Midnight Jewels

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “And if I don’t agree?”

  “Then we’ll cancel the whole trip right now.”

  She was shocked. “You can’t do that! This is my future we’re talking about here. Don’t you dare threaten me, Croft.”

  “I’ve told you more than once, Ι don’t make threats.”

  The situation was infuriating but Mercy felt trapped. That morning she had tried to cut the emotional strings that seemed to bind her to this man’s will, tried to tell herself he was using her and that she owed him nothing. But she knew now as she faced him across the table in the dingy little cafe that nothing about this situation was going to be simple or straightforward.

  And there were, heaven help her, some undeniable facts to take into consideration, not the least of which was that Croft had managed to instill unpleasant worries in her mind about the true identity of her valuable client. That alone was probably reason enough to take a companion with her to the Gladstone home.

  But she couldn’t ignore the fact that Croft had misled her, or rather allowed her to come to some false conclusions. She didn’t doubt for a moment that he had behaved within the framework of his own eccentric, strict, but honorable personal code. As far as he was concerned he had unfinished business to handle. He was determined to protect her even as he used her to follow the trail of Valley of Secret Jewels. In his own way he was doing his best to meet the obligations of honor and vengeance he felt he had to fulfill. She was forced to respect that even as it made her seethe.

  Set against the need to make certain the creator of the Society of the Graced was truly dead, Mercy supposed her desire to gain a toehold in the world of antiquarian books was rather unimportant to Croft. The best she could hope for was that Gladstone was the innocent, reclusive eccentric he appeared to be.

  “All right,” she finally said, knowing there was no other choice. “We’ll pose as lovers.”

  The blazing forcefulness went out of his eyes in a single blink. When his lashes lifted again, Croft’s hazel gaze was warm as his mouth tilted. “It shouldn’t be too hard. That’s exactly what we are. Lovers.”

  Abruptly incensed, Mercy yanked her hand from under his as he relaxed his grip. “Whatever else we are, we’re not lovers. This trip is turning out to be nothing more than what it was originally planned to be: A business vacation, pure and simple.” She shot to her feet, reaching down to collect her shoulder bag.

  “Mercy, don’t try to deny our, uh, relationship. I won’t let you pretend it doesn’t exist.” Croft was on his feet, picking up the grease-stained check that had been dropped on their table earlier. He hurried after Mercy who was already several steps ahead.

  She swung around and noticed the bare table behind him. “Aren’t you going to leave a tip?” she snapped, keeping her voice low so the waitress wouldn’t overhear.

  Croft’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I? She didn’t bother to make the tea the way I asked. A tip is supposed to be given for good service. It doesn’t make sense to reward lousy service. It only encourages more of the same.”

  “Spare me your philosophy on the nature of punishment and reward. That woman is working minimum wage at most. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s divorced and raising a couple of kids on whatever she earns here. From the looks of things she’ll probably be stuck in this burg for the rest of her life. That’s punishment enough for a bad cup of tea. Leave her a tip, Croft.”

  He surrendered without a word and reached for his wallet. Mercy nodded once in satisfaction. Every time she was about to give up on him, she saw a small ray of hope. Croft could be managed. He could be pushed. He could be made to alter his ways. But a woman would have her hands full in the process.

  Following Gladstone’s directions, Croft turned off the narrow mountain highway fifteen miles past the small cafe where they had stopped for breakfast. The new road was even narrower than the one they had left. It was obvious that keeping it in good repair was not a high priority for the State. Croft slowed the car to thirty miles an hour as the Toyota began to protest the scarred, uneven road surface. The towering trees seemed to press in on the thin road as if trying to push it off the mountain altogether.

  “I get the feeling this isn’t the route to any of the major ski resorts,” Mercy remarked.

  “You were right when you said you thought Gladstone liked his privacy. This road is definitely one way to keep visitors at bay.”

  They rounded a hairpin turn and without any warning found themselves confronting a desolate assortment of grayed and weather-beaten shacks that occupied a small clearing.

