Old Wounds (Chance Assassin Book 4) Read online

  He stubbed out his cigarette and went back inside. If they found out who Simon had assigned to kill him, they could take them out first and have their way with Alcott. Lord and Lady.

  Vincent was waiting for him in the library, draped over the armchair, picking at his fingernails with Frank's recently returned favorite knife. “Done brooding?”

  If he hadn't been before, he certainly was now. With as alluring as Vincent looked holding a knife, the library as a background, Frank could've used another cigarette. He came forward, climbing onto the chair with him. Vincent wrapped his arms around his neck, the knife coming to rest on Frank's shoulder.

  “What are you thinking?” V asked, gazing into his eyes.

  “We find out who's assigned to the hit. Take them out, and we no longer have to worry about me being the target.”

  “You just want to get your hands on Alcott.”

  “No. I want you to get your hands on Alcott.”

  A salacious smile crept across Vincent's perfect face. “If we take them out first, you can come to England with me.” Frank nodded. “Then you can watch.” He nodded again, but Vincent's smile fell. “We're gonna have to talk to the German.”

  “He isn't German.” Frank sat back and pulled Vincent into his lap. Miko's accent when they spoke on the phone had sounded more Slavic, and there was something else...like he'd learned to speak with his mouth full of those stupid candies and didn't know where to move his tongue when there was actually room.

  “Whatever he is, Joe will handle it.” He frowned again and jealously clarified, “Handle in the deal with sense, not the handler sense.” Vincent had understandably not taken kindly to Miko and would sooner have him out of their lives altogether, but Frank was somewhat intrigued. He was like a blind spot that had somehow slipped past Frank's notice on multiple occasions: while Miko was following them before commandeering their job, and at Silva's when Frank returned to take care of Bella. Frank did not recall seeing Miko there, or Simon, but he hadn't exactly been in the best state of mind, worrying that she would never recover. Now that he was thinking clearly, his interest had been piqued. Not only was Miko a mystery, but there was a sort of synchronicity between them that could not be ignored. The actress's mother had thrust Miko into the spotlight just as Frank's father had done to him, and that more than Joe's suggestion to help sway Miko's loyalties had been the real reason Frank decided to call Miko and offer advice on his quest for vengeance for his dead friend.

  Miko had dropped off the radar entirely after becoming infamous, and had only just recently come back into contact with Joe again. But his knowledge on Simon's connection to Frank had proven limited, and now that he'd returned to work, with Simon, there was a possibility that they'd never be in contact with him again.

  And there was no other way to get the information they needed.

  Curling his fingers in Vincent's hair, Frank wondered how many of the men at Silva's worked for Simon. Had seen Vincent. “No,” V said sternly before Frank could even bring it up.

  “We have to change your appearance.”

  “You're not changing my fucking hair.”

  Frank gave it a tug, wrenching Vincent's head back to expose his throat, forcing him into a submissive position. Then he smiled and released him. “A hat then.” Frank didn't want harm to come to Vincent's hair any more than V did. Well, not significantly more. “It'll be best if the three of you aren't seen together at all. You're the least likely to be recognized. Bella's the most, but she's also most likely to recognize them.”

  “What if neither of them recognize him?”

  “We draw him out.”

  Vincent was even more stern than he'd been defending his hair as he said, “You are not playing bait for an assassin, Frank.”

  “No, not like that. We delay the hit. Make them wait. They'll start to get impatient and then they'll slip up.”

  “I'll start to get impatient before that happens.”

  “You've waited this long to kill him.”

  “Don't be silly. It's a job. That would be personal,” V said unconvincingly, as if Frank wasn't fully aware what went on in his twisted little mind.

  “You're getting paid for it. That makes it a job. And really, he put a hit on me first. It's basically self-defense.”

  “That's a stretch,” he muttered.

  Frank kissed him, never able to resist when V was being lippy. “We're killing them both. Client and mark.”

  “Definitely self-defense then.” Vincent gave a naughty smirk. “Are you sure you don't want to do it?”

