Liar, Liar, Heart's Desire

by Suzie Quint

A glance over his shoulder revealed Martin standing in the doorway looking like a rich playboy in his dark suit and black, collarless shirt. The amused smile on his face made Alec feel as if he’d just been caught cheating on Cleo.

  As he dropped his arms and stepped back, Bales twisted away. A quick swipe at her wet cheeks and her shoulders straightened. She turned toward the door with a dignity that dared Martin to mention what he’d just seen. “May I help you?”

  “Pardon my interruption,” Martin said as though he’d merely disrupted a business meeting. “My name is Martin Prescott.” He crossed the room, a business card in his extended hand. “I’m looking for someone who can confirm that Koblect’s children have inherited the lion’s share of the estate.”

  Bales took the card. “You’re with the press,” she said in a why-am-I-not-surprised voice.

  “The Tucson Sun,” Martin said.

  “Yes, I’m familiar with it. If I recall correctly, your paper was nominated for a Pulitzer last year.” Bales still didn’t sound impressed.

  Martin’s gaze flickered to Alec as though looking for an explanation for Bales’ lack of enthusiasm.

  “Yes, we―”

  “A story written by Cleo Morgan if my memory serves.”

  Alec lifted his hand to scratch his eyebrow—and to hide his smile. Bales might not like her, but Cleo was still a hometown girl, and Bales clearly wasn’t about to let Martin sell himself on her credentials.

  Bales set Martin’s card on the desk. “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. Mr. Koblect’s children will each receive bequests, but the bulk of the estate is going elsewhere.”

  Martin must have grated on her nerves because she was denying him the information she’d said would be all over the casino within a few hours.

  “Is there anything more I can do for you?” she asked.

  Martin’s expression went blank as though he couldn’t believe he was being dismissed so handily. Alec didn’t feel sympathy, but he still needed more from the man. To his relief, Martin recovered quickly.

  “So the widow got it?” Martin grinned. “Glad to hear it. That’s where I put my money. Have they come up with a solid net worth yet?”

  “I’m sure there will be a press release issued within a day or two that will address all your questions,” Bales said coolly.

  “Aw, come on. Can’t you cut me a break? I’m just a working stiff.”

  Alec nearly laughed out loud. Aside from being a corny appeal, it was clearly untrue since Martin wasn’t wearing one single thing that came off the rack. Even his boxers were probably silk.

  Apparently, Bales wasn’t oblivious to that fact either because her eyebrows rose in pointed disbelief.

  Of course, it wasn’t necessary that Martin get what he was asking for, Alec reminded himself. Martin was there because Cleo had asked him for a favor. It was Martin’s willingness to oblige her with no explanation and no promised payoff that ate at him, arousing all sorts of territorial instincts Alec knew were dangerous to feel.

  “Look, what I really want won’t be in a press release,” Martin said. “There was an actual reading of the will, right? And you were there. Are the kids going to contest the will? Is there going to be a court battle?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Bales said.

  Martin’s mouth tightened. This time, Alec was in sympathy. He needed Bales to step out of Sebastian’s office, preferably with her attention on Martin as she did so.

  “Okay, maybe you can tell me who I need to go through to request an interview with Koblect’s children,” Martin said.

  “I’m sure our PR office would be willing to pass on any requests of that nature.” She turned to the desk, picked up the letter opener, and returned it to its proper place before stepping around the desk. “Now if you’ll excuse me, the memorial will be starting soon.”

  Martin backed into her office as she marched toward him.

  Alec followed as she stepped through the door, knowing this was going to be the best chance he’d get. He slipped a lockdown magnet from his pocket and, as he shut the door to Sebastian’s office, slid it into place.

  The only door left was the one between Bales’ office and the administrative suite. If he didn’t get it, the whole plan was a bust.

  Bales sat down at her desk, opened the large drawer on one side, and pulled out her purse.

  Her distraction only lasted a few seconds, but it was long enough for Martin to flash Alec a pay-attention look as he pulled a corner of the magnet he’d kept from his pocket.