  “A ghost town,” Mercy exclaimed in delight. “A real live ghost town.”

  “I think that may be a contradiction in terms.” Croft slowed the car even more as he drove through the crumbling remains of what had probably once been a thriving mining town.

  Mercy avidly examined the ruined buildings, sagging doors, and empty windows. The remains of a planked, wooden sidewalk that had once connected a row of shops stretched along one side of the road. A partially decayed wooden wagon was overturned beside a building that still bore the faded legend Drifter’s Creek General Store.

  Some of Mercy’s initial delight began to fade as she examined the scene. The tumbledown buildings didn’t look quite real. There was an overall pall of eerie isolation to the place, as if it existed in another time or another dimension. Mercy had the feeling that if she actually got out of the car and tried to touch one of the crumbling boards on a nearby structure it would vanish beneath her hand. The soft sighing of the pines had an unnatural whine to it. It was nearly midday, but Mercy felt chilled. She rolled up her window.

  “I think I see why they call them ghost towns, Croft.”

  “Yes.” He said nothing more.

  “But it’s fascinating, isn’t it? When we leave Gladstone’s place, let’s stop here and spend some time looking around. I’ve never had an opportunity to explore a ghost town.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  He sounded unexpectedly pleased. Belatedly Mercy realized he probably saw the suggestion as an excuse to pursue the personal side of this trip. She wasn’t quite sure how to take that. Croft guided the car around another sharp bend and Drifter’s Creek disappeared behind them. Mercy felt warmer almost at once. She rolled the window back down.

  A couple of miles beyond what was left of Drifter’s Creek the roadway disintegrated further.

  “I have a hunch the car rental agency would take a dim view of this,” Mercy said.

  “I think you’re right.” Croft slowed to a halt and switched off the engine. He folded his arms on the wheel and leaned forward to study the terrain in front of him.

  “What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?”

  “Take a look. There’s a fence up ahead.”

  Mercy peered toward the trees. Loosely connected logs emerged from the forest on either side of the road and met in the middle of the path. “Doesn’t look like much of a fence. Just a wooden gate. There’s something in the instructions Gladstone gave us about calling the house for access when we reach the wooden barrier. This must be it. See a call box?”

  “Over there in the trees.” Croft was already opening the car door. His expression was becoming remote, his hazel eyes alert and unreadable.

  “What’s wrong?” Mercy demanded, climbing hastily out of the car.

  “I just want to see how rickety that fence really is.” He strode toward the barrier and then, not touching it, turned to follow its path a short distance into the woods.

  Mercy watched in curiosity. When he returned a few minutes later he looked satisfied.

  “There are alarms every ten feet along the fence. It may look rustic and picturesque, but, believe me, you couldn’t drive through that gate without someone knowing you were here. Better make the call to the house.”

  Mercy nodded and went to the call box that was half hidden by
a sweep of fir. The moment she lifted the receiver it was answered at the other end.

  “Yes, Miss Pennington. We’ve been expecting you. Stay right where you are. Someone will be down in a few minutes to guide you to the main house.”

  Mercy glanced at Croft. “I’ve brought a friend with me. I hope that’s all right? I don’t like to impose, but—”

  “Just a minute, Miss Pennington.”

  There was silence on the line and then the voice returned. “Mr. Gladstone is quite happy to entertain your friend as well as yourself, Miss Pennington.”

  Mercy hung up the phone. “No one seems to mind that you’re with me,” she said slowly. “I didn’t even detect much surprise. Whoever it was sounded very friendly and accommodating.”

  “Maybe I was expected,” Croft murmured.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you occasionally exhibit an unpleasant tendency toward melodrama?”

  Chapter 8

  A short time later Mercy got her first look at Erasmus Gladstone’s Colorado mountain estate and decided Croft wasn’t the only one with a touch of melodrama in his soul. Erasmus Gladstone appeared to have a few leanings in that direction, too.

