Читать книгу High Society Sabotage - Kathleen Long - Страница 9

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.