“His reaction was a little stronger than I expected,” Caitlin admitted. “But he eventually did control himself.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t put that blade into Verity’s throat. Or yours, for that matter. He looked crazed when he picked it up.” Tavi stood beside Caitlin and stared stonily out to sea.
Caitlin shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I studied all the research reports. Every last one of them. I know more about Quarrel than he knows about himself.”
“You’re sure that you can get him to kill Kincaid for you?”
“Very sure. He’s been tuned to that particular rapier now, you see. The next time he touches it, he’ll fall far more quickly under its spell. That’s the way it works. Once the connection has been established between him and a certain event or emotion from the past, especially the Renaissance era, it gets easier and easier to reconnect. On the night of the ball I will see to it that the present will strongly resemble the past.”
“He’ll use the same rapier on Kincaid that was used on you,” Tavi concluded with deep, knowing compassion.
“Yes.” Caitlin’s face was a frozen mask. The scar was white against the cream of her skin.
“Your plan hinges on Kincaid trying to seduce Verity. What makes you so certain Kincaid will find Verity sexually interesting?”
Caitlin looked at her companion in surprise. “After all these years of studying him, I know Kincaid’s habits very well. He’ll be bored and looking for sexual entertainment on the night of the ball. I have made it clear that his invitation is for one, only. He won’t be bringing any female companion with him. Verity will appeal to him. She’s just the type to bring out the evil in his nature. In addition, I’m counting on this house, looking exactly as it did that night all those years ago, to inspire some memories in the man.”
“The kind of memories that will incite his lust?”
“Inciting lust in Kincaid is never difficult. It’s his nature to always be on the lookout for victims. I will see to it that Verity will look like a victim. Dressed in a Renaissance gown with her hair pulled into one of the classic styles, I think she will be quite striking. In addition, there is a rather charming aura of innocence about her, don’t you think? That should be the frosting on the cake as far as Kincaid is concerned. He won’t be able to resist the opportunity of despoiling something that is cleaner and more innocent than himself.”
“Verity is no innocent. She’s sleeping with Quarrel,” Tavi pointed out quickly.
Caitlin smiled. “Innocence is not just a matter of virginity, Tavi. You should know that. It’s a thing of the spirit. Verity’s spirit is still bright and clean. It shows in her eyes and in her smile. I’m sure that’s why Quarrel hangs around her. To a man with a spirit as haunted as his must be, she would be a compelling creature. In a different way, Kincaid will find her equally fascinating.”
“I don’t like it, Caitlin. I don’t like any of it. This plan you’ve constructed is too complex, too dangerous. It’s not too late to cancel everything. We can put all the vengeance behind us and get on with our lives.” Tavi spoke with the desperation of a woman making one last stand against a terrible future. “Please think this through one more time, I beg you.”
“I have thought of little else since the night Kincaid raped me, Tavi. Believe me, I have done all the thinking necessary. The way I have chosen will bring me justice and satisfaction and maybe peace. It is the only way that will. When this is over, everyone will call it a great tragedy. They’ll say Quarrel was mentally unstable, that he must have gone crazy. No one will connect the killing with me. Only you and I and Kincaid will know that justice has finally been done.”
“In killing Kincaid, I fear you will kill yourself, Caitlin,” Tavi said. “It’s not worth it.”
“You’re wrong,” Caitlin said calmly. “It will be worth it.”
Chapter Eleven
Damon Marcus Kincaid picked up the exquisitely crafted stiletto and caressed it with a lover’s hands. Kincaid’s assistant, a man of carefully cultivated colorlessness, watched respectfully.
Although he was silent, Hatch was secretly awed by the breathtaking resemblance between his boss and the small dagger. Kincaid, Hatch knew, would treat the stiletto with infinitely more care and consideration than he would ever offer another human being. Hatch suspected at times that his employer wasn’t all that fond of his fellow human beings. Those strong, tapering fingers moving over the dagger should have belonged to an artist, someone who had the soul of a creator. The only thing Kincaid created was more money and power. Kincaid would have made a terrific Borgia.
