The British Billionaire Bachelor, Act Three (27 page)

Stall. Stall. You can hit the alarm when you get down there.

“Fuck, okay, okay,” he exclaimed, running his hand over his face in an attempt to wipe away the water.

The intruder stepped back, and as Darren staggered forward, trying to find his way in the cold blackness, a second flashlight beam appeared in the hallway, guiding him towards the staircase, then lit his way down the stairs and into his study. Next to the giant safe another man was waiting, his flashlight shining on the large dial

“Okay, we have deal, right?” Darren muttered, his heart pounding. “I open the safe and I live.”

“That’s what I said, now open it.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Darren exclaimed. “I’ll bring you in on my deals. I’ve got a lot of people in my pocket in this city. I’ll cut you in. Turn on the lights, let’s join forces. You’ll make money every week, not just now. Whatta ya say?”

“Open the safe. I won’t say it again. We have equipment with us to open it if you don’t cooperate, but that will mean I shoot you right now,” the man threatened. “One…two…”

“FUCK! Okay,” Darren yelled, throwing up his hands in surrender.

Stepping up to the safe, sweat beading on his forehead, his quivering fingers began spinning the dial, and as the tumblers fell into place, he spun the thick metal wheel and pulled the handle. The heavy door opened, exposing the contents of Darren Hardcastle’s safe.

“Where’s your phone?” asked the intruder holding the gun.

“On my desk, I think, no wait, in my coat pocket, there, draped around my chair.”

A few silent moments ticked by, until a voice pierced the dark.

“Got it, and the wallet too.”

“Your tablet?”

“Don’t have one,” Darren replied. “Hate those things.”

“Computers, how many?”

“My laptop, in my briefcase by the chair, and the desktop,” Darren quivered.

As frightened as he was, he was starting to feel more confident about his chances of survival. They hadn’t smacked him around, they hadn’t been rude, or nasty, they just wanted the stuff.

“I’ve got some great booze, fellas. I mean great-”

“Sorry, no time for a cocktail. Get on your knees.”

Shaking, Darren fell to his knees, thinking they were going to whack him on the back of the head and knock him out.

“Anything you want to say before you die?” the stranger calmly asked, placing the barrel of the silencer against Darren’s temple as a second man held a large, square block of wood on the opposite side of his head.

“Whaaat? You said you would let me live,” Darren pleaded.

“Yeah, but I didn’t say for how long.”

The pop of the gun sounded like a weak firecracker, and Darren Hardcastle’s lifeless body collapsed on the carpet.

“Did it catch the bullet?” the shooter asked.

“Sure did.”

“Great. Finish up and move on.”

Forty-five minutes later, laying in bed in his bachelor pad, Brandon Witherspoon thought he heard a noise. He hadn’t slept very well, somewhat confused by the lack of response from Cordelia Cartwright. He had left her two voicemails and texted her, but had received no response. Sitting up and switching on his bedside lamp, he listened carefully. Hearing nothing further he laid back down, and was about to turn off the light when he decided to get up and have a shot of whiskey, hoping it would help him finally nod off.

Sighing deeply, he grabbed the robe he’d dropped in a heap on the floor, and pulling it on as he walked, he wandered into his living room, the only illumination washing through from his open bedroom door.

He was heading for the bar when he thought something seemed out of place. Pulse quickening, he moved quickly to the wall and flicked a switch, bathing the room in bright white light. Staring across the space, he suddenly realized his laptop was gone, and sitting in its place was a sheet of paper.

“What the fuck?”

Racing across to his desk, with trembling fingers and a racing heart, he picked up the note and began to read.

Hello Brandon.

Don’t bother looking for your phone. It’s with your computer at the bottom of the Thames.

Darren Hardcastle is dead.

His safe has been cleaned out.

His laptop and desktop computer have been removed from his premises.

The people who have been victimized by your former employer are now released from their shackles. If we hear even a hint, that you are attempting to exploit any of those victims for any reason, you will join your former boss who is currently burning in the flames of hell, but before we send you on your way to join him, we will cut off your dick and stuff it in your mouth.

