Tangled Web

By Maureen Green

Renee Gailbraith couldn't have foreseen that the launch of her revolutionary micro-chip would be life changing. Liam Polson, contracted by an underworld cartel to steal Renee’s invention, worms his way into her life,then defects from the cartel and marries her. As police and cartel agents pursue the newly-weds the body count rises. Pacy, violent action, danger & desire with a shock ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bev
• Release date: Aug 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458149374

Maureen Green

Maureen Green has been anything but quiet since her retirement, taking up writing in 2005. Maureen has published work across the genres to include young adult, short stories and adult crime fiction, winning competitions in all three genres. Passionate about bringing both published and unpublished authors’ works to readers, Maureen was one of the founders of the Author’s Mouth, a local writer/reader group which meets monthly and showcases local talent. Maureen’s works have been published in America, United Kingdom and Australia and New Zealand. List of published works: Short StoriesSecret Attic. Clean as a Whistle,T-Zero It’s great to be Me T-Zero Seagull SpongeLearning Media Children’s Works Dinosaur StompPublished 2008. -a children’s picture book New Hat Blue Hat - Something Story Publishing Kitchen Magic-Something Story Publishing Four Dragons -Bigziddlezot Multimedia 2006 Children's Book Award. An ancient legend recounting how the four great rivers of China were formed. Four Dragons-Print Magic in the Air - a children's anthology, edited and contributed 2 stories. Published Nov 2010 Rawiri the Little Spotted Kiwi To be published 2010 Young Adult Code of SilenceL&R Hartley, Publishers Code of Silence Print . . In Arthur’s FootstepsPublished 2009 - a young adult. Adult Consequences Literary Road Website Footprints -A collection of short stories contracted by a group of ex pat New Zealanders living in Australia, has been recognised in New Zealand as a work of historical significance.

Book preview

Prologue

He slit the envelope with a letter opener. He was impressed. The paper was fine quality linen, marbled like the matching unfranked envelope. It was a note from the highest level of the Organization, personally penned by Max.

In the top left-hand corner was the date: Thursday, 1st October, 2006. The text, written in copperplate Black Chancery, read:

Agent P2

My attention has been drawn to your tardiness in completing your contractual agreement. I remind you of your commitment to the Organization - and the penalty for failure.

Max

He let his breath out slowly. Max’s style, brief to the point of starkness, clear, concise, inviting no explanation, rattled him. He read the letter again and pushed it away. Humph, he grunted, a new broom, or the boss flexing some muscles. Through a magnifying glass, he examined a photograph of Renee Gailbraithe, the redheaded woman he’d studied for weeks in preparation for the hit on her. Then, glancing towards the note, he said, Max, I’m planning on a long, long life.

Chapter One

Will you walk into my parlour? said the Spider to the Fly,

'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I have many curious things to show you when you’re here."

Renee Gailbraithe stood in the foyer of the last place she wanted to be. She eyed the doors leading into the conference room, inhaled deeply, and allowed the air to sigh through her lips.

God! I hate being thrust into the limelight, she muttered as she ran her hands over her hipline to smooth out a wrinkle in the skirt of her body-hugging gown. Damn the Board. It’s not enough that I invented the microchip, now I have to do the bloody promotional speech about it.

She flicked an errant strand of her flame-red hair into place and steeled herself. With a stapled-on smile fixed firmly in place, she walked through the doors. The blast of people clamoring to be heard hit her in the face.

Darling, long time no see, gushed a woman dressed in a see-through pink chiffon outfit that did nothing except set her apart from the tastefully dressed crowd. She embraced Renee, pecked her on both cheeks, and placed a pen and programme into her hands. Your autograph, pleeease!

Renee pursed her lips, scribbled a few perfunctory words, handed the pen and booklet back, and then hurried to a quiet corner of the room. A wine waiter wearing a white, starched dickie, deep blue jacket, and trousers that made him look like a penguin, offered her wine. Barely containing her laughter, she chose Chardonnay. As she sipped the cool liquid, her eyes ranged over the crowd searching for a familiar face. The guests, she noted, were gathered into discrete groups - a sociological split determined by wealth. Centre stage was dominated by the grossly rich. Dressed for the occasion, the women dripped with jewels and greeted one another in their tightly-knit group with automated cheek-pecks. The men, oddly boyish older men, the type able to bed younger women, had their trophies attached to them like limpets. They drank copiously, whispered in their partners’ ears, and laughed discreetly.

