Innocent as Sin sk-3

by Elizabeth Lowell

  But does he have to drool?

  He’s an artist. Of course he admires beauty.

  Elena touched Rand’s shoulder, felt strength, and smiled. “Kayla, be a dear and tell Andre what’s going on so he won’t worry. I don’t want another scene like the one at the Christmas fund-raiser.”

  Kayla wanted to point out that Rand couldn’t take a photo while the subject was rubbing up against him. Instead, she turned sharply and walked the ten feet to Bertone.

  With the speed of a professional photographer, Rand took a few insurance shots of the lovely Elena. She posed and projected for the camera like the model and actress she had once been.

  “You’re a natural,” he said, adjusting focus and depth of field. “The camera loves you.”

  And vice versa.

  But Rand wasn’t going to bite the hand that was allowing him to line up Andre Bertone in the second lens.

  “You could have made millions with that face and those gorgeous cat eyes,” Rand said, working quickly through the major lens. “Now, just a few more with the fountain in the backdrop and the light on your face.”

  “Do I really want that?” she asked. “Women over twenty run like Andre if a cameraman catches them in sunlight.”

  “You have nothing to worry about,” Rand said. “Now let me try a couple from this side.”

  He switched position, carefully keeping his primary lens aimed at Elena and getting a perfect full-face shot of Andre Bertone with his hidden lens. Bertone was watching him intently, alert for the instant the camera swung his way.

  Rand held the camera up for long seconds, appearing to adjust the focusing ring, but actually holding down the second shutter release on the hidden lens. By the time he lowered the camera, he had twenty separate photos of Andre Bertone on his memory stick.

  “Thanks so much for your indulgence, Mrs. Bertone,” Rand said. “I’ll try to do your beauty justice, but oils are a poor substitute for skin that glows like yours.”

  Elena’s laugh was soft and sexy. “You’re a brash rascal, aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea,” Rand said, flashing his teeth. “How else would an artist get away with asking thousands of dollars for thirty dollars’ worth of paint and canvas?”

  Before he looked toward Kayla-and Bertone-Rand lowered the camera, capped the visible lens, and pointed it at the ground like it was the muzzle of a pistol. He sensed Bertone watching every motion until the camera vanished inside the backpack once more.

  Only then did Rand glance up to Kayla.

  Bertone was still staring at him.

  For an instant Rand was afraid that Bertone had finally recognized him. Then Bertone nodded, his head moving more than an inch but less than two. He went back to his conversation.

  Rand casually waved his thanks to Kayla and headed back to his easel. As he walked, he put one of the earbuds back in.

  “Got it. Twenty times.”

  “Sounds like you damn near got Elena in the sheets, you silver-tongued devil.”

  Rand scratched his shirt over the microphone head, making Faroe’s ears ring.

  21

  Castillo del Cielo

  Saturday

  6:45 P.M. MST

  Reluctantly Kayla approached the broad flagstone terrace that stepped down to the gardens, forming a natural stage. Three canvases were set up along one side. Three artists waited to see who got the big check and who got a fiscal pat on the head.

  Deliberately Kayla didn’t look at Reed. The fact that his canvas was hands down the best of the lot just made her angrier.

  That doesn’t mean he’ll win. What do I know about art?

  The only good news was that Andre Bertone had vanished. The terrace was blazing with photographers’ lights. The awarding of the checks would be recorded for the pages of the local papers and the glossy lifestyle magazines that catered to Phoenix socialites.

  Kayla took her place a few steps out of the spotlight. With every breath of wind, the ridiculously large presentation checks she clutched threatened to pull her off balance. At center stage Elena announced the Fast Draw winners.

  Rand McCree came in third.

  Arizona artists came in first and second.

  Elena wasn’t stupid. She understood her audience very well, and the need to flatter local pride.

  Kayla didn’t know which disgusted her more-Elena’s socially correct choices, Rand’s unblushing use of flattery to get ahead, or the recognition that Kayla herself did something similar every time she dealt with clients she didn’t particularly like.

  I’m not as bad as Rand or Elena.

  Not as successful, either.

  With a muttered word she shifted the awkward checks under one arm and grabbed champagne from a passing tray to toast the winners. If nothing else, maybe the alcohol would take the bitter taste out of her mouth. As she took several fast swallows, she was honest enough to admit that she was attracted to Rand and disgusted enough to wish she wasn’t. He was a charmer and a user.

  She was glad he came in third.

  Yeah. Like I’m little Ms. Perfection. I’d love to have him looking at me the way he does Elena.

  But it would take more than a makeover at the local Nordstrom to have that happen.

  Be grateful. I’ve got enough trouble without tripping over that handsome artist’s big feet.

  She finished the champagne in time to set the glass and her purse on a table near the stage, straighten her jacket, and sort the checks she was going to give to Elena.

  With a professional smile rigidly in place, Kayla stepped into the lights. Elena handed out the third-and second-place checks quickly, then lingered to have her picture taken with the first-prize winner.

  “Looks like local interest trumps flattery,” Kayla said under her breath to Rand. “Welcome to political science as practiced on the ground.”

