Deadly Little Secrets (7 page)

“Irritating? But you seemed so taken with the young woman you ran into,” Dav teased, with the ease of long practice. “And she so energetically shook your hand on parting.” He smirked. “Such enthusiasm.”

“Yes, enthusiastic.” He kept his tone bland. Dav was used to his tactics and had a sixth sense about him from long association. He wanted to see how long he could keep Dav from catching on.

“You believe her to be more than she seemed?”

About six seconds. Slanting a glance his boss's way, Gates decided to let the cat out of the bag. “Did you happen to see the fall I took?”

“I saw you roll, but it was a bit of a blur.” He rubbed his arm. “The young man, Queller, was pulling me out of the way.”

Gates nodded, reminding himself to thank Queller. “Then you probably didn't notice just how strong she is.”

“That little thing?”

Gates laughed. Ana had played it perfectly, coming across as flighty, diminutive, and weak. “Not that little. She was strong enough to help me off the floor, pull me out of the way of those idiots who kept knocking people over like ninepins. What does that tell you?”

“Really?” Dav sat up, interest flaring in his eyes. “That slip of a girl? In heels?”

Dav held up a hand for silence, closed his eyes. Gates knew he was replaying the scene in his mind. When he looked at Gates, he was frowning. “Wait. How did she make herself seem so small? I can see her now, in my mind. She was nearly as tall as you.”

“Well, she's at least five-seven,” Gates temporized. “But yes, she had on heels. Think about that though. The shoes were high, which would change the leverage point when she helped me up.” It was his turn to frown. “That makes her even stronger than I thought.” He considered the physics of it, the feel of it. It made him intensely curious about Ana Burton, the agent. It made him even more interested in her as a woman. Long, lean, strong described the planes of her face as well as her body. Her hazel eyes, sparkling behind those ridiculous green glasses, had gleamed with humor and interest.

When she'd come to the estate earlier in the week, she'd seemed reticent, angry. Even now he wasn't sure why he'd felt the need to prick that reticence, or even why he found her decidedly attractive. It was unaccountable, since long, lean, dark-haired women weren't his type; especially if they worked for the government and carried guns.

Dav was usually the one on the prowl, but this time, with this woman, Gates was intrigued.

He hadn't let himself think that way for a very long time. Ana Burton had given him a shot in the gut he never saw coming.

Gates cut the thought short as Dav said, “I thought you went on high alert after that tumbling escapade, but I never pegged the woman. Hmmm. I must be getting slow in my old age. What a bunch of young idiots.” He rubbed his forearm again. “By the way, Queller has a hell of a grip. He's left a bruise.”

“Well, he got you away from the flailing bodies, that's what counts.”

Dav made a noncommittal noise, and Gates laughed. “Hey, free drinks, tottery socialites in equally tottery high heels, and the addition of the artist himself being fairly inebriated and in a mood to hug everyone, and you're gonna get that,” Gates commented with a straight face. “San Francisco, you know?”

As he intended, Dav laughed and stopped rubbing his arm. They exchanged some snarky comments about his artistic cousin, and the appalling paintings. They dissected the crowd at large, as well as the art. Gates knew more about art from the seven years he'd worked for Dav than he'd ever learned in school. Then again, business majors didn't take art. Nor did computer geeks, and he qualified as both.

Dav's unalloyed humor let Gates know he wasn't going to brood again about being watched so closely. The death threats he received, and the regular attempts on his life, sometimes got to him. Gates could argue till the cows came home that dealing so closely with some of the Central American factions, especially those with less savory reputations, could engender that sort of thing. Then again, in Dav's case, it hinged on his unwillingness to handle illegal shipments along with the legal ones. The other problem, the family one, was another matter.

When something happened, Dav would brood for days, never leaving his office or the house. But despite the threats, Dav managed to get out often and live a fairly normal life.

If there was such a thing when you were a billionaire.

“So, what will you do?” Dav returned to the previous discussion about Ana. “About the woman, this Shirley Bascom. She truly worried you?”

