by Jayne Castle
She did not need Nancy's wide-eyed expression to tell her that Cruz had invaded her personal space. She could feel him directly behind her.
"Hello, Lyra," he said.
His voice was low, dark, infused with power, utterly masculine.
She turned coolly to face him, amazed that she was able to maintain a degree of self-control now that the confrontation was upon her. She even managed an icy bright smile.
Nothing had changed, especially not his hunter's eyes. She had seen those eyes night after night in her dreams. Like the black stone in the heavy ring he wore, they were obsidian dark with green fires burning in the depths.
His hair was just as black as she remembered it, still cut close and short. The roughly sculpted planes and angles of his hard face were just as thrillingly feral. An intimate excitement swept through her.
Down, girl.
"Good evening, Mr. Sweetwater," she said, giving him smooth surprise for all she was worth. "I wasn't aware that you were interested in picking up antiquities at gallery auctions. I was under the impression that you preferred to acquire whatever you wanted with more direct methods."
"Such as?" Cruz raised one black brow, politely quizzical.
"Oh, say, by crushing the competition," Lyra said sweetly.
Nancy gasped and choked on her champagne. "For heaven's sake, Lyra."
Cruz looked at her. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Cruz Sweetwater."
"Yes, of course, Mr. Sweetwater," Nancy said. She coughed a couple of times but recovered quickly. "I'm Nancy Halifax. Halifax Gallery in the Old Quarter? I'm sure you've never heard of it. I specialize in modern art."
"A pleasure to meet you, Nancy. Lyra mentioned you several times."
"Back when you two were seeing each other, you mean?" Nancy asked.
Cruz looked at Lyra. "Yes."
"Back when I believed that Mr. Sweetwater was a legitimate client who wished to engage my professional services," Lyra said evenly. "Back when he was using a phony name."
Nancy looked vaguely horrified.
True to form, Cruz did not take the bait. That was the thing about Cruz Sweetwater, Lyra thought. He never lost his cool. He was probably just as controlled in bed. Not that she was likely to find out.
Cruz was all about control. She was no para-shrink, but she had a strong suspicion that powerful self-mastery was a direct result of the psychic side of his nature. He had never confided the truth about his psi senses to her—one of the many secrets he had kept three months ago—but she would had to have been incredibly dim not to have realized that he possessed a lot of raw power.
Anyone endowed with a high degree of talent required an equally high degree of control. Those who wound up with the former but not the latter generally spent most of their lives in nice, quiet parapsych wards knitting scarves and taking little pills.
"I was out of town at the time," Nancy said, trying to paper over the awkward moment. "I always close the gallery for a couple of weeks in early summer. Mandatory family gathering at the lake house." She made a face. "You know how it is with family."
"Yes," Cruz said. He looked amused. "I do know how it is with family."
The two of them exchanged a smile of mutual understanding. If there was one thing most people could bond over, it was the subject of family. After the Curtain had closed, stranding the colonists, the First Generation settlers had understood that their very survival depended on the strength of the family unit, the basic building block of any society. They had set out to shore up family ties with every legal, social, and moral tool at their command.
The Founders had achieved their goal. Family was all on Harmony—except when you did not have one of your own.
Lyra took another sip of champagne and made no comment, her customary response whenever the subject of family ties arose. Her grandfather, who had raised her after her parents had been killed in a mining accident, had died four years earlier, leaving her alone in the world.
"And then I decided to tack on a buying trip to Resonance and Cadence," Nancy continued, evidently feeling pressured to carry the conversation. "That took another week. By the time I got back. . uh. ." She broke off, reddening, and she darted an uneasy glance at Lyra.
"By the time you got back it was all over," Lyra said, amazed by her own calm. She flashed another polite smile for Cruz and swept out a hand to indicate the artifacts on display. "Which of these lovely things brings you here tonight, Mr. Sweetwater?"
"You," he said.
She felt as though the floor of the gallery had fallen away beneath her feet. He really had come back to apologize and make amends. The weeks of amethyst orchids had been an effort to pave the way, just as she had hoped.
But she had to be strong, she told herself sternly. There was a lot of groveling left to be done. If she let him back into her life too quickly, it would set a very bad precedent. She had the edge in this relationship now. She had to maintain it. Cruz Sweetwater had a bad habit of getting whatever he wanted. That had to stop. Boundaries had to be established.
"I'm confused," she said with just the right amount of bewilderment. "Did you want to hire me to tune some amber or consult on an amethyst artifact?"
"No," he said. "I'd like to talk to you."
"Certainly." She assumed an expectant look.
"In private," Cruz added.
"Oh, look," Nancy said before Lyra could respond. "There's Mr. Fitzburn." She smiled at Cruz. "You'll have to excuse me. I need to have a chat with him. Fitzburn is a potential client. He missed out on the first three Chimera paintings that I had in my gallery, and he's afraid I won't give him a chance at the next one."
"I understand," Cruz said.
"Are you interested in modern art, Mr. Sweetwater?" Nancy asked.
"It's not really my thing," Cruz said. "I take it this Chimera is popular?"
