Читать книгу Destiny's Hand - Lori Wilde - Страница 7

MORGAN ARRIVED HOME TO find the green light on the answering machine blinking provocatively. Could it be Adam calling to say that he’d changed his mind and was coming home tonight after all? Her heart cartwheeled with hope.

Please let it be him, she prayed.

Unzipping Cass’s slut-puppy boots, Morgan kicked them across the entryway floor. She stripped off the itchy red wig, tossed it onto the foyer table and ran her fingers through her damp hair. She still wore Adam’s jacket, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips.

While pulling up one sleeve, she reached over to press the play button on the machine. Blood drained from her legs and pooled throbbing into her toes. Whether from anticipation of the message on the machine or from spending several hours in those unaccustomed high-heeled boots, she did not know for sure, but probably it was a bit of both.

“Hello, Morgan, this is Sam Mason returning your call.”

Her hopes took a sucker punch.

Detective Sergeant Sam Mason was Cass’s new boyfriend. Down-to-earth Sam was good for her flighty baby sister, and for that fact alone Morgan adored him. It was the first serious relationship Cass had ever had, and whenever Morgan saw the two of them together, she couldn’t help longing for the kind of fire-blazing passion they shared.

“In answer to your inquiry, no, I’m afraid the White Star amulet is no longer in the possession of the NYPD,” Sam’s voice spun out into the room.

Morgan had telephoned Sam that afternoon, before heading over to the Grand Duchess, in response to information she had received the previous morning from an archaeologist named Cate Wells. Several months ago Morgan had found an intriguing antique box in the basement of her antique shop, along with an ancient French text about an amulet that had belonged to star-crossed lovers.

At first, Morgan had found the box merely intriguing, but as time passed and she unearthed bits and pieces of the legend, she had become obsessed with finding out the truth about the box, the book and the White Star amulet, which had been stolen last April from the Stanhope auction house.

Sam had been assigned to the case and that was how he’d gotten involved with her sister. Cass had taken the book to him when she and Morgan had realized the stolen amulet was the same one pictured in the book. Morgan had found the tome among the antiques she’d purchased in a lot along with her shop.

Pieces of the puzzle had slowly started to come together, revealing a fascinating legend of star-crossed lovers and the magical power of true love.

Cate Wells had taken photos of the box and then shown them to an expert in the field. He had confirmed the connection, speculating that indeed the star-shaped design on the box correlated with a star-shaped key.

It was in that moment it occurred to Morgan that the White Star amulet was probably the key that opened the box. The key, that last Morgan had heard, was locked up in the evidence room at the Thirty-ninth Precinct, where Sam worked.

“No one knows where the amulet is,” Sam’s taped message continued. “There’s an investigation under way, but it’s looking like a dirty cop took a bribe to steal it for someone else. That’s all I can tell you right now. The station is in an uproar.”

Darn it. Morgan sighed and swallowed her second big disappointment of the day. Another dead end.

Still, she wasn’t a quitter. Once she sank her teeth into something, she hung on until there was absolutely no possibility of victory.

She belonged to an online message board for antique dealers, and there was a thread about stolen antiquities. What would it hurt to make a few discreet inquiries? She’d already posted about the box once before when she was trying to learn precisely what it might be and who its previous owners could have been.

All she would have to do was leave a message saying she’d discovered that a very unique key opened the box. She would try dangling the box as bait for the person who now possessed the amulet.

It was a long shot and she knew it, but Morgan was glad to have something to focus on besides her failed seduction.

She stripped off her sexy clothes—which seemed particularly pathetic in light of what had not happened at the Grand Duchess—scrubbed the heavy makeup off her face and slipped into her favorite pair of silk pajamas. Feeling more like herself again, she poured herself a glass of wine, padded into her home office and booted up her computer.

Logging on to the message board took a few minutes. Then she spent a long while getting the wording of her e-mail just right before she was satisfied enough to post it to the group.

She signed the missive Curious in Connecticut and entered “Special Gem” in the subject line. Satisfied, she depressed the send button, leaned back in her plush leather chair and took a long sip of Pinot Grigio. The slightly sweet liquid flowed warmly through her body, easing her tension.

A few minutes later her post popped up on the message board.

“It’ll probably be months before I get a response,” she muttered gloomily.

