The Carideo Legacy (The Scottish Billionaires #17)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

THERESA

Champagne bubbled in the flute, cold against my fingers. Across the crowded ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton, Marco Carideo held court. My husband and business partner.

He didn’t just talk; he orchestrated. His hands moved in wide, sweeping gestures, carving shapes in the air that seemed to pull the listeners in. Men in five-thousand-dollar suits leaned forward like kids at story time. Women adjusted their jewelry, their eyes fixed on his smile.

I took a sip, the dry bite of the champagne grounding me. Aspen in February smelled of pine needles, expensive perfume, and money. Lots of money.

Marco laughed, head thrown back, exposing the strong line of his jaw. The sound cut through the low hum of conversation—genuine, loud, unashamed. That was the thing about Marco. He didn’t know how to be small.

“He’s doing it again,” a voice murmured beside me.

I didn’t turn. “Of course he is.”

Arthur Vance, our CFO, swirled his scotch. He was a man built of spreadsheets, always looking slightly uncomfortable in social settings unless numbers were involved. “Leonard Ashley looks... skeptical.”

My gaze snapped to the older man standing opposite Marco. Leonard Ashley. The whale. The man whose venture capital firm could turn our company, CarideoTech, from a scrappy San Jose startup into a household name.

Arthur was right. Ashley’s arms were crossed, his expression flat. He wasn’t buying the dream. Marco was selling the vision—a world where diabetics didn’t have to bleed themselves six times a day—but Ashley was seeing risk.

“Hold my drink,” I said, thrusting the flute at Arthur.

“Theresa, wait—”

I was already moving, but I didn’t rush. Rushing looked desperate. I glided, cutting through the crowd.

Marco saw me coming. His eyes, the color of warm honey, lit up. He didn’t falter, didn’t pause. He just opened the circle, making space for me at his side.

“And here is the genius who makes it all work,” Marco announced, his hand settling on the small of my back. “Gentlemen, my wife and partner, Theresa.”

Ashley’s gaze shifted to me. It was assessing. “Mrs. Carideo. Your husband was just telling us about this... non-invasive monitoring.”

“It sounds like science fiction,” another man muttered.

“It was,” I said, my voice steady. I didn’t smile. I wasn’t here to charm. “Until six months ago. The prototype in San Jose is currently running at ninety-two percent accuracy against traditional blood draws. We’ve reduced the lag time to under three minutes.”

Ashley raised an eyebrow. “Ninety-two percent? That’s a bold claim.”

“We’re in Phase Two trials,” I countered.

“The data package for the FDA is already compiled. The bio-impedance spectroscopy sensors we developed aren’t just theoretical, Mr. Ashley.

They’re patented. Three of them. The competition is still trying to figure out how to filter the noise from sweat and movement. We solved that last November.”

I saw the shift. It was subtle—a slight uncrossing of arms, a tilt of the head. The skepticism didn’t vanish, but it changed flavor. It became interest.

“Patented?” Ashley asked.

“Utility patents,” I confirmed. “Granted. Not pending. We own the method.”

Marco squeezed my waist, a silent cheer. He picked up the thread instantly. “Theresa built the algorithm that cleans the signal. It’s cleaner than a Swiss watch.”

Ashley looked between us. The dreamer and the architect. The fire and the steel. He took a sip of his drink, eyes narrowing.

“I want to see your facility in San Jose,” he said finally. “Next Tuesday?”

My heart hammered against my ribs, but my face remained a mask of professional calm. “Ten a.m. I’ll have the technical team ready for a full demo.”

“Make it eleven,” Ashley said. “I hate flying early in the morning.”

“Eleven it is.”

He gave a single nod, then faced the others, the tension in the room vanishing. We had done it.

Marco waited until Ashley moved away before leaning down, his breath warm against my ear. “You are magnificent.”

“You were losing him,” I whispered back.

“I was softening him up for you.” He kissed my temple, ignoring the room full of people. “You delivered the knockout. Thirty million, Tess. Maybe forty. Do you know what we can do with that kind of money?”

“Everything,” I said. “We can bring our diabetes tech to the mass market.”

“Exactly.” He grinned, that boyish, reckless grin that had made me fall in love with him in a university library ten years ago. “Let’s get a drink. Celebrate.”

We moved toward the bar, my legs feeling a little shaky now that the adrenaline was fading. This was it. The tipping point. Years of maxed-out credit cards, second mortgages, nights spent staring at code until my eyes burned—it was all about to pay off.

Marco stopped abruptly, his grip on my arm tightening.

“Don’t look now,” he murmured, his tone dropping an octave, losing its warmth. “But check out three o’clock. Near the pillar.”

I instinctively turned, but he nudged me. “Subtle, Tess.”

