by Eva Chase
Garrett took out his phone and typed in a search. I watched him, nearly certain of the results, as he scanned his screen. He clicked through to another page and then another before raising his head. “It’s gone. Hold on. Maybe I only searched her name, not the city too, and that’s how it came up.”
He typed again and paused. Then he handed his phone to me, the color starting to drain from his face.
The top search result for simply “Jemma Moriarty” was a profile for a math tutor based in Oxford. Her credentials included an impressive list of publications and honors, but none of them had anything to do with policing or criminal investigation. The photo on the page showed a meek woman with pale auburn hair pulled back in a loose bun, her lips so pale they nearly blended into the rest of her face, her eyes obscured by thick rimmed glasses.
I’d trained myself in the art of facial recognition. I could draw the features of the Jemma I’d known over this woman’s cheekbones, the angle of her nose, the depth of her eyes, the slant of her neck. But I knew at the same time that no one at the conference would believe this woman was the one who’d toppled a gunman in our midst nine days ago.
John confirmed it. “That can’t be her,” he said, peering over the back of my seat.
“It is,” I said quietly. “The articles we found before were a ploy.”
“But—why—”
“She wanted to steal that trinket from Richter?” Garrett filled in. “She’s the woman he’s talking about? How much could that little thing be worth that she’d go to those lengths…” He trailed off, looking even more sick than before.
“She fooled all of us,” I said with a strange mix of revulsion and admiration.
How had I let myself be led astray? How quick a mind must she have to have managed it?
I thought I’d seen a woman on the verge of greatness, close to matching my skills. She’d just given a demonstration in how to run circles around me. It was close to being both the most shameful and the most stimulating thing that had ever happened in my life.
Most importantly, where the hell had she gone now?
“All of that subterfuge, all of the pieces she must have set up to get us into the gallery…” John rubbed his face. “I agree with Garrett. I can’t see the point of risking all that if it was only about that one piece.”
“Unless that piece had some value we’re unaware of,” I said.
“If she set up Richter,” Garrett said slowly, “then who murdered the Freising councilor?”
I glanced at him pointedly. “How could she have set up the details so perfectly to point us—and only us—toward him if she didn’t have a hand in it?”
We were all quiet for a moment. “He was a child molester,” John pointed out in a rough voice. “But it is still murder. What do we do now?”
That was the question I’d been turning over in the back of my head from my first inklings of the truth. I exhaled and flexed my hands. “Before I give my opinion on that, I’d like to talk to a few people at our hotel while the conference is still running.”
Garrett started the engine. “She lied about everything,” he said.
“Possibly. At the very least, she lied about a lot.” My mind darted back to that moment just before she’d left last night, when she’d given me a quick kiss and thanked me.
I’d have sworn as readily that she’d meant those two words as I’d have sworn that Richter’s indignation was legitimate.
At the hotel, we marched up to the front desk. Garrett flashed his badge. “Official business,” he said. “We need to know what information you have on file for one of the guests, who may be involved in a major crime.”
The clerk blanched. “Which guest, sir?”
“A Jemma Moriarty,” I said. “She was staying in room 247.”
The clerk brought up the record on her computer and frowned. “Do you mean Jena Morisarti? That’s the name we have for that room.” She turned the screen so I could see the spelling.
I almost laughed. How neatly Jemma had played that gambit. If we’d overheard the staff calling her “Miss Morisarti,” we’d have thought we’d misheard or they’d simply mispronounced her name. But it meant there was no record of any Moriarty, including the Oxford math tutor, staying here this week.
“Perhaps we were mistaken,” I said. “Thank you for your assistance.”
Dinner was being served. I walked into the dining room and spotted the Glasgow commissioner Jemma had saved at a nearby table. John and Garrett trailed behind me as I sidled over.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” I said. “I just had a quick question. Did you get the name of the young lady who subdued your attacker during the welcome reception?”
The older woman brightened at the memory. “Yes, of course. Jemina Moriety. What a promising officer. She does Dover credit.”
The other two and I exchanged a look. Another name, another story. How many had she used throughout the conference?
Had any of them been real?
We retreated to the lounge room where we’d spent quite a few hours of the conference in discussion—most of it with the woman we’d known as Jemma. Garrett paced for a few seconds and then threw himself down onto one of the chairs. John leaned against the arm of the sofa.
“I ask again,” Garrett said. “What now? Do we throw out the entire case against Richter?”
I paused. “No,” I said. “I think… whatever her many crimes, Miss Moriarty—or Morisarti, or Moriety, as the case may be—has given us a gift. We know Richter was a terror. We have a solid case where we never did before. A sentence for murder won’t cover half his previous transgressions. No one has to know what we do.”
John nodded. Garrett gnawed at his lip, but I could tell he wasn’t against the idea, even if it didn’t entirely sit right with him.
“It’s still justice,” John said to him. “Just arrived at in a pretty convoluted way.”
