Asking for Trouble (3 page)

“It hasn't escaped our notice that Nemesis is targeting a good number of Evan's campaign contributors,” Gage fibbed. “Many of whom I'm sure are here tonight. We'd all like Nemesis stopped, which is why Evan is making this case our top priority.”

“You don't strike me as naïve, Inspector.” Jackson took a sip of his drink. “The national attention from capturing a high-profile criminal like Nemesis no doubt factors into Evan's political plans.”

“It's no secret he's considering a run for Attorney General or even governor one day.” Not that Gage cared about Evan Marshall's career plans. He only cared about bringing a criminal to justice. He owed that much to Brady Malloy. And if this case helped him decide on what his own future should be, he'd consider the information a bonus. “But you're right. I'm not naïve.”

“I take it you don't subscribe to the belief that Nemesis is a myth.” Morgan's lighthearted tone flipped Gage's frustration switch.

“Myths don't kill people.” This wasn't the first time he'd heard Nemesis referred to as an urban legend. Some people didn't believe the string of robberies were connected despite Nemesis' proclamations to the press.

The crook loved to call out his victims in the media—online, print, didn't seem to matter how he reminded those who had more than most that they should be appreciative of their circumstance. He was a criminal giving morals lessons.

It appeared as if irony's depths of ridiculousness had no limits.

“I'm sorry.” Gage didn't care for the mingled surprise and disbelief he saw on her face. “The Nemesis case is personal for me. The original investigating officer was a good friend. It's important I finish it for him.” Not that Gage solving the case could change what happened to Brady. “But now isn't the time or place to discuss business.”

“I agree. Feel free to call my office for an appointment,” Jackson offered. “Enjoy your evening. Morgan, even though I know it's the last thing on your mind tonight, do try to have a little fun. You deserve a break.”

“I will, Dad.” Morgan gave his arm a squeeze before Jackson disappeared into the growing crowd.

The smell of aged money mingled with cigar smoke, over-sprayed perfume, and more than a hint of superiority set Gage on the edge of unease. The collective din from farther inside the house echoed of spinning roulette wheels and cheers amid bets won and lost on the roll of the die.

Everyone around him looked as if they'd been painted into the picture, comfortable, in their element. What he wouldn't give for a bottle of beer and a carton of Kung Pao. He gave Morgan a sheepish grin in the hopes of appeasing her.

“I hope you're not disappointed in the change of plans. I know I'm not an up-and-coming politician—”

“And here I thought you were intelligent enough to have done your homework,
Inspector
.” Morgan's green eyes sharpened like brittle glass as color flooded her cheeks. “If anything, the fact that you're not a politician works in your favor. At least to me.”

Ah, much better. Gage accepted the drink delivered to him and plucked a flute of champagne off another server's tray. His date was as quick as she was beautiful. And those legs. He'd be fantasizing about them for weeks. “Let's start over, shall we? Inspector Gage Juliano.” He brought her hand to his mouth, brushed his lips over her knuckles. “It's lovely to meet you, Miss Morgan Tremayne.” Her laugh threw his heart into an uneven tarantella. “You're going to be trouble, aren't you?”

Her smile tugged at the base of his heart. “Inspector, you have no idea.”

***

Karma had come calling and its name was Gage Juliano.
Inspector
Gage Juliano.

As if Morgan didn't need a record-breaking fund-raising night already, the possibility of the cops circling her financial shortfalls only increased the suffocating pressure to succeed. While she appreciated Nemesis' dedication and donations to her cause, his anonymous and plentiful contributions came with a guilt-tinged price.

She—or rather the foundation—had profited from his crimes. The cash Nemesis had supplied over the last six months had kept the charity afloat. But something told her Gage wouldn't understand her actions no matter how desperate she was.

Come on, Morgan. Kick it into gear
. She could soon be doing the prison two-step for ten to twenty if she failed to raise enough money to cover the deficit in the foundation's account. So she stalked the silent auction items like a predator.

Gage angled a curious look as she scribbled her name and bidding number down on a week's stay at an exclusive spa in Arizona.

“You don't strike me as the ‘take a week off for the spa' kind of woman.”

