Shattered Trust (Shattered #2)

by Magda Alexander

  “Stay. I’ll have one of the maids prepare the room next to the study for you. It’s nothing fancy. Gramps used to sleep there sometimes.” In the next second, it occurs to me he might not want the room next to the study where my grandfather was killed. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No, I don’t mind.” A muscle twitches in his jaw, and his voice no longer carries that vibrant warmth he exhibited seconds ago. He clearly objects to being placed in the small room. But I can’t bring him upstairs where I’d be tempted to get into bed with him. And with Madison as upset as she is, I don’t think we ought to flaunt our relationship in front of her. So for now, that’s where he’ll need to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Madrigal

  But after I crawl into bed that night, sleep eludes me again. My decision to assign Steele to a room downstairs was the right thing to do. We can’t share my room. Besides the fact that Madison would be upset, the bed’s too narrow for the both of us. We’d need a bigger one if we’re to sleep together. Not that we’d be doing any sleeping.

  After two hours of lying awake, I give up and wander downstairs in search of Steele. It feels weird but strangely comforting knowing he’s here. But before I reach his room, I spot light seeping from beneath the door to Gramps’s study.

  Without knocking, I throw open the door. When I see him, my wildly beating heart settles into a saner rhythm. “It’s you.”

  His glance finds me. There’s no emotion there. None. “Why are you up? It’s past two. You should be tucked away and fast asleep.”

  “I couldn’t. So I thought I’d . . . come down and get a glass of milk. But then I saw the light. What are you doing in Gramps’s study?”

  Without glancing up, he says, “Looking for information, clues.”

  “We had the room cleaned.” The detective in charge of the case had referred me to a service that specializes in crime scene cleanup. Who knew such a thing existed? After the police finished collecting evidence, they’d gone through the room and left it spotless. But ever since I haven’t been able to enter Gramps’s study. It still feels like my grandfather is here somehow.

  “Not that kind of evidence. I’m looking through his papers to see if anything jumps out at me. Somebody killed him. Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against him? Any servants, friends, acquaintances?”

  “He had a property dispute with one of our neighbors over water rights, but they settled that. And he also had disagreements with one or two of the partners at the firm.”

  “I can get the partners’ names on my own or from Mitch. But I’ll need the name of the individual who argued with him over the water rights.”

  “I’ll get it for you in the morning, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine. Anyone else you can think of? Staff members, for example.” He drills me as if I were on a witness stand, except he’s not meeting my gaze. He’s furious. Not hard to see why. He wants to be with me, rather than exiled to the small room next to Gramps’s study.

  “No. He left the running of the house to Olivia. As far as I know, they never fired anybody. If people left, it was of their own accord.”

  He slides open the right bottom drawer, rifles through its contents. “What about the stables?”

  “Hartley manages the stables. The afternoon Madison ran away, he told Hartley to fire the groom who allowed her to saddle her horse. I doubt Hartley did it, though.”

  “I’ll check with him.” He finally looks up, and his brow wrinkles. “Come in and close the door. I don’t want anyone to know I’m investigating.”

  I glance at him, at the desk where my grandfather’s shattered body had lain. “I can’t.”

  His brow scrunches as he stares at me. “Why not?”

  “You know why. This is where—” I can’t finish.

  Keeping his eyes pinned on me, he prowls closer. Once he arrives by my side, he crooks two fingers and raises my chin so our gazes collide. “It’s just a room with four walls.”

  “His room. His study.” I try to pry my jaw from his grasp, but he won’t allow it.

  “Not anymore. Now it’s yours. Come.” Letting go of me, he holds out his hand.

  “I can’t,” I say in a strained voice.

  “You can and you will, Madrigal.” I hate the command in his voice.

  In the next second, he clasps my forearm and pulls. Having no recourse but to follow, I focus on his broad shoulders while he heads for the desk.

  And then it dawns on me. What he’s planning to do.

