Make Her Pay (19 page)

“Why?”

“Apparently there are only a few windmills of this type left on Corvo, with those three sweeps and that big center wheel that can make them turn in either direction. These are found nowhere else in the whole world.”

“Fascinating.”

“Oh, but it is,” Solange said. “This is the main floor-the meal floor, they called it.” She waved a hand across the dimly lit area, pointing to the huge wheel that lay on its side, turning noisily around a fat wooden tube where grain once poured down, ground by the maceration of the wheels and cogs and gears on the level above them.

“It was used to make flour,” she continued, chattering faster as her nerves tightened at what she was about to do. “I suppose I could convert it to a power-producing windmill, but I just like the old-fashioned kind of electricity. The kind you get from the wall.”

“Oh, I see.” Poor Brianna could hardly hide her disinterest.

“The stairs are the best part,” she said, nudging Brianna toward the opening to the long set of circular stairs that curved around and up to the top floor.

“They feel kind of medieval,” Brianna commented, starting the climb.

“Don’t they, though?” Solange agreed. After the fourth step, the wall blocked their view into the gears. “All the way up, you can peek through those slats to the mechanism in the middle. See?” After a moment, they reached the first opening and Brianna peered out.

“Whoa. That’s kind of… intense.”

What was intense was right under her feet. She was inches from the treasures she sought and had no idea. What else could be hidden under the stairs?

A body, perhaps.

A shiver ran down Solange’s spine. Could she actually do this?

She had to. “Look at that, Brianna,” Solange said, pausing at an opening. “That is the great spur wheel.”

This wheel stood on its side, unlike the one at the bottom. Its massive, sinister-looking wooden teeth meshed with three other cogs, all sharp enough to macerate stone into sand.

Brianna stopped and stared, the groan of the wheel almost deafening at this point.

“If you don’t use it for power or milling, why is it running?”

“Oh, it never stops,” Solange said. “The wind in the Azores never, ever stops.”

“You mean you can’t stop the mill at all, ever?”

“There’s a brake somewhere, I believe.” Solange put her foot on the very stone where she’d hidden the scepter. “Come on-the top is the best part.”

The stairs ended at a small door, not five feet high.

“You’ll need to crouch a little to get in,” Solange warned. “But go ahead. It’s worth it.”

Brianna entered and let out a gasp of surprise. “Wow, this could be dangerous.”

Yes, it could. A two-foot-deep ledge circled the inside of the windmill, open all along one side to where someone could easily tumble right into the grinding mechanism.

Solange looked at it, and imagined that happening.

Brianna put her hand on the wall, bracing herself and peering over to look at the wheel. “That’s not for the faint of heart,” she said, but didn’t appear worried. “Why don’t you put a railing up or something? If someone falls in there, you’d have a helluva lawsuit on your hands.”

“No one ever comes up here,” she said.

“Well, apparently your nurse came up here recently.”

Solange gave her a hard look. “She wasn’t my nurse. She was my housekeeper. And a very disturbed and sad young lady, I might add.”

“Really?” The note of accusation in her voice was unmistakable.

“Really.” Where had she heard anything about it? Gabby? She
knew
bringing that woman up here had been a mistake. If they’d talked about Ana…

“So is this door where the windmill blades are?” Brianna reached for the door to the balcony and sweeps, but Solange stopped her.

“That’s
really
not for the faint of heart,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I’m not.” She twisted the knob and opened the door, almost stumbling backward at the unexpected gust of air. “Whoa.”

If she stepped out there, it would be so much easier. But inexplicable. Another fall from the windmill down the cliffs? Besides, she couldn’t risk a body as evidence.

The windmill sweeps roared outside, the steady, thumping rhythm filling the structure.

Brianna used her right hand to brace herself, her face away from Solange as she fought not to look down. “This is such a cool view. But, wow, I can’t even imagine what drove that girl to throw herself off of here.” Again, the note of… doubt.

