Into the Shadow (11 page)

K
aren Sonnet stood in the hotel’s cool, tall, modern wood-and-stone foyer, talking to Chisholm Burstrom, president and CEO of Texas-based Burstrom Technologies, and his wife, Debbie, about tonight’s events, when a new guest stepped through the door—and Karen’s breath caught.

The stranger crossed toward the check-in desk. His black hair was cut by a master stylist, and his sculpted face was clean shaven. His stride was long and confident, and his immaculate black European-cut suit fit his masculine form perfectly. His crisp white shirt and blue tie could have belonged to any wealthy businessman who visited Aqua Horizon Spa and Inn to relax and do business.

This guy looked nothing like Warlord, yet something about him made her heart rate accelerate.

His indifferent gaze swept through the lobby. He focused on her. His eyes sharpened.

They weren’t black.

Karen stepped back, her hand on her chest to contain her thundering heart.

His eyes weren’t black, but an odd light green.

Hand thrust out, he started toward her. . . .

Behind her, Chisholm Burstrom gave a shout.

Karen jumped.

‘‘Sorry, honey. Didn’t mean to scare you.’’ Briefly Chisholm laid a hand on her shoulder, but his gaze was fixed on the stranger. With two long strides he met him. ‘‘Wilder, you old son of a gun, glad you could make it.’’

‘‘Chisholm, thank you for inviting me.’’ The stranger shook Chisholm’s hand. ‘‘I’m looking forward to the chance to meet your executives and get the scuttlebutt on the new gaming technologies.’’

‘‘None of that!’’ Mrs. Burstrom stepped between the two men and flirted little glances back and forth between the two of them. ‘‘This hotel is the number one destination spa in the world. I handpicked it specially, I made up the guest list, I chose the activities, and this isn’t going to turn into a business conference. Chisholm, you promised! And Mr. Wilder, you don’t want to get on my bad side. I’m a fearsome enemy!’’

Mr. Wilder held his hands up, palms out. ‘‘I would never cross you, ma’am. I’m not that brave!’’

The three laughed, comfortable with one another and the situation; then Mrs. Burstrom turned to Karen. ‘‘Karen, this is Mr. Rick Wilder, one of our very special guests. Rick, this is Karen Sonnet. She’s the force that has been planning our soiree for months.’’

‘‘She’s an invaluable little gal,’’ Chisholm said.

This time the stranger looked at Karen, really looked at her.

Her heart rate accelerated again. She waited, breathless, to hear him ask,
Did you watch for me?

Instead his eyes warmed with a very civilized appreciation.

She knew what he saw; she had carefully cultivated the laid-back, comfortable image the spa demanded from its staff.

Her blue gown was loose-fitting, sleeveless, knee-length and casual, and ‘‘casual’’ perfectly described her flat, strappy brown sandals and bare, tanned legs. Her brown hair was streaked with blond, some natural, some not, and stylish in a layered cut that swept her shoulders.

She looked like what she was—the events coordinator at a small, very exclusive hotel in a high-desert canyon outside of Sedona.

She put out her hand. ‘‘Mr. Wilder, it’s good to meet you.’’

He took her hand and shook it with businesslike briefness.

That surprised her—possibly because she was still half-convinced this man was Warlord. Probably because she’d expected that wild, electric thrill of recognition at his touch.

‘‘It’s good to meet you, Karen. I can’t wait to enjoy whatever occasions you set up for us.’’ He smiled, his teeth clean, white, and sharp.

Sharp . . .

Warlord kissed her. Turned away. Ran toward the front of the tent. Pushed the tent flap open. Leaped off the platform and into the melee, a pistol blazing in each hand.

She shuddered, then shook off the memory, the madness, and nodded her greeting.

‘‘Excuse me. I’ve got to check in and change into something more casual.’’ He nodded at all of them, and smiled at her again.

As he strode away, Mrs. Burstrom said in satisfaction, ‘‘That was the smile of a man who likes what he sees.’’

‘‘Karen, you’re in trouble now. My darling girl has that matchmaking gleam in her eyes.’’ Mr. Burstrom laughed, his jowls shivering.

‘‘Hush up, Chisholm.’’ Mrs. Burstrom linked her arm with Karen’s and fluttered her fingers at him. ‘‘I work under the cover of discretion.’’

In a polite tone that hid her faint flicker of alarm, Karen said, ‘‘Mrs. Burstrom, I don’t fraternize with the guests.’’ Her pager vibrated, and she glanced down.
Saved by the bell
. ‘‘The caterers have a question, so if you’ll excuse me . . .’’

‘‘Is there a rule forbidding it?’’ Mrs. Burstrom walked with her.

So much for ‘‘saved by the bell.’’

