Betray the Lie (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #11) Read online

  “Yes, but what are they trying to do?” I ask, my gaze raking the main screen as I stop at the top of the center aisle. On screen, I can see the most sensitive areas of the compound—all our server rooms, the weapons caches, our generators and solar fields, the wind turbine, and the most important egress points. “This is minor. We’ll recover quickly. They must be trying to distract us.”

  “I’ve got Melody on watch; she’s scanning all our systems for a breach.”

  “Good.” I turn back to him. “You did really well. I was stuck on an elevator.”

  A smile tugs at his lips. “Stuck on an elevator with no Wi-Fi. You must have gone almost insane.”

  I shrug, giving him a half smile. “I survived. But I’m worried, Mitchel. This is strange. Obviously an inside job.” My gaze scans the room again, looking for answers and finding none. “There will have to be a full investigation. First, let’s make sure everything is secure.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mitchel follows me as I head to a console and pick up a headset. My voice travels to everyone in the command center. “Okay, folks. What’s going on?”

  Their answers start coming in as my eyes stay on the screen, monitoring the video feeds, temperature readings, and system alerts—taking in all data points. With enough data, we can figure this out. With enough data, we can change the world.

  Lenox

  The office windows open to the gardens, formal and rigid, with tightly cropped topiaries and white gravel that sparkles in the moonlight. Beyond the gardens the forest hunkers, a dark, shaggy wall against a star-draped sky.

  Petra’s desk, made of thick, glossy, marbled wood, is clean—not even hinting at the wildly passionate woman who does her work here. I sit in Petra’s seat, the leather slippery and cold against my bare skin. Her perfume permeates the space, a blend of jasmine and rose with just a hint of sandalwood. Petra’s scent, like her life, is feminine with a shadow of masculinity.

  It’s all sex.

  I run my hand over the forest green blotter at the center of the desk, feeling indentations from her pen. My hand traces the invisible lines, and I close my eyes. It’s just a jumble. Too many words written over each other. Most of it is in Czech, I figure—the language of Petra’s homeland. Though it's been many decades since she lived there. This estate, a castle really, in the Romanian countryside has been her base for the last five years. The air is fresh, the water clean, and the government unconcerned with her activities or the source of her wealth.

  Opening my eyes, I pull out the top drawer to my right and find checkbooks, packs of matches from a local restaurant in the village nearby where we had dinner tonight, pens, and stationery. I sort through the sparse contents finding nothing out of place. Nothing of interest.

  The next drawer down is equally mundane—paperclips, a stapler, a silver letter opener with Petra’s initials engraved into it, blank envelopes, and a calculator. The file drawer is locked. I can’t force it with the letter opener so leave it to explore the other drawers before searching for the key.

  The rest of the desk proves to be as boring as the first few drawers. I push back the chair and look under the desk, expecting to find the key for the file drawer secured there but am disappointed. Turning to the bookshelves, I scan them, hoping to discover a false volume in which a key might be stashed.

  The books are leather bound with gold lettering—English, French, Russian and Czech dominate, but I see a few Spanish volumes as well. Petra and I spoke French and English to each other when we first met. My mother made sure I knew the languages of my clients. “Speak to a person in their language, and they will feel safe with you, trust you, and eventually even love you. Once they love you,” she smiled, her eyes glittering, “they will give you whatever you want.”

  She was right about that and so many other things.

  I trace my fingers over the volumes, pausing randomly to pull them forward, to test they are real. A mother of pearl box, its ghostly white surface gleaming in the darkness, catches my eye. It’s small enough to fit in my palm and sits on top of several books, pushed to the back of the shelf. I reach in and take it out. It’s heavy for its size, and when I open it I find a gold key, large and old-fashioned—something from a fairy tale—sitting on a cushion of velvet.

  Removing the key from its plush nest, I weigh it in my palm. What a pleasant object. But far too large for the filing drawer.

  A sound in the hall makes me pause. Footsteps are approaching. I quickly return the key and its box to their place. Taking down a French book of poetry, I head into the attached den where I settle into a chair by the window and turn on the reading light.

