Armed With Steele

by Kyra Jacobs

“We’ll see.”

  His hand cupped my chin, bringing my eyes back to him. He stared down at me for a moment, searching. “You don’t believe me.”

  “Believe what?” I tried to look away, but his hand held my chin still.

  “How is it you can trust me with your life, yet be so afraid to trust me with your heart?”

  “I’m not afraid.” I pulled away. Pretended to find another framed portrait interesting.

  He came to stand between me and the wall. “Liar.”

  This wasn’t exactly a conversation I wanted to have right now. Heck, I’d just come to accept that moving on was a good thing, a doable thing. Would I ruin it all if I shared with Nate my doubts of ever finding true love? That those doubts haunted me each and every day?

  He gazed down at me, the look in his eyes begging me to trust him. But could I? His hand came up to smooth the worry from my brow, then trailed down my cheek. Without another word, he closed the gap between us and pressed his lips gently into mine.

  The ice around my heart, previously thick and virtually impenetrable, began to melt.

  “Stay here with me tonight,” I whispered.

  “Of course.”

  Nate pulled me in close and planted a kiss on the top of my head, then recoiled with a cough. “But only if you promise to comb out some of that damned hairspray.” He shook his head. “Remind me to have Marissa find you a hairstyle that requires less product next time.”

  Chapter 29

  “So, I promised Grace I’d come by and see her tonight.”

  It was 4:30 Thursday morning, and Nate had just made his sweep through my house again. I’d waited until this morning to bring up my plans, in the hopes that he’d be less likely to dismiss the idea in his not-quite-awake-yet state. Though, since we’d behaved last night—Charlie was in the next bedroom over—maybe that hadn’t been the best idea. The sexual tension between us this morning was wound tighter than the strings on a tennis racket.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But—”

  “Jess, it’s too dangerous. They know she’s there, and they’ve tried following you home. Hell, that’s probably why they didn’t follow you yesterday—they were probably sitting outside Metzler, waiting for you to show up so they could bust your kneecaps.”

  I looked down at my knees and cringed. And here I’d been all worried about my nose.

  “Well, what if I don’t go straight there? And maybe had a police escort?”

  He cast a glare in my direction.

  “What? You look dashing in your uniform. And it’ll make one hell of a first impression with Grace.”

  He snorted and rolled his eyes.

  “Come on. You can walk me to the door, stake the place out while I get her all prettied up—she’ll freak if you walk in and she doesn’t look her usual, fabulous self—and then you can come and meet her. Maybe even show her a picture of Mr. Phil-whatever-his-name-was and see if she’s ever seen him before.”

  The name butchering finally got Nate to crack a smile. “Alright. But if I get the sense that something’s amiss, we’re leaving. No ifs, ands, or buts. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said with a salute.

  Nate shook his head, planted a kiss on my cheek, and headed for his car.

  * * * *

  “Michael, can you tell me something?”

  He looked up from a red ink massacre on the document he’d been proofing and smiled. “Sure, what’s up?”

  I gave him a gracious smile and took a seat across from him, a notepad and file folder in my hands. “Well, now that I’m paying invoices, I thought it might be helpful to understand what each of them are for.”

  A look of confusion crossed his face.

  “You know, in case someone from any of these companies calls with questions.”

  “Oh,” he said, the proverbial light bulb now glowing brightly over his head. “Excellent idea. I’d be happy to give you an overview of our suppliers. Which ones did you have questions about?”

  I flipped open the folder and read from the first invoice in the stack. “Paper Depot?”

  “We order paper for all our printers, scanners and plotters from them.”

  I made note of that and flipped to the next page. “Safety Supplies?”

  “They come in and restock all our First Aid kits each month. And check our fire extinguishers.”

  “Okay…” Getting paid to restock medicine cabinets? Sounded like easy money to me. I made a note and moved on. “Steuben Environmental?”

  “That’s our after-hours cleaning company.”

  I nodded and jotted down another note. The words ‘after hours’ caught my attention. I glanced back to the invoice.

