by Sue Duff
JoAnna wandered in from the back patio with her finger stuck in the middle of a closed book. “Where are Ian and Tara? I haven’t seen them since breakfast?”
Patrick poked the mound of dough and thought fast. “At the auditorium, working on the routine for the gala. I’m not sure how much we’ll be seeing them between now and then.”
“I have the utmost confidence he’ll throw something memorable together.” She patted Patrick’s hand. “After all, he is the one with the talent.” She wandered out of the room.
Patrick sunk his fist into the dough. “Now I remember why I moved away.” Milo hid his grin by taking a sip from his mug.
“Patrick!” Marcus shouted.
Patrick rushed into the dining room. Marcus and his mother were squared off. “But I insist,” JoAnna said.
The Drion waved what looked like a check in the air. “The damages to the abbey were covered by insurance. Please, take it back.”
JoAnna ignored his outstretched hand. “Insurance never covers everything. They can use it toward their deductible, to buy new furniture or a fountain. They like fountains, don’t they? They’re so relaxing and serene.”
His mother’s philanthropy had kicked in at the worst possible moment. Patrick glanced at the Book of the Weir, opened on the table, and in plain view. “Where are the scholars?”
“They took a break and went for a stroll.” Marcus’s tone was casual enough but the Drion’s brows were jammed together into one long, bushy gray caterpillar. “Here, take care of it.” Marcus passed off the check, and the dilemma, to Patrick. The Drion straightened a stack of papers on the dining table. “Are you enjoying your visit, madam?”
“Oh, yes. It’s been too long. Patrick and I never see each other anymore.”
“We are powerless to stop them from growing up, but it doesn’t make it any less painful when they move on and leave us behind,” Marcus said.
JoAnna looked surprised. “I thought monks were celibate.”
“I am not of their order. Simply helping them.”
“How many children do you have?” JoAnna asked.
“Just the one boy.” Marcus followed the length of the table, pushing chairs in. A sense of melancholy stooped the Drion’s shoulders, and his typical hardened features softened behind a soulful mask. JoAnna broke into stories about Patrick as a baby, following behind Marcus and readjusting each chair.
The setting sun cast Patrick’s shadow on the wall. It was as if the boy appeared in the room, summoned by his father’s pensive brooding. Patrick couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to Marcus’s son.
{12}
Ian emerged from his bathroom to discover his tux hanging on the closet door with a note pinned to the jacket.
Will I ever find out why? Of course not! After all, you are the man of mystery are you not? I would have it no other way. Bazl
The additional thickness to Ian’s jacket confirmed that Bazl had followed the directions. He got dressed.
A knock on the door. Ian opened it. JoAnna stood in a beautiful crimson gown that accentuated her slender frame. She clutched one of the yellow roses.
“I’m almost ready,” he said.
“I’m not here to rush you. I wanted to thank you for my flowers.”
Ian returned to his dresser and concentrated on tying his tie with the aid of the mirror. “They were from Patrick.”
“Of course they were.” She eyed his attempt at a bowknot. “I’ve had lots of practice,” she said. He stuck his hands in his pockets and turned toward her with a raised chin. She placed the rose on the dresser and set about tying it. “Whenever we get together, I can’t help but remember that day we met at the park.”
Ian stiffened, wary of the open bedroom door. A glance and a keen ear verified the hallway was empty. “It’s been, what, four years?”
“That long?” She scrutinized her work, scrunched her face in disapproval, then loosened the knot and started over. “You were but a young teenager, yet sat on that bench like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
The day Ian had finished assembling his dirt bike, he’d sy-phoned gas from the Jeep, jumped on the cycle and took off before Milo noticed. The closest he ever came to running away.
Ian pushed the bike to its limits and didn’t stop until deep in the city. He found a park bench that overlooked the ocean. Laughter from children playing ball. Parents pushing their toddlers on swings. Others encouraging little ones to let go at the top of the slides. For the first time in his life, Ian got a taste of normal, family life. The sting of what he had missed festered in the pit of his stomach long after Milo’s punishment had come and gone.
