Absolute Doubt (Fallen Agents of T-FLAC Book 1) Read online

  She forced herself to look at the lit garden beyond the French doors, away from those steely eyes that drew her gaze like a magnet.

  As her host gave instructions to the guy standing like a statue at the doors, River turned to address Father Marcus, who was sitting beside her. "Oliver mentioned you with great fondness, Father." In the five years her brother had lived and worked in Los Santos, he'd mentioned Father Marcus, maybe twice. Both times in the most cursory, and disinterested way.

  "I'm hoping something he might've said to you will enable me to find him."

  "I wish I had something concrete to tell you, but like Franco, I'm only aware that your brother left Los Santos several weeks ago without so much a goodbye, let alone an explanation. I'm sorry, my dear."

  River imagined she felt the icy hot weight of Bishop Daklin's gaze on her cheek. "I'm sorry, too. Thank you," she said as Franco handed her a tall glass of murky, pale yellow, lukewarm lemonade before returning to his seat beside the bishop across the wide marble and gold leafed coffee table.

  Snap out of it. Why do I give a rat's ass one way or the other if he likes me or not? I don't. She blinked the priest back into focus. Father Marcus looked to be in his late sixties and had a kind smile and twinkling brown eyes. His round face was pink from the heat, and his short, untidy, salt and pepper hair was damp at the temples. He wore a short-sleeved black shirt and white clerical collar with dark jeans and black tennis shoes. Just looking at him made her feel hot, temperature-wise. With that thought, her glance automatically shot across the low coffee table to the bishop, who made her hot in a whole other way.

  Covered from neck to toe in several layers of fabric, he wasn't even breaking a sweat. A prickling of awareness caused goose bumps to arise on her skin. Her heartbeat stuttered, then kicked into high gear. River's lungs forgot how to drag in air, and every drop of moisture in her mouth dried. Taking a gulp of her drink, she swallowed hard because his gaze was locked on her like a tractor beam set on high. Laser blue tractor beams poured over her like a hot, possessive touch. Pure electricity seemed to arc between them so powerfully, she wondered how the other two men in the room couldn't see it.

  She knew it was one-sided, but it didn't make the sensation any less powerful. River's color rose as she felt every throb of her heartbeat on her lips, in the nerve endings of her nipples, and deep in the now moist juncture of her thighs.

  The primitive sexual response was startling. She’d never in her life felt this instant physical response to anyone. Not even when she’d first met Devon, her ex-husband.

  She hadn't had sex in years, so the irony of experiencing lust at first sight, for a bishop, wasn’t lost on her. God should have rejected this man’s vow of celibacy. There was no freaking way it benefitted humankind. Her business thrived on this very feeling of unbridled lust. Now, experiencing it for the first time, she finally understood the power of it. This man, a man she knew she could not have under any circumstances, could drive her to forget all of her inhibitions.

  River took a deep breath to reel herself in. Was it pheromones? Some annoying chemical reaction over which she apparently had no control? Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Grim. Sensual. Her gaze rose as his lips tightened. Captivated, she held his gaze for several skittering heartbeats. She didn't expect men to fall on her like starving dogs, but this one was unresponsive to even her innocent smile. He didn't show the slightest bit of interest in her as a fellow human being, let alone as a woman.

  She didn't expect him to appreciate her legs or her boobs or even her sharp mind. But couldn’t he acknowledge that she was breathing, and occupying the same space on his planet? Was that too much to ask?

  Apparently so. He looked down into his drink, as if it held the answers to the questions of the Universe.

  "Oliver spent almost all of his time up at the plant." Father Marcus drew her attention. "He rarely came into town, and even then, he never stayed long."

  She glanced over at Franco. "Yet he had a room here?"

  "He did, yes. He used it when he came down from his lab for a meal and a night off. He has--had--rooms in the plant facility and preferred spending most of his time there."

  “What did he do for you, Franco?" River asked. "I never understood what a biochemical engineer had to do with mining emeralds.” Oliver had gone into a lengthy-for-him explanation. River had understood about three words.

  “Liseo would be able to explain more fully, but Dr. Sullivan was involved with the design and optimization of the processes used in extracting the stones from the ore.”

