His to Hold: A Billionaire Romance (His to Have Book 2)
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Authors: Piper Hayes
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-Piper
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Piper Hayes
CHAPTER ONE
CATHERINE
I slump down in the backseat of the limo and look up through the tinted glass window. The city speeds by in a blur and I feel like I’m going to die. My father is saying something to me, but I’m not listening. I don’t care what he has to say, and I don’t want to hear it. All I want is to get out of this car. It’s been twenty minutes since he showed up in the lobby of Blake’s building and fifteen minutes since he ushered me into a limo. I catch pieces of it: responsibility, embarrassment, betrayal
. Thanks, Dad, I get the point.
“Look at me when I talk to you, young woman,” he finally shouts. He grabs my arm and squeezes hard. I look him in the eye for a second and turn my attention back to the window. Right now, the FBI is tossing Blake’s apartment, sifting through it for any sign that he’s involved in illegal activity, and I might hold the only thing linking him to any evidence: the keys to his secret place across the river. My father’s still yelling. “Of all people, you had to pick
him
. What was it? You weren’t getting enough attention, Catherine? I raised you better than this. Or did you just decide that with the money gone, you needed to find someone else to sponsor your overindulgent lifestyle?”
“You didn’t raise me at all,” I tell him. “You were never around. You were always off at some meeting or hiding away with one of your girlfriends you pretended didn’t exist.”
“Don’t try to change the subject,” he says. “You have gotten yourself in a world of trouble, and I had to pull every last string I had available to get you out of it.”
“You’re one to talk,” I say. I scowl at him. This is all his fault. I know it in my bones. “You’re the one whose company failed. You’re the one who lost all our money, not him. Either way, why are you so angry at me? Since when do you care about me at all?” I ask him.
“Don’t ever question my love for you,” he says. “I am trying to protect you.”
“And how did you know to be at Blake’s building this morning?” I ask.
Before I realize it, we’re on the highway and headed out of the city. My father still hasn’t answered my question. If it weren’t for the hum of the motor the silence would be deafening. We’re halfway to Connecticut when he finally does answer. “I have contacts,” he says.
“Where are we going?” I ask. I already know the answer, but I want to hear him explain himself.
“I’m bringing you home.”
“My home is in Manhattan.”
“You mean the apartment I paid for,” he says.
“The one you paid for when you and Mom decided to separate and move into different houses. Your house is not my home.”
“This is all irrelevant,” he tells me. “Only one thing matters. You brought shame upon our family name, just as I was getting everything back into place, all because you couldn’t stay away from Blake Bennett. What do you even know about him?”
“I know everything I need to know.” This is both the truth and a lie at the same time. There’s so much I don’t know about Blake, but there is at least one thing I do know: I know how he feels about me, and I know how I feel about him. We have a connection, an undeniable connection. He chose to trust me. If I wanted to, I could ruin him. But I won’t. I wouldn’t betray his trust for anything or anyone.
“You know nothing,” my father replies. He sneers and turns away.
“I know he used to work for you. I know he left. And I know he’s being investigated by the FBI.”
“Did he also tell you why he might have a specific interest in you?”
He likes my legs and we had incredible, mind-bending sex the first night we met?
I roll my eyes. “No, Dad. I don’t know why anyone would have an interest in me. Let me guess: it’s because I’m your daughter.”
“Come on, Catherine, be serious for once in your life. You have no idea what he did, do you?”
“No idea about what?”
“Your boyfriend is the reason the company went out of business, the reason we went broke, and the reason why you don’t have money anymore. He stole a third of our client base, and before he left, he created a mess that spiraled out of control. He’s a criminal.”
I feel like a piece of glass that’s been hit by a rock. The cracks spread through it, but it just barely stays intact. That’s how I feel right now: just barely intact. I feel like even the slightest breeze could shatter me into a thousand pieces. “I don’t believe you,” I tell him. I really don’t. It’s the only choice I have.
“That’s because he’s manipulating you.”
“He trusts me, and I trust him.” I tighten my hand around the key to his secret loft.
He trusts you, Cat. You need to trust him too
, I tell myself.
“You’re being naïve. He has everything to gain from you and nothing to lose. Believe me or not, the equation is simple. If the FBI gathers enough evidence that the US Attorney can prosecute, we get back our frozen assets. You’ll have a trust fund again. Not what you had before, but it will be more than enough to get by.”
“You’re helping them, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Yes. And you’re going to help them, too.”
I cross my arms and try my hardest not to scream. We’re already outside the city, and I have no idea where we are. The trees are vibrantly green and the clouds are starting to burn off, and I know I can’t stay in this car a minute longer than necessary.
Soon we’re off the highway, driving down a two-lane country road. I demand that the driver pull over the car onto the dirt shoulder. I shout, and I feel like a petulant child. I always feel like a child around my father. The driver pulls over onto the shoulder. I don’t even seen him through the partition.
“What are you doing?” my father asks.
“I’m leaving,” I tell him.
“And where do you think you’re going to go?” he adds.
“I’m going back, and I don’t need your help getting there.”
My father softens his voice as he says, “I’m doing this for your own good. I wish you would see that. You’re my only child now. I need to protect you. I’m only trying to help.”
“If you want to help me, let me out of the car and leave,” I tell him. “And don’t come after me. I’m not going to help you go after Blake.”
