All Rand had to do to take photos from the second lens was to depress a disguised second shutter release and remember to keep his finger away from the USB port.
“Damn wire is plucking me bald,” Rand said under his breath.
“Wait until I pull off the tape-you’ll scream like a girl. You see Bertone yet?”
“No, but his wife is all over the place like a rash.”
“Don’t scratch her either.”
Rand laughed silently. Faroe’s acid comments were the only thing amusing about the Fast Draw. As far as Rand was concerned, the contest was an absurd pursuit for adults who lived in a world overflowing with violence. The fact that the party was paid for by the man who had armed most of the African continent just added to the absurdity.
But at least Rand was used to painting in the field. He was a plein air artist in the original sense of the word. Not every invited artist at the party was. After the invention of good color film, many painters chose to work from photos rather than from field studies. The fact that someone painted excellent landscapes didn’t mean that he or she routinely worked outside of a studio with its good lighting, controlled weather, and endless supplies.
The thirty artists were all painting some aspect of the Bertone estate, all within the same two-hour period. They were surrounded by more than three hundred members of Arizona’s movers and shakers. The women wore “resort” clothes, the kind that cost thousands of dollars and were accessorized by sandals, purses, sunglasses, and jewelry from every country that catered to the world of European fashion. French champagne and Phoenix gossip fueled the party.
Rand scanned the crowds of expensively dressed socialites and wondered how many of them knew the truth of Balzac’s epigram: Behind every great fortune is a crime.
He sketched in a few lines for the pool, the pool house, and the concrete deck that provided the best view of the Phoenix landscape. For a few more moments he assessed the slanting, golden light. Then he decided it was time to quit sketching and start painting. He set aside the pencil and chose tubes of oil from his small worktable, squeezing and mixing colors quickly on his palette.
“See Bertone yet?”
“Shut up, I’m working,” Rand muttered.
“So am I.”
He painted quickly. And he hoped his disgust didn’t show behind his ruthlessly trimmed beard and newly collar-length hair. The sage green shirt Grace had presented him with was exactly the color of his eyes-or so she said. The old jeans and boots he wore were splattered with oils.
Soon the new shirt would be, too.
“Ah, he’s painting at last,” said a woman, her voice carrying clearly above the party’s chatter.
Rand ignored the woman, who was wearing black silk jeans and blouse and massive Native American jewelry.
“I told you so,” another woman said. “Elena assured me that he’s a fine young painter.”
“R. McCree. Never heard of him.”
“You don’t do the Pacific Northwest art scene.”
“Why would I?” the first woman asked. “And why is he painting all alone over here? The others are all over there, with that spectacular view of the valley. Castle of Heaven might be a trite name, but it sure fits the view.”
Rand hoped the women would leave and plague the other artists. Then he shut out the chatter and concentrated on the piece of the estate he’d chosen to paint. Both the spy and the artist in him was pleased with his choice-a vantage point overlooking Castillo del Cielo’s grounds.
“One of those women is really rude,” Faroe said.
“You should know,” Rand muttered.
Painting in a controlled fury of creation, he ignored Faroe and the sweat that dried on his skin almost as soon as it appeared. Phoenix already had one foot into the searing summer that defined its landscape and the lives of its citizens. The pouring afternoon light picked out every line and curve of the land like “star lighting” in an old black-and-white movie.
That kind of light was the artist’s best friend.
And worst enemy.
Because the desert light itself was so different from the cool, diffuse light of the Pacific Northwest, Rand had decided against doing a pure landscape. It would take time to master the subtleties of desert light. He didn’t have time.
So he was counting on the vanity of Elena Bertone, who was one of the three judges. According to St. Kilda’s dossier on her, she’d overseen the details of Castillo del Cielo’s design with an intensity that had driven the architect to drink. Literally. Castillo del Cielo was Elena’s, and she loved it like a child.
So he would paint her baby.
A smart choice, but not an easy one for him. He’d never before painted a subject he didn’t enjoy. Like the party, to him the estate was…wrong. It had been hammered onto a site blasted from rock and cactus. The gem blue of the pools and the diamond glitter of huge water features fought with the sun-ravaged hills and spare shapes of cactus on the unbuildable ridgelines around the estate. The house itself was in the Tuscan style, calling upon a past that simply didn’t exist on this side of the Atlantic.
Wrong.
And very expensive.
“Why didn’t Bertone just take out a billboard advertising his gross worth?” Faroe asked. “And I mean gross.”
“Quit reading my mind.” The words didn’t go beyond Rand’s collar, which was far enough.
“I was eavesdropping on that irritating woman. Wonder if her man of the moment gags her before he screws her.”
“Go away.”
“Find Bertone.”
“Quit chewing on me because Hamm couldn’t get a photo of Bertone,” Rand said. “I’ve taken enough color photos of the estate for twelve coffee-table books.”
“Bertone never goes to the parts of his estate that are monitored by closed-circuit security TVs. He’s one crafty bastard. That’s why we’re paying you an outrageous amount to play with oils and trick cameras.”
