BETRAYED BY THE CEO
Clare Connelly
All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.
All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.
The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.
First published 2015
(c) Clare Connelly
Photo Credit: dollarphotoclub.com/prochkailo
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Clare Connelly grew up in a small country town in Australia. Surrounded by rainforests, and rickety old timber houses, magic was thick in the air, and stories and storytelling were a huge part of her childhood.
From early on in life, Clare realised her favourite books were romance stories, and read voraciously. Anything from Jane Austen to Georgette Heyer, to Mills & Boon and (more recently) 50 Shades, Clare is a romance devotee. She first turned her hand to penning a novel at fifteen (if memory serves, it was something about a glamorous fashion model who fell foul of a high-end designer. Sparks flew, clothes flew faster, and love was born.)
Clare has a small family and a bungalow near the sea. When she isn't chasing after energetic little toddlers, or wiping fingerprints off furniture, she's writing, thinking about writing, or wishing she were writing.
Clare loves connecting with her readers. Head to www.clareconnelly.co.uk to sign up to her newsletter, or join her official facebook page.
PROLOGUE
Three years in the past
She couldn’t be dead.
It wasn’t possible.
Hendrix stared at the man, his expression impossible to decipher. Eleanor had been so full of life and vitality. How could that be gone? How could she be gone?
An overhead light was flickering, casting the ghoulish white of the hospital corridor in an inconstant glow. “Where did it happen, officer?”
Constable Dick Warren rubbed a hand over his chin and regarded the brother sympathetically. The man was tall – well over six foot – and the officer had to crane his neck to meet his eyes. “The bend at Castle Creek.”
Hendrix knew it well. “What were they doing at Castle Creek?”
The police officer’s expression was apologetic. “Star gazing, I suspect,” he employed a euphemism because it didn’t seem like the right time to make a joke about the famous make-out spot. The only reason people went to the viewing station on the outskirts of town was to have a little backseat action.
Euphemism or not, Hendrix understood. Hendrix knew.
He knew because of the kind of man William Ansell-Johns was.
Rich.
Arrogant.
And totally convinced of his right to mess around with whomever he wanted. Even Hendrix’s sister. He’d taken her to the lookout, slept with her, and then got her killed.
His fists were formed before he could recognise just how angry he was.
“Where is he?”
“The driver?” Warren eyed Hendrix with caution. “Still getting checked out.”
“Is he hurt?”
Pity flashed briefly on the cop’s face. “Not really. A fracture in his arm. Cracked ribs. He had an airbag.”
Hendrix’s eyes flew wider. “And she didn’t?”
Constable Warren shook his head. “No.”
Hendrix spun away, his face a mask of rage and devastation. His usually tanned skin was pale now. His breath was ripping from his lungs, burning as it travelled up his body and out of his mouth.
“What happened.” Not a question. It was a statement.
Officer Warren, despite the gravity of the moment, could not help observing him with interest. Hendrix Forrester was a celebrity around these parts. He was the local boy who’d come from one of the poorest families in the area and gone on to own his own top tier Manhattan law firm. He was the boy who’d never really fit in to the straight laced well-to-do seaside town, and with good reason. He didn’t belong. He was too energetic, too rebellious, too intense for a sleepy place like this.
He’d been made to feel like garbage his whole life. A mother who’d died young, and a father who’d worked two menial jobs to keep things together. And yet he’d made good on his potential despite all that.
He’d had it all. Hendrix Forrester was worth a fortune, and he had women beating a path to his door – if officer Warren’s wife was to be believed, anyhow.
Except now, he had nothing. Nothing except grief and fury.
“I said, what happened.”
Dick expelled a sigh. “We’re still working that out.”
The certainty that there was more to it than a case of poor driving or bad timing lodged in his gut. He’d smelled a whiff of alcohol on William Ansell-Johns every time he’d spoken with him. He’d cautioned Eleanor against seeing him, and he’d thought she’d listened. He’d gone back to his Manhattan penthouse and he’d imagined his sister was doing the right thing. Making good decisions, studying and spending time with her sensible best friend Andrea. Not running around with a no-good, binge-drinking, frat boy.
“I want a report on his blood alcohol level.” He turned only his head, to pierce the constable with the intensity of his stare.
Dick’s neck went a shade of mottled pink. “Son, it’s a police matter now.”
Hendrix didn’t react. His eyes, so dark they were almost black, stayed pinned to the constable’s face. “She was my sister. It is a family matter.” His eyes flashed with sudden pain. “He killed her.”
The Constable didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His silence spoke volumes. He couldn’t reject the statement. More than likely, it was accurate to a fault. The bend was sharp, but locals knew to take it with care. The car had, according to witnesses, been travelling too fast. There’d been two empty bottles of champagne and a half-drunk vodka in the back of the car.
And the victim had been pregnant.
That wasn’t conclusive proof, of course. There was still every chance she’d been drinking.
