A Thousand Kisses Deep (5 page)

Sly asked, "How's Ash been since we got back?"

"No one's seen him since we filed our reports. He was feeling pretty low. My guess is he's blaming himself for Sully's death. Nursing a guilt sucker like you."

Sly scowled at his friend. "Give him some time. He'll come around."

"Is that what it'll take for you to get over kicking your own ass day and night over Jacy? Time?"

"There's only one thing that's going to make me feel better and that's finding out who the Chameleon is, and how to get close enough to him to send him to hell. And if in the process I find out
Merrick
's been jerking my chain … all our chains, and that he kept something from us that would have made a difference on that rock, I'm going to kill him, too. That's what I told Jacy, and now I'm telling you."

Sly took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It did no good to get worked up. Talk, as they say, was cheap. He knew what he had to do, and he would do it. He would get close to Eva Creon, and if Paavo was the Chameleon, he would eventually get close to him, too. He didn't believe she didn't know where her father was living.

"
Merrick
told me you saw Reznik at Castle Rock. Why didn't you mention it to me?"

Sly blinked out of his thoughts. "Because I know how you get when his name comes up."

Bjorn's upper lip curled. He raised his hand and rubbed his lower back. "Butcher Reznik. He's been on my kill list for four years. I still can't roll over in bed without feeling his bullet lodged in my spine. Why do you suppose he was there?"

"I don't know. You mentioned pictures of her." Sly stared down at the file Bjorn had compiled on Eva Creon. "Are they in here?"

Bjorn tossed the daily log down beside the file. "It's all there. Fifteen days of bloodhound surveillance."

Sly motioned to the cane his friend leaned on. "What's the prognosis?"

"The bullet missed the bone. I'll be filling my dance card before you will."

"No doubt. I don't dance. In fact, I didn't know you did."

"Not all of my years in
Copenhagen
were spent on the street."

Unable to contain his curiosity a minute longer, Sly flipped open the file. And there she was, Paavo Creon's daughter. Only she wasn't at all what he was expecting. Her smoky voice, and her mannerisms on the tape had led him to expect a face hardened by the games fate had forced her to play. But that's not what he saw when he looked at the woman in the picture. She had a pair of seductive, shy green eyes as sexy as her smoky voice, and a delicate pair of red lips. Her hair wasn't exactly red by his standards. It was the color of sun-lit cinnamon, and she wore it past her shoulders. Long sultry bangs hid her eyebrows and teased a pair of long eyelashes.

Sly picked up the stack of pictures and shuffled through them. Bjorn had taken one of her running out the back door of the Tastes of Paradise. She was wearing a backless white sundress, and she had hiked up the skirt to aid her as she ran. She had beautiful legs, long runner's legs with hard athletic calves. And like her arms, her legs were tanned a deep golden brown.

In another picture she wore jeans that hugged her show-stopper ass. In another her white blouse was open at the throat, and Bjorn had zeroed in on her breasts, showcasing the recorded two inches of sun-kissed cleavage.

"What do you think, Sly? Is our Eva your kind of woman? You've never talked about what flips your switch. Me…" Bjorn wiggled his eyebrows, and took up the accent he'd left behind years ago in
Denmark
. "I like my blondes
villin',
and not too talkative. And I like pillows.
Vuns
nice and plump like pillows. As sweet as—" he pointed to the picture in Sly's hand "—Eva's
dere. Ja,
just like
dem."

Sly grinned. "I seem to remember you mentioning one blonde in particular a few years back. You wouldn't be thinking about that long-legged double agent you ran into in
Vienna
, would you? What was her name?"

"Nadja," Bjorn supplied without hesitation.
"Ja,
she was sure a fine-looking woman. She knew how to use her mouth for more than just talking, too. I'll never forget how sweet she smelled. Like Alpine heather, she did." Bjorn cleared his throat, losing his accent as he pointed to the pictures. "It's amazing she looks as good as she does considering who she lives with."

"Meaning?"

"Just that someone ought to give Simon Parish a ride on his own beast."

"His what?"

"It's an old Danish saying from my days in
Copenhagen
. It means get a taste of your own evil. Listen to the tapes. You'll understand what I'm talking about. Parish is a psycho." Bjorn flipped through the small box of tapes on the desk. "Here it is. Spend some time listening to this one. I've named it, 'S is for Snake.' Then this one, 'A is for Albino Asshole.' Once you listen to a few of these, you'll understand why I won't be mourning Parish's death once you get around to killing him."

Sly took the tape "S is for Snake" and dropped it back in the box with the others. "So Parish is a sadistic lunatic. And from what I've heard today his playmate could fall into the fruitcake category."

"I think Eva's playing her own game," Bjorn argued. "Listen to the tapes. A fruitcake wouldn't have survived what she's survived. If it was me, I would have been long gone, and she's had several opportunities. So why does she stay in hell?"

"If she's got a reason it must be damn good," Sly mused out load.

"I imagine you'll find out what it is once you talk to her."

"Who said I was going to talk to her?"

"That look on your face when you opened the file. I'll be back inside of a week. Call and give me an update."

