Billion Dollar Murder: Single Daddy Billionaire Mystery Romance

by Sloane Peterson

  For the first time in the year since she'd been gone, I began to feel something other than pain. I felt desire, and I felt guilty about feeling desire, but it wasn't something I dared suppress.

  If I did suppress it, it was only for Veronica's sake. I didn't want to make her life hard for her. I had this fear, I think, of using her as a kind of therapy for myself. And that really didn't seem fair.

  And so, I guess I played it cool for the first week or two. Maybe even behaved a bit coldly around her, acting like I could honestly take or leave her presence aside from her basic housekeeping duties. I was friendly, but distant. And every attempt I made at isolating myself from her only caused me to want her more and more.

  By about the third week I could tell the situation was getting away from me. I stopped pretending. I would openly flirt with her, telling her she looked nice today, or being a little bit too forthcoming with my praise- she really was doing a terrific job, both with the house and with looking after Julie. Sometimes I really wouldn't have to do anything at all. Just look at her a certain way. Smile a little bit. And it was like watching her dissolve into a puddle at my feet. Her lashes fluttering girlishly, her skin seeming to glow in response to my recognition.

  I loved it too much. I wanted it too much. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't get enough of it.

  As much as I loved her humility, and the thought that nothing I ever did would ever be enough to confess how I was sure she felt about me, I found myself wanting to bring out that very quality I held in such contempt in so many other women. That same confidence, bordering on arrogance. I wanted to make her want me so bad, to provoke her into my submission, so that I wouldn't be the one forced to tell her how I felt, and screw up my chances with her before things even got started.

  I must have seemed so obvious, so transparent, though she never really seemed to notice. Maybe she was just too flustered by me, or felt in no position to call me out on it. Which should have been all the more reason for me to cool it a little bit, but of course I wasn't that smart.

  I remember one day I was feeling especially tense about the whole situation. I'd been pacing around my bedroom while she cleaned downstairs, thinking that I should finally tell her, yet certain that I couldn't possibly do so. Finally, I went downstairs, thinking I might just suffocate if I stayed inside much longer, and hoping a walk in the fresh air might help me clear my head a little bit.

  I made it as far as the main hall before being stopped in my tracks. I found her standing there, a feather duster held limply in one hand, her eyes transfixed at one of the paintings on the wall. I can't even remember which one it was now, just that she was so in awe of it. Like she'd been torn from what she was doing, and just left staring into the eyes of the figure portrayed as though hypnotized.

  “You like it?” I asked her, and I thought she might just leap from her skin at the sound of my voice.

  “Oh! Mr. Heyman. You scared me. I'm so sorry, I was cleaning and I just got distracted by this piece.”

  I laughed, and strolled up over to her. “It is one of my favorites, I have to say. No need to apologize. I know you're new here, but I would hope you know me well enough by now to know I'm not some kind of slave driver.”

  She grinned at me. “Well, thanks. Honestly, I didn't expect a job as a housekeeper to be as rewarding for an artist as it has been. I'm just fascinated by your collection...”

  “I'm glad to hear it's impressive to someone who knows a thing or two about art,” I joked. “I mean, I know all of this cost a pretty penny, but I've only ever gone by my personal taste. I always value the opinion of someone who actually knows what they're talking about.”

  She smiled, and shook her head.

  “Taste is just subjective,” she said. “Just because I went to school for art doesn't make my opinion any more valid than yours on the subject.”

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder?” I asked, trying to be suggestive, but she either missed or ignored my meaning.

  “Pretty much,” she said. “But I mean, sometimes you can just have straight up crap as well.”

  I smiled at this. It was more than she usually let her guard down around me.

  “True enough,” I said. “Why don't you come with me? I'll show you something I really think you might enjoy...” God, even remembering it my tone seemed so ridiculously suggestive, probably quite out of line for a man in my position. Of course, though, Veronica, didn't show any signs of minding. She just followed me along as requested, and I showed her to my safe. Strutting like a peacock as I revealed the treasure inside.

  “Behold,” I said, pulling out the painting from inside, “My pride and joy. Well, after Julie, obviously...”

  “Good Lord,” she said, her eyes wide as she cradled the thing in her hands. “Is this- a genuine Picasso?”

  “It certainly is,” I said proudly. “Worth almost two hundred million dollars.”

  “Oh God!” Telling her the price evidently spooked her, because the frame wobbled in her grip, and I had the sudden, horrible image of the distorted face on the canvas being twisted and contorted into still more disparate fragments.

  Whether that would have happened had I not reached out to prevent it, I really can't say. Thankfully, I managed to grab the frame in time and keep it from falling, pulling it back away from her with the utmost gentility.

  “I'm so sorry,” she said, and I smiled at her, still feeling a little bit tense.

