The Reckless Secret, Complete Series (An Alpha Billionaire In Love BBW Romance) (6 page)

M
aggie had barely taken
three steps into the hospital when Dr. Stevens cornered her, as if he’d been loitering in the wings, ready to pounce.

“Ms. Emerson.”

She jumped, coffee spilling and burning her fingers, her hair a total rat’s nest from the strong winds they’d been hit with that morning.

Her stomach filled with dread at the badly concealed smugness on his face.

“What’s going on?”

“Come to my office, please,” he said, and then marched off, leaving her reeling.

Oh shit
. This didn’t feel good. This didn’t feel anything
close
to good. Clearly, whatever was about to happen, it delighted him. That look on his face said he was going to enjoy every single moment of it. And considering how much he disliked her, that could only mean one thing: she was screwed.

Heart in her throat, she made her way up to his office. She was the only one working today, so she didn’t even have Ashley or Cami to gather strength from. At least she didn’t have to face Ronald—he was nowhere to be seen as she ambled through the ER ward, desperately trying to get her racing heart under control before she took whatever Dr. Stevens planned to throw at her.

When she entered his office, it wasn’t the sight of
him
that filled her with overwhelming, ice-cold panic. Standing in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back, and framed by weak sunlight like something straight out of a made-for-TV crime movie, was a stocky gentleman wearing jeans and a leather jacket…with a police badge clipped on his belt.

Maggie swallowed past the rising tide of fear creeping up her throat, and said, “Is this about the—”

Dr. Stevens cleared his throat. “Please sit down,” he instructed, doing a terrible job of hiding his glee at the situation.

She remained standing and looked at the policeman expectantly. He stepped forward. His voice was thin and reedy when he spoke, but not unkind.

“Ms. Emerson, I’m Detective Sanders.” He paused, as if waiting for her to greet him in return, but she said nothing. After an awkward beat, he pulled a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open to a page somewhere in the middle. “Can you take a look at this list and tell me where you were at each of these times?”

With a shaking hand, she took the notebook from him and stared at his list. At first, she couldn’t see anything, the panic making the letters run together like spilled ink, blurry and indistinct. But she needed to get a grip on herself, find some courage, because acting meek and tremulous would only make her appear guilty.

She blinked her vision clear and read the list.

And then fought the terror filling her entire body at the sensation of the walls closing in on her.

“Here.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I was here,” she said firmer, looking back up at him. There was no point lying. On this, at least, they had her over a barrel. “These were my shifts in the past month.”

“All of them?” he asked, taking the notepad back from her. His question confused her a little. Or maybe the panic had removed her ability to make sense of simple statements.

“No, I mean—they’re not all of my shifts, obviously. I’ve worked a lot more than it says there. But each of these have been during one of my shifts.” She was snapping, she knew that, but she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t control anything about this, including her own reactions.

“I see.”

“Well I don’t. Am I being accused of something here?”

The detective pulled a pen out of his pocket this time, but he didn’t use it. Just tapped it against his notepad and said, “Your DNA was found at the scene of the crime.”

At her entirely dumbfounded reaction, Dr. Stevens leaned forward in his seat and added, ever so helpfully, “We found your DNA in the location of the missing drugs.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she spluttered. “My DNA is all over that cabinet.”

“Specifically, Ms. Emerson,” Dr. Stevens said in his slick, greasy voice, “your hair was found directly after the drugs went missing again on Friday last week.”

Was he actually trying to tell her that she was in the frame for a crime because they’d found her
hair
? Her panic gave way to utter disbelief, and for a brief moment, relief washed over her like a warm blanket.

“Sir. I’m sorry, but if that’s all the evidence you have—”

And then Dr. Stevens said, “It’s not,” and the relief turned to a blanket of ice.

“Then what else is there?”

Dr. Stevens stared at her, his eyes glittering, but said nothing.

The detective coughed gently and stepped towards her, pen and pad outstretched.

“Ma’am, if I could just take your contact information—”

“My hair could’ve gotten in that cabinet at any time,” Maggie said, her mind tumbling into a whirlwind of renewed panic, desperately trying to find the logic in all of this and the one thing that would prove, beyond all doubt, that she had nothing to do with it. “What about the other nurses with access to that cabinet? I bet you’d find their DNA, too.”

“As I said, ma’am,” the detective said, while Dr. Stevens leaned back and folded his arms over his chest, smirk firmly in place, looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream. “I need your contact information for further inquiries.”

“Am I a suspect?” she asked, voice rising, refusing to take the pad from him. Backing down now would mean defeat, and she wasn’t ready to accept that anyone, anywhere, could think she was a thief. Even Dr. Stevens. Disliking rich people did not give him the right ruin her goddamn life. “I deserve to know what other evidence you have!”

Dr. Stevens gave a careless sniff and straightened his tie. “Let’s just say you might consider getting yourself a lawyer.”

A lawyer. What evidence did they have that made Dr. Stevens so sure that she’d need a legal defender?
Oh God
, she thought as the detective once again held the pad out to her,
oh God, oh God. Please.

“Phone number and address, ma’am, thank you.”

Numbly, she took the pad and wrote down her details, hardly aware of her own actions. When she gave the pad back to him, she turned to face Dr. Stevens’ hatefully smug face head on. “This is ridiculous.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll be in touch,” the detective said, then tipped a nod at Dr. Stevens. “Doctor.”

He waited for someone to answer him, but when no one did, he pulled a weary expression and left, leaving Maggie alone with Dr. Stevens, who immediately wiggled the mouse of his computer and stared at the screen like she wasn’t even there.

“Sir—”

“Close the door on your way out.”

