Touching Midnight

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  The name had stuck with her when most of the details of the dream had faded, because Achaeus had been certain she’d hailed from Ilium.

  During the course of her degree and doctorate, she’d completed several papers on the ancient civilizations of Asia Minor, read The Iliad, and learned that Achaeus’s city had existed: Ilium was an ancient name for Troy.

  The time factor was a little fuzzy, and there was guesswork involved, but she was almost positive that before his ship had foundered on the eastern coast of the Americas, Achaeus had been one of a group of dispossessed Trojans, and the war he’d spoken of had been the destruction of Troy.

  Slipping the file into her laptop case, she regarded Jay’s profile, fielding a now familiar mental double take; when she looked at Jay from certain angles, he was Achaeus. “If it’s not a diamond,” she said absently, picking up on the thread of the conversation, “then what is it?”

  “The experts are still trying to figure that one out. Apparently the gem’s on loan to some research group that’s connected with NASA, because they’ve decided there’s a potential for use in space flight. On top of that, some genius mathematician played around with the atomic structure and thinks it might be some form of inert cold fusion.” He went back to his newspaper. “But they’ll never make that theory fly.”

  Her mouth quirked. That was vintage Jay: stone-cold practical. “How can you be so certain?”

  “Simple politics. The bureaucracy surrounding the stone is monumental, and now they’re limiting access because they’ve decided the radiation could be harmful, and the various agencies conducting research on the stone don’t want to be sued by their employees for radiation poisoning. It’ll take them years to decide anything. With any luck, they’ll leave it alone altogether.”

  She glanced at the article Jay had just read and the smooth, corporate mug shot that fronted it up. “Not if Hathaway has anything to do with it.”

  According to the front-page report, Hathaway had been extradited to the States and was presently on remand, awaiting trial. Infamous thief and murderer or not, getting the man to shut up was another thing entirely. After making a fuss about police brutality, wrongful arrest and possible radiation poisoning from the jewel, he’d finally gotten some attention, although it wasn’t the attention he’d wanted. He was now in an isolation unit in a maximum security prison until medical professionals could get more data on exactly what it was that he’d carried in his pack for the best part of twenty-four hours.

  Jay pulled her into a loose embrace. As she clasped her arms around his neck, she felt the faint tug as the fastening on her plait went, then the slow stirrings as he began the process of unraveling the strands.

  Jay’s head dipped, his forehead rested briefly on hers. “Hathaway can squawk all he likes, but his credibility’s shot. If the press learn about that pyramid, it won’t be from me. We’re already high-profile enough.”

  Quin shuddered. The publicity, if it was discovered that one of the pyramids had been built by a people who had a sophisticated knowledge of space, combined with the fact that the jewel was an unidentified substance, didn’t bear thinking about. There were no prizes for imagining the questions the press would be most likely to ask. “And did you actually see any little green men down there?” or, “Where did you say the spaceship was parked?” And the clincher, “Won’t the aliens be angry that you removed their homing device?”

  Uh-uh. No way.

  Hathaway’s blasting had eventually succeeded in collapsing the entire temple structure and wiping out the most conclusive evidence that a uniquely evolved ancient culture had ever existed. The police team had barely made it out in time. Moments after Hathaway and Cortez had been cuffed and choppered out, and Ramirez’s body had been removed from the crime scene, the whole place had pancaked, and Quin wasn’t sure that was such a bad thing.

  Jay withdrew his fingers from her hair. “I checked with Olivia and Hannah this morning. Apparently the Peruvian government’s got a team in there drilling, taking core samples. If they come up with anything out of that pile of rubble, as far as I’m concerned, the ball’s in their court. I’m not saying a word. But…while we’re on the subject of rocks…”

  He drew a small velvet case from his pocket.

  Gingerly, Quin flipped the lid and drew a deep breath.

  It was a ring for its time, with a broad band of gold and three diamonds, deeply seated, because she would want to wear it every day and not just for special occasions. The center diamond was inordinately large and shimmered with a pure, molten fire that made her blink. “How much did this cost?”

  “A king’s ransom…and then some.” His hands framed her face, dragging her attention from the ring back to him. “Just say ‘yes.’”

  She stared at the ring, her throat locked. She’d never had such an exquisite piece of jewelry. She’d never been so loved. “Do you know how lucky I am?”

  He took charge of the ring and slid it onto her finger. “We’ll discuss it after the wedding.”

  The kiss that followed melted her bones and practically brought her to her knees, which reminded her… “Aren’t you supposed to do this on your knees?”

  She caught the edge of a grin just before he stole another kiss. “I’ve been on my knees for years. And by the way, you’d better pack. We’re leaving for London tonight.”

  The offices of Aristotle and Sons occupied a Georgian townhouse in Bellevue Square in Kensington, less than a mile from Buckingham Palace.

