Target Response (11 page)

The entrance to Crestfield loomed up on the left. The entrance was flanked by a pair of square-sided stone gateposts each eight feet high. Their tops were crowned with freshly installed globe lanterns, now unlit. A broad paved driveway stretched up and back toward the estate proper.

Steve turned left into the drive, following a gently slanting path up into the grounds. The drive crested a rise, mounting a flat-topped summit with its open expanse of fields.

Signs of life and renewal were in evidence all around. Several luxury cars and highline SUVs were parked along the side of the curving drive. The drive and front stone stairs had been swept clean. New drapes were hung over some of the ground-floor front windows. Lights burned behind them.

Steve halted in front of the main entrance. “Here we are.”

He got out, went around to the passenger side, and opened the door for Skye. She swung her long legs out of the door frame and dismounted from the truck cab.

“Thanks so much, Steve. You’ve been a great help.”

“My pleasure. Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said.

A portable horse trailer was parked farther down the drive near the southwest corner of the house where a paved path split off from the main drive to curve back toward the stable. The rear gate was open, revealing an empty double stall. A ramp connected the rear of the trailer to the paved drive.

“You’re keeping horses in the stable?” Steve asked.

“Yes. Riding is one of my passions,” Skye said.

Steve wondered what her other passions might be but forbore to inquire. “You should enjoy it; this is good horse country. Plenty of scenic trails hereabouts,” he said.

“I’m looking forward to exploring them. Do you ride, Steve?”

“I used to. Not for the last few years, though.”

“Please be my guest, then. You and Mrs. Ireland, we’d love to have you.”

“Just me—there isn’t any Mrs. Ireland,” he was quick to say.

“So much the better,” Skye said, her face lighting up with a mischievous grin. Merriment danced in her yellow-gold eyes. “You were kind enough to give me a ride. Now I can return the favor.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Steve said.

Skye opened her purse, took out a cream-colored leather-bound notepad with a slim gold pencil attached. She wrote something on a piece of paper, tore it off, and handed it to him.

“Here’s my number. Call me soon, Steve.”

“What’s a good time to call?” he asked.

“Anytime. I’m available,” Skye said. She rose on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

Steve phoned her that same Friday night.

Which is how he came to be riding with her on the next day, Saturday.

An early dinner was served later that Saturday afternoon at the Crestfield manor house. The Moray clan was seated around the dining room table. As guest, Steve occupied a seat at one end of the table.

“For our first visitor here at our new home,” had said Jules Moray, patriarch of the family, indicating the place setting. Steve had tried to politely decline the honor but the senior Moray had been insistent.

Jules sat opposite him at the head of the table. He reminded Steve of a Man of Distinction in an ad for an upscale men’s clothier or highline brand single-malt Scotch whiskey.

Jules, in his midsixties, was still a fine figure of a man. He was tall, ramrod straight, with a mane of lead-colored hair brushed back from his forehead. His long face was rawboned and hollow-cheeked, with knobby cheekbones and a prominent chin.

He had bushy gray eyebrows, a same-colored mustache, and dark brown eyes. He wore a gray tweed jacket with elbow patches, a white shirt and thin black tie, a red sweater vest.

He had been introduced to Steve as Skye’s uncle. From what Steve could gather, apparently both her parents were deceased.

Others of the family were grouped around the table.

Skye sat on Steve’s left. She’d dressed for dinner, exchanging her riding clothes for a tight dark blue bolero-style jacket, red silk blouse, high-waisted gray flannel slacks, and red ankle boots.

Steve felt a tad self-conscious about his informal attire. He’d tried to beg off earlier from Skye’s dinner invitation on the grounds that he was improperly dressed, but she would have none of it.

“Lord knows we Morays have our faults but snobbery isn’t one of them,” she had said.

To make a hasty exit after having enjoyed the pleasures of Skye’s intimate amatory attentions would have been rude, Steve thought. Besides, he was still besotted with the loveliness of her face and form; her youth and beauty had filled his senses and he was hungry for more.

He was just plain hungry, too, having built up an appetite from the horseback riding and lovemaking. What the hell, he told himself, he had to eat someplace.

Steve accepted the invitation and went to dinner dressed in the same clothes he’d worn earlier to go riding: black cable-knit woollen sweater, faded blue jeans, hiking boots.

Not only Skye but the rest of her family intrigued him and he wanted to find out more about them. Now here they were, all assembled around the dinner table.
The gang’s all here,
thought Steve.

And what a group they were.

In addition to Jules, seated at the opposite end of the table, two family members, including Skye, sat on Steve’s left, three more on his right. It was a long table with plenty of elbow room for the diners and no danger of crowding.

On Jules’s right sat Lillian Moray, a member of the family by marriage. She was in her midforties; tall, with the broad shoulders of a swimmer; full-breasted and long-legged. Straight bronze hair with gold highlights framed her face, its ends reaching her firm jawline. The hair gave an impression not of age but rather of strength. It was metallic like an armored skullcap or headdress. Amazonian.

Dark eyes glittered in a sharp-featured but not unattractive face. She was deeply tanned, nut brown. Her skin had the leathery look that comes to a woman of a certain age who’s spent long hours under a strong sun.