“Do you really trust this man you just met, a man you don’t even really know, more than you trust your own father?”
“Yes, I do.”
He almost winces as he listens to my words. For a second, I feel like maybe he does care. I feel like maybe I’ve hurt him somehow, but I know that isn’t possible. My father knocks on the partition between the back and the driver. The doors unlock. I step out and slam the door shut.
I watch the limo peel out and disappear around the next bend in the road. I don’t really know where I am. I don’t know where Blake is either, but that doesn’t matter. I reach for the key in my pocket and hold it in my hand. I know where I have to go.
I start walking.
CHAPTER 2
CATHERINE
I make it to the city by nightfall. Thank God for Metro North. I get on the subway and switch lines four times, twice because I have to, and twice because I’m paranoid. I don’t know why I think I’m being followed. My father wouldn’t go through the effort, and I doubt the FBI has any interest in me. I keep Blake’s key in my hand the whole time. I’m not even willing to risk putting it back in my pocket. I hold it like a talisman. As long as I have it, no harm will come to me.
Once I reach Brooklyn, I struggle to remember how to find the loft. I don’t know how I do it. I find the river and start walking. It’s late, and I have no idea where I am, and I’m more than a little afraid without Blake by my side, but I find my way. I look over my shoulder one more time to make sure no one’s following me, and then I duck into the lot, find the entrance and make my way inside.
Then I wait. My phone is off, and I don’t dare turn it back on for fear that my father or Ben or someone worse than either of them will find me. I don’t know what kind of trouble Blake is in, but I know he’d want me to stay safe. I know he’d want me to wait for him.
Little by little, I convince myself that maybe he’s calling, maybe something happened and he needs my help. I manage to go to sleep without turning the phone on, but my dreams are filled with calls. I dream that Blake is trying to reach me, that he needs my help. I dream that he’s trying to warn me, that he tells me I need to get out of New York at any cost. I toss and I turn, and I wake up more times than I can count. By the time morning comes, I decide I can’t wait another minute. I pick my phone up and turn it on.
I have a missed call, but it isn’t from Blake. It’s from Ben. I listen to the voicemail. Ben wants to know if I’m safe. He asks me to call and says it’s important. There’s nothing from Blake. I turn the phone off, and I decide I’ll wait at least another day before checking again. A day passes, but there’s still no word from Blake. I start to worry that something really did happen to him.
I remind myself that Blake said to wait for him here. It’s clear that he or someone he knows stocked the place for me. The fridge is full, and there’s an ample supply of pasta and other non-perishable food. I decide to wait things out. If Blake isn’t back by the end of the week, I’ll leave and figure something out. For the meantime, I stay in.
I read. I cook and cook and cook some more to pass the time. I play solitaire. For the first time in my life, I clean. I find a bucket and sponges and cleaning supplies and I scrub the loft to within an inch of its grimy little life. By the time I’m done with it, it almost looks good. One thing’s for sure, it looks brighter, and I feel good about myself for a little while. I don’t even mind the way the cleaning supplies dry out my hands or the fact that the faint smell of bleach hangs in the air for hours after I’m done. I take both as reminders that I did something.
While cleaning, I notice two filing cabinets at the back of the loft. They look like they’re left over from when the loft was actually part of the business below. I try to open the drawers, but they’re locked. I decide to leave them alone and go back to working on the rest of the space. I fold the futon down into a bed, and decide to think of it only as a bed. I’m hopeful that this will make me feel less like a broke college student. Blake is a billionaire, and for some reason, he didn’t spring for a couch or a mattress for this loft. The decision is made. The futon is now a bed. End of discussion.
The only thing I don’t touch is the windows. I leave them dirty and streaked in case anyone were to notice the light on or anything. It takes me three days to clean the loft from top to bottom, and then I start to worry. I wonder what the hell I’m doing with my life, but mostly I worry about Blake. I worry that he’s in jail or that something worse has happened to him. With each passing day, the pit in my stomach grows a little bigger. I start to wonder if I’ll ever see him again.
I turn my attention back to the filing cabinets. I don’t know why, but I want to know what’s inside. If Blake was so interested in preventing Ben from finding out about this apartment, there must be something here that he wanted to hide. I doubt it’s the futon, so whatever’s in the filing cabinets must be important. I search through the loft and find two paperclips. I remember seeing something somewhere about picking a lock using hairpins, and I try to remember. I jam one into the lock, and push another in and out while trying to turn the lock. Nothing happens.
I pull the paperclips out, bend one of them and try again. I nearly break it in half as I try to get the lock to turn. I pull it back out and try every possible permutation of the two paperclips, moving them back and forth until I hear a click and the lock turns. I jump up in excitement, and one of the clips falls out. For a second I think I’ve lost all my progress, but the lock turns freely. I’m in.
CHAPTER 3
CATHERINE
I’m not sure what I expected when I decided to break into Blake’s filing cabinet, but it is full of… files. It’s dull financial statements from front to back. There are no copies of damning emails, no photographs or blackmail attempts. It’s just account and transaction logs for a bunch of companies I’ve never heard of. I take note of where everything goes, and I pull a few files. I spread them out on the floor. If I’ve ever had time to play detective, it’s now. It seems like a better alternative than just waiting around and playing maid.
