Peyton Riley Page 2

"I…I lay low after a few days, checked into a hotel, stopped wearing the wig. I had to disappear. But not before confirming that the job was completed."

  "And did you get that confirmation?"

  A sudden lump formed in Peyton's throat. The scene flashed before her eyes—the cold park bench, the newspaper kiosk, the early morning chill, the newspaper held between her nerveless fingers and the mounting dread as she turned to the front page.

  Industrialist's wife found dead in home—Foul play suspected.

  "Did you get the confirmation?" Gustave repeated.

  She nodded, and fixed her eyes on the floor. Suddenly the light was too bright and the glare too harsh; she could not face it.

  Her mind flashed back to her meeting with Roi back in London and the bemused way he had looked at her. She hadn't meant to follow the case, she explained, she knew it was best to leave a project as soon as it was confirmed, but she felt guilty. She knew that Nagore had thrown herself from the bedroom window after discovering her husband in bed with another woman. (Sometimes she thought she'd heard the glass breaking as she fled the grounds, but that was impossible. Or was it?) Don Rodrigo had been cleared of suspicion, but his life was ruined. His wife was dead, and in the wake of the scandal, the acquisition he had poured so much capital into fell apart. He had to offload Alejandro y Compania in a fire sale to one of those odd venture capital firms that seemed to be built entirely of paperwork and shell entities—named something bland and innocuous. She thought it was International Ventures, Inc, but in her head she called it Anonycorp. Just a little inside joke to take away the oddness of causing someone's suicide. Ha-ha.

  The acquisition was thwarted, as was her initial mission, but in the wake of things, a job completed seemed a poor price to pay.

  "What's the matter?" Roi had asked her. "It had to happen sooner, didn't it? Couldn't keep your hands clean forever."

  The sound of a chair being dragged, metal scraping on concrete, jolted her from her memories.

  "Tell me, Peyton, did you have the satisfaction of a job well done when you read the papers?" His voice was icy and quiet. "Did you get a bonus from not only ruining a man's business but killing his wife as well?"

  "I didn't kill—"

  "You might as well," he said. "You caused her death, you! You!" He stalked from behind the light and loomed over her.

  She shrank in her seat, her heart beating madly against her chest, real fear, white hot and sour coursing through her veins for the first time since she found herself in this particular situation. She watched his face—livid, a play of anger in the shifting light—and felt that this time, truly, there was no way out. This man was going to kill her.

  "Nagore was a sensitive woman," he said, kneeling down in front of her so that she could see his features clearly: the high cheekbones, the prominent nose, the dark, thick brows and lashes. Just like—

  "My sister had always been fragile, emotionally," he whispered. "She loved Rodrigo even as she felt dead for not bearing him a child. That was all she wanted, cheri. A bebe to call her own, to love and to spoil to bits. All those months she spent with me and my own little one—it would break your heart to see how she doted on my Louisa, and how it destroyed her not to have one as she." He leaned closer so that she saw the whites of his eyes, the tiny fractional shaking of his pupils, and the movement convinced her just how close he was to madness. "Finally she decided to come home, make one last try for a child, though we all knew it was impossible, such as she was. And that was where she found you."

  "Gustave!" Carson cried as the older man lunged.

  He gripped her arms, bound to the chair, with such force that she yelped in pain. "You caused my sister's death, you witch!" he screamed in her face. "Was it worth stopping the acquisition that a poor woman had to lose her life?"

  "I—I didn't mean for her to die!" she yelled back, the panic that she'd been mastering surging through her body, a lunatic tide, burning and acidic. "I've never—in all my time—no one's ever been hurt—"

  "Ha!" Gustave cried, and then he laughed maniacally. "'No one's ever been hurt'? Do you truly believe that, cheri? That when you destroy a person's livelihood, they are not ever hurt?"

  They stared back at each other—she watching every flicker of muscle in his face for an approaching strike, he as though at something unpleasant stuck under his shoe. The revulsion in his face was clear. "Nagore may have been the first woman who's life you ended, but you have killed others before, oh yes, cheri, scores of them—killed their worth, killed their estimation, killed them in their minds so they walk among us like zombies—and you have done it all, Mademoiselle. You have blood on your hands!"