Lillian was married to Olcott Moray, who sat across from her on Jules’s left. He was about forty-five, heavyset, thick-featured, baggy-eyed, with thinning ginger-colored hair and a walrus mustache.

He wore a navy blue blazer, a white pin-striped shirt, and a red and tan paisley dickey, looking like he’d just come from a meeting at the yacht club. All that was missing was a nautical commander’s cap.

Next to Olcott, on his right, sat Teela Moray. Thirtyish, she had brick-red hair, green eyes, a red mouth. A long-sleeved jade green dress made of tight-clinging jersey clung to her lush, full-bodied curves.

On Teela’s left and Steve’s right sat Skye’s brother, Brett Moray. He was about Steve’s age, broad-shouldered, athletic, with wavy black hair, sharp cheekbones, and ruggedly chiseled features. His pale glacier-blue eyes were the same color as those of an Alaskan malamute, thought Steve.

Hovering around the edges of the scene to make sure that the dinner proceeded properly and the wants of the family and guest were attended to was Pyne, the butler. Steve didn’t know if Pyne was his first name or his last. That’s how the others addressed him.

He was fiftysomething, balding, watery-eyed, chinless, and paunchy. The nostrils of his beaklike nose had quivered earlier with what could have been the faintest hint of aristocratic hauteur when he’d shown Steve to a bathroom where he could get washed up in preparation for dinner.

Pyne wore a kind of old-fashioned black coat with scissor tails, a starched white shirtfront, a black bow tie, gray striped pants, and shiny black shoes. He reminded Steve more of some of the old-time, old-school clubmen turned State Department diplomats than a butler, retainer, valet, or whatever the hell Pyne’s title was.

His global assignments over the years as an undercover Dog Team assassin had put Steve in contact with more than a few members of the diplomatic corps.

Not that Pyne handled any real chores during dinner. They were handled by Margit, the serving maid, with occasional assistance from big Bertha, the cook. Pyne just sort of stood around in a supervisory capacity, telling the women when to clear away the dishes from a particular course or serve the next one, that sort of thing.

An attractive and personable bunch, this Clan Moray, thought Steve. They put on a fine feed and certainly did all right by themselves. They lived well.

The dining room was a rectangular space on the ground floor. The walls were wood paneled up to shoulder height; above that they were plastered and painted a rich cream color.

The table was spread with a crisp white linen tablecloth and laid with gleaming sterling silver utensils, fine china plates, and cut-crystal glass-ware. The floor was mostly covered by a richly patterned Persian or Turkish carpet. Where the carpet did not reach, the glossy dark brown planks of a highly polished wooden floor were in view.

An electric chandelier hung from the ceiling over the table. It dispelled the late afternoon gloom of a dark, overcast day.

On Steve’s left, a long wall was lined with a row of tall windows with pointed, arched tops. They looked out on a terrace on the rear, southern side of the mansion.

Beyond the edge of the flagged terrace lay sprawling grounds tufted with lifeless straw-colored winter grass. To one side on the northwest could be seen the corner of the stable. Gusty winds rattled the mansion’s windows.

“A storm is blowing in,” Steve said.

“Snow?” Skye asked.

“Rain, I think. We’ve had our share of snow and more up here this winter. Record snowfalls. Being in the mountains we usually get some snow, but this year we saw some real blizzards.”

“Have you lived here long, Steve?” asked Lillian. Everyone was on an informal first-name basis, as dictated by Jules, the self-proclaimed arbiter of the table.

“A few years,” Steve said. “But all the old-timers agree that this was the roughest winter in memory. Before the rains washed it away, the snow was drifted three feet tall in places. You’ve missed the worst of it, though.”

“Too bad,” redheaded Teela said, her voice rich and honeyed. “I like extremes—of weather, that is.”

“And everything else, dear cousin,” Skye said.

Teela chuckled throatily. “Look who’s talking!”

“Now, ladies, no engaging in personalities tonight,” said Jules, gently admonishing the two women.

The Morays certainly set out a fine feed, thought Steve. The meal began with chicken consommé, meaty chunks of white meat floating in a savory, near-clear broth. The entrée was roast beef with roasted potatoes, fresh green beans, and salad, accompanied by a dark, rich Burgundy.

“I hope that cut of meat’s not too rare for you, Steve,” Jules inquired.

“Not at all; that’s how I prefer it.”

“So do we,” Teela said. “We Morays have a taste for blood.”

She ate well and heartily, clearing her plate. Clearly she had no concerns about dieting, at least not for this meal.

By contrast, Skye ate lightly, nibbling a few green beans and salad while ignoring the rest of the viands. Her roast beef remained untouched, the sharp cutting knife at her place setting unused. From time to time she refreshed herself with a few small sips of red wine. She gnawed on a breadstick, a row of little white teeth showing under the curve of ripe, red lips.

Olcott was a big eater and an even bigger drinker, frequently draining his glass of wine and refilling it. Little blue broken veins in his nose and cheeks betokened one who was over-fond of alcohol.

He held it well, though. His eyes gleamed more brightly and his complexion reddened but otherwise he showed no signs of the wine’s effect on him.

