That gorgeous smile was a devilish assault on her senses. “That was me being seductive,” he said. “In case you were wondering.”
She stared into his dark eyes, his gaze so sweet and searching. She ached for more, to just throw herself into it. The longing was so sharp, it hurt.
She’d forgotten all her troubles. For the duration of that kiss, they had simply vanished.
So fucking dangerous. Shut this down. Right now.
It took a moment to get her voice under control. “I need to get going,” she said. “I expect you need to go guard Fiona now, right? You should probably go do that.”
“Yeah, she needs to get that food home,” Nate said. “Anton’s hungry for lunch. I’ll take her back to Demi’s house, but once she’s there, she and Anton will be covered by Jim and Mitch. So I could take a break, if you wanted to hang out. Talk about stuff.”
The implied invitation made her head spin. She could make this fantasy come true, at least once, before she left this place forever. Today. She wouldn’t have to lie awake at night wondering what it would have been like for the rest of her life.
However short that might be.
Then she saw it again, in her mind’s eye. She was always seeing it, on some level of her consciousness. Flashing lights, crime scene tape, and her friend Willis’s body, zipped into a black bag. All her fault, for involving him. Not understanding the danger. All her fault, for fatally underestimating Gil’s ruthlessness and cruelty.
“I’m not free to hang out.” She edged away. “I’m sorry, but the timing’s wrong. I have a million things to do. I need to finish those menu boards, and help finish up the ravioli, and we have to go set up the kitchen stations at Bluff House as soon as they wrap up the lunch buffet today. I won’t have a second to spare.”
Nate stuck his hands in his pockets and stepped back, resigned. “Okay,” he said lightly. “See you at the wedding, then. Will you save me a dance?”
“I’ll be working at the wedding,” she told him. “Working like a galley slave. That’s the café’s kitchen staff’s wedding present to Demi. A perfectly catered feast.”
“I’ll be on duty, too, but we should be able to swing one dance.”
“What part of ‘working like a galley slave’ do you not understand?” She gave him an awkward wave as she stepped through the door. “See you tomorrow.”
At the top of the stairs, she unlocked her door, and turned to look. Nate was still there, looking up through the glass, making sure she got safely inside. He gave her a nod and a wave, and vanished.
She felt deflated as she looked at the empty window frame. She wanted to run down the steps and yell after him to come right back this second, and fulfil all her wildest erotic fantasies. Drive away the dark with his seductive magic. Make good on his teasing. The pull of those dark, melting bedroom eyes. That mind-altering kiss.
Wake up, girl. She had bigger problems. Sex would just have to wait.
Elisa looked around herself at the small apartment. She’d covered the walls with paper. Her sketches and drawings were scrawled all over it, and tacked up everywhere. It was a private act of rebellion, turning her apartment into an artist’s studio because finally, she could. No one looming over telling her it was stupid. No one publishing scathing reviews about how her work was puerile and derivative.
Dad had never wanted her to paint at all. He had been a software engineer, a tech guy, all science, math and business. He didn’t get the point of art. He’d vetoed her dream of going to art school, and refused to let her major in art in college. She’d majored in economics, of all things.
Gil hadn’t approved of her passion for art, either, though he hadn’t made that opinion known until well after they were married. It had been a shock, finding out that he considered her vocation a big waste of time. He told her that it embarrassed him to see a rich girl dilettante indulging her ego. That it was painful for him to watch a spoiled, pampered princess fooling herself into thinking she had talent. According to Gil, her energy was better spent being a good wife and serving his brilliant career. He would catapult them to the very top, and being at the top was a full-time job. A high-wire balancing act. There was no room on that summit for messy, time-consuming hobbies.
She’d pushed back hard, to her credit. But after art critic Alan Herzog’s nightmare review had bombed her one-woman art show, she’d sunk very low.
She actually let Gil convince her that it was true. There was no point anymore. She should just give it up and stop embarrassing the people around her.
For a while, she’d actually believed that. All the way up to that awful day, eight months ago, when she had learned the truth about her husband.
