Father And Child Page 6

  “Your mother and I did, when she was just a little older than you are now.”

  “Was he nicer?” the child asked in a quavery voice. She had never been treated very well by Aristotle, who had wanted a son and probably always had secret doubts about her paternity, anyway.

  “Much nicer,” Irena lied.

  “He and Mama will take care of me.”

  “Maybe just him. But don’t talk to anyone else about him. He’s our secret.”

  The little girl’s face clouded. “I want Mama.”

  “I know,” Irena answered. “But promise you won’t say anything about your new papa.”

  Ariadne regarded her gravely. “All right.” Then she yawned and pulled the covers up.

  Irena stroked her hair, the rhythm soothing her nerves as it calmed her niece. She knew she was doing it again, mak- ing the same mistakes she’d made with Sophia, trying to force life into a better pattern. But she acknowledged the truth. It could go either way. If Aristotle found them, she and the child would die. And if Chambers got there first, then the daughter would live the fairy-tale life her mother had always craved.

  And what about herself, Irena wondered, her thoughts turning to the man who sheltered her and the little girl. Although she’d warned herself to be cautious, her feelings for him were growing stronger. Yet she sensed that he had been hurt terribly in the past. He was closed and bitter. He needed someone to love him. But trying to break through the wall he’d built around his heart might only bring her grief.

  ZEKE CHECKED THE LARDER. He could fix them bowls of cornflakes, he supposed. Yet his nose wrinkled at the idea. He’d never liked cold cereal for breakfast. Besides, pouring out two bowls of the stuff wouldn’t serve the purpose of diverting his mind from the real issues plaguing him-like the ethics of making love to a woman you intended to abandon as soon as she’d helped you save your daughter’s life.

  He grimaced. He didn’t want to abandon her. He’d fantasized for a long time about what it would be like to settle down with Elizabeth Egan, really settle down and stop traveling the world. But he knew deep in his heart that he could only hurt her, the way he’d hurt Sophia. Unfortunately, that was his heritage. Before Sophia, he’d hoped that maybe he could change the pattern of his life. He’d been wrong. Making love with Sebastian’s cousin had been one of his major mistakes. And he hadn’t even known the magnitude back then. They’d made a baby, a little girl he’d done his best to pretend wasn’t his responsibility. Yet now that he knew she was his and that she was in trouble, he had to rescue her.

  And then what? He hadn’t been thinking very far ahead. But Elizabeth’s question had made him realize that he’d have to come up with a plan for after the rescue operation. He clenched his hand on the edge of the counter, thinking about his own childhood. The birthdays he’d spent with his aunt and uncle. The school plays nobody had attended. The boarding schools.

  His parents had been out of the country for months at a stretch. And when he’d spent time with them, they’d been like polite strangers. No wonder he didn’t know how to be a father, especially to a little girl he’d never met. But from everything he knew, Elizabeth had bonded with her stepparents. Maybe she could give him some pointers.

  He stopped short, realizing he’d been staring into the open refrigerator for several minutes. The direction his thoughts were taking astonished him—and frightened him, he silently admitted He couldn’t cope with the sudden constriction in his chest, so he forced his mind back to the designated task—cooking breakfast.

  He felt his blood pressure returning to normal as he pulled milk and eggs from the refrigerator and bread from the pantry. Elizabeth liked French toast, he remembered from a brunch Katie and Mac McQuade had given.

  The kitchen was old-fashioned, he noted as he settled down to the business at hand. The sink featured a real drain board. The controls for the stove were in the front. Dangerous if you had small children, he mused, then wondered why he was worrying about something like that.

  Bending, he searched the lower cabinets and found a skillet. Nice and heavy, he thought appreciatively. Then he combined the egg and milk in a flat-bottomed casserole, so it would be easy to soak the slices of bread.