  The lettering was maroon.

  Steuben? Steuben County? Home of Angola, Indiana?

  I looked closer at the document. The cleaning company’s billing address was a PO Box, and listed just above it were the words, Attn: M. Phillippe.

  My mouth went dry.

  “Any others, Jessica?”

  I jumped in my seat. My pen skittered off my notepad and fell onto the floor.

  “Um, yes. Sorry, hang on.” I slid off the chair to grab my pen, then resumed my seat and flipped to the next page. Looked down at the next vendor and swallowed hard. “Morrisson Consulting Group?”

  Michael leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Morrisson Consulting... Oh, you mean MCG?”

  “Sure?” Maxwell Office Solutions and their damned acronyms.

  “Yes, they do market analysis for us.”

  “Market analysis?”

  “You know. Comparisons between us and our competitors. Surveys. Things like that.”

  Damn. I’d been hoping for something that sounded less…legitimate. No smoking gun there. “Do we use them fairly often, then?”

  Michael shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Two, maybe three times a year.”

  I jotted that down, and made a mental note to call my mother again later. See what Angola dirt she might have on either of the two companies. Then I turned to the next vendor in my stack, determined to dilute my line of questioning. “Budget Saver Rentals?”

  * * * *

  I spent the rest of the day fretting about M. Phillipe and his potential role in all of this. It wasn’t until I was on my way out that night, that I realized I hadn’t seen Vanessa all day. As I came upon her desk, I began to wonder if I would have recognized her even if I had. Her beautiful caramel curls hung limp around her face, which was glued to her computer monitor. Gone was usual armload of accessories, and her usual porcelain complexion was dotted with not one, but two angry-looking blemishes.

  “Vanessa? Are you alright?”

  Her eyes darted to my face. “Fine. Yes, everything’s fine. Of course it’s fine. Why do you ask?”

  Fine? She was jumpier than a mouse in a box full of traps. “You just look a little more stressed than usual.”

  “Ha!” She kept her eyes from mine, and her hands in constant motion repositioning anything within reach on her desk. “Stressed? Me? I don’t get stressed, Jessica. Especially when there’s nothing to be stressed about.”

  It had to be PMS.

  “Well, then I hope you have a wonderful evening. See ya tomorrow.”

  “Okay then,” she said. “Goodnight.”

  I passed through our department’s main door and headed down the hall toward the elevator. As I waited for it to arrive, I spun off a text to Nate letting him know I’d meet him at the curb shortly. No worrying about being tailed tonight. Not unless they wanted to get themselves in a whole lot of trouble.

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  But that smile faded when the elevator arrived and I caught sight of its lone occupant: Mr. Milo Finnegan. The stairwell was out of the question—this was my only option. I swallowed hard and stepped inside.

  “Evening,” I said with a polite nod.

  Milo’s face lit up. “Well good evening, Miss Hartley.” The elevator do
ors closed. Milo shifted in his stance. “And how is Michael treating you? Fairly, I would expect?”

  “Yes, I—”

  Milo reached over and pushed the stop button.

  My skin began to crawl. “He’s treating me quite well, thank you.”

  Milo dropped his arm and moved away from the panel of buttons. In my direction.

  My palms got clammy. “Is there something wrong, Mr. Finnegan?”

  He studied me for a moment, then took a step closer. “Yes. Yes there is.”

  I reached up and put a hand around my pendant. Hoped to God I’d remembered to flip my barrette on this morning, and that Nate was listening from the parking lot. “What is it?”

  He reached out and tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “That a young, talented woman such as yourself is being absolutely wasted in Michael’s area.” His hand dropped to my shoulder. Then began to move down the outside of my arm. His eyes followed the movement. “Why, with your…talent…I’m sure we could have you moving up the ladder in no time. If, that is, you just ask for a leg up.”

