Page 34 of Her Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

“No, Laura.”

“What did you do to him!?”

I startled awake, and then I felt the bump as the jet ground to a halt on the tarmac. I sat up and looked out the cabin window, and then below me at the pack of aspirin and the orange juice.

For three nights, I’d dreamed the same thing. Always the same. In the dream, Laura returned to me and kissed me, before accusing me of murdering Conor. Was it the guilt of keeping my secret from her?

Whatever it was, it could wait. I shook it off, and looked out of the window.

It was morning. I’d flown out on Sunday to attend an emergency meeting with some of my Japanese investors in Tokyo. There had been serious currency fluctuations between the dollar and the yen recently and I’d worked away most of the night with my chief financial officer in order to ensure that there wasn’t a run on our money. But fortunately we were looking good. Making two Pacific flights in 24 hours wasn’t the easiest thing for me to do anymore.

I groaned. I’d been working on a couple of hours sleep a night. It was nothing compared to my days in the Navy, but I was feeling fatigued nonetheless as we touched down. Nothing like a whole day in the office with Laura Solomon to keep me awake.

Ronnie, my chauffeur, looked equally beat, and I clapped him on the back as he made his way towards the silver Bentley I’d securely parked at the airstrip yesterday.

“Thanks, Ron. Go get some rest for a couple of weeks. I’ll drive myself.”

“But sir—”

“No buts. You missed your daughter’s recital, didn’t you? Make it up to them.”

I was feeling generous this morning—I’d just saved a four-hundred million-dollar portfolio from collapsing, after all. So I felt lucky as I drove up through the valley. I checked my clock and saw that it was 7.45 am. I felt relieved that I wouldn’t be locking out Laura.

But the USPS guy distracted me on the way up the road. He delivered door-to-door around the top of the valley each morning on foot. Only this time, I could see that bags weighed him down.

Like I said, I was feeling generous. So I slowed down by the mail carrier and rolled down my window.

“Good morning,” I said. “Say, can I give you a lift up the hill? Looks like your load’s a little heavier than normal.”

“Buddy,” he turned to me, huffing and panting, “…you got that right. I’ll take the lift—only don’t tell my boss.”

I grinned and unlocked the back door. The guy chucked the mail in before we drove up the hill.

“Where are you headed?” asked the postman.

“Lakeview.”

The mail carrier turned to me. Granted, he was obviously a little spooked out at being driven up his route by a guy in a silver Bentley wearing a 1000-dollar suit. But he still looked disgusted as he stared at me.

“So you’re the one?” he said.

“What do you mean?” I frowned.

“You’re the one all these letters for,” he said. “Just what the hell are you playing at? Ever heard of email, fella?”

I smiled. I had absolutely no idea what this guy was talking about. He was a crank. But he shook his head when we stopped at my house and I asked where he wanted to be dropped off.

“Hey, pal,” he said. “I told you. This is the stop.”

I turned and looked at the enormous square bags he’d slung in the backseat. “What?” I said. “All that’s for me?”

I had packages delivered sometimes, but never by USPS.

“Yeah,” he said. “Like I told you. Some deal, huh? Who are you, anyway, living in a fancy place like this? John Lennon?”

I got out of the car and opened my gate with the biometric lock. Then I escorted the mail carrier up to the house, shouldering one of his bags for him. I opened my door and let him inside, and he whistled.

“Wow,” he said. “Some place you got here, mister.”