“He wanted me to go over this with you,” he says, opening the leather folio to reveal a manila folder. I know manila folders are common things, but I can’t help feeling that I’ve seen this one before. In Niko’s lap on the plane, say.
“No.” Linking my fingers together, I press my wrists to the table.
“No what?”
“I don’t want whatever that is,” I add happily. “Money, property, whatever.”
“Maybe it’s a life insurance policy?” Griff’s mouth quirks in an echo of my brother’s smile. Weird. Griffin is dark where Sandy is fair, and as far as personalities go, they’re miles apart.
“I don’t think Van needs to take out a policy on my life to cash in on a later date, do you?”
Griffin laughs, then shakes his head. “He’s got more money than Croesus.”
“I think he might actually like me.”
“Oh, sure. There is that. If you’d allow me to show you this folder, you might find out exactly how much he likes you.”
“No thanks.” I don’t need to know. We’re getting along fine as we are—more than fine. I’m sort of surprised to find I like him. I loved him before. It was a heady, sweeping kind of love. The selfish, unthinking kind. A young love. But, as I’m a woman now, I like him. But like is such an inadequate word. I don’t like him like a pair of shoes or a nice dress. My feelings are muddied and hard to pin down. I feel grateful to him, not for saving me because he’s no white knight on a charging steed. It’s more about the gratitude I feel for all that he’s done to make this easy for my sons. He didn’t have to—he didn’t have to do anything, but he did. I’m also relieved at how well the three of them seem to get along, which has been more important than him easing the transition for them. You can pretend to like a child. You can pretend to listen when you’re really not paying any attention. You can smile and nod and think you’re doing a good job at fooling them, but they know. Kids are intuitive like that, and this is how I know he isn’t just pretending. For my sake. For me.
So I like him. I’m grateful to him. I see his kindness and his care. I see how he looks at me. And I think he sees the way I look at him. Because, my God, I fancy the pants off him. He makes me feel hot and greedy and like I’m twenty-five again. Which has brought me full circle because, at that age, I couldn’t get enough of him. At this age, I couldn’t help but fall in love with him for a second time. Like first, then love. And the sex? Well, that’s just an excellent bonus.
“Isla, I’ve come all this way. At least have a look at it.”
“What for?” I laugh, feeling a little giddy. “I don’t need anything from him.” It’s nice to be taken care of. A little strange being on the opposite side of the fence, but fighting it would be like fighting the tide.
“Don’t make me go back having failed at my job.”
“Why did he ask you to do this? You’re a criminal barrister.”
“Maybe because the amount of money he wants to give you could be seen by some as criminal.” He grins. “You know all this is just for you—no strings attached. It’s just like a massive—”
“Hug,” I say, sure he won’t understand. Niko wants me to feel secure and not dependent on him.
“He keeps his cards pretty close to his chest.” Griffin’s expression seems to say: hello, surprise wife!
“He must’ve asked because you’re family.” Griff’s posture stiffens, uncomfortable with the label. “You do quite a lot of work for him, don’t you? As a criminal barrister.”
“I have several law degrees. I just happen to be an expert in making crime pay.”
“For you or for him?”
“That would be telling.” He grins. “Not to mention grounds for being struck off. Ask your husband,” he adds when I don’t reply, tapping his forefinger against the folder. “But not before you have a look at this. Please?”
“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” I ask, but Griffin just sort of shrugs. “Want to give me a hint?”
“Some property. Some shares. Details of a couple of bank accounts, in your name, of course. Shares in a couple of racehorses, I think, not that you need to hold on to them, but they’re sound investments. As you can imagine, Van has the best wealth management team around. Oh, and there’s this.” Slipping his hand into his jacket, he pulls out a black credit card and slides it across the table. “The bill goes straight to the accountant, and there’s a half a million limit.”
“Dear me,” I trill. “How am I supposed to buy a super yacht with a piddly half a mil?” Five hundred thousand pounds. What kind of credit score does the man have?