  As he stopped beating the mixture, he thought he heard the floor squeak out in the hall again. The fork raised in his hand, he stopped and turned his head sidewise, listening intently. Nothing else drifted toward him besides the sound of the shower upstairs, so he went back to work. Long seconds passed, during which he tried to convince his tense muscles to relax. The attempt was only partly successful. He couldn’t entirely shake the feeling of uneasiness. Angry with himself for inventing enemies where none existed, he poured oil into the skillet, added two slices of the bread and adjusted the heat.

  Then deliberately he looked up, and his hand froze on the pan’s handle. It couldn’t be. But it was. Sebastian Demos was standing in the doorway, one arm held awkwardly across his chest. This time the intruder was better prepared. He was armed with a gun instead of a ritual knife. Still, he couldn’t hide the shock on his face as he stared at Zeke’s shoulder. “I thought I cut you, too,” he growled.

  “I guess you were mistaken,” Zeke replied in a quiet voice, even as his mind scrambled for a way out. He wanted to shout a warning to Elizabeth. He knew he’d only get shot, and then she would be on her own. Instead he inquired politely, “Does your arm hurt? Or is it your side?”

  Sebastian growled a curse.

  Pretending to cower against the stove, Zeke bent his elbow in back of his body, moving his hand slowly up, reaching for the control knob. “How did you find us?” he asked, partly to distract Sebastian and partly because, despite the evidence of his own eyes, he still couldn’t believe the man had trailed them to Elizabeth’s house.

  Sebastian gave him a smile that turned up his lips in an artificial grimace. “I thought you spies were taught all the tricks.”

  Zeke struggled to keep his expression neutral as he moved slowly to the side, away from the pan sitting on the left front burner. Demos had called him a spy, but his undercover activities in Mythos had been well camouflaged. He couldn’t have known at the time, could he?

  “There’s no point in lying. Why don’t we be honest with each other?” the man in the doorway continued.

  “All right. Did Aristotle send you?” Zeke asked, forcing himself not to glance at the pan of French toast. Soon it would be hot enough to burn, unless he’d made a mistake, he thought in sudden panic, unless he’d turned the knob the wrong way. Damn, now what was he going to do?

  “No. Aristotle isn’t the only one who hates you, or the only one with the power to thwart you.”

  Is that true? Zeke wondered.

  “I propose an exchange of information,” Demos went on. “I’ll tell you where to find your daughter, if you tell me where your father hid the treasure he stole from my people.”

  Again Zeke tried not to react. His father’s thievery had been a central motivating force in his own life. Yet how could his father’s criminal activities be connected to the present situation? “Why should I trust you?” he countered, trying to buy some time. “Last night you tried to kill me.”

  Sebastian gave a little shrug. “I’m sorry about that. I thought that I could handle my feelings. But when I saw you standing in the kitchen, in the middle of your rich and comfortable life in America, I lost my head for little while. I’m okay now.”

  Sure, Zeke thought. And you’re so friendly that we can’t have this conversation without a gun in your hand.

  “So tell me about the treasure,” Sebastian suggested mildly.

  “My father didn’t reveal his plans to me.”

  “So you say.” Sebastian raised the gun threateningly.

  Then several things happened almost simultaneously. The pan on the burner began to hiss and pop.

  When Sebastian’s attention shifted to the fire, Zeke reached for the handle of the skillet and threw the pan and its contents at him—just as t
he sound of a gunshot split the air.

  Chapter Five

  Zeke ducked, even as he braced for the impact of the bullet in his chest.

  To his astonishment, it was Sebastian who groaned and clutched his arm. Behind him, Elizabeth shouted, “Next time, I’ll aim for the middle of your back. Move over by the refrigerator.”

  Sebastian half turned.

  “Move!” Elizabeth ground out.

  The intruder complied, his steps shaky.

  Stunned, Zeke took in Elizabeth’s policeman’s stance, her arms braced in firing position. Slowly she advanced into the room.

  Casting aside his astonishment, Zeke crossed to her side and gave her a quick, grateful look before taking the gun from her hand. It was the one he’d packed in his duffel bag, the one he hadn’t wanted her to see.

  “Sit,” he ordered Sebastian, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs.

