Undercover With The Heiress

His gray eyes narrowed and he held up an envelope. “Do you know what this is?”

Was he kidding? “An envelope?”

“Your credit card bill.”

She nodded, feeling her eyebrows coming together again. “Okay.”

“No. Not okay.” He pulled out the wad of paper. “Five thousand dollars at a shoe store?”

Shoes? She tapped her lip with her fingernail, longing to chew on it again, but she wasn’t fifteen anymore. “There was a sale.”

“So you spent five thousand dollars?” He spread out the pages, facing her. “We talked about this two months ago.”

“About what?” Whoops. She’d forgotten about that lecture. Paying bills wasn’t her responsibility. It was her father’s.

“About wasting money. About your shopping excesses.” He pushed back a black curl that slipped across his forehead.

She’d inherited her father’s hair, but she hoped never to see the white that peppered his. He might look distinguished, but women had to hide any sign of aging.

“It was an incredible sale.” She pointed to her shoes. “No one else I know owns this pair.” Or most of the shoes she’d picked up that day.

His face turned red. “Because they aren’t spendthrifts.”

“You always tell me to look my best.” It was all he’d ever expected.

“You have a mountain of clothes.” He pointed at the bill. “Two mountains of clothes based on the money you’ve spent. You’re done.”

“Done?” What was he talking about?

“I want your credit cards.”

“What for?” She couldn’t catch her breath.

“As of today, the endless spending stops.”

“But...”

He held out his hand and she dug into her Furla wallet. He stared at each card as she handed it to him. Pulling out scissors, he said, “Cut them up.”

“But what will I do?” If she couldn’t charge meals, drinks or clothes, what else was there?

“Get a job. Make your own money.” Her father threw up his hands. “Marry one of those worthless boys you hang around with and spend their money.”

He’d never been this angry. Ever. She swallowed and took the scissors and the first card. She cut it in half. Then half again. And kept going. The handle of the scissors imprinted on the base of her thumb. It hurt, but she couldn’t complain while her father glared at her.

“You now have a five-hundred-dollar credit limit on this card.” He held it out. “I expect that to be used for gas and parking to get you to job interviews.”

This couldn’t be happening. She leaned over the divide of his desk, touching his hand. Then she smiled, the smile that used to get her father’s attention. “Daddy, just last week you told me you liked the way I dressed.”

“Because that’s all you’re good at doing. Looking pretty.” He spit the words out and flipped her hand away.

She waved at her dress and shoes. “It costs money to look like this. Ask Mother.”

“You should have enough clothes to do that for years to come.” He stood, leaning on his fists. “I mean it. It’s time you got a job.”

Her spine slumped against the back of the chair. The imaginary book balancing on her head tumbled to the floor. The furrow between her eyebrows dug deep. “A job?”

“A job.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. “I guess I could be a—a personal shopper.”

He scowled. “You’re a Smythe. I expect you to get a worthwhile job.”

“Of course, Daddy.” With her spine as straight as a ruler, she left the room.

Worthwhile job? She swallowed back tears. She was qualified to do...absolutely nothing.

* * *

COURTNEY SHOVED THE throw pillows covering her bed to the floor.

How could she get a job? Her father hadn’t let her go to the college of her choice. She’d been accepted at Yale, Gray and Father’s alma mater. But dear old dad had forced her to attend Mount Holyoke, her mother’s college.

Daddy saved all his pride for Gray. Her brother had been on the dean’s list his entire college career. The first semester of her freshman year, she’d worked hard and made the dean’s list, too, hoping her father would relent and she could transfer. But he hadn’t been impressed. It wasn’t Yale, right? In rebellion, she’d gotten an English degree with an emphasis in Renaissance literature, and hadn’t paid attention to her grades. She’d gotten to read and that was fun. Would someone pay her to recite Shakespeare soliloquies?

She flopped to the center of her canopy bed, not caring that her shoes were on her white comforter.

A job.

She’d had one job during high school. When her aunt and uncle had gone to Europe for a month, she’d taken care of her two young cousins. Their cook had still been in residence, but she’d been responsible for the children. How would Nanny look on a résumé? Two consecutive summers of working for a few weeks should wow a perspective employer.

U won’t believe what happened, she texted Gwen.

