The surprise in his eyes seemed genuine. “Why exactly would I want you to leave town?”
“You’ve read my file.” Better to put all her cards on the table from the start. “Nathan wouldn’t have kept that a secret from you. That gives you about a hundred and fifty reasons why you wouldn’t want me within ten feet of anyone in your family, especially your intrigued son.” His intriguing son. “I’m a bad influence, especially when it comes to any public interactions with a family of your standing.” She crossed her arms over her chest and whispered, “I’m a liar. And a con artist.” Maybe not a very good one, given her current situation.
“Oh, my dear.” Jackson stopped in front of a set of tarnished double glass doors and pulled one open, guiding her inside the linoleum-rich diner with a gentle touch on her back. “Influence I’ll give you, but I’m not convinced you’re bad. Not by a long shot.”
***
“Which one do you think?” Nathan asked Malcolm, who looked both horrified and delighted at the rampaging golden-hued puppies darting around each other on the other side of the gate. The ninety-minute drive to the private shelter had been productive, with Malcolm making notes on how Jackson determined who Nemesis’s next target would be—typically through self-serving issues featured on the front page of the Lantano Valley Times. These days, however, altruism had shifted into high gear and there hadn’t been as many people flagrantly waving their checkbooks around at the expense of those less fortunate.
The Nemesis target pool had dried up. That said, someone had to misstep sometime and reevaluate their future; provided Malcolm was indeed up to taking over the reins for the next little while. Nathan wasn’t entirely convinced. Not with what he’d read about Malcolm’s upcoming treatments.
“When it comes to a puppy,” Malcolm said in a hushed tone, “I think you’d better tell Morgan what you’re planning or she’s going to string you up from the tree in her front yard and whack you like a piñata.”
Nathan smiled. It would be worth it to see a smile on Lydia’s face again. Besides, the puppies at Serenity Shelter, black and yellow labs ranging in age from eight months to a year, had already been housebroken and received training, despite their current rambunctious antics.
“There’s a method to my madness,” Nathan said, narrowing down his choices to the two labs flipping over each other in the far corner. “Other than the fact a dog is what Lydia and Kelley have asked for every Christmas and birthday for the last two years, these little guys are better than an alarm system.” One of the reasons he’d chosen this shelter. They trained their dogs to be family guardians. Once any of them bonded with their owners, no one was going to get anywhere near them.
“Which is how you’re going to get this idea past Gage. Gotta say, that’s brilliant,” Malcolm chuckled. “And something you can crow about if you live to tell the story.”
“I’m already on Gage’s shit list. If anything, this will get me out of the muck faster.” Or so he was hoping. “So, which one do you think?”
“For Lydia? That one.” He pointed to the smaller of the two puppies Nathan had been watching. “For Kelley, I’d go with bachelor—or is it bachelorette—number two.”
Nathan’s stomach dropped. “You think I should get two?”
“At some point in the near future, one will become the twins’,” Malcolm said, the truth about Lydia’s prognosis heavy in the air. “Besides, those two don’t look like they’re going anywhere without each other.”
Malcolm was right. Nathan watched as the pups batted at each other, but as soon as one walked away, the other toddled to follow. Two peas in a pod with eight large paws—Nathan really hoped they wouldn’t grow into them—and four floppy ears between them. “And I’m saying this now,” Malcolm continued. “No way am I keeping these at my place tonight. Forget Sheila, Sherlock won’t have it. He gets territorial if there’s another cat on the TV screen.”
“The shelter isn’t open on Sundays.” Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all. What was he going to do with two puppies until tomorrow?
Malcolm laughed. “Oh, I’m so setting up a camera in your town house this afternoon. The thought of those two wreaking havoc on your new wood floors—”
Refurbished, not new, and at least Nathan didn’t have a bunch of furniture to worry about. Besides, this would keep the entire family occupied while he and Laurel headed to the Bay Area to get a handle on the crown and Alastair Manville. “I hope they come with leashes,” he muttered, and raised his hand toward the young man standing nearby. “Next stop the pet store. And this time you’re picking up the tab.”
