Here Comes Trouble (3 page)

“You’re welcome to try.” The level of calm in his father’s voice made Malcolm wonder if reconciling with his brother would be as futile as Chadwick believed. “I don’t think pulling the same disappearing act your mother did all those years ago endeared you to Ty.”

The thought had already crossed Malcolm’s mind. As had the realization that his father wasn’t going to change. Chadwick Oliver had been a bully and a bastard all his life. Not even Malcolm’s mother had softened him. If anything, having such a soft-spoken wife increased Chadwick’s boisterous and domineering behavior behind closed doors. The fact that Malcolm’s mother had picked up and left on Ty’s fourteenth birthday had both impressed and devastated Malcolm, who had been sixteen at the time. He’d never known she’d had it in her.

Unlike Malcolm, however, his mother never returned.

“If you’ve said your peace, I have a meeting that doesn’t concern you.” Chadwick glared at him.

“Don’t let me get in the way.”

Malcolm circled the desk to stand behind his father as Chadwick clicked open the video chat on his computer. Truth be told, he didn’t give a damn what his father’s meeting was about. If being an irritant was as much entertainment as Malcolm was going to get out of the evening, he’d take it.

He cast his gaze around the cold, depersonalized space. Even the desk was frigid. The sight of a thin silver chain with round charms sitting on his father’s desk made Malcolm’s brain skip like an old-fashioned gramophone.

Malcolm kept one ear on his father’s conversation, barely hearing a word as he leaned a hand on the desk and tucked Sheila’s bracelet under his palm, doing his best to resist temptation and not scan the room like a sniper scoping out a target. Where was she?

And then he remembered his father’s vault.

The second Sheila moved inside the vault, the lights buzzed on, as did the security monitor on the inside panel of the safe room. She watched Chadwick Oliver take a seat behind his desk. And Malcolm stepped into the frame.

She hit the Volume Up button on the panel, keeping it as low as possible, recognizing the combination of strained patience and veiled contempt between father and son. From what Malcolm and Ty had told her, it sounded like a typical Oliver family conversation.

To be safe, and quiet, Sheila stepped out of her shoes and shivered as her bare feet settled on the stone floor. Finding that painting was worth the risk of being caught, but that didn’t stop her from keeping both ears open for any hint she’d been discovered. She did a quick inventory of the notations on the boxes, some dated by years, others by letters.

In her rush to get to the information inside, she bumped against a stack of hollow frames and scrambled to keep them from toppling before setting her phone down on one of the shelves. With an almost reverent touch, she popped the lid off the first box marked “Art,” glancing at the screen and seeing Malcolm and his father still conferencing on the computer.

She pulled a file entitled “Classics” free, flipped it open, and stared down at the scribbled notes on a copy of a report about the van Gogh whose provenance she knew to be in question—and had been for the better part of three decades before the work “disappeared.” Not surprising, but her heart did its skip version of a double take as her mind spun. She was on the right track. This proved her theory of Chadwick’s penchant for possessing stolen artwork. While she’d love to get Nemesis’ hands on the van Gogh, she couldn’t believe even Chadwick would be so bold as to include that piece in his auction. But if this file was here, surely there had to be proof about . . .

Chadwick’s booming voice blasted through the intercom and made her jump even as she resisted the urge to snarl at her discovery. The level of coldness, the lack of empathy one had to possess to even consider keeping hold of works that clearly belonged to someone else was astounding, and yet Sheila had long ago learned that some people’s capacity for callous actions knew no depths.

There was brazen and then there was arrogant. And then—she set the file down on the floor and pulled another, and then another file free—there were people like Chadwick Oliver.

“Dad and Nathan are not going to believe this,” she breathed, and grabbed her phone to open the scanning app Nathan had created and installed in each of their phones. Chadwick’s voice continued as the soundtrack to her break-in, but it was his statement that emptied her mind.

“I’ll be arriving in Switzerland by the end of the month,” Chadwick said with more than a tinge of temper. “I expect the arrangements we made with our friends in customs to be completed by the time my plane leaves Los Angeles. Get it done.” He slapped his laptop shut.

