A Billionaire's Redemption (7 page)

Gabe leaned forward aggressively, but Willa surprised herself by placing a restraining hand on his arm. He yielded the microphone to her reluctantly.

Willa borrowed a page from her teacher’s playbook, and looked out across the sea of faces like a chiding parent addressing a room full of unruly five-year-olds. She spoke gently, but with unmistakable steel in her voice. “I said no comment. And I mean no comment. I will never comment on this matter, and I will blacklist any reporter who persists in questioning me about it. Understood?”

A disconcerted murmur rose, and she sagged in relief as the governor’s press secretary hustled forward to call an end to the press conference and make a few off-camera wrap-up comments about the governor’s schedule for the rest of the day.

Gabe’s arm went around her waist as her legs all but gave out from under her. “I told you, you should have eaten more breakfast,” he commented. “You’re going to look damned silly if you faint after putting them all in their place like that.”

She smiled up at him weakly. He told a hotel employee to bring the senator a glass of orange juice, and she remembered at the last second not to look over her shoulder for her father.

One of the governor’s aides hustled up to her. “The governor wanted me to let you know your Secret Service detail will arrive tomorrow. Would you like us to provide you with police protection in the meantime?”

“Heavens, no,” she exclaimed. She just wanted her life to remain as close to normal as possible.

The fellow scurried off as a hotel employee arrived with a pitcher of orange juice and poured her a glass of it.

While Gabe watched on, she drank up the refreshing liquid obediently.

“Now what?” he asked.

Now what, indeed.

Chapter 5

G
abe climbed out of his SUV in front of his folks’ old place in Vengeance. The neighborhood had changed a lot since he’d been a kid. Back then it had been shabby, bordering on squalid. But sometime in the past decade, the crowd at Darby College had declared this area funky and cool, and had moved in to gentrify the place. Refurbished bungalows with neat paint jobs and new lawns now lined the street.

As for him, he kind of missed the old days. Coming back here used to remind him of where he’d come from. Who he was. Now it felt foreign and fake.

He supposed he should have expected the news crew parked on his front porch, camera and microphone at the ready. He’d been too distracted to spot the white van before. “Paula Craddock, isn’t it?” he asked. “What do you want?”

“I hear you’re an old family friend of the Merrises. What do you think of Willa’s accusations against James Ward?”

“I think whoever told you I’m a friend of the Merrises was smoking crack,” he snapped.

“You were all over Willa Merris today at the press conference. A regular knight in shining armor for her. It looked to me like the two of you are more than friends.” She added slyly, “A lot more.”

“Climb up out of the gutter onto the curb, Paula. The girl just lost her father, and she’s dealing with a ton of crap right now.”

“Right. The alleged rape. She didn’t look very raped to me.”

An image of Willa cringing away from his touch, her eyes big with fear, flashed through his head. “And what exactly does a raped woman look like?” he snarled.

“Some actual evidence might be nice. Even a few cuts and scrapes would lend a little credibility to her story. Assuming she fought back, of course. For all I know, she liked it rough, and is just suffering a case of buyer’s remorse.”

An urge to bury his fist in the obnoxious woman’s face surged through him. Not that punching a reporter would be anything other than a disaster. Instead, he asked smoothly, “Are you sure you’re actually human, Ms. Craddock? You have all the compassion of a rock.”

The cameraman nearly dropped his camera as he tried unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter. The reporter scowled. Not only was she not getting the sound bite she was looking for, but she seemed to realize she was losing control of this interview.

She pointed the microphone at him again. “Yes, but what do you think of the charges against James Ward? Are you with everyone else in believing that Willa Merris made up this alleged rape in a desperate, and frankly pitiful, attempt to use her father’s notoriety to get attention for herself?”

“Is that what everyone else believes?” he asked blandly.

“Absolutely. I gather, then, that you concur?” She shoved the microphone under his nose expectantly.

“I think you’re a pushy hack who doesn’t give a damn about reporting the truth, and who’s looking to claw your way past anyone who gets between you and fame. If we’re talking about pitiful and desperate, let’s take a closer look at you, shall we?”

The cameraman guffawed with laughter, and Paula growled at the guy to stop filming. She turned on Gabe, glaring venomously. “I can make your life a living hell, you know. I can dig up plenty of dirt on you.”

He stepped forward until he was chest-to-chest with the woman. “There’s one small flaw with your big threat, darlin’. I don’t give a tinker’s damn what anyone thinks of me. Say whatever you want about me because I. Don’t. Care.”

