by Dianna Love
I could scratch Bran off my suspect list for this, too. He’d been within my sight the whole time I’d been at the party. But Dominique? Dominique had appeared and disappeared. Could a Grimple waltz through a ward? Would Dragon Lady stoop to rifling through someone’s personal belongings?
In a heartbeat.
But why?
I jammed down all the questions scrambling through me in order to take action. Action could get me some answers; stewing only created more stewing. I donned what Kelly called our bad girl wear. Black. Not New York City black, but stealth black—long-sleeved, close to the skin, covering as much of one’s body as possible. A quick braiding of my hair and I was ready to do a little reconnoitering of my own.
I rinsed the scent of perfume from me with a washcloth, not enough time for a shower as guests would be leaving the party soon. But perfume was a telltale sign in closed rooms and something not present in mine when I’d returned. Maybe my visitor was not a total amateur, or simply someone who didn’t wear scent. Most of the models wore perfume on a regular basis, and so did Dominique. The thousand-dollar-an-ounce variety. Vaughn no doubt would know the name whereas I only noted the smell earlier at the pool. The one that obscured her cinnamon and sandalwood scent.
So maybe Dragon Lady wasn’t my intruder?
Rats. That would have made life simpler.
But then the moment I’d become an Invisible Recruit I’d turned my back on any hint of a simple life.
“Show time,” I whispered, stepping from my room into the shadowed night. No telling when the party would break up. Which room first?
Dragon Lady’s.
Keeping off the crushed shell walkway for silence, and pausing every few steps to make sure I was alone, I crept through the warm, moist night, my muscles tensed, my senses alert, pumping adrenaline making everything sharp. Every whisper of a palm frond became a potential threat, every echo from the party matching my beating heart.
I’d left off face-darkening makeup; that would take too much explaining if I were caught. But if someone saw me I’d still be hard pressed to explain what I was up to.
I angled across the beach to Dominique’s villa, larger and set slightly apart from the others and right over the ocean. Bran’s right next door. Second on the list.
Coward. I justified my priority order by the fact I’d given his stateroom on the yacht a quick review; but he’d barely arrived and might have anticipated my move there. Here he wouldn’t.
I’d search his quarters. It was my job. Especially after Dominique’s not-so-subtle hint about him and Sasha. There was something very personal about invading someone’s bedroom. A violation by someone not invited in. I knew; it was what I felt right now about my room.
The doors to the villa were still key activated versus card activated, which worked to my advantage. That and the fact that the locks were as primitive as the setting. The bobby pin I’d jammed in my hair for just such a situation came in handy if my release spell didn’t work. Which it did. There was something innately comforting in using one of the tools-of-my-witch-trade to breach Dragon Lady’s lair.
Less than a minute and I was in. Another thirty seconds and I’d adjusted the hands-free climber’s headlamp I’d brought along. It beamed a pulse of red light and I kept it focused downward, creating less chance of detection. The red also kept my night vision intact, one more plus.
A quick review of desk and bureau showed nothing out of the ordinary. The room was as spotless and organized as Dominique.
What did I expect, a file marked “Next score”?
I did a quick search of Dominique’s designer wardrobe, looking for papers stashed where they shouldn’t be. The same organization appeared with her shoes—sorted by color and style to boot.
Nothing. No clue, no hint, no X marked the spot.
But I knew she was involved.
I stood in the middle of the room, scanning every possible hiding place I might have missed when I spotted Dominique’s Prada bag. Not the one she used every day, but a backup one I’d noticed once or twice.
This time I removed every item and laid them on the bureau top. Nothing one wouldn’t expect from any woman executive’s bag. Lipstick. Key ring. A plain phone.
“What do we have here?”
I picked the last item up. This was not the phone I’d noticed her using: designer chic, small, and sophisticated. This one was of more interest because of its ordinariness. Dominique did not do ordinary.
Why a woman would carry two phones?
A throwaway?
I clicked the generic phone open and turned it on. No numbers in the phone book section.
More and more interesting.
Who used a phone and kept no numbers in it?
A quick punch in to call history revealed only one number for both last incoming call and last outgoing call. A number without a country code but with an area code.
I memorized the ten digits.
Who knew what it meant, but so far it’d been the only anomaly in Dominique’s room, and what little training I’d had the one thing that stuck was to look for anomalies.
Just as I crammed the last item into the Prada bag I heard the sound of shoes on the crushed shell walkway outside the room. They were walking fast.
Crud.
I slipped the bag back on the desk. My options were limited. The interior bathroom trapped me. That left the exterior balcony above the ocean waves.
Balcony.
Shark bonding beat facing Dominique any day.
CHAPTER 41
I slid the glass door closed behind me and flattened myself against the thatched wall of the villa even as the room’s lights blazed on.
Of all the rotten—
If Dominique opened her balcony door, I was a goner.
Whispering a quick cloaking spell that wouldn’t hide me for long if she came out on the deck I pressed myself against the wall.
Only one option. Swinging one leg, then the other, I lowered myself slowly and quietly from the balcony railing into the ocean waves below. The scent of briny salt surrounded me, the moon looking like a gigantic spotlight overhead. The high tide pushed and pulled as I clung to the rails, slapping seaweed against my legs. At least I hoped it was seaweed and not a jellyfish. Or something worse.