Sheila’s entire body froze as if someone had dropped her in the middle of the Arctic. Chadwick was leaving town? Of course. Now the last-minute timing of his auction made sense.

“You can’t be serious about leaving,” Malcolm said, and even after all these years, she recognized that angry tone in his voice. “What about Gran—”

“How I deal with my mother isn’t any concern of yours,” Chadwick said.

“As if you’ve ever concerned yourself with Gran’s well-being,” Malcolm spat, earning a silent cheer of support from Sheila. “Even now all you’re worried about is your precious collection and your so-called legacy.” Malcolm jerked his head toward the bookcase and Sheila gasped, feeling as exposed as if he’d ripped open a curtain.

Their voices grew louder as they moved across the room toward the door. After another few seconds, she heard the decided slam as they vacated the office. Sheila continued scanning and replacing files, distracted when her phone buzzed and a text from Liza asked her if there was any more of the Starlight reserve wine they’d been serving upon request.

Sheila texted an answer, but the bar froze halfway through sending. Nothing, not even a text, was getting out of this room until she opened that door again. But she hadn’t found what she came for. Not yet. Liza would have to wait and Sheila would have to hope she didn’t come looking for her.

Grabbing more folders, she spread out the papers and got to scanning. More files. More scanning. Still no sign of the work that had brought her into this room in the first place.

The file marked “Abrams” was wedged into the fourth box, forgotten as the painting itself. She wrenched the folder free, smoothing the wrinkles and creases as she opened it and stared into the photograph.

Tears blurred her eyes. The family portrait depicted three children and their parents staring up at her, as if relieved to have been set free of their cardboard trappings.

“Levia,” she whispered. Anger burned her eyes clear as she reached for her phone and took picture after picture, as close as she could, striving for every bit of detail she could manage, focusing on the abstract signature of an artist long dead, murdered along with his entire family save for his youngest daughter.

A daughter who had survived the camps, the loss of everyone she’d known and loved; a daughter who, years later, would change Sheila’s life forever.

“I found it, Levia,” she whispered and traced her fingers over the photograph. Instead of relief expanding in her chest, panic pressed down. The thought of having to go into that studio and paint again. The last time she’d put brush to paint had been to paint a cowboy-themed mural on a little boy’s bedroom wall . . . a little boy who had had so little time to enjoy it. “Brandon.” Sheila squeezed her eyes shut, as if the action could stave off the grief that continued to overwhelm her. The grief that stopped her from painting.

And yet Nemesis’ plan hinged on Sheila’s forging ability.

Without those paintings, without that distraction, their plan would never succeed.

Like Scarlett O’Hara, Sheila shoved the worry aside for another day and focused on the file in hand. While these files would never be enough to present in a court of law—not that law enforcement even had cause to search the vault in the first place—Nemesis, and Sheila in particular, excelled at meting out a special kind of punishment. Given Chadwick’s world-wide connections and reputation, there was no way he’d ever be made to pay in the traditional sense for keeping this lost art piece—and probably others as well—from their rightful owners unless special plans were made.

And plans were Sheila’s specialty.

Sheila replaced the files and restacked the boxes. When she was certain she was alone she slipped on her shoes and flipped the switch to trigger the bookcase. Cool air wafted over her as she stepped into the office, waiting until the case slid into place before she poked her head out the office door. She stepped over the threshold, punched the lock, and pulled it closed behind her, taking an extra second to smooth her dress, wiggle around the decoder that dug into the sensitive skin between her breasts, and run a hand down her hair.

Satisfied all was in place, she headed toward the stairs, the knots in her belly releasing enough to let her breathe easy for the first time in hours. With a bounce in her step, she almost squealed as she rounded the corner and barreled into Malcolm.

“Find what you were looking for?”

“Dammit, Malcolm.” Sheila resisted the urge to press trembling fingers against her fluttering chest. He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, a knowing gleam in his eyes. He’d thrown off her plans twice in one night. Two times too many. “I thought you’d gone downstairs.”

“Nope.”

Nothing more, just one word. Nothing on his face, just passivity. Once upon a time she’d have been able to read his expression, identify his moods, but not now. Not when it mattered.

