“What do you suggest we do?”
“Leave. Right now.”
Verity closed her eyes and sank wearily onto the bed. “You know I can’t do that, Jonas. Too much has happened. We have to see this through.”
“We?” The single, mocking word hung in the air between them.
Verity opened her eyes, shocked and stunned that he would leave her alone at this juncture. “I guess I was assuming too much, wasn’t I? Go ahead and take the car, Jonas. I’m sure I can find my own way home when this is all over.”
He groaned and reached down to yank her to her feet. His face was harsh and each word was a knife slash. “Don’t be any more of a fool than you already are. You know damned good and well I’d never leave you alone here in this house.”
She sagged against him in relief and her arms stole around his waist. “Thank you, Jonas,” she said simply. “I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.”
“You can say that again,” he vowed.
Chapter Seventeen
Caitlin had spared no expense recreating the scene she had chosen for the evening’s festivities. The lilting strains of a dance that had originally been written for the lute swirled through the glittering salon. The music was being played on a classical guitar by an earnest young man adorned in shoulder-length hair, yellow tunic, and a pair of dark tights that looked suspiciously like exercise tights.
The musician was good. Jonas found it disturbingly easy to hear the four-hundred-year-old exuberance of the Renaissance tune that floated through the modern guitar strings.
In fact, if he narrowed his eyes a little and concentrated on the music and Verity, who was dancing in his arms, Jonas found the night’s illusion almost too complete. The costumed people around him were as vividly attired as any Renaissance gathering would have been. It was true the modem fabrics used in the assortment of rented gowns, cloaks, tunics, doublets, and breeches were not as rich or as beautifully made as the originals would have been, but in the soft glow of artificial lamplight and the very real flare of the flames in the steel fireplace, it didn’t matter. Polyester looked like silk, machined embroidery appeared handmade, and sparkling pieces of colored glass on hems and cuffs could be mistaken for gemstones.
But the greatest illusion of all, Jonas decided, was the one he was holding in his arms. Verity could easily have stepped from a sixteenth-century Italian painting. She was wearing the peacock-blue velvet gown he had chosen for her the day they went to San Francisco.
The deep, square neckline was embroidered with gold and silver thread and it framed the silken skin of her throat and shoulders. It was just low enough to hint at the soft rise of her breasts but not so low as to invite prolonged masculine stares. The snug, high-waisted bodice emphasized her slenderness and the full-skirted gown fell with formal grace all the way to her ankles.
Her hair was pulled back from her forehead, parted in the middle in the old, classic style and folded into a cascade of curls at the nape of her neck. A single blue jewel hung in the middle of her forehead in a style that had been very popular in the sixteenth century. The gem was attached to a fine chain that disappeared into her hair. Tonight Verity’s hair looked as if it had been painted by Titian, Jonas thought.
Verity looked up at him, her eyes still reflecting the concern she had been feeling all afternoon for Caitlin. “Good thing we had advance warning that this was going to be a costume affair. I have a hunch every rental shop in the San Francisco Bay Area has been cleaned out for tonight’s party.”
Jonas took his eyes off her long enough to cast a quick glance around the room. “You may be right.”
“It looks like everyone who is anyone in the art world accepted Caitlin’s invitation.”
“Like she said, a bunch of curiosity-seekers.”
Five of the half-dozen people who would be bidding on Bloodlust tomorrow had arrived earlier and had been shown to their rooms but Jonas hadn’t seen Damon Kincaid yet. He was beginning to wonder if the man was going to show up after all. Jonas hoped he wouldn’t. The easiest way out of this mess was to have Caitlin’s big plan for revenge go quietly down the tubes for lack of one of the participants. Once he got Verity away from this house, Jonas was certain he could talk some sense into her; get her to see that while Caitlin might have a legitimate desire for vengeance, she also had some serious mental and emotional problems. The woman needed professional help, not Verity’s sympathy.
