Riding High

by Stacy Finz

  “Don’t be angry with me, Clay.” She’d gone into their bathroom to wash her face and brush her hair so they could go downstairs and prepare dinner. “This is hard. It feels like I’m trying to replace Hope.”

  “No one will ever replace Hope, Emily. No one. This baby is his or her own person. Just like Justin and Cody are.”

  “Logically I understand that. But here”—she placed her hand over her heart and started crying all over again—“it hurts. It hurts so much that it takes away the happiness.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and held her small frame against him. “I’m not angry.” But he didn’t know what to do to make this better. He wanted their child to be wanted, loved, and cherished.

  “Let’s go downstairs.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue and splashed more cold water on her face. “I don’t want the boys to think we’re still fighting and overhear us. I’m not ready for them to know I’m pregnant yet.”

  He didn’t know how much longer they could keep it a secret. Between Emily’s morning sickness and her crying bouts, Justin and Cody would start to worry. It was a big house, but even two self-absorbed teenagers could sense the tension.

  They went down to the kitchen and Emily took a lasagna out of the freezer, threw together a salad, and started to make a loaf of garlic bread when she stepped away from the cutting board and held her nose, her complexion green.

  “What’s wrong?” Clay asked.

  “The smell is making me nauseous.”

  “Go sit down. I’ll take it from here.”

  She moved to the breakfast area, far enough away from the garlic, and sat at the table. “Don’t forget to melt the butter.”

  He brought her a glass of ginger ale—she was living on that and Saltine crackers these days—and winked. “I think I can handle it.”

  The reality was she could make simple dishes taste better than anyone else and he and the boys had become spoiled. Even good restaurants had lost their appeal.

  As Clay put the final touches on the garlic bread, Justin and Cody came through the mudroom into the kitchen.

  “Where have you guys been?” Emily asked.

  “Over at Miss Treadwell’s, helping Flynn with the horses,” Justin said.

  “I thought you were taking turns.” Clay avoided meeting Emily’s eyes. Gia and Flynn were still sore spots between them. Emily wanted him to go over to Rosser Ranch and apologize, but he’d been too wrapped up. If it was that important to her, though, he’d make his mea culpa.

  “We did it together this time. You got a problem with that?” Justin said, dripping with sullenness.

  Clay was surprised. He thought his eldest was over the attitude issues they’d grappled with after his mother died . . . before Emily had come into their lives. Back then, Justin had been difficult. Surly, disrespectful, and angry at the world.

  “What I have a problem with is your attitude.”

  “What I have a problem with is your yelling at Emily.” Justin, who was nearly as tall as Clay now, got in his face. Clay spied Emily stifling a grin.

  “I can take care of myself, Justin.” She got up and hugged him. “But I appreciate your chivalry. We were having an argument. It’s okay to do that every once and a while.”

  “Are you getting a divorce?” Cody, who’d been standing off to the side, asked.

  “Goodness no,” Emily said and pulled Clay into an embrace. “Your father and I are madly in love with each other. We were having a disagreement and it got heated is all.”

  “What was it about?” Cody asked.

  “It’s personal,” Emily said and broke away from the hug so she could pull Cody closer and finger comb his hair. “The important thing is that we’re talking through it and it’s nothing for you to stress over.”

  Clay gazed at Emily and smiled. This was the calm and rational woman he’d married and he wanted her back. But he also wanted their baby.

  * * *

  “Are you planning to ever tell me your news?” Gia looked up from her plate.

  Because she’d eaten at the Ponderosa the night before they’d ditched Nugget and had gone to a small Italian restaurant in Blairs-den. It was quiet and so far they hadn’t bumped into anyone they knew. A miracle in these mountains.

  “Eat your vegetables,” he told her.

  They were having a nice evening and he didn’t want to ruin it with a cross-examination about the information he’d gotten off the recovered thumb drive. No mistake about it, Flynn needed answers tonight, but he was procrastinating.

