Son of the Morning

by Linda Howard

  The loving but casual references to Ford and their life together, to Bryant, almost undid her. She felt the rush of pain and hastily scrolled down, closing her mind to the memories. She reached the last entry, made April twenty-sixth, and with relief saw that the entire entry was about the intriguing documents she’d been deciphering and translating. She had typed “NIALL OF SCOTLAND” in capital letters, and followed it with “real or myth?”

  She knew the answer to that. He’d been real, a man who strode boldly through history, but behind the scenes, so that few traces remained of his passing. He’d been entrusted with the enormous Treasure of the Templars, but what had he done with it? With the means at his disposal, he could have accomplished anything, toppled kings, but instead he’d vanished.

  Her fingers moved over the keys. “What were you, Niall? Where did you go, what did you do? What is so special about these papers that men have died just for knowing they existed? Why can’t I stop thinking about you, dreaming about you? What would you do if you were here?”

  A strange question, she thought, looking at what she had typed. Why would she even think of him in modern times? Dreaming about him was at least understandable, because immersing herself in her research, trying so hard to find any mention of him, had indelibly imprinted him in her mind. Because of Ford’s and Bryant’s deaths, there was nothing more important to her now than finding out why, so naturally she dreamed about the research.

  But she hadn’t, she realized. She hadn’t dreamed about the Templars, about ancient documents, or even about libraries or computers. She had dreamed only of Niall, her imagination assigning him a face, a form, a voice, a presence. Since the murders she hadn’t dreamed much at all, as if her subconscious tried to give her a respite from the terrible reality she faced every day, but when she had dreamed it had been of Niall.

  What would he do if he were there? He’d been a highly trained warrior, the medieval equivalent of the modern military’s special forces. Would he have run and hidden, or would he have stood his ground and fought?

  Whatever was best to achieve my goal.

  Her head snapped around, her heart racing. Someone had spoken, someone in the room. Her panicked gaze searched out every corner of the small room, and though her eyes told her she was alone, her instincts didn’t believe it. Her body felt electrified, every nerve alert and tingling. She breathed shallowly, her head cocked as she sat very still and listened, straining to hear a faint rustle of fabric, a scrape of a shoe, an indrawn breath. Nothing. The room was silent. She was alone.

  But she’d heard it, a deep, slightly raspy voice with a burred inflection. It hadn’t been in her head, but something external.

  She shivered, her skin roughening with chill bumps. Beneath her T-shirt, her nipples were tight and hard.

  “Niall?” she whispered into the empty room, but there was only silence, and she felt foolish.

  It had been only her imagination, after all, producing yet another manifestation of her obsession with those papers.

  Still, her fingers tapped on the keys again, the words spilling out of her: “I’ll learn how to fight. I can’t be passive about this, I can’t merely react to what others do. I have to make things happen, have to take the initiative away from Parrish. That’s what you would do, Niall. It’s what I will do.”

  Chapter 9

  PARRISH SIPPED THE MERLOT, AND GAVE A BRIEF NOD OF appreciation. Though merlot usually wasn’t to his taste, this one was unexpectedly fine, very dark and dry. Bayard “Skip” Saunders, his host, considered himself a connoisseur of wine and had gone to great lengths to impress Parrish by trotting out his best and rarest vintages. Parrish was accustomed to members of the Foundation becoming slightly giddy whenever he visited; though he would have preferred a fine champagne or a biting martini, or even a properly aged bourbon, he was publicly never less than gracious about his underlings’ efforts.

  Skip—a ridiculous nickname for a grown man—was one of the more wealthy and influential members of the Foundation. He also lived in Chicago, which was the sole reason for Parrish’s presence. Though Conrad had been unable to find a definite trail, he was nevertheless certain Grace had made her way to Chicago, and Parrish had faith in his henchman. Skip Saunders would be able to provide support in the search, in the form of both logistics and influence. Should Grace’s capture be too messy—in other words, too public—Skip would be able to whisper a few words into an ear or two and the matter would simply go away, as if it had never existed. Parrish appreciated the convenience.

  What he would appreciate more, he thought idly as his gaze briefly met that of Saunders’s wife, Calla, was half an hour alone with the lovely Mrs. Saunders. What a superb trophy she was, a glorious testament to the seductiveness of money and power. Wife number one, the recipient of Saunders’s youthful seed and vigor and the bearer of his two exceedingly spoiled children, was unfortunately fifty and therefore no longer young enough or glamorous enough to satisfy his ego. Parrish had met the first Mrs. Saunders, when she had still been Mrs. Saunders, and had been charmed by her wit. At any dull social affair he would have much preferred to have number one beside him—but if the position were changed to under him, he would definitely choose the lovely Calla. Saunders was a fool. He should have kept the wonderful companion as his wife, the main course, and enjoyed Calla as a side dish. Ah, well. Men who thought with their genitals often made poor choices.

