by J. R. Ward
Vin just shrugged. “Like I said, I'm into beautiful things. I bought it last night.”
“Christ, what a sparkler. When you going to pop the Q?”
“Don't know.”
“What are you waiting for?”
Vin snapped the box shut. “You've asked more than one question. My turn. French?
“Oui ou non??”
“Je parle un peu. Et vous?”
“Je peu. Et”
“I've done some real estate deals north of the border, so I speak it. Your accent is not Canadian, though. It's European. How long were you in the military?”
“Who said I was?”
“Just a guess.”
“Maybe I went to college overseas.”
Vin regarded the guy steadily. “Not your style, I wouldn't think. You don't take orders well, and I can't imagine you'd be content behind a school desk for four years.”
“Why would I go into the service if I don't take orders?”
“Because they let you do something on your own.” Vin smiled as the guy's face remained utterly closed. “They let you work by yourself, didn't they, Jim. What else did they teach you?” Silence expanded to fill not just the room, but the whole duplex.
“Jim, you do realize that the more you stay quiet, the more I make up my own mind about your military haircut and that tattoo on your back. I showed you what you wanted to see—seems only fair you return the favor. More to the point, those are the rules of the game.”
Jim leaned in slowly, his pale eyes as dead as stone. “If I tell you anything, I'd have to kill you, Vin. And that would be a buzz kill for the both of us.”
So that tat wasn't just something the guy had seen on a wall in some two-bit piercing and body art parlor and gotten it inked onto himself because he thought it was cool. Jim was the real deal.
“I am so curious about you,” Vin murmured.
“I suggest you get over that.”
“Sorry, my friend. I'm a tenacious motherfucker. Lest you think I just won the lottery to get all this crap you're gawking at.”
There was a pause, and then Jim's face broke into a small smile. “So you want me to think you have balls, do you.”
“Believe it, my man. And word to the wise, they're as big as church bells.”
Jim settled back in his chair. “Oh, really. Then why are you sitting on that ring?”
Vin narrowed his eyes, anger flaring. “You want to know why.”
“Yeah. She's an incredibly gorgeous woman and she looks at you like you're a god.”
Vin tilted his head to one side and spoke what had been banging around his head since the night before. “My Devina went out last evening wearing a blue dress. When she came home, she immediately changed out of it and took a shower. This morning, I pulled the thing out of the dry-cleaning hamper and there was a black smudge on the back of it—like she'd been sitting somewhere other than on a neat and tidy chair in a bar. But more than that, Jim, when I lifted the dress to my nose, I smelled something on the fabric that was a lot like men's cologne.”
Vin measured every single one of the guy's facial muscles. Not one of them moved.
Vin sat forward in his chair. “I don't need to tell you that it wasn't my cologne, do I. And it might interest you to know that it smells a hell of a lot like yours—not that I think you were with her, but a man wonders when his woman's clothes smell like someone else, doesn't he. So you see, it's not because I don't have balls. It's because I wonder who else's she's been touching.”
Chapter 10
Well, wasn't this a fucking party.
As Jim stared across the desk at his host, he realized it had been a long, long time since he'd met a man he'd been impressed by—but Vin diPietro did the trick. SOB was calm, cool, collected. Smart as shit, and not a pussy.
And it was evident that the guy truly believed Jim hadn't been with his girlfriend—at least, that was what Jim's instincts were telling him, and as they rarely were wrong, he was inclined to trust them. But how long would that last?
Christ, if only he could go back to the night before and leave Devina in that parking lot. Or…shit, just walk her inside where it was warm and let her find some other guy to work out her confusion and sadness with.
Jim shrugged. “You can't be sure she was with someone.”
A shadow passed over Vin's face. “No. I can't.”
“You ever cheat on her?”
“Nope. I don't believe in that shit.”
“Neither do I.” Strange…for once, lying sent a shaft through Jim's chest. In truth, he hadn't cared at the time that Devina was with someone else.
