"A jeweled fifteenth-century skean dhu and a priceless Damascus blade," Tom said, smiling beatifically. "The
Damascus dates to the Crusades. Both have been authenticated."
A delicate brow rose. Awe made short work of outrage. "Wow. Really?" A skean dhu! Her fingers curled in anticipation. "Do you have them already?" Antiquities; she loved them one and all, from the single rosary bead with the entire scene of The Passion carved on it, to the Unicorn Tapestries, to the splendid collection of medieval blades.
But she especially loved all things Scottish, as they reminded her of the grandfather who'd raised her. When her parents died in a car accident, Evan MacGregor swooped in and took the broken four-year-old to a new home in Kansas. Proud of his heritage, endowed with a passionate Scots temperament, he imbued her with his love for all things Celtic. It was a dream of hers to one day journey to Glengarry, to see the town in which he'd been born, to visit the church in which he'd wed Gran, to stroll the heathery moors beneath a silvery moon. She had her passport ready, waiting for that lovely stamp; she just had to save enough money.
It might take her another year or two, especially now with the cost of living in New York, but she would get there. And she couldn't wait. As a child she'd been lulled to sleep on countless nights by her grandfather's soft burr, as he'd woven fantastic tales of his homeland. When he died five years ago she'd been devastated. Sometimes, alone at night in The Cloisters, she found herself talking aloud to him, knowing that—though he would have hated city life even more than she did—he would have loved her choice of career. Preserving the artifacts and the old ways.
Her eyes narrowed as Tom's laughter shattered her reverie. He was chuckling over her swift transition from outrage to wonder. She caught herself and pasted a scowl on her face again. It wasn't hard. A stranger was going to be touching a priceless text. Unsupervised. Who knew what might happen to it?
"Yes, I have them already, Chloe. And I didn't ask your opinion of my methods. Your job is to manage the records—"
"Tom, I have my master's in ancient civilizations and speak as many languages as you do. You've always said my opinion counts. Does it or doesn't it?"
"Of course it counts, Chloe," Tom said, sobering swiftly. He removed his glasses and began polishing them with a tie that sported its usual accumulation of coffee stains and jelly-donut crumbs. "But if I hadn't agreed, he was going to donate the blades to the Royal Museum of Scotland. You know how stiff the competition is for quality artifacts. You understand the politics. The man is wealthy, he's generous, and he has quite a collection. We might be able to coax him to draw up some sort of bequest upon his death. If he wants a few days with a five-hundred-year-old text, one of the lesser-valued ones at that, he's going to get it."
"If he so much as gets one popcorn smudge on the pages, I'm going to kill him."
"Precisely why I coaxed you here to work for me, Chloe; you love these old things as much as I do. And I acquired two more treasures today, so be a dear and deliver the text."
Chloe snorted. Tom knew her too well. He'd been her professor of medieval history at the University of Kansas before he'd assumed a position as cocurator. A year ago he'd tracked her down where she'd been working at a depressing excuse for a museum in Kansas, and offered her a job. Though it had been hard to leave the home she'd grown up in, filled with so many memories, a chance to work at The Cloisters was not to be missed, no matter the extreme culture shock she'd suffered. New York was sleek and hungry and worldly, and in the sophisticated thick of it, the girl from rural Kansas felt hopelessly gauche.
"What, am I supposed to just walk outside with this thing tucked under my arm? With the Gaulish Ghost running around out there?" Lately there'd been a rash of thefts of Celtic manuscripts from private collections. The media had dubbed the thief the Gaulish Ghost because he stole only Celtic items and left no clues behind, appearing and disappearing like a wraith.
"Have Amelia package it up for you. My car's waiting out front. Bill has the man's name and address. He'll drive you there and circle the block while you run it up. And don't harass the man when you deliver it," he added.
Chloe rolled her eyes and sighed, but gently collected the text. As she was walking out, Thomas said, "When you get back I'll show you the blades, Chloe."
His tone was soothing but amused, and it pissed her oft". He knew she would hurry back to see them. Knew she would overlook his spurious acquisition methods one more time.
