The Mad Heiress's Dangerous Mercenary Lover

The heavy oak double doors of the Holden estate flew open.

Cold wind and rain whipped into the grand hall, making the massive crystal chandelier sway. Hale stepped inside, his boots tracking mud onto the priceless Persian rug. He held Cilla by the back of her soaked hospital gown, dragging her like a rag doll.

The shouting in the hall stopped instantly.

Gideon Holden stood by the marble fireplace, his face red with rage. His wife, Meredith, stood beside him, holding a champagne flute. They both stared at the dripping wet mess that had just invaded their pristine territory.

Hale walked to the center of the hall and let go. Cilla crumpled to the floor. She collapsed into a shivering ball, tucking her knees to her chest and burying her face in her arms.

Gideon took a step back, his lip curling in disgust. "What the hell is this? Why is that thing in the main house?"

Meredith pinched her nose between two fingers. "The smell. Reginald, call security. She belongs in a facility, not on my rug."

Cilla shook harder, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs. But behind her arms, her eyes were open. Sharp. Calculating.

Gideon's suit cuff is frayed. He's cash poor again. And Meredith's necklace is last season's Cartier. The second branch is bleeding cash. They're desperate.

How do I know that? a small, detached part of her wondered. Ten years of reading old fashion magazines in the sanitarium's library. The nurses thought I was just drooling on the pages. They never noticed my eyes moving.

Hale stood a few feet away. He heard the voice in his head as clear as a bell. It was a cold, analytical broadcast, completely at odds with the sobbing mess on the floor. His eyes narrowed slightly.

Under New York trust law, the voice continued, as long as I'm breathing, my fifteen percent is untouchable. You vultures can't get a single cent.

Hale's breath hitched. He stared at the shivering girl on the floor, a sense of profound wrongness washing over him. It was as if two different signals were broadcasting from the same source. He had to fight the urge to check her for a hidden earpiece or signs of advanced dissociative identity disorder.

Gideon stomped forward, pointing a shaking finger at Cilla. "She's a disgrace! A stain on the Holden name! Send her back to Oakridge tonight!"

Cilla threw her head back and let out a piercing scream. It echoed off the high ceilings. Before anyone could react, she scrambled to her feet and lunged at Gideon.

She didn't punch him. She just threw her filthy, mud-caked body directly at him.

A sharp, undignified cry escaped Gideon's lips. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet, and crashed into the antique sofa. His arm hit the coffee table, sending a silver tray flying. Hot coffee splashed all over his custom shirt.

Chaos erupted. Meredith shrieked, dropping her champagne flute. The crystal shattered on the marble.

Cilla scurried back into her corner. She pressed her hands over her ears, rocking back and forth, staring blankly at the wall. But the corner of her mouth twitched. Just a fraction of an inch.

That's right, you old bastard. That's just the appetizer.

Hale watched her. A flicker of something akin to amusement registered deep in his cold eyes. He subtly adjusted his collar, a barely perceptible motion to mask the slight upward twitch of his lips.

The butler, Reginald, rushed in with two security guards. "Sir, ma'am, please step back!"

Hale pulled a clipboard from inside his coat. He walked over to the sputtering, coffee-soaked Gideon and held it out.

"Sign here," Hale said, his voice flat. "Delivery complete."

Gideon snatched the pen and scribbled his name. "Get out! All of you!"

Hale didn't argue. He turned on his heel and headed for the front doors.

Just as his foot crossed the threshold, a sound stopped him cold.

Thwack.

A heavy cane striking the marble floor. The sound rang out from the top of the curved staircase, silencing the entire room in an instant.