Replica

with the money, and Bishop had stabbed him to keep him from talking.

“Nadia, he didn’t kill me,” Nate said. “I know he didn’t.”

Nadia took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The evidence certainly looked damning. But surely if Bishop had wanted to steal Nate’s money, he could have done it at any time. Why would he have chosen to do it on that particular night, with all the heightened security of the Hayes mansion standing in his way? Why not just slip out of the apartment quietly, in the middle of an ordinary night, while Nate was asleep?

“I believe you,” she said, and it was true. “And I understand why you want to find him. But if he’s not even in Paxco anymore, then why did you go to the Basement?”

“Kurt and I have some … mutual acquaintances there. I thought some of them might have an idea where he’d gone, or at least be able to get a message to him for me.”

“Any luck?” she asked, though she could tell from the slump of his shoulders that the answer was no.

“Not yet.”

“So you plan to go back.” The little tracking device tucked in her pocket felt like it was burning her through the cloth, but of course that was just a symptom of guilt. Nothing she’d learned had changed what she had to do, nor had it made her task any less distasteful. Betrayal was betrayal, whether the plan had a high likelihood of success or not. And whether they could lead Mosely to Bishop or not, the “mutual acquaintances” Nate talked to were going to have huge bull’s-eyes painted on their backs, thanks to Nadia.

“I have to,” Nate confirmed. Then he ran a hand through his hair and looked uncomfortable. “But I have a little, er, problem.”

If whatever he was thinking made Nate uncomfortable, Nadia was quite sure she didn’t want to hear it, so when he fell silent, she didn’t prompt him to continue. Not that she thought that would save her from whatever Nate was about to get her into.

Nate squirmed in his chair. “Like I said, dollars are the currency of choice in the Basement, and Kurt took all of mine…” He gave her an imploring look.

Nadia did not like where this was going. “Let me get this straight: you’re asking me for money.”

“Dollars,” he clarified, as if that somehow made it better.

Nadia’s heart thumped indignantly in her chest. A girl of her age had absolutely no use for dollars. If she needed anything from the black market, she’d get it through her parents or Gerri or some other intermediary. Which Nate knew perfectly well.

“And where are you expecting me to get those dollars from?” she asked in her most glacial voice.

Nate stopped giving her puppy-dog eyes, his stare turning challenging instead. “Don’t play coy. You know what I’m asking.”

“You want me to steal from my parents.”

“Borrow,” Nate corrected. “You know I can pay you back. It’s just, I need the dollars now, and it’ll take me a while to restore my supply.”

“I’m sure my parents would understand completely,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. If Nate knew half of what she’d been through already because of him, would he still ask her to do this? He would never forgive her for her betrayal of him, but it gave him barely a moment’s pause to ask her to steal from her own parents. She’d never thought of him as a hypocrite before, but this was making her rethink her opinion of him.

“I’m sorry to have to ask,” he said, though he didn’t sound particularly sorry. His eyes flashed with something that looked much more like anger than regret. “I’m trying to find out who murdered me. Don’t you think that’s a little more important than what trouble you might get in if your parents find out you’ve dipped into their money?”

For the first time since she’d gotten old enough to know better, Nadia let go of the reins controlling her temper. She shot to her feet, grabbing her almost-forgotten cup of cocoa from the side table. Then she flung the contents right in Nate’s face. The chocolate geysered out of the cup, soaking not only his face, but his hair and chest as well, droplets spotting the rug beneath his feet and the chair he was sitting in. Nadia even felt a few drops hitting her own skin.

Stunned at what she had done—even though it had been at least partially premeditated—she stood there with the cup still raised, staring at the mess she’d made. Nate blinked chocolate out of his eyes, then winced. She supposed now he was wishing he hadn’t decided to spike her drink. She didn’t imagine chocolate and Bailey’s felt too good on the eyes.

She lowered her hand back to her side, then put her empty cup down. She bit her tongue to keep from apologizing as Nate rose slowly and silently to his feet, chocolate dripping from the end of his nose.

“I’ll get you the dollars,” she said, not looking at him. “You knew I’d do it before you even asked. Would it have killed you to acknowledge that asking me to steal from my parents is a big deal? Couldn’t you have just asked nicely instead of trying to guilt me into it?”

She expected Nate to snap at her, or act offended. After all, he’d never been good at taking criticism, no matter how well deserved. But for once, he surprised her.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. But Nadia, I love Kurt, and he’s in danger because of me. I took him out of the life he’s always known, and I promised I’d protect him. It’s eating me up inside that he’s going through this hell because of me, and I’m just—” Nate’s voice choked off, and he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and when he opened his eyes, he seemed calmer. “I’ll try to stop being such a jackass,” he said. “But I miss him. And I’m scared for him. And I’m … angry. That’s no excuse for taking it out on you, I know. You’re the only true friend I have right now. I’d give you a hug, only I don’t want to get cocoa all over you.”

Nadia’s throat tightened, and she wanted to scream out her frustration. Who was she to take Nate to task for his behavior, when she was here acting as Mosely’s spy, when she’d just thrown her cocoa at him not just because she was angry, but because it was her best chance to get Mosely’s tracker planted on him? Maybe in the end, the two of them deserved one another.

“I’m going to go shower and change,” Nate said. “Maybe it’ll give us both a little time to cool off, and then we can talk again.”

Nadia nodded her acceptance, too burdened by guilt to speak.

* * *

Nadia’s nerves buzzed with tension as the bedroom door closed behind Nate’s back. He was comfortable enough in her presence that he didn’t close the door all the way. She could hear him moving around in his bedroom, hear sounds she interpreted as him slipping off his clothes and leaving them in a heap on the floor. Then the clink of metal touching down on wood, which she hoped was him taking off the locket.

Holding her breath, she prayed he’d close the bathroom door more tightly than he’d closed the bedroom one, or there was no way she could get the locket without being caught.

The sound of a door snicking shut seemed to indicate her prayers had been answered. No doubt Nate was going to try to make the shower quick, knowing she was waiting for him, which meant she didn’t have much time to work up her nerve. If she was going to do this, she had to get moving now.

As she’d guessed, Nate’s clothes lay in a heap on the floor, and the locket rested on top of a heavy walnut dresser. Keeping a wary eye on the bathroom door, she edged toward the dresser and picked the locket up in hands that shook just a bit. Her mouth was dry, and every beat of her heart pumped a new wash of guilt into her blood. Her eyes prickled, and she blinked rapidly to keep herself from crying. Guilt and tears were not luxuries she could afford.

The locket was still warm from contact with Nate’s skin. Nadia pressed on the clasp, and the locket popped open to her picture, which she took a moment to regard with a critical eye.

She’d known that Bishop had put a picture of her in the locket, of course. Hard to pretend it was a gift from her if her picture wasn’t in it. But she’d never actually looked at it before, and she felt an uncomfortable stirring in her gut now that she did.

There were thousands of pictures of her available on the net. Even if she hadn’t been semiengaged to the Chairman Heir, her status as daughter of a president made her a favorite with the press. Most were posed shots, where she wore her practiced Executive smile. Some were the embarrassing, unflattering shots the press loved with mean-spirited glee. Things like the picture of her at the age of three, all dressed up in pink velvet and ruffles, with her finger up her nose. The press had just loved that one—as if it somehow should have been embarrassing for an Executive three-year-old to act like a three-year-old.