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Vishenko considered this for a moment, weighing the pros and cons. Then he realized this was the perfect solution to his plan to kill both Caterina and Nick D’Arcy. And do it so quickly the chances of recovering his money were improved.
He hid his glee and returned the other man’s cold smile. “Fine. I will pay you when you take me to her.”
A deep belly laugh rumbled out of D’Arcy. “You must think I’m as stupid as the police and FBI agents you’ve bribed over the years,” he said. “No, no, my friend.” Sarcasm dripped from his words. “You will pay me up front, or the deal is off.”
Vishenko shook his head. “Pay you ten million dollars for nothing but your word that you will disclose Caterina’s location? I think not.”
“Of the two of us,” D’Arcy said softly, “whose word can be believed?” He waited a moment, but when Vishenko didn’t respond, he stood up. “Ah well,” he said as he turned to go. “I guess you will just have to take your chances with the jury.”
“Half,” Vishenko said quickly, as he realized D’Arcy meant it—he would walk and take his information with him. “I will pay you half up front—a good faith payment. The other half I will pay when she is dead.”
D’Arcy smiled again. “Good faith?” He laughed softly. “That’s funny, coming from you.” Then his smile faded, leaving nothing but cold, hard determination. “Deal,” he said. “I won’t offer you my hand to shake on it. Neither of us can be trusted that far.”
“Deal,” Vishenko said. “When will you take me to Caterina?”
“When I have the money safely in my possession, and not a moment before.” He held up a cautionary hand. “But don’t wait too long. I have arrangements to make if I’m going to get Ms. Mateja’s protectors out of the way. It won’t be easy doing it in such a way that her death isn’t traced back to me. And I don’t want to wait until just before the trial. Too many other factors could come into play, like the US Marshals Service and the FBI. So long as the agency has sole custody, I can make it happen. So let’s get this done sooner rather than later.”
Chapter 15
After lunch Cate asked Liam, “Dessert? There’s still one piece of that apple pie left.”
He patted his flat stomach and shook his head. “Better not,” he said with a rueful smile. “I’m not getting much exercise here at the cabin—not like usual—so I have to be careful how much I eat.”
“We’ve hiked every day,” she protested.
“Yeah, but I usually jog five miles or so before breakfast in addition to my other activities. I can’t jog up here. You eat it if you want.”
She gazed at the covered pan with longing. “It’s really good. Sheriff Callahan’s wife is a great baker.” Liam had told her who’d baked the bread, pie and cookies Callahan had supplied them with.
“I wish I—” She didn’t finish her sentence. Cooking and baking were things she hadn’t had the chance to do since she’d left Zakhar. Her mother had already been teaching her for several years when she died, so Cate knew much more than the basics. In fact, her father—traditional Zakharian father that he was—had praised Cate’s skills in the kitchen, although she hadn’t really thought that important at the time. She’d wanted to escape the traditional “home and hearth” role most Zakharians assigned to women and be someone. Accomplish something that would set her apart from everyone else.
She didn’t feel quite the same way now. Not that she wanted to be a traditional Zakharian housewife, but she would have cherished the opportunity to cook and bake. Renting a furnished room in a boardinghouse though, rarely came with kitchen privileges. Heating things up over a hot plate was about the extent of her cooking nowadays.
“If you like pie, you’ll like my mother’s,” Liam said. “I can’t remember a time when she didn’t bake every chance she got. There wasn’t a holiday or a special occasion—Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays, stuff like that—where my mom didn’t bake a special treat for the family or the entire neighborhood. Everyone says her pecan pie is to die for—and it is. You’d think she was Southern-born and raised, instead of a native Coloradan.”
Cate couldn’t keep the wistfulness out of her voice. “She sounds nice. The way you talk about her... I can tell she’s special to you.”
“Tell you what. After the trial is over, I’ll take you home to meet her. You’ll love her, and I know she’ll love you. She can teach you to bake, too, if you want. She can teach just about anyone any—” He broke off and started chuckling. “Well, not Keira. My sister refused to learn how to cook, so my mom gave up on her. But if you want to learn...”