The only upside to this nightmare was that by running away, she’d freed herself from the prison of Gil’s poisonous opinions and judgments.
Fuck Gil Clemens. She was an artist. She made art to survive. End of story.
Usually, being surrounded by a mosaic of her own art was bracing. It was all part of her constant reconstruction effort. To remember who she was, and affirm it.
Today, she found her own painted images bleak and disquieting.
She unzipped her trolley suitcase, already packed and ready, and pulled out her laptop. Time for a visceral reminder of what was really at stake here.
She steeled herself to open the folder on the desktop. She’d studied these videos so many times, and every time, they killed her a little bit more.
She chose an archived clip from a San Francisco TV station and set it to play. It was her husband, Gil, gazing into the camera as he addressed the kidnappers who had abducted his wife. Continually repeating her name. He spoke of how special she was, how unique, how much he missed her. How she was the love of his life. That would have been grotesque even if he hadn’t been looming behind Elisa’s younger brother, who was seated in a chair in front of him.
Joshie. Almost nineteen. He was supposed to be safe and far away, studying computer engineering at MIT, but Gil had dragged him home and displayed him on TV for her to see. Josh’s thin, beaky face was an ashy gray. He was all nose, hollow eyes and greasy dark hair, staring blankly into the TV camera while Gil spouted his bullshit. Gil’s hands rested on Josh’s shoulders. To anyone else, that would come across as an affectionate gesture. Gil’s handsome, chiseled face was solemn as he pleaded for compassion and humanity from whoever had stolen his wife.
Was she the only one who saw the cruelty in his eyes? It was obvious to her. As if Gil had horns sprouting from his forehead.
There were only three videos with Josh. From that point on, Gil had sadly told the interviewers that Josh was unwell. He was in a facility now, being treated for an emotional breakdown. He’d cracked under the stress of his sister’s abduction.
Eight months, her little brother had been in that monster’s grip.
She had the means to take that lying, murdering bastard down in her goddamn pocket. She had a weapon that would destroy him—but he had Josh.
Stalemate.
Gil loomed over her little brother in the video, fingers angled toward Josh’s throat, smiling. His nonverbal message drowned out every other thought in her head.
Don’t. You. Dare.
3
Nate took another slow pass through the dining room of Bluff House, and then through the ballroom, one last time, smoothly dodging the catering team. The device in his hand looked like a smartphone, so no one could tell he was bug-sweeping, looking for any audio or video devices that Kimball might have planted since Nate’s last pass through this place. They’d already done the bomb sweep earlier.
The wait staff were probably wondering what he was doing wandering around underfoot, staring at his phone like he was hunting freaking Pokémon.
The device in his hand was of his own design, and it combined all the bug-sweeping capabilities a security professional might need, all boiled down to the smallest and sleekest possible size. Spectrum analysis to sort out every RF signal, whether audio or video
. Frequency hoppers. Burst/packet. Spread spectrum. Non-linear junction detectors. Near-field detectors. Infrared. There was even a thermal imager to scan for temperature inconsistencies. And it fit in your pocket and looked like an innocent smartphone. No one watching would know he was sweeping.
He’d partnered with engineers at Eric’s company, Erebus, to develop it, using their cutting edge nanotech. A patent was pending, and he stood to make some serious money when it hit the market. But later for that. He wasn’t hurting for money.
At the moment, he had bigger fish to fry.
He’d swept Bluff House many times since it was chosen for the reception venue. This was the final go-through. He would compare today’s results with all the previous ones, and if Redd Kimball had planted any surveillance devices here, his new software would swiftly analyze the discrepancies and pinpoint their locations.
Elisa gave him a disapproving look. She’d been barking orders like a drill sergeant as her crew put the finishing touches on place settings, and he was enjoying the spectacle. That stern, no-nonsense look in her eyes was a total turn-on.
