Whispered Lies by Sherrilyn Kenyon
Another deep sigh fluttered her hair, sending a brush of mint breath past her nose. "It's not...that type of unit. I have no way to check a public bathroom to make sure it's safe for you so I put a panic button on your jeans. Don't put your hand on your hip unless you need help. It only takes a touch to send an alert to my receiver."
Now she really felt like a witch for sniping at him.
He added, "If you ran, I'd find you and return you to Joe, who would lock you up for a very long time. Your chances of getting out of all this are better if you stay with me."
Any warm feeling she'd tendered for him disappeared under a blow of irritation. She stepped out of his arms, feeling justified in her foul mood.
"I need some time so don't come rushing in to check on me," she warned.
"How long?"
"I have to freshen up and change clothes if we're going straight to the school. I'm not in proper attire."
Carlos eyed her suspiciously.
She'd shared all she considered necessary.
He checked his watch. "You have ten minutes. Tops."
She couldn't possibly do everything she had in mind in ten minutes. Maybe with a little practice, but she hadn't tried this execution in the past two years. The last thing she wanted was for Carlos to come charging into the ladies' room at the wrong moment. He'd intimidated her into going along with him when they'd first met and he wanted the key to her Jeep. Maybe she could use the same strategy on him.
Gabrielle gripped the handle of her luggage tightly and stepped up to push her face close to his, hoping she sounded as threatening as her frame of mind.
"I have been knocked overboard, shot at, kidnapped, handcuffed, terrified, and held prisoner. I will not be told how long to take in the loo."
His eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Sure you got enough to eat on the plane?"
She growled and stomped away toward the bathroom entrance.
"Ten minutes, Gabrielle, or I will come get you."
FOURTEEN
VESTAVIA STOOD NEAR the door to the conference room at Trojan Prodigy. He shook the hands of the four Fras arriving for a meeting he'd requested. He took his time with each wrinkled, but firm, hand he gripped.
The wall of glass on this side of the thirty-second floor overlooked the Brickell business district. Bulletproof glass had been installed inside the tinted windows, assuring safety. In addition, a fine mesh was interwoven into the extra glass that prevented any viewing from outside during daylight or such as now, when darkness wrapped the bustling city.
Coming from D.C., Chicago, New York, and Seattle, these four Fras were the backbone of the North American Fratelli, the ones who swayed the others.
This was the perfect example of why a group of twelve Fras could never rule one continent successfully. Too easy for one man to manipulate the power.
"You each have a copy of the file on our current project." Vestavia waved his hand at the five place settings with folders. Once the men were seated around one end of the fourteen-foot-long walnut conference table and reviewing the files, Vestavia served them each their preferred beverage, which meant Scotch, whiskey, or gin.
At thirty-eight, he was the youngest of all twelve Fras, the present group ranging from fifty-two to seventy years of age. Another reminder that he was the most recent follower elevated to this level, which had come on the heels of the unexpected death of Fra Bacchus last year.
This North American contingent believed poor Bacchus had succumbed to a heart attack in his sleep.
That was a version of the truth.
Had they suspected foul play in any way, an autopsy would have been scheduled at a private clinic. That would have revealed a synthetic chemical in a blood sample from Bacchus, the catalyst for the heart failure.
But Vestavia had been careful when he eliminated the only Fra who had suspected his every move from the outset and constantly questioned his allegiance to the Fratelli.
Now, he was the celebrated brother and Bacchus was off meeting his maker.
Some of the most powerful men in North America sat at the table, none of whom had any idea an Angeli sat among them.
They believed the Angeli had been a myth, but Vestavia was very real. The Fras would know his power when he and six more Angeli emerged to guide a new world once the groundwork had been completed. For now, he would pretend deference to men unworthy to sit in the same room with him.
He had been the first Angeli to infiltrate the Fratelli, the most powerful organization in the world-at the moment. A collection of brilliant men flush with geniuses, but the Fras were not capable of a true Renaissance. They understood the mechanics of collapsing major industrial nations, but not the art of overtaking each nation methodically.
"Everything will be in place for Friday." Vestavia took the open seat at the head of the table. "To assure success, we must not allow the United States to lose focus on the oil issues."
Fra Diablo, the senior of the group, who could influence the votes, had supported Vestavia's promotion to Fra. Drooping jowls moved when he lifted his head and shoved a bushy white eyebrow up. Skin sagged under his eyes, and his nose turned down, stopping short of being a hook. He drew deep breaths, his exhales wheezing slightly.
"With fuel prices climbing higher than any country anticipated, particularly the United States, that shouldn't be a problem," Diablo noted. "What about the teenagers?"
"The last one will be picked up this week," Vestavia assured him.
"Isn't that cutting it a little close with the presidential election next week?" Fra Benedict, the Banker as Vestavia thought of him, was always first to criticize. More round than tall, Benedict could always be counted on for a frown and a negative attitude. He pointed out every potential fault, no matter how minuscule, so he could be the one to claim to have foreseen a failure when it occurred.
Temper, temper. Vestavia had climbed quickly by presenting a sincere mix of humility and confidence to the Fras, but to hold a meek front in the face of inferior beings was a test of his discipline.