***
“I’m going to tell you a story,” Jackson said after he ordered scrambled eggs and an English muffin.
Laurel cupped her palms around her cup of coffee, waiting for the warmth to override her urge to shiver. The diner he’d led her to was throwback faithful, except for the odd combination of eggnog yellow and turquoise that made Laurel wish she was color-blind. Not even the normally comforting aroma of frying potatoes and sizzling bacon eroded the Alastair-induced nausea churning in her stomach.
Except there he was again. That same short, weaselly-looking man she’d spotted first at the bookstore and then again outside the Tremayne office building. This time, however, the instant he spotted her looking at him, he spun on his counter stool and tossed a couple of bills on his plate.
“Laurel? Is everything okay?”
“Fine.” Odd. She’d have thought if he was working for Alastair he’d have stuck around to eavesdrop on their conversation. She nodded and pinned a practiced smile on her face as her watcher lumbered out of the diner, his paunch hanging over his strained leather belt. “Just—” Any instinct she had when it came to trust had abandoned her years ago. Jackson Tremayne wasn’t a friend; he wasn’t a confidant. He—and the rest of his family—were nothing more than marks. “It’s nothing. You were saying, about a story?” She sipped her coffee to give herself something to do, avoiding his skeptical gaze.
“Given what my son has been telling me about you, I’m thinking you’ll appreciate it.”
Laurel could only imagine what Nathan had been telling his father. “Okay.”
“Once upon a time—”
Laurel laughed. The sound was so unexpected, she covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember the last time someone tried to tell me a fairy tale.”
“I used to be quite good at them.” Jackson gave her one of those fatherly smiles she used to dream about. “Not that Morgan held any affinity for princesses in towers who needed rescuing, but Sheila used to humor me. Did you know my mother was a gin runner during prohibition?”
“No.” Laurel’s smile dipped. Why was he telling her this?
“I take it you limited your research to my most recent past. Understandable. But it’s true. And my father? Well.” He let out a soft chuckle. “Let’s just say my father had certain ideas about how to redistribute wealth.”
“Your father was a thief?” Her eyes went wide as her admiration found new depths. Exactly how many layers were there to this family?
“Not a very good one, it turns out. And neither was I. Growing up, I always had big ideas, plans. I could think a problem to death and find a dozen different ways out. Or in. I could examine every angle, see every possible scenario. Execution was where I lagged. As young men are wont to do, I fell in with a few other like-minded individuals who shared my proclivities for challenging authority and could pick up where I left off. And one of them.” He pulled out a photograph out of his jacket pocket. “One of them shared my affinity for historical artifacts. It became a bit of a game between us, actually, until the price to play became too high. Unlike him, I wasn’t willing to risk my future to win.” He set the photo on the table and slid it toward her, tapped the image of the man on the right. “I have a feeling you might recognize him.”
Laure
l pressed her lips together so hard they went numb. A younger, albeit no less haunting, Alastair Manville stood on one side of Jackson, who could have been Nathan’s twin at the time. She didn’t recognize the man on Jackson’s right, but she certainly understood the sentiment of the picture as each hoisted thick handblown shot glasses toward the camera.
If Jackson expected her to say anything, he didn’t seem disappointed at her silence.
“Alastair and I were never close,” Jackson said. “I wouldn’t even call us friends. We didn’t share life secrets or buddy around at the bars, but from the time we met, there was an instant competition between us. We’d constantly one-up each other with challenging thefts of certain, shall we say, Celtic and Serpian artifacts. Skulking around the edges of the law bound us in an odd way, but eventually it was what did in our partnership with Mac.”
“Mac?”
“Mac Price. The other man in the photo.”
