Uncovered (20 page)

Rolling my eyes, I opened the
transcription software. “Almost done. I’ll be sending it along by the end of
the week.”

“Good enough. Did you schedule
the car to meet me at LAX next Tuesday?”

“The car will be there at two
thirty. I also emailed you the confirmation.”

She made a tsking sound, and I
braced myself for the shitstorm that would likely ensue. “One more thing, Ms.
Connelly. It’s about my son.”

Oh, hell.

I bit my tongue, realizing she
was about to tear me to shreds because of Finley—the woman she’d bought a very
expensive car for.

Which still boggled my mind,
but Pen had already promised me she’d find out exactly what was going on.

“Yes?” I breathed, clicking on
a message from Stella that popped up on my computer screen. “What about
Oliver?”

“Although it’s an intimate
affair being held at my home, Finley has asked that I request your assistance
checking names at the door for Oliver’s party. Don’t make plans for the evening
of December fifth.”

Wow.

That was it?

No threats or promises to end
my career?

“I’ll make sure my schedule
stays free.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you next
week, Ms. Connelly.”

After she disconnected the call,
I stared at my screen for what felt like eons. Finally, when another message
from Stella came through, I confirmed our lunch date and got to work.

*

“She’s embezzling money,” Pen told me
confidently a few seconds after I dragged ass through the door the next
evening. I’d spent the day hunting down Margaret’s early Christmas list—even
using the gift card Oliver had given me the other month when I went over the
daily limit. The last thing I expected was to come home to a greeting like
that.

“What did you just say?”

“She’s. Embezzling. Money.”

“Finley Scott?” When I’d given my
best friend the contents of Finley’s dashboard yesterday morning, she seemed
giddy at the prospect of new developments. She’d also promised to make sure
everything made it back into the other woman’s car before she noticed it gone. I’d
been skeptical, but somehow, Penelope and all her connections had come through.

When I came home last night,
she’d informed me that Finley’s belongings were back in place. And tonight, she
was talking about embezzlement.

“Finley’s embezzling money?” I repeated,
and my skin prickled when I said the words out loud.

Pen snorted. “She’s sure as
hell spending it, so I’m positive she knows what’s going on, but I’m talking
about Margaret.” When I released a strangled noise, she sarcastically added, “Mommy
dearest has been one busy bitch.”

Dropping my bag on the couch, I
sat on the armrest and stared intently at my best friend, who was typing away
like she hadn’t just dropped a massive bomb on me. “You’re screwing with me.”

Gathering her long brown hair
away from her face, she nodded to a white binder sitting on the coffee table. “There’s
a lot in there, so it might take you some time.”

My ears throbbed as I lifted
the binder from the table. Pacing the open living room, I drowned out the sound
of
The Tudors
rerun Pen had playing on a low volume and flipped the
cover open.

What I found inside were pages
upon pages of financial reports. I’d never been a numbers girl, and all the
digits seemed to meld together in a dizzying wave of black and white. “Where
did you get all these?”

“Some from her laptop, others
from the papers you took from her home office, and several from August. By the
way, when Emerson & Taylor is yours, you should consider hiring us. We’re
good at this.”

Pausing in front of the flat
screen TV, I tossed her a dark look and she sighed. “When you brought home that
stuff from Finley’s car—it got me thinking. That’s when some of those numbers
started to click in place,” she said and motioned for me to sit near her.

Complying, I slid down on the
area rug by the chair. She set her computer aside and took the binder from me. Holding
it to where we both could see, she pointed to various figures she’d already
circled.

“For starters, in the last year
alone, she’s skimmed close to eight million from the company.” Ignoring my
gasp, she added, “And all these five and ten thousand dollar a plate charity
functions she’s hosting? The proceeds have gone into her pocket—” She paused
for dramatic effect, and I swallowed down the pain in the back of my throat,
figuring out exactly what she planned to say next.

“Her pocket and the Scotts?” I
whispered, picturing Michael and Finley’s faces in my mind. “God, what the hell
are they doing with all that money?”

“That’s what I wondered. So … I
had August dig around a little. You know how they spent the last year in Italy?”
When I moved my head up and down, she said, “All their spending can be traced
back to Margaret.”

“She’s paying for them to
live.” It wasn’t a question but a statement, and I looked straight ahead. “How
in the hell is that possible?”

Behind me, Pen let out a
frustrated noise. “Apparently, nobody has picked up on this, which seriously
makes me question what kind of idiots she has handling her shit. Well, you
know, if they’re not along for this crazy ride.”

Embezzlement. Although the word
made me shudder, it also took my breath away as I came to terms with what Pen’s
discovery meant. “When this comes out, she’s going away for a long time.”

“Yes.”

“And this is where we have to
get Linc involved, isn’t it?” I whispered, and she nodded.

