Читать книгу The Billionaire's Handler - Jennifer Greene, Jennifer Greene - Страница 7

Maguire climbed aboard, wasting no time before kicking off his shoes and sinking into the white leather couch. Maybe he was stuck suffering through a Puccini opera tonight, but there were advantages to being the lone traveler on a private jet. Not only did he own the escape vehicle—which was mighty convenient—but on the long-hour flight to New York, he could bank a serious snooze.

That was the plan.

But he closed his eyes, expecting to hear the door close and the engines start up. Instead, he heard a kid’s breathless voice, yelling all the way from the tarmac.

“Mr. Cochran? Mr. Cochran!”

The boy wore a courier uniform, and bounded into the cabin with a flushed face and a self-important air.

“I was told to deliver this to you immediately, sir.”

“Thank you.” Maguire tipped him and sent him on his way. The pilot had already stepped out of the cockpit to see if there was a problem. Maguire asked him to hold up for two shakes until he had a chance to find out what was so critical in the ordinary manila envelope.

The return address warned him, but the picture that spilled out brought an immediate scowl to his forehead.

He’d seen the photo before. The young woman was sitting on a carpet with a half-dozen children. The kids all appeared to be disabled in different ways. They were clapping hands with her, playing some kind of game or song. She was sitting on her knees, just like the kids, her pale hair wisping around her cheeks, her eyes full of laughter. Everything about her looked as fragile as powder.

“The situation has deteriorated,” was the opening line in the report from his investigator.

Maguire read on. Some of it, he already knew. The job she loved was in jeopardy. Her place was constantly hounded by strangers. She’d tried a change in phones, which was like plugging a finger in a dike. Then she’d tried security, but what she knew about security measures wouldn’t fill a thimble. A second photo showed an exhausted woman with shadowed eyes, who looked as if she’d been eating a nonstop diet of nerves and stress.

The break-in was the recent development.

“The police are looking into it,” his investigator reported, “but this could be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Last night her brother visited her. He called an ambulance. At this time, I’ve been unable to substantiate what the medical problem is.”

Maguire put down the envelope, his mind spinning a hundred miles an hour. None of this should have anything to do with him. He hadn’t caused the crisis, didn’t even know the damn woman.

Even though his father had died, it seemed Maguire was still stuck cleaning up the man’s messes.

“Sir?” The pilot hovered in the cockpit doorway, waiting for instructions.

“See how fast you can change flight plans. We’re canceling the New York trip. I need to fly into South Bend, Indiana.”

He put a dozen things in motion within minutes, as if he’d been prepared for this contingency for some time—which, of course, he had. He’d known this could happen. Known he might have to become involved.

Sometimes there was a problem that only a billionaire could handle. The irony was that money had nothing to do with it.