  "What do you want from me?" she cried.

  He gripped her arms again and shook her. "You owe me my sister's life!"

  "I cannot bring her back!"

  "Then you are in my debt!" He stood and appraised her, a dead calm stealing over his face as he looked her up and down. "Oh yes, dearest. You are in my debt."

  "What…?" she whispered, for her voice now shook with fear and confusion. "What do you want from me?"

  Still he stood, looking at her, his gaze heavy over her body as she tried not to cringe in her seat.

  Finally, he beckoned Carson to his side. "I have a project for you, Peyton. Carson here will ensure that it is done."

  "A project?" she said weakly.

  "It is simple, really. There is a painting that will be sold. I wish for you stop it."

  Her hands began to shake. She felt her body fill with alchemist's potions, chasing each other as she went through waves of fear and guilt and confusion and now, incredulity. "You want me to stop the sale of a painting? That's all?" She stretched her hands again. "You kidnap and threaten me and all because you need my services?"

  "You are in my debt," he repeated. "You do me this service, or I extract vengeance for Nagore. A life for a life, cheri. Yours for hers."

  "You're mad," she spat.

  He laughed and shook his head. "When one day you love as much as I love my family, you will understand." He smoothed down his suit, signaled to Carson, and left the room.

  Chapter 4

  "Window?" asked Carson, gesturing to the peach slip-covered seat with a gallant little bow. He wore a sand-colored linen suit and a pale blue oxford shirt, which set off his tan spectacularly—Adonis curls, gold-brown eyes and fucking dimple and all. She wanted to grab his curly head and smash it on the tray table.

  Instead, she dropped to the seat and pressed her face against the porthole, quelling the murderous thoughts in her head. Beside her, Carson busied himself like an excited 10-year-old, adjusting the seats, fiddling with the entertainment system, rifling through the complimentary magazines…

  "For God's sake! First time in business class?"

  "I just like airplanes," he smiled pleasantly. There was a world of innocence in that sunny grin. He could have been a cute seatmate off to open a nightclub in Vegas or buy a yacht in Miami: a friendly, non-scuzzy Scott Disick. He turned toward her and added, "How about you?"

  She didn't answer and scowled at the window. After a few moments she heard Carson small-talk the flight attendant, who'd arrived with hot towels. Irritation surged at the sound of his charming voice. It was that same charm offensive that had gotten her into this mess.

  If only she hadn't been so taken with the handsome stranger…

  If only she hadn't straddled him in a secret pool within hours of meeting him.

  She groaned and rubbed her head.

  "Are you all right?" he asked solicitously.

  "I'm fine," she glared at him. "Sure, I'm off to do a mission against my will with the threat of murder hanging over my head. If I get out of this alive and make it back to London I'll then have to face my boss who may kill me for getting into this shitstorm, but yeah, all things considered, I'm fine."

  He fiddled with the remote as the pre-flight checks went on. "I think I liked you better when you were in Cosa Imbah'i."

  Sh
e faced him, just as he smirked. Her body reacted instinctively to the sight of the dimple that pressed into his cheek, the tidal pool brown eyes—and up drifted the memory of those eyes locked on hers as they rocked against each other, the last time they were alone together, chasing ecstasy. With an arched brow she wrenched her thoughts away. "I liked you better when you weren't kidnapping and drugging me for your employer's nefarious plans."

  He laughed. "Touché, Peyton."

  "Don't call me that."

  "Would you prefer Mary?" he rumbled the 'r' the way he did when he called her fake name in bed, seemingly a lifetime ago.

  "Don't call me anything." She turned back to the window, suppressing the ache between her legs.

  The safety video played, the flight attendants walked down the aisles, straightening seats. The plane reversed, rumbled down the runway and took flight.

  She stole a peek at Carson, who had his earphones on. Glass of white wine on one hand, late night talk show on the entertainment screen: fucker was as untroubled and carefree as a young jetsetter off on another Continental jaunt.

  But it was a much different story, last night.

