Page 16 of The Forbidden Billionaire
“Do you think she’s likely to mention the flowers to Dominic?” Rick asks.
She’s not talking to him at the moment, but he sent her a message, asking to meet her. If she thinks he’s upping the game by sending her flowers, it’s possible she’ll finally contact him. “We’ll worry about that if it happens. I’ll take a look at yesterday’s report now.”
“Yes, of course.” It’s waiting in his in-tray, and he passes it to me.
I help myself to a cup of the brewed coffee from the jug, even though it’s strong enough to make me wince, and choose an apricot muffin from the plate. I take them to a free desk and peruse the report. It’s seven pages long, and includes a detailed analysis of the seventeen messages we intercepted and deleted, the four new social media accounts we blocked, and a summary of two gifts she’s received.
I check the information on the gifts first. There are photos of both of them. One was another bouquet of flowers—mixed blooms, on this occasion, smaller than today’s. The other gift was a box of chocolates, wrapped in silver paper, with a red bow tied around them. We intercepted and removed both gifts before she saw them. Both of them came with cards, also in envelopes, and the report includes photos of these.
All the cards on the gifts she’s been sent in the past few months have been printed, so we can’t analyze the handwriting. We’ve intercepted the delivery person a few times, and always get directed to a different florist, who then reveals that the customer paid cash. One remembers a tall, dark man—possibly—which doesn’t really narrow it down. On each occasion, he’s given a fake name, and the trail runs cold.
The emails sent to her inbox yesterday are all variations on a theme. Several refer to the gifts, asking what she thought of them. A couple mention how nice she looked in the dress withthe polka dots. I check her Instagram account, and realize she posted a selfie in that dress, so he could have just seen that. But then I turn the page and see the message that Rick has highlighted. It included a photo of Aurelia wearing the dress, but it’s not a carefully framed selfie. It was taken from a distance, probably with a DSLR camera paired with a telephoto lens, and shows her playing badminton on the large lawn at her parents’ house. She’s in the middle of lunging to meet the shuttlecock, and her skirt has flipped up in the breeze. The message just says, ‘Nice legs!’
I feel a bit queasy. Rick’s already told me about it, but it’s another thing to see it for myself. Someone was watching the Ashfords’ house. Spying on her.
It’s just one of many, many messages the team has intercepted over the past few months. They’re not violent. No death threats, or anything threatening harm to her. So far, none of the photos have been overly intimate—nothing of her in her underwear, or anything like that. But they’re still creepy and inappropriate.
When Marcus first asked me to come on board as her CPO, he explained that it was going to be a difficult job because Edward and Cece Ashford wanted Aurelia to be kept out of the loop. When I frowned, he then admitted that he and Caesar disagreed with their decision, but their parents were worried it would inhibit Aurelia’s natural effusiveness and carefree personality, and in the end they’d agreed to go along with it.
I can see their point. But I hate the fact that I’m helping to keep it a secret from her. It’s not my place to question that decision, though. I can only do my job, and hope that if I do it well enough, we’ll be able to catch the guy, and she’ll never have to know how much danger she was in.
Every day on Instagram, she receives a handful of comments from newly created profiles. These are in the samevein as the emails and other messages, asking whether she liked the gifts he’s sent, or commenting on what she’s wearing.
When a woman has a stalker, it’s usually someone who knows her, and an ex is going to be at the top of the list. We’ve watched Dominic Blackthorne carefully over the past few months. But the truth is that we don’t really have anything to link him to these messages or gifts.
He likes and comments on her Instagram posts under his own profile, just the occasional joke that she then likes with a heart or laughing emoji. Of course it’s possible he does this and also posts the others anonymously. I’m not going to jump to any conclusions. But instinct tells me he’s not our mystery man.
“Principal’s on the move,” Rick announces from the desk.
I leap to my feet and go over to the camera we’ve installed in the reception area on her floor. She’s leaving the boardroom and heading for the elevators.
“Shit.” I toss my coffee cup and the other half of the muffin in the trash and hand Rick back the report. “Catch you later.”
“Good luck.” He chuckles, obviously knowing from experience that she’s going to make a run for it.
I jog out of the office and across the foyer, and punch the button for the elevator. It takes ages to arrive, and in the end I take the stairs, running down them two at a time until I exit into the underground car park.
Just in time to see the Range Rover heading out.
“Goddammit.” She must have a spare set of keys.
I cross to my own car, a black Skoda Kodiaq, understated and practical. I leap in and clip my button onto the seat belt, start the car, and head out. “Location?” I bark.
“She’s heading west on Shortland Street toward Queen Street,” Rick says.
I signal left and turn, seeing her heading for the traffic lights.
I stay a few cars back, using Rick’s directions if I lose sight of her, and follow her across the city to Parnell. This is where her apartment is, so she could be going home. Equally, I know she often meets her best friend, Gracie, for lunch. It wasn’t in her calendar, but maybe she changed her mind at the last minute. Possibly on purpose to wind me up.
She pulls into a parking space close to an Italian restaurant that I know is one of her favorites. I park nearby, get out, then jog across the road to catch her before she goes in.
As I move in front of her, she looks up, startled. “What the fuck!” She glares at me. Even though she’s only five-four in her heels, she pokes me in the chest as if she’s an MMA fighter fronting me up. “Leave. Me. Alone.”
I ignore her. “Please stay here, ma’am, while I check the restaurant.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is so embarrassing.”
“Language,” I say, and I leave her there with an open mouth as I go into the restaurant.