  I was one hundred percent positive I wanted nothing to do with anything involving Milo Finnegan and legs being helped up. I also knew if I was going to escape this elevator ride unscathed I had to do something and do it quick. He was taller than I and looked to be in decent physical shape. Fighting back would get me nowhere. So I hit him from a different angle. “Why, Mr. Finnegan, I’m flattered you feel that way. I would love to…a-a-a—” I faked a sneeze, right in his too-close face. “Choo!”

  It worked like a charm. Milo recoiled as if he’d been stung by a bee. His hand flew to the interior pocket of his suit coat in search of a handkerchief to wipe away my imaginary nasal fluids.

  I reached out, wearing a look of mock mortification. “Oh! Oh, Mr. Finnegan. I’m…I’m so sorry. It’s just that…a-a-a—”

  This time he took two steps back. And quickly hit the stop button a second time. The elevator resumed its smooth descent to the first floor.

  “Choo! My hayfever has just been so terrible the past few days.”

  Milo dabbed incessantly at his face and took another step back. “That’s…quite alright, Miss Hartley. Why don’t you, uh, swing by my office another time. Perhaps after allergy season.”

  The elevator doors opened, and Milo shot out like a stone from a catapult.

  It felt good to have the upper hand for once. Now if only I could find a way to do that with whoever was leaving me all those threatening notes after hours.

  After hours? An idea popped into my head. I hurried out the front door, past the ice queen and her frosty sneer—seriously, what was with that woman?—and dove headlong into Nate’s car.

  * * * *

  “Turn into that parking lot up ahead, will you?” I said, pulling a t-shirt out of my bag.

  “I thought we were going to see Grace? And wait, what are you doing?”

  I pulled the shirt over my head, worked a little Copperfield-like magic, and slipped the blouse I’d worn to work out from under it. I began to inch my skirt down toward the floor and felt the car lurch right. “Eyes on the road, Officer Steele. Haven’t you ever had a woman change her clothes in your car before?”

  “Not without my help.” His gaze traveled down to my bare thighs. “Are you sure you don’t need—”

  I smacked his reaching hand. “You’re gonna get us into an accident.”

  “No, you’re the one that’s going to get us into an accident.” He turned his head forward once more and half-glared, half-pouted at the road ahead. “So, are you going to tell me why I’m turning or not?”

  I put a foot into each leg of the jeans I’d packed, and lifted my butt off the seat. “Yes. I need to show you something.”

  Nate turned his head back to me so fast he nearly wrecked the car.

  “Not here!” I yelled, grabbing the steering wheel. “Back at work!”

  Nate brushed my hands away. “Damn it, Jessica, why the hell didn’t you tell me that before we got all the way over here?”

  “Because we needed to give them time to arrive.” I buttoned my jeans and settled back down into my seat.

  “Them…who?”

  “You still got Marcus Phillippe’s license plate number?”

  “Yeah,” he said, turning the cruiser back toward Maxwell. “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Nate glowered at the road while I pulled on a clean pair of socks. The soft cotton felt incredible after another day in those blasted high heels. Grace could have her dumb job back—I’d take sneakers over heels any day.

  I finished lacing up my shoes just as we were coming up on Maxwell’s entrance. “Okay, now don’t turn in here. Go over to that little side road—where we went on our first stakeout.”

  A wolfish grin appeared on Nate’s face. “You regret not making out with me that day, don’t you?” He made a little fist pump and whispered, “I knew it!” Then he cleared his throat and said, “Yeah, I’ll give you a second chance.”

  Men.

  “While that is very thoughtful of you, it’s going to have to wait. This is another stakeout session, dear, not a make-out one.”

  “Fine,” he grumbled. Half a second passed before he turned his head back toward me, the frown traded for a look of optimism. “Then could we make out?”

  “How about we focus on this for now, and I’ll make it up to you later.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  I turned away. “Yeah, I’ve been told that before.” By a certain ex-boyfriend of mine. A boyfriend on the verge of proposing. All I had to do was agree to join him on the adventure of a lifetime. Move to Nebraska. Make a fresh start. Only to me, that didn’t sound like fun. More like Hell on Earth.

  No Grace. No friends. No family. Only the man I loved.

