Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1) (19 page)

However, since the grounds were so heavily patrolled, she hoped the upper-floor windows weren’t alarmed. She’d checked hers and Maria’s bedroom windows. Neither of them were. Did that mean Sebastian’s office was fair game? If there was an alarm on the window or inside the room, and she didn’t see it before attempting to break in, she’d be in trouble. But she had few options and not much time. If that picture Clay had given her was of her mother, every minute Talia remained in the hands of her captors would be a living hell.

Mercy dashed away threatening tears at the thought and clipped a tiny Nokia digital camera to her belt. It might look like a toy, but when her mother had given it to her for Christmas, she had assured her it was top-of-the-line. Mercy added a lock pick kit and latex gloves to a pouch clipped to the belt. She’d need those after she’d made it to Sebastian’s office. To get there she’d need bare hands.

Sliding open her window, she peered out across the working yard. Nothing moved in the moonlight. One guard leaned against the wooden slats of the closed gate, gazing out over the valley.

This would be her first attempt at B&E, but not her first at clandestine information gathering. Since arriving in Mexico City, she had quickly learned how easy it was to wander unattended through a party house. Hosts were preoccupied with their guests. Servants too busy to question a curious wanderer. Now and then a couple might discreetly slipped off for a hasty shag in an empty bedroom.

She’d had no trouble accessing personal files and, in one house, found a wall safe she’d been able to open with the help of the combination her host had conveniently (but foolishly) left on a slip of paper in a desk drawer.

Now, stepping out onto the balcony, Mercy looked to her left and along the row of similar private balconies extending from each of six rooms across the front of the house. Why the architect hadn’t simply built one long, raised porch across the entire front of the house, she had no idea. Maybe, at the time it was built, several hundred years ago, such things weren’t done. The space between each balcony appeared to be six or seven feet.

She’d studied them from the ground while she and Maria painted that afternoon. Too far apart for her to step across, even with her long legs. She couldn’t throw anything like a grappling hook—even if she'd had one—to catch between the iron rails. Too much noise. It would surely attract the guards’ attention.

But a leap of this distance was possible for a trained gymnast and competitive swimmer—and she’d been both.
Stand outside of the rail on the edge of the first balcony’s platform. Aim high to compensate for gravity. Dive. Grab railing. Swing up and over.
Piece of cake. All she was doing was a simple maneuver she'd learned as a kid while training on the parallel bars. She was confident she still had the upper body strength to manage it.

The key was to move as quietly and quickly as possible. No grunts or clunky landings to attract attention from the men on the ground.

More excited than afraid, Mercy climbed over the iron bars surrounding her own balcony and balanced on the ledge. The position felt familiar. Like waiting for the crack of a starter’s pistol at a swim meet. She envisioned her trajectory. Judged the proper amount of effort.
Better to go long than short.
Miss the railing, and she’d plummet twenty feet, her fall broken by hard-packed earth. If she didn’t break her neck, she’d survive. But she’d be caught by the guards.

Now! Stop stalling.

Mercy dove.

She stretched her body up and out, arms extended. Flying! For a fraction of a second, she felt pure exhilaration. In the next moment, realization slammed into her gut—she didn’t have a prayer.
It's too far!

Everything happened so fast she didn’t have time to panic. Her fingertips scraped the top rail. Black wrought-iron bars flashed past her eyes. The ledge came up fast. She was on her way down.

With extreme effort she lengthened her body an extra inch, felt something solid brush against her right hand. Grabbed for it. Latching fingers around the bottom of a vertical rail she felt the weight of her body jerk her shoulder muscles tight.

When she stopped falling she was dangling below the target balcony by one arm.

Gasping for breath, her heart racing, she looked down and saw the gate guard strike a match. It turned his face a glowing orange. He held the match to his cigar and puffed.
Where are the other guards?
She couldn’t see them. At least no one seemed to have seen her. A cloud passed over the moon. The night turned inky black.
Thank God!

Mercy reached up with her other hand, got a grip on a second post. Struggling, she pulled herself, hand over hand, up the iron lattice and finally tumbled over the top rail and onto the balcony.

Damn!
This was going to be a lot harder than she’d thought. Three more balconies to go before she reached Sebastian's office. And—
shit!
—she had to go back the way she’d come or risk setting off alarms in the hallway.

It had been ten years since she'd actively participated in gymnastics. Swimming had eventually won out and become her sport. But workouts like this required different muscles. Muscles, she now realized, she never used during her aerobics classes at the Georgetown Gym and runs around the Ellipsis in D.C.

Mercy rotated her shoulder to ease its tightness—up, around, back—relieved that she hadn’t dislocated it. She wiped her suddenly sweaty palms down the sides of her leggings.

This time she'd aim higher.

Her take-off was perfect. But she went long, catching her ribcage then her chin on the upper rail. Scrambling awkwardly, noisily, she finally made it over and tumbled onto the ledge.

Someone shouted from below in Spanish. “Juan! You hear that?”

A yellow torch beam flashed across the front of the house. Mercy huddled in the shadow cast by the platform beneath her. The guard muttered that it was probably nothing more than a bat flying into the side of the house. The men returned to their posts.

Mercy squeezed her eyes shut in relief. She breathed, letting her runaway pulse slow.

The next jump she got almost right. Banging her ribs again but stifling her cry of pain. However, her final leap was worthy of Olympic gold.

All right!
But before she tried the door she checked for alarm wires, triggers, or infra-red beams. Seeing none, she carefully turned the knob. The door eased open. No lock. No screaming alarms. Nothing. She was in.

