A Killing Kind of Love: A Dark, Standalone Romantic Suspense (28 page)

Gina had it all figured out, said she’d do all the dirty work.

The bloody work . . .
Yeah, he needed to think all right.

He padded barefoot down the hall. His room was at the far end of the second floor where a second set of stairs led to the kitchen. He headed for those.

Other than the front parlor, the main floor was a huge cavern consisting of kitchen, a family room of sorts—the idea of the Solaris having a family room had him shaking his head—and a mammoth living room with whatever furniture there was shrouded in dust covers—covered in dust. There was a time Delores had entertained, and when she did, she’d done it lavishly—one hundred was a short guest list. The main floor also had two more guest rooms at the far end. He headed for the one farthest from the parlor in case Delores showed up. No way did he want to run into the black widow again. Gina freaking him out with her bizarre murder plan was more than enough to handle. Goddamn Delores the Dreadful on his ass would put him over the edge.

He opened the door to the bedroom; it creaked as if it hadn’t been open in years. The room was tar-black, and the fine grit of disturbed dust hit his nose, made him sneeze. He flicked on the light switch beside the door, but all he got for his effort was a gray casting from a light bulb set behind a grate recessed in the center of the ceiling. This room was some kind of—he looked around, frowning—cave thing. The walls were an undulating rough gray plaster, and the bed, a four-poster, looked as if it had been mounted on stones like an altar. The windows were draped in black silk. What had once been a waterfall or fountain of some kind took up most of one wall. Beside that was a human-sized cage and a hooked rack with stuff hanging from it.

He moved closer: chains, leather straps, handcuffs, a couple of riding crops, dog leashes and collars, and … a latex body suit. He recoiled. He didn’t even want to go
there. Not his shit. Not at all.

He squinted through the gloom at some lettering above the bed. LOVE CAVERN. He again shook his head. Love
prison
more like it. There wasn’t much about sex that Adam didn’t like, wouldn’t try, but leashes and leather—with a Solari woman? Not in this lifetime.

He spotted the bathroom door and headed toward it— fast. One minute later he was naked, soaped down, and had his face lifted to the hot surge of water coming from the shower nozzle. If he didn’t need a run so badly, he’d stay here until the water ran cold. But this time of year the light left early, so that luxury was out of the question.

He forked his fingers through his hair, slicked it behind his ears, and opened the shower door.

He immediately closed his eyes and blew out an irritated breath.
What the hell . . . ?

“Well, well, what a pleasant surprise. My own private Chippendale.” She looked pointedly at his crotch. “Well, maybe not so private.” Glancing up at him, she leered. “You’ve, uh, matured, Adam.” She paused but didn’t take her eyes off his cock. “Nice. Very nice.”

He had to walk around her to get a towel, which he did in three easy strides. Securing the terry around his hips, he said, in as neutral a voice as he could muster, “While I appreciate your . . . appreciation. I have to ask. What are you doing in here, Delores?” He put his hands on his hips, forced a smile, and reminded himself it wouldn’t be in his interests to alienate Delores until he had his current problem resolved.

“It’s my house. I’m ‘in’ whatever room I choose to be.” She set her elbows on the armrests of her wheelchair and locked her hands on her lap, welded them tight to each other. “At the moment this bathroom is a hell of a lot more interesting than any other room in the house.”

Adam leaned against the pedestal sink, eyed the woman in front of him, managed a smile. Hell, wheelchair be damned, she was still a decent looking . . . broad. Yeah, that was the word for Delores. She reminded him of one of those padded-shoulder types from an old movie; skinny eyebrows, hard eyes, and even harder mouth—with a gangster boyfriend. And she sure as hell was in charge of what went on around this creep joint. “I take it you enjoyed the show then.”

“I could use a rerun.”

Adam studied her.

Christ, women were all the same . . .

He loosened the towel, smiled, and watched her face.

Her breath caught, and her tongue came out to moisten her lower lip. She nodded and looked up at him. “You’re a devil, Adam Dunn, but a damned beautiful one.”

He retied the towel. “My guess is you came in here for more than just a look at my . . . male attributes. What can I do for you, Delores?” He turned to the sink, picked up a comb, and drew it through his hair, watching her reflection as he did so. This game was important; he didn’t want to screw up.