She took an involuntary step backward, and the cameraman made an amused sound behind her. If possible, the reporter’s gaze became even more enraged. Gabe brushed by her and stabbed the key in the front door lock.

He half turned and commented casually, “By the way, you’re trespassing on private property. I’m going inside and fetching my shotgun. If you’re still on my porch when I return, I’ll assume you mean me harm and will shoot you where you stand in accordance with Texas homestead laws.”

He stepped inside the dim interior and closed the door gently. He did, indeed, cross the living room and take his grandfather’s shotgun down from its brackets over the rough-sawed cedar mantel. Gabe had learned long ago never to make any threat he wasn’t prepared to follow through on. Otherwise, it made people think you were weak.

He opened the front door, shotgun in hand, and was gratified to see Paula scuttle the rest of the way to the KVXT van in an undignified scramble of legs, microphone wires and stiletto heels. She was still scowling furiously at him as the vehicle peeled away from the curb in a hurry.

No doubt about it, that woman was going to be trouble. But it was nothing he couldn’t handle. A billion-dollar bank account gave a man the power to get rid of pests like her. He didn’t usually make a practice of throwing his weight around, but he could make an exception for her.

An ugly and unfamiliar feeling crept past his irritation, though. Shocked, he identified it as fear. Obviously, the reporter had set her sights on breaking down Willa’s story of being raped. Probably thought she could weasel a Pulitzer out of it for herself. Who cared if she destroyed the life of a victimized young woman who’d just tragically lost her father?

Yup, Paula Craddock was going on the list with James Ward of people to teach a lesson to.

* * *

Willa rubbed her eyes and took a sip of the now-cold coffee sitting beside her. She’d been in her father’s office for hours, combing through his files on the computer there.

It hurt to go through his private correspondence like this. She could almost hear him saying the things written in his emails and memos. She’d mostly gotten over her disbelief that her father was dead, but the sharp ache of loss still stabbed at her. No matter how big a bastard he might have been, he was still her father. She’d spent the better part of her life trying to please him and had basked in his approval whenever he’d doled out a smidgen of it to her.

Larry Shore had grudgingly handed over the passwords to get into the encrypted portions of her father’s machine, and had then departed hastily, leaving her to sort out the jumbled mess for herself. If her father had a system for filing anything, it was certainly eluding her.

A few things about her father’s life as a senator were becoming clear, however. He was firmly hooked into the good ol’ boy network. Most of what he accomplished was done through under-the-table trades and mutual back-scratching arrangements. Her father didn’t appear to have even the slightest sense of ethics or fairness in how he chose to support or oppose various pieces of legislation. It was all about what he could get from someone else.

Although she’d been aware of his horse-trading style, a tiny part of her had hoped he’d had at least some small shred of conscience. That once in a while, he voted on a bill because it was the right thing to do. Instead, she even found an email from him to a junior senator berating the young man for voting with his conscience. Her father’s letter closed with a line declaring that conscience had no place in politics.

Was that why her father had been killed? If only the police could make some headway in identifying her father’s murderer. Maybe she’d be less jumpy at night and sleep better. Even if all they discovered was why he’d been killed, that would be better than this giant black hole hanging over her family.

She clicked on yet another file and scanned through a mind-numbingly dull list of people to pressure into delaying a vote on something or other having to do with oil companies’ right to privacy. It had to do with proposed legislation that would force oil companies to turn over complete lists of the chemical formulas of the liquids they injected into the ground as part of extracting oil and gas from shale rock.

The technique, hydraulic fracturing, commonly called fracking, involved pumping water and a propriety blend of chemicals underground to break up oil and release it from the rock it permeated.

She clicked on the next email, and started as a bright red screen popped up, warning her that the contents were classified. What had Larry said about that? It had been hours ago and her brain was fried. She pulled out the piece of paper she’d scribbled all her father’s passwords on and tried the main one that he supposedly used for just about everything. It didn’t work. She tried the others, and of course, it was the very last one that caused a new folder to pop up on her screen. It was labeled only Senate CMA.

She clicked on the first file. The letterhead made her frown. Senate Committee on Miscellaneous Affairs? She’d never heard of it. But apparently, her father was a member. She paused in her reading to do an internet search of the term and frowned as a message blinked, “No result matches your search.” It must be some sort of secret committee. She wasn’t so naive as to think that everything Congress did was known to the public.

She went back to reading. The letter outlined a schedule of meetings for the past year. She noted that more than a few of the closed sessions were actually scheduled for late in the evening. What senate committee started meetings at ten o’clock at night, for goodness’ sake?