She peered closer. “Mac Price? As in ‘the Widow’s Peak’ Mac Price? The long-con king?” Her pulse raced for an entirely new reason. There was a time she’d have given anything to meet the man face-to-face.
“I thought you might have heard about him.” He leaned back as their waitress brought his breakfast. “It’s not everyone who would appreciate my connection to a career criminal of his ilk.” He looked at her, but Laurel kept her eyes pinned on the picture, not wanting to see what she expected to be understanding on his face. “It’s not easy, is it? Being in this game on your own. Never having anyone to trust. No one to bail you out of a tricky situation or to ask for help.”
Laurel ignored his insinuations. “Mac Price is a master. I’ve pulled some jobs in my day, but nothing along the lines of what Price and his group have managed.” They were legends in the business. She brushed her finger over Mac’s smiling face as regret seeped in. What Charlie, Joey’s father, could have learned from them if they’d been given the chance. Enough to keep him alive at least. Laurel had to force herself to breathe. Enough for her not to have been caught under Alastair’s thumb in the first place.
“Mac’s not perfect, Laurel. Not by a long shot. He’s pissed off more than his share of people over the years, me included. Police, Feds, and criminals alike are out there still gunning for him.”
Now she did look at him. What did he expect? For her to spill every secret she had? How could she when Joey had been placed in the cross fire only an hour before. “People like—?”
“You really aren’t going to give an inch are you?”
“An inch is all most people need to stab you,” Laurel said. “You’re talking about Alastair.”
“I’m hoping not, but Mac can be an invaluable source of information for you and my son.”
“Last I heard Mac Price was in prison.” The last place Laurel had any inclination to visit was anything resembling a penitentiary.
“Soledad, actually.” Jackson confirmed. “Up until a few weeks ago. If I wasn’t being watched . . .” He jerked his head toward the window. “He got a message to me a few weeks ago about some new information he’d come across. Given the timing, I’m betting it has something to do with Alastair. Visiting Mac now isn’t an option, it’s a necessity. Not only does Mac need to be warned about Alastair, we need to know what he knows, especially if you and Nathan are going to find that crown. My son tells me the two of you are headed to San Francisco next week. Mac recently cut a new deal that got him transferred to a minimum federal facility just outside the city.”
Laurel inclined her head. “You want me to get us in to see him.”
“Normally I could help grease the wheels, but one wrong step right now and my entire family is going to pay for my past.” He jerked a thumb toward the manned sedan outside the diner. “They’re waiting for me to slip up or at the very least give them a direction to take the investigation. I can’t do either. Mac is safe where he is. He’s protected. Not because he’s in prison, but because there are plenty of people with a vested interest in keeping him alive. Consider it a win-win. I’m giving you the chance to meet Mac Price and all I ask in return is that you agree to help Nathan find that crown. Keeping Alastair off-kilter is our only advantage right now and the last place he’d expect you to go is to a prison. If you think you can get in, of course.”
“Of course I can get in.” Laurel might be uncertain about a lot of things right now, but what Jackson was asking her do to was right up her alley.
The assessing look he gave her had her shifting in her seat. “I don’t have to tell you Alastair Manville is dangerous.”
Laurel’s mind raced. Not answering was the smart move. Not acknowledging that Jackson knew her better in ten minutes than his son did after the hours they’d spent together. And yet . . . she didn’t see a hint of disapproval or judgment in Jackson Tremayne’s eyes and for a moment, however brief, she ignored what life had taught her and trusted. “No.” One word loosened the tight band across her chest. “No, you don’t.”
“Whatever you’re into, I want you to know—” He reached across the table, but Laurel snatched her hand away before he could take hold.
“What did you do to him?” she asked before she read too much into his kindness. This was about protecting his family, not about her. She had to remember that. “What did you do to Alastair to make him hate you so much?”
