Darkness Chosen: Into The Shadow Part 15

Chapter Sixteen.

Jackson Sonnet stared up at his newest trophya"a ma.s.sive moose head head bagged on a visit to Alaskaa"tapped his fingers on his desk, and waited. And waited.

Finally Phil Chronies appeared in the door of his study. "Here it is, Mr. Sonnet. I found it. I just sort of misplaced it. Forgot about it, really. You get so much mail itas hard to keep track of it all." He sidled up and handed Jackson the detectiveas report.

Jackson looked at the flat manila envelope. "Itas been opened."

"Yeah, those mailmen up here in Montana are real nosy." Phil fidgeted like a kid who needed to go to the bathroom.

"Get out."

Phil fled.

"Donat slama""

Phil slammed the door behind him.

"a"the door!" The little p.r.i.c.k did it every d.a.m.ned time.

Chronies wasnat good for anything. After hearing his story about how Karen had been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around with some Himalayan biker, how Phil had struggled to keep the job going by himself, and how Karen had left him to die, Jackson had felt bad about the missing arm, not to mention that head wanted to avoid a lawsuit, so head made sure all the hospitalization and rehab were paid for one hundred percent. That was six months Phil had been out of commission.

Then, when he came back, Jackson had given him a job in his main office in town, answering questions from the field. It made sense; Phil was a G.o.dd.a.m.ned construction a.s.sistant. He should have known the business, or so Jackson had thought.

But Phil had been lousy, ignorant of the most basic matters, unable to get materials where they should be when they should be, and his misplaced arrogance had resulted in Jacksonas loss of one of his best site supervisors.

Two, if he counted Karen.

So, to minimize the damage Phil could do, Jackson had stuck him in employee relations and told his office manager to keep him busy. After three months Nancy had begged Jackson to get rid of Phil before they had a s.e.xual-hara.s.sment suit on their hands.

So Jackson had brought him to his home office, and told him to do the filing.

The dumbs.h.i.t couldnat even do that.

What had Karen said before she walked out?

Enjoy your time with Phil, and try to make yourself believe heas telling you the truth.

It was as though shead cursed Jackson, because these last two years had been a misery. As far as he could tell, Phil was allergic to work, any kind of work. He made up stupid excuses for his incompetence. Every time Jackson yelled, Phil brought up the story about how Karen had been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g a biker and left him to be crushed by a rockfall. And every time the guy started in on the story about Karen and the rockfall, it changed a little.

Jackson shouldnat have listened to him in the first place. He shouldnat have told Karen the truth about her mother. He should have kept his promise to Abigail and raised Karen like his own daughter instead of like a convenient employee . . . c.r.a.p. For the first time in his life he felt guilty.

He was going to have to dump Phil. Head give him a nice retirement package, threaten him with death and worse if he told secrets about Jacksonas personal business, and out the door head go.

Because no one had the right to know what was happening with Karen except Jackson Sonnet.

The envelope opened easilya"preopened envelopes did thata"and he pulled out the report.

Karen had spent almost a year in Europe doing just what she said she was going to doa" not one whole h.e.l.lofa lot of anything.

Sure shead never be able to stand it, Jackson had kept waiting for her to come crawling home.

But she didnat. The detective agency had sent him photos of her at the Vienna opera, traveling by rail, eating at an open market, lolling on beaches with people head never seen before.

Apparently she made friends easily. Just like her mother.

But unlike her mother, she wasnat sleeping with anyone. As far as the detective could discover, Karen was as pure as the driven snow.

That made Jackson wonder . . . was that story shead told him the truth? Had she really been kidnapped by a warlord and held hostage?

Had some son of a b.i.t.c.h hurt his little girl? Had Jackson failed her so miserably?

The paper crinkled in Jacksonas fist.

Last year, when shead finally returned to the States, Jackson had waited to see her walk through the door, looking for a job.

She went to a spa in Arizona instead, stayed there as a guest for a week, then got a job as an events coordinator.

When he read that report, Jackson had almost frothed at the mouth. All those years of college, of training, of learning to survive in the toughest conditions, gone to waste in a pansy-a.s.s spa and hotel taking care of parties for people who lounged around in hot tubs and got ma.s.sages. And got pedicures, for s.h.i.tas sake.

According to this latest report, she was still there. They liked her a lot. Every progress report was filled with praise. Shead had a couple of raises. And there were pictures.

Jackson sank down in his chair and stared at the photo in his hand.

She looked good. Not like Abigail; if shead looked like Abigail maybe he could have forgiven her. Instead she looked like a female version of her father, that G.o.dd.a.m.ned Indian Nighthorse. Shead fixed herself up. Gotten a tan. Let her hair grow and lightened it. Wore makeup and dresses . . .

She was an awfully pretty woman, and she didnat deserve what head given her.

He should have kept his promise to Abigail.

If he had, he wouldnat now be a pathetic old man spying on the girl head loved like a daughter.

Phil soundlessly shut the door to Jacksonas office.

Head learned that if he banged it hard enough, it popped back open and he could watch the old fart. It helped to know Sonnetas mood, and it helped to know when to look busy. The old fart threw a tizzy when he caught Phil checking e-mail or playing computer solitaire, and he had really been ugly about that "lost" detectiveas report. But Phil couldnat help it.

Someone wanted to know all about Karen Sonnet, and someone was willing to pay well for the information. And Phil Chronies was pleased as h.e.l.l to give up that self-righteous b.i.t.c.h to anyone with a cashieras check.

The phone rang.

He smiled unpleasantly as he grabbed his copy of the detectiveas report and picked up the receiver.

Someone was right on time.

Chapter Seventeen.