No reply. Right, Gwen was getting a facial.

She touched her cheek. How would she pay for next week’s facial?

She’d talk to Mother. Her mother would calm Father down. She couldn’t live on five hundred dollars a month. Who did that to their only daughter?

Courtney hadn’t even known there was such a thing as a credit limit. She rubbed her forehead. Although last January, Laura had complained she had to watch her spending. Courtney and Gwen had quietly stopped hanging around with her. Since she and Gwen didn’t invite Laura anywhere, her entire posse excluded her.

She sat up with a jerk. Would that happen to her? Gwen’s text ringtone, “My Best Friend,” sounded. What happened?

She couldn’t tell Gwen. She tapped her nail against her lower lip. I hit the driveway pillar again.

Again?

Yes

She should be adding tears.

Club 2nite?

Her heart pounded. What was she going to do? Can’t. Family dinner.

K. 2morrow?

I’ll let you know. She would avoid everyone until this crisis had passed. Mother would fix everything.

She stripped off her sheath and stepped into her closet to hang it with the rest of her red dresses. This was her haven, her beautiful clothes. Her armor.

She placed her heels in their spot next to the rest of the pairs that had caused this firestorm. She stroked her gorgeous new Manolo Blahnik boots. Okay, they hadn’t been on sale. Actually none of the shoes had been on sale, but it seemed like a reasonable excuse when she’d blurted it out.

Her fingers tapped her bare thigh. What could she wear that would make her look fragile and innocent? She twirled in a slow circle. Audrey Hepburn. White sleeveless blouse. Skinny black capris and black ballerina flats. She’d pull her hair up. Emphasize her eyes. She wasn’t as thin as the actress, but she was willowy. Who could punish Audrey Hepburn?

Maybe she should take up acting. She’d done that all her life.

Her hand shook a little as she added eyeliner and more mascara. Then she pulled her mass of black curls into a French twist.

She checked her appearance one more time before slipping on her shoes. The look worked.

Straightening her shoulders so an imaginary book lay flat on her head, she forced her feet into the glide. It was her term for the walk she’d learned in her finishing classes. Like a ballerina, she floated down the hallway to her mother’s sitting area.

Her mother worked at her desk, the tip of her Montblanc pen tapping her lip.

“Mother?”

“Courtney, what do you think about a fire-and-ice theme for the ballet foundation’s benefit?” Mother asked.

“In August?”

Mother nodded, her blond hair swaying.

When Courtney was a child she’d wanted her mother’s straight blond hair instead of her father’s curly black hair. Now she didn’t know what she wanted. Her life no longer fit. “I don’t think fire-and-ice will work. I assume you would want ice sculptures and since you’re using the terraces, melting would be a problem.”

“I agree with you. But Dorothy loves it.” Mother set down her pen. “Maybe you want to join the committee and give us fresh ideas?”

Would it get her out of finding a job? “Maybe.”

Mother finally looked up. “That outfit looks good on you. Is it new?”

“The pants.” And shoes. Part of the infamous shoe purchases. She stroked the ballerina sculpture that graced her mother’s desk. “Have you talked to Father?”

“This morning.” She eased back in her chair. “Why?”

“He’s upset.” She moved to the coffee table and picked up the book her mother was reading. Some thriller. Not her style.

“About?”

“The shoes I bought last month.” She pointed to her feet. “But these are adorable.”

Mother stood. “He’s upset about a pair of shoes? That’s strange.”

“I bought more than one pair.” She turned, the words rushing out. “I showed you everything the day I bought them. You didn’t complain.”

Her blue eyes narrowed. “Did he put you on a budget?”

“Budget? He made me cut up my credit cards.” She ran and took her mother’s hands. “You have to help me. He said I have to find a job.”

“A job?” Mother shook her head. “He’s been listening to Gray.”

“Can you help? I—I can’t work.” She didn’t know how. “All my friends will abandon me. How will I hold my head up? Without credit cards I’ll be stuck in the house.”

“I’ll talk to him at dinner. We’ll work this out.” Mother wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go down and pour him his Jameson. Lord knows why he developed a taste for it. It’s Gray’s wife’s fault. But maybe it will mellow him out.”

