Authors: Jayne Ann Krentz
But in those days, Kincaid had been excited to learn that Sandquist shared a taste for the exotic when it came to sex. Neither man was cursed with any strong inhibitions or moral limits and the two of them had gone out of their way to construct a very interesting retreat at the house on the cliffs. It had proven easy enough to lure carefully chosen women to the house for the extravagant, thrilling orgies Sandquist had a talent for organizing. Drugs and money and the threat of violence had generally ensured silence from the victims, most of whom came from the streets.
There had been only one exception, a woman who might have gone to the police if she had been allowed to do so. It had been a mistake to take Susan Connelly to the house. But Kincaid had been unable to resist. She had been perfect: beautiful, naïve, innocent, and wildly in love with him. Kincaid still got an erection whenever he thought about the methodical way in which he had stripped sweet Susan of her beauty, her naïve, her innocence, and her passion. It had been a glorious night but a potentially dangerous one.
Kincaid had come to his senses later and realized he had to get rid of this particular victim. A car accident on a lonely stretch of coastal highway had taken care of the problem. The woman had died in the accident. Always a thorough man, Kincaid had checked the obituaries to be certain she had not survived.
That experience had brought home to him that it was probably time to put a halt to the exotic weekends. He was moving up in the business world, busy with a balancing act that required creating a respectable facade while he cemented underground connections enabling him to operate in the shadows of legitimate business. Kincaid told Sandquist there could be no more weekends.
Sandquist had accepted his friend’s decision, saying he understood. The two had gone their own ways until three years ago. Kincaid still remembered the gut-wrenching shock he had experienced when he received the blackmail message from Sandquist. Now, looking back on it, Kincaid could only pity the naïveté of his younger self. He had never guessed that Sandquist had filmed some of the violent orgies. There had been carefully hidden cameras in every bedroom.
There had been only one solution, of course. Kincaid had once again entered the house on the cliffs. Sandquist had stupidly failed to install new security systems. The ones in place were the same ones that had protected the house earlier during the days of the weekend orgies. Kincaid remembered the systems well and bypassed them easily.
He found Sandquist in the big corner room on the third floor. Sandquist, sunk in a foggy world induced by pills and booze, was so far lost in his dreamland that he didn’t even recognize his intended blackmail victim. Kincaid had simply led him downstairs and pushed him over the cliffs.
The murder had been declared an accident brought on by an overdose of drugs. Very tragic. Who would have thought Sandquist had a drug problem? But then, drugs were so prevalent these days at every level of society.
Kincaid had walked out of the cliff house that night certain that he had seen the last of the place.
He hadn’t even been aware that the house had been sold until recently, when he heard the rumors in the art world that Caitlin Evanger was making plans to put her self-declared final painting up for sale.
Kincaid already owned three Evanger pictures, although he hadn’t bought them just as an investment. Something about the repressed violence in them and the artist’s grim, surreal view of reality appealed to him. It matched his own in some indefinable way.
Word of a final Evanger painting had spread like wildfire among collectors. When the rumors had reached Kincaid, he paid attention. He wanted that painting. Dispassionately he wondered if Evanger had flaked out and decided to set the scene for an elaborate, headline-grabbing suicide.
Damon didn’t particularly care if the woman killed herself after selling her last work. In fact, it would be better if she did. It would ensure that she didn’t change her mind and start to paint again.
Evanger’s suicide would go a long way toward protecting Kincaid’s investment in her art. He smiled faintly at the thought. One way or another, when this was all over and he owned
Bloodlust,
he would have to make sure Caitlin Evanger did indeed kill herself.
But the first priority was to make certain he was on the guest list for what promised to be a most exclusive auction.
Once again Damon Kincaid would be entering the ugly house above the sea.
Maybe this time when he finished his business there he would see that the place was destroyed. It had appeared too many times already in his life. He could do without a fourth time.
Kincaid swung back to his desk and touched a button on a small console. His secretary’s cultured voice answered at once.
“Yes, Mr. Kincaid?”
