Filthy Rich

by Virna DePaul

  Iris even brought over a kitten, which mewled and gazed up at Cara with soft eyes, but Cara simply stared at the peach and gray ball of fuzz and didn’t reach out to pet it. This had worried Iris immensely, and she’d confided to him that Cara had always wanted a pet, but that her building didn’t allow them. Branden had immediately arranged to acquire one of the kittens from Iris, who said she’d hold on to it until Cara was feeling more like herself.

  Thankfully, that looked like it was going to happen sooner than he’d expected. Last night, something seemed to have shifted inside her, and she’d accepted a drive out to Windorne Home to see Glenn, then to Brooklyn to see her mom.

  And go through her father’s things in the attic.

  But she’d still come home that night and had curled up in bed, not reaching for him, not spreading her legs and welcoming him in.

  In sleep, she stretched and relaxed in his embrace, giving sleepy little moans that took him back to their hottest encounters instantly. Tough, he’d told himself. Tough fucking luck. You, Branden Duke, will live through this night and the next night and the next. However long it takes. Until she’s ready for that again. Ready for you.

  And she would be. Together, they’d work through the shadow Mike Gaunt had cast. And in order to do that, to help her do that, he needed to know everything there was to know.

  Opening his eyes, he turned to Deena and nodded.

  He opened the door to Mike Gaunt’s office.

  A slender woman in her forties with brown bobbed hair was paging through two books set side by side, turning the pages of each at exactly the same moment, like an automaton. Her bifocals had slipped down her ski-jump nose but she didn’t stop to push them back up.

  Deena knocked softly to get her attention.

  She looked up and smiled in a very real way. “Come in,” she said. “I’m Louise Callahan, a forensic psychiatrist and investigator. You must be Branden Duke. Deena said she would bring you by.”

  “Well, here I am. What’s going on?”

  Louise got to the point. “We found Mike Gaunt’s journals in his black bag, which had a false bottom. These were concealed beneath it.” She nodded toward the bag, which now sat on a chair. It seemed to be completely empty. Branden was more interested in the thick journals, which weren’t printed but handwritten. Each held what seemed to be hundreds of pages between hard black covers, spiral bound.

  “As you can see, these are actually artists’ sketchbooks, with high-quality paper suitable for watercolor paints and ink, no bleed-through.”

  Each page was covered in tiny cursive script, on both sides. He could make out a few dates—the microscopic numerals were easier to read than the dense handwriting.

  “He started these in the late 1990s. Yes, they go back that far,” she said in response to Branden’s surprised expression. “Each entry is quite short. He created a meticulous record of his descent into insanity, perhaps as an attempt to control it. Mike Gaunt was a deeply troubled man.”

  Branden and Deena exchanged a look.

  “What I find most fascinating is the parallel structures of the text,” she said. “One book mostly about men. One book for women. Notes for each gender appear in each on the same day. His observations are much less organized and it’s not perfectly consistent, of course. Whatever came into his mind was written down. If you like, I can read you some of the material. But the books themselves will be kept as evidence.”

  She paused and gave a little cough.

  “It’s almost ironic that no one can physically touch these books without gloves now because they’re evidence in a criminal investigation. Mike had been obsessed with germs, but he’d also craved contact. More than the interaction he had with people during the day, apparently. So he invented his own world, in a way, and peopled it with actual human beings from his daily life. On paper, he could control them. When digital editing software was developed, he could make them do anything on film he took secretly.”

  “What did he write?” Branden hated thinking about what he might learn. He had seen what Gaunt did with videos. The books couldn’t be as devastating. Ink and paper didn’t have the power of moving images. “Don’t go back too far. I want to know what he wrote about Cara.”

  Louise nodded and flipped pages of both books backward with the same simultaneous motion. “His hatred for you started years ago, when you started working with him and Deena in prior SEC investigations. Once you came to D&M, however, he never wrote about her without writing about you. It was as if you two were inextricably linked in his mind. But even on paper, he prevented you from touching.”

  Deena stayed where she was but Branden moved closer, standing where he could read over Louise Callahan’s shoulder. She pointed to a relevant entry in the men’s book with a gloved fingertip.

  Branden Duke acts like a fucking king. I hate him. Wall Street is full of liars and thieves like him. The game is rigged. Honest men can’t win. Good men, grown men who take their responsibilities and training seriously get shoved aside by these fucking punks. His youth—he takes it for granted. His success—he doesn’t deserve any of it. All that money. Women are always touching him, like they can feel something good under his clothes. But Cara stays away.

  Louise pointed to the women’s book. “He picks up the thought here. Note the same date. It’s like a dialogue in his head.”

  Cara is pure. Conservative clothes. Not too much makeup. I could be wrong about her, though. The way she walks is sexy. I keep thinking about what she looks like naked. But she keeps to herself. No flirting. I think she hates Branden, too. It doesn’t matter. To her I’m nobody. Just a middle-aged man in a clean white shirt who follows the rules. But I have a lot to offer. She just doesn’t know it. I want to teach her that rules are good. She needs to learn to obey. I will have to touch her to teach her. She might fight me. But I’ll win.

