She sucked in her breath. “You mean, family?”
“My twin Max told me that hoping to grow a relationship into love was no way to start a marriage. And Craig told me that marrying Lyndsay wouldn’t stop the grief. I didn’t want to believe they were right. I’m kind of stubborn.”
“No kidding.” She rolled her eyes. “You really suspect one of your brothers hired me?”
He shrugged. “Right now, I’m more interested in finding Rhonda’s murderer. Tell me about the Black Rose.”
Good. She’d snagged his attention. Cooperation would follow. She projected her voice above the steady drone of the airplane’s engines. “The black flowers aren’t my only clue. But let me explain the ground I’ve already covered so you understand why this clue is so vital to my investigation.” She paused, putting her thoughts in order. “Dr. Henschel—”
“Died too easy,” he interrupted. His voice cracked like a whiplash. He closed his jaw so tightly, she heard his teeth snap. Ford’s fists clenched, and his eyes smoldered with fury and glazed with regret.
So much for always keeping his cool. Yet Devin didn’t blame him for his outrage. Ford was on the board of directors at the Kine Fertility Clinic. He and her cousin had gone to Dr. Henschel asking for help to have a child. A mix-up had led to disaster when Rhonda’s egg had been implanted in another woman.
Rhonda had miscarried, unaware that another woman, Nicole, had given birth to Rhonda’s biological daughter, Skye. Two months after the baby’s birth, Nicole and her husband were killed in a car accident, and Nicole’s sister, Brooke Evans, raised Skye. Six years later when Brooke discovered Skye was not Nicole’s, Dr. Henschel had been caught trying to save his career by covering up the switched embryos—but not before he’d hired an assassin to murder Rhonda. The doctor committed suicide in jail, leaving few clues to identify Rhonda’s assassin.
Ford’s pain renewed her determination to find the killer. “I searched Henschel’s financial records.”
“My people went through those records, too. His transactions were always in cash, and therefore, untraceable.”
“That’s almost correct.”
“Almost?”
“Henschel wired two substantial cash deposits to a Swiss bank—one about a week before your wife’s death, one the day after.”
“Impressive investigating, Ms. Ward.”
“Devin.” His compliment soaked under his skin like the first blush of summer, warming her to her toes. “That’s why we’re flying to Bern.”
She didn’t have to spell out the implications. From the slight lift of his eyebrows, Ford understood the significance of the timing of Dr. Henschel’s financial transactions. A large transfer of funds from Dr. Henschel to a Swiss bank one week before Rhonda’s death might be coincidence. But a second payment, the day after her death couldn’t be ignored. The timing smelled of a payoff.
Payoff for murder.
Unlocking the handcuffs, he tossed them onto the table. “Go on.”
At his willingness to listen, tension eased from the rigid muscles of her neck and shoulders. Until now, she hadn’t realized how much she’d counted on Ford’s help. “Swiss banks are not in the habit of divulging their customers’ names. Your influence might turn up a lead.”
“You may be overestimating my influence, but,” he paused, “I have a few friends overseas. I’ll make some calls from the plane. What else do you have?”
“Grendal Archer, the maid who threw away the black flowers, disappeared right after she failed to mention the roses to the police.”
“How did you find out about the black flowers?”
“She told another maid, my informant.” Devin raised an eyebrow. “Suspicious, yes?”
“Yes.” He shot her a look of approval that had her nerves revving.
“My informant thinks Grendal will give us a description of the Black Rose. And I have Grendal’s new address.”
“That’s a lot more than my investigators turned up.”
She shot him a saucy grin. “I told you that you should have hired me.”
“Apparently.”
“There’s one more thing you should know.” Her fingers twisted in her lap. She’d wrestled with the knowledge for weeks, unable to turn up any solid evidence. “I’ve heard rumors the Black Rose may be more than a common criminal.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Black Rose is a professional assassin. Even worse, instinct tells me we’re heading into danger.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “And I have very good instincts.”
Chapter Three
THEY ZOOMED through customs due to the efficiency of the Swiss. Outside, the crisp air revived Devin from nagging jet jag. More accustomed to traveling, Ford had made calls from the plane, slept, then changed clothes. He now looked awake and eager to follow up on the leads Devin had generated about the Dr. Henschel’s suspicious wire transfers to the Swiss bank. In addition, he’d made hotel reservations, arranged transport to the hotel and arranged for a rental car to be waiting upon their arrival.
A gleaming black Rolls Royce, accompanied by a short, bald man who spoke in an articulate British accent, met them at the airport. He wore a burgundy belted jacket over creamy flannel trousers. A flowered ascot looped casually around his scrawny neck drooped as he leaned heavily on a cane. “Bruce Willowby, British embassy.”
After the rest of the introductions, Ambassador Willowby gestured for them to sit in the rear of his car. “Put their luggage in the boot,” he instructed the pilot, who would stay behind to ready the plane for their trip home.
