Shattered Trust (Shattered #2)

by Magda Alexander

  ALSO BY MAGDA ALEXANDER

  The Storm Damages Series

  Storm Damages

  Storm Ravaged

  Storm Redemption

  Storm Conquered

  Storm Surrender

  The Shattered Series

  Shattered Virtue

  The Italian Stallions Series

  A Christmas Kiss to Remember

  My Smokin’ Hot Valentine

  Stand-Alone Novella

  Up Close and Personal

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Amalia Villalba

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle.

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477817353

  ISBN-10: 1477817352

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  For Teresa

  For being there

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  Trenton

  “I’ve been arrested.” Those three words had thrown me into a tailspin.

  A minute ago, my cell phone had rung with the strident peal I’ve programmed for unknown callers. I’d debated letting it go to voice mail. But a premonition told me to answer the call. Might have been a prospective client, after all. A lost soul who’d found himself in the slammer for something he allegedly didn’t do. So I’d clicked on the phone. “Trenton Steele.”

  “Hello.” Mitch Brooks. My former mentor and current friend. He sounded . . . shaky. Had he been hitting the booze again? Hoped not. He’d been clean and sober for the last ten years.

  “You sound like hell.”

  And then came the three words that would shatter my dreams of a future with Madrigal. “I’ve been arrested.”

  It takes me a couple of seconds to come to grips with that devastation. This is the man I view as a savior, the one who saved me from an abominable life. When I was fourteen, he vouched for me in front of a judge, keeping me out of juvie hell. Later on, he taught me how to be a man. Any modicum of success I’ve achieved, I owe in large part to him. Taking a deep breath, I ask, “What for?”

  “The murder of Holden Gardiner.”

  My heart slams into my throat. “What are you talking about? Holden committed suicide.”

  “No, he didn’t, Trenton. He was murdered with my gun.”

  Sweet Jesus. I rake my hand through my hair. I need to see him now. Find out what this is about. “Where are you?”

  “Loudoun County Detention Center in—”

  “Leesburg. Yes, I know.” I’m familiar with the jail. Over the years, a couple of my former clients had been arrested by the Loudoun County police. It’s after eight, and the detention center closes at nine. If I hurry, I might just make it. I don’t have a minute to lose if I’m to see him tonight. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I make it to the front door just as Madrigal appears at the top of the stairs of her family home. A little over a month ago, she’d come to work as a summer intern at my law firm. Her beauty, innocence, and passion had torn down my defenses, and I’d been enough of a bastard to pursue a sexual relationship with her. After that, there’d been no going back. I’d come to her home tonight to propose we move in together. But now, that plan is clearly in shambles.

  “You’re leaving?” Madrigal asks as her younger sister, Madison, joins her at the top of the maple staircase.

  Torn between wanting to stay and needing to leave, I clutch the edge of the door. “Something came up. I have to go. I’m sorry.”

  Her brow furrows. “What happened?”

  “I got a call. Someone’s been arrested.” I can’t tell her who it is. At least not yet. It’ll only worry her. “Have to get to the Loudoun County Detention Center before visiting hours are over.”

  Her lips slash into a white line. “I see.” She’s upset about my desertion.

  I climb up the steps and kiss her on the cheek in deference to her sister, who has no inkling as to the nature of our relationship. “I’m sorry. Truly. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She braves a smile. “All right.”

  “Can I go back to my room now?” Madison’s petulant. She’s only sixteen and probably wondering about my connection to her sister. Unfortunately, that explanation will have to wait.

  “Yes,” Madrigal says in a wistful tone.

  Madison stomps away to her room, leaving Madrigal and me alone.

  She’d been so happy a few minutes ago when I proposed a future together for the two of us. But now? “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  “I know, Steele.” She presses my hand. “Go.”

  I’m sorrier than I can say about the sadness in her voice. I can’t leave her like this, so I kiss her the way she wants. The way I want too. She whimpers as I cup her ass and nibble the sweet honey of her lips. “God, I want to fuck you.”

  “I want that too.” She trembles as I knead her luscious bottom and devour her mouth.

  But much as I’d prefer to stay and do just that, I can’t. Easing out of the kiss, I whisper to her, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She nods, but doesn’t say a word. No wonder. I’ve stolen her breath.

  Praying no cop’s lying in wait to catch an unsuspecting speeder, I race up Route 50. I’ll barely make it to the jail by nine o’clock. Half an hour later, I pull into the parking lot.

  “Visiting hours are over,” the beefy front desk officer says after I tell him I’m here to see Mitchell Brooks.

  “Please. I’m his lawyer. He just got arrested.” I show him my bar card and driver’s license.

