Page 18 of Beautiful Revenge
“I’m not an operative anymore,” I grit as I unlock my office door and close myself inside. Alone at last.
There were two libraries in the original floor plan when I bought the estate. The larger one is now a whiskey lounge. We added a bar, cocktail seating, and my designer convinced me to spend a small fortune on antique chandeliers. One hangs over every seating area. Even I have to admit, it’s a vibe. Guests spend a shit ton of money on allocated bottles, which makes it easier to stomach the cost of the chandeliers.
But I didn’t touch the small library. I added a desk, three chairs, and slapped my name on the antique door that’s as heavy as an anvil. I haven’t moved one book, any of the bronze sculptures old man Winslet brought over from England, and definitely not the Winslet family shield. I clean the place myself. No one is allowed in here without me.
Bella is quick to correct me. “Once an operative always an operative.”
I fall to my chair and fire up my laptop. “Maybe a better way to say it is once an operative always paranoid.”
“True, true. The paranoia never goes away,” she agrees but adds her own caveat. “You’ll find someone to trust one day. I have faith.”
“Speaking of those I can trust, let’s get back to my favor. I need some information—information I can’t get without throwing up a shit-ton of red flags. I can bust through a firewall, but not with any finesse.”
Bella pauses. “Whose door are you kicking down today?”
“I want to know the location of a certain comatose billionaire.”
My full name comes out on a warning. “Devon.”
I throw it right back at her like we’re kids again. “Isabella.”
“Why are you getting into the middle of this?”
I defend myself. “I’m not getting in the middle of anything. I’m curious.”
“It will work itself out, and you can read about it on the news like the rest of the world. Or if it doesn’t, you can watch the docudrama that will no doubt be made on the billionaire family.”
“I’ve had a shit day, Bells. Give me this one thing. Something is off. Fuck, everything is off, and I want to know what it is.”
“Your bloody brain is what’s off,” she complains.
I rest one foot on the corner of my desk and cross the ankle with the other. “You’re still jealous I scored higher than you on the entrance exams. When are you going to get over that?”
“I was one point shy of meeting your score, you arse. And you never let me forget it,” she mutters. “What does Archer do without the element of sibling rivalry in his life?”
Archer is two years older than me. I’m sandwiched in the middle between the perfect first born and the baby who got away with murder. Archer is still in England working for SIS. He’s the last Donnelly to still work as an MI6 operative. It’s a miracle his cover wasn’t burned between Bella and me making worldwide news.
“He must be bored to tears on the daily,” I say. “Are you going to help me out or force me to call Archie?”
“You know I’ll do it. Give me some time. I need to talk to Ozzy.”
“That’s the spirit. I will always brazenly use you for access to your work associates.”
“Happy to be here for you in every way possible, Dev,” she grumbles.
“Make it a priority,” I demand. “There’s something about these families that’s more toxic than a corrupt politician.”
“I can say with all certainty if that’s the case, you want them off your property as soon as possible, and that’s speaking from experience. I’ll see what Ozzy can drum up and get back with you. Meanwhile, good luck dealing with irritable wedding guests.”
My feet hit the ground before we say our hasty goodbyes, and I turn to my laptop. I do not open up the program Icoded myself to satisfy unimportant curiosities here and there. It’s clunky and archaic, and I haven’t done that shit myself for years. If I try to break through the Stonebridge firewall, there’s a better than slight chance I’d have law enforcement knocking down my antique doors.
I open the site every basic American uses to do their kid’s homework or learn how to unclog a toilet—Google.
I do not search the Humphries. Their shit is tied tight. That’s another favor I might have to ask Bella for.
No, I look up Patrick Madison and click on images.
The man doesn’t look like he’s even close to seventy. He might pass for sixty if he had a bad night’s sleep. I click on an image of him and Harlow. He’s in a tux, and she looks very different than she did earlier today dressed for her wedding.
