by Nadia Lee
I take a good look at the man. He’s got to be in his late fifties or early sixties. Silver threads his dark hair, cut expensively and precisely. He’s tall, but he doesn’t look as tall as he could because of an exceptionally thick build. Despite a hint of softening, his body is still hard, with the kind of muscles that say he works out. The haughty tilt of his head and the smooth diction of his voice all indicate he’s a man of wealth, used to being listened to.
“Nice to meet you,” I say almost reluctantly. I’m not that interested in getting to know Elliot’s ex’s current life.
“The pleasure’s mine,” he responds. “Your name?”
“An”—I catch myself—“Belle.”
“A pretty name for a pretty lady.”
Annabelle turns to Stanton. “Love, this area doesn’t seem to get good light.” She pouts. “It’s going to be hard to tan here.”
“You want to move?”
“If you don’t mind.” The smile she gives him is dazzling. “Pretty please?”
He laughs. “All right.” He waves good-bye, and he and his wife leave.
Watching them go to the opposite end of the pool, I breathe out. The knot in my chest finally loosens. I don’t like her, and I’m not sure about her husband. He seems to dote on her, but what do I know about a man who marries a woman young enough to be his daughter?
I sit for a while and stare at nothing. Sometime later, Elliot joins me, rubbing a towel briskly over his body.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
Should I say something? But if I do, it’ll undoubtedly ruin our last full day in St. Cecilia. Annabelle Underhill is a woman from Elliot’s past, and that’s where she belongs.
I smile. “Nothing.”
“So. Let’s go to the villa.” He sits next to me and nuzzles the back of my neck, sending hot shivers down my spine. “Unless you don’t mind public sex?”
I laugh and take his hand. “You’re incorrigible.” I don’t want to risk running into the Underhills again. “We can go. And we can stay there until we have to leave the island.”
Chapter Twenty
Elliot
No matter how carefully you plan your vacation, the day after you come back is always hectic. My assistant has triaged everything, but a lot of it still requires immediate attention.
Then there’s the thing with Paddington. He sent me a huge envelope.
While my wife naps—tired from the trip—I go to my office to review what he found.
The folder inside is over an inch thick with documents, most of them paper trails, and hundreds of scanned photos, some of them poor quality. A yellow sticky note says, “Call.”
I dial his number.
“Elliot,” he says. “Did you get my package?”
“Yes.”
“Your sister-in-law signed for it.”
“I wasn’t home.”
“I should’ve waited then.”
“It’s fine. She isn’t the type to dig into my stuff.” One of the things I can say about her is she’s consistently polite and nice. It’s hard to believe she’s a teenager.
Paddington makes a noncommittal noise deep in his throat. “I’ll give you a very brief overview, although if you want to dig into more detail, you can read what I sent you. The photos of your wife and Dennis Dunn were taken by PIs who are on Stanton Underhill’s retainer.”
The news makes me blink. My mind works furiously to reconcile what he told me and what I suspected, but it doesn’t make sense. After days of thinking, I assumed it was Dad trying to drive a wedge between me and my wife. That would amuse the old fart. “Underhill? That doesn’t make sense.”
“But it’s true. There were also more photos of your wife, but they were sort of boring, nothing out of ordinary. You have a set in the package.”
I say nothing. Paddington probably hacked the other PIs’ server to grab those.
“As for Dennis Dunn, that isn’t his real name. He is actually Dennis Smith. His father was Jack Smith and your wife’s father’s former business partner. Both families lived in the same city.”
So Dennis and my wife weren’t just your garden-variety high school sweethearts whose relationship went sour. I tap my fingers on the smooth desktop and wait for Paddington to continue.
“When their Ponzi scheme fell apart two years ago, Jack Smith gunned down your wife’s parents in front of their home and ate the last bullet himself.”
“Jesus.” The word tears from my mouth before I can stop myself. It explains so much about why my wife won’t discuss Dennis. The past has got to be painful.
“Afterward, Dennis Smith took his mother’s maiden name. She died not too long after the murder-suicide, by the way.” Paddington pauses, as though giving me some time to process all this, then continues. “When your wife was fifteen, she was popular in school, and she hung out with the other popular kids. Typical high school behavior. She was inseparable with her best friend at that time.”
“Name?”
“Traci Burton, who also left Lincoln City. Currently works for Omega Wealth Management as an assistant to Hilary Pryce.”
Mark’s wife. I steeple my fingers together and lean back in my seat. “Continue.”
“I looked into your wife’s finances for the last two years. She has no significant assets to speak of, but she doesn’t have any debt either. However, over the last thirteen months she’s been getting a monthly deposit ranging between one thousand and fifteen hundred dollars from an entity called Life Trust.”
“What is that?”
“It’s a shell company set up overseas.”
“By her father?”
“No. He wasn’t that savvy. It’s quite sophisticated and comes with a contact person in the U.S., Larry Grayson. He’s an independent contractor—or so it looks from the outside, but I suspect he has some kind of stake in the entity. I doubt your wife’s father managed to hide enough assets to have a person doing all this work two years after his death. He seemed to be rather frivolous with money.”
