MIDNIGHT JEWELS
by
Jayne Ann Krentz
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Excerpt from SHIELD'S LADY
About the Author
More Books
MIDNIGHT JEWELS © 1987 Jayne Ann Krentz
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Excerpt from SHIELD’S LADY © 1989 by Jayne Ann Krentz
Cover design by Purple Papaya
Chapter 1
The advertisement on the last page of the bookseller’s catalog was small and discreet. Only a knowledgeable collector of rare books would know that the volume offered for sale was a unique example of eighteenth-century erotica.
FOR SALE: Burleigh’s Valley of Secret Jewels. First edition, 1795. Plates. Exc. cond. Contact Mercy Pennington, Pennington’s Second Chance Bookshop, Ignatius Cove, Washington. (206) 555-1297.
Croft Falconer had already spent a great deal of time studying those tiny lines but he read the ad once more as if he might somehow find a clue to the remarkable fact of the book’s appearance after so many years.
Croft ignored the phone number offered. He didn’t have a phone at his house on the coast, just as he didn’t have a television, radio or microwave. And, while he could have driven into town to use a pay phone, he knew that effort would be futile.
He would have to see the book himself to be sure if it was the right one and he wanted to see this Mercy Pennington in person. He had to find out who she was, how much she knew and how she had acquired the volume.
The only thing he was certain of at this point was the most disturbing fact of all: The book should not exist.
Valley should have been destroyed along with everything else in the fire that had swept through Egan Graves’s island fortress three years before. Croft had witnessed that fire firsthand. He had felt its hellish heat, seen the all-consuming flames and heard the shattering screams of its victims.
How could something that should have been eaten by those flames resurface in an insignificant bookseller’s catalog? The existence of the book opened a gaping hole in a case Croft thought he had closed for all time. If the book had survived the fire, then Croft had to face another possibility: Its owner, Egan Graves, might have also escaped and survived.
And that meant Croft had failed.
The ad for Valley raised questions that had to be answered. It indicated a trail that had to be followed.
And that trail began with a Miss Mercy Pennington of Ignatius Cove, Washington.
Croft gazed at the dawn-lit Pacific outside his study window and wondered about Miss Mercy Pennington. Before he could come to any conclusions the Rottweiler whined softly behind him. Croft glanced at the heavily built dog. The animal gazed back expectantly.
“You’re right, it’s time to run” Croft said. “Let’s go down to the beach. It’s a cinch I’m not going to get any meditation done this morning.”
The dog silently accepted the response and padded to the door.
If anyone were to ask him about his affinity for the Rottweiler, Croft would have said simply that he was one of those people who got along well with dogs. In truth, he had much in common with the creature who paced at his heels. The ancient, wild, hunting instincts still ran in the veins of the Rottweiler, even though the animal generally behaved with the good manners acceptable to the civilized world. But under the right provocation, the facade of politeness in both man and dog could vanish in an instant, leaving bare the predator underneath.
Croft slid aside the shoji screen panel and stepped out into the hall. The room on the opposite side of the tiled corridor beckoned. He looked into it, feeling the pull of its stark simplicity: The bleached wood floor, the woven mat and the elegantly austere flower arrangement in the low black ceramic bowl all promised a haven. Croft’s period of quiet morning contemplation was as much a part of his daily life as running and the demanding workouts that kept his exceptional martial arts skills well honed.
Croft’s rituals were important to him. All of them, from his morning meditation to the cup of perfectly brewed tea he would enjoy later, were part and parcel of his carefully organized, neatly self-contained world. He did not like to forego even the slightest of his chosen routines.
But he had little hope this morning of stilling his mind to the point where he could slip into a meditative trance. Too many questions were swirling in his head; too many dangerous possibilities were materializing.
The morning run would have to do, he decided. He went out through the back door of his beachfront cottage, the Rottweiler at his heels.
Croft was wearing only a pair of jeans, and if there had been a woman watching she would have found the subtle shift and glide of his shoulder muscles fascinating. A healthy, trained and controlled power radiated from the man. But there was no one to see the easy masculine grace with which Croft moved. Croft had never brought a woman to his isolated home on the Oregon coast.
Five minutes later man and dog were loping easily across the glistening sand at the water’s edge. The light and energy of a new day filled the air and Croft and the dog drank in the essence of both as they covered the ground toward the distant point of land at the end of the beach.
As his body fell into a strong, easy rhythm, Croft found his mind wandering to the one totally unknown and unpredictable piece in this new puzzle—Miss Mercy Pennington.