“I’d have done it for free,” Rand said, painting fiercely, trying not to remember the twin who had died in his arms, taking too much of Rand with him.
“Your job isn’t to avenge Reed. Remember that.”
Rand didn’t answer.
17
Castillo del Cielo
Saturday
5:35 P.M. MST
Kayla Shaw stood off to one side of the pool, searching the crowd for Steve Foley. Surely he would at least put in an appearance at the premier event of the bank’s premier private clients. Surely he’d tell her to relax, it was taken care of, she was safe.
Surely she was being paranoid.
The grim lines around her mouth were out of place in the beautiful, slanting light. The sun was still hot, but coolness seeped up from the ground itself, a reminder that winter wasn’t completely gone. Or maybe it was just her nerves, the paranoid part of her screaming Get out! Run! Hide!
Kayla pulled her black linen jacket closer around her. The rich teal of her silk blouse glowed in the light, as did the black pearl earring studs that were her parents’ last birthday present to her. Her body all but vibrated with tension as she scanned the thirty artists slapping paint on canvas as if their lives depended on it.
Foley was nowhere to be found.
What am I going to do?
The question rang in her mind like a frantic heartbeat.
Don’t think about it. All you can do right now is play nice so that the Bertones don’t get suspicious.
But if—
Don’t think about it. Not now.
But—
Not now!
“Are you enjoying yourself?” asked Bertone’s voice right at her elbow.
Kayla jumped sideways, startled that he’d been able to slide in so close without her knowing it.
He grasped her arm and pulled her back from the edge of the pool.
“Nervous, are we?” he asked.
“I always jump when somebody sneaks up on me,” Kayla said. “What about you?”
; “Sneak?” He laughed and didn’t release her arm. “Ma petite, I weigh in excess of two hundred pounds and am over forty. I could not sneak if my life depended on it. Are you sure you aren’t nervous?”
“Should I be?” she answered, pulling away from his grasp.
“I suppose it’s rather like bridal jitters. But then, you hinted this wasn’t your first time on the, ah, ‘primrose path.’”
Kayla set her teeth and didn’t say anything.
Bertone caught her chin with his strong hand. Slowly, almost gently, he forced her to look him in the eye.
Anger.
She was furious.
“Are you truly that much an innocent?” Bertone asked. “Have I really misread you that badly? You do understand how things are done in the real world, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She stepped back, freeing herself. “As profitably as possible.”
His eyebrows rose. “Ah, so you feel underpaid.”
She shrugged tightly.
“You interest me,” he said.
She stiffened as Bertone’s glance ran up and down her body like hands. She had deliberately dressed plainly in a linen trouser suit and a silk top cut just low enough to show the rose tattoo on her collarbone. But the way he was looking at her made her feel like she’d been stripped to her skimpy underwear and doused with cold water.
“Did the second wire transfer post to the new account?” Bertone’s voice was once again neutral.
Kayla wanted to sigh with relief. “Yes.”
Then realization hit and the ground jerked beneath her feet. She hadn’t spoken with the Bertones since the first deposit, yet somehow Bertone already knew not only that the correspondent account was open but that a second deposit had been made.
Her desire to talk to Steve Foley took on a keener, more bitter edge.
Bertone or the feds, the devil or the deep blue sea. Take your pick, you lucky girl.
None of the above.
There has to be a third choice. It’s up to me to find it.
Real quick.
“There will be more transfers today and tomorrow,” Bertone said. “Bigger amounts. Quite sizable, actually.”
She drew a shallow breath, then another, forcing herself to meet his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was calm despite the panic twisting her stomach. “In this country, banks aren’t open on the weekend. I’m not even sure the Fedwire operates.”
“It does.”
She shrugged tightly. “Then the money will transfer, but it won’t be posted to the account until Monday. In other words, no matter when you transfer it, the money won’t be available for withdrawal until Monday.”
“As early as possible on Monday,” Bertone said, his voice like a whip.
“Of course,” she said through her teeth.
He looked at her again, hair to toes and back up, lingering in all the expected places.
“I meant what I said earlier, ma petite. Your future is in your hands. If you wish more profit, you must give more.”
“I always take care of my clients’ money.”
“I wasn’t talking about my money.”
Kayla’s stomach turned over. “How does your wife feel about…extra service?”
“Elena is a woman of the world. She knows the difference between wife and paramour.”
“Just as you know the difference between husband and gigolo?” Kayla retorted before she could think better of it.
Bertone surprised her by throwing back his head and laughing. “Yes, you do interest me. It has been a long time since anyone has. There is a little garden behind the garage. After you give the prize check to the most earnest dabbler, you will go to the garden. I will come and discuss with you gigolos and paramours.”
Said the spider to the fly.
But this time Kayla guarded her tongue. The last thing she wanted to do was “interest” Bertone any more.
18
Castillo del Cielo
Saturday
5:40 P.M. MST
You see Bertone yet?” Faroe’s voice came from the earbuds Rand wore.
“Shut up,” he said beneath his breath. “Painting while holding my nose is hard work. Needs all my concentration.”
“Take a break. Look around.”
