The Baby Chase

by Jennifer Greene

  Worse yet, she fancied herself a Nancy Drew, just because she’d written a few mystery novels. The complications she could cause, “helping” with this investigation regarding her brother, were enough to give Gabe an ulcer.

  So was she.

  As she slid off the counter, his eyes homed on the view of a lace-trimmed bra and the shadow of cleavage. More shadow than cleavage. There’d been no way he could talk her into peeling off the muddy, soaking-wet sweatshirt until he found something else for her to put on—he’d yanked the V-necked black sweater from a drawer upstairs, and he assumed it had belonged to Monica Malone. The late Monica, like so many of the Hollywood glamour stars of her era, had been built like a battleship on the upstairs deck.

  The V neck gaped on Rebecca as if she were an orphan waif playing dress-up. Her black jeans were finally dry, and snug enough to outline long, lean legs and a nonexistent tush. Since she couldn’t sit without squirming, he strongly suspected she’d bruised that bitsy tush, but for damn sure she’d never admit it to him. There was far more pride than sense in those soft green eyes, and that about summed up the rest of her appearance, too.

  The face was valentine-shaped, the skin too white, the eyes too dark, a mouth that looked dangerously butter-soft, and a nose with an impertinent tip. He guessed her height at around five-five. A respectable height—except next to him—but it was hard to resist calling her “shorty” when the least teasing got such a rise out of her.

  Her hair was dark cinnamon, and at the moment layered to her shoulders in a snarled tangle of curls. She’d obviously had no chance or time to brush it, but he’d spent time with her before this, and he knew her hair always looked like she’d just climbed out of a man’s bed after a long, acrobatic night. Since she was a Fortune, there was no question that she had the money for a decent haircut, so apparently she just didn’t think about it. Maybe a haircut wouldn’t help. Give her a butch cut and drape her in iron—she was still going to look skinny, sexy, half put together and, dammit, vulnerable.

  Gabe had never been attracted to vulnerable-looking females, so he had no idea why she so revved his engines—and he didn’t want to know. If and when a man was inclined to make a mistake, Gabe generally theorized, he might as well get his money’s worth and do it right. But, hell, not with her. He’d tangled with his share of women, and at thirty-eight he certainly knew when a risk was worth taking. He liked risk and he wasn’t short on guts—but no way was he a suicidal kamikaze pilot.

  “Rebecca…” He swiped a hand over his face again. As fast as she’d sprung down from the counter—as he should have known—she was galloping toward the door. “Where are you going?”

  “Anywhere. Everywhere. I thought I’d check out the scene of the murder first—it was in the living room, wasn’t it? Then see what I could pry and poke up in Ms. Malone’s bedroom.”

  “If you’re headed for the living room, better aim right instead of left. Unless you have some interest in the pantry and butler’s quarters. And listen, Nancy D. You leave stuff as you find it. You don’t take anything. I’d rather you didn’t even touch anything without telling me—”

  “Sheesh, Gabe. I’ve read a dozen books on police procedure. If I find anything remotely related to evidence, I sure as Pete know enough not to mess it up.”

  “Somehow your reading those books doesn’t reassure me too much.”

  For a vulnerable woman, she had the unholiest grin. “I know, cutie. You really can’t seem to help being a take-charge, overbearing, overprotective pain. Especially with women. God, thinking about you being a father just boggles the mind. You’d drive a daughter nuts, sweetie pie.”

  “Since I don’t plan to be a father, the problem is moot. Babies are the last thing on my mind.”

  “Yet another core difference between us—no surprise. If it weren’t for this immediate problem with my brother, babies’d be front-line priority for me. You should see all the research material I’ve been collecting on sperm banks.”

  “Sperm banks? You can’t be serious.”

  “On the subject of babies, I couldn’t be more serious.” But she grinned again. “However, the only reason I mentioned sperm banks was because I couldn’t resist—I just knew you’d get that look on your face, darlin’. But right now, time’s wasting…and babies just have no place on this night’s agenda.”

