High Society Sabotage

She squinted and frowned. “This is the secret weapon?”

Angel excused herself from the room as Evangeline softly chuckled. But when Sara lifted her gaze to that of her boss, Evangeline’s blue eyes had gone steely.

“You’ve got to get inside his life.” She patted the container of sweets. “Seems to me this would get you in the door of his home with no problem. Let him think you’re the perfect little woman—intelligent and attractive, with a great cook on staff.”

She tipped her chin toward the brownies then stood, moving back to her desk.

“We’ve received some new intel that’s rather disturbing when it comes to my stepson. Seems you’ve edged your way into his life at the perfect time.”

Sara set the container of brownies aside and straightened. “Like what?”

Evangeline nodded. “A series of real estate documents bearing his electronic signature. All pivotal to the land deals yet detrimental to TCM.”

“I don’t understand.” Sara frowned.

“Even though the documents bear his signature, they point the finger of responsibility—and guilt—squarely at TCM. Quite brilliantly, actually.”

“But why?” Sara ran the information through her brain. She couldn’t envision the Kyle she’d met doing what Evangeline was saying he’d done.

Yes, the man was as arrogant as they came, but based on his actions after the accident, his heart was a whole lot bigger—and softer—than he let on.

Was he capable of plotting to take down his family’s company? He didn’t seem the type.

Evangeline shrugged. “Kyle never warmed to his stepfather. Maybe he’s setting the man up for a fall.” Her expression softened and the corners of her eyes turned sad. “He was never the same after his father’s death. Who knows what he’s capable of.”

Sara stood and paced a tight pattern to the windows and back. “Or maybe someone’s setting up Kyle.”

Evangeline’s pale brows climbed toward her hair-line. “So I see it’s true what they say about Robert’s son.”

“What’s that?” Sara turned to face her boss.

“His charm is legendary.”

Sara tensed defensively. “Trust me, I have no plans to fall for his charm. I’m just trying to see this situation from every possible angle.”

“Something you do extremely well.” Evangeline hesitated momentarily before she continued. “There’s one more thing.”

“What?” Sara asked.

“We found a notation in the last victim’s date book. Seems he had a meeting scheduled with a K.P. before his untimely death. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to keep his appointment.”

“Kyle Prescott.” A mix of excitement and disappointment fired in Sara’s belly. She’d found just the man she needed to unravel the mystery lurking behind the corporate facade of TCM, yet her gut didn’t believe him responsible.

Evangeline stood, her usual nonverbal mode of dismissal. “I trust you’ll take care of those bumps and bruises—” she nodded toward the container of brownies as Sara picked it up “—and put those to good use.”

Sara mulled over Evangeline’s words as she drove back toward her apartment. She couldn’t picture Kyle Prescott sabotaging the family corporation, but she forced herself to take a mental step back.

She’d known the man for mere hours. Who knew what he was really capable of?

She shoved the inexplicable flash of disappointment out of her mind for the second time since Evangeline had given her the news.

What had she expected? That Kyle Prescott might be more than handsome packaging and a society pedigree? That he might be innocent of the illegal doings inside TCM?

Was she so naive she’d fallen for his legendary charm just as Evangeline had suggested?

Get a grip, Montgomery. Now.

There had obviously been no love lost between Kyle and his half brother, Peter. Perhaps Kyle was out to hurt TCM, if for no other reason than to sabotage Peter.

Sara had no trouble, however, in picturing Kyle being involved in the oil-investing scheme. After all, he’d out and out declared his support for developing and drilling open land.

The puzzle pieces began to circulate through her brain, her favorite part of the investigative process. Now all she had to do was worm her way fully inside Kyle’s life—and inside TCM.

She patted the container of brownies on the passenger seat, then traced a finger over the address of the all-night dry cleaner Evangeline had recommended. She’d drop off Kyle’s tux jacket and have it repaired, cleaned and pressed by morning.

Tomorrow she’d dazzle the man with her concern, caring and her secret weapon.