“In a minute.”
Rand squeezed a long bead of ocher onto his palette and mixed in a touch of black and a touch of crimson. To his eye, the color of the stone walls of the Bertone house was offensive.
“Brindleshit,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?” Faroe said.
“The color of the house.”
With that Rand shut out the world and concentrated on creating a color that was close to that of the house, yet more pleasing against the natural desert backdrop. It took time, but then he found the right color, the right balance of weight and light, and the painting began to condense in front of his eyes. This was his favorite part of his work, when he vanished and only the canvas lived.
When he finally stepped back to view his progress, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla curled above the pungency of his oils. The perfume alone told him that a woman was standing behind him. Close. If she hadn’t moved away quickly, he’d have bumped into her.
Without looking at her, he waited for her to speak.
She didn’t.
Curious, he glanced over his shoulder-and into Kayla Shaw’s ice-blue eyes. His first thought was that the surveillance photos hadn’t done her justice. There were shadows and light, haunting sadness and laughter, heat and cold, a whole universe of possibilities in her fiercely intelligent eyes.
He felt like he’d been sucker-punched.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking where the hell is Bertone?” Faroe shot back.
Rand pulled out the earbuds and put them in his pocket with the butchered iPod.
Kayla looked from the painting to the man. Somehow she expected artists to be short or slight or old or shy or…unthreatening. This man wasn’t any of those things. Tall, long-limbed, wide-shouldered, powerful, with gray-green eyes that could etch steel.
“I think,” she said, “that it’s too bad the subject isn’t worthy of the artist.”
Rand almost smiled, almost swore. She’d seen right through him, knew he thought the Bertone estate was a screaming paean to bad taste.
“I’m not quite sure what that means,” he lied.
She smiled, softening the lines of tension around her mouth. “I think you do. But don’t worry. Elena will love your work. You make her look good.”
What’s a woman like Kayla doing in a place like this?
But instead of asking the age-old question, Rand used a palette knife to blend some of the fresh oil paint, then applied a few dabs to the canvas. He squinted to measure the effect.
“It’s called artistic license,” Rand said without turning around. “If you don’t want the filter of the artist’s vision, use a camera.”
“Flattery is Elena’s meat and drink. You’ve read your hosts beautifully.”
He continued to work, still with his back to his critic, still with the scent of cinnamon in his lungs, in his blood. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No. I’m just jealous. If I had that kind of instant insight into people…” Kayla shrugged. “It would be useful.” Understatement of the year. Maybe the decade. “At the very least, I’d be rich.”
Rand gave in to temptation and glanced briefly at Kayla. She was turned half away from him. If you didn’t look in her eyes, she seemed younger than he knew she was. Her body was athletic, fit, attractive, and so tightly strung she all but vibrated. Tan skin, black linen, and a scoop-neck silk blouse that just revealed a small rose tattoo on her collarbone.
He wanted to lick it.
This is one hell of a bad time to get a boner.
But there it was. Her dossier had intrigued him, his dreams had been hot, and her reality was even hotter.
Cursing silently, he focused on the ca
nvas and said, “I thought everybody here was rich.”
“Some of us are hired help. We get to drink the champagne, but first we have to dance attendance.” Kayla hoped the artist didn’t hear the bitterness in her voice.
“Yeah, I bet the Bertones have cast-iron whims,” Rand said casually. “At least she does. I haven’t seen him. Is he here tonight?”
“Yes.” She knew her voice was too curt, but she couldn’t do anything about it. Bertone flat-out scared her. “I’ve seen a painting before…”
“Of course.”
Her laugh was as tight as her body. “No, I mean a painting like this.”
“Same subject?”
“It has nothing to do with the subject.”
There was silence, the soft sound of paint spreading on canvas, and then, “Meaning?”
“I’m not saying this very well,” Kayla said. “There’s something…the way you see light. No, the way you paint it. Alive and powerful, defining the ridgeline and the fountain and even the wild rosebushes around the helipad beyond the pool. I’ve seen that kind of light before.” She laughed suddenly. “I bought one of your paintings at a garage sale. R. McCree, right?”
R. McCree. The name rang in Rand’s mind. Does she have one of Reed’s paintings?
“That’s right,” he said. “Rand McCree.” He certainly wasn’t going to raise the issue of his murdered twin with the killer’s banker.
“I don’t remember you being on the program.”
“I’m a late entry,” he said easily, but he was careful not to look at her. He’d seen more beautiful women, but none of them had the ability to blow his concentration to hell like she did.
With a feeling close to awe, Kayla watched Rand bring the canvas to life. The result was beautiful but not at all mild. A very masculine kind of beauty. Intense. Edgy. Riveting.
Like him.
“Garage sale, huh?” Rand said. “Which painting?”
“‘Maybe the Dawn’ is written across the back, along with a date.” Then she said quickly, “Garage sale sounds awful. It was really an estate sale.”
“I feel a lot better,” he said dryly. “But I’m sorry to know that Mrs. Braceley is dead. She hoped she’d live to be one hundred if she got away from the Pacific Northwest’s cold rain.”
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