Was it the darn Fitzgeralds putting this stupid job notion in her father’s head? It would be just like his brother’s wife and her sisters to be envious of her life and whisper things to Gray. What did men see in them, anyway? Gray had given up a relationship with her best friend, Gwen, for the woman he’d married last February. Courtney had suffered through being a part of the wedding party. She and Gwen had envisioned a totally different wedding. Classy. It wasn’t fair.

Courtney followed her mother to the library. Just inhaling had the tension in her shoulders easing. Two stories of books soothed her. Heading to the small bar, she added ice to a tumbler and poured Jameson from a Waterford decanter. She’d always liked watching Mother prepare Father’s before-dinner drink. Once she’d turned ten, serving her father’s drink had become Courtney’s job, but he’d never noticed.

“What would you like?” Courtney asked.

“Wine, please. Marcus should have decanted a shiraz.”

The correct stemware was set on a salver. She poured two glasses to the perfect center of the bell, then moved to her mother’s chair and handed her the wine.

Courtney swirled her glass, tipped and watched the legs. Then inhaled. Taking a small sip, she let the wine linger in her mouth. Chocolate. Peppers. She frowned. “Are you catching blackberry?”

Her mother repeated the wine tasting steps. “I am. You have a great palate.”

Maybe Courtney could become a sommelier. Select wine for her friends as they dined. She shuddered. That was not going to happen. Mother needed to fix this.

Father entered the room, swiped the tumbler off the bar and brought it over to the sitting area. “Thank you, Olivia. It’s been a long day.”

“Thank your daughter. She prepared it for you.”

He nodded, not even looking at Courtney.

She started to open her mouth.

Mother shook her head.

Biding her time wasn’t her strength, but Mother had married the man. She should know how to get him to do her bidding.

“How was your day?” Mother asked Father.

“Market tanked. One of the companies I was looking at acquiring found an angel to finance them.” He took a deep swallow of his whiskey. His glance shot over to Courtney. “The only good thing that happened was Gray cleared inspections on his Back Bay project. They should get the certificate of occupancy soon.”

Her brother scored another success. Rah. Family dinners always made her feel invisible. Gray was the only child her father ever talked about. Gray this, Gray that. Gray. Gray. Boring Gray. Why couldn’t her father recognize that she added color to the Smythe family?

Courtney asked, “Is he back in Boston?”

“No. He’s bidding on property near Savannah.” Father set his glass on the silver coaster on the coffee table. “He’s adding a Savannah office, too. Not just working out of Boston.”

And the perfection that was Gray continued. She slipped deeper into her chair, wanting to blend into the fabric.

Marcus entered. “May I serve dinner?”

Mother looked to Father, who nodded.

“Would you like another drink?” Courtney asked him.

He thrust the glass at her. She plucked ice cubes from the bucket and splashed another shot in the tumbler.

Father took the glass, then headed to the dining room.

Mother whispered to him. Please let her make a dent in his stubbornness.

Father sank into the head chair. Mother sat to his right and Courtney to his left. If Gray was here, he would have this seat. She’d be forced farther down the table. Who said there wasn’t still a hierarchy, like in the Regency romance novels she loved to read?

She was nothing.

They pulled cloches off their plates. Her stomach twisted. How could she eat dinner without a solution to the chaos her life had become?

“Can I ask why you took Courtney’s credit cards away?” Mother asked.

Thank goodness. Courtney cut a small piece of lamb chop. Mother would fix this.

Father pointed his loaded fork at Courtney. “I’m done supporting her shopping habit. It’s time she get a job.”

“You never asked her to work before.” Mother didn’t look at her. “Why now?”

“In the first six months of this year, your dear daughter has spent a hundred thousand dollars on travel, clothes, shoes and parties. Families live on that.” He slammed down his silverware. “She needs to discover what it’s like to earn a living.”

The lamb she’d swallowed formed a lump in her throat. Coughing, she grabbed her wine and swallowed. “I’ll—I’ll do better. Put me on a budget. Please, Daddy.”

“If you don’t want to work, then have one of those boys who fawn around your skirts marry you and take on your useless habits.”

Useless. Tears burned her eyes.

“That’s uncalled for,” Mother hissed. Her head snapped back and forth. She was probably worried the servants would overhear the argument.

