Page 9 of Claimed by Him

Five

I’d always hada decent sense of direction, so after being in Fort Collins for nearly two months, I knew my way around pretty well.

But I hadn’t been to this particular area before. It was outside the central part of Fort Collins, but still part of the city. This was the place where the wealthiest inhabitants lived, including the Archers. After Adare told me that Jenna Archer had called to hire the firm, I’d taken a couple hours to do some basic research on the couple.

Damn.

Jenna Rose Lang Archer had hit the news four years ago when she’d gone on record as being a victim of childhood sexual abuse and an unwilling participant in more child pornography films than I even wanted to think about. There weren’t a lot of details about her life or about the criminal proceedings that had led to the takedown of an unknown but vast number of people, but the interview she’d finally given two years after the fact had been enough for me to know she had overcome shit a hell of a lot more devastating than what I’d been through, and that was saying something.

The other thing I’d learned was that she’d married Rylan Archer, billionaire software designer and the owner of Archer Enterprises. For years, he’d been one of the most sought-after bachelors in the country. He and Jenna had been married for three years. I’d managed to find a single picture of their wedding, and it had been the official publicity shot they’d released themselves. I had a feeling that Jenna’s computer skills had more to do with that than any scruples on the part of the media. The fact that there wasn’t much in the way of links to any of the videos or pictures that had been taken of her as a kid told me that she’d done some serious computer magic. Not that I’d dug very deep. That wasn’t my job.

I had no idea what my job was. Jenna hadn’t told Adare, but the Archer name afforded some leeway when it came to things like this.

The address took me to an absolutely gorgeous house, the sort of place I’d be completely uncomfortable because I’d be worried about tracking dirt on the carpet.

When I knocked on the door, I half-expected a butler to answer, but it was a boy. Skinny, but in that way that kids had when they hit a growth spurt. He had a mop of dark, curly hair and a suspicious-looking scowl.

“What do you want?”

“Um, is your, um your…Mrs. Archer here?” I had to be at the wrong house. This kid was easily ten or so. Way too old to be the child of Jenna and Rylan Archer.

“Jenna!” he yelled over his shoulder but didn’t move.

“You aren’t supposed to be up.” A woman’s voice came from behind him, and a moment later, she appeared.

She was shorter than me, with shoulder-length ebony hair, pale gray eyes, and one of those scary ‘mom’ faces even though I knew she was only a few years older than me. She wore jeans and a plain cotton shirt with three-quarter sleeves, neither of which were the sort of ragged chic that some rich people wore to try to convince themselves that they were down-to-earth. Her earrings were plain, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. This wasn’t a woman who’d married into money and flaunted it.

“Get back to bed.”

“I don’t want to go to bed.” The boy’s tone was belligerent. “I’m not a little kid.”

She didn’t even blink. “You know the rules, Jeremiah. You stayed home from school. Unless I have to take you to the doctor, you have to stay in bed.”

“I hate you.” He stomped back into the house.

She held up a finger, listening for something. She must have heard it because she turned to me with a smile. “You’re from Burkart Investigations?”

I held out my hand. “Rona Quick.”

“Jenna Archer.” She shook my hand, then stepped aside to let me in. “Come on in. Don’t mind Jeremiah. He’s been testing some boundaries lately.”

“You have a beautiful home,” I said as I followed her farther into the house.

“Thank you,” she said.

We stopped in the kitchen, and she gestured to one of the chairs at the island in the center of the room. I sat down, and she went to the fridge.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” I set my purse on the table and took out a notepad and pen.

She sat down across from me, a bottle of water between her hands. A glance down revealed a wicked looking scar on the inside of her left arm, nearly from wrist to elbow. When I looked back up, she was watching me.

“I tried to kill myself,” she said matter-of-factly. “I was eight, and my life was fucked to hell.” She shrugged. “It’s better now.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it. I was here to talk about whatever she’d hired the firm for, not her personal demons.

“Ask it,” she said, the corner of her mouth quirking up. “It’ll probably connect to why you’re here in the first place.”

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