"Bribery. Abject bribery," she muttered. "And it won't make me approve of what you do." But already she was aching to touch them. To run a finger down the cool metal, to dream of ancient times and ancient places.
Nurtured on Midwest values, an idealist to the core, Chloe Zanders had a weakness, and Tom knew it. Put something ancient in her hands and she was seduced.
And if it was ancient and Scottish? Sheesh, she was a goner.
Some days Dageus felt as ancient as the evil within him.
As he hailed a cab to take him to The Cloisters to pick up a copy of one of the last tomes in New York that he needed to check, he didn't notice the fascinated glances women walking down the sidewalk turned his way. Didn't realize that, even in a metropolis that teemed with diversity, he stood out. It was nothing he said or did; to all appearances he was but another wealthy, sinfully gorgeous man. It was simply the essence of the man. The way he moved. His every gesture exuded power, something dark and… forbidden. He was sexual in a way that made women think of deeply repressed fantasies therapists and feminists alike would cringe to hear tell of.
But he realized none of that. His thoughts were far away, still mulling over the nonsense penned in the Book of Leinster.
Och, what he wouldn't give for his da's library.
In lieu of it, he'd been systematically obtaining what manuscripts still existed, exhausting his present possibilities before pursuing riskier ones. Risky, like setting foot on the isles of his ancestors again, a thing fast seeming inevitable.
Thinking of risk, he made a mental note to return some of the volumes he'd "borrowed" from private collections when bribes had failed. It wouldn't do to have them lying about too long.
He glanced up at the clock above the bank. Twelve forty-five. The cocurator of The Cloisters had assured him he would have the text delivered first thing that morn, but it hadn't arrived and Dageus was weary of waiting.
He needed information, accurate information about the Keltar's ancient benefactors, the Tuatha Dé Danaan, those "gods and not gods," as the Book of the Dun Cow called them. They were the ones who had originally imprisoned the dark Druids in the in-between, hence it followed that there was a way to reimprison them.
It was imperative he rind that way.
As he eased into the cab—a torturous fit for a man of his height and breadth—his attention was caught by a lass who was stepping from a car at the curb in front of them.
She was different, and it was that difference that drew his eye. She had none of the city's polish and was all the lovelier for it. Refreshingly tousled, delightfully free of the artifice with which modern women enhanced their faces, she was a vision.
"Wait," he growled at the driver, watching her hungrily.
His every sense heightened painfully. His hands fisted as desire, never sated, flooded him.
Somewhere in her ancestry the lass had Scots blood. It was there in the curly waves of copper-and-blond hair that tumbled about a delicate face with a surprisingly strong jaw. It was there in the peaches-and-cream complexion and the huge aquamarine eyes—eyes that still regarded the world with wonder, he noticed with a faintly mocking smile. It was there in a fire that simmered just beneath the surface of her flawless skin. Wee, lusciously plump where it counted, with a trim waist and shapely legs hugged by a snug skirt, the lass was an exiled Highlander's dream.
He wet his lips and stared, making a noise deep in his throat that was more animal than human.
When she leaned back in through the open window of the car t
o say something to the driver, the back of her skirt rode up a few inches. He inhaled sharply, envisioning himself behind her. His entire body went tight with lust.
Christ, she was lovely. Lush curves that could make a dead man stir.
She leaned forward a smidgen, showing more of that sweet curve of the back of her thigh.
His mouth went ferociously dry.
No' for me, he warned himself, gritting his teeth and shifting to lessen the pressure on his suddenly, painfully hard cock. He took only experienced lasses to his bed. Lasses far older in both mind and body. Not reeking, as she did, of innocence. Of bright dreams and a bonny future.
Sleek and worldly, with jaded palates and cynical hearts—they were the ones a man could tumble and leave with a bauble in the morn, no worse for the wear.
She was the kind a man kept.
"Go," he murmured to the driver, forcing his gaze away.
