Decadent: The Devil’s Due Read online

  Since moving to Charleston, I’ve been in some swanky places. Sweetgrass, where Gray’s brother and Gabby live, is show-stopping, and then there’s Wildflower and the apartments upstairs. Much of historic Charleston is monied. It was a lot to take in for a girl who grew up in a single-wide trailer. Normally, I pretend to take it in stride so that I don’t seem too much like a hick, but this blows me away. “I can’t believe this place.”

  “You haven’t even left the window. Although the view is the best part of the place. Come on. Let me show you the rest.”

  I reluctantly leave the window and follow him for a tour.

  Downstairs is an open floor plan, with a sleeping porch. At least that’s what we call them where I’m from. The ceilings are high, but the house doesn’t have a lot of heavy furniture or dark colors like Wildflower. Everything is light and airy, pale grays and tans, and an array of blues and greens—all the colors of nature. The woodwork is painted a soft white, which gives the house a warm, cozy feel.

  Gray points to a door on the opposite side of the kitchen. “My office is through there—it’s my private space, same as at the apartment—don’t go in unless you’re invited.”

  Something about the way he says it annoys me. As though I might go poking around in his personal business. Okay, I might want to, but I would never—not unless I had good cause.

  I follow him quietly up the stairs.

  “Not a lot to see up here,” he says, “although the view’s better.”

  That’s hard to believe.

  The entire top floor is a single bedroom with hardwood floors and a soaring ceiling. A crystal chandelier hangs from an exposed beam that runs the width of the room. There’s a wall of windows, and a window seat—a window seat—that I can’t stop smiling at, and some furniture around the fireplace.

  But the star of the room is an elaborately carved Tantra chair. Although the name is deceiving. Except for the characteristic dips and curves, Tantra chairs are actually more like Victorian fainting sofas or chaise lounges than chairs. Gray has one in the apartment too, but it isn’t as beautiful. This one’s a sturdy antique.

  His eyes twinkle when he catches me admiring the chair. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

  It’s hard to see the chair without imagining him enjoying it with some woman. Someone leggy and glamorous, who was born knowing the difference between a wine glass and a water goblet. All of a sudden, I’m feeling peevish. “It looks like a museum piece. Not something you’d use.” This is wishful thinking.

  “It’s never been used.”

  “Never?” I challenge, even though I don’t really want him to say otherwise. “It’s hard to believe you haven’t at least christened it.”

  “Never.” He pivots to the corner of the room. “The bathroom is through that doorway. There are towels and extra toiletries in the cupboards. Trippi picked up some things from your house that you might want. They’re in that closet.” Gray points to a door on the far wall. “Some of it’s hanging, and the rest is in the bank of drawers on the left side.”

  I still for a moment. Even the serenity of the room isn’t enough to temper the anger simmering inside. “You went to my house, riffled through my belongings, and violated my privacy, Mister Stay-out-of-my-office-it’s-my-private-space?”

  “Pfft. Not me. That would have about given me a heart attack. I saw your closet when I was at your house. Once was enough.”

  I’m going to wring his neck. “Gray—”

  “Let it go, Delilah. Let’s just try to make some peace while we’re here. We can fight about it when we get back to the city.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to respond before continuing the tour, but I won’t be brushed aside that easily. Although the prospect of peace is inviting.

  I glance at Gray, and then out the bay window—the one with the padded cushion on the seat, where I imagine nothing better in life than curling up with a cup of hot tea to watch a storm roll in. I glance back at him, and sigh. We’ll have the discussion, but maybe it can wait a few days.

  “There’s only one full bath in the house. I’ll need to use this bathroom to shower, and my things are in that closet too. Otherwise, this space is yours while we’re here.”

  It occurs to me, for the first time, that there’s also only one bedroom in the house, and I don’t remember seeing anything that looked like a pull-out sofa. Maybe in his office. Although I’m not even sure rich people have such things in their homes. I catch myself chewing on the corner of my thumb, a habit I thought I broke years ago. One bed. “Where are you sleeping?”

  “Downstairs.”

  Downstairs. I feel a twinge of disappointment. Why? So you could argue with him when he said he was sharing the bed with you? I don’t know what I expected. Or what I want, for that matter.

  “You can work here, or you’re welcome to use the kitchen table.”

  I’m not interested in the kitchen. But the window seat or the porch? That’s a big yes. “I’d like to work on the porch, if that’s not a problem.”

  “There’s no table or desk in there.”

  “I don’t need one. It’s such a treat to be at the beach—in this house.” With you. I don’t say the last part, because even if I was sure of those feelings, which I’m not, I would never take the risk. A heart is a fragile thing. It can only withstand a certain amount of punishment before it stops working altogether. Mine doesn’t have much life left in it. I need to be careful.

  “I’d love to hear the surf while I work,” I admit. “I’m perfectly comfortable on the floor.”

  “Whatever you want.” He pauses at the staircase, and when he looks at me, it seems like there’s something more he wants to say. I feel it. But then he blinks a few times, and we’re back to the mundane. “I have a secure laptop for you to use, and a few other things I want to give you. We’re here to work,” he grumbles under his breath. “Don’t forget that.”

