Midnight Masquerade Read online

  He stared out through the bulletproof glass at the upscale Maryland countryside rolling past the window and purely marveled at the fortuitous turn his life had taken. Perhaps some day he'd live in one of these sprawling estates and raise pedigreed dogs and children of his own where they could run wild and free. They'd never have to smell the stench of poverty, see hopelessness in the eyes of those they loved or know loneliness that sank, cold and sharp, all the way to the bone. Or fear. A fear of failure. A fear of never being able to escape. Of losing the spark of ambition in one's own eyes. The way it had extinguished in his own father's gaze.

  "We're here."

  The quiet statement pulled Nick Flynn from the dark direction of his thoughts. He glanced ahead as their limo glided into the U-shaped drive of one of those enviable brick mansions. The drive and part of the immaculate lawn beyond were crowded with luxury vehicles.

  "Looks like we'll be interrupting a party."

  His companion smiled slightly. “Something like that."

  "Are you sure this is the right time?"

  "Timing is everything. And I guarantee you, the time is right. Mr. Grover will be expecting us.” And again the small, mirthless smile.

  Everything about his employer, Kazmir Zanlos, was as enigmatic as that smile, from the accent that was impossible to pinpoint to the expressions that were impossible to read. The flat onyx of his stare reminded Nick of a shark's. The comparison would have amused the owner of the largest legal firm in the Capitol area. Perhaps that's why he'd taken such a shine to Nick, whose charismatic dazzle reflected off his own smooth surface. For whatever the reason, Nick was grateful. He was about to close on his biggest deal ever, with a percentage that brought all his dreams to fruition.

  Life was good, and he wouldn't question the whys and wherefores.

  As the two of them entered the big house, there was no music or cheer associated with a celebration. The somber tone alerted Nick to the fact that all was not right in the Grover household. He was about to mention his observation to Zanlos when his scanning gaze caught upon one of the guests and could not break away.

  She stood apart from the others, by choice rather than design. Her comfort with that isolation made his attention pause that extra involving second. While those around her were carefully coiffed and purposefully subdued, she stood in their midst, unapologetically underdressed and seething with intensity. Her rumpled, khaki-colored vest and shorts held a slept-in softness next to the knife-edged creases and silky stockings of the other guests. Her features were equally unprepared for the occasion—her eyes smudged, her dark auburn hair shaped into flattened geometrics by the rain, and her face naked of artifice in both cosmetics and emotion. She was a raw nerve, a flamethrower in a room of mellow tea lights. And Nick was mesmerized, not so much by her striking appearance as by her aggressive attitude—her stance one of coiled energy, her gaze ever in motion.

  She had as much business in this crowd as they did.

  Then their stares locked in an instant of combustible awareness. Her eyes were green, as glittery as fresh-struck emeralds. Then several couples passed between them, severing that visceral contact and allowing him to release the suspenseful breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. And then she was gone.

  "Ah, there's our host,” Kaz murmured, drawing his focus away from his search of the gathering to the man who stood at the end of the hall. Kaz approached like a money-seeking missile.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Thomas Grover's growl made them feel as welcome as dog doo on a white rug.

  Without a break in his bland facade, Kaz reached out his hand. Nick supposed it was to shake the other man's, but then he saw Kaz's palm turn upward to reveal what looked like a credit card. Then he saw it was a thin, touch pad flashlight holding a single key. Grover stared at it blankly at first, then with a horror that built like a tower of cards to a dangerously wobbly height.

  "Where did you get that?” His voice quavered.

  "Just a little something to shed light on our negotiation. Are you ready to talk business now, Mr. Grover?"

  Like a creature caught in a soul sucking quicksand trying to warn others from the same threat, Grover cast his gaze about, but his guests were too far away to have heard their words or to have noticed him in the shadowed doorway to his study. Then he glared at the two of them through eyes shiny with pain and shock.

  "Have you no decency at all?"

  Then Nick understood. This was a funeral gathering.