  Calla was certainly tempting. Parrish’s manners were too polished to allow him to stare openly at her, but nevertheless each look was thoroughly assessing. She was about five-six, willowy, impeccably dressed in a simple, midnight-blue sheath that lovingly hugged every siliconed and liposuctioned curve and provided ample bare flesh on which to display the multitude of diamonds and sapphires she wore. She was a striking woman, with warmly golden skin and big, china-blue eyes, but what interested him most was her long, straight swath of hair, which she let hang freely down her back. Smart woman. She knew her hair was a magnet for male attention, the way it lifted and swung with every graceful movement she made. It wasn’t as long as Grace’s, he thought dispassionately, or as dark, but still…

  She was taller than Grace, and more slender. She probably hadn’t blushed with shyness since the age of eight, and the expression in her eyes was knowing, completely lacking Grace’s innocence and trust. Her mouth wasn’t thin, but neither did it have the lush, unconscious sexuality of Grace’s lips. Her hair, though… he wanted to wrap his fist in that hair, hold it tight while he used her. He would close his eyes and pretend she was shorter, softer, that the hair he gripped was as sleek and thick as dark mink.

  Perhaps later, he thought, and gave her a long, cool, deliberate look he knew she wouldn’t misunderstand. One elegantly arched brow lifted as she caught his intent, and her lips curved in both invitation and satisfaction. Once again she had attracted the most powerful male present, and she was obviously pleased.

  That minor detail taken care of, Parrish turned his attention back to her husband. “Very good,” he said, seeing that Skip was anxiously awaiting verbal approval of his choice of wine. “I don’t usually care for merlot, but this is exceptional.”

  A flush of pleasure warmed Skip’s tanned face. “There are only three bottles of that particular vintage left in the world. I have two of them,” he couldn’t resist adding.

  “Excellent. Perhaps you should acquire the third bottle as well,” Parrish suggested, and hid his perverse amusement at the knowledge that Skip would now spend an untold amount of time and money trying to do just that. The three bottles could turn to vinegar for all Parrish cared.

  He clapped a friendly hand to Skip’s shoulder, “I want to have a private word with you, if I may, whenever you are free from playing host.”

  As he’d expected, Skip immediately straightened. “We can go to my study now. Calla won’t mind, will you, darling?”

  “Of course not,” she calmly replied, knowing her role and in truth not giving a damn where her husband
was or what he did. She immediately turned away to see to the needs of her other guests, a select fifty or so of Chicago’s wealthiest citizens.

  Skip led the way down a wide corridor to a set of double doors which he opened inward, admitting them into a mahogany-paneled office with a huge expanse of window overlooking Lake Michigan. “Magnificent view, isn’t it?” Skip asked with obvious pleasure, crossing to the window.

  “Magnificent,” Parrish agreed. The view was more spectacular than his view of Lake Minnetonka, but he wasn’t envious. He could have had such a view, had he chosen. Instead he was well pleased with the more staid but equally moneyed Wayzata; it suited him to be slightly out of the mainstream of the larger cities, tucked away in Minnesota. His neighbors were incurious, and so long as he gave the impression of being socially and politically correct, no one ever looked beneath the surface.

  The two men stepped out onto the balcony, and the brisk wind off the lake still carried a chill even though summer had truly arrived. Parrish looked both left and right to make certain they were completely alone. “We’re searching for a woman, Grace St. John. She’s been accused of murdering her husband.” He didn’t bother to explain that he himself was responsible for both the accusation and the murder. “I believe she has information we would find of vital importance, so of course I would prefer finding her before the police do.”

  “Of course,” Skip murmured. “Anything I can do—”

  “My men have the search operation in hand, but should things go wrong, I want you on hand to turn any interest away. I hope requiring your presence here won’t interfere with any vacation plans you’ve made.” Parrish said it knowing Skip and Calla were scheduled to leave shortly for a month-long stay in Europe, not that it mattered; Skip would cancel an audience with the Pope to be of service to the Foundation. Of the two, the Foundation was more powerful, though its power and influence were far less noticeable.

  “No problem,” Skip hastily assured him.

  “Good. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  As Parrish turned to enter the study he saw Calla standing just inside the doors, and he paused, wondering what she knew and how much she’d overheard. It would be a pity if she fell over the balcony; such a tragic accident, but accidents happened.

  “Dear,” Calla said to Skip as she glided onto the balcony. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but Senator Trikoris has just arrived, and you know how he is.”

  The senator was notorious for expecting a great deal of ass-licking in exchange for legislative favors. The Foundation was working to develop a file on the senator, one that would bring him in line so that the favors he did were for the Foundation’s benefit. When that happened, the senator would be the one doing the ass-licking, and Parrish’s would be the ass being licked. The senator wasn’t yet aware of the future direction of his legislative efforts, and until he was, Parrish was content to let Skip keep him happy. He nodded a dismissal, and Skip hastily left.

  Calla leaned against the wall, her gaze cool and brilliant and calculating as she watched him. The wind lifted the silky ends of her hair, playing with it. Out here in the night, her hair looked dark, as dark as Grace’s. Perhaps he would fuck her before assisting her over the balcony, Parrish thought, and felt his body respond to the excitement of the idea.

