Marry Me (46 page)

He'd shred the most incriminating documents, but so much money had vanished into thin air. Billions and billions and billions of dollars couldn't be accounted for.

People were asking to withdraw cash he didn't have, and he didn't know how he'd stave off the firestorm that was approaching. He'd actually begun to receive death threats, rough phone calls in the middle of the night, hand-scrawled notes slipped under the door to his office when no one was looking. 

If the worst happened and criminal charges were filed, he was positive he could beat them. There was no damning paper trail, and in the past few years, everybody had suffered setbacks. He couldn't be blamed for the economy tanking.

He merely hoped that—should he end up losing everything—the wedding to Brittney would have already transpired. She had money,
old
money, that hadn't been squandered in the stock market or tossed away in risky investments, so she was just what he needed.

When he'd initially started to see how his universe was imploding, it had become clear that he could save himself by marrying an heiress—as guys had done in prior centuries. And Brittney Merriweather was the ideal choice.

She wasn't a public figure, and she was quite young, so she'd be less likely to have heard any negative stories about him.

While she thought their first meeting had been an accident, he'd arranged it right down to the red rose he'd purchased from a street vendor when they'd left the art gallery where they'd been introduced.

It had been no onerous chore to seduce her. She was great. Beautiful and smart and chic and sophisticated. She'd been educated at the best schools, and she donated to the important charities. She was exactly the type of wife a man in his situation required. If it all went up in flames, he'd be able to continue living in the manner to which he'd long been accustomed.

He might ultimately forfeit all he owned—the yachts and the houses and the cars—but he'd replace them with Brittney's money. And with her supporting him financially, he could swiftly restore his investment business.

"Everything will be fine," he muttered, sweat popping out on his brow. "
Everything
will be fine."

The elevator deposited him in the garage under the building, and he stepped out to his waiting limo. The driver whisked him away, a black SUV from the security company trailing after him. He couldn't go anywhere without security. There were a lot of crazies out there, and it was impossible to predict when one of them might snap.

The limo inched through the hectic streets, and he was so antsy that he nearly jumped out and walked. It would have been faster, but he was too much of a coward to leave the safety of the car with its darkened windows and bulletproof glass.

Finally, they arrived at his destination, and he hurried inside.

The elevator carried him up to the tenth floor, and he proceeded down the hall to the apartment at the end. It was a journey he'd made hundreds of times in his life, but he'd had to accept that each visit might be his last. The mortgage was in foreclosure, but he hadn't yet mustered the courage to admit it.

He was about to ring the buzzer, when his mistress, Gianella, yanked the door open. She'd been expecting him, so she was wearing only a garter belt, fishnet stockings, and high, high heels.

A sensuous, exotic Brazilian model, she was a professional, so there had never been any pretentions of affection. He'd tempted her with money, and she stayed because he paid her to give him what he needed, when he needed it. But how much longer could he keep her?

So many of his favorite luxuries were about to vanish. She would have to move from the apartment—a future discussion he was dreading. She'd never understand.

She drew him into the foyer, then wrapped him in her arms, her soft, slender hands caressing his back.

"Darling," she cooed, her accent soothing and alluring, "look at you. You're exhausted. Would you like a drink? Or should we head straight to bed? What will relax you the quickest?"

"Pour me a drink," he said, "and bring it to the bedroom."

* * *

"Do you think she'll actually marry that banker?"

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

Matt grinned at Ken Scott, his pseudo father-in-law. Matt had never married Ken's daughter, Emily, but he'd wound up with the man as family anyway. Emily had been dead for years, killed by a drunk driver when she was twenty. It was the same wreck that had claimed the life of Matt's brother, Michael.

Matt and Ken were still connected, a pair of sorry bachelors, rattling around in Ken's small, run-down house and scraping by financially on whatever pension and disability money they could scrounge together.

The only stability Matt had ever found had been provided by Ken. Ken was a retired police officer, who'd done a lot of volunteer work with troubled kids, and there'd been none more troubled than Matt and Michael.

Matt's mother had been a drugged out teenager who'd overdosed at nineteen, so Matt and his brother had been pitched into foster care. Ken had tried his hardest to guide them through the bitter experience.

He'd forced them to play on baseball and football teams. He'd attended their games and visited their schools on parent nights. He'd brought gifts at Christmas and taken them camping up in the Rockies every summer.

It hadn't helped. Matt had grown up angry and wild and reckless, and Michael had been no better. Matt had been a fighter and daredevil who would attempt any insane, dangerous feat, who would lie, steal, or brawl over the silliest of reasons.

He'd had no scruples or common sense. When he'd gotten Emily pregnant, they'd been little more than kids themselves. He'd offered to marry her, but Ken was no fool. He'd had no intention of having his only child shackled to a lunatic. Nor would he allow Matt to inflict himself on—and likely imperil—Ken's only grandchild.

Despite how fervently Emily had begged, Ken had refused to let them wed. Instead, he'd driven Matt to the nearest recruiter's office and waited while Matt joined the army.

Matt had spent most of a decade in Iraq, and if his ass hadn't been blown to kingdom come by a roadside bomb, he'd probably still be a soldier. The military had taught him discipline and respect, had calmed his worst tendencies and turned him into the man he'd never have become otherwise.

Luckily, he still had his four limbs, but his shoulder was a mess, the impact from the blast shattering too many bones to count.

He ached all the time, and he wasn't agile anymore, couldn't move with his previous grace or speed. If someone wanted to fight him these days, he'd have to shout down his opponent. He couldn't lift his arm high enough to take a swing, and he definitely couldn't punch anybody.