“You were so sweet,” JoAnna said. “Sliding over to make room for me when I approached.” She tugged on the edges of the bow, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. “How I must have talked your ear off.”
Ian had clung to her every word and scooted closer when she brought out her cell phone to show him a picture of Patrick in his cap and gown, clutching a diploma. Ian stared at it and found himself envying a young man he’d never met.
“It must have been hard on you that he moved to California for school and ended up staying to pursue being an entertainment agent.”
“We had lost Patrick long before he went to college. He needed to be on his own.” A dark look crept into JoAnna’s face. “Not live in his father’s shadow.” A curtain dropped on her dark mood and JoAnna grinned up at him. “Little did I know I was spilling my heart to a budding magician.”
“Whatever I’ve become, is as much Patrick’s doing.” Ian turned away to step into his shoes. “You should give him more credit, JoAnna.”
“But I do.”
Ian’s objection lodged in his throat. He’d kept his distance from their conflict, unsure how to help mend a battle that had waged long before he came into their lives.
“You’re a good friend, Ian. A loyal friend. Patrick didn’t have anyone like you growing up.”
“I never had any close friends, either,” Ian said.
She picked up the flower and held it to her nose.
Curiosity had driven Ian to shadow JoAnna as she left the park that fateful afternoon. She’d strolled by several flower beds without giving them a second glance, but bent down and admired the yellow roses before crossing the street, heading for her hotel.
He’d come close to telling Patrick about that meeting while salvaging what he could of his wrecked bike, wanting Patrick to understand why he reacted the way he did, what the bike had meant to their friendship. Of all the secrets Ian ever kept from Patrick, finding out that his mother served a part in his success would be the most painful of them all.
Ian offered her his arm. “Let’s have a night to remember.” He escorted her downstairs.
Marcus and Nemautis were discussing something in hushed tones next to the front door. Marcus pulled back when he saw Ian with JoAnna. He opened the door at their approach.
“Patrick took your suitcase and things out to the limo. You’re not returning with them?” Nemautis asked JoAnna.
“She has a morning flight and is staying at the hotel where the event is being held,” Ian said.
“My social calendar keeps me quite busy. Please let me know if I can help the abbey in any way. I simply adore throwing parties that squeeze money out of my friends.” Jo-Anna offered her hand. “I’m glad we had a chance to break bread together.”
Nemautis cupped her hand in his. “I as well, madam.”
Marcus grabbed Ian’s elbow. “A word before you go?”
JoAnna raised a finger at Marcus. “Don’t be long, or I won’t be responsible for my son’s meltdown.”
“Heaven forbid there’s another one,” Marcus said. He closed the door behind her.
“Has your research found something?” Ian asked Nemautis.
The old scholar’s face lifted. “We’ve finished separating the manuscript into sections.”
“They’ve discovered it was written by five differen
t Ancients,” Marcus said.
“We’ve always suspected there were five originals,” Nemautis said sounding every bit the teacher. “We’ll go page by page tomorrow, starting with prophecies pertaining to you.” Nemautis removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “It’s a shame the Ancients didn’t have the forethought to write in larger script and in an ink that wouldn’t have faded so much over time.” He put them back on. “I envy you and your youth. Enjoy your special night.”
“I’ll have more time to visit and share stories about Galen tomorrow,” Ian said.
Nemautis brightened. “I would enjoy that very much, sire.”
“Dinner’s ready!” Milo shouted from the kitchen.
“Compared to the modest meals we prepare for ourselves, Milo’s culinary skills are a touch of heaven,” Nemautis said. He shuffled off toward the kitchen.
Marcus eyed Ian’s tux. “If the Primary found out that you were leaving like this, his blood pressure would be off the charts.”
“Marcus, please—” Ian said.
“I’ll guard your secret about slipping away tonight, but keep your cell phone handy. I know that the Primary wants this book to be hush-hush, but with you gone, that’s one less security measure in place.”
“You can alert me if anything comes up,” Ian said. “I’m just a shyft away.”