Brett drank not wine but beer with his meal. He was the first to call for it, an act for which Steve was silently grateful. Not much of a wine imbiber, Steve was more of a beer-and-a-shot kind of guy.

He’d wanted a beer but had felt a bit inhibited about requesting it, not knowing if it was the custom of the house to drink only wine with the evening meal. Once Brett broke the ice, Steve followed his example and also requested beer.

The brew was an amber-colored ale, fresh, tangy, with real taste. He and Brett drank out of long pilsner glasses.

Teela rested her elbows on the table’s edge and leaned toward Steve’s direction, her full, rounded breasts thrusting against the thin, clinging fabric of her dress. Pebble-sized nipples were clearly outlined beneath the garment.

Skye looked up from her plate, where she’d been moving food around without eating it, to glare at Teela.

“Do you do much shooting, Steve? Little Skye gave the impression that you’re something of an outdoorsman, that’s why I asked,” Teela said. “You certainly look fit, with all those muscles.”

“Stop drooling, Teela. Skye saw him first,” Lillian drawled. “Teela’s just trying to get a rise out of you, Skye.”

“I’m more interested in getting a rise out of our guest,” Teela said.

Olcott choked on a swallow of wine.

Jules cleared his throat to get their attention. “Mind your manners, Teela. Steve’s unfamiliar with your brand of good-natured raillery and won’t know that you’re just having fun,” he said drily. “In your fashion,” he added. He smiled benevolently, his face lighting up.

“Getting back on track,” said Brett, joining the exchange, “do you hunt, Steve?”

“Now and then,” Steve said.

“How’s the hunting hereabouts?”

“In season, good. There’s deer, varmints—squirrels, raccoons. Sometimes the bear population needs thinning out and they have a controlled hunt. There’s quail, pheasant. Even a few wild turkeys.”

“The only ‘wild turkey’ I hunt comes out of a bottle,” Olcott said, chuckling.

“Yes, and you never miss, do you, darling?” said his wife, Lillian, in a sweetly acid tone.

“No!” Olcott said, unabashed, then laughing loudly.

Steve spoke to Brett, “Like to hunt, do you?”

“My favorite sport,” Brett said.

“You came to live in the right place, then.”

“Maybe we’ll go beat the bushes for some fresh game.”

“It’s a go,” Steve said. “The fishing’s good, too. Wild trout in the streams. Mirror Pond on the ridgetop has sunfish, perch, mackerel.”

Brett shook his head. “Fishing’s not for me. I like to shoot.” He added, “Of course, Rory’s the real marksman in the family. Rory is Skye’s brother. Didn’t she mention she’s a twin?”

“No, she didn’t,” Steve said.

“I didn’t want to bore him with our family tree,” Skye said sullenly.

“I’m sure you managed to keep him interested somehow…in your fashion,” Teela said too sweetly.

“Rory’s quite the sportsman. The best shot of all the Morays,” Brett said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Skye?”

“That remains to be seen,” Skye said.

“O-ho! That sounds like a challenge, little sister.”

“Take it any way you like, Brett.”

“He generally does,” said Teela.

“The question is, how will Rory take it? He’s so jealous of his prerogatives…as you know,” Brett said. “Pity he couldn’t be here with us tonight to enjoy the fun.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Skye said. She seemed uncomfortable, her manner evasive. Her face was flushed but she was white around the mouth, tight-lipped.

“Um, yes, Rory does everything well,” Teela purred.

Skye gave her a dirty look.

A bit discomfited himself, Steve tried to change the subject. “I didn’t catch what line of business you folks are in?”

The others looked to Jules, at the head of the table, for a response.

“You might say we’re in the extraction industry. Taking things out of the earth,” Jules said.

“Mining and such?”

“In a manner of speaking, Steve. The Morays originally hail from West Virginia, in the heart of the coal-mining country. One of the bleakest, most impoverished regions in the nation. By pluck and luck, we managed to bootstrap ourselves out of the black-lung country. Of course, it’s been several generations since any of our people actually had to dig coal…. Still, we manage to keep busy,” Jules said. “And you, Steve? What’s your line?” he asked.

“I work for a private courier service hand delivering sensitive documents for the government and private industry,” Steve said.

“Interesting,” said Lillian, her tone implying it was anything but.

“Not really,” Steve said. “But I get to travel a lot, so it has its benefits.”

Teela leered at him. “Now that you’ve met our Skye, you might find it more beneficial to stay close to home for a while, hmm?”

“You might find it more beneficial to mind your own business for a change, Teela!” Skye retorted.

“Tsk-tsk, such a temper! Better watch out for Skye, Steve—she bites.”

“Now, girls…” Jules chided them gently.

Margit, the serving woman, entered and began clearing away the dinner plates. She was too big to be called a serving girl. Twenty-five, she was tall with a good, solid figure, if a bit on the hefty side. Long dark hair was coiled and pinned up in a bun at the back of her head. Her features were good but a sullen expression kept them from prettiness. She wore a maid’s uniform of some shiny gray fabric with white cuffs and piping. She had brawny arms, thick thighs, muscular calves, slender ankles.