Making the Rules

by Doranna Durgin

  "It would be a lie to say so," he agreed. They stood outside the swinging kitchen door, out of the way of Jefa and the housekeeper, who prepared for the following days of Ascension celebration among the staff.

  The whole world, it seemed, did not stop for the Etxea. Kimmer glimpsed trays of finger foods, pincho moruno kabobs ready for the barbecue, and Atze loading old-timey soda bottles into the auxiliary refrigerator. Jurdan drew her aside, as if mindful that Jefa—even short on staff—might still find time to put an ear to the door. "I felt she had caused too much trouble here. She is a confused girl." He made an exaggerated gesture, the ol' universal whirly finger. "She thinks her life will change if she can seduce a handsome American. But she crossed the line, and so it has made things unnecessarily hard here. Best if she is gone for now."

  "You're covering for her," Kimmer said flatly.

  He grimaced. "No, I—"

  "You're sweet on her," Kimmer said. "But it was okay when you came on to me?"

  "That was different," he said, drawing himself up into a display of dignity. "She thought—and that was just a—" Wisely, he stopped. Even if it was already too late.

  "Yes, yes," she said. Oink, oink. "You were only using me, and she suggested it might be worth your while. And you did it for her. That's damned twisted."

  "It made sense when she—" He stopped again, and shook his head. "My mama knows hers, which makes it even worse." For a moment, he traded his dignity for a hen-pecked look. "If I didn't protect her, my life would not be worth living."

  She only glared. If he thought she couldn't make his life not be worth living, he hadn't paid attention.

  He brightened. "I did talk to her about the incident this morning. She admits she was trying to drive a wedge between you. I assure you, Miss Kimberly, she does not know of your true purpose here. She has no idea that she caused anything other than inconvenience—she only thought it would give her a better chance for—"

  "She's not Richard's type," Kimmer said shortly.

  "She came to me and told me she tried to apologize for the childish way in which she tried to drive a wedge between you and Mr. Richard, but...that didn't work out well, either, and now she doesn't know what to do. And she's—" He hesitated, and said it. "She's afraid of you now."

  "She's not supposed to know—"

  He held up both hands, an emphatic gesture. "No, no. She doesn't. It's just...when you spoke to her..." He gave up. "You can be quite fierce, Miss Kimberly. Surely you know that. And so I sent her home, so we would have time to talk, and you would have time to tell your brothe—"

  Kimmer's glare sent him groping for other words. "—Your partner," he amended hastily. "So that by the time she returns tomorrow, all will be settled."

  Now Kimmer just wanted to hit something. But other than Jurdan, everything within reach would just break her knuckles. So she settled for pushing the heels of her hands over her eyes as she groaned, "We really didn't need a Spanish soap opera in the middle of this mess."

  "Basque," Jurdan said, a little too shortly to be casual. She removed her hands, looked up at him. "Basque," he repeated, less intently. "She is. I am. Many of us here are. It matters."

  "So it does," she agreed. Note to Rio—recheck the files. Never mind staff history...who had reason to care about the Etxea, one way or the other?

  Well, Rio was sleeping. And Kimmer...Kimmer was back to jittery, back to ready for action. If she could whip through some paperwork and then snag a couple of likely villa workers for surreptitious interviews, it might be a more direct way to proceed.