  Petra enters the room as I flip through the pages. She’s pulled on a black silk robe but not cleaned up her face. Mascara darkens under her eyes, and the remnants of her lipstick accentuate the puffiness of her lips. “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice gravelly.

  I hold up the book. “Reading.” Her eyes narrow with suspicion and then scan my chest, taking in my near nudity. “Sorry if you missed me.” Her lips part as her gaze reaches my crotch. “Come,” I say, laying the book aside and waving her to me. She follows my command, dropping to her knees in front of me.

  I cup her cheek and lean forward to kiss her. She moans, one petite hand running up my arms and circling my neck. I pull her onto my lap, cradling her as I devour her mouth.

  Petra twists quickly, and her lips leave mine as a cold blade presses up against my inner thigh. “What were you doing down here, Lenox?” she asks again, her voice clear now, eyes burning into mine, as the knife in her fist moves slowly closer to my manhood.

  Adrenaline floods my veins as I stare at her. A minx in rabbit fur.

  “Reading,” I say again, my voice low, my hands gripping her waist. I could push her off me, but I’d risk getting cut.

  “Liar,” she says, the blade pressing closer.

  “I should have tied you up,” I say, dropping my voice down to a dangerous purr. Petra bares her teeth. Her robe has fallen open, and I lean down slowly to kiss her collarbone. She shivers under me, the press of the blade softening. I pull the tie of her robe free as I lave her neck, and then slowly cover her hand with mine, pulling her wrist forward and the knife away from my flesh.

  She lets me, giving no resistance now, opening to me like a flower blooms for the sun. My fingers sink into the silky tresses at the base of her neck, and I take full control. She is mine now.

  The knife drops almost silently to the carpeting, and I shift her so that she straddles me, her robe spread, her legs around my waist. The hand that held her knife now reaches for me, loosening me from my boxers and guiding toward her center.

  But I stop her, my large palm engulfing her. “Not yet,” I say. “I want you to beg.”

  She whimpers against my lips, her body quivering. Petra needs so much, has so much, and yet can’t ever get enough. A curse or a gift, hard to say, this insatiable devotion to moving forward, going faster, getting what she wants.

  “Please.” Her voice comes out a soft whisper, and I smile under her. Petra’s hair falls around us, tickling against my bare skin, sending shivers of desire racing through me.

  I enjoy the sweet sensation of delay. The moments when a train is hovering at the entrance to a station, the rev of a plane’s engines before it takes flight, the scent of a woman before she releases around me.

  My lips grace hers, softly, barely…then her chin, the small point of it…her jaw—elegant, sharp, delicious. Petra’s head falls back, tendrils of hair reaching my hand where it grips her lower back, curling around to hold her ass. To stop her from moving how she wants. To maintain my control.

  My lips find her collarbone again, nipping at its length. I push her back, bending her so that her breasts face the ceiling, her head in my one hand, ass in the other, laid out in front of me—any straight man’s fantasy, and my profession.

  The lamplight glows against her skin, gets lost in the darkness of her nipples. “Please,” she says, again
, louder, her body quivering with desire, with unmet passion.

  “Say my name,” I command, my voice rough against her nipple. I pull it between my teeth, and she cries out in that sweet tone of pain and pleasure.

  “Lenox. Please, Lenox, fuck me.” Petra’s voice has gone all throaty, all desperate. But I know she can beg more. She can threaten and cajole. I won’t take her until she is a bundle of need, a desperate creature ready to tear me apart.

  My foot brushes against the knife, and it sends a thrill up my leg right to my crotch. A hushed moan escapes me at its cool touch, at the danger this woman in my arms presents. God, her power is sexy.

  “Dammit, Lenox!” Now she’s getting mad. I love making her angry. “Fuck me, or you’re fired.”

  I bite harder, hurting her now, so that she almost struggles to get away, but I grip her harder through the silk robe, digging my fingers in as a warning and a promise. I will take you the way you want. The way you need.

  “Now!” she screams, the banshee released, the desperation undoing her so she wriggles and fights to close the distance.

