BAD Beginnings (7 page)

Whew.

*

Baden tried to keep his attention on Gemma but years of awareness made that difficult. In his experience, a uniform of any type wasn’t to be trusted. A rare few deserved respect. Was her brother one of those? Something about the man rang familiar. He’d seen the guy before. No idea where, but he had.

That changed everything.

“So, now that the interruptions are over with…what was it you needed?” Their waitress refilled drinks then left. “Oh yeah, you wanted to show me something?”

He had considered setting things straight before. Now, he needed to think. What would happen if he just laid his cards on the table and explained? Would she believe him? Would she report him to her brother-in-law? I am not walking out of this damn restaurant in handcuffs. He slid Logan’s phone her way. “My password isn’t working and I need to check messages.”

Gemma cocked a brow. “Seriously? You called me here for that? How am I supposed to know what you set it to? You’ve never shared things like that with me.”

“I know but surely you can call the service and have them reset it or something, can’t you?”

“Don’t tell me you changed it too and forgot already.”

That would make sense. He grinned. “You caught me. Look, I have work to do and I need to pull my messages. I was expecting a call.” From my real self or someone who knew where he was.

She held out a hand and snapped fingers. “Let me see what I can do.”

Baden handed over the device and she excused herself. “Give me a minute to call it in from my phone. I’ll be right back.” He wasn’t sure why she wanted privacy for that and wasn’t about to let her take it. Who knew what was on that phone. For all he knew there were pictures that just might include him.

“Call from here.”

“Fine.” Gemma shrugged and dialed.

He waited and listened. When the conversation seemed to recommend restarting and perusing the phones commands, he snatched it away. “I’ll do it. Just give instructions.” Fifteen long and painful minutes later, he had access to the phone.

“Thanks.”

“Can I go home now?” Annoyance tinged her words.

What made him think she’d listen to his story and believe it? Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the group that included her sister depart. Gemma waved and smiled. “Sure, how did you get here?”

“I drove. What do you think?” Her tone was short.

“Can I get a ride? I took a cab.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You have a slew of cars in your garage and a driver at your whim…and you took a taxi?”

“It was late. I didn’t want to bother him. Besides, how else was I supposed to…” Spend time with you. He shook that thought out of head noting how desperate it seemed.

“Hide?”

C
hapter Eleven

R
egardless of the newfound trust,
Gemma was frustrated with Logan’s remaining suspicions. Hadn’t the past two years proven he could count on her? That she was worthy of trust?

Okay, who cared that it was all a lie and she had pretended to be someone else all along. He hadn’t figured that out and was finally allowing her the responsibility she needed to delve further. She wanted that phone. Needed it, in fact. A few seconds alone with the device and she’d be able to plant the tap and trace his conversations. Not to mention she craved a peek at his contact list.

He doused that plan immediately by not allowing her some electronic alone-time, which further confirmed he was hiding more than just a few errant calls. Now he had the nerve to appear shocked at her words. She squinted as they made their way toward her car. Or was that simply nervousness?

“What would I want to hide from?”

“I don’t know…maybe your ever-adoring fans and publicity?”

He seemed to consider the statement. “I have fans?”

“You’re rich. You drive a different car every day. Correction, you get driven in a different car every day. Do you even know how to drive? Your name is plastered on businesses, statues, and various big dollar contracts all over this town. With that kind of money, you have fans.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck before opening the passenger door of her Ford and sliding onto her worn, non-leather seats. He sighed. “And you think they’d be hanging out at the Cracker Barrel on the off-chance they might get an opportunity for a picture or autograph? Do the paparazzi do that?”

He had a point. Still she darted a glance around the parking lot. Nope. It was quiet and seemed safe. Logan dropped an arm across the console between them and adjusted the air. Gemma clenched her jaw. Messing with the controls in a person’s car was one of her pet peeves. She’d allow the air because that was a comfort thing, but if he touched her radio she was going to…

“You do. You’re dead.”

His hand stopped within inches of the button. “What? I was only going to turn it up. I like this song.” She noted the tune from Matchbox Twenty and shrugged.

“I thought you planned to change it. Touching a person’s tunes is a major faux pas you know. Girls hate it when guys do that.”

“Really? Why?”

“It’s a control thing. Or maybe just bad etiquette. Rude. If you’re a guest in someone’s house or car, you are obliged to listen to their music. No complaints. Besides you might learn to like their taste and will certainly learn something.”

The side of his mouth quirked and for a second she expected him to laugh. He didn’t. “Just to be sure, is that a control thing on your part or the guest’s?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I think maybe you don’t like change. Plus you don’t like people messing with your things. It’s your radio. Your music.”

