Holding Out For A Hero: SEALs, Soldiers, Spies, Cops, FBI Agents and Rangers (80 page)

With a humph of disgust, she handed him the file. Gideon paused, his fingers on the cover. Fred and Gene scurried out of the booth with quick goodbyes, leaving the seat opposite him for his mother. Her face set in rigid lines, she slid into the booth, placed her boxy little purse on the worn red vinyl beside her, and folded her hands on the table.

Uh oh. He recognized that look.

Amusement gone, Gideon pretended his pie hadn’t just turned into a ball of concrete in his stomach and flipped open the folder. He glared at the contents as the rock hard pie caught fire.

“What’s the idea, dammit? What the hell are these pictures for?”

Gideon fanned through the eight-by-ten black and white glossies she’d somehow snapped of him and... What? Morphed the photo on some computer program? He hadn’t worn a tie since Lance Pringle’s wedding. But she’d fixed that, pasting his current face on his five-year’s past suit-wearing body. Of course, the fact that his body faced left, his head faced right, and the odd, Frankenstein-esque line that attached the two parts made it rather obvious the picture had been manufactured.

Then there was his raised hand. Maybe the peace sign he was giving would have looked more genuine if it hadn’t been a woman’s hand pasted on his wrist.

“I think the nail polish clashes with my suit, don’t you?” he asked, eyeing the very same nail-polished fingers clenched together on the table in front of him.

“I had no clue you were an expert on coordinating nail color,” she snapped.

“I had no clue you were so adept with Photoshop,” he sneered, holding the pictures up to the light. “You looking to snag a job with the
Enquirer
?”

“Don’t be silly. I was just looking for a nice shot of you dressed up. I never see you in a suit, you know.” She pursed her lips and poked at the picture. “If you’d just dress up more often, I wouldn’t have to doctor up a picture, now would I?”

“Right. You needed a picture of me in a suit and you couldn’t just ask for one? And what’s with the peace sign? I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous. I look like a cross-dressing politician with my head screwed on backwards.”

Gideon’s gaze locked with his mother’s, her golden brown eyes so like his own. And he was sure he wore the same stubborn don’t-fuck-with-me-or-you’ll-regret-it look as she did. What a legacy. Beat the hell out of painted fingernails, though.

“Oh, Gideon, don’t be paranoid,” she finally said in a huff. “It’s not like I can declare you a candidate for mayor without your knowledge.”

“So you admit that’s your angle?”

“I admit no such thing.”

Gideon waved the pictures at her.

Deloris glared.

“I can’t believe you’re so uncaring about the state of this town, Gideon. Your father, God rest his soul, and I raised you better than that.”

Truer words were never spoken. They’d raised him—hell, groomed him—to someday step into his father’s shoes. Shoes Gideon couldn’t consider. Ever. Not if he gave a damn about the town’s survival.

“I care about the town, Mother. And I do all I can to help it. Political office isn’t my way. Why can’t you accept that?”

“Rossdale needs a strong leader, someone to help us through the difficulties.”

“It ain’t gonna happen,” Gideon vowed. Anger mixed with impotent frustration and he tossed the file of photos to the table and pushed himself out of the booth. Holding his mother’s glare, he pulled out a few bucks to cover the coffee and pie and threw them on top of the folder. “Let it go, Mom. Let him go.”

“I’m not the one pushing this, Gideon. The town’s leaders want you and they won’t give up. Just consider it.”

Briefly, Gideon contemplated confessing the reason why he’d be a lousy choice to lead the town, but knew it was pointless. She wouldn’t believe him. After all, most people didn’t believe in witches.

Instead, he just shook his head and made for the door.

Damn town. It was a total pain in his ass.

* * *

Tilda Frost rose from her lover’s bed, tingles of power shooting through her along with the aftershocks of an exceptional orgasm. The kind that mixed together magic and physical satisfaction in equal doses, like a grand sorcerer mixed an exotic potion.

“Come back to bed,” Antonio purred. He pushed himself up on one elbow, the pristine white sheets a delicious contrast against all that sleek, tanned flesh.

