“Your job isn’t to avenge Reed. Remember that.”
Rand didn’t answer.
Castillo del Cielo
Saturday
Kayla Shaw stood off to one side of the pool, searching the crowd for Steve Foley. Surely he would at least put in an appearance at the premier event of the bank’s premier private clients. Surely he’d tell her to relax, it was taken care of, she was safe.
Surely she was being paranoid.
The grim lines around her mouth were out of place in the beautiful, slanting light. The sun was still hot, but coolness seeped up from the ground itself, a reminder that winter wasn’t completely gone. Or maybe it was just her nerves, the paranoid part of her screaming Get out! Run! Hide!
Kayla pulled her black linen jacket closer around her. The rich teal of her silk blouse glowed in the light, as did the black pearl earring studs that were her parents’ last birthday present to her. Her body all but vibrated with tension as she scanned the thirty artists slapping paint on canvas as if their lives depended on it.
Foley was nowhere to be found.
What am I going to do?
The question rang in her mind like a frantic heartbeat.
Don’t think about it. All you can do right now is play nice so that the Bertones don’t get suspicious.
But if-
Don’t think about it. Not now.
But-
Not now!
“Are you enjoying yourself?” asked Bertone’s voice right at her elbow.
Kayla jumped sideways, startled that he’d been able to slide in so close without her knowing it.
He grasped her arm and pulled her back from the edge of the pool.
“Nervous, are we?” he asked.
“I always jump when somebody sneaks up on me,” Kayla said. “What about you?”
“Sneak?” He laughed and didn’t release her arm. “Ma petite, I weigh in excess of two hundred pounds and am over forty. I could not sneak if my life depended on it. Are you sure you aren’t nervous?”
“Should I be?” she answered, pulling away from his grasp.
“I suppose it’s rather like bridal jitters. But then, you hinted this wasn’t your first time on the, ah, ‘primrose path.’”
Kayla set her teeth and didn’t say anything.
Bertone caught her chin with his strong hand. Slowly, almost gently, he forced her to look him in the eye.
Anger.
She was furious.
“Are you truly that much an innocent?” Bertone asked. “Have I really misread you that badly? You do understand how things are done in the real world, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She stepped back, freeing herself. “As profitably as possible.”
His eyebrows rose. “Ah, so you feel underpaid.”
She shrugged tightly.
“You interest me,” he said.
She stiffened as Bertone’s glance ran up and down her body like hands. She had deliberately dressed plainly in a linen trouser suit and a silk top cut just low enough to show the rose tattoo on her collarbone. But the way he was looking at her made her feel like she’d been stripped to her skimpy underwear and doused with cold water.
“Did the second wire transfer post to the new account?” Bertone’s voice was once again neutral.
Kayla wanted to sigh with relief. “Yes.”
Then realization hit and the ground jerked beneath her feet. She hadn’t spoken with the Bertones since the first deposit, yet somehow Bertone already knew not only that the correspondent account was open but that a second deposit had been made.
Her desire to talk to Steve Foley took on a keener, more bitter edge.
Bertone or the feds, the devil or the deep blue sea. Take your pick, you lucky girl.
None of the above.
There has to be a third choice. It’s up to me to find it.
Real quick.
“There will be more transfers today and tomorrow,” Bertone said. “Bigger amounts. Quite sizable, actually.”
She drew a shallow breath, then another, forcing herself to meet his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was calm despite the panic twisting her stomach. “In this country, banks aren’t open on the weekend. I’m not even sure the Fedwire operates.”
“It does.”
She shrugged tightly. “Then the money will transfer, but it won’t be posted to the account until Monday. In other words, no matter when you transfer it, the money won’t be available for withdrawal until Monday.”
“As early as possible on Monday,” Bertone said, his voice like a whip.
“Of course,” she said through her teeth.
He looked at her again, hair to toes and back up, lingering in all the expected places.
“I meant what I said earlier, ma petite. Your future is in your hands. If you wish more profit, you must give more.”
“I always take care of my clients’ money.”
“I wasn’t talking about my money.”
Kayla’s stomach turned over. “How does your wife feel about…extra service?”
“Elena is a woman of the world. She knows the difference between wife and paramour.”
“Just as you know the difference between husband and gigolo?” Kayla retorted before she could think better of it.
Bertone surprised her by throwing back his head and laughing. “Yes, you do interest me. It has been a long time since anyone has. There is a little garden behind the garage. After you give the prize check to the most earnest dabbler, you will go to the garden. I will come and discuss with you gigolos and paramours.”
Said the spider to the fly.
But this time Kayla guarded her tongue. The last thing she wanted to do was “interest” Bertone any more.
Castillo del Cielo
Saturday
You see Bertone yet?” Faroe’s voice came from the earbuds Rand wore.
“Shut up,” he said beneath his breath. “Painting while holding my nose is hard work. Needs all my concentration.”
“Take a break. Look around.”
“In a minute.”
Rand squeezed a long bead of ocher onto his palette and mixed in a touch of black and a touch of crimson. To his eye, the color of the stone walls of the Bertone house was offensive.
“Brindleshit,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?” Faroe said.
“The color of the house.”
With that Rand shut out the world and concentrated on creating a color that was close to that of the house, yet more pleasing against the natural desert backdrop. It took time, but then he found the right color, the right balance of weight and light, and the painting began to condense in front of his eyes. This was his favorite part of his work, when he vanished and only the canvas lived.
When he finally stepped back to view his progress, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla curled above the pungency of his oils. The perfume alone told him that a woman was standing behind him. Close. If she hadn’t moved away quickly, he’d have bumped into her.
Without looking at her, he waited for her to speak.
She didn’t.
Curious, he glanced over his shoulder-and into Kayla Shaw’s ice-blue eyes. His first thought was that the surveillance photos hadn’t done her justice. There were shadows and light, haunting sadness and laughter, heat and cold, a whole universe of possibilities in her fiercely intelligent eyes.
He felt like he’d been sucker-punched.