Chloe tapped her foot impatiently, leaning against the wall beside the call-desk. The blasted man wasn't there. She'd been waiting fifteen minutes, hoping he might appear. A few moments ago she'd finally told Bill to go on without her, that she'd catch a cab back to The Cloisters and expense it to the department.
She drummed her fingers impatiently on the counter. She just wanted to deliver her parcel and go. The sooner she got rid of it, the sooner she could forget her part in the whole sordid affair.
It occurred to her that unless she could find an alternative, she was probably going to end up wasting the rest of her day. A man who lived in the East 70s in such affluence was a man accustomed to having others await his convenience.
Glancing about, she spied a possible alternative. Taking a deep breath and smoothing her suit, she tucked the parcel beneath her arm and strode briskly across the elegant grand foyer to the security desk. Two beefy men in crisp black-and-white uniforms snapped to attention as she approached.
When she'd first arrived in New York last year, she'd known instantly that she would never be in the same league with city women. Polished and chic, they were Mercedes and BMWs and Jaguars, and Chloe Zanders was a… Jeep, or maybe a Toyota Highlander on a good day. Her purse never matched her shoes—she was lucky if her shoe matched her shoe. Still, she believed in working with what one had, so she did her best to put a little feminine charm into her walk, praying she wouldn't break an ankle.
"I have a delivery for Mr. MacKeltar," she announced, curving her lips in what she hoped was a flirtatious smile, trying to soften them up enough that they'd let her go drop the blasted thing off where it would be a bit more secure. No way she was giving it to the pimply teen behind the call-desk. Nor to these beefy brutes.
Two leering gazes swept her from head to toe. "I'm sure you do, honey," the blond man drawled. He gave her another thorough look. "You're not his usual type though."
"Mr. MacKeltar gets lots of deliveries," his dark-haired companion smirked.
Oh, great. Just great. The man's a womanizer. Popcorn and God-only-knows what else on the pages. Grr.
But she supposed she should be thankful, she told herself a few minutes later, as she rode the elevator up to the forty-third floor. They'd let her go up to the penthouse level unescorted, which was astounding in a luxury East-Side property.
Leave it in his anteroom; it's secure enough, the blond had said, though his smarmy gaze had clearly said that he believed the real package was her, and he didn't expect to see her again for days, at least.
If Chloe had only known how true that was—that indeed he wouldn't be seeing her again for days—she'd never have gotten on that elevator.
Later, she would also reflect that if only the door hadn't been unlocked, she would have been fine. But when she arrived in Mr. MacKeltar's anteroom, which was overflowing with exotic fresh flowers and furnished with elegant chairs and magnificent rugs, all she'd been able to think was that Security might let some bimbo up, just as they had her, and said bimbo might tear a page out of the priceless text to wad up her chewing gum in, or something equally sacrilegious.
So, sighing, she smoothed her hair and tried one of the double doors.
It slid silently open on—heavens, were those gold-plated hinges? She caught sight of her gaping reflection in one. Some people had more money than sense. Just one of those stupid hinges would pay the rent on her tiny efficiency for months.
Shaking her head, she stepped inside and cleared her throat. "Hello?" she called, as it occurred to her that it might be unlocked because he'd left one of his apparently myriad women there.
"Hello, hello!" she called again.
Silence.
Luxury. Like she'd never seen.
She glanced about, and still might have been okay if she hadn't spotted the glorious Scottish claymore hanging above the fireplace in the living room. It drew her like a moth to the flame.
"Oh, you gorgeous, lovely, splendid little thing, you," she gushed, hurrying over to it, promising herself she was just going to place the text on the marble coffee table, take a quick glance, and leave.
Twenty minutes later, she was in the midst of a thorough exploration of his home, her heart hammering with nervousness, yet too enthralled to stop.
"How dare he leave his door unlocked?" she grumbled, frowning at a magnificent medieval broadsword. Casually propped against the wall in a corner. Ripe for the plucking. Though Chloe prided herself on sound morals, she suffered a shocking urge to tuck it beneath her arm and make a run for it.