  “I have to warn you both that many entries are obscene. Some are violent.”

  Branden fought back a rising fury. These books would be filed away in an evidence locker somewhere in DC. Mike Gaunt’s words no longer had the power to hurt others or to heal his psychosis, to use Callahan’s lingo. His fantasies, his brooding rants were effectively as dead as he was.

  He let Louise turn more pages.

  I followed Cara and Branden into that dirty club. I had to tape her. It was a way to keep her close to me without touching her. But she danced like a whore. She rubbed herself all over him on the dance floor. I was disappointed in her. I was angry. She needed to know someone was watching her. So I sent her the tape.

  “Flip back a couple of pages,” Branden asked quietly. “I want to know where he got the original tape of me that he digitized.”

  Louise obliged.

  I tagged him online. I have a record of every mention of his name. The HotnSaucey tape of him was available for complete ownership and transfer of copyright. I paid what they asked. It would never be shown online again. It was mine. Safe in my hard drive, ha ha ha. With all the girl porn I used to make my own Cara. And now I had Branden Duke in the flesh. I cut off everything he had below the waist. Him with his hands on those tight jeans. Touching himself. I had to keep him from touching Cara like that. I had to figure out a way to punish them both. I wanted them to be scared.

  “Sick fuck.” Branden looked at Louise. “Sorry. Had to say it.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. The psychiatric term is really too long.”

  “A dead sick fuck.” Branden avoided Deena’s reproving glance.

  “Yes.” It didn’t seem possible to ruffle Louise Callahan. “Do you want to read more?”

  Branden frowned. “Go forward. To the day before he attacked Cara. I want to know what he was thinking.”

  “The handwriting got bigger and more agitated in the final pages,” the psychiatrist said. “I would guess that he was rapidly losing control. There are numerous signs of progressive mental disintegration, fueled by obsessive hatred. He begins to mix up the male and female
entries, for one thing. And he seems to be standing outside himself now and then, observing and admiring his own actions.”

  She called him and he brought his own bodyguard with him—Howe. He knows me. They don’t know that I took over an empty apartment in Duke’s building. A real badge and the right bullshit gets you past any doorman. No one asked me questions when I roamed around the skyscraper, either. Because now I look like the man. In charge. An authority figure. Experienced and disciplined. A man who can make bodies disappear without a trace. A man who can kill. No. A man who wants to kill. I have a plan. In my head. I don’t need to write things down anymore. I need to act. Kill her. Kill him.

  Louise Callahan flipped to the last page. The meticulous handwriting had changed completely into a messy scrawl that was too big not to crowd the margins. Gaunt’s focused rage had exploded.

  He has everything. I have nothing. He has her. But I can take her away. Today. Today.

  Thank God he hadn’t succeeded in his plan to take Cara away from him, Branden thought. And what a complicated, well-thought-out plan it had been.

  He’d rented an apartment in Branden’s building. Gained access to the new skyscraper’s computerized heart, including the key code to Branden’s door and to his private elevators. He’d even planted malware that only he could activate to run them in different ways. All he’d needed was the opportunity to get Branden on those elevators and to Cara.

  So far, there was no evidence that he’d recorded the trap Cara and Branden had set for him. He hoped it was because he hadn’t.

  Even after spending the last week with her, with all known threats to them eliminated, Branden was still paranoid. He’d assigned several men to guard her while she was in the penthouse and when she was out of it. While some part of him wanted to keep her protectively locked indoors, he refused to give Gaunt that type of power over them. Cara wasn’t meant to be caged. She was a beautiful woman who loved life, and he was going to spend the rest of his spoiling her and showing her all the wonders and luxuries that were hers for the taking. That included making sure her mother and brother were well taken care of as always, with the major difference that Cara no longer felt she carried that responsibility alone.

  Tomorrow they were leaving for the beach vacation he promised her. He hoped the time away from New York would finally enable them to move beyond the nightmare they’d experienced and become intimate—physically and emotionally—again.

  During the visit with her mother last night, Cara had shown him her father’s paperwork that she’d found in the attic. She held hope that the paperwork would hold the key to exonerating her father once and for all. Branden wanted to give that to her, but from what he’d seen so far, he wasn’t sure he could—Davies normally covered his tracks pretty darn well. However, he was currently in custody for trying to move those stolen bonds, so who knew? Maybe Branden was giving him too much credit. He’d make sure to look over every piece of paper himself once he and Cara returned.

  As for Gills and Sampson, Deena would handle the investigation while Branden was gone. It wouldn’t be difficult given how cooperative Gills was being now that he’d heard Sampson was talking and spinning things in his favor. Gills told Deena that his life had been wasted “chasing numbers” and that he’d gotten talked into “doing illegal things” by Sampson, who might or might not be Davies’s son—Sampson was denying the connection, and the glass Iris had pilfered hadn’t provided usable traces of DNA.

  According to Gills, conspiring with Sampson had initially given him a thrill, an adrenaline rush. But then he had heard about the death of one of his longtime acquaintances, a man who’d been arrested for insider trading. The man had dropped dead of a heart attack while in jail awaiting his trial. Larry told Deena that he tried to stop after that, but Sampson had too much on him and blackmailed him into continuing. He was old and tired and had decided he couldn’t go on the way he had any longer.

