As he opened the dishwasher, Morgan let out a sigh. His father was dead. Stabbed in a bar fight at the age of forty-two. A proper ending for a violent man, some might say. Morgan wasn’t one of them. In his own way, he mourned the death of Laird McCloud. Anything more, he left for God to decide. Or Satan.
Morgan’s thoughts strayed back to Razor’s Edge.
He couldn’t say what happened to Kane Harrison. However, he assumed the death of superstar Jaxon Cross’ former bandmate, writing partner and childhood friend would be headline-worthy and would have caught his attention.
Just as Morgan quietly celebrated Jaxon’s massive solo success, he hoped Kane found some peace. The same sentiments were true for the last two Razor’s Edge alums, drummer Beckett Kramer and singer Skye Monroe. He only wished them the best.
Beck Kramer. As usual, Morgan smiled with wistful nostalgia when he thought of the best friend he’d ever known. He wished time had allowed him to say goodbye. They spent two years practically joined at the hip while he taught Beck the finer points of getting in shape, and Beck made him a better songwriter.
They were so damn young. Too young for the burdens each of them carried like an ever-growing bag of rocks. Except for Beck, the one member of the band who was so carefree, he couldn’t understand why the rest of them were unable to fully enjoy their good fortune.
Thinking his silence protected the woman he loved, Morgan kept his friend in the dark. Now, here he was. Without his woman, and his best friend. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
Morgan left his rock star days behind without a backward glance. Sentimentality didn’t fit his new lifestyle. Too busy, too focused, he didn’t have time to be lonely. So, he told himself.
To get through the day, sometimes a good lie could be a man’s best friend.
Leaving the kitchen, Morgan jogged up the stairs. His muscles were loose from a hard workout, and he wanted to keep them that way. Rather than worry about using a local health club, he specified the renovations to his new/temporary home include a fully stocked, state-of-the-art gym.
From free weights to a treadmill with the computer screen set to take him running over the hardest terrain anywhere in the world, the only thing missing was a swimming pool. On days he wanted a change from his usual run, fifty laps gave Morgan the cardio he needed and gave his joints a break.
Unfortunately, the old Middleton place hadn’t come with a pool. However, there was a perfect spot in the back near the bank of trees. Perhaps in the spring. He would decide then.
Morgan’s days of running were over and since the two most important people in his life lived here, from now on, he planned to come and go as he pleased. The hell with anyone who tried to say otherwise.
Still early, Morgan showered then spent the next few hours tweaking a few long-distance deals. The good thing about international commerce, somewhere in the world was always open for business.
Knowing Dionne, she was already up and on the ball. He sent her a text.
What the hell, Dionne? Can’t find the info needed for my meeting with Rance Curtis.
Annoyed by the surprising development, Morgan typed the words with more aggression than necessary. The last time Dionne screwed up, the sky was green and the ocean red. In other words, never happened.
He didn’t have long to wait for an equally snitty answer.
Blank file, subheading, Dickweed. Your choice of name, Mr. McCloud, not mine.
Mr. McCloud. The rarely used moniker meant his loyal assistant wasn’t pleased. Frowning, Morgan tapped a few keys on his laptop. Seconds later, the file popped. filled with all the information he needed.
Well, shit. Dionne was right.
Though he knew his long-trusted associate wouldn’t require an apology, his friend was a different matter. Morgan had lost too many people through unavoidable circumstances and his own carelessness. He’d learned the hard way not to take the important relationships in his life for granted.
Sorry, he texted. My mistake. Next time, you can file me under Dickweed.
For Dionne, sorry really was the magic word. She could hold a grudge with the best of them. However, when she cared, she was the most forgiving person Morgan knew. She put him to shame.
The ability to forgive wasn’t high on his list of priorities.
Did you sleep—at all?
As he rubbed his rest-deprived eyes, Morgan sent his answer—a bald-faced lie.
A few solid hours. Great bed, by the way. Thanks.