The place was full of artifacts—all Celtic at that! Scottish weapons dating back to the fifteenth century, if she didn't miss her guess, and she rarely did, adorned a wall in his library. Priceless Scots regalia: sporran, badge, and brooches in mint condition lay beside a pile of ancient coins on a desk.
She touched, she examined, she shook her head disbelievingly.
Where previously she'd felt nothing but distaste for the man, she was growing fonder of him by the moment, shamelessly seduced by his excellent taste.
And growing more curious about him with each new discovery.
No photos, she noticed, glancing around the rooms. Not one. She'd love to know what the guy looked like.
Dageus MacKeltar. What a name.
Nothing against Zanders, Grandda had often said, it's a fine name, but it's as easy to fall in love with a Scotsman as an Englishman, lass. A weighty pause. A harumph. Then, inevitable as sunrise, Easier, actually.
She smiled, remembering how he'd endlessly encouraged her to get a "proper" last name for herself.
Her smile froze as she stepped into the bedroom.
Her desire to know what he looked like escalated into obsession territory.
His bedroom, his sinful, decadent bedroom, with the enormous hand-carved, curtained bed covered with silks and velvets, with the exquisitely tiled fireplace, the black marble Jacuzzi in which one might sit sipping champagne, gazing down over Manhattan through a wall of windows. Dozens of candles surrounded the tub. Two glasses had been carelessly knocked over on the Berber carpet.
His scent lingered in the room, scent of man and spice and virility.
Her heart pounded as the enormity of what she was doing occurred to her. She was snooping through a very wealthy man's penthouse, currently standing in the man's bedroom, for heaven's sake! In his very lair where he seduced his women.
And from the looks of things, he had seduction down to a fine art.
Virgin wool carpet, black velvet draping the monstrous bed, silk sheets beneath a sumptuous beaded velvet coverlet, ornate museum-worthy mirrors framed in silver and obsidian.
Despite the warning bells going off in her head, she couldn't seem to make herself leave. Mesmerized, she opened a closet, trailing her fingers over fine hand-tailored clothing, inhaling the subtle, undeniably sexual scent of the man. Exquisite Italian shoes and boots lined the floor.
She began conjuring a fantasy image of him.
He would be tall (she was not having short babies!) and handsome, with a nice body, though not too exceptional,
and a husky burr. He would be intelligent, speak several languages, (so he could purr Gaelic love words in her ear), but not too polished, a little rough around the edges.
Forget to shave, things like that. He would be a little introverted and sweet. He would like short, curvy women whose noses were in books so much that they forgot to pluck their brows and comb their hair and put on makeup. Women whose shoes didn't always match.
As if, the voice of reason rudely popped her fantasy bubble. The guy downstairs said you weren't his usual type. Now get out of here, Zanders.
And it still might not have been too late, she still might have escaped had she not moved closer to that sinful bed, peeking curiously and with no small amount of fascination at the silky scarves knotted about bedposts the size of small tree trunks.
Corn-fed-Kansas Chloe was shocked. Never-gone-all-the-way-with-a-man Chloe was… suddenly breathing very shallowly, to say the least.
Shakily averting her gaze, and backing away on legs that wobbled, she nearly overlooked the corner of the book poking out from beneath his bed.
But Chloe never missed a book. An ancient one at that.
Moments later, skirt twisted around her hips, purse abandoned on a chair, suit jacket tossed on the floor, she'd dug out his stash: seven medieval volumes.
All of which had been recently reported stolen by various collectors.
Good God—she was in the lair of the nefarious Gaulish Ghost! And it was no wonder he had so many artifacts: He stole whatever he wanted.
On her hands and knees, rooting about beneath his bed for more evidence of his heinous crimes, Chloe Zanders' opinion of the man had taken a sharp turn for the worse. "Womanizing, thieving creep," she muttered under her breath. "Unbelievable."
Gingerly, with thumb and tip of forefinger, she flung a black lace thong out from under the bed. Eww. Condom wrapper. Condom wrapper. Condom wrapper. Sheesh! How many people lived here?
Magnum, the wrapper advertised smugly, for the Extra-Large Man.
Beyond the Highland Myst Page 121
