Trouble with Nathan

by Anna J. Stewart

  “Sounds like a plan. Hey, there’s my girl.” Nathan bent down and scooped Joey—and her poofy yellow dress—into his arms, jostling her on his hip as he plucked one of the tiny daisies from her hair. “You’re as pretty as your mama, you know that?” Joey beamed.

  “Can I stay here overnight again, Daddy? Kelley and Cedric and Aiden and I want to see if we can dress up Dory and Kitty. And Liza and Gina are going to help Morgan plant a new garden over there.” She twisted and pointed to where Lydia’s wheelchair sat in the far corner of the yard, Kitty the puppy curled up beside one of the wheels. “For Lydia.”

  “I think that can be arranged. Why don’t you go ask Theresa when you can help us cut that cake, okay?” He kissed her cheek and set her back down.

  “Daddy, huh?” Pride swelled almost painfully inside Jackson at the contentment on his son’s face. This was what he wanted for his children; for their children. This was what mattered. “When did that happen?”

  “A couple of days ago. She just said it out of nowhere. We didn’t make a big deal out of it.”

  “Sounds like a big deal to me. Congratulations again, Nathan.” Rylan slapped Nathan on the arm and excused himself to refill his drink.

  “Thank you, Dad,” Nathan said after a few moments of silence.

  Jackson glanced at his son. “For what?”

  “For always being there. For showing me this was possible. We did a lot of good as Nemesis, but I think we’ll do even more now. But that does raise a question for me and Sheila and Morgan.”

  “What question?”

  Nathan shrugged. “Mom’s been gone awhile. The business practically runs itself and now that you’re not plotting revenge against your egotistical clients and neighbors, you’re bound to have more time on your hands. It’s a shame to spend it alone.”

  “Funny you should mention that.” Jackson looked down at his drink. Nerves he hadn’t felt in decades tingled to life. “I wasn’t sure how you and your sisters would feel about me dating again. I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

  “Mom would want you to be happy. We want you to be happy. I’m betting if you think about it, you might already have someone in mind.” Jackson smiled.

  “I’m not sure if it’s appropriate. Or if she’s amenable.”

  “I think you’d be surprised,” Nathan said with a grin. “And I’m being paged by my wife. You’ve always told us to follow our hearts. It’s time you do the same.”

  Jackson watched Nathan rejoin his bride, bringing Joey into the circle between them as Morgan and Gage and then Sheila and Malcolm drifted onto the dance floor. Jackson took a deep breath, letting it out as he imagined Catherine’s encouraging smile and understanding gaze. A breeze blew across him, brushing against his skin with so light a touch he couldn’t help but think she was giving her blessing.

  Before he lost his nerve—he couldn’t believe he had them after all these years—Jackson walked across the yard to the elegant blonde helping to arrange the children for their photographs. “Corrine?”

  “Yes?” She turned, surprise in her eyes as she looked down at his outstretched hand.

  “May I have this dance?”

  After a moment’s hesitation—one of the longest moments of his life—she smiled. And took his hand. “You may indeed.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With The Trouble With Nathan, the Tremayne Family romances have come to an end. To say this has been an emotional journey is an understatement. These characters have been a part of my daily life for so long, I’m not quite sure what I’ll do without them. To say good-bye leaves me feeling both excited for what’s to come and sad . . . for what I leave behind.

  This journey would not have been possible without the help of some incredible people:

  Melinda Curtis and Cari Lynn Webb, who always, no matter when I put out the call, have the answers I need. You two are truly my writing sisters.

  Mary Helfrick and Judy Ashley, for their unwavering encouragement and support. I could not have asked for better best friends.

  Thank you to the team at Berkley, especially Leis Pederson (who made my dream of being a Berkley author a reality), Isabel Farhi (for her fresh eyes and perspective), and Bethany Blair for bringing the Tremaynes to a happy conclusion.

  Shout-out to my agent, Margaret Bail, and the Inklings gang for their faith in me.

  Every writer needs a second and even third pair of eyes. Thank you, Gale Sroelov and Debbie Lyon for your attention to detail.