Since he spent most of the night on the living room sofa, the mattress remained untouched, as did the sheets and pillows. A fact Dionne didn’t need to know.
Same model you bought for your New York apartment, she reminded him, then let the subject of his sleep habits drop—for now. Last-minute nerves?
Without hesitation, Morgan typed a definitive, No. He waited a beat and added, Fill you in after the meeting. And thanks.
Not expecting a response, he walked to his bedroom. Like the rest of the house, the closet was stocked with his preferences. The shelves held an array of footwear from casual to formal. The drawers contained neat rows of socks and underwear. Hung in perfectly straight rows were more shirts, jackets, pants, suits, and workout clothing than he would need during his short stay.
Morgan preferred too many choices than too few. Nothing trendy or off the wall. His taste in fashion ran toward the classic.
As he decided what to wear, he chuckled. When he lived the life of a penniless musician, classic meant whatever he could afford at the local thrift store. My, how times had changed.
Taking his time, Morgan finally chose a suit accented with thin stripes the color of smoke woven into the darker gray fabric. A crisp white shirt was added, followed by a tie made from silver-hued silk.
He pulled on a pair of black socks and loafers made from butter-soft Italian leather.
Other than the Rolex he fastened around his left wrist, he eschewed accessories. Clean and simple—no diamond-studded tie clips, ruby pinky rings, or jewel-toned pocket hankies.
Morgan’s ancestors were working class for as far back as the eye, and genealogist, could see. His father wore denim and cotton plaid almost every day of his life. In his bedroom, tucked in the back of a narrow closet, one necktie hung over a single jacket—plain black.
Neither item saw the light of day except for the occasional wedding or funeral.
Lake Darwell had a definite and fixed business and social hierarchy. The way a man dressed was a sure sign of where he fit in. If your goal was to move up, off the rack was a fashion faux pas. Fine for insurance salesmen and bank tellers, but not a man with ambition.
Until you could afford a hand-tailored suit, you were beneath notice.
Briefly, Morgan was tempted to say fuck the suit and grab a pair of jeans and a scuffed pair of biker boots. Clothes didn’t make the man. Brains, determination, and a streak of mean slightly wider than his adversary turned out to be the key.
Lord knew the entrepreneurs he invested in, desperate for an influx of capital, wouldn’t care if he sat around in his underwear all day eating baked beans from a can with a plastic spoon. Long as his check cleared the bank, they were happy.
The perfect quid pro quo. Morgan provided a monetary boost. In return, almost without fail, his faith was rewarded, millions of times over—as his growing bank account could attest.
The rebel in him, the one who turned the money he earned with Razor’s Edge into a fortune, might thumb his nose at convention. The powerful businessman was a different animal.
As he looked in the mirror, straightening his tie, buttoning his jacket, Morgan knew today was all about appearances.
The kid who was literally tossed out of town in the dead of night with little more than the clothes on his back and a few bucks in his pocket—all because he dared step outside his assigned station—was now a man of consequence. And he was back. With a vengeance.
The plan wasn’t to simply
fit in—he didn’t give a damn if Lake Darwell’s high mucky-mucks thought he belonged. Starting today, the arrogant bastards who believed they owned the town would get a crash course in the true meaning of control—taught by none other than Morgan McCloud.
Stepping closer to the mirror, he took a moment to look himself in the eye. He wasn’t above subterfuge. He’d lied more than once to get what he wanted—would again without blinking.
However, Morgan tried to be honest with himself, brutally so. When he started his quest for money and power, anger was his impetus. Fueled by a fire in his gut lit by betrayal, he studied hard and refused to lose. Whenever he stumbled, he would remind himself why he needed to go on. Why he had to succeed.
Revenge. Not so pure a motive, but easy to hold on to. He was poised to finish what his enemies started. Victory would be sweet.
However, everything that was about to happen could easily be orchestrated from a distance. New York was now his permanent home, not Lake Darwell.