  After they had been cleared by security, Jay and Quin were escorted up an exquisitely paneled staircase, lined with portraits—presumably of the previous Aristotles and Sons—to Phineas Aristotle’s office. The man himself was dressed in funeral gray, relieved by the discreet red stripe of his Eton tie, his appearance as neat and precise as his letter had been.

  After introductions were made and they were all seated, Aristotle got to the point: the information he had to impart was simple—Quin’s share of the Mallory estate.

  Aristotle consulted the paperwork on the desk. “Umm, let’s see, your—Lady Victoria’s—mother’s jewelry and a few personal effects, of course, several works of art, cash and bonds, and a one-third share in a shopping complex in Oxford Street.”

  Quin’s eyes burned at the mention of her mother’s personal effects. She had only a handful of things: a photo, a wristwatch and an old passport. Rebecca had left everything else behind in the rush to escape John Mallory.

  Jay squeezed her hand, and she forced herself to focus. She didn’t need the money. Her earning power, now that she was a sought-after expert in ancient antiquities, was substantial, and Jay was hardly struggling; the Lombard asset base was mind-bogglingly colossal. Neither she nor Jay needed the money, but damned if she would leave any of it behind after the way the Mallory family had behaved. Olivia and Hannah could use it.

  “I’ll take it. Hopefully, there’ll be enough to replace the townhouse Olivia and Hannah had to sell to pay for my education.”

  “More than enough.” Aristotle cleared his throat. “And change. One of the works of art is a Van Gogh, presently on loan to the London Museum, and when I said a share in a shopping complex, perhaps I wasn’t clear. I meant the entire mall, the office block on top and the land beneath. Mallory Towers is one of the newest, most modern mall complexes in London, and it occupies more than an acre of London’s central business district.”

  Quin watched Aristotle’s precise movements as he shuffled papers. After years of blank nothingness from her family, their generosity now was baffling. “How did they find me?”

  And more to the point, why had they bothered? It can’t have been all the hype about the jewel, or any fear of the Lombard Group, because the solicitor’s letter she’d received had been dated before she had personally become newsworthy.

  Aristotle looked uncomfortable. “Lord Mallory followed Olivia and Hannah to Peru. It wasn’t difficult to trace the travel records, because neither Olivia nor Hannah assumed false
identities. When he found out Rebecca had died, and that her child was female, he simply left them to it.”

  Quin’s fingers tightened in Jay’s. “It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”

  Aristotle cleared his throat. “Lord Mallory didn’t have a conscience, but his second wife does. She was always concerned about the mystery of the disappearance of Rebecca’s aunts, and the fact that, eminent as they both were, neither had resurfaced in England. Six months ago, upon Lord Mallory’s death, Lady Mallory instructed me to investigate the disappearances. When we found out that Rebecca had given birth to a live child, she retained a private investigation expert—Hogarth Sanderson, of Sanderson and Sanderson—and made legal provision for Quin to be included in Lord Mallory’s will.”

  Jay said something low and succinct. “So that’s what Sanderson was up to.”

  He eyed Aristotle, who had started to sweat—as well he might. Jay had done some checking, and Aristotle and Sons had been the Mallory family lawyers since the firm had started doing business more than eighty years ago. Aristotle would have been aware of all of John Mallory’s dealings—good and bad. It was also more than probable that he had known of Quin’s existence, but had done nothing about the knowledge beyond advise his client of the legal implications. Aristotle was protected by his oath, but even so…Jay’s jaw tightened. “What, exactly, do you mean by legal provision?”

  “Lady Mallory petitioned the court on your fiancée’s behalf, claiming an equal share in the estate that was bequeathed to the children. Of course, the title and manor don’t come into the equation, but—”

  Jay leaned forward, his patience abruptly gone. “When did Mallory find out he had a live daughter?”

  Aristotle stared at the paperwork in front of him, as if he had to consult notes to remember. “Twenty-eight years ago.”

  About the time Quin had been born.

  Jay held on to his temper by a thread. Aristotle shrank back in his seat, his gaze abruptly glassy, and Jay’s jaw unclenched. Message received.

  Despite the fact that he was the senior partner, Phineas Aristotle wasn’t overly bright, but he had a healthy respect for money and power. One word from Jay and his business could die overnight.

  Quin wriggled her fingers where they were caught in Jay’s bone-crushing grip. His gaze snapped to hers, and amusement surfaced, breaking the tension.

  Jay looked as if he would like nothing better than to lock his fingers around Aristotle’s plump throat and drag him across the desk. Her fiancé might be wearing a designer suit, but the basic man hadn’t changed. Put a sword in his hand and he was happy.

  The fingers holding hers relaxed, and she caught the faint twitch of answering amusement at the corner of his mouth.

