St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

right is Andre Bertone,” she said quietly. “On the left is Don Cowley.”
    “Ah, Mr. Bertone, the mysterious host,” Rand said, hoping his voice didn’t reflect the adrenaline hammering through his body, bringing him to fight-or-flight alert. “Should I know the dude with him?”
    “He’s a political consultant for statewide and national congressional candidates.”
    “Big man, huh?”
    “Very big.” What she didn’t say was that Cowley was an American Southwest private banking client whose political business had made him very wealthy. Anyone who wanted to go anywhere in state politics had to get his blessing first. “A real mover and shaker.”
    Bertone and Cowley stopped long enough to shake hands. Cowley said something that made Bertone laugh. The deep, rich sound punched through the background noise of the party.
    As soon as Cowley turned away, Bertone’s expression changed. He frowned like a man making a decision he wasn’t entirely happy about. Then, sensing he was being watched, he looked toward Kayla. Immediately he started striding up the flagstone steps to where she stood.
    Rand turned around and started painting again. It was all he trusted himself to do. The microphone taped to his chest still itched, but he didn’t care. Undoubtedly Faroe had heard that Bertone was present. Rand didn’t need a bud in his ear to know that Faroe was holding his breath for a photo op.
    The special camera seemed to be burning a hole in Rand’s backpack. Quickly he sorted through reasons he could use to take out the camera and aim it away from Bertone.
    None of the excuses flew.
    Give it time. The night is young.
    And Reed will never get any older.
    Ignoring the artist, Bertone said to Kayla, “Do you know the man I was just talking to?”
    “I’ve seen Mr. Cowley at the bank.”
    “I just agreed to help several of his candidates in the primary election. I want you to process the checks I write to him. I want to be certain the accounting is…appropriate.”
    Kayla’s mouth thinned. “I always account for funds that pass through the bank, Mr. Bertone. If you require something extra, you’ll have to be more specific in your requests.”
    Silently Rand whistled. The lady is pissed. Foolish, too. I wouldn’t take on that Siberian tiger with only a rose tattoo to protect me.
    Bertone stared at her a long moment.
    She forced herself to meet his eyes.
    He glanced past her to the man working at the easel. “We’ll discuss this—and other things—later tonight.”
    “I’m not feeling well,” she said. “Some other time would be better for me.”
    “Not for me, Kayla. Mr. Foley assured me you were willing to discuss banking business at my convenience.”
    “Business, yes.”
    Bertone looked almost amused. “Then it will be strictly business, if that’s what you wish.”
    “It is.”
    “Elena will serve us coffee in the garden at seven tonight.”
    “Elena?” Kayla smiled with relief at not having to meet Bertone alone. “That’s fine. Seven.”
    Bertone smiled slightly. As he turned away, he glanced at the painting on the easel. He walked toward it, looking with real interest. He examined the unfinished canvas before he stared directly at the artist.
    Despite the adrenaline spiking through Rand’s blood, he met Bertone’s eyes calmly. Rand had wondered for five years how good a look the Siberian had gotten through his sniper’s scope, if he’d seen the face of the man he’d murdered—the face of the man’s identical twin.
    It was why Rand had refused to shave or cut his hair short. Five years ago both he and his twin had been bare-cheeked and military-clipped.
    Bertone stared for several seconds, pale eyes narrowed. Then he looked back at the painting. “Very nice. Quite good, actually. But you should get back to work if you want to win my wife’s little contest. Time is running out.”
    Rand forced himself to smile. Obviously the sniper’s scope hadn’t been as clear as the camera lens. Or the cheek fur was a good enough disguise.
    Or Bertone had killed so many men he didn’t remember all the faces.
    “Glad you like the painting,” Rand said easily, “because I’m just plain staggered by the subject.”
    Kayla suspected he was telling only the polite half of the truth. It was a social skill she was still working hard to acquire.
    “Is my employee distracting you?” Bertone asked, glancing at Kayla. “I can have her removed.”
    “Not on my account,” Rand said.