She searched through other threads, looking for posts of interest, but found nothing related to ancient amulets or long-lost boxes. Melancholy weighted her shoulders. She wrapped her sadness around her like a cloak, drank it in with the wine until her body pulsed, encompassed by the feeling.

Here it was again, the blue funk that whispered darkly to her in moments of doubt and shame. These feelings did not express who she thought she should be. What was wrong with her? She adored her husband. Why this desperate wish for something deeper?

Why? Because while she had transformed herself from an overworked, overachiever into a woman who was finally satisfied with her own life, it tortured her not to be able to share her personal growth with Adam. She wanted him to join her on this exciting path of liberation. She wanted him to understand how much more fulfilled he could be if he would just slow down and reconnect with the world around him. She longed for a more spiritual bond between them.

Picking up the box that she kept displayed on her desk, she studied it carefully as she had every day since she’d found it.

Intricate hand-carved symbols and designs that looked as if they could be some kind of hieroglyphics whiskered the box made from bubinga wood and darkened with age. The faint fragrance of some rich, exotic spice emanated from it. Morgan traced her fingers across the lid, over elaborate grooves where the expert archaeologist had said was the likely place to open the box with a star-shaped key.

Now that she had learned fresh details about the legend, she was even more fascinated than before. Between translating the old French tome with her new language skills and talking to experts in several disciplines, she had slowly pieced together the legend of the star-crossed lovers.

Three thousand years ago, in a now-vanished desert kingdom, Egmath and Batu had secretly been meeting every evening under the midnight stars near a grove of cypress trees. They shared their dreams, ambitions, lives and eventually their real feelings for one another. Theirs was a pure love, a true love. But alas, it could never be. In accordance with ancient custom, the kingdom’s bravest warrior, Egmath, was chosen to marry Batu’s older sister, Princess Anan, who had become queen.

Egmath spent the evening before his wedding to Anan with his beloved Batu, when she presented him with an amulet she had secretly commissioned. It was made of ivory and fashioned in the shape of a five-pointed star with a hollowed-out center.

With the amulet tightly pressed between their entwined hands, Egmath and Batu vowed their everlasting love to each other. That night, beneath the magic of the moon and the optimism of the stars, Egmath and Batu made love for the first and only time. The amulet blazed brightly. According to the fable, it now held the power of true love for whoever possessed it and was pure of heart.

The story was so sad. Soul mates destined to be together but torn asunder by their culture’s tradition and Egmath’s sense of honor.

Wasn’t that just like a man? Placing duty over love. Morgan snorted.

And poor Anan? What about her? Hadn’t the woman deserved a man who loved her the way that Egmath had loved Batu?

If Morgan closed her eyes, she could see Anan in her marriage, believing it was solid, knowing that she had a good man in Egmath. But somewhere in the back of her mind, as Anan went about her royal duties, she was bound to have nagging doubts. She was certain to realize the connection between herself and her new husband was not as it should be.

Did Anan wonder what he was thinking when she caught Egmath staring longingly out across the desert? Did she question his love for her when he wouldn’t tell her where he’d gotten the amulet that he wore around his neck and never took off? Did she doubt herself as a woman when he would kiss her perfunctorily, sweetly but without any real hint of passion?

Morgan sighed and opened her eyes.

Maybe she was obsessed with the box and the legend because it represented the magic that was sorely missing from her own marriage. It wasn’t the first time she’d had such thoughts.

And what if she located the amulet and opened the box only to find nothing there? That it was as empty inside as she was?

What then?

The thought startled her.

What on earth was she doing? Posting that message had been a bad idea. She should forget about the legend and just concentrate on building a stronger marriage. She had to stop using the mystery of the box as a buffer for her feelings, as a barrier to keep from facing what was going on in her own life.

Quick, delete the post before it’s too late.

Morgan leaned forward and was about to zap the message into cyberspace when another post popped up in the Special Gem thread.

“Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” read the enigmatic subject line.

Morgan’s breath caught and her stomach staggered. Desire rose in her, the famished need to have her curiosity sated. Whether she wanted to admit her compulsion or not, she had to find out what was in that box.

Her hand hovered over the mouse. She’d never expected a response so swiftly.

Or one so cagey.

It appeared that someone knew the special gem she had written about was the White Star. Could the electronic posting possibly be from the person who currently possessed the amulet?