Mrs. Burstrom said she trusted Karen’s expertise, and Karen thought that probably she did, but she was the kind of hostess who verified every detail, from the welcome baskets in the guest rooms to the flower arrangements on the buffet. She’d worked with Chisholm Burstrom to make this company a success, and she expected this gathering to tie their loyal employees closer to them and bring their honored guests into the fold.

And Karen had worked with her to make sure that happened.

‘‘Is there a rule forbidding fraternization with the guests? No, but wouldn’t I be asking for heartache to fall for a guest who’s leaving in a week?’’ Karen gave the same droll answer she always gave to kindhearted inquiries and direct passes.

‘‘You’re never tempted?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Not even by a pair of green eyes shot with gold?’’ Mrs. Burstrom coaxed.

‘‘He has very nice eyes.’’ Eyes that looked positively normal. ‘‘But no.’’

‘‘It’s not natural for a girl your age to live alone.’’

‘‘I’m hardly a girl, Mrs. Burstrom. I’m thirty years old, and except for a yearlong break almost a year ago, I’ve been in the hotel business full-time for eight years. You wouldn’t be the first matchmaker I’ve thwarted.’’

‘‘A challenge!’’

Karen stopped in the middle of the hallway. ‘‘No. Please. My break from the hotel business coincided with the end of a bad relationship. I figure those weeks with him contained enough sex, rage, anguish, and arguments to make up for years of a normal relationship, and I’m not interested in trying again.’’

‘‘Two years is time enough to heal.’’

"I haven’t felt a niggle of interest since then."

‘‘Yet you looked at Rick hard enough.’’

Mrs. Burstrom wasn’t going to give up, so Karen told more than she usually did. ‘‘He reminded me of my ex. I always jump when I see a man like that. It wasn’t a healthy relationship. ’’

‘‘Did he beat you?’’ Mrs. Burstrom asked sharply.

Karen matched her frankness. ‘‘Almost as bad. He tied me up.’’

‘‘All right. I won’t push the issue.’’ They started toward the kitchen again. ‘‘I want you to know that Rick is an upright, honorable young man who has spent time overseas—’’

That quiver of alarm went up Karen’s spine again. ‘‘Really? Where?’’

‘‘India and Japan, and then Italy and Spain.’’

Karen had to stop jumping to conclusions.

Mrs. Burstrom continued, ‘‘He’s smart as a whip, speaks a lot of languages, and he developed a computer game that we’re marketing in the States and then internationally.’’

‘‘Really?’’ Karen couldn’t care less about computer games. ‘‘What’s it called?’’

‘‘Warlord.’’

Fists clenched at her sides, Karen walked along the trail away from the sprawling, five-story hotel structure. As soon as she was out of sight of the windows she ran, ran as hard as she could toward her cottage at the edge of the grounds. Stepping in, she shut the door behind her and leaned against it.

Usually the eggshell blue walls, cool cream tile floors, and framed Jack Vettriano prints in the studio apartment soothed her, but now nothing could wipe the shock from her mind.

It was him.

Wasn’t it?

It couldn’t be coincidence that Rick Wilder’s game was called
Warlord
.

Could it?

No. It couldn’t.

She pulled her suitcase out from under the bed. She kept it packed with good walking shoes, underwear, and sensible clothes, always ready for the moment when she had to flee.

Because although it had been two years since she’d walked away without a backward glance, leaving Warlord to battle for his life, she still believed that someday he could reappear and claim her again.

Somehow, someday, I will come for you.

Going to the safe in the closet, she opened it and pulled out her passport. Then, more slowly, she retrieved the icon painted with the Madonna. For one vital second she stared at the painting. She remembered the child who had protected the icon for a thousand years, the way her eyes had opened and looked at Karen before her frail body crumbled to dust. And although Karen did not want to believe, every morning when she looked in the mirror and saw those same eyes looking right back at her, she knew the child had passed custody of the icon to her.

She had to protect the Madonna.

But she had a life, too, and she needed to protect her own freedom. Grabbing the framed photo of her mother off the table, she placed the picture and the icon in a padded, zippered container and stowed them in the bottom of the bag. She wrapped the glass bell she’d bought in Italy in a lace shawl she’d bought in Spain, and tucked them in one of the side pockets. Then she zipped it all closed and placed it by the door.

She slid her backpack out from under the bed. That contained all the necessities to maintain life in the wilderness—freeze-dried foods, a flashlight, a waterproof poncho, a canteen. A quick visit to her tiny kitchen and she had a selection of Baker’s Breakfast Cookies added to her larder, and she was ready to go.

A knock made her swing around to stare at the door as if a rattlesnake stood on the other side. Or Warlord, which was even worse.

‘‘Miss Karen, it’s Dika!’’ the maid sang out.

Fifty-year-old Dika Petulengro had come to work there not long after Karen arrived. She cleaned the two dozen guest cottages that were scattered across the grounds, spoke English with a Russian accent, had beautiful dark brown eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes, and liked everyone. Karen considered her one of the kindest people she’d ever met—but she didn’t trust her. Mingma had taught her to be wary.

