“You’re going to need this.”
Nathan glanced down at the beer Malcolm Oliver pushed into his hands the second Nathan entered his sister and brother-in-law’s loft. The stacks of packing boxes and rolls of Bubble Wrap had yet to be utilized thanks to his sister’s indecision about where to move.
Never one to refuse a drink, or a warning, Nathan accepted the bottle.
“Mew.”
He glanced down to find Sherlock, his sister’s little black kitten—almost cat—kneading his leather loafers. The feline’s attention felt oddly calming after the chaos of the day. The open-air loft might have provided the peaceful retreat he’d been hoping for were it not for the bass-heavy music pounding from Sheila’s art studio in the spare room under the stairs.
“Jesus, I’m not that late, am I?” Nathan glanced at his watch and avoided Malcolm’s irritated look before he stooped down to scoop Sherlock into his hand. The cat nuzzled his head against Nathan’s arm and settled into the crook of his elbow, blinking sleepy arctic blue eyes at him. Nathan scratched Sherlock behind the ears and felt the vibration of the cat’s purr against his arm. He’d never been an animal—let alone a cat—person, but Sherlock had him reconsidering his solitary living arrangement. “On a scale of one to ten, how mad is she?”
“The scale does not go that high, my friend.” Malcolm toasted him with what appeared to be lime-infused club soda, looking more than comfortable in jeans, T-shirt, and bare feet. He’d dealt with a lot these last few weeks, not the least of which was the arrest and pending prosecution of his father Oliver Chadwick, for trafficking in stolen artwork. Malcolm’s dark hair had grown a bit shaggy, his complexion a tad pale, but there was a brightness in Malcolm’s eyes that eased Nathan’s mind. That expression, along with the gold wedding band on his finger, managed to pull a smile free from Nathan’s souring mood. “Trust me. If I wasn’t under doctor’s orders not to drink, I’d be nine sheets to the wind by now.” Malcolm headed into the gourmet galley-style kitchen and shouted over his shoulder. “I ordered takeout and I’m about to put it on the table, so see if you can pry her out of there, will you? Maybe then we can have a conversation that doesn’t include Jimmy Page screaming in my ears.”
Doctor’s orders. He still had trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that his longtime best friend and college roommate was gearing up for his second go-round with chemo for Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. A certain uneasy knot formed in Nathan’s belly. The Tremaynes were more intimately acquainted with cancer than most families. Colin, the youngest Tremayne sibling, had died of leukemia, and not a day passed that Nathan didn’t wonder how his little brother would have turned out. Better than him, no doubt. Familiarity with a situation, however, didn’t take the sting—or the fear—out of a family member’s diagnosis. Times like these, Nathan’s pride for what his sister Morgan had accomplished in establishing the family’s pediatric cancer center expanded exponentially, proving without question she was the strongest of all of them.
They were all banking on the promising treatment Malcolm would start in a few weeks, but chemo of any kind wasn’t a cakewalk for anyone involved, especially not when it came to a recurrence. Adding the stress of Jackson’s self-imposed inquest, Nathan couldn’t help but worry for Malcolm’s state of mind, which no doubt was adding to Sheila’s anger issues.
“Maybe you should rethink going back to the Bay Area for your treatments,” Nathan shouted back before the loft went eerily silent. Malcolm let out a long huff of relief as Nathan’s ears cleared. “You don’t need the media crunch that’s about to land on us on top of everything else.” Which was why Nathan was determined to have any focus on his family removed.
Malcolm looked longingly at Nathan’s beer before shrugging one shoulder. “Nah. Sickness and health, remember? You guys are stuck with me. Besides, I’m fodder for the tabloids no matter what these days. Comes with the territory when they think you have more money than God.”
“Not God,” Nathan joked, wanting to ease the tension in the day in some way as Sherlock wobbled his way up Nathan’s arm toward his shoulder. “Bill Gates maybe.”
“Sherlock, that’s enough.” Malcolm swept around the counter and plucked the cat off Nathan’s arm and set him on the floor, where Sherlock rediscovered Nathan’s shoes and batted at a tassel. “As much of a magic touch with the feline persuasion as the feminine variety.”
“Yeah, right.” If only. A not so unwelcome image of Laurel Scott drifted through his overcrowded mind again, bringing to mind tantalizing thoughts of jasmine and endless feminine curves. Dark, chestnut hair that looked like silk spilling around Nathan’s hands. Distracting! Not to mention dangerous. As convinced as he was of his father’s innocence, Laurel had made no secret of the fact she believed Jackson guilty of stealing the crown. At least he hoped that’s all she suspected him of stealing. If she was sniffing around the Nemesis case, too, like Evan had suggested she might be . . . all the more reason to stick close to her for the time being.
