“I’m sorry, but this section of the museum is closed until further notice.”
The female voice drifted over Nathan with the same softness as the jasmine scent wafting down the tiled hall of the Wellington Museum. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes skimming the curvy figure of the brunette standing behind him. Polished, his sister Sheila would say; bordering on stylish from her tailored button-down white blouse and snug, knee-hugging black skirt, all the way to her sharp-toed patent black pumps. Every inch of this woman said collected and professional. Had it not been for the suspicious glint in her curious brown eyes and the fact he needed to get into that display room, Nathan might have let his gaze linger—and enjoy—longer.
“Yeah.” He pushed away from the door frame and turned on the double-dimpled smile that had sent numerous women tumbling into his bed. “The crime scene tape kind of gave it away.”
Her deep red lips didn’t curve. They didn’t even twitch. Instead, she tapped long, manicured fingers against her waist, kicking out a hip as she arched a brow. Her hair fell down her back in soft waves, hints of copper catching the recessed lighting of the museum’s ceiling. Sable, he thought. He’d bet her hair would feel like sable sliding between his fingers.
Nathan resisted the urge to clear his throat, something he tended to do when uncertainty descended. He prided himself on being able to read people; it was, after all, part of his job as a security expert and thief. Looking at this woman, however, filled his mind with an odd kind of static that prevented him from pinning her down. Appearances aside, there was something electric yet unreadable about her. One sparked his blood. The other . . . well. Nathan grinned. There was little he enjoyed more than a challenge.
“It’s been two weeks since the theft. That seems a long time to keep an exhibition closed.” He kept his tone even and calm. Damn it, he figured it would be easy enough to examine the room and try to find out how the thief—or thieves—managed to abscond with the crown. Veronica’s fingerprint revelation might have taken some of the heat off his father, but without any other leads, there wasn’t anyone other than his father for the investigation to focus on.
He pushed away from the wall. With those metal gates in his way, he’d either have to pay the museum an after-hours visit, an action that would only tempt fate or . . . Nathan looked at the woman beside him. Or maybe there was another way in. “It’s a shame to keep the rest of the collection under wraps even without its centerpiece.”
“I agree,” the woman said. “Unintended consequences to people’s reckless behavior I suppose.” She stepped back in a silent signal for him to leave.
A signal he ignored.
While Nathan understood Jackson’s desire to protect the family by turning himself in for questioning, he also believed his father had set the timer on a family bomb. If they weren’t careful, their real secret was going to come out, and exposing the Tremaynes as Nemesis would have far-reaching—and devastating—consequences.
Nathan shifted sore and tired muscles beneath his suit jacket. At least he’d managed to get ahead of the press where his father’s “arrest” was concerned with what he hoped was an elaborate excuse. If people were focused on the supposed reason for Jackson’s interactions with the police, hopefully they’d veer off the real story. The media didn’t care who they crucified for the theft as long as someone was hanging from the cross. That Jackson Tremayne was one of the most respected and well-liked men in Lantano Valley wouldn’t matter. None of the good his family had done in the past would matter. There wasn’t anything the public liked more than watching those they admired fall from grace. “Have there been any developments in the case?”
“There will be a public announcement well in advance of the exhibit reopening.” The gentle chime of classical music emanated from the hidden speakers in the hallway. “This way, please, Mr. Tremayne.”
That she knew his name shouldn’t have surprised him. “I know I would have remembered us meeting before, so I can only assume my reputation precedes me.”
Delicate fingers trailed lightly across the banister as she clicked her way down the curving marble staircase, Nathan nipping at her heels. “I’ve spent the last couple of days familiarizing myself with everyone who’s ever stepped foot in or has a connection to the museum. I find it interesting that you, the son of the prime suspect, were one of the security consultants for the recent system upgrades.”
“My father didn’t steal the crown.” Nathan’s gaze was pulled to the gentle sway of her hips and the effortless way she glided on heels his sister Sheila would have considered training wheels. His hands flexed inside his pockets and as he lifted his gaze to her face, he caught a glimpse of a sly smile over her shoulder.
“A son defending his father is hardly surprising.”
“He’s innocent.” The words shot out of his mouth like supersonic bullets, fast, quick, and more than a little hot. Whoever she was, clearly she hadn’t been brought up to date on the developments in the case. She didn’t know his father’s fingerprints hadn’t passed muster.
“No one is innocent, Mr. Tremayne. Not in my experience.”
“Perhaps we need to expand your experience. Let me in that display room and I’ll prove it.”
She slowed her pace to walk beside him as she guided him toward the front door past an elaborate exhibit of Aztec statuary and hand-hammered copper pottery. “You’ll understand if I don’t allow the son of a suspected thief anywhere near what’s left of that collection.”
