Asking for Trouble (11 page)

Gage slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked on his heels. He sized the boy up in the same way Drew was looking at him, with restrained irritation. “You're half right. I used to be a cop. I'm not anymore.”

“Once a cop, always a cop.” Drew snorted and tossed another pack of cigarettes at Morgan. “That's the last of them.”

“This was your warning.” Morgan crushed the package in her hand. “Think about the other people living in this house. Brandon and Lydia are especially at risk from secondhand smoke, and I know you don't want to put them in harm's way. And before you try to wiggle around it, that does not give you permission to smoke outside the house. If I ever catch you smoking, hear of you smoking, or suspect you're smoking, you will be incredibly sorry.”

Drew had the good sense to look chastised.

“You'll do both yours and Brandon's chores tomorrow, and tonight you're on dish duty. It's the least you can do for putting everyone's health at risk.”

“That's not fair.” Drew's eyes flashed and his fists clenched he took a step toward Morgan.

Instinct moved Gage between them.

“I'd say you were getting off easy, kid.” He felt Morgan's hand on his arm and eased up. “My father had me mowing lawns every Saturday for two months when he caught me.”

“So?”

“So.” Gage inclined his head. “A few dinner dishes seem a small price to pay for being irresponsible with your family's safety.”

“Gage.” Morgan moved around him. “Thank you, but I think Drew understands. Don't you?”

“Whatever.”

Gage ground his teeth together. Was there a more irritating word in the teen vocabulary than the
W
word?

“We'll work on your communication skills next,” Morgan told him. “I'm not here for long. I'd appreciate you keeping an eye on the little ones until Angela is done in the yard.”

Drew dropped onto his unmade bed, sulking, Gage thought as the two of them left his room.

He waited until they were downstairs before he spoke. “You're good with him.”

“I should win a fucking Nobel Peace Prize for not strangling him.” She held up the crumpled cigarette packs in her hand. “Remind me I owe a twenty to the swear jar. Damn stupid thing to do, smoking like that.”

“Teenage boys are stupid. It's a prerequisite for the job.”

“Teenage girls don't corner the market on intelligence. I can attest to that personally.”

Gage grinned. “I'd love to hear about that sometime.”

“Never going to happen.” Ah, there was the smile. “Let's get this present going. What time are we due at your parents'?” She headed down the stairs.

“Mom said noon, so probably one?”

Morgan looked over her shoulder. “Is that some sort of Juliano code?”

“Mom calls it Gage time. I tend to run late so she ups my arrival time by an hour to be safe. I caught on about five years ago.”

“No wonder she thinks you need a keeper.”

“She thinks I need a wife.”

“Mmmm. So you've said.”

“You're not going to make me do this myself, are you?” he asked as they returned to the kitchen.

“We'll help.” Morgan plugged in the glue gun.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs as Kelley bounded into the room. She reached for the display cabinet that dwarfed her and tried to heft it onto the counter. “Lydia wants to take a nap and Brandon's playing Angry Birds, so I can help.”

“Hey, hold on,” Gage said as he took it out of her hands. “You aren't Wonder Woman.”

Kelley scrunched up her face. “Who?”

Gage staggered, a hand over his heart. “Who's Wonder Woman? Only the coolest female superhero ever.”

The look of skepticism on Kelley's face had Morgan laughing.

“Girls aren't superheroes,” Kelley told him.

“Where are the DVDs when you need them?” Gage muttered to Morgan. “What about Buffy? Black Widow? Veronica Mars? Okay, so she's not a superhero, but—”

Kelley shook her head. “Buffy who?”

“She's too young for Buffy,” Morgan explained.

“Wait a minute.” Gage leaned against the kitchen sink and folded his arms over his chest as he addressed Kelley. “You know all these princesses, but not Wonder Woman or Buffy? Has no one taught you about girl power?”

“Are they like James Bond?”

Gage angled his head down. “How do you know about Bond?”

