Savage Grace (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #12)

by Emily Kimelman Gilvey

  Robert’s matte black sunglasses hide his eyes. I want to see them. “We should go,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the waiting helicopter. “My plane is waiting. I want to get out now. Everybody is leaving the city.”

  “Yeah, traffic will be killer,” I say with a smile. Robert turns back to me, a thin smile on his lips. I reach up to his face, and he shies away for a second but then steadies when I take his sunglasses, pulling them off his nose.

  His eyes narrow—a blue-green that always reminds me of both the warmth of the Caribbean and the ice of the arctic. Fine lines fan out from them, as if he’s spent too many decades squinting with the same suspicious look he’s giving me now. “What are you doing?” he asks.

  Good question. A rush of warmth spreads a blush over my cheeks and startles me. I don’t blush. I’m not that girl.

  Fucking hormones!

  “Sorry…” I say. His eyes narrow further as he looks at my cheeks, which must be glowing. I turn away, still holding his sunglasses, and he catches my chin. It’s forceful and intimate.

  “What’s going on?” he demands, his voice a low threat. He will have his answers.

  The pilot, wearing a crisp uniform and mirrored aviator shades, interrupts us. “Mr. Maxim, the luggage is loaded. It’s time to go.”

  We are reflected in the pilot’s sunglasses—Robert, his dark hair, silver at the temples, shifting in the breeze as he holds my face; my hair, a sun-streaked blonde, waving in the wind, dancing around my shoulder in small spirals as if it’s delighting in the movement. We look almost like lovers—the intense way that Robert is staring into my face, the pink flush of my cheeks.

  “Give me a minute, Chris,” Robert says, not looking at his employee, keeping his attention laser-focused on me. Chris nods curtly and heads toward the helicopter. “Answer me,” Robert says. “What is going on with you?”

  I suck my lower lip between my teeth and bite down. He releases my chin and firms his lips into a frown. “Is it Mulberry?” he asks. “Are you worried about him?”

  Sort of… “Let’s just go,” I say, willing myself to meet his eyes. “We can talk about it later. I’m tired.” I am suddenly exhausted. I hold out his sunglasses, and Robert takes them, slipping them back on, before gesturing for me to go ahead of him.

  We get into the helicopter, the luxury of the private aircraft enclosing us in a bubble of safety as we lift off into the sky. The highways below are crammed with cars, people fleeing the city while we fly above it, headed toward a private airport to board Robert’s jet. “Where are we going?” it finally occurs to me to ask.

  “Cartagena,” Robert answers, glancing up from his phone. “Colombia. I have some business there, and you’ve never seen the city. It’s lovely.” Robert, sitting diagonally across from me, returns his attention to his phone long enough to shoot off a text and then takes off his sunglasses, his eyes searching my face. “Brock will meet us there once he has secured the Miami house.”

  “So many houses, Robert…how do you keep it all straight?”

  “I’m very smart,” he deadpans.

  I laugh. “Yes, you are.” Returning my attention to the roads below us, I lean my head against the glass. “Do you ever tire of it?” I ask, my voice low.

  Robert doesn’t answer me. Probably couldn’t hear me over the sounds of the helicopter. Blue rests his chin on my thigh, and I play with one velvety ear.

  “No,” Robert says.

  “Huh?” I turn to him.

  “I don’t tire of it.”

  “Of what?”

  “Whatever it is you were talking about.”

  I turn more fully to him, settling back into the seat so my shoulder is against the window. “Then how do you know you don’t tire of it?”

  He smiles, slow and smug. “I pride myself on my patience.”

  “Do you?” I raise one brow.

  “It’s my secret of success.”

  I laugh. “Your patience is hardly legendary, Robert. I bet if you asked any of your employees, they’d say you’re demanding, not patient.” I’m grinning now, enjoying how un-self-aware he is.

  Robert shrugs and glances out the window. “Demanding, patient…they are not opposed to each other.”

  “I’m pretty sure they are,” I say. “You don’t ‘demand’ something”—I hook my fingers into bunny quotes—“and then wait patiently for it.”

  He turns back to me. “I do.”

  “Well, aren’t you special,” I grin.