  “Now?” I ask, letting my tongue grace her skin as I speak.

  She makes a strangled sound, can’t even form words anymore. And that is my moment. That is the final push of the jet, the rumble of the steam engine, the moment I love. Slowly I pull her onto me.

  She’s starving and melting, and I bury my face in her chest. Petra arches over me, wrapping her arms around my neck, her mouth finding my earlobe and pulling it between her teeth.

  “Yes, Lenox. Oh, yes,” she purrs.

  I keep one toe on the blade of the knife, reminding me of the danger that rides me, that begs for me, that needs me…and that, perhaps, I need in return.

  Chapter Four

  Sydney

  Robert speaks quietly into the phone, but I can still hear him. We are moored off Key Biscayne; he’s lounging in the captain’s chair while I sit on the back bench of the speed boat. It’s a beautiful antique—glossy wood and white leather. Her name is MY WAY.

  And right now, that’s what Robert Maxim is getting: his way.

  He’s actually berating someone about the raid—someone who has much more power than Declan Doyle. Maybe a politician or a director at Homeland Security. For all I know, he’s on the phone with the head of the CIA.

  It doesn’t matter.

  He’s going to fix this. We’ll be home before dawn, and the place will be spotless. As if none of it ever happened.

  Home.

  When did Miami begin to feel this way? When I began to take getting better seriously? When I took my care into my own hands. Three months ago…

  “I’m not working with Dale anymore,” I yell at Robert as I storm into his office, Blue by my side.

  Robert looks up at me, his gaze flat. “He’s the best.”

  “He’s a creep.” I’m standing right in front of Robert’s big, glass-topped desk now, lightning sizzling in the corner of my vision, thunder pounding in my ears.

  A smile pulls at Robert’s lips as he sits back into his chair. His hands come to the armrests, and he looks down at his lap. “How do you know?”

  “Puh-leez.” I drop into one of the two chairs that face Robert’s desk, and Blue settles by my side, resting his chin on my knee. This room is all modern furniture--crisp lines, cold metal, hard glass, and pale earth tones. Has his decorator ever heard of a freaking accent pillow? “A creep that big I can spot a mile away. Guy is creepy.”

  Robert’s smile grows larger. “I suppose you’re right,” he nods. “So, how would you like to continue your treatment?”

  “Dale made really clear what’s wrong with my brain but didn’t have any good ideas how to fix it.” I tick off on my hand. “Hallucinations, blackouts, depression…I’ve been Googling…” Humor lights Robert’s blue-green gaze, and I narrow my eyes. “Don’t laugh,” I warn.

  “At you, Sydney? Never.”

  “Hmmph…well…what do you know about Ketamine?” I chew on my lower lip, surprised by how much I care about Robert’s opinion.

  His brows raise, and he steeples his finger like the evil villain he plays on the international stage. “It’s an anesthetic—used on the battlefield, on children and the elderly—as well as other patients with compromised respiratory systems—because it does not affect breathing.”

  “Yeah…it was also a party drug.” I shrug.

  “You want to rave your problems away?” He smiles, teasing me. But we both know my problems are no joke.

  I shake my head and reach out for Blue, petting one of his velvety ears. He sighs in appreciation. “I read that it has some amazing results for people with mood disorders and other issues…including suicidal thoughts.” I force myself to meet Robert’s gaze. He’s sitting very still, the sun streaming in the windows behind him catching the silver at his temples and making it sparkle. “Apparently, it regrows…your…brain.”

  Robert frowns.

  “I don’t really understand the science.” I watched a few YouTube videos and read some interviews with people who’d gone through the infusion process, but I didn’t really get it. But I don’t know how the internet works either, and that doesn’t stop me from surfing it. “The point is, I want to try it.”

  “Okay, do you have a doctor in mind?”

  “His name is Dr. Munkin. He has a clinic downtown.”

  Robert leans forward and pulls his silver laptop in front of him, opens the sleek computer, and begins to type. “I’ll have him checked out.”

  “Thanks.” I get up to leave. “Sydney,” Robert says, stopping me. “There is something else we need to discuss.”