“Tell you what.” Nathan took a step closer. Instead of moving back, she stood her ground and straightened her spine. Oh, yeah. Very interesting. “How about we continue this conversation over dinner? There are some great bistros a few blocks from here, right in the heart of the art district.” He glanced at his watch and cringed. Sheila had told him if he didn’t show at her place by five thirty she’d send a hunting party after him. Time to get a move on. “Tomorrow night?”
“I appreciate the offer.” He was struck by the hint of mystery he saw behind perfectly outlined eyes. He’d seen that seductive look before—in ancient paintings, in portraits of regal queens from Cleopatra to the legendary owner of the Crown of Serpia, Princess Kasha herself. Her smile widened, this time with a touch of humor, approval, and more than a little flirtation. “But I don’t go out with strange men.”
“Who says I’m strange?” He couldn’t seem to stop grinning around this woman. What was it about her? He didn’t have time for distractions, didn’t need them. And yet . . .
She grasped the brass handle behind him. “I don’t go out with men I don’t know.”
“Nathan Tremayne, remember?” He covered her hand with his and felt her fingers freeze beneath it. For an instant her gaze skittered from his, as if she was shocked he’d be so bold as to touch her. For that instant, the mask dropped away and he wondered if she felt the connection, too. Her skin was as soft as he’d imagined and he could feel the confidence coursing over her, calling to him as loudly as a weekend heavy metal concert. “Security consultant and vice president of Tremayne Investments and Securities.” He tightened his hand. “Potential troublemaker as evidenced by my penchant for venturing into forbidden areas.”
“Troublemaker I’ll attest to.” She plucked his hand off of hers. “Since you’ve already deduced I’m new to town, I’ll take your invitation under advisement. But for now, I have a job to do.” She pulled open the door. “And you, Mr. Tremayne, are in my way.”
Nathan glanced outside, not quite ready to raise the white flag of flirtation surrender and leave. When was the last time he’d been rebuffed by a woman so eloquently? So elegantly? “At least tell me your name.”
“Laurel Scott.” She pushed open the glass door. “Senior investigator for TransUnited Insurance.”
“You’re the insurance investigator?” Whatever warmth had been working its way through his body chilled at her words. This was the investigator Evan Marshall had called a hard-ass? The one who could very well have Nemesis in her sights? Boy, his radar must have short-circuited in the last few minutes not to pick up on this. She wasn’t a mere museum employee with access. She was the guardian at the gate.
“I see my reputation precedes me as well.” There was a different spark in her eyes as she smiled at him, one that moments ago might have sent Nathan to his knees, but instead he steeled his softening heart. There wasn’t time for distractions—not with his family’s future hanging in the balance. He may have missed the target on a lot of things in regards to this woman, but he was right about one thing: she was definitely going to be a challenge. Time to reevaluate his tactics and figure out exactly how useful Miss Scott could be. “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Tremayne.” That softness had returned to her voice. “It would be quite interesting to have dinner with the man whose father I plan to put in jail. Have a good evening.”
Nathan took a stumbling step onto the sidewalk and watched, dumbfounded, as she closed the door, turned the key and gave him a little wave of her fingers before she disappeared into the museum.
***
With a bag of J & J Markets’s Italian takeout in one hand, her briefcase and oversized designer hobo bag in the other, Laurel kicked the door to her city-view room at the Empire Hotel closed and dropped out of her skyscraper heels with a relieved sigh. “What a day.”
Her cell phone rang from deep inside her purse, that distinctive, stomach-clenching graveyard tune that eroded her appetite. She dipped down and dumped everything to the floor to dig for the phone, taking an extra moment to center herself before answering. “Yes, Mr. Manville.”
“We had an agreement, Laurel.” The sharp-edged masculine voice sliced through her and she sagged to the floor. What she wouldn’t give never to hear his voice again. “I haven’t heard from you in almost a week. I’d like an update on your progress where Jackson Tremayne is concerned.”
The accusation triggered hatred and fear, throwing them into a battle in her too-tight chest. Laurel swallowed hard and pressed white knuckles against the throbbing above her left eye. “I haven’t had anything to report until today.”
“You’ve made contact then?”
“With the Tremaynes? Yes. Nathan came into the museum this afternoon.” An image of Nathan’s healthy chiseled face and longish blond hair that spoke to a bad-boy edge she hadn’t quite expected flashed through her mind. He’d shot that tempting smile in her direction in a way that almost made her forget what she’d been sent to do. Almost. “He wanted access to the display room. He swears his father is innocent.”
“Jackson Tremayne is anything but innocent.”
