Dead Ringer (29 page)

She and Finn had spent the last few hours going over the plan for the night in soft, low tones that wouldn't carry into the hall. Since she hadn't been able to map the north wing for him, she'd have to lead him to the locked room. He'd asked minute questions about the route, the habits of Victor, Marian, Grisha, and the rest of the staff, and made her describe the passage down to the room in endless repetition.

It had been torture. Every last minute of it,

Finn looked so damn good, so clean and strong. His crystal-blue eyes had fired her blood, his lean, dark body set off a rocket inside her. The bed was there, she was there.

But he hadn't touched her. He'd kept the dresser between them, the bed, the closet door. And when he couldn't find a piece of furniture to hide behind, he stayed on the other side of the room.

And coward that she was, she let him. For once, she didn't tease or tempt. She didn't ask herself why, she didn't want to know. Instead, she described her fruitless search of the guest house, the words as good a barrier as any he could come up with.

Until finally they'd drifted into a taut, awkward silence, he on the floor below the window, she across the room on the rocking chair. She tilted back and forth, her fingers clutching the arms. But white-knuckled as they were, they still burned to touch him. Even her fingernails felt hot.

Now she cut a glance his way. He was focused dead ahead and her heart skipped a beat. Something about the sight of him saving the world set her bad-girl heart racing. She'd always been a sucker for a nice guy, and try as Finn might, he couldn't completely hide the nice guy beneath the bastard.

She smiled to herself in the dark. She hadn't dreamt him in her room the other night. He'd been there, tender and soft, the glow of admiration in his eyes. And not just for her body, but for her. For the person she was becoming, the person she could be.

Prove him right, party girl.

God, she wanted to. Desperately. And tonight... she had a feeling it would be tonight. They'd find the pluto-nium and prove Victor an accomplice to terror. And she wouldn't have to sleep with him to do it. Nervous excitement fluttered through her, the kind she imagined an actor felt just before the curtain goes up, minutes away from applause.

A flash of lightning buzzed neon as they came to the long, window-lined hallway that led to the north wing. Reflected glow from exterior lights just barely illuminated the way. Aside from being caught by someone inside the ranch, this was the most dangerous part of their journey. Through the glass, a patrol could catch them clearly in a searchlight sweep.

At the edge of the corridor, Finn pulled her back. Cautiously, he gestured her toward the wall opposite the glass, as far away from the windows as possible. He put a finger to his lips, then used it to point straight ahead, signaling that he would take the lead. She nodded and followed as he slipped into the passage. Heart pounding, her gaze fixed on his strong back, she slid soundlessly across the wide expanse of wall. The wind shrieked and somewhere a window rattled. To her right the night loomed through the long window, a dark, thick wraith ready to spring at her.

Suddenly, she was jerked off her feet, face shoved against the wall.
Finn.
Pressing her into the wood with the force of his body.

Her heart leaped into her throat. "What are you-?"

"Shh." His hand glided over her face to cover her lips. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a glow of light through the window.
Patrol.

The light advanced, the shine increasing. Finn pressed in closer, blending them into the shadows, one hand over her mouth, the other imprisoning her between the wall and his body.

At last the searchlight faded, and he released her. Slowly, he turned her to face him. His big hands stroked her from forehead to chin. She closed her eyes, terrified that the softness of his touch meant something real. "Okay?" he whispered.

God, no, she wasn't okay. She would never be okay as long as he was around. "Fine," she whispered, and escaped into the darkness at the end of the glass hallway, darkness that would swallow up the flush that still heated her whole body. As if to underscore the havoc inside her, a clap of thunder split the air.

A few minutes later she slipped into the narrow passageway that ted to the locked room. He was right behind her, so close she could feel the heat he generated. The path was even darker than it had been the first time she'd been there; they were deep in the bowels of the ranch, visibility zero, thunder a muffled thud. She dreaded going down the dark hallway with Finn's smell and body so overwhelmingly near. But just as she was about to turn and push him the hell away, he clicked on a tiny penlight and took the lead again.

When they got to the door, he shone the light on the lock, running his fingers over the keypad. He took out the black box and removed the sequencer inside. Kneeling, he peered up at the underside of the lock, then gestured her down beside him.

"Keep the light there." He handed her the light and aimed her hand. Her stomach fluttered at his touch, but she quickly suppressed the feeling to concentrate on the task at hand. Using a minuscule screwdriver he pulled from his pocket, he unscrewed the housing, then slid on the sequencer. He fiddled with the fit, muttered a low curse, men rocked back on his heels.

"Got it," he whispered, and pressed a switch she couldn't see. "Turn off the light."

In the sudden dark, a series of greenish numbers appeared. They seemed suspended in the air, but she knew they were embedded into the sequencer that was now attached to the lock. The numbers tumbled slow at first, then faster and finally too fast for her to follow as the device searched for the combination that would open the door. At last, one number fell into place and stopped rolling. Then another and another until a six-digit code hung ghostly in the dark. Finn switched on the penlight and punched in the code. A whirring sound, clicks, and when Finn pushed, the door swung open.

The room was dark as a tomb but ripe with a familiar scent.

"Jesus," Finn breathed. "It smells like that damn closet. What the hell is that?"

"My mother." The hair on her arms stood on end. The place smelled as if it had been bathed in her spicy fragrance.