Gates yanked himself back to the conversation. “Do? Nothing. I know who she is.” He grinned at Dav. “She's going to call me tonight.”

Once again, Dav laughed. “Of course she is. You sly dog. And if she checks out? You could always take her to Parasol,” he said, mimicking Shirley Bascom's breathy delivery.

“Oh, she'll check out.” Gates laughed as he parried further comment about his social life before it could even be delivered. “Now, I'd have to say that Shirley is too…” He flapped his hands the way Shirley Bascom had fluttered her rose-bedecked evening wrap. “Floral.”

The mimicry and the concept were again a source of amusement for Dav, but he stopped laughing at Gates's next words. “However, as Agent Burton of the Central Intelligence Agency,” he shifted to face Dav so he could read his expression, “I'd certainly ask her out.”

“You're shitting me.” Dav's comeback was inelegant, but heartfelt. He hadn't known. “
That
was an agent?”

Gates grinned. “Yep. Met with her Monday about the art fraud case, the paintings you lost just before I came on board with you. She's the one working cold cases and checking some new leads on the case, she says.”

When Dav sat silent, he continued. “Could have knocked me over when I realized who it was in that flowery getup.” His grin widened, and he said, “She was dressed much more conservatively when she showed up at the estate.”

The problem with reminding himself of that was he pictured her immediately in her snug but unrevealing suit, her hair tamed into some kind of twist. He'd sat next to her at the table, watching her, seeing the temper flare in those hazel eyes when he threw a barb her way, seeing her lock it down as she did her job with a cool façade and a sharp mind. That alone had been hot, but that snap of fire in the look she'd given him was pure, flat-out sexy.

He wasn't sure he was going to do anything about it—he seldom did. He realized he was, however, looking forward to her call. It lent a certain anticipation to the last part of the night.

“But what the hell was she doing at the gallery?” Dav finally asked. “What's going on? You don't think Carrie is being watched by the CIA, do you?”

“No, not this time.” Gates caught him up on the case as Ana had outlined it, letting him know that she'd caught the changes from the original list within seconds.

“She knows art, and she knows this case, so you may see some results.”

“That would be—” Dav hesitated, then smiled. “A significant change. I admit it still pisses me off all these years later. I hate being suckered.” The last was delivered with a bit more heat. Davros Gianikopolis was scrupulously fair, determinedly honest, but he was also sharp as hell when it came to business and he knew how and when to cut the best deal. Not much got past him. It still burned him that someone had bested him over the paintings, and that no one had ever figured out where the switch was made. That irritation was why Gates constantly swept the nets for any mention of the pieces Dav had lost through the forgery scam.

“We'll see what she comes up with,” Gates said. He decided that was enough talk about Ana. He didn't want Dav clueing in to his interest, and he had the perfect redirect. “So, tell me how you know Carrie McCray.”

“I don't,” Dav answered with bland inattention. That was a dead giveaway of interest if he'd ever heard one, especially for Dav.

“Hmmmm, tell me another lie, man. I've known you too long.”

Dav rubbed at his arm again. Queller must really have clamped down. “Really, I don't. However,” he winked at Gates, “I'm sure you could tell that I'm intrigued with her. My assistant and several of the marketing people have dealt with Prometheus on this Bootstrap organization. The main organizer is a shipping magnate named Drake Yountz. I had brushed them off, but there were a number of calls from other business leaders urging me to participate.”

Dav now rubbed at his temples, then grimaced. “Several of the calls were from people I'm working deals with, so I caved, as they say. We've donated a minimal sum to it, so far. Also, we've bought many things from Prometheus, corporate purchases mostly, though not much since Luke died. I don't remember Carrie looking quite so…” He paused, then to Gates's surprise, moderated whatever he was about to say. “Professional. The only other time we'd met was at Luke's funeral and once at another charity event.”

Gates had a sudden memory of his mother's paintings displayed at her funeral. It floated to the surface of his mind, and he let it, appreciating it before he filed it carefully, and ruthlessly away. He didn't dwell on the past, on his parents or their deaths. He couldn't. Doing so usually took him days to recover, so he avoided all but the most casual remembrances of them.