Alarmed, she opened the next file. This one outlined an operation by...somebody...a group called Excelsior...to infiltrate Mexico and kill the governor of a Mexican state. Stunned, she read it again. That was definitely what she’d just read. Someone who worked for this secret committee was killing government officials of another sovereign nation. Last time she checked her civics textbook, that was illegal!

She opened another folder. This one outlined some sort of mission in the Middle East to fund bombings in a country whose regime she recalled hearing the United States didn’t like. But that was terrorism!
U.S.–sponsored terrorism.

Very afraid, she clicked on the third folder. God only knew what the dozens of remaining folders held. She started to read. Assassination. California. Oh. My. God. Whoever this Excelsior bunch was, they were killing Americans on American soil, too.

Folder after folder gave up its secrets, each more horrifying than the last. For nearly two hours she read about the activities of this secret committee. It created mayhem and death wherever it touched.

Finally, she reached the end of the last file. She leaped up from her father’s desk, pacing in agitation. What was she going to do with this information? She couldn’t just do nothing. But then that stack of paperwork the governor’s assistant had shoved in front of her to sign after the press conference came to mind. Some of it had to do with not revealing classified information. Was she seriously required to keep her mouth shut about this secret committee and whatever it was up to?

She couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. Even if she was prosecuted for revealing classified information, there was no way she would stand by and let something like this go on in her country. Not in her government. Being a United States senator stood for something, and even if she had to throw herself on her sword, she would not sully that institution.

She paused by the French doors opening out onto one side of the back patio. The garden was dark, wreathed in shadows that suddenly looked menacing. The room behind her was dark, lit only by the lamp on her father’s desk, and the night seemed to reach right through the window to wrap her in its cold grasp.

Shivering, she rubbed her arms. And that was when she saw it. Flitting through the garden at the edge of her sight. Something ghostly and gray. She swore under her breath. If that was her father coming back to haunt her, she was going to give him a piece of her mind, all right. He’d had no business condoning the shenanigans of that committee. Miscellaneous Activities, indeed.

There it was again. Except this time it wasn’t an it. That was a
person
out there. Someone was creeping around in the garden and doing a freakishly good job of blending into the shadows. Stories of hit squads and covert ops teams fresh on her mind, panic ripped through her.

She pressed herself back against the wall beside the window in abrupt fear. Who was out there at this time of night? George, the gardener, went to bed at about nine o’clock, and it was after midnight now. Her mother hadn’t even made it downstairs for dinner, and Louise had the night off. Not that the shadow outside looked even remotely female. The intruder was tall and athletically built from what she’d glimpsed.

Willa crept around the margins of the office, hugging the wall, careful to stay out of the line of sight of the windows. She reached the desk and crouched down behind it as she picked up the phone. Quickly, she dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1. Please state your emergency.”

“This is Willa Merris. There’s an intruder in our back garden. A man.”

“I’ll send a unit over to have a look, Miss Merris...err, Senator. I need you to stay in the house. Is there a room you can lock yourself in?”

“Yes. My bathroom.”

“Go there and lock yourself in. Wait for an officer to call through the door and tell you it’s all clear.”

She hung up the phone and crawled on her hands and knees for the hallway door, staying out of sight of the garden. When she reached the foyer’s cavernous darkness, she climbed to her feet and ran for her life. She flew up the stairs, through her bedroom and into her bathroom. She leaned against the locked door, panting in relief in the dark.

Who on earth was in the garden? A reporter looking for a scoop? Some kid just messing around? Or was it more sinister? Someone out to silence her, perhaps? Except she’d barely been a senator for a single day. And everyone knew the appointment was purely a formality until the election could take place. Oh, God. What if it was James Ward out there? Memory of the madness in his eyes shuddered through her. Had he come to take revenge on her for pressing charges? Or even to kill her?

She waited in an agony of suspense for the police. She looked around her bathroom for something to defend herself with and came up with a toilet brush and a can of hair spray. Not exactly inspiring weapons. The mansion creaked and groaned around her, but she swore she detected the stealthy sounds of someone moving around downstairs. Probably just the police. She held her breath to listen more closely.

The faintest whisper of sound came from the other side of the door, in her bedroom, as if someone was breathing very lightly and very carefully only inches away. She was separated from whoever it was by no more than a thin, wooden panel. Why didn’t the policeman identify himself? The only possible answer froze Willa in place in sheer, dumb terror.
Because that wasn’t a policeman.