  Based on what Deena had uncovered so far, Sampson could be charged with violating at least four sections of the Securities Exchange Act of 1934, and as far as sentencing, if found guilty, he would be forced to repay his ill-gotten gains, plus prejudgment interest, preventing him from serving as an officer or director of a public company, and permanently enjoining him from future violations of those provisions of the federal securities laws. Gills probably wouldn’t fare too much better.

  But that wasn’t Branden’s concern. And it certainly wouldn’t be Cara’s. He didn’t plan on sharing what he’d learned today, especially the snippets from Gaunt’s journals. Maybe someday he’d tell her, but right now he wanted her completely at ease, the memory of Gaunt’s attack wiped away as much as possible.

  To that end, he left D&M and headed home.

  To Cara.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  After arriving at the Andros Island Airport, Branden and Cara caught a private ferry to Kamalame Cay, a Caribbean barefoot-chic retreat with nineteen luxurious seaside suites set in charming bougainvillea-draped cottages, peak-roofed Balinese beach houses, and classic Plantation-style villas. Each cottage had access to a mile of its own private beach.

  They were greeted at the Great House, which was furnished with a grand collection of South Asian and Bahamian decor, art books, antiques, and collectibles. The concierge led them through a garden terrace along a white sand path, passing an outdoor tiki bar with an open grill and a heated freshwater pool edged in breathtaking, towering silver palms.

  The Great House was mind-boggling enough, but when Cara saw their villa…

  “It’s gorgeous,” she said, then laughed at how she’d been gushing.

  “You like?”

  “I love! It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, straight out of a magazine…or a dream.”

  “I aim to make your fantasies a reality, Cara.”

  In the past few weeks, she’d been so distant with Branden, ever since Mike Gaunt had tried to…what…kill her? Sure felt that way. But Gaunt had taken her somewhere she’d never been before—that no one ever should be. Bouncing back from a crazed man’s attack wasn’t the same as bouncing back from a fractured wrist or a tumble on the sidewalk.

  But she was almost there. Almost back to who she was before the attack. She had to hope Branden would keep waiting…and had to hope she’d heal, and soon.

  And that when she did, Branden would still be there.

  Because she still hadn’t said those words that meant so much to her. She still hadn’t told Branden Duke she loved him.

  And she did. Not because he’d saved her. Not because he’d examined the paperwork from her mother’s attic and found a couple of discrepancies that had proven her father was indeed innocent of what he’d been accused of—something he, Cara, her mother, and Glenn had celebrated with tears and hugs of joy and toasts to her father—but because of all he was. Kind. Sexy. Strong. Honorable.

  She scanned the villa. It had a peaked roof and a wood frame. The open windows in the front room left it bright and airy and splashed with sun. The ceilings stretched upward as tall as the sweeping palms they’d passed on their way in. Outside, there was a covered spacious veranda that looked out onto their mile-long private stretch of white sandy beach that led to a clear, aquamarine ocean.

  The bathroom had a sunken marble tub with built-in jets and a walk-in shower with two heads. The bedroom was huge, with an oversized king bed and privacy curtains draped around the hand-carved four posters that held it up. The glass doors opened directly onto the beach.

  Finally, a small kitchenette was already stocked with a variety of fine wines, premium spirits, snacks, and teas. They were all her favorites, right down to the brand. Branden must have tailored the selection to their liking when he made the reservations, and his attention to the smallest detail, all designed to spoil her rotten, made her heart clench and then expand. Branden slipped the young man a tip, a very large one judging from the look on the other man’s face, and asked that they not be disturbed again. The young man explained
their “walkie-talkie” system, saying that guests wouldn’t be bothered unless the guest initiated contact with the staff.

  When the young man was gone, Cara turned to Branden. “This is incredible.”

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, although I’m not even sure beautiful covers it. Just look out there,” she said as she stared out the big glass windows. “Can we go for a walk?” she asked excitedly.

  He hugged her from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head. “Walking wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but there’s plenty of time. This is your vacation, Cara. I want you to do whatever you want.”

  She sighed and turned her head to receive his kiss. He pulled open the glass doors and gave her a little nudge. She stepped onto the veranda and bent down to slip off her shoes. When she straightened she caught Branden staring at her behind.

  “Like what you see?” she teased.

  Branden made a growling sound deep in his throat.

  Cara smiled and held out her hand. “Come on, let’s walk.”

  After sliding off his own shoes, Branden took her hand. As they walked, the sand slipped between their toes and the warm, clear water lapped at their feet. A small breeze played lightly through Cara’s hair.

  She suddenly felt a raindrop on her face and wiped it away. A few clouds had moved in while they walked.

  “Do you want to go back inside?” Branden asked.

  She shook her head and tilted her head back so her face pointed toward the clouds. The drizzle of rain was light, the air warm. Both caused Cara’s thin cotton dress to stick to her curves. The wind shifted in intensity, spattering her with raindrops—warm, wet, heavy raindrops that plopped on her skin like a happy song, sending joyful sensations shooting across her skin.

  It hit her—she was alive.