One Wrong Move (42 page)

“Milton Swayne,” Rudd said woodenly.

“Oh, yes. Of course. Milton and his shriveled bitch of a wife, Dorothy. Only they will notice the omission. I’ll have to smooth their ruffled feathers. How tedious. Perhaps you’d be good enough to do that job for me? Come up with an excuse? Missing plans, an error on the part of the artist, a box left behind? Something clever like that.”

“Of course,” Rudd said, his voice strangled.

“Excellent. I’ll have it taken to the Great Hall immediately.

But first, explain again, because it hasn’t sunk in yet. How it never occurred to you that I might like to observe Christie’s and Arbatov’s reaction to Psi-Max 48 for myself. Did you think that I would not be interested?”

“I . . . I considered it a dead end,” Rudd said nervously. “I wrote the new formula off. The B dose is lost, and there’s no one left alive to ask where it is, so the A dose is useless. It was distracting my people, taking up time and resources. Those two were probed so thoroughly, I’m surprised they didn’t have cerebral aneurisms on the spot, and according to Helga’s timetable, the woman was doomed within hours anyway. It seemed like poetic justice, to inject the man. So I . . .”

“Wrote Helga’s last formula off. The culmination of her life’s work. Injected the last existing A dose into Arbatov’s arm, for what? For poetic justice? Spite, pique? To stroke your inflamed ego? It was a childish impulse. Childish impulses are dangerous.”

That calm phrase made his bowels turn to ice. “I am sorry if I—”

“Karstow, you said? That’s where your man is taking them?”

“Yes, but I will have Roy bring them here, if you would prefer—”

“Yes, Harold.” Greaves’s voice was thick with irony. “I do prefer.”

Rudd pulled out his cell, and inwardly crossed his fingers as he pulled up Roy’s number. But sure enough, like the last six times, he got a recorded voice. “Out of area,” he said, trying to sound casual. “I’m sure I’ll reach him soon. Anabel, try Dmitri’s number again.”

Anabel pulled out her phone, tried, and shook her head.

“Him, too.”

Greaves appeared to notice her for the first time. “Keep trying.”

“Certainly,” Rudd assured him. “Constantly.”

Greaves’s gaze flicked back to Anabel. “What have we here?”

Rudd turned, knowing what he would see. Anabel had begun to sparkle, against his very specific orders, the treacherous bitch.

Watching Greaves give him a bare-ass spanking had turned her on.

“Switch it off, Anabel,” he hissed. “You’re pissing me off.”

“Well, well.” Greaves tilted up Ani’s chin, studying her glowing smile. “Look at that. Psi-enhanced beauty and sexual attrac-tion. A talent I have never encountered. And you said she was a telepath.”

“I am,” Anabel said coyly. “A strong telepath. This is a bonus talent.”

Greaves chuckled. “Bonus talent. Excellent, my dear, excellent. Can you do this under any circumstances?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “Although it is much quicker and easier when I am, ah . . . genuinely stirred by someone.” Her lashes fluttered.

Greaves glanced at Rudd. “What else can this delicious creature do?”

Anabel licked her gleaming lips. “For you, sir, anything,” she said, in a breathless voice. “Anything you want. Right here, if you liked.”

One of Greaves’s heavy, dark eyebrows lifted. Anabel drifted closer, imperceptibly, reaching boldly. She ran her fingertip along the bulge of his erection that tented out the cut of his elegant wool trousers.

“Very well,” Greaves said coolly. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Rudd groaned inwardly. Intemperate slut. What was he, the body servant, holding the hot steamed lemon-scented towels for aftersex cleanup? While his own personal, psychically enhanced assistant, in whom he’d invested millions in research and training, prostituted herself? True, her nymphomaniacal eagerness was handy in a pinch, but this situation did not qualify as a pinch.

This was just Anabel’s pathological boundary issues, and he was sick to death of them.

Anabel was on her knees. She’d undone Greaves’s trousers and taken out his rather large penis, and was already slurping away at it with unseemly gusto. Greaves glanced up and caught his eye. “Turn around, Rudd,” he said austerely. “I don’t care for spectators.”

Well, at least he didn’t have to watch, but he did have to listen to the wet suckling sounds, and Anabel’s throaty moans made him want to slap her. He counted the seconds, hoping Greaves didn’t take too long.

Greaves hissed in a breath. Anabel shrieked. Rudd spun around.

