“You didn’t manufacture that design of intertwined initials. Or the cover you sketched for Dana just before I told her you’d had enough and dragged you out from under her velvet-sheathed steel claws.”
“Did I thank you for that?”
He grinned and kissed the corner of her mouth, licked lightly, remembering. “Oh yeah.”
Her smile came and went swiftly. “How much of my memory do you think is real?”
“My name is North, not Proust.”
“Where’s a philosopher when you need one?” she retorted.
“Drinking hemlock tea.”
She smiled in spite of the restlessness that swept through her like an autumn wind. She could almost see the memory/dream/image of her grandmother in lantern light, smiling.
Almost. But not enough to look through her grandmother’s eyes and see what had made her smile.
If there was anything to see.
Damn!
“Let it go,” Erik said.
“What?”
“Whatever is making you tighten up and frown. Let it go and enjoy the last of the wine Dana sent as an apology.”
“Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you’ll—“ Serena stopped abruptly.
Erik’s hand closed over hers. “You’ll be fine.”
“That’s not how the saying goes.”
“It is now.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. Under the cover of a kiss, he slid his tongue between her fingers. The noise of rain bursting against the window covered her gasp, but the sudden speeding of her heartbeat was quite apparent at her wrist. Delicately he probed the telltale pulse with the tip of his tongue.
“Are you trying to distract me?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’re succeeding very well.”
“Want to see what else I’m good at?”
Desire swept through her, softening her in a scented rush. “I can’t wait.”
His fingers stroked, probed, found her ready, and his own breath broke on a surge of hunger. “You don’t have to wait.”
In one long motion he locked himself inside her.
Beside the bed, the intertwined initials shimmered and burned as though they were alive.
Chapter 63
LOS ANGELES
SUNDAY MORNING
Screens around the clean room showed each of the seventeen sheets taken from the Book of the Learned. At the bottom of each screen was the earliest known provenance of the pictured page. At the moment, no one was paying any attention to the displays.
Paul Carson and Cleary Warrick Montclair were isolated behind a one-way mirror with Niall. Both men were watching Cleary closely. She had the fractured eyes and vibrating body of a woman running too close to the edge of her control.
Beyond the one-way mirror, Garrison Montclair sat on one side of the clean room’s steel conference table. Serena and Erik sat opposite Garrison. Dana sat at the head of the table. Various refreshments lay ignored in the center.
“Thank you for agreeing to this meeting, Serena,” Dana said, her voice as creamy as her eyes were cold. She was furious at having been forced into the confrontation. But the choice had been clear: if she wanted the House of Warrick’s cooperation tracing the illuminated pages, she would have to keep Cleary informed of everything that occurred in the search, no matter how minor the detail. “Ms. Warrick Montclair is intensely worried about her father.”
Erik, who was facing the one-way mirror, didn’t bother to hide his sardonic expression. If Dana’s arm-twisting could be called agreement, Serena had agreed. To be precise, she had literally thrown her hands in the air and said, Fine. I’ll talk to Garrison. And then I’m leaving!
“Garrison, I believe you are acting as spokesman?” Dana said, looking at him with no favor at all.
Erik made a disgusted sound. Talk about an understatement. Paul had all but carried Cleary screaming into the spy room. Cleary had wanted to convince Serena face-to-face of the importance of selling the pages—and the Book of the Learned itself—to the House of Warrick. Dana had vetoed that idea. Serena had repeated that refusal to Paul Carson in a word of one syllable.
Garrison smiled engagingly. He looked quite fresh in his slate-colored flannel slacks and open-necked, long-sleeved white shirt. If his eyes showed the effects of too little sleep and one too many martinis, he wasn’t worried about it. Anyone with Cleary for a mother was bound to look frayed from time to time.
“I second Dana’s thanks,” Garrison said, giving Serena a look of frank understanding and sympathy. “I also apologize for my mother. She’s an excellent businesswoman, but when it comes to family she loses all perspective.”
Serena’s expression wasn’t encouraging. It said more clearly than words that she was heartily sick of hearing about Cleary’s problems. “I’m here,” Serena said. “If you thought I would be smiling about it, you don’t know me.”
Garrison sighed. “I’m sorry, Serena.”
“So am I,” she said evenly.
He smiled.
She didn’t.
“I believe you had a proposition to put before Ms. Charters,” Dana said. The look in Dana’s eyes said she wasn’t going to be throwing rose petals at Garrison no matter what the outcome of the meeting.
“So much for the amenities, is that it?” Garrison asked ruefully.
“Exactly.” Dana waited.
“All right.” He took a sip of the coffee he had been ignoring. As he put down the cup, he looked directly at Serena. “The House of Warrick is prepared to pay you one million dollars for the four leaves of manuscript you have in your possession and your written agreement to cede to the House of Warrick all interest in whatever manuscript those pages once were part of.”
Serena didn’t even pause. “No.”
“Ms. Charters . . . Serena,” Garrison said, rubbing his forehead wearily, “may I ask why?”
“Would you sell the heart out of your body for a million dollars?” Serena retorted.
He looked startled. “Er, no, of course not.”
