by Jayne Castle
Nancy grinned. “Sounds interesting.”
Lyra looked at her without saying a word.
“Sorry.” Nancy had the grace to appear chagrined. “I know you have every reason to be well and truly pissed because of what Sweetwater did to you. But you’ve got to admit, those of us who didn’t have a dust bunny in that fight have a right to be curious about him. I mean, he is a Sweetwater, after all.”
“You didn’t have a dust bunny in that fight?” Lyra repeated, outraged. “In case you didn’t notice, that was your best friend who got mauled by Cruz Sweetwater and a bunch of overpaid Amber Inc. lawyers.”
“Just a figure of speech,” Nancy said quickly. “Don’t worry, I’m one hundred percent behind you here. Best friends forever. You know that.”
“Thank you,” Lyra said stiffly. The electrifying tingle of energy that was stirring the fine hair at the nape of her neck was not fading. If anything, it was growing stronger. “Try to remember that friends are supposed to stick together in situations like this.”
“Absolutely. I am definitely on your side. It’s just that, well, Cruz Sweetwater is one of the men of Amber Inc. Everyone pays attention when a Sweetwater shows up. It’s like having a Guild boss walk into the room. Actually, a lot of people would say that now that Cruz has taken over his family’s private security business, he’s got more power here in Frequency than the head of the local Guild.”
“That wouldn’t be hard,” Lyra said dryly, “given the fact that the local Guild is between bosses at the moment.”
“You know what I mean.”
Lyra sighed. “I know. Sorry. I’m just feeling a little testy.”
Harold Taylor, the chief of the Frequency Guild, had died recently, and the Council had yet to select a new boss. But that was, Lyra had to admit, a technicality. Nancy was right. As the new CEO of Amber Inc. Security, Cruz Sweetwater did wield more power than a Guild chief, at least aboveground. When it came to the underground world, the men of Amber Inc. had historically maintained very close working relationships with the Guilds. In Lyra’s opinion, the association was not unlike an alliance between two criminal organizations that had agreed to respect each other’s territories.
The ability to psychically resonate with amber had begun to appear in the colonists shortly after they had arrived from Earth. Initially it had been considered an odd adaptation to the environment with no practical importance. But when the energy Curtain that had made travel between the home planet and a host of new worlds possible had closed without warning, amber had become the one thing that stood between the colonists and total disaster.
When their high-tech machines inevitably began to fail, the struggling members of the First Generation—united in their determination not to be the last generation on Harmony—had turned to amber as a source of energy. It had served their descendants well in the two hundred years since the closing of the Curtain. Today it powered everything from washing machines to computers.
The immutable laws of economics being what they were, whoever controlled the mining of standard resonating amber—SRA—controlled a lot of things on Harmony. And for the past fifty years, the mysterious, reclusive Sweetwater family had managed to corner a huge chunk of the market. Amber Inc.’s only serious competitor was the RezStone corporation, which controlled an equally large market share. The rivalry between the two firms was legendary.
“You can’t blame me for being a little curious about Cruz Sweetwater,” Nancy said. “I never even got to meet him three months ago when you were dating him.”
“Take it from me: curiosity is a dangerous thing when it comes to Mr. Sweetwater,” Lyra said.
He was very close now. The sparkling sensation fluttering across all her senses was making it hard to breathe. The half-empty glass she held trembled ever so slightly in her fingers. She could literally feel Cruz closing in on her. The urge to run was almost overpowering. Unfortunately, what she wanted to do was run to him, not from him. It was crazy, she thought. If she had any common sense, she would slip out the back door. Whatever Cruz wanted from her, it was a sure bet that it would not be good for her.
But the memory of the purple orchids sitting in the black vase on her coffee table swamped common sense. The latest delivery of the spectacularly gorgeous, outrageously expensive flowers had arrived that afternoon. The card that had accompanied them was identical to all the others: “We were meant for each other.” There was no signature. There was never a signature.
She had dared to dream these past few weeks, but she was forced to acknowledge that her lovely little fantasy involving the return of Cruz Sweetwater had a dark side. Part of her was terrified that the romantic scenario she had conjured was nothing more than a seductive new variant of the strange, waking nightmares that had been plaguing her recently. If that was the case, at least it was a far more enjoyable hallucination than the others she had experienced.
The unnerving episodes were getting worse. She had not confided in anyone, including Nancy, half afraid that even talking about the strange visions would somehow make the awful dreams more real.
“There he is,” Nancy said in a breathy voice. “He just walked into the room. I recognize him from the pictures in the newspapers. Wow. I see what you mean.”
“I told you, the clothes are good.”
“The suit is terrific,” Nancy said. “Nothing like black on black to bring out the best in the male of the species, I always say. But that wasn’t what I was talking about. It’s that cool, sophisticated hit man thing he has going. You’re right. Wouldn’t want to run into him in a dark alley.” She managed a slinky, theatrical shudder. “Now a darkened bedroom, on the other hand—”
“Don’t go there,” Lyra warned.