“I’ve had it.” He emptied his whiskey and pointed at Courtney. “Gray is right. You need to stand on your own feet.”

Of course. Mr. Perfect. He’d caused this mess.

If Gray had been the impetus, then he should be the solution. In a soft voice she asked, “Gray is opening an office in Savannah?”

“Yes.” Father sighed.

“Maybe he’ll have a job for me.” She’d pretend to go to Savannah for work. At least until her father calmed down.

Her father’s gray eyes held hers for almost too long. “You plan on becoming a carpenter?”

She blinked. “He’ll need help decorating or answering phones or...” What else did people do in offices?

He snorted. “Good luck.”

“Why, thank you, Daddy.” Did she hit the last word too hard?

She could head to Savannah for a week or two. Time to escape Boston and take a vacation. “Will you up my credit card limit so I can drive to Gray’s and not have to sleep in my car?”

“Of course he will.” Mother glared at her husband.

Good. Mother could make this problem go away. Courtney would take a road trip.

CHAPTER TWO

“ARE YOU SURE this is all you need?” Kaden arranged a picture of the grandmother he’d never met on his grandfather’s nursing home dresser.

“I just want my own PJs, robe, clothes and a picture of my wife,” Nigel sighed. “But I’d rather be home.”

“Not yet.” Kaden’s chest tightened. He’d just checked his granddad into a highly-rated, long-term rehabilitation center. Even though his grandfather had come through the surgery like a champ, he needed care and physical therapy. Now to get Granddad to accept that he needed to stay here. “How does that look?”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “This darn hip made me miss Bess and Daniel’s wedding. The Fitzgeralds throw the best parties.”

They’d talked about this thirty minutes ago. Granddad’s pain meds messed with his memory. Kaden said, “There will be other weddings.”

“I’d like to see my grandson married.”

“Not on the horizon.” Kaden avoided his grandfather’s eyes. “Bureau keeps me too busy.”

“I can’t have you hovering by my bedside for weeks.” Nigel shook his head. “Head back to Atlanta.”

“We’ve had this conversation.” Kaden patted his shoulder. Bones protruded that hadn’t been there before. “I’m taking a well-earned vacation.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’ll go crazy sitting around.”

“I picked up something to while away the hours between your torture sessions.” Kaden dug in the bag, grinning. “I mean your physical therapy sessions.”

He set a chessboard on a rolling table. Aligning the pieces, he took a white and black pawn and mixed them behind his back. He held out his closed hands. “Your choice.”

Granddad tapped one. White.

“You open.” Kaden set down the pawns. “How many hours do you think we’ve played chess?”

“At first you couldn’t sit for more than fifteen minutes. What a squirmy seven-year-old you were.” His grandfather advanced his pawn. “But hundreds of hours, I guess. Maybe thousands?”

Kaden answered by advancing his own pawn and the game was on. The only sound was the felt of the pieces on the cardboard and the muffled echoes of voices in the hallway.

“When you were young, you never looked ahead more than one move.” Granddad moved his knight, threatening Kaden’s bishop.

Kaden could sacrifice the piece for his longer strategy. He moved his queen.

A big smile broke over his grandfather’s face. He pointed a long elegant finger at Kaden’s side of the board. “You’re getting trickier.”

“I learned from the best.” Kaden swallowed back emotions bubbling up into his throat. He’d learned everything from this man. His grandfather had shown him how to live with honor. He’d never learned that from his worthless parents. “Why did my mother turn out so...bad?”

Granddad sank into the pillows, pushing back his thick white hair. “You’ve never asked me that question.”

“Because I was so relieved to be saved from that...life.” Kaden got out of the chair and walked to the window that overlooked a small garden. “I was afraid you would send me back to them.”

“Never.” Granddad’s voice was low. “When your grandmother died, I was...lost. Your mother was thirteen. She needed me and I wasn’t there.”

“She knew right from wrong. She knew drugs were bad.”

“I should have helped her.” His grandfather inhaled. “I didn’t push through my grief. By the time she was eighteen and pregnant with you, she wouldn’t listen to anything I said.”

“But you tried.” He remembered that much. Whenever Granddad called, his mother would throw the phone, or pots, or whatever was at hand.

