Hot Blooded (13 page)

Lily was forever being stupid around him. She hastily nodded. “Yes it was. Did you hear the entire conversation?”

“Aye.”

“Why didn't you come out?” she asked.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “I didna want to talk to her.”

Lily knew better than to read too much into that statement. Rhys liked women, and he normally had a different woman on his arm every night. Matter of fact, he loved blondes, and Iona seemed just his type. “Can you deliver that message to Con?”

“Have you met him, Lily?”

God, how she loved the sound of her name on his lips. “Not yet.”

“You're no' missing anything. Trust me on that,” Rhys said crossly.

Lily wanted to scream in frustration when their conversation was interrupted by not one, but two customers checking out. By the time the last one left, Lily was certain Rhys would be gone.

She was more than surprised to find him standing exactly as he had been. Her stomach fluttered, and still she cautioned herself to remember she was nothing more than an employee at Dreagan.

“Are you happy here?” Rhys asked.

Lily's grin was uncontrollable. “It's the first time in a long time I've been happy.”

“And people are treating you good?”

“Very. Cassie and Jane are amazing, and though I don't see Elena or Denae much since they work in other parts of the distillery most times, they are great.”

One side of Rhys's mouth lifted in a grin. “I'm glad to hear it. You know we're here if you need anything.”

For a moment, Lily thought Rhys might have discovered her past. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but as the seconds passed and he said no more, she realized she was wrong. “Of course,” she hurried to say.

His aqua eyes studied her. “You have nothing to fear here.”

“There is always something to fear.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. It was a symptom of her past, a past she feared she would never be able to outrun.

“That's true,” Rhys said softly. “Unless you have friends.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away. Lily sighed, because she knew that was as close as she would ever get to the handsome Rhys.

*   *   *

Laith sat in his office at the pub staring off into space as he wracked his brain over how to fix things with Iona. For the past several hours, he'd come up with absolutely nothing. The fact he wanted to be near her set warning bells off in his head. He'd told himself he wouldn't get close.

But one kiss, one scorching kiss changed everything.

He finally blinked and noticed that someone was standing in the door. Laith straightened in his chair when he saw Rhys. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” Rhys said as he entered and sat in one of the empty chairs. “There was a visitor at Dreagan today.”

Laith gave him a droll look. “There are always visitors at Dreagan. They're called tourists.”

“I'm talking an actual visitor, you wanker,” he snapped.

Laith rested an elbow on the arm of his chair. “Who?”

“Iona.”

It was a good thing he was sitting down, because he might have fallen over. “What? Why?”

“She asked to speak to Con, and she was furious.”

Laith pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “What else did she say?”

“That she knows how John died.”

“Shite.”

“Do you think it was a guess after yesterday?”

Laith shook his head as he looked at Rhys. “She's been in dangerous situations before, and she's intelligent. It wasna a guess. She discovered the brake line.”

“Damn,” Rhys muttered. “This could scare her off.”

“It'll take more than this to send her packing. Besides, she told her bosses that she was taking some time off.”

“Bosses?” Rhys asked.

“She said bosses. From what she told Sammi, it's a group of high-powered people who send her on assignments all over the world.”

Rhys idly rubbed his chin. “Why?”

“Why?” Laith repeated. “What do you mean?”

“I'm asking why does it require a group of people to hire a photojournalist? I thought some photographers were independent and sold their photos to the highest bidder, or at the very least contracted with companies.”

“I think that's what Iona is, contracted.”

“And the company name?”

Laith began to see where Rhys was going with his questions. “I doona know.”

“With as many enemies as we have, Laith, we need to be suspicious of everyone.”

Laith knew Rhys was right, but that didn't mean he liked what he heard. “The pub is covered. Let's return to Dreagan. If anyone can find out this information quickly, it's Ryder.”

“We best stop and find him some donuts,” Rhys said as they walked out the back entrance of the pub.

Thirty minutes later they were striding up the stairs to the third floor of Dreagan Manor with a box of jelly-filled donuts in hand. Laith was the first one through the door. He handed Ryder the box over the rows of monitors and waited.

Ryder gave him a suspicious look, but at the sight of the donuts he waved them around. “I doona need to be bribed for whatever you need, but I appreciate the treat.”

“We need you to look into Iona Campbell,” Rhys said as he sank into a chair.

Laith noticed how Rhys still favored his right side, but he didn't point it out. “I thought we were interested in her bosses.”

“It's better to start with one person,” Ryder said. He stuffed a donut in his mouth, leaving it hanging there while punching something into the keyboard.

A second later and one of the screens filled with a picture of Iona, her credit rating, banking and medical information, university scores and classes, and employment history.

Rhys let out a whistle. “She makes good money for spending her time taking photos.”

Ryder leaned back in his chair, donut in hand as he chewed and swallowed the bite. “Aye, she does verra well for herself.”

Laith pointed to the last listing of employment. “These are the people we want to look into.”

“The Commune,” Ryder said and typed it in.

On another screen information on the Commune slowly pulled up. At first glance everything looked to be legit with nothing standing out that would raise eyebrows. The list of employees wasn't long, only about fifty people. It took only a few clicks for them to determine that each name was the top in their field, which ranged from rocket scientists to mechanics.

But that's what made Ryder so good at what he did. He recognized simple things, or things that were missing, and kept digging.

Laith took a chair and waited as Ryder stuffed the last of the donut into his mouth and kept typing with more pages of documents continuing to pop up on the screen. Laith exchanged a look with Rhys, because the longer it took Ryder to dig, the worse it was going to be.