She loosened her hands, took a breath. “Well, now, one good look at you and I almost forgot, didn’t I?”

“You don’t forget anything.”

A smile briefly lit her face, before sliding off like greasy lipstick. She reversed her chair a few inches. “You’re right. I don’t.”

“So?”

“I want to know what brought you back, sniffing around my Gina.”

“Gina’s a fantastic woman. Why the hell wouldn’t I be ‘sniffing around’?”

“Not only are you as handsome as sin, darling, you’re a smooth liar. Which makes you an interesting, but very dangerous, man.”

Adam slid her a gaze from the mirror, then did another long pull of the comb through his hair. “Would you rather I say I came for the sex, because your daughter’s the hottest lay I ever had?”

She laughed, a cold and brittle laugh that fit perfectly with the cavern on the other side of the bathroom door. “And you’ve had plenty to compare her to, no doubt.” Her face constricted, got tight and angry. Then sad, or something close to it. “Including me.”

He cursed inwardly.
Stupid!
Obviously all that sex he was having with Gina had killed some very necessary neurons, because if there was one thing he’d learned with women, it never paid to talk ratings. Hell, with Delores it could be fatal—but fixable.

Adam turned from the mirror, took the two steps that would put him in front of her, and stroked her hair, rich and thick like her daughter’s. “That was a long time ago.” He ran his fingers down her face, cupped her chin, bent and brushed his lips over hers. “Maybe you need to refresh my memory.”

When he pulled away, she gasped for breath, exhaled loudly, then looked at him a long time. When he thought she wasn’t going to answer, she gave him a speculative look, and said. “I think you and I had best get down to business and leave that ancient memory alone . . . for now.”

He raised a brow. “My loss, baby.” Relieved, he dropped the towel and pulled on his sweats, then sat on the edge of the grotto-inspired tub to put on his sneakers. “But I don’t know what business we have to talk about.”

“How about the I’ll-kill-my-best-friend-for-you business you’re involving my daughter in.”

Her words slammed into his gut like a fist.
How the hell . . . ?

“You two actually think I wouldn’t find out?” She sneered, shook her head. “Gina might be a smart lawyer, but she’s a stupid woman. If a fly dies in this house, I hear its last breath. Even you should have picked up on that, ‘
baby
.’ “Adam couldn’t find a reply, so he concentrated on tying his shoelaces and buying himself some think time. His fingers fumbled with the ties.

“You listening to me?”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, listen harder. You want some of Grantman’s money? I can get it for you—and the downside is a lot less bloody than Gina’s harebrained scheme. And a hell of a lot less risky for you—unless you
like
the idea of being ass-up in a grimy cell block for the next fifty years.” She studied him, smiled. “Somehow I don’t think that’s
you,
Adam.”

“Look, I don’t know what you think is going on here, but—”
Lame. Seriously lame.

She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’m seeing Grantman tonight, so I can get the ball rolling—in our mutual direction. All you have to do, lover boy, is not do anything stupid until I get home. And stay away from Gina.”

“You’ve got things all wrong, Gina and I—”

Suddenly still, she ignored him, and stared at her hands, grinding them against each other in her lap. “She shot me. Did you know that? She shot her own mother. And all because you and I got in the sack—all those years ago. She never forgot, and she never forgave.” She shrugged, loosened her hands, put them on the chair rails. “Not that I would have, either, I suppose. Trouble with Gina is she’s her mother’s daughter.” That seemed to amuse her, and she appeared to drift away a moment before snapping back. Her tone was low when she added, “She saw her moment that night, during that stupid argument I was having with Franco, and she took it. If I hadn’t turned—”

“She told me—”

She waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter what she told you. Gina’s a mess. That brain of hers is roaring in her head like a thousand-piece orchestra without a conductor. She’s losing it, has been since you screwed with her that last time in Seattle.”

He rallied. “The screwing was mutual. Very mutual.”

“With you, it always is, I suspect.” She lifted a hand. “But I don’t care. I don’t want to hear about it.”

Adam stood, loomed over her, forced her to look up at him. “What exactly do you want?” He had a sinking feeling in his gut that he already knew. He was already sorting through her idea, considering what was in it for him.

