Absolute Doubt (Fallen Agents of T-FLAC Book 1) Page 12

  Instant buzzkill.

  River waited as he spoke to the two elderly sisters. When they reluctantly backed away, she stepped in front of him with a smile. The light from her phone gleamed through the fabric of her pocket. "Franco. Father Marcus," she said by way of a cheerful greeting. Big gray eyes, clear as water, returned to Daklin. "Are you having fun, Bishop Daklin?"

  "Fun?"

  "You know, that emotion you sometimes experience when you're relaxed and enjoying yourself?"

  He gave her a disapproving look. "Aren't you afraid to walk on these uneven cobbles in those inappropriate shoes, Miss Sullivan?"

  She extended a slender foot and the crisscrossed, strappy sandals with five-inch heels. "These are perfectly appropriate party shoes, Your Excellency. There might be dancing later." She gave him a cheerful look. "Can you dance, Bishop Daklin?"

  "Can I or do I?"

  "Either." She smiled. Her right eyetooth was slightly crooked. Daklin's heart did a double gainer and his blood pressure throbbed behind his eyeballs.

  Xavier's man could take her to the airport before breakfast. He did not fucking want to be charmed by her. He was already wound tighter than a detonator cord with lust. Being charmed was taking it too goddamned far.

  Her smile slipped, and hope made her eyes large and serious. "I take it Oliver wasn’t at the plant." Stress lifted her slender shoulders, and a heavy pulse throbbed at the base of her throat. Daklin wanted to put his mouth there.

  "I'm afraid not." He hated giving her the answer that her disappointed eyes told him she already knew.

  She sighed. "I was hoping he was just avoiding me."

  Xavier and Marcus were privy to the conversation, and while nothing earth shattering was being discussed, Daklin suddenly wanted them both a thousand miles away. Her hurt was raw and palpable, and he had to fight off the urge to do something about it. Something to make them both forget.

  "Did you have a fight?" Daklin asked.

  River shook her head, making pale silky strands of hair swing against her jaw. "We never fight. I talk, Oliver retreats. Silence is his default." Her eyes met his. "I'm not complaining. It's just that often he's...not there. Even when he is, if you know what I mean."

  Yeah. Pretty much like himself. Josh was—-had been-—just the opposite. His brother had been the life of every party, the center around which the earth spun. Everyone had loved Josh.

  "Has anyone recognized your brother, Miss Sullivan?"

  She took the change of subject like a trooper. "Not yet.” She set her jaw for a second, and a determined gleam flashed in her eyes. “But then, I haven't spoken to everyone here."

  "And you don't find that odd, considering he worked at the mine just up that hill for more than five years?"

  "Yes. And yes," she said with a frown. He wanted to kiss the furrows between her eyes. Instead, he tightened his fingers around his glass. "It's more than odd."

  "Well I'm sure he'll contact you once you're home. He probably met a pretty girl and he's off having a romantic interlude."

  River's laugh sent a jolt of unadulterated lust shooting from the top of Daklin’s head directly into his balls.

  "Not in a million years. Neither the girl, pretty or otherwise, nor the romantic interlude. That's not who Oliver is. Not when he has work to do. Now, challenge him with a lengthy mathematical problem, or offer him a difficult chemical compound to produce, and he'll disappear for months on end."

  "There you have it then," Daklin told her. "He's found a challenge. He'll appear when he's solved the problem. I suggest you return to Portland and wait for his call."

  "I'll have my man take you to the airport in the morning, my dear," Xavier told her. He wasn’t offering. Daklin had almost been oblivious to Xavier's presence from the second River had joined them. Not good. Not good at all. That kind of inattention could get him killed.

  Hell. He needed to wrap this up. Xavier had already insisted he come to his rooms to wait for tonight's apparition. Daklin would give it an hour, then plead exhaustion, and retire to his own room. As soon as the household was asleep, he and his men would return to the mine and plant to reconnoiter where the charges would be set.

  It was going to be a long night.

  “Would you like a blessing for your journey home?” he asked River pointedly. He had to know if she would indeed leave.

  She hesitated. “Sure.”