  “I can't,” Frank said regretfully. Vincent's eyes narrowed like he didn't understand, and Frank was once again reminded how highly V thought of him. That he was infallible. “It has to look accidental. Clean.” He nodded towards his thumb, the scar a jagged line from where he'd nearly torn it off to protect Vincent.

  “And a threat against your life is a threat against mine.” The slightest hint of pink colored Vincent's cheeks and he smiled as he coyly looked away. “You're so romantic, babe.”

  Frank roughly pulled him closer, the knife clattering to the floor.

  “Definitely romantic,” Vincent purred, his breath on Frank's lips. “How would you like me to do it? Something painful?” He writhed his hips, settling his ass right over Frank's cock. “Degrading perhaps?”

  “Accidental.”

  “Yes, but there's...wiggle room.” He did just that, and Frank moved back on top of him, pinning him against the arm of the chair. “They could accidentally fall on a knife three or forty times.”

  “Clean.” Frank slid his hand up Vincent's shirt, the skin smooth and raised where he was scarred from knives.

  “Injected with a Drano cocktail.”

  Frank raised his eyebrows.

  “It's clean.”

  “Accidental.”

  “How am I expected to work under these conditions?” Vincent asked dramatically, flinging off his shirt as if Frank couldn't get him naked fast enough. “I'll cut their fucking brake lines. How's that?”

  “Better,” Frank said as he sucked on Vincent's neck, their conversation continuing to be simultaneously about work and play. “But there's a dilemma.”

  “Civilian casualties. And witnesses.” Vincent sneered and picked the knife up from the floor. He'd thrown his shirt too far to reach. “When do we get our house back?”

  “They were only supposed to be here for the weekend, but if you and Bella have to go to England they may as well stay here.”

  “I don't have to go yet. Let Joe deal with Miko. I'd hate to be stuck there without you any longer than I have to be.” He held the knife to Frank's neck, then smiled and sliced off one of the buttons on his shirt. “Any attractions you recommend over there? Places I should check out?”

  “Heathrow is nice this time of year.”

  Rolling his eyes, Vincent sliced off another button. “Other than the airport.”

  There were moments in Frank's memory of another life, days of light with his mother, sitting close to her, hearing stories. But mostly it was gray, or black, a life taken and a childhood destroyed. There was not a place in the entire country Frank could remember that he would recommend to Vincent. “No.”

  “How am I supposed to stalk you if you don't tell me where you've been.”

  Grabbing Vincent's wrist, Frank forced him to hold the knife against his own neck. “You're not.”

  “You stalked me.”

  “That's different. I was getting you a birthday present.”

  “So I can get you one.”

  “It's not my birthday. And I hate gifts.”

  Vincent lowered his chin to properly pout, the knife at his neck going completely unnoticed. “If we're going to be apart at least I can feel close to you by being where you've been.”

  Using his love of stalking as a bargaining tool usually wouldn't work, but Frank knew that Vincent didn't do well without him. He didn't do well without Vincent either. “They could be waiting for me wh
ere they think I would go.”

  The I'm-about-to-get-what-I-want smile started at the corners of Vincent's lips. “It would be useful to draw them out.” He raised his eyes to Frank, keeping his head lowered. “Tell me where your mom is buried. I'll bring her flowers.”

  “No flowers. They could be watching and I don't want you playing bait to an assassin either. But I will tell you.”

  Vincent beamed with satisfaction. “Anywhere else?”

  “Tower of London. You can see where some heads got lopped off.”

  “Would that be considered accidental?”

  “Even if it were, it wouldn't be clean.” Frank knew that from personal experience.

  “Brake lines it is,” Vincent said with a shrug. “God save the queen.”

  Chapter Eight

  While there wasn't another way to find out who was after them, there was someone else who could provide information on the Alcotts without Vincent having to leave the country. Simon may have known of the noteworthy English families, but Alan Barker was bred with them.