She was surprised to find her fingers trembling as she clicked the cursor on the read tab.

Dear Curious in Connecticut,

I might have access to what you’re looking for. If I may ask, what is the nature of your interest in the piece? Please answer through private e-mail.

It was unsigned.

Morgan’s heart stilled and a strange sense of calm came over her, even as the rational voice in the back of her head warned her not to get too excited or jump to erroneous conclusions.

After months of searching, was she within days of opening the box?

Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she poured out her findings into the e-mail. She launched into detail, describing how she believed the amulet might be the key that opened the box. Her breath came in raspy backward gasps as she signed her real name and hit Send.

Morgan got up and walked back and forth in front of the computer screen, thrill pumping a shower of tingles throughout her body. “Come on, come on, please answer me back.”

Five minutes passed, then ten. She paced the room, one hand splayed against the hollow of her throat. It wasn’t until she began to feel light-headed that Morgan realized she wasn’t exhaling.

Breathe.

She took a deep, cleansing yoga breath. Why did it feel as if the key to her future lay in this stranger’s response?

Finally after several long, agonizing minutes, the cheery digitized voice on her computer announced, “You’ve got mail.”

Morgan flung herself back into the chair and opened the letter.

All wariness had vanished from the sender’s earlier post.

Dear Morgan,

It sounds as if you have the same obsession with unique antiques as I. If you are willing to make your intriguing box available to me, then I’ll provide the amulet and we could open the box together. When would it be possible for us to meet? I live on the Mediterranean Sea in a small fishing village not far from Nice, but I am not in the best of health and unable to travel abroad. If you would consider a trip to France, you are welcome to stay at my villa. I would much enjoy a long chat with a kindred spirit.

Sincerely yours,

Henri Renouf

The hairs on Morgan’s forearm lifted and a chill chased up her spine. Could this guy be on the up-and-up? Did he really have access to the White Star? Or was he some weirdo who surfed the Net looking to lure unsuspecting women to France?

Morgan composed another post, telling him that she hoped he wouldn’t be offended by her inquiry, but a woman couldn’t be too cautious and she would require some reassurance that he was a legitimate dealer and that he had actually seen the White Star. She asked him to describe the amulet.

Minutes later his reply came back.

I appreciate your hesitation. It is only prudent in this electronic age to question the identity and motive of the person behind the post. I have been dealing in antiquities for many years and across many continents. My specialties are antique firearms, rare talismans with intriguing histories and unique North African objets d’art, which is how the White Star came into my possession. The amulet is very lovely. It is a five-pointed star made of the purest snow-white ivory and it is about the size of a petite woman’s palm, with a hollow center. However, anyone could know this if he or she had done the research, so let me suggest that you check my credentials. Perhaps that would convince you that I am genuine.

Morgan inhaled sharply. His description accurately matched the illustration of the White Star that she and Cass had stumbled across in the old French tome and then read about in an article in the New York Times when it had been stolen from the Stanhope auction house. The amulet had been recovered, but then it had been stolen from a museum, found again and was now currently missing from the evidence room at Sam’s precinct. She couldn’t help but wonder if Henri Renouf knew something about the thefts that he wasn’t telling.

Had he obtained the White Star through illegal means? It seemed likely. Yet everyone was innocent until proven guilty. Who was she to judge? She wanted to believe that he was a trustworthy man who’d gained access to the White Star honestly and that he was a legitimate collector, but she had to know for sure.

Quickly, she googled him and learned that yes, Henri Renouf was indeed a legitimate collector who had been in business for many, many years. She scoured the information that she downloaded, looking for anything incriminating, but found nothing alarming.

Still, did she dare trust him?

Throw caution to the wind for once in your life. Take a chance.

But she’d just done that by trying to seduce Adam, and look how miserably that impulse had played out.

Yes, but her gut had told her that going to the Grand Duchess was wrong. She had acted on Cass’s advice, not her own instinct. She had to ask herself this question: did she truly believe Renouf had the White Star?

In her mind’s eye she could see Egmath and Batu, meeting clandestinely in the cypress grove, their love for each other eternal and pure. The story that had held her spellbound for months would not let go of her.

She couldn’t help comparing the legendary lovers to her relationship. Morgan sighed with longing and cast her mind back to her courtship days with Adam.

