Till Death by Alessandra Torre, Madison Seidler Read Free Book Online Page A

the plan.”
     
    It doesn’t take him long to tell me the plan, mostly because it is ridiculously simplistic. Originally, when I was to be kept in the dark, Nathan planned on taking me into the bank, with the pretense of opening a joint account in our names—presenting it as a token of goodwill. The paperwork would be simple, a registration card for the account, showing both of our names. I would sign, never knowing that, instead of adding both of our names to a new account, I was signing off to add Nathan’s name to a pre-existing account, one with a cool fifty million inside.
     
    Now that I am aware of the con, the new plan is to do a simple funds transfer, from Jennifer’s account to Nathan’s. They will ask for identification, I will present mine, and everything should be done in a matter of minutes.
     
    “There will be paparazzi?”
     
    “Only in certain places. Mark is tipping them off to some restaurants and resort locations, so we can manipulate those occasions.” He takes a tight curve on the road, looking over as he drives. “Are you comfortable with that? Being photographed with me?”
     
    I laugh. “You mean, as a ploy to get Cecile’s attention? Yes, I am fine with that.” I lean back, curling up against the seat and closing my eyes, keeping my face peaceful. I don’t want any part in aiding a reunion between this man and Cecile. But, when he is acting, when he is playing to the cameras and grinning and leaning into me, planting soft kisses and holding my hand—that is my heaven. And even if it is fake, even if it is for another woman, I want it. Badly.
     

CHAPTER 12
     
    “More wine?”
     
    I look up from my plate with a smile. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
     
    We are in Seafire, a steakhouse in the Atlantis resort, dining on lobster and steak at a table by the window. I can see cameras when I look outside, the collapsed arm of a photographer draped over a large lens, cigarettes glowing in the night as they chat, waiting for us to leave. They can see us, our table strategically chosen, and every once in a while I find their eyes on me, their lens positioning before taking a quick shot.
     
    Our flight had arrived at one, setting down on a crowded tarmac, the line at customs crowded with antsy vacationers. It took over an hour to get through the line, a bored Bahamian stamping my crisp new passport with barely a glance. It was the first commercial flight I had been on in almost five years, my strip club years spent without travel, the last seven weeks spent aboard Nathan’s plane. It is amazing how quickly a person can become accustomed to private travel. The ability to stride out of your car and up the stairs of a plane, in the air in minutes—no security, baggage claim, or seat assignments. Nathan hadn’t wanted to take the plane internationally; private plane customs more trouble than it was worth.
     
    The limo, sent from Atlantis, was laughable—a ten-year old Lincoln with worn seats, ripped carpet, and a back window held together by a strip of duct tape. I shot Nathan a worried look and he grinned, placing a gentle hand on my back and guiding me in to the car. “Don’t worry,” he said. “These guys are subcontractors for the resort. It will get better.”
     
    And better it did. From the two hundred foot yachts cozied up outside of the towering casino walls to the gold columns, arched ceilings, and hand-painted murals decorating the lobby walls. We took the scenic route down to the pool deck, walking through a stone cavern of fish tanks, giant manta rays traveling alongside us as we walked hand in hand. I tried to contain my glee, tried to maintain an air of aloof snobbery, but failed miserably, shrieking with excitement as a shark swam by, and oohing with delight at the beautiful actions of glowing jellyfish.
     
    When we crossed a rope bridge over lazy hammerhead sharks, when my feet sank into warm white sand, a tropical paradise of perfect blue green water before me, I