She planned to use Kyle for an item on her personal agenda, as well.

Finding her sister’s killer.

Her gut told her Peter Turner might hold the key to the mystery she’d failed to unlock even after all this time.

Kyle’s half brother made her skin crawl, but Sara needed to follow up on what he’d said about Annemarie.

As best Sara could figure, Peter Turner would have been a mere five or six years old at the time of Annemarie’s death, but if he’d found her to be kind and patient, he might have trailed behind her at the last party she’d attended.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d seen something that would finally lead Sara to Annemarie’s killer.

After all, there had been no notes in the investigative file about interviewing a child that fateful day.

If Peter Turner had seen anything, no one had taken notice. Perhaps the investigating officers had overlooked a vital piece of evidence. A key witness.

Sara wouldn’t make that same mistake.

Access to his half brother made cozying up to Kyle Prescott very attractive. The fact Kyle himself might be neck-deep in the oil scheme justified whatever moves Sara needed to make to win the man over.

Sara always got her man.

This time would be no different.

Chapter Four

Sara winced as she settled onto the floor, bracing her back against the sofa. Her body had begun to ache from the accident—if one could call it that—and she was doing her best to rest now in anticipation of charming Kyle Prescott starting bright and early in the morning.

Evangeline had sent her home with copies of the documents to review and familiarize herself with. She was no expert at land acquisition, but the documents certainly made it clear that TCM—and more specifically, Kyle Prescott—were acquiring as much oil-rich land as possible.

She took a sip of the strong coffee she’d brewed and stole a glance at Angel’s container of brownies.

Her stomach growled.

She hadn’t had a thing for dinner and heaven knew the cupboards were bare. The cupboards in her apartment were always bare.

Sara flipped through several of the documents. Newly registered deeds. Title searches. All bearing electronic signatures noted as belonging to Kyle Prescott.

According to the evidence sitting right before her eyes, Kyle had been one very busy man. Perhaps he’d used his playboy image and his absence from the TCM offices to carry out his land deals in private.

The thing was, according to the documents, a trust had been the acquiring party. Kingston Trust. Additionally, the documents listed only one party as the authorized signatory. Kyle Prescott.

Yet, PPS had learned through their investigation to date that TCM was the force behind Kingston Trust. They just hadn’t yet uncovered who at TCM was pulling the strings.

As it had done back at PPS headquarters, her gut protested the thought Kyle might be the mastermind.

Sara did her best to ignore the sensation and continued to study the documents, the locations of the properties, the timing of the acquisitions.

If she were going to successfully use Kyle Prescott to infiltrate TCM and find out just what was going on, she needed to internalize every scrap of information she could get her hands on. Once she got inside TCM itself, she’d find a way to access the corporate files.

Sara shot another glance at the container of brownies, this time stretching until her fingers snagged the lip of the container. She pulled it to her side, pried open the lid, stared inside, then frowned.

She couldn’t imagine giving these brownies to Kyle Prescott was going to be anything other than a terrible waste of brownies.

She lifted one from the carefully arranged order and took a bite, instantly moaning at the melt-in-your-mouth perfection. If anyone had ever told her multi-pierced, Goth poster-child Angel could bake like this, she’d have told them to go get their heads checked.

And she’d have been wrong.

Sara polished off the first brownie then reached for a second. A few moments later, she’d settled back into her work, the container tucked into her lap. After all, she had a lot of material to commit to memory tonight.

She refocused on Kyle, and on TCM.

She had no doubt she’d find the proof she needed inside the offices of TCM. With the right information, she’d crack the case wide open and uncover the names of the surviving investors before anyone else met his or her untimely demise.

And no matter what her gut thought of Kyle Prescott’s guilt or innocence, the man was firmly entrenched deep inside the investment scheme.

After all—Sara patted the pile of documents now sitting on her lap—the evidence didn’t lie.

She reached for another brownie as her mind shifted from Kyle Prescott to his half brother, Peter Turner.

