I Married a Billionaire: Lost and Found (Contemporary Romance) (9 page)

I couldn’t stop thinking about the magazine article. The more I drank, the more I stewed. Right about the time I realized I ought to stop, I decided to open another bottle instead and rummaged a pen and paper out of one of the drawers.

Handle them with kid gloves. Fuck that. I was going to offer them a piece of my mind instead. Specifically, Tim Calamazzo, the writer credited for "Daniel in the Lion’s Den."

My lip curled into an involuntary snarl just thinking about it.

Dear Mr. Calamazzo,

It’s quite likely that you don’t know me. Or perhaps you do. Either way, I doubt you gave me any sort of consideration when you wrote your "article" entitled "Daniel in the Lion’s Den," featured in the most recent edition of the magazine. I have to give credit where credit is due - your article was compelling enough to suck me in, initially, which is more than it ought to have done. You can give yourself a pat on the back for that one.

The headline caught my eye first. I’m sure you were quite pleased with yourself when you came up with it, although it does imply a certain level of sympathy that neither you, nor most of your colleagues in the press, seem to feel for the article’s subject. After all, in the Biblical story, we’re not meant to identify with the lions. Perhaps you intended it to be ironic?
 

After a promising beginning, I was deeply disappointed to open the article and find that it was another cheap shot at a man who has reached heights of success that you yourself, Mr. Calamezzo, will almost certainly never see.

I hesitated here, but only for a moment. I was on a roll. I scribbled feverishly, my pen moving across the page at an almost frightening speed. The words were coming into my head faster than I could get them down.

At this point it might be worth mentioning that Daniel Thorne in my husband. I am almost certain that this fact will cause you to completely ignore my letter, as I’m clearly too close to the subject to have any kind of objectivity on the matter. Which is all that matters to people like you, isn’t it? Making sure that you don’t accidentally treat your subjects as human beings. God forbid. But even if objectivity is your only goal, even you should be able to realize that the current tone being taken in the media - by yourself as well, Mr. Calamezzo - is borne of jealousy, greed, and petty anger that you’ve decided to direct at an innocent man.
 

Daniel Thorne will almost certainly be acquitted of these ridiculous charges (though if he isn’t, I imagine he’ll have people like you to thank for it). But regardless of the outcome of his trial, he will always be remembered as the man who cheated, who took unfair advantage of a system that is set up to favor people like him. Everyone who reads an article like yours is going to assume his guilt, because they know that if they were in his shoes,
they
would have done it. This is their sole criterion for judging him. Their own greed, and their own guilt.

I hope you are happy with your hand in this. I hope you sleep well at night, Mr. Calamezzo. I truly, truly do.

Yours Sincerely,

Mrs. Madeline Thorne

When I let the pen drop on the counter, I realized my hands were shaking. My hands, my arms, my whole body - the hysteria that I’d been stifling and stuffing down bubbled to the surface, and suddenly I was crying. The tears were big and hot as I sat there on the kitchen stool, rocking back and forth, hugging myself tightly. Now that I’d opened the floodgates, there was no closing them again. I sobbed and sobbed. Droplets fell, mercifully blurring the words I had just written. I already hated myself for writing them.
 

I stood up suddenly, picking up the paper and crunching it into a tiny ball. I shoved it down into the kitchen compactor as far as it would go, pushing it harder than I needed to, slamming it down with my hand again and again and again. I felt a sharp pain and recoiled, seeing a few drops of blood land on the trash before I realized I must have cut myself on something buried in there. I kicked the cabinet shut and ran my hands under hot water, scrubbing with anti-bacterial dish soap and strangely relishing the harsh sting in my open wound.
 

I shut off the tap and dried off, taking a look at the cut before I wrapped it in a paper towel. It was rough and jagged. Ugly. And a result of my own stupidity and foolish, drunken anger.

I sank to the floor, holding the towel tightly against my hand, and cried until I had nothing left.

The next morning, when Daniel announced he was meeting with a journalist - on purpose - I thought he’d really, truly lost his mind.