“He’ll be out here the week
after next. It’s going to suck to tell him, but by then I’ll have more answers.
August and I are still digging, and I have a few theories, but I just wanted
you to know this is almost over.”

Answers. Theories.
Almost
over
.

Those were bittersweet words,
and I turned around abruptly, wrapping Pen in a tight hug that left her
wheezing. “You are amazing. You know that, don’t you?” When I released her, I
stood and gave her a meaningful look, and she responded with a smile.

“I’m glad it’s almost over—for
your sake.” Handing me the white binder, she pulled her laptop back in her lap.
“We were hired to dig for information on some rich guy. It’s
proven to be more difficult than I imagined, but I think I’ve made a
breakthrough in that, too.”

“I …
wasn’t going to ask.”

“Yeah,
but with everything going on, I didn’t want you to worry about what was going
on with me.” Tilting her screen down, she twisted her lips to the side. “Are
you seeing Oliver tonight? I wanted to make sure I’m not around because I’m
always terrified I’ll screw up and say something I shouldn’t. He has that
effect on people.”

Tell me
about it,
I thought. To Pen, I replied, “He’ll
be here in an hour, but he’s leaving for business tomorrow.”

She
patted the book I held close to my chest. “Good, then we’ll have plenty of time
to go over all this this weekend.”

*

True to her word, Pen was gone
when I came out the shower half an hour later. As I’d washed my body, the full
weight of what was inside the binder had finally hit me, and it left me a
trembling mess. It seemed like there was one surprise after another when it
came to Margaret, and I prayed we’d just reached the final one.

Donning
a simple pair of jeans and a sweater, my stomach pitched violently as I caught
the reflection of the white book on my bed.

I
reprocessed Pen’s words. Margaret had moved around over eight million dollars
from Emerson & Taylor in the last twelve months. And the Halloween ball she
had me harass an event planner over was nothing but a farce. I wondered if my
father had realized what a fucked up woman he married?

If he’d
known what a piece of work his attorney was?

My
doorbell rang, and I stepped away from my dresser, rubbing shaky hands over my
damp hair as I walked into the foyer.
Keep it together,
I told myself,
opening the door for Oliver with a soft smile that belied the storm within me.

Dragging
me to his warm body, he cupped the back of my neck. “I’ve thought of nothing
but this perfume all day, and it made work very distracting,” he growled against
my temple.

“Which
must have been the reason you spent all day emailing me. Margaret left me with
a Christmas list longer than my arm to take care of while she’s away.”

“You
didn’t have to email me back,” he pointed out, leading me to my living room
where he sat on the couch. He glanced around inquisitively. “Your roommate
isn’t here?”

“She’s
never here. Give me twenty minutes to finish getting dressed, and I’ll be ready
to go.”

“Twenty
minutes.” Rubbing his hand over his mouth, he nodded his approval. “After that
I’m coming in after you.” As I headed toward the hallway, his voice followed me.
“By the way, you look beautiful today, Gemma.”

My
heart soaring in spite of everything, I called out, “Since you put it that way,
I’ll be out in
fifteen
minutes.”

It
wasn’t until my hand was on my bedroom door that I reexamined precisely what
Oliver had just said to me.

“By the way, you look beautiful today,
Gemma.”

Ice rushed down my spine, freezing me
where I stood. I couldn’t have heard him correctly. With everything going on,
my mind had officially started playing tricks on me, and I was hearing
things—things I wasn’t prepared to listen to coming from Oliver’s mouth.

That was it, right?

Breathing in through my nose, I returned
to the living room to find him leafing through the copy of
Stardust
I
kept on the coffee table. Although he didn’t glance up, his self-assured grin
instantly put my fears to rest, and I relaxed my shoulders.

“Thought you were getting dressed,” he
said.

“I am.” Holding the nape of my neck in an
effort to scrub away the uneasiness crawling over my flesh, I forced a laugh.
“I’m just an exhausted mess and hearing things. Give me a few.”

“Wait.” He laid the book on the table and
moved forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You weren’t hearing things,
Lizzie. I called you
Gemma
.”

Someday, when I thought back on this
moment, I’d immediately recall how I felt as if my heart had stopped, how we
both seemed to be made of glass as his words flitted between us.

“Gemma,” he repeated, creating the first
chink in my fragile armor.

I dug my fingernails into my skin. “Another
ex-girlfriend, Oliver?”

“I know who you are.
Gemma
.” His
words caused another crack, this one larger than the last, and I squared my
shoulders.

“You should leave. It’s fucked up to come
in here calling me another woman’s name.” But my voice faltered, and I had to
fight every instinct in my body not to turn and go myself. “Leave!”

