by Cherry Adair
Still, mocking his faith was never part of their games--mind games his partner enjoyed playing, and physical games they both enjoyed. Master and slave. But that was only in the one room in the house where he was willing to take the submissive role. Everywhere else, Franco was el jefe, and his people both feared and respected him.
"I petitioned Rome," Franco told his partner, voice cold. "They sent him. I investigated him. I assure you, Bishop Daklin is exactly who he says he is. The Church does not lie."
"You're a fucking moron. What does authentication of your apparition do for us at this stage of our plan? What do you hope to gain?"
"God speaks to me through Mary. I want clarification. I need to be absolutely certain that the 12th at 3:33 p.m. is the correct date and time."
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The date and time were of your choosing, for good reason, Franco. It's too late to change your fucking mind two days before the event. Everything's in motion.”
Franco heard the impatient tapping of a pen on the desk near the phone as the angry silence stretched out between them. “Speak with your Mary tonight and have her confirm that this is no mistake, if you must. Let your bishop tell you it's been fucking ordained. But allow me to clarify. Whether we get a wooden statue's blessing or not, our plans are progressing and there'll be no stopping them."
Two
"Oliver really isn't here," River told her best friend, as she sat cross-legged on the massive bed. She'd spent five minutes on the phone regaling Carly with a dramatized retelling of the drive from hell over mountain and dale, mostly limping along on the rim of the flat tire.
"Good. Then you can turn around and come right back home." Carly’s voice was as clear as if she was sitting in the room with River instead of half a world away in Portland, Oregon. "Honestly. You shouldn't even be there, Riv. Why subject yourself to all kinds of danger when your brother has repeatedly told you not to come?"
"I'm worried sick about him, Carly." River fell back against a mound of burgundy and gold brocade pillows and stared up at the elaborately painted beams on the ceiling twenty-feet overhead. "Where is he? Why did he leave? That, coupled with his growing depression, makes me think the worst. Ever since he was a teen, we worried about suicide. So when he told me about some woman he loved who’d died, coupled with the money he stuck in my account, then his abrupt disappearance. . ."
"He's too damned selfish to kill himself," her friend argued tartly.
True, but River automatically rushed to her brother’s defense. "You don't kn--"
"Yeah, I do. I've been reading between the lines for as long as I've known you. He's a grown-ass man who doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself."
"That's not fair. His Asperger's--"
"Doesn't explain away all his unacceptable behaviors, River. You know that."
No it didn't, but that was a subject best left unspoken, even between best friends. "I cut him slack because he's the only family I have. And because it's part of my DNA to watch out for him." She'd promised their parents, albeit she’d done the 'watching out for' from a distance.
"You should concentrate on your own life instead of worrying about him."
"As soon as I know he's okay, I'll do just that. Apparently, there was an explosion at the mine around about the time he left. It's possible that had something to do with him leaving. I'll ask. If he still wants to be left alone after I find him, I'll be on the next flight home. Hell, I'm not even sure we'd recognize each other." She smoothed a hand over the rough brocaded bedcover. "Slight exaggeration, but we haven't seen each other in more than five years. Still, I always knew where he was. Now I don't."
Oliver hadn't come to her graduation, nor her wedding for her short-lived marriage. They didn't have the close relationship she’d always wished they’d had. The reasons were complicated. His off-the-charts brilliance, combined with his Asperger's, made them very different people. There was also a ten-year age difference between them. He was her brother, and she loved him, but he was far from likable. He was difficult, taciturn, and moody; and those were his good qualities. Still, if he was in trouble, she wanted to help him. He was her only family, and that's what family did.
All she freaking-well had to do was find him.
"Just because he gave you all that money and disappeared isn't reason to think he'd terminate himself. Yeah, I guess it could be. Why didn't you tell me this when I was trying to dissuade you from going to a war-torn country halfway across the Universe?"