  "I'm afraid that's not one of my better qualities,” Kaz admitted with a mildly amused candor so out of place with the circumstance that Nick rode out a shuddering chill from head to toe. He touched his boss's arm.

  "Perhaps we should come back later."

  Zanlos's black stare fixed upon him with a cyclonic intensity, but still he smiled. “Nonsense. No time like the present. Mr. Grover's put off this moment a bit too long already, haven't you Mr. Grover?"

  His features ashen, Grover made a tremulous gesture to the room at his back. “In here. We won't be disturbed."

  "Excellent. I knew you could be a man of reason."

  * * * *

  "Rae, let me take you up to your room."

  The interruption of Bette's voice jerked her from her gravitational pull toward the dark stranger, and when she glanced back, he and his equally slick and enigmatic friend had disappeared.

  Who was that guy?

  She'd never felt such immediate attraction and ... alarm. Not only because he was the most jaw-droppingly handsome man she'd seen this side of a pinup calendar but because she'd felt the punch of his presence all the way across the room and was still tingling. And since she'd been taught never to play with a downed power wire, she was understandably cautious of that potentially deadly surge of ... what? Desire? Lust? Need? She was feeling particularly needy at the moment, and perhaps that Darwin thing had just kicked in, coaxing her to find the best the species had to offer. And wow, had he come through for her.

  "Rae?"

  Pulled once again from her odd musings, Rae smiled up at the other woman. “Thanks for putting me up."

  "I'm just glad you're here."

  Again, warning bells jangled. There was more than just the stress of the circumstances in Bette Grover's voice. A genuine snag of desperation reached out to her.

  What was going on? Why had Bette Grover called her after a painful four-year exile? Not to wax sentimental. Not to forgive and forget.

  Then why?

  Did she suspect there was something wrong in the way her stepdaughter had died?

  Suddenly, Rae was eager to leave the milling crowd and the intrigue of the dark stranger to pump Bette Grover for information.

  The upper floor of the house was quiet and cool, just the thing after the chaos of travel and mugginess of a D.C. rainstorm. The stir of air against her skin was almost as good as a cold shower for waking up her senses.

  Who was that guy? The prickly heat of awareness wouldn't go away.

  "You can have your old room, of course. It's been given a face-lift, but you should still feel right at home.” Bette was chattering away with a frantic cheerfulness, the ‘nothing's wrong’ smile pasted awkwardly over whatever else lurked beneath.

  Rae stepped inside and stepped back in time. The colors had changed. Gone were the screaming pinks and limes of her teen years, replaced by a subdued mauve and forest green. But there was the same canopy bed under which she and Ginny had shared secrets and dreams. There were the casement windows that opened onto the roof below. And from there just a short drop to the plush lawn and an evening's freedom. Her carry-on case was next to the armoire where they'd tucked one of Ginny's more aggressively amorous suitors when the first Mrs. Grover had come to say good night.

  How could this be so reminiscent of a time that was forever past? How could the spirit of Ginny Grover, preserved so perfectly within this room, be no more?

  Sorrow swelled up on an engulfing tide that Rae could only forestall wi
th a barrier of anger.

  How dare someone take her friend's life and all the memories they had left to make between them?

  "Bette, what's wrong here?"

  The older woman looked startled, then afraid. Such an odd yet strong reaction. Rae knew she hadn't been far off in her intuitions. She held up her hand to stop the expected platitudes.

  "Please. This is my family. Didn't you think I'd notice?"

  Bette released a tremulous breath. “I was hoping you would, almost as hard as I was hoping you wouldn't."

  "Is it Ginny? What happened to Ginny?"

  "It goes back before Ginny. There's been something going on with Thomas. He's been so preoccupied, so ... distant. For a time, I even thought he was having an affair.” A soft, bittersweet laugh. “How I wish he had been. I could have survived that much easier than this."

  "This what, Bette? What's been going on?"

  "I don't know. He won't tell me anything. There've been sudden trips into the city, phone calls late at night that leave him upset and ... and frightened. And then Ginny's death. Rae, I'm afraid something terrible is going to happen."

