Here Comes Trouble Page 2

  Sheila waited until she heard the door close down the hall before she dipped inside Chadwick’s office. She closed the door and flicked the lock. Time to get down to business.

  ***

  Every man had regrets. Malcolm Oliver was no different.

  One didn’t reach the ripe old age of thirty-two without a slew of what-ifs. But he’d bet very few lived with the haunting memory of what might have been with Sheila Tremayne. Looking out into the English-inspired garden below his grandmother’s terrace doors, however, he suspected this was as close to solace as he was ever going to get.

  The instant Malcolm returned to Lantano Valley every minute of the last five years pressed down on him, forcing him to struggle against the anger and resentment of the past even as he focused on his reason for coming home. The town he’d grown up in, the town he’d planned to grow old in, hadn’t changed much, save for the smattering of new businesses, reconstructed buildings, new faces. Returning from exile—what else could he call his exit?—had gone as anticipated. Malcolm’s hands fisted in his pockets, his jaw tight as he gnashed his teeth. The cold familial welcome both reassured him and spurred him in the direction of following through with his plans.

  Sheila Tremayne, however, was a woman no man could plan for.

  Within seconds of catching sight of that stunning, familiar figure, the thick tumble of blond waves, smooth gentle curves he remembered memorizing under teasing, anxious fingers, he realized he’d neglected to consider the effect seeing her again would have.

  Every cell in his body tingled as if her touch had been powered by a nuclear reactor. There had been something different, something permanent about Sheila that had settled inside of him from the time they started dating. Those six months had been his mental sanctuary the last few years; memories he could call upon when he needed to remind himself that the good things in life could outweigh the bad.

  How often had he caught himself dwelling on the girl who might have . . . No, that wasn’t right. Sheila was the girl who should have been. It hadn’t mattered that she was his best friend’s sister, or that he’d known her for years. He’d watched her grow from a stunning, curious teen into an elegant young woman with pinpoint concentration on the road ahead of her and more talent than a gallery full of artists. A lightning bolt of awareness had struck him dead center of his heart and burned the possibility of anyone else out of his life.

  Until life had altered course.

  Anger percolated like a short-circuiting sixties’ coffeemaker. Sheila had been one more thing that had been stolen from him, ripped away as if his life, his plans, his dreams, were nothing more than a hindrance to another’s.

  His phone vibrated, the buzzing as irritating as an over-stimulated bee. His doctor’s office number flashed on the screen, but he clicked it off, unwilling, or more likely unable to face what was waiting for him on the other end of the conversation.

  He pulled out the bottle of pills, shook one out, and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on his grandmother’s nightstand as Alcina puttered in her dressing room. One thing his grandmother and father shared was their ability to make an entrance.

  Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment, took a long breath, and shifted his focus back on Lantano Valley. It would have been bad enough if the man responsible for Malcolm’s disgrace had been a stranger; a business rival, a jealous associate. That it was Malcolm’s own father who had orchestrated his downfall was the real tragedy. At least until one considered that Chadwick Oliver held no regret over his actions. Tragedy plus time made for the perfect revenge equation. His father had done what was necessary to achieve his endgame, including sacrificing his oldest son to the madness that would ensue.

  Malcolm had rebuilt, planned, and hacked away at his plan for revenge like a prisoner digging for his freedom. He was so close to getting what he wanted—he didn’t want to consider he might not have enough time to finish things. He thought he’d planned for every contingency, for every possible distraction and then . . .

  Sheila.

  “I’m just about ready, Malcolm.” Alcina Oliver emerged from her dressing room wearing an elegant jade-green silk pantsuit adorned with sporadic shimmering accents. Her snow-white hair was pulled into its signature twist at the base of her neck. The ever-so-faint trace of France danced along the edge of her words as a hint of lavender and vanilla drifted about the room. Pale skin stretched over too-thin features, making her bright green eyes all the more prominent. “You should be downstairs mingling with our guests.”

  “Your guests, Gran,” Malcolm corrected as he moved to stand behind her once she took a seat at her dressing table. She latched medium diamond studs onto her ears, smiling at him in the mirror as he dropped gentle hands onto her frail but sturdy shoulders. “And let’s not forget I’m not welcome in this house.”

  Brittle glass had nothing on the edge Alcina’s gaze took on as she reached a hand up to cover Malcolm’s. “You are as long as I’m alive. This is your home, Malcolm. It always was, it always will be.”

  Malcolm forced a smile and bent down to look at the two of them in the mirror. There was only one force in the universe that could have brought him back to Lantano Valley sooner than planned. The ninety-nine-pound octogenarian had more strength of character than anyone Malcolm had ever known.

  But Alcina was wrong. This house had been many things: a dwelling, a refuge, a mausoleum perhaps, but never a home. Not even Alcina possessed enough will to make that a reality.

  “Have you seen Sheila this evening?” Alcina held up her favorite strand of pearls for Malcolm to latch for her. Malcolm bit his cheek. Nothing ever got past his grandmother. “I expected her to stop by and check in by now.”

  “I have. I’m sure she got waylaid with the party.” He couldn’t shake the feeling something was off where Sheila’s visit to his father’s office was concerned. Maybe he should check . . .

  “Lovely girl,” Alcina said. “Simply lovely.”

  “Mmmm.” Malcolm struggled with the clasp and wondered how women managed them without looking. “She is that.”

  “It’s a shame the two of you didn’t work out. You’d have given me beautiful great-grandchildren.”

  “Gran, don’t start.” Malcolm settled the pearls around her neck. This wasn’t the first time his grandmother had broached the subject of his procreation plans, and he doubted it would be the last. Forget a dog with a bone, Alcina Oliver was like a shark with a seal, one who would happily choke to death on its prey before letting go. “I’ve already told you, I have a life in San Francisco. It does not include a wife or children.” It probably never would.

