Letting out a groan they would have heard in the hall if they hadn't been drowning in a fog of lust, I pulled the door shut, closing us off in the dark of the stairwell. Pinning Scarlett against the wall, I dipped my head to nip at her earlobe. "You need a show, Scarlett? Not getting what you need?"
As a distraction, it worked perfectly. Scarlett twined her arms around my neck, tipping her head back, offering herself to me. "I'm so deprived. I haven't gotten you naked in almost twelve hours. I don't know how you expect me to—"
She let out a shriek as I cupped her ass and lifted her against the wall, settling myself between her legs and kissing her until we both stopped thinking about anything but each other.
She wasn't the only one who needed a diversion. With Scarlett in my arms, I couldn't have cared less about whatever my sister and Forrest were up to. Scarlett filled my senses. The warm scent of her skin, the little sounds she made as I kissed her, satisfied and eager, the clasp of her legs around my hips, her fingers digging into my neck.
I didn't get my senses back until the crackle of paper hit my ears, sharp and out of place among the soft sounds of our breath and bodies.
The contracts.
Damn.
Slowly, I set Scarlett on her feet, looking down to make sure we weren't standing on top of everything we'd dropped.
"We have to get this to Griffen," I said, bending down to pick up the papers and slide them into the manila envelope.
Scarlett brushed her hair back, blinking at me in the dim stairwell. "I almost forgot why we were coming downstairs." She turned the handle to the door, peeking out a narrow crack. "Coast's clear. Let's go before I drag you into an empty room to have my way with you."
"As soon as we talk to Griffen, I'm finding a room with at least five locks and I'm handcuffing myself to you again. After we're naked."
"I like your plan." She pressed a quick kiss to my neck and led me down to the front hall, her hand in mine, tugging me along.
I didn't bother to knock on Griffen's office door, flinging it open and pulling Scarlett in behind me. "Griffen, we found— Oh, fuck, sorry—"
I spun around, blocking Scarlett's view of Hope straddling Griffen's lap, his mouth on her neck, hand inside her shirt and half her buttons undone. "Sorry," I said to the ceiling. "We have something to show you, but we'll come back."
Griffen cleared his throat. "Later would be good. Or never—"
It sounded like Hope covered his mouth with her hand. "It's fine, we're fine, just one sec. Don't go."
"No, go," Griffen added. "It's not fine."
"Griffen—" Hope sounded torn between regret and amusement. Over a rustle of fabric, she said, "You can turn around, I'm decent."
"I'm not," Griffen muttered.
I turned to find him seated behind his desk, Hope beside him, her fingers still fumbling on her buttons, cheeks sweetly pink.
"Sorry," Scarlett said, taking the manila envelope from my hand and shoving it at Griffen. "We should have knocked, but we found this and wanted to show you right away."
"What is it?" Griffen asked immediately, taking the envelope and pulling out the contents.
"Auction contracts for five pieces and receipts for almost half a million dollars." I paused. "And something else you need to see."
Griffen spread the first few papers out across his desk. "Tell me what I'm looking at."
Scarlett leaned over and lined up the contracts with their matching receipts. Griffen didn't need further explanation. "That's a lot of missing cash. And what's the 'something else?’"
I shook out the three letters I'd found and set them on Griffen's desk in front of him. Reading over his shoulder, I waited for Griffen's response.
It was Hope who spoke first. "That's Vanessa's handwriting. I recognize it from the notes she'd send Ford." At Griffen's curious look, she explained, "They'd get mixed up in the business correspondence and sometimes I'd open them by mistake. Or because I was nosy," she added, rolling her eyes in sheepish amusement at herself.
Before marrying Griffen, Hope had been her Uncle Edgar's assistant. Edgar, Prentice, and our brother, Ford, had worked closely together, much of the Sawyer business intertwined with Edgar's. Hope knew more about the details of both Ford and our father's life than anyone except her uncle.
The letters in front of us were neither addressed nor signed. One was on a heavy-weight notecard. The other two appeared to have been hastily scribbled on lined notepaper. On all three, the handwriting was unmistakably Vanessa's, a distinctively odd combination of sweeping curves and hard angles. I'd have recognized it anywhere. None of the letters were dated, but they followed a clear progression. The first was short.