  Aristotle just didn’t get that he was dealing with one pissed-off Trojan.

  Epilogue

  The wedding was simple—as simple as it could be, that was, given that it was a Lombard wedding and the bride was a member of the British peerage.

  Somehow the media got wind of the location, and a TV crew turned up and circled noisily in a helicopter.

  However, given that it was a Lombard wedding, the security was tight. Every guard was handpicked and vetted—their lives coming under the kind of scrutiny that would make a vicar blanch. Not that the security personnel were saints; on the contrary, only two qualities were mandatory. The first, that they were absolutely loyal to the Lombard family, the second that—regardless of gender—each and every one of them was a ruthless, uncompromising son of a bitch.

  The annoyance of the helicopter and the press aside, Quin made it to the church exactly on time, along with Olivia and Hannah, who were giving her away, and Jay’s sister, Roma, who had agreed to be her maid of honor. A van containing an assortment of Lombard pageboys and flower girls pulled up behind the limousine, and the children, varying in age from three years to eight, climbed out, clutching small wicker baskets of rose petals and arguing who was going first.

  The limousine door swung open, and for the first time in her life, Quin waited to be helped from a vehicle.

  It had taken fully an hour to get her into The Dress, which was made of pure white silk and organza, the confection hand-stitched and embroidered, and elaborately encrusted with pearls. Olivia had wanted her to have a high neck, but Quin had dug in her heels on that one. Since she’d been tiny, she’d hated anything that buttoned up anywhere near her chin, and if she was actually going to wear a dress, she was determined to make the most of it.

  She chose a medieval style gown, with a square neckline that dipped low enough to make the most of her compact bust, and allowed her to wear an exquisite diamond-and-pearl pendant that had belonged to her mother.

  She had high heels and big hair, and makeup that had made her blink and look at herself twice in the mirror—and for the first time in her life she had nails. In her opinion, they ought to be classified as dangerous weapons, and she couldn’t imagine how women got anything at all done with them, but she had to admit they were gorgeous.

  The driver offered his hand. Ignoring the murmurs from the crowd, the brash demands of reporters and the flash of cameras, Quin allowed herself to be gently maneuvered out of the limousine.

  The bodyguards closed in, giving her a few moments of almost-privacy while Hannah and Olivia adjusted the train of the gown and twitched her veil into place, and while Roma took the children in hand.

  Olivia, severely elegant in lavender silk with a tiny silk moire hat and veil, glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s time.”

  They’d all decided that, in the case of this wedding, lateness wasn’t an option. If Quin didn’t start up the aisle at eleven o’clock exactly—regardless of the leeway the bride traditionally enjoyed—Jay would come looking for her, and the formality of Olivia and Hannah giving her away would give way to good old-fashioned possession.

  As the lilting notes of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” faded to be replaced by the strains of the wedding march, Quin mounted the steps to the church doors. In direct contrast to the noise and confusion of the crowd outside, the church was an oasis of calm, the air filled with the scent of roses, the dimness relieved by the diffused sunlight that streamed through the jewel-paned lead lights that soared over the altar.

  Jay was waiting, handsome in a morning suit, with Gray beside him as best man, and his brother Blade and a cousin, Cullen Logan, standing up as groomsmen.

  To even up the wedding party, once Olivia and Hannah had gone through the formality of giving Quin away, they then turned into maids of honor. It wasn’t traditional, but, hey, it was Quin’s wedding.

  The vows were said, and the wedding party was finally able to leave center stage and retire to the registry. For a brief time in a day that had started at six o’clock with an early breakfast and briefing session, followed by back-to-back hairdresser’s and beautician’s appointments, Quin was able to catch her breath.

  She signed her name, then handed the pen to Jay. As she lifted her head, a familiar shimmer of light in the corner of the room caught her eye.

  In the cool dimness of the registry office, with its mahogany-veneered walls and tall bookshelves packed with dark, leather-bound volumes, they were unusually bright, their facial features—the folds of robes and exquisitely detailed garments—clear and distinct. Quin glanced at Jay’s bent head, at the vicar who was busily overseeing the paperwork, and at Hannah and Olivia, who were chatting with Jake’s brothers as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

  Bemused, her gaze swung back to the glowing figures. Nobody else appeared to have noticed that the wedding party had just expanded.

  A familiar figure lifted his hand in silent benediction, and abruptly the room filled with gold light.

  A wave of emotion swamped Quin. The last time she’d seen him was in the Pyramid at Valle del Sol, warning her to get out—fast.

  She didn’t know who they were, but she knew what they were. Angels.

  ISBN: 978-1-4603-6231-0

  TOUCHING
MIDNIGHT

  Copyright © 2005 by Fiona Walker.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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