  The night before, after the interrogation, he had been silent and grave as he released her from her bonds and carefully stood her up. Gitte had entered from another door, all six feet Teutonic blondeness, and waved a syringe casually at her.

  "No vunny business or I haff to—you know," she said glumly, giving the needle another half-hearted wiggle. "Ve don't vant that." She seemed almost sorry, and Peyton had remembered how she had liked the German pilot when they were stuck in Cosa Imbah'i during the storm. Of course, that was before the Valkyrie stuck her with the needle and flew her all the way to Gustave's lair.

  "Where is Gitte?" she asked over the drone of the plane engines, unable to stop herself.

  "Another job. And Amsterdam's too far to fly to on her Cessna." He sipped the wine thoughtfully and side-eyed her. "I miss Gitte. Barrel of laughs, her."

  Peyton rolled her eyes and turned back to the window, watching Singapore recede from her window and reexamining the scenes from the day before. Depending on how this whole thing shook out, if she could make it back to London and to Roi, he'd want to know all about this Gustave character, and all that she could tell him about where she'd been taken would be relevant.

  The problem was the drug that had been injected into her. It had been given to her on the mainland off Cosa Imbah'i, and then from wherever Gustave's lair had been to Singapore. She'd been unconscious, but guessed she'd been flown both times. Given the fuel capacity of the Cessna, she had to surmise Gustave's was not far from the city-state—but which, of the countries surrounding Singapore, not to mention the thousands of scattered islets and atolls in the Pacific, of which Cosa Imbah'i was one, had it been on?

  She wracked her brains, trying to remember details of the house where she'd been interrogated and the room where she'd spent the night. Undeterred by her inability to recall anything about the building's exterior, she mentally replayed yesterday's scenes, of the journey from the interrogation room through dark corridors, leaning against her will on Carson but finding her legs too weak, from fear and hunger, to walk unaided. The windowless room where he'd taken her—surprisingly comfortable, with a soft, plush bed and an old-fashioned, claw-footed tub, and, more important for her, a table set with a plastic cup of water, bread, boiled potatoes and a bit of shredded chicken—but no utensils. No blankets either. Carson had watched her eat ravenously, and then commanded her to bathe, averting his eyes as she went through the motions of hygiene. He then handed her a small towel, a large white T-shirt and a pair of disposable undies before going through the plan with her. Her head had almost dropped from exhaustion, but he squeezed her hand gently.

  "You can rest after this," he said. He focused on her eyes. "But you need to listen to the plan, and understand. Or else neither of us is getting off this place."

  She listened then, the survivalist instinct rising to fight against the overwhelming urge to sleep. Finally, he finished, and she sank into the bed, too tired to be afraid of what would happen once she slept, and the last thing she remembered was the sound of a bolt sliding after Carson left the room—to stop her from escaping or to protect her from whatever else wandered the house at night, she was too tired to wonder.

  In the morning he'd entered with her suitcase, now a lot heavier than when she'd brought it to the island, and a fresh passport under the name of "Caroline Meryton." He handed her a crisp white pantsuit to wear. Then Gitte had entered, grimacing in a way that had Peyton holding her breath, and before she could struggle, a long thin needle appeared out of nowhere and jabbed her on the arm. When she woke, with the same diesel exhaust feeling, they were in a car along a long stretch of highway. Signs on the shoulder declared directions to Singapore's airport.

  "I suppose it's lucky you let me stay conscious for this flight," she remarked, tiring of the view of the pristine blue sky and fluffy white clouds. She found Carson sound asleep beside her. His mouth was slightly open. Fast asleep, his hair tousled, there was something almost goofy about him. Something almost endearing.

  She shook her head and shuddered at the thought. Soon she fell asleep herself.

  Amsterdam was freezing and gray as they made their way down the city center, and she felt grateful for the heavy coat picked out for her. Carson walked behind, a proprietary hand on her arm.

  "I'm getting tired of you herding me around like a sheepdog," she snapped over her shoulder.

  "Walk," he barked.