  I nod, but I’m not sure if he was talking to me, or to himself.

  When we get downstairs, Gray’s all business. He goes into the office and returns with a laptop, a fat binder, and some office supplies. “Here’s the briefing book. It will fill in a lot of holes. By the time you’re finished, we’ll be ready for supper, and I’ll answer the hundreds of questions you’ll have while we eat.” He hands me a manila envelope. “Fill this out, too.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the form we use at the club to match people who have similar interests.”

  I pull out the paperwork. I’ve never seen this particular form, but I’ve seen one like it. Kinksters fill them out at sex clubs before they play. It can also be used as the basis for a contract in a power exchange dynamic. Kyle and I never had a contract, but I’ve learned a lot about them since he died.

  “Are you familiar with this type of questionnaire?”

  I glance at the first page, not really seeing any of the individual words, and nod.

  “What I want you to do is use the red, yellow, green system. Mark the color next to each one and then tell me if you’ve done it with a yes or no. Then tell me why you’ve marked it red or yellow—don’t bother about green. I don’t need a treatise. A few words should suffice. Ordinarily we’d create our own negotiated terms, but this isn’t…fun and games,” he says, haltingly. “It’s a job for both of us.”

  Gray hesitates for a few seconds and his brow furrows before he speaks again. “I can’t promise that I’ll be able to respect all your terms,” he pauses, to run his tongue over his bottom lip, “but I’ll make every effort. You have my word.”

  I take a deep breath to right myself. This goes against everything I now know about power exchanges and consensual play—but this isn’t play. Still. “If you can’t agree to respect my limits, then why am I bothering to fill this out?”

  “Because I don’t want this to be more difficult on you than it needs to be. I’ll do my damnedest to stay within the boundaries you set.” His voice is raw, and his eyes ripe with concern. �
�And if it can’t be helped, I’ll attempt to mitigate where I can.”

  He’s lost some of the color in his cheeks. What have I gotten myself into? “Gray, what’s this about? What exactly is expected of me?”

  “It will all make more sense after you read the briefing book. When you’re through, we’ll talk.”

  I hold up the questionnaire, and wave it in the air. “Will I be getting one of these from you?”

  “If you’d like.” He turns toward the doorway.

  “I’d like. I want to have some understanding of your boundaries, too.” At least I think I do.

  He nods. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

  I need a lot of things. So many things. Answers, chief among them. I guess that’s where you come in, I say to the briefing book. Just don’t tell me a bunch of shit that’s going to give me heartburn—or nightmares.

  13

  Gray

  I find Delilah out on the porch, sitting cross-legged on the sisal rug, her back against a chair. “Crown Prince Ahmad bin Khalid,” she says soberly. “What a monster.”

  I nod, and sit on the chair across from her. “Throughout history, the Amadis have proven themselves time and time again to be a brutal regime. But the crown prince makes his ancestors look like saints.”

  “Whoever prepared the briefing book did a great job. But I still have a ton of questions.” She points to a yellow legal pad. “I made a list.”

  I expected nothing less. “Shoot.”

  “This doesn’t seem like a CIA operation—not exactly. It feels more like something the CIA’s Special Activities Center would be involved in.”

  Delilah’s smart, and she understands the big players in the world of espionage. There’s no sense in hiding my association from her. I had already decided that it would be a futile exercise. But let’s see where she goes with this. “CIA’s not involved at all.”

  “The Bureau,” she says, keen eyes on me, watching for a tell. “The EAD.”

  Bingo. That was quicker than I expected. The Elite Activities Division is the FBI’s equivalent of the CIA’s Special Activities Center. Since the terrorist attacks of September 11, they mirror one another. While the CIA still operates only on foreign soil, theoretically, the FBI operates at home and abroad.

  Both organizations have an elite paramilitary unit, and a covert political action unit. Delilah had her sights on the CIA’s political action unit, and I’m a member of the FBI’s political action unit. They are the government’s two most secretive weapons to protect national security.

  “I’m with the EAD, although no one at the Bureau would ever confirm that.” It’s a big admission, at least to me, but she takes it in stride.

  “You’re with the FBI,” she says, carefully. “Kyle was with the Bureau. Did you know him?”

  She chews on her bottom lip, maybe hoping I’ll tell her something. It’s only natural that she’d want more information about Kyle’s work—about his death. I wish there was something to tell her. Something good, like he was a hero or a stand-up guy. But I’ve got nothing like that. The truth would only cause her pain, and I’m not going there.

  “It’s a big agency. I don’t know everyone.” It’s not technically a lie, more of a duck and cover. But I promised her I wouldn’t lie, and my conscience is twitching. “I just told you I was with the EAD and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “I’m still coming to terms with it. But since the night you followed me, I’ve known you were some sort of agent. It couldn’t have gone down like it did otherwise.” Delilah studies me for a few seconds. “You shot Virginia Bennett?” she asks, her eyes trained on me.

  I have nothing to lose at this point from admitting to a fact that’s on record—buried to the hilt, but still on record somewhere. “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Smith was being a stupid bastard, taking risks he shouldn’t have been taking, and if I hadn’t, you were going to take the shot.”

