Secret Crush (The House of Morgan Book 1) Read online

  Secret Crush

  The House of Morgan

  Victoria Pinder

  Secret Crush

  Copyright©2016

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemble to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

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  Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Copyright © 2016 Victoria Pinder Love in a Book

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1535140065

  ISBN-10: 1535140062 (Love in a Book)

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my husband who kept hearing me talk about the Morgan family when we sleep at night. My dearest husband kept asking who was Peter and John.

  Chapter One

  John Morgan loaded his Colt M4 Carbine assault rifle as he studied the mansion nestled in the Georgia hills. After a year of digging for information, Frank Hudson was about to be arrested.

  His skin prickled as his team moved into position. He frowned and adjusted the rifle by the strap across the back of his FBI wind jacket so he had his hands free.

  His cell phone buzzed in his jeans' back pocket. John checked it fast, surprised to see his brother's number. He turned off the ringer, deciding to call Peter once the mission ended. It had to be important for the heir apparent of the House of Morgan to call the spare son. John swallowed and shook his head. Normal families didn't call themselves a dynasty or the House of anything.

  With his gaze narrowed, John focused on his job—to arrest his father's associate. Frank was dirty, and he might know more information about John's father, Mitch. Every arrest brought John one step closer to the evidence he needed against the man who'd raised him.

  John tipped his chin and nodded at the four men set to break through the door.

  His primary team and the local police burst into the house. John stayed back, gun ready, in case an associate of Frank's ran outside.

  Agent Wolfson shouted, "FBI. Freeze."

  John gestured for more men to enter the house.

  No shots were fired.

  Just as the surveillance read, Frank Hudson had been home with his wife, Beatrice, and his two adult daughters, Serena and Serenity, who were all used to the best in life and funded through money laundering. Women's screams rang in the air as the last of the law enforcement filled the house.

  John tugged his baseball cap over his sandy blond hair and went inside with the third wave to ensure that Frank was in handcuffs.

  John lowered his head so Frank might not notice who'd brought him to justice as he rushed in the door. He'd prefer to let the guys who didn't personally know Frank handle the arrest. John's moment would come later, during the interrogation at the station as he let his six foot two frame intimidate from the door.

  He'd wasted too much time already. Mitch Morgan had killed his own daughter, John's sister, and he would prove it. Frank's arrest would help Victoria rest in peace, despite what Mitch had done to her.

  John clenched his jaw. Unlike Mitch, it had been easy to learn about Frank, his habits, his quirks, his schedule. John's shoulders were tight as he turned into the living room.

  Two team members stood over the older gentleman kneeling on the floor, hands cuffed behind his back, with tears in his brown eyes. He cried out to the other agents, "My lawyer will hear of this."

  John scowled and shook his head. Frank was done, bringing John one inch closer to learning how deep the House of Morgan had buried itself.

  He'd spent a year on this case, on his mission to bring down all of his father's connections. It was airtight. Frank Hudson's charity had laundered money to thicken his wallet. The older man gazed into John's eyes. "John Morgan, is that you?"

  So much for waiting. John's spine straightened as he towered over the prisoner. Being the second son in the House of Morgan, who looked like Mitch, meant he'd always be recognized. He took off his cap and stilled. "Yeah, Frank. It's me."

  "Why would you do this to me?"

  John wouldn't give Frank any clues on this investigation for his lawyers to use. His body tensed as he slammed his fists on the coffee table. "Why did you break the law?"

  The old man pleaded in a warbling voice, "John Morgan, I'm friends with your father. That should mean something." He said it as though he expected leniency, for John to look the other way. He imagined his father, twisting his ring as he waited for someone like Frank to bow to his hand.

  The House of Morgan owned everyone and everything. His father taught him to never let emotions interfere with business. He chose to ignore how the women all sat in the dining room and focused on his target. John shrugged. "Who isn't a friend with dear old Dad?"

  "I'll speak to Mitch, right after I speak to my attorney."

  John's mouth curled into a sneer. Perfect. His old man should know he was one step closer to uncovering his crimes. Then he turned on his heel. His footsteps echoed on the polished mahogany floors as John stepped out of the house and into the shadows of the trees outside. He'd interrogate Frank later.

  He went to his car and started it up, driving to the local headquarters to report that Frank Hudson was in custody.

  His brother's face played in his memory as John made the second turn onto I-285. What had Peter wanted? They hadn't spoken in years.

  John's phone vibrated in his back pocket. He reached behind him and stared at Peter's name, again, as he placed it on the console. A coldness inched up his spine. Truthfully, he had no words to say right now. Peter was his father's right-hand man and could be guilty. He could also not be. He clenched the phone. If he didn't answer, he'd spend forever analyzing what Peter might have to say. "Hello."

  "John."

