by Amanda Quick
“Good lord, Venetia, the man’s half naked.”
“That’s the classical Roman fashion.”
“Damnation. You actually photographed a man who was wearing nothing but a skimpy toga?”
“Remember, dear, photography is an art. Half naked, indeed, entirely naked people are quite commonly found in art.”
“They are most definitely not going to be commonly found in your art.”
“Now, Gabriel—”
Hippolyte cleared his throat. “I believe I’ll leave you two alone to discuss the finer points of the photographic arts. Young Edward and I are going to take his kite to the park.”
47
THEY SPENT THEIR wedding night alone in the little house on Sutton Lane. Declaring that the newlyweds needed privacy, Marjorie Jones invited Beatrice, Amelia and Edward to stay at the town house that evening.
Venetia waited for her husband in bed, demurely garbed in an ankle-length nightgown. She felt unaccountably shy and more than a little nervous. This was ridiculous, she thought. They had been together before. Why was she feeling so anxious?
She started a little when Gabriel opened the door and walked into the room. He wore a dark dressing gown and his hair was still damp from his bath.
Her husband, she thought. She was now a wife.
He stopped halfway across the room and looked at her with his sorcerer’s eyes.
“What is the matter?” he asked.
“I find it hard to believe that we are married,” she confessed. “There was a time when I thought I’d never see you again. Not in this life, at any rate.”
He smiled and walked the rest of the way to the edge of the bed. “How odd. I knew from the beginning that we would be together.”
“Did you?”
He untied the sash of his robe. “Remember the night we made love together at Arcane House?”
“I am not likely to forget it.”
“Do you recall telling me that you were mine?”
She blushed. “Yes.”
He tossed the robe aside, pulled back the covers and got in beside her. “As far as I was concerned, that was our real wedding night, Mrs. Jones.”
He was right, she thought. That night had sealed the bond between them.
Her bridal jitters evaporated in the warmth of that knowledge. She opened her arms to him.
“I knew you were the right man,” she whispered.
“Ah, but you were thinking of only one night together. Whereas I was plotting a strategy that would last a lifetime.”
He came to her then. They made love slowly at first and very thoroughly. Gabriel touched her in ways that would have shocked her in the light of day. But here in the shadows of the bedroom, she gloried in the sensual intimacy.
Gradually the tender lovemaking was transformed into a sensual battle. She grew bolder and more daring. At one point she took him into her mouth. His fingers clenched in her hair.
“Enough, my sweet.” His breathing was harsh with the effort he was exerting to maintain control.
“I see no reason to stop,” she said softly.
Without warning, he reversed their positions, rolling on top of her. In retaliation, she sank her nails into his back.
He laughed and captured her wrists, pinning them to the bed on either side of her head.
“I carried your marks from that first night at Arcane House for two days,” he said.
She smiled up at him in the shadows, aware that he could see her quite clearly in the darkness. “Did you?”
“I seem to recall telling you at the time that you would pay.”
“Promises, promises.”
The next thing she knew he had released her wrists and was sliding down the length of her body to her melting core.
When he kissed her there she convulsed in shock and excitement. He covered her once more, sinking himself deep inside her.
Together they sailed the crashing waves of the climax, losing themselves in the shared fires of psychical energy, sexual passion and love.
A LONG TIME LATER, he lay back against the pillows and gathered her close against him. He felt perfectly sated, he thought. Happy and content. Loved and in love.
“Do you think you will mind not being a widow?” he asked.
Venetia laughed and reached up to touch his face with loving fingers. “There appear to be some advantages to being a wife after all.”
* * *
TURN THE PAGE FOR A LOOK AT
White Lies
BY
JAYNE ANN KRENTZ
AVAILABLE IN HARDCOVER FROM
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
* * *
Prologue
Eight months earlier…
CLARE LANCASTER SAT in the café of a large bookstore in Phoenix, Arizona, waiting for the half sister she had never met. A chaotic mix of anticipation, anxiety, longing and uncertainty churned her insides to such an extent that she could not drink the green tea she had ordered.
Even if she had not seen photographs and read articles about Elizabeth Glazebrook and her wealthy, influential family in the Arizona newspapers and house-and-garden magazines, she would have recognized her the moment she walked through the door.
It certainly wasn’t because there was much in the way of family resemblance, Clare thought. At five feet three and a half, she was accustomed to having to look up, not only to most men but to many women as well. She was aware that, like Napoleon, she sometimes tended to overcompensate.
Friends and those who were fond of her called her feisty. Those who were not friends tended to go for other descriptors: difficult, stubborn, assertive and bossy. On occasion the words “bitch” and “ballbuster” had been used, often by men who had discovered the hard way that she was not nearly as easy to get into bed as they had assumed.
Elizabeth was her polar opposite: tall and willowy with a cloud of honey-brown, shoulder-length hair brightened by the desert sun and the discreet touch of a very expensive salon. Her features had a lovely, patrician symmetry that gave her an elegant profile.