Hatch knew better than to inquire too deeply into the recent history of the stiletto. It was rumored that Kincaid had connections into a shadowy world whose members frequently went far beyond the limits of normal business practices. There was some clout to be had from working for a man who wielded such power, but it was safer not to look into the shadows around him.
Hatch was getting quietly concerned about those shadows, however. Kincaid paid well, but money wasn’t everything. There were other potential employers in San Francisco. He had already started looking. Quietly, of course.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Kincaid said, admiring the object as if it were a woman he was thinking of bedding. “Early sixteen hundreds. Beautifully crafted. Did you know that in one form of Italian swordplay the stiletto was used in conjunction with a rapier? The stiletto was for parrying and the rapier for thrusting, you see.”
“It sounds like it would have been a difficult skill to acquire,” Hatch volunteered neutrally.
“It was. The dual style required a great deal of training. But then, the men of the time had ample motivation. Just going to church was a dangerous business. Assassination was a national pastime in Italy during the Renaissance. Rather like kidnapping today, I imagine.”
“I see.” Hatch winced at his own banal words. But he could hardly say that he thought his employer looked a little too enthusiastic about such murderous pastimes.
Every so often Hatch caught a glimpse of something in Kincaid’s eyes that made him very uneasy. It was nothing he could define, but Hatch knew instinctively that whatever it was, it went beyond the acceptable levels of the kind of cutthroat enthusiasm associated with the American way of business. If he’d been forced to put a name to what it was he sometimes sensed in Kincaid, Hatch would have labeled it lust. But it was a lust Hatch did not understand. The secret lust that Kincaid harbored was neither gay nor straight in orientation. Hatch suspected it wasn’t sexual at all but something far less wholesome.
“The stiletto is interesting. Italian, you said?” Hatch asked politely.
Kincaid’s head came up and Hatch found himself staring into those soulless, unreadable eyes. It was always an unnerving experience, even for Hatch, who, having worked for Kincaid for two years, knew he should be accustomed to the jolt.
Damon Kincaid was nearing forty but his body was in excellent shape; lithe, thin, and strong. It was the kind of body that could have belonged to either a professional dancer or an expert fencer.
Anyone who assumed that Kincaid was a dancer was either dumb as a brick or blind. Kincaid preferred physical activities that had a lethal edge to them. Fencing, not dancing, was one of his passions. A stuffed dummy used for practice was suspended in the corner of the office. It looked like a dead man swinging from the end of a rope.
Even without the strong, lithe build, Kincaid would have been a striking man. He was tall, with features that would have suited some Renaissance sculptor’s idea of a natural nobleman: strong-boned and austere yet refined. His eyes were the only unsettling elements in the physical landscape of his face. They were an indeterminate shade between blue and gray and frequently appeared silver.
What made the eyes unsettling was that they rarely reflected any emotion except that occasio
nal hint of unnatural lust that Hatch had glimpsed once in a while. Kincaid’s gaze was strangely superficial; completely unreadable and never illuminating. Hatch had learned to use other cues in his employer’s personality to help predict and interpret Kincaid’s responses. It wasn’t an easy task and Hatch had been wrong more than once. Right now he groaned inwardly, wondering if he hadn’t appeared sufficiently impressed by the four-hundred-year-old stiletto.
“Yes, it’s Italian,” Kincaid said, but he did not berate his assistant for failing to perceive the true beauty of the object. Instead he put the old weapon down on a marble table and walked across the office to take the high-backed leather chair behind the inlaid mahogany desk. The desk had no file drawers. That single fact instantly told a visitor just how powerful Damon Kincaid was. He ran his corporate empire with an aristocrat’s disdain for the niceties of modern business.
