Prince of Honor (House of Terriot Book 1)

by Nancy Gideon

  “What’s out there?”

  “Desert. Mountains. LA. I’m monitoring the police scanners to see if the plate’s been spotted. Can’t promise we’ll get a hit if they’ve gone to ground.”

  “What about the other things?”

  Kip directed Cale’s attention to the bar where he’d plugged in a printer. “Over there.”

  Turow followed him to find neat stacks of information laid out. Bank accounts. Phone records. Financial statements. Their family’s personal data.

  “What are we looking at?” Cale asked.

  Without taking his attention from the screen, Kip told them, “I started with Jamie’s direct interests and expanded to where they crossed over with the rest of the family. Joint ventures, shares, et cetera. Then I targeted cell calls to numbers here in Vegas, weeding out the legitimate ones. Looked at reservations, purchases, especially for designer labels in Sylvia’s size.” He smiled at Turow. “Everything from high-priced hookers to Jamie’s favorite cigars.”

  “And?”

  “Yahtzee. Top one on your right.”

  Cale and Turow examined the billing statement from one of the hotels their clan owned. Excitement churned as Turow pointed to a list of purchases.

  “That’s Sylvia’s perfume, her lotions, the wine she likes.” Turow's attention jumped to his little brother. “Who owns the hotel?”

  “Wes, Jamie, and Colin.”

  “Wes and Colin,” Cale repeated heavily. “I don’t like this pattern.”

  “It could be Rosalee using Wes’s contacts.”

  Cale shrugged at Kip’s logic, but muttered, “Or maybe not. Shit. Do a complete check on both of them.”

  “Last pile. All their interests, separate and combined. Nothing definite, but a couple of suspicious pops. Colin’s got some accounts stashed away and is funneling funds to New Orleans.”

  “He’s there at my request.”

  “Okay.” Kip’s reply was very neutral.

  Tone reluctant, Cale ordered, “Keep track of their calls.”

  “Done. And Cale,” Kip posed carefully, turning his way, “Col’s spending a lot of time with Mia Guedry.”

  “So? He’s negotiating with her.”

  “That’s not what he’s doing with her.”

  “He’s still banging her? Even after we found out she’s a Guedry?” The irritation in his voice contrasted with the worry furrowing his brow.

  “Not just a Guedry, Cale. One of the Guedrys. She’s Daniel Guedry’s sister, and some say she’s out to take her brother’s crown away from Rueben. Maybe Colin’s helping her with that money he’s moving into Louisiana. The Guedrys have ties with the North, and maybe that makes them friends with James. But we don’t know any of that for a fact,” he added emphatically.

  “Find out. Dammit! Find out!”

  Turow wanted to argue for his brother, but he could hear Kendra insisting that Colin had other interests in New Orleans. Interests of the heart or interests leading to treason?

  And he could see Colin and Sylvia sitting side-by-side on his bed, heads together in intimate discussion . . .

  No. No! He wouldn’t go there. There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t believe in Sylvia’s loyalty.

  Did Colin have another agenda that involved getting up-close and personal with his mate? Colin who never got friendly with anyone now suddenly his former lover’s BFF?

  Angry and agitated because he couldn’t dismiss those ugly suspicions, Turow wandered to one of the large windows overlooking the waking Strip. He took a big, cleansing inhale and . . . smelled cigar smoke?

  Jamie’s brand.

  Pain snatched his breath away, sudden and sharp, a hot spear in his low back. With a bleat of surprise, he put his hand there, finding nothing wrong. Nothing physical.

  Then the smell, that awful stink of singed flesh.

  “What the hell?”

  He saw his brothers staring at him, their faces mirroring his confusion. Then another searing spot of agony next to the first took him down to one knee.

  “Row!”

  When Kip made a move to stand, Cale waved him back, shaking his head to warn him off as he went to sink down on his heels beside his glassy-eyed brother.

  “Tell me what you’re feeling,” he urged quietly.

  Turow shook his head, panting rapidly as another lick of fire touched near his spine. He didn’t understand, but suddenly, he knew.