  No, Gabe thought darkly, murder was apparently front-line on the lady’s agenda now. And only Rebecca could bounce from sperm banks to murder in a single breath.

  Well, he wasn’t going to follow her around. He had an investigative job he was being paid to do, and his salary didn’t extend to baby-sitting imaginative, recalcitrant redheads—even if she was kin to his boss.

  He headed for the office—and yeah, he knew the mansion had one, because he’d been here before. The wallpaper was textured silk, the windows were hung with poofy, powder-puff-looking curtains, and the desk had a brocade chair. It was about the sissiest office he’d ever been in, and he doubted Monica Malone had ever paid a bill on her own, least of all in here. Either the cops or the lawyers had absconded with every record or financial statement in the file cabinets, as Gabe already knew. Still, he flicked on the fancy offset lighting and started yanking out drawers.

  Someone could have missed something. Someone always did. As much evidence as had emerged in the case, there were still huge holes and gaps in information. He carefully, meticulously tore the place apart…for about twenty minutes.

  About then he realized how silent it was in the rest of the house. Dead silent. Ideal for concentrating, except that it nagged at him like a bee sting that he couldn’t hear Rebecca. Her labeling him overbearing still rankled. He wasn’t remotely overbearing. He simply had ample previous experience with Rebecca—enough to know she was impulsively, unwittingly capable of causing no end of trouble. When a man was in the same house with a nuclear reactor, he was perfectly justified in worrying.

  He found her in the long, sweeping living room, huddled in a chair, staring at the marble fireplace. Damn woman. She looked up at him with huge dark eyes. “I’m just trying to picture it. I know she was killed here….”

  “Yes.”

  “We know Jake was here. And that he was drunk. We know they argued, physically argued. Jake said Monica scratched him and came at him with a letter opener, and he had a stab wound in the shoulder to prove it. He admitted that he pushed her, that she fell against that marble fireplace and hit her head.”

  “Monica and your brother’s fingerprints were all over the scene.” Gabe didn’t add that no one else’s identifiable fingerprints had surfaced. Rebecca already seemed to have a pretty good picture of the compelling evidence against her brother. She couldn’t seem to stop wringing those slim white hands.

  “But he said Monica was alive when he left her. Natalie, his daughter, saw him later. We talked to him. It wasn’t like a fight, not on his part. He only pushed her because she was attacking him with that letter opener, and he had no reason to lie about her still being alive. He could have claimed self-defense if she’d died accidentally in a struggle like that. I’m telling you, someone else was either already in the house or came in after Jake left. My brother did not kill her, Gabe.”

  Gabe crossed the room to the art deco bar. Nothing back there was quite as good as the thirty-year-old Scotch he’d found in the kitchen, but at the moment he’d have settled for Kentucky moonshine. Not for him. Being around Rebecca predictably inspired him to drink, but the immediate problem was the damn heartsick look in her eyes.

  He splashed some whiskey in a cut-crystal shot glass and carried it over to her.

  She took the glass and sniffed it. “Yuck,” she said.

  “Shut up and level it, shorty.”

  “If you call me ‘shorty’ one more time…” she began, but then her voice trailed off. It was truly a landmark occasion—she actually didn’t bristle up and argue with him. Instead, she lifted the shot glass and chugged the brew in an impressive three gulps. On
ce she finished coughing, she wiped her eyes with a shudder. “Personally, I’m with Mary Poppins. If you have to take medicine, you should be able to add a spoonful of sugar to it.”

  Imagining the taste of whiskey and sugar was enough to make him shudder, but he could see that the liquid courage did its job. Color shot back into her cheeks. She quit trying to knit those hands into a sweater. Gabe figured if there was ever going to be a two-second window when she could handle a dose of realism, it had to be now. “No other suspects have surfaced, Rebecca—not a single name, much less a clear fingerprint. All the physical evidence points to Jake…and he had motive.”