  “You’re seriously bossy, you know that, right?”

  “I don’t have a problem with it. Being bossy is highly underrated.” He took a sip of his wine. For a small place in the middle of nowhere, the restaurant had a good list, not that he was a wine snob. “Did you send the pictures of the deer to your mom?”

  “I did.” Her face lit up. “I wish she would come, but she hates to fly and I worry that she would be bored. Between mah-jongg, tennis, and all her ladies’ lunches she has a full social calendar. You don’t have to go to Sacramento tomorrow?”

  That sort of depended on what she told him tonight. “I’m making a house call tomorrow in Nugget to do a living trust,” he said and left it at that.

  “Whose house?” she asked and cut the last crostino in half before popping a piece into her mouth.

  “None of your business.” He took the other half. “Attorney-client privilege, remember?”

  She blew an indelicate noise out of her mouth.

  “That’s what I like about you, Gia; you’re always so graceful and elegant.”

  “How’s this for elegant?” She flipped him off. God, he liked her more every day.

  He bobbed his head at her middle finger and let his gaze ride over her chest. “When I’m no longer your attorney we’ll be doing a lot of that.”

  “Confident much?” She speared one of the tomatoes from his salad and made a big show of sucking it off her fork. “What if I’m in prison?”

  He took a bite of veal and on a full mouth said, “Conjugal visits.”

  She leaned against the back of her chair, all kidding aside. “Are they going to try to pin Cleo’s murder on me too?”

  “Do they have any evidence that could help them do that?” He folded his arms over his chest.

  “Does it matter? They don’t have a shred of evidence that I was involved in the investment fraud. But has that stopped them from harassing me?”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Gia.”

  “Then read my lips. No, there is nothing that connects me to Cleo’s murder. You know why? Because I had nothing to do with it . . . with any of it!”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m just so sick and tired of this. Honestly, Flynn, I can’t see Evan involved in murder.” Gia let out a sigh. “Then again, I couldn’t see him stealing billions of dollars.... I don’t know what to believe. Do you think I’m an idiot because I fell for him . . . because I was tricked so easily?”

  “A lot of really smart people fell for him, Gia. He was an exceptional con artist.” Flynn had seen serial killers who’d led such seemingly exemplary lives that their wives slept next to them every night without so much as a clue.

  Laughlin was likely a psychopath: charismatic, meticulous, highly organized, and able to pull off a double life as if he were two completely separate people. He didn’t blame Gia. She’d gotten sucked in like everyone else.

  They finished their meals; Flynn paid the bill and they walked across the parking lot in companionable silence. When they got to his truck he gripped Gia’s waist and hoisted her into the passenger seat. He knew it was an excuse to touch her but did it anyway, holding on a little longer than necessary.

  “We got stuff to talk about at home,” he said.

  “It’s about time. I wondered when you’d finally get to it.”

  On their way to the ranch he stopped at the Nugget Market. “I promised you ice cream. Wh
at flavor do you want?”

  “I’ll come in with you.”

  They strolled through the store and he noticed the owner, Ethel, watching them, an impish grin playing on her lips. The whole damn town thought they were a couple and he was doing very little to dissuade them from that notion. Why? Because it wasn’t any of their damn business.

  At the freezer section Gia walked back and forth, pondering the selections.

  “While I’m young, Gia?” It was late and Ethel probably wanted to close the store.

  “I can’t decide. What do you like?”

  “Plain old vanilla.”

  “Really? I would’ve figured you for someone more adventurous.” Why did he think she wasn’t talking about ice cream?

  “I’m plenty adventurous.” He winked. “Just not when it comes to my ice cream.”

  “Or your clients,” she muttered and grabbed a carton of French vanilla. “Is the fact that it’s French vanilla too exotic for you?”

  “It’ll work.”

  Ethel waited for them at the cash register and rung up the ice cream. “How’s your mom, Flynn?”