  Daklin pressed the Pope’s medal in her hand, then placed his palm on her head, fighting the urge to run his fingers through her silky hair. He gave up and did it anyway--slightly. Just the tips of his fingers, sliding through an inch or two of those gold-spun strands. He almost groaned aloud as he bowed his head a moment, pretending to say a silent prayer, then lifted his chin and glanced at her, prematurely. Well, before any meaningful prayer could possibly be over.

  Wide, gray eyes met his. Long lashes fluttered as she blinked, then she held his gaze again. For a second, her eyes narrowed in puzzlement, then her cheeks became pink with a slight flush.

  If he had a prayer in him, he’d forgotten it. She obviously had no clue how to accept a blessing and, hell, they were a perfect pair, because he sure as fuck didn’t know how to give one.

  He may have just fooled a whole village of people who wanted to believe he was what he purported to be, but River’s eyes widened as he returned her stare with a hunger he couldn’t conceal. Dumbshit.

  Easing the weight off his bum leg, Daklin stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Have a safe trip home, Miss Sullivan."

  #

  Unable to sleep, River searched her room thoroughly for any clues as to her brother's mysterious disappearance. There was absolutely no sign he'd ever been there.

  The fiesta had come to a close the minute the delectable Bishop Daklin left. He'd been a big hit. And she hadn't been the only woman there to notice his broad shoulders and sexy half-smile. She'd have good company when she went to hell.

  That damned smile had thrown her off completely. It was easier dealing with her lustful thoughts when she'd merely seen him as a surly man she didn't stand a hope in hell of attracting. But that small smile, the way his gaze connected with each person he'd spoken to, made each individual feel as if they were the only person in the world to him, and sent her pulse and hormones into freaking overdrive. She’d watched him praying with each woman, old or young, each man, each child with that gentle smile.

  Hell, he even gazed into the eyes of the dogs with freaking sincerity, as though imparting a message that they mattered in the grand scheme of things. When it came time for her blessing, he studied her with something else. There was no divine inspiration in his expression. For a fleeting second, with his fingertips brushing her hair, he’d given her a look of pure, unadulterated lust, as if she were the only woman in the world. Evil incarnate. It was heady.

  "I'm downright freaking delusional! Get a grip!" she told herself for the fifteenth time.

  Climbing down from a chair, she dusted off her hands. Nothing on top of, or inside, the high wardrobe, nothing on the bookshelf, or the bedside tables, nothing under the mattress, or hell, even under the mattress.

  "Ever think you're here on a fool's errand?" she asked herself as she slithered backwards from under the bed. Yeah. She figured she was. Hating to admit she'd failed in her quest, River figured she at least had tonight to make sure she'd done as thorough a search as possible.

  She had a sick feeling in her stomach, knowing that she'd go home, and would have to wait, possibly forfreakingever, for Oliver to contact her, not knowing if he was dead or alive.

  Maybe he'd left some personal item, a book, a notebook, a pack of his ubiquitous cigarettes, somewhere in the house. It would be just like him to leave his things around. He wasn’t the tidiest man.

  In fact, Oliver tended to write notes on anything close to hand, and since his cigarettes were always nearby, he frequently jotted formulas on the pack. Maybe he'd left a note somewhere in this vast hacienda. It was unlikely as hell, but worth
pursuing as a last shot.

  The house was dead quiet. Franco and the Bishop had spent some time in their host's room communing with the spirits. The door at the end of the hall had opened and closed, and River had listened to Bishop Daklin's slightly uneven footfall as he returned to his own room, which was across the corridor from her own. She'd heard his door open, then close, two hours earlier.

  "Do not stand here imagining what he wears to bed," she whispered, amused at where her imagination was taking her. The problem was, she had an excellent imagination, and she could quite easily picture Asher Daklin bare ass naked.

  "Asher." His name tasted delicious on her tongue. "Ash."

  She was like an enthusiastic dog chasing a car. It wasn't as if he was seducible, though the look he’d given her at the party made her have doubts in that regard. She wouldn’t feel good tempting him, though. She'd just keep her salacious imagination to herself. Fortunately, if he was at breakfast in the morning, it would be the last time their paths would ever cross.

