Pure Paradise (19 page)

W
here was Sweetie when she needed her? Fast asleep with her phone unplugged, most likely.
Lazy heifer!

Milan quickly threw several items in an overnight bag—a small tote on wheels. She packed underwear, a pair of jeans, a couple T-shirts. Ballet flats. Casual and comfortable travel wear.

She had no intention of sharing a few facts with the feds. That was out of the question, at least tonight! She had to flee—seek refuge somewhere, get her head together while she got her story straight.

She could kill that fucking Sumi for getting her in this position. She could easily strangle that hussy with her bare hands for creating that scandalous menu. All this drama, including Ms. Landers’ concussion, or whatever had happened to the ol’ bag, was Sumi’s fault.

Milan should have known better than to give an unqualified person so much power. But because she had tried to uplift another person, she’d been destroyed. It was outlandish that an ex-secretary—a virtual nobody—had driven her business into the ground. And now Milan had to scurry out into the cruel world, back on the lam, again.
Fuck!

She zipped her luggage closed and then remembered she hadn’t packed any toiletries. Inside her elaborate bathroom, she scooped up her essential beauty products, the notions and potions she absolutely could not live without.

Then the doorbell rang. “No, no, no!” Milan stamped her foot in time with each word. With her getaway plans foiled, she slid the packed tote on wheels under her massive bed. She checked her appearance and then quickly spritzed her neck with Kimochi. Perhaps the unusual fragrance could entice the agents, woo them senseless with her seductive scent, persuading them to look down another path for the real criminal—some lowlife type who wore stinky, cheap cologne. It was worth a try.

The doorbell rang again. The sound seemed louder, more persistent, and extremely intimidating. She doused her wrists with the fragrance and went downstairs to open her door to two very unwelcome guests.

Milan wore a welcoming smile that was so wide and so fake, her eyes slanted and her face hurt. But this was not a social call. The agents didn’t smile back. Their faces were stern and offered not even a semblance of friendliness. They were on official business and made it clear by not cracking a smile or uttering a sound that remotely resembled a greeting.

Both agents flashed gleaming badges encased in leather. Very impressive. But under the circumstances, it was hard to appreciate the badges’ high-polished shine. Royce would no doubt have given a canine tooth to sport such an elaborate badge, displaying an eagle on top and the words
Federal Bureau of Investigation
, along with other initials that warned that the bearer of the badge was not to be fucked with.

In Milan’s mind, Deputy Dawg and Sumi should be the people the agents wanted to question. It was they, and not Milan,
who were responsible for Ms. Landers’ injuries. In fact, Milan had personally witnessed Sumi working the woman into a frenzy as she sucked her clit and then Deputy Dawg used his bump-ridden, long-licking tongue to literally throw Ms. Landers over the edge.

I will not take the rap for Sumi and Royce
, she vowed inwardly. But her rational mind knew that by being the owner of Pure Paradise, she was going to take a hard fall. She swallowed the knot of fear that had formed in her throat.

“Good evening,” she said pleasantly, her insides quivering as she willed her knees to stay still and stop knocking together.

“Good evening, Ms. Walden,” said a ruddy-complexioned agent with intense brown eyes. The other agent merely nodded.

Milan gestured for them to enter. They crossed the threshold, wearing somber expressions.

Inside the foyer, the ruddy-faced guy said, “I’m Agent Whitaker.” His intense eyes seemed to be in motion, darting about and already searching for clues. He made Milan nervous.

“This is agent Pulliam,” Agent Whitaker introduced in his official no-nonsense tone, and nodded toward his partner, a tall man with hazel eyes and a receding hairline. Agent Pulliam gave Milan a quick smile. Her eyes moved from Pulliam to Whitaker.
Good cop, bad cop
, Milan decided.

“Why don’t we sit in the great room,” she suggested with a pleasing smile, and motioned them to follow her. She allowed a little suggestive sway to her hips, just in case the two agents could be bought off with sexual favors of the kinky kind. She’d do anything to save her neck and there was nothing beneath her at this point. Her basement was a few feet away, fully equipped with freaky furniture and loads of gadgets.

The agents took in her opulent surroundings: the plush fur
nishings, the marble floors, the artwork, the floor-to-ceiling Palladian windows, and the magnificent fireplace. Instead of looking impressed, both men appeared offended. Their eyes moved suspiciously from one item to the next inside the vast room, as if all her possessions were the result of ill-gotten gain. Their eyes were appraising and calculating as if they were ready to start the bidding to auction off furniture, personal effects, any and every one of her undeserved goods.

