The Billionaire's Redemption (The Billionaire's Kiss, Book Five): (A Billionaire Alpha Romance) (21 page)

Speaking of which, Grant is surprisingly honest about every single detail – including the fact that he breaks into wealthy people’s homes he designed. The only lie he tells is when he denies he steals anything. He sells his break-ins as more of an unhealthy compulsion – which is actually kind of the truth.

“Bullshit,” Duplass says after Grant finishes.

“Excuse me?”

“You want me to believe that you just
happened
to have ten incredibly valuable paintings – all of them stolen – but that you yourself didn’t steal them?”

“That’s right, I did not.”

“But they just somehow magically appeared in your safe room.”

“Epicurus’s men must have planted them there after Eve and I escaped.”

Duplass laughs. “You’re saying this Epicurus guy wanted to frame you?”

“Yes.”

“He could have framed you for a hell of a lot less than $500 million dollars.”

“Agreed. But he
is
insane.”

“Says who?”

“He’s a serial killer who tortures women,” Mailin interjects. “I’d say that makes him categorically insane.”

I don’t know if he’s saying it to get on my good side… but it
does
score a couple of points for him. Especially since it pisses off Duplass, who shoots a look at Mailin before turning back to Grant. “Still doesn’t explain why he’d drop $500 million to make you look bad.”

Grant shrugs. “Maybe he’s a billionaire. Maybe $500 million is chump change for him.”

“Yeah, right. I don’t care who you are, that’s not chump change for anybody.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘chump change,’ but it’s less than half of what I make in a year. Might be worth it if I wanted to destroy someone’s reputation badly enough,” Grant says mildly.

Duplass stares at Grant with unfettered hatred.

Probably not the best idea in the world to taunt a government employee with a humble-brag about how you could drop half a billion dollars just to screw somebody else. Especially not when that government employee has a hard-on to see you in jail.

I decide to jump in the fight – even though it’s with an outright lie. “Plus, they’re stolen paintings. The killer might have gotten them for a couple of million.”

Mailin gives me a little smirk, like
Look at you, calling ME a liar.

“Now we’ve graduated to horseshit,” Duplass says.

“Whether you think that or not, Eve’s life is in serious danger,” Grant says. “If you take her back with you, she can corroborate my story and help you catch this guy.”

“We don’t need her help to catch anybody.”

“You had no idea he even existed before I told you about him,” Grant says. “Trust me, you’re going to need outside help on this one.”

“If this boogeyman of yours is so dangerous, where the hell is he now?” Duplass asks, and looks around the gardens. “Why isn’t his band of mercenaries here to take you down?”

“Because we covered our tracks,” I say.

“Of course,” Grant adds, “if we wait around long enough, I’m sure his thugs will show up – which is why we need an answer now: are you going to get Eve back safe to the U.S., or not?”

“Not unless you go back in handcuffs, too,” Duplass says to Grant.

Grant looks at me. “Well, I tried.”

My insides sink.

The French boat smuggler it is, I guess.

“Duplass,” Mailin says, “Eve is an incredible internet security expert. I can vouch for her. She really could help us catch this Epicurus – ”

“Don’t you get it?” Duplass sneers. “There
is
no serial killer. This is just a bunch of bullshit he invented as an alibi.”

“If there is no Epicurus,” I ask, “then who raided the penthouse in Manhattan?”

Duplass points at Grant. “Probably somebody
he
ripped off who wasn’t going to just lay down and roll over.”

“So… you’re admitting that
somebody
staged a raid on Grant’s penthouse, right?”

Duplass watches me warily. He can sense some sort of trap, but he doesn’t know what it is or where it’s coming from. “So…?”

“So you think an armed raid with a team of mercenaries is reasonable, but using stolen paintings to frame Grant isn’t?”

“For all I know, Carlson cooked up the whole scheme himself.”

“Wait – you’re saying he outed
himself
as an international art thief?”

“
Alleged
international art thief,” Grant says.

“Why would he do that?” I ask. “Your theory makes no sense.”

“Neither does his,” Duplass snaps.

