Reap the Wind

by Iris Johansen

  “Inscribed on the cave walls of the Neanderthals?”

  “We’d have heard about it,” Peter repeated stubbornly.

  “Peter, you can’t know—” Jonathan laughed and shook his head. “God, you’re obstinate. Call Maddox and see if you can find anything more about Karazov. That report was damn skimpy. If we’re going to deal with the man, we’d better know as much as we can about him.”

  “And are we going to deal with him?”

  Jonathan’s gaze wandered to the stack of photographs and drawings on the blotter of the desk. He was silent a moment before saying slowly, “I think perhaps we might.”

  When Peter left the study he went directly to the large salon where he had recently brought Caitlin Vasaro and Alex Karazov to view the Wind Dancer. The room was normally used only for formal entertaining, but six years earlier Peter had persuaded Jonathan to let him move his office from down the hall to the salon.

  He crossed the salon to his desk, picked up the receiver of the phone, and flipped the Rolodex to M and then to Maddox Investigating. He placed the call, gave Maddox the information he had on Karazov, and hung up.

  He leaned back in the chair, his gaze going to the emerald eyes of the Wind Dancer across the room. He felt his heartbeat quicken and the familiar tension grip him. He had told Caitlin the statue had made him uneasy at first, but he had not told her it still had that effect. She would not have understood. It was clear from that first moment she had felt an unusual affinity for the Pegasus.

  What did he feel? Why had he had his office moved so that he could be close to the Wind Dancer? He had told Jonathan it was because of the beauty of the statue, and it was partly true. The Wind Dancer dazzled and fascinated him, but it also held him in thrall.

  Thrall? Nonsense. The Wind Dancer fascinated him because it was interwoven with the history of the Andreas family, and if Caitlin felt an affinity for the statue, he felt the same bond with the Andreas clan. His bum heart kept him from living an entirely normal life, but he had only to open Caterina’s journal and he was able to soar instead of crawl along at the “reasonable” pace recommended by his doctors.

  He sat up straight in his chair and reached into his desk drawer for the leather-bound journal. He opened the fragile pages of the book with the utmost care to his favorite legend and soon was lost in the world of Paradignes, Andros, and Jacinth on that last day when Troy fell to the Greeks.

  After dinner at the hotel Alex escorted Caitlin back to her room, unlocked the door, and handed her the key. “I’ll order breakfast for both of us in your suite for nine tomorrow morning. What would you like?”

  “Anything. I don’t care.”

  He was going to leave her. In spite of the fact that he had booked two single suites, until that moment Caitlin had assumed he would spend the night in her bed. She averted her face so that he wouldn’t see her disappointment. “What time do you think they’ll call?”

  “As early as Andreas considers civilized. He knows you’re anxious and won’t want to stretch out the suspense.” He opened the door. “He likes you.”

  “I like him.” She turned to look at Alex. “Don’t you?”

  Alex hesitated. “Yes, it’s hard not to like him. Under other circumstances I think we could become friends.”

  She gazed at him, puzzled. “Is there a better opportunity for friendship than in a business partnership?”

  Alex brushed a light kiss on Caitlin’s forehead. “You be friends with him. You’re the same kind of people.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “Open. Gentle.” He smiled down at her. “I lost the knack for being either a long time ago.” He started to turn away. “Sleep well.”

  “Not likely.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “My nervousness is back with a vengeance. You may be certain everything’s going to turn out well, but I’m not so sure. This hasn’t been my lucky year.”

  “I told you not to worry.”

  She curtsied. “Yes, sir.”

  “Take a hot shower, go right to bed, and you’ll be asleep in five minutes.” He turned away. “You haven’t slept in almost thirty-six hours. If you need me, I’ll be right down the hall.”

  But not in the same bed.

  “I won’t need you.” She smiled with an effort. “You’re right, I’m not being sensible. Good night.”

  He stopped and turned to face her. “Dammit, I’m not rejecting you. You don’t understand. It’s just that I . . . like you.”