Morgan arched a brow, impressed and unnerved he read her so easily. She'd already bid on the private Mediterranean cruise, a Broadway theater package including transportation, and a tour of one of the most exclusive wineries in Napa. Then again . . . Oh. Her pen hovered over a well-known plastic surgeon's offering of twenty thousand dollars' worth of work. Gage grabbed her wrist.

“You don't need that.” His tone was an odd combination of disapproval and disbelief, and the intoxicating compliment warmed her from the inside.

“I won't win.” She crooked her finger and lowered her voice. “See that number? Yvonne Baker. She's due for her annual overhaul and she's already bid on it three times. Now that she's seen me scratch my name . . .” Morgan gave a quick glance over her shoulder to confirm the Jayne Mansfield clone was watching. “Yep. If her eyes could shoot poison darts, we'd both be dead. She'll reclaim it. Besides, she only bid eleven grand. It should go for at least as much as it's worth.” It wasn't the first time she'd taken a chance by betting on people's greed. They had yet to disappoint her. “And Mitzi Chennault has had a honeymoon in the Mediterranean in her head for the last two months. Just making sure she gets what she wants.”

“At a price that benefits the foundation. Impressive. Devious. I appreciate that in a woman.” That smile of his could charm a cobra out if its basket.

“I'll do whatever I have to in order to raise money for my kids.” Which was as close to the truth as the inspector was going to get.

“Your kids. Sounds personal.”

Wanting to believe his interest was genuine, Morgan shrugged. “Do you know how many children are waiting for life-saving medical procedures their families can't afford? Experimental treatments their insurance won't cover? Thousands and those are just the ones I've heard about. I get calls and emails every day asking when the center is going to open, begging me to put their patients on our admissions list. I know every name, every disease. I've got pictures of each of them up here.” She tapped the side of her head. “So, yes. They are my kids. Just as they were my mother's.”

“It takes a strong person to build what you and your mother have.”

Person, not woman. Because he didn't hesitate in the non-distinction, Morgan's tone softened. “We lost my little brother, Colin, when he was eight to a rare form of leukemia. The foundation, the center, they're in his memory. My mother was determined to save as many children as possible.” Morgan blinked as if the lights were too bright. “She—we—didn't want another family to have to go through the loss we did. She dedicated her life to the cause. Now that she's gone, the mantle passed to me.”

“I didn't realize the crusade was that personal.” Gage's voice rang with sympathy, and regret, as if he felt he should have known.

“My mother was the face of the foundation, but Colin is the heart. Don't you dare feel sorry for us.” Her order earned a soft smile from Gage in return. “He was a gift we had for eight years. He changed my life. Gave me, gave my entire family, a purpose. I get the feeling you understand that, given your reaction to my myth comment earlier.” Morgan took a deep breath, and stepped into the fire. “The Nemesis case. It's personal for you.”

“It is.” The coolness in his voice made her regret the comment, but she needed to know what she was up against. She still had a few hours to spend with the man and he'd asked about her work. She couldn't very well ignore the opportunity to reciprocate.

“The initial investigator was my training officer years ago.” Gage swallowed the last of his drink. “Malloy got caught in the media and political cross fire, wasn't able to get anywhere with the victims. Drove him to an early grave.”

Morgan's heart skidded to a halt. “You don't mean he committed suicide?”

Gage's gaze shifted to his empty glass. “If you mean did he eat his gun, no.” Morgan forced out a breath before the guilt could settle.

“But the media bubble was impossible to thrive under,” Gage said. “The stress, the pressure to close the case, the lack of assistance from anyone involved. It was a toxic combination when you add in a stubborn refusal to listen to his doctor and take a step back.”

“But you blame Nemesis.”

“Take Nemesis out of the equation and Brady Malloy might still be alive.” Gage gestured with his empty glass as if toasting his friend. “Solving his last case seems the appropriate tribute.”

Morgan bit the inside of her cheek.

If she'd had any doubts about Gage before, they'd evaporated. Gage Juliano saw the world in black and white, right and wrong. He'd never understand Morgan's world was a million shades of grey.

“Bust. Dealer wins again.”

