They’re an item. A couple. And I’m a fucking stupid, blind asshole not to have realized this before.
I scroll through more images, noticing there are quite a few older photos of her with a guy who looks a lot younger than her. Good-looking guy, angry expression on his face most of the time while she clings to him, looking like the cat that just licked up every last drop of the cream.
The name is familiar: Ryder McKay. I immediately enter him in the search box and hit the images tab. Up come dozens of recent photos of McKay in London with none other than Violet Fowler, including mentions of an engagement and close-up photos of a giant rock on Violet’s finger.
Interesting—and freaking strange.
What sort of twisted relationships make up the Fowler family? It appears that Pilar at one time was with McKay. But now McKay is with Violet Fowler and Pilar is with Forrest Fowler. Talk about odd.
And what does Lily Fowler have to do with any of this? Pilar mentioned in our initial meeting that Lily tried to damage her reputation. I can only imagine that Lily has information on my client and is using said information to blackmail her. Pilar won’t go into detail, which makes me believe that the information Lily has is pretty damaging.
I’d like to know exactly what that information is.
After a few more searches on other Fowlers—Violet and Rose, to be exact—I find out nothing else major and give up. Setting my phone on the tiny glass-top table right next to my chair, I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, running my hands through my hair. What the fuck should I do? I have my subject lying in bed, sleeping like the dead after I just thoroughly fucked her, and I need to somehow, some way, search her room and get that damn laptop Pilar’s so insistent I take from her.
Your opportunity is now, asshole. Why not take advantage of it?
I sit up straight and crane my neck over my shoulder, studying the sleeping Lily once more. Her back is to me, her hair wild from the constant fucking, the white sheet wrapped tight around her sexy naked body. I bet those sheets smell like her, are drenched in her. I should have her come to my room for the next round so she can rub her sexy scent all over my sheets. I probably wouldn’t have the maid change them out for days.
You’re a sick fucker.
Yeah, I am. It’s like I’m fucking addicted to her. The sounds she makes, the taste of her skin, her sweet little tongue, her even sweeter pussy … damn. Being inside her is heaven. Feeling her pussy clench and tremble and squeeze all around me. The gush of wetness that coated my cock when she came drove me out of my mind. I couldn’t hold back with her. She makes me crazy with wanting her.
And she’s the last woman I should want.
Heaving a big sigh, I stand and open the sliding glass door, thankful it glides shut so quietly. I stand at the foot of the bed, studying Lily lying on her side, the sheet loose around her breasts, giving me a teasing glimpse. I want to go to her. Kiss her all over her body until she slowly awakens. I want to spend the morning in this bed with her naked.
I can’t, though. I have a job to do.
Her tiny purse sits on the dresser and I go to it, peering inside. There’s not much in there. A lip gloss. Six crisply folded twenty-dollar bills, two sticks of gum, and her room key. I pull out her ID and study it, surprised at how completely different she looks in the photo that was taken—I squint at the fine print—two years ago.
She’s blonder in the picture. Lots of makeup on her face, especially her eyes. Her lips are curved in this almost mocking smile and her lids are heavy, looking like she just woke up and was nursing a wicked hangover.
The Lily Fowler on her ID card looks nothing like the Lily currently lying in the bed not ten feet away from me.
Shoving the ID back in her purse I turn and study the room, contemplating where I should look next. The mirrored closet door is shut and I go to it, carefully sliding it open, breathing deep to calm my racing heart. Adrenaline pours through me, pushing me to the edge, and I peer inside. There’s nothing in there—no clothes on the hangers, no shoes scattered on the floor. Her suitcase sits on the other side of the room, on top of one of those folding metal stands that hold luggage.
I’ll search the top of the closet first and if the laptop isn’t there, the suitcase is next. It’s gotta be stashed around here somewhere. I saw it with my own eyes on the plane.
Well, I saw a bag that looked suspiciously like a laptop case but I never actually saw a laptop. For all I know, I could be chasing a mythical object that doesn’t even fucking exist.
The air conditioner clicks on, a blast of cold air hitting me, and I shiver. I snoop around in the closet, reaching along the top shelf, where no one ever puts anything—unless maybe they have something to hide. I gently slap my palm along the smooth wood, encountering nothing. Until I reach deep into the recesses of the farthest corner and my palm makes contact with something. It’s hard and cool to the touch, like metal.
There it is.
Excitement ripples through me as I pull it down off the shelf, glancing toward the bed to make sure Lily’s still asleep, which she is. She owns a MacBook, top of the line, nothing less for the Fleur heiress. Holding the laptop close to my chest, I crack it open and wait for it to start up, not surprised at all when the password screen appears. I fumble with the laptop and set it carefully on the dresser, then pull my phone out of my pocket, opening it up to my email and scrolling until I find the one from Pilar with the subject line “Possible Lily passwords.” She had her suspicions and sent a list along to me.