The lesser-heeled groups, ethnically diverse in their make up, congregated in little cliques, chattered loudly, and observed the rich with envy.

One man in particular caught Renee’s attention. He seemed able to transcend the social barriers. Even from across the room she felt his charisma. Quite a handsome hunk, she thought as he flashed his white caps, shook men’s hands, kissed the ladies, made polite conversation, and then moved on to the next set.

Smooth, huh? He looks like he was born in a tuxedo.

Renee blinked, and a smile lit her face at the sound of the familiar voice.

Byron! I’m so glad to see you, she said as she turned to look at the bearded man who tugged at his collar in an effort to ease his Adam’s apple from its constraints.

I’m like a fish out of water amongst this lot, Byron said, studying her with interest. You scrub up well. The silence that followed didn’t last long, no more than the usual silence following a diffident remark, but for Renee it seemed endless. Byron took a step back, whistled low and said, Brains and beauty, you’ll knock ‘em dead!

Warmed by his flattery, Renee preened.

You think? she asked playfully as she sedately twirled a full circle. Suddenly she bumped against another body, champagne ballooned from her glass, splashed onto her chest, and trickled down into her cleavage. Bloody hell! she blurted. A bitchy remark forming in her mind, she spun to face the clumsy clod, but the cutting words stilled in her throat as her eyes widened at the sight of a pulse-quickening hunk of a man. Her eyes took in the stranger’s craggy good looks: dark brown curly hair spilled over a tanned brow; his eyes, more blue than grey, were underpinned by a square jaw and pouty lips that held her spellbound. His scent, a mix of male musk and cologne, triggered steamy thoughts in her mind, and she felt an unaccustomed blush rise on her cheeks.

I’m sorry, he mouthed and gave a klutzy grin.

A current raced up and down Renee’s spine and she breathed with an unfamiliar rhythm. This stranger stirred feelings she’d never felt - an instant attraction - electric and breathtaking. She tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t. And the stranger was no better; he stood in silence shifting his weight from one foot to the other, moving his eyes slowly over her body - his appraisal confident and strong - each inspection longer, heavier, more intimate. Unnerved, Renee took one step back. With a fire burning inside, she forced herself to concentrate on breathing deep, slow breaths. As her pulse settled to a more normal rhythm, she turned and started to walk away. A hand resting lightly on her shoulder spun her around. Her stomach somersaulted, her body felt oddly sensitive and aware. She felt the man’s breath against her cheek, saw the five-o’clock shadow that shaded his jaw, and best of all, the mouth. A mouth, seasoned with experience, that smiled easily and grinned wickedly. Lust threatened to sideline her effrontery.

Liam, he said, his eyes wide, twinkling, and a smile playing along his lips.

Renee’s throat burned and sealed closed.

Liam Polson, he reiterated, his teeth flashing white. He dropped his voice low and spoke softly, seductively. Now that we’ve met, my life will never be the same. The compliment was accompanied with a raising and lowering of the eyebrows.

Gorgeous and devoid of brains; just my luck, Renee thought. She tried to laugh, but it came out broken and strangled. Something about the way his mouth kinked at the corners made her feel coquettish and her laughter trailed off. She smiled bitchily.

Oh, spare me clichés. Is that all you can manage, after ruining my dress?

Liam’s face twisted in surprise and Renee saw something in his eyes, something intense, hot, and dangerous. He flung his head back and laughed - an infectious laugh that set heads turning. Everyone in the room stopped and stared before resuming their chatter.

And you are? he asked, cocking his head to one side and cupping his hand behind his left ear for a moment in query.

Silently she regarded him with his long legs braced and hands resting lightly on his hips. She felt the flush on her face deepen - it felt good to be tempted.

Renee Gailbraithe, she said throwing caution to the wind.

Do you forgive me?

She nodded her acquiescence.