As silence flared again, Jim knew the guy was waiting for another revelation so he sifted through his life, looking for ready-for-prime-time details. Eventually, he said, “I also speak Arabic, Dari, Pashto, and Tajik.”
Vin's smile was part Cheshire, part respect. “Afghanistan.”
“Among other places.”
“How long did you serve?”
“A while.” He hadn't been kidding about having to kill the guy if the information exchange went any further on his part. “And let's end the conversation there, if you don't mind.”
“Fair enough.”
“So, how long you been with your woman?”
Vin's eyes went over to an abstract drawing that hung on the wall by the desk. “Eight months. She's a model.”
“Looks it.”
“You ever been married, Jim?”
“Fuck, no.”
Vin laughed. “Not looking for Ms. Right?”
“More like I'm the wrong kind of man for that sort of thing. I move around a lot.”
“Do you. You get bored easily?”
“Yeah. That's it.”
The sound of high heels on marble brought the guy's eyes to the study's doorway. It was obvious when Devina made her appearance, and not just because that faint, flowery perfume wafted into the air: Vin's stare went slowly down and then up, like he was seeing her for the first time in a while.
“Dinner is ready,” she said.
Jim looked into the bank of glass across the room and studied her reflection. She was, yet again, poised under a light, the radiant glow making her stand out against the backdrop of the night view—
He frowned. An odd shadow floated behind her, like a black flag waving in the wind…as if she were being trailed by a ghost.
Jim whipped around and blinked hard. As his eyes searched the space behind her…they found a whole lot of absolutely nothing. She was just standing beneath a light, smiling at Vin as the guy came up to her and kissed her mouth.
“You ready to eat, Jim,” the man said.
How about a head transplant first, then the frickin' pasta. “Yeah, that'd be good.”
The three of them walked down through the various rooms to yet another marble table. This one was big enough to seat twenty-four, and if there were any more crystal hanging from the ceiling above, it you'd have sworn you were in an ice cave.
The flatware was gold. And no doubt solid.
Are you kidding me, Jim thought as he sat down.
“As the cook's on vacation,” Vin said as he settled Devina in her chair, “we'll just serve ourselves.”
“I hope you like what I made.” Devina picked up her damask napkin. “I kept it simple, just some Bolognese sauce over homemade lingtiine. And the salad is nothing but microgreens. artichoke hearts, and red peppers with an ice wine vinaigrette that I whipped up.”
Whatever it was, the stuff smelled amazing, and looked even better.
After big bowls with gold on their edges were passed around and plates were filled, everyone started eating.
Okay, Devina was a spectacular cook. Period. That micro-whatever with the ice-la-di-da dressing was flat-out amazing…and don't get him started on the pasta.
“So the work on the bluff house is coming along well,” Vin said. “Don't you think, Jim?”
This launched an hour-long discussion on the construction, a
nd Jim was once again impressed. In spite of Vin's digs and his flashy wardrobe, he'd clearly had firsthand experience with the job Jim and the boys were doing—as well as everything the electricians and the plumbers and the siders and the roofers got up in the morning for. The guy knew tools and nails and boards and insulation. Hauling and waste removal. Blacktopping. Permits. Regulations. Easements.
Which made all his attention to detail seem not like that of a nitpicking asswipe owner, but a fellow workman with high standards.
Yup, he'd definitely been a rough palm, at one point.
“…so that's going to be an issue,” Vin was saying. “The weight on the load-bearing walls in that four-story cathedral foyer is going to be over code. The architect is worried about it.”
Devina spoke up for once. “Well, couldn't you just make it shorter? Like, closer to the ground?”
“Ceiling height's not the issue—it's the steep angle and the weight of the roof. I think we can solve the problem by upgrading to steel beams, though.”
“Oh.” Devina wiped her mouth as if she were embarrassed. “That sounds like a good idea.”
