on the mystery man since he'd
bought and renovated Stonelair?
She felt a sudden twinge in her stomach, an
uncomfortable feeling that she couldn't quite describe. All
thoughts of tonight's dinner and unpleasant office politics were
swept away, and she felt a new sense of uneasiness that she
couldn't explain. It was something about Stonelair, of that she was
certain, but what was it that had her so spooked?
Chapter Four
Wyndhym Ashley Conrad III slowly paced back
and forth across the library's faded Portuguese needlepoint rug, a
mug of coffee in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. A
black baseball cap partially hid his long, slightly curly
raven-black hair and all but obscured the thoughtful expression in
his velvety dark brown eyes. The sleeves on his long-sleeved black
T-shirt were rolled up above his elbows, revealing strong, muscular
forearms and powerful-looking hands. Matching sweatpants, cinched
tightly against the flat plane of his stomach, hung loosely on his
muscular legs.
As he paced, four enormous Irish wolfhounds
watched his every move. Two of them, both gray, were ensconced on
tufted antique leather sofas that faced one another in front of the
French limestone fireplace mantel. The other two, one brindle and
the other brown, had arrayed themselves on the rug near the hearth.
On their alert faces were looks of equal parts devotion and
curiosity.
Wyn, finally weary of his aimless strides,
sprawled on the cracked leather of an ancient Georgian wing chair
and looked over at Santo Ducci, who was talking on the telephone
behind Wyn's desk, a Louis XV bureau plat . He took a sip of
his coffee and grimaced. It was already cold.
He tossed his unlit cigarette into a crystal
ashtray and got back up, walking over to an ornate gilded console
and draining the coffee mug in an orchid plant on the marble top.
Then he walked to the minibar that was concealed behind a jib door
near the fireplace and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee from
the coffeemaker there. He retraced his steps, sipping the hot black
coffee as he went, but before he could sit back down, Santo quietly
hung up the telephone and looked over at him.
"That was the vet, right?" Wyn asked.
Santo shook his head. "No," he replied. The
sun, which streamed through the French doors behind him, shone off
the top of his shaved head.
"No?" Wyn said irritably. He glared at Santo,
but the giant couldn't read the look in Wyn's eyes because of the
long shadow cast by his baseball cap. "Didn't I tell you to call
her first thing this morning?"
"And I did," Santo said mildly. He gazed at
his boss dispassionately, his hugely muscled arms folded across his
chest, his feathers completely unruffled by Wyn's irritation. "That
was somebody else," he added.
"Oh," Wyn said, frowning. "Well then, tell
me, Santo. What the hell did the vet say?"
"They share and share alike," Santo said.
"She said it was usually against clinic policy."
"Against clinic policy?" Wyn stormed. "That's
a crock of shit."
Santo held his hands out, gesturing at Wyn to
hold on a minute. "Chill out," he said calmly. "She said she'll
discuss it with the other vets and get back to me. It's a
possibility."
"I never heard of anything so stupid," Wyn
groused.
"I told you, she said they have a
share-and-share- alike policy," Santo countered.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It's simple. You don't normally get to
choose a particular vet," Santo said. "You get whoever's on
duty."
"That's ridiculous," Wyn spat. "This isn't a
third- world country."
"Maybe not," Santo said, "but that's the
usual policy."
"Damn!" Wyn sat down in the big wing chair
and slammed his mug of coffee on the table next to it. Coffee
sloshed out onto the table's highly polished walnut surface, but he
ignored it. "Find out who owns the fucking clinic," he demanded,
casting a scowl in Santo's direction.
"That's what I just did."
"And?" Wyn asked impatiently.
Santo looked down at some notes
bought and renovated Stonelair?
She felt a sudden twinge in her stomach, an
uncomfortable feeling that she couldn't quite describe. All
thoughts of tonight's dinner and unpleasant office politics were
swept away, and she felt a new sense of uneasiness that she
couldn't explain. It was something about Stonelair, of that she was
certain, but what was it that had her so spooked?
Chapter Four
Wyndhym Ashley Conrad III slowly paced back
and forth across the library's faded Portuguese needlepoint rug, a
mug of coffee in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. A
black baseball cap partially hid his long, slightly curly
raven-black hair and all but obscured the thoughtful expression in
his velvety dark brown eyes. The sleeves on his long-sleeved black
T-shirt were rolled up above his elbows, revealing strong, muscular
forearms and powerful-looking hands. Matching sweatpants, cinched
tightly against the flat plane of his stomach, hung loosely on his
muscular legs.
As he paced, four enormous Irish wolfhounds
watched his every move. Two of them, both gray, were ensconced on
tufted antique leather sofas that faced one another in front of the
French limestone fireplace mantel. The other two, one brindle and
the other brown, had arrayed themselves on the rug near the hearth.
On their alert faces were looks of equal parts devotion and
curiosity.
Wyn, finally weary of his aimless strides,
sprawled on the cracked leather of an ancient Georgian wing chair
and looked over at Santo Ducci, who was talking on the telephone
behind Wyn's desk, a Louis XV bureau plat . He took a sip of
his coffee and grimaced. It was already cold.
He tossed his unlit cigarette into a crystal
ashtray and got back up, walking over to an ornate gilded console
and draining the coffee mug in an orchid plant on the marble top.
Then he walked to the minibar that was concealed behind a jib door
near the fireplace and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee from
the coffeemaker there. He retraced his steps, sipping the hot black
coffee as he went, but before he could sit back down, Santo quietly
hung up the telephone and looked over at him.
"That was the vet, right?" Wyn asked.
Santo shook his head. "No," he replied. The
sun, which streamed through the French doors behind him, shone off
the top of his shaved head.
"No?" Wyn said irritably. He glared at Santo,
but the giant couldn't read the look in Wyn's eyes because of the
long shadow cast by his baseball cap. "Didn't I tell you to call
her first thing this morning?"
"And I did," Santo said mildly. He gazed at
his boss dispassionately, his hugely muscled arms folded across his
chest, his feathers completely unruffled by Wyn's irritation. "That
was somebody else," he added.
"Oh," Wyn said, frowning. "Well then, tell
me, Santo. What the hell did the vet say?"
"They share and share alike," Santo said.
"She said it was usually against clinic policy."
"Against clinic policy?" Wyn stormed. "That's
a crock of shit."
Santo held his hands out, gesturing at Wyn to
hold on a minute. "Chill out," he said calmly. "She said she'll
discuss it with the other vets and get back to me. It's a
possibility."
"I never heard of anything so stupid," Wyn
groused.
"I told you, she said they have a
share-and-share- alike policy," Santo countered.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It's simple. You don't normally get to
choose a particular vet," Santo said. "You get whoever's on
duty."
"That's ridiculous," Wyn spat. "This isn't a
third- world country."
"Maybe not," Santo said, "but that's the
usual policy."
"Damn!" Wyn sat down in the big wing chair
and slammed his mug of coffee on the table next to it. Coffee
sloshed out onto the table's highly polished walnut surface, but he
ignored it. "Find out who owns the fucking clinic," he demanded,
casting a scowl in Santo's direction.
"That's what I just did."
"And?" Wyn asked impatiently.
Santo looked down at some notes
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