“Anything else turn up on your searches these last few days, my friend?” Dav broke through his momentary silence.

“Only that our agent's on probation.”

“For what?” Dav asked in surprise.

“I don't know.” At Gates's admission, Dav laughed.

“Yet,” Dav added. “Your vast network never fails to intrigue and amuse me.”

“Ah, the humor factor. That would be why you pay me the big bucks,” Gates quipped. “However, she's pretty well cloaked. I can get all the info I want on her current employment at the Agency, but most of her background has been shielded. I'll set off a number of inquiries if I go searching too deeply into our agent.”

Once again, Dav laughed. “I don't pay you nearly enough. Are you still determined to say no to a raise?”

Gates shook his head, a definite negative, before he said, “Yes, I'm going to refuse. Your idea of a raise is equal to the GDP of a small independent country, Dav.”

“How about I fire you and you finally go build that information research and security company idea you've toyed with for so long?”

“Your unemployment insurance would go through the roof. I'd just live like a bum for a few years and draw food stamps on your dime.”

Dav chuckled. “Can't have that. I guess it'll have to be the raise.”

“No. No budgetary increase necessary.”

“It isn't like the gross domestic product, Gates,” he said, impatient now. “You regularly save me more trouble than it would be to run such a country, so you deserve it,” Dav reasoned slyly, hands spread to show how obvious it was that he should accept. “So, fifteen percent increase this year, I think.”

Gates rolled his eyes and let his head drop onto the soft leather headrest. He hadn't realized how tired he was, how much he'd been on alert, until he was in the safety of the bulletproof limo with their usual escorts, front and back. The banter was easy and familiar. They'd had the same sort of discussion every year for the past three years, up to and including the offer to fire him so he could go start his own company.

If he ever did, Dav would be the first in line to buy his services. It was pretty much a sure thing. Every now and then, when Dav's wandering lifestyle palled, he considered it. Then they would stay put for a while and he would realize that a so-called stable life would be too painful. It would mean relationships, and connections. Those connections required emotion, and he wasn't sure he had it to spare. He had it for Dav, but so far, he'd been able to keep Dav safe. Gates's work for him was a penance for all he hadn't done for his own family.

“No,” he said, realizing Dav was waiting for a reply. He kept his voice firm. He didn't let on any of the weariness. One whiff that he was capitulating would have Dav drawing up the papers for fifteen percent in a wink. “It's not about the money, Dav. You know that.”

Dav hissed out a breath. “Of course I know it, Gates. However, it is in my power to give generously because I am alive to pursue my business interests. I am alive because of you, my friend,” he argued. “Ergo, you have increased my business holdings geometrically. In fact, given your computer prowess, you've done more than that just with what you improve in communications savings.”

“Three percent,” Gates muttered, knowing he'd have to let Dav do something or the man would never drop the subject.

“Fifteen,” Dav insisted. “Think of it as profit sharing.”

Gates snorted out a laugh. “Profit sharing, my ass. No one else gets profit sharing.”

“That's because there is no stock, no centralized holdings. Your idea,” he reminded Gates, referring to the business model Gates had set up that kept the multitude of small connected businesses, each earning vast amounts of money individually, but never taxed collectively, reducing the financial burden operating under multiple international governments usually caused. “An idea for which you should be compensated.”

“You paid me well for the idea when I initiated it five years ago. That money's quadrupled in the last four years. No need to pay me twice.”

“Ah,” Dav argued, “but it still pays
me
dividends, so why should I not pass them on?” Sighing dramatically, he added, “Thirteen percent.”

“Four.”

“Twelve.”

“Four,” Gates insisted, his voice firm.

“I'll wear you down in the end,” Dav said on a laugh as they rolled through the gates of the vast estate just north of the city. They had climbed into the hills as they wrangled, neither of them paying much attention to the route, although Gates would have noticed any deviation instantly.