"Because I didn't want to put the thought out in the ether. I'm seriously worried that he's done something desperate. Not that I'd know what to do if I find him like that. But I have to try. He's always been a bit secretive, but he's never even mentioned this 'love of his life', Catherine, until three weeks ago. And she died years ago. That was our last damned conversation. I don't freaking know what to think."
Three years ago, River had been going through a divorce, and El Beso, her lingerie business was starting to take off, filling her life, 24/7. Maybe that's why Oliver hadn't mentioned his girlfriend's death? Maybe he didn't feel obligated to tell her anything about his life at all. His Sunday calls, as regular as clockwork, had gradually gotten shorter and shorter. His work seemed to have become an obsession. He didn't sleep. He frequently mentioned forgetting to eat.
"He's never missed a Sunday call. Not once in twelve years. Last Sunday was the third week in a row that I haven't heard from him. I invited him to visit me in Portland for a change of scenery, and he told me, in no uncertain terms, the place made him shudder. So I suggested coming to see him. And, as always, he told me flat out not to come."
"And yet-"
"Here I am. I always felt a little guilty at how relieved I was when he’d refused my offer. But this time, I had no choice."
"He's a practical guy, sweet pea," Carly reminded her. "Even if suicide was something he'd contemplate, it's been three years since the girlfriend died, right? If he'd wanted to do something, he would've done it before now, don't you think?"
"Not necessarily. Oliver's a planner. You know how he obsesses over the smallest detail. It makes him good at his job, but he tends to hyper-focus on something to the exclusion of everything else. It's absolutely possible that he'd planned his suicide, in minute detail, for years." River sat up, too filled with nervous energy to lie there contemplating a spider spinning a web near the ceiling.
"He hasn't," Carly said positively. "You're right there. He'll show up, and you'll see for yourself that he's absolutely fine. Maybe he's found a new love and taken her to Tahiti."
"Oliver doesn't take vacations. If he met someone, he's never mentioned her. But then, he never mentioned this other woman. Shit, I don't freaking know what to think. I'll look for clues. Maybe I'll find something. If this was the room Oliver used, there’s no evidence he was ever here.”
“That’s not significant, Miss-There's-No-Obstacle-I-can't-Overcome. Maybe he only ever brought what he needed. Knowing how efficient and focused you are, I have every faith that you'll root out Oliver, do three years’ worth of his laundry, and find a local restaurant to deliver his meals, all before noon tomorrow. My money's on you, girlfriend. What about his boss? Is he as creepy as Oliver said?"
"He's not creepy at all." River swung her legs over the side of the mattress, and hopped down to the floor. Going to the window, she held back the sheer white drape to look through the wide slats of the wooden shutters. She could see right down the middle of a town that apparently rolled up its streets when it got dark. There was no one outside, and just a few house lights spilled out over the cobbled streets. She let the drape drop back into place.
The silent military-type guy who'd shown her to her room had returned a few minutes later with her suitcase. River unzipped it, holding the phone against her shoulder. Flinging the case open, she pondered her outfit for the evening.
"Franco looks a bit like Sean Connery in his later Bond years," she told Carly as she shook out a dress modest enough to wear for dinn
er with a priest, a bishop, and a man who was possibly an aging Lothario. "Graying at the temples, very smooth and sophisticated." She unbuttoned her shorts and tugged down the zipper. "Clearly, telling me the poor man was lecherous and dangerous was Oliver's attempt to dissuade me from coming here."
Stepping out of her shorts, she sat down on the edge of the bed to unwind the straps of the sandal wrapped around her left calf, then did the same for the other one. She rubbed at the crisscrossed pink indentation on her left leg.
"The stuff he told you was pretty salacious and specific. Oliver doesn't have enough imagination to make up crap like that, so be on your toes," her friend argued. "What's the point in hanging around if Oliver's gone?"
River shrugged off her shirt, switching the phone to her other ear as she did so. "One thing at a time. Hang on." She peeled the tank top over her head. Dressed in only her bra and lacy thong, River paced the large bedroom. The breeze from a lazily circulating ceiling fan moved warm air and the spider web.