The sheepish look on the little girl's face told Gage he'd just entered tricky territory. She looked up at Morgan as if to ask permission. “I spied during movie night.”

“
Casino Royale
,” Morgan clarified. “Nico has a movie night with each of them during the week and Drew chose James Bond.”

“I take it James Bond isn't suitable for six-year-olds?”

“I'm eight and a quarter.” Kelley planted her hands on her hips. “I'll be nine in nine months.”

“Of course.” Gage held up his hands in surrender. He'd forgotten how much fun little girls could be.

Morgan snapped off the plastic covering from the cabinet. “We need to get this finished if we're going to be on time for the party.”

“Another party?” Kelley whined. “You always get to go to parties.”

“I know it seems that way, but I really don't. Go get me the glue sticks out of the craft barrel, please. I want to make sure we have enough. The plain ones. No glitter.”

Pouting, Kelley left the kitchen as Morgan discarded the packaging. The glossy black finish looked sleek and stylish. He hoped he'd chosen the right one with three shelves lining the inside. “Okay, mister. Get to organizing your brother's new car collection.”

As she tapped her finger against the tip of the glue gun, he grasped the counter on either side of her and locked her in.

“Gage, stop. This wasn't part of the deal.” She tried to move away and it was all he could do to resist the urge to cup her hips in his hands, to nuzzle her neck. He did, however, inhale the soft fragrance of her hair and skin, springtime and summer, flowers and sunshine. “Please don't,” she whispered, and moved her head away as his lips skimmed the side of her throat.

“I can't thank you enough for coming to my rescue. You fix cars, can use power tools, and now, you find the perfect present and save me from familial humiliation. What don't you do?”

He felt her stiffen in his semi-embrace and wondered what she was thinking. Was she thinking about the way his arms felt around her? Did she realize how much he liked holding her? Touching her?

He lifted one hand and pulled her hair to the side. He leaned in and brushed his lips against the side of her neck. She sighed and he smiled against her petal-soft skin. Now this he understood.

She spun around, nearly knocking her head into his chin. Instead of moving away, however, he took a step closer and had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes cloud over as his body molded against hers.

“Gage, we talked about this. One date. One and done. That's all this is.” She kept her voice low, planted her hands on his chest. He felt her fingers curl under, grip his shirt, and scrape his skin, and he wished she'd show him what those fingers were capable of. When she continued her thought, he wondered who she was trying to convince. “This can't happen. I know you think it should and it will, but I just can't— Gage, there's so much you don't know. About me, about my life. More than you could ever understand and deal with, believe me.”

“Maybe I want to try,” he murmured, dipping his head, a whisper of caress against her lips. “And this Woman of Mystery stuff? It only makes me more determined.”

“Gage—”

He swallowed her protest with his mouth, diving in before she could stop him. She tasted so sweet, so perfect, like strawberries and sunshine and the promise of the world. He couldn't get enough of her.

“Got 'em,” Kelley announced as she ran into the room.

Morgan shoved him away before she took the opaque glue sticks from Kelley, not looking at him even as her cheeks flamed bright red.

He stepped away, watching from a distance as the two of them put their heads together and began arranging his brother's gift.

What was stopping her? What did she see standing between them that he didn't? Why couldn't she admit there was something strong, something special within reach? She was just scared. Of change. Of trusting someone. Of loving someone.

Whoa. Gage shifted as if a swarm of ants crawled up his spine. Where did
that
come from? Walking into this house was like playing make-believe, as if the real world faded outside the front door. But playtime, as Morgan reminded him, was over.

Whatever Morgan thought he wouldn't understand, it didn't matter. She was as honorable a woman as he'd ever met. Nothing could change the way he was starting to feel about her.

Nothing at all.

“How sick is she?” Gage asked as he waved at Kelley, who waved from the porch, her cracked tiara back in place on her head, her princess dress drooping off one shoulder, magic wand circling the air.