Pulling on her ice-blue silk robe, Tilda eyed the smooth muscles, certain he was flexing them on purpose. She was tempted, briefly. After all, the man was a god in bed. Then she glanced at the clock and shook her head.

“I can’t,” she poured regret over her words, much as a gardener might pour manure over a garden. As unpalatable as it might be in the moment, fertilizing paid off in the long run. And Tilda was all about the long run.

With a disgruntled look, Antonio threw off the sheet and slid from the bed. Tall, lean, and well-muscled, the man was gorgeous. Of course, all Tilda’s men were. None more so than her ex-husband.

Tilda gave a low growl in her throat and forced her focus to shift before she could trip down that mental garden path. The damned man always seemed to creep into her thoughts after an intense, sweaty bout of sex. Maybe because he’d been the only lover good enough to not only keep up with her, but force her to feel more than brief, superficial pleasure.

“I won’t have time for you later,” Antonio said, all macho and arrogant. “I’ve a ritual to oversee soon and a new batch of gold to conjure for the flock.”

Tilda crossed the cold tile floor and looked out the tower window at the placid lake below. Once she was sure her expression was clear, she turned back to face him. The man was so easy to manipulate. It might have taken her two years of subtle hypnosis and spellwork, but now he actually believed he was able to turn rock to gold, to conjure magic. He really believed, just as his followers did, that he was a gifted alchemist. That with the right alignment of the planets and the correct ingredients, he would make them all rich.

Before her arrival, he’d been a simple con, using sleight of hand and overt charm to convince the gullible hippie-ish residents of this little, offshoot community of his greatness. By the time she’d arrived, even though he’d managed to wean most of the people from their ties with the nearest town, there were still quite a few who’d doubted him. With her magic, the doubts had disappeared, and Antonio’s hold on his followers became absolute. Things were too precarious now, though, to remind him of that.

“You really should enjoy me while you can,” he added with a sly look under his thick lashes, “since I’ll be busy soon. The moon is climbing to full, and many of the ladies are hoping for my blessings.”

Translation, he had a sexual romp planned for that evening with a few of his followers. Tilda resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead pasting a look of regret on her face.

“I realize you need to share your... gifts with your people, Antonio. I’m not selfish enough to expect to be your only sexual partner.”

He paused in the act of tying the drawstring of his baggy cotton pants to squint at her. With a raise of his chin, he asked, “You’re not jealous? Why not? What exactly do you do when you’re away from here, Tilda?”

She knew he was asking if she had other lovers, which was a ridiculous question. Of course she did. Despite the occasional temptation born of boredom, she’d never seduced any of his flock of sheep-like followers. Even that wasn’t out of respect for Antonio, but because she knew the image of his prowess was too important to the success of her plan.

“Jealousy is an ugly thing. Why would I deny your charms to those who so obviously worship you?”

Usually that would be enough to pacify him. But his frown didn’t fade. Instead he came forward to take her chin in a hard grip.

“You used to be here all the time. Now I barely see you.”

“I do have a life of my own, Antonio. Matters have needed my attention lately. It’s enough that I’ve secured a buyer for the thorium,” she said, referring to the mineral Antonio’s witless followers had discovered. “That was much more difficult than selling off the garnets you’d been harvesting before.”

The Lights of Atlantis, as Antonio had dubbed his group, believed they were mining rocks for their leader, the exalted Alchemist of Atlantis, to turn to gold. In reality, they’d been mining enough garnets to provide both Antonio and Tilda with a tidy nest egg. Now, with the discovery of the thorium, it was time for Tilda to execute her ultimate plan. Her ultimate revenge.

“You said this buyer is willing to meet our price?” As always, the cold hard reality of profit spoke to Antonio, coaxing him from his own fit of jealous possessiveness.

“He’ll meet it. We just have to agree to his demands.”

From outside, a gong sounded, signaling the approach of the noon hour. And time for worship. Never an early riser, Antonio had dismissed the idea of dawn rituals a long time back.

As the gong’s peal faded, Antonio released Tilda and moved across the large chamber to his closet. He chose a colorful embroidered cotton vest and pulled it over his naked chest. With a lift of a brow, he indicated Tilda should ready herself for worship as well.