  And as if that hushed sentiment was a harbinger of things to come, the explosive sound of a shot punctuated it.

  Chapter

  Two

  Nick hated the whole scene. Strong-arming wasn't his thing, not when a glib tongue and a big, white smile could get him where he was going. Where this was going was downhill fast, and he couldn't put on the brakes even if he knew how. For God's sake, the man was hosting a funeral in his home!

  Zanlos had misled him, telling him it was Nick's show. The minute the curtain went up, Zanlos was center stage with his unique brand of silky intimidation.

  Nick didn't like it, but what could he say? He was so new at Meeker, Murray & Zanlos that he hadn't even taken half of his shirts out of their packages. He wasn't keen on the idea of being shipped back to Baton Rouge because he'd failed to display the necessary aggressive attitude to get the job done.

  The thought of that small, airless office over the local pharmacy on Carver Street was the prescription needed to cure his qualms about Zanlos's methods. Maybe he just didn't understand how things were done here in the Big Leagues. He needed to sit back and watch the master at work. Listen and learn, Marvin Meeker advised him on his first day. So he'd hang back and observe unless Kaz called him to the forefront. And he wouldn't let a little thing like scruples screw up the best opportunity ever to come his way. His last opportunity if he wasn't careful.

  Adopting a solid but silent presence, he took one of the two chairs on the guest side of Grover's desk and waited for Zanlos to make his move.

  Grover took the opposing chair. Nick was sure he'd put up an impressive front on most occasions. Grover was a big man with a big reputation behind him. As big and impressive as the Vietnam mementos housed in a case on the wall behind him. Nick recognized the Purple Heart and Bronze Star from John Wayne movies. Those awards, as well as his personal ambition, had him in charge of one of the industrious leading competitors for government contracts. That didn't make Nick feel any better being a part of what was beginning to resemble a shakedown.

  "Mr. Grover,” Kaz began with the ripple of his South African accent that so perfectly conveyed both civility and menace. “By now you've had a chance to thoroughly research the offer, and I believe you are wise enough to realize that it will make you a very wealthy man. I know you value integrity above gain, and I believe we've been able to convince you that your honor will not be soiled by the association. I think we can make this marriage of convenience work."

  "I've already been soiled by the association,” came Grover's strained reply.

  Kaz smiled wide, a flash of white, predatory teeth beneath those flat black, soulless eyes. “Then there is no need to protest before getting into bed, is there? I have come to you in good faith on more than one occasion. I have offered my hand, and you have refused to take it. You have hurt my feelings, Mr. Grover."

  "Hurt your feelings?” Grover stared at him, astounded. “Why should I care about your feelings?"

  "Because I am a man who holds a grudge, Mr. Grover. I think you have a clearer understanding of that now, do you not?"

  Any color Grover may have had left in his face drained away. His uncompromising gaze weakened then swam with a backwash of unexpressed grief and horror. Before Nick sat a shell where a vibrant, heroic man had once resided. Unable to witness the complete destruction, he averted his eyes. He looked instead at the mementos sheltered on shelves of glass. Trophies, plaques, and pictures. He squinted at one in particular. At Grover between two teenage girls in formals. One was dazzling and sleek—obviously the father's daughter—and the other somber and ... and the younger image of the woman he'd seen in the other room.

  Then the conversation pulled him away from his study of Grover family history. Kaz was closing in for the kill.

  "Now, one last time, I will extend my hand, and I will remind you of what still remains at stake and of how much you still have to lose beyond your precious integrity. I trust you will do the right thing and that you and I will enjoy a long and profitable relationship."

  Nick glanced over in time to see the last spark of resistance crushed out beneath the grind of Zanlos's heel. Grover regarded them with a blank, broken expression. Kaz took silence for acquiescence.

  "Very good. Mr. Flynn has the papers for your signature. That's all I require of you today. Just your name on a simple document, nothing more. Then we will leave you to return to your guests with our condolences."

  A brief flash of emotion flared in the deadened gaze. Kaz didn't see it because he was reaching down for Nick's briefcase.