“Yeah, right sounds about right,” Malcolm said with a grin. “What was that look for? And don’t tell me it’s the cat.”
“Definitely not the cat.” Nathan’s choice at this moment was obvious. Confide in his friend about the stunningly distracting woman he’d met less than an hour ago—a woman he very much wouldn’t mind getting to know better, were circumstances different. Or venture into Sheila’s fortress of solitude where certain death or at least a major dose of pain awaited him. “I’m, um, I’d better check in on Sheila and let her know dinner’s almost ready.”
“You do that,” Malcolm chuckled, looking as healthy and unburdened as Nathan had seen since his friend had returned to Lantano Valley. All the more reason to get his father and family in the clear. They had an even more important fight ahead of them.
Not wanting to leave temptation within Malcolm’s reach, Nathan carried his beer with him and knocked on the studio door. When an answer wasn’t forthcoming, he pushed open the door and poked his head in. “Sheila?”
“Yeah.”
Huh. After knowing her twenty-nine years, that was a tone he didn’t recognize. “Should I have worn protective gear?”
“An hour ago I might have said yes. Come on in.”
He stepped inside and closed the door. He saw bare, paint-splattered legs first, feet hooked on the rungs of a bar stool peeking out from beneath an enormous five-foot-square canvas perched on what Nathan considered an anemic-looking easel.
“Veronica came through as Dad’s lawyer,” he said as an icebreaker, glancing around the glass jars of brushes, flammable thinner, and more tubes of paint than Picasso probably used in his entire lifetime. “Not that she was happy to be dragged back into a criminal case. Told her she was the only one we could trust given the circumstances.”
“I’m betting you’re going to owe her a case of her favorite Bordeaux.” Sheila’s voice echoed from the other side of the canvas.
“Try two,” Nathan muttered. “But it’s worth it. Didn’t take her more than a couple dozen words and one document and poof! Dad was out. Not that he ever should have been in.” When Sheila didn’t respond, Nathan’s desire to defend their father reared. “There’s a reason behind what he’s doing.”
“Really?” Sheila poked her head around the edge of the canvas, blinking overly shocked green eyes in his direction, her lashes fluttering like a first-year debutante. She had paintbrushes sticking out of her mussed hair, spatters of blue and yellow paint on one cheek, and she’d been gnawing on her lower lip to the point she’d made it bleed. “Because I’d hate to think our father would have exposed the family, his business, the Tremayne Foundation, and the Pediatric Cancer Treatment Center to a publicity nightmare—not to mention a criminal trial—for the hell of it.”
Great. Sheila was picking up Morgan’s penchant for four-letter words. “Are you painting him in effigy?” Sheila painting at all was a positive step forward. Not too long ago grief had bottled her up and she’d stopped painting, and in the process nearly lost herself. Malcolm had been the one to pull her free, a debt Nathan knew he’d never be able to repay.
“What’s going on, Nathan?” The uncharacteristic fear in his sister’s voice scraped the edges of his heart. “What’s Dad doing?”
“Protecting us. I don’t have all the answers yet,” Nathan hedged, before he admitted to himself she needed to know as much as he did, at least. “But it seems as if our father has a past none of us knew about. He wants us to come to brunch on Sunday where he plans to explain in detail. In the meantime, I’ve got some feelers out to our connections, asking if anyone’s been contacted about the crown. If we can get a line on whoever stole it, we’ll be a step closer to getting Dad out from under. Whatever happens, Sheila, I’m going to take care of it.”
“We’ll take care of it, you mean.”
“You don’t think you have enough going on?”
“If someone’s coming after the family, I want in. Malcolm will, too, since you all have seen fit to adopt him.”
“You’re the one who married him,” Nathan joked. “Seriously, Sheila, let me take the lead on this, okay? I know where you both are if I need you.”
“Fine.” That she didn’t fight him or argue only proved how worried she was about her husband. “Take the lead. But don’t keep secrets from us. I don’t think I can handle any more secrets.”
“Speaking of secrets.” Nathan winced. “We’re going to have to talk about Morgan.”