“
Sir
—”

“If you don’t mind, Ms. Emerson,” he said, peering over at her, “I have work to do. And so should you. Unless you’d rather not…?”

He’d love that, wouldn’t he? For her to imply that she didn’t care about her job. Add more fuel to his fire. To his
vendetta
.

But it couldn’t just be about his distaste of rich people. It wasn’t just a personal vendetta. Because now the police had evidence, enough to keep her under suspicion, and Dr. Stevens aside, there seemed to be a very real case being built against her here.

She couldn’t argue with Dr. Stevens, not when she had no idea what she was even arguing
against
.

She couldn’t believe she was even thinking it, but Dr. Stevens was right: she needed a lawyer.

A sentiment she echoed to the girls that evening, after they’d both answered distress calls and met her at the bar.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need a good lawyer.”

“
What
?” Ashley and Cami said simultaneously, wearing matching, slack-jawed expressions of shock.

“There was a detective there and everything.” Maggie let out a groan and flopped her head down into her hands. “I’m screwed,” she said against the gross, sticky bar top.

“Don’t be stupid,” Ashley said from her right, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “There’s got to be a rational explanation for all of this. What’ve they got on you?”

“They found a strand of my hair in the drugs cabinet.”

“That’s it?”

“And the drugs always go missing during my shift.”

“That’s—how the hell does that point the finger at you?”

“There’s a lot they’re not telling me,” Maggie said, sitting upright with a sigh. “Either way, I’m a suspect. A
suspect
. The detective’s gonna be in touch.”

Ashley looked at her with fierce compassion, then said, “It’ll be fine. It has to be. This is crazy.”

“Dr. Stevens told me to hire a lawyer. I think this is gonna get ugly.”

“The right lawyer will have this dismissed in no time.”

From her other side, Cami made a noise of agreement. “If you’re gonna get a lawyer, Mags, get the best. Your family probably knows them all.”

Maggie snorted. “Doubt I could afford the best on my own.” At a flat look from both of her best friends, she shook her head. “I’m not asking my family for money. They don’t even need to know about this.”

Ashley rolled her eyes, while Cami adopted a thoughtful look. Then her eyes went wide, and she gripped Maggie’s forearm. “Luckily for you, my Drew and your brother Grant have a
fantastic
lawyer friend, and I’m sure he’ll want to waive the fee.” It was at this point that she obviously expected Maggie to know exactly who she was talking about, staring at her with anticipation, her face lit up. When Maggie failed to answer, Cami huffed and said, “Declan Archibald!”

Maggie’s stomach jolted. “No.”

“What? Why? You’ve known him for years! Of course, he’ll want to help you. He really is the best, you know. There’s a reason why he’s so filthy rich.” She winked at Maggie, as if this fact was a girl chat waiting to happen, then immediately conceded, “Okay, I know, family money.
But
, everyone knows he’s made a fortune defending all those politicians and CEOs. He’ll snap his fingers and get this cleared away like
that
.” She snapped her own fingers to emphasize her point.

With her mouth running dry, Maggie croaked out, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Something must have shown on her face, because Ashley and Cami both suddenly leaned towards her and Ashley breathed, “Oh my God, Maggie, why not?”

Maggie squirmed. “Something may have…happened. At the wedding on Saturday.”

“Oh no,” Ashley whispered, before glancing around for the barman. “We’re not prepared—hold on. Can we get more shots over here, please?” She turned back to Maggie, her eyes sparkling, and said firmly, “Tell us
everything
.”

And so Maggie told them everything, from the dates all those months ago and onto Trixie Lane, accepting their chastising about how she’d not mentioned anything before (“I knew there was a reason why you jumped into the whole Ronald thing so quickly!” Ashley exclaimed), withholding such a juicy part of her life.

Then she filled them in on the wedding this past weekend, meeting Declan again, everything he said, all of his explanations…and then everything they did together, followed by his disappearing act the following morning, punctuated by the world’s most dude-bro note ever.

“And he hasn’t called you?” Cami asked.

Maggie downed another shot. “Nope,” she croaked.

“It’s only been two days, though.”

“Yeah, and you know what guys are like,” Ashley added. “He’s probably waiting for you to text him or something.”

“The note was pretty clear. It was just a fun one-off for him.”

“Maggie—”

“It’s
fine
,” she lied, searching around for another full shot glass. “It’s not like I’m into him or anything.” Another lie, one big enough for her to choke on. “But now you get why I can’t ask him for help.”

“Of course, you can,” Cami said. “You have to!”

Maggie dismissed her, waving a hand to brush her statement away, swaying on the stool as the rush of alcohol muddled her mind and her senses. She was starting to feel like she could float away from the whole thing, that maybe if she shut out all the noise of it, it wouldn’t matter. But she knew that wasn’t true—deep down, beneath the river of tequila taking control of her rationality right now, she knew exactly how screwed she was.

Not that bringing Declan Archibald into the situation would make her feel any better. He didn’t
deserve
to fix her problems, make him feel good about himself. Make him feel
powerful
, having Maggie run to him for help—that woman who he slept with and then dumped.

She snorted. No way was she giving him
that
satisfaction.

And then Ashley spoke again, and her words shattered through Maggie’s brain like a goddamn sledgehammer.

“What’s more important to you, Mags—your pride, or your job?”

S
he would blame
it on the alcohol. She might even blame it on her libido. What she wouldn’t do was pretend she was making any kind of good choice when she went home that night and called Declan.

He answered on the third ring, and his voice floated into her ear like the warm breath of a god.

“I was going by the three-day rule, but—”

She couldn’t let him use that voice on her, the one he’d murmured to her during their night together. She couldn’t listen to him and think about the agonizing pleasure of his touch. “I need your help.”