For Her Eyes Only (19 page)

“Fine. But I’m still not playing the game.”

Ryan nodded. “No problem. Will you manage?” he gestured to her knee.

She tested it. It ached, it ached like the blazes, but she didn’t want to sit on the mountain while Ryan went for help.

She nodded. “I’ll manage.”

Ryan’s lips lifted in a small smile as he went to gather up the skis.

“Good,” he called over his shoulder. “Wait until I come back down to you, then you can lean on me as we go. Keep your eyes peeled as we go down the mountain. For some reason, someone wants Peter and Cassie Winthrop dead.”

* * *

“Ah, the Winthrops have returned,” Gavin said as Vicky and Ryan removed their skis. They were near the front of the main building of the resort. She glared sourly at the counselor-cum-lifestyle coach. He was...smarmy. She was already beginning to detest him. The image of him naked in bed with another man’s wife flashed through her mind, and she shuddered. Ugh.
I
wonder if hypnotism will wipe out that memory.
Either that or a frontal lobotomy
.

“Where are your envelopes?” Neil asked, a smile on his face. She thrust the two yellow scraps into his hand. Her knee was beginning to throb.

“There.” She didn’t bother to hide the testy edge to her tone.

He frowned. “There are only two. There are four envelopes per couple.”

She took a deep breath. She and Ryan and devised an explanation on the way down. “Yeah, well, apparently my husband and I need to work on our communication. We got lost, and then I wrenched my knee.”

“If you’d just done it my way, it would have worked,” Ryan snapped.

“Yeah, well, it’s always your way, isn’t it, Boss Man. Your way or the damned highway,” she snapped right back.

“If you weren’t so controlling—”

“And if you weren’t so pigheaded—”

“Okay, I think we’ll need to possibly focus on effective communication and conflict resolution this afternoon,” Neil interrupted, smiling. “Do you want us to organize an ambulance down to the town?”

Vicky shook her head. No. Then that would be the end of their mission.

“Nah, an ice pack and a couple of bandages, some rest, she’ll be fine,” Ryan answered. She shot him a dark look. He sounded so casual, so cavalier. He was certainly convincing. And she hurt, damn it. For once, she didn’t need to act to look convincing.

“Good idea,” Gavin said. “Why don’t we all break for lunch now, and meet in the lounge at, say, two o’clock? We can set you up nice and cozy on one of the sofas.”

Darn
. She was hoping to get out of another torturous counseling session.

The two counselors stomped up the path to the door that led to reception amidst a round of rumbling from the guests.

Vicky dug her skis into the ground with enough force to stand them up straight. Ryan did the same, and she did her best not to look at him. It had worked. He’d devised a perfectly good reason for them not completing the hunt. He was good at that, reading people and presenting something they would find believable. She sighed. Her first instinct had been to go yell at Meagan James and threaten to sue.

Deborah came up to her and gave her a sympathetic smile. “Hey, so I guess that didn’t go so well.”

Vicky thought about it. Well, she’d nearly ended up dead. “You could say that.”

Deborah glanced over her shoulder toward the retreating Neil and Gavin. “Um, the rest of us were talking, and we were thinking of going to town tonight. You know, on the quiet,” she whispered. Vicky glanced around. Most of the group was trudging toward reception. Only Ryan was close enough to hear them, and he looked more intent on his gloves than their conversation.

She shrugged. “Sure. Sounds good.”

Deborah smiled. “Great. We figured we’d all take our meals at our cabins, and start heading down around eight-thirty. Do you think you’ll be able to get to your car?”

She had Ryan. They could do anything. “Sure.”

“Excellent.” She tapped her nose. “We’ll see you later.”

Vicky watched as the slender woman strode into the building, her blonde ponytail bobbing with each step. Was this another trap? Was Deborah really Jade Maxwell, plotting her demise? She narrowed her eyes.

“Bring it on,” she murmured.

Drew walked out of the sliding doors, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs toward them. He handed one mug to Ryan, the other to her. She frowned. Hot chocolate. It was...thoughtful, for Drew. Too thoughtful. Drew waved her over. The movement was casual, friendly, but his expression was dark. Something was wrong.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Drew grinned, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“We need an excuse to talk and this is the best I can think of. Everyone’s gone inside to eat lunch.”

