The blood in Meg’s face whooshed to the tips of her fingers and toes, leaving her woozy. “The Twinkling Star Corporation?” she whispered. “You m-mean the company that owned the N-Nymphia?”
Andrew’s mouth went flat. “One and the same. Once the Nymphia was shut down, its owner Emil Kehrlein transferred operations to the Marsicania, an equally abominable den of depravity and,” he said with a pointed look, “the target of our covert investigation. An investigation that must be kept under wraps due to the court injunction by the ‘vice magistrate,’ the dishonorable Carroll Cook.” His sigh was heavy as he massaged the bridge of his nose. “An injunction against police interference or surveillance that ties our hands and our investigation.”
“Investigation, sir?” Devin asked, dark brows pinched in confusion. “In the legal sense?”
“A presentence investigation report, Devin, to compile both legal and extralegal information about the owners and clients of the Marsicania in order to frame a case for shutting them down.” Andrew absently fanned blunt fingers through sandy hair, a habit she’d noticed when he was particularly intense about a subject. Like cleaning up the Coast, she thought with an uneasy twinge in her gut, a cause that bonded him to her mother more than Megan liked. His eyes trailed into a faraway stare. “And hopefully stop them once and for all with an airtight conviction that will put them away for a long time to come.”
He snapped out of his reverie, his professionalism in place once again. “Of course, heaven knows the political establishment is up to its eyeballs in the Barbary Coast, so there’s no telling what kind of dirt we’ll find.” His smile quirked as he snapped his portfolio shut. “Tongues are still wagging over ex-Mayor Phalen’s family owning a gambling den around the corner from the Nymphia, for pity’s sake.” Andrew winked. “A timely scandal prior to election, of course.”
Rising to his feet, he pushed his chair in. “Meg, I want detailed documentation of anything you can dig up on Twinkling Star and the vermin associated with it—investors, clients, even the women who work at the Marsicania. The district court clerk will provide you with files ad nauseum to pore over, I assure you, as will Chief Wittman’s office. I’ll have Bonnie send a letter introducing you and Devin as my assistants, requesting full cooperation.”
He turned to cuff a hand to Devin’s shoulder. “Dev, I need you to flesh out profiles on anybody hauled in after the grand vice-squad raid on the Nymphia last year.” His tone took a turn toward dry. “Although judging from the lists of names the police turned in, no one except John Smith ever visited the Nymphia.” Andrew sighed. “Nonetheless, I want as much information as possible—prior records, pending cases, background, ties to the community, financial circumstances, employment history, education history, you name it. Sniff out as many ties to Twinkling Star as you can and follow the rabbit trail—we need an iron-clad case to nail these moral leeches to the wall, and we’ll look under every rock to do it, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Since this is highly sensitive, I’d rather you two hole up in your office rather than the conference room to avoid any leakage of what we’re doing. I want a status report every Tuesday and Friday evening at close of business.” He glanced at Meg. “This will require additional hours for a time, Meg, but I’m well aware you volunteer at the Barbary Volunteer Legal Services on Saturdays, so just plan to work late a few nights a week instead, all right? I’ll be monitoring your progress and providing direction whenever you need it.” He paused to push in his chair, eyes scanning from Devin to Meg. “Any questions?”
Meg drew in a deep breath, head spinning. “Yes, sir—when can we expect the files from the district court clerk and Chief Wittman?”
Andrew glanced at his watch. “Any moment now—at least for the first batch you’ll be combing through, and you’ll need to get started right away.” He glanced up. “It’s a nice, meaty project for the both of you, and more importantly, one that will make a huge difference in our city for the better.” He studied them both with keen eyes that shone with approval. “I’m grateful to have two such sharp interns to tackle something I wouldn’t give to just anyone.” The edge of his lip tipped up. “Of course you’ll be working side by side in very close quarters, so if you’re not friends yet—you will be.” He smiled. “Either that or you’ll drive each other crazy.” Portfolio tucked under his arm, he strolled toward the door and turned, a twinkle in his eyes as he slipped a hand into his vest pocket. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He tossed two tickets onto the table. “Since you’re not drawing a salary, I had to figure out some way to thank you for all the hard work you’re going to do.”