"What do you mean?" Finn closed the door, then slid the narrow beam of light to his left and found a wall switch, which he flicked up.

"That's her"-Angelina blinked as light flooded the room-"perfume." Then her eyes adjusted and she gasped, clutching a hand to her chest.

"Oh, my God," Finn said, slowly lowering the wind-breaker hood to see it all.

She'd expected ugly linoleum and army-green file cabinets, metal desks and computers. Instead, the room was lovely in a spare, almost Asian way. Blond oak gleamed beneath her feet in a perfect square. In the center stood the room's only piece of furniture: a lacquered black bench, circular and unadorned. But on every wall, covering every vacant inch, were pictures of Carol Bo-rian.

"He's crazy," Finn said quietly.

"Crazy with grief."

Angelina heard the despair in her voice; she could taste the disappointment. Without looking, she knew they'd never find the plutonium here.

She slid the scarf off her hair, letting the black silk pool around her neck, and stumbled to the low bench where she sank down before her rubbery legs gave out.

Numbly, she stared at the walls. In the middle of each a wide, central panel of fine, pale wood rose from floor to ceiling, a simple motif that set off the pictures on either side. Carol on horseback, around the lake, in a Jeep, in front of the porch. From poster size down to tiny snapshots, her mother smiled, laughed, threw her head back in joy, or pouted like a little girl. Every incarnation, every mood, every expression, alive on four walls.

Alive.
Angelina's heart beat a rapid, painful tattoo. Her mother was alive. Here. Everywhere she looked. Laughing, teasing, having fun.
Happy.
God, she seemed so happy. And so real. Angelina could barely look yet couldn't tear her gaze away.

"We won't find anything here," she murmured.

But Finn was already running his fingers up one of the wood panels. "How do you know?"

"This is a church," she said. "A shrine. Don't you see?" Slowly she circled around, engrossed in the collective images. "It's the Carol Borian Memorial Chapel. He wouldn't do anything to put it at risk. Believe me, there's nothing here we want."

Finn paused in his exploration of the wood panel and came over to sit beside her. "I know this is a shock. It's not what we expected. You're probably right, but it doesn't hurt to look."

She shook her head. It did hurt. It hurt very much. "We've already stayed too long."

"The door's closed, there's no windows. That passageway is a good thirty feet from the main section of the house. We're safe for five more minutes." He pushed a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "You don't have to do anything. Just sit here while I look around."

But she couldn't bear that either. Action was better than sitting and brooding. "No, I'll help. Tell me what to do."

He pointed to two walls, one in front of her and one to her right. "Take those two. Look for seams that shouldn't be there, hidden latches, breaks in the plane of the wall."

Slowly, she rose and crossed to the right-hand wall. Fingers skimming over the surface, she felt around as he'd instructed. As she did so, her fingers brushed over her mother's face countless times and she wondered what it might have been like to do that for real. To touch her mother. To have her mother touch her.

Would she have claimed Angelina? Approved of her?

Loved her?

The questions sent a pang of longing through Angelina. She'd never know. If she wanted someone to love her, she'd have to look elsewhere.

Elsewhere.

To her left, Finn's lean, dark shape seemed to loom larger.
Someday you're going to want me for real, Angel.

Had someday come? Queasiness fluttered through her and she pushed the thought away. She glanced at him; he was gnawing the inside of his lip and staring hard at the wall to her left.

"Think you could ever love someone this much?" she asked.

"This isn't love, it's obsession. And it's what happens when you give too much of yourself away."

Even now, when she knew Finn had relented toward her, when he'd been on the verge of appreciating her for more than her measurements, even now, he kept his distance. "Is that how you view love?" she asked quietly. "The fastest route to losing yourself?"

He tore himself away from the display and shot her a pointed look. "Don't you?"

Touche, Sharkman.

She moved on to the next wall, running her hands up the side of the wood panel and expecting to find more of the same-nothing. But almost immediately, her fingers slid over a mechanism, tripping it

With a silent lurch, the panel began to move.

"Finn!"

He took one look, saw what was happening, and raced across the room. Pushing her out of the way, he dragged her backward to the opposite wall, putting his own body between her and whatever was on the other side of the sliding door.

"My God, what is it?" Her heart was climbing up her throat.

"I don't know, but until we do, we stay back."

She stared at the ponderous glide of the panel, unable to accept that she'd been wrong about Victor. He couldn't have hidden the plutonium here. She could not believe it. She clutched at Finn's arms, fingers digging into the taut muscle. But the panel didn't hide a safe or a shelf with a container of nuclear material. Behind the door stood a... she didn't know what it was. Some kind of metal sculpture? Silver in color and tall as a man, it was capsule-sleek in shape with a three-dimensional design all over the surface. From here it looked like... like flowers. She blinked and peered closer at the top end of the sculpture, where a thickly paned window cut into the front.

"Stay here," Finn said.

No argument there, Sharkman. She watched him approach the thing.

"What is it?" He didn't answer and she began to get even more jittery. "What the hell is it?" She stepped forward.

"Don't!"

She stopped immediately.

"Don't come any closer." Something in his voice sent a chill skittering up her spine.

"Why? What's wrong? What's in there?"

He turned, his face ashen. "Your mother."

CHAPTER
17