Shattered Virtue (13 page)

CHAPTER 21

Madrigal

It’s after midnight, so I tiptoe into the house hoping not to wake anyone. But this time I’m not so lucky. Gramps is waiting inside for me.

“Where have you been?” He’s holding a glass in his hand that smells of alcohol. A bad sign. He’s not supposed to be drinking. Not with his heart condition.

“I’m sorry. I should have called to let you know I was going to be late.”

“When you didn’t answer your phone, I called the firm’s guard on duty, asked him to check in on you. You weren’t at your desk. I contacted the head of tech next. Guess what he told me?”

I can only imagine. “I don’t know.”

“You never made it into the office. Your card key never registered. Nor was your computer turned on today.”

It’s the little things that trip you up. Joss did warn me I would be watched. I just didn’t realize the extent of the surveillance. “You’re right. I never went to work. On my way in, Cristina called. We spent the day together.”

“Doing what?” His cheeks are mottling red. God. I can’t be the cause of another heart attack.

“Girl stuff. Shopping, lunch, catching up. Maybe you should sit down, Gramps.” I try to lead him to one of the chairs in the foyer, but he jerks back his hand.

“What did you buy?”

Should have thought that through. I don’t have a single store bag on me. “N-nothing. We went shopping for her. She’s been invited to a wedding and needed a dress, shoes, and a purse.”

“Shops close at nine. It’s after midnight, Missy.” He only calls me that when he’s angry at me.

“We only shopped until the afternoon. Then we went back to her place. She’s upset. Her boyfriend broke up with her. She needed a shoulder to cry on.” It’s a version of the truth, and it’s bound to be something he’ll accept. He doesn’t care for the emotional side of things. After I came to live with him, he avoided any emotional outbursts on my part and let Olivia handle the “messy” stuff.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. Thankfully his color recedes. “You should have called, Madrigal.”

I nod. “You’re right. I should have. I promise not to let it happen again.”

“Go to bed. Get your rest.” His gaze tells me he’s not convinced I’m telling the truth, but at least he’s willing to give me the benefit of the doubt.

I can’t keep doing this. Sooner or later he’s bound to find out about Steele and me. And then God help me. And God help Steele. Regardless of what Steele says, Gramps is bound to retaliate against him for seducing his granddaughter. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s kicked a partner out of the firm. But for now, I’ll take his forgiveness and do as he says. “Thanks, Gramps.”

I kiss him on the cheek and head for the stairs, but before I get there, he says, “The picnic is next week. Invite your friend.”

With everything that’s going on, I’d forgotten all about it. “Okay.”

“Brad and his family will be there. It’s time you made things official.”

My foot freezes on the first step of the staircase. I turn around and face him. “Make what official?”

“Your engagement, of course.”

My stomach clenches. From the look on his face, he’s dead serious. “Engaged? Brad and I are not even dating anymore.”

He dismisses my objection with a twist of his hand. “Doesn’t matter. He’s an excellent match for you, Madrigal. Comes from a great family with plenty of money. You’ll never want for anything.”

Except love. Brad and I dated a few times in college. But there was no magic with him, not like there is with Steele. At the time, I wondered if it was my lack of experience, but now I know it wasn’t. I enjoy sex. A lot. When I marry, I want that in my marriage. Hot, sweaty sex, not the tepid encounter Brad and I shared. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

He pounds his hand on the round mahogany table that resides in the entrance hall. “You will make it work, or by God I’ll make you sorry.” His face turns purple with rage.

Sweet God. He’s gone insane. He can’t force me to marry. But I can’t disagree with Gramps. Not now. If I argue the point, he might have a relapse. So to avoid a disaster, I pretend to agree. “I’ll talk to Brad. See what he thinks.”

“You do that.” He slams back whatever he’s drinking. But I’m not about to ask what it is. Not in the mood he’s in.

“Good night.”

He doesn’t bother to respond but turns around and heads toward his study. After I drag my feet up the stairs, I check on Madison. Thankfully, she’s fast asleep. I slip into my room, change into my pajamas, and crawl into bed to plan my next steps.