  The other man complied, his face pasty. As he sat there with his eyes closed, he looked like all the fight had gone out of him, Zeke thought. But it could be an act. He could be getting ready to strike.

  “Do you have any rope?” he asked Elizabeth. She looked a sight—her hair was wet, she was shoeless, and her T-shirt stuck in patches to her skin. Clearly, she’d thrown on her clothes and come charging downstairs.

  “Rope,” he repeated, when she didn’t answer.

  “For what?”

  He gestured with the gun toward the man in the chair. “To tie him up.”

  “But he’s hurt. I—I shot him,” she added in a strained voice, as if she’d just realized the magnitude of what she’d done.

  “It’s only a flesh wound. He’ll live.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. “He was going to kill you. I had to do it,” she whispered, her eyes pleading for understanding.

  “You had to shoot him,” he repeated. “And now we have to tie him up so he can’t hurt us.”

  Her head bobbed. Then, moving like a sleepwalker, she stumbled toward the pantry. When she returned, she was holding a plastic bucket with several coils of hemp inside.

  Zeke eyed the rope. He didn’t trust Elizabeth to do a good job of tying Sebastian up. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of her taking charge of the gun again, either. She looked too spacy.

  “Can you cover him?” he asked.

  “I—” He saw her make an effort to pull herself back together. “Yes,” she answered in a stronger voice.

  “Good.” He thrust the weapon back into her grasp and knelt beside the chair. “Hands behind your back.”

  ELIZABETH KEPT THE GUN from shaking in her grasp as she watched Zeke tie Sebastian. The man winced when Zeke pulled his wrists into position and efficiently secured them to the sides of the chair. Next he tied his ankles to the chair legs.

  After checking that the bonds were tight, he took Sebastian’s chin in his hand, forcing him to make eye contact. “You say Aristotle didn’t send you. Then who was it?” he growled.

  “Nobody.” The denial was issued through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t bother lying,” Zeke said in a deceptively mild voice, his fingers tightening.

  Sebastian’s jaw clenched, probably from equal measures of pain and determination.

  “I can make you talk,” Zeke growled.

  “You could try, but you don’t want your girlfriend to see what a bastard you are,” Sebastian countered. His face was gray, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Elizabeth knew he must be suffering. She had to clamp down on her lip with her teeth to keep from screaming.

  Zeke must have read her mind, because he shot her a quick glance. “You may feel sorry for him now, but don’t forget he tried to kill us—twice,” he muttered. “It’s lucky we were up early.”

  She nodded tightly. He was right. Yet she’d never been in a situation like this, a situation where the enemy wasn’t playing by civilized rules, and you might have to sink to his level to survive.

  Zeke’s hand squeezed into a fist and opened again. “I have to know who I’m up against,” he said, his eyes asking for understanding.

  “I know,” she whispered. She did. Truly. But she didn’t have to like it.

  “Go and get dressed,” Zeke ordered in a strangled voice.

  She hesitated. As he shifted his gaze back to Sebastian, his look was murderous.

  “Go on. Pack a bag with a couple changes of clothing. Comfortable stuff. Slacks and pullovers. The weather’s unpredictable in Mythos at this time of year. Take a slicker if you have one.” He paused. “And bring down my shoes and my duffel bag. We have to get out of here as soon as I’m finished.”

  She didn’t want to leave the two of them alone, but she didn’t want to stay, either. Stiff legged, she exited the room. Her fingers sweaty on the banister, she climbed the stairs, wondering what interrogation techniques Zeke might have learned in the CIA. The intercom was still on in her room, and Zeke’s voice came to her hard and ruthless. “Now that we’re alone, you’re going to talk.”

  Before she could hear Sebastian’s response, she crossed the floor and turned the monitor off. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she was shocked to see her hair was wet. She’d forgotten all about it, when she’d heard Zeke and Sebastian talking.

  It took her but a few minutes to dry her hair, pull on new clothes, throw some items in a carry-on bag and bring the things Zeke had requested. The whole time, she tried not to think about what was happening in the kitchen, but she had to keep gulping in air to counteract the iron bands that were tightening around her chest.