She looked great today. She and her crew had opted for a single solid color shirt rather than the caterer’s usual black, and her silky, ruby red shirt looked awesome with her luminous skin and those big, mysterious eyes. Her hair was twisted up on top of her head in a big, thick coiled bun, and she was wearing more makeup today than he was used to seeing on her. It looked good, her lips a gleaming hot red. Snug black pants showed off her perfect ass to excellent advantage.
The look on her face had become a glare. Damn. Caught gawking. Meathead.
The high-pitched beep of the app on the phone demanded his attention. The software had just completed its comparative analysis of signals, and had thrown up a map of all the room’s thermal and RF inconsistencies in relation to previous sweeps.
He quickly discounted the ones coming from the sound equipment and the place where all the staff was congregating, zeroing on all the random spots where a sensitive bug might be concealed. One anomaly was in an air vent. Another corresponded with a smoke detector, probably a video camera. And here, next to a wall sconce….he glanced at it, and looked swiftly away, having spotted the tiny bug, mounted on the neck of the lamp. Kimball spared no expense, so it could probably overhear conversations three tables around. A good sound sifter would make it possible for Kimball to listen to every last word.
That fucker planned to virtually attend Demi and Eric’s wedding reception, if they let him do it. Allowing it was counterintuitive, but that was the strategy he’d pushed to the Trasks. They hated being watched, and who could blame them? But they needed to reframe this ugly problem as a unique opportunity.
He tapped the screen, sending the results to the secure encrypted message board they had started using ever since Kimball hacked their phones a few days ago. State-of-the-art spyware that had taken even Eric, tech god extraordinaire, by surprise. Kimball had gotten surveillance devices into their homes, their cars, Demi’s restaurant. Fucking everywhere. Even his apartment, so he, personally, was on Redd Kimball’s radar. Yay.
He must have a death wish, placing himself in the sights of a sociopathic sadist, but he just couldn’t help himself. Even aside from his longstanding friendship and loyalty to Mace and Anton Trask, and more recently to Eric, that son of a bitch Redd Kimball just pushed all of his hot buttons. The man was a bully, and Nate fucking hated bullies. He hated them beyond all reason. Kimball had terrorized the Trask boys when they were children. He’d terrorized Fiona since she was fourteen years old. And he just kept at it. He would never forgive them for messing with his fucked-up plots and plans, and he would not stop until they were dead.
So, fuck that guy. Kimball was coming down. And Nate was here for it.
Just in the past few weeks, Redd Kimball had gone to incredible lengths to destroy the older two Trask brothers, Anton and Eric, as well as Demi and Fi. He hadn’t succeeded, but it wasn’t for lack of focus or meticulous planning.
Kimball just hadn’t factored in how hard it would be to kill the Trasks. So now he was biding his time. Stalking them. Waiting for his moment.
That was the opening they needed. But it would require patience, iron self-control, a strong stomach and constant vigilance, to go about their lives, acting normal, just letting that bastard watch. Letting him think they had no clue.
Operation Smoke Screen started tonight, right there at the wedding reception, and he was the dumbass to volunteer for the final sweep, knowing that Kimball was watching every move through that video camera mounted in the smoke detector.
At least he had an excuse to be here. It was obvious as all fuck that he was loitering for a chance to stare at Elisa as she sashayed around in her tight black pants and ruby red shirt. Everyone knew he had a thing for her. Probably even Kimball knew it at this point.
His eyes followed Elisa as she briskly directed the people carrying in the flower arrangements. She caught his eye, and he looked away. Not fast enough.
Busted. His heart sped up as she strode toward him with that I’m-taking-no-more-of-your-shit look in her eyes. Nate exited the app as she bore down on him.
“Nate, what on earth are you doing in here?” she demanded. “The guests will be here any time now. Demi and Eric are getting pictures taken in the rock garden on the bluffs, so why don’t you just go and join them? We’re taking care of last-minute details in here, and you are underfoot. Go get your picture taken with the bride and groom.” Her golden eyes flashed down over his suit, making him self-conscious. He didn’t wear suits often, and he felt ridiculous. But the suit coat covered the gun.
