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“Why?” My head lurched back in disbelief. “Hello. Dad was murdered. We need to know who’s responsible so that the arsehole gets what’s coming to him.”
Declan nodded in agreement.
Mother winced at my tone. “You look awful. You haven’t shaved for days. And I smell smoke. Have you been smoking again?”
I became that little boy again. Gulping down my drink, I shook my head. “I’ve been with John Newman. He mentioned that you’re moving on that resort. You didn’t waste time.”
“Yes, we’re moving forward.”
“We? You and Crisp, you mean?” Declan asked with ice coating his words.
“He’s my partner, yes.” She got a bit fidgety and walked off.
“So, what about Luke?” I asked, trying to make sense of our father’s investigation.
Declan joined his wife on the floral sofa by the window. “Dad left him twenty million He was running in the red just before father died.”
“Could he have had something to do with it?” I asked.
“Luke has a rock-solid alibi. He was with another person, which has been corroborated.”
My eyebrows squeezed. “But wasn’t Luke Dad’s partner?”
“Apparently, they had a loose arrangement.” Declan tented his fingers. “It might just have been one of those freak accidents.”
I looked Declan in the eyes for a moment. “Do you believe that?”
He shook his head slowly then shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I left them, lost in a million thoughts when my phone rang. I saw Mirabel’s name and picked up.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I said, smiling for the first time in hours.
There was no response, just muffled voices. She’d obviously pressed on her phone by accident.
I heard, “No. Orson. No.”
I called out her name, but she didn’t respond.
Chapter 9
Mirabel
Slouchedonthecouchwith Sheridan, watching yet another Hugh Grant movie, I jumped when I heard the knock on the door at midnight.
“Are you expecting someone?” I asked. I’d just returned from Orson’s house and agreed to a glass of Chardonnay.
“I don’t know who that could be.” She frowned as she headed for the door.
A moment later, Ethan strolled in, and I froze like a lump on the couch. I felt winded, as though I’d been punched in the stomach.
I was wearing the crappiest pyjama bottoms known to mankind—baggy, with the crotch somewhere halfway down my legs. Adding to this sexy ensemble, I wore fluffy dog-faced slippers.
My heart raced like a car careering down a hill without brakes, and Ethan, shifting from leg to leg, looked as comfortable as he would naked in a church.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as Sheridan gestured for Ethan to take a seat.
He dropped his head while rubbing his neck and wearing an awkward smile. “I tried calling, but you didn’t respond.”