Of course, if you don’t want to take the chance of something you say being misunderstood, you could always move out of the city.

We understand Australia can be welcoming to immigrants from the UK.

His entire body was quivering, and a sickening churning had started in his stomach. Leaping from his desk he made a mad dash to his bathroom. Five minutes later, after throwing up his dinner, he splashed cold water on his face and hurriedly began to pack.

A couple of hours later, a secretary arriving early to the law offices of Steven Parker & Associates, discovered the place had been ransacked; locked file cabinets were wide open, their contents strewn across the floor. As she stood at her desk, about to place a panicked call to police, she also realized her computer was gone. Running through the workplace, she discovered there wasn’t a single computer left on a desk.

In his home, Steven Parker had made love to his wife, showered and eaten breakfast, and had stepped into his study to pick up his briefcase and head for work, when he too, found a white sheet of paper where his desktop computer and tablet once had sat.

Hello Steven:

Don’t bother looking for your phone. It’s with your computer at the bottom of the Thames.

Darren Hardcastle is dead.

His safe has been cleaned out.

His laptop and desktop computer have been removed from his premises.

The people who have been victimized by your former employer are now released from their shackles. If we hear even a hint, that you are attempting to exploit any of them for any reason, you will join your former boss who is currently burning in the flames of hell, but before we send you on your way to join him, we will cut off your dick and stuff it in your mouth.

Of course, if you don’t want to take the chance of something you say being misunderstood, you could always move out of the city.

Australia might be to your liking. We understand Brandon Witherspoon may be moving there soon. Once you’ve relocated, no doubt the two of you will have a lot to talk about.

The sun rose above the city, and blinking his eyes open, Simon rolled over to hug his beautiful Belle, but to his dismay her side of the bed was empty. Sitting up, he glanced down at Goldie’s foam pad; also empty. Stretching his arms above his head, he was trying to decide whether to get up or to wait for her, when he heard her running down the hall, breathlessly calling his name.

“What is it,” he called back, “is everything okay?”

“Darren Hardcastle, he’s dead,” she panted, as Goldie bounded into the room ahead of her, “quick, turn on the TV.”

“Dead? What? Are you sure?”

“The guard downstairs was watching his tablet and it’s all over the news.”

Grabbing the remote control, Simon pushed the power button and turned to a local morning news show.

“Police say it was an execution-style murder, and the note the killer left behind is already stirring controversy, having been distributed to several newspapers this morning. Entrepreneur Darren Hardcastle, found dead in his home early this morning, killed by a gunshot to the head. Back to you, Karen. I understand you have a copy of the note in your possession.”

“I can’t believe this,” Simon exclaimed.

Pulling off her sweatsuit, Belle crawled back into bed to cuddle next to him and listen.

“The note, which is already in at least two newspapers, says the following,” she began, as a picture of the typewritten letter appeared on the screen.

“For all those victimized by this malicious man, you may now rest easy. The contents of his safe have been destroyed, and we have made sure he carried his secrets with him to the gates of hell.”

Taking a pause for effect, the news anchor stared into the camera.

“It appears Darren Hardcastle has been murdered by a person or persons unknown, who believed him to be a blackmailer, or perhaps a victim of blackmail themselves. While this is all speculation, he was known to have led a colorful life. We are waiting word from his spokesperson, and hoping to hear from his clients, most notably Robbie Cobalt. We’ll be back after these messages.”

Simon hit the mute button and whistled softly.

“Like you said, I can’t believe it,” Belle agreed. “I mean, he was at The Ivy, just yesterday, and now…”

“I’m sure he had many enemies,” Simon remarked.

“Do you think they’ll find whoever did it?”

“Hard to say,” Simon replied. “If it was one of the people he was blackmailing or has scammed, probably, but if it was a professional hit, no, they won’t.”

“A professional hit? Whoa, that’s intense.”

“You know what just popped into my head?” Simon said thoughtfully. “Those two guys who were following Joseph. He overheard them say something about, the big night. He probably still has the recording of that conversation.”

