Christo slid his thumbnail to unseal it. Made a show of inspecting the contents. Two thousand US dollars. Not so much. Certainly not enough for an escape. A passport. Nothing unusual there.
He unfolded a white piece of paper with account numbers written on it.
‘Who taught you to ride a motorcycle?’ he asked.
Her eyes widened a fraction. She hadn’t been expecting that question, he was sure of it. Which had been his intention all along.
Thea licked her lips. They shone moist and pink. ‘M-my brother... Demetri.’
Her brother was a dissolute, soft, rich boy, who only knew how to drive so he could show off his newest supercar. The thought that he could ride a motorcycle was absurd.
He let her lie sit unanswered, for now, and returned his attention to the paper in his hands.
‘What bank is this?’
Thea crossed her arms.
‘How much money is in the account?’
The silence stretched till it was thin and fragile. He waited.
When the thread was so thin Christo thought it would snap, Thea spoke. A low hiss, but he heard it nonetheless.
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘You’re my wife. Everything about you is my business. We can treat this...’ he waved the paper about ‘...as your dowry.’
‘No!’
He didn’t need her money. The gift her father had granted him, halting the foreclosure, was greater than any paltry amount she no doubt held. But this was a battle he’d win. Her antics wouldn’t put Atlas Shipping at risk. Not in the company’s seventy-fifth year. It was a year for celebration, not failure. He’d never allow it. Never.
‘One call to my personal banker and I’ll have not only the name of your bank, but the balance of your account transferred into mine and secure.’
Thea twisted her small, delicate hands in her lap. ‘You can’t...’
‘He was at the wedding,’ Christo said, picking up his phone. ‘All I need to say is that you’ve forgotten the details and want me to take care of it. Would you like me to get him now? No matter the time, he’ll take my call.’
She looked at him. Eyes narrow, lips thin. Hatred evident. Once, long ago, he might have cared. Tonight, he didn’t.
‘Four million.’
He put down the sheet of paper. Leaned forward. He couldn’t have heard properly.
‘How much?’
‘Four million US dollars or thereabouts.’
She lounged back in the chair looking like the fox who’d stolen a prized chicken. How had she accumulated that kind of money? Tito Lambros was known for being stingy. A banker who made money through frugality and questionable practices.
‘Your father gave it to you?’
She snorted, before catching herself. There was his answer. Tito Lambros would never have given his daughter those sorts of funds. She must have stolen it, somehow.
‘I’m thrifty.’
‘Or a criminal. Should I ask your father to check his accounts? Perform an audit to look for a missing four million “or thereabouts”?’
When she spoke it was with pure derision. ‘I’m no thief.’