As Vin went off on another tangent about the house, Devina took a special interest in folding the napkin in her lap.
Shit, the guy might know from construction, but you had to wonder: If you'd asked him what his woman's favorite color was, would he have said the right one?
“So this was a great meal,” Vin said eventually. “To the chef.”
As he lifted his wineglass and gave Devina a nod, she ate up the attention, positively glowing with happiness. Then again, he'd just spent the balance of the meal talking about something she wasn't familiar with, relegating her to a shut-out observer seemingly without a care.
“I'll clear and bring in dessert,” she said, getting to her feet. “No, please, sit. It won't take a moment.”
Jim lowered himself back into his chair and focused on Vin. In the quiet that bloomed while Devina went in and out of the butler's door with the dishes, you could practically smell the wood burning between the guy's ears.
“What's on your mind,” Jim asked.
“Nothing.” A quick shrug was followed by a sip of wine. “Nothing whatsoever.”
Dessert was homemade cherry-and-chocolate-chip ice cream and coffee so strong it could put hair on your chest. The combination was sublime, and yet it wasn't sweet or savory enough to clear the frown from Vin's eyebrows.
When the dessert plates were empty, Devina got to her feet again.
“Why don't you two go back to the study while I clean up in the kitchen?” She shook her head before Jim could offer to help. “It won't take a minute. No…honestly, let me do it. You two go back and talk.”
“Thank you for dinner,” Jim said as he got out of his chair. “Best meal I've had in ages.”
“I second that,” Vin murmured while tossing his napkin onto the table.
When they were in the study once again, Vin went to the wet bar in the corner. “Hell of a cook, isn't she.”
“Yeah.”
“Brandy?”
“Nah, thanks.” Jim paced around, looking at the leather-bound books on the shelves, and the paintings and drawings and framed U.S. stamps. “So you build things up in Canada, too?”
“I'm all over the country, actually.”
Vin picked up a fat glass and poured himself a couple of inches, then sat down behind the desk. While he swirled the brandy sniffer, he swept a wireless mouse around and the planes of his face lit up as the screen saver on his computer flickered off.
Jim stopped in front of the drawing Vin had fixated on when he'd been thinking of Devina. The depiction was of a horse…sort of. “This artist do a lot of acid?”
“It's a Chagall.”
“No offense, but it's weird.”
Vin laughed and regarded the piece of art…or shit, depending on your taste…with grave appreciation. “It's relatively new. I got it the night I met Devina. God, I haven't looked at it for a while. Reminds me of a dreamscape.”
Jim thought about the life the guy must live. Work, work, work…come home…not see all the expensive stuff he owned.
“Do you see your girlfriend?” Jim said abruptly.
Vin frowned and took a sip of his brandy.
Well, wasn't that the answer.
“It's none of my business,” Jim murmured. “But she really sees you. You're a lucky man.”
Vin's brows drew together, and as the silence expanded, Jim knew he was running out of time for tonight. Chances were good he was going to be shown the door in another fifteen or twenty minutes, and although he had a feeling he'd ID'd Vin's problem, he wasn't even close to the goal line, so to speak.
He thought of the little television hanging from the ceiling in that hospital room and of the two chefs who had gotten him into this dinner-from-Hell situation. “So…you got a TV around here?” he asked.
Vin blinked and seemed to come back into focus. “Yeah, check this out.”
Getting to his feet, he picked up a remote and came around the desk while punching buttons. All at once, the shelving split across the way and a flat-screen the size of a twin bed came forward. “Man, you love your toys, huh,” Jim said with a laugh. “I so do—I'm not going to lie.”
The two of them parked it in the chairs in front of the desk as Vin played with more buttons. While the channels switched, Jim felt like a schizoid as he prayed for a clue from what was shown— looking for guidance from the television? Next thing he knew he was going to think satellites were tracking his every move.
Oh, wait…been there, done that.