  When she came down the stairs again, Sebastian was sitting with his eyes closed and his head bowed. Elizabeth could see a couple of red marks on his face where Zeke might have slapped him.

  Zeke stood with his back to her, his shoulders rigid. With an angry jerk, he picked up the shoes she’d brought and shoved them on his feet. Then he pulled on a light jacket and slid the gun underneath, tucking it into the waistband of his slacks. Elizabeth and Sebastian listened intently as Zeke picked up the telephone receiver and called in a terse message to 911. Without giving his name, he stated that a burglar had been apprehended in the Egan household and gave the address. Declining to answer any questions, he hung up. “Let’s go,” he said to Elizabeth.

  She trod gingerly around Sebastian’s chair. When his foot twitched, she practically threw herself through the open door.

  Zeke turned to give the man in the kitchen one last look. “I’d love to hear what you tell the police about that bullet wound,” he growled. “And the knife slash, too.”

  Sebastian stared silently back, and Elizabeth felt the tension crackling between them like heat lightning.

  With a low curse, Zeke broke the eye contact first. Eliz abeth followed him onto the porch. Feeling as if she had emerged from the depths of the earth, she dragged in a lungful of the early morning air, but said nothing until they were in Zeke’s car and several blocks from the house.

  “Did he tell you anything?” she whispered.

  He gave a short, derisive laugh. “He told me plenty. But nothing that’s going to help us.”

  “I thought…I thought you were going to beat the truth out of him,” Elizabeth finally said.

  “I wanted to. But when I looked into his eyes, I couldn’t,” he said in a tight voice. “He believes he has reason to hate me. Maybe he’s right.”

  “And that governs your behavior?” she asked with a catch in her voice.

  “Yes.”

  Based on his confession that he’d been a spy, she’d made assumptions about Zeke But now he’d just proved he was more complicated than she had thought.

  “At least he won’t tell the police any more than he told me,” Zeke growled. “He’s in the country illegally. That gives us some advantage.”

  She stared at his rigid profile, knowing now that he was acting on some personal code of honor—even if it was against his best interests.

  “You didn’t harm him…because you seduced hi
s cousin,” she clarified.

  “I didn’t seduce her. But I shouldn’t have let her climb into my bed. And I should have been smart enough not to get her pregnant.”

  “She climbed into your bed?” It was the first time she’d heard that version of events.

  “Let’s drop the subject,” he snapped. “She’s dead, and I’m not going to say anything I’ll be sorry about later.”

  Elizabeth compressed her lips. She longed to know what had happened between Sophia and Zeke six years ago, or between Zeke and Sebastian just now. But she could see from his stern expression that this wasn’t the time to hound him for information.

  When she silently looked down at her hands, he let out a little sigh. Then he reached for the phone on the console and punched in a number. In response to a voice on the other end of the line, he pressed more digits and listened.

  “Your answering service?” she asked when he hung up.

  “Yes. There’s a package at my house.” He made a sharp left turn.

  She clenched her hands together tightly. “We can’t go back there. It could be a trap.”

  “I know, but the package is from Irena, Ariadne’s aunt. She may have some information about Sebastian.” Again the silence between them stretched. This time she sensed that he wanted to say something more.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” she offered.

  He kept his gaze on the road. “Things aren’t working out the way I planned. I never dreamed I’d be putting you in so much danger—even before leaving the country. Maybe I should go to Mythos alone.”

  Her fingers tightened painfully. More than ever, she was convinced that Zeke needed her—and not simply in the next few days. But she was willing to bet he wasn’t ready to hear that. She’d have to offer a more compelling reason why they shouldn’t dissolve the partnership. “Leaving me behind won’t help,” she said in a steady voice. “Unless, of course, you go back and kill Sebastian before the police arrive. He knows I’m involved. If you abandon me here,” she added, choosing her words carefully, “Aristotle or whoever Sebastian’s working for, could come after me.”