Читать книгу Twelfth Sun - Mae Clair - Страница 8

Chapter 3

Brody was interesting company. He rode with admirable skill, as if he’d been doing it all of his life, and patiently instructed Reagan on the simpler points of horsemanship. They spent the afternoon riding on the beach, then took Brody’s sleek foreign sports car into Serenity Harbor, the nearest town. He was charming and companionable and had an inborn flair for putting her at ease. Late in the day, they stopped for lunch at a quaint waterside cafe with a bay view. Fishing boats dotted the water, gently rocking on currents still agitated from the earlier storm. A few yards down, a rickety pier extended into the bay, jutting from marshy ground thick with saw grass and sea oats. A snowy egret stepped to the water’s edge, delicately skimming the surface with a needle-thin beak.

“You’re not interested in Rook’s journal for yourself?” Reagan asked Brody after they’d given their lunch order. She swirled a pack of sugar into her glass of iced tea, using a spoon to distribute it evenly.

Brody shook his head and took a swallow of his lime spritzer. “I’m not a collector. I get paid to recover artifacts at my employer’s expense. It’s not a bad way to make a living, especially when someone else is picking up the tab.”

“Your employer must be a wealthy man.”

Brody shrugged. “Most collectors are.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Her Uncle Gavin was comfortable, solvent enough to be considered well-to-do, but a far cry from wealthy.

“I work for Gerald St. Croix,” Brody continued. “A French-Austrian collector based in Monte Carlo. My own background is a mix of street savvy, first-hand experience, and three glaringly incomplete years of college, back when I considered higher education a plus.” He grinned, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to parlaying nothingness into profit. It’s what I’m good at.” He took a swallow and set the glass down. “Do you know that if I bid high on a mediocre artifact, other collectors follow suit? They figure whatever interests St Croix has to have exceptional value. His reputation is that formidable.”

“Are you telling me this because you plan on outbidding me for Rook’s journal, or because you think it’s mediocre?”

Brody laughed. “Hardly mediocre. If you want verification of its value, ask Elijah.”

Reagan stiffened. She didn’t want to think about Elijah Cross, much less ask his opinion of something. Any memory of him brought her back to that unexpected kiss in the hallway and the complex emotions it stirred. Reluctantly, she summoned a visual image, his shockingly blue eyes contrasted by curling dark hair. Not black but deep brown, like weathered tree bark or newly turned sod after a rainstorm. She blinked. Any woman who thought that deeply about a man’s hair color needed to have her head examined.

She gulped.

Or her heart.

The waitress arrived with their food and Reagan deliberately pushed the thoughts aside. She picked at her Caesar salad, thinking of her last relationship. Neil, an ad executive, had seemed perfect for her. He was near Brody’s age and almost as charming. Unfortunately, that charm had extended to other women when she wasn’t around. It took nearly three months of dating before she figured it out. In the end, she’d dumped a pitcher of green beer over his head and left him with a giggling twenty-one-year-old blonde at a St. Patrick’s Day celebration. Neil had no qualms about dating younger women. Why was she so hung up over the ten-year gap between her and Elijah? Was it because she’d never dated a younger man, or because she couldn’t shake the embarrassment of their first encounter?

He was quirky and brilliant, with a surprisingly irreverent sense of humor. And so damn attractive it was unnerving.

“I’m intimidated by him.” She gave a guilty start when she realized she’d spoken aloud.

Brody looked up from his steak sandwich and fries with a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry about St. Croix. You’ve got the gifted Dr. Cross on your side.”

Reagan laughed nervously, realizing he thought she was talking about Rook’s journal. “You’re right. By this time tomorrow it will all be over.” She speared a piece of lettuce, steering the conversation back on track. “What do you know about Eric Sothern?”

Brody hesitated. “Not much.” His head was lowered as he globbed ketchup on a mound of fries. “Exceptionally wealthy, extremely reclusive. He’s not a collector, or if he is, he handles his purchases discreetly.”

“If he was a collector, why would he sell Rook’s journal?”

“Good point. Then again, money could hold more value for him. Look at his estate.”

“Have you met him?”

“No.”

His answer came too quickly. Reagan frowned, sensing he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Just as she remained convinced he hadn’t been truthful at the planetarium. Before she could say anything, he changed the conversation. Reagan listened politely as he talked about one of his previous buying experiences. She laughed when expected and interjected an occasional comment, but a series of red flags snapped to attention in her mind. Something wasn’t right about Brody. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. If he really was Elijah’s friend, maybe she should ask Elijah.

