Marriage of Inconvenience

by Penny Reid

  But Caleb plainly reveled in Eugene’s announcements. “If you don’t want people to think you’re crazy, maybe don’t marry a felon whose brother is a notorious Boston gang leader,” Caleb piped in cheerfully.

  Man, he was super cheerful. Yeah. He was definitely playing with his dick . . . assuming he can find it.

  I chuckled and then laughed at the thought, drawing everyone’s attention to me.

  Tiny Satan’s eyes narrowed. “Something funny?”

  I scratched my jaw. “Actually, yeah.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?” His hands came out of his pockets and he crossed his arms, arrogant weasel eyes pointed at me.

  “Where are you gonna get the money to pursue this kind of legal action?” I asked, making sure I sounded super curious.

  Caleb blinked. And then he blinked some more. “Where am I going to get the money? You fucking moron, do you know who I am?”

  Fucking moron? Pathetic. His insult game was weak.

  “The retainer for Sharpe and Marks is paid through the end of the quarter, so you got three months. That’s it. After that, the Caravel-Tyson assets are frozen, right? That was your doing. Which means there’s no one to pay the bills. Which means . . .” I shrugged.

  His eye twitched. “This won’t take three months.”

  “That’s right. It’ll take three years. At least,” I promised.

  He scoffed. “Didn’t you hear Marks? She has no access to anything. She can’t even write a check from the family accounts. That means no access to bank accounts, stocks, investments, all properties, even the compound in Duxbury.” To Kat he said, “You have nowhere to go, no place to live. You have no choice but to—”

  “Of course she has somewhere to live. With me.”

  “Not for long.”

  “And why would we need Caravel-Tyson assets?” I shrugged, glancing at Sharpe and happy to see he was paying attention.

  Caleb’s confidence slipped. “You don’t have the kind of capital required to fight us. You’ll go bankrupt.” He didn’t sound so sure, which was good, because that meant he obviously had no idea.

  I chuckled again, shaking my head. “Oh, Cameron. You rat-faced cumcake. If you’d done your homework properly, you’d know—in addition to being a felon—I’m also a multi-millionaire. Millions and millions and millions, and I don’t waste my money on dumb shit like yachts and gold-plated toilet seats—no offense, Eugene.”

  Caleb straightened, sharing a hurried glance with Sharpe. “I’ve—I’ve had you investigated. You—you’re not—”

  “I’ll keep this thing going for decades, just for fun.” I grinned, first at Caleb, then at Sharpe. “Fuck, I think I’ll even sue you for defamation of character, and I’ll file an ethics complaint against this firm for the conflict of interest, representing your case against their own client, Ms. Caravel-Tyson. Why not? I got the money, making shitbags suffer is a hobby of mine.”

  “You can’t do that.” The color drained from Caleb’s face.

  I ignored him. “Whereas, I know you can’t afford a countersuit, you can’t even afford that suit you’re wearing. Your salary is capped. You cashed in your stocks, that money is gone. You don’t get another distribution until January, assuming you’re still at Caravel when January rolls around. Your bank account is empty. Maybe you could sell one of your yachts, but the boating season is almost over. So good luck finding someone to buy it. You’ll never make back your investment, and with this firm’s billable rate—” I sucked in a breath through my teeth, “that’ll only buy you another three months. Tops.”

  “How do you—?” He began to blurt but then stopped himself, presumably from asking, How could you know that? Now the look he sent Sharpe was nervous. Caleb swallowed and lifted his chin. “You’re bluffing.”

  “No. You’re bluffing. And I got you in a corner. You can’t afford to pay Sharpe. You’re sending his people on bullshit fool’s errands, trying to get my wife committed? Good fucking luck, because that is never going to happen.”

  His cheerfulness had completely evaporated. In its place, his beady eyes darted around the room but focused inward. The rat was scrambling.