“So, did you?”

“Did I what?” Sheila kicked out a leg and tapped restless fingers against her hip.

“Find what you were looking for?”

Find what she was—“Oh, my bracelet you mean?”
Shit.
“No, actually. I guess I was wrong—”

“You mean it wasn’t in the vault?”

“The vault?” She blinked, scrambling for an escape route out of the conversation. A distraction. Anything . . .

His hand whipped up and caught her chin, turning her face to his as he stepped closer, amber eyes hot as he stared into her surprised gaze. His breath caressed her skin, hot, intense. “No lies, Sheila. I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime.”

Sheila swallowed and attempted to ignore the heat moving through her body where he touched her, trying not to remember how it felt to be locked in his arms, to be the center of his attention, his world. Beneath his piercing gaze, the insistence she couldn’t avoid, there was also the shadow of the man she’d known, but it was the man who had walked away from her as easily as if she’d been a one-night stand. “Then don’t ask,” she whispered as she reached up and wrapped her hand around his wrist, willing him to pretend he hadn’t seen, that he didn’t know where she’d been.

“Will it hurt him?”

His question caught her off guard but she managed to quell the unease roiling inside her as she found her way out. Mutual hatred and distrust of his father could very well forge a bond she’d be unable to break. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use it. Or him. “Yes.”

He seemed about to say something, but instead he tugged her closer and dipped his head, catching her mouth with his. Malcolm had always known how to kiss, the kind of kiss that emptied a woman’s mind and left her reeling, flying, grasping onto him as if he were air in an oxygen-deprived room. Sheila might have thought her cells were exploding were it not for the fact that her bones felt like they were melting, and all she could do was cling to him, a soft whimper of longing escaping her throat as she gripped his shoulders.

“Sheila,” he whispered against her lips, as he drew away enough to press his forehead to hers. His fingers stroked her cheeks, down the side of her throat. “I’ve missed you.”

She wanted to say the same, had dreamed of saying the same, of convincing him to come back to her, to see how things could be with them. But their chance was gone. Neither of them were who they had been and Sheila wasn’t about to go backward. She couldn’t. Not with so much pain there.

“I—” She lifted fingers to his lips to silence him, pulling herself free of what she’d wanted once upon a time, shoving down the feelings she’d held for him all those years ago. Feelings she couldn’t let herself surrender to ever again. “Let’s consider that the good-bye we never had.” The good-bye he’d never allowed her. She pressed her lips together, feeling the warmth of his kiss, the taste of his lips on hers. “I have to get to work.”

She stepped away and surprised herself when her knees didn’t shake. When he caught her arm, she had to count to five before she could look at him, afraid of what she might see. Or feel.

“Be careful.” The steel in his eyes made her insides quake. “Whatever you’re up to with my father, please be careful.”

“You, too.” And there it was, surprise mingling with shock. “As much as you love your grandmother, Alcina isn’t the reason you’ve come back, is she?”

“No. She isn’t.”

She nodded. “I’ll be seeing you.” But she hoped she wouldn’t. She’d lost him once. She wouldn’t put herself in the position of losing him again.

***

“Malcolm, you missed your father’s announcement.” Alcina reached out a hand for his as he joined his family downstairs. Amidst the throng of life-long friends and condescending well-wishers lay the skeptical and guarded gazes of people he’d known most of his life. People who murmured their way clear of him as he tucked Alcina’s hand in the crook of his arm.

“You can catch me up, then.” But his attention shifted to his brother, who looked uncomfortable, nay, resentful of being in his presence.

Gone was the wide-eyed wonder-filled kid fresh out of graduate school who Malcolm remembered. Ty had gotten their mother’s blond hair, her timid blue eyes, but the steeled jaw, the confident, tight stance, that was all their father. Not for the first time Malcolm wished he could invent technology to excise one’s genetic markers and delete his father from both their lives forever.

“Sheila’s done a lovely job with the party, don’t you think?” Alcina asked both her grandsons, angling looks in each of their directions before sipping at her habitual gin and tonic. “So professional and tidy. Elegant.”