"He's a hot new talent. Just on the brink of being discovered by the art world, according to the critic at the Frequency Herald. But he's very reclusive. Won't do interviews or promotion of any kind. He'll only display in my gallery."
"I see."
"You're welcome to visit my gallery," Nancy said. She whipped a card out of her little black bag. "It would be an honor."
"Thank you," Cruz said. He took the card and dropped it into the pocket of his black jacket.
Lyra frowned at Nancy. "I think Mr. Fitzburn is waiting for you."
"Right," Nancy said. "Bye."
She hurried off, pausing briefly behind Cruz to wink at Lyra over his shoulder and make encouraging motions with her hands. Lyra pretended not to notice.
"What was it you wanted to speak to me about, Cruz?" she said.
"I'd rather not talk here. Your apartment is nearby. Would you mind if we went there to have this conversation?"
Alarm zapped through her. Her first thought was that going back to her place alone with him was probably not a good idea. Not yet, at any rate. Following hard on the heels of that bit of common sense was the memory of the breakfast dishes she had left sitting in the kitchen sink. And then there was the silky, chocolate brown bra she had washed by hand before leaving the house that morning. The bra was spread out on a towel on the window bench.
Her apartment was a small, open, loft design. Both the kitchen and the window bench were clearly visible from the entrance and sitting area. There was no way she could keep Cruz from seeing either the dishes or the bra.
This was so typical of the Dore luck, she thought. The man of her dreams walked back into her life, showing every indication that he wanted to make amends for his betrayal, and she had to worry about dirty dishes and a little hand washing.
She cleared her throat. "Well, the thing is—"
"If the idea of being alone with me makes you nervous," Cruz said, "we could probably find a quiet restaurant somewhere nearby."
"No." The word was out before she could stop herself. She drew a deep breath. She could do this. Cruz had his pride, too. She could allow him a little privacy for hi
s groveling, and if one thing led to another, as seemed increasingly possible, there would be a lot of kissing and making up to be done. That required privacy, too. "No, that's okay. We can go back to my place."
"Thanks." He took her arm and started toward the door. "Sorry to catch you by surprise. I thought about calling, but I figured it would be better to talk about this in person. Some things can't be said over the phone."
"Especially in view of the fact that all of our recent communications have been conducted through lawyers," she said.
His mouth edged up slightly at the corner. "That does tend to limit the conversation."
"Actually, it turned out to be a pretty one-sided conversation."
"That was because you had a pretty bad lawyer."
Heads turned as Cruz steered her through the room toward the glass doors. Like most members of the notoriously reclusive Sweetwater clan, he tried to keep a very low profile. Until recently, he had spent his career working as an agent in the various field offices of AI Security. It was that anonymity that had allowed him to deceive her three months ago. But his recent appointment to the CEO slot had brought with it a lot of media attention. Her lawsuit had only added fuel to the fire. These days, in a gathering like this one, he was bound to be recognized.
An eerie silence descended on the crowd. It was followed almost immediately by a buzz of conversation that sounded a little too forced. The unmistakable rhythms of hot gossip, Lyra thought. Tomorrow there would be talk on the streets of the Quarter where the galleries and antiquities shops were located and possibly a mention in the art section of the Frequency Herald. Harriet Swan was no doubt giddy. Nothing could have elevated the status of her modest gallery more than having word go out that Cruz Sweetwater had been present tonight.
Three months ago this kind of attention had not been an issue. In his guise as a secretive underground collector, Cruz had favored secluded, dimly lit restaurants and romantic meals in her loft. But tonight things were different. Tension twisted her insides. She did not like this feeling. It was like being onstage.
"Ignore it," Cruz said.
As if he read my mind. She did not like that notion any better. The experts were certain that telepathy was impossible, but they had never met Cruz Sweetwater. He might not be able to actually read minds, but there was no one better when it came to predicting an opponent's next move. He was always one step ahead. She must not forget that.
Nancy caught her eye from across the gallery and waggled her fingers in a subtle high-rez sign: closed hand, thumb and pinky extended in the air.
Lyra took a deep breath. One thing, at least, was clear. This was not another one of the horrible waking nightmares. Cruz was no illusion. She could feel the power in him, sense the energy resonating between them. Whatever happened this evening, at least it would be real.
She went with him out into the glowing night.
Chapter 2
NIGHT WAS NEVER TRULY DARK IN THE OLD QUARTER of Frequency City. The gentle emerald light that illuminated the streets and rooftops emanated from the massive green quartz walls that surrounded the ruins of the Dead City.
The four major city-state capitals, Frequency, Resonance, Cadence, and Crystal, had been founded in the shadows of the largest of the walled cities that had been abandoned by the long-vanished aliens. But the free street lighting wasn't the only reason that the First Generation colonists had built their initial settlements directly adjacent to the aboveground ruins. In those early years there had been no way to know what dangers lurked in the vast wilderness of the new home world. The four Dead Cities—their towering quartz barricades impervious to even the most sophisticated machines and weapons of Earth—had offered the promise of protection.