  Especially now that the Basajaun knew of the Dwelling's existence here.

  ~~~

  THINKING OF YOU. HOPE YOU'RE HAVING FUN.

  Kimmer scowled at her email inbox. Right.

  Late afternoon found Kimmer finishing up paperwork both professional and personal. She skimmed Rio's notes, emailed her promised statement to the Doña's lawyer, and sent a quick email update to Owen—including a forward of the most recent email note from her secret admirer, although he'd had no luck with the last.

  It'd make her crazy to think about it, so she grabbed moments with Karlene and Sandy, grinning large while reading their Caro-enabled email—including pictures of Karlene's dog bath penance for the dog haircut incident.

  Caro's email was more concerning. Open-hearted, struggling with her feelings—she, more than the girls, had needed that cancelled time with Kimmer and Rio. Time for casual conversations...time to work things through. Email just couldn't do it.

  Kimmer searched for the right words...found herself without them.

  What do I know about family?

  In the end, she made the email equivalent to I'm listening noises, offered a few silent gestures of frustration to the room at large, and stabbed the hot keys to send.

  And then, with Rio still sleeping, Kimmer finally grabbed a few moments with the groundskeepers.

  Some were Spanish, some clearly Basque; both had reasons to go for the antiquity. But none of them pinged her uh-oh alarms. If the oldest of them wanted to cheat on his wife, that was his problem. She had the feeling he'd get what was coming to him. So did he, to judge by how close to the surface it sat.

  A quick check of the basement revealed Atze Ezkibel getting ready to leave for the day—with Jurdan already gone—leaving the Etxea security to the pathetically inadequate house alarm system.

  Or so he thought. Kimmer and Rio had discussed covering the cellar that evening, and she still intended to do it. At least, once she could get down there without attracting attention—for Marina and Jefa were live-ins, as was the woman who oversaw the maintenance and repairs to the household itself.

  Atze gave her a wary glance, but she merely wished him a good evening. As long as he did his job, he could be an asshole all day long. And had been.

  Kimmer jittered around the grounds for a while, pondering a run. Instead she headed for the terrace behind her room, barefooting her way through a series of stretches and calisthenics. By then she was hungry in a weird sugar-crash way, and she hunted up some cheese and crackers, bringing the remains to Rio's room along with some ice water.

  Just one more night, she told herself. And then the Monaco crew would be here, the security would be installed...

  Surely they could get through a single night without being kidnapped by the Basajaun.

  Surely.

  Rio slept through her arrival, still on his stomach, his arm caught awkwardly under his body. Sturdy Danish bones, strong muscle, lean sinew. Dark blond lashes swept up to emphasize the angle of his eyes and cheeks, a deceptively open face that had always drawn Kimmer—and always defied her ability to read him.

  Whether Rio would continue his work with Hunter after this, Kimmer wasn't sure. After the tragically botched scenario that had ended his CIA career, he had no patience for botching. None. He was here only because he'd seen Owen stand behind his own—stand behind Kimmer, when it came to that.

  Now Owen had compromised them, sending them into a flawed scenario because of his own interests. Her loyal side—the one that owed Owen for pulling young Kimmer off the streets, for playing Pygmalion and turning out a polished Hunter agent—reminded her that when he'd sent them in, he'd had no idea that the Basajaun would make not one but two plays for Señora de Florez's "niece and nephew."

  But if he hadn't compromised to get them there in the first place, the bad cover wouldn't have been a factor. Owen knew it; Rio knew it.

  And so did Kimmer.

  Bah. She needed a workout bag.

  She sighed those thoughts away and looked at Rio, sleeping so deeply. Wakey wakey....

  She knelt at his head, waving the plate of cheeses—some of them quite pungent—near his nose. It only took a moment...his face twitched. His eyes opened, deep dark brown and sleepy. "Oh, yeahh," he mumbled. "How'd I get hungry so fast?"

  "Worked it off during the day?" Kimmer responded dryly.

  "Right," he said, rolling over to his back—carefully—
and rubbing his eyes with his hand. Or trying to. The arm was fast asleep, and his hand fell on his face.

  Kimmer couldn't stop herself; she burst into laughter.

  "Hey," he protested. "That's not nice."

  "No one ever said I was nice."

  This gave him momentary pause. "No one ever did, did they? C'mere, then. My hand and I will teach you a lesson."