  Rand ignored the brittle edge in her voice and words. “Where do you want to go for dinner?”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  As Kayla stepped back, her heel caught in one of the electrical cables that fed the photographers’ lights. With a catlike movement Rand caught and righted her.

  Holy hell, he’s fast, she thought, startled.

  And strong.

  “I haven’t,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Lost my appetite.”

  She looked into his gray-green eyes and forgot to breathe.

  He wanted her.

  “Dinner is optional,” he said softly, releasing her.

  Before she could think of anything to say, Elena broke away from the winner and stood close to Rand. Very close.

  “I want to commission a larger, more finished portrait of the Castle of Heaven,” Elena said in a husky voice. “Please stay. Once the dancing begins, we can talk.”

  Rand didn’t need an earbud to know what Faroe would say. “You flatter me, Mrs. Bertone.”

  “Elena, please.” She flashed that million-watt smile and put her hand on his bare forearm.

  “Elena.” Rand smiled. “I’ll be glad to stay for the rest of the party.”

  Kayla wondered if she was the only one who noticed the difference in Rand’s eyes when he looked at his hostess. He enjoyed Elena’s beauty, but he didn’t want her.

  Is he picky or stupid? Because he sure isn’t blind.

  And he sure isn’t stupid.

  Kayla told herself not to be flattered.

  She was anyway.

  Elena squeezed Rand’s arm and glided out to her guests, jeweled sandals flashing in the bright lights.

  “What the hell do I do with this?” Rand asked Kayla, flicking the huge check with a paint-splashed fingernail. “Paper a wall?”

  “Cash it at the issuing bank on Monday.”

  “American Southwest? Where’s that?”

  “Try MapQuest.”

  “I’d rather try you.”

  Kayla stared at him. He meant it.

  Or at least he looked like he did.


  How can I tell what’s true and what’s false in a man who had Elena Bertone eating out of his hand with just an easy smile and some deep-voiced flattery?

  “Aren’t you afraid that Elena will discover her new lapdog is jonesing for another lap?” Kayla asked, irritated and curious at once.

  “Even lapdogs have teeth.” Rand showed her a double row of his. “I just know when to bite and when to shut up and wag.”

  “Wagging draws the better paycheck. But there are more important things than money.”

  “Easy for a banker to say.” Rand spoke through clenched teeth. “You have no idea what’s at stake.” And I’m a fool for caring what she thinks of me. This isn’t about a bonehead with a boner.

  This is about Reed.

  Kayla looked at her wristwatch. Almost seven. She picked up the purse she’d left on a table next to the stage. “See you around.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “Enjoy it. I’m busy.”

  She walked off and didn’t look back.

  Grimly Rand shouldered his backpack, screwed in an earbud, and listened to Faroe’s laughter.

  “Relax,” Faroe’s voice whispered. “They only spit like that when they’re interested in a man.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Jimmy will bump into you at your car. Literally. Pass him the memory stick.”

  “When?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “I’m supposed to stay around.”

  “So pass it and go back. I want that stick off the estate ASAP. Where’s Bertone?”

  “He took off when the photographers appeared.”

  “Keep looking. I don’t trust him behind you.”

  Neither did Rand. He looked for Bertone and finally found the big man back in the shadows, lighting a cigar, well away from the area where photographers were allowed.

  Bertone was watching Kayla’s progress across the party into the shadows at the back of the estate. When she disappeared, he turned and looked up at the second story of the Castle of Heaven. A thin man leaned on the balcony rail, watching the party.

  Watching Bertone.

  Rand had noticed the man before and assumed he was one of the many bodyguards who circulated every minute of every hour, protecting the Bertone family.

  Bertone took a deep pull on his fresh cigar until its ember glowed like a stoplight. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Then he dropped the cigar and crushed it out beneath his heel.

  Immediately the thin man vanished into the house. He reappeared a few moments later at the back of the house, heading in the same direction Kayla had. In his left hand he carried a small duffel.

  Bertone lit another cigar and walked back to the party. In moments he was talking with a group of people.

  Rand looked at his watch. Seven o’clock.

  Yet neither Elena nor Bertone was headed to the garden for a private chat with their private banker.

  Only the thin man was.

  “Houston,” Rand said softly to his collar, “we’ve got a problem.”

  22

  Castillo del Cielo

  Saturday

  7:00 P.M. MST

  Kayla strode down the lighted path, wishing her shoes flashed and sparkled rather than being dark and banker-perfect. The wishing didn’t stop with her shoes. The rest of her was depressingly banker-perfect, too. Except on the inside. On the inside she was jittery, irritated, fretting and pulling at the bit like a green-broke bronc.

  Freedom.

  She could taste it.

  She just couldn’t live it anymore.

  Grow up, she told herself impatiently.

  I did. I don’t like it.

  Working with Bertone and the glittering Elena was too high a price to pay for being an adult.

  Where’s my backpack when I really need it?

  The path ended in a head-high wooden gate next to the wall of the seven-car garage. The motion-sensor light mounted on the corner of the garage came on as she approached. Hidden speakers breathed out faint music from the party.