  By the time Bales had her purse on top of her desk, the magnet was back in Martin’s pocket.

  “This memorial today,” Martin said. “This is just a dry run, right? There will be a real funeral later, won’t there?”

  Bales went motionless for a second before pulling her keys from her purse. She looked at Martin with no expression at all. “That will be up to Mrs. Koblect.”

  Mere days before, she’d been confident there would be a private funeral and burial, but dumping the decision in Liz’s lap said a lot about the change in her emotional investment. She was distancing herself from the hurt she felt, but was there a storm brewing behind her calm façade? If there was, Alec wasn’t sure he wanted to be around to see it break.

  But as long as she held it together until he finished his mission, he wasn’t going to worry about it. He stepped between Bales and Martin, blocking Martin—and the door to the outer office—from her sight. “Would you like me to walk you down to the service?”

  She looked up at him, shedding her annoyance like a dropped dressing gown. “I . . . I’d appreciate that.”

  “I guess I’ll see you both there,” Martin said.

  Alec glanced behind him. Martin was standing with one hand on the edge of the door just above where the lock engaged. A quick wink confirmed he’d placed the magnet.

  Alec nodded. Bales ignored him.

  Martin lifted a hand in farewell then walked toward the outer doors.

  “You’re going to the service so you can write about it, aren’t you?” Bales asked.

  “Yes, but if you need me, just signal.”

  She picked up her keys and locked the door to Sebastian’s office, then as they left, her door and the door to the administrative suite. With each door, Alec had to resist the urge to give it a tug to be sure the magnets worked.

  “So what are the plans for this memorial?” Alec asked as they waited for the elevator.

  “One of the local funeral homes is running the show. Liz wanted someone who would keep it tasteful.”

  The elevator arrived and they stepped inside.

  “Primarily,” Bales said as she pressed the button for the second floor where the memorial would be, “we expect our employees to turn out, but Liz also invited some of the other casino owners. She’s claimed the right to speak first.” Her lips turned down in a grimace.

  “You don’t approve?”

  “How often does a spouse eulogize at a funeral? They’re usually too distraught to get through a long speech.”

  “Point taken.”

  “And the divorce was nearly final, but I’m sure she’ll talk about how happy they were.”

  He could see Liz doing exactly that. It seemed important to her that people thought their marriage worked. Maybe even more so now that she knew how she’d been shunned in Sebastian’s will. “Do you think she’ll challenge the will?”

  “I don’t know. She looked pretty stunned she wasn’t getting any more than any other ex-wife.”

  Excluding Samantha.

  “She’d be a fool to try it if she really is pregnant,” Bales said just before the doors opened.

  He agreed, but he’d seen people do foolish things for a lot less money.

  Chapter 18

  “Hit me,” Cleo said.

  Robbie did, laying a jack of spades on top of her three of hearts. It figured. She always went bust when she hit on twelve. It was some kind of curse.

  She flipped h
er bottom card over.

  “Better luck next time,” Robbie said before looking to the first of the three players on her left.

  Someone sat down in the empty seat on her right. When she glanced over, Martin smiled at her. Her stomach suddenly flooded with jitterbugging butterflies. Had they been successful rigging the doors?

  “On a streak?” Martin asked as he set a short stack of chips on the table.

  “A losing streak,” Cleo said. “I should stick with the slots. I do better there.”

  “Slots are for chumps.”

  All the games were for chumps, but she didn’t say it. People like Martin saw themselves as winners. And maybe it worked because, from what she had seen, they usually were. “How about you? Have you been winning today?” She’d tried to sound casual, but her voice came out low and loaded with innuendo.

  “I always win. You know that. Though I’ll admit it started out looking as if I might crap out, but in the end, I was rolling sevens.” His eyes shone as though he was enjoying their little subterfuge.

  She was not. If anything, it made her even more nervous.

  “Bets, please,” Robbie said.