She touched the uncanny scarf she wore around her throat. Against her forest-green blouse, the scarf was a gold-shot green. Last night, against a black shirt, the scarf had looked like gleaming midnight. In any light, it gave her skin the iridescence of pearl.
“In some way I can’t explain,” she said finally, “those pages are as much a part of me as your heart is a part of you.”
“Forgive me,” Garrison said, frowning, “but I find it difficult to believe that a woman of limited means would turn down a million dollars for four manuscript leaves that wouldn’t sell for a thousand dollars each on the open market.”
“Which brings up an interesting point,” Erik said, pinning Garrison with predatory eyes. “Why is the House of Warrick willing to spend a million for pages that Norman Warrick is saying are fraudulent? Are you afraid that someone else might disagree and undermine faith in the old man’s abilities? Someone like me? Because I can’t wait to go one-on-one with your grandfather on the subject of the worth of Serena’s pages. They are as true as they are beautiful.”
“No one from the House of Warrick has officially announced an opinion on those pages one way or another.”
“Interesting,” Erik said neutrally. “Yet everyone who is anyone in the illuminated manuscript business knows that Norman Warrick thinks Serena’s pages are frauds.”
Garrison made an impatient gesture. “I can’t be responsible for gossip. As for being worried about my grandfather’s reputation—bullshit. He has been wrong in the past—though rarely—and the House of Warrick hasn’t crumbled. The reason we’re offering a million is emotional rather than professional. My mother has her panties in a twist for fear that Grandfather is going to blow a valve over the pages, which would throw a real spanner into our negotiations with a coalition of auction houses. This is a crucial time for the House of Warrick. Her solution is to buy the pages and save her father’s life and the family business. If that sounds u
nreasonable to you, take it up with Cleary. I am sick of the subject.” He switched his gaze to Serena. “Please, I beg you, think about it. My grandfather insulted you, but don’t you think that killing him is more than the insult deserved?”
Erik came to his feet in a rush. All that kept him from going over the table after the younger man was Serena’s hand on his wrist.
“If I was keeping the pages out of pique,” she said distinctly, “you would be right. I’m not. The pages are mine. They will remain mine. This discussion is over.”
“One million, one hundred thousand” was Garrison’s only response.
“No.”
“A million and a quar—”
“No,” Serena cut in savagely. “Not for any price. Don’t you understand? No part of the Book of the Learned is for sale.”
“Darling, everything is—”
“I believe that concludes the meeting,” Dana said over Garrison’s cultured voice. “You have presented your offer and your reasons for urgency. Ms. Charters has unmistakably declined.”
A door slammed in the hallway outside. The clean-room door opened just far enough to show Cleary’s furious face before Niall put his big hand on the door and shoved it shut. She started to claw at his hand, then began sobbing hysterically.
“Get her out of here,” Niall said to Paul.
“Of course. Sorry. This has been very . . . difficult.”
Cleary leaned against Paul and cried with hoarse, racking sounds.
Niall grunted and released his hold on the door. As he had expected, it opened very quickly and Dana stepped out. She made a point of closing the door behind her and blockading the doorknob with her own body.
“We’ll send Mr. Warrick the final bill,” she said distinctly.
“You’re quitting?” Paul asked, startled.
“We signed a contract to attempt to buy Serena’s pages. We’ve attempted. No sale.”
“No!” Cleary said harshly, pushing away from Paul. “I won’t have that little bitch telling lies about Father losing his grip as an appraiser. He’s sharper than ever. When you find out where those pages really came from, you’ll see. She’ll rue the day she came to Daddy with a handful of lies and turned our lives upside down!”
“Cleary, look at me,” Paul said. With a steady pressure of his palm he turned her face toward his. “Are you sure you want this? The more you push it, the more strain it will be on you and your father. If you step back and let things die down, Ms. Charters and her pages will probably be forgotten in a few months.”
“Never,” Cleary vowed. “I’m going to ruin her and her goddamned pages if it’s the last thing I do. Don’t you understand? All the House of Warrick has is its reputation, and Daddy is that reputation!”
Paul looked at her reddened eyes, felt the tension vibrating in her body, and knew he wasn’t going to win this round. Cleary wasn’t going to be rational, much less reasonable, about her father and the House of Warrick. “Okay, we’ll do it your way. It doesn’t matter one way or another. Life is a game and nobody gets out alive, not even Norman Warrick.” He tucked Cleary against his chest and looked over her head at Dana. “Finish it. The House of Warrick is good for it.”
“Finish it?” Dana asked. “By that I assume you mean trace the provenance of the pages?”
“Yeah. And keep us informed, of course. Cleary will insist.”
“Hourly?” Niall asked in a hard voice.
“If not more often,” Paul said with a twist to his mouth that was harder than a smile.
“Does this mean that the House of Warrick will redouble its efforts to go through its own files?” Dana asked. “Unless Serena can piece together enough childhood memories to find the whole Book of the Learned, we’re at the point where all other avenues of investigation are closed. Sotheby’s and Christie’s have put themselves out as much as they are willing to. That leaves Warrick’s files.”
Paul nodded curtly. “I’ll see to it myself.”
Dana released the doorknob and stepped aside just in time to keep from being run over by Garrison.