The cold loathing she heard in Manville’s voice whenever he spoke of Jackson Tremayne chilled her blood. “Contrary to what you told me, there’s strong evidence proving Jackson Tremayne didn’t steal the crown,” Laurel protested. The call from the D.A. less than an hour ago had thrown her firmly into flux. “Yes, he was in the vicinity of the museum, but I just learned he turned himself in for questioning in regards to the Nemesis theft that took place at the same time. He couldn’t have been in two places at once.” Not that Jackson committing either crime made any sense to her. Then again, nothing made sense to her these days. She just did as she was told.
The stretch of silence had her squirming. “Interesting development.” Manville sounded almost amused when he spoke. “And clever. Apparently he’s decided to play along after all. No doubt this will call for a change of plans. I don’t need to remind you, Laurel, that your job with TransUnited is merely a cover. You work for me.”
“No, you don’t need to remind me.” Being a plant in the high-end insurance company to help fill Manville’s monetary coffers had been the bane of her existence these last five years, but not for much longer. She was so close to being out. So close to breaking free . . . “But that doesn’t change the fact that TransUnited expects me to conduct a legitimate investigation. I can’t prove an innocent man guilty of something without raising suspicion.” And Nathan Tremayne was already suspicious. She’d seen it in his eyes every time he looked at her with that piercing green gaze of his. Laurel shivered. The farther away she stayed from Nathan Tremayne the better.
“For now, your investigation puts you where I need you. Close to the Tremaynes. And don’t think you can keep anything from me. You’re not the only person I have keeping tabs on them.”
Keeping tabs on the Tremaynes or keeping tabs on her? “So you don’t care whether Jackson’s prosecuted for the theft of the crown?” Her head began to spin. What was going on here? While her job required her to be whatever—or whomever—Alastair wanted, her other jobs had been focused on things, on information. Not people. She didn’t do well with people, emotions. Connections. She certainly hadn’t been this close to one of Alastair’s marks before, but his behavior had become unpredictable in recent weeks. Her original orders had been to keep her ears and eyes open, pry where she shouldn’t, and report back. “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted—”
“I want Jackson Tremayne to pay for his crimes,” Manville blasted, and Laurel jumped at the vehemence in his voice. “Your understanding is not required, only obedience. If you can’t live up to your part of our arrangement, say the word and we’ll end things right now.”
Laurel squeezed her eyes shut, her fingers going numb around her phone.
“I’ll take your silence as agreement. Get to work, Laurel. You have a lot riding on this.”
She dropped the phone once he disconnected, shoved trembling hands through her hair. This job was supposed to be simple, just like the others: come in and question whether Jackson Tremayne was guilty of grand theft and let the chips fall where they may. His print had been found, but his alibi was good. Not infallible, but good. Except with each conversation with Alastair Manville, she was feeling more like a pawn in his private chess game. Something more was going on here; something larger, dangerous even. This situation was unlike any game she’d played before. What she wouldn’t give to be able to walk away.
Some days, today for instance, she felt like Charlie Brown kicking that stupid football out of Lucy’s traitorous hands. Every time she got close to her goal, someone moved the target.
But not this time. No, this time, when this job was done, she’d walk away from TransUnited Insurance and untie the leash Alastair Manville had knotted around her throat five years ago. Soon she’d be able to walk back in through the door to the only home she’d ever really known and begin again.
Soon, she’d be able to leave Laurel Scott behind once and for all.
But for now, she had something more important to take care of.
She hauled herself and her belongings up and hurried over to her desk where she flipped on her laptop and clicked open the online chat program to log in. She set her dinner on the table before she headed into the bathroom. She emerged from a quick shower minutes later rocking her plaid flannel boxer shorts and ratty Keith Urban T-shirt. She knotted her hair up with a black scrunchie that had seen better years, and waded through the pile of sweatpants, T-shirts, and socks covering the copper-colored carpet and dotting the unmade king-sized bed.
Her hotel room—whichever one she inhabited at the time—was her sanctuary, hence her built-in budget for paying the maid a generous stipend to leave her room off the cleaning schedule. Practicality aside, Laurel knew how someone would react if they walked in here and found the mishmash of charts, photographs, news articles, and smatterings of notes and Post-its taped onto the wall above the desk as if she were some kind of stalker or serial killer.
Serial killer? Laurel shrugged that one off. Stalker? She stopped unloading her dinner—a steaming cardboard container of stuffed cannelloni—and looked at the black-and-white photograph of the Tremayne family, unease prickling the back of her neck. Nathan stared back at her, that damnable grin striking like an arrow. All charm, that one. Charm she thought she’d prepared herself for, but coming face-to-face with the man had nearly knocked her out of her shoes.
The gentle strength in his hand when he’d held hers hinted at what she could see was a fit form. He’d been tall enough for her to look up to, but she preferred to meet a man eye to eye if she couldn’t look down on him. It leveled—or elevated—her playing field, and right now, she’d need every advantage she could get.