I’m worried about Gramps. His outbursts are becoming more intense. When I was younger, he would command me to do things, but he’d do it in a cold, bloodless manner, as if he expected to be obeyed without question. But now that he’s gotten older, he issues orders in a hot temper, as if he’s afraid. But afraid of what? Of losing control over me? I’m twenty-four years old. How long does he think he can tell me what to do? Did he do the same thing to my mother? Did he demand she attend William & Mary? I know for a fact she wanted to go to Harvard. She told me so. He’d done the same with me, ordering me to attend the same school as my mother. Family tradition, he said. That’s where I ran into Brad and started to date. Is history repeating itself? Does he think he can maneuver me into a marriage with a man I do not love? No. That’s not right. My parents loved each other. That much I know. God, what a mess. I punch my pillow and spend what’s left of the night tossing and turning in bed.

Monday at work, Steele calls me into his office to go over the Willie Vaughn case. The appeal is scheduled for Wednesday, and he’d like me to fly to North Carolina with him again.

I shake my head. “Better not. Gramps was really upset with me.”

“Because you were late coming home?”

“Yes. And because I never made it into the office. It was really stupid of me not to call, but I never imagined he’d check up on me.”

He strolls up to me and rests his hand on my shoulder. He shouldn’t be touching me where anybody could walk in on us, but rather than object, I lean against his chest, seeking the warm comfort of him. “Are you coming to the picnic this weekend?” I mumble. I’ve been to all of them and know he’s never attended before.

He cups my chin and raises it so that our gazes engage. “You want me to come?”

I don’t know why I want him there. I only know I do. “Yes.”

“I’ll be there, then.” The soft kiss he drops on my lips reassures like no words can. He’s warned me off, and yet I can’t help it. I’m growing attached to him. And that can only end in heartbreak.

CHAPTER 22

Trenton

A couple of days later, Charlie calls. “Bad news. My contact at the police station can’t access the files anymore.”

“What happened?”

“They added an extra level of security. She can only access files of cases she’s worked on. Anything else requires the captain signing off on a request. She’ll need to come up with a valid reason for wanting access.”

“And since she doesn’t have one . . .”

“She’s a single mom with three kids, Steele. No way she’ll jeopardize her job.”

“Of course not. We’ll have to come up with another way then.” Madrigal’s sister mentioned the newspaper morgue files, but those files will only get us so far. The newspaper wouldn’t have in-depth details about the murders. “Have you tracked down the detective who handled the case?”

“He’s changed jobs three times since he left Arlington. I’ve put tracers on him, but nothing’s come up so far.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it? Usually law enforcement types stay put.”

“He’s a loner, no family or kids. Likes to move around. But don’t worry. Sooner or later I’ll get a bead on him.”

“Let’s hope it’s soon.” I have a sick feeling something’s about to pop.

On Thursday, I head to Raleigh to argue Willie Vaughn’s case, taking one of the associates with me so that he can experience an appearance in front of an appeals court. Arguing before the judges on the bench tests one’s mettle as an attorney. To succeed, the attorney has to know every fact of the case and every nuance of the law because he or she will be drilled by the judges on the bench. When they fire questions at me, I’m satisfied with my answers. I prepped long and hard, anticipating their interrogation and fashioning answers that would put my client’s position in a favorable light. At the end of the session, I feel hopeful Willie will get another trial. A fair one this time.

Saturday, the day of the picnic, promises to be a scorcher of a day. Anyone in his right mind would wear a short-sleeved shirt, but I never go out in public dressed that way. So I slip into the coolest long-sleeved shirt I own. A linen one, bound to wrinkle but cooler than cotton or anything else. I arrive at Gardiner’s Chance, Holden’s estate, anxious to see Madrigal again. Since I didn’t get back into town until late Friday, I haven’t seen her for two days. I don’t question why I’m anxious to see her when I didn’t give other women a thought once I climbed from their beds. She’s burrowed under my skin like an itch I can’t scratch.

When I pull up in my Jag, a parking attendant directs me to the makeshift parking area at the side of the house. The opulence of the estate is impressive as hell. With its stately white columns, the jewel in the crown is the Palladian brick manor that welcomes the guests. A huge garage frames the mansion on the right; a pavilion borders it on the left. Farther away, a massive stable testifies to the history of the place. At one point Holden entered his horses in steeplechase races. But he’s given that up in recent years. Because of his health, he can no longer follow the racing circuit. In the distance, I spot covered walkways and a pond stocked with koi fish. A pool, deck, and formal garden filled with flowers lined up neatly in rows complete the picture-perfect setting. Although the land and the manor have been passed down through generations, the adjacent buildings were erected by Holden, probably as a testament to his wealth. Or so I’ve heard.