Though he was only thirty-two, he felt old and used up and past his prime. If he'd been a horse, he'd have already been sent off to the slaughterhouse.

"What's up with her and her brother?" he asked Ken. "She said she's not going to his wedding. It's this weekend."

"You have to consider her background," Ken advised.

"I have:  She's a rich, spoiled princess."

"But she also had Jackie and David Merriweather as her parents."

"What does that have to do with her skipping her brother's wedding?"

"There are issues with the whole accursed family. She may be richer than God, but she has more problems than you can solve."

  Ken was an expert on all things Merriweather. He knew—and had loathed—Brittney's parents for decades. It was a potent animosity that hadn't waned in the least. Especially toward Brittney's father who had been a first-class jerk and renowned playboy.

Supposedly, he'd had a mistress in every city and had sired illegitimate kids wherever he went, which certainly explained why Jacquelyn Merriweather was so rude and unpleasant. It couldn't have been easy being married to a guy like that.

When Matt's friend, Brandon Talbot who owned Talbot Security, had given him a chance to earn some cash, guarding Brittney, Matt had intended to say no thanks. He didn't have the necessary patience to deal with a snooty heiress, but Ken had insisted Matt accept the job.

Ken was retired and ill and bored, and he amused himself by butting his nose into other people's business. He couldn't resist getting Matt into the Merriweather's house and lives. And when Ken asked Matt for a favor, Matt couldn't refuse. He owed Ken too much.

"What's your plan for the day?" Ken inquired.

"I'm on my way to the mansion."

"Then what?"

"I have to find out what Brittney's up to. I'll try to lure her into my car again. It gives me more options."

"I thought you wanted a week to make your move."

"I might be able to take care of this sooner."

"You pissed her off yesterday. If she complained to Brandon, he'll have to pull you out of there."

"She won't complain."

"Why won't she?"

"She's crazy about me. If she has Brandon pull me, she'll never see me again."

Ken snorted with disgust. "I never cease to be amazed by the level of your confidence or your vanity."

"It's gotten me this far."

"Which I'd say is precisely nowhere at all."

They glanced around the kitchen, at the scuffed linoleum, the faded curtains, the worn furniture, and peeling paint. The poor old house—that Ken had paid on for thirty years and owned outright—was falling to pieces. With Ken's medical issues and Matt's physical ones, it wasn't likely that their situation would improve in the future.

At least they had a roof over their heads. They had food in the refrigerator, a car that ran okay, and money in the bank to buy gas for it. Considering how terribly many others were struggling, they had more than most, and Matt was grateful.

It was dangerous for a man to wish for more than he'd been given. His troubles as a kid had been caused by his rampant desire for things he couldn't have. He'd raged against his fate, and the end result had always been bad.

Hopefully, if he'd learned nothing else in the army, he'd learned some pragmatism. He'd learned to be content and satisfied and not so damned angry.

"It's Emily's birthday next week," Ken mentioned.

"I know."

"She'd have been thirty."

"I know that, too."

She and Michael had been killed while Matt was overseas. He hadn't made it home for the funeral.

"How come I wound up with you instead of her?" Ken wasn't being mean in posing the question. It often plagued him when he was feeling low. "I tried to be a good guy. Why would the universe screw me over like that?"

"Because you're an unlucky S.O.B."

"I'm not unlucky," Ken said. "I got Jeremy out of the deal."

"Yes, you did, and don't forget:  If it hadn't been for my part in that fandango, you'd be alone—with just me for company."

"And for a whole decade, I had him all to myself, without your ugly face in the picture."

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, then Matt's son, Jeremy, flew into the room. He'd always been Emily's boy—not Matt's. That's what Ken called him and how he was viewed by everyone. As if he'd sprung from nowhere with no father attached. 

Matt wasn't bitter over Ken's machinations. In light of how wild Matt had been when he was younger, Ken had been correct in ordering him away. But they'd matured and changed. Emily was gone, Ken was ill, and Matt had grown up. They lumped along together, Ken, Matt, and Jeremy, and they were doing all right.

Jeremy was a perpetual ball of energy and the center of their pathetic lives. If Matt and Ken hadn't had Jeremy to give them a purpose, Matt wasn't sure what would have become of either of them.

Jeremy was twelve, slender and wiry and dark-haired as Matt had been at that age, but he had Ken and Emily's big green eyes. To Matt's unceasing delight, he was a great kid, with none of Matt's swagger or penchant for violence. He was all the things Matt had never had the chance to be:  smart, happy, driven to succeed. A terrific athlete. A popular student with high grades and tons of friends.

It was thanks to Ken's steadying influence, and Matt liked to think Jeremy was the boy Matt might have been if he'd drawn a better hand in life.

"Hey dude," Matt said. "You're running late this morning."

"What's for breakfast?" Jeremy asked, his school backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Donuts on the counter," Ken said.

"You know that's an awful way to start the day," Jeremy scolded. "How many times do I have to tell you, Ken?"

"Old habits, kid," Ken snapped. "Get over it."

Jeremy called them Matt and Ken, not Dad and Grandpa. When Jeremy was a baby, Ken had been too vain to let himself be referred to as a grandfather, and Matt had never been around until the past year. So he hadn't earned the title of
dad.
He didn't mind being called Matt.

He'd come home from the army, battered and broken and with nowhere to go, and Ken had invited him to live with them. Matt had arrived, believing charity was being extended, but it had instantly been apparent that Ken, with his deteriorating health, needed Matt more than Matt needed Ken.