"Everything will be in place in time," Vestavia said with a finality he hoped would end that discussion. "Timing is the key to success, just as timing was crucial five months ago in orchestrating the meeting that takes place this week in the Capitol Building." He let that sink in, reminding them none of this would have happened without his ability to plan. "To rush any part of this schedule is as dangerous as running behind. We are currently on time."
None of this bunch would insult another Fra or behave improperly. They believed in order and respect. As contradictory as it sounded, they would kill for the order but allowed "no unnecessary deaths." No unnecessary actions that would draw attention to the order.
To commit such an act would show a lack of respect for the Fratelli.
At least Vestavia had the sense to see the absurdity in that thinking since deaths were unavoidable when conquering.
Fra Morton had the habit of lifting his hand a couple inches off the table, index finger extended, every time he spoke, as if to mark his place. "No one suspects the teens disappearing?"
Vestavia shook his head. "No. We've been very careful in our selection and solicitations. They each appear to leave the school willingly."
Morton nodded his balding head, lips pinched in thought, and placed his hand flat on the table. He wore the understated brown suit of a nobody on his gangly body, which matched his nondescript face. A casual observance would dismiss his simple question and quiet acceptance as a pushover, but Vestavia never took anything casually. He'd investigated every one of them thoroughly.
Morton sat on the boards of six international firms, three of which held major defense contracts.
He was no pushover.
Fra Dempsey made notes during every meeting. He paused in writing. "What about the Venezuelan? Is he suspicious about what the teens will be used for?"
"No." Vestavia rested his arms on each side of his file, making a show of being relaxed. "I've assured that Durand Anguis ha
"Impressive...if all goes as expected." At fifty-two, Dempsey was one of the most accomplished Fra whose holdings included high-rise buildings all over the world and a luxury yacht manufacturer that custom-built vessels for world leaders as well as ships for international trade...and private submarines. Trim body, thick gray hair, and deep tan, he reminded Vestavia of a movie star known for that look whose name he couldn't bring to mind.
"All will go as I explained in the original presentation for this project." Vestavia would have preferred Mandy had been delivered to him, but she knew nothing significant and had been a sacrificial lamb. He'd only ordered the kidnapping to draw the attention of the Mirage, who took the bait the minute Durand's involvement was leaked.
The only mistake in that plan had been in not capturing Mirage, but Vestavia would find this freelance informant soon and silence the rat.
"I sense a concern, my brothers." Stilted quiet fingered across the table and got under Vestavia's skin. Were they questioning him? Him. Fighting the urge to snap at them, Vestavia turned to the strength his ancestors had passed down through genetics rich with strategic ability and showed a tranquil countenance.
Benedict never wrote a thing in the meetings, but lifted a gold pen in his pudgy hand, fingering it like worry beads. "What if the Venezuelan fails or if one of the teens doesn't come through or-"
What if you got laid by a woman who looked like Josie? Vestavia wanted to counter. The percentage of possibility had to be the same. Hard to imagine Benedict the Banker controlled 20 percent of all the money transfers between the United States and overseas.
Vestavia lifted a hand to stop Benedict the Banker before he bit his lip trying to get another worry on the table. "As I explained last time, we have three teens and only need one. The other two are insurance. This is a simple plan, but a well-constructed one that will have far-reaching results."
Diablo had supported Vestavia's rise to this level and proved to be the strongest voice in the group. He cleared his throat, effectively taking the floor.
"I hope I speak for all present to say I think you've done an outstanding job of planning this next step." Diablo paused as if waiting to see if anyone would contradict him before continuing. "Of all the places we tested the biological agents in the last three years, the United States bounced back the quickest. We'll see faster results of future testing once we have this country in a more tenable position. After Friday, the world will get a firsthand look at how the greatest industrial nation handles a crisis with longer impact than airplanes ripping through high-rise towers. And we shall see which of the predators on other continents make the first move."
"Good." Vestavia held a calm face though he wanted to smile, to enjoy the moment, but he'd celebrate for a week with Josie at his private island. Soon. "I'm ready for the second half of the funds." But it took a majority to move the funds, and the four Fras in the room besides him held proxies from the other seven not present.
"If we are all in agreement, the eleven million will be moved in twenty-four hours." Fra Diablo passed a pointed gaze around the table, waiting for a response from each.
Morton lifted the one finger again and nodded. Dempsey tapped his pen against the leather cover to his writing pad, but gave a dip of his head in acknowledgment.
All eyes turned to Benedict, who sighed heavily, making a production of any decision, then finally said, "I'm agreed."
When they stood to leave, Vestavia caught the severe glance Diablo sent him that was just as pointed and full of warning, his message clear. Don't make me regret supporting you.
The men rose and filed out. All except Diablo, who extended his hand.
When they shook, Vestavia leaned close. "There's no reason to worry, but I needed to see you today for another issue as well. I need your support for one more thing."
"What's that?" Diablo's eyes relayed his hesitance.
"A necessary death."
"Beyond what is already proposed?"
"Yes. One that is not entirely related to the event Friday, but is important to the security of our organization."
