Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MISSING BILLIONAIRE
Devon
“Okay, I take back everything I said to you earlier. This is a horrific mess. Did you tell the bride there was no availability for her to stay?” Bella asks.
“No. She just canceled her wedding and found out her father is missing. Her stepmum ran out of there with her tail tucked between her legs, and Harlow told me she had calls to make. I’ll break it to her tonight.”
“There’s really no availability? You can’t shuffle things around for the poor woman?”
I exit the lift and head through the atrium to my office. “You haven’t seen her in action. She can hold her own. Plus, I gave your friends the last room, Bells. What do you want me to do, invite her to stay with me?”
Bella contemplates the least of my problems at the moment. “My heart breaks for her. Sure, she got cold feet and called off the wedding at the last moment, but that’s her prerogative. And, by the way, when you explained the family dynamics, who would blame her? Not me, and you’d better not either.”
I plaster the fake smile on my mug that I’ve perfected as I nod to guests who have started to file back in from the garden.
Felicity is dealing with a small line at the front desk.
Maybe my dreams will come true, and they’ll start checking out early.
Once I get out of earshot, I get to the point.
“I didn’t call to discuss the drama. I need a favor. ”
“I’m not sure what I can do from here to ease your problems. My only advice is to turn up the charm. I’ve seen you fake it in the past—I have faith you can pull it off like the skilled operative you are.”
“I’m not an operative anymore,” I grit as I unlock my office door and close myself inside. Alone at last.
There were two libraries in the original floor plan when I bought the estate.
The larger one is now a whiskey lounge. We added a bar, cocktail seating, and my designer convinced me to spend a small fortune on antique chandeliers.
One hangs over every seating area. Even I have to admit, it’s a vibe.
Guests spend a shit ton of money on allocated bottles, which makes it easier to stomach the cost of the chandeliers.
But I didn’t touch the small library. I added a desk, three chairs, and slapped my name on the antique door that’s as heavy as an anvil.
I haven’t moved one book, any of the bronze sculptures old man Winslet brought over from England, and definitely not the Winslet family shield.
I clean the place myself. No one is allowed in here without me.
Bella is quick to correct me. “Once an operative always an operative.”
I fall to my chair and fire up my laptop. “Maybe a better way to say it is once an operative always paranoid.”
“True, true. The paranoia never goes away,” she agrees but adds her own caveat. “You’ll find someone to trust one day. I have faith.”
“Speaking of those I can trust, let’s get back to my favor. I need some information—information I can’t get without throwing up a shit-ton of red flags. I can bust through a firewall, but not with any finesse.”
Bella pauses. “Whose door are you kicking down today?”
“I want to know the location of a certain comatose billionaire.”
My full name comes out on a warning. “Devon.”
I throw it right back at her like we’re kids again. “Isabella.”
“Why are you getting into the middle of this?”
I defend myself. “I’m not getting in the middle of anything. I’m curious.”
“It will work itself out, and you can read about it on the news like the rest of the world. Or if it doesn’t, you can watch the docudrama that will no doubt be made on the billionaire family.”
“I’ve had a shit day, Bells. Give me this one thing. Something is off. Fuck, everything is off, and I want to know what it is.”
“Your bloody brain is what’s off,” she complains.
I rest one foot on the corner of my desk and cross the ankle with the other. “You’re still jealous I scored higher than you on the entrance exams. When are you going to get over that?”
“I was one point shy of meeting your score, you arse. And you never let me forget it,” she mutters. “What does Archer do without the element of sibling rivalry in his life?”
Archer is two years older than me. I’m sandwiched in the middle between the perfect first born and the baby who got away with murder.
Archer is still in England working for SIS.
He’s the last Donnelly to still work as an MI6 operative.
It’s a miracle his cover wasn’t burned between Bella and me making worldwide news.
“He must be bored to tears on the daily,” I say. “Are you going to help me out or force me to call Archie?”
“You know I’ll do it. Give me some time. I need to talk to Ozzy.”
“That’s the spirit. I will always brazenly use you for access to your work associates.”
“Happy to be here for you in every way possible, Dev,” she grumbles.
“Make it a priority,” I demand. “There’s something about these families that’s more toxic than a corrupt politician.”
