by Christa Wick
"You mean his voice changed?" Jo-Jo asked. I heard my brother's rumbling voice, the words incoherent, and then Jo-Jo spoke again. "Oh, Dylan says that's something Simon does. He's the..."
She hesitated and Dylan repeated something before she went on. "He says he's the Scarlett Pimpernel of businessmen. That Simon is better at working people's expectations than ledgers."
Coming from my big brother, who practically worshipped spreadsheets, that was an extreme insult. I didn't understand the other half of what she was saying though. "The Scarlett what?"
Jo-Jo repeated and then Dylan took the phone from her. "It's a book, Ree. You need to read something other than Twilight and Fifty Shades."
I was a nano-second from telling him that I would read one his kind of books only after he pried my sparkly vampires and borderline psychotic fantasy billionaires from my cold, dead fingers when Marjolein reclaimed her phone. "Don't mind him. We're off to the White House next and he's just irritated that the guy at the State Department didn't ask to kiss his shoes -- or maybe lick his taint."
Another growl from Dylan and I laughed. Marjolein's words were just code for Dylan being sick with worry over Mishka, who was far more than an employee. The first time he met my brother, at a questionable business meeting in Moscow, he had saved Dylan's life.
"Just realize Simon is almost always acting, at least that's what your brother thinks," Marjolein said, cutting into my thoughts. "He'll try to convince you he only wants X but he's holding out for something else entirely."
I huffed and glared at the double doors before lowering my voice even more. "Right now he's insistent he wants the en suite playrooms all black. He had the unmitigated gall to ask if I'd ever been in one. Gave me a line of bullshit about it being all about the dom's personality."
"Well..." Jo's voice trailed off wistfully, reminding me that my friend and future sister-in-law had definitely been getting her freak on full-time with Dylan in a sex room of their own.
And that was all I wanted to know about that!
"Forget Simon," I said, silently berating myself for complaining about him when there were much more important things to think about. "There has to be some way I can help find Mishka. Not doing anything at all is driving me crazy."
"Hun, you've been running 24/7 taking care of our shit so we can focus on Mishka," she answered, not a trace of coddling in her voice. "Please don't think you're not doing anything to find him."
I closed my eyes at the threat of tears, not only over Mishka but at how much I adored my future sister-in-law.
"I love you," I said before adding my traditional caveat. "Platonically, of course."
"You're going to make me cry," she shot back, a sniffle adding authenticity. "And by the set of Dylan's jaw, I can just see him storming into the oval office itself. Which means I'm either going to meet the president or be carted off to some cell in Guantanamo with a cadre of press snapping our photos before we board the plane. Either way, I don't want raccoon eyes from runny mascara."
"Sorry," I giggled before sobering again. "Let me know if theres something I can do. I swear I still have down time."
"I will," she promised then signed off.
With the call over, I slowly extracted myself from the plush grip of the mattress. Instead of returning to the outer room, I headed to the bedroom's private bathroom. Simon deserved my making him wait a few minutes while I freshened up.
With my luggage on the other side of the bedroom doors, I felt a small surge of gratitude to find the bathroom well stocked, until my brain processed the color of the cellophane wrapping. I was starting to hate the cerise that I had coveted for three long months.
Chest constricting with dread over what more I might discover, I peeled open the seal on the makeup towelettes, tugged one out and gave it a sniff. Fresh oranges, one third of my rope master's signature scent. I wiped a careful line under each bottom eyelid with the cloth then used it to remove any oil that had gathered on my fingers before using my fingers to smooth any smudges in my make-up.
All of the cellophane wrapped goodies bore the same unfamiliar brand mark. I unwrapped the body soap, brought the bar to my nose and inhaled. The fragrance revealed itself in layers -- orange, walnut...oakwood.