As if accustomed to foreign diplomats waiting on his beck and call, Ford gave the driver an address that Devin recognized as the same Swiss hotel where he’d stayed with Rhonda. Contacting the English embassy instead of the American diplomats might be a shrewd move if anyone was interested in their mission, but for the assassin to already know they pursued him seemed unlikely. Still, she couldn’t help looking over her shoulder. She saw only steep-roofed chalets amid wildflowers and grazing cattle.
Ford turned to Willowby and assessed him coolly. “You have the information I requested?”
Willowby pursed thin lips. “The Swiss are notoriously reticent about sharing the particulars of private transactions. We’ve asked for their cooperation through diplomatic channels. However, you might have more success on your own.”
As they drove down a charming Swiss road, Devin stared into the side mirror. A car behind them copied their every turn. The hair on her nape stood on end, sending goosebumps over her flesh. Refusing to let the men’s conversation distract her, she memorized the license-plate number and noted the driver’s features.
Nonchalantly, Ford crossed an ankle over his knee as if he’d expected Willowby’s news. “I see.”
Devin didn’t see at all. What “private channels” were they talking about? She’d question Ford later. After all, this was why she’d wanted his help—for his connections to Europe’s rich, influential and famous. She’d brought him along to do his thing, now she’d best sit back and let him do it.
“You have names for me?” Ford asked.
Willowby handed him a slip of paper and two gold-embossed invitations on creamy paper. “The embassy is hosting a party tonight. I suggest you speak to this banker.”
Without looking at the name, Ford placed the paper in his pocket. “Thank you.”
Willowby cleared his throat. “There’s another matter of some importance.”
At the edge in the diplomat’s tone, Devin took her gaze off her first view of the snow-capped Alps and darted her eyes back to the side-view mirror. “We’re being followed.”
“You sure?” Ford turned to look over his shoulder.
At his question, she raised her eyebrows. “Quite sure.”
“Not to worry,�
� Willowby murmured. “I took the precaution of bringing along additional protection. You may need it. In fact, if you carry through with your plans, I suggest you hire a professional.”
Ford frowned. “Why?”
“The Black Rose?” Devin guessed.
“Very good. That’s a sharp woman you’ve got there.”
Although he had complimented her, Devin hated being talked about as if she weren’t present. But now was not the time to complain. They needed information, and Willowby seemed uneasy about imparting what he knew.
The diplomat’s upper lip broke into a sweat. “This Black Rose is best left alone. MI5 information on him is scanty.”
“What else do you know?” Ford asked.
“You can’t bring your wife back, Mr. Braddack. Perhaps you should go home before you—”
“No.” Ford crossed his arms over his chest.
“Please tell us what you can,” Devin suggested.
“I don’t have much to offer. The Black Rose is a deadly assassin. He could be Middle-Eastern, Asian, or even European or American. We simply don’t know. No one who has ever seen his face is still alive to identify him.”
Ford’s expression remained unreadable. “How long has this guy been operating?”
“We suspect twelve to fifteen years.”
“How is he contacted?” Devin asked.
“Could be through the post, by exchanging messages at a bookstall or through the internet. Sorry, we don’t know. After he accepts a contract, he leaves a black rose on the mark’s pillow. None of his victims have survived.”
Ford had. Devin and Ford exchanged a long look, and he shook his head slightly, signaling her to remain silent.
“Is there more?”
Willowby tapped his cane against his shoe. “MI5 suspects that during the past year, the Black Rose has assassinated several African leaders, one Middle Eastern despot and two members of the Chinese underworld. He prefers a long-range rifle with a silencer, but is willing to make a death appear accidental if necessary.”
Ford considered their new information. “My wife and I hardly fit in with such elite targets.”
“Some assassins are motivated by ego and take only the most prestigious hits. The Black Rose is motivated by money. He’s careful, a pro, and he’s damn good at his job.”
The English diplomat’s speech ended when they arrived at the hotel. As Willowby waved goodbye and a bellhop carried their luggage from the car, Devin looked around. She’d expected something grandiose, more ornate—not this picture-perfect elegance. The inn perched in a hollow of smooth grassland. It was early afternoon, and with the Alps in the distance amid bright sunlight, the majestic setting had a grace and beauty lovelier than she could have imagined. Terraces sloped to gardens, and gardens to a deep blue lake.
She envisioned Rhonda here, basking in Swiss proficiency, dining on gourmet delicacies, pampered by the gracious staff. After her cousin and Ford had married, Rhonda spent her time heading charity functions in designer gowns while Devin slaved to make her P.I. firm a success.
After a few years gathering evidence on cheating husbands for their suspicious wives, Devin’s trust in the male species was about as flimsy as her clients’ failing marriages. Unlike Rhonda, she’d never been good at small talk, flirting or gossiping, which would have kept her from fitting in with the Braddacks’ country-club set. Frankly, Ford and Rhonda’s friends intimidated her. While Devin had been busy, trying to stay in business, she’d had neither the time nor the money to shop for the clothes needed to fit into their crowd. Despite numerous invitations, Devin had kept her distance from the couple and their upper-class crowd so as not to embarrass them. Or herself.
So while the ambience of the Swiss luxury hotel might be welcoming, Devin’s nerves jangled that she didn’t belong here. In contrast, Ford sauntered through the lobby with the self-assurance of a man belonging to the same exclusive and privileged crowd that made her so uncomfortable.