She glanced up at the framed photo of Annemarie that held a place of prominence on her living room wall.

When Sara had joined the FBI, she’d promised herself she’d use her new skill set to finally crack open her sister’s case. To date, she’d failed miserably, but the TCM investigation presented an unexpected opportunity.

With a little creative investigating, she could no doubt exploit the current case to pursue the old.

With any luck at all, she’d take down whomever had been responsible for her sister’s murder at the same time she took down whomever had been behind the Kingston investors’ murders.

She popped another brownie into her mouth and refocused on the documents before her.

After all, no one had ever said she wasn’t a whiz at multitasking.

KYLE WORKED LONG and hard into the night, methodically searching through the TCM database of files and reports, looking for anything that would shed light on the cryptic voice mail he’d received.

He’d also checked his corporate voice mail to make sure a second message hadn’t yet been received. The mailbox had been empty. At least that was some small measure of relief.

He still had time to dig.

Kyle made it a practice to never face a perceived opponent without full information on whatever it was the opponent alleged. This time would be no different.

He’d searched first on the caller’s name, Jonathan Powers. He’d found just one record and that had been a form memo welcoming a numbered investor to Kingston Trust Investments.

Kyle could only assume his search on Powers’s name had somehow matched the numbered document. The man’s actual name appeared nowhere on the document.

He frowned.

The document bore his electronic signature.

What on earth was a document dealing with an investment firm doing buried deep within the TCM system? Under Kyle’s signature?

He searched next on Kingston Investments, finding several more welcome memos. All addressed by number. All with his signature.

He knew better than to print the documents. The system was geared to log any print commands. That was one red flag he had no intention of flying.

Not yet.

The memo Powers had called about must be more than a welcome memo. Whatever it was, it contained information Powers thought potentially damaging to TCM.

Where was it? What was it?

Kyle scrubbed a hand across his face and glanced at the small clock on his desk—3:00 a.m.

Typically, he’d be beyond exhausted after being on the computer for so long and so late, especially after the day he’d had, but the curiosity and anger pulsing through him had worked wonders in keeping him awake.

He launched himself out of his chair and crossed to the glass wall, leaning against the cool, slick panes. He’d long since dressed, pulling on a favorite pair of shorts and an old University of Colorado sweatshirt.

His image reflected back at him in the glass—darkened by the early morning sky.

Frustration edged through him.

Had he been so neglectful at TCM that someone honestly thought they’d get away with conducting business under his electronic signature without him catching on?

Short answer? Yes.

He hadn’t set foot inside TCM walls in months.

To add even more fuel to the fire, using his electronic signature was easier than most people would think. All someone needed were the brains to access the log of private and public keys and the ability to match the correct keys to the correct signature.

The signature itself was made up of a randomly generated string of letters and numbers, different each time the signature was applied. But anyone doing business with TCM needed only to use the software TCM operated and supplied to validate the authenticity.

Kyle opened the program he’d long ago installed on his system and ran each document through the necessary steps for validation.

Every signature passed.

Damn.

Someone had lifted his signature and he’d never been the wiser.

The reality of what had happened led him directly back to where he’d started.

Dwayne Johnson.

Senior Vice President for International Rights.

Kyle had given the man his private signature key to make life easier, and Johnson had either used that key for his own purposes or he’d provided it to a third party.

Even more concerning was the reality that if Kyle’s signature was on these memos, there was nothing to prevent his stamp of approval from appearing on an entire project or directive.

Just as Powers had alleged.

Kyle pushed away from the window and headed for the phone. If Johnson thought he could get away with whatever it was he had going on, he’d better think again.

Kyle punched Dwayne Johnson’s private number into the phone, not caring that it was three o’clock in the morning and not caring that he’d already put one call in to the man.

A call that had apparently been ignored.

Kyle felt no surprise when Johnson’s machine picked up. He wouldn’t expect any different at this hour of the morning, and he had no plans to leave a polite message. No plans at all.