Devin reached for the tickets, eyes expanding along with his mouth. “The Barrister Ball?” he said with a croak. “We’re going to the Barrister Ball?”
Andrew grinned. “Since we’re not a fancy, high-priced firm like Meg’s uncle’s, the DA’s office is only allotted two barrister tickets and two guests.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose it’s downright rude of me to be so chipper about George having to attend his sister’s wedding in Los Angeles this weekend, and Conor and Teddy otherwise engaged, but I don’t know . . .” He scrunched his nose. “I rather like the idea of attending the Barrister Ball with both my intern and her mother as well as my godson.”
Meg stared, jaw distended. The Barrister Ball? With Devin Caldwell??
“Holy thunder, Uncle Drew,” Devin said with a wide grin, apparently so excited, he slipped into the familiar family name he usually took great pains to avoid. “Are you serious?”
Andrew’s rich laughter boomed through the room as he gave them both a jaunty salute. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said with a wink, “you’ll earn it and more.”
22
Logan stared out the window of his six-story office, the dark thunderclouds rolling over the pewter bay as vicious and rare as the angst churning in his gut. At least since Meg’s party Saturday night when Cait had struck with a little thunder of her own. He absently rubbed the cheek she had slapped as he slumped back in his chair. He kneaded the socket of his eye with the heel of his palm to alleviate the tension that had been brewing between Cait and him ever since. A sharp, divisive tension that kept him working late at the office to explain his absence at dinners. Absence from his family.
And absence from Cait’s life.
A silent groan rose in his chest as he rested his head, eyes closed.
Why, Cait? When you love me like I know you do, why turn on me so?
The answer, deep and silent, niggled. It came to him in the dead of each night when he couldn’t sleep, and in every hour of every day when he couldn’t forget. Painful guilt slithering through his thoughts, confirming what he already knew. Cait loved him, yes, but she couldn’t trust him. Not when hate could so easily erupt for the man who was trying to take her away. The man who threatened to shatter Logan’s dream a second time. Sweat beaded the back of his neck when he realized something he’d never fully entertained before.
Andrew could do it.
And Logan could lose her.
The look of anger and disgust he’d seen in Cait’s eyes that night assured him Turner was making inroads into her heart, rapidly becoming a force to be reckoned with, which chilled Logan’s blood. For surely the hundredth time since Saturday night, a thick and heavy malaise settled, convincing him he needed to do something to staunch the flow of Cait’s distrust, to stem the bleeding of their love. And yet all the while, rage simmered beneath the surface of reason, an invitation to hunt Turner down and spill some blood of his own. His hands fisted on the arm of the chair as he stared aimlessly into the sea of uncertainty. Dear God in heaven, what can I do?
Pray.
The thought, so distant and faint, struck hard like one of those extraordinary bolts of lightning high over San Francisco Bay, a remarkable rarity that left the city in awe. Much like Logan was feeling right now. Pray?
The thought seemed almost ludicrous, and he might have dismissed it if it hadn’t prod
uced an infinitesimal flash of hope, no matter how brief. A split second of shimmering light in an otherwise dark and ominous sky. Oh yes, he’d certainly made great strides toward God in the last year, actually enjoying church for the first time in his life. And he couldn’t deny he’d seen countless answers to prayer in Cait’s life and those of Jamie, Bram, and his nieces. But him? Would God even listen to a sinner like him?
A memory drifted in his mind, as quiet as the directive to pray only moments before, the image of the night little Maddie had gone missing almost a year ago. Caitlyn and he had been frantic, unable to find the little girl . . . until God had answered their prayer.
Through Logan.
The sweetness of that moment flooded his soul even now, spilling hope into every crack and crevice Andrew Turner had gouged into Logan’s dream to marry Cait. A weight lifted from his shoulders while something fluttered in his chest, and suddenly he knew. His eyelids popped up.
He would pray.
To become the man Cait needed him to be.