She was about to find out exactly what drove her.

Solange slipped her hand into the pocket of her pleated skirt, her fingers closing over the revolver. With her thumb, she pulled back the hammer.

At the distinct sound, Brianna whipped around just as Solange pulled out the gun. She gasped in shock. “What the hell?”

“You’re going to do exactly as I say.”

The blood drained from Brianna’s face, no words coming out of her open mouth.

Solange’s mind whirred. If she fired, the recoil could knock her over, or at least off balance enough to give this wily and strong young woman the upper hand. The wind was still blowing in from the slightly open door.

She took a careful step back, trying to figure out the best way to choreograph this.

“What is your problem, lady?” Brianna’s voice was shaky, but anger was already taking over fear. Solange had little time.

“You are my problem, I’m afraid.”

“What?” She scowled, but then her face softened. “Look, Mrs. Bettencourt, you’re not well. You need to put that gun down and let us both get out of this place.”

“Actually, I’m fine.” She aimed at Brianna’s heart, bracing herself against the wall for more balance.

“Please.” Brianna tried to swallow, her gaze moving from Solange’s face to the gun and back, her lip beginning to quiver. “I can help you. Put the gun down and we’ll talk. You need help.”

Solange scowled. “I don’t need anything.” Except the nerve to murder in cold blood. Again. She tightened her finger on the trigger and Brianna’s eyes widened.

“What do you want?” Brianna asked. “I haven’t done anything! Why could you possibly want to kill me?”

“I don’t.” Once the words were out, Solange regretted them. She’d just given away some power, and that was never a good thing.

Instantly, Brianna’s face changed. She started to back up toward the door, nudging it.

“Don’t,” Solange said sharply. She couldn’t risk someone else going over the edge. “Don’t go out there unless you want to fall.”

“Like Ana did?” she shot back. “You killed her, didn’t you? You freaking psychopath-you killed her!”

“Stop it!” She waved the gun. “Shut up.”

But Brianna kicked the door open enough for a powerful gust to blow in, stepping toward the balcony. Outside, a motor scooter climbing up the hill caught Solange’s eye.

Oh, Lord, this was not good. Tourists always stopped and took pictures of the windmill. If they saw a body fall, she’d be forced to explain
another
death over the cliff.

Brianna turned to follow her gaze and Solange grabbed her arm, yanking her back into the windmill with so much force they damn near both went over the ledge.

“Hey!” Brianna lunged at Solange to knock the gun away.

She squeezed the trigger and the shot exploded through the stone mill.

Instantly Brianna froze, her eyes wide in stunned disbelief, her hands clamping to her shoulder as her legs gave way. She buckled to her knees, a gasp catching in her throat as she hit the stone, blood seeping through her fingers.

In the distance, Solange heard the soft whine of the motor scooter, closer now. She didn’t dare fire another shot.

Brianna moaned in misery, folded in half now, her face to the ground, her body perilously close to the ledge where the gears turned. In there, the giant cogs would crush her, breaking every bone in her body. She couldn’t possibly be strong enough to hold them in place, especially wounded.

But if she bled on the gears then Solange would have to clean them off, and she didn’t want to even think about that. The motor scooter grew louder, nearing the house. Damn it!

Just as she lifted the gun to take the chance and finish the girl off, Brianna slumped completely, inches from the edge.

Voices rose from below as the engine quieted. Solange bent over, trying to see if Brianna was still breathing, but couldn’t tell.

She had to take the chance and leave her here long enough to get rid of the bothersome tourists. Then, she’d come back and finish the job of killing Brianna Dare and hiding her body.

CHAPTER TWENTY

CON GAVE LIZZIE a hand off the bike, looking around at the picturesque farmland rolling toward a stone windmill perched on a cliff above the sea.

“Pretty,” Lizzie said, turning to follow his gaze. In the distance, a few boats dotted the water between Corvo and the slightly larger Flores, but then it was clear for the thousands of miles straight out to North America.