I feigned interest in the ice sculpture near the bar, letting my gaze drift past it. Standing near the heavy velvet drapes was Arthur. But he wasn’t alone. He was deep in conversation with a man in a charcoal suit. I recognized him instantly.

David Thorne. VP of Acquisitions for QuantumTech. Our biggest rival.

“Thorne,” I whispered, a cold prickle running down my spine.

“Look at them,” Marco said, his jaw tight. “Arthur isn’t just networking. Look at his body language. He’s leaning in. He’s eager.”

“He’s probably gloating,” I suggested, though I didn’t fully believe it. “Telling Thorne about the Ashley meeting.”

“No,” Marco said darkly. “That’s not gloating. That’s conspiring. Arthur is a snake, Theresa. I’ve felt it for months. He’s up to something.”

I looked at my husband. Marco was usually the eternal optimist, the man who saw the best in everyone. To hear him speak with such venom was jarring.

“Marco, listen to me,” I said, placing a hand on his chest. “We didn’t hire Arthur because he was a golden retriever. We hired him because he’s a shark. We needed someone ruthless to handle the finances, remember?”

“There’s a difference between a shark and a traitor.” Marco watched Arthur laugh at something Thorne said. “I don’t like it. It smells fishy.”

“He’s our snake,” I insisted, rationalizing the scene before us. “If he’s talking to Thorne, he’s probably gathering intel. Or he’s planting misinformation to throw them off our scent. Arthur knows his stock options are worthless unless we go public. He’s greedy, Marco, not stupid.”

Marco finally tore his eyes away from the pair, looking down at me. The suspicion lingered in his gaze, clouding the honey-gold. “I don’t know, Tess. Something about him has been making my skin crawl lately.”

“Let it go for tonight,” I urged, handing him a fresh glass of champagne the bartender had just slid onto the counter. “We just landed the biggest meeting of our lives. Don’t let Arthur Vance ruin the mood.”

He hesitated, glancing back one last time. Then, with a heavy sigh, he forced a smile.

“You’re right,” he said. “To the future.”

I clinked my glass against his. “To the future.”

The party wound down an hour later. The noise level dropped as guests filtered out toward the elevators or the snowy streets of Aspen.

Two men approached us near the coat check. They were dressed differently wearing North Face fleece instead of Armani.

“Mr. Carideo?” the taller one asked.

“That’s me,” Marco said, extending a hand.

“Derek. From Aspen Heli-Ski. Just wanted to confirm for tomorrow morning. Chopper lifts at seven sharp.”

My stomach dropped. “Tomorrow?”

Marco didn’t look at me. “Seven is perfect. Conditions good?”

“Fresh powder,” Derek said, grinning. “Dumped six inches this afternoon. Backcountry is going to be insane. High avalanche risk in the bowls, but we’ll stick to the ridges.”

“Avalanche risk?” I stepped forward. The champagne buzz evaporated instantly.

Derek looked at me, his smile faltering slightly. “It’s standard for this time of year, ma’am. We monitor it closely. We have airbags, beacons, the works.”

“Beacons are for finding bodies,” I said flatly.

“Theresa,” Marco warned, his voice low.

“No.” I turned to him. “You didn’t tell me you were going heli-skiing. We have four kids, Marco. You’re not twenty anymore.”

“And I’m not dead yet,” he shot back, though his tone remained light. He turned to the guides. “Ignore her. She’s the safety officer. I’ll be there at seven.”

“Copy that. See you then.” The guides nodded and walked away, boots thudding on the carpet.

I spun on my heel and marched toward the balcony doors. I needed air. Cold, biting air.

Marco followed. I knew he would.

Outside, the cold rushed over me, stripping the warmth from my skin in a single breath. Snow fell softly, muting the world. The lights of the town twinkled below, cozy and distant. I gripped the railing, the metal freezing against my palms.

“Tess.”

“Don’t.” I stared out at the dark shapes of the mountains. They looked like sleeping giants, massive and indifferent. “You promised. No more extreme stuff until after the test trials.”

“I promised no base jumping,” he corrected, coming to stand beside me. He didn’t touch me. Not yet. “Skiing is skiing.”

“Jumping out of a helicopter into unpatrolled backcountry isn’t skiing. It’s a death wish.”

“It’s living,” he said. “God, Tess, look at where we are. Look at what we’re building. We spend our lives in labs and boardrooms. If I don’t feel the wind in my face sometimes, I’ll suffocate.”

“You have responsibilities. Our children.”

“I know.” He turned me toward him, his hands warm on my bare arms. “But I need to be the kind of father who shows them how to live fully, not just safely. I want them to see that dreams are worth chasing, even when it gets scary.”