  “Are there other engineers or someone else who worked with him at the plant? Perhaps one of them knows something?”

  “No, Dr. Sullivan was the only one working in the lab. He’s a brilliant man, but didn’t—- How do I say this politely? He didn’t work well with others.”

  River smiled. "Oliver isn't very social. He's always preferred his own company, and when he's working on an exciting project, he focuses on it to the exclusion of anything else. I'm hoping he might have left something behind that would give me a clue as to his whereabouts."

  "Unlikely, my dear. Oliver packed everything and took it with him when he left."

  River frowned. "Then maybe there’s something in his rooms up at the plant that will—"

  Franco shook his head. "No, nothing. I asked my son, Liseo, to check."

  Disappointment closed her throat. Another dead end. River took a cautious sip of overly sweet lemonade to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. "Did he say anything about leaving?" she addressed both Father Marcus and Franco. "Going somewhere else?"

  "Not to me," the priest said, honest regret in his voice. "I'm sorry, my dear." He glanced over at their host. "Franco?"

  "As I told you on the phone the other day, after the explosion, your brother just-" He waved a ringed hand. "Disappeared."

  Frowning, River sat on the edge of the uncomfortable sofa. "Are you implying he was responsible for the accident? Was he hurt?" Oh, God. None of this made sense.

  "I'm not implying anything. The accident was just that. An accident. And no, he was not injured."

  "Five people died in that accident, Miss Sullivan," the bishop offered flatly. His deep voice held a thread of disdainful superiority that made her hackles rise. "Perhaps he felt responsible, and guilt drove him away."

  River sucked in a breath, his words like a physical blow to her chest. Had the bastard really just said that? Despite the attraction for which she had absolutely no explanation, River was starting to reciprocate his obvious dislike. She turned just enough to bring him into focus. What the hell did he have to be so pissy about?

  "Perhaps. That is, if he was responsible, which I highly doubt," she said, expending extra effort to keep her voice cool. She was too hot, too tired, too scared to tiptoe around a man who'd disliked her on sight for absolutely no damned reason.

  The fact that her body found him appealing was driving her crazy. He wasn't that appealing. He was unpleasant and condescending and, honestly, a jerk.

  "Regardless, Oliver wouldn't disappear. This was his dream job. I don't understand why he'd leave without telling anyone. Without telling me." Oh, shit, she felt the sting of tears behind her lids, and concentrated on forcing them back.

  Those piercing blue eyes turned to permafrost. “Does your brother have any reason to avoid you, Miss Sullivan? A man isn’t necessarily missing just because he doesn’t check in with his sister.”

  Dickhead. Prickles of dislike tingled her skin as tension ratcheted between them. What was this guy's freaking problem? She was tempted to give the sanctimonious bishop the finger. Instead, she maintained eye contact and managed, with only a small bite in her tone, to say, "Do you believe in reincarnation, Bishop?"

  Eyes locked, he arched a brow. "Why?"

  "Because clearly we met in another life and I did something exceedingly unpleasant to you. Your Excellency."

  Three

  As she spoke, Daklin watched her mouth. Lush. Succulent. S
haped for pleasure. She looked fresh and pretty in her yellow and white dress, her lightly muscled arms, and long legs, bare. Sizable diamonds in her ear lobes caught the light, winking between strands of silky-looking sunny blonde hair that brushed her stubborn jaw and draped seductively over one eye.

  The acid of the lukewarm lemonade felt as rough as liquid sandpaper as it slid down his dry throat. A real bishop would stay silent and not take her bait. He wasn't a real bishop.

  "Touché, Miss Sullivan,” he said dryly. "I'll keep my opinions to myself." He didn't want to be sober right now, and sure as shit didn't like that this woman jacked up his blood pressure without even trying. He was working, goddamn it, and River Sullivan was in the wrong damned place, at the wrong fucking time. He maintained his poker face. Cheeks flushed with annoyance, gray eyes stormy, River Sullivan was fucking adorable in her bewilderment as to why every male in a thousand mile radius wasn't falling at her feet and salivating. Up to, and including, a bishop.

  If he wasn't in character, if he wasn't working, if he wasn't already in his own brand of fucking hell, he'd be damned happy to test the limits of her flirtatious behavior. Or grab a bottle of Tovaritch, his go-to solution for avoidance.