  Wearing black leggings and a long sleeved black silk T-shirt, handily packed for layering, depending on the weather, River sat on the padded bench at the foot of the bed to put on her black sneakers. She was ready to skulk.

  Her heart pounded as she unlocked her door and opened it very, very slowly. No creaking. Good.

  Stepping into the dimly lit corridor, she carefully pulled her door closed behind her. She didn't need the tiny penlight she'd brought with her. Wrought iron wall sconces lit the long corridor with faux flickering candlelight. Heavy wood paneling and thick carpet absorbed most of the light and all of the sound, but she could see easily enough. It was a good thing she didn't spook easily, because there were dark pools of shadow from alcoves, life-size statues, and ominous looking people depicted in scary religious oil paintings all along the way. The Crusades had been bloody, and these paintings showcasing gory, tangled bodies of men and horses were not exactly inspirational.

  The thickly carpeted mahogany stairs didn't creak as she stepped cautiously onto each tread. So far, so good. If anyone discovered her downstairs, she'd say she was hungry and in search of the kitchen.

  She checked the living room, dining room, kitchen-—where she made herself a quick peanut butter sandwich—-and ended up in a study. Either Franco's or one of his son's, she presumed. Heavy Colonial furniture dominated the large room, with ceiling-to-floor, wall-to-wall bookcases, and a giant fireplace. Franco did love his fireplaces. The sweet fragrance of white roses in a silver vase on the desk mingled with the dusty smell of old paper and leather.

  Desk first. With her lit penlight held between her teeth, River rifled through the drawers. None were locked. She found several photographs shoved to the back of a drawer. Curious, she aimed the beam of the light on the top one. A redheaded little girl of about three, sitting on the lap of a woman whose head and shoulders had been cut off from the top of the photograph, leaving just the child, and the woman's arm around her.

  With one finger, River slid the photograph to the side to see the ones beneath it. Same child, she presumed, quite a bit older. This time, the girl looked to be in her early teens. Her hair was in a braid over one shoulder. High cheekbones, narrowed eyes, and long red hair should've made her pretty, but she had a sulky mouth, and an underlying look of anger in her eyes. Not a happy camper.

  The next picture showed her as a woman, in her twenties. She was even more attractive, and even angrier. She clearly hadn't enjoyed having her picture taken.

  River put them back as she'd found them and closed the drawer. Who was the woman? A relative? Hardly likely, as it seemed Franco had photographs of his enormous family all over the house. If she was a relative, she’d be in other photos, and River hadn’t noticed her. Or, she theorized as she searched through pens, and rubber bands, and other flotsam and jetsam normally found in desk drawers, maybe the girl's mother had meant something to Franco?

  If she had, the fact that he, or someone, had decapitated her in the picture was pretty telling. Maybe the redhead was his illegitimate daughter. Hell, maybe it was unimportant and none of her business, since it sure as hell didn’t seem to have anything to do with where Oliver might be.

  Come on, Oliver. A clue. Just one freaking clue.

  The quietness of the house weighed on her. The silence allowed her to hear her own pulse throbbing in her ears. She lived alone and spent a good deal of time in her own company, but the almost ominous silence, and the faint, uneasy feeling of foreboding, gave River the creeps. She tried to shake it off. Almost done. She found another small photograph of the redhead in the back of the middle drawer of the desk amid the paperclips. Whoever she was, she was important enough to keep photographs of her throughout the years, yet not important enough to frame and put up with the rest of his family.

  River would never know. She closed that drawer, too. No secretly coded letter from her brother, who was definitely on her shit list. If he wasn't dead. Crap. No. She couldn’t think that. She could think about how she'd chew his ass out when she found him. But no to that, too. Reality was, no matter how irritating and annoying her brother had been over the years, River always reined in her natural inclination to ream him out. It wasn't his fault he had Asperger's. Displaying her emotions with him was counterproductive, and just ended up making her feel bad.

  Looking around, she tried to decide where to search next. The bookcase was more of a tchotchke case than a place for books. The religious relics and saint statues looked expensive and each item had its own shelf and display light above. Not that she had the lights on at the moment.