I didn’t dare swim off too soon in case Dominique stepped out onto the balcony. Dragon Lady would certainly spot in seconds a body swimming away.
Instead, I submerged myself until only my fingers and head were above water, then slid beneath the deck, grabbing on to small gaps in the wood planking with the tips of my fingers.
I braced as best I could as the balcony door glided open and footsteps clicked onto the decking.
Crap.
I caged my breath in my lungs, fearful Dominique would pick up the sound above the wash of waves against both shore and pilings. The water wasn’t cold, but the awkward hold stiffened my muscles and cramped my fingers. Plus the second I’d submerged myself the cloaking spell was ruined.
The tell-tale musical sound of cell phone numbers being punched reached my ears.
“Dominique St. Clair here.”
Maybe a clue at last.
“I asked for a young woman to be at my cousin Bran’s villa this evening.”
What the—?
“I’d like to make that two.”
What for?
“Yes, that’s correct. Massage and amenities.”
What kind of—
“Yes, I understand perfectly. The women will be amply rewarded. For all services provided.”
That bitch.
Silently, I scissored my legs, heavy against the pull of the tide, to keep afloat while I waited and steamed. My fingers ached, my waterlogged clothes dragged me down, using up precious energy but I clung on.
Dominique the pimp. And Bran? His request or his cousin being thoughtful? Were these the toys Dragon Lady mentioned earlier?
Think professional, not personal. Yeah, right. Dragon Lady w
as taking the gloves off, but then, so could I.
The rising tide scraped my head against the underside of the balcony deck. A few more minutes and I’d have to make a choice; let go and see if I could swim far enough underwater before I had to come up for air, and hope to hell Dominique had either gone back inside or wasn’t looking in my direction. Or—
Drowning wasn’t a good second option.
Gulping in more and more seawater, I made my decision.
Two breaths and—
The shoes moved. Forward once, as if leaning on the railing, then back.
The door slid shut.
Peeling cramped fingers from the deck, I sucked in a quick breath and let go. I slipped beneath the water, kicking off into the dark sea, repeating the ten-digit sequence of numbers from the phone I’d found.
One way or another Dragon Lady was going down.
CHAPTER 42
“Well there you are, Pocahontas. Sleep well last night?” Franco strutted onto one of the resort’s empty patios, spread out with a breakfast buffet. Just what I needed with my eggs and ham, a large dose of cynicism.
“Eat glass, Frank.” I reached for a cup of coffee, large and black and wondered if any food would stay down. I so didn’t need chipper and cynical first thing in the morning. I needed a return call from Kelly about the break in and phone number. I needed answers. Lots of answers. “Besides I told you not to call me—”
“You said Sacagawea. I distinctly remember that. Your exact words were—”
“Go away, Frank.” I kept my voice pitched low though the closest guests to us were at the far side of the open-air room.
“And here I thought you’d be all starry-eyed and moony this morning with the way Bran was looking at you all evening. Yum. Yum.”
“Get a life.” I brushed past the man, wishing I had sunglasses. He was dressed in hot pink for God’s sake, at six-fifteen in the morning. It was unnatural.
“I take it then you did not hear about the argument.” Franco’s plucked brows arched coyly. “The one between Bran and Dominique.”
I paused. Think mission. I was there to get intel, and if Bran had a major row with his cousin and business partner it was important to find out as much about it as possible.
Yeah right.
Okay, so there might be a very tiny personal interest, too. But I wasn’t asking for that reason; nor was I going to mention midnight masseuses. A woman had to have her pride.
“What argument?” I returned to Franco’s side and plopped a pastry on my plate, feigning indifference—the quickest way to get Franco to spill his guts.
I was right. Barely a second ticked past before he gave a piqued humph. “Well, after you left so quickly, and trust me it was noted.” He arranged three slices of mango artistically on his glass plate. “And then Bran left—”
He paused dramatically, as if inviting confidences but he was asking the wrong person.
“The argument, Frank. Spit it out or you’ll be wearing that fruit.”
“Well, the least you could do is let me have a little fun. Especially with such juicy tidbits to share.”
Franco moved to a nearby table and I followed, reminding myself I was trailing in his wake only for the sake of answers. After sliding into a chair Franco tugged his shirtsleeves into place, then glanced around and lowered his voice. “When Bran returned, awfully fast, some said, and very put out—”
“The argument?”
“Oh, all right.” He notched his chin at an angle. It was all I could do not to clip it. I planted myself in the chair opposite him, ignoring my plate of food.
“Well, Dominique met Bran and they started talking.”
“They’re cousins and business partners. They talk every day.”
“Not with Bran looking like thunder, a very good look for him, by the way. Very testosterone and hunky.”
I’d agree, but I wasn’t going there.
“Anyway.” Franco inhaled deeply as he arranged a strawberry next to his mango. It was a freaking piece of fruit. No way should it take three minutes to line up on a plate. I bit back a groan.
“It was obvious Bran was not happy about something and Dominique was yammering at him.”