“Get Hatch.”
“Yes, Mr. Kincaid.”
Hatch answered at once. “Yes, Mr. Kincaid?”
“When you’ve finished getting me on the Evanger bidders’ list, I want you to get in touch with that investigation agency again. I want them to run a background check on that restaurant owner and her lover with the dishpan hands. Find out whatever you can and get back to me as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Mr. Kincaid.”
Kincaid sat back in his chair with a sense of satisfaction. Unlike some executives, he liked to employ “yes” men and women. It made no sense to hire people who might think too much for themselves.
Verity finished off the yogurt dipping sauce with a touch of curry and put the glass bowl containing the mixture into the refrigerator next to the beer her father and Jonas had stored there. The flavors in the sauce would be perfectly blended by tonight when it was brought out to be served with fresh vegetables at the evening meal.
Verity had been in a flurry of activity all day, ever since she and Jonas returned from Caitlin’s. They had arrived home at ten, just in time for the mad rush to get ready for lunch. There had been no letup for her since then.
She wiped her hands and glanced around the kitchen. The restaurant had been closed since two o’clock and she had been working steadily and alone for nearly two hours. It was now almost four and she decided she deserved a break. Everyone else in the vicinity seemed already to have taken one. She hadn’t seen anything of her father or Jonas since shortly after two. They had departed together with one of the six-packs from the refrigerator.
Neither man had bothered to ask Verity whether she minded them storing their beer in her commercial-sized refrigerator. She had simply opened the door and found the six-packs piled inside. It was very annoying but she decided it wasn’t worth orchestrating a battle over the matter. She had other things on her mind.
Verity stepped out onto the back porch of the little restaurant and stretched luxuriously. The afternoon sun was warm on her shoulders as she considered her options. She could grab a can of fruit juice and walk down to the lake, or she could go visit Laura, who would be enjoying the lull before check-in time.
Or she could go hunt up Jonas and see if he really meant what he’d said about trying to test the bizarre psychic power he claimed to have.
She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and started up the path to the small cabin that her father and Jonas were sharing. As she walked through the trees she spotted both men lounging in the sun on the steps of the deck that lined the front of the cottage. They each held a can of beer, and the remainder of a six-pack was chilling in a bucket of ice between them. An open bag of potato chips was sitting upright on the step. Verity shook her head in mild disgust as she approached.
“It’s obvious neither one of you will ever have a big problem adjusting to retirement,” she remarked as
she reached them. “Some men can’t handle it, you know. They die or go crazy when they no longer have a regular nine-to-five job. The shock of being without work for the first time in
their lives is too much for them. It’s good to know you two won’t ever get too dependent on that kind of routine.”
Jonas leaned back against a railing post, one jeaned leg resting on the step below the one on which he sat. His other leg was stretched indolently out along the redwood boards. He ate a chip, tipped the beer can to his mouth, and emptied it with obvious pleasure before he spoke.
“Practice, practice, practice. Right, Emerson?”
“Damn right,” Emerson agreed from the opposite side of the steps. He smiled blandly at his daughter. “Sit down, Red. If you promise not to lecture us on the virtues of employment, we might let you have a can of beer and a handful of chips.”
Verity raised her eyes briefly toward the heavens and surrendered. “It’s a deal. I’m too tired to try whipping either of you into shape today.”
Jonas patted the step below him. “That’s good news. Have a seat. I’ll even open the beer for you.”
“Always the gentleman.” But she accepted the cold, wet can with some gratitude. For some reason, she didn’t have the energy to lecture today.
Jonas leaned back against the post again and looked at Emerson. “Where the hell did she get such a heavy dose of the old-fashioned work ethic, anyway?”
“Don’t look at me,” Emerson said. “It didn’t come from my side of the family.”
Verity wrinkled her nose at both men, choosing to ignore the deliberate provocation. Sometimes a woman had to rise above the generally primitive sense of humor frequently favored by the male of the species.