  “Yes,” he agrees. “I am.” Robert says it low, just loud enough to be heard over the throbbing of the machine we ride in. The helicopter where he waited patiently for me to arrive…

  I swallow and try to keep the grin on my face, but I feel it slipping as his words sink in. Robert holds my gaze, waiting for my response. But I have none, so I cough out a laugh and turn to the window again. The airport appears below us and our descent begins.

  Robert will figure out what’s going on—he will have his answers. The question isn’t if, it’s when. Which leads to how…how will he react? What will happen to Robert Maxim’s patience when he discovers I’m pregnant with another man’s baby? What will he demand then?

  Chapter Three

  Robert

  My house in Cartagena is painted a vibrant blue—like the sky above a Colorado ski slope. It’s a walled compound in the center of the old city, a tight network of streets lined with colonial-era architecture.

  My Miami mansion is all neutral tones and modern lines, but this four-story townhouse has high ceilings, rich colors and antique furniture. The woman who runs it, Valentina, greets us at the door. Blue’s head reaches her breast line, and her housekeeper uniform covers thick curves.

  Silvery hair pulled back into a bun gives Valentina an air of dignity, while her smooth skin, flush with excitement as she welcomes me home, gives her an ageless quality.

  “How long have you owned this place?” Sydney asks as Valentina leads us through the front hall into a courtyard draped with greenery. The afternoon sun slants across the paving stones and casts a warm yellow glow over a tiered fountain.

  “A long time,” I answer, my mind drifting back to the first time I saw it…the rain pelting the streets, the clouds turning dusk to night, and the humidity curling my hair around my face. Three days later, I’d know real humidity—the constant oppression of the jungle—but the day I bought this house, I was still naive. A smile drifts across my lips. How times do change. “In a lot of ways this country made me who I am,” I say, surprised to hear my voice.

  “What do you mean?” Sydney asks.

  “Nothing.” I quickly recover my composure, pushing away the memories of my time in captivity and gesturing toward the stairs, for Sydney to go first, following Valentina.

  My house manager grins and speaks in rapid Spanish, telling me about the latest maintenance and offering to stock the bar in the sitting room for cocktail hour. I agree, my eyes watching Sydney as she moves up the steps in front of me.

  Blue taps her hip. Nila and Frank follow behind him—as usual, Nila is all elegant control, and Frank is a giant pawed fool still growing into himself. At over a year old, Frank is as tall as his father but not as broad, Nila shorter, sleeker, and possibly even smarter.

  Valentina leads us up solid wooden steps to the third floor and my favorite guest bedroom. The canopy bed, made of dark wood and swathed in white, gauzy material, is something for a princess. French doors open to a narrow, wrought iron balcony.

  Sydney steps into the room, her expression unreadable. The decor is much more feminine than Sydney would ever acknowledge about herself—yet it suits her. Sydney hides herself, wearing loose clothing and keeping her hair tied back in messy buns, never applying makeup or wearing heels, unless she’s traveling incognito as she so often has to do these days.

  Sydney opens the door to the balcony, letting heat and humidity into the air-conditioned room. Outside, the spire of a cathedral towers over rooftops dotted with potted
plants—terracotta and greenery brilliant under the hot midday sun. Beyond the old town, high rises in white and blue, opaque with distance, hug the shoreline. “It’s beautiful,” she says.

  “I’m glad you like it.” And I am glad. Her opinion means too much to me. “I’m right down the hall. And Valentina and the other staff are always available to you. Just dial 0.” I point toward the phone on the bedside table.

  Blue finishes his circuit of the room, the puppies right behind him, Nila’s brow knitted with concentration and Frank’s tongue flopping out of his mouth. “I’ll let you get settled,” I say. “Then meet me in the living room for a drink?”

  “Sure.” She looks over her shoulder at me, her fingers toying with the sheer white curtain as it flutters in the breeze coming through the open door.

  I turn to leave and then pop my head back in. “One more thing—there is a pool on the roof if you want to go for a swim.”

  She laughs. “Of course there is.”

  “Yes,” I agree. I’m not ashamed of my wealth or how I choose to spend it.