Gage threw his cards onto the table, surrendering the last of his chips as Morgan scooped them toward her, then did the same with the other players at her table. Maybe she'd mesmerized him into forgetting how to play blackjack.

Or maybe he was just preoccupied. He'd come to the fund-raiser tonight hoping to find a way into the Tremayne stronghold. He'd expected to loathe every minute of the evening. He didn't expect to find his escort intoxicating and intriguing, not to mention distracting, let alone enjoyable. He couldn't imagine the dedication needed to run a charity of this magnitude, or to hold children's lives in his hands like she did every day. Jackson had lived up to all Gage's perceptions and expectations, but Morgan Tremayne was definitely a surprise.

“Another drink?” Gage stood, gesturing to the young man hovering nearby that he could take Gage's stool. She smiled, shuffling and spinning the cards like a Las Vegas pro over and under with one hand. She'd cleaned him out. A few hands of strip poker and he'd be naked.

“Just water, thanks.” She winked at him, surprising herself, it seemed, as her cheeks flushed again and she refocused on her players.

“Be right back.”

Going in search of the bar made him feel like a bear stalking salmon upstream. The foyer had emptied of latecomers as everyone mingled their way through the enormous floor plan of the Tremayne house. The home he'd grown up in would have fit at least ten times over on the first level of the Tremayne's dwelling alone.

Floor-to-ceiling marble columns outlined the wainscoted hallway as he passed room after room offering everything from baccarat to roulette wheels. The Pai Gow tables were four deep with partygoers waiting to take their chances. All that was missing was James Bond ponying up his Aston Martin as bid collateral.

He found the bar situated in the solarium at the far end of the house, the glass-paneled walls allowing for a stunning view of the lighted and meticulously cared for rose garden.

“My mother's coping mechanism.” The man who joined Gage at the bar followed his gaze and gave a smile that triggered the same twinkle, the same dimple in the chin that Morgan possessed. Same coloring, same vibrant green eyes, and a tall, lithe physique. “Can't tell you how many hours she lost herself out there, tending to those prickly bushes. Sometimes I think she's still tending them, just not in the same way.” The man turned, held out his hand. “Nathan Tremayne. I'm head of security at the family firm.”

“Gage Juliano. I was just getting your sister another drink.”

“Water, huh?” Nathan nodded to the glass the bartender set in front of Gage. “She must be having a good night. When she starts guzzling the diet soda, watch out. Morgan on a caffeine high is both a wonder and a terror to behold.”

Gage grinned. “I'll keep that in mind.”

The back of his neck tingled seconds before a loud voice boomed, “Inspector.”

Gage kept a casual elbow on the polished wooden bar as he turned to find a group of tuxedo-clad men watching him, their ages ranging from barely off training wheels to somewhere around Father Time.

“Gentlemen,” Gage responded, determined to keep his expression and his attitude respectful. He'd memorized every Nemesis file and easily put victims' names to faces. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, my boy, nothing. Nathan, good to see you again. James Van Keltin, Esquire.” A heavy hand slapped Gage's shoulder as the man who stood as wide as he did tall set his glass down. “Rumor has it you're reopening the Nemesis investigation. Dirty business, getting into the mud with that scoundrel.”

Gage leaned away to avoid being assaulted by the high-priced defense lawyer's overabundance of bargain-basement cologne. Being called “boy” reminded him of his college days when he'd caddied at the country club for extra cash, and who used the word
scoundrel
these days?

“Can't reopen what was never closed.” Gage kept his tone light. He knew flying under the radar and being underestimated was the best way to gather information. No need to change flight plans now. “But you hear correctly. We'll be starting from the beginning, going over every incident, every statement.”

“Smart thinking.” Nathan nodded. “Nemesis won't know what hit him.”

Van Keltin chuckled. “That D.A. of yours has delusions of grandeur. No need to go poking into something that's going to blow over any day now.”

“I don't think a stolen Picasso is something that will blow over, do you, Mr. Baker?” Gage peered around Van Keltin's girth to the short, rotund man who looked like a young Truman Capote with thick bottle glasses and a pasty complexion.