Anabel was flying through midair. She slammed against the wall and hung there, legs dangling three feet above the floor, eyes wild with terror. She clutched her throat. Greaves was pressing it telekinetically.

She clawed, making awful sounds, her face growing purple.

“Your whore tried to probe me,” Greaves said, in a mild, conversational tone. “Did you put her up to that, Harold?”

“No!” he said, horrified. “Of course not! Perhapes she did it by accident! Sometimes, when she is excited, she . . . ah . . . ah . . .”

Ghostly fingers clamped down onto his throat, too. Greaves had no problem at all directing his talent in two places at once.

Rudd could not speak, or breathe. His larynx burned, as if it were imploding. His eyes popped. His vision started going dark . . . the pressure relented, and he stumbled heavily onto his knees, coughing.

“Do not vomit on my carpet, Harold,” Greaves said.

Rudd managed, barely, to obey that command. When the impulse had subsided, he lifted his head. Anabel lay on the floor, whimpering.

“Get up,” Greaves said. “I thought that you understood your place in my grand scheme, Harold. And to think that you aspire to the highest office in the land. Really. The mind boggles.”

“But I . . . but this is just a—”

“I did not give you leave to speak,” Greaves said. Rudd choked off, as the ghostly fingers tightened again. “I am angry.

Losing Kasyanov was catastrophic. The publicity, the mistakes, your decisions as to how to dispose of Arbatov and Christie, it is a tremendous disappointment to me. I wish to know the instant you get in touch with that worthless cretin, what was his name?”

“Roy Lester,” Rudd supplied, coughing painfully.

“Yes. Roy Lester. I do not want him to stop to eat, sleep, or piss. Just drive. I wish to see what Kasyanov’s final masterpiece can do, even if it is incomplete. Information is priceless. And when he delivers them, I want him eliminated. He is not intelligent enough to be attached to this project.”

“I already made arrangements,” Rudd agreed fervently.

“Trust me.”

“That’s difficult, Harold,” Greaves said. “You’ve made it so hard to trust you.”

Rudd glanced at Anabel, wondering if she’d sustained serious injuries in her wall-smack and subsequent fall. He hoped not.

For all her faults, Anabel was immensely useful. “I’m sorry,” he forced out.

“Good.” Greaves walked to Anabel. Nudged her with his toe.

“I’ll get her out of your way,” Rudd said. “Anabel, get up.”

“I will discipline her myself,” Greaves said. “Wait outside, in the hall. I told you, I don’t like spectators. They cramp my style.”

Dismay clutched him. “I . . . I need her, sir. To work the party.”

Anabel’s limp body rose up, suspended in the air, clawing at her throat again. Her bulging eyes pleading silently for help. As if he could. She had brought this on herself. Trying to use her psi on
Greaves?
Dear God, what a fucking idiot.

“I won’t leave obvious marks on her,” Greaves said. “Give me credit for some practicality. Out with you, into the hall. This won’t take long. But you may be sure, Harold. She will never attempt to use her gifts on me again. And neither will you.”

“Yes, sir. I never, ever did, sir,” he babbled, and suddenly the ghost hand pushed him on the chest, shoving him backward toward the door. He had to scramble not to fall. He was herded into the hall. The door slammed shut in his face.

The screaming began shortly after. Rudd fidgeted, waiting.

Members of Greaves’s domestic staff approached from time to time, but when they heard the shrieks, they slipped back the way they had come.

It went on and on. At this rate, Anabel would need reconstructive surgery on her vocal folds. Not that he needed her to talk tonight. But still. At great length, the door flew open, and Anabel was tossed out, by invisible hands. She thudded to the floor and lay, naked, on the hallway carpet runner, her face wet, nose running. Mouth distorted by weeping. She sported a raccoon mask of smeared mascara.

Greaves sauntered to the door, fastening his trousers and buckling his belt. He leaned on the doorjamb, and gazed down at Anabel’s shuddering body. “See?” he said cheerfully. “Not a mark on her.”

Anabel’s clothes and shoes floated through the door, coalesced into a clot above her, and dropped onto her body. She flinched when they hit, sobbing harder.

“Get her cleaned up,” Greaves said. “I don’t want her leaking bodily fluids on my carpet runner.”

Rudd grabbed her arm, but it was like pulling a corpse. He kicked her in the buttock. For God’s sake, did the dumb cow have a death wish? He shoved at her with his mind, but it was like pushing his psi against a mountain of broken rock.