Staggering back from the sink, I plopped down on the toilet seat so hard I thought I would shatter the porcelain. No escaping the conclusion that Simon and the rope master were one and the same. I'd done something incredibly stupid, enjoyed the hell out of it, fantasized about it for months afterward and now I was going to pay hell for it a hundred times over.
I pushed onto my feet, my whole body shaking. Taking one last glance in the mirror, I started for the outer room. I opened the double doors, expecting to see him sitting in the guest chair. The chair was empty. I stepped closer to the desk, my head turning as I did.
No sign of Simon.
The suite's floor plan ran through my mind. There was a galley kitchen off the entrance and I headed there. Still no sign of Simon. I approached the far end of the narrow slice of room knowing that the door at the end led to the suite's second bathroom.
I raised a hand to knock then thought better. I was already embarrassed enough. If he was in there, I'd be even more embarrassed to interrupt him in the middle of whatever he was doing.
Leaving the kitchen, I remembered Simon's arrival, particularly the way I had dismissed him, thinking he would leave when I did, and how he had set the security latch in place to guard us against any interruption. My head swiveled, a mix of relief and disappointment swirling inside me as I saw the latch was off again, proof that he had left. I flipped it back in place and walked on wobbly legs back to the desk.
A sheet of paper had been placed dead center of the surface, Simon's elegant handwriting mocking me.
Pudding,
I will text you precisely at eight with directions on retrieving your package. In the meantime, I suggest you relax and take nourishment. The hotel has the best tea service in all of England.
Simon
I read the message again and started on my third read when I finally realized why my thoughts were hiccuping on the note.
...retrieving your package...
My head jerked left.
The painting was gone!
How the hell had I not noticed that?
Groaning, I buried my face in my hands and wondered how I could have been so dense as to accept Rick's last minute change in terms and to have remained clueless as to the mystery guest's identity for three months.
I wanted to call Jo-Jo, but knew I couldn't. I could trust her not to say anything, but there was no way to have the conversation with her without Dylan becoming aware of what had happened. He disliked Simon already. This event would just send him over the edge and distract him from finding Mishka, just as it would distract Jo-Jo. Same problem with talking to Jake. I wasn't close enough to Alexa to call her about something so personal and I didn't want to ask her to keep secrets from Jake, at least not for my selfish reason of needing to vent and whine and be told I had done nothing wrong and was the victim.
But I did know whom I could call -- Simon's accomplice in this entire charade.
Rick Wells.
********************
"What do you mean, you haven't started the painting yet?" I asked, fresh terror in my voice. "I opened the package, I saw enough to know that it was me even if I didn't see the face and why the hell would someone else send me a nude portrait?"
Silence followed my question, the void between words long enough to drag up another anxiety producing thought from the dregs of my overactive imagination.
"Did someone else see the files or the film?"
"I've explained it a dozen times, Riona," Rick patiently answered. "All of my sensitive work, including the film development and storage, takes place in a secure location. The files and undeveloped film from your shoot are locked up right next to those of a member of the royal family -- just don't ask me which country's royal family, prince
ss."
"So the only people who know what the shoot looked like are you and St. Simon?" We were only two minutes into the phone call and this was my second attempt to indirectly force his admission that my rope master was, in fact, Simon. He hadn't fallen for the first try.
"Stop trying to trick me," Rick said, spotting, and deflecting, my second attempt. "You read the confidentiality agreement, you know I cannot and will not name the other party to the photo shoot."
"Just tell me I'm right," I snapped. "I've already given you all the proof!"
He chuckled, the sound throaty, masculine and completely annoying. "Princess, the sum total of your proof was a painting you thought I'd done and sent to London. Now you know I'm not the artist, so you have no proof. As I see it, that leaves you with two options. You can keep trying to dupe me into revealing the third person's identity and, be warned, I will hang up the next time you try."
"And the second option?" I groused.
"Second, ignoring whether Simon may or may not be your rope master, I can answer a few questions about my good friend."
That last little bit of his reply shocked the oxygen out of my lungs.
