by Mae Clair
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.
Chapter 4
Reagan’s limited composure threatened to crack. It was bad enough being seated beside Elijah Cross, but Pellar’s announcement of a treasure hunt pushed her to the edge. Before she could spout off about the stupidity of the notion, a chorus of enraged voices did it for her.
Ludicrous...unprofessional…mucked-up looney–that was Tarvick–harebrained... Everyone talked at once, shouting over one another, griping, snarling, demanding to see Sothern. Elijah turned and his leg brushed hers.
She jerked at the contact, startled by an unexpected crackle of heat. It was lightning-quick and staggering. As if he’d felt it too, Elijah looked over his shoulder. She caught his expression, smoldering and unguarded. For a split second she relived the memory of his kiss, the feel of his body pressed to hers. Warmth rushed to her face.
“I’ll explain everything.” Pellar’s screechy voice shattered her thoughts, severing the connection between her and Elijah. “This is no way to behave.”
“And you think reneging on the offer of the journal is?” Monica Holt hissed from the opposite side of the table.
Pellar released a pent-up sigh. “I assure you, Mr. Sothern did not make this decision lightly. You were all invited here for the same reason: to purchase Jeremiah Rook’s journal. I realize my employer neglected to tell you there would be others in competition for the same item, and for that I apologize. Mr. Sothern has a tendency to overlook details.”
“Bloody convenient,” Tarvick muttered.
Pellar ignored him. “It was Mr. Sothern’s intent to assemble all those who held credible interest in the journal. Unfortunately, some of you are more flush than others and would use financial leverage to strong-arm the bidding.”
“Your point?” Brody parried with a sharp grin.
Reagan bit her lip. She knew Brody banked on St. Croix’s wealth giving him the edge, but it was starting to look like Sothern wanted to even the playing field. Beside her, Elijah sat straighter. He’d seemed edgy and uncomfortable earlier, but he was alert now, intent on what Pellar was saying.
“Due to the highly historical significance of the journal, Mr. Sothern feels it unseemly to profit from its sale. He has no desire to retain the journal himself, but doesn’t wish to choose among you. Mr. Simpson, for instance, is known to represent Gerald St. Croix.” Pellar motioned in Brody’s direction. “A highly respected collector of antiquities. Alan and Livy Franklin, while unable to match St. Croix’s substantial wealth, have a greater tie to the journal through their lineage to Samuel Storm, captain of the Twelfth Sun. Obviously the journal holds appeal for each of you or you wouldn’t be here. Anyone who doesn’t wish to participate in the hunt is free to decline.”
“Are you saying…” Livy Franklin’s finely-shaped brows drew together. “That Mr. Sothern is going to give the journal away?”
Pellar clapped, delighted. “Yes, yes, my dear! That’s it exactly. Whoever wins the treasure hunt gets to keep the journal, free and clear. What could be simpler?”
“Writing a check?” Elijah ventured.
Pellar’s grin shriveled into a frown. “Don’t be cynical, Dr. Cross. I would think you’d enjoy putting that highly analytical brain to work. The treasure hunt will be composed of five clues, one for each day. That should keep you sufficiently occupied.”
“You’re losing me,” Tarvick snapped.
“Not surprising,” Elijah muttered under his breath.
Reagan covered her mouth, stifling a giggle. She had to admit there were times he was engaging. He bumped her knee and sent her a crooked smile.
“Five clues,” Pellar said again. “The hunt will commence a week from Monday and will end on Friday. Each player will be given a new clue each day, providing he or she successfully solves the one preceding it.”
“Next Monday?” Monica leaned forward. “You want us to come back?”
“You are free to decline, Ms. Holt. Anyone who doesn’t wish to participate has only to say.” Pellar’s gaze swept the table.
Reagan thought of her schedule, of the clients who would back up. She’d have to do some creative juggling, but she’d follow through for her uncle. Even before her father died, he’d frequently been away from home piloting global flights to all manner of exotic places. Her uncle had been a fill-in father, a role that became permanent when Patrick Cassidy died in a plane crash six weeks after her fourteenth birthday. Neither she nor her mother would have survived that ordeal without her uncle’s suppor
t and devotion. If he wanted Jeremiah Rook’s journal, the least she could do was come back and try to win Sothern’s silly treasure hunt.