Spots at the edge of my eyeballs start to throb. “So who’s behind Life Trust?”
“Keith Shellington.”
The name hits me like a wrecking ball, and I reel mentally. “What the fuck?”
Paddington stays quiet.
A tangle of emotions jitters through me, and I jump to my feet. “No fucking way. No fucking way!”
“It’s true. I suppose you haven’t forgotten about him.”
I start to shake my head, then remember Paddington can’t see me. “Of course not.” Keith is the thieving son of a bitch CFO who stole from the company Lucas and I started. “Why is he giving money to my wife?”
“That, I don’t know. But I’m certain that he doesn’t know your wife personally because they’ve never met. I already checked.”
That doesn’t mean anything. Keith’s MO is all about plausible deniability.
Paddington continues, “Still, Larry Grayson has provided a lot of help to your wife. She was initially in Las Vegas, but he relocated her to L.A. And he helped her get a job at a restaurant. It was all behind the scenes stuff—paying the manager some money to at least give her a chance. Then when she lost that job, he got her hired at a strip club.” Paddington’s voice is as flat as a professionally ironed sheet, and holds no judgment.
Raking my hair, I start pacing. If it weren’t for Keith’s involvement, I would’ve found Larry Grayson’s effort commendable and thanked him. But this…? This changes everything. Keith blames me in particular for his losing out on millions. But the son of a bitch got too arrogant, too careless, and it was only a matter of time before either Lucas or I caught him red-handed.
“I sent photos of everyone involved,” Paddington says.
My hands shaking, I flip through the folder. I find a photo labeled LARRY GRAYSON. It is a portrait shot, something you might find on an employee badge at a big corporation. His narrow, pale face is completely expressionless. He sports conservatively cut brown hair, and h
is eyes match the shade exactly. Ordinary. It’s the kind of face you’d see and not remember ten seconds later.
But an ordinary man wouldn’t be working for someone like Keith Shellington.
Then I remember the description of the person who paid for the cake that arrived in my penthouse with my wife inside. Larry Grayson matches it.
“Find out one more thing,” I say. “On my birthday, a cake with a girl inside was delivered to my penthouse. See if the person who ordered it was Larry Grayson.”
“No problem. Should have an answer by COB today.”
“Thanks. I’ll call if I need anything else.” I hang up.
I sit back in my chair and stare at the cityscape outside. It’s almost lunch time, but I can’t register any hunger. My mind keeps churning over the facts Paddington’s dug up.
Lincoln City is a relatively small town. Not exactly Excitement Central. I doubt Keith ever set foot in that place. But why is he interested in my wife? It’s obviously not a coincidence that his man purposely put her in my path. But I need to be absolutely sure.
I dial the strip club’s manager, Chuck.
“Mr. Reed,” he answers his cell, his voice as oily as ever.
“I need to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you hire Annabelle Key?”
“Uh… I’m not sure what you mean.”
“She sucked as a stripper, and I know you never hire a girl without an ‘audition.’ So why?”
He clears his throat. “She was pretty decent during the audition.”
“Chuck, I don’t like it when people lie to me. Not even a little.”
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. I don’t think he means for me to hear it, but the word comes through our connection clearly. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. Did she complain about me or the club?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I was just asked to give her a chance. That’s all.”
“Who asked you?”
“Just some guy. I figured it was her boyfriend, you know? Or something like that.”
Something like that, meaning her pimp or worse. “What was his name?”
“Don’t really remember. It was a while back.”
“Larry Grayson?”
There’s a little too much hesitation. “Yeah, I don’t know. Coulda been.”
Hot anger and confusion crest through me, but I stay calm. “I didn’t call you to get information. Just to confirm.”
“Hey, look. He told me to forget about him. So I’m forgetting, okay?”
“I understand. What might he have said, if you could remember better?”
“Well… He just thought it would be helpful. For her. Strippers make good money, you know? And she was pretty enough. So I told him sure, I’d give her a shot.”
“But he paid you to do that.”
I can almost hear him swallow. “Well, yeah. But you liked her. Right? I mean, I saw you tip her. And now you two’re married. So I don’t understand why you’re upset.”
I let the silence stretch.
“Look, I won’t tell anybody how you met your wife. I mean, it’s none of my business, but I think it’s great. People can find true love anywhere, right? But I swear, you won’t be embarrassed because of this. Not because of me.”
The chuckle I let out is dark and devoid of humor. It’s comical how Chuck thinks I’m calling to avoid embarrassment, when everything I’ve done is to bring embarrassment and humiliation to the family name—and to ensure Dad knows I can play the game as well as he can.
Except…Belle is no longer a pawn. She matters to me.
“Did he mention me at all?” I ask.
“No, man. He asked about Ryder.”
Ryder? What does he have anything to do with anything? “What did you tell him?”
“The truth. I said he doesn’t come by anymore, being committed and all, but you do.”
Now it makes sense. Misdirection. Grayson most likely didn’t want to ask about me point-blank. But mentioning my famous actor brother was a good roundabout way to get the information he needed since everyone knows he and I hung out together a lot.