Oh, well. His work here was basically done. The bug sweep was concluded, the results shared, now they just had to decide how to use the data. He slipped the sweeper into his jacket pocket. “I’ve tried to stay out of your way,” he said. “You know this event has big security issues.”
“Really? In the dining room? While we’re getting the place ready? Go be useful. Guard Eric and Demi out on the bluff. You’re distracting me. Us, I mean.”
He saw from the flash in her golden eyes that she regretted the slip.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Okay, I’ll get lost. On one condition.” He braced himself for the inevitable slap-down.
“What is that?” Her eyes narrowed.
“I want that dance,” he said, because what the hell. He had nothing to lose.
Elisa’s mouth formed an ‘o,’ and froze there for a moment.
He let out a slow sigh of resignation. “That’s a ‘hell, no,’ I take it.’”
“Nate, try to understand. I’m not a trained caterer or restauranteur. I just recently picked up this stuff from working with Demi. The truth is, I am still totally improvising, and I am miles outside my comfort zone. So I do not feel like burning up the dance floor tonight. Please don’t take it personally.”
“I was thinking more like, a relaxing slow dance,” he said. “You know. After things wind down.”
Her gaze slid away. “I doubt very much that a slow dance with you would be relaxing.”
He thought of yesterday’s kiss, which had kept him up all night staring at the ceiling, his body thrumming with raw hunger. “You have a point,” he said.
There was an awkward pause, and he just went for it. Fuck it, diplomacy had already failed. “So if you’re not trained for this work, what are you trained for?”
“Nate, I’m busy. Please go.”
“Artist,” he guessed. “Designer, illustrator, graphic design. Those chalkboard menus. The portraits. It has to be art. I’d bet good money.”
Elisa took a step back, throat bobbing. He’d pushed too hard. As usual.
“Never mind. Don’t get uptight.” He backed away, hands up. “I’ll go.”
Fuck. Crash and burn. Again. He just could not catch a break with this woman. And he couldn’t seem to let it go of it, either. He’d tried to put this hopeless crush behind him. Move on. Leave her the fuck alone.
The cold wind off the bluffs cooled the sweat on his forehead as he walked out onto the grounds. He got instantly overheated when he interacted with Elisa, and yesterday’s kiss had supercharged that phenomenon.
It had proved what he had already known instinctively. That if he ever got lucky and managed to seduce her, the result would be explosive. Life-altering.
Of course, knowing this only made everything worse.
The wedding party was in the rock garden on the edge of the bluff. It wasn’t exactly a garden, more like a cluster of dramatic lava plugs, and the gardener of the grounds at Bluff House had come up with the brilliant idea of just trimming all the brush away from the obelisks of black granite and setting them off with stark, emerald green turf. The result was eerily beautiful, and the place had become the traditional backdrop for wedding pictures in Shaw’s Crossing. Demi’s filmy white dress and white fake-fur stole looked dramatic against the grass and the lichen-stained black basalt.
The photographer kept on reorganizing the long-suffering wedding party for more pictures amid the backdrop of the various rock formations as Nate approached. He stopped to watch, reflecting as he did upon the Trask guys’ irrational choices.
Fucking insane, to plan a big wedding while Kimball was gunning for them, but Eric and Demi were adamant. They’d already been cock-blocked seven years before by fate, in the form of Demi’s father, and some twisted permutation of what they all affectionately referred to as the Prophet’s curse. That being shorthand for the toxic bad luck of anyone even remotely connected to GodsAcre, the doomsday cult in the mountains, where the Trasks and Fiona had barely survived their childhood. Unlike the rest of the people who had lived up there, all of whom had died in the infamous GodsAcre fire. At Kimball’s hands.
As far as Eric and Demi were concerned, they’d suffered enough, and waited enough. They’d be damned if they’d let Kimball control them any longer. This wedding was like holding up a big middle finger to that son of a bitch.
Heedless: The Hellbound Brotherhood Book Four Page 3
