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He should have known better. Brittney was beautiful and charming and fun and adventurous, but she wasn’t smart. She’d loved the idea, and Brad thought he’d convinced her to wait until he set things in motion. He hadn’t told her that Jennifer White may have uncovered his processing fee scam; he’d wanted to fix the situation first.
But Brittney went and hired a private investigator without thinking it through. When she told him Sunday night, Brad realized it was Brittney’s PI who had screwed up his plans.
Britt, listen to me. Fire the PI. Get rid of her. We need to hire a prostitute to set him up. Someone we pay, and then we’ll know when and where they’ll be, and we can bring in a PI to take pictures. This is a process, baby, a process.
She’d sulked, but he coddled her—even though he was worried about Jennifer White and her damn computer.
And then Brittney fucked everything up again.
You told me to hire a prostitute!
I said we needed a plan and then we’d hire someone. Shit, Brittney!
She’d started crying and he couldn’t stand the tears.
Now Jennifer was in the wind with the evidence of his crime, and Brittney was going to get nothing but three million from Logan in the divorce. Unless Logan learned that Brad and Brittney had been together. Where was her patience? He had patience. He’d been waiting for three years while the woman he loved beyond all measure was married to another man. He’d been embezzling money for more than a year because he was patient.
But Brittney thought she was a whole lot smarter than she actually was, and now Brad was paying for it.
Worse, Britt was going home to Logan. She’d rolled out of Brad’s bed at eight to roll into her husband’s.
Which really made him mad, on multiple levels. Brittney was his, had always been his. When Logan Monroe asked her out, she was still Brad’s. They had planned for her to seduce him so that Brad could find his weak spot. But Brad didn’t expect her to marry the man.
Don’t you see? We’ll have half the money!
No, they wouldn’t, because she’d signed a ridiculous prenup. But Brittney convinced him that she loved Brad alone, and it would only be a year or two.
It had been three. Still, Brad hadn’t really complained. Logan traveled a lot on business and Brad stayed at the house. Brittney paid for all his luxuries, they went out to dinner (not where anyone would see them), to the theater, and sometimes even went away for the weekend to New York when Brittney told Logan she was visiting her mom.
Brad liked that Brittney spent Logan’s money on him.
Even now, when she screwed up everything, he loved her. He couldn’t get enough of her. When he took her to bed this afternoon—after nearly throwing her off the balcony listening to her sob story about how her PI couldn’t get photos of Logan and a woman—he reminded himself that they were still screwing behind Monroe’s back.
He poured himself one finger of Scotch. Just one, because he had to figure out how he was going to find Jennifer, destroy the evidence, and frame her for the theft. Because now that he’d destroyed the office and Tucker had brought in some computer expert, the theft was going to be discovered. If they accused him, he would deny it. They’d never be able to prove it because they’d never find the money. He’d left no fingerprints in cyberspace. But he didn’t have enough to just leave—they needed a large chunk from Monroe, and the three million that Brittney would get in a divorce now wouldn’t last very long, plus it would take months to even get that money.
Brad loved his townhouse in Scottsdale, near the shopping district of Desert Ridge, where he had a view of McDowell Mountain from the expansive balcony off his bedroom. The narrow, contemporary four-story home had cost him a small fortune, but it was worth it. He walked up to the balcony because he needed fresh air, needed to think.
What he really needed was Monroe’s money. It wasn’t fair that he had so much and Brad had to fight and scrape for scraps that men like Logan Monroe shared with their benevolent bonuses.
Bullshit.
At least he knew Brittney preferred his bed to her husband’s.
Brad recognized that he’d become obsessed about Brittney and Monroe’s love life. He’d told Brittney to record herself having sex with Monroe. She made three different recordings, each one better than the last as she started acting up for the camera. The last time, she’d set up her phone to record her on top, so Brad could watch her face and her breasts bounce with each thrust. When she orgasmed, she looked right at the camera and blew him a kiss. Right with Monroe underneath her and the nerd didn’t even know what she was doing.
That video always gave Brad a hard-on. Thinking about it gave him a hard-on, which went limp when he thought about how Brittney had put their entire plan in jeopardy.
Brad hated Monroe and wanted everything he had. His wife. His house. His bank accounts. He had his wife, he’d get his house—and if Brittney didn’t fuck up the one thing he’d told her to do when she got home, he’d have Monroe’s money.
He just had to wait for her to call.
His phone rang as he was about to pour his second Scotch. He answered, surprised that Brittney had actually done what he’d told her so quickly.
It wasn’t Brittney.
“Brad?” the female voice said, quiet and nervous.
He looked at the caller ID. “Tammy?”
