Page 127 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
I frowned. This didn’t make any sense. Maybe I was understanding him wrong. “No, that can’t be right. The trust is part of the marriage contract. The two go together. Without a marriage, there’s no money.”
Mr. Roth started to speak slowly and patiently, as you would to a child or someone mentally impaired. “There is no mention of establishing a trust in the marriage contract, Miss Hardwick. As far as the contract is concerned, the trust doesn’t exist. There was only a stipulation that a payment in the amount of one million dollars would be conferred to you upon your marriage, but it never specifically spelled out how that payment would be made. This trust I’ve just reviewed”—I heard the sound of rustling paper in the background—“is ironclad. It’s irrevocable. You are the sole trustee. No one else has access to the money. That million dollars is yours, married or not.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mr. Roth. Respectfully, you’re talking out of your behind. I know you graduated from college, because I saw the framed degree on the wall behind your desk, but you’ve got this all wrong. Jackson Boudreaux would never make such a stupid mistake.”
After a while Mr. Roth said, “I agree. He wouldn’t. It was intentional.”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
“Of course if you don’t believe me, I advise you to get another opinion.” He sniffed, his ego dinged by my disbelief. “But any attorney will tell you the same thing. Congratulations, Miss Hardwick. You’re a millionaire.”
I breathed, “I’m . . . whaaa . . .”
Mr. Roth kept talking, his voice a distant drone in my ear, but I heard nothing else he said. I stood in the kitchen, blank with shock, until the house phone rang and jolted me back into reality. I disconnected the call with Mr. Holt, who was still talking, and picked up the phone on the wall.
“Hardwick residence,” I said, completely disoriented.
Mr. Holt had to be wrong. He had to be. Why on earth would Jackson do a thing like that?
“Bianca,” said Trace.
His mouth turned my name into a sneer. I stiffened, going from disoriented to teed off in two seconds flat. “You’ve got some nerve calling this house!” I said, hackles rising.
He chuckled. It was an ugly sound, full of malice. “What, I can’t call to pay my respects?”
We both knew he wasn’t calling to pay his respects. He had other business on his mind, which I had no intention of listening to.
“I’m only going to tell you this one more time, Trace. Stay away from me.”
“Or what?” he snarled. “You’ll have Jackson Boudreaux buy up the whole block instead of just the one building?”
“What the heck are you talking about?” I hated myself for taking the bait but needed to know what he meant. Suddenly anything to do with Jackson was of paramount importance, even if it came from Trace’s fanged mouth.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about!”
When I didn’t answer, he shouted, “My restaurant? The building it was going to open in suddenly getting bought up even though it wasn’t on the market? The new owner canceling my lease?”
The hairs on my arms rose in gooseflesh. My heart started to thump. Not daring to believe it, I said slowly, “Jackson bought the building where you were going to open your restaurant, and then canceled your lease?”
Trace’s laugh was hard and a little scary. “You’re a shitty actress, bumble bee,” he said bitterly. “Don’t think for a minute I don’t know who asked him to do it.”
For a moment I went totally blank. My mind was as snowy as a polar bear’s backside.
Then a hysterical laugh broke from my chest.
Jackson bought the building where Trace was going to open his restaurant and canceled the lease! Filled with glee, I cackled madly again, stamping my foot on the floor.
Eeny came in from the parlor and looked at me like she was wondering if I needed to take a nice, long vacation in a place with barred windows and padded walls.
She wasn’t the only one affected by it. Trace flipped his lid. He roared, “You’re fucking stupid!”
I hooted, positively giddy. “And you’re proof!”
Apoplectic, he sputtered, “You need me! You told me you’d always love me! ‘I will always love you’—those were your exact goddamn words!”
Then it was like something inside me was just done with him, dusted off its hands, and turned tail without another look back.
I said calmly, “I’m not Whitney Houston, you silly goose. I need you like the word knife needs the letter k. The only thing you ever gave me was dick and a headache.”