The Burstroms had hired the whole water complex for their opening-night gala, and it boasted a diving pool and a swimming pool, three waterslides, and a quarter of a mile of river that circled the perimeter with a powerful current that propelled the Burstromsa guests from the buffet to the poolside bar and back. There were lifeguards for every five swimmers, two ma.s.seuses giving neck rubs on their portable tables, a deejay who played requests, and the Burstromsa guests swam, basked in the setting sun, and marveled at the view.

Karen oversaw the event with a keen eye, and that kept her so busy that she scarcely thought about Rick Wilder and his eerie resemblance to Warlord. Although . . . she never quite relaxed.

When she finally did see him, he was hefting himself out of the swimming pool. She watched, transfixed, as he crimped his toes on the edge, thrust his wet hair out of his eyes, and laughed down at two of Burstromas older lady employees.

He looked so normal. Not like a warlord or her evil nemesis, but like an American guy dressed in green swimming trunks and a dripping beige T-shirt . . . a really ripped American guy.

She thought she should take the opportunity to study his body, see if she recognized any identifying marks, but it appeared she wasnat the only woman with that idea in mind, and he quickly disappeared under the barrage of four newly minted Burstrom female engineers.

Which made Karen feel sort of funny, like an old girlfriend cast aside.

By the time she got to bed that night shead been going nonstop for twenty hours, and she slept like a rock, without a single premonition or dream.

The schedule the next morning brought a volleyball tournament and tennis matches, and the afternoon included a wine tasting, and by the time the Burstrom Technologiesa first sit-down dinner rolled around, Karen was ready for a moment alone. She saw the dinner through to the dessert course, then left matters in the hands of their very capable caterers and wandered out to her favorite place on the grounds, the j.a.panese garden. The night was cleara"of course, it was the Arizona deserta"and the full moon and discreet lighting made the path easy to follow. The white gravel crunched beneath her sandals, and beside the path a tiny brook trickled over polished stones, headed for the edge of the cliff, where it would artfully tumble down in a froth of waterfall. She rounded the corner, descended the stairs cut into the stonea"and stopped cold.

The granite bench was occupied. She started to back away, but he turned his head, and the white moonlight shone on his face.

Rick Wilder.

Everything shead said to Dika about being strong and self-reliant vanished in a flash of alarm.

She lifted one foot, ready to flee.

He stood at once. "Sorry. Sorry! Is this your private garden? I thought Iad excuse myself and not go back, because I knew Chisholm was going to present the annual employee awards. Since Iam not an employee, I frankly donat care. Shall I leave you alone?"

She hesitated.

But he sounded so normal, so all-around-guy -like . . . and she couldnat say head followed her, since shead arrived after him. No one knew where she was, but she had her pager, and it wasnat like she couldnat yell and summon the security guards that patrolled the grounds every moment of every night.

"This garden is for the use of the guests, and if you donat mind my company, Iad love to take a moment to rest." She found an artistically placed boulder in the middle of the raked rock garden, far away from him, seated herself, and groaned. "I have been waiting to sit down for the last six hours."

"I noticed that you run from morning to night."

He noticed? Head watched her? "Not always, " she said cautiously. "Just when we have a large party."

"How often does that happen?" He smiled a friendly, open smile and sat back down on the bench where head been before.

"It depends on the season, but in the winter, every ten days or so. People are crazy to get out of the snow, so they come down here and pretend itas July in Chicago."

"Tough job."

"Not really. Itas great to watch them. Theyare almost children, theyare so happy."

Without any seeming worry, he faced her, the moonlight on his face. "So this is perfect for you. How long have you been an events coordinator?"

"A year."

"What did you do before that?"

"Before that I wandered around Europe for a year. And before that"a"she scrutinized hima""I was a construction project manager for adventure hotels."

"You are kidding." If he was faking it he was good, because she couldnat see a single blink that betrayed anything other than casual getting-to-know-you conversation. "Okay, firsta" a year in Europe?"

"I like Europe."

"So do Ia"but a year?"

"I got a Eurail pa.s.s and went where my whims took me. I ate at great restaurants, I made a lot of friends, I saw a bunch of museums. " Again she watched him closely. "I avoided only one thing."

"Whatas that?"

"The European mountains. I didnat want to see the Alps and the Pyrenees. If I never see a mountain again, it will be too soon."

"You hate aem."

"I do." She had never meant anything so much in her life.

"You know what I like best about Europe? Gelato. I could make my way through Italy eating gelato."

She was cheering up by the moment. He wasnat interested in discovering what made her tick. He wanted to talk about himself. This guy really was just . . . a guy. "The Gelato Tour of Europe. That sounds magnificent."

"Someday Iall write a book." He looked back toward the ballroom. "The food here is excellent."

"Thank you."

"And the wines are perfect. Did you match the wines with the meals, or did Mrs. Burstrom?"

"I made the recommendations," she said modestly, but all the while she was thinking how much she loved a man with a keen appreciation for fine wine and food. He seemed oh so civilized.

"Youare the woman with the schedule. What happens after the awards are given and the dinner is over?"

"Itas free time, so I suppose everyone will make a break for one of the bars."

"That sounds about right." He yawned and stood. "Iam going to turn in. I flew here directly from Sweden, and my body clockas still off. May I walk you inside?"

"Yes. Thanks. You may." Because she was strong and self-reliant, and able to stroll side by side with Rick Wilder without fear.

"Whatas the plan for tomorrow night?" He headed toward the hotel.

"Mrs. Burstrom doesnat like me to talk about her plans." She climbed the stairs ahead of him, feeling self-conscious, hoping her knee-length dress covered her thighs. "She likes the element of surprise, and of course I respect her wishes."

"Mrs. Burstrom is quite the character, isnat she? Sheas got Burstrom wound around her little finger."