Free Honor Bound by Samantha Chase Page B

to work in a museum, didn’t you?”
    “I can’t get the kind of job I want. I haven’t been to college.”
    “I thought you were going to try to take classes online.”
    “I was. I am. It’s just slow. And it’s hard when you’re already working 50 hours a week, plus trying to help around the house.” Again, I made sure to keep any resentment out of my voice.
    “That’s the kind of job you get stuck in. You don’t enjoy what you’re doing, and you’re never valued or appreciated for it. Believe me. Don’t waste your life in that kind of job. It will bite you in the ass eventually.”
    That was exactly what had happened to him. It made my heart ache to think about it.
    But I was going to do something to make it better. I was going to do whatever I had to do to bring things to right. At least, as right as I could make them.
    “We do what we have to do,” I said at last.
    “Yeah. I guess we do.”
    He swallowed the rest of his beer and turned back to the TV. He’d be in this same position tomorrow morning when I woke up.
    He was trapped now, just like he’d been trapped in his no-win job. I was more determined than ever to finally free him.
    And the only way to do that was to focus on my mission and put Sebastian Maxwell from my mind completely.
    So that was what I would do.

 
Six
    Sebastian
     
    All my life, women had used the Maxwell name as a reason to get closer to me. This was the first time one was using it to get away.
    And I didn’t like it.
    This wasn’t just some random “I don’t like rich guys” kind of dislike. This was personal. Ali had said my name with a sneer one too many times for it to be anything else. The question was why.
    I honored her request and stayed away for the rest of the day, but once I was off the clock—well, Gentry’s clock—it was time to put a little of this business sense to good use. I had connections. Tons of them. But I thought that this was something I wanted to try on my own first.
    The business was too new for us to have an official office space, so I was stuck using the corner of my hotel room for work. A quick call to room service and a shower, and I could sit down at the computer and do a little checking on who exactly Ali was and what her gripe was with the Maxwells.
    And me.
    As if being a Maxwell wasn’t enough of a burden in my business life, it had to broach my personal one, too. What the hell? Sometimes I couldn’t catch a freaking break.
    An hour later, I was sitting there, and I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. I felt sick, and I was actually breaking out in a sweat. I didn’t know how I should feel or what I should do. I’d invested in some top-of-the-line software that I knew several big security and P.I. firms used, so that I could do some of the work on my own on future cases that required background checks and the like. But, now that I was staring at the report in front of me, I wished I’d never started the search.
    In a million years, I never would have expected this turn of events.
    Alison Cooper—Ali, my Ali—was the daughter of Greg Cooper. A former employee of Maxwell Industries. He was part of the group that had been let go some years ago, and if I remembered correctly, the massive layoff was surrounded by controversy. It seemed as if dear old dad and Ken Gentry were trying to cut expenses and thought that by getting rid of long-time employees—ones near retirement—that they could save a boatload of money.
    And they had.
    The only problem? They had found some miniscule loophole—one that to this day still seemed suspicious even to me—to get away with not having to pay those employees their due vacation time, 401Ks, or severance packages. I had to hand it to them and their legal team. They certainly knew how to screw people to their own advantage. And apparently, poor Greg was included in that group.
    No wonder Ali had a gripe with us.
    No, wait. Not us. Them . The company. The Maxwells. Not me.
    Only, that group