Scandal Never Sleeps

  Damn, but Mad would have hated the idea of eternal rest, of peace. The fucking bastard had never rested. He’d always been scheming up a new plan and forever instigating chaos.

  He’d also left behind problems Gabe didn’t even want to think about. But he would have to in about six months, when his sister had her baby.

  He stared at that ridiculously expensive urn and thought about smashing it in rage. It would serve Mad right to be vacuumed up by a handheld sweeper.

  He turned away and caught a glimpse of his sister. Sara sat in the well-polished pews of the Church of St. Ignatius Loyola. She was discreetly in the middle, not wanting to call attention to herself. Wearing a black Prada sheath, with her tawny hair in a neat bun, she looked like she belonged amid the marble finery of the Upper East Side church because she did. Sara was Manhattan born and bred. Unlike her older brother, she’d never been shipped off to boarding school. Even in the face of grief, she comported herself like a lady.

  Her eyes might be red, but she stared straight ahead, her shoulders back and her head held high. And she was carrying Maddox Crawford’s baby. That fucking asswipe hadn’t kept his promises—any of them.

  I’ll watch after her, Gabe. You don’t have to worry. I love her. It’s stupid but for the first time in my life, I’m in love. You’re my best friend in the world. I know I’ve been a jerk in the past, but I’ve always taken care of you. Now I’ll take care of her, too.

  He’d been a dumbass to let Sara date Mad. It should have been a no-brainer that the asshole would seduce and dump her. Mad hadn’t been as faithful to Sara as he had been to his MO. Christ, everything about their relationship had been utterly predictable—except Mad’s die-in-a-plane-crash routine, but the rest of it . . . Fuck, he could have written that book.

  “Hey, I think they’re ready to start the service,” a quiet voice said from behind him.

  Gabe turned. There stood Roman Calder in his customary three-piece suit, which Gabe knew he purchased from a London tailor twice a year. He made the voyage from DC to the UK under the auspices of diplomacy, but it was really about those suits. And now that Roman was here, Gabe wanted to know one thing. “Is he coming?”

  Roman sighed, his face falling slightly. “You know how busy he is. He sent me. And you’ll have me for a few more days. I’m staying over for a fundraiser.”

  Gabe shouldn’t have expected a different answer. Mad had been a terrifically controversial figure. In a world where the one-percenters were vilified, Mad had been the poster child for rich, bad-boy behavior. If he wasn’t screwing some small company out of its profits, he’d been humping a supermodel.

  Gabe wished he’d stuck to those women and left his sister alone. “Let him know we missed him.”

  He turned and started back down the aisle. There wasn’t a family pew. Mad had been the last of his line, his father having died of a heart attack two years before. That had struck Gabe as odd, since he’d been sure Benedict Crawford hadn’t possessed a heart.

  “You have to forgive him. You know he’s torn up. He got the news during a press conference,” Roman said under his breath. “A fucking reporter brought it up after his speech on the immigration reform bill. He was completely caught off guard.”

  Gabe had seen the news clips. Hell, everyone in the country had seen the president of the United States stop in the middle of a Q and A with the press, turn, and walk away. “Tell Zack not to sweat it. We all get it. He’s got huge responsibilities.”

  Roman followed him down the second pew, where Dax had reserved their seats. “You have to understand how the press would interpret his attendance. After the way Mad lived the last couple months of his life, I couldn’t advise it. He hates that he can’t be here.”

  Gabe knew exactly how the last two months had gone. After Mad had dumped Sara, he’d gone a little crazy, drinking by the gallon and painting the town red with models and actresses. But Gabe suspected what others couldn’t: Mad had been protecting someone. No idea who. His best guess was that, after dumping Sara, he’d found a new mistress and used all the other women to divert the tabloids’ attention from the new object of his desire. That had been Mad’s MO, and he’d heavily relied on bait-and-switch tactics when he had been hounded by the press. Gabe should probably let it lie, but he wanted to know the identity of that woman. He wanted to know if Mad’s new mistress had any inkling of the pain she’d caused by luring Mad away from Sara.