  "Mr. Flynn, would you be good enough to see that Mr. Grover understands the terms of the contract before he signs his name? We would not want to take advantage in this time of mourning. That would be quite unprofessional and ... unethical."

  Forcing himself to act as that professional, Nick retrieved the contract he'd labored over for long nights to give birth to a document without a loophole, creating government sanction and impunity for an import company in his home state. He laid it out on the desk before the shattered businessman and readied to explain the fine print while Kaz sat back with a slight smile. Zanlos was too much the professional to gloat.

  "We've added a protective addendum on page seven,” Nick began, turning to that ironclad clause.

  "Just a moment,” Grover interrupted. His voice held a renewed tensile strength. “I need my glasses."

  Grover reached into his desk drawer. Instead of a 20/40 prescription, came up with a snub-nosed .38.

  Nick froze.

  Beside him, Kaz looked momentarily startled from his smugness just before Grover pulled the trigger.

  "No!"

  Nick surged up from his chair, lunging across the desk in an effort to halt the concluding action. The report of the pistol echoed through his head even as he reared back from the dampness splattering his face.

  "Sonofabitch,” Zanlos growled, jerking the papers away before they could be contaminated by Grover's defiant response.

  Nick collapsed into his seat, staring at the ruin of the man before him. And as he sat, dazed and disbelieving, he watched Kaz stuff a pen into the limp fingers to scrawl out an obviously practiced signature on the final page. Then he returned the contract to Nick's briefcase and looked to him impatiently.

  "Let's go. We got what we came for."

  Nick had gotten much more than he'd bargained for.

  What kind of firm was he working for?

  He sat in the back of the plush limo not sure how he had gotten there except that they had exited through the patio slider even as the locked door to the room rumbled under pounding fists. Shock at what he'd seen, at what had been done, quaked through him.

  On the seat next to him, Zanlos was carefully examining the pages of the contract for signs of the violence they'd left behind without a backward glance.

  "Nick,” he
said conversationally without looking at him. “You have blood on your face."

  Taking the white square from his employer, he blotted his cheeks and brow. His stomach did a slow somersault when the linen handkerchief came away splotched with crimson.

  A man had died. And he'd just walked away.

  It grew increasingly difficult for him to draw a decent breath.

  Kaz opened the wet bar and poured a generous glass of bourbon, offering it with a “Here, this will make things go down a little easier."

  Forgetting his pledge to abstain, Nick took the glass in one hand, needing to stabilize it with the other. He took a big gulp then another, letting the conscience-soothing elixir burn down his throat on its way to his seething belly.

  A man had died. And he'd just walked away.

  It wasn't like it was the first time.

  He shut his eyes, clutching the glass in both hands, letting Kaz fill it twice more as they rode in silence to the city. Kaz was right. Just what the doctor ordered. He let his mind go numb until they pulled up outside his hotel. There, Kaz regarded him with a satisfied smile.

  "I'm going to take these and get them filed. You did good work, Nick. You've made us proud. That bonus check will be on your desk when you come in tomorrow morning. Get some rest. You look like hell."

  He'd looked into hell, and he'd seen his own reservation.

  He entered the elegant Wardman Park Hotel on autopilot, crossing the spacious lobby on his way to the piano bar area for the solace of a few more bourbons. Since he'd decided to backslide, he might as well enjoy the whole journey.

  "Afternoon, Mr. Flynn,” called the young black man at the concierge's desk. “How did your meeting go?"

  Unconsciously, he stood a little straighter. “It went fine, James. Did you have any doubts?"

  "Not a one, Mr. Flynn. You the man."

  "I'm the man,” he repeated with a flash of his cocky grin.

  A drink in the smoky bar area lost all its appeal. He kept walking, past the big screen television where the Senators were up at the bottom of the fifth, forgoing his usual stop into the gift shop for a nice glass-tubed cigar and his copy of the Wall Street Journal, and down the long glass hall to the old section of the hotel to the exclusive bank of elevators that would take him to his upper floor. He rode alone, still numb from the shoulders up.