“Pretty deserted,” he replied.

“I know,” she agreed, turning to the stucco farmhouse. “I was kind of hoping Bree would come running out to hug me.”

The whole place was silent but for the steady thump of the windmill sweeps and the distant pounding of the surf. Other than that, Con heard no signs of life at all.

Lizzie bounded toward the door, and he caught up with her in one stride.

“Easy, there.” He moved her a little behind him. “Let me go first. We have no idea what we’re going to find.”

“My sister, I hope.”

“You never know.”

She gave him a tentative glance, then let him stand in front as he knocked on the door.

“Can I help you?” The voice came across the open field, sharp and strident. Exiting the windmill, a woman strode toward them like she was modeling on a runway, shoulders square, head held high, with an air of authority and haughtiness that was laughably out of place on a farm in the Azores.

This was no country woman.

“I hope you can,” Con replied, walking toward her and automatically blocking Lizzie. “We’re looking for a houseguest of yours. Brianna Dare.”

She slowed her step, an imperceptible change in her body taking her from in control to on guard.

“Are you Mrs. Bettencourt?” he asked when she didn’t respond.

As she got closer, he took in the cheekbones, square jaw, and pricey clothes, a jarring contradiction to the rugged stone windmill behind her. Blond hair with darker roots was pulled back in a hasty ponytail.

“Yes, I am,” she finally said. She stood with her hands in the side pockets of a full skirt that covered her knees, tense enough that he suspected her fists were balled in those pleats.

“My name’s Con Xenakis. This is Elizabeth Dare. We’re looking for her sister, who we understand is staying with you.”

She kept her gaze on Con, slowly shaking her head and looking confused. Then her eyes widened and the closest thing to a smile he’d seen yet pulled at her hollow cheeks.

“Brianna! The girl from America who was here yesterday?”

“Was?” Lizzie stepped forward. “She’s gone?”

“Oh, I’m afraid so. Early this morning on the first ferry to Flores.” She looked at her watch and then glanced toward the water, where a boat chugged toward the other island. “And it looks like you’ve missed the afternoon ferry. I wish I could help you.”

“Maybe you can,” Con said. “We’re looking for the same genealogical information. Could you tell us what you told her?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t tell her anything. I’m only a Bettencourt by marriage. I live here alone and have no access to any of the family information. Maybe the church in the village? That’s what I told her. Sorry.”

She stepped forward, nodding like a queen dismissing the messenger.

Con stepped sideways and blocked her. “She flew into Corvo, Mrs. Bettencourt. It makes no sense that she’d take the ferry to leave.”

Through narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw, she made her distaste clear. “It makes perfect sense. She is on a lineage search, as are many Americans who come to the Azores. Bettencourt is as common a name on these islands as Smith is in the United States. Perhaps she went sightseeing to the other island. There’s absolutely no reason to accuse me of anything.”

He notched a brow. “I didn’t accuse you. I questioned your logic.”

“Well, I don’t like your tone.” She finally glanced at Lizzie. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

It sounded oddly like a condolence. Solange walked around Con, marching to the front porch without a glance back. As much as he wanted to grab her arm and demand entry, he knew he couldn’t. He had no right or reason.

“Come on.” He placed a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder to guide her toward the bike, slowly. The front door closed with a deliberate slam.

“Jeez,” she said.

“Give it a sec,” he said, getting on the bike and waiting for her to settle in before he started it up and headed toward the road. At the last second, he turned toward the windmill.

“What are you doing?” Lizzie asked.

“I don’t want to leave yet.” He parked the bike behind the structure, where it couldn’t be seen from the house, and climbed off. “We’ll stay in here for a while and see what she does. If she leaves the property, we might walk through her house to see what gives.”

“What are you looking for?” Lizzie asked.

“I don’t know. She gave me a bad feeling.”

“No kidding. Who let
her
out of the bitch factory?”