Dr. Cross, she mentally corrected.

She kept her smile in place for Brody. He was charming and good-natured, but she was suddenly one hundred percent certain he wasn’t at all who he seemed.

* * * *

Elijah wandered into the circular dining room at twenty minutes to eight, feeling instantly out of place. The formal surroundings were too extravagant for a kid who’d grown up with a machinist father and a clerk-typist mother who’d died when he was eight. A lead crystal chandelier crowned a domed ceiling, softly illuminating an elegantly dressed table below. Beveled crystal goblets, gleaming silver and bone-white china adorned a large round table, offset by a striking centerpiece of freshly cut flowers. Floor-to-ceiling windows flowed around the room in gentle symmetry, casting back the reflected glow of wall sconces and tapered candles.

The Franklins, Monica Holt, Tarvick and Brody were already in the room, milling among a number of Sothern’s house staff who butlered trays of drinks and piping hot hors d’oeuvres.

“Excuse me, sir. Would you care for a drink?” Elijah turned to find a woman dressed in a black pantsuit with a white silk blouse standing at his elbow. She balanced a tray of stemmed, wide-bellied glasses on the open palm of one hand. “We have a beautifully aged Cabernet, or if you prefer I can bring you a cocktail. Stuart is circulating somewhere with the Riesling, appropriately chilled.”

“This is fine.” Elijah snatched the first glass within reach, choosing something red and alcoholic. That was as far as his understanding of wine went, ranking right up there with his limited capacity for alcohol. He’d never been a drinker and usually avoided it.

“Excellent choice,” the woman commended with a smile. “If you need anything else, my name is Clarice.”

Elijah gulped down a mouthful as she moved away, hoping for a buzz to put him at ease. He hated social situations that required him to be witty and charming and make inane small talk. They brought back memories of college functions and academic dinners when he’d been the geeky, awkward kid trying to keep pace with his older peers.

“You’re smarter than they are,” his father had told him. “Tough it out.”

The same father who’d worked two jobs and spent insanely long hours filling out scholarship applications so Elijah could go to college when he should have been attending junior-high dances. The father who’d come home at night, reeking of motor oil and gasoline, who’d given him rough hugs and broken down crying when he’d gotten that damn doctorate. If only Eden had been there.

Elijah tossed back the rest of his wine. His book smarts hadn’t amounted to a hill of beans when it came to prolonging his father’s life. Nick Cross had died four years ago at the young age of forty-six from a rare bone disease. Through hospital stays and painful medical treatments, Elijah had been at his side. In the end, all he’d been able to do was hold his father’s hand and try to ease his passing. Hell of a way for a good man to go. Did his sister even know her father was dead?

“Dr. Cross. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you earlier. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Elijah studied the black-haired woman who appeared at his elbow. Monica something-or-other. Hilt? Holt?

Fortyish, glamorous, plastic boobs. Piranha.

How many times had his father told him not to make snap judgments about people? He’d done it too long to stop now. Didn’t Brody say she was an archivist? Yeah, and he was a short-order cook.

He forced a smile. “Call me Elijah.”

She wore a slinky maroon dress with stiletto heels and drippy gold jewelry. Clarice passed by and Elijah snatched another glass of wine. He gulped two mouthfuls. “Have you seen Reagan Cassidy?”

Piranha Monica seemed annoyed. “Who?”

Before Elijah could comment, Brody wandered over, looking typically suave in a tailored charcoal suit with a salmon-colored shirt and elegantly striped tie. Elijah felt self-conscious in his black, off-the-rack combo. He’d bought it for his father’s funeral, and had worn it exactly twice.

“Didn’t see you around this afternoon, Doc,” Brody said with a grin. “Reagan and I went riding on the beach, and then had lunch in town.”

Brody. Self-centered, annoyingly likeable, damn good at his job. “I wasn’t invited.”

“Really? Dreadful oversight on my part.”

Elijah laughed. It was hard to be angry with Brody even when he deserved it and intruded on territory Elijah thought he’d marked his own. He started to say something when his heart skipped a beat. His mouth dropped and he knew he looked every inch a hormonal kid gawking at a woman out of his reach.

Reagan entered the circular dining room through a door on the far side, a graceful vision in white silk. She wore a simple above-the-knee dress with fitted sleeves and a flounced skirt. The bodice was snug, nipped at the waist, accentuated by a discreet v-neckline. Her long legs were bare and tan, made even shapelier by a pair of wispy white sandals. Delicate combs secured the normally flowing cascade of her red-gold hair in a classical upsweep. A silver necklace with an emerald fob heightened the sultry glow of her green eyes. Elijah’s mouth went dry.

