Blood, Ash, and Bone

CHAPTER Eight

The Gulfstream 280 was certainly impressive on the outside, all pointy-nose and sleek angles, like a raptor at rest. It was the interior, however, that spoiled me forever for commercial travel.

The cabin smelled good, for one thing, not like sweat and stale pretzels. The cool air was pristine and faintly lemon-scented, like someone had opened a can of fresh oxygen. Sunlight poured in through twin rows of oval windows, firing the burled wood trim to liquid gold. Everywhere I looked, I saw the burnished sheen of lots and lots of money.

I threw myself on the loveseat, a fat chunk of white-chocolate leather. “Dibs.”

Trey shook his head. “Don’t sit there. It’s very uncomfortable during take-off.” He indicated the back. “Follow me.”

He walked past me to paired seats in the rear corner. I should have known. He wanted his back to the wall and a view of the entire sitting area. From this vantage point, he could even see the cockpit controls, the flashing array of lights and switches and gauges, bewildering and impenetrable.

Marisa entered behind us, in full boss lady mode, her platinum hair pulled tight, her ivory suit the same color as the leather. She frowned when she saw us, then strode down the aisle like a Lord and Taylor Valkyrie.

She directed the full force of her high-caliber annoyance at Trey. “Those are the VIP seats.”

He fastened his seatbelt. “I know.”

“You can’t sit there.”

“Yes, I can.”

She looked aghast. “Please tell me you didn’t ask Mr. Harrington if you could have his spot.”

Before Trey could reply, a booming baritone interrupted the conversation. “It’s okay, Marisa. I offered.”

The man behind the voice was short and round, with silver hair slashing across his forehead in an Errol Flynn wave. He had a neatly-trimmed goatee and eyes like a satyr and was already brandishing both a martini, half-gone, and a cigar, unlit. I recognized him from the AJC article—Reynolds Harrington, Audrina’s brother.

He stood beside Marisa. “My sister said to make sure Trey here was comfortable.” He turned to me and stuck out his hand. “Reynolds Harrington. You must be Tai.”

I smiled and took his hand. “I guess I must.”

He had a playboy’s grip—firm but gentle, with soft friction against my skin as I pulled my fingers back.

He returned his attention to Trey. “Glad you could make it at the last minute. Frankly, I never thought Audrina would go for this, but the old gal’s finally coming into the twenty-first century.”

Trey didn’t reply. He shot a glance at Marisa, then Reynolds. When he didn’t know how much to reveal about a subject, he usually said nothing. But his nothings were as telling as his somethings.

I kept the smile on Reynolds. “Big plans?”

“A golf tournament, if Trey and Marisa say it’s feasible.”

“Oh wow, it’s up to these two, huh?”

Trey said absolutely nothing. Neither did Marisa. At the front of the plane, the flight attendant welcomed two more passengers on board. One of them carried a magnum of champagne, the other a bag of golf clubs. The latter belonged to Reynolds, I was guessing, since he already wore the attire—white pants, a yellow collared shirt, a single glove stuck in his pocket.

“I’ve been telling Audrina for some time now that she shouldn’t keep the family collection locked up in that house. History belongs to the people. It needs to be shared.”

“Admirable sentiment,” I said. “But how does that involve a golf tournament?”

“Sharing means a museum, and a museum means fundraisers. I have a week to put together a plan, within budget, so I called in the best. According to Audrina anyway.” He looked me up and down. “Do you golf, Ms. Randolph?”

“I do indeed, Mr. Harrington.”

“Then come out tomorrow morning, and I’ll tell you all about it. Marisa and I are trying out the resort course. We’d love for you to join us.”

Marisa shook her head. “Unfortunately, Tai’s working tomorrow, aren’t you, Tai?”

“I can always fit in a round of golf.”

She looked as if she wanted to strangle me, then jabbed her chin at Trey. “You come too.”

Trey stiffened. “I don’t golf.”

“All the more reason to come. You’ll need a feel for the game if you’re going to design the security plan.”

“But—”

“I’ll help you with the paperwork afterward. Take a break. Enjoy the morning.”

Trey glared at her. Reynolds smiled. I settled into my sumptuous seat and fastened my seatbelt. I remembered Audrina’s pretend disdain, paired it with Reynolds’ effusive inclusion and Marisa’s steely machinations. Wars within wars going on here.

I widened the smile. “It’s a foursome.”

“Spectacular.” Reynolds stuck the cigar between his teeth. “See you bright and early at the clubhouse. Eight o’clock tee time.”

He wandered back to the front of the plane to greet the new arrivals. When he was out of earshot, Marisa leaned toward Trey, the Charlestonian lilt in her voice suddenly acidic.

“Don’t start.”

He tapped the folder in front of him. “I was hired to create a premises liability and general assessment prelim. That does not include playing golf.”

