DANGEROUS DECEPTION Read online

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  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

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  For Jason, our budding lawyer. Good luck on the bar—we're so proud of you! Love always, Mum

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Because I have so little expertise of my own, I rely on experts to get the facts straight in my stories.

  Special thanks to Jim Harris, of Harris Technical Services, and to Michael Varat, KEVA Engineering, LLC, for your patience with my endless questions about accident reconstruction. Your assistance was impressive in its scope and ingenuity! And another thank-you is owed to Norman Koren, for sharing your wealth of experience in photography. Your kindness was appreciated more than you can know! Any mistakes in accuracy are the sole responsibility of the author.

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  Prologue

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  Voices from the grave swirled around him, haunting whispers of murder.

  James Tremaine stared sightlessly at the scraps of paper laid across the desk before him and reflected that it was an appropriate enough night for ghosts. The wind shrieked through the sky, shaking the windows of the centuries-old estate with demented fists. The dark clouds shot needlelike shards of rain to stab the parched Louisiana ground, to machine-gun against the house. The single lit lamp in the room had flickered more than a few times in the last hour, but its uncertain illumination wasn't necessary. He didn't need the dim spill of light to read the words typed on the bits of paper on the desk. They'd been emblazoned on his mind.

  You've got a target on your back.

  This project will be your last.

  The threats were easily dismissed. It wasn't unusual for competition to rise to a dangerous level in his line of work. But it was the third one, the most recent, that commanded attention. Your parents' deaths weren't accidents. Yours won't be either.

  The electricity finally gave up its struggle with the ferocious wind, and the room fell into darkness. James didn't notice. He was too busy fighting an internal battle of his own. He hadn't successfully grown a family business into a global security corporation by being easily manipulated. Not even his siblings, especially not his siblings, could realize the degree of treachery that lurked beneath every apparently civil contact in his world. As technology exploded daily with new advances, the race to stay ahead of his rivals was a careening, hair-raising ride.

  He'd had far more creative schemes than this thrown his way by a competitor intent on beating him to a potential contract: he'd thwarted sabotage at his headquarters; he'd survived two attempts on his life to remove him from competition permanently; but nothing else had felt quite as personal as the words printed on the last note before him.

  With cool logic he considered the possibilities, pushing aside for the moment the emotion churning and boiling inside him. The most likely explanation was business, of course. Dredging up his family's tragedy from two decades earlier would distract him from the deadlines imposed by the government contract currently occupying the majority of their manpower. Failure to deliver the newest encryption/decryption package for the Pentagon would remove his company from consideration for the next job, which promised to be even more challenging. Even more lucrative.

  With his index finger he traced the edge of the message in the center. Money was another possible motive, he supposed. His family was no stranger to the lengths others would go in order to reap profit by inflicting pain. What was the sender hoping for? To whet his interest for a payoff? But for what? To call off a potential assassin, or by promising decades old information in return?

  The messages could just as easily come from a crackpot operating for reasons known only to himself. God knew, there were enough of them around these parts. He didn't need the police to tell him the futility of trying to trace the notes, and with the Pentagon contracts hanging in the balance, just now he could ill afford the resulting publicity.

  Lightning lit up the sky outside his den, throwing the interior of the room into momentary relief. A moment later thunder boomed, close enough to shake the graceful antebellum home. But the storm outside paled in comparison to the storm within.

  Because there was a still a part of him, a part he was struggling to suppress, that wondered if it could be true.

  Your parents' deaths weren't accidents.

  He'd read the police reports. Made the identification. He could remember far too well what the battered, mangled bodies had looked like once extracted from the twisted wreckage of the automobile. A vicious memory of the wild, unchecked grief whipped through him, stunning in its power to inflict fresh pain. The twenty-year-old wound throbbed anew, stirring all the old questions that accompany the bitterness of loss. In the end, it was emotion that made the decision for him. Specters from the past tugged at strings of guilt, love and regret.

  But it was stirrings of a far different feeling that had him opening the center desk drawer, smoothing the tip of his finger down the smooth barrel of the snub-nosed .38 inside. A thirst for vengeance.

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  Chapter 1

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  One Month Later

  James Tremaine had not yet grown so jaded that he failed to appreciate an opportunity when one presented itself. Especially when that opportunity was the most attractively packaged eye candy he'd run across in more time than he cared to consider. Shaking the rain from his face, he cocked his head for a better view while he peeled off his gloves and, with uncharacteristic carelessness, shoved them into the pockets of his Prada raincoat.

  The form balanced precariously on the ladder inside the doorway was only half-visible, but what was observable was unmistakably feminine. Denim clung to shapely hips and snugged across a curvy bottom before slicking down mile-long legs. His gaze lingered on those legs now, and hormones, too long suppressed, flickered to life. It took conscious effort to drag his eyes upward, to where the woman's torso disappeared into the opening afforded by the missing panel in the suspended ceiling.

  "You took your sweet time. I didn't know whether you were ever coming, so I got started without you."

