Lucas (Vampires in America #6)

Lucas (Vampires in America #6) Page 12

Kathryn wondered about Lucas’s almost Jekyll and Hyde transformation, but even more, about his sudden willingness to cooperate. Did he know more than he was admitting?

“You could just call me if you find something,” she said ungraciously.

He only smiled and murmured, “But where would be the fun in that?”

Kathryn stood. “I’m not really here for fun, Mister Donlon.”

“Och, and don’t I know it?” he responded, with a very genuine-sounding Irish lilt flavoring his words for the first time. Was he Irish? For that matter, how old was he? Vampires lived a long time, if what she’d heard could be believed. She tended to think at least some of it was vampire disinformation. But if even part of it were true, Donlon could easily have been born in some long ago Ireland. The there-and-gone lilt was just one more piece of the mystery that was Lucas Donlon. And she’d always loved a good mystery.

She stood, as if to leave, then shifted her gaze deliberately to the photographs on the wall next to the fireplace. The ones she knew for a fact that her brother had taken, although that didn’t necessarily mean anything, since Dan’s work was sold in galleries worldwide.

“These are beautiful,” she said, crossing to the wall and moving from one photo to the next. “Ireland, isn’t it?”

“Éire we call her,” Lucas murmured directly into her ear.

Kathryn’s heart slammed against her ribs. He’d somehow come out from behind his desk and walked over to stand right behind her without her being aware of it. He stood looking over her shoulder, so close she could smell the spicy scent of his skin, could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. She had to fight the urge to reach for her gun as she turned her head and found herself looking directly into his strange golden eyes.

He smiled, a bare upward tilt of his lips. He knew he’d startled her, and he took pleasure in it. Kathryn wanted to step away, wanted to ball up her fist and slug his beautiful, smug face. But she couldn’t do it. She could only stare and try to breathe.

“Have you been to my country?” he asked in a voice so soft she wouldn’t have heard him if they hadn’t been standing so close.

It took her a moment to find the words to answer. “Your country?” she repeated.

“Mo Éireann álainn. Mo Chroí mo go deo.”

The Irish words flowed like beautiful music. “What does that mean?” she whispered, unwilling to dispel the echo of the lovely sounds.

He leaned even closer, and for one wild moment, Kathryn thought he meant to kiss her. And the worst part was, she was pretty sure she’d let him. Fortunately, he spared her from making that terrible mistake by saying softly, “Someday maybe I’ll tell you.”

He straightened a little, putting just enough distance between them that she could think rationally again, and indicated the photo nearest to her left. Daniel had caught three horses in full movement, running over a grassy paddock, with trees closing in all around. The youngest was still a foal, his back legs kicked up in play.

“That’s Kildare,” Lucas murmured to her. “Heart of the Irish thoroughbred country. My grandfather had a place there. Nothing this grand, of course. Just a patch of dirt and an old plow horse. I only visited there once, but it was a memorable event in my too short childhood.”

Kathryn was surprised he’d told her that much. She glanced over her shoulder. “My grandparents had horses, too,” she offered, and was rewarded with the most glorious smile.

“Well, then . . . it seems we’ve something in common, a cuisle. You’ll have to come riding with me sometime.”

Kathryn’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. She didn’t know what he’d just called her, but she knew it crossed that invisible line between agent and witness. What was she doing? She wasn’t here to be romanced by Lucas Donlon, no matter how handsome and charming he was.

Lucas must have sensed that their moment of connection was over. He gave her an “oh well” kind of shrug, then stepped back a pace and studied the entire series of photographs. “I don’t know who took these. Magda found them for me. But the photographer has captured my homeland like no other I’ve ever seen.” He gestured at the images. “I’ll probably never live there again, so I’m grateful.”

Kathryn looked from her brother’s photographs to Lucas, trying to decide if he was genuine, or if he was playing her. But there was that comment about his grandfather between them, and his expression held such yearning as his gaze traveled from one photograph to the next, that she believed him.

“Then you should probably help me find him,” she said.

Lucas gave her a puzzled look. “Find whom?”

Kathryn tilted her head toward the photographs. “The photographer. Daniel Hunter.”