Marisa picked up the folder and scanned it. It was a neat day-by-day breakdown of Trey’s duties and responsibilities, organized chronologically and cross-indexed with a master checklist. She scribbled something in the margin, initialed it, then flipped the pages, crossing out that entire agenda and writing “golf” instead.

She handed it to Trey. “Now it does.”

He said nothing. She leaned even closer, and the carefully-constructed package revealed itself for the artifice it was. The heavy make-up, the hair expertly sprayed into immobility, the tightly-girdled figure packed into structured linen.

“Let me remind you,” she said. “In every contract you sign, there is an ‘as-needed’ clause.”

“I know that.”

“Then you know that if I say something is needed, you provide it. That’s how that clause works.”

Trey glared some more. Trey could work a glare like no man I’d ever known. This one whizzed inches from my face and caught Marisa right between the eyes.

She didn’t blink. “I know you’d rather be behind your desk, up to your elbows in paperwork. But you’re my premises liability agent. That means you occasionally have to visit some premises.”

More glaring. But no arguing. Someone up front called her name, and she tossed a hand in their direction without taking her eyes from Trey.

“You will reschedule,” she said. “You will behave. And you will golf.”

She straightened her jacket, turned her back to us, and headed for the front of the plane. Apparently she was playing with the big boys once again, ending Phoenix’s short era of downsizing and discretion.

I turned to Trey. “So what now?”

“Now I’m rewriting my agenda so that I can squander five hours of research time tomorrow.”

He looked frazzled. I reached over and put a hand on the back of his neck. Tight as the skin of a drum. I rubbed my thumb against the grain of his deltoid.

“Breathe, boyfriend.”

He inhaled. Exhaled. The flight attendant came by with snacks and drinks. I got both, a white wine paired with smoked almonds and wasabi-roasted peas in a tiny delicate cup. Trey declined.

“This assignment should be straightforward,” he said. “A simple premises assessment. I’m already wasting Saturday night with that dress ball. Wasting an additional morning is—”

“Did you say dress ball?”

“Yes, the Black and White.” He frowned. “Aren’t you going?”

“Not on your life.”

“But it’s the culminating event of Expo.”

“It’s out of my income bracket. Also, there’s not an army in the world that could get me in a hoop skirt. You’re on your own, Rhett.”

Trey blinked at me. “Hoop skirt?”

“It’s period dress, Trey, didn’t you know?” I smiled. “You’d better hope Armani makes nineteenth-century frock coats.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I agree. Have fun.”

He looked as if he might choke on his own outrage. “Every item on my schedule is…and I suspect that…I mean, it seems as if there’s an agenda that has not yet been shared with me. As if I’m being…I need a word. Multi-syllabic, starts with ‘m.’”

“Manipulated?”

“Yes. Exactly. And that you’re being manipulated too.”

“Probably. Yes.”

“But Marisa agreed…we agreed.”

For the first time, I heard the betrayal in his voice. Back in the spring, Marisa had authorized all manner of subterfuge to spy on him. Nothing personal, she’d explained, just business. They had reached a tentative tête-à-tête, but he had not forgotten. And while his intuition had several wires sprung, it functioned well enough to flare the occasional red alert. It was flaring red now.

“Don’t be fooled by that charade,” I said. “Marisa wants me on that golf trip. Because you’re right—we’re being manipulated, both of us.”

“How?”

“The Harringtons are after the Bible, and they’re using us to draw a bead on it. Me to find it, and you to inadvertently sell me out.”

He looked insulted. “I would never—”

“Not intentionally, of course, but you know as well as I do that sometimes you accidentally reveal exactly what you’re trying to conceal. Marisa’s counting on some informative pillow talk to fall out of your mouth.”

“I assure you, my assignment doesn’t include spying on you, in bed or otherwise.”

“Of course it does. They just haven’t told you so.” I regarded him over the rim of my wine glass. “But guess what? Savannah is my own personal briar patch. I’ve got moves here, boyfriend. Try and keep up.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

I took a sip of wine. “Oh, yes. Immensely. You might too if you’d loosen up a bit.”

He kept his eyes on me as the jet engines roared and the plane swung toward the runway. I knew the look. It was the look I got when I pulled off a Krav move perfectly, or hit a solid kill shot at the range. A surprised but confident look, as if I’d upped the ante when he had four aces in pocket.

The plane rocketed down the runway, the sudden force slamming me backwards in my seat. And before I could figure out what was happening, my snack cup went flying toward the back of the plane. It hit the restroom door with a ballistic smack, scattering nuts and dried peas like BBs.

I looked around the cabin. Every single person—Marisa, Reynolds, the guy with the golf clubs—had a steadying hand on their plastic cups. Trey’s expression was bland, practically innocent. He raised his hand for the flight attendant.

“Excuse me,” he said, “my girlfriend lost control of her snack mix.”