"Where'd Oliver get all that money he gave me, Carly? Five million dollars! Also, why give it to me unless he anticipated something terrible happening to him? He’s been keeping so much from me. First, I hear he had a love of his life. Then I learn that she died tragically, more than three years ago. There are no freaking calls for weeks, and now he's supposedly left Los Santos without a word? Something's wrong, I just know it."
"Cosio's a war-torn country set in the middle of a jungle filled with natural predators," Carly added. "Maybe an animal?"
"Holy shit, don't put that terrifying thought into my head, for God's sake! What if Oliver knew he was going to die? Not suicide, but something else? A terminal illness?"
"If anyone can get to the bottom of this, my money's on you. What about the priest? Maybe Oliver gave a confession before he left?"
Despite her worry, River laughed. "We're not Catholic, and Oliver has always been tight-lipped about his job. Not because it’s a secret, but because he knows nobody will understand what the hell he's saying. He wouldn’t tell anyone, even a priest, anything."
"Then what are you going to do?"
"Ask around. Someone might know where he's gone. There's another man here, a bishop. He's steely-eyed and not particularly friendly, but I'll talk to both him and the village priest and see if they know anything."
"So the letch looks like James Bond, and the bishop is steely-eyed? Interesting. How old is he?"
“Francisco Xavier is about seventy.”
“Nice try. The steely-eyed bishop?”
“Mid-thirties.” River grinned. "Only you would romanticize this. One's a man of God and the other's old enough to be my father. I'm just here to find Oliver. Then I'll be home."
"Maybe there's a handsome stable master..."
"Bye, Carly!"
"Wait! Call me every day so I know you're okay."
"Of course I'll be okay. But yes, I'll call you."
Feeling better now that she'd touched base, River enjoyed the opulent marble bathroom as she took a cool shower, then dried her hair, and applied makeup.
Naked, she went back into the bedroom to dress. For a moment she pondered unpacking, but it sounded as if her host shared his humorless bishop buddy’s desire for her to be on her way. She left the suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed.
Perhaps there was a hotel in the village. She'd check first thing in the morning, because no matter how much anyone wanted her to leave, she wasn’t going anywhere until she saw Oliver with her own two eyes. Her stomach rumbled loudly. She hadn’t eaten anything since she got off the plane and that was hours ago. She needed to dress and go downstairs.
She hadn't packed with seduction in mind, though nobody would ever guess that by what she’d grabbed from her well-appointed lingerie drawer. She practiced what she preached, and advertised: the right underwear gave a woman confidence. So tonight, it would be the Abrazo, she decided. The 'hug' was a white lace and tulle, boned strapless bustier and matching bikini panties from her summer collection. The delicate bridal- inspired lingerie fastened with cunningly invisible clips from pubic bone to between the sheer white tulle cups of her demi bra. Slipping the matching low-rise briefs up her legs, she felt armed and ready for anything.
After stepping into a simple yellow and white glazed cotton sheath, River pulled it up and adjusted the bateau neckline so it just skimmed the curve of her shoulders. Not too sexy for dinner with two men of God and a possible ladies’ man. Contorting, she did up the side zipper, then smoothed the fabric over her hips.
Sliding her bare feet into bone-colored, strappy high-heeled sandals, she took an assessing glance in the full-length mirror. Against the rich reds and golds, bullion and velvet of the room, she looked simple and elegant, and as freaking out of place as a nun in a brothel.
The same man who'd brought in her suitcase stood at the foot of the stairs, dressed all in black, apparently waiting for her. His hair was black, his eyes were black, and his mood looked almost as black. He and the no-nonsense bishop had personalities in common. What looked like a small machine gun was slung across his broad chest, and a handgun was stuck in his waistband. He didn’t crack a smile as he indicated that she should follow him.
If the walls and tables weren't covered with religious paintings, artifacts, or tapestries, they were covered with silver-framed pictures of children. Xavier’s children, she presumed. The guard pointed toward the room she should enter.
