Caught in the Billionaire's Embrace (12 page)

It was a reasonable enough explanation. It might even
offer a reason for why she had left New York. Except that she was a native New Yorker without family or friends in any other part of the country to whom she might turn for help. Except for the fact that she hadn't started working somewhere else. Except for the fact that there was no record of her having done
any
thing,
any
where, after January 16th. She hadn't applied for any jobs. Hadn't applied for a new driver's license in any state. Hadn't accessed her bank accounts or used her credit cards. Her cell phone service had been canceled due to her failure to pay, in spite of her having had a tidy sum in both a checking and a savings account, neither of which had been touched.

His thoughts halted there for a moment. Her cell phone. He recalled scrolling through her information at the hotel, all the photos and numbers she still had, even though she hadn't called any of them. Obviously she was using a different number now than the one that had been cut off, but why wasn't there a record of her having applied for a new number? Even if she'd requested it be unlisted, his man Damien should have been able to find out what it was. Why hadn't he?

And why had she had all her contacts from the old phone transferred to a new one, clearly wanting to hang on to them even if she wasn't using any of them? He spared a moment to give himself a good mental smack for not bringing up her number on her phone when he'd had it in his hand. Then he cut himself a little slack because he'd been in such a hurry and so preoccupied by the photos he'd discovered. Still, had he remembered to get her number, it really would have made things a lot easier.

He returned his attention to the P.I.'s report. Marcus might have begun to wonder whether or not the woman
he'd met even
was
Della Hannan if it hadn't been for the photographs contained in the file along with the information. He had the picture from her ID badge at Whitworth and Stone, along with copies of photos from her high school yearbook and early driver's licenses. The woman he had met was definitely the same woman in those photos, but, as had been the case with the pictures on her phone, her hair was shorter and darker in all of them.

She'd changed her appearance after she disappeared, but not her name, and his contact hadn't found any evidence that she had any aliases. So there was little chance she was some con artist and a very good chance that everything she had told him about being in trouble was true. The file also had information about Della's early life, which also corroborated what she had told him. There was information about the two brothers she had said she had—one older, one younger. What she hadn't mentioned—probably because she hadn't wanted to dissuade him of his completely wrong ideas—was that she had come from a notoriously bad neighborhood and wasn't the product of wealthy society at all.

At the end of the file was a handwritten note from Damien. It was short and to the point:

Marcus lifted his glass to his mouth. But the warm, mellow port did little to soothe the tumultuous thoughts
tumbling in his head. So the trouble Della had found herself in in New York was criminal, after all. But which was it with her? Was she helping the authorities or hiding from them?

Who the hell was she? In a lot of ways, she seemed like a stranger to him now. But in another way, she felt even closer than she had been before.

But why and how had she disappeared so completely, not once but twice now? Because she had disappeared again. Damien hadn't been able to find a single clue that might indicate where she was living in Chicago, how long she had been here or when she was planning to leave. Another reason why the man had made the assumption he had in the note, Marcus was certain. Della herself had said she was in trouble. Whether she was helping or hiding, it must be something pretty bad for her to have made herself so invisible.

He closed the file and tipped his glass to his lips again but the glass was empty. He grimaced as he set both the file and the glass on the end table, then rose. He started to walk away, then stopped and went back. For the glass, he told himself. To put it in the dishwasher before he went to bed.

But he picked up the file, too, and opened it again. He took out the photo of Della that had been on her ID badge at Whitworth and Stone. She was the picture of businesslike gravity, unsmiling, wearing no makeup, her short, mannish hair combed back from her face. She looked nothing like she had during the time he'd spent with her. Even after she had washed off her makeup, she had still been beautiful. Even after the inconvenience of the snow, she had still been happy.

And so had he.

That was when Marcus began to understand his
obsession with finding her. Not because she was a mysterious woman in red he couldn't get out of his mind. But because the time he'd spent with her had marked the first time in his life he'd been truly happy. He wasn't sure of the why or when or how of it. He only knew that, with Della, he'd felt different. The same way Charlotte had entered his life when he was a teenager and guided him toward finding contentment with himself, Della had entered his life when he was an adult and guided him toward finding contentment with someone else.