Trying to appear calm, she offered the agents a seat as she eased down and reclined on a long, beige couch.

Whitaker pulled his resentful dark eyes away from the oil paintings. “We prefer to stand. This won’t take long.”

Great!
She was antsy as hell but managed to look poised while she waited for the quickie inquisition to begin. Her teeth chattered and then it occurred to her that a drink might calm her down. She hopped off the sofa and headed toward the liquor cart on the other side of the room.

“Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink?” she asked sweetly.

“No, thank you,” both agents answered in unison. The impatience in their tones was evident.

Well, she sure needed a drink. Hopefully, a couple sips would steady her nerves. She picked up a crystal bottle that contained the hard stuff—scotch. She poured and drank it straight, draining the glass quickly and then reaching for the bottle for a refill. Scotch whiskey did not suit her palate, but the nasty, bitter-tasting liquor would calm her nerves much quicker than her preferred libation.

“Ms. Walden, when is the last time you spoke to Maxwell Torrance?” Agent Whitaker asked.

In the midst of swallowing, she choked on the scotch. Giving the agent a quizzical look, Milan shrugged and continued hacking and coughing. Finally, the hacking subsided. “Maxwell?” she asked, totally bewildered as to how Maxwell fit into the scheme of things.

“Yes, his cell phone records indicate that he speaks to you often. However, we want to know if he’s been recently—”

“Is he here now?” Agent Pulliam piped in.

“No, he’s not here. He hasn’t been here in three or four days. He’s on a business trip in Japan.” Milan looked at both agents questioningly. “What’s this about?”

The FBI agents exchanged glances. Pulliam cleared his throat. “His private jet crashed and—”

Milan placed her glass on the liquor cart. She felt woozy. “Oh my God,” she murmured, though she felt not a trace of grief. With Maxwell’s money on her mind, Milan threw the back of her hand against her forehead. She felt nauseous and faint. “Maxwell’s dead?” She shook her head in disbelief. She wouldn’t be getting that twenty-five million dollars she was counting on.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
She should have pushed for marriage. If she were his wife, she’d be rolling in billions and dancing a happy jig right now. There’d be no shame in her game. If she were legally married to Maxwell, her hands would be planted on her small hips while she launched into a convincing imitation of
Riverdance,
clicking her heels and skipping about right in these agents’ stern faces. Is it a crime to celebrate the death of an irritating spouse? She thought not.

But she wasn’t his wife.
Damn, damn, damn!
She picked up her drink and took a swig.

Tears rolled from her eyes, blurring her vision as she staggered
to the closest seat, a regal, pale-gold silk wing chair, which she flopped upon in an undignified manner, scotch splashing out on the arm of the elegant chair. “I can’t believe Maxwell’s dead,” she murmured in shock, body slumped, legs stretched and splayed over the loss of all that money.

“Well, ma’am. We suspect he’s still alive,” Agent Whitaker said.

Hope straightened her shoulders. “What do you mean?”

“We found the wreckage of his private jet, his ID, but not a trace of Mr. Torrance,” Agent Whitaker spoke without emotion.

“That’s good news, right?” Milan asked, looking from one agent to the other, waiting for confirmation.

“At this point, we’re not sure, Ms. Walden.” He squinted as if struck by a sudden thought. “By the way, what is your relationship with Mr. Torrance?”

“He’s my, uh…we…er…we’re involved.”

“Romantically?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“You guess?” Pulliam wondered dubiously.

“We had an uncommitted, uh, relationship.”

“Sexual?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Did you receive monetary benefits for these sex acts?”

Milan took a gulp from the glass and then sat upright in a proper position. Enough was enough, dammit. No way was she going to allow them to label her as a hooker. “I’m not a prostitute,” she said, lips pursed.

“I didn’t say that, ma’am. Just trying to get to the facts.”

She wanted to start cussing in indignation, but these FBI guys had a lot of power. It wouldn’t benefit her to get loud and self-righteous with them the way she was itching to. So Milan
collected herself and forced herself to speak in a cordial manner. “Yes, Maxwell was a generous man. He gave me monetary gifts from time to time. I want you to understand that all his generosity was strictly out of the kindness of his heart.”

“How’d he pay…cash, checks?” Pulliam said abruptly.

“Uh…” Milan knew the answer but paused to think, wondering if her response would get her into trouble.

“Ms. Walden?”

“Wire transfer. He, uh, usually transferred money into my business account. But why do you want to know that?”

