When Lightning Strikes (Whiskey Creek #1)(29)
Author: Brenda Novak

I do think you’re pretty….

She’d mulled over those words long after he’d left last night. They rose in her mind now, but she quickly shoved them away. She could never compete with the kind of women he usually enjoyed. There was no reason to get excited about a “you’re not so bad.” What he’d said didn’t matter, anyway. This was a job.

The driver began to back out, but she stopped him. “Wait! Do we have to take this car?” It attracted so much attention.

Eyes hidden by his silvery lenses, he looked in the rearview mirror. “It has tinted windows. Simon said to get you home without letting anyone bother you.”

So he’d done something to convince his staff that he might care about her well-being. She supposed she should be grateful for that small courtesy, but she was still a little put out that he hadn’t bothered to see her. Had he ever come to bed?

She couldn’t remember. Once she’d fallen asleep, she hadn’t stirred until morning. “This is fine.”

Her cell phone buzzed as they made a three-point turn and started down the drive. She’d gotten a text. From Callie. How’d it go with your  father?

Not  good, she responded.

I’m  sorry. But…you might want to listen to him.

Gail didn’t text back. She’d crossed her father and was ignoring her friend’s advice because she’d already committed herself to this course of action. But…what made her think her plan would work? Simon had just sloughed her off on his hired help like he did all the women he didn’t care about, even though he understood the need to treat her as if she was special. What was going through his mind?

She had no idea, but part of her feared he might be drinking. And if he was drinking she needed to know about it. She had so much riding on this campaign. There was more at risk than her business; she had her relationship with her father to consider, too. She wouldn’t let Simon prove Martin right. Simon could change, pull himself together and stop his downward spiral. And she was going to do everything in her power to see that he did.

“Take me back,” she said.

The driver slowed in surprise. They’d just passed through the gate. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I want to go back to the house right now.”

12

Security didn’t want to let her on the premises. But Gail wasn’t taking no for an answer. She called Ian, told him the deal was off unless she could get onto the estate immediately, and somehow he arranged it. After fifteen minutes of haggling between him and a gigantic muscle-bound man named Lance, during which she was pretty sure Ian told Lance she was to be accommodated no matter what she wanted, the limousine rolled through the gate, down the long winding drive and into the garage.

By the time Gail got out, she’d called Simon’s cell phone twice. She’d texted him, too. There’d been no response. Was he passed out somewhere? Dabbling with a maid? Or did he have enough of his wits about him to know he’d better hide?

Damn him. She’d gone out on a limb for him. If he was drinking…

“Ma’am? Ma’am, is there something I can help you with?” The driver hurried after her. He didn’t like letting her have free run of the place any more than Lance, the security guard, did. But she didn’t care. Avoiding the tunnel, she headed to the house by circling around to the front entrance.

The driver stuck with her, a few feet behind. “How can I help you?” he called again.

“You can find Simon,” she called back, “because I’m not leaving until I talk to him.” No way would she sit passively by and let her former client—her “fiancé”—ruin everything. They were all in this together now.

“Simon? Where are you?” she shouted as she entered the house. Sweeping staircases, to the right and left, a marble floor with nothing but a grand piano and a high ceiling made for perfect acoustics.

Simon didn’t answer.

A maid came to the top of the stairs. Obviously surprised by the interruption, and the angry edge to Gail’s voice, she stood at the railing and gaped down at her.

“Where is he?” Gail demanded when their eyes met.

The maid shook her head. “I don’t know. I swear.”

“Somebody here does.” She marched into the living room where she’d met with Simon yesterday. Empty. She found a study, a library, a movie theater, a game room…too many rooms to count. But they were all perfectly clean and perfectly empty. When she finally reached the kitchen, she’d decided he was drinking for sure. She was going to bust him, then cut ties completely, no matter what happened afterward.

At the sound of her heels clacking on the tile floor, Simon’s chef twisted around to look over his shoulder.

“Have you seen him?” she asked.

Unlike the maid, he’d been expecting her. He was sitting on a bar stool, having a cup of coffee with the driver, who’d given up following her once she started through the house. The stubborn tilt to the chef’s round head indicated he wouldn’t tell her anything and his words confirmed it. “No. But I rarely see him in the mornings.”

“Because he’s usually hungover,” she muttered, afraid no one had seen him this morning for that same reason. “You’re not doing him any favors, you know. I’m trying to help him.”

“Looks like it,” the chef said.

Suddenly she remembered the project Simon had mentioned in the middle of the night. “Where does he go when he’s here but not in the house?”

They knew, of course, but were too loyal to tell her. The driver blinked at her. “I have no idea, Ms. DeMarco.”

The chef spread his hands. “He could be anywhere.”

She hadn’t introduced herself. Either Simon had given them her name or they’d seen the pictures of her and Simon kissing and read about her online. But if that was the case, they didn’t seem to be putting much store in the tales that were circulating. The press called her Simon’s latest “love interest.” They probably thought she was just another conquest, that she’d already passed out of favor or Simon wouldn’t have foisted her on them.

“I’m talking about when he works on his project,” she prompted. “Where does he go then?”

They glanced at each other but remained mute.

“Fine, I’ll just have to keep looking,” she said, and stalked out the French doors.

Before she could cross the patio, however, the driver came to the door and called after her. “Ms. DeMarco?”