Fool Me Twice (Riley Wolfe 2)

And Bailey Stone had her photograph.

He didn’t have to say anything about the picture. He didn’t even have to point it out. He just sat there and smiled at me and waved at a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “Sit down, Riley. May I call you Riley?”

He spoke with a Virginia accent and smiled the whole time. Just like the cat that caught the canary, Mom would’ve said. And why not? He had me just about every way possible. He didn’t need to get all threatening and mean-faced; he didn’t have to say anything like, “Do as I tell you or the girl gets it.” The picture of Monique said it all. He knew who she was, where she was, and that she mattered to me.

Of course, there was no reason I had to kiss his ass. So I didn’t. “Sure, Bailey,” I said. I moved to the chair he’d pointed at and sat. “Let’s pretend we’re old buddies, talking over a hunting trip.” I nodded at the decanter. “Is that bourbon?”

Still smiling, he raised his eyebrows, like I’d asked if the sky was blue. “Of course it is,” he said. “May I offer you a taste?”

“Sure, why not,” I said.

Bailey stood and poured two fingers into one of the heavy cut-glass tumblers. He handed it to me and sat back down again. “Your health,” he said, raising his glass and sipping.

“Cheers,” I said back, and I sipped, too.

“Well,” he said. “I trust you enjoyed your stay in the Kerguelen Islands?”

“Why wouldn’

t I?” I said. I didn’t bother to deny where I’d been or pretend I was surprised he knew. I just sipped and said, “Good company, lovely scenery, and a really chic stone cell with designer chains. Five-star vacation.” Bailey nodded. I sipped again. It was pretty good bourbon, which surprised me a little. I mean, considering the pictures on the walls, I wouldn’t have guessed he had any taste at all. But he knew his bourbons. This stuff was good. I lifted the glass and nodded appreciatively.

“I’m glad you like it,” Stone said. “One Southerner to another, it pleases me to see you appreciate a fine example of our national beverage.”

“It’s good,” I said with a shrug. I mean, it was. Why twist his leash?

“It’s called Filibuster,” he said. “Difficult to get. Even harder now.” His smile got a little bigger. “I bought a great deal of it.”

“Of course you did,” I said, and we both took a sip.

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I cut right to the chase,” he said, staying with the fake-Southern-charm act. “I have to get you back to the airport in about an hour.” He nodded and sipped. “Assuming, of course, that you go back at all.”

Well, there it was. He probably thought of it as the iron hand in the velvet glove. Me? I thought of it as a classless asshole acting like a classless asshole. But I didn’t have too many moves except to play along for now, so I did. Sort of.

“Oh, lordy,” I said. “Please don’t throw me back in that briar patch. Anything but that.”

Stone just blinked at me, blank-faced. Some Southerner. Apparently Uncle Remus wasn’t part of his childhood. I am constantly appalled at the great holes in our educational system. But now wasn’t the time to educate Stone. So I just said, “What do you want?”

He frowned for the first time and poured a little more bourbon into his glass. “In the big picture, Riley,” he said, swirling the liquor in his glass, “what I want is to take Patrick Boniface out of the game.” He sipped. “The man has done me wrong, on numerous occasions.”

“I can’t help you there,” I said. “I’m not an assassin.”

“I am aware of that,” Stone said. “But I know several very skilled men who are assassins. I employ a whole mess of ’em. It has so far been impossible to get any of them close to Mr. Boniface.” He frowned. “I have lost several expensive men trying.” He shook it off and nodded at me. “I believe you might be able to help me with that.”

“I don’t have a house key,” I said. “And I didn’t see a whole lot of his island. Boniface kept me chained up in the basement. He doesn’t trust me.”

Stone smirked. “Hard to blame him for that,” he said.

“So what exactly is it you think I can do for you?” I said. “And I’ll cut to the chase, too. Why the fuck should I do it?”

“I believe the reason for your cooperation should be fairly clear,” he said with a mischievous glance at Monique’s picture. “As to what I want from you . . .” He drained his glass and poured another inch into it from the decanter. He took a swig, pretended to savor it for a moment, and then looked back at me. “What does Boniface want you to do?”

I swirled my glass, looked at it, took a sip, stalling for a few seconds while I thought about it. Boniface had not specifically told me not to tell anybody. He didn’t have to. I mean, why would I? But I was pretty sure he didn’t want Bailey Stone knowing his business.

On the other hand, here I was, sitting in Stone’s house, sipping his bourbon, watching him smile as he pointed a gun at my head—and at Monique’s head, too, if keeping me alive wasn’t enough incentive. If I didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear, he would pull the trigger, still smiling.

Of course, it was pretty close to the same thing Boniface would do if he knew I was talking about him to a rival. So where did my loyalty really lie here?

Every now and then, life leads you down a one-way road to a cul-de-sac, a place where the only real option you have is to figure out which cliché you would rather use to describe the shit pile you’ve landed in. I was there right now. And I just couldn’t decide if I should go with “Between a rock and a hard place,” which seemed accurate and had the advantage of having a pun in it—“rock” for “Stone.” Very funny. But Mom would have said, “Between the devil and the deep blue sea,” making that the sentimental choice. And personally, I have always favored something simple, direct, and accurate, like, “In deep shit.”