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“What the hell was that about?” Jethro Hawthorpe thundered, pushing past him. “That fiasco with the press? It’s all over the news. I thought you said those charges against you had been dropped?”
“They have been,” Ned said.
“So how come the press got wind of it?”
“Let’s talk in my study, shall we?”
I waited until they were no longer in sight, then ran down the stairs and tiptoed along the hallway to the library. Closing the door carefully behind me, I moved quietly to the double doors.
“It’s an occupational hazard, Dad,” I heard Ned saying. “When I terminate contracts, people get upset.”
“Let me get this straight—this woman decided to accuse you of sexual assault for no other reason than revenge?”
“That’s right.”
“And you think the press is going to accept that?”
“Why shouldn’t they? I told the police what happened, and they accepted it.”
“For now,” Jethro Hawthorpe said darkly. “What if this woman changes her mind about not pressing charges?”
“She won’t. I paid her off, she’s gone back to France, where she’s originally from. Nobody will go to the trouble of contacting her there.”
“You paid her off?” I could hear the frown in Jethro Hawthorpe’s voice.
“That’s right.”
“But I thought there was nothing to her accusation?”
“There wasn’t. There isn’t! But what else was I supposed to do, let a court case drag on? Imagine how that would have affected your precious foundation.”
“The stench of sexual assault will still linger,” Jethro Hawthorpe snapped. “You did see the article in theMail, didn’t you, while you were away getting married? ‘Ned Hawthorpe: Mr. Nice Guy, or Sexual Predator?’ They’re not going to leave it alone. And what about this ridiculous marriage of yours? Don’t insult me by telling me you married for love.”
“It’s none of your business, Dad.”
“Well, I hope you had the sense to get her to sign a prenup.” There was a silence. “Are you completely crazy?” Jethro Hawthorpe exploded. “Have you any idea how much she would be entitled to if you divorce?”
“We have an agreement. In case of a divorce, she gets fifty thousand, nothing more.”
I took a step back. Fifty thousand?
“She agreed to that in writing, did she?”
“No, but I’m going to get Carr to draw something up.”
“And you expect her to sign it?”
“Yes.”
Jethro Hawthorpe snorted. “Then you’re even more stupid than I thought.” There was the scrape of a chair being pushed back. “I need to go.” Then a pause. “Remember, Ned, the slightest whiff of anything that could harm the foundation, I’ll publicly disown you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
PRESENT
Deep in sleep, I barely have time to register his hands on my shoulders, the hood coming over my head, my hands being tied behind my back before being hustled from the room.
The need to focus on going down the stairs to the basement jolts me to the reality of what is happening. Isn’t it the middle of the night? Why would he come for me in the middle of the night? My heart pounds when I remember the door Ned and I came through three weeks ago, that led from the outside to the basement. Is that where we’re heading, outside? Has their patience run out? My mind spins as I imagine being made to kneel, then shot. I falter, stumble, almost fall down the stairs. But his hands steady me, and the firm but gentle pressure on my shoulders feels oddly reassuring.