He drew himself to his full height. The
closer he came to where I stood in the hallway, the harder my pulse throbbed, the
clearer it was to see his grin was only a façade. The corners of his lips
trembled. When he reached for me, pulling me to him so hard I couldn’t breathe,
the rest of that glass encasing me shattered.

Suddenly, I felt my heart again, and I
swore it was seconds from exploding.

Oliver knew, and everything was ending
right now.

“We’re going to talk,” he said, his light
blue eyes stabbing into mine. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

But I said it anyway. I said it, and I
shook my head in denial. “No.”

With one swift motion, he scooped me into
his arms like I weighed nothing. A second later, I was on the couch. My stomach
tightened as he knelt in front of me, trapping my legs with his upper body. I
could feel his heart beating fitfully against my knees.

I clutched my hand over my own chest.

“Stop looking at me like I’m going to
hurt you,” he growled, dragging his hand over his tan face. “That’s not my
intention.”

“Oliver—”

“And don’t open your mouth with lies.”
Hauling his phone from his pocket, he typed in the security code before shoving
the device in my direction. I looked down. And what I saw sent another
tumultuous wave of emotion through me.

On the screen was a copy of my driver’s
license and
everything
was there—my real date of birth, the address to
my Vegas apartment, my
name
.

“I have
everything
else on you, if
you need more convincing.”

From the way he said that, I knew he was
aware of the phone sex and the escorting, but did he know why I was in L.A.? Because
I didn’t know what would happen if I opened my mouth to ask, I chose silence, glaring
at his phone as the waves of nausea held me under.

“I knew there was something about you,
but I couldn’t put my finger on it.” His rough voice was the softest I’d ever
heard it, and it terrified me.

“Even after you told me about that scar
on your chest, and I remembered Greg mentioning his kid having to go to the
hospital after something similar happened. Even
after
I heard some
motherfucker propositioning you, calling you
Alice
in the middle of our
date—I was still too stubborn to let myself believe you might be deceiving me.”

I finally discovered my voice, but when I
murmured his name he shook his head.

“But the other night when Finley
mentioned what your father used to tell you, I knew for sure. He said the same
thing to me when I told him I was sorry for getting into his liquor stash when
I was fourteen.” He touched his chest, fisting a handful of fabric. “I told you
I wouldn’t have Easton look into you, but I couldn’t sleep beside you not
knowing.”

“How long did it take him?”

“Two hours. In two hours he had everything,
and I have no fucking clue how you’ve managed to fool Margaret this long.”

“You’ve already told her?” Raking my hands
through my wet hair, I released a strangled noise. “You told her, and—”

“I haven’t.” When my head whipped up to
look at him, he sneered. “I wanted to know why you were doing this before I
said a word to anyone. Is it more money? Is it—”

Before I could stop myself, my fingers
were on his shoulders. I tugged him closer to me, my world spinning uncontrollably.
“What do you mean
more
money?”

“The money you’ve asked Margaret for over
the years.”

I laughed, but it hurt. Everything about
this moment hurt. “I’ve never taken anything from your mother other than the
paycheck I earned from working.” Loosening my grip from his broad shoulders, I
jabbed my finger to my chest. “I’ve never taken
anything
. She’s the one
who’s taken everything from me!”

His nostrils flared, but his expression
faltered. “What do you mean?” At my muteness, he held my chin in his hand and made
me look at him. “I’m not going to let you say something like that just to back
down.”

“Get out, Oliver.”

Even though he moved away from my body
and stood, he didn’t head for the door like I hoped. Instead, he followed right
behind me when I stumbled by him and into the foyer.

“Get out!” I repeated, pointing at the
exit.

Planting his palm firmly against the
door, he swallowed hard. “Not until you tell me what you have to gain from all
this.”

It was all too much.

It had always been too much—I just hadn’t
realized that before now.

Fury beating against my chest, I shouted,
“Answers!” Lowering my head to the floor, I watched as the first tear fell to
the laminate between our feet. “I don’t want any money that belongs to your
mother, I just want answers. I wanted to know why I felt abandoned by my father
for fourteen years and why the woman he married hated me so much to turn me
away. I wanted all that.”

He sucked in a breath before he implored,
“Then give me answers.”

When he framed my face with his large
hands, it was to force my gaze to his. Staring up at the anger and disappointment
in his blue irises, the tears started to run freely down my cheeks.

“Dammit.” As he backed away from me,
dragging his hands through his light brown hair, I wiped my eyes with the back
of my hands. “Why did you come here?”

“When are you telling Margaret?”

Realizing I wasn’t going to tell him why
I came to L.A., he hunched forward and exhaled raggedly. “I’m leaving tomorrow.
I’m giving you two weeks, Gemma—two weeks—to tell me everything.”