He smiled, pushing the door open with one hand, peeking in before entering. The grind of gears and wheels echoed over the stone.

“This is a different kind of windmill,” he observed, peering up at the mechanism in the middle and then at the stone stairwell that lined the wall.

The door popped open with a crack and he whipped around, blocking Lizzie.

“Get the hell off my property.” This time, the bitch was armed. She raised a revolver, cocked and ready, and pointed it at him, earning a gasp from Lizzie.

“We’re just looking at the windmill,” he said, holding up his hands, considering what it would take to get her gun.

“You are trespassing, and I will shoot you both if you don’t leave this minute.”

He couldn’t take a risk with this madwoman. “All right.”

Still protecting Lizzie with his whole body, he led them out, never taking his eyes off her or the gun, ready to dive in front of a bullet if he had to.

“Get in the front,” he said softly, nudging Lizzie there when she gave him a questioning look. “If she shoots, it’s going in my back.”

She hesitated, then climbed on, and he got behind her, reaching forward to turn the ignition on.

Mrs. Bettencourt never lowered the gun.

Lizzie twisted the handle, her body bracing as though she expected the gun to go off any second, then she drove down the dirt path and onto the road to the village.

As soon as they were in the clear, she put a hand on his leg and squeezed. “Con, you’re officially off my shit list.”

“It’s about time.” But his mind was on that woman. She was scared of something, and it wasn’t a couple looking for a missing tourist. So what was it?

He wasn’t leaving this island until he found out.

* * *

She really, really wanted to hate him. It should be so easy.

Lizzie kneeled on the twin bed in the attic room on the third floor of Sousa’s restaurant, her elbows propped on the windowsill with a direct view of the rooftops to the sunset over the Atlantic Ocean.

Sitting on the floor, Con was making another phone call. On the last one, to New York, he’d ordered background information on Solange Bettencourt. Now he was talking to the pilot of their plane.

She turned to look at him, elbows propped on bent knees, sitting against the wall, his eyes closed as he spoke softly. His whiskers had grown in enough to give his angular jaw a menacing shadow. Long, strong fingers held the phone, and she couldn’t help studying those hands for a moment, remembering how he touched her, entered her, made her whole body-

“Do you want to, Lizzie?”

She pulled herself from sexual la-la land and blinked at him.

“Do you want to fly to Flores now? It’s bigger than Corvo, so we could fan out and check the hotels and inns there. Or we could stay here to get some rest and see if she comes back on the morning ferry, or even fly over at daybreak.” He closed the phone. “You look like you could use some rest.”

“I’d really like to talk to Gabby, too.
Senhor
Sousa said she comes back every night, even if she’s left for the day. She might know exactly where Bree is, saving us a ton of time and effort.”

He gave a quick nod and spoke into the phone. “We’re going to stay put for now, Captain. I’ll keep you posted.” He ended the call, then stood to stretch, his gaze on her. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Why?”

“You’re looking at me funny.”

“Am I? I was just trying to hate you.”

He laughed softly, dropping down on the bed next to her. “Anything I can do to help that along, just let me know.”

“That’s just the problem,” she said, scooting to lean against the headboard. “You do
everything
to help.”

“I didn’t come along to be a hindrance, Lizzie.” He reached over, closed his hand around her ankle, pulling one bare foot and then the other to straighten her legs. “Although you probably hate me because the room only has one little bed.”

He applied pressure with his thumbs on the balls of her feet, making her toes curl with the wonderfulness of the simple, strong massage.

“And a floor,” she said.

“You’ll do fine on the floor,” he teased.

“Right. You’d never make me sleep on the floor while you’re on the bed.”

“Who said I’d be on the bed?” He grinned. “And I might make you sleep down there, but I’ll give you the comforter.”

“No, you wouldn’t-and that’s just the problem.”

His fingers stilled as he frowned. “Not following, Lizzie. Why exactly is that a problem?”