The husband he hoped to be.
And the man God called him to be.
Moisture stung as an overwhelming sense of peace purled through his body, dismantling all fear. Throat thick with emotion, he stared up into the sky, no longer seeing the gloom of what if, but instead the blazing glow of the Almighty’s I can. “God, I don’t have the right to ask You this, but I’m asking nonetheless. Will You help me? Help me to trust You so Cait can trust me? Will You show me how to be a man worthy of her love? To win her hand and her heart completely?” He squinted at the black, billowing clouds that portended a squall, and his confidence surged like the whitecaps whipped up on the bay. “I promise I’ll do whatever—”
Forgive.
Logan’s prayer caught in his throat, pride swelling to close off his air. His flat palms clenched into knots on the arms of the chair when Andrew’s image invaded his mind. “No, not that. Anything but that.”
If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me . . .
A groan worked its way past his lips as snippets of Father Mulaney’s sermon filtered through his brain. He peered up, temple pulsing. “You can’t ask that of me—when Turner betrayed me, he robbed me of my very life!” He slammed his fist on the chair. “Cait was meant to be my wife, her children my children! I’ve not lived a pristine life, it’s true, but what he stole from me is unforgivable, a debt that cannot be paid.”
Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers a multitude of sins.
Logan put a hand to his eyes, his breathing shallow. He thought of Cait, and in one stuttered beat of his heart, it became achingly clear—he would do whatever it took.
Even if it meant forgiving the one person he hated the most.
Sucking in a sharp stab of air, he expelled it again in one long, ragged breath of surrender. “All right—You win,” he whispered, “but I have no idea how to proceed.”
He startled at a knock on the door, and spinning away from the window, he squinted at the antique grandfather clock on the far wall, noting the late hour. Who the devil—
Bram popped his head in, the surprise on his face mirroring Logan’s. “I thought I saw a sliver of light beneath your door,” he said with a tired smile. “I didn’t realize anybody was still here.” He opened the door and paused, wrinkles in his brow matching those beneath his eyes. “I’m not interrupting, I hope.”
“No, no, of course not,” Logan said, waving him in. “Have a seat unless you’re in a hurry to be somewhere else.”
Bram’s chuckle helped dispel the gloom of Logan’s thoughts. “In my bed, as a matter of fact, but a few minutes to chat will do me good, unbending my mind from the horrors of the McCarron case.” He slung his jacket over the arm of one of two chairs in front of Logan’s desk and sank in as if all his energy were seeping into the leather right along with him. Resting his head on the back, he loosened his tie. “So . . . what are you still doing here? I didn’t think anything kept you from family dinners.”
Heat circled Logan’s collar, and he quickly slanted back in his chair, one polished shoe propped against the carved wooden handle of his lowest drawer. “Not much usually does, but I’m afraid the Alberici embezzlement case would give the McCarron case a run for its money.” He scratched the back of his neck with a wry smile. “Actually thinking of passing it off to Jamie or Blake—whoever thrashes me first in pool.”
Bram laughed, the exhaustion in his face easing somewhat. “My vote is Blake, but only because I’m feeling a little sorry for Jamie right now.”
Logan settled back in his chair like Bram, head resting. “How so?”
A heavy exhale parted from Bram’s lips as he rubbed his temples. “Blake, Jamie, and I have been looking forward to the Barrister Ball since we stepped foot in law school, and now here it is, and Jamie can’t take Cass.”
The muscles at the back of Logan’s neck instantly tightened. “What? Why not? Is something wrong?”
He shook his head, his smile edged with sympathy. “Just a mild case of the flu, we think, but Cass woke up feeling like Blake after a hard night on the town—nausea, congestion, fever.” He scrunched his nose. “Kissed Jamie goodbye this morning, then retched all over his shoes.”
Logan grimaced. “Thank heavens it wasn’t Nick’s Italian oxfords—the man is downright obsessive about his shoes according to Alli.” He squinted in concern. “Is she okay?”