{13}
Dozens of flashes blinded Ian the second he stepped out of the limo. A swarm of paparazzi leaned over the barricades. TV news cameras were hefted onto broad shoulders, every one of them directed at Ian. Someone stuck a microphone in his face. Patrick stepped in with waving arms. “Please, let us just have an enjoyable evening.”
An attractive female newscaster raised a microphone to her chin. “Ian, this is the first public appearance you’ve made since losing your assistant in that horrific fire on your property. Are you here to attend the charity event, or to perform?”
“Both,” Patrick said.
A man pressed closer and stuck a microphone toward Pat-rick. “You claimed his dirt bike incident an accident, but rumors still circulate that it was a suicide attempt at losing Mara.”
“How absurd!” JoAnna blurted. Ian kept a protective arm around her, but she broke away and stood next to Patrick.
An entertainment personality strolled toward them dressed to the hilt. The microphone in her hand clashed with the mil-lion-dollar rented jewelry. “Does this appearance mean that you will return to the stage soon?” she asked. “That your fans can expect future performances?”
Patrick hesitated at her question. “That remains to be seen.”
“The fans are losing their patience,” she said and tried to maneuver around Patrick with Ian in her sights. “Do you really expect them to wait much longer, Ian?”
JoAnna stepped in front of Patrick. “Fade to Black Productions has always been a valued supporter of Isabel Stanton’s charity events. We are thrilled and honored that Ian has chosen this event to return to the public spotlight.”
“Mother,” Patrick hissed under his breath. He pressed a firm hand against her back and ushered her toward the hotel entrance.
“This is not the time to be cautious.” JoAnna dug in her heels, turned and waved toward the flashing cameras like a beauty queen.
Patrick intercepted a couple more network reporters camped out in the public lobby, but thankfully Isabel’s steroid-fed security guards blocked the entrance to the banquet hall and they couldn’t follow.
Raised in secluded Weir villages in the most remote areas of Europe and Asia hadn’t prepared Ian for American society. This event was the only one he had ever cooperated with, but it never stopped Patrick from trying to add to the list with claims it would benefit the show.
The closer they drew to the waiting hostess, the tighter Ian’s shirt collar grew, like a boa constrictor entrapping its prey. He stuck a finger inside and tugged, but he failed to loosen JoAnna’s noose. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath in an attempt to erase his sour mood.
Mrs. Isabel Stanton, reigning dominion of charitable acts and purveyor of contributions for her favorite charities, stood at the door dressed like Scarlett O’Hara.
“Mrs. Stanton, it’s wonderful to see you as always.” Patrick planted air kisses on each cheek.
Isabel gripped Patrick’s shoulders. “My boy, I swear you’re taller every time I see you.” The moment she spied Ian, she clapped with lace-gloved hands. “Ian Black, our most treasured sponsor!”
“As promised, Isabel.” JoAnna winked at Ian.
Isabel latched onto his arm. “My boy, you arrive unattached, making yourself an instant magnet for half the ladies in this room.” She leaned in closer. “With or without escorts.”
“Mrs. Stanton, you look as elegant as ever.” Ian held his breath against her pungent perfume.
A waiter approached with a black mask and a clear plastic bag. “Check your phones, everyone,” Isabel chirped.
Patrick stiffened. “What?” A bag was thrust at him. He dangled his phone over the opened bag with a grimace. It took a disgruntled glare from JoAnna for him to let go. One of the waitstaff handed him a ticket. “Why?” Patrick bemoaned.
“With all the effort I put into my parties, I’m done with guests ignoring one another, or stepping away at the whim of a chime, too often right in the middle of conversation.” Isabel adjusted her ringlet wig. “I can’t stand the abominations with their intrusive, unflattering candid photos broadcast to thou-sands.”
“But darling, your husband makes his millions in the industry,” JoAnna said.
“Who better to appreciate their nefarious side?” Isabel pat-ted Ian’s arm. “I’m not going to apologize for being greedy; those closest to me accept me as the bitch that I am. Those who don’t can kiss their TV-dinner derrieres. But, Ian, I understand you’ve canceled the past two shows at the Children’s Hospital. I hope your appearance tonight won’t take the place of your monthly show this week. You uplift my little ones, so.”
