Page 29 of Infinite

“More than anything,” I promise. “I want to help you out of this mess the best way I know how. Will you let me?”

Chapter Six

Hale

The limo we’re in zips across the asphalt. I can’t see the ocean from here, but I can smell it, even over the overwhelming aroma of freshly polished leather. There’s no pole. Not this time. Partly because Becca’s “people” arranged our ride from the airport and partly because Mason didn’t want to spend the ride talking about Sean’s latest and greatest stripper protection devices.

Becca yaps away on her phone, Mason on his. They’re both forming their own sets of plans. One publicity. The other strategy.

Twenty professionals. That’s who makes up my defense team. They range from former white-collar investigators to accountants to lawyers. It took a long week of sleepless nights for Mason to form this high-powered team, and another two to go through all the evidence against me, postponing our plans to come down to Kiawah by almost a month.

Apparently, the Feds were tipped off by an unidentified informant. I guessed as much, but I was still pissed. Mason didn’t care and neither did the team. “We’re getting you off,” he promised. “You’re innocent and we’ll make sure the truth comes out.”

I wasn’t as certain. Not at first. Until James, the former white-collar detective, provided his first shred of evidence on our side. “Something doesn’t sit well with me and my staff,” he said. “You’re accused of seven counts of insider trading.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Tell me something I don’t know.

He smiled. “Where’s the money? Me and my boys have gone through all your holdings. You’re not married. You have no kids or close family. You have no other names or accounts linked outside your business. Nor did the prosecution provide any aliases. Aside from your apartment and your office, you own no other properties. Where is the thirty-five million you supposedly made off the trading? Me and my men can’t find shit.”

No. They couldn’t, because there isn’t any.

Which is why Mason and the legal team are going to go butt heads with the prosecution next week. Their hope is for the prosecutor to drop at least half the insider trading accusations, but also to flex their collective muscle. “Flimsy.” That’s how my top attorney, Vern Simmons, described the evidence against me. “This resembles a political move by the head of the federal agency more than an actual case against you, Hale.”

Maybe. But my reputation is still demolished to shit. Even if every last damn charge is dropped, my firm—the one I built from the ground up—doesn’t stand a chance without some major image repair, which is why Becca remains at my side.

I adjust my sunglasses, allowing them to shield my eyes so I can take my time taking in Becca. Have I flirted with her? Maybe. Just not as much as I’d like to. The whole thing sounds crazy, given that less than a month ago I could barely watch her on TV. Now, I can’t keep my eyes off her.

These past few weeks have been mostly business. Like Mason, she’s accompanied me to every meeting with my team, asking questions and offering support, all the while flying back and forth to Charlotte. I don’t know how she does it. I’m just glad she does.

Lord, help me. When I first saw her at the penthouse, it was like someone swung a sledgehammer into my chest and swung it hard. I was pissed, shocked. Did I mention pissed? I mean whose side were Sean and Mason on, anyway?

“How do you spell synchromie?” Sean asks. Unlike the rest of us, mulling over next steps, working on damage control, and reassuring our staff, Sean is mulling over a crossword puzzle.

“Synchro what?” I ask, somewhat annoyed that I have to look away from Becca.

Sean slaps down his paper like I’m the stupid one. “Syn-chro-mie.”

Mason casts a frown in Sean’s direction, all the while ironing out the details of my next court date. I have to give it to Mason, even Sean and his Sean-isms aren’t enough to break Mason’s stride.

“Sean,” I tell him. “That’s not a real word.”

“Sure, it is,” he insists. “It’s the process of buffing chrome or some shit.”

“That’s polishing,” I say, not bothering to guess where he got that other so-called word.

Sean glances down at his crossword puzzle, his eyebrows as tight as the way he presses his lips. “Oh. That makes more sense.”

Sean erases one word and pencils in another. He’s in good spirits. Relaxed. Mason is anything but. He flips out when another call comes through the line. “No,no,” he says. “This isn’t getting pushed back another month, much less two. I don’t care what the opposing team wants. Either they have a case or they don’t. We’re not dragging out this shit longer than necessary.”

“Is denominate another word for exorcism?” Sean asks.

Becca covers her phone with a hand. “No, baby. It means to label or christen, that sort of thing.”

“Fuck,” Sean says. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Becca gives him a “there, there,” pat on the shoulder. She touches Sean like we all do, more like a little brother than capable brawler. The way I touched her yesterday, though, well, there was nothing friendly about that. We were saying goodnight following a long day of meetings. I stroked her chin and debated whether or not to kiss her. Instead, I stepped away, wondering if she’d follow. She didn’t, growing flustered in a way that made me smile.

I straighten at the first sight of the ancient oaks that line the road leading to our old stomping grounds. I haven’t been back here since New Year’s. Becca broke my heart so badly, I was sure that I’d never come back. I’d experienced enough over these last ten years to make me hate Kiawah. It’s a terrible thought. I once thought Kiawah was the place I would grow old and gray. Except, that was before the dream world I belonged to was ripped away.

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