Behind Closed Doors m&f-1

by Shannon McKenna

  Victor's gaze hardened. “How kind of you to offer, but please don't trouble yourself. Stone Island is for relaxation, not work.”

  “Suit yourself.” Seth gave him a cheerful grin.

  Victor turned to Raine. “Have you finished your break-fast?”

  She pushed away the yogurt and fruit and got up. “Yes,” she said.

  Seth's hand shot out and caught her wrist as she passed. He pulled her close and gave her a hard, possessive kiss. She blushed, flustered by the amusement on Victor's face.

  'There's a bit of sun today” Victor said. “Shall we go outside and take advantage of it?”

  She followed Victor out onto the porch and down the path. They stood side by side at the dock, watching the sun glitter on the water. “You used to be afraid of the water,” Victor remarked. “Remember when I taught you to swim?”

  She winced at the memory. “You were ruthless.”

  “Of course I was. You didn't want to learn. You didn't want to learn to ride a bicycle, either. Or shoot. But I insisted”

  “Yes, you most certainly did.”

  The bicycle episode had been particularly awful. She'd been scraped and bleeding and blubbering, but Victor had been pitiless. He'd forced her to get back on the hellish thing until she finally mastered it. It had been the same with the swimming. He'd yanked her head above water, sputtering and flailing, to let her grab a breath of air and some advice. “Pump with your legs,” he ordered calmly, before letting her drop back down into the green liquid underworld.

  But she had not drowned. She had learned. Even to use the pistol, although she had hated the noise, the violent kick, the bruises it left in her small hands. The concentrated violence in the small object had terrified her, but she had learned. He had given her no choice.

  She turned away from the water and met Victor's eyes. “You thought it was your duty to toughen me up,” she observed.

  “Peter and Alix were lazy and soft,” Victor said. “If it had been up to your parents, you would have ended up a sniveling coward.”

  It was true. She had Victor to thank for that crazy, joyful feeling of accomplishment, when her body finally understood the trick of equilibrium on the bike. And when she'd emerged from her first wobbly dive, Victor had applauded briefly, and then told her to get right back up onto those rocks and do it again until her technique was better.

  Alix and her father hadn't even bothered to come down to watch.

  She gazed at the water, lost in memories. She had worshiped and feared Victor as a child. He had been unpredictable. Demanding and mocking. Sometimes cruel, sometimes kind. Always vivid and engaging. The direct opposite of her drifting, absent father, sipping his cognac, lost in his dreams and his melancholy reflections. “I thought for a time that your mother had succeeded,” he said.

  “At what?”

  'Turning you into a sniveling coward. But she didn't quite manage it. The Lazar genes breed true. She didn't quite manage it.”

  There was fierce, exultant pride in his silvery eyes. He could read her mind, follow her thoughts as if they were projected on a screen. He could understand her like no one else. Something inside her responded to it. The rest of her recoiled, horrified. She could not let herself bond with him, or care for him in any way. Not after what he had done. She groped for a way to break the spell. “Where is my father buried, Victor?”

  “I was wondering when you were going to ask. He's buried here.”

  “On the island?” She was startled.

  “He was cremated. I buried the ashes and raised a monument to him here “ Victor said. “Come along. I'll show you.”

  She was unprepared to confront the reality of her father's grave in Victor's company, but there was no escaping it. She followed Victor up the winding, rocky path that led to the crest of the island, trying to breathe. There was a small valley hidden in the windswept rocks. It was a velvety bowl of green moss, bare of trees. A tall black marble obelisk stood on a pedestal in the middle of the hollow.

  Identical to the one in her dream.

  She stared at the obelisk, almost expecting blood to start trickling from the words etched on the gleaming stone.

  “Are you all right, Raine? You're very pale all of a sudden.”

  “I've dreamed of this place.” Her voice sounded strangled.

  Victor's eyes lit up. “So you have it too, then?”

  “Have what?”

  “The dreaming. It's a Lazar family trait. Your mother never mentioned it to you?”