  Caleb Tyson might’ve been a skidmark shitstain on humanity, and he might’ve been an egotistical Masshole, and he’d definitely overestimated his abilities and underestimated mine, but he wasn’t stupid.

  He knew I was right.

  Even so, I couldn’t help myself, “If I use alphabet soup to spell this out for you, will you get the fucking picture? Or do you need it finger-painted?”

  His glare came back to me. “I will destroy you.”

  “Oh jeez, by golly. What’ll I do?” I clutched my chest, giving the fucker a little show.

  I doubted he heard me, because his next words were shouted in a rage. “I will fucking ruin you, do you hear me? You are nothing! Nothing!

  I sighed, tired of his irrelevant presence. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be sure to file that info right between fuck this and fuck that.”

  He made a choking sound as I turned from him, looking to Kat. Her gaze was on me, one hand on her hip, the other lifting her coffee cup to her lips and taking a sip, like she didn’t have one fucking care in the world.

  “You want more coffee, Kit-Kat?” I asked, giving her a wink.

  She shook her head, her eyes were laughing. “No thanks. This one is perfect, darling.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Pyrimethamine (trade name Daraprim™) is a medication used to treat toxoplasmosis and cystoisosporiasis and has been “out of patent” since the 1970s.

  In the United States, as of 2015, Turing Pharmaceuticals acquired the US marketing rights for Daraprim™ tablets and increased the price. The cost of a monthly course for a person on a 75 mg dose rose to about $75,000/month, or $750 per tablet (up from $13.50 a tablet prior to Turing’s acquisition). Outpatients can no longer obtain Daraprim™ from their community pharmacy, but only through a single dispensing pharmacy, Walgreens Specialty Pharmacy, and institutions can no longer order from their general wholesaler, but have to set up an account with the Daraprim™ Direct program.

  As of the writing of this book, there are no generic versions available for Daraprim™.

  —The New York Times (Paraphrased from)

  **Dan**

  I’ll spare the ugly details, but after a few more empty threats, Caleb stormed out.

  Then Sharpe, looking like he’d just had a near-death experience, rushed forward to Kat and tried to apologize. I got between them, forcing him to back off. But I mean, the guy tripped all over himself trying to kiss her ass, telling her they’d withdraw the petition to freeze the Caravel-Tyson assets as soon as possible, which meant later today. Which meant she’d have full access again by tomorrow.

  She gave him the same look she’d given Caleb earlier, the maggot-pus look, and said nothing. This was her M.O., I realized. When she didn’t like a person, or was pissed at them, she erected a wall and pretended they didn’t exist.

  Interesting . . .

  Eugene collected Sharpe, pulling him away from Kat and excused them both, briefly explaining they needed to take care of an urgent matter. He also promised to return soon so we could review the will and get started with the day’s meetings. His earlier tension was replaced with a twinkle in his eyes and a spring in his step.

  Good.

  I liked the old guy, even though he was devious and his professional ethics were questionable.

  This left Kat standing at nine o’clock and me at twelve o’clock around the oval conference table. She was still holding her coffee.

  “He’s broke?” she asked, looking thoughtful.

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “Alex?”

  I nodded. “Yep. Alex and Quinn sent over the specifics yesterday morning. I meant to tell you, but . . .”

  She nodded. “Don’t worry about it.” But then her stare grew hazy, like she was doing math in her head. “Where did the money go?”

  “I don’t k
now. His salary is capped, so are his stock options, but it’s not like Caravel pays peanuts. He sold all the shares he had months ago, but the cash is nowhere. At least, nowhere Alex could find it. Yet. Your cousin has two mortgages on both his houses.”

  “Hmm. . .” Her gaze went blurry again. “There’s been a problem with the division earnings reports for the last twelve quarters.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At Caravel.” She set her coffee down, looking at me thoughtfully. “We’ve had no new agents go to market, and spending in R&D is way down—way down—but profits are up.”

  “Where is the money coming from?”

