Stealing Gold (The Logan Series Book 4) (13 page)

Clint
sat behind his five-acre desk. “Stacy.” He stood and walked across the room to
her. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“I’m
sorry, I had no time to call. I’ve come straight from the airport.”

For
a beat he just looked at her, but then his innate politeness kicked in—it wasn’t
in Clint Bailey’s makeup to be rude to a woman. “Come. Sit.”

She
perched on the chair opposite his and rooted around in her bag for the memory
stick while he sat back down.

“I’m
sorry to hear about Lester.”

“I’m
sorry too. I’m organizing a private funeral at Woodlawn, I’ll let you know the
details when I have them.” She breathed in deep, and willed her hands to stop
shaking. “Work is going well on the movie. I’ve written a couple of extra
songs.” She shoved the memory stick across the desk. “Lester told me he’d
passed on the other songs, but I’ve included them here as well.”

Clint’s
brow creased like an accordion at a music festival. “The other songs?” He reached
for the memory stick and tapped it on the desk.

Oh
no. Not another lie.

“The
songs Lester sent you.”

Clint’s
frown deepened.

“I
told Lester I didn’t want to record any more songs written for me, I wanted to
record my own material. He told me that if I did the movie in Ireland, you
would let me. That you’d listened to the material.” Panic made her voice rise,
and she fought hard to keep control.

“He
sent me over some songs from you, and Alex and I listened to them. Some of them
are quite good, but I sure didn’t agree to anything.” His jaw tightened. “Alex
has been working on some new material for your next album.”

Alex
had written all her songs to date. “I don’t want to record any more teenybopper
songs—I…”

Clint
shoved the memory stick back to her. “You don’t seem to get it, Stacy. I don’t
want to be hard on you, you’ve been one of our artists for a long time, but the
only way you’d be offered a new contract is if you do things my way.”

“Lester
said I could record my new material.” She crossed her arms.

“Lester
isn’t calling the shots any longer. I am, and I’m not allowing you to commit
career suicide by taking a completely different direction. Alex was impressed
with your songwriting skills, but he agreed with me that the songs needed to be
tailored to your audience…”

“Of
teenagers.”

“They
buy your records.” Clint’s jaw tightened. “They’ve made you a star.”

“I’ve
grown up.” She was flushing her career, the most important thing in her life,
but didn’t seem to be able to stop herself talking. “Lester may have been lying
to me, but he told me Star Records was excited to have me sign the movie
contract. He said you benefited from it.”

Clint
stared her down, as if annoyed that his country princess had turned into a
queen bitch. “At the time, you were one of our artists. Under contract. In
consideration of the fact that we were freeing your time up to make the movie,
we received a fee. They also offered a cut of the soundtrack, so yes, it was an
important deal for us.”

“And
you’re saying now that you never agreed that I would be able to record the
album I want in exchange.”

“You
don’t have it in writing, do you?” His mouth curved in a smirk. He knew damn
well she didn’t, and even if she had anything in writing from her manager it
wouldn’t be worth anything at this point.

“I
deserve better. I’ve worked hard for you for over a decade. You said I was
important to you.”

“You
were. Before I had every journalist in America hassling me for answers about
how you dumped your family. Before I had people asking if you abandoned Lester
the way you kicked them to the curb once you didn’t need them any longer.” He
stood up, towering over her. “Knuckle down and do what you’re told, sweetheart.
Without us, your career is dead in the water. You’re deluding yourself if you
think anything different.”

*****

Cole’s
house was the perfect refuge. The high walls and discreet security team kept
the press at bay, and his housekeeper had prepared a spare bedroom with
everything she might need. But there was one thing missing—Adam.

She
wanted to call him. Needed to talk over all the conflicting emotions that
warred within when she watched her mother on television, a stranger spinning an
untrue story for a paycheck. Her chest ached at the memory of Clint’s harsh
words. She couldn’t do what he asked, but not doing so signaled the death of
her career. The end of life as she knew it.

Adam
would be there if she called, but she didn’t want to be this way, didn’t want
to be broken, something that needed fixing. So instead, she obsessively wrote
lists of things to do and did them. The funeral was organized. She’d managed to
escape to a local store with Apollo—lying on the floor of his SUV under a
blanket to avoid detection by the news crew camped outside the gates. The
simple black dress and low heels weren’t designer, but were fit for purpose.

The
nights were hard.

Adam
called a few times, but she didn’t answer, too fractured to talk to him without
letting her feelings, her need bleed out.

Cole
came back the night before the funeral. He really was a sweetheart. The moment
he strode into his house, he came straight to find her in the bedroom which had
become her own private haven.

“Hey.”
He stalked in and enveloped her in a bear hug. “How you doing, Stace?”

Tears
threatened, but she blinked them back. “Better for seeing you.”

He
grabbed her hand and tugged. “Come on. Let’s get a drink.”

Downstairs
he snagged a couple of glasses from the kitchen cupboard, filled them with ice,
and poured shots of golden tequila over them.

He
leaned his jean clad butt against the counter. “Have you seen the news today?”

