“I’m Caroline Degraff.” She pointed to the name on the second line, trying to recapture the sense of shock she’d felt when her sister first showed her the paper.
She hadn’t recalled the marriage for weeks after her father rescued her, yet he’d never mentioned it until she confronted him. He’d tried to keep her isolated from her family so she wouldn’t learn the truth. Her mother was dead, her younger brothers at boarding school and her sister had been at university in the States. What else had he kept from her about her marriage? About Damon? Her therapist had gently suggested that Caroline had been subjected to gaslighting.
The gardener’s gaze flicked up from the paper. “You’re Mr. McNeill’s wife?”
Her throat went dry. She remembered enough about Damon to know he might never forgive her for this deception she had planned. But if he’d been the one tricking her into romance in the first place, what would it matter?
She was going to fake amnesia to find out what he had to say about her disappearance. She had to know for sure if her father had been lying to her about her husband.
“I’m honestly not sure.” She allowed all the doubts and fears of the last months to come through in her voice. That much was not an act. “We’ll have to ask him because…” She bit her lip and blinked back the swell of emotion before she spilled out a lie that was crucial to getting the answers she needed for her child. “I don’t remember.”
“What did you just say?” Damon McNeill pressed the pause button on the video he’d been watching on the big screen in the downstairs media room.
He’d asked not to be disturbed while he watched a hacker’s demonstration of how to unlock the security on the software Damon’s company was bringing to market in the spring. The hacker had found legitimate issues Damon’s technical team would need to patch. If he asked his own staff to troubleshoot, he would have gotten thirty-page reports that gave him the all-clear to go into production. Ask a twenty-two-year-old who busted complex digital coding for the thrills and the cash? He got results in forty-eight hours.
Except he’d have to rewind the video to the start now, because he couldn’t keep his focus on the demonstration when he was getting calls from the housekeeping service. Damn it. He’d only hired outside help to get the house ready to put on the market since he didn’t want to keep the place he’d barely set foot in since construction had finished a year ago.
Caroline had loved their Los Altos Hills home, spending weeks with the architect to get the design just right. And yet she’d disappeared from the property mere hours after setting foot in it for the first time after it was completed. That was more than enough reason for him to want the house gone from his life forever.
“Mr. McNeill, there’s a woman at the gate.” The head of the maid service had arrived this morning to personally oversee the housecleaning and stage photos for the Realtor. “She says she’s your wife.”
The phone slid from his hand, dropping halfway down to the chair before Damon slapped at it, stopping the descent by pinning the cell to his chest.
He went motionless, holding the device in place while keeping his heart in his rib cage at the same time.
What. The. Hell.
“What kind of joke is this?” He knew Caroline couldn’t be out there. He’d hired private investigators to find her. He’d paid a ransom to someone claiming to have kidnapped her. He’d searched half the world for her himself, convinced something had happened to her even though her wealthy and powerful father insisted Caroline had simply found Damon unsuitable and no longer wished to be married.
Stephan Degraff had said Caroline wished to travel and was entitled to her privacy, a story that was upheld by the occasional hits on her credit card. An apartment rented briefly in Prague. A used car purchased in Kiev.
Damon had never bought it.
He shot to his feet.
“No joke, sir.” The housekeeper’s voice was cool and modulated, as if she’d grown accustomed to disagreeable clients long ago. “She has a marriage certificate with your name on it and she looks like the photograph I’m staring at over the mantel. Shall we open the gate?”