“And we could be wrong about Jemma,” Garrett put in. “It’s possible we’re conjuring this entire conspiracy, and he really did murder that man.”
I’d have placed the chances of that at approximately one in a million at this point, but I couldn’t see the benefit in saying as much.
“What do we do about Jemma?” John said, his gaze on me.
“We couldn’t charge her with anything even if we wanted to,” I said. “We can’t explain how we know she took that relic without admitting our own crime. We can’t even prove the woman we knew exists. At least, not yet.”
Garrett perked up. “Not yet?” he prompted.
Despite my tangled emotions, a smile crossed my face. I knew what I was up against now. The game was afoot.
I leaned forward, resting my hands on the top of the sofa. “There are a few answers I’d like to obtain before I settle the matter completely. Wouldn’t you say the same?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Six weeks later
Jemma
“Forget Shakespeare,” I said, pointing my fork at Bash’s plate. “That is an absolute tragedy.”
He lifted his eyes from his coffee to consider the quarter of pancake that he’d abandoned under its dollop of whipped cream and drizzle of syrup. It was the only surviving piece of the room service breakfast I’d ordered for us after he’d stopped by to discuss the day’s plans. His gaze rose farther to meet mine.
“Are you asking permission to steal it?” he asked with a hint of a smirk.
“Only if you’re not going to eat it. It would be a horrible waste, is all I’m saying.”
He pushed the plate toward me. “By all means, Majesty.”
I wrinkled my nose at him for a split-second before scooping the fluffy creamy goodness into my mouth. Okay, now back to business. After I licked the traces of syrup from my fork.
Bash made a not very convincing show of restraining an eyeroll, but his smile had that fond quirk to it that would have stirred up other sorts of hungers if I’d let it.
“When we’re done here
,” I said, “I promise we’ll go to Italy next, and you can eat the most authentic pizza in existence every day while I see what I can make of the mob.”
“I look forward to it.” Bash flipped the page of one of the national papers. “I’m not seeing any useful articles today, as per usual.”
“We might as well keep looking, just in case.” I skimmed a little farther through my tablet’s map of Croatia. “There are too many fucking mountains in this country. None of the feelers you’ve put out have turned up anything?”
“Not so far,” Bash said.
I grimaced. I was starting to think I was going to have to climb to each peak and circle around it for good measure just to find the place I needed. “Why don’t we give a helicopter rental another try? We can cover a couple of the slopes. Even if these people are hiding, they can’t cover a whole village perfectly.”
“If that’s what you’d like to do, I can arrange it,” Bash said. “Which part of the country?”
“Hmm… How about up here?” I swirled my finger over the northwestern edge of the map.
He nodded and pulled out his phone to look into making arrangements. I tossed my napkin onto the table and got up to stretch my legs.
When we’d picked up this trail a couple weeks ago, I’d known this process might take a while, and it was a lot easier with Bog’s threats so distant. But damn, a careful search of an entire country could be mind-numbing.
One of my phones rang—one of the urgent business lines. I scooped it out of my purse and yanked it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Matthams?” a reedy voice said, using the name I’d signed into the hotel with.
“Jakov,” I said with a skip of my pulse. I’d learned a thing or two during my stint in London, one of which was the usefulness of employing the local youth. Although in my case I’d gone a step above street kids and slipped some cash to the needier looking porters who worked in the lobby. “What have you got for me?”
“Well,” the young man said, his accented English slightly muffled as if he’d huddled away in a corner, “you said to call you if anyone came in asking about a woman and showing photos. An old man did a few minutes ago. The people at the front desk didn’t say anything, but I followed him a little ways outside, and he met up with two other men, younger guys, like you said might happen. So I called.”
A jolt of adrenaline tingled through my veins. “Thank you, Jakov,” I said. “You did wonderfully. I’ll leave an envelope for you with the front desk when I come down.”
“Thank you very much, Ms. Matthams!”
When I turned around, Bash was on his phone. I made a slicing gesture, and he ended the call.
“What?” he asked, cocking his head.
I tapped my phone against my palm. The corner of my mouth curled up. “Change of plans. We have company.”
* * *
How will Jemma and her men come together now that they’ve uncovered her deceptions—and will she free herself from the shrouded folk for good? Find out in The Temptation of Four, the second book in the Moriarty’s Men series. Get The Temptation of Four now!
If you’re a fan of reverse harem paranormal romance, why not check out Eva’s new series, The Witch’s Consorts? You can grab the prequel story FREE here!
Next in the Moriarty’s Men series
The Temptation of Four (Moriarty’s Men #2)
As the world's foremost criminal mastermind, I take what I want when I want it. But my life is hardly a breeze. Especially when I've got a demonic fiend I just betrayed hot on my heels.
To be fair, I do still owe that fiend my soul. A small technicality I'm about to fix. I just have to track down the most secretive sect of the cult that tormented my childhood and steal the source of their power.
When Sherlock, John, and Garrett turn up to mess with my plans, I should probably be more annoyed. If only they didn't present such a delicious challenge both in business and in bed. I used them before; I can use them again.