Will you let me make amends? Take you to dinner?

Renee’s heart skipped a beat at the seductive promise in Liam’s voice. She could feel the blood pulse in her veins, and a strange heaviness in the pit of her stomach. She felt emotionally charged, all dressed up and ready - gloriously ready. From under her mascara-highlighted eyelashes she looked up into his face and hesitated.

You’re teasing, aren’t you? Liam asked.

Maybe.

You’re going to make me wait? He said nothing more, just looked at her, his chest rising and falling with quickened breaths. His eyes were focused, alert, alive, studying her with curiosity. His silence conveyed strength and power.

Renee’s stomach churned.

Call me, she said, struggling with the power he seemed to have over her. She looked away and stared across the room as she felt a sudden stab of panic. She wasn’t used to male domination; she always picked her own marks.

A warm hand on her bare arm drew her eyes back to Liam’s face. His scent went straight to her brain. She felt his hot breath, only inches from her face, warming her lips, she imagined kissing the seasoned-with-experience mouth, tasting it, sharing its secrets - and giving up some of her own. Are you crazy? Renee’s brain screamed. With supreme effort she pulled back, shocked by her lascivious thoughts.

Liam’s eyes sparkled and, as if he had read her mind, his lips curled in a cheeky smile.

Your phone number? he said, as he slid a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket.

Renee pulled a lipstick from her evening bag, and with shaking hands scrawled the numerals on the linen - big and bold. She wanted to be found.

Chapter Two

Tucked away in the corner of the conference room, Wallace Rice, a long-time crime reporter, watched the gossip-hungry crowd eddying. His mood was black. He had hardly believed his ears when his chief editor, Matt Jurgenson, stopped at his desk as he sorted his mail and sent his mind spinning into defensive mode.

Rice, I need someone to cover a cocktail evening. A launch of shares for The Firm, he’d said.

Just like school days - always addressing people with the use of surnames instead of their proper title, Wallace thought as he eyed him. His jaw fell when he realized that Matt wasn’t joking.

What? Cover a social event? Why me? he blurted as he waved his arm in the direction of other reporters seated in their small carrels engaged in paperwork. Send one of them.

Matt ignored Wallace’s remark. A mountain of social engagements landed on my desk. Everyone’s out covering events. You’re it.

It’s not my scene. I hate cocktail evenings!

Matt fixed Wallace with a steely stare. Invitation’s here, he said, throwing the card onto the desk. Be there!

Grudgingly, Wallace picked up the embossed invitation and scanned it. What the hell’s The Firm? he called to Matt’s departing form.

A technologies laboratory. Renee Gailbraithe, the owner, has developed a revolutionary microchip and we need to know about it.

What if something breaks?

We’ll cover it.

Fuck! Wallace spat. Crime reporting was his domain; he hated leaving the door open for someone else to muscle in on his sacred ground.

God, I’m like a fish out of water here amongst this pretentious nonsense, Wallace growled to his camera man, Ryan Mitchell, as he tugged at the borrowed formal trousers to ease the tightness that threatened to cut him in half.

Ryan flat-eyed Wallace. He was a Young Turk who worked out at the gym, thought he was a genius with his camera, and slagged off all others who worked in his field.

Jesus, you’re a pain. Grumpy old man! Stuff you, he quipped unsympathetically. I’m going to enjoy myself. I don’t get too many opportunities like this. And without a backward glance, he sallied forth into the sea of bodies and began snapping.

Old? Wallace thought. Little prick! I’m only thirty-six. Stung by Ryan’s testy remarks, his eyes followed the young man’s progress through the room. Wallace’s feral antenna, the part of him that wired his thoughts, spotted connections and linked memories, kicked in when he noticed an immaculately-dressed man sidle up to a stunning redheaded woman and jolt her arm. He was an absurdly handsome man, tanned to the color of tea, and something about him seemed familiar - the set of his jaw, the smile, the head tilt, and the touch of arrogance in his face. A memory stirred in Wallace’s mind. Intuition told him there was a story here, something out of the ordinary, headline-grabbing, even something sinister. He galvanized into action, darted from the security of his corner, and grabbed Ryan’s shoulder.

