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“Gina was at the house by herself for a number of hours yesterday, wasn’t she?”
His entire body stiffened. “And?”
“And you can’t ignore the obvious just because you like her, man.”
He didn’t just like her, he loved her. Not that he was about to tell his VP that right now. “So her help the past week means nothing to you?”
“Think about it. It gave her access.”
“With our supervision the entire time.”
“Except for yesterday.”
He opened his mouth to tell Mike to go to hell, then took a deep breath for control as a tiny sliver of doubt crept in. “Just see what Quinn has to say and get back to me.”
He slammed down the receiver and cursed both men to hell and back.
She did not do this. She wouldn’t have.
Unbidden, his gaze shifted to the conference table where Gina had worked side by side with them over the past week. The neat and tidy surface brought to mind the tray of dirty dishes beside her laptop out on the coffee table in the great room.
He stalked through the kitchen and into the other room to stare at her computer. Hands on his hips, he cast his troubled gaze toward the loft, toward his bedroom where she still slept. He could go ask her.
More like accuse her.
Exactly. And what kind of future would that give them? She’d trusted him last night; he needed to do the same for her now.
He ran his hands though his hair and clasped them behind his head as his gaze lowered to the coffee table once more. She’d never have to know. And besides, he wouldn’t be invading her privacy so much as proving her innocence. Right?
The rationalization didn’t absolve his guilt as he moved around and dropped to the edge of the couch. After one last hesitation, he shoved the notebook aside and grabbed the laptop. The computer powered up to her security screen, and he tapped his fingers on the keys without actually keying in any letters.
She’d changed her passwords after the break-in. Would she have memorized them, or written them down like before? He reached for the notebook and thumbed through the pages. Just when he decided it was crazy to think he’d find them that easy, he came across a page of random design terms, both for software and her interior decorating business.
It took a moment to realize the basic camouflaging code she’d used, then another to determine the password to unlock her computer: 1PrinceCharming.
He grinned as he keyed in the number and letters.
The smile disappeared when he accessed her email program and found the message sent to [email protected] at ten-fourteen yesterday morning. She’d attached a compressed and encrypted copy of his program without their hidden coding, and he also found the copied files saved in her documents folder.
His body flashed hot, then cold. He’d believed in her. Trusted her. Now, with the evidence staring him right in the face, it literally hurt to breathe. He consciously drew in a breath and let it go.
Again.
And once more.
At some point, the pain of betrayal morphed into anger. That he’d fallen for her when she’d been playing him all along. That she’d given anything to that sonofabitch Brady after what he’d done to her. Made him wonder if Mike had been right about the assault, too. Had they staged that?
Was any damn thing real since the moment she’d kissed him at the club?
Memories flooded in from last night. He closed his eyes against the agony threatening to clog his throat.
Then confusion hit. Why? The crappy apartment suggested it was all for the money, but she’d turned down his offer to advance her commission. And she’d given him receipts to cover every withdrawal from the house decorating expense account, right down to the penny.
None of it added up, and yet, he couldn’t deny the damning truth in front of him. Would she?
He snapped the laptop screen shut and set it on the table with precise control. Time to wake up Cinderella and see what the hell she had to say for herself.
As he started around the couch, his gaze lit on the clothes littering the floor, and he scooped up her things. Last thing he needed was the naked visual reminder to all he’d gained and lost in less than twenty-four hours.
