Breach of Contract (Kavanagh Family Romance Book 1)

by Elizabeth Miller

  My cell buzzes in my pants and with a burst of hope, I grapple for it.

  Drake. I bump the call to voice mail and send him a text. Second time in two hours.

  J: If you can manage through whatever’s happening, do it. I’m out.

  I’ve got this is his quick response. I nod. He’s on call and can deal with the problem. I’ve got my own. Then for the thousandth time, I press the number representing the only person I’ve ever had on speed dial. “Maisie, it’s me.” I jog down the stairs to the train and make it past the closing doors without a second to spare. “Please.”

  Please. I’m an idiot, but I’ve already told her that three hundred times, so I just breathe into the phone like some kind of stalker.

  Stalker.

  I laugh. I giggle so crazily a girl with pink pigtails scoots over two seats and I just grin. I’ve got an idea. A great, Maisie-like, stalkerish idea. And I need info at the firm to make it happen.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Bad Reputation” 3:18

  Maisie

  IT’S EIGHT AND Henry got home an hour ago. Daniel Craig is seriously smooth in Casino Royale. He, Henry, not Daniel, picked up Thai after his ER shift at the hospital and we’re wallowing in post-noodle bliss. Henry and Lily are on one side of the big sectional; I’m on the other.

  “He’s the best Bond,” Lil says a bit too dreamily for her husband. His affronted look says so.

  “I shouldn’t dignify that, and since you’re too young to remember Sean Connery, I’m going to let this slide.”

  Just as I’m about to pipe in my opinion, Henry’s cell rings. “Must be the hospital,” he says to us and then answers, brow bent. “Doctor Bennett. Yes.” He scrubs a hand over his face and then stops by gripping his hair. “Who’s calling?” Pause. “How did you get this number?” Pause.

  “Mais. It’s for you.”

  “What?” I bolt up. “How did he find me?” It’s hard to keep my voice down even as Henry hands me the phone.

  He shrugs. “It’s a guy named Lucas Drake. He said he’s been trying your phone all day. When he couldn’t get through, he checked your file. I’m listed as your emergency contact.”

  What the hell? I rip the phone from his hand and head to the spare room. “Drake?”

  “Maisie. We have a situation. An important one. I need you to come into the office immediately.”

  My heart thumps. “Is this related to Mr. Kavanagh and the conversation I had with him last night?” I ask skeptically. How far is he willing to go to talk to me?

  Silence stretches on the line. “No. It’s work related. Specifically, a case you’ve handled. An urgent matter surfaced this morning and has intensified,” he answers. “How soon can you be here?”

  “Give me a half hour.” I hang up and find Lily at the door. “I need clothes.”

  “Follow me.”

  I do, to the closet. It houses Lily’s last-year collection—everything she deems out of style. As if. She’s also a bazillion sizes smaller than me, but we find what would be a loose-fitting sweater on her that fits me just fine. I squeeze my ass into a pencil skirt—with a fabulous elastic waist—and even as my pulse races, I bolt out the door in heels that hurt my feet.

  Night has fallen. It’s dark with snow flurries floating from an overcast sky. For once it’s easy to hail a cab, and I arrive at the office in no time. I look up to the twenty-ninth floor. The smallest hint of light comes from the windows. The entry door is open. A security guard I know from weekend coverage mans the desk. The elevator is slow—my pulse is not. What the hell is happening?

  The doors ping on my arrival. Drake waits just outside, his hair as disheveled as mine.

  “Hi. Good evening. Is it evening? More like night. What do you need?” Is it at all surprising I can’t string coherent words together? I’m nervous and it shows in my quivering voice. “It’s past nine. What the crazy hell is so important that you called me to the office so late?”

  “This.” He holds the New York Times in front me. Headline: A crumbling ministry, Blume’s fall from grace.

  “Holy shit.” I scan the content. “Oh my God.” It’s a total account of her sordid past and the embezzling. “They printed this?”

  “Isn’t that why you gave them the information?”