She slowly sipped the sweet brew, and watched in silence as he placed the tray under his arm.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, the mug masking the movement of her lips.

“I got a call from Reese,” Drew said.

Reese, not Luke. Must be bad. She schooled her features. “Uh-huh.”

Ryan pointed up the mountain. “Look up there, Vic.”

She turned, her back to the massive glass front of the main building, away from any watchful eyes.

“I’m sorry, Vicky. I don’t want to tell you, not like this.”

She must have swallowed too much hot chocolate, because something was knotting inside her stomach. It felt like lead, and it was burning a hole in her gut.

“Just do it.” She straightened her shoulders, squinting against the blinding glare off the snow. “I can handle it.” She was professional. She’d heard plenty of bad news before, had managed to hold it together.

“Orla’s dead. She passed away in her sleep last night.”

Ryan swore and shifted on his feet.

Vicky, paused, the mug halfway to her mouth, her hand trembling.
Orla’s dead
. She took a long, deep breath, and exhaled a shuddering breath, blinking rapidly.

She was wrong. She wasn’t professional. She couldn’t hold it together.
Orla’s dead
. Her friend was dead. After everything they’d done for her, pulling her out of the tub, carrying her to safety—all for nothing. She was dead.

A headache bloomed at her right temple, and she dripped some of the warm, brown liquid to the snow, watched the steam rising from the crisp white blanket. She kept her features tight as she handed the mug back to Drew.

“In her sleep, you say?” She kept her voice low. She had to, otherwise she’d be screaming, and once she started screaming...well, then all pretense would be over.

“Yeah. Doctors say she went peacefully.”

She nodded, biting her lip, keeping her gaze focused on the peak of that damned mountain. She folded her arms. Peacefully. Well, at least there was that.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“I’m sorry, Vic.” Drew’s words were low, tender.

Ryan stepped toward her, then stopped. She nearly doubled over in pain. She hated this job. They couldn’t talk properly, privately. After the scene they’d just staged in front of the group, he couldn’t offer her comfort, and she couldn’t accept it, because they had to look like a disgruntled couple.

“Okay.” She nodded. She had to get away. Go somewhere. She didn’t know where. She just needed to...be. And then she’d have to smile and pretend. God, she hated this job.

She turned up the path and entered reception, keeping her expression schooled as she swept inside the sliding doors. She nodded at Meagan James, who smiled and continued to type something at the reception counter. She started to limp down the hall.
One foot in front of the other
. Her body felt sluggish, weak. Her pace slowed. She was drifting along, staring at her feet as she walked.
One foot in front of the other.

She passed a door marked “Staff Only” just as it opened, and a hand whipped out and grabbed her arm, yanking her back into the bare corridor. Her knee buckled.

She fell into a dark blue embrace. She inhaled. A woodsy scent, laced with honey accents, teased her senses. Surrounded her. Supported her. Earthy but sweet.
Ryan
.

She collapsed against him and let the tears fall. He hugged her tight and rocked her, stroking her hair silently as she poured out the grief she wasn’t allowed to feel.

“It’s okay, Buttercup. I’ve got you. Let it go.”

So she did.

* * *

Ryan sipped his beer as he watched Kurt and Paula onstage, singing a barely recognizable rendition of some song from a movie.
Grease
, maybe. He winced as Paula hit a high note that dogs could hear in the next county. Maybe not. He couldn’t quite tell.

The bar was on the outskirts of town, and for a Wednesday night they drew an interesting crowd, all of whom shared a desire to get up on stage with a mic in hand. He didn’t understand it, quite frankly.
Singing should be for showers
,
period
.

Red velvet curtains provided a backdrop to the stage, and large screens showed the film clip of the selected song. Dark wooden tables and chairs and red leather booths provided a warm, intimate atmosphere at night that Ryan suspected would fade to a tattered, tawdry tiredness in daylight. Cigarette smoke spiraled in misty tendrils throughout the club, creating a dark, mellow cavern with hidden secrets. The clientele ranged from the jean clad and relaxed, to the sharp dressers with a goal to woo the audience, all in snow boots in a nod to the inclement weather outside. The Ultima guests fell somewhere in between.