  He blows out a breath that reeks of onions and mustard and clicks on his computer keyboard. “He’s in a holding cell waiting to be processed. I’ll bring him to the interview room.” Lifting sausage-sized fingers, he says, “Five minutes. That’s all you get.”

  It won’t be enough, but I’ll take it.

  Wobbling toward the door that separates the reception area from the cells, he nods to his compadre. “Process him, will you?”

  I’ve been through this before. So knowing the drill, I hand over everything in my pockets, including my phone and car keys. After he slips e
verything into a manila envelope and puts it in a locker, he gives me a ticket with the number 23 so I can claim my possessions when I leave. Once he’s done, he escorts me to interview room no. 1.

  Mitchell’s brought in handcuffed. His usually groomed gold mane is mussed up, as if he’s been combing his fingers through it.

  The cop unlocks his cuffs and chains him to a metal ring on the table. “Five minutes,” he says before he leaves. As if I need reminding.

  When Mitch stares at me, the agony in his eyes is too much for me to take.

  But there’s no time to reminisce. Five minutes will go by in a blink. “What happened?”

  “They showed up at work.”

  Work meaning the United States Securities and Exchange Commission in DC, where Mitch is the head of the Investment Management Division.

  “Who are they?”

  “Detective Broynihan and three other officers.”

  The detective who’d come to the house the night Holden Gardiner died—by his own hand, we had all thought. But apparently the evidence points toward murder.

  “They read me my Miranda rights, told me I was being arrested for the murder of Holden Gardiner. And then Detective Broynihan said it was my gun that was used to kill him.”

  “What gun?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know. He didn’t explain. The only thing I can think of is it must be the gun I gave Marlena.”

  “Madrigal’s mother?”

  “Yes. During her second year in college, there’d been assaults on campus. She was taking a night class and was afraid something would happen to her. I had a .22-caliber pistol. So after training her how to use it, I gave it to her.”

  “Maybe there’s been a mistake? Maybe it’s Holden’s gun?” He was a gun enthusiast. Or so I’d heard.

  He spears me with his glare. “Do you think they would have arrested me if they weren’t sure?”

  The door behind me opens. I turn around, even though I know damn well who it is. Sure enough, the stocky guard who let me in taps his watch. “Time’s up.”

  “I’ll find out who’s been assigned to your case. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  His shoulders droop. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. You won’t be able to get that information until Monday.”

  Damn it. Broynihan did this on purpose, the bastard. He arrested Mitch on a Friday so he’d have to cool his heels in jail for an entire weekend. Although the law states that he must be arraigned within forty-eight hours, weekends don’t count. I see nothing but trouble because of the delay. A high-ranking SEC official arrested for the murder of a well-known figure in the state of Virginia who was also a revered patriarch and head of his own law firm is like catnip to the media. The newspapers will have a field day with this as soon as word leaks out.

  “Tick-tock,” the officer says.

  “You hang in there, Mitch.”

  “I will.” He sounds despondent. But why wouldn’t he? He’s in jail, for Christ’s sake. As I stand up, he pleads, “When you tell the girls, please break it to them gently.”

  The girls, Madrigal and Madison. They’ve always referred to him as Uncle Mitch, but now? He’ll be known as their grandfather’s murderer.

  Chapter 2

  Madrigal

  As soon as Steele’s car pulls into the moonlit driveway, I rush to greet him. It’s after midnight. I’ve been waiting for hours, pacing the floor.

  “Madrigal.” Stepping out, he retrieves an overnight bag from the backseat of the car. He looks more tired than I’ve ever seen him. There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there before. Although he usually dresses like he stepped out of GQ, his jacket’s rumpled and his tie’s askew. What on earth happened to him?

  “Where did you go? I expected you a couple of hours ago.”

  Curling his arm around my shoulders, he rushes me toward the front door of my grandfather’s mansion. No. Not his. Not anymore. The house has belonged to my family for centuries, and now it belongs to Madison and me.

  “Let’s get inside. The night’s turned chilly, and I don’t want you catching a cold.”

  It’s not the least bit chilly. Muggy, yes. Chilly, no. But rather than argue with him, I do as he says. “What’s with the bag?”

  “I’m spending the night.”

  Even though we’re lovers, he wouldn’t make such a move, unless . . . “Something’s happened.”

  Once we step inside, he closes the front door and snaps the bolt. “Where’s Madison?”

  His furtive actions make me nervous. He needs to get on with whatever he has to say. “Upstairs in her room. Stop stalling and tell me what’s going on.”

  He parks the bag in the foyer closet before turning to me. “Is there somewhere where we can talk?”

  Going by the downturn of his lips and his bunched-up brow, I’m not going to like what he has to say. “The morning room.” The space my grandmother used to write her thank-you notes, meet with her housekeeper, and plan events. I have a feeling its purpose is about to change.

