrating' means takeout and beer in the kitchen. There's absolutely no way I'm subjecting myself to being in the public eye."

  "Okay, fair enough." Lindsey opened one of the kitchen drawers. "I'll start digging for menus."

  "I can't believe you still have all those," I said, eyeing the massive stack of wrinkled paper that Lindsey pulled out of the drawer. "You know it's all online now, right?"

  "You say that," Daniel replied. "But you remember that Italian place we wanted to try once? Didn't even have so much as a profile online. We had to go and read the menu at the table, like we were in the dark ages." He grinned. "I'm in the mood for anything, Linds."

  Lindsey gave him a mock salute, her nose buried in a binder's worth of menus.

  We talked about everything but the trial over dinner, and Lindsey turned in early, determined to get a full night's sleep before a teleconference she had in the morning. Daniel and I stayed up, talking, even laughing a little, and it was almost - almost - like all this had never happened.

  But not quite.

  I looked at him now, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the accusations. I wasn’t naive; I’d always assumed that someone of Daniel’s prominence had probably conducted himself with less-than-pristine ethics at some point in his career. But assuming and knowing were very different things.

  When I’d first married him, it was just a business deal. I didn’t concern myself with what kind of person he was, beyond his ability to honor our agreement. But somewhere along the way I’d managed to fall in love with the man. And now, I was actually getting to know him. It was deeply unsettling, which I supposed was the cost of doing things backwards.

  Jesus Maddy, stop being such a drama queen. It’s not like he’s in organized crime.

  "So," I heard myself say after a lull. "It’s going to be weird facing Paulson in court again, right? After all those years?"

  He was looking at me sidelong. "I suppose," he said.

  "I bet you thought you’d never run into him again."

  "Well, the matter was settled." He rotated his beer bottle around, slowly, over and over again. "In a very literal sense of the word. Non-disclosure agreements were signed."

  "But you can’t really blame him for holding a grudge." I paused. "I mean, without taking sides or anything."

  "Without taking sides, he had nothing without me," said Daniel, tightly. "And he knows that."

  I shrugged. "Maybe it’s not as obvious to him as it is to you. Not that I was there, of course. I don’t know what happened. But whatever kind of…you know, misunderstanding…"

  A muscle in Daniel’s jaw twitched. "There was no misunderstanding," he said. "All of them, they just wanted a taste."

  "Well," I said. "That would be your perspective."

  "Well," said Daniel. "As you say - you weren’t there."

  My head was buzzing.

  "And what if I did?" he said, his voice suddenly growing louder. "What if I did steal it?"

  I couldn’t look at him. "I don’t know," I said.

  "Would it change the way you feel about me?"

  There it was - the question I’d been afraid to ask myself, all this time. I hadn’t exactly invited my feelings for him, but now that they were here, I didn’t know how I could live without them. I was afraid to look them in the face, but I was even more afraid to let them go.

  What if he did do it?

  What if he made that mistake, all those years ago? Blinded by ambition, or frustrated by inaction, or driven by some forces that I simply couldn’t understand, and never would?

  Would it change the way I felt about him? Was there anything he could do, that would make me love him less?

  Suddenly, I knew the answer. And it terrified me. But not at all in the way that I expected.

  "Of course not," I said, my voice sounding much more bitter than I intended.

  "Well then," he said. "It doesn’t matter, does it?"

  "I’d like to know," I said. "I’d like to know that you trust me."

  "You know that already," he said.

  "You keep saying that." I stared at my beer. "But ever since this whole thing went down, you’ve barely talked to me. And I don’t know if it’s because you just don’t have any energy left, or if it’s because you’re hiding something. But either way, I don’t really know how you expect me to feel about it."

  "I didn’t want to burden you," he said, in a tone that suggested even he wasn’t convinced of this excuse.

  "Wrong," I said. "Try again."

  I heard him shift a little on the stool, and I finally looked at him again. He’d turned towards me, his face indescribably tired and sad. He was picking at the label of his beer bottle with his thumb.