Vicky and Deborah were going over the song list, trying to make a selection. He sighed. He stared at her for a moment. She was all class. It had been torture, listening to Drew tell her that her best friend had died, and not being able to comfort her. The muscles in his cheeks clenched. She’d handled it beautifully. Anyone watching would have thought they were admiring the view of the mountain. She’d been calm. Neutral. He’d been so damned proud of her, yet had ached terribly for her. He’d run around the side of the building and into the staff entrance because he couldn’t wait to get to her, to hold her, to let her know she wasn’t alone.

He took a swig from his beer and looked around the bar. All of the couples were there. Kurt and Paula on stage. Deborah with Vicky, Hank at the bar with Jeffrey. Elliot was chatting to Margie while his stony-faced wife sat beside him. Drew had told him about the special delivery Elliot had received from the maid. Painkillers? Antibiotics to fight infection? So far, none of the fingerprints Drew had managed to gather matched those on file for Simon and Jade Maxwell.

“Here you go,” Hank said as he and Jeffrey delivered several glasses and bottles to the table. Elliot crowed as he reached for another beer, and Jennifer shot him a filthy look as she reached for her soda.

Ryan swallowed the remains of his beer and reached for the next one. He was working on a ratio of one to two. One sip for him, two swigs for the potted ficus behind him. Hank and Jeffrey were already tipsy, and Elliot—well, Elliot was definitely something. The guy’s pupils were a tad dilated, and his whole mood was changing, lightening.

Kurt and Paula finished their song—
thank God
—and left the stage to the frenzied cheering of their group. Ryan was pretty sure some of that cheering was because their number was over. Midweek, the Hawke’s Rest Tavern was one of the few venues open in town, and the only one to offer karaoke.

Vicky looked over her shoulder at him. She wore a brittle smile on her face that had everyone else fooled, but he could see the darkness in her eyes, the sorrow.

“Are you coming up?” she called to him.

He arched an eyebrow. Seriously? Sing in public? He didn’t mind putting on a face and pretending to be something else, but there was something about singing on stage that tapped into a vulnerability, a form of intimate expression that he thought would be about as much fun as ripping your chest open with a bread knife and no anesthetic. “Not a chance.”

She laughed and walked up to the stage with her new karaoke buddy, Deborah.

“You don’t like this singing scene either, huh?” Hank said as he indicated the ladies onstage.

Ryan shook his head. “I don’t mind watching it, but I won’t do it. I don’t want to rupture anyone’s eardrums,” he said.

Hank and Jeffrey laughed. “The things we do to keep our women happy, huh?” Jeffrey commented. Margie had risen from the table and was now rifling through the song lists.

The strains of an ABBA song blared from the speakers, and the small crowd in the tavern cheered. Some women even managed to drag reluctant partners out to the miniscule patch of boards that passed as a dance floor. Ryan shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips as Vicky launched into song, with Deborah singing backup. Something about getting men after midnight. He wondered if it was an appropriate song to sing at a couples’ retreat. Probably not, but nobody seemed to mind. He leaned back against the booth behind him. He liked listening to Vicky sing. She had a beautiful, melodious voice that always entranced him. But he’d never admit it. That would be an invitation to road trip hell.

“Man, if my wife could be happy with this, life could be so easy.” Hank drank from his bottle.

Jeffrey sniggered. “All you have to do is give her a baby.”

Hank shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Of course, you can. Just do the deed, and bam, she’s pregnant.” Jeffrey chuckled as he leaned closer. “If you need any tips, I’d be happy to help.”

Ryan shuddered as he sipped his beer. He didn’t think Hank realized Jeffrey was making a serious offer.

Hank rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not that. I mean, I can’t...” he made a gesture that Ryan assumed was supposed to be a rough parody of the sex act.

“You’re shooting blanks?” Jeffrey asked.

Hank nodded, looking around the group. The others were involved in their own conversations, and not paying the three men any attention. Hank made a snipping motion with his fingers.

Ryan frowned. “A vasectomy? You’ve had a vasectomy?”

“Shh, not so loud,” Hank muttered, before nodding. “Yes, I’ve had the snip.”

Ryan looked up at the two women on stage who were singing as though the room was full of talent scouts. Deborah’s arm rose as she belted out a note.
She doesn’t know
.

