Page 63 of BillionHeir
“I did,” I argue like a petulant child. “She is Jenna’s best friend. How bad could she be?”
“You really have no idea, do you? People pretend to be normal all day every day, and some are really convincing. But background checks don’t lie.”
“Sounds like you are speaking from experience.”
“Women can be crazy. Let’s just leave it at that. Do you want me to send over what I have? You can comb through it yourself and email me if there is anything else you need.”
“That will do.”
“Okay, I will email it to you right now. Is there anything else you need?”
“No, that is all for today.”
Before I hang up, I feel a flash of affection for the assistant who has become my right-hand man. I clear my throat before speaking again.
“Thank you, Ethan. For everything.”
Ethan is so quiet on the other end of the line that I think he has already ended the call. When I pull my phone away from my ear to double check, I hear him sniff slightly.
“You are welcome, Maxwell. It is an honor.”
A minute after we hang up, Ethan’s email comes through as promised. I still can’t believe that he checked her out already. Now I just have to hope that the answer to what is going on with her can somehow be found in her file. I won’t be able to really read through it until I get to my hotel and pull it up on my computer.
It takes Barnaby forever to reach my hotel in the heart of London, through no fault of his own. Traffic has been a nightmare. By the time we pull in, I am restless and tense, ready to get checked in so that I can learn more about the woman who I have lived with for nearly two months.
It isn’t lost on me that I probably could have found out anything I wanted to know about her by merely asking. I am annoyed with myself, honestly. I fucked everything up in more ways than one, but now I am working on fixing it. I just have to know what I am working with first.
I walk up to the front desk and give the receptionist my name. Her eyes widen slightly and she stands up a little straighter, but those are the only signs that she knows who I am. I stay here every time I am in town, and I suspect I have a reputation.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Banks. We have the penthouse suite all ready for you.”
She hands me an envelope with two key cards in it, and I leave the desk without another word.
I scan my card in the elevator and wait as it takes me up to the penthouse. The door opens directly into the foyer of my suite where there is a round table filled with a large arrangement of flowers and an opulent mirror framed in gold. I go immediately to my luggage in the bedroom and get out my laptop, taking it with me to the large desk that fills one corner of the living room.
I don’t linger on the views of downtown London out the floor-to-ceiling windows that span two of the four walls. Instead, I sit down, open my laptop, and immediately log into my email. I open the file and sift through the documents Ethan sent. It all seems fairly straight forward. Chloe grew up in Essex with her mother. There is nothing here about her father at all. His name isn’t even on the birth certificate. After she finished secondary school, she moved to Boston where she earned her nursing degree at Northeastern.
She has worked at two institutions since she graduated, and by all accounts she was an exemplary and incredibly valued employee at both places. That is not at all surprising. In the short time I have known her, she has been more professional and well-mannered than I deserved.
But there is nothing in here that would tell me why she just walked into a hospital.
Is she looking for a job? But she has no reason to work after the amount of money I paid her to care for me.
Suddenly, I remember that I have another source who may have just the information I am looking for. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this in the first place.
I pull out my phone and call my lawyer.
“Do you know what time it is?” Jackson asks, his voice groggy from sleep.
“Is that Maxwell?” I faintly hear Jenna ask in the background.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
“Tell that asshole to fuck off,” she says a little louder. I don’t know how much she knows, but clearly she has heard something. And I don’t fault her for being angry.
I look at the clock on my screen and calculate mental time zone math, then wince. It is lunch time here in the UK, which means it is the early hours of the morning in Wyoming.
“Sorry, I am in London. I didn’t think. Call me back when you get up,” I say, feeling awful for disturbing them.
