“Once. Briefly.”
“Oh, I would love to view it in the original.” She clasped her hands at her chest and looked at him, bright-eyed and appealing.
“It was obliterated by a collapse.” At least he thought it must have been. He’d been too busy getting the hell out to look back and make sure.
“Oh.” She sagged in disappointment, then straightened. “I’ve read the details of the myth in the original Latin, drafted during Julius Caesar’s reign. I theorize that the reason the Chosen Ones is such a successful legend is because there’s a sense of continuity. Do you know that every seven years, a new seven Chosen are drafted to become protectors of the innocent?”
“I did know that.” He had not been happy about it, either.
In the throes of relentless enthusiasm, she said, “I’ve got a book that tells all about it. Wait here.”
A month ago, Aaron had been called to the Gypsy Travel Agency, a casual invitation he’d found odd in the extreme. Yet in his line of work, he found it best not to let oddities go uninvestigated. Once there in the cast-iron building that housed the agency, he’d been called before the board of directors, a bunch of white, business-suited, humorless men who laid the facts on the line.
They knew what he did for a living, they knew how he did it, and if he hadn’t signed the contract agreeing to go to work for them as one of this cycle’s Chosen Ones, they would have betrayed him to a certain Japanese businessman, a businessman with a grudge and the money to carry that grudge to its most extreme. It was blackmail, pure and simple, and if Aaron had not agreed to their terms, he would be dead by now.
But frankly, he’d signed their contract, then barely escaped the blast at the Gypsy Travel Agency when he and six others, strangers to one another, had been taken to be confirmed as the Chosen Ones. In the days since, their seer had been almost killed by one of her visions, he himself had been far too close to death for his own comfort, and his prospects weren’t looking any too cheery for the immediate future. Just getting to the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library had been an exercise in caution.
Yet for all their travails, the remaining six Chosen had bonded together, swearing fealty to one another and to their mission.
Now, if only Rosamund and her prophecies could help guide them in the right direction.
Rosamund returned with a leather-bound book, blew the dust off the top, and showed him the cover.
Taken aback, he said, “You’ve got a copy of When the World Was Young: A History of the Chosen.”
“It was published by some obscure press in the early sixties as the definitive story of the Chosen Ones, and best of all, it’s in English.”
“Yeah, that is helpful.”
Flipping to the table of contents, she found what she was looking for, then opened to the right page and read, “ ‘For seven years, the Chosen Ones are required to work tirelessly under the one they elect as leader to save abandoned children like themselves from the clutches of the Others. Then if they wish, they’re allowed to retire, as another group is brought in and trained to help the innocent.’ ”
“Does this book, or any of the texts or paintings you spoke of, indicate what happens when a tragedy occurs, and all the Chosen are killed?” Or blown up the way the Gypsy Travel Agency had been blown up?
“Oh!” She lifted a finger. “Interesting that you should mention that. According to the Greeks, the Chosen Ones made Athens their home for centuries, and in 430 BC, at the height of their power, a plague of some vicious disease swept through the city. Of course, there continues to be debate as to the exact nature of the plague, and how it came to the city, but according to the historian for the Chosen Ones, it was introduced by the Others. The resulting misery and death killed almost a third of the populace and most of the Chosen, and caused Athens to lose the Peloponnesian War. Athens never recovered her former glory, and eventually passed her dominance to Rome.”
“So when the Chosen Ones fail in their efforts—”
“Death, suffering, and disaster result.” Rosamund sounded cheerful enough, but then, she didn’t believe in the Chosen.
He had the gift and the mark of the Chosen. He was looking disaster right in the face.
In the five days since the blast, they had lost one of their own new members, and been forced to face the chance that they—and the world as they knew it—were doomed.
Worse for Aaron, and so much worse for Rosamund, her Sir Lancelot was no fair knight. He was one of the Others, and whatever he wanted with Rosamund and her prophecies, Aaron knew it could not be good.
Rosamund Hall had become a leading performer in a legend unfolding before her very eyes, and she didn’t even realize it.
“So you’re not superstitious?” Aaron asked.
“My father was a man concerned with facts.”
“I asked about you, not your father.”
“I’ve never seen any reason to believe the prophecies were anything but humbug.” Rosamund sounded regretful.
“Is that what your father called them? Humbug?” Aaron could hear old Dr. Hall saying that.
“The delusions of a weak and pitiful mind.”
Aaron could hear Dr. Hall saying that, too. “Your father didn’t believe the Chosen Ones had ever existed?”
“He never discussed that particular legend with me, but no.” She glanced at the tablet on the table. “Did I answer your question?”
“Not exactly.”
“That’s good.” She adjusted the lighted magnifying glass over a glyph.
He’d lost her interest. “Listen—”
She glanced up, clearly startled to see him there. “Oh. Did I answer your question?”
