Dark to Mortal Eyes (4 page)

“Okay, cough it up,” he said. “What’s my next move?”

Steele shifted his eyes, then clasped Beau’s wrists. The fingers were anchors dropped into soft skin. Beau tried to withstand the pain, looked toward the counter where the girl swayed to soft drums over whale song. He curled his toes. Chose to shut down. Focused on the last ICV meeting and the support he’d sensed in the Professor’s eyes.
I must obey to find the way …

Steele’s grip tightened, testing the anchor’s hold. “Beau, this will be your chance to leave your mark. Do you believe that? Are you ready to pay the price?”

He hardened his gaze. “Yes, I’m up for it.”

“As I understand it, you’ve worked before on the machinery at Addison Ridge Vineyards. I assume, therefore, that you’re familiar with Ridge Road.
Starting this evening, we need you posted there on surveillance. When this girl of ours arrives, she expects to meet with her mother. You’ll make certain such a reunion never occurs.”

“You betcha, boss. For the good of the network.”

“In cauda venenum.”

Energized, Beau echoed the phrase. A literal reference to the sting of a scorpion’s tail; it was a name wrapped within a warning. For as long as he’d been shoved aside, he’d looked forward to making others suffer. This was his big chance.

Scooter was in the tent as the campfire burned low. She needed a few minutes to herself, Josee had told him. In the slivered moonlight beneath the branches, she found their canteen. From a vial she kept on braided twine around her neck, she extracted a red capsule and washed it down with water.

Daily routine. Doctor’s orders. Through the years it’d become second nature.

She heard Scooter shifting in his sleeping bag, felt a tug of remorse. Words that flowed so easily from her fingers could stab so sharply from her mouth. Dynamite … and love. Her manner of delivery seemed to have pushed him farther away.

“Scoot? You still awake?”

His breathing skipped, then turned heavy. No reply.

She slipped a pencil from her new case and, by firelight, wrote:

A pause. A nibble on the eraser.

Josee slapped at a mosquito, then crouched to ensure that the canister was still in her bedroll. With her sleeping bag removed and situated in the tent, the metal object felt cold and unyielding against her hand. A chill crawled along her skin. She hurried to cinch and knot the cord with all the strength her small fingers could muster.

Kara was out here, eluding him. Although pillars blocked Marsh Addison’s view as he descended the flared brick entryway, he could hear his wife’s footsteps on the gravel and could smell her perfume through the late-October mist.

“Now what?” he called. “Talk to me. Let’s try to work this out.”

Inside, supper plates cooled on the formal dining table. Maybe he should go back in and finish without her. Baked salmon and Brie, last year’s Pinot Gris harvested on their own estate … To let such delicacies go to waste bordered on sacrilege. Food was his religion, wine his personal sacrament. He’d been raised here at Addison Ridge Vineyards, guided like a trellised grapevine into his role as master vintner.

“Kara.”

No response.

“Come on, stop playing games with me.”

Beneath the portico he loosened his tie and listened to the rain. Considering his recent rise in wine-growing circles, he was still perplexed by his miscues in the marital department. Not that he had much to go by. His father had died while he was an infant, and his mother still held to her widowed status. Marsh’s relational approach reflected his ties with his mother—cordial and steadfast, yet aloof. After twenty-plus years with Kara, he was aware he had a few edges left to smooth. More than a few perhaps.

But haven’t I been trying? Haven’t I gone the extra mile?

No pun intended
, he thought. Across the water-soaked gravel, the white BMW Z3 was testimony to his efforts. A birthday gift for his wife. One sweet machine.

“Honey,” he tried again. “Please, can’t we talk this out? Come back inside before the salmon gets cold.” He just wanted some resolution here—and his meal.

Which she was quick to note. “Have mine, too, Marsh, if that’s what you’re after.”

Definitely from his left. He took a step that direction, but the diesel equipment clattering between the trellises disrupted his senses. “Okay, I give in. Where are you?”

“Not now, Marsh. I haven’t the energy for verbal warfare with you.”

“A war?” Two additional steps, zeroing in. “That’s hardly fair.”

“The way you undermine me, I simply can’t deal with that right now.”

“How can we carry on a conversation when I can’t even look at you?”

“You haven’t seen me in months, not really.”

He found her seated at the base of a pillar. “It’s the marketing campaign,” he said, “not you. National distributors, European connections … I know it’s been hectic around here, but we’re exceeding our goals. We’re taking it to the next level. Do you realize what this could do for the vineyard? For my father’s legacy? For us?”

“Since when have I been part of this?”

He sighed. “What do you want from me?”

She stood and swatted dust from her derrière. “I want you to meet your daughter. Is that so horrible a thing?” Wine was sloshing over the rim of the glass in her hand. Her eyes, too, were brimming.

“We’ve already discussed this. More than once, I might add.”

“Because you won’t listen, Marshall.”

“This is pointless.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about.”

“Kara—”

“The way you tune me out as though I’m not even here. Try to tell you something, and you … you’re a million miles away, reading wine reviews, thumbing through the day’s receipts. Remember the way we used to actually talk over dinner?”

