Midnight Jewels Page 8

  Croft shook his head. “No. I have no interest in trying to talk Gladstone out of Valley.”

  “Do you really mean that? Word of honor?”

  “Word of honor. I swear I won’t try to negotiate with Gladstone.”

  She ached to believe him, and when she searched his intent gaze she was finally convinced she could. “All right,” Mercy said, coming to a decision.

  Croft smiled again and reached down to scoop up their clothing. “I know it’s all right,” he said as he led her toward the bedroom.

  Later, Croft lay quietly beside a sleeping Mercy and tried to analyze the shadows in the room. He wasn’t having much success. He had already been over the same questions several times in his own mind and the answers eluded him. He was feeling restless again and it bothered him.

  It was like looking at a watercolor. On the surface everything was crystal clear. He had achieved what he’d set out to do. Mercy had yielded to him physically, emotionally and intellectually. He would be going with her to meet the mysterious collector who had grabbed Valley as soon as it hit the catalogs.

  But Croft wasn’t satisfied and he knew why. It had to do with the way she had provoked him into losing his self-control earlier. Until that moment everything had been going just the way he wanted it to go. Mercy had been melting in his arms, surrendering with a sweet, enticing sensuality that Croft had enjoyed. Hell, he’d more than enjoyed it. He’d gloried in it, reveled in it.

  He had been thoroughly aroused, obsessed with the idea of a gentle conquest that would tie her to him with what he hoped would be strong emotional bonds.

  He hadn’t been taking advantage of her, Croft had told himself earlier that day when he had planned the seduction. It was all for her own good. Lying now in her bed he had the grace to wince at the thought of how Mercy would greet such a rationalization for the volatile lovemaking that had taken place on her living room floor. But it was the truth. He was doing all of it to protect her.

  But he admitted to himself that he needed her tied to him. He had deliberately set out to do exactly that. He wanted the emotional bonds in place just in case things got rough in Colorado. They could be crucially important. They might even save her life.

  Croft knew he couldn’t talk Mercy out of the trip or the book. That had left him no choice but to accompany her to meet Gladstone. She needed someone to look after her just in case Gladstone turned out to be a man who should have died three years earlier. And Croft knew he needed the entree into Gladstone’s home if he was to discover the truth.

  Everything was intertwined. There was no way yet to separate out parts of the whole without ruining the delicate pattern that was being woven. Repairing a broken Circle took care and patience and precision.

  He was doing what had to be done, Croft assured himself. The seduction tonight had been necessary, as necessary as any of his other plans. He accepted that even though he had his doubts that Mercy would be able to accept it if she knew all he did about the situation. He had done what had to be done.

  No, it wasn’t self-chastisement that was keeping him awake.

  What kept him from sleep was the knowledge that in the final analysis, he hadn’t been completely in control of himself or the lovemaking. Instead he had been caught up by the overwhelming lure of Mercy’s response to him. It had sucked him in, surrounded him, captivated him even as he told himself he was possessing her.

  In the end he had not been the careful, deliberate seducer, able to guide every step of the action from start to finish.

  He had been seduced himself.

  Chapter 5

  Erasmus Gladstone lounged in the elegant white leather chair and gazed at the spectacular mountain scenery outside the sitting room window. He sipped at the glass of fine port Isobel had just poured and told himself for the thousandth time that this mountain retreat was exactly what he wanted. Beautiful. Isolated. Protected.

  It was also equipped with several different escape routes. He had learned his lesson three years before when his escape had depended on a single, fragile old tunnel that could have collapsed on him at any moment. He hadn’t paid much attention to having the tunnel properly prepared because he hadn’t expected to have to use it. Here the tunnel had been prepared first, even before the vault was added to the house.

  The workman who had helped him dig and reinforce the underground corridor had suffered an unfortunate accident on the mountain roads shortly after the escape route was finished. Gladstone felt safe now. No one else knew about the tunnel. Dallas and Lance and Isobel had not arrived until after it had been completed.

  On the island he had thought himself safe. Geography had kept him safe from the laws of the United States and the small island governments that were scattered about the Caribbean. Business acumen had kept him safe from his competitors. The mindless fanaticism of his followers had kept him safe from betrayal, or so he had thought. Arming the more violent and fanatical among the faithful had kept him safe from the possibility of attack by a small mercenary army.

  But he had not been safe from a single ghost who had appeared in the night.

  This second time around Gladstone had decided he would not make the mistake of surrounding himself with an army of blithering idiots. He would not rely on fanaticism and dope to ensure loyalty. Such a method carried far too many risks as he had learned to his cost three years earlier.

  This time he had opted for simplicity. The isolated location in the mountains, the escape routes, the electronic security mechanisms, the dogs, the three handpicked bodyguards whose loyalty was ensured by blackmail, money and charm, these were the guarantors of his new life. It made for a smaller, more select crowd, Gladstone thought in amusement. A manageable group. Any stranger or ghost who appeared among them would be instantly recognizable.