A little more than half a year ago, he and Rhonda had come to this hotel to renew their romance. Instead, he’d lost his wife forever. How could he stand to return?
Ford stared at her with somber curiosity. “What’s wrong?”
“I was just converting kilometers to miles and figuring how long it would take to drive to Grendal’s address,” she lied. “What time is the embassy party?”
“Seven.”
The uniformed bellman led them through the silent lobby, over a covered walkway, and to a private bungalow out back. She was about to protest that she needed her own quarters, but as if reading her mind, Ford put his finger to his lips.
He tipped the bellman, who left them alone in a charming chalet full of antiques and comfy furniture. A high ceiling and huge glass windows overlooked a wraparound deck. Striding to the massive stone fireplace that dominated the open kitchen and living area, she closed the drapes.
He gestured up a staircase. “There are two bedrooms. If we hire additional protection, it’ll be easier to keep us safe if we remain together.”
He’d spoken in a businesslike tone, and she attempted to match his insouciant air. “Fine. I thought I’d take a fast shower, then drive out to Grendal’s home. I’ll meet you back here after the embassy party, and we’ll compare notes.”
“No.”
Her head jerked up, and their gazes locked. In his navy sport coat and khaki pants, he possessed the carefree ease of a corporate president accustomed to giving orders that would be obeyed without dissent. Just the angle of his head suggested he expected her to agree. But she wasn’t his employee or even his client, and no matter how much he fascinated her, she refused to let him order her around.
She held his stare. “Excuse me?”
“First of all, you didn’t sleep on the plane, and tired people make mistakes. Second, we need to arrange protection before we go anywhere. Third, Grendal’s description of the Black Rose can wait until tomorrow. And fourth, I want you at the embassy party with me.”
With him? The way he said it lent an intimate nuance that cut her breath short.
“I don’t do parties.” She lifted her chin and held his gaze.
“I’d like your opinion of our contact.”
Damn him. Why did he have to sound so reasonable when all she wanted to do was argue? She sighed out a breath of frustration. “I’m not tired. I couldn’t possibly sleep until it’s dark.” She swiped her hair back with her hand. “And you don’t need me at a party. I won’t be any good to you there.” The steely blue in his eyes darkened, and she just knew he was about to protest, so she continued quickly. “Besides, I’m sure your assessment of a banker would be more accurate than mine. And furthermore the assassin can’t possibly know I’m tracking him down. You go ahead and arrange protection. I want to talk to Grendal before she runs again.”
“Another day won’t make a difference.” He raised his eyebrow, challenging her.
She wouldn’t allow Ford to talk her out of following her hunch. “I have nothing to wear to a party. Why don’t you go without me?”
He didn’t contradict her but picked up the chalet phone and murmured a few sentences in French, then held the receiver out to her. “Answer their questions about sizes, and they’ll send appropriate attire.”
“Fine.” She’d order the clothes, but that didn’t mean she’d go with him. While appreciative that he left the room while she gave her size over the phone, she still didn’t like how he’d tried to rearrange and control her schedule.
Even worse, she hated the idea of attending a fancy party. Just the idea caused her stomach to roil with dread. She told herself she was being silly. But in truth, the thought of accompanying Ford actually made her more nervous than the possibility of facing the Black Rose.
She sighed and tried to calm her nerves. Parties required small talk and da
ncing. She’d never mastered the art of chatting with strangers; dancing she couldn’t do at all. Her teenage years were a social failure from which she’d never recovered. She’d preferred to be left alone rather than face the humiliation of never knowing what to say. A complete social klutz, she couldn’t accompany and embarrass a man accustomed to escorting debutantes.
Besides, she had work to do. She hadn’t flown all this way to attend some damn fancy party and finesse information out of a Swiss banker when Ford could more than adequately take care of it. Marching upstairs to unpack and shower, she formed a plan.
Her room had an antique dresser and a four-poster bed decorated with a blue, green and pink patchwork quilt. Matching curtains over the windows gave the chamber a homey feel. The connecting marble bath was pure sybaritic luxury. Potpourri scented the air with the fragrance of wildflowers. Thick terry towels embroidered with the inn’s initials hung over towel heaters. At the sight of the whirlpool tub and the basket of inviting bath oils, she yearned for a long, hot soak. Instead, she settled for a shower and used the phone by her bed to call a taxi.
Leaving Ford a note on her pillow, she sneaked downstairs, hoping he wouldn’t hear her from his room. She didn’t want to admit to him she often worked on a hunch. And her dislike of parties was none of his business.
She escaped to the lobby and headed toward the door. A hand clamped down on her shoulder. With a gasp, she whirled to find Ford looming over her. At the sardonic arch of his eyebrow, she sucked in a gasp of air. And breathed in pure Braddack, a hint of shaving cream, soap and his spicy cologne. But the look in his blue eyes was pure male cat, pleased with himself for catching his prey. Damn him. Why did he have to smell and look so good while he manhandled her? And why did her knees feel weak just from standing so close?
Born in Danger Page 4