  They emerged on the Brouwersgracht, on the bank of one of the many canals criss-crossing the city. Tall, stately houses in rich brown brick flanked the water. Carson squinted in the silvery light as he scanned the ground-level doors. "Should be here somewhere," he said, looking around. "Gustave said…right around this corner…gotcha!" He gave her a big smile and headed toward one of the buildings. It was adorned with red doors, and large red shutters flanked the windows pocking the facade. He punched in a code and entered.

  "This is one of the old warehouses. This used to be the shipping district, you know. That's why the windows are so big! They'd crane stuff up through one of those big boys, load it through." Carson sounded as geeky as he did when he was explaining karsts back at Cosa Imbah'i, where they'd first met. Not even adding Peyton's bag to his burden as they climbed the pale wood stairwell could dampen his enthusiasm.

  "Whoop-de-doo," muttered Peyton. It was fractionally less cold than outdoors, and she shivered as they made their way to the highest floor. There was a sigh of relief when they stopped at the last door along the hallway and entered a small flat.

  "Home base," said Carson, setting the bags down and hanging his coat up on the rack behind the door. "What did I tell you?"

  Peyton surveyed the tiny room. It faced the canal and the huge windows did, in fact, afford a marvelous view, high up in the stately old house. There was a functional kitchenette in one corner. Bare white walls. A scuffed wooden table with two chairs. An old dresser, also painted white. In the middle of it all was a low bed covered with a white duvet. She glanced up and saw Carson looking at her through his long, thick lashes.

  "You better be comfortable sleeping on the floor."

  He walked around the bed, bent over and pulled out a trundle with a flourish. "Ta-dah! IKEA," he said fondly.

  She scowled and turned back to the view. "Now what?"

  He smiled like the sun shone through her eye sockets. "I was hoping you'd take us through the next step."

  "Really."

  "I'm the art guy. You're the—well, whatever it is you call your profession."

  Sighing, Peyton crossed the room, flung her coat on the bed, and took a seat at the table. After a beat, he followed, taking the dossier with him.

  "Let's go over the details again," she said.

  He opened the folder and brought out a black and white photo of a woman with straight, fair hair; then a photo of a painting. She squinted at it; in
the picture the painting was propped against the wall, and judging from the small chair photographed beside it, perhaps a couple of feet long. Easily portable.

  "It's the Vida Dolor by Tamsin Magraith. Painted in 1948." He caressed the picture, his fingernail short and square against the squiggly lines of the painting. "Very rare piece. Wonderful example of postwar abstract expressionism. It's said that if you see it, the colors—the brushstrokes—you can feel the violence of it, the agitation of a world at war." She looked up and saw his face seized by a sudden glow. Their eyes met for a split second and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat. "Magraith painted only a dozen known pieces, all between 1922 and 1948. The postwar pieces are the most valuable. Not much is known about Magraith. It was said she suffered from depression, the things she'd seen were too much—" He broke off and fixed her a stare. "She killed herself, in 1949. This was the last picture she painted. Since then it was believed to be in the family of Viscount D'Agnelli. Around a year ago there were rumors that it was out in the open, and available."

  He slid the picture of the fair-haired woman towards Peyton. "This is Anja Rubinstein. Art dealer. She's been on the radar since brokering a deal six months ago, selling an O'Keefe that was long thought lost. From what I've heard, through none-too-kosher means, too. We believe she's selling the Vida Dolor."

  "We believe?" said Peyton. "You're not sure?"

  "Well, you don't exactly go out and post an ad on Craigslist when you're selling art, Peyton. But Gustave believes—and so do I—that she has it."

  "What do we know about Anja?"

  "Not much," said Carson, licking his lips. "She just came out of nowhere with the O'Keefe sale. There are rumors—daughter of a Russian oligarch and a Jewish heiress, or maybe it was the other way around? Anyway. All we know is that she's here, now, and that she's near to closing a deal for the Magraith."

  "Do we know who's buying?"

  He fished out a slip of paper from the folder. It was a clipping from a Dutch newspaper, surmounted with a photo of a man with a high forehead and wide, clear eyes. "That's Anders Van Der Luyden. Mechanical engineer, branched out into robotics and precision electronics. He has a science start-up."