Stealing Gold (The Logan Series Book 4) (3 page)

“Bad.”
She crossed her legs. “Just give it to me.” A bunch of monkeys on trampolines
bounced in her stomach. She’d been on the last leg of her European tour when
she received a phone call from Ben last week. Dashing from city to city with
barely enough time to register what country she’d landed in, never mind see any
sights. Worn out and exhausted, she’d been concerned when he said he need to
talk to her, not Lester, about something important.

She
reached for the cup his secretary placed before her. Drank. And acknowledged it
would take more than a gallon of coffee to make her feel human after the
whirlwind of recent activity.

“You
flew in last night?”

“Yeah,
it’s been a long week.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Just get on with it,
Ben.”

Ben
grimaced. He opened a file he’d carried from his desk. “There were some
anomalies in your tour account, so I hired a PI to investigate. I hate to tell
you this, Stacy, but Lester and your accountant have been robbing you blind.”

Shock
slammed into her. “He…” She couldn’t get the words out. Soon after their wedding,
Adam had said the same thing, that he didn’t trust her manager. She’d shut him
down for even suggesting such a thing, and divorced him less than a month
later.

Her
stomach twisted, and the monkeys jumped faster. “The accountant, maybe.” Lester
had employed a new one while she was on tour, a Mrs Kensington. “But Lester,
no. I saw him yesterday.” And he’d been freaked out and sweating, desperate to
make the deal. Now he was missing. She checked her cell phone. No new messages.

Ben
shook his head. “I know you want to believe that. Hell, Lester’s been your
manager for years, hasn’t he?” He pulled a piece of paper  from of the file,
and placed it on the sofa between them. “Numbers never lie. Our suspicions were
raised when he called a month ago and requested a check be drawn up to him
personally for fifty grand. Then he transferred money he shouldn’t have had
access to into a variety of different accounts. This one is in Switzerland.” He
pointed at an entry on the page. “And this is in the Caymen Islands.”

Ben
smelled good. Clean, with the top notes of his expensive cologne. He looked
good too, in a young executive way. He’d asked her on a date once, but there
was no point in dating without that spark, so she’d turned him down. They weren’t
close friends, but he’d proved himself honest and reliable in the past and she
trusted him.

“The
rest of the file contains all the details our accountants could uncover. He’s
skimmed a fortune from your most recent tour, and this could be just the tip of
the iceberg.” Ben patted her hand. “I’m sorry. I know you were close.”

“He
discovered me.” Her voice sounded calm, devoid of emotion. “He’s been in charge
of my career since before I even had one.” Pain bloomed in her chest at the
ultimate betrayal. For ten years she’d been ruthlessly focused on her
career—she’d given up so much... and the knowledge that her manager had been
stealing was a body blow impossible to take. “I trusted him.” She’d been a
fool. A stupid, malleable idiot. The fact that she had been fourteen when she’d
first signed on the dotted line to make Lester her agent wasn’t relevant. She
wasn’t a kid now. And at some stage during the last ten years she should have
checked closer into what her manager was doing. She should have…

“He
had an unbelievable package as your manager.” Ben leaned back into the sofa’s
plush cushions. “I can’t be the only person to have told you his deal was way higher
than industry average.”

“You’re
not.” The one person she should have listened to had told her exactly the same
thing months ago. “So, what happens now?”

“Do
you know where he is?”

“I
left him in Los Angeles yesterday. He was to fly back with me, but he said
something came up.” She tried his number. “It’s off.”

Ben
nodded. “We need to call the police.”

Over
the hours that followed, the depths of Lester’s deception became clear. The
private investigator explained to a small group made up of Stacy, Ben, a police
detective, and an FBI agent, just how and where Lester and his accountant had
been skimming funds.

“We’ve
been watching Mrs Kensington for a while. She’s a professional.” The tall,
laconic FBI man, Agent Black, leaned back in his chair.

“A
professional what?” Stacy swallowed.

“A
con artist.” Black’s dark gaze pinned her. “But she’s not conning your manager,
Miss Gold. They’re in it together. We have to catch them before they leave the
country.”

Her
cell phone buzzed on the coffee table, diverting everyone’s attention. She grabbed
it and peered at the screen. “It’s my bodyguard. Excuse me.” She walked to the
window, out of earshot before answering. “Hi.” Her voice sounded tired. Beaten.

“Sorry
to bother you, boss. I’ve been trying to contact Lester, but he’s not answering
his cell.”

She
grimaced. Stared out of the window at people walking around in the sunshine,
enjoying life.

“My
check bounced.” Apollo’s tone was apologetic, as if he really didn’t want to
bother her with his problems.

“Lester
has screwed us over.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I’m in Kickin’ Music
Tours’ offices with the police and the FBI. He’s emptied the company bank
account, and stripped whatever he could from the tour profits.” Her hands were
shaking. “They’re tracking his cell, but it looks like he’s on the run.” She
screwed up her eyes tight.

“He
what?” Apollo sounded incredulous.

“Can
you email me details of the check that bounced? I can’t handle anything else
now—I’ll transfer money to you from my personal account this afternoon.”
If
there’s anything left.