  When we get to the desk, in front of the very spot where my grandfather was shot, he winds a hand around my loose hair and pulls. Lowering his head, he nibbles my neck and licks his way down to the top of my breasts.

  I should push him away, run screaming from the room. But I don’t. Wanting more, I wriggle against him. His breath hisses as he takes a long, hard look at me. I’m wearing a demure white nightgown with spaghetti straps, nothing fancy.

  “Kiss me, Madrigal.”

  I stand up on my tippy-toes while he kneads my ass and grinds that body I love against me. “I need to fuck you. Right here. Right now.”

  My breath hitches, and I shake my head. “I can’t, Steele. Not on his desk.”

  “He’s not here. It’s only you and me. And this.” He pulls off the nightgown and tosses it to the floor.

  With one hand, I cover my breasts; the other crosses my groin. “Steele, please. Not here,” I beg.

  But there’s no mercy in him. He winces as he picks me up by my ass and drops me on the desk.

  No wonder. The night my grandfather was killed, somebody shot Steele too. His shoulder has to be tender. Deaf to my protests, he pries my hand from my breast and allows his gaze to roam over me. When he bends to suckle my nipple, a streak of heat races through me. Just like that, I’m lost. Everything fades: my objections, my grandfather’s essence. All that’s left is Steele and me and our consuming hunger for each other. He nudges my legs apart. No doubt where he’s going. Burning to have his hot shaft in me, I encircle his nape and clamp him to me. He pulls something out of his pocket, yanks down his sweats, kicks them off, and climbs on the desk with a condom in his hand.

  How does he plan this far ahead? Was he that sure I wouldn’t turn him down?

  There’s no doubt in my mind that he desires me. His big, thick cock, curled practically all the way to his navel, bobs up and down. He tears open the foil packet and rolls the condom over his erection.

  “Did you lock the door?” I ask now, when it’s much too late.

  His mouth quirks into that wicked grin of his. “No.”

  My breath shorts. “What if somebody walks in?”

  “No one will.”

  In one small move, he lifts my ass, finds my opening, and thrusts into me. I grunt, and so does he. “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Yes.” I’m stretched, stuffed to capacity by his hard length, exactly how I want to be. He swivels back his hips and pounds into me. It almost hurts, this invasion. But not enough to ask him to stop. All I want is more. More of his hard cock, more of his hard loving. More of him. “Harder. Faster.”

  Grabbing my ass with one hand, he thrusts deeper while I clutch the edge of the desk to keep from slipping off. “Yes, Steele, yes.” He does something with his hips, which touches something inside. I explode and start to scream, but he clamps his mouth over mine so barely a peep escapes.

  For barely a second he rests on me. Then he climbs off, grabs his sweats, and steps into the bathroom that abuts the study. When he returns, he helps me to stand. Good thing, because my legs won’t hold me up. I’m still trembling from the aftermath of our lovemaking when he slides the nightgown over me and says, “There. You won’t be afraid of that desk anymore.”

  I glance at the desk. He’s right. Although the memory of my grandfather lingers, it’s the remembrance of what we just did that will prevail. I toss a half-indignant glance in his direction. “Is that why you did it?”

  “No. I did it
because I wanted to fuck you more than my next breath.” He cups my cheeks and ravishes my mouth. I have enough experience with him to know he’s ready to go again. I’m debating whether to take him up to my room or make love in his when something outside the window catches my eye.

  “Steele, there’s somebody out there.” I point to the window.

  “Where?”

  “The oak tree. Someone’s climbing it, and it leads directly to Madison’s room.”

  Chapter 6

  Trenton

  We race up the stairs to the second floor where the bedrooms are located. I don’t know the location of Madison’s room, so by necessity Madrigal leads the way.

  As it turns out, her sister’s room is only a couple of doors away from hers on the opposite side of the hallway. Madrigal frantically knocks on the door. “Madison. Are you awake?”