  “Current product sales, which shouldn’t be the case because all of our in-house catalogue is out-of-patent with generics available. At least, I think generics are available.” Kat frowned, her gaze sliding to the table and resting there. “I should check on that,” she murmured.

  A knock sounded on the door, followed by a team of assistants appearing with a platter of fancy croissants and pastries, and asking us if we wanted a latte or cappuccino. We didn’t. We thanked them. They left.

  I sat down, taking the seat next to where she was standing. Placing my coffee on the table, I grabbed one of the fancy croissants. “The way I figure things, Eugene didn’t know anything about the frozen assets until just this morning. Obviously, Caleb and Sharpe showing up took him by surprise.”

  She studied the platter, grabbing a napkin. “Sharpe isn’t a bad guy, but he’s never considered me a priority client. He doesn’t know me. He considers Caravel the main client, even though it’s my family’s money that pays the firm’s retainer, not the company. Caravel has their own legal team in-house. And Caleb is the CEO. So. . .”

  “Why would Eugene pick that guy for his partner?”

  “He and Eugene founded the firm thirty years ago, and my father is a big reason why they’ve been so successful. Sharpe goes where the money is, which makes sense. They have a big staff of people here who rely on them for paychecks and Eugene is on his way out the door, ready to retire. He needs to take care of his people.” She selected a cheese and cherry danish, licking her fingers after setting it on her napkin.

  “You’re being very generous to Sharpe, a guy who’s been working to have you committed to a mental institution and just froze your assets.”

  “It’s business. One day, I’ll be responsible for voting the controlling shares in Caravel and I’ll have to make decisions based on what’s best for the company, because the people are the company. That’s what my father used to say.”

  “He did? He used to say that to you?”

  “No. I’ve read interviews he gave to magazines and newspapers,” she admitted sadly, then sighed. “I think I need to go into the office tomorrow.”

  “What? Go back to Chicago?”

  “No. Here.” She glanced at me, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “I have an office at the Caravel headquarters in Boston.”

  “Oh?” I turned toward her more fully, leaning an elbow on the table, lifting my eyebrows. “Is it a corner office?”

  “It is.”

  “On a high floor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have your own secretary?”

  “I don’t have an executive assistant of my own, no. I use the executive pool when I need help.”

  “Hmm.” My gaze flickered over her. “You’re worried about the problems with the reports?”

  “Do you think Janie would take a look? If I asked? I mean, I know she just had a baby. But she was honestly the best person we had in the accounting department before they let her go. She’s unbelievably amazing. And she knows things, random facts, which help her pick up on discrepancies. I feel like she’d see the pattern I’m missing.”

  “Why don’t you ask someone in Caravel to help?”

  “I don’t know who I can trust.”

  “Yeah. Good point. I’m sure Janie would be happy to help.”

  Kat exhaled, sounding relieved. “Okay. Good. This is a good plan. When they come out next weekend, I’ll have her go through them with me.”

  “Elizabeth, Sandra, and Ashley could also help.” I tore off a piece of my croissant. “They might be able to quickly look at your current agent, or drug catalogue—that’s what you called it?—and tell you which ones have generics.”

  “Yes. Good idea. I’ve been meaning to do this research forever, but with work and school, I’ve let my concerns about Caravel slide, figuring I just needed more time to learn the ropes. I just thought . . .”

  “What?”

  Her small smile looked regretful. “I thought I had more time.”

  “More time?”

  “Before my dad died. For some reason, as long as he was alive, even though he was in no shape to run Caravel or vote the family shares, I felt like I had a buffer. I could live my life like I wanted, where I wanted.”

  I studied her, her gaze now intense, like she was trying to tell me something without saying it. She didn’t need to say it, I could put the puzzle pieces together myself.

  “You’re moving to Boston,” I guessed.

  Kat chewed on her bottom lip, watching me, maybe hoping for more mind reading.