  “I hate that I have to be here in the first place.” Dax stood and stuck out a hand. Like everyone else in the church, he looked grim.

  Gabe shook it, studying his old friend and wondering where the hell the years had gone. It was hard to believe they’d all been kids together, their worst problems being math tests and how to sneak over to the girls’ school so they could make out. So many of his childhood memories were shared with the other men in this pew. And the one in that damn urn. “Brother, it’s good to see you. I thought you were somewhere in the Pacific.”

  “I came home the minute I heard. I had some leave.” Dax’s gaze shifted as he stared at the place where Mad’s coffin lay. “Why the coffin? He’s not in there. From what I understand, there was barely enough left to cremate.”

  Gabe’s stomach threatened to turn. He didn’t want to think about how Mad had died. Sure, in his darkest moments he’d thought about killing the fucker himself, but damn, he’d loved the guy, too.

  Never let ’em see you sweat, Gabe. That’s the key to bullies. You walk by. You flip ’em off. If they give you real trouble, you take them down in a way that ensures they stay down. You go for the kill because that’s the way of the wild, my man.

  Gabe had learned that lesson from him. At the time, Mad had been talking about the bully upperclassmen at their school, but Gabe had taken that lesson into business. If he was going to take down someone, he made damn sure they couldn’t get back up. Ever.

  “The coffin is there for show. Apparently, people want something substantial to stare at during the service. That’s what the coordinator said.” Gabe sighed.“The picture doesn’t count, and the urn is too small.”

  There was a large poster of Maddox in front of the empty coffin. He was dressed in a custom-made Brooks Brothers suit, smirking at the camera like a douchebag. But then, he’d always looked like that.

  Would his baby inherit that smirk? That never-ending thrill for life Mad had possessed?

  Damn you for leaving us behind. And damn you for what you did to my sister, but I fucking wish you were here.

  He sat on the pew, his brain buzzing. He’d gotten the news five days ago and it still hadn’t quite penetrated. He kept expecting to turn around and see Mad walking toward him with that damn smirk, drink in hand. It was wrong to consider someone as alive as Maddox Crawford dead.

  “Hey,” a familiar voice said. Gabe turned to find Connor, dressed in a button-down shirt and pressed slacks. Just another normal guy—except for the fact that Gabe knew he was Agency. The CIA had claimed Connor long ago, and any illusion of normalcy he donned was really a mask. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Gabe stood and put his hand out. Connor took it. “It’s good to see you.”

  It had been at least a year since they’d been in the same room. They kept up via e-mail and the occasional phone call where Connor never mentioned what country he was in. “You, too.”

  “Do you know anything about his death?” Gabe murmured. “Have you looked into the incident?”

  They all leaned in. Connor dealt in secrets. Oh, he might say he was simply an analyst, but there was no way Connor wasn’t an asset, as they would call him in the Agency. Even though they’d been friends for years, Connor had changed, become more distant, colder. Deadlier. No, Gabe didn’t buy that Connor sat in front of a computer. Connor got his hands dirty.

  “I don’t know anything, guys,” he said with an apologetic frown. “I’m sorry.”

  Roman shook his head. “It’s not a CIA matter. The FAA is handling it. Trust me, I’ve been up their ass
about it. So has Zack.”

  “I called in my contacts,” Connor said. “They told me the investigation is in its early stages. They have the black box and they’re carefully probing the wreckage. There were reports of high winds in the area where he went down. The working theory is the plane hit a storm system and the pilot lost control.”

  Gabe had heard that theory. It was difficult to think that a storm had taken down Maddox Crawford. He’d been a force of nature himself. Mad should have been shot by a furious husband—or brother.

  “I promise, I’ll make sure you all get the final report,” Roman murmured. He nodded toward the aisle. “Is that who I think it is? What’s her name? Tavia?”

  Gabe looked up. A gorgeous blonde with killer cheekbones strode quickly toward the coffin. Mad had hired Tavia Gordon—and paid her well—to be his public relations guru. And he’d kept her hopping. From what Gabe could tell, Tavia had spent all her waking hours putting out the fires Mad had been prone to start. Though a bit tall and fashionably thin for his taste, she had a delicate, aristocratic face. No denying she was an icy beauty.