Laurel blew out a breath as she unloaded her dinner. Oh, that smile of his. Nerves she thought she’d trained long ago jangled to life as she recalled the way he’d looked at her; as if he were peeking behind the tailored curtain of her perfectly practiced persona.
Nathan Tremayne was a man who saw too much. For that reason alone, she should stay far, far away. She stabbed a plastic fork into the accompanying side salad.
If only she could.
How many days had she been waiting for an opportunity to connect with someone from the Tremayne family? Long enough she’d developed an affinity for Lantano Valley, California, a town she grudgingly had to admit was an oasis compared to her usual surroundings.
Since starting her job at TransUnited Insurance, there were few places Laurel had traveled to she’d liked and even fewer where she’d felt at home. Lantano Valley was . . . well, home was the only word she could use to describe the city nestled comfortably between Santa Barbara and Los Angeles. Lantano Valley was as idyllic as promised. With its mixture of eclectic artist neighborhoods, middle-class communities, and welcoming atmosphere, the town could entice even the most jaded of individuals.
All the more reason to get out of town sooner than later. She didn’t need to know how perfect life could be here. She didn’t want to know. Taking down one of the most prosperous, not to mention most admired, families in Southern California would mean never being able to look back, but it would be worth it.
She looked down at the neon orange sticky note she’d tacked dead center on her board with her block lettering: freedom.
Once again, her gaze landed on the image of Nathan Tremayne and his picture-perfect family in the throes of wedding bliss as they celebrated the recent marriage of daughter Sheila to technology wizard Malcolm Oliver.
The nausea passed, as it always did, and the unease uncoiled in her belly as she popped open the pasta container and let the steam and promise of tomato, basil, and melting cheese distract her. Picture-perfect or not, the Tremayne family had secrets; if those secrets were the price they’d have to pay for her freedom, so be it. And nothing was going to get in her way.
No matter how charming Nathan Tremayne might be.
She settled in her chair, glanced at the clock on the computer and tapped the keyboard, awakening the screen just as the call bell jangled.
Laurel clicked to answer and the weight of obligation and the heaviness of the day dropped away at the sight of her six-year-old daughter, with her crooked gap-toothed smile and uneven red pigtails sticking out from either side of her head. “Hey, Jelly Bean.” Laurel swallowed around the tears in her throat as she reached out and stroked her finger against the screen. How long had it been since she’d touched her baby? Cuddled her? Stroked her soft hair? Held her while she cried, or even walked her to school? The longing lodged like an anvil in her chest as she struggled to breathe. “Did you have a good day?”
“I had an awesome day!” Joey’s green eyes went wider than her smile. “Poppy came with us to the railroad museum. Did you know he knows everything about trains?”
“I did know that.” Laurel leaned her chin in her hand and stared at her daughter. If she’d had any doubts her life as a system-locked foster kid would mean she’d be unable to love her own child, they’d vanished the instant this bundle of life had been placed in her arms. Arms that felt more empty than ever. “Poppy knows everything about everything. But first things first. Do you have your dinner?”
“Yep! Mac and cheese with broccoli.” Joey lifted the bright yellow bowl to the screen and picked up her fork. “Burt’s eating, too.” She waved the worn stuffed monkey that had been her companion ever since Laurel had sent it to her from England two years ago. “What do you have?”
“Pasta. And salad and bread.” Laurel lifted each in succession but refrained from revealing the miniature chocolate chip cannoli she’d surrendered to on her way through the bakery at J & J Markets. Another reason to leave Lantano Valley as soon as possible. She’d gain twenty pounds if she kept eating this way.
“Before we eat, I want to see again,” Joey said in that tone that slipped around Laurel’s heart like a lasso.
“Again?” Laurel tried to laugh as she unplugged her laptop and carried it over to the window. Pulling open the curtains, she aimed the camera outside at Lantano Valley, the mixture of old and new architecture, buildings of all shapes and sizes arcing into the skyline and welcoming even those with less than pure intentions into its depths. “That enough?”
“I think this is my favorite place yet,” Joey announced. “When you come home and we decide where to live, I want to live there. Lantano Valley. I’m writing it down in my dream book tonight.” Laurel was glad Joey couldn’t see her as she blinked away tears. Anger mingled with cemented regret. All the time she’d lost with her daughter, every day that passed, if only she’d resisted temptation five years ago. If only she hadn’t stolen that sculpture and trapped herself in criminal servitude . . .
Laurel shook her head and cast away the lament. She’d never get back the time she lost, but she wasn’t going to lose any more. That said, when it came to showing Joey Lantano Valley again, she’d have to find a way to decline. She didn’t want her daughter getting her heart set on something—and someplace—that could never be theirs. “We’ll see, baby girl. Right now, I’m starving and I want to hear about your day. So get to it. And don’t leave out one detail.”