  To the readers who have made the Tremaynes a part of their lives, thank you!

  Lastly, as always, thanks Mom, for teaching me to follow my dreams wherever they might take me. You never once doubted, even when I did.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book in the Tremayne Family Romance, ASKING FOR TROUBLE. Available now from InterMix.

  “I thought I might catch you here, Inspector.”

  Gage Juliano’s hand froze on the slender metal handle of the glass door to Lorenzo’s café. The sound of the District Attorney’s voice kicked the jackhammer headache pounding behind Gage’s eyes into sync with his caffeine-neglected blood. His spine stiffened as his boss approached. “Sir?”

  “I thought we agreed to ditch the ‘sir.’” Evan Marshall pushed off from where he’d been leaning against the real estate office next door and stopped beside Gage. He lifted his chin, took a deep breath, and smiled, no doubt catching the addictive roasted aroma that brought Gage to this door every afternoon at this time. “You didn’t think you could keep this place to yourself forever, did you?”

  The corners of Gage’s mouth quirked. As a matter of fact, he had. “Can I swear you to silence?”

  “Depends. How good is the coffee?”

  “Good enough I’m regretting not bringing my gun. Sir.”

  Evan laughed and slapped a hand on Gage’s shoulder. “My lips are sealed and the coffee’s on me.”

  Gage may have only worked for the D.A. for a month, but he’d learned early on that Evan never went anywhere or met anyone without proper motivation.

  “What’s so important you had to stake out my afternoon escape instead of knocking on my office door?” Gage asked once they had coffee in hand and were headed back to the historic brick warehouse that housed the D.A.’s office. The instant Gage took a long, throat-scalding swallow, his system calmed and zinged at the same time. The day righted itself once more.

  Evan pulled out his cell phone and accessed his pictures, then turned the screen toward Gage. “You know this guy?”

  The picture was blurry, as Evan had obviously snapped it through a glass window, but Gage couldn’t place the middle-aged, paunch-heavy, over-tanned man. The shit-brown suit he wore told Gage the man wasn’t a conformist. He had his own way of doing things. “No. I’ve never met him before. Cop?”

  “Close. He’s a Fed.”

  Despite the steaming coffee, Gage’s blood turned to ice cubes that clattered one by one into his stomach.

  “An Agent Kolfax,” Evan said. “He called me into the FBI’s temporary office this morning for a meeting, and while I was waiting, I saw this on his desk.” Evan flipped to the previous photo, handed the phone over so Gage could see the document.

  A solitary page of official FBI letterhead listing a string of contact numbers was topped with a fluorescent pink sticky note covered in almost illegible scribbles. Gage’s gut clenched as he made out a smattering of phrases and names, but one word stood out enough to raise the hair on his neck. “Why would the FBI be interested in the Nemesis case? And what does that case have to do with the Tremayne family?”

  “I’m thinking that’s what he wants us to find out. Whoever this Kolfax is,” Evan said, “he knows you. I got the impression he didn’t think you’d been up-front with me about your time working with them on that joint task force. Or about how it ended.”

  “
Shocking to think the FBI might be wrong about something.” Gage’s left shoulder throbbed—a quick burn shooting through him like a match had been struck against his skin. As fast as the sensation appeared, it was gone, but the flash ignited embers of resentment he’d worked hard to bank.

  “Look, Gage, I know your history with the Feds isn’t the greatest, but if they’re looking into the Nemesis case—”

  “They can look all they want.” Gage tried not to sound as edgy as he felt as they rounded the corner and Gage squinted into the late afternoon sun. His so-called “history” with the FBI had nearly gotten him killed. Having them pop up now, just when his life was getting on track again, felt like another knife in the back. “It’s my case. I agreed to head up your new investigative unit provided you get me the Nemesis case. That was our deal.”

  “And I have no plans to change that deal, Inspector,” Evan said. “Which is why I agreed to your plan to use the press to our advantage. But if this Agent Kolfax has gone to the trouble of coming out here from Washington, D.C., to hover over your case, not to mention one of our most prominent families, I’m damned well going to take notice.”