“You already asked . . . Never mind. Listen, about Lance Mathews—”
Rosamund jumped like he’d stuck a pin in her. “That reminds me! On your way out, would you ask Jessica to make sure she calls me at five? I have to leave early.”
Something about her mushy smile put him on alert. “Five isn’t early.”
“I forget to leave sometimes.”
“Don’t you get locked in?”
“Sometimes. But my father left a lot of work unfinished, and this . . . this is . . . just think, my mother ’s work, just waiting for me to delve into . . .” She waved a hand over the tablet, and as if they’d caught her, she leaned toward them again, spellbound.
This girl was a wreck. “Why do you need to leave early?”
“To get ready for my date.”
Shit. “Tonight. With Lance Mathews.”
She straightened her shoulders and stared at him . . . through her glasses, which were perched on the end of her nose. “Why not?”
“Tonight I was hoping you could come with me to see my friend’s library. Irving is ninety-three years old and has this incredibly impressive collection of antique manuscripts and artifacts. But he needs someone who understands what he’s got, someone who can help him out.”
“I don’t do appraisals.” She managed to sound snooty and insulted.
“It’s been appraised—world-class stuff.” He baited the hook. “The Smithsonian would be proud to add his collection to theirs.”
“Really.” Clearly, she didn’t believe him.
“I’m not an authority like you, or him”—a lie; he knew more about valuable antiquities than almost anyone in the world—“but Irving has had the money and the contacts to build his collection. I’ve seen Egyptian scrolls, European illuminated prayer books, Tibetan prayer wheels, early Incan quipu—”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
He finished with the assurance, “All bought legitimately or given to him by friends.”
She was right to be skeptical. The market for finding, stealing, and selling antiquities was huge and lucrative, and the scholars who actually worked in the field lamented the loss of important data. The pieces couldn’t be studied if they were moved from the excavation sites in the jungle or the desert into private libraries and personal museums by thieves wil
ling to risk danger and death for a profit.
And some collectors would do anything to complete their collections, including stealing from each other, from public museums, or even from the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library. . . .
“Actually, Irving is the one who was wondering about the prophecies, and since I knew Dr. Hall was one of the world’s foremost experts . . . and he passed his torch to you. . . .” Aaron hoped the combination of temptation, guilt, and competition would work on Rosamund.
But she stood with her arms crossed.
“But you can’t come; you’ve got a date.” He hoped he disarmed her with his sad resignation, because he didn’t have any intention of failing.
“That’s right. I’ve got a date.” She sounded fiercely determined.
He turned away, dragging his feet a little, then snapped his fingers and turned back. “I’ve got an idea. Why not go with me now?”
“These are still working hours.” She looked so horrified, he might have suggested scribbling in crayon on the Magna Carta.
“You said yourself you frequently stay all night. You’re obviously your own supervisor. Irving is ninety-three, he’s got no family, and I know the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library would be thrilled if he made it the heir to his collection. For that reason alone, you could be forgiven for leaving two hours early.” Aaron’s dashing charm hadn’t impressed her at all, but that didn’t stop him from trying. With an appealing smile, he said, “Irving’s house is a quick cab ride away.” It was actually in the Upper East Side, and in Manhattan, that translated to miles of start-and-stop traffic.
No need to bring that up, either.
He picked up the cover for her worktable and carefully placed it over the stone tablet and the pile of notes. “If you’ll grab your stuff, we’ll run up there, you can talk to him and decide if you’re interested in working with him on this prophecy he’s after, and I’ll personally deliver you to your home in time to get ready for that date. I mean, heck, if you wanted, you could go as you are!”
He may have oversold that one, because she pushed her glasses up on her nose and stared at him coldly.
He lifted his hands as if to stop her from charging him. “Or you can change your dress first.” Glancing at his watch, he said, “If we go now, we’ll be done in a jiffy.”
“Well . . .” She visibly wavered.
“It’ll be fun.” He offered his hand—and enjoyed incredible satisfaction when she placed her hand in his.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 4
Rosamund let Aaron tow her toward the door. She shouldn’t let him push her around.
But he was that kind of man.
He exuded presence and authority from the top of his well-cut black hair to the tips of his well-shined black shoes. His dark eyes watched her with a hint of patronizing impatience, and his outfit—black suit, starched white shirt, and red tie—made her think of Mr. Perez, the wealthy, honorary head of the library board, and how he was always pushing her around. Explain this expense on your report, Dr. Hall. Speak at the annual fund-raiser, Dr. Hall. Except Mr. Perez was middle-aged and rotund, and Aaron Eagle was too tall, too strong, and too stern.
That was why she liked Lance Mathews better. He was like her—not concerned with worldly matters like designer watches and expensive shirts.