He glanced back at Hank. Jeffrey stood with his mouth gaping open, and finally shook his head. “For God’s sake, man, why?”

Hank shrugged. “I had to. My parents are carriers for the Tay-Sachs disease, and I’m a carrier, too.”

Ryan blinked. “I have no idea what the Tay-Sachs disease is, sorry.”

Hank grimaced. “It’s nasty. I had two brothers affected by it. Both died before they were four years old.” He took a deep draught of his beer. “It’s not pretty, I can tell you that. When I found I carried the gene, I had a vasectomy.” He stared morosely into his beer. “I didn’t want any kids of mine to go through what my brothers did, what my parents did.”

Jeffrey sat back on his stool. “That’s...intense.”

Ryan indicated Deborah up on stage. “And you didn’t think to tell your wife?”

Hank spread his hands. “When I first met her, she told me she didn’t want kids. I thought, great, neither do I. Now she’s doing fertility drugs, flying to clinics for treatments, it’s doing her head in, not getting pregnant. She’s had to start seeing a shrink.”

Ryan grimaced. She was seeing a whole lot more of that shrink than Hank knew. “Why don’t you just tell her?”

Hank rolled his eyes. “Tell me, how do you tell your wife, who’s twisted herself inside-out trying to get pregnant, that she can’t have kids because you annihilated your retarded sperm?”

Jeffrey swallowed. Ryan thought he looked a little green. “Never admit fault,” the lawyer said. “Whatever you do, don’t tell her. If you weren’t already a eunuch, she’d turn you into one.”

Ryan shifted in his seat. Talk about something else. “So why did you come to Ultima?”

Hank finished his beer. “Deborah won the weekend through some draw at her shrink’s office.”

Jeffrey straightened. “Hey, I won ours through a sales seminar. Jennifer told Margie that they were invited to trial it for Jennifer’s company.”

Ryan frowned. That was a handy coincidence, except in this job, there were no coincidences. “I’m paying for ours.” He wondered if Kurt and Paula had a similar story.

Jeffrey winced. “Ouch. Couldn’t believe it. I never win anything. It didn’t take much to convince Margie to come away for a retreat.”

Hank leaned back in his chair. “I get the impression she would like to see you make partner...?”

Jeffrey sighed. “Yeah. She was pre-law, had to give up college when she got pregnant.”

“I didn’t realize you had kids,” Hank said, frowning.

Jeffrey shook his head. “No, she was pregnant when I met her. She ended up giving the kid up for adoption. But she always regretted not completing her degree. That’s why she’s always riding me to make partner, I think—because she can’t.”

Guess that explained the photo in the locket. Ryan glanced up on stage as Vicky and Deborah’s number built to a crescendo as they hit the final bars of the song, and the crowd roared.

For a moment, Vicky looked almost happy. Then she looked over at their table, and her smile stuttered as she surveyed the group. He knew what she was thinking. One of them was responsible for the death of her friend, and her friend’s father. One of these beer-chugging, wine-sipping, vocally challenged couples had stabbed, sliced, and diced another human being. If he had any sensitivity, he’d probably be cringing, too.

He rested his now-empty beer bottle on the scarred wooden table with a clunk. That was it, though. He wasn’t cringing. This was his job, this is what he did. Rub shoulders with sicko murderers. He was immune to the emotion of it. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d let it affect him. His grip on the bottle tightened until his knuckles turned white. That was a lie. He could remember. This job, this mission, for some reason, had pulled all those painful memories from the dark cave where he’d kept them hidden in his mind.

Vicky slid into the chair at his side, and her smile brightened when she met his gaze. It was her. The reason he was plagued with an emotional echo he’d long thought gone was because of Vicky, damn it. Too many parallels that Gavin and Neil would have a field day with.

“How is your knee?” She’d iced it and rested it during the afternoon session. Where possible, she was keeping off it.

She smiled. “I think it was just a twist. The swelling is already going down.”

He nodded and turned back to the stage as Margie sang a song, Vicky clapping along to the beat next to him. Paula sat down next to her.

“That was a great number, Cassandra,” she said to Vicky, her words bearing the slight accent of her South American origins. But anyone could fake an accent. He did, all the time.