“Of course it does. Grant accidentally ruined a serial killer’s plans. The killer wanted revenge, so he raided Grant’s penthouse in an attempt to capture him. When that didn’t work, plan B was to frame Grant by leaving behind stolen artwork.
That
ruined his entire reputation, forcing him to go on the run, which would make him an easier target in the future.”

It’s fairly easy to construct a conspiracy theory when 95% of it is the truth.

Of course, when the other 5% is complete and total lunacy, that tends to mess up your sales pitch.

“That’s
ridiculous,
” Duplass says contemptuously.

“Maybe so, but it’s the truth,” Grant says.

“We’re both innocent,” I protest.

“If you’re so innocent, why didn’t you run to the police in the first place?” Duplass asks, repeating his earlier haymaker.

…uh…

“Because the mercenaries who raided my penthouse said they were the FBI,” Grant says.
Technically
that’s true, but
we
didn’t find that out until we saw it on television the next morning. The mercenaries never told
us
they were the FBI, just Grant’s staff.

But Duplass doesn’t need to know that.

“So we thought the FBI was somehow working with the serial killer,” Grant finishes.

“Impersonating the FBI – that’s a pretty significant felony, right?” I ask.

“Worst thing I ever did was break and enter,” Grant says like he’s an innocent little choirboy.

“Yeah, right,” Duplass snaps. “You both have spent so much time with your heads up your asses that your brains have turned to shit. No judge is going to listen to anything you’re saying, because it’s
idiotic.
”

“Hey, Agent Duplass,” Grant asks. “Were my fingerprints on any of the paintings or picture frames?”

Duplass freezes. He doesn’t answer.

But Mailin does. “No – the NYPD didn’t find any prints at all.”

“You want to know why? Because those paintings aren’t mine. They were planted there.”

Huh,
I think, and make a mental note to ask Grant about that later.

Duplass’s face twists into a mask of hatred. “You’re going down, Carlson. Whether we get you here in Paris, or in Moscow, or Tokyo, we’ll get you. And when we do, we’re locking you up and throwing away the key.” Duplass looks at me. “This is where you walk away from him and agree to turn state’s evidence. Otherwise, when we arrest him, I’m putting you away for life, too.”

My guts turn to ice.

Mailin looks at me with a mix of sympathy and pain.

Is it because you’ve been here before?
I think.
When they gave you the option to work for the FBI, or go to prison? Or do you just look sad because you PUT me in this fucking position?

I thought – naively, it seems – that this whole meeting was going to go differently. I placed my trust in Mailin, and he let me down.

Grant never has.

I make my choice.

“No thanks,” I say.

“Your funeral, then,” Duplass says.

Mailin tries to run interference. “Agent Duplass – ”

“Shut up,” the older agent snarls.

The hatred and humiliation on Mailin’s face is intense. He just got reminded that he’s a dog on somebody else’s leash.

Grant puts a protective arm around me. “You can catch a serial killer… or you can destroy an innocent woman’s life. Contact us if you change your mind.”

Then he pulls me into the gardens, and we’re gone.

We’re back in the car, with Marcel’s driver speeding us through Paris.

“Well,
that
was pointless,” I mumble. “Sorry I wasted your time.”

“Don’t be,” Grant says. “It was worth exploring the option. Now you know.”

More than anything, I’m disappointed in Mailin and how he lied to me. My friend sold me down the river. Or tried to, at least – and no amount of sticking up for me in front of Agent Duplass can change that.

I’m also uncomfortable with how he’s become one of
them.
Yeah, Duplass treated him like shit, but Mailin’s joined the other team. It’s beyond obvious. He’s not the high school hacker buddy I used to know.

Unfortunately, there’s an uncomfortable parallel there with my own life. I watched Mailin get caught as a teenager. As a result, I’ve walked the straight and narrow ever since. I got my college degree, a pat on my head from society, then a nice, safe job at an internet security firm…

Until I met an international art thief and started hacking again.

I’m not just talking about Interpol and the NYPD police files. There’s also last weekend, when I hacked phone companies and international banks to track Grant down – all because he had sex with me, walked off like a cad, and stole my phone.

Now
there’s
a lousy excuse for committing a couple dozen felonies.