Spotting Mitchell’s Audi, I pull up behind him. I’m glad he’s here. He’s somebody I actually enjoy talking to more than the blowhards at the office or the interns trying to curry favor. Little do they know that for most of them the die is already cast. We’ll only hire four of this class of fifteen interns, and none in the criminal law practice. With our caseload, we need seasoned practitioners, not newbies who need training. Ironically, the only one of this year’s intern class I would consider hiring is Madrigal. She has the smarts, drive, and ingenuity to make a great attorney. But she’s determined to work for the prosecutor’s office. She’ll make a fine adversary if I ever go toe-to-toe with her.

Sporting a warm smile, Madrigal stands next to her grandfather by the front entrance welcoming guests. She’s wearing white slacks and a scoop-neck sleeveless blouse that matches the color of her eyes. The watermelon-red shade on her luscious lips beckons me to do forbidden things.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Steele.” Her drop earrings shimmer and sway against the supple throat I tasted and nibbled on not a week ago.

“Ah. No last names. At least not for today,” her grandfather says. “We’re out of the office.”

I nod. “Madrigal. Good to see you again.”

“Trenton.”

She’s never said my name out loud before, and I harden in an instant. All I want to do is wrap my arm around her tiny waist, drag her to a secluded spot, and fuck her until she screams with pleasure. But that’s not happening. At least not here in the hallowed halls of Holden Gardiner’s mansion.

Her eyes widen and her complexion grows rosy, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Would you like a glass of punch?” Her voice comes out in a wisp. She points to a table next to her where a pink beverage fizzes inside a crystal-clear bowl.

“Thank you. I’d like that.” I’d like no such thing, but taking the hint, I move on.

The lovingly preserved mansion is over two hundred years old, passed down through generations of Gardiners, some of whom rubbed elbows with George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. Everything about the house screams class, from the antique furniture to the gilded chandelier that sparkles over a round mahogany table in the center of the entrance hall.

Without waiting for me to ask, a servant pours the pink concoction into a crystal cup. One sip of the punch is more than enough. The damn thing’s sickeningly sweet. I drop the cup on the tray of a passing waiter and make my way outside, hoping to find something with a bit more kick.

Off in the distance, several activities have been set up for the enjoyment of the guests. Sack races, miniature golf, and volleyball. Closer to the house, a beefy teenager sporting a whistle watches over screaming kids tossing a ball in an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

Joss Stanton suddenly appears beside me, holding a cup of the fizzy beverage. She truly is a trooper if she can drink that stuff. She points to the children. “Adorable, aren’t they?”

I snort. “No.” Inwardly I cringe at the thought of having any.

“You don’t wish for one of your own?”

“God forbid.”

“So you don’t picture yourself as a father?”

“No.” After the upbringing I had, children are the last thing I want. Wouldn’t know what to do with them. “Maybe I’ll be like Mitchell Brooks, content to be a bachelor.”

He’s inside the screened porch, staring at an older couple and a twentysomething male who resembles them standing in a gazebo. Probably members of the same family. The older man seems familiar. While I try to figure out where I’ve seen him, Holden and Madrigal join them. Based on Mitch’s expression, he’s not happy with whatever’s going on.

“He’s not,” Joss says.

“What?” I’m so focused on the tableau, I’ve lost track of our conversation.

“Mitchell. He’s not content as a bachelor.”

The subject of our discussion is staring at the group with a scowl on his face. What the hell does he know? “Could have fooled me. He’s never married, and he’s nearly fifty.”

She scrutinizes Mitch over her glass of punch. “Maybe the woman he loved married someone else.”

Well, that grabs my attention, and I turn toward her. “You know something.” Although he’d never mentioned a woman, I always suspected there had been someone in his life. Every now and then he’d get this faraway look on his face, usually when he spotted a dark-haired female.

She laughs it off. “No. Just being fanciful.”

She knows something. I can feel it. But before I can challenge her, Dick Slayton stumbles up to us. Whatever’s in the glass he’s clutching spills over the side.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.” His slurred voice tells me he’s already had a few.

I remind myself to be civil. Last thing I want is a scene. “Slayton.” I nod.

“Who let in the riffraff?” he bellows, and a couple standing a few feet away turn in our direction.

“For God’s sake, Dick,” Joss hisses under her breath. “Keep your voice down.”

“Why? He doesn’t belong here. He’s got no money, no class.” He waves his glass in the air and belts out a laugh while the nearby couple stare at us, dumbfounded.