  She gave the cheese plate and cider a pointed look.

  "Oh, put them somewhere. Anywhere. The woman laughs at me and thinks I care about cheese?"

  Kimmer put the plate down and stalked back to the bed and didn't so much as hesitate before she sat on his thighs, where she could so conveniently unzip his jeans. His eyes widened. "Doors?" he said, his voice half sleepy, half-strained as his body instantly responded to hers.

  "Locked 'em when I came in," she said smugly, and stripped off her shirt. He took a grip on her hips and pulled her forward, one hand still clumsy, until she settled into just the right place. Yeah. Just right. But she still put a hand on his stomach, stopping his hands on their way up to her breasts. "Rio—"

  He stilled. "I know," he said. "This job is a mess. We need to talk. But right now I—" He closed his eyes, lifting his hips in a way that made her bite her lip and push back. "I, uh—"

  She bent forward and licked his neck, the slightly sweaty taste of his skin mingling with the totally Rio scent of him. Oh yeah. Another lick, and she breathed gently on the damp spot she'd made. He shivered and she nipped, quite suddenly feeling very not-nice indeed.

  "Oh, hell," he said, and found her breasts after all. "We'll talk—"

  "Later," she breathed in his ear.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  CHAPTER 12

  Sensations swirled around her, sensual abandon gone straight through to fierce fighting wild child...

  Dreaming? Was she—

  She cried out, and the sound echoed inside her head, turning it to something twisted and mocking and wrong. Loss wrenched her, skirling up from her toes, tightening her into a claw of a fetal curl.

  Rio! She threw his name away into the desolation as though it might physically snag him, bring him back. Rio!!

  Dreaming?

  Silence answered, taunting her. Her body, her very self, scattered into a kaleidoscope of screaming little pieces that thudded against invisible walls, ricocheting to—

  What the hell?

  Kimmer opened her eyes and found darkness. Not the darkness of nighttime with moon and starlight, but absolute blackness. Stuffy air, damp and earthy. Cool.

  What the hell?

  Where? How?

  The hallucinatory dream still ached in her chest; body memory told her she had truly called Rio's name. But she didn't know why.

  Then figure it out.

  Start at the beginning.

  She lay in a curled, careless slump. She rolled to her side and spread her fingers beside her—and found not floor, but ground. Rough, packed dirt. Suspicion wormed into her thoughts; she spread her exploration and found stone, chunky under her fingers and crudely shaped.

  The cellar. And not just the cellar, but the little carved-out hollow that had held the Etxea—now empty.

  Quickly now, ignoring a haze of dizziness and the throb of her head, she widened the sweep of her hands. True aches and sharp pains sprang into play, a counterpoint to the emotional tightness lingering in her chest. Rio, what the hell?

  But memory still failed her, and what there was came murky—more like her half-remembered dreams than reality.

  The last she remembered...she'd talked to Jurdan. She'd doctored Rio. She'd—

  Dammit, she'd what?

  Had her way with Rio, that's what. Her body told her as much, still flushed and sated in counterpoint to the confusion and pains.

  That's not the same as memory.

  Her sweeping hands followed the edge of the wall and found wood. The door. God, let it not be—

  Locked. It was locked.

  Kimmer slumped back against the wall and took a slow, steady breath. Another. Remember, goddammit!

  But she didn't.

  And so she sat for several long, dark moments, hugging herself and her aches and scowling fiercely at the same time.

  It came to her that she wore Rio's jacket, the one with the zippers and pockets, way too big for her.

  Didn't stop her from stealing it every chance she got.

  The sleeve brushed her knuckles, and that stung; lightly exploring fingers found the skin rough and abraded. Her lip felt clumsy; her tongue discovered blood and a big puffy section. She absently licked the blood from one knuckle and the sleeve cuff brought with it a sweet smell. A smell not of Kimmer or Rio.

  Chloroform.

  Well, that explained the headache and dizziness. She'd damned well been chloroformed. And to judge by the rest of her, she hadn't gone down easily. "I hope I broke bones," she snarled into the darkness. "Lots of them."

  And only then did it occur to her murky mind to ask; only then did she realize. They—whoever—hadn't come here just to stuff her into this room. Kimmer lurched to her feet, reeling into the wall and groping along the stone. Her hurried fingers almost missed the niche...but not quite. She stilled, her fingers resting in the empty spot.

  The Etxea was gone.