  “Me?” My hand flies to my chest. It feels like a super-sized vacuum sucked the air from my lungs. He can’t believe I’d do that.

  “I’m surprised, Maisie. I didn’t see this coming. But you fucked us so hard by releasing this information to the press. It’s a complete violation of the signed disclosure. The firm won’t survive the aftermath.”

  “Oh.” Shit. “I didn’t do this. I swear to you.” The room spins. I need to sit, my trembling knees tell me so, but there is nowhere to go. I haven’t made it past the elevator well.

  “I’ve pieced together everything. You asked Jayce to release Blume’s past to the press.”

  “He told you that?”

  “You took the investigative report from his desk.”

  Carla. She’s the only other person who knows I did that. “For research. I was researching.” Oh. Shit.

  “You found the embezzlement and didn’t agree with letting Blume keep the ministry.”

  “I didn’t care,” I scream. “I don’t care what she does.”

  “But you do. And when you learned Jayce’s reference letter to Columbia was promised to Carla, you retaliated.”

  Wait. My heart. I clutch it. “What did you say?”

  “That’s why you leaked the information to the Times. I have a friend at the paper. He said the information came from the office. I checked the outgoing log. A majority of the file was scanned and sent using your access code. He confirmed the IP address. It’s yours.”

  “A journalist can’t give away their source. That’s a violation of trust.” I mean to say this to show he must have received erroneous information, that it couldn’t be right. But he was testing me. There was no sent file or access code. With my answer, I’d failed his test. I know this as he drops his chin and the small shake of his head says he understands my rebuttal as confirmation of betrayal.

  “You’re fired.” He’s so calm and I am not. I am not.

  “This can’t be happening. I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t know about Columbia.” And, God, it hurts. “Yes, I challenged the initial finding about Blume. Her followers deserved to know and decide for themselves if she’s worthy of their money. But that’s what a good lawyer does—argue their point. I would never do anything to hurt the firm.” Or Jayce. Panic is a sucker punch to my gut and I wrap my arm around it to hold myself steady. “Does Mr. Kavanagh know?” He would never let this happen.

  My tiny spark of hope dies with Drake’s nod. “He has given me full control to end your employment.”

  Crushing disappointment shatters my composure and tears race to my eyes.

  The elevator pings behind me. It’s the guard from the entrance. Drake nods to him, but says to me, “I’ve packed the personal contents of your desk. The box is downstairs.”

  That does it, the final straw that causes my knees to buckle. The guard takes my upper arm to hold me steady. “Ms. Walker, I’ll see you out.”

  “No, let me explain,” I plead to Drake.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  It doesn’t matter. Karma. I shut out Mr. Kavanagh not twenty-four hours ago and now this. Stunned, I watch the elevator light up in its count backward to the first floor.

  Ashamed and reeling, I grab the box from the security desk and walk into the darkness—not knowing what will happen next.

  THE WORST DAY of my life packs another punch. Snow.

  It’s fine. I could take a cab. The subway is a very viable option. Uber is fantastic. But right this second, I hate everything. About Coffee included. The cheery glow beckons me in, but instead I hang my head and trudge through the inch of slush covering the sidewalk. Box in hand and with my bad reputation following behind, I keep walking
on feet numb to the pain. I wish the rest of me was so lucky.

  Panicked thoughts race through my mind. Crazy, insane, I-must-prove-my-innocence thoughts. Devious and desperate plans form: I’ll kidnap Carla and make her speak. Torture techniques are very persuasive. I’ve seen Misery. I’ve read the book. I could totally pull off an Annie Wilkes.

  But not really.

  The truth overrides my insanity. Carla was promised the letter that means so much to me. Why? Mr. Kavanagh knew it was my driving force. He would give it to her? My performance was stellar. Until I dropped him. Is this his retribution and not hers?

  Did he know he’d give her the recommendation all along? Since the beginning?

  He did.

  “Oh,” I say to no one.