  Every few feet, there was a shelf of books. How many Bibles did a man need? Not this many, she was sure. Flipping pages in a few, she gave up searching inside books, and picked up some of the religious artifacts and turned them over to look at their bases.

  She'd lost her damned mind. What the hell did she hope to find? It wasn't in her brother's secretive nature to tell her, or anyone else for that matter, what he was doing. And it would never occur to him to leave a meaningful note for her where she couldn't possibly find it.

  She was searching because it made her feel as though she was doing something. But the reality was, she was just going through Nancy Drew-type motions, and she was goddamned tired of being an amateur sleuth. Her stubborn, take-action streak had left her in the middle of a goddamned jungle, while her mind told her she should’ve known better than to leap before looking. She’d go home, hire a private investigator, and let him piece it together, because there sure as hell wasn't anything to find here. With a sweep of the narrow beam of her flashlight, River made sure she hadn't left anything out of place in the study, then headed back upstairs, her heart heavy. She'd given it her best shot.

  Disappointment aside, tomorrow she'd insist on going up to the plant on the way to the airport. At least that way, she could tell herself she'd left no stone unturned and she could give the private investigator enough information to get started.

  She moved toward the north corridor, where she believed the family had bedrooms. As she reached the upstairs landing, River noticed a door ajar down that side of the hallway. She hesitated, about to head in the other direction to her room. Then she stopped. It wasn't breaking and entering if it was already partly open.

  After pushing open the heavy mahogany door, she closed it behind her, flicking on the penlight. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of musk, cheap perfume, and leather, she hoped she wasn't walking in on someone sleeping. Expecting to see another lavishly appointed bedroom, she frowned as she played the beam over various objects around her. It took River a few jaw-dropping moments to wrap her brain around what she was looking at. Not a set for a naughty lingerie shoot, but the real deal. No. Freaking. Way!

  Unable to resist her curiosity, she flicked on the lights. Red bulbs revealed a mirrored BDSM room. "Dear God, what the hell is all this?" Benches, and what looked like a hospital bed—all with leather restraints were among the larger pieces of furniture. She couldn't even b
egin to imagine how some of the equipment was used. A few pieces looked like something she'd use at the gym, but she was willing to bet they weren’t there so someone could work on defining their six-pack.

  Avoiding looking at her horrified, but fascinated, self in the mirrors, she wondered between the strange contraptions, making sure not to touch anything. Repelled but intrigued, River couldn't help trying to figure out what the use could possibly be for some of the things she saw. She didn't have that good an imagination. Nor did she want to go there. Eyeing something that looked like it was made for binding ankles and arms while someone was bent over a waist-high, red-carpeted rail, she shivered. If a man ever tried to tie her up like that, he'd have to make sure she was unconscious first. If she wasn't, she'd hit him where it hurt the most.

  When she got back to her room, she was going to take a long hot shower, and use lots of antibacterial soap.

  Was this a cage? A human-sized cage with restraints? Along both walls were various pulleys and more restraints, leather and metal cuffs for wrists and ankles, bars with toggles and straps with spikes neatly arranged. A shelf held God only knew what kind of sex toys. A muzzle? Blindfolds? A spiked dog collar? A hard rubber dog bone? What the hell?

  River had had enough. The room, and the vibe it held, creeped her out. As to whether it was used by Franco's sons or someone else, she had no idea. It certainly could not belong to pious, overly religious, apparition-seeing Franco Xavier.

  She smiled. She bet pious, surly, Bishop Daklin hadn't been given the tour of this room.

  Two things caught her eye almost simultaneously as she was about to flick off the lights. Veering to the left, River shone the flashlight on a streak of red on the mirrored wall.

  Blood. A lot of blood.

  It couldn't be anything else.

  The whips, tipped in sharp silver metal and hanging neatly nearby, told a story River didn't want to explore. Sick to her stomach, she backed away, bumping into some sort of metal restraint with straps behind her. Pivoting as if the bogeyman was waiting to pounce on her, her mouth went dry. "Oh, crap, seriously?"