“Are
we still going to Ireland on Wednesday?”

She’d
called Clint Bailey at Star Records half an hour ago. Though shocked, he’d been
adamant that this drama shouldn’t overshadow the deal she’d done with Plaxtair.
That the movie deal should go ahead as planned, and that he was counting on her
to pull this off. He confirmed that he’d received her songs, and would listen
to them while she was away.

“I’ll
deal with Plaxtair,” he’d assured her. “The contract is between you, Plaxtair
and Star. I’ll get it amended to take Lester’s name off it, and get them to
stop the payment. He shouldn’t grab one more cent off you, Stacy. Pack up,
chill out, and get on that plane to Ireland. I’ll handle everything.”

“Stacy?”
Apollo’s voice sounded in her ear.

“Sorry.
Yes. We’re still on to go to Ireland. There’s not much I can do here. I just
feel such an idiot, you know?” A tear slid down her cheek, and she brushed it
away, angry with herself at surrendering to her morose mood.

“You
should have someone with you.” Apollo was the ultimate macho male, protective
and steadfast. “You mentioned Adam in your speech, and you were wearing his
ring.”

“It
was our wedding anniversary. I guess I got a little nostalgic.” She remembered
her husband’s vivid blue eyes. The way he’d gripped her shoulders, begging her
to listen, to take his concerns seriously. “I was wrong to disregard his
warnings about Lester.” Her heart squeezed at the thought of the man Adam had
been at the beginning of their relationship. Sweet, kind, and sexy. He’d taken
such care of her, had made her feel like the most important person in his life.
Pain lanced through her. Until he’d slept with someone else.

Even
though it could never happen, a soft, weak part of her longed to have his arms
around her right now.

“Call
him.”

Stacy
shook her head, then, realizing Apollo couldn’t see her gesture, said: “I can
never call him again.”

“He
told me to contact him if you ever needed him. And right now you do.”

Apollo
didn’t know the whole story. No-one did, except her and Lester.

Chapter Three

Mlle
Cécile Brünner had been brutally murdered.

Someone
had hacked the climbing rose off the front of Stacy’s house and disposed of the
evidence. In its place lay an insipid, chrysanthemum stuffed flowerbed.

Stacy
shuddered. Something was wrong—very wrong. There was a strange car in her
driveway. And someone had painted her cherry red front door bilious green. She
turned off the engine, and climbed from the car.

With
her being on tour for most of the past year, her house was in the care of a house
management agency. She fished her cell and her key out of her purse and stalked
to the front door. Whoever was responsible for murdering her rose bush was
about to learn there was nothing passive about this ‘country cutie.’

She
shoved her key into the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. “What the hell?” She leaned
on the doorbell, hearing it’s familiar peal sound in the house’s interior.

There
was the rattle of a chain being attached, and then a blonde stranger opened the
door a crack. “Can I help you?”

“Who
the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?”

The
woman’s eyebrows shot up. Or attempted to; it was difficult to tell after all
the botox. “What do you mean, who am I? This is my house.” She attempted to
close the door, but Stacy had wedged her cowboy boot into the gap, preventing
it closing.

The
woman gasped, then she glanced behind her and shouted: “Howard!”

A
heavyset man joined her. He closed the door briefly to unfasten the chain, then
opened it wide. “What’s this about?”

Stacy
pulled in a deep breath. “This is my house. I don’t know what you think you’re
trying to pull…”

Dawning
recognition appeared in the man’s eyes. “You’re Stacy Gold.” He nodded as
though congratulating himself on working it out. His tense shoulders relaxed. “You’re
confused,” he said in a voice no doubt meant to placate. “You used to live
here, but we moved in three months ago.” He glanced behind her. “Are you alone?”

“This
is my house.” Stacy located the number of the house management agency and
called it. “This is Stacy Gold. Someone is living in my house.”

There
was a gasp on the other end of the phone. “I’ll transfer you.”

After
a few moments of silence, a man came onto the line. “Miss Gold, I…uh…you sold
the house three months ago.”

Shock
thundered through her, and she turned her back from the curious stares of the
couple on the doorstep. “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t sell my
house. It’s supposed to be being redecorated. I own this house. No-one has the
authority to sell it without my say-so.”

There
was a shuffling of papers. “I’m holding the title deeds right here, Miss Gold.
The house was owned by you, but Mr Lester Jones presented documents
transferring the title to Jones Entertainment. Mr Jones oversaw the sale of the
house himself. All of your personal effects have been moved to a secure holding
facility.”

Nausea
roiled in Stacy’s gut. “Mr Jones had no authority from me for that.”

“I
have your signature—verified by a solicitor.”

“You
don’t have my signature, you’re holding a forgery. Don’t leave your office, you’ll
be hearing from my lawyer.” She terminated the call, and swung around to the
couple at the doorstep. “How much did you pay for it?” she asked.

“That’s
none of your—”

“How
much?” She clenched her hands into fists.

“Twelve
million,” the woman said, folding her arms.

“The
sale was fraudulent.” She shoved the useless door key into her bag. “Get your
umbrellas out, there’s a shit storm coming.”