“You know,” Verity went on in a soft, mischievous murmur, “you’re the only male in the room who looks comfortable in a pair of tights.”
Jonas heard the humor in her voice and turned his head to give her a wry glare. “Thanks. You certainly know how to hand out a compliment.”
“It’s the truth,” she said more seriously. “You look right at home in that outfit. Everyone else in the room looks as if he’s wearing a costume. You look real.”
Verity’s eyes moved leisurely over the costume Jonas had chosen. It consisted of a full cut white shirt gathered at the neck and cuffs, a black velvet tunic that ended above his knees, and, yes, a pair of black tights.
The tunic was belted with black leather studded with a lot of showy metal and a few false jewels. An equally flashy dagger sheath complete with a dull-edged fake blade hung suspended from the belt. Jonas had chosen a short black cloak to wear over the outfit. It fell to a point just below his waist. He had selected his costume and the one Verity was wearing because both had touched some responsive chord in his memory. He had seen people wearing clothes such as these when he had prowled the psychic time corridors.
“I am real, and don’t you forget it,” Jonas growled. “But I can’t say the same for this costume. They didn’t have zippers in the Renaissance. Or elastic. And back in those days the dagger would have been a legitimate weapon, not a piece of aluminum.”
“At least you didn’t wear that damn knife you carry around in your duffel bag.”
“I’m wearing it.”
Verity stared at him. “You are? Where?”
“On my hip. The cloak hides it.”
“Good grief. Are you really expecting trouble tonight?”
Jonas shrugged. “I don’t know what the hell is happening and that makes me nervous. The only consolation so far is that Kincaid hasn’t arrived.”
“Maybe he isn’t coming after all,” Verity mused. “I don’t know what Caitlin will do if he doesn’t show. She’s been building herself up to this for so long that if things don’t go the way she’s planned them, I’m afraid she might go a little crazy.”
“She’s already crazy, if you want my opinion.”
Verity’s eyes flashed with sudden annoyance. “Just because you’re a man doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to understand her need for vengeance. Can’t you imagine the kind of emotional scars she’s been carrying all these years? Can’t you imagine what a woman must feel after being raped and brutalized?”
Jonas studied her intent expression. “I have a good imagination, Verity,” he reminded her softly. “And I understand the need for vengeance. I know damn well what I would do to any man who tried to do to you what was done to Caitlin.”
She searched his face and Jonas knew the exact moment when she saw the promise of hell in his eyes. Her own eyes widened for a moment and she trembled in his arms.
“Jonas?” His name was barely a whisper.
“That’s right,” he said softly. “I would slit his throat. So don’t tell me I don’t understand vengeance. Caitlin is entitled to hers if she’s telling the truth about what happened to her. What I don’t like about this whole thing is the elaborate plot and the way she’s involving you. She has no right to do that.”
“I’m her friend! And I know she’s telling the truth. It’s there in her painting.”
“I also don’t like the way this friendship between the two of you materialized out of nowhere a fe
w weeks before she planned her grand scheme. And I don’t like the way Kincaid found out about us. And I don’t like the way that joker in the camouflage shirt showed up at the cabin with a gun. There are a lot of things I don’t like about this scene, but most of all I don’t like the fact that I can’t talk you into leaving right now.”
“Jonas, I would if I could. But I can’t walk out on her. She needs me. She said so.”
“She’s got Tavi. Apparently that’s the only person she’s needed until now.” Jonas saw the stubbornness in Verity’s face and gave up the battle he knew he could not win. He tightened his hold on her and swung her around so that her blue velvet skirts shimmered in the soft light. “Oh, hell, forget it. We’re here and it’s going to be over soon. We’ll stick it out and hope like the devil that Evanger knows what she’s doing. In the meantime, I don’t want you leaving this crowd unless I’m with you. Got that?”
“You don’t think I’m in any danger?” she asked, clearly amazed by the notion.