"Who? Why didn't you bring this up in the meeting so all the Fras would be included in the decision?"
Vestavia took care with his words so as not to insult a Fra directly, but they were all suspect in his book. "Because there's been an operation breach on the teens and Mirage. We have a mole working for one of our Fras who is leaking information and must be dealt with...if it isn't a Fra."
A STEADY FLOW of passengers moved past Carlos in both directions through the airport in Carcassonne. Conversation was a blurred mix of languages, but most sounded French.
He gave the second hand on his watch one extra round past ten minutes, then shook his head. Gabrielle had taken less time to shower and change before they left the cabin, so freshening up shouldn't take this long.
He'd started toward the ladies' room, one spot no man wanted to enter uninvited. With any luck, using the excuse he was checking on his traveling companion, who had been ill, would save him some grief.
As he reached the entrance, two young ladies strolled out, wheeling their suitcases behind them and chatting. They glanced up annoyed, then their eyes widened. They ran slow gazes over him, smiled and murmured something in French with a seductive tone.
Carlos winked. They blushed and scurried off.
Right behind them, a shapely woman in a deep-cinnamon-colored skirt suit with gorgeous legs and matching short pumps exited the room. She was looking down, grumbling about something while she fiddled with a button on her coat.
A coat like Gabrielle's and pulling an identical suitcase.
Carlos hesitated in step at the same moment she stopped abruptly in front of him and looked up. He worked to find his voice. "Gabrielle?"
"Take this." She shoved the luggage handle at him, muttering, "You can pull that while I finish dressing. C'est des conneries! You should try doing all this in ten minutes."
She stalked off, then glanced to each side of her and swung around to face him. Her hair was swept up into a chic twist that showed off her high cheekbones. The angry gaze she shot him narrowed the longer she stood there waiting.
"Now what?" Her accent deepened.
Carlos caught himself and stepped forward next to her, surprised by the change that flowed over her like a thundering rain. She'd gone into the bathroom a cute, frumpy mess and emerged a polished butterfly with sharp teeth.
"You look...nice," he finally managed to say. Not really. She looked stunning in that getup and sexy as hell.
He bet she'd look even better out of it.
"That compliment does not negate rushing me," she snapped. "And don't ask me if I'm hungry."
"Are you?" He grinned. She was a bossy little thing at the oddest times.
Her answer was an indignant huff. She straightened her back and held her hand out for the handle of her luggage, pursed lips now the ripe color of a split watermelon.
All at once, he was hungry. Another look at those legs and he was starving in a way food wouldn't sate him.
She moved her hands toward her hips.
Carlos tensed. "Don't."
"It's okay." She stuck her hands on each hip and nothing happened, no alarm buzzed on his phone. "I moved the little bugger to a more suitable spot."
Carlos tapped a thumb against the handle of her suitcase, seeing this next couple days as a battle of wills. An annoying prospect, but with an upside. Pretentious women with snobby attitudes generally turned him off.
The more she took on the air of nobility, the less he'd have to worry about this wild attraction to her.
He passed her the handle of her suitcase. "We'll discuss that later, but don't change anything I do ever again."
That should get her back up a bit, bring out the truly obnoxious arrogance he expected from the highly born.
Instead, the air went out of Gabrielle with that one repr
He'd embarrassed her, again. Seemed to be his specialty with this woman. Carlos took her chin to make her look at him. "No harm done, really."
Doubt stared back at him so he added, "I had no idea you were doing all that, but you look very pretty." Compliments fed a woman's confidence, but in this case he meant every word.
Her gaze softened. Those melon-colored lips puckered, then rounded.
Stupid comment, because now he was thinking about how attractive she really was and how much he'd like to kiss her again. She looked more kissable than she had when she woke in his arms on the first flight. Hard to imagine, but true. When she'd come out of the nightmare, he'd stared into eyes puffy from heavy sleep, hair mussed, and a face so innocent he had to remind himself why she was with him and fought with every muscle to keep from crushing his mouth to hers.
Gabrielle's lips parted. Her tongue slipped out and brushed her bottom lip, leaving a slick path.
Carlos's body clenched. This was going to be a problem.
A man wearing an overcoat made an abrupt turn next to her.
Carlos snatched Gabrielle to his side.
"You're going to wrinkle my clothes worse than the luggage has," she groused, and smoothed her jacket.
He couldn't believe how fast her mood switched from angry to hurt to irritated. "Wrinkling your clothes is the least of my concerns when someone makes a quick move near you."
She twisted, eyes searching the crowd. "Who?"
"Nobody, this time," he whispered. "But you have to be on guard from here on and do what I tell you." He gave her that last order in a nicer tone.
For all his effort, he got a droll look in return that said she was getting tired of being told what to do. This was exactly why Carlos had to escort her. Retter would have lost patience by now and intimidated her into submission, which could have turned her catatonic or screaming.
Or Retter would have seduced her to get his way.
That would have worked, but just the idea of Retter getting his hands on her in any way unleashed a black mood Carlos didn't want to identify the source of.
Korbin and Rae passed by, but Korbin slowed and ran an appraising gaze up and down Gabrielle.