Her “Gracias” was met with slightly less than a smile before he preceded her into the room, then stepped to the side to stand in front of a tall, carved curio cabinet filled with more small framed paintings and religious artifacts.
The sitting room, lined with more ornate artwork and rich jewel colors, felt stuffy, and overcrowded with heavy Spanish Colonial style furniture. River was grateful for her bare legs and arms and hoped to hell her deodorant held up.
The three men got to their feet as she entered the room.
Bishop Tall and Surly took a ten second delay before he rose.
Resplendent in black robes, clerical collar, and a red sash with a heavy gold chain and cross, the bishop's latent energy, barely contained, seemed to pulse through him, even as he eventually got to his feet. Broad-shouldered, and at least six foot four, he had the tensile strength and lean musculature of a seasoned athlete.
Their eyes clashed across the room. Caught in the snare of mesmerizing pale blue fire, River was unable to look away. Goosebumps pebbled her skin and her heart started pounding as if she'd been running flat out. She'd never experienced such a weird physical response to a man before in her life. With effort she blinked, breaking the visual connection, although she found her reaction to him intriguing enough that it made her want to look again. River vowed to refrain from making eye contact. Better that way. Her heartbeat slowed dramatically when they weren't eyeball to eyeball.
He'd brushed back his hair, but it fell around his face to frame his features. River bet the slight wave in the glossy, dark strands brushing his collar pissed him off. Nothing soft for him, thank you very much. Instead of feminizing his strong features, his hair only made his strong face, with an aquiline nose, and dark brows over hooded eyes seem more masculine. The shadowy stubble on his chin suggested he probably had to shave twice a day. His well-shaped mouth remained unsmiling as he watched her approach.
His riveting, pale, crystal blue eyes promised untold delights to anyone who dared breech the darkness surrounding him. With his dark good looks and pale eyes, he looked like a fallen angel. How many women had succumbed to the smolder behind that clear blue? She wasn't that foolish. Fallen angels were wicked, and wicked didn't always translate into pleasurable.
She was pretty sure she wasn't seeing what she thought she was seeing. But, in her own defense, she was tired and worried, and the man was damn good looking. It was a minor detail that he was also a bishop.
Something about the way he held himself seemed more military than pious. Her gaze inexplicably dropped to
his mouth, and the butterflies in her stomach turned to pterodactyls. God. What the hell was this? Her instant, visceral response to his sensual mouth made her think of sweaty tangled sheets and danger. It was ludicrous, considering the circumstances.
Dear God. I've lost my freaking mind.
Squaring her shoulders, River gave the men a cheerful smile. With any luck, one of them would lead her to Oliver. "Good evening, gentlemen."
"Miss Sullivan, you look as pretty as a rose in an English country garden." Walking toward her, Francisco Xavier extended his hand, palm up. Gallant and sweet. River took his cool, dry hand, hoping hers wasn't sweaty. "Will you join us in a pre-dinner drink?" He led her to an over-stuffed, tufted burgundy velvet sofa with a million buttons, releasing her when she sat down beside Father Marcus.
Bishop Daklin resumed his seat opposite them on a matching sofa. He looked aloof and mildly annoyed, and unlike the other two men, did not smile in greeting, or look even remotely pleased to see her. Any other time, any other man, River would've taken that as a challenge. But not here. And not him. Definitely not him. He didn't look like a man who participated in light flirtation. Not that being civil and cheerful constituted flirting.
The furniture was as hard as bumpy cement, stuffed with horsehair she suspected, but she still managed to smile. River amped up the cheer when his lips tightened in response.
The poor man didn’t realize how much of a challenge he was presenting. She’d be like water dripping on a stone, wearing him down, even if she only dripped for a few hours.
Franco stood beside her. "What's your pleasure, Miss Sullivan?" Even with a heavy Spanish accent, River had no difficulty understanding him.
Finding my brother and getting back to my business. "Call me River. Something tall and cold, please." She shook her head at the irony of her words. All roads led to the bishop, it seemed. He was certainly tall, and his arctic-blue eyes, locked on her, were nothing if not cold.