  The streets in SoHo are relatively quiet but for brick and concrete, comforting in the broad scope and height reaching to the clouds. The weather chased people indoors. Except me. I wallow in my mind and Mr. Kavanagh’s duplicity settles rancid in my stomach. It rolls and pitches as I walk into my apartment building. The entry is cold as if the door has been propped open. The overhead fluorescents flash brighter and then die.

  Blackout.

  I stop to get my bearings, shuffling to the wall of metal mailboxes.

  Hair prickles my nape.

  My pulse pounds.

  Lights flicker, as does a shape.

  Fear.

  The barest hint of a form moves from behind the staircase.

  I hold the box tighter to my chest. It’s yanked from my grip, crashing to the tile. The flower Lisa gave me sings.

  Happy, happy, happy . . .

  “What?” I squeal with a yank on my clutch purse. The strap is bound to my wrist.

  Pain.

  “No,” I whisper-scream, trying to find my voice and what I learned in the long-ago self-defense class. A quick jab from the left to the nose and a knee to the nuts. Henry’s voice is in my head.

  My fist makes contact. My knee does too.

  A grunt. “Fucking whore.”

  A hand in my hair. A tight grip. A tug. And then the freezing moment of terror when he bashes my head into the wall.

  A flash of bright agony.

  Darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Don’t Be a Fool” 3:37

  Jayce

  LIGHTS ARE ON when I arrive. Drake’s office door is open and I approach with a hand out to knock so as not to scare the shit out him. Too late. He turns and screams, dropping a stack of documents to the floor. “Jesus Christ, Jayce.” He flips me off, both hands, both middle fingers. “What the fuck? I thought you wanted me to work through the emergency?”

  “Emergency?” I lean against the doorframe, hands shoved in my pockets and run through our client list. I can’t think of anyone who would bring him in at this hour. In all honesty, I can’t muster the gumption to care. I have a much more important matter to attend to. Namely, Maisie. “I do. Whatever it is, you can have it. I came in for something personal.”

  “You mean that?” His hand drags over his face, his pale face before he drops to pick up the stack of papers.

  “I trust your judgment if that’s what you’re asking.” I step forward to his desk, files spread everywhere. The New York Times is folded faceup and angled toward his chair. “Where do you keep the staff files? I need one.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need contact information, that’s why.” Drake sets the stack of once-fallen documents next to the paper and it draws my eye to the headline: A crumbling ministry.

  “Which file?” he asks falling into his chair.

  “Maisie Walker.”

  “Fuck.” He leans back, his gaze drawn to the ceiling. “I’ve already dealt with her. The most excruciating thing I’ve ever done.”

  I blink. “Excuse me?”

  His expression turns from flat to annoyed and my heart takes off. “I canned her an hour ago. She had the audacity to deny everything, but I held firm to the facts.”

  “Canned?” I ask, stupefied. “As in, you ended her employment?”

  “Did I stutter?” His gaze finds mine for a few heavy beats and he shakes his head. “Sorry. It just got to me. But you don’t know anything? Did you not read the paper this morning?”

  “No.” I shake my head, desperate to get a hold of it now. “What’s going on, Lucas?”

  He looks visibly shaken as I read through the article. “I thought you knew. That you were giving me permission to handle everything. So I did. Maisie released Blume’s background check to the Times—the whole file really. The firm breached the signed nondisclosure. Blume’s going to own us when this is over.”

  “No.” No. “Maisie wouldn’t do this.”

  “That’s what she said.” He sighs and reaches for the bottle of scotch in his bottom drawer. “She was quite believable too. Her surprise. As good of an actress as Ash, but I did it. I put all the facts together, spelled them out. The request she had to release the background information; that she took the file without permission; the reference letter she was never going to get. That was the kicker. She—” He slugs half a tumbler of alcohol in two gulps, hissing through the aftermath. “Maisie’s face. It was something.” Drake stares at his empty glass. “It was something I’ve never seen.”

  Oh.

  Panic tears through me, bringing back the chest pain twofold.

  “You.” I can’t catch my breath. “You told her about Carla?”

  He nods, pouring a second two-finger shot. “Yeah. I did.”

  “And then you fired her?”