  “Good to know. In my experience, the FBI uses whomever and whatever they need to produce the results they want.” Bitterness cut like a razor through Gage’s words. “Even if it means innocent people get caught in interdepartmental cross fire.” And it sounded to him as if the Tremaynes had been moved directly into their cross hairs.

  “That I’m used to.” For the first time, Gage caught a hint of strain on Evan’s face. “I kept my word, Gage, but I do not need to add the Feds to the mix, which is why I’m going to do a little digging. I’m counting on your experience to stay one step ahead and keep them in check. Beginning with that note Agent Kolfax just happened to leave out in the open for me to see.”

  Gage eased the throttle back on the anger. “You think he wanted you to see it?”

  “Considering that everything we talked about could have been said over the phone?” Evan shrugged. “I have no doubt he wanted this note in our hands. Any idea why?”

  “Did you make out anything else on this note that might be important?” Gage asked, wondering what this Kolfax’s agenda was.

  “A couple of Nemesis’ victims, I think. But then I saw he’d made a special note of the Tremayne family along with the Tremayne Foundation, and while I’m not convinced I was meant to see that, today’s meeting can’t be a coincidence. There’s a fund-raiser for the foundation tonight, and Kolfax didn’t strike me as the party crasher type.”

  “He’s trying to distract us.” Or maybe Kolfax was one of those agents who hoped to make a name for himself by closing a case with the potential for national media exposure. “I didn’t walk away from fifteen years on the force to let the Feds come in and take over.”

  “I know it hasn’t been easy for you,” Evan said, “taking this job. Especially given how your former bosses at the police department feel about me.”

  “I try not to let politics interfere with any job that needs doing.” But Evan was right. It hadn’t been easy to walk away from the job, not to mention the cops at his hometown precinct who had welcomed him home after the time he’d spent away.

  Gage cleared his throat and swallowed the bitterness. Dwelling on a past he couldn’t change didn’t do anything but raise his blood pressure. He was moving on, finding where he fit. For now, he was content with the refinished office and skeleton staff two floors below Evan. Just in case this Kolfax was on to something, “This fund-raiser tonight. Were you invited?”

  “I was.”

  “Too bad you won’t be able to go.” Gage popped the lid off his cup and tossed it into a trash can as they passed.

  “I won’t?” Evan frowned.

  “Nope. Something came up, but luckily I’ll be able to fill in for you.” Gage gestured to Evan’s coffee. “That’s the price you pay for horning in on my coffee house.”

  ***

  Three hours before the annual Cancer Treatment Center fund-raiser, Morgan Tremayne wasn’t wearing the hand-beaded designer dress and kill-me-now Manolo Blahnik sandals. She wasn’t walking into the Winstead Salon and Spa with the other socialites. She wasn’t applying the makeup she hadn’t worn in months. Instead, she was jammed under the kitchen sink of her late grandmother’s Victorian, grey sludge squishing between her fingers as she tightened the lugs on the garbage disposal.

  She swiped at the sweat dripping down the side of her face. Ugh. The glamorous life of a landlord made even more challenging by the overly curious, determined-to-help nine-year-old sprawled across Morgan’s chest. Morgan wasn’t sure what was more difficult—repairing the disposal or trying to do so without knocking Brandon Monroe in the head.

  “Okay.” Morgan grunted as her arms and fingers went numb. Given the positions she found herself in these days, she could hire out as a contortionist with Cirque du Soleil. “Turn the faucet on. Slowly this time,” she added as a touch of panic kicked in her belly at the thought of having to start over for the third time. She was already behind schedule.

  Brandon scooted out, the buckle of his plastic tool belt clacking against the cabinet. Morgan took a deep breath as cool air swooped in under the sink. She lifted her head as Brandon rose up on tiptoe. Seconds later, water rushed through the pipes. “Now flip the switch on the disposal.” Fingers crossed.

  The grinding of the blades above her head may as well have been a performance by a philharmonic given the surge of joy it produced. Morgan twisted her way out of the cabinet.