  “No harm, no foul,” I said. “Really my fault. Probably shouldn't have sprung it on you like that.

  “I'm just glad you caught it,” she said, still shaking a little bit. “That's more money than I've had in my hands in- well- ever.”

  This knocked me down a rung or two. I'd been trying to impress her, but now I just felt guilty having enough money to throw away on a dumb painting. From what I'd gathered about her, she sometimes struggled just to cover rent, and here I was flashing my wealth around in her face like the king of all assholes?

  I tried to redeem myself. I gently placed the painting back in my safe, acting as though I'd already forgotten about it. “It's nice,” I said. “But I bet you could paint circles around old Pablo.”

  She laughed. “Old Pablo? Wow, I didn't realize you and he went back so far.”

  I smiled at her. “Seriously, though. You still need to bring in some of your work to show me. I'm very anxious to see it.”

  She scoffed at this, and by now it was all becoming unbearable for me. “I'm afraid to now,” she said. “My stuff is amateur at best compared to the stuff you have around.”

  “I'm sure that's not true,” I said, unable to stop cursing myself.

  “Well then,” she said with a grin, “I think it would be better to keep you believing that than to shatter your illusions.” I honestly couldn't figure out what she was thinking, how she was feeling about the whole conversation. Maybe I was taking it way more seriously than she was.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I think I better go ahead and get back to work. I've already lollygagged enough for one day. I mean, you aren't paying me to stand around and bemoan my failed art career.”

  I would pay her to just stand around and look pretty if she asked me to, I thought.

  But wait, what the hell had just happened here?

  I gaped after her, not really understanding as I watched her sweep from the room, back in the direction of the hall she'd been attempting to clean when I came in and interrupted her.

  “Damn it,” I swore under my breath, feeling as uncool as I'd ever felt around a woman in my life.

  I needed to get a handle on this situation, and fast. I didn't know how much longer I could stand to wait while these damn emotions continued to eat me up inside.

  Maybe the solution was a lot more straightforward than I wanted to believe. Maybe all I really needed to do was to come right out, and tell her how I felt.

  But God, how the idea of even attempting it rattled me to my very core...

  4


  Veronica

  My heart was beating like mad in my chest, as it seemed to be so often these days since I'd started working for Mr. Heyman.

  Everything had gone great so far, as far as that was concerned. I'd gotten a handle on my responsibilities a lot quicker than I'd imagined I would have. It was all pretty straightforward work, nothing too complicated, and even taking care of Julie was a lot easier than I thought it would be.

  She was such a sweet little girl, and so smart for her age. Or, at least, I imagined she was smart for her age, not that I had any kind of child rearing experience to go by in that regard.

  I loved the feeling of holding her in my arms, like she was my own little girl. I loved rocking her to sleep, and letting her grab at my face, and playing peek-a-boo with her. Honestly, there were some days where I didn't really feel like leaving her for the night. I was getting far more attached to her than I knew I really should have- not to mention to the glorious specimen of maleness that was responsible for her existence.

  I knew I was just the cleaning lady. That this was just a job like any other, and Johnathan and Julie were just my clients. But they began to feel like family to me. Like a real part of my life. Not just some tedious responsibility I had to tend to every day just to try and make a living.

  The lines between my emotions and my responsibilities were quickly beginning to blur for me, and on the night in question that barrier was about to be pushed to its limits. Diminished beyond the point of any and all recognition.

  Mr. Heyman had just gotten home, and I had just been about to leave when he stopped me at the front door, placing a gentle hand against my shoulder.

  “Veronica, could you hold on for just a minute? I want to go up and tell Julie goodnight, but then I'd like to talk with you about something really quick if you don't mind. I mean, unless you have plans or something, in which case this can wait for some other night.”

  “No, I'm not busy,” I insisted, a little too vehemently. In truth, I was supposed to have met Marcie for drinks almost a half hour ago, and his lateness back from the office had already pushed ahead my plans. But there was no way I could tell this man no, no matter what he asked me, and he smiled and nodded at my answer, like it was just what he wanted to hear.

  “I'll just be a minute,” he said, then walked past me in silence, barely making eye contact with me.

  And ever since then I'd been standing there in the foyer, stiff as a statue, my arms folded up behind my back as they'd been the moment he left my side. Of course, I had my fantasies about what this might be, but I didn't really believe them. I thought it far more likely that he was about to chastise me for something. That I was cleaning this wrong or I wasn't polishing that right. Knowing him as I'd come to up until now, he would be gentle about it, sure. But I still couldn't imagine being told any of the things I really wanted to hear.

  Maybe a nice bit of disciplinary action will be in order, I mused to myself with a kinky grin. I imagined him pulling me over into one of his antique chairs, bending me over his knees and spanking my ass raw for whatever it was I must have done wrong.