Jackson sighed and resumed eating. “I betrayed him. At least he sees it that way. And because of it, he ended up serving time for a crime that, technically, he didn’t commit. Alone, anyway.” Jackson stirred his coffee. “Alastair and I were always trying to one-up each other, to bet big and take chances we shouldn’t have. I was lucky. Most of mine paid off. Alastair wasn’t so lucky. I’ve lived my life without regrets for the most part. But one night, forty years ago, I was a stupid, cocky kid who took one too many risks and I goaded Alastair to the point where he got careless. That doesn’t mean I would have done anything differently. I can’t think that way because if I’d made any other choice, I wouldn’t have had all those years with Catherine and I wouldn’t have my children. But that doesn’t mean any of them deserves to pay for my crimes. Especially not at Alastair’s hands. I get the feeling you know a little something about that.”
More than a little something. “Nathan doesn’t trust me.”
“You’d be surprised what a bit of honesty will do to remedy that.”
She didn’t want to trust. She didn’t deserve it and she didn’t expect it. Not when she was using them—using all of them, to protect her own. “I only trust as far as I have to in order to get the job done.” She needed him to understand that. And she needed to ignore the way Nathan made her feel when he turned those charming, lively green eyes in her direction as he silently pleaded with her to believe in him.
“Have you spoken to Nathan about Mac?”
“Why don’t you consider that an ice breaker for the two of you the next time you talk? After this weekend.” Jackson held up a hand when she started to argue. “We have a little girl who needs our full attention tomorrow and that takes precedent. Even over keeping me out of jail.”
“How do you do it? Compartmentalize the way you do?” She’d lived with fear for so long, she couldn’t remember not waking up in the middle of the night with a knot in her belly or panic squeezing her lungs. It was why she obeyed every order, took every phone call except . . .
“I have learned over the years.” Jackson’s eyes shone with resignation. “To focus on what’s important. What I can change. I am well aware there’s every possibility you and Nathan might not find the crown and that I could be charged for a number of crimes. I’m preparing for that eventuality. I know I have no right to ask, certainly no right to expect your help, but I’m rarely wrong about people. You can help me, Laurel. You can help Nathan keep our family safe. So I’m going to ask. Will you promise me to do what you can to protect them?”
Laurel didn’t make promises. P
romises meant commitment and commitment meant trust, meant sacrifice, but she couldn’t very well close the door on an opportunity that could serve her—and Joey—well in the future. If she could get everything she needed out of the Tremaynes, if she could get back to Joey once and for all, then helping them break free of Alastair Manville and his vendetta of hatred seemed an appropriate task to undertake.
“Okay.” The second the word was out of her mouth, a sensation of dread washed over her. “Okay, yes, I’ll make you that promise.”
The question now became, how did she keep it?
Chapter Twelve
“Hang on, I’m coming!” Nathan bellowed after the doorbell chimed. He squeezed out the kitchen door, hopping as he tried to block puppy number one from dashing out the narrow opening to invade the rest of the town house. He didn’t even want to think about where puppy number two was. After the night he’d spent corralling them into the one room of the house he could control, and easily clean up, he was beginning to think Malcolm was right. Morgan was going to kill him.
The doorbell rang again. “For the love of all that is holy, I said I’m—” He yanked open the door and found Laurel slipping an envelope beneath the doormat. She shot up and gave him a tepid wave of her fingers. Barks emanated from behind him. Nathan closed his eyes and banged his forehead against the edge of the door. “Tell me you have some cyanide in your purse, please.”
“Um, hang on.” She tucked the envelope she’d been holding under her arm and dug through her bag, all the while he could see her trying not to smile. “Nope. I’ve got Advil, an old package of crackers, and hey, I’ve been looking for this.” She yanked out a worn stylus. “Would this work? It’s kinda knifey.” Did the nerves he heard in her voice mean she was ready to abandon whatever facade she felt she needed to maintain around him?
“Funny. What brings you by? Wait.” He frowned. “How did you know where I live?” He hadn’t seen his address scrawled on a sticky note on her hotel room wall.
Trouble with Nathan Page 16