Chapter 3

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^
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E
va had timed her entrance perfectly. She wore a rusty red-brown sweater dress dotted with shimmering sequins, the neckline so ridiculously low that her breasts resembled water-filled balloons a pinprick away from disaster.

The fox trim at her wrists and outlining her breasts added another level of warmth to an already too warm dress for October in
Atlanta
. But Eva didn't question Simon's choice. There was always a reason for everything he did. Before the evening was over, she would know why she was wearing fur and sequins.

Eva continued to eat her salad slowly while Simon watched from the end of a table that could easily seat thirty guests. They always took their evening meal in the formal dining room surrounded by silence.

Simon hadn't told her they would be playing a game tonight. She hoped … no, prayed, that she would be spared the event, but the dress she'd found on her bed when she'd stepped from the shower, and the tension that she'd felt the moment she'd walked into the room, suggested otherwise.

Simon loved to play games, and because of his fondness for the night, the games were often played after dark in the backyard.

A genius with peculiar tendencies, is how her father had described Simon the night he had escorted her to his party four years ago. She had arrived on her father's arm a starry-eyed nineteen-year-old, unaware that her boring restrictive life was about to take a drastic turn. Unaware that she would never again return to the house where she had lived for ten years with the minions. Unaware she was her father's birthday gift to the genius with peculiar tendencies.

Your stay with Simon will teach you things you wouldn't be able to learn anywhere else. Priceless lessons on how to live in harmony with a demon and survive his madness. I have no doubt you will survive. After all, you are your father's daughter. Living is not for the weak of body and mind. Those who master the game, master their own fate. Make your father proud.

A mad genius with a demon's heart. Or maybe a demon genius with an obsession for madness. Either way she had come to believe Simon was a pernicious package. An inventive sadist one minute, and a psychopathic child the next.

Eva sent her long lashes low over her eyes, discreetly studying him. His features were small, ultrafeminine, his short white hair and colorless skin a shocking contrast against the fluorescent blue silk shirt he wore tonight.

He owned a Bentley and a Porsche, three homes in the States, one in
Venice
and one on the
island
of
Mykonos
in the Greek Isles. His amassed wealth was displayed everywhere in his homes. Here in
Atlanta
there were priceless paintings hanging in a temperature-controlled gallery, and elaborate marble statues guarding the pool and pavilion in the backyard. His other homes were just as lavish.

She had no idea how he made his money. They spent five months out of the year in
Atlanta
, and the other months divided between his homes in
California
,
Florida
and
Venice
, with a month spent in
Greece
.

She loved
Greece
. In
Greece
everything was different. In
Greece
, Simon gave her space to breathe.

Eva continued to study him beneath hooded lashes. Tonight he wore fitted black Gucci pants on his reed-thin hips, and black boots to his knees. His bright silk shirt was open to his waist, showcasing his hairless pale chest.

His blood disorder had forced him to become a vegetarian, which had been the reason she had been introduced to the Tastes of Paradise—and two blocks away, Dr. Fielding.

"We leave for
Greece
in a few days." His tone was low, one elbow braced on the table, his chin resting on his bony fist as he watched her eat. "Will you be ready?"

Careful not to let her excitement touch her eyes, she said, "I'll be ready. Will Melita be there?"

"Yes, my sister will be home when we arrive."

Eva smiled … not too much. "Will you let me go exploring the water caverns with Nemo again?"

"He tells me you're a natural in the water. He says you can hold your breath almost as long as he can."

Eva went back to eating her salad.

"I have a new toy and a new game. I can't wait to show you the gun and explain the rules."

Eva's fork stalled an inch from her mouth.

Slowly, Simon leaned back and stretched his long spiderlike arms out on the table, and that's when she saw his fingernails. They had been painted black. Black in celebration of tonight's game, and the madness she would soon be called upon to survive.

He smiled as if he had read her thoughts. Flashing his painted nails, his fingers danced theatrically upward to slide through his shocking white hair.

The display was well practiced. A show Eva had witnessed time and again. It was as much a warning as it was a promise. A prelude to the soon to come twisted game he'd thought up sometime during the afternoon.

I have a new toy. I can't wait to show you the gun.

She thought about her still-sore wrists from two days ago, and a renewed pain shot through them with the memory of how creative a madman could be with something as simple as a belt.

She had wanted to die in the narrow clothes chute. Then she had wanted to live. To endure the unendurable.

Living is not for the weak. Those who master the game, master their own fate.

"Say it. Say the words, sweet Eva."

She laid her fork down, the colorful pansies in her salad forgotten.

"Say the words," he coaxed. "Wet your lovely lips with your wine and speak."

Eva did as she was told and lifted the wineglass to her painted red lips. She drank deeply, then set the glass back on the table, while Simon's lizard eyes watched her in anticipation.

"I'm your game, Simon," she began. "Whatever game it is you wish to play. I'm yours. Mind. Body. Breath. Soul."

"And who will win the game tonight, sweet Eva?"

"You will win, Simon."

The rehearsed words delighted him further. Grinning openly, he stood. "Finish your salad. You're going to need your strength. Morris has pruned the boxwood. The maze is flawless. The sky is clear. The air … feverish. It's a perfect night for a fox hunt."