  When I said nothing, she sighed, her attention dropping to her pastry. “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On you.” Pink spread over her cheeks and she picked at the danish’s flaky dough. “I would like to—I would like for us to . . .”

  “Yes?” I found myself leaning forward, on the edge of my seat.

  “We’ve done everything backward.” Kat brought her thumb to her tongue, licked the icing, her stare coming back to me. “If we were in Chicago, would we live together? Now that the Caleb threat seems to have vanished, do we stay married?”

  For some reason, my heart was beating faster. All I knew was, I didn’t like the direction she was heading with these questions.

  “The Caleb threat hasn’t vanished,” I hedged, taking a bite of my croissant, chewing to give myself more time, taking a drink of my coffee to give myself even more time.

  But, now that I thought about it, my statement was true. Our confrontation just now had been too easy, I’d won too easily. Maybe Caleb’s lack of funds had made him sloppy, but he wasn’t ready to give up. I was sure of it. I may have cauterized his access to the law firm and legal resources, but that still left him illegal resources.

  “I know people. Little shits like Caleb don’t give up. They just keep coming and coming, never know when to stop. He’s out of money, and he’s lost for now, but that just means he’s desperate.”

  She didn’t seem surprised by my assessment of her cousin. “So we stay married?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. And I think we decide here and now to just shelve that issue indefinitely. You know, just in case. No need to end it, really. At all. Ever.” I took another bite of my croissant, washing it down with a big gulp of coffee and watching for her reaction.

  Kat smiled a little shy smile, her gaze growing soft, her eyes drawing me in. “Agreed. But then, do we live separately? Or would you . . .”

  “Would I?” I prompted.

  “Would you consider living, at least part time, in Boston?” She winced, like she was bracing herself for my answer.

  “Absolutely.” I nodded.

  Her gaze searched mine. “And we would live together?”

  “I should hope so, we are married.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I do.” I leaned back in my chair, giving her my serious face. “We can live together and still take things slow.”

  She was chewing on her lip again. “It’ll be hard.”

  “You have no idea,” I mumbled.

  Her face split with a smile and she shook her head at me. But then her expression sobered. “I don’t want to live in my father’s house, in Duxbury. He used to take a helicopter into work.”

  “Holy shit. You own a helicopter?”

  She nodded, look
ing uncomfortable.

  “So who’s living there now? At the place in Duxbury?”

  “No one. It’s been empty since he moved to the care facility. But it’s still maintained, just like all the other houses.”

  “All the other houses,” I parroted, letting the lunacy of that statement roll around in my brain.

  “Yes.” Her features grew stark and she rubbed her forehead. “So many houses. Eugene has the list.”

  I studied her for a beat. “Where are you thinking in Boston?”

  She twisted her lips to the side. “So, I was talking to your mom—”

  “We’re not living with my mom.”

  “No. I agree.” She grinned. “But maybe on her street?”

  I choked. “You want to live down the street from my mom?”

  “Yes.”

  I shook my head. “Can I think about it?”

  “Of course. It would be your home, too.”

  “I guess it would.” I rubbed my chin, thinking about that.

  My folks lived with my paternal grandparents for their entire marriage, until my father left. My dad’s folks left the house to my mother in their will. My ma’s parents had sold their house—which had been next door—and moved to Florida seven years ago.

  The neighborhood had changed a lot in ten years. Homes had been knocked over and two or three townhouses had been placed on a single lot. Managing security for a house was more difficult than an apartment building, too many points of entry. Kat was worth buckets of money and that kind of money attracted serious problems.

  “You’ll need a security detail,” I spoke my thoughts out loud.

  “I know.” She sounded resigned to and unhappy about it, but at least she agreed. “I was thinking, for at least the next few weeks, until we figure something out, we’ll have to move to The Langham. They keep a penthouse open for my family’s use and they’ll allow Wally.”

  “You already asked the hotel about Wally?” Warmth suffused my chest at this news. She’s been thinking about this, making plans, including Wally.