“I don’t know what to think,” he admitted. “So I’m not taking any chances.” A movement in the arched doorway caught his eye. “Damn. There’s Kincaid now. So much for hoping he would short-circuit things by not showing up.”
Kincaid had chosen to wear a plum-colored tunic over a white shirt and tights similar to the ones Jonas had on. Jonas wondered if Kincaid found them as uncomfortable as he did.
Gave a man a whole new perspective on pantyhose. Still, the tights were remarkably flexible, he had to admit. There was a great deal of freedom of movement. A man could fight in a tunic and tights. That would have been an important consideration for Renaissance male fashion designers.
“Kincaid? Where?” Verity tried to turn here head so that she could see him.
“Christ, don’t stare at the man,” Jonas ordered, exasperated by her too-obvious fascination. “The last thing I want to do is attract his attention. Whatever is going to happen here is between him and Evanger and I don’t want you any more involved than you already are.”
“He’s bound to see us sooner or later. The crowd is large, but not large enough to hide us.”
“Well, we’re not going to make things easier by going over and saying hi.”
“Okay, okay. Sometimes you can be very short-tempered and difficult, Jonas. Has anyone ever pointed that out to you?”
“You have. All the time. Part of your duty as a shrew, I guess.” He dropped his arm from her waist and propelled her toward the buffet table. “Let’s get something to eat, my lady.”
“I wonder what Caitlin’s thinking now.” Verity managed a swift glance at the artist, who was holding court on the other side of the room.
Jonas followed her gaze, his eyes narrowed in thought. Caitlin Evanger was certainly dressed for her role as a mistress of a Renaissance court salon tonight, he had to admit. Of all the people present, she was the only one who wasn’t wearing a rented costume. Her dress appeared to have been handmade for her.
The gold-brocaded gown exposed a magnificent expanse of flesh above Caitlin’s full breasts, far more skin than he would have allowed Verity to expose, Jonas decided. The huge, puffed sleeves were slashed to reveal red silk under-sleeves. Evanger’s short-cropped hair was hidden beneath a delicate, jewel-studded cap that had a long gold silk scarf attached. The scarf shimmered down the length of her back whenever she turned her head.
“Do you think he might recognize her?” Verity asked curiously.
“She said he wouldn’t. She said she changed a lot after the accident, remember?”
“I know, but how could any man forget the face of a woman he had abused like that?”
Jonas didn’t reply to that. He was in no mood to try to explain a man like Kincaid to Verity. He didn’t want to tell her that he had met a number of men who saw women only as objects of lust and that five or ten years after that lust had been satisfied, they would not remember either the woman’s face or the satisfaction they had taken from her. Jonas didn’t want to listen to another lecture on the evil tendencies of his own sex. He was familiar enough with them.
“Have some of this vegetable pâté,” he ordered, smearing the green concoction on a triangle of toast. Verity glanced at him, eyes worried, her lips parting to say something. Jonas took the opportunity to slip the toast between her teeth, effectively silencing her. It was easier than trying to answer any of her questions.
“Caitlin just saw him,” Verity whispered around the pâté. “Look at her. She’s as tense as a bowstring.”
“So are you. Calm down. This is her show.”
“I’m scared, Jonas.”
“This is a fine time to decide to get scared. Why didn’t you get nervous this afternoon when I was ready to pack and leave?”
“I mean, I’m scared for Caitlin, not for myself. Why should I be frightened personally?”
“I don’t know,” Jonas admitted, aware of the discordant stirring of a few primitive instincts somewhere deep inside himself. “But if it makes you feel any better, I don’t feel normal, either. Something’s going on here.” He watched intently as Kincaid made his way leisurely through the crowd to greet Caitlin. Caitlin greeted him with stiff formality but there was no sign of recognition from Kincaid. After the barest of introductions, Caitlin deliberately turned her back on Kincaid, who appeared unconcerned by the brush-off.
“Something more than what Caitlin told us?” Verity asked with unexpected shrewdness.