“That’s really scary,” she murmured, her eyes wide.

“I’ll bet they were following him because he unexpectedly appeared on their radar. They needed to know his connection to Hardcastle.”

“You mean, to see if he was a bodyguard, or someone new that was working with him, something like that?”

“Exactly. They must have decided he wasn’t an issue and let it drop.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Belle sighed.

“I wonder if he knows,” Simon frowned, and picking up his phone, he dialed the house.

“Sinclair residence, may I help you?”

“Henry, I need to speak with Mr. Cardinelli, it’s important.”

“Yes, Sir, I’ll transfer the call to his room.”

When the phone next to his bed announced an incoming call with its shrill, insistent ring, Joseph and Lucinda were still sleeping, and it took a moment for Joseph to drag himself out of his dream.

“Yeah, hello?” he mumbled, finally picking up the receiver.

“Joseph, it’s Simon, I have some shocking news…”

In a remote area of the Scottish Highlands, inside a 16th-century castle perched on a knoll, overlooking a loch, Patrick McManus, the patriarch of the McManus family, and owner of McManus Brewery, was also watching the news, his daughter Katherine at his side, sharing a pot of tea and toast with jam. The library in which they were seated was filled with first edition books and works of great literature.

“It’s over sweetheart,” he said, taking her hand, “but you’re to stay here for a while as we agreed, get your head back on straight, then we’ll talk about your future.”

“Yes, Daddy, I’ll stay,” she nodded meekly. “I want to stay. I don’t care if I never see London again.”

“Look around you, all these books, all these great writers, men and women both. Fill your time with their words, their stories, their minds, and I think you’ll find a new path for yourself.”

“I will. I’m so glad that horrible, toxic man is dead. He had so many victims.”

“Yes, he was evil,” her father nodded. “I have no doubt he is burning in the flames of hell.”

“I need to call Robbie,”

“You do that. I’ll see you later,” he smiled, and kissing her on the forehead, ambled from the room.

Entering his office, he found his eldest son waiting, a small suitcase unzipped and open, sitting on top of his desk.

“How much, do you think?” he asked, staring at file folders, flash drives and large bundles of cash.

“Hard to say, but millions, I think,” his son replied.

“Let’s start finding out who it all has to go back to,” Patrick declared, “and how we can do it discreetly.”

T
hough it was short notice, Simon invited a select group to join him and Belle at Chatsworth Hall for a lavish dinner on Saturday night and an overnight stay through Sunday.

Shortly following Belle’s requisite spanking on Friday evening at 8 p.m., a quick affair with her bent over the kitchen island, the tasty spanking delivered with a wooden spoon, Lucinda and Joseph arrived to follow them down, wanting to wake up in the country on Saturday morning, and then leave on Sunday afternoon to head off on their holiday. As a thank you for Joseph’s help, Simon had arranged for them to stay at a high-end, country inn, owned by a close friend.

Tyler Anderson, his wife Cheryl, and his niece Cordelia Cartwright would be arriving Saturday afternoon, as would Simon’s father, Harry, and his mother and stepfather.

As they zipped down the motorway, Belle sitting a tad gingerly, Simon thought she appeared preoccupied, almost solemn, and reaching across he picked up her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Everything okay over there?” he smiled.

“Yes, fine, why?”

“You seem quieter than usual.”

“Oh, yes, I guess I am,” she admitted. “Just thinking about everything that’s happened. It’s been such a heavy week.”

“That’s an understatement,” he agreed. “I think I should put some things on hold for a few days. We can stay on at Chatsworth after everyone leaves. If the weather cooperates we could take the horses out for a ride, maybe even drive further south and visit that spa resort for a night or two, get some massages, hot rocks, all that indulgent nonsense,” he grinned.

“Simon, that is an outstanding idea,” she sighed. “I would really love that. A chance to really relax.”

“Anything to keep my girl happy,” he said warmly, and bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers gently.

Shortly before the celebratory dinner the following evening, Simon asked his father to join him for a private word in his study.