“Johnson.” He spoke the name sharply and loudly when the beep sounded. “If you ever want to collect another paycheck, you’ll answer this damned phone and you’ll answer it now.”

A loud noise sounded on the other end of the line as someone bobbled the receiver.

“Sorry. Sleeping,” Johnson said.

Kyle could care less.

“I suppose you’ve been sleeping ever since you ignored my last message.”

“No, I—”

Kyle didn’t give the man a chance to utter another syllable. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be at my front door first thing this morning.”

Silence beat across the line.

“With your explanation of why my electronic signature is on a series of welcome documents for investors in something called the Kingston Trust.”

“You’ve got to be—”

“Listen to me,” Kyle interrupted again. “You are the only person at TCM with access to my signature. If you didn’t sign these documents, then you know exactly who did. Be here by nine o’clock. Or else.”

Kyle slammed down the phone.

He shut down the computer, plucked the empty beer bottles from his desk and dropped them in the recyclables container as he passed.

He headed not for his bedroom, but for his work-out room instead.

Sleep wouldn’t come tonight.

He knew that from experience.

And if he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, he’d have to do something else to defuse the tension knotting every muscle in his body.

The image of Sara Montgomery flashed through his mind’s eye. Spending some quality time with the woman would definitely be one way to the defuse the tension, but based on the fiery spirit she’d shown, breaking down her defenses was going to take some time.

He pulled on a pair of running shoes, fired up the treadmill and stepped on as the machine kicked into high gear.

Before long, Kyle was running at top speed, pressing through the pain of yesterday’s injuries.

He put in five miles then hit a hot shower.

By the time Dwayne Johnson arrived, Kyle planned to be calm, collected and ready.

Johnson would never know what hit him.

SARA TOOK A LONG SWALLOW of her favorite coffee, studied the empty brownie container and grimaced. The oven timer chimed and she crossed her fingers as she approached the kitchen.

She’d been forced to find an all-night convenience store that sold brownie mix in order to replace the batch she’d eaten.

She had to admit Angel’s brownies had been like none Sara had ever tasted before. And they’d certainly helped pass the time while she studied the files on Kyle Prescott.

She opened the oven and smiled at the sight of the tray inside. Her brownies might not be works of art, but they certainly looked edible enough. She reached for the pan and winced as her finger brushed the scalding hot tray.

She stepped back, searching her kitchen for any sign of an oven mitt. She spotted a pair hanging on the side of the fridge, then returned to the task at hand.

A few minutes later, the tray of brownies sat cooling on the counter. Sara had moved on to the bathroom, where she studied her tangle of still damp waves.

The run she’d taken this morning had done wonders to unknot the tension in her shoulders. The exercise couldn’t hurt in the calorie department, either. A fleeting thought of how many brownies she’d consumed crossed her mind, but she shoved it away.

She had bigger things to worry about today. Check that.

Bigger people.

Namely, Kyle Prescott.

The image of his handsome face flashed through her mind. The way he’d had full command of those he spoke with at his stepfather’s party and the way he’d cut off his half brother’s line of inappropriate questioning.

Sara rubbed her lips, gently remembering the feel of Kyle’s mouth pressed to hers.

Her belly gave a traitorous twist and she groaned. Just what she didn’t need. An unwanted attraction to the man who stood for everything she loathed in life—money, the attitude it inspired and the spoiled ways of someone who’d had everything in life handed to him on a silver platter.

The genuine concern Kyle had shown after the accident battled with the thoughts racing through her brain, but she merely shook her head. She had no doubt the gentleness he’d shown after the accident had been the result of the fall he’d taken, nothing more.

The man’s modus operandi was arrogance. That’s what she had to prepare for.

Nothing else.

Her slim denim skirt hugged her hips and ended just above her knees, showing off several inches of skin between the hem and the top of her favorite boots. Butter-soft antique white leather, hand-painted and stitched to perfection, hugged her legs, the colorful design climbing either side of her calves.

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