  “And that’s a reason for you to back off?”

  “It’s becoming too complicated.” He met her gaze. “Because I’m not open and kind and decent like you and Andreas. I’ve lived for myself and by myself for too long.”

  “Are you warning me?”

  “Yes. I’m giving you space tonight but I can’t count on my good sense not being swamped by my sex drive. I’m leaving it up to you to protect yourself.”

  She watched him walk away from her before quickly entering the suite and closing the door behind her. She shouldn’t be hurt that he had chosen not to stay with her. Now that they were involved in launching the perfume, any closer relationship was bound to fall by the wayside.

  She glanced restlessly around the small sitting room. She supposed the suite was quite nice as suites went. The white satin drapes framed a huge picture window that overlooked the sea, and the room was all that was comfortable, elegant, and . . . impersonal. She suddenly felt a million miles from everything she knew and loved, a million miles from Vasaro.

  She was being perfectly idiotic. In another minute she would be howling like a homesick child. Caitlin straightened and moved briskly across the sitting room toward the adjoining bedroom. She would have that shower Alex had suggested, go right to bed, and be asleep in minutes.

  And if she couldn’t sleep, she would lie awake and think about those magical moments when she had gazed into the eyes of the Wind Dancer.

  6

  Peter Maskovel called Caitlin’s suite promptly at ten o’clock the next morning. Caitlin listened on the bedroom extension while Alex spoke from the phone on the desk in the sitting room.

  “Jonathan has decided to let you use the Wind Dancer.” Peter’s tone was crisply businesslike and betrayed none of the boyish enthusiasm it had contained yesterday. “For ten percent of the profits for the first five years and a guarantee of approval on every aspect of the itinerary of the tour. We’ll provide full security. Jonathan or I or both of us will accompany the statue when it’s outside the continental U.S.”

  “Agreed.” Alex kept his tone as level and cool as Peter’s. “There’s no objection to the European launch and tour?”

  “He doesn’t like it, but he can see the necessity. He’s okayed your ideas for packaging of the perfume, but he wants to see a prototype of the bottle before you commit to it. How soon do you plan on launching Vasaro?”

  Alex covered the phone and asked Caitlin. “How soon could you have enough perfume for a limited launch?”

  “I don’t know.” She covered her receiver and tried to think. “I have an agreement with Monsieur Serdeaux’s factory in Grasse for the production of the perfume. I’ll have to call him and see if he can start production immediately.”

  “If he agrees, give me an approximate.”

  “Three months.”

  “Three months,” Alex told Peter, ignoring Caitlin’s shocked expression. “But we need to start the hype before that time. We’ll introduce our spokeswoman for the perfume in five weeks in Paris. I’d like to have the Wind Dancer on hand at that time to draw more press coverage.”

  “I’ll have to check Jonathan’s schedule.” Peter paused. “Jonathan went over the list of spokesperson possibilities you furnished him and he decided you were right and Chelsea Benedict would be the best of the lot.”

  “I’m glad we agree.”

  “She won an Academy Award last year and is probably in high demand. The profile on her states she’s never endorsed a product before. Can you promise us
you can retain her services?”

  “I believe I can make that assurance. None of the actresses I submitted for Mr. Andreas’s approval were committed for a film in the immediate future.”

  “On a project like this, everything has to come together to make it work,” Peter said. “No contracts will be drawn up regarding the Wind Dancer until we see the packaging prototype and a contract signed by Chelsea Benedict.”

  “That’s reasonable. You’ll have both within the next month. In return, I’ll expect you to make sure Mr. Andreas’s schedule remains open so he can accompany the Wind Dancer to Paris in five weeks’ time.”

  There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. “The Wind Dancer will be in Paris on October third if everything is in order.”

  “It will be.”

  The call was obviously drawing to a close with no mention of her offer to decipher the inscription, Caitlin noticed with panic.

  “The inscription,” she quickly reminded Peter.