  I turn back to him. He looks up from the computer. “I spoke with Dan this afternoon.” I nod, my throat tight with anxiety. What now? “He is concerned that Homeland Security is closing in on us. Declan Doyle is making himself a nuisance. You know he’s been assigned to your mother’s case.”

  I don’t want to talk about that. Lightning sizzles across my vision, and I close my eyes, willing it away; but the bright beam of electricity dances behind my closed lids and thunder crashes so loudly I feel its vibrations.

  “Dan wants us to leave Miami,” Robert continues, his deep voice pulling me out of my hallucination. “I told him it’s not an issue. My contacts have assured me I’m safe. And you are under my protection.”

  “Okay…”

  “I thought you had a right to know his thoughts, though.”

  “He couldn’t tell me himself?” I ask, cocking a hip, the familiar spark of anger giving me strength.

  Robert sits back in his chair, steepling his fingers again. “He said he tried calling you, but you didn’t pick up.”

  I nod, looking down at Blue, my righteous indignation fading in the stark light of the truth. I am willfully ignorant. “Yeah, right.”

  “Why didn’t you answer his call?”

  “I can’t deal with anything right now, Robert,” I answer, my voice low, my gaze still on Blue.

  “That’s fine. I’m happy to care for you. But please, don’t act like I’m trying to keep things from you.” I raise my eyes to Robert. He has a point. I try to apologize, but the words just won’t come. Instead, I straighten my spine and glare at him, trying to kindle that sweet rage keeping me alive. Robert smiles. “Confrontational even at the very edge of madness.” He shakes his head, an amused smile playing over his mouth.

  “Let me know what you find out about Dr. Munkin,” I say.

  He grins. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Dr. Munkin is in his mid-seventies, wearing thick glasses, a salmon-colored button down shirt and khakis. He’s pale, unlike the majority of Miamians, and gives me a warm smile as he walks into the room.

  “Hello, Ms. Rye, how are you feeling today?” I force a smile onto my face, but that just makes him frown, his eyes softening with concern. Dr. Munkin sits on a wheeled stool and scoots over to where I wait on a lounge chair. There is a TV in the room, an IV stand, and soft music whispers from unse
en speakers. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, reaching for Blue, who inches closer, pressing his entire weight against my thigh, grounding me. “Well…this is all confidential, right?”

  He nods, looking grave. I get the sense this guy takes his Hippocratic Oath seriously. The clinic is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. They save lives here. Save people from the demons inside their heads.

  “I guess I should start at the beginning.”

  “We have plenty of time.”

  I stifle a laugh and he nods, his brows pulled into a furrow of concern, encouraging me to “let it out” with his gaze.

  “It all started about five years ago, when my brother was murdered.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He does sound sorry but not shocked—he is used to traumatized people.

  “So…” I look down at Blue; he’s staring up at me with his mismatched eyes. “I tried to kill his murderer.” I don’t look up, but I hear a sharp intake of breath. “The police weren’t going to do anything about it. The guy was very powerful, and I just couldn’t have him walking around, living his life, when my brother was gone. So, I tried to kill him, but I was too late--the guy had enemies far fiercer than me, and when I got to him, he was already dead. But, those fiercer enemies, they were also smarter than me.” I look up for a moment and find the doctor’s eyes wide, his mouth formed into a small o. “So they framed me. And I fled the country.”

  The doctor nods, letting me know he’s with me, even though he looks a little like he just saw a pigeon get hit by a bus—something shocking and gruesome but not related to him.

  I take in another deep breath and sink my hand into Blue’s ruff, massaging him. “I started working as a private investigator after that—so fast forward a few years, and I’m working a case in Miami—my brother’s ex-fiancé actually. Ex…is that the right term?” Hugh’s face crosses my mind—his wide smile and bowl haircut. The way his eyes light up when he talks about cooking. The way he made my brother laugh so hard James would bend over and slap his knee, his face going red and tears leaking from his eyes. A bolt of lightning sizzles, and I blink against the bright ray. Of course, that doesn’t help—the lightning in my mind cannot be escaped.