  “Monica was blackmailing him. I know. Milking him for shares of the Fortune company, from the time she found out Jake was born on the wrong side of the blanket. If she exposed him, he was afraid he’d lose everything. I know all the family dirty linen, Gabe, and I know the mistakes my brother made. I know he’d been drinking a lot and had been screwing up at work. That the pressure split up his marriage, and set him against Nate. It still doesn’t mean he killed her.”

  It was pretty rare that two and two didn’t add up to four, Gabe thought, but it was hard to argue with such blind loyalty. “I just thought you might need to recognize how bad it looks,” he said gently.

  She surged out of the chair, suddenly as restless as a wet cat. “You know what I recognize? That Monica Malone has somehow managed to hurt my family for two generations—she’s dead now, and it still isn’t over. The old witch was guilty of kidnapping, sabotage, infidelity, stalking, theft, blackmail—you name it, she did it against the Fortune family, starting way back when she had an affair with my father. I swear she’s hurt us for the last time. It’s got to stop.”

  “Rebecca,” he said patiently, “go home.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe someone did come in this house after your brother left, and murdered her. But if there’s a shred of proof in this house pointing in that direction, I promise I’ll find it.”

  “I know you would try. And I know you’re good. But you don’t have a woman’s eye, Gabe. There’s every chance I could see things that you couldn’t.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. No point in continuing in that direction, so he tried another. “There’s a tiny element you may not have considered, Red. Finding evidence that someone else murdered Monica doesn’t mean you’re going to be any happier. I know the whole story of how she preyed on your family. But that’s the point. If there is another suspect, it could well be another member of your clan. There’s no shortage of motives all through the Fortune family.”

  “It wasn’t any of us,” Rebecca said firmly.

  “I hate to tell you this, but it’d be tough to prove that viewpoint in court. Some misguided folk might think you were coming from blind loyalty instead of from rational, objective thinking.”

  “Well, they’d be wrong. That woman was a greedy, selfish, conniving shrew her whole life, Gabe. She could have had a thousand enemies besides us. And…oh God, I can’t just sit here…. I’m going to start looking.”

  She shot toward the door and out before he could stop her. Not that Gabe would have tried. Reasoning with the woman was like trying to get through to a mule. He cast a longing glance at the bottle of whiskey.

  He didn’t believe she would find any evidence clearing her brother, but there was a slim chance it existed. And if the thousand-to-one odds that Rebecca was right paid off, there was still a real murderer out there. A cold-blooded killer wouldn’t likely appreciate anyone poking and probing for the truth. Gabe had never mentioned that threat of danger to Rebecca, but the nasty, rotten thought crossed his mind that someone had better watch over her.

  It wasn’t his problem. If worse came to worst, he could sic her mama on her. Kate Fortune could make a battalion of marines behave with a look.

  It was just for this night that he was stuck with her. When he got home, there’d be ample time to dip into a consoling shot of whiskey. While he had to be around Rebecca, he definitely needed all the wits he could beg, borrow or steal.

  Rebecca propped her fists on her hips. Monica Malone’s bedroom was about what she’d expected—a study in a vain, greedy, self-indulgent woman.

  Monica’s world had definitely revolved around Monica. She had two oil portraits of herself on the wall, for Pete’s sake. Walk-in closets stuffed with plunging necklines and more shoes than Madame Marcos. The bed was heart-shaped—how corny could you get?—with satin sheets and a plump satin headboard. Probably had to kill a whole whale to get all the bones and wiring in her corsets; the aging Monica had definitely been into pushing up, shoving out and, above all else, displaying her boobs. The vanity was sardine-packed with more bottles and vials than a cosmetic company could produce—and since the Fortune family had founded a dynasty in cosmetics, Rebecca ought to know.

  She’d already rifled the drawers and closets. While she was in the sybaritic malachite bathroom, she’d also yanked down her jeans—away from Gabe’s eagle eyes—to figure out why her fanny was hurting so much. There were certainly enough mirrors to display a nasty bruise already turning rainbow colors. Her forehead throbbed, her behind was killing her, and the long scrape on her chest and ribs refused to stop smarting.