  She shook her head. Her mother had complained about Raine's crazy nightmares until Raine had learned never to mention them.

  “I have it. Your grandmother, too. Vivid, recurrent dreams, sometimes of future events, sometimes the past. I often wondered if I passed it on to you.”

  “You? To me?” she faltered.

  “Of course, to you, from me. I would have thought that such a bright girl would have figured it out for herself by now.”

  He waited patiently as she gaped. She finally found her voice again. “You're saying that you—that my mother—”

  “Your mother has many secrets.”

  She felt as if the earth was opening beneath her feet. “You seduced her?”

  Victor snorted. “I wouldn't go so far as to call it that. Seduction would imply a certain amount of effort on my part.”

  Raine was so stunned, she barely registered the insult to her mother. “Are you sure?”

  Victor shrugged. “With Alix, nothing could be sure, but from your looks and your dreams, you are certainly either my daughter or Peter's. And I, personally, am convinced that you are mine. I can feel it.”

  Mine. The possessive word echoed in her head. “Why?”

  He made an impatient gesture with his hand. “She was a beautiful woman,” he said casually. “And I wanted to make a point with Peter, I suppose. Not that it worked. My brother was soft. I spoiled him, did all the dirty work for him. It was a mistake. I thought he could protect my innocence for me, and in return, I would spare him the ugly side of life. But it didn't work. He went looking for it anyway. He found it in Alix.”

  She held up her hands in protest. “Victor—”

  “He needed someone who could appreciate his sensitivity.” Victor's face rigid with old anger. “Not a money-hungry bitch who would spread her legs for any man who could stare her down.” “Enough!” Raine shouted.

  He jerked away, shocked at her tone.

  She forced herself to meet his blazing eyes, horrified at her own daring. “I will not tolerate you speaking of my mother that way.”

  Victor applauded softly. “Brava, Katya. If that had been a test, you would have just passed it Alix doesn't deserve such a loyal daughter.”

  “My name is Raine. Please do not mention Alix ever again.”

  Victor scrutinized her stiff, averted face for a moment. “This place appears to upset you,” he observed. 'Let's go back to the house.”

  She followed him down the path. Over and over, she considered the enormity of his revelation until her mind reeled— and gave up, unable to comprehend it.

  The path ended at the veranda that stretched the length of the back of the house. He opened the door for her, and gestured her to precede him down the stairs. “I promised to show you my collection,” he said. “The vault is in the cellar. After you, my dear.”

  The tiny transmitter in her pocket was burning a hole in her mind. She thought of Bluebeard's castle, and her stomach clenched. Don't think of it, she reminded herself. Just do it. She was swimming with sharks, a dagger in her teeth. She'd promised Seth. She had to at least try.

  Victor opened a metal plate on the wall next to an armored door, and keyed a series of numbers into a glowing silver wall panel. “Oh, that reminds me,” he murmured. “This morning I changed my personal computer access code. I change it, on a daily basis, usually. I call the password my 'divine override.' It lets me into any part of the system.”

  She nodded politely, as if she understoo
d.

  “One word. Minimum number of letters, four. Maximum number of letters, ten. The key is... what I want from you.”

  She was bewildered. “You mean, you're telling me your code? But what do you want from me, Victor?”

  He snorted. “Oh, for God's sake. You know me better than to ask such a question. If I tell you, it means nothing. If you figure it out for yourself”—he smiled, almost wistfully— “you are divine.”

  He keyed in another string of numbers. The big, heavy door popped its seal and swung open. “After you,” Victor murmured.

  She walked into the room. The humid, climate-controlled air closed around her like a possessive, suffocating embrace.

  Victor put away the sixteenth-century stiletto, placing it in its case with the others. He took a wooden case from a high shelf, laid it on the table and opened it. “I was told that this rapier delivered the death blow in a famous duel in seventeenth-century France,” he said. “Over an unfaithful wife, if the documentation is to be believed. The outraged husband is said to have murdered both the lover and his wife with this blade. Often these stories are fabricated to inflate the value of such items, but I have reason to believe that it's true. The papers are in antiquated French, but that's no barrier to you, of course.”