Although she vaguely remembered reading something one time when she was stuck on a plane without a decent book . . . something about the golf shirt with the alligator being expensive . . .
This man, this Aaron Eagle, was corporate America and high society . . . except he wasn’t. His tanned skin held a hint of red, and he had the proud, high cheekbones, narrow nose, and broad, stubborn chin of a North Plains Indian warrior. His body was whip-cord strong. His hands were broad-palmed and long-fingered, with the dexterity of a man who handled weapons and horses and women. . . .
Scrub that thought.
The point was, he wore the clothes well, but although they’d been tailored to a perfect fit, somehow, they didn’t . . . fit him.
Aaron pushed her into the elevator and punched the button for the main floor, and still he held her hand as if she were a rebellious child.
And as a matter of fact, he did make her feel rebellious. He just looked so . . . so superior.
“Where did you say this Irving’s house was?” She twisted her hand.
At once he freed it. “Have you heard of Irving Shea?”
“I’ve done more than hear of him. I’ve met him!” At one of the incredibly boring, stuffy, scholarly get togethers her father had attended in the name of raising funds. Irving Shea was tall, dark-skinned, white-haired, very old and bent with the constantly increasing burden of years, yet he had given off an air of vitality that charmed her. “Irving Shea is your Irving?”
“He’s the one.”
Her father had told her Irving was the head of some successful corporation, one of the first African-American men to take such a position, and obviously Daddy had respected him for both his achievements and his knowledge of antiquities. “He is the ex-CEO of that company that blew up.”
“That’s right. The Gypsy Travel Agency.”
“Wow. I’ll bet Mr. Shea is upset.”
“Upset, yes. He’s also determined to get to the bottom of the matter.”
She could add two and two and get four. “So you want the prophecy for more than just yourself? You want it for Mr. Shea.”
“He’ll want to personally fill you in on any details.” The elevator doors opened and Aaron walked ahead, totally unconcerned whether she followed him. “I am surprised Irving hadn’t heard of your father ’s death.”
“I haven’t placed the obituary or planned the memorial service or anything because . . . because I still don’t know if I believe it.” Now why had she confessed that to, of all people, this man?
He stopped so fast she ran into the back of him. “Why not?”
She rubbed her bruised nose. “Because Father texted me and said . . . It was this weird message.”
“Then perhaps we should talk about it when we’re out of here.” Aaron gestured around the short corridor and down toward the desk where Jessica’s head bobbed out to observe them.
“Why? Because of Jessica? Jessica’s harmless.”
“Perhaps. But this is a secure area. Someone might be listening, someone more than just me.”
“Right.” There. Such a thought had never occurred to her. And that comment—it was exactly the type of thing that made her think her hunch was right. Beneath his debonair sophistication, this gentleman hid a predator ’s instincts.
They exited through the electronic gate, and while Aaron signed out, Jessica said, “You’re leaving early today, Rosamund. I didn’t know you could ever tear yourself away from your research long enough to play hooky. So I guess you’ve got some antiquities emergency, huh?” And she smiled at Aaron as if they would obviously consider funny little Rosamund a diversion.
Normally Rosamund didn’t care; Jessica and Rosamund were about the same age, but there the similarities stopped. Jessica was pretty and popular. Rosamund was . . . not. Jessica was always kind in her own way, inviting Rosamund to the after-work outings, bringing her lunch and scolding her for neglecting herself, and most recently, making Rosamund sew the sagging hem on her skirt. Rosamund barely noticed Jessica because Jessica’s main area of expertise seemed to be what she learned from beauty magazines.
But with Aaron by her side, Jessica’s amused assumption that Rosamund must be leaving, not because of him, but because of work . . . Well, that irked her, especially since it was true.
An almost unrecognizable impulse made Rosamund lean across the desk. “Guess what I’m doing tonight?”
Jessica’s amusement deepened. “I don’t know. What?”
“I’m going on a date.” Vaguely, Rosamund realized she sounded like a high school sophomore who’d been invited to the senior prom.
“With who?” Jessi
ca’s smile faltered, and she looked between Rosamund and Aaron disbelievingly. “Not . . . ?”
Aaron scowled.
“No, silly. Not him.”
Jessica relaxed and smiled. “No, I didn’t think so.”
“Do you remember my first appointment?” Rosamund heard that giggly, breathless tone in her own voice, and wondered at herself. Not that she cared, but she did wonder.
“Lance Mathews?” Jessica’s smile disappeared again, this time for good. “You’re kidding. You’re going out with Lance Mathews?”
“Yes!” Rosamund knew she was grinning like a madwoman. “Can you believe it? He asked me out and I gave him my number and he gave me his and he’s got his own car and he’s going to pick me up for drinks and dinner and—”
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