He regarded her blankly for a moment, then his eyes widened in surprise. “Your brother took these?” He grabbed one of the framed images from the wall and turned it over. Kathryn knew what he’d find. There was a label on the back with her brother’s name and contact information, as well as a statement of copyright.

Lucas read the label quickly, then turned the photograph over again and searched for a signature on the image.

“Lower left corner,” Kathryn said. “Very small, but it’s there. Just his initials, D H.”

She watched his eyes as they traveled over the print and saw the moment he found what he was looking for. “Son of a bitch,” he swore softly. “Nicholas,” he said without turning. “Get Magda in here now.”

Kathryn heard Nicholas on the phone, but her attention was all for Lucas, who was staring at the photos with new interest.

“What is it?” she asked. “What do you see?”

“It’s not the prints,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “It’s where she bought them.”

“What do you mean? Daniel’s work is carried in a number of very fine galleries—”

“Yes, but what about this gallery?” he asked, rubbing a square tipped finger over the gallery’s name on the back label of the frame he still held.

“Which one—” Her question was interrupted by the opening of the door. Lucas held up his hand, asking Kathryn to wait as he turned to address Magda.

“Maggie,” he began, and she saw the woman’s expression tighten with irritation at the nickname. She would have found that intriguing if she hadn’t been far more interested in Lucas’s reaction to her brother’s photographs. “These photographs,” he continued, gesturing with one hand. “The gallery owner is Carmichael, right?”

“Yes, my lord,” Magda said, clearly puzzled by the question. “He has a small gallery in Minneapolis, but I believe he brought these from his main gallery in Chicago, because he thought you’d enjoy them.”

She saw a knowing look pass between Lucas and Magda and knew there was something they weren’t telling her. Something about Carmichael?

“Why is Carmichael important?” Kathryn demanded. “What does it matter where you bought them?”

Donlon shrugged and hung the photograph back on the wall. “It occurs to me that he might be an admirer of your brother’s work. Admiration can sometimes turn to obsession.”

“You think Carmichael kidnapped Daniel?” she asked, doubtfully. “My brother’s a big guy, taller than I am, and very athletic. He wouldn’t be easy to grab.”

“Don’t be naïve, Kathryn. Even the strongest man can be taken down by the addition of any number of available drugs to his drink. And your witness did say Daniel left the bar with someone. Perhaps it only had the appearance of willingness.”

“But the witness also said the man was a vampire.”

“Perhaps he was wrong about that, or perhaps your brother didn’t actually leave with the person he saw.”

Kathryn studied his too handsome face, trying to determine whether he was telling her the whole truth. But she might as well have tried to read a statue. Lucas stared back at her with nothing more than a vaguely puzzled expression, as if he couldn’t figure out what her problem was.

“All right,” she said at last. “What time Friday night can we visit this vampire bar?”

“If you want to get a feel for the place, it will have to be late. What do you think, Nicholas?” he asked, turning to his lieutenant. “Eleven o’clock?”

Nicholas nodded. “On a Friday, yes, my lord.”

Lucas swung back to her with a pleased grin. “It’s a date then. Eleven o’clock on Friday. Shall I pick you up?”

“No,” she said immediately. This was not a date, no matter what he said. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Very well.” He sighed, as if disappointed. “But do wear something appropriate.”

She frowned and glanced down at her white blouse and dark blue pants.

“If you want to get information, a cuisle, you can’t walk in there looking like you’re about to raid the place.”

“Of course,” she said dismissively, as if she’d already considered that. And she was sure she would have. Eventually. Damn it. Damn him. She’d have to go clothes shopping, because the raciest thing she’d brought with her was a cotton tank top.

Lucas winked conspiratorially, as if he knew what she was thinking.

Kathryn scowled. She’d clearly gotten off on the wrong foot with Lucas Donlon. “But we’re meeting again tomorrow night, right? Same time as tonight? And you’ll speak to your people?”

“I shall count the hours, Agent Hunter.”

The urge to punch him was growing stronger. Anything to wipe that satisfied smirk from his face. But she had a feeling he was hoping for just that, so she turned and strode out of the office instead.

“Kathryn,” Donlon called just before she reached the door.

She gritted her teeth, but managed to turn around and inquire politely, “Mister Donlon?”