That was what had always been missing before—the sharing. He had shared his life with Charlotte while she was alive, and that had made living it so much better. With Della, he had shared himself. And that made himself so much better. He had been grieving since Charlotte's death, not just for her, but for the emptiness in his life her absence had brought with it. Over the weekend he'd spent with Della, that emptiness had begun to fill again. The hole Charlotte's vacancy had left in his life had begun to close. The wound had begun to heal. With Della, Marcus had begun to feel again. And the feelings he had…

He started to tuck the photograph into the file, but halted. Instead, after taking his glass to the kitchen, he carried everything into his bedroom. He placed the picture of Della on his dresser, propping it up in front of a lamp there. Even if the woman in the photo didn't look much like the one he remembered, Marcus liked having her in his home. He liked that a lot.

T
wo nights after finding Marcus on the internet, Della was still feeling at loose ends about everything that had happened and everything left to come. The media frenzy she had feared would follow the announcement of the arrests at Whitworth and Stone had actually been fairly mild. Geoffrey had told her that wasn't surprising at this point, that when people were that rich and that powerful, it was easy for their attorneys to keep a tight rein on how much information was made available to the press. It would only be after the grand jury arraignment, when evidence was presented to support the charges, thereby making any arguments on the defense's part moot, that the media storm would break. Probably with the fury of a category five hurricane. Geoffrey had also assured her, though, that by the time that happened, Della would be safely ensconced in her new life elsewhere, hidden away from any repercussions.

Hidden away from everything.

But she was doing her best not to think about any of that yet. It was Friday night, the eve of her last weekend in Chicago. On Monday, she would be returning to New York. On Tuesday, she would make her first appearance before the grand jury. In a week, give or take, she would be ushered out of this life and into a new one.

One week. That was all Della Hannan had left. After that…

Oh, boy. She really needed a glass of wine.

She changed into her pajamas, poured herself a glass of pinot noir and grabbed a book that had arrived in that morning's mail. She was settling into a chair in the den when the doorbell of the safe house rang. To say the sound startled her was a bit of an understatement, since she jumped so hard, she knocked over her wine, spilling it over both the book and the snowflake print of her pajama shirt, leaving a ruby-red stain at the center of her chest in its wake.

No one had ever rung the doorbell of the safe house. Not even Geoffrey on those few occasions when he had been here. He always called first to tell her he was coming and at what time, and he gave a couple of quick raps and called out his name once he arrived.

She had no idea who was on the other side of the door now. Not Geoffrey, that was certain. It could be another marshal, or someone from the FBI or SEC who needed to brief her about her grand jury appearance next week. But Geoffrey would have let her know about something like that before he sent anyone over. And no such meeting would ever take place after 10:00 p.m. on a Friday night.

She wasn't sure whether she should sit tight and pretend no one was home, or go to the bedroom for her
cell phone to call Geoffrey. Any movement she made might tip-off whoever was outside. Of course, it could just be someone who'd mistaken her address for another on the street. It could be someone delivering a pizza to the wrong house. It could be neighbor kids who thought it would be funny to play a joke on the weird neighbor lady who never left her house. It could be any of those things. It could.

But Della doubted it.

As silently as possible, she closed the book and set it and her half-empty wineglass on the side table, then rose carefully from the chair. The doorbell rang again as she was taking her first step toward the bedroom, setting off explosions of heat in her belly. She went as quickly as she could to the bedroom and grabbed her phone, punching the numbers to Geoffrey's home phone into it but not pushing the send button yet. If it
was
the pizza guy making a mistaken delivery, she didn't want to bother Geoffrey for nothing.

The doorbell rang a third time as she approached the living room, but this time, it was followed by a series of quick, rapid knocks. The front drapes were drawn, as they were every evening, and there were no lights turned on in that room. Della clasped her cell phone tightly in one hand as she came to a halt at the front door, then placed the other hand over the trio of light switches to the left of it. The one closest to her turned on an overly bright bug light on the porch, something that would temporarily blind whoever was out there if she flipped it on. For the moment, however, she only pressed her eye to the peephole to see who was on the other side

Oh, great. A dark, shadowy figure who could be almost anyone. That helped ever so much.