Twenty minutes later, Ryder pushed back from the keyboard and swiveled the chair around to face Rhys and Laith. “It isna good.”

“Just spit it out,” Laith demanded.

Ryder laced his hands behind his head. “Whoever these bosses are, they are going to extremes to hide their identities. I can find names, but just like Con, there isna a picture anywhere.”

“Damn,” Rhys muttered.

Laith stared at the computers as he gathered his thoughts. “Why was John murdered now? All these years, why now?”

“Because whoever did it must know about the pact,” Ryder pointed out.

Rhys ran a hand through his long hair. “Which means they wanted John out of the way so they could use Iona.”

“But why? They need her for something,” Laith said.

Ryder lowered his hands and leaned back in his chair. “So you doona think she's spying for one of our enemies?”

“You mean like Shara did? Or Denae?” Laith asked.

“Aye. The only place our dragon magic willna keep people out is right there on Campbell land. A clear way for our enemies to get onto Dreagan.”

Rhys stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. “I agree with Laith. I doona think she's spying. Whether she's a willing accomplice is another story.”

“Accomplice to what?” Laith asked, his frustrations growing. “We can no' keep thinking everyone is our enemy.”

Ryder's lips twisted. “We have to, because if we doona, we set ourselves up to have everything we've strived to keep hidden released to the world.”

“Think about what she inherited, Laith,” Rhys said. “She now owns property that borders us, along with a doorway anyone can get through if they find it.”

Laith got to his feet. “I knew that spot was going to come back to haunt us. We should've done it somewhere else.”

“There wasna time, and then there was the matter of Ulrik,” Ryder pointed out.

Laith slumped back into the chair. “We need to talk to Iona, to learn how much she knows.”

“Nay,
you
need to talk to her,” Rhys said.

 

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Iona listened to her voice mail as she sat on the couch and cringed. She completely forgot her meeting with the bank to sign the needed documents to have her father's accounts turned over to her.

After the day she'd had, she wanted to be alone and think about the fact her father had been murdered. Murdered. That word settled heavily in her stomach, roiling and churning.

Based on everything she learned about John Campbell from those around town, he had been friendly, caring, and honest as the day was long. Not a single person said an unkind word against him.

So why would he be killed?

Iona set aside her mobile and rose to walk into her father's office. It was in direct conflict with the rest of the house. In the office there was nothing neat and tidy. It was like he forgot himself inside the room.

She sat behind the desk staring at the stack of papers on either side of the laptop. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the first stack and shifted through it seeing red pencil marks throughout and comments in the margins from her father's editor.

She found a rubber band and bound the papers together before setting them on the wide windowsill behind her. The next stack was a series of documents printed from the Internet on various things he was researching for his next book. Some pages had portions highlighted, while others had paragraphs circled.

Iona paper clipped those, and set them in a new stack on the opposite side of the windowsill. Pile by pile she went through, learning more about her father as she did. His neat handwriting was easy to discern amid all the papers.

By the time she finished cleaning off the top of his desk an hour later, she had four distinct stacks. There were the research stack, the copyedits, the rough drafts, and the galley proofs.

Her father didn't throw anything out. He kept it all. A glance at the bookcases on her left exposed additional clutter that she suspected was more of what she had just gone through.

Iona put a bright green sticky note on the book waiting on copyedits and a second one on galley proofs for another book. She would finish up both for her father and turn them in to his publisher. After years of rejecting him, it was the least she could do. It wasn't nearly enough, though.

She made a note to call his publisher the next day and posted it on the screen of his laptop. Then she pulled open the first drawer of the desk. It was shallow and held nothing more than pens, pencils, highlighters, paper clips, and rubber bands.

The second drawer was much deeper and held file folders. Iona ran her fingers along the tabs, her brow furrowing deeper as she recognized dates and locations of places she had been. She pulled out one file and stared in shock at pictures of herself standing with a U.K. military team on patrol in the Middle East.

She shoved that file back and pulled out a second. Once more there was a photo of her. This time she was on her stomach, adjusting her lens right before she took a picture of a group of children jumping into a river in India.

File after file was the same, and included notes of how long she stayed, what she took pictures of, and who she was with. All written on letterhead from a private detective firm in Edinburgh.

Tears filled her eyes, because while she had refused to acknowledge him, her father had made sure he knew every aspect of her life that he could.

She wiped her face and reached for the folder nearest her. Her throat clogged when she saw pictures of herself from the time her mother took her away until she graduated school, and then went on to university. There was even a listing of her scores in all her classes.

Iona returned the file. That's when she spotted the box in the back of the drawer. She took it out and removed the lid. The tears came faster when she saw card after card marked
Return to Sender
in her mother's handwriting.

All those years Iona thought her father hadn't wanted her, and it had been her mother who ensured there was no contact. Her father quit sending the cards, but he didn't stop buying them. They were labeled for Christmas, New Year's, Easter, and her birthdays, all with messages written inside.

Iona covered her face with her hands and sobbed for the father she hadn't known, the father who hadn't given up on her.

She didn't know how long she cried. When the tears finally dried, she felt drained, empty. Depleted. But there was also anger.

Iona picked up the handset at her father's desk and dialed her mother's mobile. She wondered if her mother would pick up, when on the fifth ring, she answered with a curt, “What do you want, John?”

“Hello, Mum,” Iona said.

There was a beat of shocked silence before Sarah asked, “Iona? Honey, what are you doing in Scotland?”

“Dad's dead.” It hurt to say the words, but somehow she got them out.

“John's dead? How?”