  There's no way, I thought sadly. But hey, a girl can dream, can't she?

  Suddenly Mr. Heyman reappeared as I was still thinking of my corporal punishment, and it was like being caught with my skirt yanked down around my ankles and one hand down my panties.

  “Oh, Mr. Heyman, sir. Is Julie still sound asleep?”

  “She is, thank you,” he said with a tender smile. His warmth was disarming, as was the warmth of his hand on my shoulder as he ushered me over toward the couch. “Please, come. Have a seat.”

  I didn't need to be asked twice.

  I sat down happily next to him on the couch and he adjusted himself in place next to me, smoothing out his dress pants and looking down at the floor in front of him. Just what the hell was this, anyway?

  “Would you care for something to drink?” he asked me, finally looking up into my eyes. “Some wine, or?”

  “No, thank you,” I said, although I immediately wished I'd accepted after I said this. “I'm good.”

  “Well then, do you mind if I-?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  He went over to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a glass of wine, and took a generous sip of it. He came back over to the couch and sat both the glass and the bottle down on the coffee table in front of us. Then he sat down with his hands between his knees, his fingers all laced up into one another. Maybe it was the low light and the shadows cast over the planes of his knuckles, but it just sort of sank in for me all of the sudden what an age difference there was between the two of us. Not that that was by any means a bad thing. Just that I noticed it, and it stirred something inside me.

  “First off,” he said, “I'd like to tell you, right off the bat, that I have been endlessly impressed with the work you've been doing for me so far. Both as far as keeping up with the housework, and even more with how great a job you've been doing looking after Julie when I'm away.”

  “Ohh,” I said, blushing at this. “The pleasure is totally mine. It doesn't even feel like work some days, she makes it so enjoyable for me.”

  He grinned. “I'm glad to hear that,” he said. “I guess that means I don't have to keep on paying you then.”

  I smiled back at him. “I really wish you would,” I said, and he laughed.

  “If anything,” he said, “you deserve a pay raise. And we can talk about that if you want to. It's just. You've brought so much life back into this house. After all that's happened, well... I guess there have been times where it feels like I'm walking around through a crypt in here. Before I took you on I started wondering whether I should just sell this place, and put everything behind me. But in the end, I didn't think I could bare to part with all the memories I've made here, even if that meant keeping the bad ones...”

  He was looking away from me again, and so I took the opportunity to study him. I wondered whether he was referring to the more recent murder of his previous housekeeper, or the loss of his wife. Then I decided, of course, it was just as likely that he was referring to both events, given how traumatic both experiences must have been for him.

  “That's really nice to hear,” I whispered, smiling at him, trying to give him a look of full sincerity.

  He took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.

  “All that being said,” he continued, “there is something that I need to talk with you about...”

  Here it was, I thought. I was certain from his tone that I was about to get a lecture on something. Taken to the woodshed for something I'd been doing wrong, without even being aware of it.

  “Of course,” I said, trying to sound brave. “I'm always willing to do my very best to improve, in whatever area you believe that it's needed.”

  He didn't seem to understand. He puzzled over this, then smiled with the same warmth he'd shown me earlier. Like he thought I was so naive, but so sweet. That's honestly how I felt in that moment.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Your performance has been nothing but exemplary, by all metrics. This is about something else. Something personal.”

  This sure as hell got my attention.

  Without really meaning to, I sat up straight, on edge as I prepared to receive his next words.

  “Oh?” I said. Faking my unsuspecting innocence at this point was nothing short of a miraculous feat.

  Another deep breath. Looking down at his hands again. Then curling them into fists, like he was forcing himself to come out with what it was he had on his mind.

  “I don't want to make you uncomfortable,” he said.

  “I won't be,” I assured him, my heart racing faster.

  He smiled, but didn't look up.

  “Well,” he said, “That's good. Because, I don't know what it is about you, Ms. Brewer. I mean, I do. You're smart. Talented. Funny. Kind. Drop dead beautiful.” (This got me blushing like you wouldn't believe.) “But it's something... Something so much more than all o
f that. Some indefinable quality, that I can't really put my finger on...”

  I took a deep swallow at this. The idea of him putting his finger anywhere on me was making me weaker than I cared to admit. “Oh. I see,” I muttered, and I pushed my knees in tight together, like I didn't dare let him know what was happening to me down there.

  “I want so much not to make things uncomfortable between us. I know that I'm your boss, and that I might be taking advantage of my authority by even bringing up these feelings.”

  “You better be careful,” I teased, “I might report you to HR.”

  I was hoping for a laugh, but he was so damn sincere. His expression just grew more serious, like this was a matter of life and death for him.