“You’re just saying that because you didn’t get there, yourself. I ask you again, as I have so many times these past three months. What were you thinking, woman?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe about self-preservation? What was I supposed to do, after I discovered that he was about to screw me out of the amber discovery of the decade, if not the century? Let him screw me literally? I don’t think so. Besides, I was reading that marriage manual at the time, and it strongly advised against going to bed with a man too soon.”
She had bought Ten Steps to a Covenant Marriage: Secrets of a Professional Matchmaker immediately after meeting Cruz. She had been so sure he was the right man. She had not wanted to leave anything to chance. The Dore luck had a way of going sour when you needed it the most.
But in the end, she had never had the opportunity to fall victim to temptation. And it was not Ten Steps to a Covenant Marriage that had saved her. The truth that she would never admit to anyone, not even her best friend, was that it was Cruz who had drawn the invisible line in their short-lived relationship.
He had never even tried to lure her into bed. There had been plenty of torrid kisses and a lot of heavy breathing three months ago, but that was as far as matters had gone. How much worse would she have felt after the heavy boot of Amber Inc. had come crashing down on her if she had made the mistake of sleeping with Cruz?
Then again, how much worse could she have felt?
“Here’s a tip, friend,” Nancy said. “Next time you meet a really interesting man, you might want to wait until after you’ve had a little fun in bed before you file a lawsuit against him and his company. Guys tend to get annoyed when they get sued.”
“For all the good it did me.” Amber Inc. had swatted her pathetic lawsuit and her even more pathetic lawyer without breaking a sweat.
“How did you do that, anyway?” Nancy asked, her attention still riveted on the scene behind Lyra.
“File a suit?” Lyra shrugged. “It’s not that hard. It just takes money. A lot of it. More than I had, as it turns out.”
“I wasn’t talking about the lawsuit,” Nancy said impatiently. “I meant, how did you guess that Cruz Sweetwater was about to walk into this reception a few minutes ago? You knew he was here before he even enter
ed the room. What’s up with that?”
“Probably some sort of primitive survival instinct. Too bad it wasn’t working three months ago.”
But the reality was that her para-senses had been instantly and indelibly tuned to Cruz Sweetwater the first moment they had met. She had never actually concocted a mental image of her personal dream man, but she had recognized Cruz the moment she met him. This is the one you’ve been waiting for.
That bone-deep certainty had intensified with each hour they had spent together and with each scorching kiss. Three months and a futile lawsuit later, the psychic bond had not weakened one bit. She was pretty sure that three years, three decades, or the rest of her life could pass, and still a frisson of knowing recognition would alert her if Cruz suddenly showed up anywhere in her vicinity. You were supposed to be mine.
“Don’t look now, but I think he’s spotted you,” Nancy said. “He’s coming this way.”
A cascade of tangled emotions slammed through Lyra. Anger, frustrated desire, the yearning for revenge, and a fragile sense of hope all snarled together in a chaotic mix.
“Looks like he’s expecting you to make a run for the ladies’ room,” Nancy said. “He’s circling around through the crowd, cutting off that route.”
That did it. Adrenaline, hot and bracing, surged through Lyra. If there was one thing that was sure to make her stand her ground tonight, it was the knowledge that Cruz thought she might try to bolt. She was a Dore, damn it. The last of her line. She had a family tradition to uphold. Dores did not run from anything. Most definitely they did not run from a Sweetwater.
She did not need Nancy’s wide-eyed expression to tell her that Cruz had invaded her personal space. She could feel him directly behind her.
“Hello, Lyra,” he said.
His voice was low, dark, infused with power, utterly masculine.
She turned coolly to face him, amazed that she was able to maintain a degree of self-control now that the confrontation was upon her. She even managed an icy bright smile.
Nothing had changed, especially not his hunter’s eyes. She had seen those eyes night after night in her dreams. Like the black stone in the heavy ring he wore, they were obsidian dark with green fires burning in the depths.
His hair was just as black as she remembered it, still cut close and short. The roughly sculpted planes and angles of his hard face were just as thrillingly feral. An intimate excitement swept through her.
Down, girl.
“Good evening, Mr. Sweetwater,” she said, giving him smooth surprise for all she was worth. “I wasn’t aware that you were interested in picking up antiquities at gallery auctions. I was under the impression that you preferred to acquire whatever you wanted with more direct methods.”
“Such as?” Cruz raised one black brow, politely quizzical.
“Oh, say, by crushing the competition,” Lyra said sweetly.
Nancy gasped and choked on her champagne. “For heaven’s sake, Lyra.”
Cruz looked at her. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Cruz Sweetwater.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Sweetwater,” Nancy said. She coughed a couple of times but recovered quickly. “I’m Nancy Halifax. Halifax Gallery in the Old Quarter? I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. I specialize in modern art.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Nancy. Lyra mentioned you several times.”
“Back when you two were seeing each other, you mean?” Nancy asked.
Cruz looked at Lyra. “Yes.”
“Back when I believed that Mr. Sweetwater was a legitimate client who wished to engage my professional services,” Lyra said evenly. “Back when he was using a phony name.”
Nancy looked vaguely horrified.
True to form, Cruz did not take the bait. That was the thing about Cruz Sweetwater, Lyra thought. He never lost his cool. He was probably just as controlled in bed. Not that she was likely to find out.