She
sipped her drink. “I decided to stop watching the news, or looking online. It
gets boring seeing my face.” The tequila tasted deliciously smoky and intense.
She took another sip, wondering if her mother even registered the taste of
alcohol or if she was too intent on chasing the buzz to bother.

Cole
grimaced. “Okay, well. So there are photos in the news today. Photos of that
guy you married.” He touched her shoulder. “Photos of him taking his clothes
off with some skank. Cheating on you while you were married.” His head tilted
to the side as his intense blue eyes searched hers. “You knew?”

“I
know all about it.”

“Jesus,
that snake.” Cole tossed back his drink. “I really liked him. He seemed so into
you. I can’t believe he…”

“They’re
fakes.” A week ago she’d been desperate to see the photos, but now she was too
tired to even bother looking. “Lester faked them somehow.”

“So
why isn’t Adam here with you?” Cole squeezed her shoulder. “He should be here.
Especially tomorrow.”

“I
told him not to come.”

Chapter
Fourteen

The
funeral was a quiet affair. Lester had no family to attend, and many of the
people who had been invited decided to skip it. Lester’s lawyer, Alvin Beesley,
sidled over to Stacy after the burial.

“You’re
the only beneficiary of Lester’s will,” he told her in a whisper. “The usual
procedure is for the will to be read at my offices at some time after the
funeral, but I thought I should bring it with me today instead. What with the
press and all.”

They’d
driven through a rabid mob of photographers desperate to catch a shot of her
wearing black for their gossip sections.

“We’re
going back to Cole Tempest’s house. Do you want to do it there?”

All
through the service, and seeing Lester’s body planted in the ground, she’d ached
with bone deep exhaustion. She’d been numb for days, running on autopilot until
the moment she could collapse and sleep. But the mystery of what exactly could
be in Lester’s will sparked curiosity to life.

While
Cole entertained the small group who had accompanied them from the cemetery,
Stacy led Mr. Beesley into Cole’s home office. Bookshelves lined the walls, and
rather than expensive leather bound hardbacks, the shelves were filled to
bursting with paperback novels.

He’d
always been a reader, spending hours on the tour bus with his nose stuck in the
latest crime novel. She couldn’t count the times they’d joked he was in the
wrong job, that he should be either a private investigator or a cop. Heck, the
guy even loved Agatha Christie.

His
antique desk looked like a movie prop.

She
sat, and Beesley took the chair opposite. He opened his briefcase and dropped a
file onto the desk. “The last will and testament of Lester Jones,” he read.

She
barely concentrated, until he mentioned her name.

“I
leave all my worldly goods, whatever may be left of them, to my friend and client,
Stacy Gold.”

Beesley
shoved up his tortoiseshell glasses on his nose with a long finger. “I’m sorry
to tell you that there isn’t much. It appears the money he stole from you was
to settle a debt he owed gambling, and it’s gone.”

No
surprise there.

“In
his hospital bed, he dictated this letter, which he wanted me to read to you.”
He picked up a single page, and placed a brown envelope in front of him,
squaring it with his fingertips.

“Dear
Stacy. It’s confession time. I want to tell you I’m sorry. That you didn’t
deserve the way I treated you, the things I did. I never meant for things to
get this bad, for things to go this far. I’d been stealing from you for years,
and I know you never suspected. I wanted to make things right before you found
out, that’s why I sold your house. I was sure Jay Cressley would win Best Male
Artist. I put everything I had on it.”

Stacy
gasped.

“When
Cole Tempest won, I knew it was all over. I thought I could placate the people
I’d placed the bet with, but they tracked me to the hotel in LA and left me a
note threatening to kill me unless I produced the money. I got on the next
flight to Bali. I’d got away, but the addiction had me in its grip. I couldn’t
resist the urge to gamble, and I ended up here as a result.” Beesley stopped
and ran his finger around the collar of his shirt. “I treated you badly. I know
that. A year ago, Adam Logan was digging, turning you against me. I was in too
deep with the gambling to get help, and I felt so threatened I did some awful
things. I manipulated you into divorcing him by finding an Adam lookalike and
getting a photographer to take pictures of him with a woman. I should go to
hell for what I put you through. It’s too late now. I’ll never see you again,
and I know you’ll never think fondly of me again. You should hate me. I hate
me. But Stacy, you need to know this: you’re young, you’re talented, you’ll be
able to recover from this. Next year it’ll be you taking home the award for
Best Song. You’re a damn fine artist, I should have told you that more. I’m
sorry.”

Beesley
folded the letter and looked into her eyes. He shoved the brown envelope across
the table to her. “The photographs.”

*****

“So
if I get the job, it’s a three month contract being housekeeper and general
assistant to this author who’s having a crisis.” Amy sprawled on her sofa. “His
current person is going on maternity leave and—” She stopped. “You’re not even
listening to me, are you?”

“Honestly?
No. I couldn’t care less.”

With
a moan, Amy sat up. “Why are you even here if you don’t want to talk to me? I
can’t help if you don’t let me. You are no fun anymore, do you know that? I can’t
believe you’re letting Stacy mess with your head again. She’s not answering
your calls, is she?”

