Page 71 of Cruel Fate

Not finding anything in his inbox, I click over to his sent folder. I open every email that Denton’s sent in the past month—and there are a lot. Slowly, I begin to recognize a disturbing pattern. There’s an email address that’s been CC’d on everything pertaining to the Blacks and Black Enterprises, and I don’t recognize it. Our email addresses are made up of our first and last names @MaddoxIndustries.com, and other companies have similar employee email addresses making them easily identifiable.

This address is comprised of a jumble of letters and numbers that don’t mean anything to me, and the host website is an email service provider I’ve never heard of.

I want to log into the account, but without a password, I’m stuck. Everyone he corresponds with must be okay that he’s sending information to this email address, and I tell myself I shouldn’t be concerned. Unless, how often do people think to click on the tiny arrow and look at the email addresses in a group correspondence? Maybe no one. Especially if they assume they know who’s included...or who’s not.

On a whim, I try Denton’s password for the other account and hit pay dirt.

Stupid. People don’t use different passwords because they don’t want to remember them all.

The inbox opens, and in addition to all the mail that involves Black Enterprises, I’m greeted with several emails to and from Clayton Black.

I open one, and then two, three. Four. They all contain a list of numbers. Dates and times.

They wouldn’t leave a trail of information.

They meet in person.

On Clayton Black’s turf.

I don’t like this.

I’m so engrossed in opening and scanning emails, he sneaks up on me, and Denton’s in my face so quickly I have zero seconds to blank out my screen. He knows exactly what I’m doing.

“Miss Mayfair.”

My heart leaps into my throat. “Mr. Denton,” I choke out.

“A word, please.”

I log out of his email, and he grabs my arm, pulling me into the conference room where Zane and the FBI agent met and spoke about the plane crash. Calmly, he shuts the door and locks it. The blinds are closed, and no one will be able to see we’re in here. I press against the wall and search his face, weighing how angry he is, how much trouble I’m in. He’s handsome, in an old man sort of way. I’m guessing he’s in his late forties or early fifties—about the same age as Zane’s father. The suit he wears is immaculate, made to fit him to perfection. He’s athletic, and his skin has a healthy glow. His blond hair is trimmed short, but not short enough to look severe.

He’s good looking and has expensive tastes.

Zane’s father made him rich, and greed shines in his eyes.

My stomach twists.

“Miss Mayfair, I do believe you’ve wandered into territory you shouldn’t have.”

I scramble for something to say. “It was an accident.” It sounds weak even to my own ears.

Tilting his head in disbelief, hetsks. “Come now. You can’t expect me to believe that.” He crowds me, and I cower under the flat screen TV, trying to keep space between us. “What were you looking for, sweetheart?”

Denton leans into me, one arm pressed against the wall above my head. He touches my cheek with the backs of his fingers, and I want to scream. He reminds me of a foster dad I had once who turned affection into something ugly. I wasn’t there for very long.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“You’re not a very good liar, Stella.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“I know you won’t. Because if you try...” He speaks slowly, and I shiver. “I will have Zane fire you. I don’t care if he’s fucking you. I’ll convince him you’ve been feeding Black Enterprises insider information. You could go to jail, Miss Mayfair, and for a very long time. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

His hot breath floats over my skin and stinks of stale coffee.

I dressed in a satin halter top and earlier this morning, I took my blazer off. Denton skims his palm over my shoulder, across my tattoo, and down my arm.

I want to throw up.

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