Had Morgan's heart not already been tilting in Gage's direction, it would have tipped all the way over when he insisted that Kelley sign Stephen's cabinet along with him. They'd dated it together, putting her mark, a crooked smiley face, beside his blocky script of initials. Now it seemed whenever she looked at Gage, her insides kick-started like a Harley Davidson after a year-long stall.

She set the overflowing bag of dinner rolls and fresh-baked bread Angela had insisted she take into the trunk beside Stephen's gift. “Kelley was diagnosed with stage three leukemia, but her prognosis is good.” Anytime Morgan doubted the decisions she'd made, all she had to do was look into Kelley's joyful eyes. Or Brandon's. Or Lydia's. Morgan closed her eyes and let the sadness pass over her like a silent fog.

“What happened to Kelley's parents?”

“Gone,” Morgan said. “Her father was never in the picture and her mother brought her for her first treatment at the hospital, went out to get something to eat, and never came back.” Morgan saw Gage's jaw tighten. “Part of me hates her for abandoning Kelley. But then I think if she hadn't, I wouldn't get to see that beautiful face every day or watch her thrive and explode into every morning she sees. We've all tried to get her to talk about it, asked if she misses her mom, but . . .” Morgan shrugged, wishing she had the resiliency of a child. “I think she's handled the abandonment better than we have. Besides, chances are if she'd stayed with her mother, Kelley wouldn't be alive.”

“I've seen my share of monsters on the job, but I can't imagine anything worse than abandoning a child. Except maybe abandoning a sick child.”

It wasn't until they were in the car that Morgan remembered. “I didn't see a birthday card in the bags.”

Gage swore. “I forgot it at the office. Quick stop?”

“Sure.” She was already playing with fire; might as well walk into the inferno that was his office.

“What about the other kids?”

“Brandon survived stage two kidney cancer thanks to an experimental chemotherapy drug. Although if you ask me, the treatment was worse than the disease. His mother had drug issues, surrendered her parental rights when he was four, but his previous foster family couldn't take on the burden of the medical expenses.”

“They all seem well adjusted.”

“Most of them, anyway.” She couldn't shake the feeling that she'd lit the fuse on time-bomb Drew this morning.

“And Lydia? I thought they'd made significant progress when it came to children with AIDS.”

“They have. She has a particularly voracious strain. Her mother was five months pregnant with Lydia before they found out Lydia's father had contracted the disease from a blood transfusion when he was working overseas. But it's not Lydia's T-Cell count that's the problem right now. It's the tumor on her brain stem. Three months ago I couldn't have kept up with her if I'd tried.” Morgan looked out the window as they headed into downtown, watched people strolling between cafés and stores. What it must be like, not to have to worry about, well, everything. “Her mother met with me and the Fiorellis and surrendered her parental rights before she died. Greatest gift she could have given us and, wow, doesn't all this sound maudlin.” Morgan laughed then pressed her lips together when Gage covered her hand with his. “Kids constantly surprise you. As much bad as there is, it's far outweighed by the good. I don't know what I'd do without them.”

Gage nodded. “You love these kids as if they were your own. Anyone who spends any time with you can see that.”

“They are mine,” Morgan said without hesitation, grateful for the chance to make him understand why she did what she did, even if at this point he didn't know why she had to. “They were given to us in one way or the other. When my brother Colin was sick, he had us, a support system, and while it didn't make him better, it made his passing easier. At least that's what I tell myself. Instead of parents having to worry about hospital bills or whether they're going to lose their house or their jobs, they should be able to focus on their child. That's why the center can't get finished fast enough. Every day we go over schedule, we could lose another life.” The list of potential admissions was already overflowing and they didn't even have the facility completed yet.

Gage pulled into a parking space outside the renovated office building.

“Where do your parents live?” she asked as she got out of the car and walked through the lobby door he held open for her.

“Fallen Oak Lane.”

“Then you'll still surprise your mother by being early.”

