The kind they carve statues of.
But I shook my head. “No. The man I met was not gorgeous. Also, I wouldn’t call him generous, which is kind of the hallmark of a philanthropist.”
Sarah lifted a brow. “Didn’t he pay you an ungodly sum to fix his pipes?”
“That’s because he wanted me to get the hell out of his house. He may have even used those words.” Sort of.
Cher pulled out her phone. “I told you she wouldn’t know,” she said to Sarah, fully ignoring me as she tapped on her screen. A moment later, my phone buzzed, the screen lighting up.
I rolled my eyes. I wanted to ignore whatever she’d just sent me. My stomach was clenching, warning me not to. Never mind that my eyes were itching to look down.
Cher slid my phone toward me so it was directly under my nose.
“Hells bells, Cher!” I said. I reached for my phone,intending to lock it and move on. Except the message was a link, and I recognized the logo.TechBeat.This was the online edition of a glossy magazine Ryan used to get at home.
The link’s headline was WHERE IN THE WORLD IS MITCHELL HARRINGTON?
The house's voice echoed in my mind.Mitchell William Franklin Harrington.
My heart spasmed in my chest, my hands growing damp. My fingers moved on their own, tapping the message despite my brain screaming to let it go.
A browser window opened up. Unfortunately, I was a fast reader, so I took in the first paragraph without thinking.
Then I was hooked.
According to the article, which was dated February of this year, Mitchell Harrington was a thirty-five-year-old tech genius with contracts with some of the biggest organizations in the world, mostly philanthropic or medical. He was preparing his company, which was called LoupTeq, for a ‘landmark merger’ with Zynstyr Technologies, some kind of medical research firm.
“‘But in a shock move last week,’” Cher read, knowing somehow exactly where I’d be on the page, “‘Harrington handed temporary control of his billion-dollar global entity to a single member of his staff. He hasn’t been seen at his Seattle penthouse, or at any recent charity dinners, where it’s rumored he typically drops upwards of millions in donations, though they’re always anonymous.’Millions, Winona. At a single dinner.”
“Everydinner,” Sarah said. “Apparently, he usually attends at least one amonth.”
“This doesn’t prove anything,” I say. “I swear this isn’t him.”
It couldn't be.
Cher smirked, reading on. “‘But Harrington effectivelyvanished six months ago. None of his senior circle would disclose his location. His assistant, Salima Zhang, quashed rumors Tuesday that Harrington was in rehab, prison, or had fled the country.’”
Salima.I don’t call people like you. That’s Sal’s job.
I swallowed, my mouth dry, even as the fury from that comment burned in my chest again.
“‘It’s thought,’ Sarah said, reading over Cher’s shoulder, ‘that Harrington may be staying with his brother, business strategist Blake Harrington, in rural Vermont, away from prying eyes.’”
I shrugged, even as my heart raced. “Fine. So what?” The article got his location only half right. They had to have gotten the philanthropy part wrong, too. The donations were all anonymous. It made the most sense, given the asshole I met.
“Scroll down,” Cher said.
I held my phone out like I was going to set it back down on the table. Only… I couldn’t help being curious. I had to admit, the story was still juicy. A billionaire losing it and vanishing. And living like a wild man right here in Quince Valley. Why?
Reluctantly, I dragged my thumb over the screen.
Then it froze. My eyes locked on the image I’d revealed, and I suddenly deeply,deeplyregretted not slamming the phone down. Not dunking it in the fresh pitcher of beer the server had just dropped off.
Because there, filling my phone screen, was a photo of Mitchell Harrington.
Sarah hadn’t lied. The man in the photo was—there was no other word for it—gorgeous, if not a little severe-looking. Clean-shaven, with his hair cropped short, the top swooping stylishly over his forehead. I’d still argue vehemently that this wasn’t the same man I’d met. He had a strong jaw, long nose, cheekbones almost a little too sharp.
But there were those same forest-green eyes. The same thick brows that had been narrowed at me; the tumultuous intensity of them piercing something so deep inside of me I flinched again, right there at the table.