  Victor watched her reaction as she inspected the rapier, the delicate tremor in her hand, the faraway look in her eyes. She really was his offspring, he exulted silently. Her dreams were solid proof.

  She hefted the rapier, sliced it through the air, and turned to him. “Yes” she said decisively. “I think it's true, too.”

  She felt it too, just like him. It shouldn't matter, but it did What a pleasure it was, to show his beauties to someone with the capacity to understand why he valued them.

  “You feel it, don't you?” He reached for the rapier. Raine relinquished the thing with obvious relief.

  “Feel what?” Her eyes were wary.

  “The stain. I would say 'vibration’, but the term has been so overused in New Age parlance as to become practically meaningless.”

  “I'm not sure I know what you mean.”

  He patted her shoulder. “You will, my dear. If you have the dreams, you probably have other sensitivities as well. That is the price you pay for being born a Lazar.”

  “I've already paid enough,” she said.

  He laughed at her, pitiless. “Don't whine. Power carries its price. And you must learn to use power in order to appreciate its gifts.”

  She looked dubious. “Bad dreams can be useful?”

  He hesitated for a moment, and pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. He unlocked a drawer and pulled out a black plastic case.

  “Knowledge is always power, if you are strong enough to face the truth,” he said. He laid the case on the table. “Take a look at this, my most recent acquisition. I'm curious to see the effect that it has upon you. It isn't ancient, or beautiful, or rare, like the other items.”

  “Then why do you have it?” she asked.

  “I did not acquire this for myself. It's for a client of mine.”

  Raine stuck her hands in her pockets. “What's its story?”

  He popped the lid open and beckoned her closer. “You tell me. Let your mind empty. Tell me what rises in it.”

  She stepped closer to the thing, looking pinched and frightened. “Please don't watch me so closely,” she said. “It makes me nervous.”

  “Excuse me.” He stepped back.

  Raine reached out and placed her hands on either side of the gun. “It feels different than the rapier. The ... the stain is very fresh.”

  “Yes,” he corroborated.

  Her eyes were blind and wide, as if she saw far beyond the gun. As, indeed, she did. He felt a pang of sympathy. So much crashing down on her young head all at once. But she had to face it.

  “A woman, murdered,” she whispered. “By a person ... no. A thing. A thing so dead inside, it isn't even human anymore. God.”

  She doubled over, choking as if she were about to retch. Her hair coiled and draped across the plastic case. She shuddered violently.

  He led her to a chair and pushed her into it, alarmed. She hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking so hard it seemed that she was weeping, but she made no sound. He poured her a glass of the cognac he kept on the shelf. “Katya. I'm sorry. Are you all right?”

  She unfolded. He pressed the glass into her hand, and she held it, as stiff as a doll. “What is that thing, Victor?”

  He was taken aback by her flat, hard tone, by the blunt-ness of the question. “It's a piece in a game I'm playing,” he said, feeling defensive. “It's a stolen murder weapon. I am sorry, my dear. I didn't mean to upset you. I showed it to you to see if you could feel—” He stopped.

  “Feel what?” She set down the glass of cognac.

  “The stain,” he said.

  Her eyes looked old beyond her years. “I felt it,” she said in a low voice. “I hope to God I never feel anything like it again.”

  He felt a twinge of guilt. “I had no idea you were so sensitive. I assure you, I—”

  “Your game is not worth it. Whatever it is.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” he demanded.

  “That thing is poisonous.” Her voice rang with authority, even in the muffled, soundproof room.

  Victor was surprised at how uncomfortable he felt. “Aristocrats throughout the ages dosed themselves with tiny bits of poison over a period of years, becoming immune to anything their enemies might throw at them. That's what has happened to me, my dear. Immunity.”