  “I can tell by the look in your eye you still have feelings for the girl.” Alcina caught his hand. “Life is too short to spend it alone, Malcolm.”

  “Are you sure your cataracts aren’t acting up?” Malcolm teased and squeezed her fingers, making note to be more careful with his expressions around Sheila and his grandmother. The last thing he needed was for either to be aware something was wrong where he was concerned. “Now, would you like me to escort you downstairs?”

  “I would like you to go on ahead so I can get my thoughts together.”

  “Okay.” But he’d keep an eye and an ear out.

  “Family is always the most important thing, no matter the history,” Alcina called after him as he opened the door. “Your father, your brother, they don’t see things the way you do, they don’t understand, but I have faith in you, Malcolm. That you won’t turn a blind eye to opportunity forever.”

  Malcolm knew she didn’t expect a response. Not that he had one. There was no response she would deem appropriate other than complete agreement.

  The depths of his love for his grandmother could only be exemplified by his willingness to hobnob with family friends, clients, and investors who were more than happy to relive the scandal of Malcolm’s discharge from the family
business. The same people who hadn’t had any problem distancing themselves from Malcolm and his advancements in the technology industry. All the more reason to remain anonymous in his current business capacity and status. Little did they know a lot of them had invested in Malcolm’s new business venture in one form or another. Poetic justice from where he stood.

  The hell with it. He was done living with regrets. Time to face the firing squad.

  ***

  Sheila stood in the middle of Chadwick’s office. A quick survey had her dismissing the wall where two ghastly impressionistic paintings hung over an outdated leather sofa. Very few items occupied the dimly lit room save for the framed mirror over a smaller, burgundy couch against the far wall. Chadwick’s desk was more than ordinary. She set her phone and bracelet on the desk as she bent down, finding the burn mark under the middle drawer that identified the carved piece as a replica. A good one, but still a copy, and Sheila knew her copies.

  Every single book on the bookcase was meticulously placed, not one out of line except . . . “Got you.” She picked up her phone before walking over to slide the too-thick spine of a leather-bound edition of Dante’s Inferno forward. She peered behind it. Part of a keypad stared at her as if daring her to decipher its code.

  “Okay, big brother. If this toy of yours doesn’t work, you’ll be figuring out how to break me out of jail.” She pulled the metal decoder from her bra and clamped it onto the keypad on the back of the shelf. The digital readout beeped and blurped, flashing red-lighted numbers across the small screen until a small green light appeared in the bottom corner and a click sounded.

  Sheila jumped as the bookcase moved out toward her before shifting to the right. The lack of sound was a relief, but the time it took to expose the room inside had her wishing she’d ordered soufflés for dinner for the guests.

  She snatched the decoder off the keypad and replaced the books. Fluorescent lights burst to life in the space behind the paneled bookcase, the electric hum and brightness making her wince as she stepped forward into the midst of file boxes.

  The walls were lined with shelves filled with ledgers and crates, and one large metal and very-empty filing cabinet. A stack of various-size frames stood empty in the corner, as if their insides had been ripped out, the wooden pieces left behind like abandoned carcasses.

  The paintings—where were they? She knew he had them. She knew.

  She took another step inside as dim voices echoed in the hall.

  Sheila poked her head into the office, saw the switch on the inside wall that matched the keypad in the bookcase. The office doorknob rattled.

  Pulse pounding in her throat, her eyes went wide as the sound of the key slipping into the lock scraped against her ears like talons against metal. She was too close to stop now. She slapped her hand on the button beneath a small LCD screen inside the vault. The panel slid into place, locking her in.

  The room went dark.

  ***

  “Malcolm.”

  With one word from his father—his name no less—Malcolm’s evening went from crap to complete shit.

  Chadwick Oliver unclipped the rope to step onto the second-floor landing, his bulky frame encased in a tailored suit that cost more than most third world countries would need to feed their population. “I know your grandmother requested your presence, but I’d appreciate you keeping a low profile while you’re here. I don’t think it’s appropriate—”

  “You know what’s great about my life now, Dad?” Malcolm shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the fists that wanted to do nothing more than land a solid punch into his old man’s paunch. “I don’t give a damn what you think anymore.”

  “You always were ungrateful.”

  “Careful, Dad,” Malcolm warned. While he appreciated the opportunity to venture into his father’s office and make sure Sheila was no longer there, he felt his blood pressure spike in anticipation of a fight. The last time he’d been inside this room his world as he’d known it had collapsed. Then again, invading Chadwick’s office was the perfect way to keep his father off balance. Something Malcolm hoped to do every day for the foreseeable future. “You wouldn’t want your public persona cracking under all that pretense.”

  “You should have stayed gone,” Chadwick muttered as he flipped on his computer screen and lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. “That was our agreement, after all.”

  “And miss the opportunity to celebrate your retirement?” Malcolm chuffed out a breath as his father was unable to hide his shock at Malcolm’s words. “That’s right. I know. And I’m betting you intend to announce those plans in the middle of Gran’s party.” Because his old man couldn’t resist being the center of attention. “Don’t get me wrong. I have no interest in celebrating the end of your career, publically at least.” Might as well throw some more wood on the pyre. “It’s time Ty and I had a long conversation about the past. And about the future of Oliver Technologies.”

  The sickening smile that curved his father’s too-round face made Malcolm’s stomach churn.

  “If you think Ty will have anything to do with you after what you did—”

  “After what you told him I did. Ever heard the phrase ‘and the truth shall set you free’?” Malcolm asked, feeling more than a little giddy at putting his father on edge. “Let’s just say I’m looking forward to unlocking those chains you’ve had around my little brother’s neck since before I left.” Chains he should have tried to break years ago.

  “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.

  Chapter Two

  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.