Page 3 of Risky Obsession

I rested my hand on Carol’s bony shoulder. “I’m going to talk to him. I’ll come back and see you once I’m done.”

She rolled her eyes. “Good luck.”

As I charged up the steep hill, I pulled my phone from my bag to call my captain about the drone, but I had no signal. No wonder most of the houses I passed had massive antennas on their roof.

The road ended at a turnaround at the top of the hill and only one driveway fed off that asphalt circle. At the entrance to the driveway stood a set of massive wrought iron gates topped with sharpened spears, like tribal warriors would use. Stretching left and right from the gates was an eight-foot-high brick fence with razor wire along the top.

The richweirdohas some serious security here.

I pressed the intercom button at the side of the gate and showed my police badge at the black dome I assumed was a camera. As I waited for a response, I checked my phone again. Still no signal.

“Hello.” The man’s voice sounded much friendlier than I’d anticipated.

“Hello, I’m Detective Brooks from Rosebud Police Station. May I come in, please? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll wait here for my colleagues to join me with a search warrant.” If he didn’t let me in, that was exactly what I would do.

I peered up at the dome, certain someone was watching me.

The gate unclicked and made a whirring noise as it slid aside.

As I strode up the path running parallel to the tree-lined driveway, cameras nestled amongst the foliage moved to follow my trek. The gate rolled back into position behind me and clicked closed. Stifling air was trapped in the foliage, and I rolled my sleeves up to my elbows and wiped the sweat from my forehead.

Why the hell does this man need so much security?

I checked my phone again, no signal.

Shit. I’m flying solo here. Maybe I should leave and return with Kinglsey and a warrant.

Then again, maybe this wealthy yet paranoidweirdojust valued his privacy.

The path departed the driveway, and I climbed a set of stone steps flanked by lush bushes and fancy lanterns that looked like gaslights from the 1900s.

The top of the path met with a large stone platform and a set of massive wooden doors that probably needed a crane to lift into position. As I waited for the doors to open, I searched thick bushes that blocked out both the road I’d taken up here and the ocean view and found two more discretely hidden cameras.

Faint sounds of several locks clicked, the door eased open, and I was greeted by one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen in person. He wore a white business shirt that was unbuttoned, revealing a defined torso that took my breath away. He smiled like he’d caught me perving, and I wanted to slap myself.

“Hello. I’m Detective Brooks.”

I didn’t know where to look: his stunning chocolate eyes, his exquisite body, his gorgeous smile.

“Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m running late for an appointment, but come in.” He strolled away, giving me no choice but to follow him. His emerald-colored business pants fit his butt so well, I decided they were custom-made. He wore no shoes, and he crossed the slate floor with the agility of a man who did yoga every day.

“I didn’t catch your name,” I said as I slipped my badge back into my bag.

“That’s because I didn’t tell you.” He shot his gaze at me over his shoulder. “I’m Grant Hughes.”

I frowned.Is that his real name?

“I know what you’re thinking. Sounds like Hugh Grant, right? My mother’s sense of humor was as warped as her infatuation with the English actor. I should have changed my name a long time ago before it became too hard.” He laughed and seemed so relaxed.

Despite his pleasantness and invitation into his home, there was something about him that gave me the creeps.

He led me to a massive living room past an opulent marble fireplace with a large oil painting on the wall above the mantle. The hairs on my neck bristled. The art was either an exquisite replica of the original Monetpainting that I’d seen on Chui’s yacht that was ruined when the vessel sank or this painting was from the same series by the famous artist. If the latter was true, then the floral garden artwork was worth a fortune.

Hughes strolled across the slate floor, passing two seating areas, a set of caramel-colored leather sofas facing the fire, and eight individual chairs flanked by two walls adorned with dozens of fancy bottles of alcohol.