The three of them sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, absorbing the faint sound of the murmuring trees and the sight of the lake in sunshine. Neither Jonas nor Emerson seemed inclined to start a conversation so Verity waited until she’d fortified herself with a few swallows of beer before she took the initiative.
“Well. Jonas, have you told Dad about the test you want to run with the pistols?”
Jonas shrugged. “I told him.”
Verity looked at her father. “What do you think, Dad?” Emerson rubbed the back of his neck. “About what?”
“About this psychometry business,” she said bluntly, not looking at Jonas. “Do you believe in it?”
“Red, I believe in a lot of things I can’t see or taste or touch. Things like black holes in the heart of the universe, and the Theory of Relativity. I’m willing to keep an open mind toward this psychic stuff. If Jonas says he’s got some kind of talent for it, I’m willing to wait and see.”
“Do you know anything about psychometry?” Verity demanded.
Emerson raised a heavy brow. “I know that any really good collector, antique dealer, or museum director will tell you he’s heard stories of people in his line of work who just seem to know when an object is genuine. It’s usually passed off as some kind of intuition based on extensive experience, a gut feel for what’s real and what’s not. But who knows? It could be the rudiments of psychometry. And if it is, it makes sense to think that a few people might have been born with more than just some rudimentary talent. A few might have gotten the full-blown power. Like I said, I’m keeping an open mind. What about you?”
Verity glanced at Jonas, who had his dark head resting against the post. His eyes were closed and he seemed not to be paying any attention to the conversation.
“I’m keeping an open mind, too,” Verity said.
Jonas spoke without opening his eyes. “If you believe that, Emerson, I’ve got some oceanfront property down in Arizona I’d like to sell you.”
Emerson chuckled. “I guess we’ll find out a little more about all this when you two run this test, huh? If nothing else, it should be amusing. I always enjoy a good party trick.”
“Did Jonas tell you that the last time he practiced his party trick someone almost got killed?” Verity sensed Jonas’s sudden, deep stillness.
“Just a lab tech, from what I hear.” Emerson was unconcerned. “In this day and age lab techs are as common as white mice. What’s one more or less?”
“Dad!”
Emerson grinned. “Just teasing, Red.” He reached for a fresh can of beer. “When are you planning to do your stuff, Jonas? I want to be around. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to those pistols.”
“The pistols will be safe enough,” Jonas said calmly.
“Do I get the same guarantee about Verity?” Emerson asked blandly.
“Verity will be perfectly safe,” Jonas said quietly.
“Of course I’ll be safe,” she tossed back, irritated. “What can possibly happen to me, even if Jonas is right about having this weird power?”
Jonas opened one eye and regarded her thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you what might happen to you, little tyrant. One of these days I’m going to catch you in that corridor and I might not let you go again. When we’re in that corridor, I’m the one in charge. You work for me there.”
Verity swallowed too much beer and nearly choked. By the time she had recovered, Jonas and Emerson had casually decided when to run the test.
“Tonight after Verity closes the restaurant will be a good time,” Jonas said. “She’s usually exhausted after the evening cleanup. With any luck she’ll be too tired to fight me when I try to make the connection.”
Verity shot him a quick, repressive glare. He was talking about a psychic connection, but it struck her for the first time that the only occasions she had ever actually wound up in bed with Jonas were after she had seen him in that mysterious corridor.
She spent the rest of the evening wondering if there was some link between the psychic events Jonas claimed to experience and his passion afterward.
It was an unsettling thought.
The No Bull Cafe closed a half-hour early on Tuesday night. Business had been light during the evening and Jonas and Emerson got the cleanup work done in record time. Verity found herself loitering behind them, double-checking lists and going over small details she already knew by heart.
“Ready, Verity?”
She jumped as Jonas approached her from behind. She glanced back over her shoulder and met his steady gaze. “I guess so. As ready as I’ll ever be.”
His expression hardened slightly. “You don’t have to look as though I’ve just invited you to a funeral. This will only take a few minutes. When it’s over maybe I’ll have some answers to some questions I’ve been living with for a long time.”