God damn it. I clench my jaw as I debate exactly where to strike the bastard.

“Trenton, don’t you dare,” Joss warns me before clutching Slayton’s arm. “Come on. You’re going inside to cool off.”

“No, I’m not.”

Stepping forward, I go toe-to-toe with him. “If you don’t do as Joss says, I’ll punch you so hard, you’ll eat through a straw for a week.”

He straightens to his full height and spits out, “You wouldn’t hit a partner.”

“Oh, yeah?” Fisting my hands, I bare my teeth. “Try me, you son of a bitch.”

Slayton’s face pales as the fight bleeds out of him.

“Come on, Dick,” Joss says out loud. “You need to get inside. Too much sun.” Ever the politician. That’s the story she’ll probably spin.

I nod to the couple who witnessed the drama. The woman works in accounting, a hotbed of gossip on its best day. There isn’t a chance in hell she’ll keep her mouth shut. Christ. What a mess. I go searching for something to drink that is neither pink nor fizzy and find it at the bar set up by the pool. After grabbing a cold Corona, I wander around, not stopping long enough to engage in a conversation. In the mood I’m in, I’m bound to snap someone’s head off.

As I sip the beer, the family tableau in the gazebo regains my attention. And suddenly the day turns dark for me. The twentysomething man circles Madrigal’s waist and drops a kiss on her cheek. When she tries to step out of his reach, he pulls her right back to his side. All under the smiling gaze of her grandfather. The man who bears a close resemblance to the bastard pawing Madrigal pats Holden on the back and shakes hands with him.

What the hell’s going on? All signs point to the ex-boyfriend from college. If I’m not mistaken, Holden has just given his blessing to whatever the overfamiliar son of a bitch has in mind.

I’m so focused on Madrigal, I miss Mitchell Brooks stepping up to me. “Stop staring at Madrigal like you own her.”

“What?”

“You’ve already caused a scene with Slayton. And you’re eyeballing her like she’s more than an intern to you. Keep that up and people will notice. Rumors will fly, which will hurt not only you but also her. You need to mingle, act like nothing’s wrong.”

Like hell there isn’t. I nod toward the group. “Who’s the vermin pawing Madrigal?”

Mitch grinds his teeth. “Bradford Holcomb III, the son of—”

“Bradford Holcomb II. That’s who it is.”

“You’ve met him?”

“No. I don’t run in his circle.” Just like Holden, his family is part and parcel of that upper class that dots the Virginia countryside. For decades he lived off his fortune. But with his family’s profligate spending, the kitty was about to run dry. So he’d gambled on one disastrous investment. “He’s teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.”

“How do you know?”

“A year ago something popped up on my radar, an overseas conglomerate touted as a sure thing. After investigating the company, I warned off my investment team. Their financials didn’t add up. Bradford Holcomb II jumped in with both feet, mortgaging all his property. Sure enough, the company filed for bankruptcy six months ago, and he lost his shirt. He’s a couple of missed payments away from losing everything he owns, which explains why he’s encouraging a match between Madrigal and his son. They probably want to get their hands on her trust fund.”

He narrows his eyes at me, nostrils flaring. “How do you know about her trust?”

“She told me.”

His cheeks flush with heat. “What is she to you?”

He might be my mentor, but my personal life is my business. I’m not about to share how I feel about Madrigal with him. “An employee.”

“I think she’s more than that.” He squints as he scrutinizes me. “Tell me you didn’t seduce her.”

I won’t confirm his presumption, but I won’t deny it either, so my only recourse is to keep silent.

“You son of a bitch. She’s innocent.”

I gaze toward the gazebo where Holden and the parents are apparently saying their good-byes, leaving Madrigal and Junior alone. It hurts to look at them. They’re so perfect together—one blonde, one dark-haired—the fruit of centuries of refinement. I bet Junior’s father did not scar him for life. Unlike mine. “I know how wrong I am for her.”

“Then why?”

I tangle a hand through my hair. “It just . . . happened on that trip to North Carolina. She was . . . scared of the storm, of a Peeping Tom at the bathroom window. I wanted to comfort her.”

“By having sex with her?”

I swig down the brew by way of response.

“How far has it gone?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

“You son of a bitch. You hurt her, and I’ll—”

What’s going on in the gazebo suddenly gets our attention. Not content to fondle Madrigal, the slime has moved to kissing her. Except she’s not having any. She struggles, but the bastard clamps down on her arms and grinds his mouth on hers.