  Alan had all but closed out his gallery and stepped away from his role as a society darling as much as a dandy like Alan ever could, not because of something as minor as the possibility of being killed by association to Frank, but rather because Casey had all but stopped painting following the death of his parents. And even though Casey had mostly recovered with the birth of his son, Alan just kept stocking up on his paintings without permission or intent to sell them.

  The excitement Alan complained about losing with his absence from dinner parties and exhibitions was more than made up for with his new lifestyle, secret rendezvous in high-traffic tourist areas in case he was being followed, and now, a reconnaissance mission of his very own.

  They met at a cafe inside the Louvre, the long lines to get into the museum and multiple exits making it an ideal meeting place. “I see you've left the beast at home,” Alan said as he sat down with a cup of tea.

  Frank smiled but did not rebuke him. If Alan had any idea how flattered Vincent was by his insults, he would have certainly found something less laudatory to say. “What do you know about Rupert Alcott?”

  “Ooh,” Alan tittered. Frank had met Alan around the time that the now infamous photograph had been taken by Frank's father, and when Frank ran into Alan years later he had assumed quite correctly that Alan would know who he was. Alan's reaction to it was one of the primary reasons they were still friends. When Frank had questioned him, Alan simply said, “Of course I recognized you. How mortified you must've been. No wonder you left the continent.” Then he'd told Frank all sorts of likely untrue salacious gossip about the family.

  This time, Frank needed more than rumors.

  “I like where this is headed,” Alan said. “I know some. I could probably find out more. What do you need?”

  “Any discontent between him and his wife? Or anyone else within the family?”

  “Discontent is what the wealthy do best, my love. I take it she's hired you?”

  “Not directly.”

  Alan posed to appear deep in thought. “The other one then. The one who tried to buy the gallery.”

  “Yes.”

  “So he's setting you up. Hmm, cheeky.”

  “Could it be a legitimate job?”

  “Oh, I suppose so. No reason to keep him around, really. They've sold mostly everything at this point. The old house is part of the National Trust now. You can visit for eight pound fifty. To be honest, I don't think there was much money to leave you as it was, and there certainly isn't now.”

  “There has to be money if it's a real job,” Frank said. “There had to be then.”

  “Then?” Alan asked.

  Frank sighed. If Alan was going to provide information he may as well know. “They didn't want me to have whatever money there may have been.”

  It took Alan a moment to understand that Frank was referring to a hit, then he bristled and huffed, “Those bastards! Let me at them, darling.” Giving him a look of disbelief, Frank nodded to where Alan had spilled his tea. “Oh, damn.” He got up to grab a napkin and angrily mopped up the mess. “I'll find out what I can about those uncivilized...twats.”

  Frank raised his eyebrows, smirking at Alan's less than stiff upper lip.

  Taking another sip of tea, Alan steadied himself. “How's my beloved artist?”

  He was different. That's how he was. Broken and mended the best he ever would be, the light in him dimmed and very nearly extinguished.

  And he was Frank's. Forever. No longer tied to America, to his other life and his other family. It was just what Frank had wanted all those years ago, for Maggie to be gone and Casey to be his, and now there was nothing he wanted less.

  “Casey's fine,” Frank said.

  “But you're not.”

  Frank smiled. “Well, I do have a hit on my head.”

  “Worry not, dearest. I'll go to London straight away, see if I can't get it sorted for you.”

  “Leave the sorting to us. Just get information. Inconspicuously.”

  “Anything for you, my sweet. And speaking of, I have something for you.” Alan brought out a box of Patrick Roger chocolates. “Bon appétit. Or feed them to l'enfant terrible. I don't care.”

  Frank cocked his head. A gift to him was one thing, but offering chocolate from one of the best chocolatiers in Paris to Vincent was quite another.

  “Oh, fine, I'll tell you,” Alan sighed as if he hadn't brought it up for the very purpose of being asked. “They were for Antoinette. It's coming up on the anniversary of her husband's death, you know.”