"You and Simon are friends? Good friends? Why don't I already know that?"
Another chuckle, exactly the same as the one earlier but less annoying now that he had piqued my curiosity. "If you knew, then Dylan would know -- although big brother probably already does know but doesn't want it thrown in his face all the time. Ever been stuck between two friends, princess?"
I puffed air into the phone, freshly irritated at his continued use of "princess." He was only doing so because he figured (correctly) there was no way in hell I was going to be the one to end this conversation, not when he had all the information and I had all the questions.
"First I would have to have two friends at the same time," I said, my voice suddenly fragile at the reminder of what a lonely childhood I had experienced. My brothers were my friends, and I was at times stuck between their competing interests, but they had always been careful in handling such situations. As often as not, my care was their competing interest. I had been stuck, as well, between Marjolein and Dylan, but that was an easy choice: I knew Jo-Jo would be the best thing that ever happened to my overly uptight brother, so siding with her was the same as siding with him -- in the end.
"Poor princess," Rick said, his tone devoid of any actual sympathy. "What's your choice, hang up or interrogate me about Simon."
"An interrogation is in order," I purred, the smile on my face matching the smile in my voice. "Is Simon adept at rope bondage?"
"Ground rule number one -- I will not answer questions designed specifically to identify Simon as your rope master. Ground rule number two -- if you keep asking such questions, like was Simon in New York three weeks ago -- I may or may not lie when responding. Or, again, I may hang up on your sweet little butt."
I could hear the smile in his voice and it made my shoulders sag. I flounced backwards on the bed, its insanely plush stuffing trying to tease me away from the game at hand.
"Fine," I sighed, knowing deep down I was a terrible, and very obvious, player at the game anyway. I had always been more interested in the arts growing up -- the visual ones, at least. Music was okay, reading fiction was an occasional diversion. The only thing that could get me to sit still was making something with my hands. It didn't matter if it was illustrations, dresses, or decorating a room. It only mattered that it had some permanency in the real world, a quality sorely lacking before my father's death.
"Do I get as many questions as I want?" I asked, hoping I hadn't just wasted one of a very small, finite number of available queries.
"Depends, Ree."
Another sigh. I didn't know a lot about Simon to begin with. He barely existed on the Internet despite his wealth. Dylan wouldn't talk about him. Our phone conversations hadn't gone beyond design and were almost always antagonistic. His logic in emails seemed inhuman and his voice on the phone calls ridiculous.
"He's smart," I started, hesitantly.
"Genius," Rick corrected. "Holds over one hundred patents, but you would have to know all his holding companies to realize the number and variety as he always creates a company to hold the patent. But all the work is his."
I absorbed the information, but didn't know what to do with it.
"Sometimes, on the phone, he sounds a bit...flamboyant. But just his voice." When Rick said nothing, I tried to explain a little better. "Dylan said that Simon is like some book character called the Scarlett Pimpernel, how it's all an act to deceive."
That earned a small guffaw from Rick, followed by more silence.
"You disagree?" I poked.
"Not at all," Rick answered. "I'm just trying to decide how much to tell you."
I shot upright into a sitting position. Rick's voice had taken on a dark tone, one that sent chills, the bad kind, down my spine. "Is he dangerous, would he--"
A low growl of warning cut off any further speculation on my part.
"Do you really think I would place..."
His words trailed off. I knew if I puzzled over them long enough, I would figure out something important, but Rick didn't give me the time to think.
"If I were going to pick a character from a book to be Simon, it would be Evan Tanner."
"Help a girl out," I half-whined. "Big brother already highlighted how poorly read I am beyond vampires and warped billionaires."
"A Lawrence Block character," Rick laughed. "The Thief Who Couldn't Sleep, to be exact. Except, the metal that invaded Tanner's brain and obliterated his sleep center was battlefield shrapnel."
Brain...invaded...shrapnel? What the fuck?