  Steele embraces me, and the scent that is uniquely his surrounds me. I love his strength, his intelligence, the ways he shows that he cares for me. But there’s more than that to him and me. Even though he’s years older than me, I crave him with every cell in my body. Despite all his sexual expertise, it was me who propositioned him our first time. He tried to turn me down, but I insisted. And after that? Well, we couldn’t exactly resume our roles of boss and intern as if nothing had happened. But now something’s come up. I don’t know what it is, but suddenly I’m afraid.

  I pull away from his arms to glance at him. The worry in his eyes is so clear, it sets off alarms. “What’s wrong?”

  He pulls me down on the flowered chintz settee. I’ve always taken pleasure in this room with its classic curves, curlicues, and floral fabrics. It reminds me of my grandmother, who’d sneaked sweets to me when I was young. But now the air’s charged with tension, and the room no longer provides the ease it once did. “Just tell me, Steele.”

  A resigned look rolls over his face. “That phone call I got? It was from Mitch.”

  “Did a friend of his get arrested?”

  “No. He did.”

  My breath catches in my throat. Uncle Mitch has been a fixture in my life since I was little. He’s one of the finest men I know. “What for?”

  Steele rubs his hands up and down my arms to warm me. “Your grandfather didn’t commit suicide.”

  I shudder at the memory of my grandfather sprawled over his desk, his brains scattered across the ink blotter, the weapon he’d used clasped in his hand. “What do you mean? I saw the gun with my own eyes.”

  “He was killed.” He pauses and gulps, as if what he’s about to say is too painful. “The police arrested Mitch for the murder.”

  His words are like a punch to the stomach. “No. That can’t be.” All of a sudden I can’t breathe. Fighting for air, I gasp, but my throat’s closed up, and no oxygen gets through. I clutch him as the edges of my vision start to waver.

  “Madrigal.” He shakes me, but that doesn’t do any good.

  Sobs struggle to get out, but I need air to cry. No matter how much I try, I can’t seem to take any in.

  Steele stops shaking me and slaps my face.

  As my body jerks from the shock, my throat opens up. I hold my hand to my cheek to soften the sting. I want to ask him why he did such a thing, but I can’t seem to hold any thoughts together other than anger, outrage, confusion.

  He brushes a hand down my ponytail, rubs my back while I gulp in great big honking mouthfuls of air. “That can’t be. That just can’t be,” I say when I can finally speak.

  “God damn it. You need a drink.” Standing up, he looks around the room. He’s not going to find one here.

  “Gr-Gramps’s study,” I stutter. My body’s gone cold. Cold as the grave.

  While I try to hold myself together, he races away and returns with a glass half-filled with an amber-colored drink. “Here.”


  “What i-is it?” My teeth are chattering.

  “Scotch.”

  “I d-don’t like it.”

  “Drink it, or I swear I’ll pour it down your throat.”

  He holds my shaky hand as I bring the tumbler to my lips and sip. The liquor burns on the way down, and I hate the way it tastes. I try to stop, but he tips the glass until all of it is gone. I cough and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, trying to swipe away the vile taste.

  In one move, he turns me and rests my legs on the settee’s arms before yanking the blanket off the back of the small sofa and draping it over me. Once I’m settled to his satisfaction, he pulls a chair next to me, tucks my hands in his, and chafes them until they warm up. Then he turns his attention to my arms, my stomach, my legs.

  A minute or so goes by before he asks, “Better?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” I attempt to sit up, but his hands urge me to remain lying down. “I shouldn’t have gone to pieces like that.”

  He cups my cheek, and his warm hand feels like heaven. “You’ve been a trooper through your grandfather’s death, the funeral, and now this. It’s no wonder you had that reaction to the news. You’ve been so busy taking care of everything and everyone, you haven’t given yourself a chance to fall apart.”

  “I had to h-hold it together. For Madison’s sake.”

  “She’s not here. And you don’t need to pretend with me. So cry if you need to cry.”

  A wave of grief rolls over me. Thoughts of my grandfather on that last day. The awful argument we had. Me accusing him of knowing about my father’s abuse of my mother. And now to find out he didn’t commit suicide but was murdered. It’s all too much. As my shoulders shake and the tears come hot and furious, I collapse against Steele. Even though I’ve known him for hardly more than six weeks, he’s become my lover, my refuge, my rock.

  For several minutes he lets my sorrow pour over him while he mutters words of comfort into my hair and rubs my back. When the paroxysm of grief abates, I pull back, painfully aware of how I’ve ruined his shirt with my tears. “I’m sorry.” I pat his chest in a futile attempt to minimize the damage.

  “It’ll wash.”

  Eager to move his focus to something other than me, I ask, “Are you really spending the night?”