Marsh did remember. They’d survived the mistakes of those early years, but his stock as a husband had since gone into a prolonged tailspin. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment things had turned. Couldn’t specify the cause. He provided shelter, security, a shopping budget—not to mention annual excursions to the Caymans—yet the distance between them continued to
widen. Through it all, Kara’s gentle disposition was the glue that refused to let go, and Marsh was grateful for that. He really was. But her expectations seemed unrealistic. It just wasn’t … it wasn’t normal that he should have to carry the onus of intimacy upon his shoulders.

Men aren’t wired for romance. How many times have I tried to explain that?

Kara, seeming to catch the bitterness in his gaze, looked away. The glass tilted in her grip, dribbled amber liquid onto the drive. “Marsh, I’m planning to meet her, with or without you.”

“Without.”

“She’s our baby—”

“You know that as a fact?”

“
Our
daughter.”

“Either way, we gave her up for a reason. Do we have to replay that discussion? We made a decision, a tough decision that cost us many sleepless nights. You know that as well as I do. Now, just when it seems it’s all behind us … no, it’s back again.”

“
She’s
back. Her name’s Josee.”

“You’ve had too much to drink. Please, honey, maybe we should discuss this later.”

“Why won’t you do this? Your refusal to meet her can do nothing but—”

“But what? Hurt a relationship we’ve never even had? It’s been two decades, Kara. She wants nothing to do with me, and I can’t blame her.”

“She knows you’re not interested—that’s why. She’s just afraid.”

“Well, then—”

“You both are.”

“Wrong!” Marsh felt his pulse pounding in his neck. “This is nothing more than a silly delusion. Do you understand that? You think you’re going to restore things with one magical meeting, but—I hate to break it to you—it doesn’t happen that way.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know it. Josee knows it. Apparently, you’re the one blind to the truth. We have it good here, and now you’re going to jeopardize all that.” Marsh gestured to the slopes of Addison Ridge, where Chardonnay and Pinot Noir grapes shimmered in necklaces of rain. His father, Chauncey Addison,
had carved this business from the ground; his mother, Virginia, had fought to maintain it; and Marsh had acquired it like a mandate from the grave. Transformed it into a viable business too—with a lot of sweat and panache, thank you very much.

“I need some time to think,” Kara said. “Without all the trappings.”

“Whatever works.”

“Marsh,” she spoke in a quavering voice, “do you suppose there’s a reason they call them
trappings?
” She did an about-face and took one limping step.

“Wait.” He set a hand on her arm, combed a golden strand from her shoulder. She teetered on high heels and turned back. He touched her teardrop-diamond earrings—another of his gifts. Or didn’t they count for anything? “Kara, I’m not trying to sound harsh. You’re working through a lot of emotions, I know that, but I’m not sure you’ve weighed the consequences. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“It’s what she wants, Marshall. It’s what I want.” She brushed the lapel of his jacket. “Please, darling, I can’t turn her down. What kind of mother would that make me? It’s been three weeks since Josee first called … my daughter, my
baby
. Every hour of every day I’ve had her running through my thoughts. She’s gone to the trouble of tracking us down, and as her parents, we at least owe her an explanation.”

“Her parents?” Marsh huffed as residual doubts gripped him.

“Darling, when will you believe me that I—”

“Listen.” He mounted the brick steps. “You just do what you have to do, okay?”

When she rejoined him at the dining table, neither said a word. Marsh admired the way her disheveled hair framed her petite face and downturned caramel eyes. After all this time, still so attractive. Still so hard to read. True, he knew a few of her secrets, but perhaps his attempts to forget them had blinded him to her current state.

Of course, his family bore secrets as well.

Insinuations. Shame. Matters best kept tucked away.

In light of the vineyard’s recent successes, Marsh marveled that in a lavish home with a desirable wife his future could be so imperiled by one door into the past.

“I’m all over it, Mr. Steele. I’m there.”

“That’s good to hear.” Stahlherz removed his clenched fingers, watched Beau flex his wrists. He said, “Go ahead and drink up. We need you fully cognizant. You do understand that if you’re captured, you know nothing about me.”

Beau sipped from the cup. “Never heard the name Steele in my life.”

“It’s not an uncommon name. Even if you say something, they may suspect you’ve made it up.”

“But I already know—”

“Know what?”

Beau leaned in. “That it’s not your real name. Gotta protect your own backside.”

“You, my friend, are one of the sharper tools in the shed,” said Stahlherz. “Don’t be mistaken though. If you do reveal any details of our purposes, I’ll personally drop you where you stand—in a prison cell, a witness stand, wherever. I will not hesitate.”

“Fair’s fair.” Beau slugged down a mouthful of coffee, and Stahlherz saw a twitch run down the recruit’s arm. “We’re all expendable. You taught me that yourself.”

Amused, Stahlherz finished the cappuccino and let his gaze drift up the alcove walls. He had difficulty locking eyes with his recruits. Some of them interpreted this as insecurity, yet that wasn’t it at all. Truth be told, he feared they would see his disdain.

Pawns, that’s all these kids are. To be shifted about, exploited, and sacrificed
.

“Beau,” he said, “you’re certain that imprisonment will not deter you?”

“Not even.” Beau’s words became muddled. “This one guy—he and I overhauled an entire engine at a farm in Philomath—he says the slammer’s not bad so long as you keep to yourself. Bring it on. I’ll take the rap.”

“Have you talked to him about us? We’re resting our hopes on you, my friend.”