  Martin put out a fifty-dollar chip. Before Cleo could reach for her dwindling stack of five-dollar chips, he pushed one of his chips in front of her. “This hand’s on me.”

  She’d rather play on her own money, but she didn’t want to create a fuss, so she simply said, “Thank you.”

  Robbie dealt the cards.

  Martin had an ace showing. He looked at his bottom card, flipped it up, splitting two aces.

  Those would have been her cards if he hadn’t sat down.

  She didn’t care. She’d rather save her luck for Sebastian’s office.

  A peek at her hole card revealed a ten of diamonds to go with the five of clubs she had showing. Robbie was showing a seven of hearts, so she was probably screwed no matter what she did. She slid her cards under the fifty-dollar chip, signaling she’d stand on the cards she had.

  Robbie dealt two up cards to Martin, both queens, proving the universe, too, thought he was a winner.

  So why did she suddenly resent it?

  Isn’t that what I want? To be a winner? To have the universe deal me twenty-one at every game I play? Isn’t that why I worked my tail off and took crazy risks to get the border story that was supposed to be my ticket into a major media outlet?

  Her phone trilled the opening notes of John Cafferty’s “On the Dark Side” just as Robbie rolled his bottom card over, showing a seventeen. She looked at the text. It was one word: Go.

  Her heart gave an extra thump. Showtime.

  She scooped up her chips, slid off her seat, and blew Martin an air kiss.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  From your lips to God’s ear, she thought as she walked away. Then, because the thought felt like a challenge to the universe, almost an invitation for things to go wrong, I take it back.

  As she waited for the elevator, she pulled out her phone and flipped through the menus, looking for the vibrate option. Why in the hell did they bury it so deep?

  “Hey, Cleo!”

  She looked up to see Willa walking toward her. Ah, crap. She tapped the screen and dropped the phone into her bag.

  Willa looked Cleo up and down, taking in her jeans, shirt, flat sandals, and the oversized bag Cleo hoped would contain the IOU soon. “You’re going to the memorial dressed like that?” Willa asked in a horrified tone.

  “No, Alec’s covering it. I figure I’m persona non grata with Liz.”

  “Oh yeah. The fight. Will Jada be at the memorial?”

  “No. Because of Annaliese, she’s not too popular with Liz either right now.”

  Willa scowled. “That’s not fair. Jada’s done nothing to Liz.”

  The elevator arrived, disgorging three people. “I know. But it is what it was.”

  Willa’s scowl softened into a concerned frown. “But if you’re here and Alec is going to the memorial . . . You didn’t leave Jada home alone, did you?”

  Cleo laid her hand against the edge of the elevator door, so it wouldn’t close. “She’s perfectly fine, Willa. She’s adjusting to Annaliese not being there.”

  “But―”

  “Please, Willa. Don’t worry about her.” She stepped inside, still holding the door. “You were a great help those first few days, and I don’t know what we’d have done without you, but Jada’s doing okay now.”

  “But―”

  She wished she had more time to reassure Willa, but the elevator doors kept trying to shut. “I’ve got to go. Enjoy”—she almost said enjoy the memorial, but that seemed inappropriate—“your day off.”

  She let the doors close. Willa was still frowning.

  ~***~

  Alec met Callum outside the conference room. He’d worked with Nigel’s nephew before and liked him. Despite a tendency to bounce with puppyish enthusiasm, Callum needed little supervision when he was working. On his own time, staying out of trouble was more challenging. Alec suspected he was the black sheep of his family because his sense of humor ran toward the sophomoric.

  “Shouldn’t we sign the guest register?” Callum asked.

  “We’re not guests. We’re press, which means we don’t even rank as high as the hired help.”

  “Are you certain that’s protocol?” He wasn’t looking at the book but just beyond it at a classy brunette wearing a dove gray suit with her hair done up in a French twist. The way she quietly greeted people, she was likely employed by the funeral home Bales had mention rather than by the casino.

  Alec smile to himself. Callum loved women, but he had a type, and a sophisticated thirtyish brunette hit on his cylinders.