“Sheila has always been a class act,” Ty agreed, and Malcolm caught the tightness in his brother’s tone. “They’ve had a rough few years.”

“Catherine’s death was a terrible tragedy,” Alcina agreed, motioning to her son to join them. Malcolm didn’t miss the irritation on his father’s face as he excused himself from his groupies of well-wishers. “But the Tremaynes are nothing but resilient. Oh, you’ll be here for the foundation’s gala, won’t you, Malcolm?” She turned expectant eyes on him. “It’s in a few weeks, but I hope you’ll stay long enough to attend.”

“We’ll see, Gran.” His plan was to stay long enough to secure the final shares in Oliver Technologies and see his father’s face when he realized his life’s work was now under Malcolm’s control. There was, however, a certain appeal to watching his father sell off his prized art collection a few days before the gala. The fact that Sheila was overseeing both events would be an added bonus, one he knew he shouldn’t take advantage of, but still . . .

A streak of black silk encasing blond curves descended the staircase before disappearing into the crowd. Malcolm found himself smiling into his drink. For a socialite with a history of media attention, Sheila still preferred to stay in the midst of the crowd. Much like how he preferred the workshop to the boardroom—a preference he’d had to set aside to prevent a repeat of past mistakes.

“Sheila’s overseeing your father’s auction, you know.” Alcina’s mouth curved into a gentle smile as she followed Malcolm’s gaze. “In fact, I’ll be going over the final guest list with her this week if you care to join us.”

“I’m sure Malcolm has nothing but time on his hands.” Ty toasted his brother with a glass that Malcolm felt sure Ty wished was his middle finger. But Alcina’s tolerance for rudeness extended only so far, and she wasn’t beyond turning Ty over her knee for inappropriate public behavior. No matter how old either of them got.

“I was hoping to meet with you at some point.” Malcolm pushed open the door his brother had inadvertently opened. “When you have an opening in your schedule.”

“I can find time for a five-minute conversation just about any day this week,” Ty said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m in need of a refill.”

Malcolm let out a long, slow breath. Yeah. Coming home hadn’t even met his low expectations. Doubt crept in beneath resolve, shaking the confidence he’d had in his plan. He wasn’t going to get very far if he didn’t come to some understanding with his brother. But how was he supposed to convince Ty that what he’d done had all been to protect him if he couldn’t get his brother to stick around long enough to finish a drink? “So congratulations are in order, then?” he asked his father as Chadwick took his obligatory place beside his mother.

“Yes. And I’m so pleased you could come home to share in the celebration.” Chadwick’s voice was a decibel louder than it needed to be, no doubt to show his guests just how forgiving he could be, even to the son who had almost ruined the family business. But Malcolm caught the warning undertones. Stay out of sight, be quiet. Keep your mouth shut.

Not anymore, old man.

“I was just telling Malcolm about the Tremayne Foundation Gala at the end of the month,” Alcina said. “And how much it would mean to me for us all to attend as a family.” Translation: Malcolm was coming.

“Of course, Mother. By all means, please let us add you to our RSVP.”

Malcolm might have rolled his eyes at the conciliatory tone if his grandmother hadn’t been watching him like an owl stalking a mouse. “Sounds great. Another Sheila Tremayne event is worth spending some extra time in town.”

“That girl is just like her sister,” Alcina said with a slow shake of her head. “Although now that Morgan’s engaged, I hope she’ll see there’s more to life than work.”

“Didn’t I read that Morgan was involved with the Nemesis investigation a while ago?” Malcolm asked, recalling the media’s fascination, even as far north as San Francisco, with the thief who, as far as Malcolm was concerned, had been incredibly entertaining.

“Oh, that was nasty business.” Alcina waved her glass as if she could wipe away the thought. “I have to say I found it a bit exciting, having a modern-day Robin Hood stalking the streets of Lantano Valley. Thrilling, even.”

“Not the word I’d use.” Chadwick aimed a silent toast at someone across the room. “Damn criminal’s a menace, not that the D.A. or the police seem to be doing much about him.”

“I was under the impression there wasn’t much they could do without the victims’ cooperation.” Malcolm regretted the words immediately. The last thing he wanted his father to know was that he’d been keeping a close watch on all things Lantano Valley and Oliver Technologies related. “Or maybe that was Internet gossip.”

