the one in the gazebo for size hung on the wall above the mantel. The clean, spicy scent of male cologne tickled her nose, and her curiosity. What kind of rocker had a room like this? Distinctly masculine…and yet very comfortable. Mature.
Sophisticated.
“This is Cole’s lair.” Something in Styx’s tone drew her gaze, but he pushed on before she could comment on his odd choice of words. A strange smile lit his eyes. “I don’t think he was expecting you quite this early today. Why don’t you hang out here, and I’ll go find him.” Nodding, Alex thanked Styx and wandered to the sofa. She reached for a magazine as Styx slipped back out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Alex leafed through the pages. Her eyes skimmed the glossy photos without registering what she was looking at. Bored, she tossed it aside after only a few moments, and picked up another. It didn’t hold her interest for long, either. Restless, she stood and shuffled the papers and magazines into neat, tidy stacks.
Then she wandered the room.
Drawn inexorably to the display case, she ogled the ancient pieces within. Daggers, several 49
swords, a lethal-looking battle-ax, a scarred shield, and a tarnished Viking helmet rested on pillows of luxuriant velvet. Protected and honored. She blinked, perplexed, leaning closer to the display. Then, eyes narrowed, she leaned back and tilted her hea d, bewildered. Each piece bore identical,
distinctive markings of possession—the Odhroerir , the Triple Horn of Odin. Ha ving been
a fascinated student of mythology, Alex knew the three, interlocking drinking horns at first glance, as well as the symbol’s meaning. According to Norse mythology, the Odhroerir symbolized the magical mead brewed from the blood of the wise god Kvasir. The old Viking tales often varied, but traditionally it was said that on the god’s quest, Odin used his wits and his magic to procure the coveted brew over the course of three days. The three horns reflected the three draughts of the magical mead.
The symbol of possession earmarking each piece in the case was, ironically, all too familiar to Alex. Her hand flew to the small of her back, and she frowned. Disconcerted, she moved away to drink in the eclectic artwork hanging on the walls. Again, to her surprise, good taste prevailed.
At length, she wandered to the bookshelves, marveling at the titles therein.
Homer, Shakespeare, Poe. She took one down to examine it more closely. Her hands bobbled the aged leather bound tome. It was old. Really old .
Appalled, she very gingerly replaced the book on the shelf and took a cautious, awed step back. As she turned away, she happened to glance at the papers strewn over the top of the desk. She didn’t mean to snoop, she truly didn’t, but she couldn’t help notice her own name, time and time again.
Careful not to disturb anything, she leaned over 50
the desk and scanned the writing.
Sheet music—original copies of her sheet music—lay scattered over one end of the desk. A stack of newspapers covered the rest of the desk; each and every one folded back to reveal her articles. A clipping of an old magazine write up from when she’d first burst onto the music scene, a brilliant star on an upward climb, peeped at her from amid the loose score sheets.
She had to give the man points for doing his homework. The very idea that he’d expended such effort researching her past was flattering, and more than a little daunting.
Frowning, she moved away from the desk and wandered through the room until she stood in front of a long row of windows overlooking the manicured south lawns. Cocking her head to the side, she studied the windows with baffled interest. The glass didn’t give off much, if any light. Peering directly at the pane of glass, she noted the window’s heavy layers of tint.
Well, that was certainly…odd. She gave a slight shrug at Gunnarrson’s eccentricities.
Well over half an hour passed, and she
Sophisticated.
“This is Cole’s lair.” Something in Styx’s tone drew her gaze, but he pushed on before she could comment on his odd choice of words. A strange smile lit his eyes. “I don’t think he was expecting you quite this early today. Why don’t you hang out here, and I’ll go find him.” Nodding, Alex thanked Styx and wandered to the sofa. She reached for a magazine as Styx slipped back out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Alex leafed through the pages. Her eyes skimmed the glossy photos without registering what she was looking at. Bored, she tossed it aside after only a few moments, and picked up another. It didn’t hold her interest for long, either. Restless, she stood and shuffled the papers and magazines into neat, tidy stacks.
Then she wandered the room.
Drawn inexorably to the display case, she ogled the ancient pieces within. Daggers, several 49
swords, a lethal-looking battle-ax, a scarred shield, and a tarnished Viking helmet rested on pillows of luxuriant velvet. Protected and honored. She blinked, perplexed, leaning closer to the display. Then, eyes narrowed, she leaned back and tilted her hea d, bewildered. Each piece bore identical,
distinctive markings of possession—the Odhroerir , the Triple Horn of Odin. Ha ving been
a fascinated student of mythology, Alex knew the three, interlocking drinking horns at first glance, as well as the symbol’s meaning. According to Norse mythology, the Odhroerir symbolized the magical mead brewed from the blood of the wise god Kvasir. The old Viking tales often varied, but traditionally it was said that on the god’s quest, Odin used his wits and his magic to procure the coveted brew over the course of three days. The three horns reflected the three draughts of the magical mead.
The symbol of possession earmarking each piece in the case was, ironically, all too familiar to Alex. Her hand flew to the small of her back, and she frowned. Disconcerted, she moved away to drink in the eclectic artwork hanging on the walls. Again, to her surprise, good taste prevailed.
At length, she wandered to the bookshelves, marveling at the titles therein.
Homer, Shakespeare, Poe. She took one down to examine it more closely. Her hands bobbled the aged leather bound tome. It was old. Really old .
Appalled, she very gingerly replaced the book on the shelf and took a cautious, awed step back. As she turned away, she happened to glance at the papers strewn over the top of the desk. She didn’t mean to snoop, she truly didn’t, but she couldn’t help notice her own name, time and time again.
Careful not to disturb anything, she leaned over 50
the desk and scanned the writing.
Sheet music—original copies of her sheet music—lay scattered over one end of the desk. A stack of newspapers covered the rest of the desk; each and every one folded back to reveal her articles. A clipping of an old magazine write up from when she’d first burst onto the music scene, a brilliant star on an upward climb, peeped at her from amid the loose score sheets.
She had to give the man points for doing his homework. The very idea that he’d expended such effort researching her past was flattering, and more than a little daunting.
Frowning, she moved away from the desk and wandered through the room until she stood in front of a long row of windows overlooking the manicured south lawns. Cocking her head to the side, she studied the windows with baffled interest. The glass didn’t give off much, if any light. Peering directly at the pane of glass, she noted the window’s heavy layers of tint.
Well, that was certainly…odd. She gave a slight shrug at Gunnarrson’s eccentricities.
Well over half an hour passed, and she
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