  Peter's voice struck at some deep memories he'd rather avoid. The back of his neck pinched. Peter had chosen Mitch's life. I shouldn't have answered. "Peter, I'm busy."

  "Whatever you're doing can wait."

  Once again Peter Morgan thought he could order him around. His left eye twitched. His older brother's forceful answer burned like acid through him. No one told him what to do. He sighed. "No, my life can't wait."

  "Dad's dead."

  John stepped on the gas and his car took off at high speed. "He's what?"

  He took his foot off the accelerator and pressed his lips together. At least no other car was near him on the freeway.

  John's heart raced as Peter spoke with crisp syllables. "Dad is dead."

  Adrenalin shot through him, electrifying his body. He steadied the wheel. "I don't care."

  "I don't either."

  No? Peter expected to be next in line and to inherit the entire House of Morgan. Then just as fast as the storm of emotions set off inside him, his body temperature cooled. Peter was too much like their father. John didn't trust him. He'd keep his words and sentences short. "So why are you calling me?"

  "You should be at the funeral."r />
  John rolled his eyes as he turned off of the 285. "Why? So you can pretend we have a family?"

  "Victoria would want us to be together."

  John's breathing hitched at the sucker-punch. Their dead baby sister deserved better than her name in the mud. Though he didn't need to say so, he did anyway. "Vicki's dead."

  "I don't know how that happened."

  John rubbed his forehead. Peter had to stop this conversation, now. No words could change any of the past. "You do, too. Dad did something to her. It's his fault."

  "I don't know anything other than my sister died while I was away in grad school. You're my only brother."

  What did their shared DNA have to do with the question? John's entire body stiffened—he needed to know the truth. "Peter, did you help Dad kill Vicki?"

  "No, and if you have proof Dad did, then share."

  John hesitated. There had never been any proof, just unanswered questions that were buried with a closed casket. Their father's death changed everything. "I'm working on it."

  "Then you're too late. We're all that's left of the House of Morgan."

  John let out a sigh. Peter was right, as he'd never learn the truth now. Then he swallowed back his bitterness. "You'll go straight to hell if you covered for Dad."

  "I'm not involved. I loved her too."

  Peter had been silent, distant, and even during childhood, always with their father, except when he took the heat for whatever John or Vicki had done. John lifted his chin, threw his baseball cap into the backseat, and turned his car into headquarters' parking lot. "What's the point of coming to the funeral? Dad and I had nothing to say to each other."

  "You're not disinherited, despite how you intended to arrest him. Dad didn't care and even hoped you'd forgive him."

  He parked the car, resisting the urge to check his hair in the rear-view mirror. All that mattered right now was booking Frank Hudson.

  He shook his head. He'd never forgive, and Peter should never have, either. "How could you?"

  "I never said I did. I never said anything."

  Silence drove John away from trusting his older brother. He stepped out of the car, his every cell crawling with sweat. The humid air in Atlanta lacked the cool breezes coming off the ocean. "Peter..."

  "Come back to Miami. There's nothing holding you there. Now that Dad's dead you can stop arresting all of his lowlife associates who will never darken our doors again."

  "You knew?"

  "Yeah. Dad knew too. There was nothing any of us could do to bring Vicki back. Come home."

  John hung up and took the elevator to his office and picked up his report, then went to stand outside a conference room that overlooked Atlanta. Peter's call changed everything. John's boss, Special Agent Smith, waved him in.

  This was it. John's throat was parched.

  A part of him had failed. He'd never see Mitch Morgan in handcuffs.

  Smith leaned back in his office chair, near the wall, and took his time. John stayed still and noticed the dead flowers on a cabinet in the corner of his office. Smith nodded at him. "You're on now, John. Go."

  John's mind was in a daze. His skin felt clammy. He was supposed to give his report on white-collar crime statistics and an oral report on what happened at the Hudson estate.

  His father's old friend had been taken down in this investigation, but no one had ever uncovered any evidence on Mitch Morgan. Now, he'd never find it. Dad was dead.

  He rubbed his forehead. Then he slid the report across the table. "I can't do this right now."

  "What's the matter, Morgan?" His boss clasped his hands together.

  John swallowed and gazed into the older man's brown eyes. Special Agent Smith already hated him. John bet that his boss knew and expected the spoiled heir to return to his life of privilege. Pressing his lips together, he said, "My father is dead."

  Smith's nose curled and his tone was the same he used when interrogating someone. "Your father owns more than half the corporate businesses in this country, and much of that came from illegal activities."

  "We've never found evidence."

  Smith pressed his hands on his desk. "He needs to pay for his crimes."

  "You can't prosecute a dead man."

  John placed his hands in his pockets as he quoted the law and perspiration trickled down his spine. "I have to go."

  In his dark suit, Special Agent Smith stood and then crossed his arms. "Don't bother coming back."