I stared at him for a moment, trying to read if he could possibly be joking. But no. He wasn’t. "A journalist? Are you serious?"
 

"No, no. Well, yes." He fiddled with his watch. "She's not like the others."

"No, of course she's not."

He let out a long breath that wasn't exactly a sigh. "She's in contact with someone else at the same firm where my broker works, and she thinks she has some inside information about the way the trade might have actually happened. Something they're not telling me, in the interest of protecting their reputation."

"And what's
her
interest in this whole thing?"

"She wants to get the exclusive story, of course." Daniel was unfastening and re-fastening his…cufflinks? Seriously, cufflinks? To meet with a
journalist
?

 
"Aren't you a little overdressed for a secret rendezvous?"

Daniel blinked at me. "She's coming here," he said. "Did I not mention that?"

Christ
.

"No, you didn't," I said, standing up. "Should I get dressed?"

"We can't meet in public," he said, seeming not to hear me. "She wouldn't discuss it in any detail over the phone, but I have a feeling she has something solid to implicate some of the people there. We don't want any of it to get out until we know for sure what's really going on."

"Well, sure." I rummaged through my closet. Even if
she
didn't care, I didn't want to look like a schlub next to Daniel. I had enough of that feeling already.

I ended up pulling on a black pencil skirt and a turquoise blouse. I tied my hair back and popped in some diamond stud earrings - I didn't want to look like I was trying too hard, but I also didn't want to look like the help. My encounter with the girl last week had taught me that it was best to at least
pretend
that I had a touch of class about me, otherwise I'd live to regret it.

The door buzzer went off sooner than I was expecting. Daniel rushed to answer it, and I hung back a little, standing near the kitchen and trying to look dignified.

He opened the door, and I heard them exchange greetings. I stepped forward, slowly.
 

What I saw made me wish I'd stayed locked in the bedroom.

She was tall and elegant, her sleek black pumps putting her almost at an even height with Daniel. Her outfit wasn't terribly dissimilar to mine, but while she looked like a model who'd stepped out of a catalog shoot, I looked like I was playing dress-up in someone else's clothes. Her hair bounced on her shoulders, catching the light just so. And still, even with all the trappings of femininity surrounding her, it was
very
clear that she was not someone to be trifled with.

I took a deep breath, holding my chin high.

"And you must be Mrs. Thorne." She was advancing on me. I extended my hand, and she took it in a firm, confident grip. "I'm Genevieve Winters. I promise you, I'm going to do everything in my power to get your husband acquitted of this ridiculous charge."

"Isn't that his lawyer's job?" I blurted. Behind me, I saw Daniel pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Well, yes and no." She wasn't taken aback, not in the slightest. Of
course
she wasn't. "But I have access to certain channels - people who might be more reluctant to talk to a lawyer. But they know and trust me. They know I protect my sources. I'll be working with Mr. Thorne very closely to make sure we do everything we can to find the truth."

"Great," I said, with a frozen smile. She finally released my hand.

"All right, Daniel," she said, turning back towards him. "Let's talk about what we've got so far."

I wasn't sure if I was meant to leave or not. I stood awkwardly at the corner of the living room, until Genevieve shot me a warm smile.

"Join us if you'd like," she said. "Unless Mr. Thorne has any objections."

Daniel blinked. "No, of course not."

I sat down on the edge of the sofa, still feeling strangely unwelcome. Genevieve was unfastening a black leather binder, pulling out papers and stacking them into neat little piles on our coffee table.
 

"Now," she said. "Before we begin, I want to make it clear that I'm not accusing anyone of anything. I just want to tell you what I know, so that you can move forward with the information as you choose. As I was telling Mrs. Thorne, I have connections that could help you in building your defense."

Daniel nodded. "I understand," he said.
 

"So," she said, taking a deep breath. "It's neither here nor there, but I happen to have a prior business relationship with someone who works at the same firm as your broker. After your accusation hit the news, it just happened to come up in conversation. My source thought there was something suspicious about the whole thing." She paused, and looked up at both of us briefly. "You understand, I'm sure, that I can't reveal his identity."

"Of course," said Daniel. "Go on."