Except Dick knew Eleanor. She was a good kid. Not a drinker. Not a party animal. She wouldn’t have been drinking in her condition.
“She wasn’t meant to be with him.” Grief was taking over anger, and it made Hendrix’s voice quieter. Dick wasn’t even sure if the lawyer was speaking to him, or simply thinking aloud.
Dick’s sigh was soft. “Did you know about the baby?”
Hendrix’s face recoiled as though he’d been punched, hard. “Baby?” He narrowed his gaze, quickly regaining control of his emotions. “Whose baby?”
Dick ruffled a hand through his thinning hair. “Your sister’s. She was pregnant.”
Hendrix swore. “She wasn’t. She couldn’t have been.”
“About four months along, the doctor reckons.”
Hendrix was a strong man. Physically, mentally and emotionally, he was as resilient as they came. But his sister had always been his kryptonite. And now she was gone. He dug his hands into the pockets of his suit pants – he hadn’t had time to change after work – and squeezed his eyes shut. “And it was his.”
“No one else in the picture, so far as we know at this stage,” Dick said gently.
“He killed her. And he k
illed her baby.”
“Their baby,” Dick agreed.
“No. Nothing about my sister was his. Nothing.” Nausea rose inside of him. He clenched his teeth together. “He killed her. William Ansell-Johns is a murderer.”
CHAPTER ONE
Present day.
“I’m sorry, Georgia. What did you say?”
“The Voice. I’m asking if you watched the Voice last night.”
Chloe made a sound of surprise as a projectile of toast landed, butter side down, on her suit jacket. She lifted her large blue eyes to her daughter with an exasperated sigh.
“Mummy toast! Mummy toast!” Her daughter’s chubby arm pointed through the air, trailing the journey of the breakfast down her jacket and onto the floor.
“Yes, darling,” Chloe nodded, trying her hardest to keep exasperation out of her words. After all, it wasn’t Ellie’s fault. None of it was. “Mummy is covered in your toast now.” Chloe looked at her suit in despair. “I’m going to have to change.”
“You’ve got time,” Georgia spoke calmly.
“Barely.” She grimaced and caught her reflection in the door of the hip-height oven. Yep. A splodge of butter on her brand new, bought-for-the-occasion, second-hand suit.
“Go on. I’ve got this,” Georgia said, nodding towards the gurgling two year old.
“You’re a life saver.” A lot of things had gone wrong in Chloe’s life in the past two years. But her little girl was one thing that had gone spectacularly right. Meeting Georgia was another. She didn’t like to think of where she’d be without her downstairs neighbour.
She scanned her wardrobe with despair. She’d already discounted everything she owned as being either too casual, too bright, or too cheap. She’d engaged the top law firm in Manhattan, and she needed to look the part.
With a sigh, she reached for her faithful black dress. Teamed with a pair of pumps, a string of pearls and a simple jacket, it would do.
It was an effort worthy of an Olympic dresser. She was out of the suit and into the new outfit in a matter of moments. She paused for just long enough to neaten her hair back into a bun, then moved back through the small apartment. The view of Brooklyn Bridge usually caused her to pause and stare, but on that morning, she was distracted.
“So you know where everything is? And you’ll call me if you need anything?”
Georgia rolled her eyes at her friend and Chloe laughed awkwardly.
“Yes, yes, you’re right. I’m being silly. You know your way around my flat as well as you do your own.” She swallowed. “I don’t know why I’m feeling this way.”
“Don’t you?” Georgia eyed her over the toddler’s crop of blonde curls.
Chloe expelled a long sigh. “Of course. It’s just because of this thing. I’ll feel better when it’s over.”
“Damn right you will. I’d put money on you wishing you’d got this particular ball rolling months ago.”
“Maybe.” Her smile was wistful. That life had taken twists and turns and ended up here was something she still struggled to comprehend. “I’ll probably just be a few hours.”
“Take your time. Go get a pedicure or something while you’re in the city. We’ll be just fine.”
A pedicure? The thought brought a small smile to Chloe’s lips. At one time, pedicures had been a very standard part of her life. Manicures, pedicures, regular blow dries and spray tans. She cringed to think what she’d spent on personal grooming a few years earlier. Probably more than her month’s grocery budget at present.
As if sensing the importance of her mission, the subway had decided to fall apart at the very time she needed it most. The line that would have taken her to her appointment in a timely fashion was disable for emergency maintenance and so Chloe had to walk the last seven blocks to the sky-rise monolith that housed Forrester & Associates. She paused outside, her breath burning in her lungs from a combination of exertion and anxiety as she stared heavenwards.
This was it.
The moment of truth.
She moved purposefully through the foyer and consulted a board to determine which floor the offices were located on. It seemed to indicate they took up the top four levels of the prestigious building.
“But which one’s the reception?” She pondered to herself, running her finger over the plaque thoughtfully.