  After my shower, I change into white linen pants and a pale blue cotton shirt. Rolling up the sleeves, I fasten my watch into place—a simple black band with gold face, subtle and yet expensive. Fastening my knife holster to my ankle, I slip a favorite dagger into the fine leather.

  The wood of the hall is warm against my bare feet—the sun heats this interior space. Open to the central atrium, it smells of the greenery and flowers that grow in the courtyard below. The tinkling of the fountain at its center mixes with the twittering of songbirds as I jog down the steps toward the second floor sitting room.

  Valentina keeps the place spotless, and I appreciate the effort. Making a mental note to give her a bonus, I enter the living room.

  Sydney stands by the open French doors to the balcony, her back to me as she takes in the view. She’s changed into linen as well: loose navy blue pants and a matching tunic that reaches mid-thigh. On any other woman it would look like frumpy leisure wear—but on Sydney it comes off as a fighter’s practice uniform—easy to move in and lightweight.

  Blue sits at Sydney’s side, facing me and the door, his mismatched blue and brown eyes missing nothing. He acknowledges my entrance with a low growl of greeting. Frank thumps his tail and wags his way over to me while Nila keeps her gaze fixed on Sydney, waiting for a command. That’s a hell of a dog she’s got there.

  Sydney doesn’t turn to me, and I take a moment to admire the length of her neck, which is exposed since her hair is up. Frank gives a small yelp and spins once he reaches me, his big tail whacking into my thigh. Sydney turns quickly, as if she didn’t hear my entrance…or Blue’s growl. That’s not like her.

  Her eyes meet mine and leap away. Sydney’s arms come up and cross over her chest, then she takes a breath before meeting my gaze again. It only takes a moment but is significant. Something is going on inside that head of hers. Is she missing Mulberry?

  I smile at her, summoning patience and forcing my jealousy away. It won’t change anything. “You okay?” I ask. She nods and gives me a weak smile. “Gimlet?” I gesture to the bar on the sideboard.

  “Just seltzer, please.” She’s not drinking? That’s strange as well.

  She crosses to the worn leather couch and sits as I make our drinks. I pour myself a mescal on the rocks and bring both glasses to the couch. “Has Dan had any luck finding Mulberry?” I ask.

  Her eyes jump to meet mine and her lips firm. I’ve read her mind. Of course I have, we are simpatico.

  “No,” she says. “Have you looked?”

  “He’s not right for you,” I say instead of answering her question. I know where he is, and I’m sure Dan does too. But neither of us wants her to find him. She should just leave him alone. The man left for a reason.

  Sydney frowns deeply. “Don’t,” is all she says.

  “Sydney, we’re friends, aren’t we?” I sip the mezcal, enjoying its smoky spiciness.

  She looks at Blue, who’s lying next to the couch, head between his giant paws. “I don’t know what we are,” she says, her voice low and unsure.

  I can’t help the smile that twists my lips. She kissed me back. And it was one hell of a kiss. My gaze falls to her lips, and I am drawn to them, drawn once more to her—a salmon whose instincts force him to swim upstream even though all the herculean effort brings is his death. I stop myself from leaning toward her, from reaching out physically. Sipping my mescal again, I take a moment to steady myself. “Mulberry is out of the game. You could never leave it.”

  “He said he wanted back in last time I saw him.”

  Rage bubbles in the back of mind. When you fucked him. At my house. While I was right down the hall. “But he hasn’t come back.” My voice is even, almost offhand. Just the facts here.

  “It’s been less than two months.” But she’s not looking at me, she’s staring into the bubbles of her untouched seltzer.

  Sydney can’t see how wrong they are for each other. “He and his wife ended their marriage over a pregnancy,” I say, keeping my voice casual. She jolts, her eyes jumping to mine. “You didn’t know?” Sydney’s jaw clenches. “He wants children someday, I’m sure. Most men do.” I give a casual shrug. “But you’re not maternal.”

  Sydney stands so quickly that Blue has to leap out of her way. He and Nila both perk their ears toward her—searching for the source of aggression. “What do you know about what’s maternal?” she hisses.

  I sit back on the couch, keeping my face neutral, raising just one brow in question at her sudden rage. She turns away from me and stalks to the bar, putting her glass down, then turns and strides back to the window.