What the hell? Ryan started as he whipped round.

Those two - shoot them.

Ryan trained his camera, got the shot, and looked at Wallace in a questioning manner.

The man - close-ups - all angles, Wallace exhorted.

Ryan moved closer, his camera clicking as he photographed.

What was that all about? he asked as he returned to Wallace’s side.

A hunch. He’s up to no good.

Ryan wrinkled his nose. You reporters - always dramatizing.

Instead of rising to the bait, Wallace asked, Who’s the woman?

That, said Ryan, his voice tinged with triumph and conspiratorial tones, is none other than Renee Gailbraithe, the interview-and-camera-shy inventor of the most desirable microchip on the planet. And, by God, I’ve snapped her! I can’t wait to get back to the office - they’ll all be livid they missed out.

But Wallace wasn’t listening to Ryan’s bitchiness. His eyes wide, he took in Renee’s form - her flaming red, shoulder-length hair, and the body-hugging gown that accentuated the way her hips flared from a wasp waist. His eyes caressed her body taking in the details: full, soft breasts; the curve of her hips leading to long legs and sculptured ankles; high cheekbones defined by a natural flush; eyebrows arched over wide, blue eyes; and a thin, straight nose above full lips, plumped and pink. She wore no jewellery other than pearl studs in her ear lobes and a matching string of pearls that rode the swell of her bosom. From her actions, she seemed to be flirting with the man who’d piqued his curiosity.

And do you know the man?

Nope, Ryan shot back.

You know most of the who’s who and you’ve got smooge genes, Wallace said. See what you can find out.

Ryan’s mouth opened and closed, finally he found his words.

You sure know how to rub people up the wrong way, Wallace, he grumbled. I’m a social being. I don’t suck up.

Wallace circled the room cautiously, trying to be jovial and failing miserably. Waistcoated caterers passed out flaky canapés and champagne. The guests, mostly middle-aged, the men paunchy and the women dripping with jewels, stood in clusters picking over the week’s gossip and sniping at those higher up on the social ladder. Wallace retreated to his corner. His face muscles ached from holding a fixed smile, and his head whirled from the senseless prattle he’d endured. Holding a champagne glass in his hand, he watched the bubbles rise, pop and spit minuscule jets of spray into the air - and wished he were anyplace else.

Not your scene, eh, said a grossly overweight, craggy-eye-browed man in his late fifties as he stood in front of Wallace and fixed him with a stare. He was short and pear-shaped, extraordinarily rotund for a man no more than five foot nine. Except for a few strands of hair plastered over the top of his pate, he was almost bald. His brown eyes, nearly buried in flesh, were alert and inquisitive.

It’s that obvious?

The stranger nodded his head. It’s the way you clutch the glass and glower at it as if you hate it.

Pretentious stuff, Wallace said, eyeing the champagne with distaste. I’d give my right arm for a beer.

That can be arranged. I’m Jack Daniels.

Wallace’s eyebrows shot up. You’re the whisky baron?

My name always creates confusion, and I don’t even like the stuff. Jack chuckled as he proffered his podgy hand and pumped Wallace’s up and down in a bone-crushing grip. Nice to meet a man after my own heart.

When the hand-pumping was over and his fingers checked for damage, Wallace introduced himself.

I’m Wallace Rice.

Well I’ll be! Rice, the crime reporter. What are you doing here?

Penance!

Jack Daniels laughed heartily, tugged at his tuxedo collar and massaged his chafed neck.

Off-side with your editor, eh?

No, Wallace said, more forcefully than he meant to, we’re understaffed.

Fancy a beer? I’ve got to get out of this stuffed shirt.

Wallace’s eyes lit up.

What’ll it be? Daniels asked as he eased his bulk into a plush leather chair in the private lounge bar, unclipped the ready-made bowtie, and unbuttoned the stiff collar. The Firm’s shout.

Wallace’s brow rocketed up. You’re with The Firm?

Chairman, Daniels said.

Think you can stand a Kilkenny?

Daniels’ eyes sparkled. With the share float and the contracts we’ve landed, not a problem.