  ~~~

  She sat beneath the empty niche, arms draped over jutting knees, head tipped back. Easy to doze in this stuffy room, even easier with the aftereffects of chloroform in her system. Questions battered at her through the murkiness, repeating themselves mercilessly and endlessly.

  Rio. Where was he? What had happened? She had to have seen the thieves...she had to remember their faces. But...

  Not yet.

  Eventually she heard noise on the other side of the door, and excited voices. She lifted her head in time for the cellar light—excruciatingly bright after the utter darkness—to slice across her eyes. But she squinted into it, identifying Jurdan's shoulders. Crowding in behind him came Atze; someone had called for the cavalry.

  Such as it was. "Jurdan," she said. Her voice croaked, but after she cleared her throat she sounded normal enough. "Jurdan, is Rio there? What's going on?"

  "That is for you to say," he told her, and his voice was distant as his light hovered on the stone niche over her head. Not the voice of a friend. "The Etxea. What has been done with it?"

  "That," Kimmer said pointedly, "would have happened on your side of that big thick door. Probably while I was sleeping off a nice dose of chloroform."

  It occurred to her then that he should have asked who'd taken it.

  It occurred to her that he thought she was involved.

  "Sonuva bitch," she said, out loud in her astonishment. "Son of a fucking bitch."

  "Come out," Jurdan said, and gestured, a twitch of his fingers. He didn't come over to help.

  Fine by her. She staggered a little, caught her balance, and stalked out of the room, mad as a wet cat. Stalked right up the stairs, in fact, with Jurdan and Atze hastening behind her, making it clear they weren't letting her out of their sight. So you think.

  She had a Rio to find.

  Marina waited in the kitchen. Jefa lurked at a distance, her hands clasped by those of the frightened housekeeper.

  Marina's lips were as thin as Kimmer had yet seen them. She looked at Kimmer and at the men, and she said flatly, "It is gone, then."

  "Yes," Jurdan said.

  "Come." Marina turned on her heel and led the way into the house, to a study Kimmer had seen upon their initial tour here, but had not spent time in since. In the study, Marina pointed to a barely stuffed leather chair with rollover arms. "Sit."

  Kimmer sat. But she was the only one. Jurdan and Atze stood on either side of her. Watching her. And, it suddenly occurred to her, guarding her. Kimmer stopped a short, bitter laugh. Did they really think they could keep her here?

  Probably they did. Could turn out badly for them, then.

  Marina sat in a matching chair opposite Kimmer. S
he didn't cross her legs; she didn't relax. She folded her hands in her lap—unlike the others, she'd dressed, and wore black slacks and a collarless, button-front shirt—and she said, "Tell me what you have done."

  Kimmer ignored that. "Where's Rio? Did anyone see anything?"

  Marina didn't respond, but a flicker of stress crossed her tight features.

  She knows nothing. They thought they'd find out what happened from Kimmer...and they were wrong. "Look," Kimmer said. "They used chloroform." She didn't know the Spanish word for chloroform; she used English—but Marina's bleak expression indicated understanding. "I don't know what happened. Is there any blood anywhere? Did anyone hear gunshots? Anything?"

  "I heard voices." This from just outside the door, and Jefa hesitantly put herself within view.

  "Yes, yes," Marina said impatiently. "There is certainly nothing to hide from you now. The Doña has had the keeping of the Etxea of Sabina de Arano, these many years. Now it is stolen. Come in, if you can help us."

  "That's all," the woman said. "Voices, and then...from the cellar, a struggle."

  "Rio..." Kimmer closed her eyes, squinted the memory into place—not the moments themselves, but the planning they'd done earlier in the evening. In bed, lazily entwined, discussing their late night guard duty. "He should have been outside the kitchen door. But there was no struggle in the kitchen itself‑?"

  Jefa timidly shook her head, wispy grey hair escaping from her long, thin braid.

  Atze snorted loudly. "He betrayed you, your Rio. His name isn't even Richard, then."

  "Rio," Kimmer said. "My name is Kimmer. We gave you only our cover names. Deal with it." The reality of what he'd said hit her; she glared at him. "He didn't betray me."

  "He is gone," Jurdan said pointedly. "The Dwelling is gone. If he didn't betray you, then it means you planned this."

  She wanted to laugh out loud. She wanted to hurt him, too.

  Instead she sat very quietly. She looked at Marina and found the doubt in her eyes, and she sat very quietly indeed. On my own, then.

  Marina said, "Tell us what happened."

  "Chloroform," Kimmer said, just as pointedly as Jurdan the moment before.