But what one noticed most of all about Elizabeth was her style. Her half sister did not have merely good taste in clothes, jewelry and accessories, Clare thought; she had exquisite taste. She knew the precise colors to wear to enhance her natural good looks, and she had an unerring eye when it came to detail.
Until her recent marriage to Brad McAllister, Elizabeth had been one of the most successful interior designers in the Southwest. Things had changed dramatically in the past few months. The once thriving business had fallen apart.
Elizabeth hesitated briefly in the doorway of the café, searching the small crowd. Clare started to raise a hand to get her attention. There was no reason why Elizabeth should recognize her. After all, she had never had her work featured in glossy, high-end magazines, and she’d certainly never had her wedding photographed for the society pages of a newspaper. She’d never had a wedding. But that was another issue.
To her amazement, Elizabeth stopped scanning the room the instant she noticed Clare sitting in the corner. She started through the maze of tables.
My sister, Clare thought. She knows me, just as I would have known her, even if I had never seen a photograph.
When Elizabeth drew closer, Clare saw the barely veiled terror shimmering in her hazel eyes.
“Thank God you came,” Elizabeth whispered. The beautifully crafted leather handbag she carried shook a little in her tightly clutched fingers.
Clare’s anxiety and uncertainty vanished in a heartbeat. She was on her feet, hugging Elizabeth as if they had known each other all their lives.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s going to be okay.”
“No, it’s not,” Elizabeth whispered, tears drowning the words. “He’s going to kill me. No one believes me. They think I’m crazy. They all say he’s the perfect husband.”
“I believe you,” Clare said.
1
JAKE SALTER WAS standing in the shadows at the
far end of the long veranda, all his senses—normal and paranormal—open to the desert night, when he felt the hair stir on the nape of his neck. It was the first warning he had that something was about to put his entire, carefully laid strategy in jeopardy.
The hunter in him knew better than to ignore the disturbing sensation.
The ominous indicator of disaster took the shape of a small, nondescript compact car turning into the crowded driveway of the big Glazebrook house.
Something wicked this way comes. Or something very, very interesting. In his experience, the two often went together.
“It looks like we have a late arrival,” Myra Glazebrook said. “I can’t imagine who it is. I’m sure that everyone who was invited tonight is already here or sent regrets.”
Jake watched the little compact crawl slowly forward. The driver was searching for a parking place amid the array of expensive sedans, heavy SUVs and limos that littered the drive. Like a rabbit approaching a desert watering hole that had already attracted a lot of mountain lions.
Good luck, Jake thought.
There was no space left in the wide, circular court that fronted the big house. The Glazebrooks were entertaining this evening. Archer and Myra Glazebrook called their annual July cocktail gala the Desert Rats Party. This evening, everyone who was anyone in the affluent community of Stone Canyon, Arizona, who had not fled the merciless summer heat for cooler climes was here.
“Must be someone from the caterer’s staff,” Myra said. She watched the compact with growing disapproval.
The little car finished one complete circle of the drive without finding a place to alight. Undaunted, it scurried around for a second attempt.
Myra’s jaw firmed. “The caterer’s people were told to park at the back of the house. They’re not supposed to take up space in front. That’s for the guests.”
“Maybe this particular member of the staff didn’t get the word,” Jake said.
The compact was sweeping toward them again, headlights bouncing off the gleaming fenders of the larger vehicles. Jake was sure now that the driver was not going to give up.
“Sooner or later he’s going to realize that there is no room left in the drive,” Myra said. “He’ll have to go around to the back.”
Don’t bet on it, Jake thought. There was something very determined about the manner in which the driver was searching for a parking space.
The compact abruptly came to a defiant halt directly behind a sleek silver-gray BMW.
Out of all the cars here tonight, you had to pick that one to block, Jake thought. What are the odds?
The part of him that he did not advertise to the world—the not-quite-normal part—was still running hot, which meant he was flooded with parasensory input in addition to the information collected by his normal senses. When he was hot, data came to him across a spectrum of energy and wavelengths that extended into the paranormal zones. He was aware of the wild, intoxicating scents and the soft sounds of the desert night in a way that he would not have been if he were to close down the parasensitive side of himself. And his hunter’s intuition was operating at full capacity.
“He certainly can’t park there,” Myra said sharply. She looked down the veranda. “Where is the attendant who was hired to handle parking this evening?”
“Saw him go around to the back a few minutes ago,” Jake said. “Probably had to take a quick break. I can handle this for you.”
Oh, yeah. I want to handle this.
“No, that’s all right, I’d better deal with it,” Myra said. “There’s always the possibility that it’s someone who was accidentally left off the guest list. Once in a while that happens. Excuse me, Jake.”
Myra went briskly toward the veranda entrance, fashionable high-heeled sandals clicking on the tiles.