  When silence greets us, Madrigal jiggles the knob, but it’s locked. “Open the door, Maddy. Right now.” An edge of hysteria rides her voice.

  Several agonizing seconds pass before her sister yells, “Hold on, I’m coming.”

  A full half minute later, Madison swings open the door. She’s dressed in a sweatshirt and sweatpants. Maybe that’s typical pajama wear for a teenager. But what do I know?

  The window behind her is open a crack. Whoever broke into the room didn’t close it all the way. Suddenly it becomes clear who the tree climber must be.

  “Where is he, Madison?” I ask in the voice I use to interrogate hostile witnesses in court.

  Her eyes widen in feigned innocence. “Where is who?”

  “The person who climbed in your window.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sounds outraged, but her gaze has turned wary.

  “We were downstairs in Gramps’s study and saw someone climbing the tree outside your window. That branch reaches close enough for someone to use if they want to get into your room,” Madrigal says.

  Madison shrugs. “No one came in that way.”

  Not believing her for a second, I go for the most obvious place—the closet. If it’s anything like Madrigal’s, it’s large enough for somebody to hide in.

  When I walk in that direction, Madison freaks out. “What are you doing? You can’t go in there!”

  Ignoring her, I fling open the door. Sure enough, a man is inside. He’s young, about eighteen, looks Nordic with blond hair, and is dressed all in black. Was he the one I saw running across the lawn the night when Holden was killed?

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  His Adam’s apple bobs, but he’s man enough to meet my gaze. “Philippe Dupin. I’m Madison’s boyfriend.”

  “Maddy!” Madrigal screams. “You sneaked a boy into your room?”

  The mulish look on Madison’s face tells me we’re going to get nowhere with her. “If you can do it, so can I. Just look at you.”

  Nothing like being hoisted with our own petard. Not only is Madrigal wearing a nightgown, but all I’ve got on is a pair of sweats. Clearly, we’ve been doing more than talking.

  But Madrigal is made of stern stuff and waves her sister’s objections aside. “I’m of legal age. Whatever I do with Trenton is none of your business.”

  “It is my business if it happens in this house.”

  Philippe Dupin’s been quiet through this sisterly confrontation, but now he speaks up. “I wanted to introduce myself and date her the proper way.” His speech is slightly accented. “But Madison said her grandfather would not approve of us dating.”

  Madison stamps her foot. “And he wouldn’t have. You know how he was. He wasn’t happy unless we were kept prisoners in this house.”

  “We were not prisoners. You went to school. I went to work.”

  “Yeah, during the day, but at night I couldn’t go anywhere that was not preapproved by him.”

  We’ll need to get the story out of them. If there’s something I’ve learned as a criminal law attorney, it is to put people in separate rooms while they spin their tales. “Madrigal, why don’t you talk with your sister? I’ll take Philippe downstairs.” Catching the young man’s attention, I wave my hand in the direction of the door. “After you.”

  Madison crosses her arms across her chest. “It’s so not fair.”

  Philippe and I descend the stairs in silence. I can’t take him into the study. The room probably reeks of sex, so I head into the morning room. My masculine bulk seems out of place among the feminine, delicate furniture. Philippe, on the other hand, blends in with the room’s aesthetics. Even though he’s around six feet tall, his build is leaner than mine.

  “Please take a seat. My name’s Trenton Steele. I’m a friend of Madrigal Berkeley, Madison’s sister.” That’s all this whelp needs to know, so I don’t go into any of the details as to my relationship with Madrigal.

  Parked as he is on the edge of the seat, he appears ready to bolt. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come to her room. I know how wrong this must look.” Obviously, the young man is contrite, but that doesn’t mitigate how wrong his actions were. Before I get to the hard questions, I start with something easy.

  “So where did you meet Madison?”

  “At a steeplechase race a couple of months back. It was the last one of the spring season.”

  “So you race horses for a living?” Some owners employ riders rather than race the horses themselves.