Both agents shared a significant glance.

Whitaker’s eyes darkened even more. “It has been discovered that Mr. Torrance has been involved in insider trading, embezzlement, and misappropriation of several employee pension funds. As you know, Mr. Torrance is the CEO and sits on the board of a number of corporations both here in the States and overseas. Until we unravel this mess, there will be a freeze on all of your business accounts and personal bank accounts, Ms. Walden.”

A freeze! Not again!
Oh, how she hated that word, especially when it was associated with her money. Why, why, why didn’t she learn a lesson from the last time she’d gotten in financial trouble? She should have put at least a million inside a hidden safe. She’d been so blinded by her social status, she didn’t see this coming and, therefore, didn’t even have the foresight to have some cash tucked away—sewn inside her mattress, or hidden in secret places behind the gilded frames that adorned her walls.

“You can’t take my money,” she blurted. “I have my own business. A legitimate business. I need access to my funds. I have
employees who expect to be paid their wages on time…this is so un-American,” she cried.

Whitaker looked grim. “Are you speaking of Pure Paradise?”

“Yes, that’s
my
salon.”

Pulliam cleared his throat. “Actually, it isn’t.”

Milan scowled. “You’re misinformed. I am the sole proprietor of Pure Paradise.”

The agents’ expressions hardened. Uncomprehending, her eyes wide with dread, Milan looked back and forth, searching their faces for enlightenment. But no light shone from their eyes. Sensing doom, Milan rose from the chair and moved toward the liquor cart where she poured more scotch, filling her glass to the brim. Squeezing her eyes shut, she guzzled down the awful-tasting whiskey.

“
M
axwell Torrance was the sole proprietor,” Agent Pulliam revealed. “You were just a front he used for tax purposes. According to our records, Pure Paradise was gifted to Sumi Cranston over a week ago. She may possibly be involved in—”

Milan didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Her brain shut down right after they announced that Sumi owned Pure Paradise. In a state of shock, she slumped in the beautiful wing chair.

“Ms. Walden,” Whitaker said coldly, “don’t leave town. We have to ask you to stay in the immediate area while this investigation is being conducted.” She nodded dumbly, still stunned that Maxwell had pulled a fast one that caused her to lose access to her money.

She checked her Pure Paradise accounts online and thanks to the heads up from the agents, she didn’t have a heart attack when she discovered most of the money had been withdrawn from those accounts two days ago.
Damn you, Maxwell!

Then she checked her personal funds. Her palms became damp,
her heart rate accelerated, as she spied all the zeros that indicated her millions were still safe inside her account. For now. It was money she’d acquired when she ended her engagement to the so-called wealthy Noah Brockington. That relationship had really been a trip. Milan shook her head. Her life was like a soap opera. Perhaps one day, when she was settled and could think straight, she’d write a book about her disastrous dealings with wealthy men. She’d call it
A Bona Fide Gold Digger
. Now, that was a hot title, if she said so herself. She’d write it explicit, with graphic sex scenes scorching the pages. She’d provide complete details of her sexcapades, starting with the anonymous sex she used to have at the private sex club Tryst. With all the kinky sex she’d indulged in, her book was bound to be a red-hot, page-turner.

Milan laughed at herself. A couple of years ago, she’d entertained the idea of writing a how-to book:
Weekend Escape: Your Spa at Home
, which she’d never written. Now she was toying with the idea of writing erotica. She really had a decadent, steamy, spicy story to tell.
Someday
, she promised herself and returned her thoughts to the dire matters at hand.

The feds said they were going to freeze all of her accounts. Should she try to beat them to it by switching the money to an off-shore account? She needed Maxwell for that kind of wheeling and dealing and Maxwell was no longer on her side. Milan felt like crying. No matter how hard she tried to scheme and maneuver, someone else always ended up on top. And this time it was Sumi! Someone she’d never expected to have a hidden agenda. Sumi had played her, pretending to be lovesick, whipping Maxwell’s ass just to endear herself. Dishonest people were absolutely sickening.

Fuming, she called Sumi repeatedly, determined to curse her out and let her know that she was aware of her treachery, but Sumi ignored her calls. The sneaky little bitch! Milan seriously hoped that the FBI was hounding the tycoon-thieving, salon-stealing, no-good, cunt-clenching slut as badly as they were hounding her.