"Wait, you're saying Simon barely sleeps and he has a piece of metal in his head?" Now I was officially astounded -- although chronic insomnia went a little way in explaining and exculpating the irritating hours he sometimes called or messaged.
"It was a bullet, long since removed, and he never sleeps," Rick corrected. "How do you think he has a hundred patents?"
My pulse had alternated between dipping low and racing fast throughout the conversation. The word "bullet," especially with all my existing anxiety over Mishka's disappearance sent my heart rate through the roof. As hard as the organ was pounding, it was certain to break out of my chest at any second.
"You're saying someone shot--" I stopped, suddenly incredulous. "Are you lying? Or, rather why are you lying? He's fucking perfect to look at. No way has his head has been physically injured by a bullet and his body--"
I decided to shut my mouth before I praised Simon's looks too much. Well, I already had, but I didn't need to go on. "Tell me, Rick. Is this a game or a con the two of you are playing?"
The words were harsh, my tone even harsher. Tears welled along the barrier of my lower eyelids but I would not allow myself the release of crying.
"If you think it's either," Rick answered. "You should leave the hotel immediately and hop the next plane home, princess. Good--"
"Wait," I shouted, knowing his next word would be "bye" and I'd lose whatever chance I had to find out more about Simon and decide if this was all an ill-considered joke.
"I'm afraid," I confessed to keep him on the line, my tears finally falling fat and hot against my cheeks. I couldn't tell Rick that I had an excellent reason for being paranoid at the time. Dylan had counseled that any information about Mishka was on a need-to-know basis, the cloak and dagger aspect of our search designed to keep him safe if his identity hadn't already been compromised. "And you're not really helping me be less afraid."
I sniffled then swiped roughly at my cheeks to erase the tears. "Just tell me what I need to know."
"I can't tell you everything you need to know," Rick cautioned. "And I probably told you too much already, but I did so out of friendship."
"Forgive me for saying so," I sniped softly. "But you don't really feel like my friend right now."
"I mean Simon," Rick answered, his tone drifting towar
d melancholy. "You already ruled me out as a friend earlier when you said you have never had two at the same time."
My lips pinched together in a pout he couldn't see. Now I felt like the asshole in this conversation. "Hyperbole," I whispered, knowing he wouldn't believe me.
"No, princess," Rick corrected yet again. "You lived in a tower so long growing up that you decided to carry it with you wherever you go. I would like us to be friends, but I know we're not. Maybe someday."
The tears started flowing again. My breathing hitched as I opened my mouth to speak. "I should go," I said, the words wet and clogged.
"If you mean home, then you'll never know why Simon's mother shot him."
Mother? Shot him?
The phone fell from my numb fingers, bounced off the bed and slid to a spot under the dresser. I scrabbled onto the floor, urgently telling Rick not to hang up because I had dropped the damn cell. Retrieving the device, I whipped it up to my ear, banging my wrist in the process so that I was yelping and trying to speak at the same time.
"You realize you're fucking killing me, right?" I asked.
"Maybe, but I bet you're not crying anymore," Rick chuckled.
Someone needed to kick him in the balls, but my legs wouldn't stretch from London to New York.
"Barely," I shot back. "Now tell me what happened. Why would a mother do that? Was it an accident?"
"Not an accident," Rick answered with a dark tremor. "She shot his father first, through the head, then Simon, also in the head, and then she shot her ear off. I presume she intended to end their lives and hers, but only his father died. She was institutionalized, never to speak a coherent word again. She died two years later when Simon was twelve."
My heart felt so heavy I couldn't move. "I've searched Simon's name..."
I didn't want to directly accuse Rick of lying again, so I stopped talking. Silence didn't keep my mind from spinning. Surely something like that would have made the papers.
"He was sent to live with a cousin on his father's side," Rick answered. "She and her husband didn't have any children and they gave Simon their last name, in part to shield him from the press."