Page 84 of Gideon
“I’m fine, love,” he says. I gasp at the endearment, and he makes to take a step towards me, but the man next to him says something, and he pulls back, turning to Frankie. “Follow me please, Frankie,” he says quietly. He looks at me intently. “I’ll be back,” he says. “Please don’t go.”
I swallow, feeling my eyes sting at the vulnerability in those simple words. “I’ll be here,” I promise. He stares at me for a long second and then as one, he and the man turn and leave the room with Frankie trailing behind.
I turn back to the other men. “What the fuck just happened?”
“I’ve got a feeling that Frankie’s reign is coming to an end. That’s John Harrington, Gideon’s lawyer,” Milo says gleefully.
Niall stirs and looks admiringly at him. “You have such a ruthless streak,” he says happily.
“Thank you,” Milo says demurely. Then he smiles at me. “Come on. Let’s go and get something to drink.”
“I should wait here for him,” I say hesitantly. “Just in case he needs me.”
“He does need you,” he says simply. “Probably more than you’ll ever realise. But he needs to do this on his own. You’ll be there waiting for him at the end, won’t you?”
I stare at him, aware of the others looking at me. “Of course,” I say simply. “Always.”
Chapter
Sixteen
You’re my form of coming home, and you always will be
Gideon
I move into the room Oz uses as an office. Its windows are wide open, letting in the scent from the lavender. It’s a curious juxtaposition of a workmanlike environment with a sturdy desk and filing cabinets, and a family room with a brightly coloured playpen in the corner filled with toys and, along one old cupboard, pictures of him and Silas and Cora.
I turn as John, my lawyer, and Frankie enter the room.
“What the fuck is this?” Frankie demands immediately. “Why is John here?” He looks belligerent and nervous, and it’s the nerves that finally convince me that what I’ve been told is true.
“You’ve been stealing from me,” I breathe, and he jerks.
“What the fuck? No, I haven’t.”
John settles himself down on one of the chairs, crossing his legs and flicking a thread from his trousers. “Be careful, Frankie,” he says calmly.
“Careful,” he explodes. “Careful when this ungrateful wanker accuses me of stealing money and forging signatures.”
“I never said anything about forging,” I say, and it cuts through his bluster like a knife through butter. “You said that.” I settle back. “Your mind went straight to the contracts.”
“Rubbish,” he scoffs. “What are you? Fucking Hercule Poirot now? Really? What a load of bollocks.”
“But it’s not,” I say, feeling the sadness suddenly run through me. “I employed Carter, French, and Santer a few weeks ago.” He pales at the name of the famous forensic accounting firm. I shrug. “They’re very thorough, Frankie. They went through everything.”
He sags suddenly, all the bluster running away as he sinks into a chair, looking pale and sweaty.
“Why?” I say, the words bursting out of me, and John stirs, giving me a warning look not to let go of my temper. “Why?” I say in a more measured tone. “I gave you anything you asked for, Frankie. Was it not enough?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says woodenly, casting a glance at John.
“How about the money you skimmed off my contracts? Bit here, bit there. The shit you bought on my credit cards. The three houses you bought in my name.” I shake my head. “I’ve got to say, Frankie, it came as a surprise to me that I’d signed those deeds over to you. I know I was stoned a lot, but even I’d remember giving away hundreds of thousands of pounds in property.”
“Thousands,” he scoffs. “You’ve got millions more.”
“I have,” I say mildly, feeling a wave of sickness run over me. I trusted this man above everyone else. “But that’s sort of the point. It’s mine. My money. I earned it and you had no right to steal it from me.”
“Please,” he scoffs. I shoot a glance at John as Frankie explodes into motion, levering out of his seat and starting to pace. John makes a gesture as if to saykeep him talking, but I can’t stop him now. “I fucking made you, Gid. You were a pimply-faced teenager when I got hold of you. I dressed you right, got you to meet the right people, got you the roles. I created you, you ungrateful bastard, and what did I get? Carping and whining about wanting to be honest. Wanting to be theauthentic you. What a load of old horseshit.” He glares at me. “The real you is pathetic, Gideon. Fucking gay. What a fucking joke. You could have been anything you wanted.” He smiles suddenly and humourlessly. “You’ve done it now, though, Gid. They’ll ruin you. You’ve shit on everything I ever did for you.”