Trouble is, these brilliant, passionate men are wiser to my tricks now. And as our game of cat and mouse intensifies, so do the more tender feelings I've been trying to ignore.
With the battle lines drawn, which of us will give in to temptation first? Will we all survive the fallout?
Get it now!
Wicked Wonderland excerpt
Did you know I have a new reverse harem paranormal romance series that puts a sexy modern spin on Alice in Wonderland? Here’s a sneak peek inside the first book, Wicked Wonderland.
WICKED WONDERLAND
1
I should have known something was wrong the second I tripped over Brian’s jeans coming in the door. He could be a bit of a slob, sure, but he didn’t usually leave his pants… and shirt… in a heap in the apartment foyer.
I caught my balance, which was a pretty impressive feat considering I was clutching a heavy bag in each hand, and my first naïve thought was that he’d had some kind of accident, gotten sick on himself, and peeled off the mess as soon as he’d gotten in the door—
Then my gaze snagged on the silky midnight-blue dress that was also crumpled on the floor, a few feet into our living room. Brian definitely hadn’t been wearing that.
It wasn’t one of my dresses either.
My mind glazed over with an uncomfortable prickling that seeped down into my chest. I walked through the apartment on autopilot, rounding the corner to where I could see through the open bedroom door just in time to get a stunning view of my boyfriend’s naked ass as he plowed into an equally naked woman on our bed. She gasped, he groaned, and my fingers went slack around the handles of the bags I’d been holding.
One jar of pickled eggs and four bottles of kombucha hit the floor with a thud and the crackling of shattered glass. Brian flinched and jerked away from—out of—oh, God, I might hurl—the other woman.
“Shit. Shit,” he said as he scrambled off the bed. The woman gave a little shriek when she saw me and groped for her slip.
Somewhere in that moment, I split down the middle. One part of me kept my mouth clamped shut so I didn’t actually puke from all the horror churning in my stomach. The other part zipped off far, far away to watch from a detached numb distance.
Brian had obviously been looking for something very different from me. The other woman’s dark brown hair was almost as far as you could get from my pale blond. Tall, curvy. Maybe that was the problem? He’d wanted a bigger handful of boobs?
My stomach lurched harder. The other woman darted past me toward the door. Brian stood there raking his hand through his hair, still swearing.
“I didn’t know you’d be home early,” he said finally.
A laugh sputtered out of me. Which side of me had that come from? Maybe both. Because my boyfriend—correction: ex-boyfriend—was apparently such an asshole he thought that was some kind of excuse. Because this was the perfect cap on an already awful day.
“I had a meeting with my supervisor right before lunch,” I said. “The call center laid me off.”
How many times had he brought women over while I’d been sitting in my little cubicle taking repetitive customer service calls on other days? He’d moved into the apartment three months ago. Had the cheating started right away? Had he been screwing around even before—
My horror collided with the numbness, and my brain derailed in a burst of sparks. I jabbed my hand toward the door.
“Get out. Now.”
“Lyssa, come on. We should at least talk about—”
“Now!” I snapped in a voice that didn’t sound like mine at all. It must have been convincing, because Brian hopped into his boxers and fumbled with a shirt faster than I’d have thought was humanly possible. Then he was hustling through the apartment, dodging the bags of shattered glass, stopping for just long enough to scoop his PSP off the table. For fuck’s sake.
He nearly fell on his face as he hauled on his jeans, which would have been satisfying, but sadly he managed to catch his balance. Befo
re I had to turn on that sharp voice again, he’d ducked out the door. It closed behind him with a thump. His lady friend had already fled, taking her dress with her.
I dragged in a breath, and my chest hitched. A sour vinegar-y smell filled my nose. I looked down at the plastic shopping bags leaking kombucha and pickling juice onto the hardwood floor.
I didn’t even like that crap. It was Brian’s favorite drink, Brian’s favorite weird little snack. After getting the news about the lay-off, I’d just wanted to do something to make someone else happy, because accomplishing that would make me feel better too.
Why did I have such shitty luck with boyfriends? Maybe Brian had been a little rough around the edges, but I’d shown him I didn’t mind that. I’d thought he was in it for the long haul. How many signs had there been that I’d missed?
I rubbed my forehead and left the mess, flopping down on the linen couch instead. Deep breath in; deep breath out. Over and over, until my feet felt steadier where they were braced against the floor.
The apartment was in my name. Brian had kept forgetting to set up a meeting with the landlord to get on the lease. He’d have to come back and get the stuff that belonged to him, but I could put it in boxes near the door so I hardly had to see him. Or give him a time to come and be somewhere else so I didn’t have to see him at all.
A year and a half. A year and a half, and he— In my bed—
He’d have to leave behind his key. Then I’d be done with him. It was weird how it really would be that easy to untangle him from my life in every practical way. Our lives hadn’t gotten all that entangled in the first place, had they?
I’d thought it would take time. I’d thought—