  Well, she could soak once she got home. Now wasn’t the time. She refused to admit to being exhausted, even though it had to be three in the morning. Thunder boomed outside. The frustrated scowl on her forehead was just as dark and gloomy as the pitchy, witchy night outside.

  Gabe didn’t believe there was any evidence to find, she knew. He didn’t want her around. She knew that, too. The rancid slug of whiskey had finally warmed her from the inside, though, renewing her determination. For some idiotic reason, she’d actually hoped Gabe might believe in her brother’s innocence. It was obvious he didn’t—no different from everyone else.

  It wasn’t the first time Rebecca had felt alone. As her gaze scanned the width of the room, she automatically rubbed the gold charm bracelet on her wrist. The symbol of family always sustained her. As diverse as the Fortune clan was, Rebecca had always felt different, not one to fit in or follow anyone else’s pattern or values. It didn’t matter. It had never mattered. Family meant loyalty. Love. The precious and unbreakable bonds of blood. She’d find a way to clear her brother’s name or die trying. There’d never been any question about it.

  Looking around, she rubbed and rerubbed the gold chain, idly wondering if Gabe even had a family. He never spoke of siblings or family members. Neither a wife nor babies seemed anywhere on his priority list. He came across as a self-sufficient loner, but in some quiet corner of her mind, Rebecca sensed that he was a deeply lonely man.

  He’d undoubtedly crack up if she dared suggest such a thing, she thought, and then, abruptly, she forgot Gabe. Her eyes shot to her bracelet, then swiftly around the room. Jewelry. That woman had to have a ton of it. Undoubtedly the expensive stuff was stored in safe-deposit boxes—or the lawyers had absconded with it through the whole estate probate thing. But Monica had never been photographed when she wasn’t decked out in trinkets and baubles of all kinds. Surely there had to be some jewelry boxes around here.

  There were.

  She found two freestanding jewelry chests in the back of one closet—both packed to the gills. Crouching down, she pulled out all the little drawers and started pawing through yards of glittery bangles and cheap baubles.

  Her mood picked up anticipation. No, she didn’t know what she was looking for, didn’t know where to look, didn’t even know if there was anything to find. But if there were secrets to find about Monica, Rebecca strongly intuited they were in this bedroom. Maybe a guy hid secrets in his truck or his desk, but a woman always stored her secrets in her bedroom. It was her cache, her stash, her private hideaway, in a way a man would never understand.

  In the fourth drawer down, her fingertips hit a bump. She ran over it again. Definitely a bump. Hustling, she upturned the drawer of baubles on the white
closet carpet, shook the drawer good and then peered into the bottom. The bump showed up as a ripple in the satin lining.

  The satin lining ripped out as easily as a candy wrapper.

  Several snips of paper drifted out with it. One was a telegram so old that the yellow paper looked like a wrinkled napkin—some poor misguided dude announcing he loved Monica. Rebecca tossed that, then reached for the next—a love letter from another guy, who’d signed himself “Your faithful hound.” She wondered dryly if the guy had been a dog as a lover, but then studied it more seriously. The love note was dated ten years before, too old to be of any relevance that she could imagine, but she tucked it near her knee anyway. If Monica valued the thing enough to hide it, it might mean something.

  Most of the paper scraps were simply personal memorabilia, nothing that Rebecca could imagine having even a remote relationship to the woman’s murder. Rebecca grimaced as she found more evidence of Monica’s perfidy. She found proof that Monica had been behind the attempted theft of the secret youth formula, had encouraged Allie’s stalker, had people break in the lab and had even been behind the threats to deport Fortune scientist Nick Valkov—a threat that had prompted their marriage, the first of the rash of weddings in the Fortune family. At least Monica had done something right. But none of this was any use in clearing Jake’s name.

  Until she came to the letter. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she read, then reread, the last missive.

  It was a carbon copy of a letter, written not to Monica, but by Monica. Although the message contained only a few short lines, it was dated ten days before her death, threatening a woman named Tammy Diller about “showing up for their meeting” or risking “more trouble than you ever dreamed of.”