The Deception (Filthy Rich Americans 3)

The helicopter flight to Boston’s premiere hospital was terrifying. I was sure at any moment the rotating blades overhead were going to stop turning and we’d fall from the sky. At least it’d be fitting that the first time I rode on the Hale’s helicopter, I’d bring it down.

It seemed everything I touched in this new world came undone.

The seats had the HBHC logo embroidered in the leather, and I sat slumped in the back bench, my throbbing head resting on Royce’s shoulder. Across from us in the rear-facing captain chairs sat Macalister and his personal physician, who’d come along to monitor me during the short flight. However, he’d been on the phone since we boarded, on hold with the lab to hear the results of the toxicology report.

As his private helicopter cut through the night, Macalister’s gaze never wavered from me. I was the opposite. My focus flitted away. I was barely able to look at him or the emotions teeming in his eyes. It was unnerving.

He stared at me with both concern and heavy longing.

And he glared with outright jealousy at the man at my side. Macalister didn’t bother to hide that he wished to be the one I was leaning on. He wanted to trade places with his son.

The thought made me shiver.

Royce’s lips pressed against my forehead the moment before he whispered, “Still cold?”

He didn’t wait for my answer. His arm pulled me tighter against him, and I was grateful. Not only for his warmth, but for the display. It reminded his father who I belonged to.

Not you.

He may have been the one to find me collapsed on the stairs, but he hadn’t rescued me. He was just the first one home, two minutes ahead of the son he refused to share a car with after they’d left the impromptu board meeting. Macalister wasn’t the hero. He was indirectly responsible for how I’d ended up on the staircase.

I was cold, though.

My beautiful green dress had been left behind at the hospital, so all I had on was a thin hospital gown beneath Royce’s tuxedo jacket, and a throw blanket pulled from one of the cabin compartments.

I’d been hot earlier, but being confined in this small space meant Macalister’s ice could get to me faster. It grew worse when he undid his seatbelt and tugged off his own tuxedo jacket.

“No, that’s—” I said, but it didn’t matter.

The patriarch of the Hale family was on his feet, stooping so his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling, and draped his open jacket over me. Had he done it so he didn’t have to see Royce’s arm around me? Or was it simply a power move? I wouldn’t accept the gesture as an attempt to be nice. It had an agenda. Everything Macalister did was calculated.

“Yes, I’m here,” the doctor said into his phone.

As he listened to the person on the other end of the line, I evaluated the man seated across from Royce. The doctor was exactly what I would have expected. Older and seasoned looking, with smart eyes and a serious demeanor.

“Has the patient’s care team at Mass General been informed already?” He paused. “Very good. Thanks for letting me know.” The doctor tapped his phone screen and lowered it into his lap. “We have a positive result for glycoside. Further testing will tell us which type.” He spoke directly to Macalister, as if he needed to have the information, and not me. “I haven’t been out to the house recently, but your gardens are extensive. Do you have any foxglove or lily of the valley flowers growing in them? Lily of the valley is white, bell-shaped—”

“I know what they look like,” I said. “The florist wants to use them in our wedding.” My stomach twisted horribly. They were the flowers Alice had picked out. A vision of her in her Hera mask sliced through my mind before my gaze flicked unavoidably to Macalister. “And Alice grows them in the garden closest to the house.”

My tone was full of accusation, but there was no reaction in his steely blue eyes.

The doctor focused on me. “They’re safe to handle but can be quite toxic if ingested. Anything made from its leaves will give you a high dose of convallatoxin, which is what caused your cardiac arrhythmia, but we’ve got that under control now. With the toxin identified, your doctors can get it flushed out of your system and you could be recovered as quickly as a few days.”

“Mr. Hale,” the pilot’s disembodied voice came through the cabin speaker, “we’ll be landing in ninety seconds.”

The doctor slipped his phone into his slacks and subtly tightened the belt across his lap as the helicopter began its quick descent. “Although death is extremely rare from lily of the valley poisoning, you’re a lucky woman, Marist.”