Jake clamped down on his eager senses. Try to act normal here. He could do that fairly well most of the time. He had learned long ago that people, especially those who possessed a measure of psychic ability and who understood exactly what he was, got nervous when he didn’t. Others, which included the majority of the population—most of whom would never admit to believing in the paranormal—simply became uneasy for reasons they could not explain. He wondered which group the new arrival fell into.
He leaned against the railing, absently swirling the whiskey that he had not touched all evening. He wasn’t here tonight to relax and enjoy the hospitality. He was here to gather information with all his senses. Later he would go hunting.
The door of the compact popped open. A figure emerged from behind the wheel. The newcomer was a woman. She was not dressed in the uniform that the other members of the catering staff wore. Instead, she had on a severe black-skirted suit. A pair of black, heeled pumps and an oversized shoulder bag finished off the outfit.
Definitely not from around here, Jake thought. This was Arizona and it was July. No one went beyond “resort casual” at this time of year.
He prowled quietly forward along the veranda. When he reached a deep pool of shadow at the side of one of the stone pillars that supported the overhanging roof, he stopped. He propped one shoulder against the pillar and waited for events to unfold.
The newcomer’s neat black pumps echoed crisply on the paving stones of the drive. She walked boldly toward the main entrance where Myra waited. Jake could see that the somber black suit skimmed small, high breasts, a trim waist and hips that, if one wanted to get technical, were probably too generously proportioned to suit the scale of the rest of the petite frame. He, however, had no problem, technical or otherwise, with her curves. They looked just right to him.
This was the kind of woman you looked at twice, even though you knew she wasn’t beautiful. At least she was the kind that he looked at twice. Make that three times, he decided. The big, knowing eyes, proud nose and determined chin were striking in a compelling, unconventional way. The veranda lights gleamed on lustrous dark hair that was secured in an elegant knot at the back of her head.
But it wasn’t her looks that grabbed his full attention across the spectrum of his senses. She had something else going for her, something that didn’t depend on physical attractiveness. It was in the way she carried herself, the angle of her shoulders and the tilt of her head. Attitude. Lots of it. It would be a mistake to underestimate this woman.
Automatically he cataloged and analyzed the data that his senses were collecting, the way he always did when he was hunting.
She wasn’t prey. She was something a lot more intriguing. She was a challenge. You couldn’t charm a woman like this into bed. She would make the decision based on whatever criteria she had established. There would be some fencing involved, certain negotiations, probably a few showdowns.
He felt the blood heat in his veins.
Myra stepped into the woman’s path. He could see that she had dropped the gracious hostess role. It didn’t take any paranormal sensitivity to detect the tension and wariness vibrating through her. The first words out of Myra’s mouth told him just how much trouble he was looking at.
“What are you doing here, Clare?” Myra asked.
Well, damn. Jake mentally sifted through the files he had been given to read before he was sent to Stone Canyon two weeks ago. No mistake. Right age, right gender, right amount of hostility from Myra.
This was Clare Lancaster, Archer’s other daughter, conceived in the course of a brief, illicit affair. The probability analysts employed by Jones & Jones, the psychic investigation firm that had hired him for this job, had estimated that the likelihood of her showing up here while he was working undercover was less than 10 percent. Which only went to show that just because you were a psychic with a special flair for probability theory didn’t mean diddly-squat when it came to predicting the behavior of a woman. Plain, old-fashioned guesswork would have yielded better results.
He knew he should be worried. Clare’s presence here was seriously bad news. If the rumors about her were true, she was the one person in the vicinity who could blo
w his cover to pieces.
According to the Jones & Jones files, Clare was a level ten on the Jones Scale. There was no level eleven, at least not officially.
The Jones Scale originated in the late 1800s. It was developed by the Arcane Society, an organization devoted to psychic and paranormal research. Back in the Victorian era, a lot of serious people took the paranormal very seriously. The period was the heyday of séances, mediums and demonstrations of psychic abilities.
Of course the vast majority of practitioners in those days were charlatans and frauds. But the Arcane Society had already been in existence for two hundred years at that point, and its members knew the truth. Paranormal talents did exist in some people. The society’s goal was to identify and study such individuals. Over the years it had acquired a large membership of psychically talented people. Those who joined got tested, and they brought their offspring to be tested.
The Jones Scale was designed to measure the strength of a person’s psychic energy. It was continually being updated and expanded as modern experts in the society created new methods and techniques.
It wasn’t just the knowledge that Clare was a strong sensitive that raised red flags. According to the files, her talent was extremely rare and highly unusual. The strength of a person’s pure psychic energy was fairly easy to measure these days—within limits, at least. Identifying the exact nature of an individual’s talent was often far more complicated.
In the vast majority of cases, psychic abilities fell into the realm of intuition. Those endowed with a measurable amount of paranormal talent were often good card players. They got lucky when they gambled, and they were known for their very reliable hunches.
But there were some major exceptions. Among the members of the society, such exceptions were usually termed “exotics.” It was not a compliment.
Clare Lancaster was an exotic. She had a preternatural ability to sense the unique kind of psychic energy generated by someone who was attempting to prevaricate or deceive.
