Fallen Angels 01 - Covet (13 page)

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, and 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.

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.

“I think I'll just go over and introduce myself. Laters.”

Gina sauntered off, her black latex skirt and stiletto boots the kind of thing she wore with pride. Unlike Marie-Terese, she got off on what she did for a living and even had ambitions to become what she referred to as a “major multimedia erotica star” along the lines of Janine Lindemulder or Jenna Jameson. Whoever they were. Marie-Terese knew their names only because Gina talked about them like they were the Bill Gates of porn.

Marie-Terese hung back and watched the drive-by. As Gina sauntered up, the woman in the white fur took one look at what was so obviously for sale and her stare went blade sharp. Which was unnecessary. Her businessman boyfriend didn't give Gina a glance—

he was too busy talking to his buddy. And all the back-off-that's-my-man did was encourage the come-on: Gina positively preened in front of that territorial hatred, lingering until the man finally looked up.

He didn't focus on what was in front of him, though. He gaze shifted past Gina's latex buffet and trained on Marie-Terese.