The office was empty of furniture, except for Kincaid’s elegant desk and thronelike chair. Anyone who was shown into the room was forced to stand while he conducted his business. It ensured that Kincaid retained the psychological edge. As the only one who could sit down, he was clearly the most important man present at all times. Hatch was forced to admire his boss’s intuitive understanding of human nature.
Kincaid, himself, was unreadable but he had an uncanny ability to assess others and figure out how to use them. It was a talent that served him well in business.
The floor of the office was polished marble. There was no rug to soften the impact of the cold, hard, brilliant finish of the stone. On the walls hung a variety of swords, rapiers, and daggers dating from the fourteenth to the nineteenth century. Walking through Kincaid’s door was rather like walking into an ancient armory.
The only object hanging in the office that was not overtly lethal in nature was a Caitlin Evanger painting. Hatch disliked Evanger’s work, even though he freely admitted he was fascinated by it. A lot of people were. Kincaid was an avid collector, however, and seemed to be entranced by the disturbing style and ferocious images that characterized Evanger’s work.
Hatch resisted the urge to shift restlessly while he waited for Kincaid to make his wishes clear. He stood, placid and politely expectant, as Kincaid swiveled around in the chair to examine the view of San Francisco far below.
“You have this week’s report on Evanger?” Kincaid asked, his eyes narrowed as he studied the Bay.
“Yes, sir. The investigative agency has maintained the round-the-clock surveillance you ordered when you first heard the rumors about Evanger getting ready to sell her final painting.” He glanced at some papers in his hand, although he already knew the information cold. He never showed up unprepared in Kincaid’s office. “According to their report, Evanger and her companion returned from the health spa before the weekend. The only other incident of any significance is the fact that they entertained on Monday evening. Their guests arrived that afternoon and left the next morning.”
“Evanger had guests?” Kincaid’s voice was as close to sharp as it ever got. “That is, indeed, significant. The original background report I commissioned from that agency mentioned the fact that she seldom, if ever, entertained. It confirmed she was very reclusive. She’s never even granted an interview.”
“I remember.” Hatch glanced at his notes. “Her guests were two people she met while she was at the health spa, a local restaurant owner named Verity Ames and her employee, Jonas Quarrel. The report speculates that Quarrel and Ames may be sleeping together. That part is unconfirmed. It sounds fairly unimportant, Mr. Kincaid. Ames is just barely making a living and Quarrel is nothing more than a dishwasher/waiter. Not the sort of people who would be investing in expensive art. I don’t think you have to worry about them.”
“You never know, Hatch. Artists are, by nature, unpredictable and eccentric. Given the little information the agency could dig up on Evanger, we have to assume she’s more unpredictable and eccentric than most artists. Evanger might have taken it into her head to let these two see the painting. It’s not inconceivable that they are interested in Bloodlust. Maybe one of them has a rich daddy who could loan the money to buy it.”
Hatch decided it was time to pull his small rabbit out of the hat. “The report goes on to say that Evanger placed a phone call to her agent this morning to announce just how she will go about selling Bloodlust.”
Kincaid didn’t move but there was no doubt that Hatch had his full attention. “At an auction?”
“A private auction, according to the agency. She’s going to conduct the bidding herself in her own home.”
“When? Who’s invited?” The questions were rapped out like gunshots.
“That part was a little unclear.” Hatch frowned over the report. “Apparently she’s going to have a party. A send-off for herself as she prepares to leave her career behind, I suppose. A number of people involved in the art world will be there, but only a handful of people will be asked to return after the party to bid on Bloodlust.”
“I must be on that guest list, Hatch. More important, I must be on that list of bidders. See to it. I want that painting.”
Hatch nodded, foreseeing no difficulty. Any artist, regardless of how eccentric, would be delighted to know that Damon Marcus Kincaid was interested in bidding on a painting. If Kincaid was interested, the price was practically guaranteed to go very high. When Kincaid wanted something, he got it, regardless of what he had to pay for it. If this Evanger woman had any brains she would jump at the chance of having Kincaid among the bidders. After that, her only problem would be to make sure there were enough other wealthy, determined would-be buyers present to ensure a lively auction.