  Frank did not know, nor did he care. He'd disliked Monsieur Bergeton nearly as much as his missus. Antoinette Bergeton was a friend of Alan's, the epitome of la grande bourgeoisie. Since Frank's introduction to her several years ago, he'd been waiting patiently for someone, anyone, to pay him to murder her.

  Alan draped himself across Frank's shoulder. “I found out that she's been sleeping with Marcel.”

  “Who?”

  “This yummy sculptor. Former sculptor if I have anything to do with it. The nerve. To toy with my heart so I would display his work and then dump me at first opportunity. For a woman, no less.”

  “An opportunist, but what could she offer him?”

  “I shudder to think. They're both utterly untalented. And he despises Casey for being successful. Who could possibly despise Casey?”

  “Marcel what?”

  Alan laughed and gave Frank's arm a squeeze. “I knew you'd say that. I so love when you're being all assassiny.”

  Frank forced a smile. His “assassiny” behavior could very well become a liability if he couldn't manage to control it. The part of him that had settled into a quiet civilian life had been edged out by the killer in him. He felt guarded all the time, wound tight like a tripwire. Ready to attack.

  Maggie and Gideon's murders had been completely preventable; there was a known threat that Gideon forced them to ignore. Frank couldn't even be there for the trial. Joe and Bella accompanied Casey lest Frank bring another homicide into the mix. But Frank would no longer ignore any threat, no matter how insignificant it seemed.

  “Don't bother yourself with Marcel,” Alan said, and Frank realized that not only had his forced smile been completely unconvincing, he was now glaring savagely at Alan's napkin on the table. “Sleeping with Antoinette is punishment enough.”

  “Yes,” Frank said as he stood to go. Sleeping with Antoinette was nowhere near the punishment Frank had in mind. “It certainly would be.”

  Chapter Nine

  Just as I warned Frank, it was too much to ask Alan Barker to do something useful. Or something inconspicuous.

  “You had tea with our client?” Frank balked.

  “Not just her, darling. My dear friend Camilla invited her. It was lovely, and The Goring was absolutely packed with people. I had the Fortnum and Mason Royal Blend and it was—”

  Frank cleared his throat.

  “Well, I men
tioned that I lived in Paris and Lady Alcott says 'I've rather gone off the French.' If I wasn't being inconspicuous I would've just about died laughing.”

  “If only,” I muttered. Frank didn't even smack me for it. Alan didn't even notice, and he continued foppishly describing their teatime.

  “Apparently her daughter, Grace, is engaged. They're planning a lavish wedding, and I will tell you right now, that is where your job is coming from. His life insurance is the only way that woman is getting her daughter down the aisle in the style they're accustomed.”

  I felt a serious pout coming on, not wanting to be wrong about Alan's helpfulness.

  “Did she say anything else?” Frank asked.

  “She didn't. But Camilla did.” Alan glanced at me, as if deciding whether I was allowed to hear what he had to say. I bit hard into my cookies, staring him down over shortbread. Museum food left much to be desired. “She said there was some scandal with the Alcotts' daughter a few years ago. Fell in with a gentleman of ill repute...” Now he glanced at Frank. “Just like her aunt—your step-mother for all intents and purposes.”

  I had a sinking feeling that I already knew what Alan was about to say. We'd always wondered how Henry got hold of Frank's supposedly sealed juvenile record. Banging a blue blood whose family had enough money at their disposal to hire Silva would've certainly helped with the smuggling of information from Combley.

  “Camilla didn't have a name for him, but it sounds a bit suspect. Left her brokenhearted, and plain broke. Like father like son, hmm?”

  Frank rubbed his face. “I'm sure his father would be proud.” Henry's father. Not Frank's.

  “Yes, and I'm sure her parents were beside themselves,” Alan said. “At any rate...” He tossed an envelope on the table, making me do a double take. It looked pretty stuffed, and remarkably like our normal envelopes filled with a photograph, money, and naturally a great deal of joy. “I put a tie pin camera in my cravat. That's everyone who was there. If your colleague works like you do, perhaps he made an appearance.”