  Erasmus leaned his silvered head back against the chair, closed his vivid blue eyes and remembered the screams and the raging fire and the choking smoke. The scene was indelibly imprinted on his memory because he had almost died that night; almost died at the hands of a man he had never seen; a ghost, his followers had screamed in despair.

  He knew the single warrior had been a man, not a ghost, in spite of the hysterical claims of the panicked members of the Society who had stupidly turned to their leader for salvation during those last frantic moments. He had had no time to worry about anyone except himself. But whoever had destroyed the island stronghold of the Society of the Graced might just as well have been a dark specter from hell as far as Gladstone was concerned. The results had been a disaster from which Gladstone knew he was only now recovering.

  It had been a long struggle. Gladstone found himself thinking about the destruction of the island fortress every day of his life. He had operated with such power down in the Caribbean. It would be a long time before he could reestablish that degree of wealth and power again.

  Unless he got hold of the book.

  Valley of Secret Jewels held a priceless shortcut to what Erasmus Gladstone wanted.

  “More port?”

  He opened his eyes and saw Isobel bending down to refill his glass. Her breasts were round and full above the low neckline of her silk dress. He allowed himself the pleasure of just looking at her for a moment. Beautiful women were plentiful for a man of wealth, but few of them came equipped with Isobel Ascanius’s particular talents.

  “Thank you, my dear. You’ll join me?”

  “Of course.” She smiled at him over the rim of her glass, responding as always to the sound of his voice.

  Gladstone had learned early in life that his voice was a most useful tool. People invariably responded to that voice. It caressed the ear, charmed and beguiled the senses. Gladstone made good use of his secret weapon. “You’ve arranged to have the map ready for our Miss Pennington?”

  “She’ll receive it when she rents her car in Denver,” Isobel assured him.

 
“And the motel?”

  “I told her it was the only suitable one en route. She’ll stay there. Why should she question our recommendation?”

  “Why should she, indeed,” Gladstone murmured thoughtfully.

  “You’re certain you want her to spend the night there before she comes here to us?” Isobel asked. “It seems a waste of time.”

  “It will give us a chance to make certain she’s alone and is not being followed. If we have any doubts about her at that point we can take the book from her then. She will think she has merely been the victim of a motel robbery No one will be able to prove anything else. Having her stay the first night at the motel is simply an extra precaution. The book is dangerous, my dear. Extremely valuable and extremely dangerous.”

  Isobel wandered over to the window, watching the light fade from the glistening mountain peaks. “I still think we’re taking too much of a risk merely to obtain this book.”

  “You will understand how important the book is when I have it back.”

  “But you won’t tell me its significance now, will you?” Isobel asked with a sad smile. “You still don’t trust me completely.”

  “I trust no one completely, my dear. But rest assured that you are in my confidence to a greater extent than anyone has ever been.” Gladstone took another sip of his port. “Everything is in order at the colony?”

  “Of course. The members are all looking forward to the party.”

  Gladstone’s fine mouth twisted wryly. “Yes, I imagine they are.”

  “You’re certain you want to have the party while Miss Pennington is here?”

  “Absolutely certain. It will provide excellent cover in case we decide it’s necessary to do anything permanent about sweet Miss Pennington. Just another precaution, my dear. You should be accustomed to my little eccentricities by now”

  “I find your eccentricities quite charming, Erasmus.” Isobel smiled at him. “I’m learning much from you.”

  “No doubt you are.” Gladstone smiled back at her. Isobel was a beautiful woman, but she had known that since she was a young girl. She accepted comments on her beauty with the air of one who took them for granted. They bored her. The real key to charming her was to pay tribute to her intelligence and her various skills. She thrived on such admiration. The key to using her efficiently was to recognize and grant what she really craved: a genuine measure of power. She needed to feel she was finally on the fast track. She needed to know that one day she might have what Gladstone had. Isobel was an ambitious woman.

  Gladstone had another innate talent aside from his compelling voice. He had the ability to find the right key to handle nearly anyone. Gladstone never let any of his talents go to waste.

  Mercy awoke the next morning with the distinct impression that her whole life had undergone a significant change overnight. But the sense of impending fate that seemed to fill her senses was pushed aside almost immediately by a variety of surprising aches and twinges on the insides of her upper thighs.

  Cautiously she flexed her legs under the covers. None of the aches and twinges could be called painful, she decided objectively. More like gentle reminders of the claim Croft Falconer had made on her. There was no real discomfort, but there was a deep awareness in her of what it had felt like to lie in his arms.

  Mercy wondered if Croft knew the full effect he had had on her the night before. She was afraid he did. The man was far too perceptive. He seemed able to read her as easily as he would read a book.

  But she had learned some things about him, too. Falconer was, for the most part, supremely in control of himself and the world around him, yet he had his limits and he could be pushed beyond them. He could be provoked into letting go of the internal reins he held. Last night Mercy knew she had succeeded in doing exactly that.

  In the clear light of day she was amazed by her own daring. More than amazed. She was staggered by it.

