There was also the addition of a new brother, sprung on Michael out of the blue. During the volatile teenaged years, no less. And of course the issue of his father being so controlling couldn’t be discounted. Mitcham had refused to grant Michael access to the Vandenberg empire—wouldn’t for another decade.
Not that Michael needed that capital now. He was set for several lifetimes. But it was probably the principle of the matter that rubbed him raw. Chances were very good he’d had tons of expectations heaped on him from birth. High expectations. Maybe even some unrealistic ones, given his surname and a reputation to be upheld. What must it have been like to grow up in a mansion with such a dominant force of nature as a father, who likely placed restrictions and perimeters around that childhood?
To follow all the rules and then discover it was basically for naught—because all you were left with when it came time to spread your wings was the Vandenberg name. And nothing to back it up.
His father telling Michael when he was sixteen that he’d have to pay for his own college education—and, again, likely expecting him to attend an Ivy League school—offered Michael the opportunity to research and apply for scholarships, certainly. Save money from after-school and summer jobs. But, Jesus. Princeton couldn’t c
ome cheap.
All of Scarlet’s speculation was healthy for the brain, but really, she was more interested in the layers beneath Michael Vandenberg’s impeccably tailored CEO by day and devilishly handsome bad boy by night persona. She wanted to dissect him, pick him apart. Get to the core of who he was and what he really sought in the grand scheme of things. Greater success than his father as some sort of fuck-you to Mitcham for being a hard-ass? Or did Michael seek approval? A less tenuous bond with his parents … and some peace from his mother’s passing?
With Scarlet’s curiosity shifting into high gear, she knew there was no point in attempting to sleep. Luckily, with Bayli in New York and the East Coast being three hours ahead of the West it was a respectable hour to ring her friend.
So Scarlet left the cozy comfort of the bed, snatched the luxurious midnight-blue robe on the bench at the foot of the mattress, which Michael had thoughtfully laid out for her, and padded barefoot into the living room to retrieve her phone from her purse.
“Well, hello there, sunshine,” came Bayli’s cheerful voice when she connected Scarlet’s Skype call.
“You are way too chipper, my friend,” Scarlet grumbled. “I haven’t even had coffee yet.”
“And oh, my God,” Bayli suddenly gasped. “You have some serious sex hair going on! Where are you and who is he?”
Scarlet couldn’t fight the smile. “I’m currently in the penthouse of the new Crestmont in San Fran.” She panned the camera over the elegantly appointed living room and the sweeping views of the bay and the Financial District.
Bayli whistled under her breath. “Stellar.”
“Yes, well, it gets better,” Scarlet told her. “After I finally made contact with my elusive wraith, and then later hooked up with him at the club, we came here.”
“That’s Michael Vandenberg’s penthouse suite?” Bayli’s eyes popped. “Holy Moses. You … And him … Oh. My. God.”
“Might as well add Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to that sentiment. Because I was singing some praises last night.”
Bayli’s radiant smile filled the screen. “You wicked, wicked woman!”
“’Bout time. Good grief. It should be a crime to go as long as I have without sex. Great sex. Mind-blowing, core-shaking sex, to be exact.”
“Ooohh, the best kind. But … Uh … Speaking of crimes, girlfriend … You just slept with a person of interest in a case you’re working.”
“Yeah, there is that.” Scarlet wandered the vast room and located the in-suite iPad that featured touch-of-a-button butler service. She shot off a note to the designated attendant, requesting a pot of coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. As she scooped up her clothing that was strewn about, she told Bayli, “I will confess to a lapse in morals. In my defense, however…” She blew out a long breath. “He was worth every unraveled scruple. And then some.”
“Wow. Coming from you, that’s saying something. What’s going on with you two?”
“I have no idea, honestly. Just that last night was sensational and I wouldn’t be opposed to a repeat performance. But he’s on his way back to New York. And I need fresh clues to pursue.”
“Well, you’re in luck there, too,” Bayli excitedly said. “The official FBI report has finally arrived—so much more conclusive than the vague snapshot provided by the insurance company. I printed a hard copy and FedExed it to you.”
“Knowing you the way I do, you’ve read it from cover to cover already.”
“Twice.”
Scarlet laughed. “Naturally. So, what exactly was Michael’s entire statement?”
“Let me pull up the PDF.” A few moments ticked by; then she gave the alibi verbatim. Nothing different from what Michael had told Scarlet, just a bit more detailed, including the names of the women he’d been pleasuring while someone was ripping off his stepmother’s art collection.
Which reminded Scarlet that Michael had mentioned his stepbrother last night. “Tell me more about Sam Reed.”
“Total enigma. Same age as Michael, thirty. Also went to Princeton. He studied architecture. Never joined a firm, though. A year after the paintings went missing, he was in a car accident with his fiancée. Very tragic story. They were returning to the Hamptons estate from a local charity function when their car was struck by a drunk driver on the passenger side. Sam was driving. He was hospitalized for numerous injuries.”
Scarlet’s stomach suddenly churned. “And the fiancée?”