“Too late. If I’d done more, maybe Kaleb would still be alive. I should have saved both of you.” Sadness filled his grandfather’s intense blue eyes. Eyes that had barely faded over the years.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Kaden choked out. He was responsible for his brother’s death, not Nigel.

“You were seven.” Granddad shook his head. “Thank God your mother called me, even though all she wanted was bail. At least I rescued you from that Florida hovel.”

“You made me the man I am today.” Kaden would have said more, but his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Checking the caller ID, he said, “It’s my boss.”

“Go ahead.” Granddad closed his eyes, looking twenty years older. “I need to rest.”

Kaden’s heart took another hit. Walking to the opposite corner of the room, he answered, “Farrell.”

“Heather Bole’s kid was dropped off in Savannah.” Roger’s words were clipped.

“She’s here?” He clenched the phone. “In Savannah?”

“She was. Back in May.” Papers shifted on Roger’s side of the conversation. “The father is filing for full custody and wants to find Bole. He contacted the Savannah police a couple of weeks ago.”

“Is this guy involved with one of the gangs?”

“Nothing we can find,” Roger said. “The detective said this Forester guy was suspected of dealing in high school, but either he’s kept a low profile or he’s out of the life. Savannah cop thinks he’s clean, but I’d rather you make your own assessment.”

Kaden straightened. “This might be the break we need.”

“I know you’re helping your grandfather, but could you talk to the dad? I want the interview to come from my team. From you.”

And Kaden knew why. Roger’s ex-wife ran the FBI office in Savannah, Roger the Atlanta office. The Bureau was hard on marriages. Kaden had never had any problems with Margaret, Roger’s ex, but Roger carried a grudge.

He glanced at his sleeping grandfather. He could take an hour to talk to this man. “Sure.”

Roger rattled off the Savannah detective’s contact information. Kaden moved into the hall. When the man answered, he explained why he was calling.

“The father’s name is Nathan Forester.” Detective Gillespie gave Kaden a quick recap and Forester’s phone number.

Kaden peeked into his grandfather’s room, but he hadn’t moved. One more call.

“Forester,” the man answered. A saw squealed in the background.

Kaden introduced himself. “I’d like to talk to you about Heather Bole.”

“Do you know where she is?” The background noise faded.

“No. But we’re looking for her, too. I’d like to ask you a few questions. When would be convenient?”

They set up a time to meet and Forester gave him an address. “I’m in the carriage house in the back. Second floor. If you have trouble finding the apartment, just call or text.”

After hanging up, Kaden stared at the address. Why was it so familiar?

He searched the location and jerked when it came up. Couldn’t be. He was heading to Fitzgerald House.

* * *

“COURTNEY?” GRAY BLOCKED the doorway, not letting her inside. “What are you doing here?”

“Surprise!” Courtney faked a smile. “I’m here to visit you.”

“What?” Gray crossed his arms. “You never wanted to before.”

Why wasn’t he inviting her into his house? She forced a smile. “I’m here now.”

“Here? Staying at Fitzgerald House?” Gray’s words were as much a barricade as his body.

“I was hoping I could stay with you. With my family.” Courtney didn’t want to beg.

He hesitated, finally pulling her into a hug. His shirt was unbuttoned and his hair was damp. “No one told me you were coming to Savannah.”

“That’s why it’s called a surprise.” She poked him in the belly. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I was in Boston two weeks ago.” Gray frowned. “You were too busy to have dinner with me.”

“I’m making up for it now.” She went for perky, but her voice wobbled.

What if Gray wouldn’t let her stay in his carriage house? Last night, she’d splurged on a nice Charleston hotel. She wouldn’t have enough money on her credit card to pay for another hotel. Being short of money sucked.

“You want to stay here?” Cynicism filled his voice. “With Abby and I?”

“I want to spend time with you.” She wrapped an arm around her brother’s waist, hoping she didn’t sound desperate. She hated the panic that had crept into her voice over the last few days. “I thought it would be...fun.”

“Here? You want to stay here?” Gray stepped out of the doorway and led her inside—finally.

Abby, his wife, came down the central stairs, also looking like she’d just hopped out of the shower. Her strawberry-blond hair was wet and pulled back in a high ponytail. Did she not know that style was so nineties? Her green eyes glowed. “Courtney?”