As the screen flashed, he took note of the various shows: Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Vin had and he now was. Lost? Well, duh, that made two of them—though Jim was the only one who knew it. Home Improvement? Plenty of that to go around on both sides—but it was hardly a newsflash.
The channel changing stopped on Leonardo DiCaprio in some kind of movie.
“There's actually a better model coming out this year,” Vin said, putting the remote to the side. “It's going in the new house.”
Jim tried to read into what was going on in the movie, but it was just Leo dressed like something out of a renaissance fair emoting to a chick in a similar wardrobe.
Shit, no help.
“Jim, I got to be honest.” Vin's cool gray eyes were clear. “I don't know what the hell you're playing at here, but I like you, for some reason.”
“Ditto.”
“So where does this leave us?” Just what Jim was wondering.
Up on the screen, things were abruptly not going well for Leo. Medieval-esque “bad guys” were doing a snatch-and-drag of the poor bastard. “What the hell movie is this?”
Vin fired up the remote and an info strip popped up at the bottom of the screen: The Man in the Iron Mask. Leonardo DiCaprio, Jeremy Irons (1998). Only got two stars, evidently—
Oh, fuck him. The Iron Mask? Damn it, the last place he wanted to be was back in that club. Especially with—
Devina appeared in the doorway of the study. “I don't suppose you two would like to go out?” Well, if that wasn't an opening.
Jim cursed to himself as he tried to imagine being there with her again—only this time under the watchful, suspicious eyes of her boyfriend. And he'd thought this whole dinner thing had been awkward?
Except the movie had to be a sign, right? The four lads said he'd have help. “Yeah, let's head downtown,” he muttered. “To the…How about the Iron Mask.” Devina's eyes flared as if she were shocked by his choice of club. Schmega dittos there.
There was some conversation at that point and Vin got to his feet. “Okay, if that's what you two want, I'm game.” He went over to his woman, and like he was trying to make an effort, leaned in and kissed her. “I'll get your coat.”
Devina turned away with him and followed her man down the hall. Jim, left behind in the study, dragged a hand through his hair while wishing he could rip the stuff out of his head.
>
Maybe he had to stop thinking TVs were sending him messages. Because this was a dumb fucking idea.
Chapter 11
Marie-Terese saw the man first.
As she stood by the bar closest to the Iron Mask's front door, she was inspecting the crowd when he walked into the club. It was, as they say, right out of the movies: Everyone else disappeared the instant he came in, the other people fading into dim, blurry shadows while she focused on him and him alone.
Six-three-ish in height. Dark hair and pale eyes. Suit like something out of a Fifth Avenue window display.
On his arm was a woman in a red dress and a white fur coat, and beside him was a taller guy with a brush cut and a military manner. None of them fit in among the crowd of leathered and laced and chained, but that wasn't why she stared.
No, the staring thing was all about the man himself. He was eye-catching in the same sharp, hard way her ex had been: a wealthy man with a shot of gangster in him, a guy who was used to being in charge of whatever was going on around him…and someone who was probably about as warm and caring as a meat locker.
Fortunately, shutting down her instant attraction was easy: She'd already made the mistake of assuming wealth and power made guys like that some kind of modern-day dragon slayer.
Very bad assumption. Sometimes dragon slayers…were just slayers.
Gina, another one of the working girls, came up to the bar. “Who is that by the door?”
“A customer.”
“Of mine, I hope.”
Marie-Terese wasn't so sure of that. Going by the looks of that brunette with him, he had no reason to buy sexual companionship—wait…that woman…she'd been here the night before, hadn't she, and so had the other guy. Marie-Terese remembered them for the same reason they stood out tonight—they didn't belong here.
As the trio sat down in a dark corner, Gina adjusted her wing-and-a-prayer bustier and pushed at her now-red hair. Last month it had been white and pink. Month before that jet-black. She kept this up and she was going to be sporting a Telly Savalas, thanks to all the chemical warfare on her roots.