  “It works.” Brandon dropped down to Morgan’s level, a huge smile on his pale, round face.

  “It works.” Morgan got to her feet and turned off the disposal before washing up. “Just be careful next time, okay? We can’t afford to lose any more spoons.”

  Brandon plucked the mangled teaspoon, this week’s weapon of mass destruction, off the floor and examined it with a narrowed gaze. Morgan wanted to ask what the poor spoon had done to deserve such a horrible end. Not that the utensil was the first sacrifice made in the name of mechanical investigations. As much as Morgan appreciated Brandon’s quest for knowledge, it was only a matter of time before professionals would have to be called in for repairs.

  No wonder Morgan’s bedside reading consisted of Dare to Repair and Home Maintenance for Dummies.

  “We don’t have to tell Nico and Angela, do we?” Brandon’s voice lowered to a whisper as he asked about his foster parents.

  “We don’t have to. But you know the rules. Secrets are as bad as lying, and we don’t lie in this house.” Morgan glanced out the window, searching for the lightning strike headed her way. No lies? Guilt and anxiety made her heart spin like an out-of-control slot machine that never paid off. She hadn’t lied exactly. She just hadn’t confided in anyone how dire her financial woes were or how far she’d gone to solve them.

  “O-kay.” Brandon rolled his eyes as Morgan’s cell phone buzzed. As she read the text from Angela and Nico that they were on their way home, Morgan’s schedule shifted back on track and the tension in her chest eased.

  All she had to do once she reached her apartment over the garage in the backyard was shower off the remnants of the day’s repairs, wash and dry her hair, unearth some makeup—if she could find it—and cram herself into the stunning and outrageously expensive dress her mother had bought her.

  Grief surged in her chest. Her mom wouldn’t see her in the dress she’d painstakingly chosen. Her mom wouldn’t be there as Morgan attended her first charity event as chairwoman of the Tremayne Foundation. Her mom wouldn’t be there for anything. It had been almost a year, but Morgan wondered when the feeling of loss would lessen. Or if she’d ever stop missing her mother so much she ached.

  “Got your repair journal, Brandon?” She couldn’t dwell. No time. Morgan picked up her grandfather’s old toolbox before someone tripped on it, and set it on the t
able. “Make note of how we fixed the disposal before you forget.” A renewed gleam brightened Brandon’s face as he skipped out of the room, tool belt slipping down his narrow hips, the deformed spoon still clutched in his hand.

  So far Nico Fiorelli’s suggestion that Brandon keep a repair journal had prevented any repeat experiments. How one little boy could cause such innocent destruction in such a short amount of time was a question that as yet remained unanswered. Not so long ago, Brandon hadn’t been able to get out of bed. The chemotherapy to treat his stage two kidney cancer had been so intense he’d ended up in the emergency room three different times and been bedridden for weeks. All the more reason to consider Brandon’s current hands-on curiosity a blessing.

  Morgan scrubbed tired hands down her face. What she wouldn’t give for a six-pack of Red Bull about now. Instead, she settled for making a cup of coffee.

  Time to gear up and raise more money in one night than the Tremayne Foundation ever had before. Her mother would expect nothing less, and Morgan needed nothing less. It was the only way out of the mess she’d made. Besides, every second she spent worrying about money was energy stolen from the kids and the work she still needed to do.

  Morgan had just grabbed her travel cup of coffee when footsteps sounded behind her and eight-year-old Kelley Black ran to her, her poofy ice blue princess dress billowing around her thin frame.

  “Can’t I come to the party with you?” Kelley plucked at the hem of Morgan’s shirt. “I have a pretty dress, too. I’ll be good. I promise. I won’t get sick or anything.”

  “I’m sorry, Kelley.” Morgan bent down to meet Kelley eye to eye and took her hand in hers. She never liked talking down to kids. “This is a grown-ups-only party. It has nothing to do with you being sick. I love you no matter what.”

  “But I’m not sick,” Kelley insisted, swinging their linked hands as she shuffled her feet.