  Or so I thought. Thank God I’d come to my senses.

  Nate threw his cruiser into park and sighed. “Well, chief, what’s the plan?”

  “You got those binoculars handy?”

  “Wouldn’t leave home without ’em.” He reached into his center console and pulled out his private, collapsible pair.

  “Pervert.”

  He threw me a look of mock innocence. “What?”

  I shook my head as I took them from him, then scanned the lot. “Come on…where are you?”

  And then I saw it—a blur of maroon, just like I’d expected.

  “There.” I lowered the binoculars and handed them to Nate. “Take a look in the lot over by the side door.”

  “A maroon van.”

  “Can you read the plate?”

  “I think so.” He squinted, straining to read it. “411S… Sonofabitch.” He dropped the binoculars. “This was what you couldn’t remember last night?”

  “Yep.” I pulled a stack of copies and notes I’d been compiling from my bag. “I was trying to get some information out of Michael about our vendors today—”

  “To get him to spill about Morrisson?”

  “Exactly. And I’ll come back to that.”

  Nate’s right eyebrow rose.

  “So I’m listing off harmless ones. Our paper supplier, safety products vendor…then I come to our cleaning company. Steuben Environmental.”

  “Steuben…county?”

  “Yep. Hit me as soon as Michael said they were our after hours cleaning company. Then I looked a little closer at the invoice. Darn thing had Attention: M. Phillippe printed right at the top.”

  Nate shook his head. “I’ll be damned. Now we know who’s been sneaking around your office, leaving those notes.”

  “And sabotaging my printer. Which makes absolutely no sense. Why would our cleaning guy be worried about what files I’ve been printing?”

  Nate stowed his binoculars away. “Because he’s also somehow involved with Morrisson Consulting. He has to be. He’s collecting their mail, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Oh! Speaking of Morrisson…after the shock wore off about Steuben Environmental, I asked Michael a
bout Morrisson. At first he didn’t recognize it. Then he goes, ‘Oh, you mean MCG?’ I swear this company has an acronym for everything. The copiers. The reports. Probably has one for the darned brand of toilet pap—”

  “Acronym junkies. I get it, Jess.”

  “Right. Anyway, according to Michael, MCG does market analysis work for Maxwell. Um…” I paused, checked my notes. “Something about doing comparisons between us and our competitors. Surveys. Things like that. Sounds fairly legitimate.”

  Nate’s brow furrowed. “Hmm, have you actually seen any of their work?”

  “No.” I shrugged. “But I’m an AA, Nate. What would I be doing with a technical document like that?”

  “If they even exist.”

  My jaw dropped open. “You think it’s a fluke? But…we’re paying them big money for their services.”

  And then the light bulb went on.

  “Wait.” I flipped through the stack of papers until I came to my spreadsheet. Thank goodness I’d taken a risk that afternoon and reprinted the last page—the one listing all the invoices for this year. One, two, three, four… “Huh, that’s odd. Michael said they only use Morrisson two or three times a year. But I’ve got nine invoices from them for this year alone.” I looked up and met Nate’s gaze.

  “Sounds like you might have found where Michael’s money’s been going. Do you know how much is missing?”

  “No, I don’t remember Vanessa ever giving me the actual amount.” I snatched up my cell phone and plugged invoice amounts into the calculator function. “Wow.”

  “That much?”

  “In nine months, we’ve paid them $46,992.”

  Nate let out a long, slow whistle. “Probably a little more than your boss thinks he spent. But wouldn’t he have noticed the increase in invoices? I’m sure he’s the one who has to sign off on them each month.”

  “Yeah, he would. But if they forged Grace’s signature…”

  “What’s to say they didn’t forge his, too?”

  I looked up from my phone. “Exactly.”

  “You need to get back into that stack of invoices tomorrow, Jess. Make copies of them all, not just the ones Grace processed, so we can compare Michael’s signatures on each.”

  I didn’t relish hauling more folders back and forth from the storage closet. But with Vanessa in her current snit, it might be easier to sneak around. “Okay.”