What’s more, when I committed those couple dozen felonies, I was surprised at how much I’d missed hacking.

More than I would ever admit to Grant.

That’s
an uncomfortable thought, though, and I immediately push it out of my mind.

Desperate for something,
anything
to talk about, I cast back to the big surprise in our discussion with Duplass.

“How did you there weren’t any fingerprints on the paintings?” I ask.

Grant looks amused. “Because I made damn sure I removed them.”

“Yeah, but the paintings were
in your house.
If they were ever found – which they
were
– who did you think was going to believe you?”

“You were making a pretty convincing case back there,” Grant says.

“Duplass didn’t buy it, and he’s right: no judge is ever going to buy it, either.”

“Someone once told me that the first rule of hacking is ‘never admit to anything, even when you’re caught red-handed.’ I was just following her advice.”

I sigh and snuggle up next to him. “Next time, follow the second rule.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t get caught in the first place.”

“I’ll try to remember that one.” His voice switches from levity to wistful melancholy. “Well… a deal’s a deal… and it’s time to collect.”

I look up at him, and suddenly I’m afraid. “You want me to go with the smuggler.”

“It’ll only be for a little while,” he soothes me. “JP, Dominique, and I will catch Epicurus, and then it’ll all be fine.”

“Just a little while ago you said that he would never stop coming. That he would always be a step ahead.”

“When I’m worried about your safety, that’s how it feels. If I know you’re safe, then I’m confident again.”

“Can I ask for one thing, then?”

“What?”

“Just give me one more night,” I whisper. “One more night with you.”

He holds me close to him and kisses me.

“Okay,” he whispers back. “I can do that.”

It’s later that evening. I’m sitting in the room above the restaurant, morosely fiddling with my laptop, when Grant whispers in my ear, “Come with me.”

I turn around, surprised. I’d meant ‘one more night’ in a
let’s spend one more night having passionate sex and just holding each other
kind of way. Several hours have passed since our conversation in the car, and it’s dark outside, yes – but it still seems a bit early to begin the festivities.

Grant sees my reaction and smiles. “Trust me.”

I follow him out of the room, up the stairs, and past the bedrooms to a door around the corner with a stairwell inside. Grant leads me up the steps to the roof of the building.

Paris spreads out in front of us, a thousand lights shining amongst a tapestry of 500-year-old buildings. It’s absolutely gorgeous.

But Grant isn’t finished.

“Come on,” he says, and takes my hand.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

“But Epicurus – ”

“Has eyes on the street. Not on the rooftops.”

He lifts me over the stone guardrail surrounding the roof, then leads me over rickety scaffolding to the next building over. I’m terrified, but he assures me we’re safe, and we get there in one piece.

We take a minute to admire the view, then move to the next rooftop via a similar fashion… then the next by jumping a three-foot gap…

I’m aflutter with terror and exhilaration. Every stage in the journey poses a new danger, but each one ends in triumph – and a new, even more spectacular view of the City of Lights.

After days running from a madman, I feel wonderfully, amazingly free.

More than that, I feel
alive.

But still confused. “Where are we going?!”

“We’ll be there soon…”

We traverse at least a dozen roofs. Grant moves with the grace of a jungle cat; I’m more like a panda bear, but I keep up, and he always makes sure I’m safe.

We finally arrive on a building rooftop with a private garden filled with flowers, and a glass-enclosed penthouse – a modern oasis in the midst of all these Napoleonic-era buildings.

On the grassy patch of rooftop sits an ice-filled bucket chilling a bottle of wine, an outspread blanket, and a picnic basket.

“What’s this?!” I gasp.

“I wanted you to see life the way
I
see it,” he says, as he pulls two champagne flutes out of the basket.

“But – someone might be home – !”

“Marcel knows the guy who lives here. We’re alone.”

We sink down on the blanket, which is surprisingly soft on its bed of rooftop grass. We drink champagne by moonlight… eat
foie gras
on crackers, with a variety of cheeses… dine on roasted quail… and finish with crème brûleé. All the while, we look out at the magnificent Parisian skyline, with the Eiffel Tower a thin column of light in the distance.