Thought you’d scarpered, Ryan said as Wallace caught up with him later, still roaming the conference room searching for likely subjects to snap and question.

I’ve been . . ., Wallace said, pausing to achieve the maximum impact of his words on his youthful colleague. I’ve been interviewing the Chairman of the Board.

Oh? was all Ryan could muster.

What’d you learn about the guy talking to Renee Gailbraithe?

Not much. His name’s Liam Polson. Not a regular at social functions. He’s supposed to be a kind of gofer for the rich. They want it, he finds it.

Wallace’s eyes widened as theft and industrial espionage flashed through his mind.

Dig up any dirt?

Squeaky clean, it seems. The officer in charge of the police district, the guy over there in his regalia, knows nothing about him.

We’re done here then, back to the office. I need those pictures as soon as you’ve uploaded them.

The presentation?

Forget it, Wallace snapped, I’ve been fully briefed by the Chairman.

Chapter Three

Renee had awakened bubbling with anticipation of what the day might bring. In a small, but not cramped, contemporary flat that suited her, her morning was encased in a warm glow. As she worked, she hovered near the phone. But as the day faded without a call from Liam, her spirits dampened and she cursed herself for not getting his number. She peered through the window into skies heavily laden with black clouds, bodysurfed onto the couch, and propped her head on a cushion. Her hand started to reach for the television remote, but instead she grabbed the phone and dialed the number for her friend, Chloe Bagnall. With rising frustration, she waited as the ring-tone burred along the line. Pick up. Pick up for Christ’s sake, she grated. Finally, a barely audible voice wafted along the line.

Chloe? Renee here, is that you?

Renee . . . how . . . I . . . of . . .

Renee strained her ears trying to catch the words.

Speak up, Chloe, I can barely hear you. The line crackled and a continuous tone whined in Renee’s ear. Shit, she said as she slammed the phone back on its cradle and stared at it with hate. Her feelings swinging from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other, she was shocked by the extent of her depression. She felt caged, bored, restless.

At her cell phone’s ring-tone, she ran into the bedroom for her purse. Her spirits lifted at the sound of Chloe’s voice.

Bad line, Renee. Sorry about that.

Cabin fever, Renee blurted. I’ve got to get out. Do you want a drink and a chat?

Love to. I’ve nothing on today.

How about the local?

Three o’clock, then. I’m dying to tell you about the strange meeting I had with a reporter.

What have you been up to? Renee quipped playfully.

Oh! He didn’t want to know about me; he said he was doing a feature on you.

This jolted Renee into silence.

Arms outstretched, Chloe ran across the parking lot as Renee climbed from her car, then smothered her in their traditional greeting - a bear hug. She stepped back, beamed at her friend, and slid a professionally-wrapped parcel from her deep coat pocket.

What’s this for?

Cutting across Renee’s question, Chloe said, Your birthday present, silly. Don’t open it ‘til Wednesday.

Renee’s hand flew to her mouth. My God, I’ve been so busy with the promotion, I’d quite forgotten. Hell, I’ll be thirty-five!

Chloe laughed. Join the club! she said as she snuggled further down into her coat and turned up the collar. A conspiratorial smile twitched at the corners of her lips. Have I got a doozey of a story for you. Come on, let’s get inside. It’s bloody cold out here.

The bar was crowded when Renee and Chloe pushed their way through the swinging doors. We’ll have to stand, Renee said. Shall we stay?

Wait a sec, Chloe said, as she sashayed towards two men seated at a table. Renee watched spellbound as Chloe bent over the table and spoke to them in tones too low for her to hear. They nodded their heads, tossed back the last of their beer, then rose and carried their empty glasses to the bar. Chardonnay, thanks! Chloe called cheekily and they waved.

Our table, Chloe called to Renee as she beckoned.

You know them? Renee asked as she reached her friend’s side.

No, she said as she planted her behind on a chair.

Then, how?

I saw they’d almost finished their drinks, so I asked for the table.

And the drink?

Just a jocular remark, she replied, and stopped mid-sentence to beam at the dark haired man approaching the table.

Here you go, one wine. What about your friend?

Oh, no need, you’ve already . . . , Renee said, more quickly than she’d intended.