*****

That
evening a call from the desk downstairs alerted Stacy to Apollo’s presence in
the building.

“Send
him up.” She opened the door, and glanced along the corridor to see her burly
bodyguard exiting the lift, carrying a couple of large pizza boxes.

“Hey.”
Relief flooded her at the sight of a friendly face—in the hours since she found
strangers in her home she had been buffeted by blow after blow. The FBI were
adamant that her house was hers no more. More employees had contacted her to
report that their payments had bounced, and the accounts department of Kickin’
Music Tours’ were working overtime to aid her with emergency financial triage.

She
felt battered and bruised. Alone, and damned lonely.

“Hey,
how are you doing?” Apollo flashed a warm smile.

She
walked down the corridor to give him a hug.“One hundred percent better for
seeing you.” They entered her room. “I’m sorry about your check. I got your
email this morning with your details, and I’ve made a direct payment into your
account.”

“That’s
fine.” Apollo shrugged it off as though it was nothing. “I called Adam.”

Her
stomach clenched at the thought of her ex.

“He
asked me to pass on his new cell phone number. He wants you to call.”

Surprised,
Stacy’s mouth gaped for a moment before she realized and snapped it shut. “He
isn’t coming?” Once upon a time, he’d have climbed aboard the next plane at even
the hint that she might need him. Nothing would have stopped him. With an empty
feeling inside, the truth dawned. Those days were over. “I guess I can’t expect
him to still care.”

“He
cares.” Apollo rubbed the back of his neck, as if talking about another guy’s
love life was akin to visiting the dentist for a root canal. “Look, he cared
more than anyone. When you broke up, he called me every week to check how you
were. Lester changed his cell phone number because he was so sick of Adam
contacting him. That snake even made it part of my duties to make sure that
Adam on no account ever be allowed to approach you.”

“I..I
didn’t know.” She’d refused to answer Adam’s calls. Had deleted his texts
unread. After a while, he’d stopped calling, he’d given up. Or so she thought.

“He
still cares. He was concerned when I told him the news. I’m sure if you need
money...”

Money?
Did Apollo really think it was about money? “I can honor my responsibilities. I’ll
manage.” She’d swallow nails before she asked Adam for money, but to be honest,
money would be a problem, and soon. Kickin’ Music’s team of forensic
accountants were swarming through her books like ants in sugar. Their report
would doubtless uncover more unpaid debts and fraudulent dealings. The check
she’d cut for Apollo wouldn’t be the first.

“How
is Adam?” Her mind rewound to their first meeting at a cosplay convention in
Vegas. After she’d signed with Lester in her teens, there had been precious
little childhood left, but she’d always loved superheroes in movies and on tv,
and loved those crazy conventions where she got to dress up and indulge her
inner geek. No-one ever recognized her at those things, and last year’s
convention had been no different. She and Adam chatted in the queue for
autographs. Continued talking all through dinner, and over a bottle of wine in
his hotel room all through the night.

He
had no idea who she was, even when she told him.

He
gave her the bed, and slept on the sofa.

He
kept his hands to himself, and let her shower first.

The
decision to sneak off to the convention had been quickly made—and she really
should have gone back to her own hotel, but spending every moment with Adam was
a lot more fun.

They
met on a Friday, and by Monday she’d dragged him off the sofa to his bed. She
loved everything about him. His slightly distracted air while he worked on his
laptop. The fact he would eat sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs and baked beans
for every meal if he could, and love it. His delicious Irish accent. The curve
of his mouth. The taste of him.

He
made glasses look sexy.

They’d
married in haste. And when reality pushed its way back in, she’d frozen him out
and smashed what they had.

She’d
blocked every memory, every thought of him since their divorce. She’d moved on
without him, chasing the dream of fame and celebrity. Of making the man who had
been her manager, a father figure to replace the drunk who’d given her his
name, happy and proud.

“You
know Adam, he’s polite.”

“Has
he married again?”

Apollo
shrugged. “I don’t know.” The look he gave her conveyed more eloquently than
words ever could how much Apollo knew she’d hurt her ex husband. He pulled out
his cell phone. “Like I said, he wants you to call him.”

The
thought of calling Adam after all this time, made butterflies flutter in her
stomach.

“He
could call me though; you gave him my number.”

Apollo
nodded.

I’m
sure he’ll call.
That hope lived for hours. After Apollo left, and between meetings with her
lawyer, and the hapless house management company, she waited for Adam’s call. She
developed an addiction to checking her cell to make sure it was still working,
because it was almost inconceivable that he wouldn’t even call.

By
the time the sky was darkening with the arrival of twilight, she surrendered
and called the number Apollo had tapped into her contacts.

It
went to voice mail.

“You’ve
reached Adam Logan. Leave a message. Or text. It’s easier.” Brusque, to the
point, muttered in a deep, husky voice so instantly familiar, her heartbeat accelerated.

“Adam.
It’s Stacy. Could you call me back?”

Twelve
hours later, he still hadn’t called back. So she texted. “I need to see you.”

His
reply came back instantly. “You will.”