  “No. They’re my horses. Been doing it since I was a child.”

  “And you live around here?”

  “Yes. About five miles away. My stepfather owns Pierpont Stables.”

  “I see.” I stroll across the carpet to the bookcase where perfectly matched books fill the shelves. Curious, I choose one and pop it open. To my surprise, it’s a diary. The delicate handwriting tells me it belonged to a woman. Returning it to its home, I make a mental note to ask Madrigal about it before turning back to Philippe. “You have an accent.”

  He squirms on the delicate settee. Don’t know why. I haven’t gotten to the hard questions yet. “Yes. I was born in France. After my father died, my mother moved to the States. She worked as a translator at the United Nations. That’s where she met my stepfather. He was a UN diplomat. They fell in love, married.”

  Propping my arm on the mantel over the dormant fireplace, I examine a Dresden figurine. “How old are you, Philippe?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Are you in college?”

  “Yes. University of Virginia. I’m prelaw.” A bead of perspiration rolls down his temple. I’m making him nervous.

  A bar cart that hadn’t been here before has been rolled into the morning room. Madrigal must have added it to the decor. Its gold-plated finish matches the room, which tells me it must have been part of the furnishings at some point. “Would you like some water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I hand him a water bottle, keep one for myself. He guzzles half the container in one swig. Breaking and entering is thirsty work.

  But then so is fucking. I swallow the contents of my bottle before I continue my interrogation. “So how did you get here tonight?”

  “I rode Valiant, my horse.”

  “At night?” Seems dangerous to me.

  “There’s a full moon. It’s bright enough to see the ground.”

  I pace back and forth while I settle on a surefire question to put him at ease. “You know about Madison’s grandfather?”

  “Yes. I read it in the paper. We’ve been texting each other as well. Madison’s really upset about it.”

  “I think you know more than that, Philippe. The night he died, I saw a figure dressed in black racing across the lawn.” At the time, I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but the person had been dressed the same way Philippe is tonight. “I think that person was you.”

  He glances down, perhaps wrestling with his conscience. I let him. If he lies, I know my course of action. I’ll out him to the police. If he tells me the truth, I’ll ask him to go to the authorities himself. If he’s
serious about Madison, he’ll do the right thing. Finally, he looks up. “Yes, that was me. We were supposed to meet that night. I climbed the tree like I did tonight, entered her room, but she wasn’t there. I heard voices, so I hightailed it out before I could be caught. I didn’t want to get her in trouble.”

  “Did you hear the shot?”

  “There were two. I’d just touched the ground when I heard the first one. Took off running away from the house toward the wall where I’d left my gear. The second came when I was halfway there.”

  The first shot injured me. The second killed Holden. The bullet that hit me had gone right through. Although the police searched the lawn, the bullet was never found, so there’s no way of knowing if the same gun that killed Holden was used to shoot me. “Didn’t you think about coming back?”

  “No. I knew she wasn’t in her room, and I didn’t belong here. I might have been blamed for whatever happened. So I just ran.” He hangs his head. “I was a coward. I know.”

  He’s very young. I probably would have made the same choice at his age, so I can’t blame him.

  “You didn’t ride that night?”

  “It was dark, so I drove.”

  “Where did you leave your car?”

  “I parked about a quarter mile away on a dirt road that leads to the property.” I’ll investigate that to find out if he’s telling the truth. But something tells me he is. Regardless, he must report his presence to the authorities. Sooner or later, they’re bound to find out, and he might be charged with fleeing the scene of the crime, which will weigh against him if he ever sits for the bar.

  “You’ll need to go to the police and explain what you saw.”

  “But I didn’t see anything,” he protests.

  “But you heard something. You were here that night. That makes you a witness. You need to report your impressions to the police.”

  “My parents will find out what I’ve been doing.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe the detective will keep it to himself.” Although I highly doubt it. At the very least Broynihan will probably drag him into court to testify as to what he heard. So he’s fucked whatever he does.