Blindsided (7 page)

Carthridge just shrugged. Teigan frowned.
 

“But she’s blind.” John’s brow creased in puzzlement. “And a girl. I thought Viadal only experimented with male embryos.”

“I’m just throwing out possibilities,” Carthridge replied, “even if they’re unlikely.”

Teigan didn’t respond. Thinking again of how quickly she’d wielded her guide baton. It still throbbed. But Whitesman had been extremely confident that the Agency was aware of every experiment Viadal had run. All that information had supposedly come out during Viadal’s investigation and then the subsequent trial and interrogation afterward. And what they’d learned from both was that Viadal’s experiments had been so costly and time intensive that his various government contracts was all he’d had the funds and time for. Supposedly. He, personally, wasn’t convinced of the accuracy of confessions obtained under duress. Truth serum or not.

“She’s blind,” he reminded them all. “I expect her other senses are developed more to compensate. Besides, even if there was an experiment the investigative team missed, none of the Vidal babies who were born with physical defects had heightened physical strength or awareness.”

John tipped his head to the side, his tongue running around the inside of his cheek. “A few of the mentally unstable ones showed some heightened characteristics.”

“She seem unstable to you?” Teigan snapped, not liking the twisting in his gut. Why was he defending her? Why did he care? It wasn’t the thought of her being a Viadal child that caused his stomach to roll. No, it was the idea of what the government might do if they found out about her. His gaze was pulled to Garret: Case in point.

“She wasn’t here long enough to tell,” Garret said, most likely mistaking Teigan’s look for a question. “She was edgy though. Stress pheromones were up.”

“She’s blind,” Teigan emphasized again. “Walking into a stranger’s home.”

“Or pretending to be.” John snapped his gum, then grimaced as three sets of eyes scowled at him.

Teigan sighed, forcing himself to take a large personal step back. He didn’t want to think about Aria being one of Viadal’s little experiments—he thumbed the thick welt on his forearm—but he couldn’t afford to not explore the possibility.

“Let’s see what we can dig up on her.” John stood and headed back toward their makeshift command center.

***

Aria kept her eyes closed the entire way home. Long ago, she’d learned that the limited receptors she still possessed would try to formulate an image, no matter the impossibility of the task. In the best of light, she could see hazy blurs, get a sense of movement, but in the dimness of the car with the city flashing by outside, her neuropathways would be inundated with useless information that she couldn’t make sense of. Not that what she did see ever really made sense. Things she knew from before she could call up with a certain amount of clarity, like the music box her mother had given her when she was four. A simple tracing of her fingers over the surface would bring up the image of its delicate carvings. It was the things she encountered after her loss of sight that she couldn’t get a clear picture of. Like Garret. Because she’d seen him in the bright light of day, she’d been able to surmise a certain number of things: Tall, broad of shoulder…but his face was just a vague outline to her, a dash of dark hair over shadows. Tall, dark and handsome? Maybe, maybe not. But he certainly held a powerful appeal.

Her hearing hadn’t been affected by the accident which caused the failure of her sight. Silken lava. She shuddered at the memory of her name slipping off his tongue in low, fiery tones. God, had she ever met a man that could pack such a one-two sucker punch with a mere word or two? The answer was without a doubt no.

Don’t be stupid, Aria. While I’m fantasizing about him, why don’t I just put the lock on my own cage?

The car eased to a stop. Moments later the hydraulic door hissed open. She reached out her hand. Willis’ strong one closed around hers, drawing her out of the car. She opened her eyes and smiled at the dark shadow outlined by the low lying sun.

“Thank you, Willis.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Idyllis.”

She would’ve corrected him on his formality, but knew it was futile. Willis was old school. His keeping with formality was part and package to his position. The moment he slipped would be the moment he turned in his resignation, believing his usefulness in question. There had been a few occasions, normally at the country house, when he relaxed—even if it was infinitesimally. But here at Idyllis Mansion, he would never be caught shirking his duties.

He led her up the stairs. Biorhythms already scanned, the doors slid open for them and he brought her into the front hall. Nothing in the interior had changed since Aria inherited it. Partly for ease—she knew where everything was this way and could get around without the baton—but it was just as much for her peace of mind. Like the music box from her childhood, her mind could recall the memories of this place and she wanted to think that the images she drudged up coincided with what was really there. Lost in a world of shadowy outlines and blurs of motion, she missed the Technicolor hues of her lost innocence more than she thought possible.

Behind her came a shuffle of feet. “Thank you, Willis. I’m set for now.”

He didn’t leave. She turned to him, the question on her lips.

“I understand why you feel you had to warn him,” Willis spoke before she could ask what was wrong. “I find your concern admirable.”

“Admirable.” She quirked her lip up in amusement. “Really?”

They both knew he hadn’t been happy with her going in the first place. The long silent car ride home, after the disaster of a meeting, had further brought home the point.

He sighed in exasperation. “You’ve put yourself in danger for a stranger. You can’t expect me to be happy about that, miss.”

It was her turn to sigh, though for her it was sadness. “I think my efforts were wasted.”

She reached out. Her fingers brushed against one of the antiques her mother had loved so; a snow globe depicting a scene of a 19
^th
century village. All it would take was a cock of her wrist to send the white plastic inside flying. She’d been fascinated with the object as a child, but her mother had been very protective of the globe. One of her fondest memories was the days between Christmas and New Year’s when she was four and her father, in a moment of uncharacteristic affection, had convinced her mom to “let the child hold the globe” while he read the classic
A Christmas Carol
. Aria had been spellbound with the three spirits who’d visited Scrooge that night, and equally enthralled with the idea of being able to change the course of one’s future.

