Asking for Trouble (2 page)

Morgan blinked. “Who?”

“Prince Charming. He'll be there, I just know it. Lydia!” Kelley called, racing out of the kitchen again. “Guess what?”

Morgan rubbed her eyes. Prince Charming. Because what was missing in her life was a high-maintenance prince. She heard the familiar muffler rattle of the Fiorellis' minivan pulling into the driveway. Now, if Prince Charming came with a huge bank account that wasn't filled with fenced goods, a set of power tools, and an over-generous heart— Morgan grinned, secure in the knowledge that a man like that didn't exist. But if one did—yeah. She'd find a way to make that work.

The boy band jingle blaring from his phone would repeat for hours in Gage's head, just like the undercooked Chinese food in his stomach. He really had to learn how to un-program the torture his teenage sister kept inflicting on him.

He tapped the Bluetooth in his ear as he swung his Dodge Charger into a parking space across from the Tremayne estate, avoiding the packed driveway as guests waited for the valet service. “Were you able to forward me those additional files on the Tremaynes, Janice?”

“Just sent them to you.” Janice's schoolmarm voice reminded Gage a little too much of his mother.

A drill sergeant when it came to organizing and scheduling his time, a bit obsessive about keeping his office and desk tidy, Janice's attention to detail was the reason he'd hired her after her previous boss retired. Unfortunately for him, she'd since become best phone friends with his mother. Now the two of them were tag-teaming him on everything from his social life to his eating habits, both of which, according to the two of them, needed vast and fast improvement.

Gage snatched up his phone, accessed his email, downloaded, then tapped the icon where he'd saved it. He frowned. Well, he thought that was where he'd saved it. Any idiot could operate an iPhone. But as his mother was fond of telling him, he wasn't
any
idiot. “Any chance you can leave a printout—”

“On your desk? Already did.”

A classic cherry red 1966 Mustang pulled effortlessly into the space in front of his car.

Gage's drooling was pure macho reflex. Glistening paint job, polished black top, nary a scratch on the body. There was just enough daylight left to shine an appreciative gleam over the surface. Not so long ago he'd have sold his soul for a car like that. No doubt that's what the owner had done. Lucky bastard.

He caught a flash of long bright blond hair in the Mustang's driver's seat. Huh. So,
not
a bastard.

“Evan just confirmed the story should leak sometime midweek. He asked if you wanted to do the follow-up interview, but I told him I didn't think you'd be interested.” Was that a cackle on the other end of the phone? Janice knew how fond Gage was of anything relating to the press. In his experience they used law enforcement to promote their agenda any chance they got. It felt good to return the favor.

Speaking of favors, Gage wasn't convinced Evan appreciated Gage circumventing his plans for the evening, but Gage needed the perfect escort during the Tremayne Fund-raiser. Someone who could get him into the middle of action. Someone to make his foray into Nemesis' hunting ground all that much smoother.

He only hoped the youngest Tremayne offspring would be more forthcoming than the picture he'd seen on the foundation's website indicated.

Had the twenty-five-year-old been born with that string of pearls around her throat? Despite the stoic expression on her round face, and given the level of irritation in her eyes, he got the feeling she shared his opinion of the media. Or maybe he was reading too much into a picture.

The family had a sterling reputation, Jackson Tremayne in particular. It didn't make any sense to him why this Agent Kolfax would be interested in either the patriarch of one of Lantano Valley's most admired families or their charitable foundation. But Gage's curiosity had been piqued.

The Mustang's door opened.

Toned, tanned female legs emerged from the car, gossamer blue fabric sliding over her skin like a lover's fingertips. Gage's hand twitched, eager to feel the smoothness of her legs. From his vantage point he could see she had curves. Lots and lots of curves. A shoe dropped to the ground. He felt like a voyeur, but couldn't pull his eyes away from the tempting vision unfolding from the Mustang as he bid good night to Janice.

He got out of the car, tugged the hem of his jacket straight, and rolled his shoulders as he headed her way. He stopped to hook a single finger through the strap of the sandal. Dangling the shoe from his fingertip, Gage squatted down and looked into a pair of surprised emerald eyes.

Jackpot.

“Ms. Tremayne. I believe you dropped this.”