More important, Karen didn’t need a witness to her flight. So she placed her body to block the view and opened the door. ‘‘Dika, could you come back in a half hour?’’ Which gave her time to get to her car and get the hell out.

‘‘Because you have that beautiful man in here?’’ Dika craned her neck to see around Karen, and her eyes widened. ‘‘No. Not a man, a suitcase!’’

‘‘I’m doing a little packing for my vacation,’’ Karen said.

Dika bumped the door with her ample hip and knocked it out of Karen’s hand. ‘‘No, Miss Karen, look. You have packed your pretty glass. The lace mantilla you drape across your dresser is gone.’’ She looked hard at Karen. ‘‘And you have that look in your eyes.’’

‘‘What look?’’

‘‘The look of a refugee forced to flee again.’’

Somehow Dika recognized the expression.

Karen set her chin.

‘‘Okay, I help you.’’ Dika pushed her way in and shut the door behind her. ‘‘But first tell me why. Why are you afraid?’’

‘‘One of the guests . . . reminds me of someone.’’

‘‘Mr. Wilder?’’

Karen grew very still. ‘‘How do you know?’’

‘‘The staff is gossiping, of course.’’ Dika shrugged. ‘‘They said you looked enthralled with the man, but I think maybe they mistake fright for enthrallment.’’

Karen nodded stiffly. She hated admitting to this overwhelming panic, but Dika seemed to understand.

‘‘Sometime, he mistreated you? Maybe he is your husband?’’

‘‘No. And no. I mean, Mr. Wilder is definitely not my husband, and I’m not even sure he’s the guy I think he might be.’’ That sounded crazy, Karen knew, so she tried to explain. ‘‘The other guy . . . his eyes were black.’’

‘‘Black. All black? No color?’’

‘‘That’s right. At first I thought it was drugs, but then I realized he was . . . that somehow he . . .’’

‘‘He was the devil’s own,’’ Dika suggested.

‘‘Yes,’’ Karen burst out. Of course. Dika understood. She had come from the Ukraine, from a land as wild and peculiar as the Himalayas. ‘‘Mr. Wilder is not him. His eyes are light green, beautiful and not at all frightening. ’’

Dika nodded.

‘‘He indicated that he was interested in me, but it seemed nothing more than any other guy.’’

‘‘This man, Mr. Wilder, might be . . . You fear him?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Dika thought for a moment. ‘‘You have bitch beer in the refrigerator?’’

‘‘A couple.’’

‘‘I’ll open them.’’ Dika indicated the patio door, then bustled to the refrigerator. ‘‘Go outside and sit. We need to talk.’’

‘‘I need to leave.’’

‘‘First we talk. Then, if you wish, I will help you leave—and I know the secret ways to go.’’

That made sense. That made a lot of sense. And something about Dika’s matter-of-factness calmed Karen’s panic and made her think more clearly.

She opened her patio door and went out into the warm, dry air. The encircling wrought-iron fence was thick with shrubs and vines, giving her privacy and the illusion of coolness, and the chairs were made of lightweight blue fabric and reclined to weightlessness.

Behind her the door opened and closed, and Dika thrust an icy beer into Karen’s hand. She seated herself with all the assurance of a seasoned counselor and said, ‘‘So you don’t know if he’s actually the one.’’

‘‘No. When I was in Europe, right after I escaped him, I saw him all the time—on the train, in the restaurants, on the beaches. I’d see some man from behind, notice his walk, the color of his hair, or the movement of his hands, and I would just freak.’’ Karen started to lift the beer to her mouth, then brought it back down. ‘‘But it was never him.’’

‘‘You’d look again, and you were wrong,’’ Dika said. ‘‘Then, as days slipped into weeks and weeks into months, you relaxed and didn’t see him so much.’’

‘‘Right. Once, about six months in, I even dated a guy who reminded me of him. This guy was actually a lot better-looking—how could he miss? he actually
shaved
on a semiregular basis—and then he kissed me. I was so bored I almost slipped into a coma.’’ That was a memory she’d just as soon forget.

‘‘Your other man—his kisses were not boring.’’

‘‘He was a lot of things, but never boring.’’ Karen took a long drink of bitch beer.

‘‘But you don’t know what he looks like in the face? You don’t remember? You think Mr. Wilder has changed his looks? His eyes?’’

Karen told her about the beard and the hair, and the name of the computer game, and finished with, ‘‘Mr. Wilder doesn’t have Warlord’s intensity.’’

‘‘Yet you, who are a sensible woman, fear that this is the man.’’

‘‘Sounds dumb, I guess.’’

‘‘No. Your instincts tell you to be cautious. I believe you should be cautious. This could be a brother or a flunky, someone sent to spy on you.’’