She wiggled her toes and he got the message, rubbing again. “It’s really hard to hate someone who is so…” Thoughtful. Competent. Protective. Gorgeous. Smart. The list was laughably long, so she went for the obvious. “Good.”

He shook his head. “Just think about Judd and you’ll hate me fast enough.”

“I tried. Then you go and do something like sit on the back of the bike so you can take a bullet for me. How am I supposed to hate that guy?”

He chuckled. “I see your dilemma.”

“Anyway, I thought the job for Paxton was done.” Lord, was she that pathetically attracted to him that she could forgive him already? He worked his way up to her ankles, his fingers melting her feet with each touch. Yes-she was that pathetically attracted to him.

“The job on the ship is done,” he said. “We’re here and the job is to help you track down your sister, and get the information you need and want regarding your great-times-many-grandfather.”

And she had to admit, he was going after that mission with determination and direction. She could never have done this alone. Not this quickly and efficiently.

“And deep down, to the bone, Paxton out of the picture… you really are one of the good guys.”

Something darkened his eyes. Pain? Regret? Longing? “No, I’m really not, honey.” But he looked like he wanted to be. “And let’s be honest; Paxton could never be out of the picture.”

“If he were…” When she let the words trail, he looked up from her feet to catch her gaze, his own suddenly smoky.

“If he were,” he finished for her. “We’d share this bed.”

Somehow, nothing could have been as flat-out sexy as that simple, straightforward statement.

The power of it shot right through her and rattled her nerves. She tried to swallow, but her mouth went dry, her heartbeat steadily increasing with each roll of his thumbs under her foot.

“But he
is
in the picture,” he said roughly. “I won’t lie to you about that again.”

Taking a slow breath, she held his gaze. How could she say this and save her pride?
Could
she say this and save her pride? Did she even give a damn about her pride anymore?

“What if we…” The words lodged in her throat and his fingers moved slowly, intently, as though he could coax the words out of her. “What if
I
were willing to forget about him? To put the whole Paxton thing aside. Temporarily.”

He released her feet and placed his hands flat on either side of her calves. Slowly, deliberately, he got onto all fours, then started moving forward, his eyes locked on hers like she was prey and he was a starving animal.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. His body was right above hers now, his face dark and set in an expression of control and intent. Breath caught in her chest, she lifted her head to hold his gaze, not certain what to expect, but knowing that whatever it was, she’d let him do it.

“Then…” He lowered his face, kiss close. “You…” One more inch, the heat rolling off him. “Would still be…” He put his mouth over hers. Not a kiss, just a whisper of a touch. “Very wrong… about what you think I am.”

“I don’t care.” She let her lips move against his, putting the words right into his mouth. “Right now, this minute, I don’t care, Con.”

He completed the kiss, sucking in her admission and her tongue. Instantly, she wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to pull him down, wanting all of him on top of all of her.

He resisted, breaking the kiss. “You will care tomorrow, Lizzie. You will. And you have no idea how
not
good I am.”

She searched his eyes, looking right into the depths of them. “I want to know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I want to know
you
.” She put her hands on his face, the whiskers scratching her palms. “I want to climb right inside your head and figure you out.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Would you ever let me? Would you ever let anyone?”

He opened his mouth, clearly ready to say no, but then he stopped.

She seized his hesitation. “Would you, Con? Because if the answer is yes, I want it to be me.” Tears burned behind her lids. “I want to know who and what you are, and why you think it’s so critical to hide it from me.”

“Who I am?” Under her fingers, his jaw clenched. “I am Constantine Xenakis. What I am?” His eyes narrowed. “For the past six years I’ve been a professional thief.”

Pain splashed in her chest, but she didn’t move. She had to know this.

“And why it’s critical to hide it from you? Because you deserve better.”

He rolled off her and stood, leaving her cold and bereft and confused.

A professional thief. It fit perfectly. At least it fit with what he was able to do, but not with what he was doing right now.