  He’d wondered more than once if Mad had thrown Sara over for Tavia. Because there must have been a woman. With Mad, there always had been. Had his buddy worked his playboy angle to throw the paparazzi off his PR Girl Friday/mistress so she wouldn’t be inundated? He’d wondered if Mad had been trying to protect Sara, but given the cruel way he’d cut her out of his life . . . Gabe gnashed his teeth. He couldn’t focus on that now or he’d think very ill of the dead.

  As Tavia dashed to her seat, she pulled a tissue out of her Gucci bag. He’d never seen her look less than perfect, but today her eyes were a bit puffy, her nose red.

  The pastor stepped out, and the great organ began a mournful dirge. The Mander Organ, one of the most famous organs in North America, now played for Maddox Crawford. He would have enjoyed that.

  “Hey, should we bring Sara up here?” Roman asked, his eyes straying back. “It looks like she’s alone.”

  Oh, she wasn’t alone. Not in the strictest sense, but he wasn’t going to mention her pregnancy to anyone yet. “No, we chose to sit apart. The tabloids tend to ignore her. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  They wouldn’t ignore him. He tried to keep a low profile, but Mad’s death would likely send the damn tabloids into a feeding frenzy. The last of the Crawfords gone to his just reward, marking the end of an era.

  God, when had he gotten so fucking old?

  Dax settled in. “Why here? I never imagined Mad having a church funeral. I always thought when he went, we’d give him a Viking funeral in the swimming pool at some swanky hotel in Vegas. Seriously, I looked up how to loop those pool noodles together to make a proper raft for his corpse. I was thinking of killing him at the time. It was right after he hired those hookers, then stiffed me with the bill for both of them.”

  Connor’s lips turned up briefly. “That send-off sounds fitting. Mad never wanted to be predictable. Or we could have an Irish wake. But I can’t believe he wanted all this pomp and circumstance in a house of God.”

  Only because the others hadn’t known that deep down Mad actually adored all the attention from reporters and TMZ. He’d laughed when the paparazzi chased him down Park Avenue. The man had never met a scandal that hadn’t flipped his switch. He’d also had a deep devotion to history. Sort of.

  Gabe snorted. “Jackie O’s funeral was held here. You know he always thought he should have been born a Kennedy. Since he hadn’t been, he decided to one-up her with more spectacle.”

  Roman groaned. “Dumbass.”

  Connor took a deep breath, obviously stifling a laugh. “He always did think he was American royalty, the bastard. So are you giving a big speech?”

  “No. Since Mad planned this whole shindig before his death, he farmed that out. His lawyer hired a Broadway star to read the letter he left behind to the world. Can you believe that? The fucker wrote his own eulogy and hired a Tony winner to read it.”

  Roman looked down at the pew, repressing a laugh. “I thought I recognized that guy. God, Mad was such a douchebag. I miss him already.”

  “The priest is going to say a couple of things, after which I was supposed to persuade Christina Aguilera to sing a moving hymn. Yeah, that didn’t happen. Apparently she’s got a life and a career. So Mad will have to settle for the Met’s new diva. She was available—but not cheap. I ignored his request for a burlesque dancer and an open bar in the sanctuary.” Gabe rolled his eyes, not even asking what Mad had been thinking. Anything to raise a brow . . . “The good news is, there’s no reception line and none of us have to speak. We can keep a low profile.”

  “Maybe he knew what we’d say if given a mic and the chance,” Connor muttered.

  Someone shushed them, and that had them all grinning. It was good to know that twenty plus years later, they could still get into trouble.

  Gabe sighed as he caught sight of the urn again. They’d always been good at getting into trouble. Now Gabe would have one last opportunity to clean up Mad’s mess.