While passing Sebastian’s office before he'd left that day, she’d glanced through the open doorway and quickly memorized the placement of furniture. She was confident she could negotiate the room without bumping into things in the dark.

Standing with her back to the now-closed balcony door, Mercy let her gaze drift across the black space before her. She could see nothing other than vague shapes but recalled the layout of the room and its contents. Vertical files along the left wall. Three oil paintings hanging over them in a row. A huge ebony desk had occupied the center of the room, facing the door. Lamps, two visitors’ chairs, a tall 18
th-
century armoire she’d need to investigate as a possible hiding place for files and correspondence. Wet bar along the right wall. Nearest to the door would be the couch and coffee table.

She took a cautious step toward the center of the room.

One of the shapes moved.

Startled, Mercy froze and sucked in air. Was it an illusion? Her heartbeat—bang, bang, bang in her ears—like gunshots. Her mouth, sand dry.

She waited, talking to herself:
You’re the only one here. Stop imagining things.

She felt like a rabbit caught away from its warren, instinct messaging its bunny brain—
Don’t move and the fox won’t see you!

The sharp scratch of a match strike broke the silence. A whiff of sulphur, followed by a wavering yellow flame. Mercy stared at it, mesmerized, breath held.

The flame moved downward, its faint glow revealing a pillar candle set on one corner of the desk. One. . .two. . .three wicks were lit, revealing the room in a dim amber glow.

“You waited much longer than I'd expected.”
His
voice.

23

Mercy closed her eyes and willed her heart not to explode. Hidalgo. He had tricked her. Evidently, he’d doubled back after letting her see him drive away.

She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry, Sebastian, I was just…” Her brain refused to function.
An excuse! I’m here because…
  “Curious. I was just curious, you see, about—”

“Curious,” he repeated.

“Yes, I mean—” an idea struck her, “—you spoke of your art collection but I haven’t seen it yet. Not a collection really, just a few paintings on the walls. So I thought maybe the Kahlos you mentioned were—”

“You thought I kept a vault of priceless masterpieces tucked away in my office?”

“Yes,” she said brightly even as she realized how lame it all sounded, her standing here in B&E drag.

Sebastian didn’t dignify her lie with a response. He picked up the candle and walked toward her, bringing the circle of light with him. His eyes mirrored the flickering flame. “I’d rather you claim that you were looking for me.”

Her voice trembled. “W-why is that?”

“Because we’ve never had more than a few minutes alone together.” He touched her wrist. “And something is happening between the two of us. It’s my guess you want to investigate those sensations, those feelings, as much as I do.”

“Not really,” she said. “No”

“No—you don’t wish to investigate these emotions? Or no—you feel nothing at all for me?”

The movement of his lips mesmerized her. She couldn’t look away from them. She couldn’t form a response.

“I, umm…There is nothing between us.” The words felt like steam in her throat, evaporating almost before they passed over her lips. “I’m sure it’s your imagination. I’m just here for Maria…and to see your art, if you’ll still allow me.”

His fingertips moved up her arm from the pulse point at her wrist to the hollow inside her elbow. She shivered as the calloused pads of his wide fingers tracked slowly upward, over her shoulder and circled behind her neck.

Sebastian pulled her toward him. “And when I do this?”

She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t make herself blink while he held her there, staring into her eyes. Testing her. Judging her.

“Nothing,” she repeated her mantra as a whisper. “There’s nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.” His voice remained chillingly calm. “I believe you have used my daughter as an excuse to come here for a specific reason. Either because you are wildly attracted to me, or to spy on me.” He smiled, showing white teeth, a wolf's snarl. He pointed to her belt. “The burgling tools indicate the latter, do they not? How disappointing. And you have timed your intrusion for when you thought I would be away.”

She moved her head in denial—side to side to side.

“If not that, then tell me why you really are here.” His outward lack of emotion unsettled her. She would have felt far better had he yelled accusations at her.

“To paint. I came to spend time with Maria.”

“You lie!” he roared.

No, yelling wasn’t better.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have infringed on your privacy.”

She was shaking now, unable to stop the quaking that started deep in her chest and worked its way out through her fingertips. She sensed that he had stopped listening to her. That he’d never really cared what she offered as an excuse for invading his office.

He must have been as aware of the closeness of their bodies as she was. His fingers flexed at her nape, testing their pressure on her flesh. At five distinct points they made heated contact. He held her just firmly enough to make sure she didn’t slip away.

Without taking his eyes off of her, Sebastian used his other hand to move the burning candle to a nearby shelf. He brought his mouth to within inches of hers. His breath warmed her lips. His arms came around her and pulled her still closer. Their bodies pressed together.

The heat and hardness of him shocked her into responding with her own internal fire. She tried to ignore the shivers of pleasure working their way up from her toes. He was going to kiss her. Or ravage her. Or…she didn’t dare think in details.

Mercy squeezed her eyes shut. “Please don’t,” she whispered. “I’m—”

“You’re going to tell me that you’re married,” he said. “I already know that.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have affairs with married women.”

She had no idea how she was supposed to respond to that. “All right.”

When she looked at him again the corners of his lips had lifted, as if he found her amusing. “All right? Does that mean you approve of my rule?”

Mercy sucked down enough oxygen to clear hear head a little. She met his gaze, trying through telepathy to convey her strength of will. “You and I aren’t going to have an affair, Sebastian. We aren’t going to have anything like that at all. We don’t even like each other.”