“You mean tell her we’re Nemesis?” Sheila sighed and closed her eyes. “Yeah, I figured as much. Speaking of our little sister.” She held out her hand and waggled her fingers at him to bring him closer to her current painting. “Take a look. It’s for the lobby of the center. Took me a while to decide what to paint and then a couple of days ago it was just there. I knew.”
Nathan stepped around next to her and looked at what—according to Malcolm—had kept Sheila up every night for the last week.
Every molecule of air swept from his lungs in a silent rush, his heart squeezing as he looked at the image of their late mother, their brother Colin, and Brandon Monroe, one of Morgan’s late foster children, playing in a lush park, arms stretched up to the heavens as sunlight streamed down and around them. Featherlight clouds danced along the edges of their bodies as their smiles radiated utter happiness and joy.
Gone too soon. All of them. And yet Sheila’s painting made him feel as if he were seeing them now, as they were, wherever they were. Happy. They looked happy.
“Well?” Sheila bounced on her stool as she gripped his arm with her hands. “What do you think?”
“I think,” he croaked, unaccustomed to the emotion caught in his throat. “I think I’m very grateful you started painting again.” He disentangled his arm from her grasp and draped it over her shoulders, bringing her in against him as he pressed a kiss on the top of her tumble of hair. “You have such a gift,” he whispered. “Morgan’s going to cry her eyes out.”
“Yeah, cause that’s so hard to make her do.” Sheila brushed away uncharacteristic tears from her own cheeks. “I’m scared, Nathan.” She leaned her head against his chest. “Morgan’s bound to find out the truth about us and Nemesis and what we’ve done. What’s going to happen to us if they find out—”
“Stop it.” Nathan held her tighter even as he struggled to keep his own doubts at bay. Somehow he had to find out what Laurel Scott had on them. On Nemesis. If that meant playing nice, if that meant getting close, so be it. He could think of worse things. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you or Malcolm or the foundation.” He’d protect his family and their legacy. No matter what he had to do. “You just concentrate on getting your husband through his treatment and let me worry about everything else.”
“Given the way things are looking, Malcolm and I are getting the easy end of the deal.” But Sheila sniffled and shook her head. “God, I’m so weepy these days. Tell me you have a plan.”
“Of course I have a plan. I’m going to find that crown.” And Laurel Scott was going to help.
***
If Laurel ever considered that the Tremaynes were different from the rest of the ridiculously rich dynasties trolling the streets of Lantano Valley, the Lantano Valley Times proved her wrong.
The double shot espresso rolled in her stomach as she flipped through the Saturday morning edition. Lorenzo’s Café, the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop just off the main stretch of downtown, bustled with enthusiastic patrons. Laurel managed to snag the last pedestal table in the far corner by the window. Locking her burgundy bag between her foot and the wall, she crossed her legs and skimmed the uninformative front page that made no mention of Jackson Tremayne’s visit to the police precinct.
“I wonder how much that cost them,” she muttered as she ripped apart the chocolate croissant and cast flaky crumbs about the table and the half-finished crossword she’d been working. She’d lay good money Nathan Tremayne had beelined to the Lantano Valley Times offices and bribed them into ignoring his father’s unofficial visit to the police. She’d let Nathan’s charm get to her and forgotten that money equaled power equaled influence. As if she needed reminding.
Why else was every penny she’d made safely invested, safely hidden, and doing the most good it could for her, Joey’s, and Poppy’s future? At least Alastair had been generous enough to let her keep the significant amount of money she earned as an investigator. She only hoped he didn’t realize that cash would let her do the one thing she hadn’t been able to do before: disappear.
Unlike the Tremaynes, who probably wielded their checkbook like a magic wand. Typical.
Thanks to her source at the police station—a source who was as quick with an answer as she could be with a wink and a smile—she knew the district attorney was taking a different tactic where Jackson was concerned now and keeping the elder Tremayne under surveillance.
All the better for her. Having Jackson out and about would make keeping track of him—and the rest of the Tremaynes—all the easier.
“Mind if I join you?”
Laurel scrunched her toes in her thick-strapped pumps and glanced up, trailing her eyes over Nathan’s casually attired frame. She couldn’t help but appreciate the way he filled out the khaki slacks and olive green T-shirt. Biceps that couldn’t have come easy flexed as he gestured with his own coffee, a hunk of straw blond hair falling across his eyes in a way that made her want to put it in place.
And oh, that heat was back. She could feel it wafting across the table, tempting, seducing. Where was a fire extinguisher when she needed it? “Have a seat,” she said, her voice getting ahead of her brain. With Nathan’s arrival, her flirtation and innocent inquisition of the security officer outside the Tremayne building earlier this morning as to Nathan’s routine paid off in spades.