The dark, shadowy figure must have sensed her nearness or heard her approach, however, because as she was drawing back from the peephole, a voice called from the other side, “Della? Are you home? Let me in. We need to talk.”

The sound of Marcus's deep voice startled her even more than the doorbell had. Her phone slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, her heart began to pound like a marathon runner's and her mind raced in a million different directions. How had he found her? Why was he here? If he'd found her, did someone else know she was here, too? Would his being here compromise the case? Would the feds go so far as to arrest Marcus to keep him under wraps, too?

What should she do?

“Della?” he called out again. “Are you there?” How
had
he found her?
Why
had he found her? And if he knew her whereabouts, did he know about everything else that had happened, too?

What should she do?

Instead of panicking, however, a strange sort of calm suddenly settled over her, in spite of all the questions, in spite of her confusion, in spite of her fears and misgivings. Even though Della didn't know
what
to do, she knew, very well, what she
wanted
to do….

The chain was latched, as it always was, so, ignoring the phone on the floor, Della turned the three dead bolts on the door and opened it. It was still too dark on the other side for her to make out Marcus clearly, but the absence of light made her feel better. If she couldn't see him, he couldn't see her, either. But it wasn't because of vanity about being in wine-stained pajamas and no makeup or having her hair pulled back in a lopsided ponytail. It was because she knew Marcus couldn't see
the real Della Hannan this way. She could still be the fantasy she hoped he remembered her as.

“Della?” he said again, evidently still not certain he'd found her.

All she could manage in response was, “Hi, Marcus.”

His entire body seemed to relax at her greeting. “It's really you,” he said softly.

The remark didn't invite a response, so Della said nothing. Truly, she had no idea what to say. If Marcus knew she was here, he must know why she was here, too. The marshals had kept her hidden for eleven months without any problems. Yet in less than two weeks, Marcus had managed to find her, without having anything more than her first name. He must know everything about what had happened at this point.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word, and neither moved a muscle. The cold winter wind whipped up behind him, sending his overcoat fluttering about his legs and his hair shuffling around his face. Even though she couldn't make out his features in the darkness, she remembered every elegant contour of his face—the rugged jawline, the patrician nose, the carved cheekbones. As the wind blew past him and against her, it brought his scent, too, the spicy, smoky one she recalled too well. Smelling him again, even one fleeting impression, filled her with desire and hunger and need. It was all she could do not to pull back the chain and throw the door open wide and welcome him into the house, into her life, into her.

But she couldn't do that. She wasn't the woman he thought she was. He might not be the man she'd thought him to be. And even if they could both be what the other wanted, in a matter of days, Della would be disappearing into another life Marcus couldn't be a
part of. Her new life would be one into which she was retreating, one that would necessitate living quietly and unobtrusively. His life was one into which he would always go boldly and always live lavishly. And neither the twain could meet.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“No,” she said quickly.

“Della, please. We need to talk.”

“We are talking.”

“No, we're not. We're greeting each other.”

“Then start talking.”

He growled out an epithet. “It's cold. Let me in.”

Well, he did have a point there, she conceded. Her sock-clad toes were already screaming that they were about to get frostbite. Not to mention her robe was in the other room.

Not to mention she really wanted to see him again. Up close and in good light. She wanted to stand near enough to feel his warmth. Near enough to inhale his scent. And she wanted to pretend again, just for a little while, as she had during their weekend together, that nothing in her life would ever be wrong again.

Unable to help herself, she pushed the door closed enough to unhook the chain, then pulled it open again. Strangely, Marcus didn't barrel immediately through and close it behind himself. Instead, he remained at the threshold, waiting for some cue from her.

Striving to lighten the mood, she said, “Unless you're a vampire, you don't need a formal invitation.”

He hesitated a moment, then said, “I'd like to be invited anyway.”

