Page 71 of A Game of Deception
His expression hardened briefly before smoothing into a confident smile. “You’re playing hard to get. I respect that. But we both know what happened at the club. You rejected McCrae publicly. That sent a message.”
“The only message I intended to send was professional,” I replied, my voice cooling several degrees. “I don’t mix my personal and professional lives.”
He laughed, the sound grating on my already frayed nerves. “Come on, Tara. Your father approves. We’d be good together. What’s holding you back?”
The fact that I’m in love with Xander McCrae, I thought. The fact that even if I weren’t, you’d be the last man on earth I’d consider.
But I couldn’t say either of those things. Not when I needed to maintain the facade long enough to search my father’s office.
“I have a headache,” I said abruptly, pressing my fingers to my temple for emphasis. “I’m sorry, but I need to find some aspirin. If you’ll excuse me?”
I stood before he could protest, leaving my barely touched flan on the table. Diego rose as well, but I waved him back down.
“Finish your dessert. I know where my father’s medicine cabinet is. I’ll be back shortly.”
I didn’t wait for his response, already moving toward the doorway with measured steps—not too fast to suggest urgency, but quick enough to discourage him from following. Once in thehallway, I paused, listening. I could hear my father’s voice from behind his closed office door, the low murmur of business being conducted.
I moved swiftly toward the grand staircase, my heels silent on the plush carpet. The main bathroom was on the second floor, providing perfect cover for my absence. But instead of turning right at the top of the stairs, I turned left, toward my father’s private study.
Unlike his formal office downstairs where he conducted team business, the study was where he kept his personal files—the ones that didn’t need to withstand scrutiny from partners or investors. If there was evidence of his deal with Detective Morrison, it would be here.
The door was unlocked, as I’d expected. My father’s arrogance extended to his security practices; he never imagined anyone would dare invade his private spaces. I slipped inside, closing the door silently behind me.
The room was exactly as I remembered it—wood-paneled walls lined with leather-bound books he’d never read, a massive oak desk positioned to command the space, and filing cabinets on the side. Everything in its place, every item a reflection of the control he valued above all else.
I hurried to the cabinets, scanning the labels. “Legal Documents.” “Financial Records.” “Team Acquisitions.” My eyes landed on a cabinet in the far corner, labeled simply: “Archived - Palo Alto.”
My heart rate kicked up. There it was—the physical repository of our past life in California. I crossed to it, my hands already reaching for the drawer labeled “S-Z.”
It was locked.
Dammit.
I glanced at the desk, remembering a habit from my childhood. My father had always kept spare keys hidden under the blotter—not out of forgetfulness, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of being locked out of his own records, even temporarily. I lifted the corner of the leather desk pad, and there it was—a small brass key.
My hands trembled slightly as I returned to the cabinet and fitted the key into the lock. It turned, and the drawer slid open smoothly, revealing neatly labeled hanging files. I rifled through them quickly: “Stanford Medical Center,” “Swanson Investments - West Coast,” “Swanson Residence - Palo Alto.”
A receipt of a recent money transfer was mixed up with all the folders. Could be important, so I snapped a picture with my phone.
And then I saw it. A thick file labeled simply: “J.S. - ACCIDENT.”
I grabbed the folder just as I heard footsteps in the hallway approaching the study. My father.
Shit.
The steps stopped outside the door. I heard my father’s voice, still on his call: “Yes, I understand the concerns about the expansion timeline. Let me pull up those projections for you.”
The door opened, and my father stepped into the study, phone pressed to his ear. He froze when he saw me, his expression shifting from surprise to cold fury in the space of a heartbeat.
“I’ll need to call you back,” he said into the phone, his eyes never leaving my face. He ended the call without waiting for a response, slipping the phone into his pocket with deliberate calm.
“Tara,” he said, his voice dangerously soft as he took in the open file cabinet, the folder in my hands. “What exactly do you think you’re doing in my private study?”
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t stammer excuses or pretend I’d gotten lost looking for aspirin. The time for pretense was over. My fingers tightened around the manila folder, burning into my palm like a brand.
“Looking for the truth,” I said. “The truth about what happened to Jimmy.”
My father’s expression hardened, his features arranging themselves into the disapproval I’d known my entire life. He closed the door behind him with a soft click that somehow felt more threatening than if he’d slammed it.