  "People always think they want to help," he said. "But they don’t. Not really. Nobody wants to hear about how much I worry. How that’s the only thing that drives me. People ask all the time. Every interview, there’s some variation of it. What pushes you forward? What makes you tick? Nobody wants to hear the real answer. It’s fear. Fear of losing ground, fear of becoming irrelevant. Every accomplishment just becomes another albatross around your neck. The bar’s being raised, every day, every hour, every minute. Something like this happens, and it just confirms every fear I’ve ever had. It validates all those sleepless nights. I spend every free moment thinking of something that can go wrong - of how the rug’s going to get pulled out from under my feet - but I still never manage to guess at what actually happens. This fucking disaster, and the one before - two, if you count Flo trying to ruin our fucking lives - who could have possibly seen that coming?"

  "So why worry?" I said, quietly.

  He stared at me, balefully.

  "I’m not trying to be flippant," I said, laying my hand on top of his. His thumb finally stilled. "I’m serious. If you can’t possibly see it coming, when it happens, why spend time worrying about it?"

  "Because I can’t stop," he said, looking at me incredulously. As if it were that obvious.

  "Can’t, or won’t?"

  "Both?" He pulled his hand away. "And as much as I appreciate your support, you really don’t want to be dragged even further into this than you already have been."

  "Daniel, I have paparazzi following me. I don’t think I could possibly be dragged in any further."

  "You think that," he said. "But it always gets worse. Always."

  "Okay, but you run a technology company. You’re not Marilyn Monroe." I sat up straighter. "At a certain point, you have to relax."

  I could see his lip twitch, like he wanted to sneer.

  "Come on," I
said. "Don’t hold yourself back. Tell me how you really feel."

  "How I really feel?" he said, finally letting the sneer come to life. "Fine. You’re right. I’m not Marilyn Monroe. I’m not you, either. You think you know what’s going through my head, but you don’t."

  I swallowed hard.

  "Fine," I said, quietly. "But just for the record, I never thought I knew what was going through your head. I’m sorry if it seemed like I did."

  "Now you apologize," he said, almost laughing, bitterly. "You’ve been so ready to get involved, all the time, Maddy knows best - and now you’re pretending like you’re sorry, because that’s what you think I want to hear. What do you want to hear, Maddy? That I’ve never made a mistake? That I’ve never capitalized on someone else’s idea, not even a little? Is there anyone out there who hasn’t borrowed something to achieve success? You want a clear-cut answer, did I steal from those kids or not? Because that’s what they were at the time, by the way - kids. We all were. I hope to God you’re never called into court to account for a mistake you might have made when you were in college. Because there’s not always a clear-cut answer, Maddy. There’s not always one person to blame. I know that’s what you want. That’s what everyone wants. It’s easier, and it’s simpler, and it makes a better headline."

  I stared at him. I couldn’t reconcile his behavior with the way it had been before; the way he’d been so thoughtful and kind, thanking me for taking action, giving me credit for helping him through it. I couldn’t resist taking one more jab at him. "So you did do it."

  He stood, so abruptly that the stool rattled beneath him, almost tipping over. "That’s really all you care about, isn’t it?" he almost shouted, slamming his hand down on the counter - whether to accentuate his point or steady himself, I wasn’t sure. "There was nothing formal back then, no contracts, nothing written down. It was a free exchange of ideas. If by ‘exchange’ you mean they just leeched off of me and contributed nothing of their own. Until one day, when they finally had an idea I could work with. I didn’t take it on purpose. Or maybe I did. Maybe there was some part of me that wanted to get back at them for everything, for the long months of subtle mockery and using me for their purposes and calling it ‘friendship.’ But it doesn’t matter now, does it? I paid my dues. They got everything they deserve from me. But now they want more. Everyone always wants more." He was headed for the end table, grabbing his keys and shoving them in his pocket. "I’m going out. Clear my head."