Okay, he had her there. “That’s right.”

He turned to the window, his breath sending a fog across the glass as he spoke, “I guess it’s a good thing we have the same taste then.”

Only they hadn’t normally. He was into that techno-dance crap, not classic rock. Was he simply appeasing her for the moment? Should she trust that? She reached for the knob, adjusted the sound louder, and enjoyed their momentary partnership for the duration of the drive to his house.

In his driveway, the car coughed twice before sputtering to silence. “Don’t say a word about my wheels. I know it’s a piece of junk but it’s my piece of junk. Besides you wanted a ride. I gave it to you. Just not in the luxury you’re accustomed to.”

The door squeaked open and Logan stepped out. His feet crunched on the drive as he circled the car. She watched, fully expecting him to go inside. She left the lights focused on the entry.

Her door flung open in his grasp and she jolted. “Come with me, Gemma.”

“What? No. It’s late. I can’t—”

“Can’t? Or don’t want to?”

“We have work tomorrow. You said you had work tonight. That’s why you wanted your phone unlocked.”

That’s right. The phone is unlocked. And going inside might just give access to view it, if he loosened his grip a little. Perhaps this would be a good time to take her coworker’s advice and slip him a little something extra. A sedative, or booze, or maybe just a good knock on the head?

No. Not fair.

There was something seriously wrong with feeding alcohol or pills to a man trying to recover from such vices. She would need to find another way. She grasped the fingers he extended and stepped out of the car to follow him inside. The more she prolonged the evening, the better her prognosis for discovering further evidence. On the phone, him, or anything.

When he tightened his grasp on her fingers, she forced herself not to wiggle free. He’s a suspect in half a dozen missing persons cases, girl. She shouldn’t be here at all and definitely not alone in the middle of the night. But his fingers were warm. Nice.

Besides, help is a phone call away. She noted the parked car down the street and the shadowed figure within. Would she need them? Had she a need for rescue? Something in the warmth of Logan’s grip told her no. Oh, she wasn’t safe at all. That was assured. But the danger had nothing to do with her case, nor those men in the car.

“Are you a patient person, Gemma?” Logan’s voice cut through the steady trill of the locusts in the trees beyond his fenced yard. Someone’s radio joined the buzz. Odd thing to ask.

“Normally no, but I’m getting better at it.” Thanks to you, you paranoid piece of work. “Why?”

“I don’t know, just curious. Let’s say you had a problem. One that had gone on for a long, long time and every instance of potential resolution just pushed it farther from your grasp instead of clearing it up. How long would you wait for an answer? How hard would you work for it before you gave up? Tossed in the towel so to speak?”

He was speaking in tongues. She had no idea where he was going but she figured she could handle a good riddle. “What option do you really have? If you give up, you know you’ve lost. If you don’t, at least you still have the hope for something good to happen. Don’t you?”

“Something good,” Logan repeated before he strode away.

“Hey asshole.” Tora’s familiar greeting announced where to find Logan and she headed toward the kitchen. The rustle of feathers and seeds scattering caught her attention and the bird blurted again. “Gemma kick bad.”

What? New vocabulary? “Hey, that’s not nice. You taught him to say that?”

“Not exactly. We’re still working on it.”

She frowned. “You’re teaching him to call me bad? I’m not--” Okay, maybe she was. Not bad, but certainly dishonest. It was for a good cause though. She let the faces of the last three victims float through her mind. A very good cause.

“There’s a couple of words missing. He’s not saying kick or bad. He’s—”

“What? He’s what? Casting a spell on me?”

Logan laughed and pulled a couple of wine glasses from the bar, along with a bottle of red. “He can’t say esses.”

Gemma crossed her arms and shot a yeah, right glance toward the man’s silhouette. The blue lights behind the bar made him look almost surreal. God-like. Or devilish. “You seriously want me to believe that when his favorite greeting is ‘Hey, asshole’? Seems to me he has a very good grasp on the letter s.”

“Yeah, well, he’s practiced that one for too damn long. I’m trying to teach him something a little less insulting.”

“To me or you? Calling me bad isn’t exactly sweetness.”

“He’s not calling you…that. He’s saying it wrong. Here.” Logan thrust a wine glass in her face and ordered her to drink. He drew slowly on his own glass as well.

“But…”

“Skip it. Stop talking, Gemma. I don’t want to talk about the damn bird.”

“Okay. Then what?”