  “So you took it for me?”

  She’s fuming.

  “I wanted you for this mission. That would have put an unnecessary spotlight on you.” And I wanted to protect you from any more scandal. I leave that part out. “Let’s forget about the clusterfuck at the church, and focus on this one. I need your head here.”

  “Why did you follow me? And threaten me? Instead of just straight up asking if I wanted to be part of this? You knew all along I would say yes.” She shakes her head. “I don’t get it.”

  “I believed you were perfect for this from the beginning. But I wanted some assurances.” I needed to prove to myself that you were up to the job and that it wasn’t just my dick making decisions.

  “I needed to see how you’d react under pressure, when cornered without any moves. That’s the real crux of this work, right?” She nods, but I’m not sure I’ve convinced her. “Anybody can pretend anything when the stakes are low and the wolves are at bay. What matters is how you react when your life’s on the line and the bastards are nipping at your ankles. That’s what separates the boys from the men. Or in your case, the girls from the women.”

  She gathers her hair and pulls it back into a ponytail, taking a purple band off her wrist to secure it. She’s buying time, wondering if she should let it go and move on, or if she needs more from me. “You’ve been on this case for more than a decade?” she asks, still playing with her hair.

  “It hasn’t been the only thing I’ve worked on, but yes. I infiltrated the Amadi royal family while I was in college.”

  “So I’m going to be your—woman.”

  “You make it sound so distasteful.”

  She tips her head to the side, and there’s a small pull at the corners of her mouth, but it never becomes a real smile. “And my job is to get a message to the crown prince’s sister, Princess Saher bint Khalid, without tipping anyone off. The message is to beg her father, again, to let her go to London with her son to visit her dying aunt. She’s to insist on taking her son.”

  “In a nutshell. But getting her alone to pass the message is going to be difficult. There is surveillance everywhere in the palace. She’s closely watched, and you will be too. If you’re caught, it will mean prison for you—for all of us, probably—and death for her.” The ramifications are sobering as I lay them out.

  Delilah nods, appropriately pensive. The stakes are enormous. “I know what I read, but what I still don’t understand is, if her father’s the king, why can’t he orchestrate this himself? Why does he need the United States government to intervene?”

  She looks young and innocent with her hair pulled off her face. And beautiful—no hairstyle can change that about her, but she’s also savvy. “It’s complicated, and so far out of our realm that you’ll probably never understand it. You just need to trust the intelligence. He can’t have the discussion with her without causing turmoil in the country. Maybe a civil war.”

  “A civil war?” She wrinkles her nose. “Now I’m more confused.”

  I’ve been immersed in this for so many years that the peculiarities of the relationships are second nature to me. But I need to distill this into something she can wrap her head around. “The king is old and ill. The crown prince has taken over most of his father’s royal duties. He essentially oversees the day-to-day operations of the country. Many of the people who were once loyal to the king are now loyal to the crown prince. Everybody understands the king’s days are numbered, and they know where their bread is buttered. It’s unclear who the king can trust.”

  “This still doesn’t make sense to me.” She hugs her knees to her chest and rests her chin between the peaks. “We’re talking about the US government getting involved in a scheme to move an Amadi princess and her son to London as a favor to a king who has one foot in the grave? There’s got to be more to it than that.”

  That’s for damn sure. “There is. But your level of clearance doesn’t allow for you to know any more than what I’ve already told you.”

  She
stares at her wiggling toes, weighing the risks. It’s dicey to get involved in a mission you don’t fully understand. But that’s the way it is when you work for the government. Only the president and a few top aides have the whole picture. Delilah knows this, but I’m sure she hates that I know more than she does.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” I assure her, “I don’t know everything either. But you’re on the right track. The government wouldn’t get involved unless it was beneficial to our own national security interests.”

  She nods, and I see the wheels turning. “If this is classified information that requires a clearance, why are we discussing it here?”

  “I’m glad you asked. This place has been cleared.” While Delilah skims the list of questions she prepared, I get up. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I retrieve a deck of cards from my office that I use to keep my focus laser sharp, even when I don’t know all the answers. When I get back to the porch, I move the coffee table out of the way, and lay out the cards carefully on the rug. One at a time. Making the same promise to each individual face: The bastard will pay.

  “What’s all this?” she asks.

  I don’t answer until I’m finished. When the last card is faceup, I pull Delilah to her feet.

  “One hundred and eighty-one American passengers from the crash outside of Houston. Two New York Times journalists dismembered. Seventeen teenage girls, three of whom were from right here in South Carolina. These are just the Americans. There are countless others, faceless and nameless.

  “All dead. The innocent victims of Crown Prince Ahmad bin Khalid.”

  Delilah’s mouth is open. A hand clutches her chest. She’s speechless. This information was in the briefing book, but once you put a face to a number, everything changes.

  “I try not to let myself get caught up in the bigger picture,” I explain quietly. “In the things I don’t know. This mission is for them.”

  After giving her a few minutes to meet each face, I pick up the cards reverently, one at a time, and hand them to her. We don’t talk until I’m seated again.