As it happened, there had never been any need for the colonists or their descendants to seek refuge in the ruins. Harmony had a wide assortment of wild animals, but it had soon become apparent that there were no local inhabitants to object to the newcomers from Earth.
In the two hundred years that had passed since the Curtain had closed, stranding the colonists, Frequency, like the other major cities, had grown far beyond its humble beginnings. Its gleaming office towers were clustered downtown, not in the Quarter. Neighborhoods and suburbs sprawled far and wide. The most expensive properties were now found on the hillsides and along the river, far from the colonial heart of the city.
But it wasn't just the cheaper rents in the Quarter that had attracted Lyra, although that was certainly a huge factor. It was the subtle effect of the paranormal energy that leaked from the ruins and the strange catacombs underground that made the neighborhood attractive to her. Walking through the glowing streets at night was always something of a rush. Walking through them with Cruz at her side was even better.
"My car is over there," Cruz said.
She looked at the sleek black Slider parked at the curb. It was the same vehicle he had been driving three months ago.
"I see you didn't change your car when you changed your name," she said.
"I didn't use a fake name. Marlowe is my middle name." He opened the passenger door of the Slider. "Came from my mother's side of the family. Are you going to snap at me all evening, or can we have a reasonable discussion?"
"That probably depends on your definition of reasonable."
"What I have to say is important, Lyra."
She hesitated, her grandfather's words echoing down through the years with a warning she had heard since childhood: "Never trust a Sweetwater."
But the ridiculously hopeful side of her nature was in control.
"Okay," she said. She slipped into the embrace of the leather seat and looked up at him. "I'll play nice. At least until I know what this is all about."
"Thanks. I appreciate it. This conversation is going to be hard enough as it is."
That did it. She suddenly felt sorry for him. An apology of this magnitude would not be easy for anyone, let alone a man like Cruz. He was always so sure of himself, so certain that he was doing the right thing, so determined to carry out what he felt was his responsibility. As far as he was concerned, he had been doing his job three months ago. She had to remember that the situation between them had placed him, along with his rigid code of honor, in an untenable position.
Great. She was not just feeling sorry for him, she was actually making excuses. She had to get a grip.
Cruz closed the door before she could ask him any more questions. A few seconds later, he got in beside her and rezzed the engine. Flash-rock melted, and the Slider eased away from the curb. Cruz turned at the corner, driving deeper into the Quarter. Navigating the maze of twisting streets in the Colonial neighborhoods was not for the faint of heart or those who depended on maps. But Cruz piloted the Slider with unerring precision. She did not have to prompt him even a single time. She was not surprised. Cruz always knew exactly where he was going.
He did not speak until he parked the Slider in front of her apartment building. For a moment he sat quietly, his hands resting on the steering wheel. The black stone in his heavy gold ring glinted a little in the green-tinged shadows.
"Did you get the new sofa?" he asked.
Startled, she looked at him. "What?"
"Three months ago you were planning to buy a new sofa. I've been wondering if you got it."
"Right, the sofa. No. I didn't get it."
"Why not?"
"Turns out suing Amber Inc. is sort of an expensive hobby. I've had to economize lately."
"You had a really bad lawyer," Cruz said grimly.
"You've already mentioned that." She unbuckled her seat belt. "Turns out really good lawyers are even more expensive than sofas. I thought we weren't going to snipe at each other."
"Sorry. Just wondered about the sofa."
It struck her that his curiosity about the sofa was another positive indicator. Evidently he had been thinking about her a lot, and in a personal way, if he had been musing about homey things such as her plans to purchase new furniture.
They got into the rickety elevator and stood, a little distance between them, until the door opened on the fourth floor. Without a word they went down the hall. She opened her door, stepped into the apartment, and turned on the light switch.
A large ball of dryer lint with bright blue eyes tumbled toward her, chortling a cheerful welcome. Its six paws skittered on the hardwood floors. A small, jaunty red beret was clipped to the tatty fur in the vicinity of the top of its head.
Lyra scooped up the dust bunny and plopped him on her shoulder.
"I'm home, Vincent," she said.
The greeting ritual satisfied, Vincent burbled happily and hopped onto Cruz's much broader shoulder.
"At least the bunny is glad to see me," Cruz said. "Hey, there, pal. How's it rezzing?"
Vincent chortled again.
Dust bunnies were not overly concerned with petty things like the legal ownership of spectacular amber discoveries in the jungle, Lyra thought. Nor did they fret about having fallen in love with the wrong man. But she rose above the impulse to make that observation out loud. She had to stay focused. The window bench was at the far end of the room, still in shadow, but she could make out the curves of the bra cups
"While you two reminisce, I'll get out of these heels," she said.
She hurried toward the window bench.
The plan was simple. She would keep her body between Cruz and the bra.
She reached her goal, grabbed the end of the towel, and rolled the bra inside with a few quick twists. Still moving fast, she darted behind the sliding screens that concealed the bedroom area and dropped the towel and its contents onto the dresser.
In the outer room, Cruz rezzed another light switch. The resulting glow permeated the bedroom through the translucent screens.