  Her smile faded, and her glistening gray eyes suddenly became more serious. "Please don’t, Your Excellency. I prefer knowing up front what people are thinking. Guessing is problematic, and assumptions are dangerous. I'm a firm believer in openness and honesty. Isn’t that also what the Church promotes?"

  "You don't edit, do you, Miss Sullivan?"

  “Edit what?"

  “Is there any filter between your thoughts and your mouth?”

  "Rarely, Your Excellency. That isn’t a sin, is it?"

  No excuse or apology. He guessed her flirty behavior was intrinsic to her personality. It didn’t seem to be something she was putting on for show. Angel, another time and place.

  Only there'd be no other time and place. Daklin knew, with pretty much one hundred percent certainty he'd never leave Los Santos. To do his job, he'd die here. He was okay with that. However, he'd make damn sure every last fucking gram of E-1x, Francisco Xavier, his explosive engineer, and his mystery partner, went with him.

  Consuming every drop of that bitching, unopened bottle of Tovaritch Premium Russian Vodka he'd brought with him would be his final “fuck you.” Fitting. In his world order, that wouldn't be considered falling off the wagon.

  Good to have something to look forward to. Daklin caught Marcus's mirth-filled brown eyes and fleeting smile at his exchange with River. Before taking the cloth twelve years ago, Marcus Cawcutt had been one of T-FLAC's top operatives. Daklin bet Marcus had thought his life of intrigue and espionage was behind him when he'd been given Los Santos, Cosio as his parish.

  Like it or not, Father Marcus was now back in the game, thanks to Ramse Ortiz's father, who lived in the village and who had reported suspicious activity around the mine to his son, to Marcus, and ultimately to T-FLAC. A middle-aged woman, dressed head to toe in black, slipped into the room. Head bowed, she stood beside Xavier's chair until he acknowledged her by waving her away. He got to his feet, sophisticated and urbane, the perfect host. "Dinner is served. Come."

  Franco offered his arm to Barbie, and Daklin followed with Marcus. Ramse Ortiz and a second bodyguard—-this one not T-FLAC—-fell into step behind them. Xavier's paranoia fit into T-FLAC's plans very well. Having Ram in the house doubled their chances of discovering anything useful.

  Her slender back straight, River's heels tapped musically on the tiled floor. Her legs looked a mile long in five inch fuck me heels. Damn it, the shoes were even sexier than the bondage sandals she'd worn earlier.

  Shit. Josh would've ragged the shit out of him about lusting over a woman while he was on an op. It was Daklin's number one rule: Work was work. Sex was something else. Josh wasn't, hadn't been, a stickler for his big brother's rules. He'd always joked that he wouldn't die in the field. He'd be killed by a jealous husband, an international tango, for screwing his trophy wife.

  Instead, Josh had been blown to Kingdom Come because Ash had made the fatal mistake of revealing to his ever-curious brother his current project. It was information Josh hadn’t needed to know, a mind-fuck of a puzzle that Daklin should've known would intrigue his brother. Selfishly, he’d wanted to bring Josh in on the problem as he worked to neutralize the explosive.

  Josh’s brilliance had flaws, one being that he didn’t think intuitively, and quickly, through all the potential consequences of each decision. It was a goddamned fatal flaw for an explosive expert. Daklin should’ve known Josh would return to the lab, and he should’ve been watching to intercept him. Josh always tried to be the one to reach the finish line first.

  Damn you for dying on me, Josh. I’ll never fucking forgive myself. I’ll also miss you until I take my last breath. Daklin rubbed his chest, trying to assuage the ever-present heaviness and pain. His fist brushed the heavy gold cross hanging on a chain around his neck. It was a reminder of what he was here to do. Avenge his brother. Redeem himself by eliminating E-1x. There was no time for attractive blondes with hopeful eyes.

  Daklin was grateful to get out of the stifling heat of the sitting room. The vast dining room was marginally cooler with two sets of French doors opened to the inner courtyard. The room was as overdone and ridiculously formal as the rest of the house. Xavier's wife, or a decorator, favored heavy Spanish Colonial-style furniture in dark woods, lush fabrics, and plenty of gold leaf. An odd choice, considering they were in the middle of a jungle. The twenty-foot tall ceilings, with heavy, intricately painted beams didn't mitigate the heat. Family pictures, both painted on canvas and photographs in silver frames, were stacked six deep on every flat surface.