  “Oh, yes, we definitely want your assistance in the matter of the inscription. I’m something of a photography buff, and I have a slew of photographs I can send you of the Wind Dancer. I’ll also see if I can arrange to send you a hologram we had commissioned for the Metropolitan.”

  “I understand Caterina’s journal has all the legends. I’d like to have it, please. I already have a copy of the hologram.”

  “You do?” Peter was silent an instant. “Of course you’d have it. I should have guessed—”

  “Will you send me the journal?”

  “Do you read Italian?”

  “No, but I speak it enough to get by.”

  “That won’t help you. Caterina’s journal dates back to 1497. I read Italian fluently and I have problems with translating sections of it. The Italian is archaic and you wouldn’t be able to do any definitive work with it in its present form. It would be more efficient for me to have is translated for you. I’ll get right on it.”

  “How soon can I expect it?”

  “I have no idea. As soon as I can get it done. After you receive it, we’ll expect bimonthly reports regarding your progress in deciphering the inscription.”

  “Which may be zilch at first,” Alex said.

  “We’ll still expect a report.” For the first time Peter allowed a hint of warmth to enter his voice. “Good luck to both of you. I hope you pull it off.”

  He hung up before Alex could reply.

  “I can’t believe it.” Caitlin’s eyes shimmered as Alex walked into the bedroom. “I never thought it would happen.”

  “I told you not to worry. The odds are on our side.”

  “Perhaps you could see that but I certainly couldn’t.” She jumped to her feet, her arms clasped across her chest as she hugged herself with excitement. “The Wind Dancer. I never thought—”

  “You’re repeating yourself.” His smile widened indulgently. “You look as if you’re ready to fly up to the ceiling.”

  “I am.” Caitlin shook her head. “It was only a dream before. I was afraid to hope.” Her smile suddenly faded. “But we still have to get the packaging prototype. How could you promise it within the month? It takes ages to create a package and a campaign built around it.”

  “Money is a great spur.”

  “It would take a great deal of money.”

  “I have a great deal of money.”

  “But Jonathan said—” Caitlin’s tone was hesitant. “You obviously don’t want to talk anymore about your past, but I’d like the assurance that this grand plan of yours isn’t going to crumble when the police attach your assets . . . or something.”

  He chuckled. “The police aren’t going to touch my accounts. I’m not a criminal, Caitlin.”

  Relief flowed through her, making her feel light as air. He had told her before he wasn’t a drug dealer, but criminal was a more general word. “That’s good.” She switched back to the main topic. “Even if you manage to get the package in that time, what about Chelsea Benedict?”

  “She may be more difficult. We’d better get to work on bringing her into the fold as soon as possible.”

  He was speaking as if Chelsea Benedict were a wandering lamb just waiting for them to extend a welcoming hand, Caitlin thought apprehensively. According to the tabloids, the actress was much more like a raging tiger. Bawdy, irreverent, and completely individualistic, she had been a top star of stage and screen for the past thirteen years and had won two Oscars and a Tony. Her private life was very private indeed, but she still managed to stir up storms of publicity whenever she decided to take a stand on an issue. Caitlin vaguely remembered reading some scandal regarding the actress, but she couldn’t recall the details. But Alex would probably be as well versed on her as he had proven to be on everything else. “I suppose you have a report on her too?”

  He nodded. “I know a little about Chelsea Benedict.”

  “Only a little?”

  “Enough.” He stood up and brushed her cheek with his lips. “But right now the most important thing I know is where we can find her. She and her daughter are on a Save the Whales expedition in cooperation with Greenpeace. You’d better go shopping and pick up a warm coat while I make the reservations and get us checked out.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Reykjavik.”

  “Iceland?”

  Chelsea Benedict wished to hell the reporter would take the picture before she threw up.

  She glanced over her shoulder and watched the crustacean-encrusted back of the gray whale disappear as he slid like a massive bullet beneath the ocean’s gray-green surface. At least he was safe, and maybe Marisa would think this nightmare worthwhile. Running interference between his prey and a whaler that was four times as large as their small ship wasn’t Chelsea’s idea of a grand way to spend a day.