“I bet we give her a heart attack.” Once they stepped out on the second floor, Gage gestured to the corner of the loft. “I'll just be a minute.”

Morgan strolled around the spacious loft, her soft-soled sandals silent against the hardwood floor. The office space was welcoming. Neat, tidy, streamlined, and comfortable. A good environment to be productive in. Lots of light thanks to the giant-paned windows inside the conference room. She braced her hand on the doorframe, leaned inside, and saw the lineup of file folders, laptops, and smatterings of notes. The whiteboards displayed photos and lists.

Morgan took a tentative step inside, as if she might trigger an alarm. This must be what it felt like to walk into the Bat Cave. Some secret sanctum she shouldn't be trespassing in.

Each of Nemesis' victims up to the most recent, the Cunninghams, had their own section of whiteboard with dedicated bullet points and pinned photos. A list of what had been taken from them, another notation in red below each of the dated report of the burglary: charges withdrawn.

The reality of seeing all the information in one place, like a snapshot of Nemesis' action plan, wedged like a stone in the bottom of her gut. She'd known the names, even the people involved, but it was easy to forget lives had been affected by what Nemesis—and by extension what she—had done.

There was nothing romantic about stealing. There wasn't anything romantic about accepting money from a thief. It didn't matter that the money had been put to good use. Morgan wasn't a character in a fairy tale searching for a happy ending. That stack of Nemesis cash hiding in the bottom drawer of her desk didn't just feel tainted—it felt poisoned.

She hadn't just skirted the edge of the law. She'd crossed it months ago.

But what else could she have done? Turned away those patients who needed the money for treatment? Sure, she'd taken the money she'd set aside to pay off the balance of the property payment, but it had just been sitting there, waiting while children died.

Even with the evidence staring her in the face, she knew she wouldn't have made a different choice. The kids she'd helped were leading healthy or healthier lives. Most important, they were alive. But there were always more kids, more diagnoses. More demands on her for help, and she couldn't say no.

“Finally found where I put the card.” Gage joined her in the conference room, followed her gaze. “If you see something we've missed, let me know.”

“I wouldn't know what to look for,” she whispered.

“Neither do we, otherwise I'd have Nemesis locked up by now. Hey.” Gage caught her chin between his fingers, turned her face toward his. “You okay? What's wrong?”

“I'm fine.” Morgan wrapped her hand around his wrist. “I shouldn't be in here.”

“You're welcome to stop by any time. Ready to head into the lion's den?”

Morgan smiled. “I don't think your mother would appreciate you calling her home the lion's den.” Besides, it couldn't be more dangerous than where she was already standing. “Let's go.”

***

The pristine manicured lawn and giant oak tree sheltering the front walk of the Juliano home were dotted with late spring color.

An unruly garden hose wound around the front of the two-story brick house while a comical stone cat stretched a curious paw toward a smattering of violet and pink pansies. A happy birthday sign placed like a for-sale sign peeked out of the hedges, blue and white balloons sagging in the breeze.

“You have a tire swing.” Morgan pressed her fingers against the car window.

“Dad's been trying to take that down but Mom won't let him.” When she didn't respond, Gage touched her shoulder. “Want a ride?”

“Are you kidding?”

“It's not there for decoration. Go ahead.”

Morgan headed up the walk and dropped her purse on the thick grass. She walked over and ran her fingers down the length of the aged rope as it swayed against her touch. She smiled, grabbed on, and hoisted her feet up and through the tire, situating her butt on the edge. She leaned back as far as she could, closed her eyes, and pushed off with her feet, spinning and swinging, feet dangling in the air until her shoes dropped off.

A moment of perfect, of nothing. Everything. The wind rushed against her ears, clearing her mind, invigorating, bracing. Wondrous.

The tire froze.

Morgan lifted her head, opened her eyes, and found Gage holding the tire still, an odd look in his eyes. “What?” She sat up as his hands covered hers, and he moved closer as she leaned up. “Gage?”