Surely it had to be either the top floor, or the lowest of their offices. She bit down on her lip as she made her way to the lift. The top floor. She could start there, and work her way down. She pressed the button and stood back patiently, waiting for the lift doors to slam shut.
When they did, she made a small sound of surprise. Who was the woman staring back at her? So serious and slim. Her hair, once neatly chopped into a neat bob had grown so long that winding it into a big bun was the only way to keep it neat. She lifted her hands to it now, wondering when she’d become so lazy. She was only twenty-four, and yet she seemed to have willingly phased herself into the old biddy section of her life.
The doors opened silently to reveal a foyer area that seemed to go forever. Highly polished marble ran in every direction, and a simple bank of white leather sofas in the middle looked almost dwarfish, simply because the room was so enormous.
Nerves were her constant companion. Butterflies beat mercilessly against her stomach, making her legs wobble in that mysterious way they had. She looked across the vast space until her eyes came to rest on a glass bar. It was waist-height, and perhaps six feet long. Two women, both reed thin and impeccably presented, were standing at it. Their torsos were obstructed from view by the gun-metal grey of their matching MacBooks.
Presumably this is what passed as a reception area in offices such as this. It was painfully chic, and it deepened her sense of not-belonging. But that didn’t matter. She didn’t need to belong. She’d come to Forrester & Associates as a client. She didn’t need them to think she was fashionable or expensive; only that she could cover their bills. Which was, in and of itself, a slight problem.
Chloe braced herself for the upcoming meeting. Her future, and Ellie’s, depended on the next twenty minutes of her life. Failure was not something she could allow.
Part way across the cavernous space, a door opened. Chloe hadn’t even noticed that there were doors to her right. She’d presumed it was the edge of the building.
Her steps faltered. Maybe this had been a mistake. There were firms in Brooklyn. Firms that would have reassuringly threadbare carpet and laminate desks at which people could comfortably sit. Receptionists with pilling cardigans and an overpowering scent of floral perfume.
A man emerged from the door, mid-sentence. “Maria, I need the Geneva contracts. All of them. Going back four years.”
“Certainly, sir.” The taller of the two receptionists nodded. The other flicked a peremptory look in Chloe’s direction.
Chloe had stopped walking. She was a stagnant piece of slightly rumpled flotsam in the middle of the pristine environment. The man who’d emerged was the final nail in the coffin.
He was too handsome. Too heart-meltingly, bone-weakeningly gorgeous. Though he wore a slate grey suit, he looked far too strong and virile to be in such a commercial environment. His dark hair had a slight wave to it despite being cut short around his head. His eyes were a piercing shade of brown, so dark they were almost black. His skin glowed like caramel and spice, and on his square jaw, he had a hint of stubble.
Chloe pulled on the strap of her handbag, holding it firm against her. It was a Prada bag, given to her almost five years earlier. But years of being pushed indignantly into service as a makeshift nappy bag had weakened it. And of course, now that it recognised it was amongst its own people, it chose that moment to launch its vindictive protest. The strap snapped, sending the bag to the floor, and an assortment of items skidding over the immaculate tiles.
Lip gloss, hair brush, a dummy, several pens and her sunglasses did their best to scatter in as many directions as possible. Chloe was suddenly in the middle of a circ
le of her life’s detritus, and her cheeks were as hot as the sun.
No one moved. Not the two amazon receptionists. And not Chloe, who felt certain the ground would swallow her up if she just stayed still enough for long enough. And not, at first, the Minotaur in a suit.
He watched, a curious expression on his face, as Chloe stood there doing nothing. His dark eyes probed her, sending little shockwaves of an unfamiliar emotion darting through her system. And then, just a fraction of a second later, he began to move with an easy athleticism, closing the distance between them. He crouched down, scooping the items into his hands before depositing them into the traitorous pouch. When he stood, his dark eyes latched to hers, and his large hands held it out for her to take.
“Your bag seems to have broken.” His voice was deep and rich.
“Yes, I suspect it’s got it in for me.”
He quirked a thick, dark brow, and waited for her to explain.
And for some reason, though her heart was racing and her pulse was shooting like a supercharged river through her body, she nodded conspiratorially. “It’s suffered years of mistreatment at my hands. It was only right that it decided to exact its own payback.”
He didn’t smile, exactly, but his expression rearranged itself in a miniscule way, that expressed his amusement.
“A sentient bag?”
“Mmmm,” she made a sound of agreement. “And a disloyal one at that.”
“Next you’ll be telling me it’s riding off into the sunset with a pair of your shoes.”
She nodded, her expression mock serious. “You just can’t find good help these days. Especially not of the leather variety.”
She was rewarded with a small lift of his lips. “Do you have an appointment here today?”
“Yes,” she straightened, remembering with a crash that bore the weight of concrete the reason she’d ascended to the spectacular offices high in the crowds. “I do.” She reached into the broken bag and pulled out a slightly dog-eared business card.
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