  Hot, irrationally irritated, and salivating for a real drink, Daklin found himself absently rubbing at the persistent ache in his left thigh. With relief, he pulled out a heavy, high-backed chair facing the open doors and sank onto the hard seat.

  There were only four table settings, and they faced each other over the wide expanse of the table. Daklin and Xavier, opposite Marcus and Barbie.

  A gentle, loam-scented breeze ruffled Barbie’s rich sunny hair as she sat across from him. As she made small talk with Xavier, the earthy breeze also brought with it a fresh, sophisticated perfume evocative of crisp cotton sheets and cool ocean breezes.

  Father Marcus rounded the table to sit beside her. He rearranged his silverware on the brightly woven tablemat after sitting down.

  "How long have you been here, Your Excellency?" She wrapped her fingers around the stem of her water glass as her gaze shifted from Xavier to him.

  Like her toenails, her fingernails were painted red. Daklin imagined her wrapping her fingers around his dick the way she held the wineglass stem. He imagined the feel of her nails, on his chest, on his back, as she arched into him while she came. "I arrived earlier this afternoon, a few hours before you, as it happens."

  He waited to see if she’d mention seeing him at the airport. She didn't.

  The woman who'd called them in to dinner served the first course, along with a young, clearly pregnant woman with downcast eyes. They entered and set down bowls of steaming shrimp chowder at each place.

  River picked up her spoon. "Where are you from, Bishop Daklin?" She dipped her spoon into her soup, then brought it to her lips and opened her mouth. No delicate trial to see if she'd like it. She merely took the spoon into her mouth then chewed and swallowed before dipping it into the spicy dish again.

  Daklin imagined those soft lips closing around his dick, and the feel of her silky hair fisted in his hands. As his dick hardened, and his blood pressure spiked, he reminded himself she'd be gone tomorrow. He just had to put up with her for one night. Hell, it was only because he hadn't had sex in so long; he'd be turned on by any clean, mildly attractive woman.

  He'd been injured in the explosion in Ben Talha and then again attempting to save Josh. Between the injuries, he’d been drunk, semi-sob
er, and then mostly drunk. Since Josh died, he’d been in rehab for both the leg and the boozing. All told, for the better of eighteen months, his focus had been on things other than fucking, and right about now, fucking was the only thing he wanted to focus on, because he suddenly wanted one more fuck before he died.

  "Salem, Mass, originally." That much was true; the rest was a skillfully crafted cover. "Seminary college in Jamaica Plains, then I earned my doctorate in theology from Boston University." The truth was, he'd gone to MIT and been four years behind her brother's graduating class. Same courses, same degrees.

  She picked up her glass, brought it to her lips without drinking, and watched him with serious eyes over the rim. "And is Boston where you minister, Your Excellency?"

  "I'm bishop in Portland, Maine. What is it you do, Miss Sullivan?"

  Marcus used a white handkerchief to blot the perspiration on his forehead. Fine for him, he wore a short-sleeved black shirt. Daklin was decked out in multiple layers of fabric that defied the breeze and made his balls sweat. Watching River Sullivan look at him with hungry eyes made Daklin blistering hot under his clerical collar and robes.

  "I'm a clothing designer." She took a sip of water, then licked a glistening drop from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were smoky with skillfully applied makeup, but her mouth was bare. Daklin found the soft pink of her unadorned lips unbearably arousing. "Lingerie. I have my own company based out of Portland, Oregon, and New York."

  "Your own company? That's impressive. Would I be familiar with your brand, Miss Sullivan? Something similar to Agent Provocateur or La Perla, perhaps?"

  "Both are my competitors, actually." Her gray eyes gleamed with amusement as she set the glass down without looking where she placed it. It tilted on the edge of the thick place mat as she picked up her spoon. "How interesting that you're so familiar with luxe, high-end lingerie, Your Excellency. Your lady friends must eagerly await their birthdays. You have excellent taste."