Page 14 of Double or Nothing

I fake shoot him right back.

“Can’t wait.” I pick up my laptop case. “Catch you tomorrow.”

He grabs my arm as I step away. “Tomorrow? Please tell me you haven’t forgotten the charity gallery this evening. We’ll be expecting you.”

Bollocks!

I was hoping I’d slipped through the net. He hasn’t mentioned it in weeks, too caught up with the merger, and I’ve been avoiding the topic on purpose.

I love art, and I love charity, but this particular event has another layer on top. A layer I need to avoid at all costs.

A layer that’s been forbidden since I was a teenager. Out of my reach.

Alice.

His beautiful daughter.

The forbidden fruit on their high-status tree.

Bill must read my reluctance, and gestures to the room around us.

“It’s for the Redwick Hospice,” he says, as though I need reminding. “We’re all going to be there, and Susan is looking forward to seeing you. Plus, both Greg Beauchamp and Adrian Whitmore are going to be attending. I’d like you to be present. We need to be water testing right back before next week.”

Fuck my life. How the hell can I escape that list of reasons to go? I’ve known Adrian for over a decade and Greg Beauchamp is someone who’ll be very high on my contact list for developing the deal. I don’t stand a chance.

I put on my very best smile.

“Of course I’ll be there, Bill. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

CHAPTER FIVE

JACK

Ihope Bryce meant it when he said to make myself at home, because I’ve sure taken advantage of it. The guy’s kitchen cupboard had a toastie maker stashed at the back, all bound up neatly with the cord. And he happened to have some of my favourite vintage cheddar in his fridge, along with some fresh portabella mushrooms. Class act. The toastie was so delicious I couldn’t not make a second one.

My head is clear after a couple of hours more snoozing, and I slouch on his comfy sofa in his robe, flicking through his TV accounts to find out what kind of stuff he’s interested in. The answer to that is upcycling. Projects where they take battered old pieces of furniture and glorify them into arty masterpieces. Not my bag, but I choose to scope one out anyway.

I put my feet up on the coffee table as I eat my second toastie, and notice the paperwork sitting there. Not exactly stashed away somewhere private, so why not take a browse?

Shit. The answer thumps me right in the guts.

Divorce papers.

Recent divorce papers.

No wonder the guy was on the prowl for a lay last night. I hope I gave him the taste of freedom he was looking for.

Sylvia Jane Maddocks.

The now ex-wife of Bryce Terrence Maddocks.

Terrence. Wow. It kinda suits him.

I hardly need to be a poker player to guess that the empty picture hooks on the wall were left by her. Sylvia.

I’ve always been a nosey fucker, sniffing people out at every opportunity to get a read on them, but flicking through Bryce’s divorce papers grates at my paper-thin morals. Irreconcilable differences. I can’t help wondering what those were.

Maybe she didn’t like upcycled furniture, since this place contains nothing of it whatsoever. It’s all modern besides an old dresser in the corner, and the pieces of art on the walls. Oh, and the magnets.