He hauled her dead weight bodily to her feet, scooping up her clothes, shoving them against her chest, and dragged her down the corridor naked. No way to wrestle her into the complicated and complex underwear, or her pencil skirt and her silk blouse.

Not in her current state. He’d drag her out to the car naked, and dress her there.

Anabel stared back at Greaves, stupefied, mouth agape. He smiled from the door of his library. Waggled his fingers, in a playful farewell. She yelped, and dropped one of her shoes.

The shoe floated up and followed them. Rudd grabbed it.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

“See you tonight. Be early for the meet and greet. See that she pulls herself together. I want her at her best. She’ll be working the room for me. With all of her talents.”

Rudd looked at Anabel’s mascara mask, the snot running from her nose, her unfocused eyes. So this was to be his punishment.

Making bricks without straw. “She’ll be great,” he promised.

And indeed, she would. If it killed her.

When Nina and Aaro finally checked into the hotel Miles had chosen in Spruce Ridge, the blaze of euphoria had faded. Nina missed it, sharply. It had made her feel like there was no stopping them.

Now, she was feeling extremely stoppable. Fluttery, squirmy in her middle. Fear of Rudd, fear of Aaro getting hurt trying to defend her. Fear of that hospital bed, blinking lights, beeping machines. Clinging to Aaro’s hand as a drug destroyed her brain.

Knowing that he’d soon face the same fate—except that he would face it alone.

They’d spent most of the drive from Denver to Spruce Ridge holding hands, staring at the foothills of the Rockies rising up around them. Shields back up, in default mode. Aaro’s face was grim, but she sensed furious activity behind his shield, like he was coming to some momentous conclusion. God forbid he give her hell about going to the party. She didn’t want to have that argument again.

They checked into the room Miles had reserved. She had nothing to lay down but her purse. Aaro had nothing but his phone and his knife. Down to bare essentials. No gear, hardly any weapons, just their own naked, nervous selves to pit against Rudd and his goons.

And finally alone. The air ignited as they stared at each other.

But not quite yet. “I need a shower,” she said. “I still have blood in my hair.”

“Make it quick,” he told her. “Miles will be here soon.”

And this might be it for us. Make it very quick.

Nina stood under the powerful jet of hot water, trying to jar loose the accumulated strain of the last two days, along with mud, dirt, aches and pains. She rubbed globs of conditioner into her hair, rinsed, finger combed it, and stared at her dripping self in the mirror.

She looked pale, and thinner. Splotched and scraped. She’d seen herself with bruises, in the bad old Stan days. But she’d never seen that look in her eyes then. She did not look defeated.

She looked scrappy, ready for another round. The wild woman warrior. She liked the way she looked. Aaro liked it, too. Aaro loved it. Loved
her.
Wow.

She dried off, wrapped herself in the towel, and walked out.

Aaro sat where she’d left him, at the foot of the bed. He’d stripped off his shirt and his shoes. She stood before him, putting her hands on his shoulders, caressing the mottled marks, bruise upon bruise, purpling up at different stages and colors. Three days’ worth. Her champion. She petted them, wishing the needle full of psi-max had given her healing abilities. Now that was a talent that would be worth the trouble.

Aaro seized her towel and pulled it off. She didn’t cringe. It felt good to be bare. She could feel exactly how much he liked what he saw.

He stared up into her face, with an odd look in his eyes. Hard, glittering. Challenging.

“Marry me,” he said, in a tone of flat command.

She was taken aback. “Ah. . . . well, yeah. I thought . . . aren’t we sort of, um, engaged? After what you said on the bus, I thought—”

“There’s no ‘sort of’ about it. I’m not talking about engaged.

I’m talking married. Right now. The whole deal. Better or worse, sick or poor, however it goes. ’Til death do us part.” He stopped, swallowed.

Nina was at a loss for words.

He frowned. “What?” he asked. “What’s the problem?”

“Ah . . . I’m just surprised, that’s all. I don’t have any personal experience in being proposed to, but it usually takes a guy a long time to work around to the concept of being even engaged. And even longer to, well, you know. The M word.”

“You’re that afraid to say it?”

“You’re not?”

He shook his head. “No. Not if it’s you.”

The words burst out. “I’m afraid, Aaro. Of losing you, of facing Rudd. Of death. And I’m afraid of being as happy as you make me feel.” She paused. “I’m afraid this isn’t real. That it’s just a dream.”