“Find what you were looking for?” He gestured to the paper covered in crumbs as he leaned his impressive forearms on the table.
Whoa boy. Something about a man’s well-toned arms had always loosened something inside her. She tucked her hair behind her ear and forced her hand into her lap to hide the nerves that only seemed to appear when she was around this man. “I guess the district attorney decided against arresting your father despite his confession.”
“Details are on page three above the fold.” There wasn’t a hint of apology in his tone.
Laurel pushed her pastry aside and flipped open the paper, the bolded headline at the top summing up a story that was sure to incur sympathy throughout the city. “A medication mishap?” Laurel skimmed the article and felt her eyebrows tick up with each new sentence. “That’s . . . creative.” And, in Alastair’s words, damned clever.
“I didn’t even know he was taking blood pressure pills,” Nathan said as Laurel felt her own blood pressure spike. “According to his doctor, this particular prescription has been linked to a number of cases of psychosomatic effects that cause delusions and in some instances hallucinations, especially if it’s accidentally mixed with alcohol. We’re looking into a private clinic where he can relax.”
“A private clinic located where?” Laurel closed the paper and folded her hands on top of it, forcing herself to meet Nathan’s oh-so-innocent gaze. “Somewhere without an extradition agreement with the United States?”
“Not that there’s a reason to extradite, but Malibu, actually,” Nathan said. “My brother-in-law has a house there. Dad’s taken a leave of absence from the business. It’s been a rough couple of years for him.”
“And you think this breakdown is the reason he pretended to confess to being a master criminal?”
“You do have your ear to the ground, don’t you?” Nathan pinned her with that assessing gaze of his. “I think a person’s mental health can be affected by any number of things, Miss Scott.” Some of the friendliness faded beneath suddenly steeled eyes. “Medication, stress, the death of a loved one. The combination of all three can be toxic to the system and cause erratic behavior.”
“And I suppose you’re a medical professional on top of being a so-called security expert?”
“There’s nothing so-called about my expertise.” The sharpness of his tone told her she’d hit a nerve challenging his status in the industry. Good. She did better with antagonism than she did charm, especially when she was out of her element. “I’m also a son who’s concerned about his father. A father who’s lost a son, a wife, and has been overworking himself for years in an effort to cope and escape.”
“I know about your brother and mother.” Laurel softened her voice, reminding herself not to take a hard stance on this particular subject. She might have to wear a mask most of the time, but there were some lines that shouldn’t be crossed, especially when the last thing she wanted to do was alienate him when she’d been ordered to keep tabs on him. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“It’s all of our loss, but thank you.” He took a long drink, scanned the still-crowded coffee house. “It’s feeling stuffy in here. You want to get out? Go for a walk? There’s a park a few blocks away. Not that busy on a Saturday morning. I bet you haven’t spent a lot of time outside the museum since you got here.”
“One of those Lantano Valley attractions you were telling me about last night?” Great. Because the one thing she wanted to see was more enticements for Lantano Valley.
“Maybe.”
Laurel had to force herself not to glance away. There was something mesmerizing in his gaze that made her worry yet again that he’d see too much. She didn’t want to like him. She couldn’t afford to. But the loyalty he showed his father was more than admirable; it was damned sexy. Dammit, this would be so much easier if he was a creep. Nathan Tremayne, her assignment. If she wanted her life back, she didn’t have a choice but to stay close. To lie to him. The loathing that had settled inside her five years ago shifted and had her, not for the first time, wondering if there was some way—any other way—to get out from under Alastair’s control.
“I have some time.” Besides, her vitamin D level could probably use a sunshine recharge.
“After you.” He got to his feet, came around to hold her chair for her as she picked up her purse, her coffee, and the last of her breakfast, tossing the latter into the trash on their way out. “So is there a trick to those?”
“To what?” Laurel shrugged on a lightweight grey panel leather jacket over her paisley cami, grateful she’d thought to bring layers this morning. She felt much more in control now that they were standing eye to eye, or as close as she could come with him. He glanced down at her feet. “The shoes?” She rotated her right foot. “Practice.” Power. Men had a harder time ignoring—or underestimating—a woman in heels.
“You and my sister should compare closets. I think she was born in heels.”
“All the better to see you with.” She flipped her hair out from under the collar of her jacket. “A woman has to have at least one weakness. Mine is designer clothes.” Albeit off the rack, not to mention a few seasons behind. A woman also had to keep to her budget when she was stashing every penny she could.