  Gladstone’s large, two-story home was a dramatically modern design of sheer, sweeping white walls and smoked glass windows set inside a walled compound. At first glance it reminded Mercy rather uncomfortably of a futuristic mountain fortress. The compound walls were a couple of feet taller than an average man and made of stone. A wide, steel barred gate set into the walls appeared to be the only point of access.

  The gate stood open in what Mercy supposed was meant to be a welcoming fashion and a muscular, handsome young man dressed casually in slacks and a short-sleeved cotton pullover stood waiting to greet Gladstone’s guests.

  Mercy wondered where Gladstone hired his help. The man at the gate wasn’t the first attractive male she had met so far. The young man who had met her and Croft in a four-wheel drive vehicle was equally eye-catching. Both of the men struck her as the type one expected to find flogging their portfolios to acting and modeling agencies. Except for the bulging muscles. Mercy wasn’t so sure that much musculature would have been easy to clothe in designer garb, although it probably would have looked good on screen.

  The bulging contours of shoulder, chest, arm and thigh that marked Gladstone’s hired help made Mercy realize the lithe, sleek form Croft’s strength took. The power in his body had a far more subtle, restrained and graceful emphasis. Gladstone’s men would have looked good lifting weights at a body-building beach in California. Put Croft on that same beach and he would have looked like a jungle cat taking a stroll among the muscle freaks.

  The handsome driver of the four-wheel drive vehicle halted inside the compound, got out and motioned Croft to park the Toyota to one side.

  “Mr. Gladstone said you were to go straight on into the house, Dallas will show you the way. I’ll bring in your luggage and put it in your room.”

  “Thank you, Lance,” Mercy said politely as she alighted from the front seat of the Toyota. She felt obliged to add an especially bright smile of gratitude when it became obvious Croft was going to ignore Lance altogether.

  Croft saw the smile and shot Mercy a dour glance as he swung himself easily out of the Toyota. “No need to tip him,” he muttered over the roof of the car. “I don’t think he’s working for minimum wage.” He took Mercy’s arm in a firm grasp and led her toward the house.

  “Honestly, Croft, for a man who believes in doing things the proper way, you can be downright rude on occasion.”

  That observation seemed to cheer him. “I do my best.”

  A sharp, questioning bark sounded from the rear of the compound. Mercy automatically glanced in that direction. There was a long, fenced dog run there and two sleek Doberman pinschers paced alertly back and forth behind the wire mesh, their attention on the newcomers.

  “They don’t look like pets, do they?” Mercy said under her breath.

  “No,” Croft agreed, watching the dogs thoughtfully, “they don’t.”

  “No need to be afraid of the dogs. We only let them out at night to keep an eye on things,” the man called Dallas said as he approached. He smiled, a wonderfully boyish grin that displayed perfect white teeth. “We’re a little isolated up here. The dogs are just a precaution. Right this way Miss Pennington. Mr. Gladstone is waiting for you. And your friend, too, of course.” Dallas nodded politely at Croft, who didn’t seem to notice.

  Mercy rushed to fill the small social gap. “What a lovely place Mr. Gladstone has. Fantastic view. The air is so clear here in the mountains. The peaks and valley seem so close when you look out over a range.”

  “Distances are deceptive up here. The altitude and the lack of city haze are the primary reasons,” Dallas informed her. “A lot of hikers and climbers set out for what appears to be a reasonably close goal and find themselves walking for hours and days longer than they’d planned.”

  “It certainly is a unique location. I imagine you’re cut off almost entirely during the winter. How do you manage?”

  Dallas pointed toward the other side of the compound and Mercy saw a small helicopter sitting on a concrete pad.

  “The chopper is one form of transportation. We also have snowmobiles as well as the four-wheel drives. We’re never completely trapped up here in the mountains.”

  “Α helicopter!” Mercy was astonished. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually known someone who had his own private helicopter.”