  She stood at the helm of the ship, her hands clenched on the rail, glaring at the captain on the deck of the whaler three hundred yards away. Oh, God, she hoped she was glaring. She felt so miserable, she could just as well have been grinning at the bearded captain and the sour-faced idiot leveling the spear gun at her.

  “Take the picture,” she said between her teeth.

  Paul Tyndale smiled maliciously. “I’m waiting to see if he’ll shoot you.”

  She gave the reporter a poisonous stare. He looked plump, unrumpled, and disgustingly well. His trench coat was as crisp and dry as when the Rescuer had left Reykjavik that morning, while she was soaked to the skin from standing at the helm. “You volunteered to come along. Now make yourself useful.”

  “We’re not close enough for an interesting picture. But I’m recording all this for posterity.” He patted the pocket that contained the notebook he hadn’t brought out during the entire encounter with the whaler. The Nikon camera hung around his thick neck like an albatross.

  “My deal with Time was an article and a chance at the cover. That’s why they sent a photojournalist along. A picture’s worth a thousand words.”

  “He doesn’t have to take a picture.” Marisa took a step closer to Chelsea, her voice soft, urgent. “We’ve succeeded in what we wanted to do. The whale’s safe for now and the Greenpeace boat will be here tomorrow.”

  Chelsea’s gaze shifted to Marisa’s worried face and her expression softened. Marisa’s thin face was pinched with cold, her long, straight hair darkened to almost black by the wet spray. These hours hadn’t been easy for Marisa either. Her daughter had probably not even noticed the discomfort in her worry over that damn whale. Chelsea said gently, “It’s all right, baby. I’ll take care of this.”

  “You have your publicity quota, Chelsea,” Tyndale said. “Next week the magazine will have a small write-up about brave, environment-conscious Chelsea Benedict and her confrontation with the Icelandic whaler. You mustn’t be greedy.”

  For a moment Chelsea was so furious, she forgot about the nausea making her stomach heave like the ocean waves over the bow. “Look, Tyndale, you’ve been taking potshots at me ever since we l
eft Reykjavik. Say it.”

  Tyndale’s smile faded. “I don’t like movie stars who use serious issues to fuel their careers. The environment’s a major problem and it should be taken seriously.”

  Christ, of all the reporters in the world, she had to land a pompous ass who had a grudge against movie stars. “You came along, dammit.”

  “Because you’re news and I’m not averse to seeing my name on a Time photo. But I have no intention of giving you more than I have to.”

  “The deal was for pictures so that I could have a shot at the cover.”

  He shrugged. “So sue me.”

  Chelsea felt as if even the roots of her hair were flaming with the fury streaking through her. “I don’t give a damn what you think of me, you son of a bitch,” Chelsea said softly, each word enunciated with great precision. “But Marisa thinks this publicity will keep those whalers from killing more whales, and we’re going to give her the whole nine yards.” She called to Captain Desquares in the wheelhouse, “Move us closer to that whaler.”

  “Mother, no!” Marisa grasped her arm. “We don’t need to do this.”

  Captain Desquares nodded. “It’s not smart, Chelsea. That captain was mad as hell when we cut in front of the whale.”

  Chelsea stared at the stocky, short man leaning over the side of the whaler and glaring at them. Desquares was right, the whaler’s captain looked as mad as she felt. “We didn’t come out here to make them happy.” Chelsea turned back to Tyndale. “You think we’re too far away to make a picture interesting? Let’s see how near we can get. Go up in the wheelhouse with the captain, Marisa.”

  “No,” Marisa said quietly.

  “Then get on the starboard side of the ship. I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

  Marisa hesitated and then obeyed with a sigh. “I wish you wouldn’t do this, Mother.”

  “So do I,” Captain Desquares muttered.

  “More power,” Chelsea ordered. “And you, Tyndale, stay right where you are and get that camera ready.”

  Tyndale straightened. “What do you think you’re doing?”