“Internet gossip,” Chadwick spat. “Now if I’ve put in enough of an appearance, Mother, I’d like to resume my wanderings.”

“Of course, dear,” Alcina said, but Malcolm could see the trace of sadness in his grandmother’s face and hated his father for putting it there. “Thank you for hosting this evening.”

“Happy birthday.” He brushed a careless kiss over her wrinkled cheek before moving off.

“Maybe if I leave—” Malcolm began.

“Don’t you dare.” Alcina’s hand tightened around his arm. “I’ve wanted you home for a very long time, Malcolm, and we have a lot to discuss, but first, why don’t you and I get some of the wonderful food your Sheila chose for the occasion.”

“She’s not my Sheila, Gran.” Malcolm all but groaned.

“Oh, my dear.” Alcina touched his cheek, her smile touching his heart. “Of course she is.”

***

“You did great, Liza.” Sheila marked off the box of Starlight on the inventory list as her assistant breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry I was out of range. My cell reception’s crap around here.”

“No problem.” Liza fanned her face, which was pristine with her razor-straight blond hair pulled tight at the nape of her neck. The simple black knee-length dress and ballet-slipper shoes made Sheila feel as if she had a mini-me in training. For an almost eighteen-year-old, Liza’s attention to detail and dedication to the job was both astonishing and miraculous. Sheila wouldn’t have been able to balance everything on her agenda without her, which was a little concerning given the summer would soon be over and Liza’s head would be filled with the effects of senioritis.

“Sheila, I am begging you, shoot me and put me out of everyone’s misery.”

Sheila turned as Ty wandered into the kitchen, tie askew, eyes heavy, and shoulders slumped.

“Pity party, table for one.” Sheila laughed as the meeting of the party minds broke up and the servers picked up refilled trays. Thankfully she’d had too much to juggle to dwell on the fact that she’d kissed Malcolm Oliver less than a half hour ago. Or that her head was still spinning from it. Or that she couldn’t push him out of her mind. “Poor Ty.” She plucked up an empty plate and filled it with bacon-wrapped filet mignon and salmon-mousse-stuffed cherry tomatoes and set it in front of him as he took a seat at the side counter. “Being handsome, wealthy, and smart must be such a drag.”

“It can be,” he said with a tired smile. “But mostly I’m hoping to escape the Malcolm show out there.”

Sheila refrained from responding. She and Ty had become friends over the years. Good friends. But she wouldn’t enjoy being in the middle of a sibling feud.

“It’s disgusting, the way he’s waltzed into town, as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t have any idea of the mess he left behind.”

“You don’t think it’s harder on him?” Sheila asked, pulling open the fridge and pulling out a bottle of Ty’s favorite beer.

“You’re not serious?” Ty’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth, filet tilting in his fingers.

Sheila shrugged, trying not to pay much mind, but felt her cheeks flame. Any impartiality she might have possessed had been compromised upstairs when she’d considered finding out if Malcolm still had muscles in all the right places. “I’m just saying it can’t have been easy knowing what people think of him, having to face what he left behind.”

“Oh. My. God.” Bright blue eyes widened at her. “You’re still in love with him.”

Sheila sputtered her way free of her water glass and wiped her mouth. “Tyson Oliver.” She smacked his shoulder and cast a nervous glance around the kitchen, grateful for the clanging and banging of dishes and glasses. “Shut up!”

“Jesus.” Ty all but rolled his entire body as he circled around and leaned his elbow on the counter. “He left you behind, Sheila. Left all of us behind. How can you forgive him for that?”

“Okay, first of all, it wasn’t like we were engaged.” Sheila perched on the bar stool beside him and lowered her voice. “And yes, I suppose I was more enamored of him than he was of me. I mean, of course that was the case since he left without saying a word.” But she was getting off track, a track she did not want to go down. “Secondly, it’s been five years, Ty. The company is flush again; you’ve done a great job stepping in for your father and taking over as he begins moving toward retirement. Isn’t it time you and Malcolm set things right?”