***

Evening gowns and battle armor weren't sold in the same department, but as far as Morgan was concerned, they provided the same protection.

The confidence that descended the second she'd draped the formfitting, strapless peacock blue fabric over her ample figure could only be described as exhilarating. This time last year, she might have resented her mother's extravagant purchase. Morgan could have paid three months' worth of electricity bills with what the gown had cost.

A shadow cut across the late spring sun and she jumped, pulling her feet in as the shadow transformed into a man who leaned down and scooped up her shoe.

Her lungs emptied as if her dress had transformed into an overeager python. The way this man wore a tux made George Clooney look like a grunge rocker. Oh, and that hair. Jet black strands so dark it seemed almost blue. Morgan swallowed as summer sky blue eyes pinned her in place. Her sandal sparkled in his grasp as if each stone had been imbued with the sunset-emblazoned sea.

Hot embarrassment flooded her cheeks as she tried to reclaim her confidence along with her shoes. Morgan slid her foot into what she considered modern-day torture devices. How did her sister walk in these things every day? Morgan placed her hand in his outstretched one, allowed him to pull her from the car. “Thank you, Mr. . . . ?” She arched a brow in invitation for an introduction, glancing down to straighten the cameo pendant her mother had given her for Christmas over a decade ago.

“Juliano. But please, it's Gage. Morgan, isn't it? You've recently taken over as CEO of the Tremayne Foundation.”

Morgan forced a smile. “Yes.” The job was both a badge of honor and a source of grief. She shouldn't have inherited the position for years, and wouldn't have except for the accident that took her mother's life. Which made potential failure all the more petrifying.

“Congratulations on the progress of the Pediatric Treatment Center. A little over six months until opening?”

“If all goes according to plan.” Morgan's sadness was swallowed by the queasiness that descended whenever she thought about the balloon payment due on the center's property in a little over a month. All the more reason to get her butt inside and start raising cash.

The subtle strings and flutes of Bach drifted from across the street, drawing her into the cool embrace of the house where she'd grown up yet never felt comfortable. The wealth, the opulence—none of it had ever sat well with her. She'd take a broken garbage disposal any day.

Gage reached again for her hand. “May I?”

“Oh, well, I guess.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I'm supposed to meet someone inside.”

“My loss,” he said with what appeared to be a genuine flash of regret.

Morgan didn't often find herself at a loss for words. After all, she spent hours every day conversing with people in all kinds of environments about an array of topics. But when it came to upscale events like tonight's fund-raiser, or more personal interactions, her brain and tongue took great pleasure in fighting each other. Add a man like Gage—handsome, charming, confident—and the Morgan Tremayne who'd spent the morning fixing garbage disposals and replacing porch rails may as well have been drowning in the middle of the dating pool without a life jacket.

There wasn't room for her insecurities to loom tonight though. Instead, she focused on donning the mask of her professional self: the woman who didn't care that men skimmed their uninterested eyes over her size fourteen figure before moving on to whatever svelte, posh, polished socialite stood nearby. She was Morgan Tremayne and she needed to raise a truckload of cash or risk a financial scandal that could destroy her family.

When she noticed Gage had shortened his stride to match her unsteady one, Morgan wished she could have pulled off tennis shoes under the gown. If she had, she'd be able to zip around the party like the Road Runner on speed. Instead she'd spend the night hoping she didn't topple into the salmon mousse.

“Would you mind joining me for a drink while you wait for your date?” Gage asked.

“Oh, it's not a date.” Morgan tried to remember the last time she'd even had a date. “Just a favor for my father.” Of course her father had no way of knowing how dangerous his request that she escort the District Attorney this evening was. Putting Morgan in the vicinity of law enforcement was akin to planting a time bomb at the base of the family tree.

“Then it's his loss.” Gage smiled, displaying a set of straight, white teeth behind full, quirked lips. It was then that she noticed the crooked slope to his nose, as if it had been broken more than once. She'd bet there was a story or two there. “If you'll excuse me for a moment, I need to check in with my donation. Don't go too far, okay?”

Morgan watched Gage walk away before she blinked herself back to reality. A few moments around Gage had locked her in some sort of trance, one that broke as she caught sight of her father heading her way.