They’d been in a study group together in college and after the group ended they just kept meeting for coffee every Thursday night. She liked him from the very beginning, their eyes meeting across the table, their smiles lingering on each other. They’d gotten the best grades in the class. Two high achievers in a mutual admiration society.

Their goals had been so closely aligned back then, their values so similar it was little wonder that they got along so well. It was breezy being with him, light and fun and hopeful. When he asked her to the symphony to hear her favorite composer she’d eagerly accepted his invitation. It turned out that they liked the same music, read the same books and enjoyed the same kind of movies.

“Cut from the same cloth,” was what their friends said about them.

When she met Adam’s family, his mother told her it was as if they’d just been waiting for her to walk through the door—the bond was that instant, that right. It was the same with Adam and her family. Her dad called him the son he’d never had.

The more she knew about Adam, the more she admired and respected him. He was thoughtful and gentle. He opened the car door for her, helped her on with her coat, pulled out her chair when they dined in restaurants. He bought her little gifts and never forgot important dates. He got along with her friends, and she with his. He was even-tempered and goal-oriented. And just like Morgan, he had a plan for his life and was busily on the path to success. His kisses curled her toes and when they eventually made love it felt nice and warm and safe.

Like coming home after a long journey.

Everyone thought they were the perfect match.

But it had been almost too easy. There had been no big dramas, no major conflicts to overcome, no challenges to hurdle.

Sometimes Morgan couldn’t help wondering if Adam had married her simply because their relationship had been so easy. At some point had he felt trapped by the niceness of it all and drifted into the union because it was expected?

She thought quitting her job and taking on the less stressful role of shop owner would strengthen their marriage, but it had not. She’d changed, while Adam had stayed the same. Safe and nice and warm were no longer enough. In her marriage, she ached for the same kind of red hot energy, the throbbing intensity of passion that fable claimed Egmath and Batu had shared.

Weird as is seemed, Morgan felt that if she did not get to see inside that box, she would never know for sure how Adam truly felt about her. The notion was purely emotional. She knew it, yet she could not shake the irrational impulse.

For her peace of mind, she had to find out what was in that box.

Dear Monsieur Renouf, she tapped out on the keyboard. It just so happens I have plans to visit France within the following week….

IN A LAVISH VILLA IN the south of France, Henri Renouf sat back in his plush leather chair in front of his state-of-the-art computer, a sinister smile playing across his sun-weathered face.

The foolish woman had taken the bait.

She was so easy. It was like being a chess champion and condemned to play with a rabbit. But she had brought to his attention a new conquest to add to his collection, and for that he was grateful.

This new discovery of a mysterious box linked with the White Star was exhilarating and only served to fuel his obsession with the amulet and its legend of star-crossed lovers.

He had to possess that box. At all costs. He would risk everything just to get his hands on it. Nothing mattered more to him.

Renouf rubbed his palms together in a quick, excited gesture and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored tile of the wet bar across the room. He was nearly bald, and what hair he had left he vainly dyed jet-black.

Frowning, he pushed back from the chair and tramped to the mirror for a closer look. His eyes were his most striking feature—intense black pupils emphasized by remarkably clear whites. A lover had once told him that his eyes didn’t seem quite human. He’d taken the comment as a compliment, not for the frightened insult the woman had intended.

Henri traced stubby fingers over the lines embedded in his forehead, the furrows running beside his nose to the corners of his mouth. They suggest experience, command, impatience with fools. But he was vain enough to hate the wrinkles and yet he loved the sun too much to stay out of it.

He had other vices, as well. Cigars and cognac and rich food. His indulgences had thickened his waist. Even so, most people thought he was in his fifties, but Henri was nearing seventy. He didn’t have much time left.

He wanted the box and whatever Henri wanted, Henri got. And he didn’t care who had to die in the process. He’d killed before and, if necessary, he would kill again.

Anticipation watered his mouth. It was all he could do to keep from calling up his pilot, telling him to ready the plane and jetting off to Connecticut to take the box away from the woman immediately. But he could not risk such a bold maneuver. Not when the authorities were looking for him.

But he wanted the box so badly because it represented what he’d never been able to have in real life—true love—that it was almost worth the gamble.

Patience, he cautioned himself. Patience.

Knowing when to attack and when to wait in ambush was what had earned him his privileged life. He would wait. Lure her in. She must come to him, on his turf.

And then he would strike.