True, Morgan would enjoy his front-row seat as he watched his carefully placed dominoes fall. To watch the faces of Rance Curtis and Allard Hallstrom when they realized who orchestrated their downfall? Sweet indeed.
Morgan brushed a speck of lint from his lapel, his green eyes narrowing. Why was he here? Why return to the town where he fell head over heels, where the love of his life ruthlessly broke his heart?
If asked—if he chose to answer—he would claim business was the motivating factor. Money and power. What else?
In truth—honestly—his reasons began and ended with one person. India Curtis.
No, India Hallstrom, Morgan reminded himself, his lips hardening into a flat line. The day she took the name, she destroyed the starry-eyed dreams they made together and fueled a new set, hard and ruthless.
The image of India in her white gown of lace and satin was burned into his brain. Morgan’s mouth ticked upward on one side, more sneer than a smile. He had to admit; she made a beautiful bride. An angel—with a devil’s heart.
India chose the easy way—Daddy’s approval and a pampered life. Was she happy? He used to wonder. Now, he didn’t give a damn. He was here to demolish her world, not speculate on her state of mind.
When finished, Morgan would walk away without a backward glance or a whiff of regret.
As he brushed a hand down one perfectly tailored sleeve, his lips curved into a full smile—ice around the edges, but genuine. Fuck India, her father, and the bastard she married.
The suit was perfect. A new sheriff was in town—dressed head to toe in Armani.
CHAPTER FOUR
♫~♫~♫
INDIA CHECKED HER watch. Nine thirty and still no sign of her father. Mentally she sighed. Outwardly, her expression remained neutral. Like her marriage, for her job at The Curtis Financial Fund, she adopted a never frown, never smile philosophy.
Easier to show no emotion than let slip how she really felt.
“Did you call him?” India asked her father’s secretary.
“Yes. Twice,” Ruth Nisbet said. “Mr. Curtis’ phone goes straight to voice mail.”
Of course, Ruth lied. India could read the woman like a well-worn book—the words on the page never changed. Nearing sixty, pleasingly plump, and the grandmother of three, even years after Rance Curtis ended their affair, the woman’s loyalty was unshakable. A generous salary and benefits helped. But her father had a way with women she would never understand.
He drew the love from me, Aurora Curtis once said of her husband in one of her more lucid moments. Like a bee draws nectar from a flower.
India had witnessed Rance’s effect on women since before she understood why their next-door neighbor—eighty-nine if she were a day—would blush every time he sent a wink her way.
He can’t help himself—again, her mother’s words. Women fell at his feet. Both literally and figuratively.
Bullshit, India wanted to scream whenever Aurora made excuses for her wayward husband’s cheating. Rance knew exactly what he did every time he zeroed in on his latest conquest.
Rance Curtis’ chronic infidelity wasn’t a disease without a cure. Plain and simple, he strayed because he wanted to. Aurora didn’t complain. She was raised to be an obedient wife, never question, never complain.
Somehow, though her father’s attention inevitably waned, and he moved on to his next lover, he had the ability to inspire loyalty India would never understand. He cheated, he was indifferent, he was occasionally cruel. Yet, her mother, and the plethora of women before and since, stayed firmly in Rance Curtis’ corner.
Some would say India was no different. They would be wrong. She didn’t believe in her father, neither respected nor trusted him. Her loyalty barely registered on any measurement scale.
As for a daughter’s unswerving devotion? Nope. Love wasn’t blind. She saw Rance Curtis with the eyes of someone who’d seen the worst of the man and suffered the consequences.
“When you speak to my father, inform him that hiding isn’t the answer.”
“Oh, I could never say such a thing.” Ruth blanched at the thought, her pale skin turning a sickly gray. She picked up the phone. “I’ll call again.”
Everyone who worked at Curtis Financial eventually developed a nervous tick or habit—India occasionally caught herself grinding her molars. If not careful, in another five years, her once-perfect teeth would be reduced to nothing but pathetic nubs.