He kissed her, soft, slow, his hand moving to cup the back of her neck as she smiled against his lips. The shade of the oak embraced them, the early-afternoon breeze bathing them in spring warmth, and the world dropped away. She clutched his wrist, felt his pulse beneath her fingers, heavy and strong. When he lifted his mouth, he pressed his forehead against hers, and her doubts, her fears, melted beneath his touch.

“Told your father we weren't done with that swing.” Morgan felt rather than saw the heat rise in Gage's face as she caught sight of a petite dark-haired woman walking barefoot from the back gate toward the front door, a box of soda cans in her arms. “When the two of you are done, I could use some help in the kitchen.”

Morgan laughed and couldn't resist. She kissed Gage again before ducking free of the swing and grabbing her shoes.

“Precious, isn't she?” Gage muttered as he retrieved the bags he'd set down by her purse.

“Actually, she's pretty much what I expected.” Morgan loved how easily his mother flustered him. “I'm going to want another go at the swing,” she told him as they headed in the front door.

“I don't anticipate a problem with that. Geez, Mom. We need to put a bell around your neck.”

His mother popped around the door the second they pushed it open and Morgan locked gazes with the older woman. Her round face was open and warm and she stood a few inches shorter than Morgan. A stained apron was draped over her jeans and T-shirt, and her jet black hair was pulled into a snug ponytail.

“Morgan, my mother, Theresa Juliano. Mom, as you requested, Morgan Tremayne.”

Morgan hefted her purse up on her shoulder and held out her hand. “It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Juliano. I hope you don't mind, but I didn't want to arrive empty handed. Compliments of Nico and Angela Fiorelli.” Morgan gestured to the second bag in Gage's arms.

“It's Theresa, please.” She returned the greeting. “No one calls me Mrs. Juliano unless one of my kids is in trouble.”

“Something tells me you were called a lot over this one.” Morgan gave Gage a wink. “Did you say something about needing help in the kitchen?”

Theresa tucked the dishtowel she'd been holding through the apron string around her waist. “I knew I'd like you. My son is rarely on time, let alone early. Come inside.” She linked her arm through Morgan's and led her into the home that welcomed her with the aroma of tomatoes, basil, and onions.

The Juliano home was part showplace, part comfort and practicality. Magazines and photo albums lay scattered on the enormous coffee table situated between two large upholstered sofas. Two recliners sat nearby, angled toward the flat-screen television against the far wall. The walls were painted a soft gold, giving a feel of old-world charm mixed with modern comfort. The paintings made Morgan think of driving through the endless golden fields and blue skies of the Italian countryside.

A large staircase curved off to the upper floor. Morgan peered into the dining room that housed a table which could no doubt fit up to sixteen people. The scene looked as if it had been drawn from the pages of
Kitchen Design
magazine, an observation Morgan confirmed once she saw the amazing kitchen that lay beyond.

“You must be a serious cook.” Morgan marveled at the pots and pans and the six-burner gas range situated beneath a copper hood. The cabinet space alone promised to feed an army, which, with six children, was no doubt what Theresa had done most of her life.

“My husband let me design the kitchen of my dreams for our thirtieth anniversary,” Theresa said. “I've always believed this to be the heart of the home.”

“And here I thought it was the stomach.” Gage set his brother's gift on the counter, along with the bag from the Fiorellis.

Theresa waved her hand. “Ignore him and put that present in the living room with the others. Do you cook, Morgan?”

“I zap a mean microwave dinner.” She ran fingertips along the gold-speckled marble counter top. “I loved helping Ella. She was my parent's housekeeper when I was growing up. I would spend hours helping her knead dough and chop vegetables. Half the time I'd end up covered in flour and spices.”

“I'd have paid to see that,” Gage said when he returned and earned an appreciative look from his mother. Morgan took a deep breath. Damn it. Encouraging his mother, making Theresa think there was more than today, that there could be more between her and Gage, felt deceptive and somehow cruel.