Bram nodded. “Mrs. McClare insisted on taking her home where she can get around-the-clock care, so Cass is safely tucked in her old bedroom, fawned over by Rosie, Hadley, and her aunt.” Bram exhaled. “But Jamie is worried about her, of course, and really disappointed she won’t be there to cheer him on as part of the city’s new crop of legal counsel.” Bram cocked his head to give Logan a wry smile. “So being the genius I am, I suggested Jamie take his sister Jess instead, since she has aspirations to be a lawyer, and he thought it was a brilliant idea.”
Logan relaxed, his gaze inquisitive. “Sounds brilliant to me.”
Bram’s smile went flat. “You’d think so, but then Jamie gets this bright idea to take his mother too, understandably, since she worked herself to the bone to put him through school.” He huffed out a sigh. “Unfortunately, he asked me to take Jess so he could take his mother.”
“Makes sense,” Logan said, grateful Jamie would have his sister and mother at one of the biggest events of his legal career.
Bram’s mouth took a twist. “He thought so too, since heaven knows I attend every wedding, wake, and whatnot by myself. But . . . unfortunately, for this esteemed affair my father railroaded me into taking Amelia Darlington.”
Logan couldn’t retain his smile. Ah, yes, Amelia Darlington—the sweet but flighty daughter of Henry Darlington, a self-made shipping tycoon on the rise who’d aligned himself with Bram’s father. A merger was in the making, no question, and not just with both men’s companies. It was no secret in financial circles that Henry Darlington had his sights set on another merger as well—a marriage between his daughter and Bram. And as an immigrant from the old country, Bram’s father’s often extolled the virtues of arranged marriages, citing his own as a match made in heaven. In fact, for as long as Logan could remember—at least every Christmas get-together with the McClares—Jeremiah had expressed his desire to see Bram settled with a woman of Jeremiah’s choosing, just like his father had done for him. And if that arranged marriage was one of convenience that also expanded the coffers of his company, then so be it.
Logan studied the young man before him with a full measure of respect, knowing Bram would honor his father at all costs. Even if that meant marrying a woman he didn’t love. Fortunately, his heart had never been claimed by another, so this marriage of convenience might very well be quite convenient for all. Especially given that Amelia Darlington was both pretty and personable, not to mention a young woman of like faith. Logan nodded with approval. “I like her, Bram. She’s young, but she has spunk and heart, and you could do wors
e.”
Bram scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “Agreed, but it seems Mr. James Foot-in-Mouth MacKenna jumped the gun and asked Jess and his mother before he asked me, and now he has to disappoint one of them.”
A frown puckered Logan’s brow. “What about Blake?” he asked, almost reluctant to subject either Jamie’s mother or sister to his wayward nephew.
Bram laughed as he peered at Logan beneath a beetled brow. “Blake the Rake McClare? The man who ushers one woman to a function while he flirts with the waitress and three others?” He shook his head. “No, even if Jamie wasn’t averse to asking your nephew, Blake already has a date for the ball, so he’s out of the question.”
Mouth compressed in thought, Logan stroked his chin, an idea germinating in his brain. Despite the fact he’d heard he’d been nominated for the Dickherber Civil Service Award, he’d considered forgoing the ball this year since Cait had declined his invitation. He preferred to shun the limelight rather than watch Turner escort her to one of the social events of the season, leaving tongues to wag as to the relationship between the two. But . . . at the last minute he’d decided that Jamie, Blake, and Bram were too important to miss honoring them as part of the city’s new crop of counselors. So what if he killed two birds with one stone, so to speak—helped Jamie out by taking his mother while showing Cait he had no ill feelings? The idea bore merit, he decided, a fact confirmed by the sudden peace he felt deep inside. He glanced up at Bram. “What if I were to escort Jamie’s mother?” he asked, the wild whim settling into a cozy fit, like house slippers warmed by the fire. “And he took his sister?”
Bram’s clear blue eyes blinked once and then twice, the statement obviously taking him by surprise. “You mean . . . you’d actually consider escorting Jamie’s . . .” His Adam’s apple dipped several times. “His mother to the ball?”