Rance’s secretary had her own unique stress tell. Ruth pulled, adjusted, and patted the blond-highlighted bun she wore at the base of her neck. On a bad day, she spent as much time in the bathroom fixing her hair as at her desk.
Today, only an hour into her shift and the bun looked like a tornado blew through the office, a huge indication Ruth knew more about Rance’s whereabouts than she was willing to divulge.
By now, Ruth should be a better liar, but at heart, she wasn’t comfortable in her assigned role as guardian of Rance’s secrets. Clearing her throat, she bowed her head over the computer screen on her desk, her fingers flying over the keys.
India felt an emotion close to sympathy. Just as quickly, she squashed the feeling like an annoying bug. Though the problem didn’t originate with Ruth Nisbet, like so many of the women in Rance Curtis’ life, his secretary was an enabler who protected him whenever possible.
No one could shield Rance from the latest round of disasters—all his own making.
A balloon payment was due next week on a loan India warned her father against. Plus, they had clients who weren’t happy with last month’s investment dividends or the month’s before, and the one before that. In fact, the fall began over a year ago but until recently, Rance was able to cover his tracks.
Once able to predict the future with a wizard’s accuracy, he’d lost a step—quite a few. Those who’d trusted him to handle their money weren’t happy. More and more, they weren’t shy to vocalize their feelings.
India saw their point. Watching as your once healthy investments tumbled like an out of control snowball careening down a mountainside couldn’t be easy. However, her father had a long-standing reputation as a man who cut corners. To be blunt, anything for a buck.
Rance Curtis had circled underhanded and shady for years, a fact his clients were fine with. They didn’t ask questions, remaining blissfully silent. As the profits turned to deficits, they suddenly found their voices.
Always professional, always outwardly calm, and collected, India fielded most of the phone calls. The platitudes she provided didn’t quell the cursing, screaming, and not-so-veiled threats.
Under her ever-present fortress of cool, India crowed. The more her father skirted the edge of disaster, the closer she followed his every move. Eventually, he would tumble. She prayed she was there when he finally fell—aided by her not-so-daughterly kick in the ass.
“Excuse me, Ms. Hallstrom?”
Veronica Long, a sweet, earnest college senior who used her receptionist job t
o make extra money and learn the ins and outs of investing, stopped India outside her office.
Seeing the young woman away from her desk was odd. The intercom system, plus cell phones meant Veronica wasn’t required to leave her post in the building’s lobby.
Veronica took her wardrobe cues from the other women in the office. Simple and professional, she wore a black pencil skirt and white blouse. Today, she embellished the outfit with a gold bow fastened at her neck.
“Is there a problem?” India asked, watching as the younger woman fiddled with the pin.
“I hate to bother you.”
“No bother,” India assured her. “Anytime you have a question, feel free to ask.”
The line between Veronica’s brows deepened as she tugged on her long, dark braid. Employees pulling at their hair seemed to be the order of the day.
“A man’s in the lobby. He’s rather insistent. How should I handle him?”
Start with doing your job, India wanted to snap. Instead, she tried to remember what twenty-one felt like and failed—miserably. Somehow, she skipped right from a hopeful eighteen to feeling older than dirt.
India focused on pulling oxygen into her lungs, then pushed the air out. The day had barely begun and already she longed to be anywhere but here. Soon, she promised herself, she would open her eyes and find her wish had come true.
One day, but not today.
“Does the man have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Veronica…” Again, India told herself to just breathe. “No one gets past the front desk unless they’re expected.”
“But he’s so…” Veronica shrugged and blushed. “Forceful. As though he’s in charge. You know?”
Unfortunately, India knew exactly what Veronica meant. Seemed men who thought they owned the world were her cross to bear.
“He wants to see Mr. Curtis. Immediately.”
A plethora of colorful retorts popped into India’s head. All were appropriate, none terribly professional. Nor would cursing teach Veronica the lesson she needed to learn about asserting herself.
ALMOST EVERYTHING Page 3