To anyone else, Jackson Tremayne was the picture-perfect host. Only those closest to him noticed the specter of grief hovering around him like a fog that might never lift.

For over a decade, Catherine Tremayne's Annual Foundation Fund-raiser was the season's biggest social event. Morgan couldn't help but feel that tonight's, the first since Catherine's death, was decidedly somber despite the celebratory casino atmosphere.

“Hi, Dad.” Morgan heard the telltale twitter of her phone's appointment alert chime from her purse. Her father smiled, shaking his head as Morgan plastered on her “everything is perfect” expression just in time.

“Right on time as always.” Jackson Tremayne wrapped his arms around her, the ice cubes in his Scotch glass clinking as he hugged her and kissed her cheek. “Does that thing ever let you relax?”

“Nope,” Morgan laughed. “How are you doing?” She knew she should have arrived sooner, come by more often, but there never seemed to be enough hours in the day. Thank goodness her sister Sheila had moved home after the accident so her father wouldn't be left alone in the enormous house.

“I'm fine, Morgan. You worry too much.” He gave her another squeeze. “Everything good with you?”

Little did her father know those four words held the potential to open a floodgate of panic.

The exhausted part of her wanted to say, “I've siphoned off charitable funds and left almost a quarter-million-dollar hole in the foundation's property purchasing account. I'll be lucky to make the property taxes this year. Your mother's old house needs a new water heater and copper pipes installed. By the way, I've accepted over one hundred thousand dollars from a thief stalking some of your biggest clients.”

But instead she said, “Everything's great, Dad,” with nary a trace of anxiety. “Where's Evan?” Morgan craned her neck to scan the crowd for Evan Marshall's telltale sun-streaked blond hair. To this day she thought the new D.A. looked more surfer-movie reject than politician. It was part of his charm, and while she liked Evan, she wasn't particularly invested in spending the evening playing tour guide to the rich and infamous of Lantano Valley. “Didn't you say he'd meet me inside?”

“District Attorney Marshall sends his regrets.”

Morgan's head snapped around as Gage joined them, pocketing his donation receipt and bidding marker.

“Inspector Gage Juliano, Mr. Tremayne.” He held out his hand. Jackson inclined his head as if trying to place him.

Inspector? Morgan's throat slammed shut like a bear trap as blood pounded in her ears.

“Evan hired me to oversee his new Special Investigations Task Force,” Gage said. “I thought tonight was the perfect opportunity to introduce myself, touch base, and get your opinion on some of the cases we'll be working on.”

Morgan rubbed her hands down her suddenly chilled arms. This distracting, disarming man was a cop? That hissing sound in her ears must be the burning fuse on a time bomb.

“Any case in particular?” Jackson asked, but Morgan already knew. Her skin went clammy. She felt her face grow cold as if every drop of blood had drained to her toes.

“The Nemesis burglaries,” Gage stated as he gestured to a passing waiter and ordered a whiskey, neat. “Now that I've caught up on the investigation, I believe everything I need to catch him can be found right here in this house.”

***

Most people assumed Gage's innate ability to read people was a result of his fifteen years as a cop. But they were wrong. While his mother claimed he'd been born with a bullshit detector, Gage, the oldest of six, had honed the ability on his energetic, opinionated, and determined siblings. As far as Gage was concerned, his brothers and sisters were the best training a cop could have when it came to exposing the truth.

“I wasn't aware Evan was establishing a task force.” The trace of tension in Jackson's voice was what Gage expected given the turbulent climate surrounding Nemesis.

The Tremayne patriarch had become a trusted voice of reason in recent years, lending his expertise as the CEO of Tremayne Investment and Securities during the recent economic downturn. But Jackson had yet to be drawn into the continuing saga of the high-end burglar. Given the interest Agent Kolfax and the FBI had in the family—and it would take a lot more than a Post-it to convince Gage the Tremaynes were involved in anything untoward—a congenial relationship with them would be to his benefit. Beginning with Jackson Tremayne.

Tall and lean, his dark blond hair dusted with silver at the temples, Jackson carried himself with an air of sophistication that spoke of classic Hollywood glamour rather than successful business tycoon. But there was a sharpening in his gaze, as if Gage's uttering the name Nemesis had spun the tumbler on the criminal's secret vault.