  Now that Mitch Morgan was dead, Peter was the heir, but John would likely inherit billions of stolen dollars. The House of Morgan was richer than 99.9 percent of the world's population with stock in oil production, electricity, computer intellectual property, banking, and every other investment a hundred years of savvy ancestors had made. John turned around at the door. Smith wasn't worth his time. He shrugged. "Does this mean I'm fired?"

  "It would if I had anything on you." His boss glared at him as his face reddened. "You're useless to me now."

  John's shoulders tightened. The FBI had been his purpose for years. He didn't know what to say. He held his jaw tight. Smith had never liked him on his team, but who understood Mitch Morgan better than his own son? They both knew where they stood. Despite the animosity, he couldn't be fired, not by Smith, not without cause, and there was none. John left. He'd be better off finding out about Frank's interrogation.

  No one said anything to him on his way to the elevator. As he waited to leave the building, he texted Peter. I'm coming home. I'll text my arrival time when I get to the airport.

  Peter texted right back. Take the private jet.

  John shook his head. He walked into the elevator, hit the button for the first floor, and let his mind wander. He remembered his sister's tears the month before she died. He vowed to never let something like that happen to anyone else he loved.

  The House of Morgan, which was how they were raised to say family, changed with her death. Despite being the spitting image of his dad, John would never be like his old man, though he'd go to his funeral.

  It was a farce he needed to experience for himself.

  As the elevator doors opened, he took one final look around the FBI headquarters in Atlanta. The pristine white building once commanded him to believe in justice at all costs. He coughed and realized he no longer believed that. He wasn't sure of his own purpose anymore, but Peter was right on one thing. He had nothing left at the FBI.

  John put on his sunglasses to block the blinding sun and hurried out the door.

  Today he'd go home. Then he'd figure out what he was supposed to do next. Vengeance left him empty and unfulfilled.

  Chapter Two

  "You can't just ignore Mitch Morgan and his heirs and hope they don't come after you," Alice Collins explained to her mother as she stepped around the kitchen boxes and back into their old dining room. "The House of Morgan owns everything and our fruits are just part of the corporate machine."

  "That's not fair." Ellie Collins only came up to Alice's shoulder, but she had the personality of a giant. She stopped packing her china in boxes, glared at Alice, and then crossed her arms. "Your father and I operate an independent farm and we choose who buys our products."

  Alice pushed her short blondish bob behind her ears and counted to five so she wouldn't yell. "And you and Dad chose to make money and sell everything with the Morgans' corporate chains. We even bank at the bank they are the majority shareholders of." Alice dropped the hand she had on her hip and brushed it down her black dress. "With Dad on the mend from his heart attack, I'll go to Mitch Morgan's funeral and pay our family respects in his place."

  "You've done your hair and gussied up, which I don't understand. You shouldn't bother looking pretty for those boys. In fact, you shouldn't go at all." Ellie shook her head, like her decrees mattered. Done issuing her dramatic over-the-top orders, she reached down to seal the box with tape. "That family is nothing but trouble."

  Alice inhaled as fire caught in her blood. "Mom, the wake and fu
neral will be on television. The President of the United States will be there. I can't go looking like a farmer."

  "You should." Her mother dropped the tape onto the dining room chair already wrapped for delivery. The plastic cartridge bounced. Ellie pressed her hand against Alice's cheek. Alice expected a goodbye, but her mother said instead, "Be sure to kick over the casket and light a match to ensure Mitch Morgan's body burns in hell."

  Alice stepped back. "You're being unreasonable. We hardly spoke to Mitch Morgan and his contract with our farm has been very lucrative."

  "Your father had no choice but to sign." Her mother crossed her arms, again.

  Alice shook her head. "No one forced Dad. He made a choice that made us all money."

  Her mother pursed her lips. "He should have listened to me and never signed."

  Alice rolled her eyes. "He did what he thought was right for us."

  "You and Colt need to be smarter. I know your brother would agree with me that those contracts should die just like Mitch did."

  Why was she bringing Colt into this? He understood that they never saw the Morgans anyhow, but the contract with them ensured they had a buyer for all their produce. Alice tried to keep her voice even as she said, "Dad trusted the farm to Colt and me after his heart attack. We will make the decisions about the farm and the contracts."

  Her mother lifted her chin. "The renewal period is starting and now that Mitch is dead, don't coerce Colt into signing."

  Alice held back her sigh. Once again her mother went over the top with her feelings on all things named Morgan. No one forced their father and no one would force her brother or her into any agreements. "You weren't always this ridiculous. As a child, I spent years with the Morgans. Vicki was my friend."

  Ellie clearly wasn't done. Her arms crossed as if it was the only body posture she had today. "No, she wasn't your friend. You should have grown out of that."

  "Grown out of what?"

  "Your belief that Victoria Morgan was your friend."