“I can say with all certainty if that’s the case, you want them off your property as soon as possible, and that’s speaking from experience. I’ll see what Ozzy can drum up and get back with you. Meanwhile, good luck dealing with irritable wedding guests.”
My feet hit the ground before we say our hasty goodbyes, and I turn to my laptop.
I do not open up the program I coded myself to satisfy unimportant curiosities here and there.
It’s clunky and archaic, and I haven’t done that shit myself for years.
If I try to break through the Stonebridge firewall, there’s a better than slight chance I’d have law enforcement knocking down my antique doors.
I open the site every basic American uses to do their kid’s homework or learn how to unclog a toilet—Google.
I do not search the Humphries. Their shit is tied tight. That’s another favor I might have to ask Bella for.
No, I look up Patrick Madison and click on images.
The man doesn’t look like he’s even close to seventy. He might pass for sixty if he had a bad night’s sleep. I click on an image of him and Harlow. He’s in a tux, and she looks very different than she did earlier today dressed for her wedding.
She’s in all black. Her gown dips so far between her tits, I have no idea how it stayed where it was supposed to.
In spiked heels, her legs look like they go on forever as opposed to the way I left her in the suite on bare feet and cut-off shorts.
They were attending a charity event among the rich and famous and don’t look much different from Hollywood stars on the red carpet posing for the paparazzi.
The event is dated thirteen months ago.
Patrick doesn’t look old and certainly not sickly.
I click through more pics and find an interview he did with a business magazine nine months ago. The picture looks like a headshot, but the article is long. Unless someone was covering for him, there’s no way he could give that kind of story comatose.
There are plenty more pictures of Harlow doing her thing for her foundation—unloading cases of water and boxes of food and playing with kids in an orphanage—but nothing else about her old man.
The first story leaking that he was hospitalized was seven months ago.
Stonebridge played it down. A statement was made through the Stonebridge public relations department a few months ago that he’s been in and out of the most prestigious hospital in New York City but working from home most of the time.
What it does not say is that he’s comatose.
I’m sure with his money, he has a team of private doctors and nurses twenty-four-seven.
I’m about to click on an article about the Effie Madison Foundation, but my cell vibrates. This day will never end. When I see who it is, I brace before answering the call.
“What fire do I need to put out now?”
Felicity is more flustered than she was earlier. “People are checking out in droves, Mr. Donnelly. There is a line!”
“Good. I know you’ll take care of them. The rooms are paid for, so it doesn’t matter.” I lean back in my chair and swivel to gaze at the wall-to-wall bookcases that surround me from floor to ceiling. “One step closer to this place getting back to normal.”
“Yes, yes,” she chants in a whispered hiss. “But there’s sort of, ah ... well, a scene. It’s the groom. He’s demanding I give him access to Ms. Madison’s suite. He won’t take no for an answer!”
I push to my feet and head out the door, locking my office behind me. “I’m on my way. I’ll take care of Albert Humphries.”
I move hiring a general manager to the top of my to do list. I need another layer between me and everyone else.
There’s so much security on the premises from the wedding, I might have to assign someone to stand outside Harlow’s door if people don’t leave her the hell alone.
When I get to the front desk and atrium, I have to give credit to Felicity. For once, she’s not exaggerating. The line to check out is at least ten deep, but everyone is giving the jilted groom at the desk a wide berth.
Albert has changed clothes. He looks like he’s dressed for a day on the yacht instead of celebrating his nuptials. I don’t know where he’s been, but he’s rearing his ugly mug like a champ.
“You deactivated my keycard, dammit. Harlow is my fiancée, and my family paid for half of this fiasco. She can’t hide and refuse to speak to me. I’m not leaving until I see her. I demand access to her suite.”
I don’t give Felicity a chance to deal with him any longer, but I do give Albert another chance for me to deliver his next blow in private rather than putting on another show for his wedding guests. “Mr. Humphries, maybe we should step inside the conference room to discuss this.”
“You bet your ass, we should,” Albert mutters.
I hold out my arm for him to go first. He marches past me toward the door off the atrium. I nod to the onlookers who are probably as curious as the rest of us about why the wedding was called off.