  “Yes, I know about the Foundation,” Calla murmured, her gaze never wavering from his face. “Skip’s a fool. He leaves paperwork lying around in his office where anyone can see it. You would be better off to get rid of him and work with me.”

  Parrish lifted his eyebrows. She was right; Skip was a fool, and an unforgivably careless one. He would have to be taken care of. Dear Calla wasn’t a fool, however, and the problem of what to do about her was one that demanded an immediate decision.

  He leaned against the balcony railing, slim and elegant in his black silk trousers and white evening coat. His debonair image was both carefully cultivated and entirely natural to him, blinding people to the cold reality that lay beneath the silk. He sensed that Calla, unlike most people, had read him correctly and knew how close she was to death. Instead of being dismayed, she was excited by the danger. Beneath the clingy midnight fabric of her dress, her nipples were erect.

  “It’s Skip who has the contacts, the money,” he said neutrally, but he was becoming more excited, too. Grace was the only other woman who had instinctively sensed the reality of him, and she had resisted his charm. Calla made no effort to resist him, but the similarity was enough to make him hot. It wouldn’t be like having Grace; Grace had an innocence, a shining incorruptibility, that would drive him to new heights in his efforts to sully her. He doubted there was any sullying in which Calla had not already indulged. But in a way Calla was a twisted, corrupted version of Grace, and he wanted her.

  Calla grimaced at his statement. “He has the power, you mean, because he controls the money. But does the true power lie with the man who controls the money, or with the woman who controls the man? What I know about the movers and shakers in this city is ten times more useful than Skip’s social contacts.”

  “You use the word know in the biblical sense, I presume?”

  Her lips curved in a slight smile but she didn’t answer the charge. “The Foundation is real power. Forget the trade unions, the political parties; they all have ties to the Foundation, don’t they? No matter which party is in the White House, you have a private line to the Oval Office.”

  In most cases, he thought, but not all. The Foundation hadn’t had good luck with the past two Republican presidents, or the Democratic one before them. Their luck had changed four years earlier, however, and he had moved swiftly to make the gains denied the Foundation for sixteen long years. He was also working hard to make certain he maintained guaranteed access for another four years, at least. Politics was boring, but necessary, at least for now. If he could get his hands on the documents Grace held, he wouldn’t have to bother with manipulating politics to try and ensure a reasonable occupant of the White House; the president would be coming to him, as would all the world’s ostensible leaders.

  The Foundation had been poised for centuries, ready to act when the papers were found. How wonderful that the discovery had been made on his watch, Parrish thought, but less wonderful that a bungling fool in France had let the documents slip out of his hands. Those papers meant power. Unimaginable power. The world would be in the palm of his hand, to be manipulated as he willed. Oh, the money and the power would technically belong to the Foundation, to be passed on to his successor, but his to use as he wished for his lifetime. A man of limited imagination wouldn’t see the possibilities, but Parrish had no such limitations.

  He had no interest in holding any office, whether president or prime minister, or in waging war. War was so gauche, so much effort for so little gain. The time had passed when nations could be won; now war meant little but destruction. Real power lay in money, as Calla had observed, and whoever controlled the money controlled the world as well as the puppets who stood onstage, in the limelight, and pretended to be the ones in power.

  The documents in Grace’s possession led to such power, to unlimited wealth. Over the centuries legends and superstitions had formed about some magical source of power the Templars had controlled, much like the ridiculous claims about the Ark of the Covenant, but unlike some in the Foundation, Parrish secretly scoffed at the idea. If the Templars had controlled some magical power, how could they have been so easily destroyed by treachery? Obviously the only power they had possessed had been a material one, an enormous treasury that had attracted the envy of a king and caused their downfall. No, the Templars’ power had been wealth, more than could be imagined. There was nothing magical about it, though to the fourteenth-century mind the sheer magnitude of the treasury must have been beyond comprehension, and thus had to be magic. They had been nothing but superstitious fools. Parrish, however, was not.

  Nor was he sentimental. If Calla thought to enslave him with her considerable charm, she was doomed to d
isappointment.

  “I’m interested in working with the Foundation,” Calla said when he remained silent, his cold gaze fixed on her face. “My assets are considerably more useful than Skip’s.”

  “No one works with the Foundation,” Parrish corrected. “The proper term is for.”

  “Not even you?” she delicately needled.

  He shrugged. For his lifetime he was the Foundation, but it wasn’t necessary for her to know that. It wasn’t necessary to talk to her at all. As delightful as it would undoubtedly be to let her into the Foundation, to have her at his beck and call until he was bored with her, he wasn’t about to let someone of her intellect and daring, as well as complete lack of scruples, get that close to the center of power. He would have to watch his back every minute.

  She moistened her lips, staring at him. “Do you know what I think?” Her voice was a purr. “I think you’re the center of it all. A man with your kind of power—why, you can do anything, have anything you want. And I can help you get it.”

  Oh, she was definitely too smart for her own good.

  He reached her in three steps, smiling slightly in the semidarkness as he looked down at her. Calla stood very still, her perfectly chiseled face illuminated by the light from the study behind her. She licked her lips again, the action unconscious, feline.