She looked at Elijah, a little too tempting in his black suit and crisp white shirt, and wondered if he’d return. The best thing for both of them would be to part ways, but she needed him to authenticate the journal. He finished off the rest of his wine and shoved the glass on the table, seemingly bored as Pellar droned on about the rules of the contest. Reagan tried to follow as best she could.
Clues would be given at breakfast each day, starting with Monday. Each player would receive a different clue, randomly drawn, and would have until eight PM of the same day to solve it. New clues would be given the following day to players passing the first round, and so on through Friday. Anyone failing to solve a clue would be eliminated from the hunt. In the event no one solved all five clues, the person with the most would win the journal. If more than one person succeeded in solving all five, whoever deciphered the final clue first would win. The journal itself would not be the object of the hunt, but the prize awarded to the winner.
“Dr. Cross and Ms. Cassidy will be considered a team, as will Mr. Franklin and his sister,” Pellar said when he’d finished explaining the rules. “The rest of you will be on your own.”
“But that’s not fair,” Monica protested. “There are two of them, and Dr. Cross is an authority in the field of marine archeology. That gives Reagan an unfair advantage.”
“So much protesting.” Pellar made a tsking sound before expelling an exasperated sigh. “The clues are random, covering numerous fields for precisely that reason. Some will relate to maritime history, most will not. As I’ve already stated, the journal is not the object of the hunt, but the prize. I assure you no one has an advantage over anyone else. As for the teams, you are more than welcome to pair up with one of the remaining gentlemen. How you divide the journal should you succeed, will be your problem.”
Disgusted, Monica pressed her lips together and slumped in her chair. Reagan knew she’d never team with anyone for the same reason no one else would. They each wanted the journal for themselves.
“It’s settled then.” Pellar grinned. “I’ll have the staff serve dinner and–”
“I hate to keep being the cynical one,” Elijah injected smoothly, cutting him off. He fiddled with his salad fork. It caught the gleam of the overhead chandelier and sent the glow arcing across the table. “But no one’s seen Rook’s journal. How do we know it’s authentic? Sothern wants us to expend a lot of time and trouble for something that could all be make-believe.”
Reagan gave a start. Make-believe. It was what the mysterious person in the planetarium had said: It’s always been make-believe. She didn’t know why Elijah’s choice of words triggered the memory or why she found them disturbing. Did a man who relied on facts and scientific data even understand the concept of make-believe? Wasn’t that for children, idealists and dreamers?
Pellar rummaged up a prissy frown. “Mr. Sothern anticipated someone might question his honesty.” He sniffed as though affronted and looked down his long nose at Elijah. “After dinner, I will make arrangements for each of you to see the journal so you may assure yourself of its authenticity. Should you still have doubts afterward, you don’t need to participate. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to summon the staff.” He turned crisply and strode from the room.
Brody chuckled. “I think you pissed off Prim-and-Proper, kid.” He raised his glass in a mock salute. “Wish I’d beat you to it.”
Reagan looked at Elijah. Around her, conversation was starting, subdued but steady as the dinner guests began talking among themselves. Initially determined to avoid Elijah, she found herself in the awkward position of requiring his assistance again. “My uncle wouldn’t expect you to come back.” It was hard staying focused with his loose hair curling over his collar, so out of place with the coat and tie. She knew he was uncomfortable in the get-up, but it made him look downright sexy, better than Brody in his custom European tailoring. “We’ve already imposed enough.”
“You think I’m going to pass on an opportunity to spend more time with you?” Elijah quirked an eyebrow. “I just hope Pellar holds that shared bathroom for us until next week. You think if I slip him a twenty?”
Reagan stared.
“Too cheap?”
He was baiting her, setting her up, waiting for her to hiss and sputter. It would blow his mind if she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips for everyone to see. Hers too, but oh, how she wanted to get the upper hand! Just once she wanted to put him in his place. And his lips did look inviting. Not to mention those shockingly blue eyes and dark walnut hair.
Elijah leaned closer and she felt a crackle of heat pass between them. “All kidding aside, I’m sorry I upset you earlier. But I’m not sorry I kissed you.” His voice was low, intimate, for her ears only. “Just so you know, Reagan…I want to do it again.” He grinned crookedly. “Soon.”
She stifled a retort, uncertain whether she wanted to strangle or encourage him. Anger tangled with desire. His hand dropped to her knee and she nearly jumped from her skin. Warmth seeped through the fabric of her dress, as fire-laden as sunlight.