No bother, you know, he said flashing a smile that showed his white even teeth. A bet, he said, nodding to his companion. He said I wouldn’t dare.

If you insist, Renee said, smiling and entering the spirit of the wager, a light beer, thanks.

Chloe arched her eyebrows. I haven’t seen you drink that before.

I’m driving.

Our wings are clipped now, not like the days when we were at university, Chloe said, as she sipped her wine.

Renee sat silent, watching her friend, impatient to hear her story. Chloe, a successful architect specializing in million-dollar homes, had an eye for detail and just loved relating her experiences verbatim.

Tell me about the reporter, Renee prompted.

It was the strangest thing, Chloe began.

How do you mean strange? Renee asked as she sipped her beer.

"This guy shows up, just as I was clearing away before my dinner break, wanting to speak with me. He flashed reporter’s credentials and asked for an interview. ‘I’m just about to go to lunch, how about later,’ I said. He said, ‘I’ll take you to lunch. I’m told you and Renee Gailbraithe have been friends since you first started school. It would be great if you could provide me with some background information.’

"Who am I to turn down a free lunch, I thought. The guy looked harmless. He had craggy looks with dark, curly brown hair flecked at the sides with a little splatter of grey. He was a heart stopper. His smile kind of kinked at the corners, and he had nice even white teeth. He was deeply tanned and dressed in a very expensive suit.

Renee’s mind piqued with interest.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but it had better be a good restaurant.’ He chuckled, and I got my jacket. He took me to The Heritage - you know that five-star hotel that used to be Farmers department store? Very glitzy and expensive. We ordered lunch and while we ate he asked questions.

What did he want to know? Renee pressed.

Well, he wanted to know where you were born, where you went to school, who your mother was, and when you first showed interest in technologies.

Renee held back a myriad of questions as Chloe took a breath and launched again into her recitation.

After twenty minutes of questioning, I said, ‘you haven’t asked me anything about Renee’s and my friendship. I thought you wanted background. Then he did the weirdest thing. Chloe’s eyes flickered sideways.

What?

Well, his square jaw tightened, his face contorted, and he sprang to his feet. In strident tones that hushed the restaurant, he shouted, ‘You’ve been no help to me at all. Pay for your own bloody meal,’ then he turned on his heel and walked out of the restaurant.

He didn’t!

Yes, he did. I was flabbergasted. If I see that bozo again, I’ll give him a piece of my mind.

Renee’s brow creased into a frown. Did you get his name?

Yes. It was Liam. Didn’t get his last name.

Renee paled and her breathing shallowed. She was barely able to restrain a cry of surprise. "I met a man at the cocktail party last night. A Liam Polson. A real hunk of a man. He quite took my eye.

Never! Chloe blurted. Do you think it was the same person? It did cross my mind that the guy’s muscular build and bronzed body wasn’t consistent with what he said he did. What happened last night? Tell me all.

You wouldn’t believe the trouble the directors took to impress the guests. Seafoods like crayfish, paua, and oysters, and all kinds of colorful, fresh crudités, and the New Zealand wines went down a treat.

And?

We stood around with a bunch of investors and a few ‘who’s who’ types, and talked to those who are influential.

And? Chloe said, giving the ‘rev it up’ signal.

Her face a picture of seriousness, Renee continued to tease out her story.

After my presentation, the well-heeled couldn’t write their checks fast enough. They wanted to make sure they didn’t miss out on the limited bundles of stock shares.

For God’s sake, Renee! Chloe blurted. When did you meet this so-called reporter?

Well, Renee began in a low confiding whisper, and eased into recounting her meeting with Liam. Chloe dwelt on her every word. From time to time, her nose wrinkled and she frowned.

When the tale was told, Chloe rocked back and forth on the two hind legs of her chair as if lost in deep thought. Suddenly she stopped rocking and leaned across the table toward Renee. From what you’ve told me, I think your Liam and my reporter is the same man.

You think?

Who else? The idiosyncratic smile, the Svengali eyes, and of course his charisma. She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket and cautioned, "Take care, Renee. Underneath that glitzy exterior is something steely and menacing. I don’t know