In a rotten frame of mind, Milan picked up the phone and started poking buttons, trying to get a hold of Royce. That Deputy Dawg-looking, dirty, deceitful dreg of the earth deserved to be cursed out, ghetto-style. And fired! She’d pretend that she still owned the place and give him his walking papers over the phone. But to her great disappointment, her call went straight to Royce’s voicemail.
Bastard!

Grief-stricken over losing her business and intoxicated from too much alcohol, she climbed into bed and turned on CNN. Maybe there was some news relating to the plane crash.
Please don’t let his body turn up,
she prayed. If he were still alive, perhaps he’d get in touch with her. If that happened, Milan was sure she could use her powers of persuasion to convince him to give her a couple million—strictly cash, of course. But what leverage did she have? Nothing. He’d stolen her business and given it to Sumi, no doubt as payment for giving him such a sound thrashing in Milan’s dungeon. No wonder Sumi was arriving for work late, taking long lunch breaks, and always acting distracted. She probably had Maxwell tied up in her apartment where she beat his ass numerous times a day just to keep him addicted. Harper had provided him with strap-on dick, but on Sumi’s orders. It was simply unbelievable that Sumi had stolen Milan’s very own billionaire slave.

She wondered if Maxwell was using the sexual services of
Royce as well? Milan should have known that Royce and Sumi were too close for comfort when he slithered into the massage room and licked Ms. Landers’ pussy with his abnormal tongue.

Milan hoped Ms. Landers sued Sumi for all she was worth. Hell, she’d go to court with the woman and testify on her behalf. Oooh, she’d like to wrap her hands around Sumi’s slender neck. Given a chance, she’d choke the shit out of the slimy little twit.

Angrily, Milan threw back another mouthful of scotch. Her blurred gaze traveled to the TV. She caught the tail end of a newsflash scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Had she seen Maxwell’s name? The words went by so fast, it was hard to tell.

If she wanted to know whether Maxwell had been found dead or alive, she’d have to stay alert and wait for the anchorman to announce it while simultaneously keeping her eyes focused at the bottom of the screen to catch the scrolling text.

Without meaning to, she’d become emotionally attached to Hilton. She’d turned soft and had given Sumi too much power. Now she was in a terrible predicament. Lost in her thoughts, she missed the scrolling text at the bottom again. She caught the word
plane
at the end of the newsreport.
Shit!
She’d have to wait until tomorrow. She’d be better equipped to deal with Maxwell’s plane crash and her frozen assets when she was nice and sober.

But at the moment, she was happy to dull her pain. Milan tilted the glass to her lips, only a few drops left. Irritated, she made the trek downstairs, stumbling and bumping into furniture on her path to the liquor cart. She grabbed the crystal container and held it to her chest as she carefully made her way back upstairs.

Feeling morose and alone, she crawled into bed with the bottle of scotch. Tears, seemingly from nowhere, filled her eyes as she drank straight from the container.
What the hell am I going to do now
? Her money would be frozen for weeks, months, maybe years to come, leaving her destitute once again. She’d gone full circle. Over a year ago, she’d been booted out of Pure Paradise by the board of directors, accused of falsifying her credentials (which she had but that really shouldn’t have been such a big deal) and accused of stealing money (which technically she had, but that too was minor as far as Milan was concerned). Those bastards had threatened her with jail time and sent her running, had her out on the lam. Then she came back, with Maxwell as her henchman, fired the board, and took over Pure Paradise. Now, that was justice. So, why, oh why was she back in the same position—ass out with frozen bank accounts?

She put the bottle down, curled up, and draped a cover around herself, wishing she were wrapped in Hilton’s protective arms. She wanted to call him so badly it hurt, but she balled her fist, restraining herself from picking up the phone. Hearing his deep voice would be a comfort. But who knew what drunken outpouring of love would spill from her lips? Yes, she was intoxicated but still cognizant enough to know that calling Hilton was a bad idea. His one-word text message conveyed that he wasn’t ready to talk…he still needed some time and some space between them to come to terms about how he really felt about her.

If he didn’t make the cut, which she was certain he wouldn’t, she was willing to start out fresh with him. They could start a business—work together. Even with her money on hold, she could sell some of her assets. Hell, she could sell her home. She’d buy a smaller one. It sucked the way the housing crisis
might force her to sell her chateau for less than its value. But she’d take the loss. For Hilton. For their future together.

She laughed at herself for having the audacity to envision a fairy-tale, happily-ever-after ending. Her track record didn’t bode well for true love or any kind of long-lasting happiness. It was quite comical that she hoped Hilton would come to her rescue and infuse her with the love she’d needed her entire life.

But she could dream, couldn’t she?