Cruz was all about control. She was no para-shrink, but she had a strong suspicion that powerful self-mastery was a direct result of the psychic side of his nature. He had never confided the truth about his psi senses to her—one of the many secrets he had kept three months ago—but she would had to have been incredibly dim not to have realized that he possessed a lot of raw power.
Anyone endowed with a high degree of talent required an equally high degree of control. Those who wound up with the former but not the latter generally spent most of their lives in nice, quiet parapsych wards knitting scarves and taking little pills.
“I was out of town at the time,” Nancy said, trying to paper over the awkward moment. “I always close the gallery for a couple of weeks in early summer. Mandatory family gathering at the lake house.” She made a face. “You know how it is with family.”
“Yes,” Cruz said. He looked amused. “I do know how it is with family.”
The two of them exchanged a smile of mutual understanding. If there was one thing most people could bond over, it was the subject of family. After the Curtain had closed, stranding the colonists, the First Generation settlers had understood that their very survival depended on the strength of the family unit, the basic building block of any society. They had set out to shore up family ties with every legal, social, and moral tool at their command.
The Founders had achieved their goal. Family was all on Harmony—except when you did not have one of your own.
Lyra took another sip of champagne and made no comment, her customary response whenever the subject of family ties arose. Her grandfather, who had raised her after her parents had been killed in a mining accident, had died four years earlier, leaving her alone in the world.
“And then I decided to tack on a buying trip to Resonance and Cadence,” Nancy continued, evidently feeling pressured to carry the conversation. “That took another week. By the time I got back . . . uh . . .” She broke off, reddening, and she darted an uneasy glance at Lyra.
“By the time you got back it was all over,” Lyra said, amazed by her own calm. She flashed another polite smile for Cruz and swept out a hand to indicate the artifacts on display. “Which of these lovely things brings you here tonight, Mr. Sweetwater?”
“You,” he said.
She felt as though the floor of the gallery had fallen away beneath her feet. He really had come back to apologize and make amends. The weeks of amethyst orchids had been an effort to pave the way, just as she had hoped.
But she had to be strong, she told herself sternly. There was a lot of groveling left to be done. If she let him back into her life too quickly, it would set a very bad precedent. She had the edge in this relationship now. She had to maintain it. Cruz Sweetwater had a bad habit of getting whatever he wanted. That had to stop. Boundaries had to be established.
“I’m confused,” she said with just the right amount of bewilderment. “Did you want to hire me to tune some amber or consult on an amethyst artifact?”
“No,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“Certainly.” She assumed an expectant look.
“In private,” Cruz added.
“Oh, look,” Nancy said before Lyra could respond. “There’s Mr. Fitzburn.” She smiled at Cruz. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to have a chat with him. Fitzburn is a potential client. He missed out on the first three Chimera paintings that I had in my gallery, and he’s afraid I won’t give him a chance at the next one.”
“I understand,” Cruz said.
“Are you interested in modern art, Mr. Sweetwater?” Nancy asked.
“It’s not really my thing,” Cruz said. “I take it this Chimera is popular?”
“He’s a hot new talent. Just on the brink of being discovered by the art world, according to the critic at the Frequency Herald. But he’s very reclusive. Won’t do interviews or promotion of any kind. He’ll only display in my gallery.”
“I see.”
“You’re welcome to visit my gallery,” Nancy said. She whipped a card out of her little black bag. “It would
be an honor.”
“Thank you,” Cruz said. He took the card and dropped it into the pocket of his black jacket.
Lyra frowned at Nancy. “I think Mr. Fitzburn is waiting for you.”
“Right,” Nancy said. “Bye.”
She hurried off, pausing briefly behind Cruz to wink at Lyra over his shoulder and make encouraging motions with her hands. Lyra pretended not to notice.
“What was it you wanted to speak to me about, Cruz?” she said.
“I’d rather not talk here. Your apartment is nearby. Would you mind if we went there to have this conversation?”
Alarm zapped through her. Her first thought was that going back to her place alone with him was probably not a good idea. Not yet, at any rate. Following hard on the heels of that bit of common sense was the memory of the breakfast dishes she had left sitting in the kitchen sink. And then there was the silky, chocolate brown bra she had washed by hand before leaving the house that morning. The bra was spread out on a towel on the window bench.
Her apartment was a small, open, loft design. Both the kitchen and the window bench were clearly visible from the entrance and sitting area. There was no way she could keep Cruz from seeing either the dishes or the bra.
This was so typical of the Dore luck, she thought. The man of her dreams walked back into her life, showing every indication that he wanted to make amends for his betrayal, and she had to worry about dirty dishes and a little hand washing.
She cleared her throat. “Well, the thing is—”
“If the idea of being alone with me makes you nervous,” Cruz said, “we could probably find a quiet restaurant somewhere nearby.”
“No.” The word was out before she could stop herself. She drew a deep breath. She could do this. Cruz had his pride, too. She could allow him a little privacy for his groveling, and if one thing led to another, as seemed increasingly possible, there would be a lot of kissing and making up to be done. That required privacy, too. “No, that’s okay. We can go back to my place.”
