Page 118 of Claimed At First Sight

“Has it been inspected for explosives or anything else suspicious?”

“Yes, sir.” Again, I catch the slightest tightening around his mouth. It’s like he’s trying very hard not to grin.

My irritation deepens. “What’s inside?”

“A book.”

The answer only raises more questions. A book doesn’t explain the guard’s reaction, nor why somebody felt the need to send it in packaging that looks deliberately anonymous.

“Who dropped this off?” I ask, wanting a fuller picture.

“A girl on a motorcycle,” the guard replies. “She asked us to take it to the house.”

My attention sharpens. “When was that?”

The guard glances toward the clock hanging inside the gatehouse before looking back at me. To my surprise, his cheeks begin to redden.

“Two hours ago, sir.”

The confidence from earlier has vanished from his voice. My eyes narrow.

“What’s your name?”

His eyes flick toward mine. “Donald Finch, sir.”

“Explain to me, Donald, why a package delivered for a member of the Marino household is still sitting in this gatehouse two hours later.”

The color in his face deepens, and his gaze drops. Beside him, the second guard suddenly finds the ground fascinating too.

“We were going to take it back to the house at shift change, so we wouldn’t leave our posts.”

On the surface, it’s a reasonable answer. The problem is that neither man looks as though he believes it will satisfy me.

Donald continues staring at his boots, as does the other guard.

“Did it occur to either of you to call the house and ask someone to collect it?”

“No, sir.” The answer comes a little too quickly.

I rub my temple. I have little patience for incompetence. Even less for half-truths. And right now, I have the distinct impression that I’m not getting the full story.

My gaze drifts back to the envelope. Neither guard follows it. If anything, they seem determined not to look at it at all, which only makes me more curious about what’s inside.

I dismiss them with a wave and signal Philip, my driver, to start the car again. As we make our way down the driveway, I turn to Leon in the front seat.

“When we get to the house, check the security footage to see if the girl on the motorcycle is Rory Palma.”

Surely it has to be her. How many other girls on motorcycles would be dropping things off for Mia?

“Of course, sir,” the head of my personal security replies.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires as we approach the mansion.

I turn the envelope over and finally examine the back more closely. The flap has already been opened for inspection. A single sticker bearing the sender’s name had sealed the envelope. It’s torn now, but the name is still readable.

Lee Roberts.

Who the fuck is that? The name means nothing to me.