talking about my money.” Jerome waved his pudgy paw at Cade and Winston, intruding on the duel of unbending wills.
Rademacher’s eyelids moved an infinitesimal distance and shut. He took a deep breath and his nostrils flared, as if an annoying gnat had buzzed into his ear. With the standoff broken, Cade stalked to the far end of the room, silently cursing himself for letting wounded pride and old hurts get in the way of finding out what he needed to know.
“I grow tired of this, Smython.” Winston moved only his eyes to look at Jerome.
Cade closed his ears to the conversation and watched their employer make short work of Fire-man. He’d never play cards with a control freak like Rademacher. But his father had.
Cade leaned against the archway, uncomfortable with thoughts of his father even now. Bretford St. John had lost nearly as much money at the tables as he had making bad investments. His addiction to gambling had cost him the family fortune, his son’s respect and ultimately his life.
Their guest wasn’t directly responsible for Bretford St. John’s suicide, of course. His father had been the only one at the house to pull the trigger that night.
But Rademacher’s trade-off burned like salt in an open wound. Cade had yet to meet a man who mourned his father’s death. As a grieving young man, he’d turned to what he thought were family friends and business associates, looking for comfort and understanding. Instead, he’d been greeted with invoices and IOU’s, and branded as the heir to his family’s scandalous past.
“If you’re not satisfied with the arrangements I’ve made, you can easily be replaced on this project.” Winston’s warning was clear, even to Jerome.
Maybe. Jerome tossed his cigarette butt into the stone fireplace that heated the house in the winter. “Is that a threat?”
Winston wasn’t impressed with the flash of anger. “Do I need to make a threat?” He silenced Jerome by refusing to hear any more. He turned his attention to Lenny. “Mr. Gratfield.”
The big man unfolded himself from the couch, rising as if he’d been summoned by a superior officer. “Yes, sir?”
“Get the jewelry and put the items in my attaché case. I’ll use them as a token of the princess’s well-being.” He inclined his head toward the leather briefcase at his feet. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
Lenny took the case and slipped out. As Winston moved to follow him, Cade stepped out and blocked his path. He wasn’t done pressing for answers yet.
“Why the hush-hush about your client?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and demanded a response.
“This may be too complex for you to understand, Sinjun.” Like Jerome and Lenny, Winston slurred Cade’s last name with a trace of their native accent, giving St. John an almost British pronunciation. “I’m a man who makes things happen. I connect the right people so that they can become something greater than themselves. Understandably my client doesn’t wish to be linked to a kidnapping—or the likes of you and your comrades.”
Winston never so much as blinked. He hadn’t even revealed if his client was a he or a she.
“And while you’re making these connections, what do you expect us to do with Princess Lucia? I signed on for a kidnapping, not a double murder.”
Winston laughed. It was an imperious sound, and the smile on his lips never reached the squint in his eyes. “Careful, Sinjun. It almost sounds like you’ve developed a fondness for this girl. You wouldn’t want me to think you’re changing loyalties, would you?”
“I’m loyal to myself. Period.” He shrugged, pretending his mounting frustration over Rademacher’s evasion of his questions was no big deal. “I was just curious as to where your loyalties lay. Mentioning a backup plan makes me think you’d leave us hanging if something went wrong.”
“My loyalties are to the project. I intend it to be a success. Lucia is a means to an end. Surely you can handle a twenty-six-year-old girl so that nothing goes wrong.”
Cade’s fingertips suddenly itched with the memory of handling that twenty-six-year-old girl’s hair. It had been long and wavy, soft in color and touch. Cade curled his fingers into fists, damning himself for getting distracted from his purpose.
“The girl’s not who I’m worried about,” he lied. “How do we know we can trust the man you’re working for?”
“You don’t.” Winston adjusted the already impeccable knot on his French-silk tie. “You don’t even have to trust me. Just do your job and have that girl prepped for her return Monday night.”
A rheumy laugh reminded Cade there was another person in the room. Jerome sauntered up to them and asked, “Do we have to bring the princess back in the same condition we found her?”
Winston’s expression never changed. “Smython, you disgust me.”
Jerome cursed in French and Spanish, intimating he wasn’t the only one who had considered getting to know their prisoner better. “I’m headin’ outside.” He waved off both Winston and Cade, and stormed out of the house.
Lenny returned, giving Jerome’s huffy exit a curious glance before handing the briefcase to Winston. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he offered.
Winston nodded a curt acceptance. He butted his shoulder against Cade’s as he passed. Then he stopped and turned, daring him to challenge his authority. Cade nailed him with a glance that acknowledged the conflict between them.
But wisdom prevailed over male posturing. Cade stepped aside and let Winston pass. He had too much at stake to risk alienating his employer now.
When the screen door had slammed behind them, Cade raked all ten fingers through his hair, venting his frustration and fanning his bangs into a spiky mess.
This whole setup felt wrong, from the unplanned murder of the Carradignes’ chauffeur to the mystery employer to the wrong victim. He’d been on enough missions as a soldier and on his own to trust his instincts about the failure or success of a plan. His gut was screaming at him now, warning him this one was going to go very, very wrong before it was over.
Cool, clever and unreadable. Rademacher hadn’t revealed a damn thing.
Cade noted that he’d never said no to Jerome’s last request, either.
SOMETHING WAS WRONG.
Cade dropped the keys into his front right pocket and closed the basement door behind him. He pulled the scratchy stocking cap down over his face and scanned the shadows as he descended the stairs and tried to pinpoint what felt out of place.
The soft glow from the lantern made this damp hellhole look almost hospitable. A chain rattled, reminding him that his hospitality left a lot to be desired.
“Is that you, Sinjun?”
God, he hated that nickname. That slurring together of syllables as if his own name wasn’t important enough to pronounce correctly. But under the circumstances, he could hardly correct her.
He stepped into the circle of light and let her identify him by body shape. The woman on the sleeping bag sat up, pushing a long fall of toffee-colored hair off her face. She adjusted her shoulders beneath the blanket and clutched it securely around her as she stood.
“Did I pass the test with your boss?”
Her big blue eyes blinked rapidly as he walked closer. Her eyes looked raw with suffering. Guilt warred with pity inside him, but both were ultimately defeated by admiration for her courage and perseverance. Finally he answered her expectant look with a nod and she smiled.
Barely. The flash of teeth and curve of her wide mouth lasted only a split second before she dropped her gaze to the floor. But the image stayed with him. The woman was really rather pretty when she smiled, he thought. But he got the impression she didn’t smile very often, and that observation got him to wondering