“First, I want Gina out of my house. It’s getting tiresome living with a woman who wants me dead.” She glared up at him, her face lined with purpose. “As for you, I’ll get you your money, take care of those people you owe, and in return, you’ll stay here and take care of me.”

“Take care of you how?” He watched her from under lowered eyelids, his innards coiling, waiting for the inevitable.

She smiled. “In all ways, Adam. In all possible ways.” She turned her chair and headed for the open bathroom door. When she was on the other side, she wheeled her chair around and faced him. “It’s either that or I’ll make sure you and Gina are put away for a very long time. And in your case”—her gaze crept over him, rested where it had lingered over his naked groin minutes before—“that would be a terrible waste of talent.”

Adam watched Delores push herself through the gloom of the Love Cavern, his gut stone-hard, his head a sump hole. Black and turgid.

God, Holly, why did you die
?
Why did you leave me?

He sealed his eyes closed and leveled his shallow breathing. Holly was dead. He couldn’t change that, and whining about her wouldn’t do him any good. He needed to survive, which meant a long run while he decided on the lesser of two evils.

The man, very pale, and walking as if every step might be his last, neared their meeting place, the St. James Cathedral Chapel. Father Frank Moore had no doubt it was the man who had called him this morning, a man who’d refused to give his name and had insisted they meet at “Father Moore’s earliest convenience. He’d thought the man wanted an unscheduled confession, but he was assured not.

“No. I want to talk to you about a gift to St. James—a gift with strings.”

In Frank Moore’s experience, most gifts had strings of some sort, so he was untroubled by the caveat. But he was troubled by the man himself. He studied him as he walked over the black-and-white marble floor toward the chapel. The dress was respectful: suit, tie, and shined shoes. The man carried a large brown bag and a thin folio. His steps were unhurried and his chin down, indicating he was either reluctant or burdened. Most probably both.

The church, other than for a half dozen prayerfully meditating souls scattered among the pews, sat in silent expectation—at least that’s how Father Moore always thought of such quiet times, times he relished. St. James was to him a place of patient waiting, a place for peace, and a place to find answers—or at least the right questions. It was, as he sadly knew, also a place of last resort. He glanced up, wondered, as he often did, at what whispers of sin and repentance this sanctuary had absorbed in its hundred years.

The well-dressed man stopped at the altar, hesitated, and lifted his head to look up at the domed skylight directly above it, then he quickly skirted the altar on the left, neither crossing himself nor genuflecting.

New to St. James,
Father thought,
and perhaps new to God. Possibly not even a Catholic.

No matter. Distressed souls were his vocation and heavy hearts his specialty; whatever this man’s reasons for walking through the doors of St. James today, they were borne by a troubled soul.

The priest rose to greet him and offered his hand. “Frank Moore,” he said.
“Father
Moore, if you’ve a bent toward it.”

“Thank you for seeing me.” A hand was offered but not a name. The man straightened his shoulders.

“Shall we?” Frank gestured to the chapel behind him and let his visitor walk ahead of him. They took seats just inside the chapel doors, and Frank watched as the other man scanned the room absently massaging his temple as he did so.

“You’re not a Catholic,” Frank said, when they were settled.

“Not anymore.” The tone was firm, without apology.
Definitely not here for confession.
“That implies a few drops of holy water and a first communion somewhere in your distant past.” He smiled.

“Very distant past—and I’m not here to revisit it.”

Frank knew not to push. “What are you here for, and how can I help?”

“I want to give you this.” His nameless companion set the bag on the floor and pulled a letter from the folio. He handed it to Frank. “It’s everything I have.”

Frank’s eyebrows shot up. Two hundred thousand dollars! “This is a lot of money,” he said, stating the obvious. “Who do you want sent to hell?” He smiled at his own joke; his visitor did not, so he added, “The bank is Swiss.”

“Yes. And the transfer will be done this afternoon, if you agree to my terms.”

“I gather one of which is complete anonymity.”

“Yes, but don’t worry, the money is ready, willing, and legal. That much you can check with the bank. There’s a telephone number there. On the bottom. They’ll take care of any concerns you might have.”