“Count on it,” Patrick said. “It’s one of Ian’s favorite engagements.”
Patrick’s response was the magical password. Isabel dis-engaged her clamp from Ian’s arm.
“Masks, everyone, after all it is a masquerade ball!” Isabel clapped and costumed footmen opened the main doors.
Patrick and Ian donned their masks. JoAnna held up one that matched her gown. They stepped into the ballroom.
Artificial weeping willows strung with strands of natural moss towered above the guests at the perimeter while a life-sized replica of a steamboat, complete with flowing water turning its wheel, sat at the opposite end of the hall. Moss swayed in a gentle breeze thanks to camouflaged fans circulating air from the trunks.
Creole seasoning, crawfish and mint filled the room. Banjo music came from a strolling Cajun dressed as if plucked from the bayou.
“You have outdone yourself,” JoAnna said. “Each year the gala becomes more and more extravagant.”
“I have wonderful friends and even more generous sponsors. Speaking of which,” Isabel locked elbows with Ian and Patrick, and ushered them ahead, “I must thank you for the contribution of your show tickets for our silent auction. An entire orchestra section this year was simply magnanimous.”
Patrick’s choking fit sent Isabel in search of a waiter with water. “You donated an entire floor section?” he croaked.
“Don’t look at me,” Ian said.
JoAnna patted his back. “You two were so busy. I took it upon myself to help out in a small way these past couple of days.”
“Mother.”
“Oh Patrick, you’ll thank me next spring with the tax write-off.”
Patrick mumbled something incoherent under his breath and grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray. He polished it off in a drawn-out gulp, then snatched a fresh one at the next pass.
The low grumble under Ian’s shoes was his first warning. He grabbed JoAnna around the waist as the room absorbed the earth’s quake. The hanging moss jerk
ed and the artificial trees creaked. The musicians skipped a note.
“Oh my,” JoAnna said.
“These have been coming more frequently,” Patrick said, holding his champagne glass out in front of him.
The subtle tremor subsided. Ian’s apprehension kicked up a notch. There was something unnatural about the quakes. They were more like aftershocks, but if so, from what?
“Oh my god, the old crone is still breathing.” JoAnna seized the fresh glass of champagne from Patrick as her other hand swept into the air. “Beatrice, darling.” And with that, she disappeared into the crowd.
Patrick stopped a waiter and helped himself to another glass. “I’d grab you one, but at nineteen, you’re not old enough to drink yet.”
“Would you really want me out of control?” Ian said.
Patrick winced. “Good point.”
Ian stuck his hand in his pocket and conjured his confiscated cell phone. He was groping for the on button when nearby voices faded. The music fell into a hum. It was as if time held its breath. He turned around.
Rayne’s hand was upon Bazl’s shoulder. Energy emitting from her aura shone bright and alive. Her smile ignited his core and he savored the afterburn.
“It cost you,” Bazl said, leading the way through the parting crowd.
“She’s worth it,” Ian responded, unable to peel himself away.
“She is, isn’t she?” Bazl took Rayne’s hand in his and kissed it. “My work here is done. Enjoy your ball, Cinderella.” The designer blended into the crowd.
Peacock feathers covered Rayne’s bodice and sleeves. Just as Ian had imagined, their color was the perfect shade to match her incredible eyes. Bazl and his partner had done their magic, creating a flow with the feathers and the cut to complement every one of her curves and features. The back of her slender neck was outlined in scalloped tufts. The feathers draped forward, framing her bosom. The peacock pattern drew in at her waist and down over her hips. The feather’s colorful tips ran the length of her forearm sleeves and ended in a V at the back of her hand. Bazl had gone so far as to lace one of the feathers through her upswept, sunlit hair. Flowing, pearlescent blue silk lay underneath, a shade lighter than the feathers that adorned it. The gown cascaded to the floor reminiscent of a waterfall.