When he jerked my door open and stepped
into the hall, I heard myself wheeze, “Why wouldn’t you do it now? Why two
weeks?”

“Because if you’re here for answers,
you’re not going anywhere.” He didn’t turn around, but I was glad he didn’t.
Glad he couldn’t see the harsh emotions tearing through me. “Because the last
two weeks have been the best of my fucking life.”

*

The
next week floated by almost too quickly—a combination of working for a woman I
couldn’t stand to even look at, and agonizing over the parting words of a man
my chest ached for. Lies had backed me into a corner I wasn’t sure I could
wiggle out of, and it was hell. With every day that passed, I knew I was
drawing closer to the rest of my world crumbling around me.

I needed to help myself—finish what I
started to stop that from happening.

“I didn’t want to give this to you
yesterday because it was Thanksgiving,” Pen started ten minutes after we took a
seat at a bar downtown on Friday night. “But I have a theory I thought you
might want to hear.”

When she’d talked me into going out with
her, I’d assumed she only wanted to get some alcohol in me to take my mind off
Margaret and Oliver. Once she slid a piece of paper next to my beer, I realized
she was mixing pleasure with business—business that probably wouldn’t have me
dancing in excitement on the bar counter.

“What is it?” Running my tongue over my
lips, I grabbed the printout and unfolded it carefully to reveal a photo of my
father. He was with a blonde I didn’t recognize—no surprise there—and on the
other side of them stood Michael Scott and a brunette woman. They were all
grinning and holding champagne flutes. “Where’d you get this?”

“Old newspaper clippings.” Pen tapped her
finger on the picture. “I’m not sure who the woman with your father is, but the
lovely brunette hanging on Michael Scott’s douchebag arm is his ex-wife, Robin.”

“Finley’s mother,” I said, and she
nodded.

Trailing her finger down the page, she
stopped once she reached the center of the photo. “Look at this.”

The bar lighting was seedy at best, and I
had to lean down until my nose practically grazed the paper to see that my
dad’s arm was around Robin Scott’s waist. Snorting, I took a swig of my beer. “Nothing
makes the holidays more festive than having your father’s hobag status
blatantly pointed out to you,” I laughed unevenly. “W-when was this taken?”

“New Years Eve in Eighty-one.” Pen opened
her mouth to say something else, but she hesitated.

“You’re about to tell me something that’s
going to break me down, huh?”

“I’m sure as hell hoping it won’t.” She
nibbled her bottom lip anxiously. “Do you want to hear it tonight?”

Shrugging, I sighed. “Go ahead. Give me
everything
.”

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with
Robin for a few days—you never know if she might be a talker—but no luck so
far.” Spreading her fingers on the bar counter, she blew out a slow breath. “I
think Finley Scott might be your sister.”

My back straightened, and I blinked.
Searching my best friend’s slate blue eyes closely, my heart dropped to my
stomach. “You’re not joking, are you?” I eventually whispered, my voice hoarse.

“Afraid not.”

Over the last several days, I knew Pen
had been working on figuring out the elusive Finley Scott, but I hadn’t stopped
to consider she might reach a conclusion that would forever link Oliver’s
ex-girlfriend to me.

I took another careful look at the photo,
focusing my attention on my dad’s hand on Robin’s waist. It was a friendly
enough gesture, but who the hell knew if it had eventually crossed into
something more.  Refolding the paper, I returned it to Pen.

“Dammit,
” I snapped.

Grabbing her glass, she held it between
us like a shield. “Don’t take out the messenger!” She downed most of her wine and
placed the glass on the middle of the counter. “Trust me, I don’t want it to be
true. Still … given when this picture was taken, it’s a possibility. Your dad
might have hooked up with Finley’s mother and that might be why Margaret’s
funneling money to her and Michael.”

“I guess it sort of makes sense.” As much
as I hated to admit that, it was the most believable theory either of us had
reached to date—even if it did curl my stomach and my chest into a series of
knots. “But it still doesn’t explain why Margaret would give her money. If
anything, I’d think she’d loathe Finley even more.”

Like she loathes me,
I added silently.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,”
Pen replied. When I started breathing heavily, she jerked my bottle off the
counter and pressed it against my palms. “Drink.”

I didn’t argue. As soon as the beer was
gone, I plunked the bottle on the countertop and signaled the bartender. “Linc
will be here next week, right?”

She rolled her eyes and ruffled her brown
hair. “Thank
God
. I still haven’t been able to get in touch with him,
but my mom said he’ll be out of training soon.” When Pen had come home to find
me sobbing uncontrollably last week, the first thing she suggested was that we
get in touch with her brother and hand over everything we had on Margaret and
the Scotts.

Linc, however, was nowhere to be found—we’d
later discovered he was doing a training exercise—and I was still cursing
myself for not talking to him earlier.