She followed again as he led toward a room hidden beyond the bar. His house smelled of cinnamon and patchouli. Two of her favorites, which was odd that a guy would bother with scent. Gemma pulled in a deep breath. She glanced around the room. Or bother with obsessive cleanliness. Even more odd that a man would paste himself with detailed artwork in the form of tattoos that seemed rage-filled, then live in a completely sterile environment. Wouldn’t an artist like that want to live in an equally inspiring or creative environment?

The ones she had known would.

“I want to show you something.” His voice held that unfamiliar soft tone that always confused her. His shoulders were strong and taught within the cotton fabric of his shirt and she enjoyed watching his movements. The room they’d entered was similar to the other areas, void of furniture beyond a few chairs and a flat piece of wood about twenty inches tall with a padded leather top. Was it a chaise lounge or a foot stool? She had no idea. Logan walked past to the expanse of windows and turned to beckon her forward. “This view is incredible.”

She glanced through the wall of glass. “Oh my God, it looks like a Vegas hotel room.” The city lights sprawled around them like a field of flowers below a mountain. She thought of her tiny place with a broken wooden fence for a view.

“It does have a menacing flash, doesn’t it? That wasn’t what I meant though. Look just past the trees on the corner of my lot. See that light flickering there?” As she drew the wine glass to her lips, she followed his finger and concentrated.

It was impossible to make out in the darkness. A campfire? A bunch of high school kids out partying? Gemma wasn’t sure.

Logan pushed a button on the wall and the glass slid to the side allowing a cool breeze to rush over them. The gentle whine of an instrument reached them. It hadn’t been a radio she’d heard earlier. She widened her eyes and met his. He smiled. “It’s a trumpet or a coronet. I’m not sure.”

“He plays his trumpet in the back yard?”

Logan shook his head. “That’s Belin park. Haven’t you seen the homeless guy that plays on the streets for cash? He hangs out in front of Lo—my building sometimes. I guess he sleeps there at night, I don’t know. I sat here on the patio last night and listened for a while. It’s peaceful—and a gentle reminder that we’re all just a few feet away from being in each other’s shoes. Circumstances change and our lives turn. We have to grasp opportunity before it escapes.”

Was he serious? “You’re actually comparing yourself to a homeless guy playing a trumpet?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I am. We could have been the same guy except for--”

“An education, a family fortune, good work ethic, and a zillion other traits. Oh, and unless I’m mistaken, you don’t have any hidden musical talents.” She probably could have left out the work ethic thing. On any given day, one never knew whether he’d show or not sometimes. His substance fetish had made him unreliable, another one of the perks of wealth. His staff ran the company more than he but she’d never admit the truth.

“We all have the ability to learn and work. Some of us don’t get the same chances—or maybe something happens that turns us in a different direction.” Logan stood watching the fire light flicker in the distance. His shoulders were stiff and his silhouette appeared—haunted. Us? Why was he being so cryptic?

“Sometimes ability isn’t what matters,” she said.

He grinned. “I guess you didn’t know I play a mean chopsticks on the piano.”

She rolled her eyes and returned her gaze to the fire. “So does half the world. Don’t quite your day job. You better stick with what you do best and don’t romanticize over that campfire. I’d bet that guy would hand over his horn in a second if you offered him a shower, a good meal, and one night in this palace of yours.”

Logan pulled an ice cube into his mouth and she heard the grinding of his teeth on the frozen mass. “Exactly what do I do best, Gemma? In your opinion, I mean.”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes, I am. What is it that the great Logan Indiris does that the normal Joe doesn’t? What makes him so successful?”

She eyed his shoulders warily. Discussing his talents—or lack of--was a thin sheet of ice to walk. Did he want her opinion in truth? “Is that a trick question? I feel like I’m being interrogated but the verdict was already decided and if I don’t give the desired answer, I’ll be…locked up.”

Logan set his glass of melting ice on a table nearby and turned. He walked out to the patio and dropped into one of two loungers then turned his head to the stars. “Locked up? I doubt that. No, there’s no trick. I want to know what you see. I look in the mirror in that immense closet that most women would salivate over and I’m curious. What makes this man in the mirror different than the one downtown parking cars? Nothing. Not a damn thing, except money. Money makes the world listen—it makes the world see you. It makes the world believe in you.”

Gemma followed him outside. His words intrigued. She dropped onto the adjacent lounger and rested her forearms across her knees. It wasn’t exactly a feminine move but who cared? It was her boss-slash-suspect and he was opening up. She needed him to continue. “What exactly do you want people to believe?”

A few seconds of silence passed. The quiet drone of a plane in the sky caught her attention and they both followed it across the sky, the blinking lights differentiated it from the stars. The horn serenaded the plane’s departure. “The truth, Gemma. The truth.”