“Nothing’s going on,” Reed quickly assured her.
Nothing but what had to be a completely bogus investigation, which Collin would quash as soon as humanly possible.
Reed hadn’t engaged in insider trading, or any other illegal or unethical business practice for that matter. Still, he couldn’t help speculating on the maximum sentence. In the current climate for white-collar crime, he imagined they’d try to throw the book at him.
That’s why they had to make this go away, and fast. It had to go away before the press or anybody else got wind of it. Including Elizabeth. Especially Elizabeth.
Their specialist said infertility was often related to stress, and she was stressed enough about trying to get pregnant, not to mention planning their fifth anniversary party. The last thing she needed was to worry about a potential court case.
“I have to head down to Collin’s apartment for a little while,” he told her.
Her voice went flat, the disbelief evident. “A little while?”
“It’s a routine matter,” said Reed, vowing to wrap the discussion up quickly.
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Why don’t you work on the catering menu while I’m gone?” Three hundred guests were invited to the upcoming party; there had to be a million details that required her attention.
“Sure,” she said, without enthusiasm. “I’ll study the dessert menu for a while.”
The sarcastic remark was unlike Elizabeth, and Reed knew he should ask her what was wrong. But he was afraid to get into it, afraid it might lead him to embrace her, to kiss her, to throw all of his good intentions out the window. There was only so much temptation a man could take.
“I’ll see you in an hour,” he said huskily instead, allowing himself one quick, chaste kiss on her forehead.
His hand brushed her hair, sending tingles of desire all the way up to his shoulder. Her fingers closed over his wrist for the briefest of moments. It was enough to make him question his decision to leave.
But he had to walk out. He’d promised himself he’d do everything in his power to give her a baby. And he would.
Without meeting her eyes, he turned for the door, marched down the hall to where Collin hovered beside the desk, a decidedly uncertain expression on his face.
“Let’s go,” said Reed, slipping into his suit jacket and leading the way to the penthouse door.
Collin didn’t ask any questions. Discretion was one of the things Reed liked best about the man.
“I’ve got the SEC letter,” Collin confirmed as the door closed behind them, and they headed for Gage Lattimer’s penthouse. Collin’s friend, Gage, had also been named in the SEC’s letter as being part of the investigation.
“Envelope, too?” asked Reed. He didn’t want a shred of evidence lying around for Elizabeth to stumble across.
“Everything,” said Collin, stopping in front of the wide oak door. “And I closed your Web browser.”
“Thanks.” Reed nodded, giving a sharp knock.
They waited in silence, listening to a clang and clash from inside. The door was finally opened. But it wasn’t Gage standing in front of them. It was a tall, attractive brunette with a guarded, almost guilty look in her green eyes.
“Is Gage available?” asked Reed, hoping he wasn’t disturbing something. Although the woman was fully dressed.
“I’m terribly sorry—” The woman cleared her throat. “Mr. Lattimer isn’t in at the moment.”
Was that a British accent?
“And you are?” asked Collin.
“Jane Elliott. Mr. Lattimer’s new housekeeper.”
Reed’s gaze caught on the untidy penthouse over her shoulder.
She pulled the door against her back, blocking his view. “May I tell him who called?”
“Reed Wellington.”
Collin handed the woman a business card. “Can you ask him to call me as soon as possible?”
“Of course,” she replied with a nod, then slipped back into the suite and closed the door.
“I hope he’s not paying her much,” Reed mused as they turned for the elevator.
“I’d pay her pretty much anything she asked,” said Collin.
Reed couldn’t help but smile as he punched the call button for the elevator. Then he quickly brought his thoughts back to the problem at hand. “So what in the hell do you think is going on with this?” Reed asked as the doors slid open to an empty car.
“I think maybe you should have paid the blackmail.”
Reed drew back. As a wealthy man, he was often the target of both financial appeals and threats. But a particularly bizarre blackmail demand had arrived two weeks ago.
“Ten million dollars?” he asked Collin. “Are you out of your mind?”
“The two could be related.”
“The blackmail letter said, ‘the world will learn the dirty secret of how the Wellingtons make their money.’ It didn’t say anything about an SEC investigation.” Not that Reed would have paid up in any event. But he might have taken the letter a little more seriously if the threat had been that specific.
“Insider trading is a dirty little secret.”
“It’s also a ridiculous fabrication.”
When Reed first read the blackmail letter, he’d dismissed it as a hoax. There were plenty of lunatics out there. Then he’d wondered if some of their overseas suppliers might be engaged in unethical labor practices. But he’d checked them all out. He could find absolutely nothing to substantiate any “dirty little secret” of the Wellingtons’ wealth.
He had no dirty little secret. It was beyond preposterous to suggest he’d engaged in insider trading. And impossible to prove, since he hadn’t done it. It wasn’t even logical. The vast majority of his and his father’s and, for that matter, their ancestors’ wealth was derived from the performance of their companies. Reed did very little trading on the stock market.
And what little he did do was recreational, just to see if he could beat the odds. Where was the challenge in cheating? He didn’t need the money. And cheating wouldn’t be any fun. So why the hell would he engage in insider trading?
“They’ve got something,” said Collin as the elevator came to a rest on the second floor. “The SEC doesn’t start investigations on spec.”
“So, who do we call?” asked Reed.
As well as being a vice president, Collin was a damn fine lawyer. He inserted his key and opened the apartment door. “The SEC for starters.”
Reed glanced at his watch. Nine-fifteen. “You know anybody we can disturb?”
“Yeah.” Collin tossed his briefcase on the table of the more compact, one-bedroom apartment that was owned by Wellington International. “I know a guy.” He picked up a cordless phone. “You feel like pouring the scotch?”
“On it.”
Collin’s call was brief.
When he finished, he accepted a crystal tumbler of single malt and sat back in an armchair. “They’ll send us a full dossier in the morning, but it’s something to do with Ellias Technologies.”
Reed recognized the company name. “That was Gage’s deal. He thought they were going to go big, so we both bought in.” But he couldn’t