  “She’s been coming to the farmers’ markets. Haven’t you seen her?”

  “I was out of commission for a few weeks with the flu. Hopefully I’ll catch her this week. I hear you’re doing Donna and Trevor’s will.”

  Gia grinned like she’d discovered his big secret.

  “I can’t talk about that, Ethel.”

  “Oh, go on.” She leaned across the conveyor belt and smacked his arm. “Donna told me all about it. Stu and I have been talking and we’d like you to do ours too. Can you do it at our house, like you’re doing for Donna and Trevor?”

  Gia coughed, trying to swallow a laugh.

  He pulled a business card from his wallet. “Call and set something up with my secretary. That work?”

  “It sure does. You’re a good boy, Flynn.”

  No one had called him a boy in a long time. “Thanks, Ethel.”

  When they got outside Gia burst into laughter. “How’s that attorney-client privilege working for you?”

  “I can’t help it that everyone here discusses their private business. Now quit laughing.” He circled her waist with one arm and lifted her off the ground.

  “But you’re such a good boy.” She continued to roar.

  “I’m glad you think that’s funny.”

  He drove to Rosser Ranch while she teased him incessantly. He liked the way she laughed. It was rich and throaty and sexy.

  At the gate he pressed the clicker on his sun visor and made sure it closed behind them. The motion-sensor lights went on as they parked in the driveway. Flynn had made sure Gia always kept them on and had gotten the security cameras working again. The news about Cleo and Laughlin was bound to bring more reporters to town. He didn’t like thinking about what would’ve happened if the Tattletale guys had gotten Gia’s thumb drive. Whatever the hell she was doing—and he thought he damned well knew—could be misinterpreted a dozen different ways. It was a pretty good bet that the tabloid wouldn’t have erred in Gia’s favor.

  Gia grabbed the ice cream and jetted through the front door. Not to be paranoid, but he wished she would’ve let him go first to make sure the house was clear. It was too late now so he went in behind her, closing and locking the door while she turned off the security alarm. According to the panel, nothing had been breached.

  “Should we have ice cream?” she asked.

  He nodded. They would talk in the kitchen. She got out bowls and spoons, noticed that her answering machine was flashing, and pressed the button.

  “Flynn, you’re not answering your cell. I need to talk to you, stat. If you get this, call me immediately, doesn’t matter what time. Gia, if you know where Flynn is, please pass along my message. This is Toad.”

  Gia looked at him questioningly, her eyes wide with worry. He pulled his phone from his belt only to find the battery was out of juice.

  “I’ve got to call him. Is there a landline upstairs?”

  “On the little table by the window.”

  He pounded up the stairs, his mother’s favorite saying ringing in his ears. No news is good news.

  * * *

  Gia stuck the ice cream in the freezer and waited for Flynn to return. A part of her wanted to stand at the bottom of the staircase and eavesdrop, but she knew Flynn wouldn’t appreciate it. When it came to professionalism his bar was as high as the Empire State Building. Despite herself, she couldn’t help straining to hear, hoping to catch snatches of the urgent call and know whether it would pull him away.

  When he stayed she felt safe, despite how sexually frustrated he made her. Even tonight their playfulness made her tingle from head to toe and feel desperate for more than their suggestive banter.

  After Evan, she should be swearing off men forever. But Flynn made her head spin until she was dizzy. They could talk for hours, just talk and talk and talk. She’d never done that with a man before. And she loved how he could laugh at himself. Evan rarely laughed at all and never at himself. Then there was the fact that Flynn didn’t want anything from her. Not her connections, not her celebrity, and not her money. He had made it clear that the only thing he wanted was her body, which she’d be more than happy to share with him when the time was right. For both of them.

  She didn’t want to read too much into the fact that he wanted to take her to his parents’ home for dinner. People around here were hospitable. Still . . . dinner with his family. It was old-fashioned and sweet and it meant Flynn wasn’t embarrassed of her or that she wasn’t just his client.