  Mercy opened her eyes and found the room filled with predawn light. A glance at the clock beside the bed told her it was five-thirty. A glance at the bed beside her told her that Croft was gone.

  She frowned and sat up. Belatedly she remembered she had never gotten around to putting on a nightgown. As she climbed out of bed and reached for a robe, Mercy listened for the sound of the shower or the clatter of the coffeepot in the kitchen. The apartment was utterly silent, but she sensed it wasn’t empty.

  Tying the yellow sash of the scarlet robe around her narrow waist, Mercy padded to the bedroom door and paused again to listen. There was still no sound, but now she was certain Croft hadn’t left. Silently she walked down the short hall to the living room.

  He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the window. He was nude and his hands rested easily on his bent knees. His whole attention seemed focused on a point on the horizon at the very limits of her tiny scrap of view. Mercy realized Croft was meditating.

  Respectfully she withdrew and went back down the hall toward the bathroom. This discovery, she decided as she stepped into the shower a few minutes later, was fascinating. But then, everything about this man seemed to interest her.

  The incident was illuminating in several respects, she thought as she stood under the hot spray, but above all it illustrated just how little she still knew about him.

  Common sense dictated that she slow down the affair that had sprung up like wildfire on a hot summer day. She had no doubt that Croft knew what he wanted and what he was doing. Unfortunately, she wasn’t as in touch with her own wants and needs.

  Perhaps she was the one who needed a period of meditation to try to get her thoughts in order.

  Wrapped in a towel, Mercy emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later to find Croft in the bedroom, examining the copy of Valley of Secret Jewels that had been lying on the nightstand. He had put on a pair of jeans but that was all. The contoured muscles of his shoulders and back were well defined in the morning light. He glanced up, taking in the sight of her wet hair swept back in a neat, clinging wave, her freshly scrubbed face and the water drops that still glistened on her bare shoulders. The faint smile that lit his eyes could only be described as satisfied and possessive. He took a step toward her but halted immediately when Mercy went still. He held up the book.

  “Don’t forget to pack this.”

  “Don’t worry,” she retorted, “I wasn’t planning on leaving it behind.”

  “Been using it for some late night reading, I see.”

  “Purely professional interest,” she informed him loftily and turned away to search about in a drawer for her underwear. She knew she was turning pink.

  “Professional interest. Is that what you call it?”

  She heard the teasing quality in his voice and was torn between the pleasure of hearing his silent laughter and the annoyance of having him discover the book in such an incriminating location. “Yes, it was professional interest. I even formed a professional opinion about the author.”

  “Rivington Burleigh?” Croft walked up behind her and put his hands on her bare shoulders. He dropped a featherlight kiss on her wet hair. “What conclusion did you come to about him?”

  “That he’s a her.”

  “What?”

  She could tell she had surprised him. Mercy smiled smugly. “That’s right. Α her. I think Rivington Burleigh was a woman.”

  “Eighteenth-century porn written by a woman? Not likely.”

  “Why not? There were other women writers in the eighteenth century. Lots of them. And it wasn’t uncommon for them to write under a man’s name.”

  “But this kind of thing?”

  “Are you one of those men who think women aren’t interested in erotica?” She moved away from his hands, heading for the closet to find her jeans. “If so, I’ve got news for you. Our tastes in it might be different than men’s tastes, but that doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate it on occasion.�
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  “Oh, I believe you, Mercy,” he drawled, his eyes gleaming. “I saw your face when you looked in the mirror last night, remember?”

  She glared at him over her shoulder. “A gentleman would not remind me.”

  “A gentleman probably wouldn’t have made you look in the mirror in the first place.”

  “That’s an interesting point.”

  “Tell me what makes you think Burleigh might have been a woman.”

  Mercy held her jeans in one hand, thinking seriously. “Something about the sensitivity of the writing, I suppose. There’s as much description of the main character’s internal feelings during the sex scenes as there is of the actual physical activity. Male writers tend to concentrate on the mechanics of the action rather than the emotional responses.”

  “You’re an expert on male-oriented porn? I had no idea your professional interests were so widespread.”

  “Well?” she challenged. “Isn’t it true? Aren’t men more into the physical side of things while women tend to concentrate on the emotional reactions involved? That’s why an affair that’s being manipulated by the man takes off with a running start for the bedroom. But I think one managed by a woman would be begun more slowly, with lots of time allowed for getting to know one another.”

  “Do I sense a turn in the conversation? Are we suddenly getting personal instead of professional?” Croft didn’t move, but there was a new level of intensity in the room.

  Mercy kept her chin firmly elevated although her fingers were clutched very tightly around the jeans she was holding. She met his gaze with a direct, level look. “Yes,” she said, “I think we are.”

  “Say it straight out, Mercy. I don’t want to have to pick my way through the jumble of your mysterious thought processes.”

  “All right, I will.” She took a breath. “I think we rushed things last night. It was too soon. We need more time to get to know each other, Croft. If you’re serious about…about this relationship of ours, then you’ll have to agree with me that we should cool the physical side of things for a while.”