“Yammering?”
“Yes, you know, visualize one of those pneumatic nail drivers with painted nails and peach lipstick.”
Good description of Dominique.
My stomach was already knotting. I slid my plate away on the table, the pastry barely touched. Nothing was going to sit well this morning. “What was the argument about?”
“Some said you.” The knots tightened.
“But then it escalated.”
“Into what?”
“Rumors are,” Franco lowered his voice like a conspiratorial schoolgirl. “He wants to cancel the rest of the tour.”
“Why?” How was I going to find a thief, and a killer, if all the suspects dispersed? Canceling the tour would be a disaster. The thief/killer would go to ground and there’d be no justice for anyone. Especially Sasha. And that didn’t even count my sole lead to what had happened to Van.
Franco eyed me closely. “Seems Bran feels there’s not enough security for his staff. Too many unanswered questions about Sasha. There are even rumors about indiscretions happening after some of Bran’s earlier shows.”
Only Franco could describe thefts as indiscretions. He continued, “Interesting don’t you think?”
I ignored his question. “Can Bran cancel the tour?”
“He’s the boss, he can do anything he wants.”
“But wouldn’t it cost an arm and a leg?”
“Yes.” Franco brushed an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. “But he’s loaded. Besides, I don’t think he’s ever done this for the money.”
“Then why?”Franco cocked his head, like a bird eyeing a worm. “Acknowledgement. Name recognition would be my guess. He has a lot to prove to the tres-mal family who rejected him. But Bran would never put his own interests above the people who depend on him. He’s very protective that way. Some say too protective.”
Fallen angel leaning toward the dark side if pushed too far.
Bran’s name was being destroyed; and I was part of the juggernaut making that happen, especially if he was involved in the thefts in any way.
I set down my coffee, not needing any more acid in my stomach.
“Look, I’ve got a question.” I wasn’t sure if I should go down this path or not.
Franco angled a brow. “I’ll answer yours, if you’ll answer mine.”
I held back a snort. “Fine. But nothing personal.”
“You’re so not fun.” The man had the audacity to flap his wrist at me. Lord, it was going to be a long day.
“Tell me if Bran had anything going on with Sasha?” There, I’d asked, and if anybody would be aware of the gossip it’d be Franco.
“You mean our Sasha? New girl Sasha?”
I noted he spoke as if she were still alive. Not uncommon when faced with sudden, brutal death.
“Yes. That Sasha. Do you know if at any time they had a fling, or a relationship, or even knew each other very well?”
“Don’t be preposterous.” He sounded adamant, which stunned me. “Why? What have you heard?”
“Is that your question?”
“Don’t be impertinent, of course it isn’t. Did you hear something about Sasha and Bran together?”
“Yes.” He leaned closer, his eyes shining, if wary. “Come, come, tell Uncle Franco all.”
As if. But for the sake of the mission, I’d do even this. Gossip, so not my thing. Pulling up echo-demons en masse was sounding easier and easier every day.
“I heard she was a party girl and that Bran and she might have had a relationship, but it soured.”
“And you believed that?” He laughed out loud, then sobered. “Let me guess, Dominique?”
“Does it matter?”
He shook his head as if disappointed in a favored pupil. “Of course it matters
. Gossip is only as good as its source, and Dominique has been making the most outrageous innuendoes for days now.”
“About what?”
“Everyone, sweet cheeks, including yourself. Bran and Sasha. That wouldn’t happen in a million years.”
“Why?”
“Because, dumplings, he’s had eyes only for you since you joined. So do not tell me you haven’t noticed.”
When I was five my mother walked out of the house one day and never came back. Even now I could recall the shell-shocked feeling I’d experienced when my dad had sat me down and told me not to ask for my momma again. She wouldn’t be coming home. The news was like a slam on hard-packed earth from a great height. Franco’s words produced the same effect.
“You didn’t know.” Franco leaned closer, his eyes saucer-sized now. “How deliciously droll. No wonder the man has been practically foaming at the mouth. I don’t think he’s used to being frustrated. And by a hairdresser. Oh, this is too, too—”
“Shut up, Frank.” I’d deal with his revelation later. We were acting our roles, that’s all. “Tell me about Dominique’s other innuendoes.”
“Oh, well, there was a juicy one about you being a serial killer.”
So Dominique was the one who had shared my background. No surprise there.
Franco pressed two fingers together in a gesture I associated with the Boy Scouts. Until now. “So, is it true?”
“Get real,” I snorted, the easier to distract Franco.
“Too bad, that was so juicy.” He shook his head then added, “Then she announced you were gay.”
“As in happy?” Good thing I wasn’t drinking my coffee or I’d have snorted it all over the table.
Franco moued his lips, “Of course you being gay all went up in smoke when you arrived with Bran last night. No one who saw the two of you together could have any doubts which side of the fence you favor.”
I so was not having this conversation.
I responded dryly. “Anything else Dominique is saying?”
“Let’s see.” He pressed a finger along his jaw as if he had to think very carefully. “You’re gay. I’m not. You, and I, or both of us killed poor, poor Sasha. Bran is being blackmailed by you.”