Mercy eyed the huge stack of romance novels and mysteries that had just been plunked down on the counter near the cash register. She tried to keep all hint of mercenary satisfaction out of her eyes as she smiled at the woman on the other side of the counter. Christina Seaton was an excellent customer. She could be counted on for a minimum purchase of twenty paperbacks a month. Mercy experienced a pleasant tingle of anticipation whenever Christina came through the door of Pennington’s Second Chance. She told herself that only another small business person could fully understand the nature of her fondness for this particular client.
“Will that be all today, Christina?”
Christina grinned. At thirty she was a couple of years older than Mercy and had a freshly scrubbed attractiveness that perfectly suited her designer jeans, loose knit sweater and expensive loafers. “Are you kidding? My kids will have to go without shoes this month as it is.”
Mercy laughed. Very few children in Ignatius Cove were in danger of going without shoes or anything else their little hearts desired. The small town north of Seattle was an enclave of prosperous, upwardly mobile types, most of whom worked in the city but preferred to raise their families in a small town environment. Ignatius Cove had the best of both worlds. They were close enough to Seattle to enjoy its urban benefits, but they had all the fun and advantages of living in a self-consciously quaint village at the water’s edge.
Mercy had been well aware of the distinctive qualities of Ignatius Cove from the mom
ent she had discovered it. When she had begun searching for a place to open a bookstore two years before she had known exactly what she wanted: a community of the affluent and educated, potential book buyers who had the cash to indulge their interests. Ignatius Cove fit the bill perfectly.
Mercy didn’t attempt to compete head on with the one other bookstore in town which specialized in newly released hardcover bestsellers and art books. Instead, she had gone for the thriving secondhand market, supplementing her large, well organized stock with popular, new paperback releases.
The mix had proven satisfyingly profitable. By the end of the first year Pennington’s Second Chance had earned enough to ensure its survival. By the end of the second year of business, the shop was well established with a solid customer base. Mercy measured her success by the fact that she was now removing the corks instead of unscrewing the caps of the wine bottles she opened at home.
“Dorrie says you’re finally going to take a vacation next week,” Christina observed as Mercy rang up her purchases. “It’s about time.”
Mercy smiled and her slightly tilted green eyes lit with pleasure. Automatically she lifted a hand to push an errant tendril of golden brown hair back behind her ear. “Part business and part vacation. I’m very excited about it. I came across an interesting old book in a box of junk I bought at the flea market last month. Turned out it had some value. I advertised it in a little antiquarian booksellers’ catalog and within a few days a man in Colorado phoned to say he wanted to buy it. I’m going to deliver it to him next week while I’m on vacation.”
“You’re going to take it to Colorado yourself? Isn’t that service above and beyond the call of duty? Why can’t you just mail it to the man?”
“He wants it hand delivered. He told me he doesn’t trust the mail and this book is very important to his collection. He’s been looking for it for some time, Ι gather. At any rate, he considers my trip expenses to Denver part of the purchase price of the book. He says he prefers not to travel.”
“He’s paying your way?”
Mercy nodded as she finished totaling the sale. “He said I was to fly first class, but of course I won’t. He’s being generous enough as it is. I’ll fly to Denver and rent a car to drive to his place in the mountains. I get the feeling it’s quite a remote location. He’s invited me to stay at his place for a couple of days. After that I’ll take a leisurely trip through the Rockies and end up back in Denver. I’ll fly home from there.”
“Hmm. This sounds interesting. Young or old?”
“Who?”
“Your customer,” Christina said impatiently. “Is he young or old?”
“Oh.” Mercy wrinkled her nose slightly, thinking. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. He sounds very charming on the phone. Has a great voice. Cultured, if you know what I mean, but I can’t tell how old he is for certain. Maybe somewhere in his forties.”
“A little old for you, but not too far beyond the realm of possibility. A woman has to be flexible these days.”
Mercy smiled. “Whatever his age, he’s definitely not too old to spend a fortune on a book. He had the money wired into my account yesterday.”
Christina burst out laughing. “You’re too young to let money replace romance in your life.”
“Don’t you believe it. Running a small business ages a person in a hurry. The money he paid for Valley is going to pay the rent on this shop for several months. What’s more, he hinted he might be talked into throwing in a couple of books from his private collection as part of the purchase price. I could turn around and advertise them the same way I did the first one. I’d actually be dealing for real in antiquarian books. That’s the classy end of the used book business.”
“I can see it now:” Christina narrowed her eyes as if seeing a glowing sign in the distance. “Mercy Pennington, dealer in rare books.”
“Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Mercy acknowledged happily. “First editions, private printings, beautiful eighteenth-century bindings, copper plate illustrations. Definitely high class.”
“Does that mean I’ll have to start shopping somewhere else for my romances and mysteries?”
Mercy laughed. “Not for quite a while. It takes a great deal of money and a lot of time to get into the rare book business in a big way: Even if everything goes well with the sale of this book I found I’m going to be selling paperbacks for a long time to come. The rare book business will be a sideline. For a lot of dealers it never gets beyond that point.”
“Well, good luck to you. And enjoy the trip to Colorado. Is Dorrie going to handle the shop for you while you’re gone?”
Mercy nodded. “I think she’s looking forward to being in charge for a full week. I’ve never left her alone here for longer than a couple of hours.” Actually, that was an understatement. Dorrie Jeffers was positively elated at the prospect of running Pennington’s Second Chance by herself. After several months of part-time work, she was eager for the opportunity.
“That’s exactly why you need this vacation. You treat this place as if it were your firstborn. You’re much too devoted to it. You need to get away from it for a while.” Christina took the paper sack full of books from the counter and turned to leave. “Have a great trip and drive carefully. Those roads in the Rockies are something else.”
“I’ll be careful.”
And take a good look at your customer. Do yourself a favor. Try to see him as something more than a means of launching your new career in the rare book business. You never know. He might be a sexy recluse just waiting for the right woman to come along and take him out of the mountains.”
“Somehow I doubt that. Why are you always so eager to see me married, Christina? Haven’t you been reading those studies that show that single women are happier than married women?”
Christina grinned. “Us married types can’t stand to see you single types so happy and prosperous and independent. Ruins the image of marriage. Besides, misery loves company. Take care, Mercy. I’ll see you when you get back.” When she opened the door the little bell overhead tinkled merrily.
Mercy waited until the bell was silent and then walked around the counter to finish straightening some shelves at the back of the shop. The place was empty and it was almost time to close for the day. She started thinking about dinner.
There was a package of buckwheat pasta in the cupboard at home. And she was almost certain there was still some pesto sauce in the freezer. There was also a bottle of zinfandel resting in the wire wine rack in the corner of her kitchen. The long summer evening stretched out before her and it was, after all, Friday. Friday was always deserving of some sort of celebration, even though she would be opening the shop again the next morning. Six-day work weeks were normal for small business entrepreneurs. After two years of working them, Mercy was accustomed to the hours.
When she left for Colorado on Monday morning she would be taking her first real vacation in two years.
Not everyone would count the trip as a vacation, Mercy reflected wryly. After all, it was definitely a business venture. But she was as excited as if she were about to embark on a cruise. The sale of Valley of Secret Jewels was a milestone in her new career as a bookseller. A whole new world was opening up to her. If she played her cards right, she would actually be entering the rarified atmosphere of antiquarian book dealership. Ignatius Cove had been good to her.
Life had changed a lot in the past two years, Mercy thought with satisfaction. Exactly two years earlier she had been learning how appalling her judgment in men was. She’d been busy canceling wedding plans and quitting her job in a public library. Now she was far more cautious with men, happily single and successfully established in a new career.
Mercy’s thoughts returned again to dinner as she stretched on tiptoe to reach a book high on the shelf. Her fingers closed around the volume when she suddenly had the strange feeling that she was
being watched. The sensation was unnerving, especially since the bell over the door had not rung as it was designed to when anyone entered the shop. She knew with a sudden, sure instinct that she was no longer alone. Mercy went very still.
“I’m looking for Mercy Pennington.”
Mercy yelped and spun around. A man stood at the end of the long aisle of books. Her first impression was of darkness…unsettling, overwhelming darkness. Her shop had been invaded by a midnight phantom, a lean, somber ghost with hair the color of a raven’s wing. He wore black chino trousers, low-cut black boots and a black twill shirt that was open at the throat. Even the sound of his voice invoked the night and all its mysteries. The echo of her own name was as deep and dark as the bottom of the sea.
Only his eyes offered a sense of light. They were a strange shade of hazel set in a bronzed face. The intelligence in his gaze was coupled with a strangely detached quality that was disturbing. Mercy looked into his eyes and wondered how any man could achieve such a degree of deep, remote calm.
She wondered what it would take to put ripples into the quiet seas of such eyes. Some primitive, feminine part of her longed to discover the secret. For a tempting instant Mercy found herself wanting to slap the man or kiss him to see if she could jar that remote expression.
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