  Brows raising at the muffled words, James inquired, "Did you want some help?"

  He wasn't certain, but he thought he heard a rather unladylike snort. "All that's left for you to do is to hold the ladder. I'm nearly finished here." He moved to obey, putting himself in even closer range to those long legs.

  "I think the receptacle's shot, so you'll have to check that out. Probably needs to be replaced. You got the ladder?" Without waiting for a reply the woman started down it. "And you, my friend, can just put in some overtime fixing it. Serves you right for taking so long getting here."

  James steadied the ladder with both arms, framing the slender form descending it. "Overtime can be expensive." Her well-formed rear swayed tantalizingly closer with each step she took. For a moment he forgot the grim errand that had brought him here and allowed his imagination free rein. It was doubtful the woman's face could match those incredible endless legs, but a man was entitled to hope. He was partial to blondes, so as long as this was his fantasy, he'd put his money on her being blond and blue-eyed. A rare smile crossed his lips. No, make it green eyes, and somehow he'd have to recover from the disappointment that was certain to accompany the reality.

  He'd recovered from far worse disappointments in his time.

  Her voice shook him from his reverie. "You can let go of the ladder. I don't have any intention of walking over you to get off it." When he didn't move away, she twisted around, practically in his arms. "So help me, Howie, you'd better not be enjoying this, or…"

  Her words stopped abruptly, eyes widening as she realized her mistake. Eyes that weren't green at all, James noted. Instead they were a warm
wash of colors that ranged from gray to brown, with flecks of gold in the irises to further defy description. And she wasn't a blonde, either. Her hair hovered somewhere between blond and brown, a poorly cut tangle that reached to her shoulder blades. Her nose was straight, her mouth wide and her jaw stubborn. Her chin had a decided dip in it, right in the center. It was an intriguing face, rather than a pretty one, and James felt a flicker of interest. It had been a long time since he'd been intrigued by a woman.

  He watched her swallow and search for words. "Ah … you're not Howie." And then felt a flicker of amusement at her wince as the inanity slipped from her mouth.

  He stepped back to allow her to finish her descent. "No. Sorry. I'm looking for Rob Landry. If you can tell him I'm here?"

  There was a flash of pain in those changeable eyes, before they abruptly shuttered. "I … can't do that." She turned away, crossed to the lone desk in the room and sank into the seat behind it.

  Impatience flickering, James eyed the door in the far corner of the room emblazoned with the man's name. "You mean he's not in? When will he be back?"

  "He won't be." The woman's voice was stronger now, an obvious attempt to layer strength over grief. "He died three weeks ago."

  James froze, the words seeming to come from a distance. He was too late. If he'd begun this quest a bit sooner, if he'd tracked Landry a little more quickly, he might have answers to the questions that had reared, spawning suspicion that would burn until he could put it to rest with answers.

  Answers that wouldn't be forthcoming with Rob Landry dead.

  Disappointment welled up, of a much different sort than he'd expected when he'd seen her perched on the ladder. With long practice, he pushed it aside. "I'm sorry," he said belatedly, recognizing both the woman's anguish and her attempt to mask it. "I understand he worked with a partner. I'd like to speak to him, if I may."

  "That would be me. I'm Tori Corbett, his daughter." Emotion had been tucked away. The woman's tone was brisk now, her expression professional. "What can I help you with?"

  He was beginning to doubt that she could help him at all, but he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a business card. "James Tremaine." He handed her it to her but knew from the look on her face that it was unnecessary. She recognized the name and that of his family's company on the card. He expected no less, since he'd worked for nearly two decades to promote both.

  Rejecting the position of the chairs facing her desk, he dragged one around to sit beside her. "Your father did some work for mine a little over twenty years ago. After my parents' deaths, his services were again retained. You would have been just a child then, of course, but maybe he mentioned the investigations to you in the time since."

  The shock on her face was its own answer, and the disappointment he felt this time had a bitter taste. "Perhaps he had another partner then? Someone who worked with him when he was running Landry Investigations at that time?"

  Her gaze fell to her desktop. "No, Dad always believed in a one-man shop until me. I was the first partner he ever had." Her words sounded as though they'd been difficult for her to say. Certainly they were difficult for James to hear.

  "He must have left records. I'd like to look through them, with your permission of course." He was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, and equally adept at applying finesse to get it. But his fabled charm was difficult to summon. He was too close to discovering the answers he sought. Too damn anxious about what they might reveal.

  "Our files are confidential." Tori—what kind of name was that for a woman?—swung her chair around to face him more fully. "If you tell me what you're after, though, I could…" Her sentence abruptly halted. "I'm sorry," she amended. "The files you'd want are what? Twenty years old?" James nodded. "I don't have anything that goes back that far."

  He felt his blood cool, his stomach tighten. He withdrew his wallet and extracted several bills. Rising, he leaned forward and dropped them on her desk in front of her. "Why don't you check?" he urged evenly. "I'll wait."