“Put your eyes back in your head, boy,” Brody muttered at his side.

Witnessing Elijah’s reaction, Monica huffed a sigh and strolled away. He barely noticed when she left. He couldn’t take his eyes off Reagan.

“My turn.” Elijah shoved his glass into Brody’s hand. He strode deliberately across the room, knowing it was time to up the ante. Brody had monopolized her all afternoon, shooting his own plans for convincing her they belonged together to a subterranean hell.

Reagan. Sexy, gorgeous, lips like satin.

She frowned when she saw him approaching. For her to leave now would look like she was intentionally avoiding him, and she was too proper for that. He watched as she accepted a glass of white wine from a server.

Reagan gave him a cool smile. “Dr. Cross. How are you?”

“I’d be better if you’d call me Elijah.” He caught a whiff of her perfume, a delicate scent blending white florals and woodsy overtones. He hovered by her side, fighting the urge to touch her, to nuzzle her slender neck with his lips. The buzz from the wine tangled with his social discomfort and kicked his tongue into overdrive. “If you wanted to get my attention, you didn’t have to lock me out of the bathroom.” He trailed a finger down the inside of her fitted sleeve. “I told Pellar we had a lovers’ spat, so he gave me a key to the room. Now I can barge in when you’re taking a bath.”

Her eyes went alarmingly wide. For a split second she looked deer-in-the-headlights-startled. “You…you didn’t,” she said in a fierce whisper. “You wouldn’t.”

He grinned, confident again. “What’s the matter, Reagan? Forget to pack the champagne and bubble bath?” He leaned conspiratorially close, his breath fanning softly against her ear. “We could shock the hell out of Pellar with some whipped cream and strawberries.”

She turned away and sipped her wine. “This isn’t spring break. Grow up or find some perky co-ed to bat her eyelashes at you.”

“Nothing doing.” He slipped his arm around her waist. “You’re sitting with me at dinner.” It wasn’t a request.

Reagan stiffened. Her eyes quickened with anger. “What makes you think for one minute I’d–”

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Felix Pellar’s voice sliced across the room with the practiced skill of trained orator. “This way please.” He clapped his hands and hastily motioned to the table. “Come, come. If you’ll all kindly be seated, we can get started. There are place cards for everyone. Mr. Simpson, Ms. Holt, over here. Dr. Cross, you and Ms. Cassidy to the left.” He flitted around the table, pointing out the pre-arranged seating assignments.

“See?” Elijah flashed Reagan a triumphant grin. “No choice. Pellar wants us to sit together, and you know how persnickety he can be.” He tightened his grip on her waist.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She jabbed him sharply in the ribs.

“Ow!” Elijah grunted and took a step backward.

Freed, Reagan walked gracefully to the table, raising one hand to delicately pat her hair into place. Alan Franklin stood as she approached and offered to hold her chair. He sat to her right, smiling and making small talk.

Elijah scowled at him.

Suck up.

He snatched another glass of wine from Clarice as she headed for the door. It was white this time. Cabernet? Chardonnay? Or was that the blush-pink thing? He was on glass three. Three more than he normally drank. Headache, gut-ache. Something was bound to kick back at him in the morning.

Pellar stopped his flitting and glared. “Dr. Cross, would you please!”

“Sorry.” Pellar. Prissy stick-in-the-mud, all around pain-in-the-ass.

Elijah took his seat. Reagan sat to his right, Earl Tarvick his left. With Reagan set on ignoring him and the bald man as socially intriguing as gum disease, it was going to be a miserable dinner.

Felix Pellar motioned impatiently for silence. Once he had everyone’s attention, he cleared his throat regally. “I have an announcement to make on Mr. Sothern’s behalf. He regrets he is unable to join you once again, but hopes you will enjoy his considerable hospitality.”

“What about Rook’s journal?” Tarvick barked.

“Yes, yes, I was coming to that.” Pellar flicked a hand over his cuffs. “Mr. Sothern has had a change of heart about selling the journal outright.”

“What does that mean?” Livy asked, her alarm mirrored by all of them.

Pellar’s smug glance rested on each in turn. “Mr. Sothern would be genuinely pleased if you would all participate in a treasure hunt of his devising.”

“What?” Tarvick lurched from his chair.

Elijah shook his head, hoping to clear it. The wine had to be muddling his thoughts. No sane person would devise something so frivolous for something so significant. “A treasure hunt?” he repeated, stunned.

The room erupted into pandemonium as everyone began babbling at once.