  Awareness flooded through him, the scent of the smoldering cigar and that of burned skin and fear. Of Sylvia, her scent, her heartbeats, so fast and frantic, of her struggle to remain calm as her emotions reached out to him through their bond like desperate hands. Just as they had in that hallway with Stephen.

  “He’s hurting her . . . hurting her.”

  Cale didn’t doubt for a second. “Where is she? Where are you?”

  “Have to . . . have to stop him.” He gave a low, awful cry, going to hands and knees, fingers clutching, tearing at the carpet as his body shook and his exhale trembled.

  “We will. Listen to me, Row. Reach out to her through the bond. Don’t let go. Don’t let her go. Open your eyes. What do see?”

  A pause as he panted harshly. “A room. A suite. Hotel. Not Vegas. Mountains. I can smell the mountains.” He shuddered, moaning, struggling.

  Running the risk of breaking that fragile concentration, Cale palmed the back of Row’s head. “She’s strong, brother. You be strong. She’s reaching out to you for help. Be there for her. Let her know you’re there. Look around. What do you see? Anything that can help us find her?”

  His breaths deepened into a growl. “Jamie.”

  “Don’t look at him. Look around you. Are you in a city?”

  “No . . . no. Up high. Maybe four, five floors. I can see vines outside. Grapevines? I can hear sounds. People talking. Slots. I hear slots. A casino.”

  Cale glanced over at Kip who got busy on his laptop. “Good. That’s good. Look deeper. Look into her thoughts. What did she see? We need a name, a place.”

  “Ass. Nice ass.”

  “What?”

  Turow shook his head, sweat falling off his brow. “No. Not ass. Butt. No . . . rump.”

  “She’s being tortured, and she’s checking out some dude’s rear?”

  Cale waved off Kip’s conclusion.

  Blood began to drip from Turow’s nose. A few drops becoming a weak stream, prompting more urgent dialog.

  “A name, Row. Search for a name. She knows. Pull it out of her.”

  A terrible cry broken off by frantic gasps. “Rolling, roll, roller, rolly. Syl!” He collapsed against Cale, the bright flow gushing from his nostrils now. Cale pinched them shut and tipped his head back sharply.

  “Got it!” Kip shouted. “High Roller, Pahrump, Nevada. And guess what they raise besides the stakes? Grapes. They make their own wine. Got you, you son of a bitch!”

  Holding his brother to him, Cale smiled savagely, but the hand that stroked Turow’s damp hair was as gentle as his voice. “You found her, Row.”

  “He hurt her, Cale,” Turow whispered.

  “And now we return the favor. Let’s go kick some rump. Hang on, Mama. We’re coming for you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  James greeted them in the restaurant with a big smile and hugs for them both. Sylvia was instantly suspicious of his buoyant mood. The crazy train was pulling out of the station, and she didn’t want to be its passenger.

  While they ate, he talked energetically about his investment in the High Roller and its winery, Rolling Hills, the number of people employed, the climate that made for a perfect growing season, and his plans for expansion, all cautiously under the radar and legitimate.

  Rosalee struggled to suppress a yawn, until he got to the part about profits and pre-notarized papers ready for signature so they’d all be partners. Since James wasn’t one for sharing, Sylvia was instantly wary. What pound of flesh would they have to pay in to be a part of his cash cow?

  Then he e
xpanded his vision, of using the two of them to lock in Wesley by his heartstrings.

  James smiled at Sylvia. “Family. I’m sure the thought of his brothers tracking down his lovely sister as well as his fiancée will get him thinking in a different direction.”

  A plan Sylvia wasn’t sure wouldn’t be successful.

  “We’ll pick them off one by one,” he continued with a cunning smile. “With us or against us, live or die.”

  That meant he planned to kill Turow.

  That’s when she started thinking coldly and concisely of ways to kill him first.

  “All this is well and good,” she posed with an indulgent wave of her hand. “But it's moot until we have what we need to go into real production.”

  James’s smile unfurled with mischievous glee.

  “I found your mother’s book.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In my office.”

