such fragile material that have survived for so long, isn't there?"
The three years rang a very loud bell. According to Sally Warren, Cyrus had been wounded in the course of a robbery three years ago. His wife had been killed in a carjacking. His partner had disappeared and was presumed dead. And the stolen object, whatever it was, had vanished.
And it had all happened three years ago.
It didn't require her several academic degrees and her assortment of professional credentials to deduce that something was very, very wrong here.
"Glass is an amazing substance," she said, carefully. "And not necessarily fragile. It can be made tough enough to withstand the impact of a bullet."
"Like Grandpappy Beau used to say, it just goes to show that strength comes in a lot of different forms." Cyrus straightened as if he intended to walk back to his Jeep. But he paused when a sudden thought seemed to occur to him.
"You said you don't put a lot of stock in free advice, but there's something else you should know about me."
"Really?" She smiled blandly. "What's that?"
"When I take a strong personal interest in a project, I tend to be a little obsessive. Smart people do not get between me and what I want."
Cold, ghostly fingers touched the back of her neck. "We're back to threats, I see. Somehow they suit you better than the chitchat about ancient glass."
"Any chance of an honest truce, here? Life will be simpler and far more pleasant if we don't spend all of our time going for each other's jugulars."
"You surprise me. I would have thought you thrived on other people's jugulars."
"Only as an occasional snack, not as a regular diet. Guess this means no truce, huh?"
"Guess so." There could be no truce with a man who was not telling her the truth.
"Your boss wanted you to think of me as a precaution."
"Yes, I know," Eugenia said politely. "Rather like a flu shot."
He nodded. "Yeah. Or a condom."
She glowered at him. "Whatever Tabitha thinks, I do not need a bodyguard, and furthermore, I do not like the way you went about convincing her that I might need one."
"Okay. Have it your way." He turned and walked back down the aisle between the two lines of parked cars.
Eugenia sat back and folded her arms. Arrogant bastard . He had deliberately tried to intimidate her. The bad news was that he had almost succeeded.
The question was, why had he gone to the effort?
She studied him in the rearview mirror as he returned to his car. He moved with the unhurried, gliding stride of a man who did not know what it was like to be off-balance either mentally or physically. She wondered what it would take to make him move fast.
It would have to be something really, really important, she decided.
As if he knew that she was watching him, he glanced back at her when he opened the door of the Jeep. Light glared fiercely on the surfaces of his mirrored sunglasses. She quickly averted her eyes, but she knew that he had seen her. She had not missed his faint, satisfied smile.
The small ferry plowed into the wall of fog. A featureless, gray mist closed around the craft and its passengers, sealing them off from the sunlight and the rest of the world.
Eugenia listened to the slap of the waves against the hull of the boat and wondered how she was going to share a kitchen with Cyrus Chandler Colfax.
Four
« ^ »
T he man who had once been Damien March reclined in a white lounger positioned on a gleaming white tile deck at the edge of a turquoise blue pool. He sipped a gin-and-tonic from a nineteenth-century Baccarat glass and surveyed the expanse of azure Caribbean sea that lay beyond a profusion of brilliant red frangipani.
All his life he had worked toward the goal of surrounding himself with beauty and perfection. He lusted after the beautiful and the perfect the way other men lusted after sex. Money, he had discovered long ago, was the key to possessing both. Money bought power, and power could purchase many beautiful, perfect things.
Here on
The three years rang a very loud bell. According to Sally Warren, Cyrus had been wounded in the course of a robbery three years ago. His wife had been killed in a carjacking. His partner had disappeared and was presumed dead. And the stolen object, whatever it was, had vanished.
And it had all happened three years ago.
It didn't require her several academic degrees and her assortment of professional credentials to deduce that something was very, very wrong here.
"Glass is an amazing substance," she said, carefully. "And not necessarily fragile. It can be made tough enough to withstand the impact of a bullet."
"Like Grandpappy Beau used to say, it just goes to show that strength comes in a lot of different forms." Cyrus straightened as if he intended to walk back to his Jeep. But he paused when a sudden thought seemed to occur to him.
"You said you don't put a lot of stock in free advice, but there's something else you should know about me."
"Really?" She smiled blandly. "What's that?"
"When I take a strong personal interest in a project, I tend to be a little obsessive. Smart people do not get between me and what I want."
Cold, ghostly fingers touched the back of her neck. "We're back to threats, I see. Somehow they suit you better than the chitchat about ancient glass."
"Any chance of an honest truce, here? Life will be simpler and far more pleasant if we don't spend all of our time going for each other's jugulars."
"You surprise me. I would have thought you thrived on other people's jugulars."
"Only as an occasional snack, not as a regular diet. Guess this means no truce, huh?"
"Guess so." There could be no truce with a man who was not telling her the truth.
"Your boss wanted you to think of me as a precaution."
"Yes, I know," Eugenia said politely. "Rather like a flu shot."
He nodded. "Yeah. Or a condom."
She glowered at him. "Whatever Tabitha thinks, I do not need a bodyguard, and furthermore, I do not like the way you went about convincing her that I might need one."
"Okay. Have it your way." He turned and walked back down the aisle between the two lines of parked cars.
Eugenia sat back and folded her arms. Arrogant bastard . He had deliberately tried to intimidate her. The bad news was that he had almost succeeded.
The question was, why had he gone to the effort?
She studied him in the rearview mirror as he returned to his car. He moved with the unhurried, gliding stride of a man who did not know what it was like to be off-balance either mentally or physically. She wondered what it would take to make him move fast.
It would have to be something really, really important, she decided.
As if he knew that she was watching him, he glanced back at her when he opened the door of the Jeep. Light glared fiercely on the surfaces of his mirrored sunglasses. She quickly averted her eyes, but she knew that he had seen her. She had not missed his faint, satisfied smile.
The small ferry plowed into the wall of fog. A featureless, gray mist closed around the craft and its passengers, sealing them off from the sunlight and the rest of the world.
Eugenia listened to the slap of the waves against the hull of the boat and wondered how she was going to share a kitchen with Cyrus Chandler Colfax.
Four
« ^ »
T he man who had once been Damien March reclined in a white lounger positioned on a gleaming white tile deck at the edge of a turquoise blue pool. He sipped a gin-and-tonic from a nineteenth-century Baccarat glass and surveyed the expanse of azure Caribbean sea that lay beyond a profusion of brilliant red frangipani.
All his life he had worked toward the goal of surrounding himself with beauty and perfection. He lusted after the beautiful and the perfect the way other men lusted after sex. Money, he had discovered long ago, was the key to possessing both. Money bought power, and power could purchase many beautiful, perfect things.
Here on
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