  She’s pacing in front of me like a caged animal, her dogs following closely, Frank managing to stumble on almost every turn—the comic relief to his father’s and sister’s menacing, stalwart presences. What is going on with Sydney Rye?

  It hits me like falling into freezing water. Ice courses through my veins, numbing my limbs and making my tongue thick and brain slow. “Are you—?” It comes out hoarse, the voice of a stranger.

  Sydney stops. Frank knocks into her leg and then sits onto his butt, tongue lolling out as he stares up at her adoringly. Blue and Nila remain standing, sensing the tensions wafting off Sydney in waves. I lift out of the chair, my legs surprisingly steady considering I feel like the whole world is shifting under me.

  Her cheeks are pink and eyes shining. She’s about to cry. “Sydney,” I keep my voice gentle and my fear leashed. “Are you pregnant?”

  Her eyes dart away and land on Blue. A rush of color spreads up her neck and her hand…her right hand splays protectively over her middle. Dear God.

  A sudden surge of emotion catches me off guard. A lump forms in my throat, and my hands tremble. I close them into fists, staring at Sydney’s fingers pressed into the thin shirt over her flat, hard stomach.

  There is nothing soft about her now, but there will be.

  She pulls in a deep breath, her thin shoulders shuddering. I turn away quickly, giving her my back. The door is right in front of me. I need to leave. Can’t let her see me like this, so affected.

  I walk slowly down the hall—repressing an urge to run—and push out onto the front deck. Sydney is pregnant.

  All three of my wives wanted children. They knew I didn’t intend to be a father, but as the shine of wealth wore off and their days turned long and lonely, each asked for a child. But I never wanted to be a father—to make myself that vulnerable.

  My own father’s voice crackles through my memories. I’m huddled close to the fence, listening to the radio—it’s usually my mother who calls into “Las Voces del Secuestro”—The Voices of Kidnapping.

  “Robert, son—” His voice wavers. Is it the reception or emotion? He clears his throat. “I know how strong you are, and your mother was so proud of you.” I sit up, fear slipping down my spine as I strain to hear the radio over the cacophony of insect song. “She passed last night.” My v
ision blurs and I can’t breathe. Can’t hear over the rushing in my ears.

  I tip over, my face scraping on the fence as I slump against it, the pain in my chest overwhelming. A hand lands on my back, and Natalia crouches down next to me. I recognize her small combat boots caked in mud—everything in this hellhole is caked in mud. Natalia doesn’t belong here, just as much as I don’t.

  “Robert?” she says—her voice lessens the pressure in my chest somehow. “Are you okay?”

  I pull my gaze up to meet hers, and she raises her dark brows, her sparkling brown eyes sympathetic. She’s my captor but…

  Shaking my head, I drop my chin to my chest again. Natalia puts her arms around me, pulling me into an awkward embrace. I breathe her in—sweet and earthy. Shifting to better hold her, my lips brush Natalia’s neck. She shivers and her fingers dig into my back. She wants me.

  My grip on the rail of the deck tightens.

  I still want Sydney. I want her even more. Impossible, yet true.

  My eyes stare out at the city but see Sydney, her hair loose around her face, a smiling infant in her arms, the sun bathing them both in golden light. A strange, disconcerting, new fantasy I can’t control.

  I can learn to control anything.

  I will this dreadful new want away and force the memories of my captivity down.

  A movement below catches my attention. Three men are walking down the street—their movements tight and organized. I release the metal railing, hot in the afternoon sun, and move out of their line of sight. They are dressed in dark jeans and T-shirts with baseball caps pulled low over their brows. These are not tourists.

  I turn and, breaking into a sprint, race back to where I left Sydney in the living room, pulling my phone out of my pocket as I run. “Brock, we’ve got incoming,” I say into the phone as I burst into the room. It’s empty.

  “Yes, sir, I see them.”

  Crossing to the TV cabinet I open a drawer and pull out a pistol. “Where is Rye?”

  “I don’t know.” The swish of his clothing carries over the line as he moves. This walled compound is protected but far from impenetrable. There are probably others approaching our back entrance.