She remembered the night at the club, how he had joined her without asking first, and how he had taken the lead for everything after that. There had
been no uncertainty in him that night two weeks ago. But tonight, it was as if he were as uncertain about everything as she was. For some reason, that made her feel a little less uncertain.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked quietly.

He nodded, then took a few steps forward. When she stepped out of the way to let him enter, her foot hit the cell phone on the floor and skittered it to the other side of the foyer. As Della stooped to pick it up, Marcus closed the door behind himself. In the dark room, she could still sense nothing of what he might be feeling or thinking, so she led him into the den. As she walked, she restlessly tugged the rubber band from her ponytail and did her best to fluff and tame her hair at the same time. There was nothing she could do about the wine-spattered pajamas, however, so she only crossed her arms over the stain as best she could and told herself the posture wasn't defensive.

Even if she was feeling a little defensive.

She gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat,” she said as she tucked herself into the chair.

But Marcus didn't sit. Instead, he stood with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, gazing at her.

He looked magnificent, different from the last time she had seen him, but somehow completely unchanged. In person, she'd seen him dressed only in the tuxedo and the bathrobe—one extreme to another—and this incarnation of him was somewhere in between. His trousers were casual and charcoal in color and paired with a bulky black sweater. Coupled with the dark coat and his dark hair, and having come in from the darkness the way he had, he still seemed as overwhelming as he had been the first time she saw him. But his eyes were anxious and smudged with faint purple crescents.
His hair was a bit shaggy, and his face wasn't closely shaved. His posture was both too tense and too fatigued, as if he were trapped in some state between the two. Or maybe both conditions had just overwhelmed him. All in all, he looked like a man who had been worrying about something—or perhaps someone—a lot.

When he didn't sit, Della automatically stood again. “Wine?” she asked. Her words were rushed and unsteady as she prattled on. “I just opened a bottle of pinot noir. It's good on a night like this. I'll get you a glass.”

Without awaiting a reply, she grabbed her glass and headed into the kitchen to retrieve one for him, her mind racing once again with all the repercussions his arrival into her reality brought with it. Why, oh, why, had she let him in? Why hadn't she called Geoffrey the minute she heard a knock at the door? What if it hadn't been Marcus standing there?

When she turned to go back into the den, she saw him standing framed by the kitchen doorway. He'd removed his coat and ran a hand through his wind-tossed hair, but he didn't look any more settled than she felt. Crumbling under his scrutiny, Della looked away, then, leaving both glasses neglected on the counter, went to the table to fold herself into one of the chairs. Marcus pulled out the chair immediately next to hers and, after sitting down, scooted it in close enough so that his thigh was aligned with her own. For another long moment, neither of them spoke. Neither looked at the other. Neither moved. Finally, unable to stand the silence, Della took the initiative.

“How did you find me?”

He didn't say anything for a minute, only looked down at the table and began to restlessly trace the wood
grain with his finger. All he said, though, was, “I'm well-connected.”

“No one is that well-connected, Marcus. I've been here for eleven months without anyone knowing. All you had was my first name, and you managed to find me less than two weeks after we—”

She halted when she saw the stain of a blush darkening his cheek. It hadn't been there when he came in, so it couldn't be a result of the cold. That meant something she'd said had made him uncomfortable. He looked up at her when she stopped talking, then, when he saw her staring at him, his gaze ricocheted away again.

“Marcus, how
did
you find me knowing only my first name?”

Still, he avoided her gaze. “Yeah, about that. I, uh, I actually had more than your first name. I kind of took the liberty of going through your purse while you were in the shower, and I got your last name and your address in New York from your driver's license.”

Della closed her eyes at that. How could she have been so careless? She never left the safe house without her driver's license, on the outside chance that if there was an accident of some kind, she could still be returned to the proper authorities. The thought of dying nameless bothered her almost as much as dying friendless. But Della had never expected anyone other than an emergency medical worker or law enforcement officer to see it. She knew enough to use cash instead of her credit cards to keep from being identified, and her phone was one Geoffrey had given her that couldn't be traced. But the personal ID thing…