“Is Mother—Cleary—all right?” he asked Paul.
“She’ll be fine as soon as all this is settled.”
“What’s to settle? It’s over.”
“Not quite,” Paul said coolly. “Cleary wants Rarities Unlimited’s research into Serena’s pages to continue.”
“But that’s crazy! No matter what we find out, it won’t—”
“It will ease Cleary’s mind,” Paul interrupted. “Surely that’s worth a few thousand dollars?”
Garrison looked beseechingly at the ceiling. Then he shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Fuck.”
Dana’s eyebrows rose. “The amended contract will be ready in a few hours. I’ll send it over to the Retreat for signatures.”
She was talking to Garrison’s back.
“Send the revised contract to Palm Desert,” Paul said. “That’s where Cleary will be. She wants to get back to her father.”
With that, Paul urged Cleary down the hall. Halfway to the outer door, she tipped her face up and said something.
Paul stopped, looked over his shoulder, and called to Dana down the hall, “Hourly updates, unless a new course of investigation offers itself. Then you will notify us immediately. Agreed?”
Dana would just as soon have eaten raw snake, but she was a businesswoman and the House of Warrick was a very good client. “Agreed.”
Chapter 64
LOS ANGELES
SUNDAY EARLY AFTERNOON
The remains of Chinese takeout lay scattered across the clean room’s steel table. Chopsticks stuck rakishly out of empty white cartons. Napkins smeared with hot mustard and hotter pepper oil were stuffed into other cartons. Green tea lay cold in the bottom of mugs, forgotten. Bottles of Tsingtao beer waited in a tub of half-melted ice, unopened.
Serena’s chin was propped on her hand. Her glazed eyes looked at the wall of screens without really seeing any of the bold calligraphy or glorious illumination. She and Erik—with Niall, and even Dana from time to time—had spent most of the day trying to discover anything new from the data on the sheets.
Whenever Research had new information to add, it appeared on the appropriate screen. It had been several hours since anything new appeared. The House of Warrick had traced another sheet through aging microfilm to the Rubin estate.
Dead end.
Erik also looked at the screens without seeing them, but that was because he was chasing the tantalizing pattern that kept whispering to him. There was more to be discovered about the previous owners. He was certain of it. The pattern was there, nearly within reach . . .
He almost closed his eyes and became completely still, as though the pattern was a wary roadrunner he was teaching to eat from his hand.
Niall looked at him. When Serena would have spoken, a gesture from Niall cut her off. He leaned close to her and said quietly, “Leave him be. This is why Dana fought me to keep him in Research. He has a scary knack for finding patterns where others see just a jumble of information. He and Shane Tannahill are enough to make you believe in things that go bump in the night. But Shane turned Dana down flat. That’s when she stole Erik from me.”
Serena looked at Erik and remembered another man who had been good at finding patterns, a man who rode with a peregrine on his arm and a staghound pacing beside his horse. He would have come to her like that, proud and free, but she had needed him too much to leave the fate of Silverfells to a proud man’s choice. So she had woven a lure that only one man would come to. And he had come.
Enthralled.
She had hoped he, the man who saw all patterns, would see the perfection of the one they wove together; because if he had not been the man he was, he would have shunned the offered lure.
In the end, he had seen only his own humiliation. He, the pattern master, fooled by an uncanny weaver. He, the pattern master, had become the lover of the last sorceress of Silverfells, a clan forbidden to the Learne
d. He, the pattern master, had been mastered by her.
Then hatred had eaten love.
Then mist had descended, dividing them.
Serena saw the words so clearly, the capitals picked out in gold and silver, the smaller letters as black as the truth they revealed. She saw them—but had never seen the page where they were written.
Yet the words were there, shimmering in her mind.
Cool air prickled over Serena’s skin. It wasn’t quite fear. It was a heightened awareness, an acceptance that there was more to life than could be seen, touched, tasted, heard, smelled. There was time itself. Time endlessly described by poets and philosophers, time nailed to walls or chained around wrists by the powerful, time cut into pieces by mathematicians and scientists until each segment was named, numbered, defined by the beating heart of an atom . . .
And never understood.
Silently she realized that time would never be understood, for no one even understood the child who lived before the adult, sharing one body through all the changes of life.
Erik straightened abruptly. “Is Factoid still there?”
“. . . minute,” came the muttered response from the speaker.
“Now,” Niall said curtly.
“Suck.” There was a rustle and slam as though something had hit the wall. “I’m here!”
“Do you have the computer breakdown I requested?” Erik asked.
“Which one?” Factoid retorted.
“Stylistic hallmarks of the Spanish Forger set against the stylistic hallmarks of the pages I—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Factoid cut in. “Close, but no cigar. Definitely a forgery of a forger. The guy’s real good, though.”
Erik nodded. “When was the change? In the forties?”
“Suck, man, if you already knew, why did you put me through the burning hoops?”
“I was guessing. Now I’m not.”
Serena started to ask what he wasn’t guessing about, but Niall shook his head.
“Using the second forger’s style,” Erik continued, “search the databases for matches on whole or partial manuscripts.”
Moving Target Page 34