  • • •

  An hour later, Gabe settled his sister into a limo. The crowd was finally starting to thin out. So many people, and they were all a blur to Gabe. He’d kept his head down, hoping he didn’t have to talk too much. Funerals, he’d discovered, annoyed him mightily. Just when he needed to be alone to mourn and think, he found himself surrounded by others. He didn’t need to comfort a bunch of people who hadn’t really been close to Mad. He needed to comfort the one who had been the closest.

  Or at least she’d thought so. But his sister was overwrought and battling morning sickness that lasted long into the afternoon, so he was letting her go.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay out at the beach? I’m sorry I can’t leave the city for a couple of weeks. There’s too much to do. I’m meeting with Mad’s lawyer Monday, and I need to spend the weekend prepping. At the very least, I’m going to have to deal with the foundation or whatever group he left the company to.”

  Sara nodded. Her demeanor appeared perfectly calm, but he didn’t miss the way her hands fisted around the handkerchief on her lap. “We’ll be okay. The Hamptons are quiet this time of year. I’ll stay for a while and think things through. After the news has died down, I can come back and have the baby. If anyone asks, I’ll say I had a fling when I traveled to Paris on business in June.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “I really believed that if he had time to think, to miss what we had, he’d come back. That will never happen now.”

  “Sara, I know you loved him, but he was only a man. And not always a good one.”

  Tavia Gordon, racing from the building, snagged his gaze. He wondered vaguely how she ran in those towering shoes. Shaking his head, he stepped between Sara and Tavia to block his sister’s view. He didn’t want her to be hurt any more by coming face-to-face with Mad’s possible mistress.

  Sara frowned, the cool breeze tugging at the few loose tendrils of her golden hair. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. You go on. Take care. I’ll call you after I meet with the lawyer.” He needed to figure out how big the clusterfuck was. Crawford Industries should go to Mad’s heir. Gabe intended to fight the will to ensure his niece’s or nephew’s future.

  She nodded. As Gabe closed the door, she turned to the driver. Then the limo pulled onto Eighty-fourth Street. As he watched the car roll out of sight, another woman caught his eye.

  She stood out in the crowd. Short and curvy, with a massive amount of wavy strawberry-blond hair, she was like a sprite among the elven supermodels. Every other woman walking down the street looked emaciated and fashionably plastic to him, but Little Red was obviously not a devotee of surgical beauty. No, those breasts were real.

  Gabe couldn’t take his damn eyes off them. They weren’t huge, but a nice handful, he estimated. They would be soft. He could tell from the way they moved. She wore a black dress with tiny white dots and a Tiffany blue belt that cinched her waist, showing
off her hourglass figure. He pinned her age somewhere close to twenty-five, maybe a year or two older, but something about her—maybe her fair skin and curls—drew him in.

  “Hey, I thought I lost you.” A young man in a stylish suit caught up to her and slid his hand into hers.

  Had she been in the church? No. Surely he would have noticed her. Besides, he knew high-quality clothes when he saw them and hers, while pretty, were mass-produced and inexpensive. Her shoes were well made but not designer, and her purse looked a little like a burlap sack. Doubtful that she was one of the label whores exiting Mad’s funeral.

  As they walked by, she smiled up at the man, her unabashed affection hitting Gabe straight in the gut. How long had it been since a woman looked at him while her obvious joy lit up his world? Maybe never. The women he dated always had their eyes on a prize: moving up in the world. No matter how nice they seemed, they were ambitious females on the prowl, always looking for more money, more power, a better social position. They didn’t want him; they wanted the life he could provide. Which meant that the women he dated didn’t hold hands as they walked down the street. Nor did they smile up at him brilliantly with undisguised sensuality. They sure as hell didn’t have soft, real breasts that bounced gently with every step.

  Gabe watched as the couple made their way down the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner. He hissed. She had a spectacular ass, too. Simply watching her curves made his whole body heat up. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

  Sex had become a rote activity, something he did because he needed it. But watching the girl with the strawberry-colored hair, he realized how long it had been since he’d simply wanted a woman because she flipped his switch. He hadn’t seen her at the funeral, so he had to think she was just another pretty girl taking in an autumn afternoon in Manhattan.