  Gia took a seat at the center island and waited, passing the time by scrolling through her emails. Dana had sent her a picture of the bridal bouquet she’d chosen, Harlee had a few background questions about Gia’s trespassers, and Emily had sent a thank-you note for having them over the other night. Awfully polite, considering the tone of the meeting. She’d never lived in a place like this.

  After her father died and she and her mother had discovered they were broke they’d felt shunned by their Bedford neighbors. Perhaps she was deluding herself, but she couldn’t see that happening here. Nugget residents might gossip behind her back and speculate on her and Flynn’s relationship, but they’d never treated her like a criminal. Yet they were completely resistant to accepting her program.

  Flynn returned to the kitchen, grim.

  “What’s wrong?” Gia asked.

  “You’ve been busy.”

  She scanned the kitchen, wondering what the hell he was talking about. Since he’d gone upstairs she’d done nothing but put the ice cream away. “Come again?”

  He seemed angry, holding himself tight as a violin bow. “I’m talking about your depositing hundreds of thousands of dollars into the accounts of construction workers who were ripped off by Laughlin.”

  She could feel her face blanch. “How’d you find out about that?”

  “One of those morons from Tattletale found a flash drive in your trash. I swiped it, looked at the spreadsheet you’d saved on it, and suspected you’d been passing members of the carpenters’ union cash. I don’t know how they did it and I don’t want to know, but Toad and Bellamy, my forensic accountant, confirmed it.” He held on to the edge of the granite countertop and Gia could see his knuckles had turned white. “Hundreds of thousands of goddamn dollars! What the hell were you thinking, Gia?”

  She swallowed hard, racking her brain to figure out how the thumb drive had wound up in the trash. Careful, she’d copied everything to the memory stick before wiping clean the hard drive of the old computer she’d used. She must have accidentally dumped it with a pile of shredded files into the garbage.

  “That I wanted those men and women to be able to retire. That I didn’t want them to have to sell the homes they’d raised their children in or go bankrupt.”

  He squeezed the bridge of his nose and, after a few seconds, lowered himself onto the barstool next to her. “How did you get their ad
dresses?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “It wasn’t that difficult.”

  “Do you know what kind of position this puts you in?” His voice had risen to a near yell, and Gia shrank back, having never seen Flynn truly angry.

  “I did it anonymously. There’s no way to trace it.”

  He laughed without humor. “Are you kidding me? My investigators were able to trace it in less than a day. If those reporters had managed to make off with the flash drive . . . Jesus Christ, Gia. Do you know how much trouble you’ll be in if the FBI finds out?”

  “But how? There’s nothing unlawful about giving away money, money that I made legally.”

  “First of all, you’d have to prove you made the money legally. But more importantly, how do you think it looks? I’ll tell you: It looks like you’re either running scared, afraid of a murder charge, or you’re overcome with guilt. Because innocent people, Gia, don’t give away hundreds of thousands of dollars. One of the strongest arguments in your favor is that you were a victim too. That’s the thing, Gia; victims don’t give other victims large quantities of money.”

  “I do.” She stuck out her chin. “I don’t have to prove anything to you. I did it because I didn’t want those people to suffer.”

  “I believe you, Gia. But don’t you see how someone who already suspects your involvement might see this? How it could be misinterpreted?”

  She did. That was why she’d gone to extremes to cover it up, for all the good it had done. What a boneheaded move it had been, tossing that flash drive into the garbage. She wanted to strangle herself.

  “What do I do?” She rested her face in her hands, resigned that once again she’d screwed up.

  “There’s not a goddamn thing we can do. As you pointed out, it’s not illegal to give away money; therefore we’re not going to the feds with this. Your beneficiaries will have to eventually claim the income for tax purposes. Let’s hope your little Robin Hood stunt doesn’t come to light until the case is solved.”