The Auction (Club Indulgence Duet, #1)(7)

Rachel called yesterday and insisted I meet in person with her. I don't know what she plans on throwing at me, but I assume it's not good.

A week ago, I asked her to audit the business accounts even though it's George's job. If Hugh knew I'd shared our information with Rachel, he'd have a fit. But my gut said something wasn't right, and I couldn't sleep until I either squashed the nagging feeling or discovered what was off.

I've never allowed Rachel—or anyone else, really—to come to my home. The only people who typically are allowed inside are my cleaners. I bought the Malibu beach house a few years ago, and for some reason, I've kept it my secret gem. Hugh doesn't even know about it.

I have a condo in L.A. where I stay if I need to be in the office multiple days in a row or if I'm frequenting Club Indulgence. Besides that, I spend my time here, waking up every morning to surf the waves and feeling at peace.

Not that I love to be around a ton of people anyway. I do it for business, but ever since I was a kid, I've always been more of a loner. Maybe it's because I've never really trusted the people around me, whether it's the slums or the most expensive suburbs of L.A.

Hugh's the exception. The notion I might have been wrong about him all these years makes me feel ill. Perhaps it's because I never second-guess myself or my decisions. I've always trusted my gut, which makes the idea of him screwing me over even more painful.

He hasn't.

Then what did Rachel find?

I catch a final wave, ride it toward shore, then carry my board up the sandy path to my house. I put it away, go to my outside shower, and strip out of my wetsuit.

The hot water cascades over my body, but no matter how much soap I use, I can't wash the feeling of grime off me.

What has Hugh done?

I turn off the shower, secure a towel around my waist, and go into my house. I get dressed, debate about making my daily green smoothie, then decide to opt out. The clawing in my stomach only grows more intense the closer I get to eight A.M.

The doorbell rings two minutes before, and I let Rachel inside.

She glances around my open floor plan. "Wow. Nice place."

"Thanks. Let's get started," I order, motioning for her to sit at my oversized table.

She straightens her shoulders and obeys, sitting, then opening her briefcase. She pulls several manilla folders out, then lays half a dozen highlighted spreadsheets on the wood.

I hold my breath, wondering what the highlights mean.

She hesitates, then locks eyes with me. "These accounts all have money missing. There are transfers throughout the last few years that tally over one hundred million dollars."

I grind my molars, trying to calm my rage. Quite a bit of time passes before I can muster, "Where is the money going?"

Sympathy fills her expression, and I hate it. She answers, "Some offshore accounts in the Caymans."

"Is it George?" I question.

She shrugs. "Him. Or Hugh. But I have a hard time believing Hugh could do it without George. My guess is the accounts are layered so they're untraceable."

Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it and stare through the glass, watching the waves crash and white foam hit the shoreline.

He stole from me.

He stole from our clients.

Rachel clears her throat and sets another piece of paper in front of me. "I've made a summary so you can turn it over to the FBI."

I glance at the cheat sheet, my stomach diving further. The FBI will have to call in the SEC. The investment firm I've spent my life creating will have a stain on it forever. Trust will be lost, and that's hard to earn back.

I firmly state, "I'm not calling the FBI."

Rachel furrows her eyebrows. "But—"

"I'll handle it. As always, you're under a strict confidentiality clause," I assert.

Her eyes turn to slits. Irritation fills her voice, and she seethes, "You don't need to remind me."

I ignore that I just offended her and inquire, "Is there anything else I should know?"

Her jaw twitches. She rises, slings her briefcase over her shoulder, and dryly answers, "No, boss."

I don't miss the attitude. It's the first time I've ever heard it from her, but her feelings are the last things I'm worrying about right now. I've got bigger problems. She can put on her big girl panties and deal with my usual bluntness or cry like a baby. Either way, I don't care. I walk toward the entrance, and she follows. I open the door and state, "Thanks for bringing this to my attention."

She crosses her arms and glares at me.

I wait her out, giving her my most challenging stare. The last thing I'm going to be is intimidated by my employees.

She finally asserts, "A little kindness would go a long way."

I keep my tone flat and reply, "I'm sorry. Did I hire you to be friends?"

She glares at me.

"Well?" I push.

"No," she answers.

"That's right. I hired you because you're the best accountant I know. And I appreciate you for your talent. That's also why I pay you what I do and give you huge bonuses. Have I upheld my end of the deal?" I arch my eyebrows.

Her face hardens. "Yes."

I nod. "Good. You've always upheld yours as well. Now, is there anything else we need to discuss?"