“I’ll contact Evanger’s San Francisco gallery immediately,” Hatch told his employer.
“You do that. Now.”
Hatch’s mouth tightened, although he was used to the tone of absolute command. “I’ll get back to you soon, Mr. Kincaid.” He let himself out of the office with his usual sense of relief. So far Hatch had stayed afloat in the dangerous waters that surrounded the shark, but a man had to keep an eye on the beast at all times. It was too easy to start looking like shark food.
Kincaid turned back to the window as the door closed behind his assistant.
That damned ugly monstrosity of a house seemed fated to reappear time and again in his life. It was almost uncanny. Coincidences, he was forced to acknowledge, apparently did happen now and then but he instinctively found them disturbing.
He let his mind drift back to the first time he had seen the place. That had been back when he was much younger and a little drunk with the power he was starting to accumulate. The house had belonged to Sandquist, who had been as close a friend as Kincaid had ever had. After Sandquist’s demise, Kincaid had been careful not to cultivate any more close friends. They were too dangerous.
But in those days, Kincaid had been excited to learn that Sandquist shared a taste for the exotic when it came to sex. Neither man was cursed with any strong inhibitions or moral limits and the two of them had gone out of their way to construct a very interesting retreat at the house on the cliffs. It had proven easy enough to lure carefully chosen women to the house for the extravagant, thrilling orgies Sandquist had a talent for organizing. Drugs and money and the threat of violence had generally ensured silence from the victims, most of whom came from the streets.
There had been only one exception, a woman who might have gone to the police if she had been allowed to do so. It had been a mistake to take Susan Connelly to the house. But Kincaid had been unable to resist. She had been perfect: beautiful, naïve, innocent, and wildly in love with him. Kincaid still got an erection whenever he thought about the methodical way in which he had stripped sweet Susan of her beauty, her naïve, her innocence, and her passion. It had been a glorious night but a potentially dangerous one.
Kincaid had come to his senses later and realized he had to get rid of this particular victim
. A car accident on a lonely stretch of coastal highway had taken care of the problem. The woman had died in the accident. Always a thorough man, Kincaid had checked the obituaries to be certain she had not survived.
That experience had brought home to him that it was probably time to put a halt to the exotic weekends. He was moving up in the business world, busy with a balancing act that required creating a respectable facade while he cemented underground connections enabling him to operate in the shadows of legitimate business. Kincaid told Sandquist there could be no more weekends.
Sandquist had accepted his friend’s decision, saying he understood. The two had gone their own ways until three years ago. Kincaid still remembered the gut-wrenching shock he had experienced when he received the blackmail message from Sandquist. Now, looking back on it, Kincaid could only pity the naïveté of his younger self. He had never guessed that Sandquist had filmed some of the violent orgies. There had been carefully hidden cameras in every bedroom.
There had been only one solution, of course. Kincaid had once again entered the house on the cliffs. Sandquist had stupidly failed to install new security systems. The ones in place were the same ones that had protected the house earlier during the days of the weekend orgies. Kincaid remembered the systems well and bypassed them easily.
He found Sandquist in the big corner room on the third floor. Sandquist, sunk in a foggy world induced by pills and booze, was so far lost in his dreamland that he didn’t even recognize his intended blackmail victim. Kincaid had simply led him downstairs and pushed him over the cliffs.
The murder had been declared an accident brought on by an overdose of drugs. Very tragic. Who would have thought Sandquist had a drug problem? But then, drugs were so prevalent these days at every level of society.
Kincaid had walked out of the cliff house that night certain that he had seen the last of the place.
He hadn’t even been aware that the house had been sold until recently, when he heard the rumors in the art world that Caitlin Evanger was making plans to put her self-declared final painting up for sale.
Gift of Gold Page 20