  The garden walls were covered by fast-growing flowering vines whose twisted stems were almost as thick as her wrists. The fragrance was like a caress in the dry air. The padlock on the gate was open, hanging crookedly behind the latch. The wrought-iron latch lifted smoothly, almost silently. She hesitated, then stepped into the Bertones’ refuge from the rest of the world.

  It felt like a flower-lined trap.

  With a whisper of metal on metal, the gate shut behind her. The sound made her jump. She pushed at the gate, reassuring herself that the padlock hadn’t somehow leaped up and closed itself over the latch, locking her behind high walls.

  The gate opened instantly.

  With a relieved sigh, Kayla turned back to the garden. It was as beautiful as hard work and money could make it. Roses and gardenias, flowering vines and palms as graceful as dancers, heady fragrance and inviting stillness. The walkways were monitored by motion sensors so that every few steps she took lit up a new vision of artfully arranged plants. A fountain sang softly in the darkness ahead, drowning out the murmur of music from concealed speakers.

  As she walked toward the fountain, more lights came on, making the water shimmer with life and possibilities. The gentle music of water soothed her nerves, as it was meant to do. Desert cultures realized how people became starved for the liquid promise of water.

  Lights went out behind her, making her nerves jump. The motion sensors were on short timers. She felt like running around the garden, setting off all the landscaping lights.

  Or just running, period, right out the gate and into her car.

  Kayla fought with the impulse, telling herself that she was jumping at shadows. She’d met other bank clients in public parks and private homes, behind guarded doors and in skyboxes at sporting events, in parking lots after hours and at restaurants after ordinary diners were sent home. She shouldn’t be nervous about meeting the Bertones in their garden while a party chattered on a few hundred feet away.

  Well within screaming distance.

  She just wished that Bertone wasn’t a crook. But then, he wasn’t the only ruthless man in the private-banking world. He was simply the one who was her client.

  Big honking deal, she told herself roughly. Settle down. Even the lapdog artist has real teeth.

  She’d seen them a few minutes ago, when Rand watched Andre Bertone walk away from them. Rand’s words echoed in her mind: You have no idea what’s at stake.

  Hardly the reassurance she needed.

  Hardly the words of a foot-licking lapdog.

  Uneasiness crawled over Kayla. She couldn’t just stand and wait for the Bertones to schmooze their way through the guests and down to the garden. Impatiently she paced the flagstones, light blooming softly in front of her and then fading behind her into scented darkness.

  Disturbed by her passage, a canyon wren sang from the flowering vines growing thickly on the far garden wall. After a few moments the bird settled into an irritable kind of silence.

  She looked at her watch. Seven after seven.

  Overhead a billion stars glittered through the ambient radiance of the city night. She considered counting them to pass the time.

  The hell with this. I’m not waiting around like some kind of goat staked out for the tiger’s gloating pleasure.

  As she turned toward the wooden gate, the lights went out. The metal-on-metal sound of the gate’s padlock closing came like a gunshot.

  Silence.

  Then came the soft whine of hinges moving, a hidden garden door opening. The wren shrieked and exploded into the night, flying as rapidly as Kayla’s wild heartbeat. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness.

  A figure stepped from behind the vines into the faint radiance cast by a wall of pale flowers. The man was too thin to be Andre Bertone, too thin to be anyone Kayla recognized. He pulled the door shut behind him and stood motionless, letting his own eyes adjust to the faint light.

  Kayla shrank back into a da
rk alcove, grateful she’d worn a black linen suit. Part of her waited to hear him call her name and tell her the Bertones had decided to delay the meeting.

  The rest of her fought not to scream.

  The man didn’t call out. Instead he prowled the garden like a skeletal ghost, poking at the tallest bushes.

  He’s looking for me.

  Kayla opened her mouth to scream for help, but before she could, rock music from the party crashed over the garden like thunder. Someone had ramped up the garden’s sound system to the point of pain.

  If she screamed, the only one who would hear her was the man stalking her.

  Slowly she put her hand in her purse and pulled out the Lady-Bug she used for opening envelopes and pulling staples. At three inches long, the little folding knife wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was better than fingernails and teeth.

  She hoped.

  23

  Castillo del Cielo

  Saturday

  7:07 P.M. MST

  Rand broke into a run as soon as he saw the lights go out by the garage.

  “Where’s Jimmy?” he asked. “The lights just went out.”

  “I’m driving toward the garage. He’s bringing an ATV from the back. He’s in uniform, so don’t-What the hell is that?”

  “Music.”

  “Sounds like a train wreck.”

  “Louder than a scream,” Rand said roughly. He hurdled some plants to straighten out the meandering walkway.

  “Not good.”

  All Rand said was, “Light a fire and get there!”

  “Limos are cluttering up the drive.”

  “Put it in low range and make your own road,” Rand snarled. “Is the garden wall set to stun?”

  A pause while Faroe radioed Hamm, then Faroe said, “Not electrified.”

  “Thank you, God.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Rand hit the gate at a run, grabbed the top, and vaulted over. The backpack caught on vines, pulling him off balance. He landed hard, went to his knees, and scrambled upright again.

  “Talk to me.”

  Rand didn’t answer. He didn’t know where his enemy was, but he was certain an enemy was there, waiting in the scented darkness.