  Heart hammering with anticipation, Sylvia pushed back from the table. “I want to see it.”

  “Then sign on the dotted line.”

  A mountain breeze drifted in through the open terrace doors, cooling Sylvia’s anxiousness. Once she got the book, would she be able to decipher Martine’s message? It wasn’t like she’d find a key taped inside the cover and a note saying, “Here’s where I hid your future happiness!”

  She stood looking out at the verdant hillside as Rosie sprawled on one of the sofas. Both turned as James came out of his office, book in hand. She instantly recognized it and extended her palm.

  James drew it back with a teasingly grin. “Not so fast, my dear. There’s a matter of dues needing to be paid.”

  “What?” she snapped impatiently.

  Her testiness darkened the benevolent mood. “The pound of flesh you’ll pay for your entrance back into my good favor. How do you suggest we do that?”

  “The old-fashioned way?” Rosalee suggested with a perverse delight that intimated she wouldn’t mind watching. Or participating. “That would help her put other . . . things behind her.”

  “I’m not interested in having sex with you, James, especially not in front of an audience.”

  Rosie pouted, but James merely smiled. “If you don’t pay with pleasure, I guess that just leaves pain as your punishment.” He turned to Rosalee. “Suggestions?”

  “Nothing that shows.”

  “Discretion. Yes, of course, you’re right. She’s already got one ugly mark to hide.”

  The sign of her bond. Sylvia’s chin rose defiantly, refusing to look afraid. Though she was, deeply and desperately. James was a monster, and fear would only feed his mania. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it quickly, so I can get to work.”

  “I would so love to take my time, but you’re right. We need to get down to business. Let me think for a moment.” He drew one of his Cubans from the fancy case he carried, trimming its end before pulling a good draw. He studied the glowing end for a pensive moment then that unholy smile returned. “I’ve just the thing. Purification.”

  Sylvia took it because she had no choice. She needed the book. She took it in stoic silence because she refused to give the ghoulish pair a show they’d enjoy.

  Though she was silent, screams raged inside her, shrieks and moans and whimpers for a mercy she’d never find at their hands. Her fingers bit into the back of the chair she clung to as James etched a delicate line of burns across the pale skin of her low back until the smell and the pain swirled up, about to overcome her. Then a sudden soft breath brushed against her sweat-dappled brow.

  “Be strong.”

  Turow! How could that be? So close, so real, she could almost feel him next to her.

  “Where are you? Show me.”

  She glanced behind her where her tormenter stood, but it was as if hands turned her purposefully the other way, toward the open terrace doors and the hills beyond as her vision blurred and body trembled, that sickly-sweet odor rising again along with unbelievable agony.

  “A name. A name. Where are you?”

  She couldn’t speak it, so she brought the images up in her fevered mind, of the signs she’d seen announcing their destination. Would he be able to understand? How could he understand? How was any of this possible? Was she just imagining ithis voice, his presence-just when she needed him most?

  And then another voice, strong and fierce.

  “Hang on, Mama. We’re coming for you.”

  Never in a million years would she conjure up Cale Terriot to reassure her! It was real. She’d been heard. Relief brought courage flooding back, strengthening her stance, steadying her nerve. Rescue was on its way, and she still had work to do.

  Be strong.

  Whether placated or simply bored, James snubbed out the cigar in an ashtray and told Rosie, “Give her a drink. Then we get down to business.”

  He’d had papers prepared and pre-notarized for a likely astronomical fee, ready for her and Rosie’s signatures as partners in the High Roller venture. Including a surviving partners clause. As she put her name to it, Sylvia couldn’t think of it as signing a confession of treasonous guilt. Was that why James insisted, so she’d have no way back, no other options except cooperation?

  Let him think so.

  Coolly, careful to let none of the hate roiling inside her show, Sylvia put out her hand. “The book. I’ve done my penance, now let me do my job.”

  She’d surprised him. That wasn’t easy to do. He studied her for so long, she feared he could see right through to her dark glee of imagining his death at her mate’s hands. Soon.

