Page 116 of Rebooting Conor Flynn

“Fondness for Jane?”

“My cat, remember? Wait.” I put my hand on his arm as he reached for the doorbell. “What do you think you know?”

“I know about a deal Gordo made with the devil to finance Baker Street.” He jabbed his finger at the door. “And that devil lives here.”

I licked my lips, but my shoulders relaxed. Having Conor beside me made sense. And it meant the world.

He rang the doorbell, which echoed in the expansive house.

A butler, I guess that’s what he was, answered the door, his quirking eyebrow the only evidence of his surprise at seeing Conor standing beside me.

“I’m Noelle Martine and this...” I jerked my thumb at Conor “...is my friend.”

Conor’s body stiffened beside me at that label, but he locked eyes with the butler as if daring him to toss him out.

“Very well, Mademoiselle, Monsieur. I’ll announce your arrival.”

“No need to stand on ceremony. He hates that.” I breezed past him, and Conor followed. “Just direct me to his office.”

The man looked as if he were about to object, but Conor made a subtle move toward him, and he flinched. “Of course. It’s the first door on your left.”

We thanked him, because we weren’t completely gauche, and approached the double doors to the office.

Conor yanked open one side, and I stepped into a beautiful, ornately decorated space. My gaze swept across the 18th and 19th Century pieces scattered around the room before they landed on the man behind the delicate bureau plat desk.

“Hello, Father.”

He stood up, his smile wavering when he caught sight of Conor behind me. “Hello, kiddo. It’s good to see you. You too, Conor.”

Conor dipped his head. “Mr. Martine.”

I planted my stained sneakers on the floral wreaths decorating the Aubusson rug on the floor. “You might not feel that way when you find out why we’re here.”

“I think I might know.” Dad waved a magnanimous arm at the chairs facing his desk, his smile smug. “Have a seat.”

As I sat down across from him, I noticed his almost completely silver hair—no salt and pepper anymore—mostly salt. His handsome face sagged, and the bags under his eyes made him look tired.

Or maybe he’d just gotten older when I wasn’t looking.

I gripped the arms of the Baroque chair, praying I wouldn’t snap them. “Why did you invest a million dollars in Baker Street?”

Dad spread his hands. “It was a good investment. That company skyrocketed, fingers in every entertainment pie.”

“Stop the BS, Dad. You sank that money into Gordon Cooper’s company at the same time Five2Go went on their Australian tour. The same time my phone number mysteriously changed in Conor’s phone so we couldn’t contact each other.”

“You broke us up.” Conor made a fist with his hand, and I touched his knee.

My father’s gaze flicked from that gesture to our faces. “I don’t deny it, but I did it for you...both of you.”

“Oh, thanks.” I threw up my hands. “In case you didn’t know, I spent many nights on the phone crying to Vivienne.”

“I knew that. I also knew you’d get over it, over him.” Dad sat forward. “I did it for you too, son.”

Conor practically growled. “Yeah, because nothing says care like meddling in someone’s life, taking agency away from them.”

“You were a young man on the cusp of incredible fame and fortune, worth tens of millions of dollars. You needed your freedom. It wouldn’t have lasted anyway.”

“You don’t get to decide that for someone else.” Conor grabbed my hand. “What about your daughter? How did she benefit?”