The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,73
about fucking up with the caring of them and—
Where the hell was Sara? Why was his damn sister still shut up in her room?
Frustrated, Joaquin decided he could take action on at least one front. Inside the house again, he climbed the stairs and made his way down the hall. At Essie’s door, he knocked. “Hey, come on out.”
No answer. No sound of movement. Nothing.
The hair on the back of his neck rose.
“Essie?” He tried the knob. It turned. Then he was in her room, staring at the unmade bed, the scattered items of clothing, the two crumb-strewn plates—and even more missed the butler.
Then he spied the note on her pillow.
Addressed to him.
Sara puttered about Imogen’s kitchen. While packing a few things the day before at Nueva Vida, she’d texted the younger woman. Following their paparazzi encounter, they’d exchanged numbers, and the pop singer had promised to return a favor any time Sara requested one.
So she’d scurried behind Imogen’s gates for temporary sanctuary. Though the woman had started making noises about hiring a butler, Sara wouldn’t dream of taking the job. Imogen had plenty of people surrounding her, from a three-days-a-week housekeeper to an on-call masseuse who had carried in a portable table just an hour before.
Imogen had suggested Sara get a massage as well, but not even experienced hands could knead the tension from her muscles today. And anyway, she needed to figure out her exit plan.
Not from Imogen’s—from Joaquin.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket, signaling a call, not a text. She withdrew the device, her stomach clenching at the sight of his name on the screen. Inhaling a breath, she reminded herself of her status as his employee, her butler training, her dignity as a woman. Each insisted she couldn’t duck the man forever.
She brought the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“You picked up.” His voice sounded strange. “Where have you been?”
“I’m at a friend’s.”
“Are you all right? I wondered…”
She could picture him forking his hand through his dark hair, disordering it so that she only wanted to smooth it with a run of her own fingers. Why do I have to love him? she wondered. How did he get past my guard?
“Sara?”
“I’m fine.” She cleared her throat. “The thing is—”
“I need you.”
Her fingers tightened on the phone. “Of course you don’t. As a matter of fact, I overheard you tell Martin in words plain as day that you don’t need a butler.”
His silence didn’t deny it.
“And I know that you’re selling Nueva Vida and I know…I know…”
“What?”
“I know that you know about what happened in London,” she said in a rush. “At least the trash the tabloids wrote about it.”
“Yeah, and sooner than later you’re going to explain to me why you chose to keep that life event secret.”
“It’s not what you think—”
“You don’t know what I think. You didn’t bother giving me a chance to have an opinion about it. Though I will tell you that the notion of some randy old goat becoming obsessed with you I understand more than I care to admit.”
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m pissed. But I don’t have time to get into that now. Essie’s taken off.”
“What?” Sara’s free hand clutched her throat.
“And I need help finding her.”
“Of course I’ll help you find Essie.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the masseuse on her way out, being trailed by Imogen who sent Sara a curious glance.
“Just like that?” Joaquin asked.
“Of course just like that.”
“Because you’re at my service,” he said, sounding bitter.
“Because I care about your sister.” And before she could stop them, other words flowed from her heart. “Because…because I care about you.”
He hesitated. “Sara…”
She didn’t recognize that new, soft note in his voice. “Where shall I start?”
Twenty-five minutes later, when she and Imogen—the younger woman had insisted on coming along—reached the huge public beach south of Malibu, it became clear why Joaquin required assistance. The entire stretch of space looked like one huge party, with music pounding from speakers, scantily clad young people everywhere, and dozens and dozens of colorful tents and shade canopies set up on the sand.
How to locate one slender sixteen-year-old in the teeming throng?
Joaquin rushed toward Sara’s car as he saw it neatly pull into a parking space in the lot where he’d said he’d wait. She jumped from the driver’s seat and someone else emerged from the passenger side.
“This is Imogen,” Sara said, indicating a woman in a deep visor and dark shades. “She wants to help.”