Hastily, she shoved his hand aside. “I think you’re horribly vain and I wouldn’t kiss you if you were the last person on earth.” She swallowed her pride. “Unfortunately, my uncle wants that journal, so I need your help. Your help, Dr. Cross. Nothing more.”
“Sorry. Could you be a little plainer?” His smile was tight this time. He turned away, distracted by the arrival of the serving staff. A woman in a black pantsuit walked by and he requested another glass of wine. Around them members of the staff wheeled in gleaming silver carts loaded with food…lump crab cakes, stuffed lobster tails, tenderloin medallions. A mesh of tantalizing odors wafted across the room, making Reagan thankful for the diversion. Beside her, Alan Franklin commented how delicious everything smelled and she agreed with a gracious smile.
She imagined the Franklins loved the idea of Sothern’s treasure hunt. Financially, they wouldn’t have stood a chance against the others in the room, but were now in the thick of the competition again. The hunt might even be fun if it didn’t require so much of her time.
She sent Elijah a sideways glance, noticing he’d grown quiet. He tugged at his tie, then fiddled with his salad fork. Tension radiated from him, underscored by something else she couldn’t place. He seemed frustrated, but also subdued as if his feelings had been bruised. She opened her mouth to request his help a second time when cold air prickled her spine.
Reagan stilled, alerted by the strange sensation of being watched. She’d always had a sixth sense for such peculiar feelings. Instinctive to women, her mother had told her. Especially Irish women. She’d grown up on folktales of the Daoine Sidhe, faerie glades and Thomas the Rhymer. Innocent trifles and heroic ballads, but this felt like neither.
Reagan looked uneasily over her shoulder. She was certain someone lurked in the darkness, watching through the mammoth windows, staring and silent. But she saw only blackness and the reflected glow of candlelight trapped in the glass. The feeling remained, growing stronger as if she’d locked eyes with something unseen. Her grandmother had once told her about Spriggans, the ghosts of giants, said to haunt old ruins and standing stones. She was being silly, of course. There was nothing in the darkness. No one else even noticed. It was her imagination, prodded to excess by her strange encounter in the planetarium.
Dinner was served and conversation flowed around her. Alan asked about her background and she told him about her design firm, Winning Concepts. Her tension eased as he talked about college and his plans for the future. Livy chimed in and the conversation picked up rapidly. In a short time Reagan forgot anyone–human, supernatural, or otherwise–lurked outside. Only later as she headed to bed, did the unsettling memory resurface.
It went hand-in-hand with Sothern’s strange, elaborate house and his mysterious absence. She thought about knocking on
Elijah’s door and getting his opinion, when she suddenly realized he hadn’t spoken to her after her pointed rebuff. Had she finally put him in his place or had he decided to commiserate with the wine he’d nursed for most of the night? It hadn’t been his first glass from what she’d seen.
Earlier, Brody had told her Elijah wasn’t a drinker, preferring English tea or grape soda to anything alcoholic, making his overindulgence out of character. Yet another oddity of his quirky personality.
Reagan grinned. She had a sneaking suspicion Dr. Elijah Cross was going to have one hell of a nasty hangover in the morning.
* * * *
Reagan was packed and ready to leave by nine AM Sunday morning. She joined Brody for breakfast on the sundeck. The Franklins, Monica and Tarvick had already eaten and left by the time she arrived. A pleasantly warm breeze carried the salty tang of the ocean from the east. Overhead, thin white clouds dusted a blue sky. Gulls pinwheeled above the waves, rising and diving, sunlight glinting from their outstretched wings. A few yards away, a plump pelican bobbed contentedly, riding the gentle surge of low tide like a buoy. The day promised to be upbeat and sunny, keeping in stride with the welcome news about Rook’s journal.
Last night after dinner, Pellar had made good on his promise and allowed them to see it. After a brief inspection, Elijah agreed it was genuine. She’d looked herself, wanting to see what all the fuss was about, and had been properly awed by the ancient writing and crinkled pages. She knew her uncle would be thrilled by the news, even if the treasure hunt turned out to be a disappointment.
Smoothing the waist of her pleated khakis, she glanced around the open sundeck. The staff had arranged a separate serving table with freshly squeezed juices, coffee, tea and chilled milk. There were heaping platters of fresh fruit, flaky pastries, hickory-smoked bacon, scrambled eggs and fluffy buttermilk pancakes. Large clay urns brimming with pansies added splashes of color to the corners of the deck, and the glass-topped breakfast table had been covered in blue linen, set with casual china.