“My w-wife was mistaken,” Charles Baker stammered, blinking so fast it was like he was transmitting fake Morse code. “I sold that painting without her knowledge. There was no break-in.” He cleared his throat, tugged at his tie.

“It's interesting,” Gage said to Nathan. “You'd think a transaction like that would mean a trail of paperwork, and yet we haven't found a scrap.” He felt as if he'd found a kindred spirit in Morgan's brother when Nathan hid his smile behind his glass. Gage returned his attention to Charles Baker. “But I'll be sure to make a special effort so we can eliminate your case completely. How about you, Mr. Swendon?” Gage addressed the tall, gangly man who looked more Lurch from the Addams Family than a media mogul who'd made billions off the public's die-hard obsession with the cult of celebrity. “I suppose your wife's missing jewels were misplaced, which explains your retracted statement?”

“While we were traveling, yes,” came the nasal response, even more appropriate given that Lance Swendon was looking down his nose at Gage. “This task force is a waste of time and resources, something I intend to discuss with Mr. Marshall given the first opportunity.”

“Mr. Marshall is always open to discussing his plans with his supporters. I find it odd, however, that so many of you are against this investigation. If, as you say, there were no crimes committed against you, then what we investigate hardly matters, and yet here you are.” Gage could imagine the level of panic these men would achieve if they knew the FBI was sniffing around the case. “If you choose not to cooperate, we have all the communication between Nemesis and the press at our disposal.” He made certain his smile stayed in place as he spoke. “Strange world we live in when the criminal responsible is more forthcoming about his crimes than his victims. I bet his records are meticulous.”

“More like fictitious,” Van Keltin boomed. Clearly he didn't appreciate Gage taking control of a conversation he'd started. “I'm sorry my wife and I are leaving in the morning for an extended stay in Europe and we won't be around to watch how you handle this first case.”

“Then I'll make sure to have the case wrapped up before you return. For the rest of you, my office will be in touch. I'll be sure to give your regards to Mr. Marshall. I'm certain your enthusiastic response to his investigation will be taken in the spirit it was intended.”

Nathan chuckled and finished his drink.

As he returned to find Morgan, Gage wrote the evening off as a success. Before tonight, he and Evan believed Nemesis' victims simply didn't want to be involved or were embarrassed with the case. They were wrong.

Nemesis' victims were protecting him. The question was, why?

***

“I've been looking for you all night.”

Despite the multitude of guests milling about, the muted conversations, the clinking of glass and the rattling of poker chips, the world dropped away and Morgan covered her sister's hand as Sheila's arm encircled her shoulders.

Tears burned in Morgan's chest, searing, almost paralyzing as she gazed up at Catherine Tremayne's portrait. Their mother had been elegance personified whether in jeans and polo shirt—no T-shirts for Catherine—or the ruby red one-shoulder designer gown she'd forever wear in the oil painting mounted over the fireplace in the main sitting room.

“The dress is perfection on you, Morgan,” Sheila whispered, tucking Morgan's head under her chin. Morgan closed her eyes, inhaled the gardenia perfume that had once been her mother's favorite scent. “Just as she knew it would be. She'd be so proud of you.”

Morgan squeezed her eyes until she saw stars. “I'm not so sure.” The confession slipped from her lips before she thought to stop it. She felt Sheila's arm tense.

In so many ways Sheila embodied Catherine—the same perfect figure; smooth, wavy blond hair; and stunning runway-model features. At times Morgan had felt like a very round peg in a tall and slender family, but she'd always felt loved, even when she didn't feel as if she belonged.

“What's going on?” Sheila had also mastered Catherine's piercing and quizzical gaze.

“Nothing.” Dammit! What was wrong with her tonight? She wasn't used to not being able to keep her fears in check. “Sometimes I wonder how she did it, kept everything going. Gave equal attention to us and Dad and the foundation. How did she make it all look so easy?”

“Mom wasn't juggling a fixer-upper foster home for sick kids on top of everything else. Plus, she knew how to ask for help. Honestly, Morgan, I wish you'd let me do more with the foundation.”