A chill crept up Karen’s spine. She looked around. ‘‘I have to go,’’ she whispered.

Dika put her hand over Karen’s. ‘‘All the more reason you
shouldn’t
go. Here you have security men who can defend you. Friends who will believe you when you say a seemingly normal man is a threat.’’

‘‘Yes . . .’’ What Dika said made sense, and the clawing sense of panic, the desperate need to take flight, faded.

Dika viewed Karen’s relaxation and smiled. ‘‘Yes. Good. Let me tell you a story. Almost forty years ago my tribe suffered a great tragedy.’’

‘‘Your tribe?’’

‘‘I am Rom. Romany. Gypsy.’’

‘‘Oh!’’ Karen studied Dika’s brown eyes, her swarthy complexion, her compact body. ‘‘I didn’t know the Rom lived in the Ukraine.’’

‘‘The Rom have wandered across the world, and about a thousand years ago my own tribe made the mistake of wandering into Russia.’’ Dika made a face. ‘‘The Russians made persecution into an art form. But we didn’t have real trouble until almost forty years ago, when our most precious possession was taken from us.’’

Karen’s mind immediately sprang to the icon. Her icon. ‘‘What is your most precious possession?’’

Dika sighed. ‘‘It was a girl, the one chosen to see the visions that guided us. Our Zorana. When she left—’’

‘‘She left? I thought you said she was taken from you.’’

‘‘The stories differ.’’ Dika shrugged expressively. ‘‘The old folks change their tales. All I know is that the luck we’d enjoyed for so long vanished. Our axles broke, our babies died, our young men were killed. My father disappeared into one of the Russian prisons. I was eleven then. In the Ukraine, the militia could be very bad, very corrupt. They took what they wanted, they killed, they burned. My mother taught me to hide when they came, and I always did, until one day when I was fifteen, the general saw me before I could get out of sight. He threatened to burn the wagons if the Rom did not give me into his keeping. So they did.’’

Incredulous, Karen asked, ‘‘How could they?’’

‘‘It was me or their own children, and so they sacrificed me.’’

A ghost of memory slipped through Karen’s mind. The child sacrifice . . .

Dika looked down at the bitch beer clasped in her hands. ‘‘I never saw my mother again. I was with Maksim five years. The whole time he was mad for me, and eventually, I think, just mad. He said I slept with other men. He accused his soldiers, his brother, his best friend. He beat me, kicked me, made it so I could not have children.’’

‘‘I am so sorry.’’

‘‘So finally I did sleep with another man, a powerful man, and when the general came for me I gave the order to have him shot like a dog in the street. Then I came here.’’ Dika looked up, and deep lines etched her upper lip and between her brows. ‘‘Even now, sometimes I see Maksim in my nightmares.’’

‘‘You make me ashamed to complain.’’ Because Warlord had kept her against her will, but he had promised not to ever hurt her, and even now she believed him.

‘‘No. Don’t be ashamed. Be proud of yourself that you got away. I thank God every day that I used my strengths to fight Maksim, and I remember with pleasure giving the order to have him killed.’’ Dika lifted her chin. ‘‘Miss Karen, you don’t want to run forever. If this isn’t the man, then you are where you want to be. I will tell the staff to watch him, and if he is the one I will personally fix the sheets to make him break out in a terrible rash and have to go to the hospital.’’

Karen laughed, and relaxed. ‘‘You’re right. I’ve got to stop running from a memory. I’ve broken the old bonds.’’ And, interestingly enough, she meant the ones holding her to Jackson Sonnet, not the ropes Warlord had used to fetter her.

In truth, her break with the man she’d called her father had made her realize how alone she was in the world. She had had no friends, because she had worked too much and didn’t have time for them. She had moved from place to place and had no home except the dark, cold, depressing mansion in Montana. And she’d spent her life afraid she was unlovable because of one man’s unattainable approval.

So she had changed her life. She traveled. She got pedicures. She made friends, sang songs, drank fine wines. Sometimes she missed the old life; she had been a damned good project manager, and there had been satisfaction in completing the work.

Yet the only true dark spot remaining on her horizon was her fear that Warlord would emerge from the shadows of her old life—and she remembered all too clearly the legend he’d relayed about the Russian villain and his descendents, damned for all eternity. She remembered the way his flesh had sizzled on contact with the icon.

Dika was right. If Mr. Wilder was Warlord, Karen would have little chance to escape him if she ran. So it was time to face her fear. ‘‘I’m strong. I’m self-reliant. I’m not the same person I was two years ago. So . . . I’ll stay.’’

‘‘Good!’’ Dika patted Karen’s knee and stood. ‘‘My people have gathered again. We have a stake in this struggle against the devil and his minions, and we will help you, Miss Sonnet. So be wary, yet know you have friends at your back. Now I need to go to work.’’