She eyed the skimpy black evening dress she’d arrived in the night before. Hardly suitable. With a snap of her fingers, her robe was replaced with a silk gown, draped Grecian-style to show her body’s perfection. White, as befitted the consort of the Atlantean Alchemist.

With a faint frown, Antonio peered at the corner where his sandals lay. Knowing he was trying to magic them closer, Tilda gave a subtle wiggle of her fingers. In a flash, the brown leather was on his feet. His shoulders stretching to fit his mountain-sized ego, he nodded.

“Most of the demands are easy enough,” he said as he crossed the room to take her hand. “I’m sure my children will go along with them without question.”

His
children
? Tilda pressed her lips together and kept her eyes wide to keep the derisive laugh from exploding. He’d been holed up here beneath this Idaho mountain for way too long.

“I’m concerned, though,” he continued, “that the transportation plans seem excessive. There’s no way to bring that kind of traffic, such huge trucks, out here without raising suspicion.”

And they couldn’t afford suspicion. Unquestionably, the thorium, as well as the garnets beforehand, and the silver before that, had all been on land owned by the nearby town, Rossdale. If the townspeople realized what the cult was doing, they’d exercise their rights to the land, the thorium, and the profits.

“Leave it to me,” Tilda said as the second gong rang out.

“You’ll bribe the mayor again?”

“No.” She shook her head. “That won’t work this time. His position isn’t strong enough.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll destroy the town. Step up the slow erosion and end Rossdale once and for all.”

Brown eyes wide with shock, Antonio pulled his hand away from hers. “Destroy it? How?”

Tilda placed his hand over hers again. With pursed lips, she winked and gave a little shrug.

“Leave it to me. I’ve had plenty of time to plan their downfall.” And her revenge on both the town, and the only man to deny her. Gideon Ross, damn him.

The gong rang out for the third time. Tilda raised a brow at Antonio. He nodded and wiped the frown from his face. With a snap of her fingers, they disappeared in a shower of blue sparks.

* * *

Gideon pulled his Chevy into the dirt driveway of the old Henderson place. Parking behind the U-Haul, he let the truck idle in the weak afternoon sun. He inspected the furnishings and boxes spilling out the open rear doors of the moving van.

He’d promised Fred he’d mow the weeds, but that was before. Now that he saw this was where the moving van had landed, he should leave. He was hardly the welcome wagon type. Especially when he wasn’t in the mood to extol the virtues of a town filled with nosy, controlling busybodies, his mother in the lead.

Lucky for Gideon, he’d escaped that nosy gene. Sure, he’d admit to his fair share of curiosity, but unlike some people, he kept it well contained. And while he’d be willing to own up to a certain amount of stubbornness when he knew he was right—which admittedly was most of the time—he could never be termed controlling. At least, not in comparison to the rest of Rossdale.

Then again, it could be said it was his duty, as a concerned citizen, to at least say hello to the newcomers. Especially taking into account the state of the house. The oil-slick California landlord had obviously suckered some poor souls into renting the place sight unseen. Wouldn’t be the first time. Gideon would be surprised if the guy hadn’t ever been slapped with a non-disclosure suit.

He eyed the rotting porch on the second story, the dangling trim, and the broken window by the front door. How long would these tenants last? Not too many newcomers stuck it out in Rossdale. That was probably due to a combination of a depressed economy, culture shock, and like Gene had said, the nasty pranks and problems with the people out at the lake. Rossdale had earned a rather unwelcoming reputation the last few years.

His concern had nothing to do with wanting to know if the long, luscious, and leggy babe was single. And how she felt about early morning... coffee. With a grin and a flick of his wrist, he cut the ignition. Now that was a question worth finding the answer to.

He skirted around boxes labeled with words like
Emerald
,
Magenta,
and
Seafoam
and frowned. Colors? Who packed by color? Gideon stopped to look closer, but nothing else was written on the boxes. No room assignation, no hint about what the colored items were. Just the color. Weird.

No telling if it was furniture for one or two people, although he was pretty sure it didn’t look like a family’s worth of stuff, so he doubted there were kids. Gideon leaned closer to peer into an open box. Fabric. A rainbow of yarns, threads, and metal needles like for knitting, and some funky looking things he couldn’t quite figure out.