  Slowly, he smiled, a gesture that almost appeared natural. “Yes, you have. You never cease to amaze me, Sylvia. I do believe you’re even more determined than your mother.”

  Oh, you have no idea.

  Book clutched in her hand, her reserves quivering, Sylvia and Rosie rode down in the elevator to her floor where Bart stood outside the door with the requested tube of ointment in his hand. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  Because she couldn’t take care of it herself, Sylvia stripped off her shirt on the way to the bathroom and, after placing the treasured volume on the basin beside her, braced for more torment.

  Rosie was unexpectedly gentle.

  “I’m so proud of you,” the girl vowed. “Now we can really be family, you, me, James and Wesley.”

  Not in my lifetime, girlie.

  Doctored and gritting her teeth against the fresh misery,

  Sylvia shooed her new “bestie” out the door, saying she needed to rest and recover. Bart stood in the hall, a silent sentinel.

  She stretched out on the bed, finally allowing a groan to escape her. Then she was all concentration as she leafed through the pages and carefully felt along the spine and bindings. Nothing.

  How could there be nothing? How could there be no clue?

  She could almost hear her mother’s throaty chuckle as she had this last vengeful laugh.

  There had to be some hidden message somewhere! Had Martine hated her that much? So much she’d leave her nothing at all?

  Sylvia found herself staring helplessly at Martine’s inscription to James.

  “False face must hide what false heart doth know. Let’s make us medicine of our great revenge.”

  Was there more to that quote than bitter truths?

  She began flipping pages, searching for the reference, finding not one, but two separate quotes from two different parts of the play.

  Her message in the message itself?

  But what was it?

  She scooted off the bed, wincing at the abrupt movement as

  she grabbed for the notepad and pen by the desk phone. She scribbled down the lines, studying them, frowning. What was she missing?

  The numbers.

  Act. Scene. Line. 4-3-216. 1-7-82. Social Security number? Not enough digits for a phone number. Birthdates? Map coordinates? Combination lock? Oh, for the use of a computer!

  Mother, what were you trying to tell me?

  She closed her ey
es, emptying her head and heart of panic, to think as Martine would think. Coldly. Practically. Something that would have meaning only to her mother.

  Sylvia took a shaky breath. A smile spread, ferocious and wide.

  How fitting and how deviously Martine, to hand her her future on the bitter bones of her past.

  All she had to do was wait. Turow and Cale were in Las Vegas, an hour away. By tonight, she’d be sharing a bed with the love of her life.

  Unless something went wrong. Unless they were underestimating James. As they’d done before.

  She had begun to touch up her face to disguise the recent wear and tear and worry when another thought intruded, this one a lot less pleasant than rolling around between the sheets with her naked mate.

  They had no idea what they were walking into.

  James wasn’t careless. He’d be hiding behind more than just a few bouncers on the floor and a locked elevator. What else did he have in the way of nasty surprises? Rosalee would be no help there. James wouldn’t trust her beyond a key card to the High Roller’s executive lounge.

  Who would be privy to those secrets?

  The answer stood guard outside her door. Once burned, he wouldn’t be easy to fool again.

  With the back of her hand, Sylvia scrubbed the fresh layer of cosmetics from her face, leaving streaks of mascara and a blotchy skin tone. Haggard, but still not enough to convince a wary cynic.

  Sucking a deep breath, she reached beneath her shirt to grip the end of the adhesive holding the dressing Rosie had so carefully made to cover her wounds. A quick yank ripped it loose, taking tender raw edges with it. Knees buckling, she clung to the counter until the waves of nausea receded, then smiled grimly at her pale, runny-eyed face in the glass. A picture worth more words than she could get him to believe. Restoring the tape rather loosely, she rubbed at her eyes again and was satisfied with the woeful effect. To perfect the look she wanted, she reapplied her make-up, trying to hide the apparent flaws. Failing beautifully.

  Taking the book with her, because no way it was going to leave her sight, Sylvia peered out into the hall where Bart stood immediately at attention. His stare registered shock but only for a second.