  He snaps his head back, the amber liquid disappearing down his throat. “Yup.”

  Oh.

  What . . . the ever living . . . hell?

  One moment, she ends our relationship and in the next she’s canned for something she never did. And then she learned I didn’t intend to give her the recommendation letter. I’m such an asshole. “She’ll never forgive me.”

  “Why would she need to?” Drake asks.

  Just like I did an hour ago in the hallway to her apartment, I break down. And this time, I tell him everything.

  THE IDEA THAT I could go under contract with my legal assistant, engage in a torrid affair, have the best sex of my life, introduce her to my family, make a sex tape, fall in love, break her heart and mine, then fire her, all within ninety days is ludicrous. A complete and utterly ridiculous notion. And the absolute truth.

  I haven’t slept. I won’t sleep until I find her.

  I text. I beg. I call. I beg. Please. Nothing is as it seems. I fucked up and I’m going to make everything right. Everything. Maisie won’t answer. Why should she? Drake used her emergency contact number, the same idea I had, to find her earlier in the day and shatter what little trust she may still have had in me. I use it now, repeatedly. It says in her file Henry Bennett is her brother-in-law—an ER physician at NYC Hospital.

  Well this is an emergency. E-M-E-R-G-E-N-C-Y.

  The relentless use of his number does nothing but drop me into his impossibly polite voice mail. “Thank you for your call. This is Doctor Bennett and I care about you. Please leave a detailed message and I’ll connect as soon as I’m able.”

  Details? He wants details? I recite the whole sordid story. Half-truths and piecemealed information brought us to this moment, and I don’t intend to hold anything back ever again.

  Nothing. I get no response throughout the night and the better part of the morning.

  By five a.m., Lucas and I have sorted through the Blume situation. Maisie didn’t release the file. I know that. It wasn’t Carla, either. Why would she? Even if she knew of my affair with Maisie, if she destroyed the firm it would negate her recommendation. It’s her driving factor for working here. The motivation is off. Which, in my mind, left someone in Blume’s camp. And that’s exactly who it was. A staffer at the ministry researched exactly what Maisie did. He snooped into her past, found the long list of embezzlements, and released it to the press. He’s talking no
w: lined up on every daytime television show that will have him.

  The leak had nothing to do with Drake, Otter and Kavanagh, even though Blume tried to bend the story in our direction. She didn’t want the appearance her ministry was, in fact, crumbling from the inside out. She pointed the finger and Lucas panicked.

  I know the feeling.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucas says for the one-hundred-and-tenth time.

  “Apology accepted. But I’ll forgive you sometime next year.”

  “I’ll talk to Maisie myself, as soon as we find her. I’ll make it right.” He swallows what I assume is crow, and looks sick about it.

  “I know.” I nod and place a hand on his shoulder. “We will. But I’m going first. I’ve got a long list to get through.”

  “I still can’t believe you put her under contract. What a dick move. I mean, I saw how you stared at her—”

  “Smoldered.”

  He looks like I’ve grown two heads. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” I chuckle even though my insides hurt. Everything hurts.

  “No, I’d like to know. Dee said that once and it got lost while we . . . uhm—”

  He’s saved by the bell, so to speak, or my phone as it rings on the counter. I grab for it so fast it bobbles in my hand. “Doctor Bennett?” I nearly choke on his name.

  “Jayce Kavanagh?”

  “Yes. Thank God. Maisie, it’s Maisie. I’m desperate to talk to her.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “Please,” I beg. I will with him, for her, to anyone who’ll listen.

  “No, I’m sorry. You misunderstand. Maisie can’t speak with anyone right now. She’s in a coma. The family has gathered at NYU. I think it might be a good idea if you join us.”

  I HAVE NEVER before paid a cabby to run lights and break the speed limit. Not until today. Not until this minute where I stuff bills through his window and then bolt from the back seat. Then my feet slow, drag really, as I enter the emergency room doors. It’s bright and busy. Urgent. You can sense the haste and concern staff have as they move about, crossing paths in manic but methodical motion. A sick dance.