“It’s possible. It’s equally possible she’s been honest with us but that she’s made the mistake of underestimating her enemy. God knows she wouldn’t be the first one in history to have done that.”
Verity chewed on her lower lip. “Now you’ve really got me worried, Jonas. What if Kincaid has guessed he’s being set up?”
“If Kincaid had any inkling of what was meant to happen tonight, I wouldn’t give two cents for Caitlin’s chances of getting her vengeance. In fact, I’m not sure I’d give two cents for her life.”
“Jonas!”
Jonas ignored her small, choked cry. He tracked Kincaid’s progress through the room, watching as the man moved graciously through the crowd, greeting acquaintances and introducing himself to others. He was a man completely in command of himself. A Borgia who had total confidence in his power. Jonas decided that if Kincaid had guessed what was meant to happen, Caitlin Evanger didn’t stand a chance.
“Something tells me he knows something’s up, Verity. He’s too smart and too powerful to be taken unawares. Caitlin is a fool.”
“Jonas, we’ve got to do something.”
“Such as?”
Verity put her hand urgently on his sleeve. “I don’t know. I do know I can’t talk Caitlin out of her plan. She’s convinced it will work.”
“Then there’s not much we can do except stand by in case Kincaid gets nasty.”
The evening wore on toward midnight. In the dense crowd, it was relatively simple for Jonas and Verity to avoid Kincaid.
Simple, that was, until Kincaid sought them out.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Ames. Quarrel. I understood you two had been invited tonight,” Kincaid said smoothly as he walked up to them with the easy attitude of an old acquaintance. He helped himself to a couple of canapés from the buffet table. “An interesting affair, isn’t it? Falls a little short of the real thing in places, however. This food, for instance, is certainly very twentieth century.”
“Not particularly,” Verity countered crisply. “A lot of the items on this buffet would have looked right at home on a Renaissance table. The egg-based dishes, the meats, and the pastas would have appeared familiar to someone from that era. A lot of modern cooking dates from the Renaissance. Of course, there aren’t any pies with live birds inside, and I don’t see any salted pork tongues or boiled calves’ feet, but I expect the caterer had to make a few concessions to modern tastes. You’re the expert
, Jonas. What do you think?”
Jonas had heard the underlying hostility in her voice as she defended the buffet selections and he winced. Acting was apparently not one of his love’s talents. Now that Verity had decided Kincaid was the bad guy, she was going to have a tough time hiding her dislike of him. He tried to gloss over the implicit rudeness, not wanting to alert Kincaid any more than he already was.
“I think you’re right. The buffet table could have passed muster four hundred years ago. The caterer had an advantage tonight, however. He didn’t have to worry about kitchen security.”
“Security?” Kincaid cocked a handsome brow.
“In the Renaissance, food for an important gathering had to be prepared under tight security,” Jonas explained patiently. “Everyone worried about getting poisoned.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right.” Kincaid chuckled and helped himself to another canapé. “Life back then must have been a constant adventure.”
“That’s an understatement. Did you ever get around to having the dagger authenticated?” Jonas asked conversationally.
Kincaid sipped his wine. “I did. And you were quite right. I hate to say it, but it appears I was taken. Not something I like to admit.”
I’ll just bet you don’t, Jonas thought. “Did you speak to whoever handled the deal for you? Or contact the original owner?” He didn’t know what made him ask that last question. He simply couldn’t resist. He saw the attentive gleam in Verity’s eyes and knew she, too, was remembering the man who had died in a bowl of linguini.
“There was no third party involved in the deal,” Kincaid said casually. “Perhaps if I had been willing to pay a commission to someone qualified to authenticate the dagger, I wouldn’t have found myself in the embarrassing position I was in when you spotted it for a fake in my office. As for the original owner, I’m afraid there’s no going back to him for restitution. He’s unavailable. The man had the bad manners to die a few years back. Shot, I believe, by a thief who got into his home one evening.”
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