  “Yes, I’m certain. If you want to make time with the lovely lady, it would be more appropriate after the service.”

  Callum looked at him and blushed. “Right-O. Let’s find a spot for me to film the action.”

  A number of people had already found seats, but there were also several clusters of people near the back of the room talking softly. One of the groups consisted of senior management.

  A larger-than-life photo of Sebastian sat on an easel next to the podium. His children and their spouses occupied half the front row.

  The room smelled like a florist shop run rampant. Alec wondered if any of the massive arrangements were actually condolence bouquets or if the casino had ordered them all to make a decent showing.

  They found a spot against the side wall where Callum could unobtrusively film with his shoulder cam, and Alec started discreetly pointing out the main players in the drama.

  “There’s not likely to be a great deal of ‘action,’” Alec said. “Probably nothing we can use.” Maybe some cold shouldering between Sebastian’s kids and his widow. Nothing likely to interest their audience.

  Callum shrugged as he checked the focus. “Doesn’t matter to me. It got me a trip to Las Vegas.” He cast a quick glance at the funeral director, who seemed to be quickly overshadowing the lure of gaming tables.

  That was when the showgirls walked in, and Callum’s jaw hit the floor. “Wow.” He threw his shoulder cam into position and filmed them finding seats.

  Yeah, that footage had Personal Use written all over it.

  But once the girls were settled, Callum swung the camera back to the funeral director.

  He was such a pup. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be charmed by him. Alec had seen Callum work it before with women who should have been out of his league—out of his stratosphere even. It was the high-tone British accent. Women thought it was sexy.

  Maybe he should encourage Callum to pursue the classy brunette.

  It would keep him and his sexy accent away from Cleo.

  She should be upstairs by now.

  In the front row, Sebastian’s daughter kept looking at her brother and smiling broadly. Not the expression one expected at a memorial for one’s father, but it didn’t seem to be something she could contain. She probably a
lready considered half the inheritance hers since it was going to her mother instead of Liz. Hell, she probably already had it spent in her head.

  Since losing a large fortune wasn’t likely to put Liz in a happy mood, Sebastian’s daughter would be wise to wipe that smirk off her face before she appeared.

  He reconsidered the possibility of something interesting happening. A cat fight between Sebastian’s daughter and Liz seemed, as Nigel would have said, like a capital idea. Exactly the sort of high drama The Word’s readers loved.

  Callum elbowed Alec. His camera was still pointed at the brunette, so Alec swung his attention there.

  The grieving widow had arrived.

  ~***~

  Cleo took the elevator to the floor below the executive suite then the stairs, so she could peek through the door—just in case—but the floor was unoccupied as far as she could see.

  In the large bag she’d borrowed from Annaliese’s closet, she’d stashed a pair of gloves—also “borrowed” from Annaliese. This time, from an unused box of hair color. She felt a little silly putting them on, but if this went south, she didn’t want her fingerprints on everything. Better safe than sorry; the paranoid’s mantra.

  She crossed to the outer doors of the office suite and pushed. It opened, smooth and silent. She breathed a relieved sigh. In spite of Alec’s assurances, she hadn’t really believed it would be this easy.

  As she stepped inside, the lights came on, and she froze for a second before realizing they were equipped with motion sensors. She should have expected that, should have remembered from her days in housekeeping that all the offices and meeting rooms had that feature. There was enough light coming through the doors behind her to navigate the open space that led to Sebastian’s office, so she found the switch by the door and turned them off. The sensors would reset in ten minutes, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  Her footsteps made no sound as she passed the reception desk and the closed doors of the casino’s upper management’s offices. It was so quiet it was almost spooky, and she got a creepy feeling—a tingling on her skin and a tightness in her stomach—as if she expected something dire to happen.

  Why had she agreed to watch that horror movie with Alec? Her imagination didn’t need the extra encouragement. If this were a movie, this was the moment a cat would jump into the shot, releasing the building tension, so the real scare could catch her off guard later.