“Are we done?” Chuck asks, his voice shaky.
“Yes. Don’t let Grayson know we’ve talked.”
“Hey, you don’t have to worry. I’ll never see the guy again.” He hangs up.
I close my eyes, the back of my head propped against the headrest.
I love you…
I want her to say it to me all the time, over and over again, and not just in bed while I’m pushing her body over the edge. She is the second woman to tell me she loved me…and the first betrayed me.
And hasn’t Belle betrayed me as well?
She’s had so many chances to come clean about Grayson and the whole sordid mess. I’ve given her openings, gently probing so that she could tell me about things that could impact both of us, but she’s kept her mouth shut. She’s explicitly led me to believe she’d been providing for herself and Nonny on her own. The whole act about not wanting to sleep with me—regardless of how much money I throw at her—unless we got married… And like an idiot I bought the whole thing because I wanted her that badly.
Just like I let odd little things that didn’t add up slide with Annabelle Underhill because I didn’t want to consider the alternative.
I exhale harshly. There’s nothing to be done except wait for Paddington’s confirmation.
But I already know the answer.
Chapter Twenty-One
Annabelle
The non-stop buzzing of my phone wakes me up. I look at the clock by the bed. It’s a little after two.
I cringe. I can’t believe it’s this late. Now I won’t be able to sleep tonight.
I look at the screen. It’s full of texts from Nonny.
Is it true?
OMG were you really a hooker like they say?
Did you strip for real?
Suddenly my blood chills. There are more, all from my sister, and I google my name. There are hundreds of hits, most of them about my work as a stripper and a high-price escort. The lurid headlines stare in my face.
“Billionaire Elliot Reed Marries a Hooker” is the theme for every single one of them.
The articles are worse. They speak of “unnamed sources close to Annabelle Key” who told them everything. I was apparently a great stripper and an even more fabulous escort. Many speculated on which of the rich and powerful I’ve slept with and what attracted Elliot to me. Most imply it’s sex…or maybe I’m pregnant, like Ryder’s wife Paige.
I drop the phone on the bed as my heart pounds, sweat slick on my palms.
How in the world did this get out?
Annabelle Underhill’s sneer pops in my head, but I dismiss it. She doesn’t know anything about me. There’s no way she could’ve leaked all this information.
Caroline.
My former roommate is the only one who could’ve sold me out, spinning the information so I would end up looking as horrible as possible. She was determined to capitalize on my marriage to Elliot.
Bile rises in my throat, and I click my teeth together. I grossly underestimated how far Caroline would go…and how much interest the media would have in me.
I pull myself together and get up. I need to tell Elliot in case he hasn’t seen this mess yet. He deserves to hear it from me.
As for Nonny, I have no idea what I’m going to say to her. This is the kind of thing I wanted to keep her away from. But now that’s going to be impossible.
But first things first.
I go downstairs. Elliot is seated in an armchair by a couch and watches me approach. He is in the same white V-neck shirt and dark shorts from earlier, his feet bare.
“We need to talk,” I start, my voice quavering. Then I stop, unsure how to proceed.
He doesn’t say anything. But he keeps staring, his gaze unreadable. Cold spreads over me, and I shiver.
“Have you seen the arti
cles?” I ask, my stomach knotting painfully. His somber expression and the heavy, steady look remind me of the time when my dad told me he lost everything—that his company was a sham.
“Yes.” His voice is so soft. “Is that all you want to talk about?”
What does he mean?
Panic unfurls in my chest. Is this about Dennis? He threatened to act against me if I didn’t stop his company from investigating him again, even though I have no control over Omega Wealth Management. If he did contact Elliot… God only knows what he might’ve told my husband. At the same time, Elliot is a smart man. He wouldn’t believe everything my ex told him. Or would he?
“What do you mean?” I lick my suddenly dry lips. I feel like the floor’s shifting underneath my feet.
“Is there anything else you’re hiding?”
“Elliot…I can’t tell you what you want to know if you don’t explain.”
He takes a long breath. “Who is Larry Grayson and why has he been paying you every month for the last thirteen months?”
Shock freezes me, then my knees shake. How does my husband know about him? Did Mr. Grayson try something with Elliot? “He’s…” A lump lodges in my throat, and I swallow, trying to get it to go away. Apprehension beats in my chest, and I clasp my hands together for courage. “He said he worked for an insurance company. He came to see me in Vegas to make sure I got money from my father’s life insurance policy.”
“Insurance companies don’t generally pursue beneficiaries.”
I flinch at his hard voice. “I know that now. It isn’t every day I’m a bene—”
“Why did he get you the job at the strip club when it was obvious you were bad at it?”
Elliot knows everything. I close my eyes for a brief moment. “I needed a job…and he said you needed a wife.”
His gaze sharpens. “He knew that?”
I drop my gaze and look away. “Yes.” I’m too humiliated to look at him. Now that he’s questioning me, I see starkly how naïve and silly I’ve been.
“And you didn’t think it was important to mention that?”
I spread my hands. “What I thought was that it was ridiculous. Why would a guy like you want to marry a stripper? It didn’t make any sense.”