“Yeah, you and Sheila would get along great.” He led the way down the street, past a collection of stores, including a two-story brick bookstore called Pages Unlimited that Laurel couldn’t wait to explore. “I used to tease her that she could put Barbie out of business.”
Laurel pressed her lips into a thin smile. Growing up in the foster care system, she’d lost count of the number of Christmases hoping Santa—or whoever she was living with at the time—would give her a Barbie as a present. The doll could be a friend. Someone she could take with her when it was time to move on. By the time she’d had any stability she’d learned to stop asking. It wasn’t until she’d lived those few months with Poppy, she’d found a substitute in the battered copy of Little Women that had belonged to his late wife. Who needed a single doll when she could bring a whole family of sisters with her? Her affection for the doll might explain her fascination with shoes, however.
“You going to be okay in those things?” Nathan asked. “Walking, I mean?”
“Would you ask your sister that question?” She angled a purposely haughty look in his direction.
“Not without protection.” He chuckled. “This little park is one of Lantano Valley’s secrets. If you’re into that sort of thing.”
“You mean there’s more to this town than money, parties, and increasing investment portfolios?” Of course there was. It was one of the reasons she liked it so well, but she had a role to play.
“I was worried that was your impression.” He glanced over at her and she swore she caught a hint of disappointment tugging at his expression. “This is a family town, middle class, upper class. We coexist pretty peacefully. Not all of us are rich snobs who think they’re better than anyone else.”
“Not all, no.” She hiked her purse higher on her arm as they crossed the street and passed by a glass-front yoga studio filled to capacity with pretzel-ized students. “Some of you are burglars who target rich snobs who think they’re better than anyone else.”
The smile he gave her didn’t quite reach his eyes. His knuckles whitened around his coffee cup. “Nemesis does have a certain panache for the ironic, I admit. He’s also brought a few dark deeds out into the open.”
“A criminal with a sense of justice. I can see the appeal.” She nodded and took a long drink. She also wished she’d thought of it. Talk about a payoff. “The D.A. mentioned something about the possibility of Nemesis targeting your family. That that could explain your father’s sudden desire to confess. I certainly wouldn’t want a criminal like Nemesis breathing down my neck.”
“And I thought you were here to investigate the theft of the crown.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as if he found the mention of Nemesis amusing. “As much as I would love to get Dad off the hook with that reasoning, Evan’s off base on that one.” Nathan switched his coffee into his other hand and guided her in front of him to avoid a determined female jogger pushing a double baby carriage. She could feel the heat of his touch through her jacket and her own fingers tightened around her cup. “I’ll tell you what I told Evan,” Nathan continued. “There is absolutely no way Nemesis is behind any of this.”
“Because the Tremaynes are such a generous family? I mean with the foundation and the cancer treatment center your sister is overseeing,” she added quickly as she sensed an increased tension in the air. If she’d wanted to offend him to keep him at arm’s length, it looked like she was succeeding. Except she couldn’t afford to. She needed to find the right balance. “All those good deeds cancelling something else out?”
“No family is perfect. We all have our secrets,” Nathan confirmed for her. “But I can assure you we don’t go around screwing the little guy to increase our bottom line. My mother would come back and haunt all of us if she suspected we were using our affluence to cause undue harm.”
“You mean you only use your powers for good?” The grin forming on her lips faded when he caught her arm and stopped her.
“That’s exactly what I mean.” He frowned then, as if unsure why he’d said what he did. But as quickly as the expression appeared, it was gone again, replaced by that knowing grin he’d been wearing when she’d first seen him at the museum yesterday. Alarm bells jangled in her head. “Tell me something, Laurel. Are you the kind of woman who rebuffs a man for taking liberties?”
“Liberties?” Laurel blinked, trying to reconcile his words through her suddenly foggy mind. He was so close, so tempting, and she had the feeling, if she leaned a tad closer he’d take those liberties he teased about. “I haven’t heard that phrase since English class.”
“I always found Jane Austen to be a good go-to when it comes to beautiful women. How’d I do?”
She lifted her hand and caught his wrist when he reached to touch her face. Oh, no. Jane Austen might be a personal weakness for her, but she wasn’t going to give in. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t play with him a little. “On a scale of one to ten? I’ll give the Jane Austen reference a four.” She trailed her thumb over his pulse, felt a kick of self-confidence when it doubled up beneath her touch. “We’ll wait and see about the liberties.”