"Well," she said. "It took a while to get the information out of him, but he finally admitted that he'd 'seen something.'" She leaned forward a little. "Your broker has been meeting with someone in secret."

Daniel's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch.

"Now," she said, raising her hands, "I have no way of knowing anything, mind you. This is all secondhand, and it's all very vague. But, I know my source pretty well. I can't figure out what motive he'd have for lying about something like this. He says one day, he just happened to be in the parking garage across the street in the late morning. Most of the employees don't ever have to park there, but I guess there was a big board meeting that day, and he was running late, so that's where he ended up. Total coincidence. Anyway, while he's there, he says he sees your broker meeting with someone. He doesn't want to get any closer to get a good look, but your broker comes away from it with a big, fat envelope. Suddenly, my friend remembers seeing your broker with a brand new watch, bragging about his new car - and he thinks to himself - well, somebody's accepting some money on the side for something. But until your story hits the news, he doesn't really think anything of it."

"That's a bit…" Daniel hesitated. "Tenuous, don't you think?"

"Hey," said Genevieve. "It's something, which is better than what you had."

"Oh - of course." Daniel shook his head. "I appreciate this very much. Don't get me wrong. I'm just…I'm trying to put the pieces together, that's all."

"Well," said Genevieve. "All this time, he's presumably been telling you some kind of story. I don't know if it's the same one that the press has been hearing - some kind of glitch? He had nothing to do with the trade? That sounds a little convenient to me. What kind of computer glitch initiates entire trades on its own and leaves no trace, other than looking exactly like your broker did it himself?"

"Well, I don't know," said Daniel. "And I suppose that's where I'm at the disadvantage."

"It would be valuable, I think," said Genevieve, "to get an audience with some of their on-site tech support, alone. Although even if you did, they might not be too hasty to implicate someone else at the firm. Even if all signs point in that direction. Still, there might be some valuable information to glean that way."

"Can your source provide any further information? Or can you?"

"Well," said Genevieve. "It's possible for me to investigate this further. But I'm going to need something from you in return."

"How much?" Daniel wanted to know.

"Oh, no," she said, smiling. "No, no, no. A feature. I want to do an article on you and your home life. Nothing inflammatory, I promise. You'll have final approval on everything. I want to portray you as a normal guy just going through the ringer on something, not necessarily as innocent or guilty, just…someone readers can relate to. Everyone's hungry for any information about you that they can get, and you know they're going to get it somewhere if they don't get it from me. So you might as well put something out there that casts you in a sympathetic light."

Daniel was thinking. "Final approval?"

"Absolutely," said Genevieve. "You have my word."

"In that case," said Daniel. "Find out everything you can about what my broker's doing, and I'll give you your story."

Genevieve smiled. "As it so happens, I have some questions prepared for an interview. Can we get started now?"

"All right."

I felt like an intruder. I went to get a glass of water, which neither of them seemed to notice, and afterwards I couldn't bring myself to sit back down. I settled for retreating to my studio with the door open, so I could hear their conversation. And, of course, the occasional peals of laughter that rang out, bouncing against the vaulted ceilings. Daniel only chuckled quietly, but more easily and more often than I'd been able to make him do in a long, long time.

I sat in front of my half-finished drawing, regarding it with something akin to anger. Why couldn't I figure out what was wrong with it? It just wasn't right. It wasn't done, even though it might seem so, to an untrained eye. There was something missing, and I didn't know what it was. I closed my eyes, trying not to hear the conversation in the living room, but unable to completely shut it out.
 

I took a deep breath and tried to take myself back to the memories of the willow tree that had inspired my drawing in the first place. What was I missing? What had I forgotten? I remembered the feeling of the leaves against my skin, quivering in the breeze. I remembered feeling sheltered under the drooping branches, closed off from the world in a little fortress that was just for me. I used to go there with a book, or a sketch pad, sitting cross-legged on the dirt between two of the biggest roots and stay there for hours, until someone came out to call me in for dinner. A few, very specially selected friends knew about it too - but few of them seemed to have the same connection with the place that I did. When I was there, I preferred to be alone.