  She shook her head “You're not as immune as you think you are. And if you're so hung up on facing the truth, then face that one, Victor. You shouldn't have this thing. Whatever you did to get it was wrong. Whatever you're planning to do with it is wrong, too.”

  He was so amazed at her gall that it took a moment to find his voice. Her self-righteous tone infuriated him. “And where does this talent for tedious moralizing come from?” he mocked. “Not from me. Certainly not from Alix.”

  “Maybe it's all mine “ she said. “Maybe I found it all on my own, with no help from any of you.”

  “Ah. The angel of judgment rises above the cesspit of her past. Transcending the sins of her lying, thieving, fornicating ancestors.”

  “Stop it, Victor.”

  He snapped the case shut and placed it in the drawer. His hands shook with anger. He hadn't been so furious in years, not since Peter—

  No. He did not want to think about Peter.

  He slammed the drawer shut. 'That's enough shocking revelations for us this morning. It's time to deliver you back into the care of your new guard dog. God knows what might happen to him if he comes sniffing after you in a place so steeped in sin.”

  “Enough, please, Victor.”

  The misery on her face prodded at something inside him that was rusty and stiff, better left untouched. The feeling made him even angrier. He swung the door open. “After you,” he said coldly.

  She preceded him out of the room, holding herself very straight.

  He armed the alarms, wondering if he should change his divine override computer access code. But then again, why bother? With the opinion she had of him, the girl would never guess the code, anyway.

  Not in a million years.

  Chapter 21

  There would be plenty of time to grill her later. No reason to bother her if she was feeling silent and solitary, Seth told himself again.

  He'd tried to persuade her to sit in the sheltered cabin for the boat ride back to the city, and a mute shake of the head was all he'd gotten for a reply. She'd stared out at the water, heedless of the wind and the cold, whipping rain. When he tied up the boat, she disdained his help and clambered out on her own. It made him nervous.

  Once in the car, he fired up the engine and turned the heat up to full blast. “So?” he demanded.

  She gave him a confused little shrug.

  His patience was wearing eggshell thin. '
Hey.” He waved a hand in front of her eyes. “Anybody home in there? Tell me what happened.”

  “It went all right.” Her voice was completely flat and colorless. “I did exactly what you wanted me to do.”

  He was suspicious of the blank, staring look in her eyes. “He told you it was the Corazon?”

  She turned away. “Not exactly. It was a Walther PPK, in a plastic bag, housed in a hard plastic case. Recently acquired, and not for him. For a client. He said it was a stolen murder weapon.”

  “So far so good,” he said doubtfully.

  “He told me that the stain ... was fresh.”

  He puzzled over her halting words. “Stain? What stain?”

  “Of violence.” Her face was taut with strain.

  “Huh.” He pondered that. “That was all he told you?”

  She shook her head. “I led him, a little. I pretended to sense that it had been used to murder a woman. His reaction seemed to confirm it, so I went for it I hope I did the right thing.”

  He could not believe his luck. Literally. “You planted it?”

  “I stuck it under the foam, in the carrying case.”

  “And you're sure he didn't see you do it?”

  “My hair was draped over my hand, and I was blocking his line of vision with my body. I'm reasonably sure he didn't see me do it.”

  He studied her tight, miserable face, his gut clenching with apprehension. “What's wrong?” he demanded. “You should be glad. You want to get this guy, right?”

  “I guess so,” she said dully. “It's just that I feel...”

  “What?”

  She threw up her hands. “More betrayal and double-crossing. I'm sick of it. I just want to be honest. Clear. With Victor, with everyone.”

  His teeth clenched at her tone. “Some of us have to compromise our principles just to survive, princess.”

  “Oh, God, please don't. Please, not you, too.”

  Shit. She was crying again, and it was his own goddamn fault. They didn't have time for this. He tried to pull her into his arms, but she was stiff and unyielding. Finally he let go and put the car in gear, feeling like an asshole. She sat there, shoulders jerking. Tangled locks of blond hair poked out of her hood. She finally noticed their route, and shoved her hood back, alarmed. “Where are you taking me?”