“No.
She isn’t.”

It
had been a week. Lester’s funeral had earned a small paragraph in the middle of
the paper, and still she refused to respond to his texts. A local magazine had
reprinted photographs supposedly showing him fooling around, and she’d remained
steadfastly silent. His mother was in full meltdown mode, first because of the
evidence of his cheating, and then furious when she learned the truth that they
weren’t him.

Damn
fine fakes though. Adam really couldn’t blame her for being fooled when his own
mother had been taken in.

“Plaxtair
is playing hardball. They want to terminate her contract because she’s bringing
their studios into disrepute. I need to fix this before they activate the get-out
clause and dump us.”

Amy’s
eyes widened. “If they do, what will happen to the company? To the film? You
and Sean have put everything you have into this; you can’t lose your business
just because she can’t be bothered to answer her phone.” Amy was really getting
into the rant now. “She destroyed you once, don’t let her do it again.”

“She wants space. She said she
needs some time.”

Amy growled like a threatened
Rottweiler.

“I’ve given her space, and she’s
had enough time.” He’d arrived at Amy’s apartment half an hour ago after a
quick visit to his parents’ house. “I didn’t come here to talk to you, I want
you to drive me to the airport and look after my car while I’m away—I don’t
want to park it, I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Amy’s grin was so wide all her
teeth were on display. She bounced off the sofa and enveloped him a hug, making
a noise that could only be described as a girl squeal. “You’re going to find
her?”

“Damn right I’m going to find
her.”

Amy searched under the sofa
for her shoes. “What time’s your flight?”

With one hand on the wheel and
one eye, it seemed, constantly on him, Amy wove through the traffic, talking
every second. She wanted to know everything, every little aspect of his
big
plan
. He didn’t have one. He was winging it all the way, but kept that
nugget to himself; the last thing he needed was any more sisterly advice.

She gave it anyway. “You need
to change at the airport, you’ll be sweaty after the flight, and those clothes…”
She scanned him head to toe as he climbed out of the car in the drop off zone.

“Thanks for the lift, Amy.”

He swung the bag over his
shoulder, and walked into the airport.

*****

Stacy’d
spent the days since Lester’s funeral in a funk. Cole was charming, but she
really couldn’t stay in his house any longer. So when the call came asking her
to appear on one of the biggest chat shows in the country she didn’t hesitate,
and agreed to appear.

The
media buzz had quieted a little, but untrue stories sprouted in the tabloids
and magazines every night, to be digested every morning over breakfast.

In
the latest, she was pregnant and shacked up with Cole. The persona Lester had
built so carefully for her over the past ten years was being systematically
dismantled. The name Stacy Gold, instead of glittering like the precious metal,
had become dirty and tarnished with the accusations flying around, and for the
first time ever, she had nothing left to lose.

She
wanted to climb aboard a plane and fly back to Ireland. To have Adam’s arms
around her, to know that she was cared for and loved. To be appreciated for her
talent and finish the voice-over work she’d started. To be the squirrel, rather
than the person the tabloids portrayed. A dishonest has-been with a car-crash
life.

This
was her chance to put her side of the story. The chance to tell the truth. Adam
and Sean had warned her that Plaxtair had threatened to replace her, and she’d
seen the worry on Sean’s face at what that might mean for their company.

Adam
had wanted to come with her, but she’d pushed him away, just as she had done
when their marriage was in trouble. She didn’t want to be the one who needed
propping up, the one who was so fractured and needy she leaned on him. So
instead, she’d ignored his texts, wanting to have good news before she spoke to
him again. Wanting to be able to stand before him as a partner with their shit
together.

But
things had gone from bad to worse. She’d found it difficult to sleep, and when
she had managed to fall into slumber, she’d woken in pulse-racing, heart-pounding
sweats, caught in the grip of nightmares where shadowy figures from her past
taunted her for being so arrogant to believe she could escape them.

So
this was it. Make or break time. She could anticipate some of the questions
that Jay Dix, the charismatic talk show host might ask, and the thought of
answering them honestly made her stomach clench with nerves, but she had to do
it. She had to try.

Cole
had made his private jet available, and she and Apollo would fly to New York
for the interview, and back to Cole’s house when it was finished. She’d raided
the lockup containing her belongings and selected a short silver minidress and
matching heels to wear for the interview, and booked a hairdresser to cut and
style her hair in soft curls before she faced a live studio audience. If she
were walking to the gallows, she might as well look good doing it.

Standing
on the tarmac, she summoned all her courage to call Adam. After the way she’d
left and the way she’d treated him, he may never want to see her again. He had
a good life now, with true, real friends and family to support him. Winning him
back might be impossible, but she had to try, because the alternative, living
without him, was too hard to imagine. And if all went well with the interview,
if she managed to placate Plaxtair and keep her role on the movie, she’d be on
the first flight to Ireland to finish it, and to be with the man she loved.

She
felt lightheaded, sick with nerves, as she called him.

It
went to voicemail.