  She didn't even glance at the money. And her voice, when it came, had chilled by several degrees. "I don't have to look. My father's building was destroyed by a fire around that time. Shortly after, we moved to Minnesota. He didn't reopen an investigating business until we moved back here, three years later."

  This line of questioning was a dead end. James hadn't gotten to his position without knowing when to cut his losses. There would be another way. There always was. It would require regrouping, a new strategy. This wouldn't be the first obstacle he'd encountered in his search for the truth. And it wasn't going prevent him from finding it.

  He rose. "Thank you for your time. And my condolences again for the loss of your father." She was staring at him, her varied-colored eyes wide, her mouth half-open in protest. And with a vague sense of regret, one that had nothing to do with the outcome of this meeting, he turned and walked out of her office.

  Tori Corbett nosed her car up the long driveway leading to Tremaine Technologies and tried to ignore the nerves dancing along her spine. What she was about to do required bravado and guts, both of which her dad had always said she possessed in spades. But the plan that had seemed so logical three nights ago, hours after James Tremaine had left her office, suddenly seemed a little … well, ballsy. Not that she had anything against the quality normally.

  But if she was going to continue to run the business she'd learned from her dad, she was going to have to actively pursue prospective clients. And the balance of her bank accounts were stark reminders that work meant continuing to eat. Though they never showed up on her lean frame, she'd always been fond of regular meals.

  It wasn't as if Tremaine didn't need her. Although he'd been short on details when he'd visited, she was pretty good at piecing things together. They'd both benefit if he accepted her pitch.

  The persuasive arguments she'd rehearsed had seemed perfectly rational on the drive over from New Orleans. And even most of the way through Tangipahoa Parish.

  It wasn't until she'd hit the first set of security gates surrounding these grounds that the first wave of anxiety had hit. It had grown progressively worse each time she'd been stopped by yet another guard and required to go through another clearance.

  Okay, she admitted, as she slowly drove toward the sprawling complex of office buildings. So her idea of surprising Tremaine by showing up here had been a bit naive. She hadn't taken into account the level of security surrounding his business. Hadn't considered the fact that the only possible way she'd get through each of the successive security checks was by announcing her identity, having it called in to Tremaine himself.

  She had ended up being the one surprised, though, because he had obviously cleared her through each of the stops. And maybe that was what had her stomach churning. She couldn't imagine why he'd agreed to see her, unannounced and refusing to state a purpose for being here. While she'd like to believe that it boded well for the proposition she'd come to offer, she couldn't shake the feeling that this meeting was going to end up far differently than she'd planned.

  Her battered compact looked jarringly out of place among the sleek luxury vehicles in the parking lot next to the Tremaine Technologies offices. Grabbing her briefcase, she took a deep breath and got out of the car, not bothering to lock it. The class of the others made it highly doubtful anyone would lower themselves to bother with hers. Jogging up the walk, she worked on calming her nerves with a mental rehearsal for the upcoming meeting.

  But thoughts of businesslike persuasion were erased when she stepped into the marbled halls of the headquarters for Tremaine Technologies. It took effort for

  Tori to state her name matter-of-factly for the man at the desk inside the door, and even more to keep quiet as he led her to an elevator and accompanied her upstairs. Obviously, uninvited guests couldn't be trusted to wander around inside on their own. Or maybe, she considered ruefully, glancing at her plain cotton shirt and khakis, her appearance didn't exactly i
nspire confidence. Even the man's dark-blue uniform looked as if it had cost more than her entire outfit, briefcase included.

  The elevator doors opened, and the guard led her into an office area roughly the size of her entire house. The floor was polished mahogany, the ceiling vaulted and the woman behind the desk reigning over the area appeared formidable enough to face down intruders with a single look.

  "Ms. Corbett," the guard at her side said to announce her, and then backed away, leaving Tori alone with the female staring expressionlessly at her. Of an indeterminate age, the woman wore her brown hair smoothed back from her face like two soft wings, framing a face that was aging with grace and gentility. "Mr. Tremaine is expecting you. He has quite a busy schedule today, however, so if you could keep your meeting brief?" The way she said the words sounded more like a command than a suggestion, and Tori nodded mutely as the woman stabbed one long-nailed finger at a button on the intercom resting upon her desk. "Ms. Corbett has arrived."

  A door on the other end of the room opened and James Tremaine filled it, his appearance too sudden for Tori to steel herself against reaction. As it was, she was ambushed by the exact same response she'd had when she'd turned to find herself practically in his arms three days ago.

  Ohmygod, it's James Bond. The fanciful thought recurred, only to be firmly pushed away. Okay, there might be a passing resemblance, she conceded. His blue eyes were the color of the South Pacific and framed with a fringe of black lashes that matched his meticulously combed hair. Tall and lean, his body hinted at strength even clad as it was in impeccable Armani. But the sheen of danger lurking just beneath his polished surface must certainly be a product of her imagination. High-tech CEOs would hardly be likely to radiate an aura of menace, unless the afternoon golf games at the exclusive clubs he no doubt belonged to were a lot more savage than she'd realized.