“You do enough.” Morgan ran a finger under her eyes in case any tears had escaped and dragged her mascara along with them. Asking for help meant telling Sheila—telling her entire family—the truth, and she couldn't bring them into the mess she'd made. Besides, she couldn't risk tainting the foundation any more than she already had. “I couldn't do what you do, all this.” Morgan gestured around the room.

“Yeah, party planning is a real challenge.” Shelia retrieved a champagne flute off a passing tray, and arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “I'm simply exhausted.” Sarcasm rang like church bells in Morgan's ears, and while Morgan knew the intent wasn't to make her smile, she did.

“Parties are exhausting for some of us. Believe me, knowing events like this are in your hands, that I just have to show up and pry open people's wallets, is a huge relief.”

“I'm capable of more. All you have to do is ask.”

“I know,” Morgan said.

“Do you?”

Guilt tugged the corners of Morgan's mouth down.

“Ladies.”

Her heart tipped as Gage sidled up to them, despite knowing nothing good could come of her unexpected and inconvenient attraction to him.

“You ran off on me,” he teased.

“Sorry.” It didn't matter that Gage made her smile or that he made her heart pound as if she'd just swum the English Channel. It couldn't matter. “Sheila, this is Inspector Gage Juliano.”

Given the way Sheila filled out her Barbie-inspired black beaded gown, Morgan figured she'd be the ideal distraction.

It wouldn't be the first time Morgan vanished in the afterburn that was a Miss California runner-up. But it might be the first time she cared.

Morgan sipped her water and wished she'd had him get her a shot of tequila.

“Nice to meet you, Sheila.” Gage gave her a warm smile as Morgan looked away and bid his ego-boosting attention adieu. “Your brother was just telling me about your mother's rose garden. This must be her.” He raised a glass to the picture. “She was beautiful.”

Morgan didn't answer until Sheila elbowed her in the ribs. “Huh? Oh.” Morgan found Gage watching her as if only the two of them were in the room. As if he barely noticed Sheila's presence. “Yes. Dad had that commissioned after”—it was still painful to say—“last summer.”

“Inspector? Are you with the police?” Sheila asked, shooting Morgan a “what's wrong with you” look.

“D.A.'s office, actually.”

“He's heading up the Nemesis investigation,” Morgan explained. Here she was expecting the vortex of her sister's male-attracting good looks to leave her in the shadows, but Gage Juliano appeared immune. Boy, her luck just kept getting better. “He's here in Evan's place.”

“Something like that,” Gage said, a quizzical expression on his face as he touched a hand to her bare arm. “Morgan?”

Sheila set her glass on the mantel and took their glasses from them. “I think my sister is suffering the aftereffects of too much work. Gage, why don't you take her for a spin around the dance floor? She could do with a break.”

“Sheila.” Morgan felt the humiliating blush start from her toes and erupt out the top of her head as Gage slipped his arm around her waist.

“I'd love to.”

“Wait.” Morgan shoved her purse and the envelope filled with checks and cash she'd collected throughout the evening into her sister's hands. “Add this to the count tonight?”

Sheila struggled to keep hold of everything in her grasp even as she glared at Morgan. “Good thing juggling is a family skill. Pile it on.”

“So you dance, too?” Morgan asked as Gage led her through the crowd into the solarium, but before they joined the other couples on the dance floor, Gage bent down and lifted the edge of her dress. “What are you doing?” she asked.

A blush crept up her cheeks as she glanced around and offered a confused smile to the curious elderly couple dancing a few feet away.

“You've suffered enough for one night.” He tapped her heel. “Up.” He slipped off one shoe, then the other, and smiled as she let out an unladylike sigh of relief. Pins and needles the size of hypodermics shot through her feet as she stepped flat on the cool floor.

“My hero.” She watched him shove her shoes into his pockets before he drew her forward and wrapped an arm around her waist. He captured her hand in his. Bringing it against his chest, he pressed her fingers against his beating heart, the heat of his body sinking into her.

Oh, this wasn't a good idea, but common sense had taken a much-needed vacation. She all but melted against him and tried to ignore the camera flashes from the media representatives circling the guests. “Vultures, but necessary ones,” she murmured.