So what does that make me? The Ghost of Christmas Future?
 

Like the main character in the book, Garret’s death was just around the corner. Except this time it wasn’t a story or a dream, and it might already be too late to warn him.

“Fool. He’s probably dead already.” She frowned, thinking of the sound she’d heard. Not the house settling—she would bet the Idyllis fortune on that. More like a snap, or a pop. Not Byron though. Not yet. She wouldn’t have been able to miss that distinctive scent in the air. Though there had been the distinctive scent of others mixed in with the normal scents of the house. Definitely abnormal if what she knew of Garret was true.

She pursed her lips. “Willis, you saw the picture of Garret.”

“I did,” Willis confirmed. “Are you asking if I noticed anything off?”

She shrugged.

“No. Not really,” he answered. “I’d say he was a bit leaner than his military picture, but he’s been out for what, seven years?”

“Right,” she agreed, but without conviction. Given a Viadal’s genetic makeup, Garret would have had to have gone completely soft to lose much of his muscling. Of course, that might very well be the case. According to the file the government had on him, his life consisted of his security job and not much else. No hobbies other than cooking, no life other than the occasional rendezvous with a fellow V-10 during their leave. The only habit he seemed to have: Watching sports on the wall screen. According to the report, it was on whenever he was in residence.
 

She gnawed her lip. Could that be it? Could she have simply interrupted a get together with one of his fellow V-10? Had one stayed after a late game the night before? It would explain why he lied, at least. Civilian’s and V-10 did not mix for a myriad of reasons.

“Maybe I should send him the data,” she mulled aloud.

Willis grumbled under his breath. She smiled when he ended his muttered tirade with a huff.
 

“If you think he lied to you, it would be doubly foolish to hand over that sort of information. Someone might start asking where he got it and your recent visit would make you a prime suspect.”

Very true. Someone probably would question where and how he came by the information. The government kept Garret on a short leash. He may have been free of the V-10 unit, but that freedom was an illusion as far as she was concerned…much as her own was. And now she’d probably put herself in the government’s scopes just by her quick visit.

“Have the car ready in an hour,” she told Willis in the tone that let him know the topic was no longer open to discussion, then felt a large dollop of guilt for using it on him—Willis was family. No. Better. He accepted her for who and what she was.

Willis drew in a sharp breath.

“I’m going to finish up some work here,” she told him, “then go in to the studio.”

And let it out. “Yes, Miss Idyllis.”
 

Willis left, the soft scent of Old Spice lingering in his wake.

Willis was right. She’d been a fool to risk exposure like this. The back of her neck already itched with the thought of the surveillance she’d doubtlessly be under now. Nothing to be done about it other than lay low and hope to fly under the radar.

“Which means getting to work,” she told herself, squaring her shoulders as she started up the grand staircase.

***

During the last three hours, John had managed to drag up all the basics on Aria Octavia Idyllis and the music tycoon family that had founded Idyllis Records. Teigan thought the name seemed familiar, but he hadn’t connected it to the recording studio until John brought the company logo up on the screen.
 

Reading over John’s shoulder, Teigan wondered what Mr. Bruce Kennedy Idyllis would’ve thought of his daughter running the company. Reading between the lines, Teigan formed a picture of Bruce as a throwback to an earlier era. A true man’s man—or chauvinist, depending on your point of view—who believed women were decoration. Anything other than a job in fine arts was for a man, and business deals shouldn’t be made without a bottle of thirty-year-old scotch to seal the deal. Teigan was sure Bruce had expected the business to go to his son on his passing, but Aria’s twin brother died when he was sixteen.
 

Bruce had gone into heavy mourning after his son’s death—hitting the scotch by the barrelful if the tabloids could be believed—and passed away of liver disease just shy of six years later. With no male heir, he’d left the company to his wife, who’d quickly passed the reins on to her daughter. Then, less than two years ago, the mother died and Aria became not just CEO, but sole owner of the major studio.

“There’s not much here after the initial media flood about her inheritance, and before that, nothing,” John complained again. It had been his constant litany said almost once every five minutes for the last hour. “You’d think she was Rapunzel, locked away from the world in a tower somewhere. The only things I can uncover are a couple tabloids and a bunch of dry interviews pimping her clients.”

“Check the older media files, from before the brother’s death,” Teigan suggested. “There has to be something about the happy family.”

“Images?” Carthridge asked from across the room where he leaned against the doorframe. He’d been bopping in and out while John worked his magic, dividing his attention between his rounds and the information John was digging up.
 

“We can hope,” Teigan replied.

“Of her or him?” John asked.

“Him,” Teigan answered. “They were twins. If we’re analyzing to see if they could have been Viadal’s, we can at least get an idea from his pictures as to whether it was possible.”
 

Teigan glanced over at Garret, propped against the back wall of the room, for confirmation. Garret shrugged. Teigan’s gaze shifted to Carthridge. The V-10 inclined his head.

John popped another bubble.

“Cut that out,” Carthridge told him mildly, “Or I’ll make you cut it out.”

“Whatever,” John said, probably deciding the V-10 wasn’t serious. Teigan wasn’t sure he’d bet on that. The bubble snapping was grating, and Carthridge seemed to tolerate it less than most.
 

The panel lit up below John’s hands as he tapped and dragged. “You don’t like the popping, you don’t have to stay. I’ll give a holler when I see the big green guy or a dude with blades poking out of his knuckles.”

“What are you talking about?” Teigan’s own exasperation level with John was about to the roofline by now. When it wasn’t the gum snapping, it was the irrelevant comments, when it wasn’t that, it was the whining. He found himself wishing Carthridge would make an example of the schmuck.