  Dallas gave her his riveting smile. “Believe me, it beats driving back down that road, especially during winter. Mr. Gladstone usually makes sure all his guests get a ride while they’re here. Great view of the mountains from the chopper.”

  Mercy shuddered. “No thanks. I don’t care for small planes and I’m sure I’d be just as nervous in a helicopter. You’d never get me up in that machine in a million years.”

  That got Croft’s attention. He frowned at her. “You’re afraid of flying in small aircraft?”

  “My parents were killed in the plane my father owned. They went into a mountain during a storm, I was told.”

  “So that’s where you picked up the phobia? From hearing about the way your parents died?”

  “Probably. I’ve never stopped to analyze my dislike of small planes. Ι just know I don’t like them. Or helicopters. They always seem so frail and vulnerable.” Mercy firmly changed the subject. “Look, that must be our host.”

  They were at the entrance of the expansive house. Wide aquamarine doors were thrown open to reveal a hall tiled in light Italian marble. A tall, elegantly attractive man in his late forties stood in the doorway. There was a vaguely European air about him, a certain indefinable style and sense of wealth that made one think of expensive Swiss ski resorts, Paris, Saint-Tropez and the Côte d’Azur. Mercy had never been to any of those places, but she had a vivid imagination. This, she knew, must be Erasmus Gladstone.

  His hair had once been blond but was rapidly turning a brilliant shade of silver-gray. The combination of silver and gold was stunning. It highlighted the bluest eyes Mercy had ever seen. She couldn’t put a name to the exact shade of blue, but it reminded her of something, perhaps a color she had created with her watercolors at some point.

  Gladstone’s nose and mouth were finely drawn and showed no sign of losing their elegance as the man went through middle age. He was dressed in a casually expensive style, a silk sport shirt, dark trousers and Italian leather shoes.

  Whatever else he was, Mercy decided, Gladstone didn’t look like the guru type. He looked even less like the type to involve himself in anything as dirty as sex, slavery and drug running. This man had class. When he smiled at her he also revealed an astonishing amount of masculine charm. Then he spoke and she realized his voice was even better in person than it was on the phone. A wonderful voice for reading poetry or reciting
heroic ballads.

  A voice that might, just possibly, be very useful for enthralling an audience of willing believers. Mercy deliberately pushed that thought aside. She would not let Croft’s melodramatic conclusions influence her.

  “Miss Pennington, I’m very happy to meet you. I’m Erasmus Gladstone. Please call me Erasmus.” He turned his patrician head toward Croft and extended his slender, long-fingered hand. A small, discreet signet ring gleamed on one finger. “You must be the companion I was told about. What was the name again?”

  “Falconer.” Croft took the extended hand but kept the handshake brief and businesslike. “Croft Falconer. When I heard Mercy was going to be spending a few days in the Rockies as the guest of a man I didn’t know, I decided to invite myself along. I’m sure you understand. I realize business is business, but...” He let the sentence trail off with a meaningful emphasis. A man-to-man communication.

  Gladstone smiled. “Perfectly, Croft. A man must look after his possessions. There is always someone lurking about waiting to steal valuables. And I must admit Miss Pennington appears to be extremely valuable.”

  “Miss Pennington,” Mercy interrupted with a scathing glance at Croft, “would just as soon not be referred to as a commodity.”

  Croft merely shrugged but Gladstone chuckled richly and glanced back over his shoulder. “I assure you, I understand Croft’s feelings entirely. If my Isobel were to receive an invitation from an unknown male a couple of thousand miles distant I would react with a similar degree of concern. Come here and meet our guests, my dear. You’re always complaining that we don’t entertain frequently enough. You should enjoy the next few days. Mercy, Croft, allow me to introduce my companion, Isobel Ascanius. I would be very lonely here in the mountains without her.”

  Mercy saw a movement in the hall behind Gladstone and a moment later a stunningly beautiful woman appeared. She was almost as tall as Gladstone, which gave her several inches on Mercy. As she approached, Mercy realized the woman named Isobel was only a couple of inches shorter than Croft.