Midnight Jewels

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Just like you said.”

  “Yes.” Croft reached for the phone. “Let’s not keep the man waiting.”

  Croft saw the expression on Mercy’s tense face as he dialed the number on the note pad. She was scared. Not of him, but of what was going to happen next. She probably had a good hunch about the next logical step in this deadly game. He wished he could quiet her fears but that was impossible now. Things had gone too far to turn back. He hadn’t been able to turn back since the day he had seen that ad for Burleigh’s Valley of Secret Jewels. She seemed to realize that, but it wasn’t going to make her any less fearful of the final outcome.

  The phone rang once. It was answered by Isobel, her low, husky voice clear and controlled. “Hello.”

  She knew who was calling, Croft thought. “Let me speak to Gladstone.” There was no sense revealing he knew that Gladstone was really Egan Graves. The goal now was to assure Gladstone that Croft was just an opportunistic hustler who had lucked into the biggest deal of his life.

  “We’ve been expecting your call, Mr. Falconer. Just a moment.”

  So much for being on a seductive first-name basis. Croft waited quietly until Gladstone’s warm, charming voice came on the line.

  “Ah, Mr. Falconer. Why do you wish to cause me all this trouble?”

  “We aren’t all born rich, Gladstone. Some of us have to take advantage of our opportunities as they arise. I assume you’re interested in getting your book back?”

  “You assume correctly. I’m a reasonable man. You have a certain figure in mind?”

  “I have a large figure in mind.”

  “I was sure you had. That book is very important to me, Mr. Falconer, as you must have guessed by now. It has great sentimental value.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone call pornography sentimental, but to each his own, I guess.”

  “Just how large is the price tag you’ve placed on my book?”

  “Fifty thousand.”

  There was a beat of silence from the other end of the line. “You’re not bashful, are you, Mr. Falconer?”

  “Mercy tells me there aren’t many copies of this particular volume around. I think you took advantage of her in the first set of negotiations.”

  “And she’s empowered you to negotiate this time?” Gladstone asked.

  Croft looked at Mercy. “Let’s just say she’s put everything in my hands.”

  “Isobel was correct. You and Miss Pennington are, indeed, besotted with each other. How strange. Well, in the meantime, you and I must deal. I can meet your figure, Mr. Falconer. In cash. How soon can you get here with the book?”

  “You want me to come back to the estate?”

  “Isobel can meet you anywhere you choose with the helicopter.”

  “No thanks. I prefer to get there under my own power. I’d just as soon not have to depend on Isobel to fly me back out of the mountains after you and I have made our deal. I’ll be there at dawn.”

  There was another pause on Gladstone’s end before he asked smoothly, “How far away are you?”

  “Far enough.”

  “You can’t get here any sooner?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s going to be a long drive. Dawn is the earliest I can make it. Have Isobel take the money down to the first gate at sunrise. I’ll meet her there.”

  “With the book, I presume?”

  “All I want is the money, Gladstone. You’re welcome to the book. It’s not my kind of thing, anyway.”

  “No, I’m sure it isn’t. You undoubtedly prefer a more modern style of such fare.”

  Croft noted a trace of condescending disgust lacing the man’s voice. Gladstone was giving into his private sense of intellectual snobbery, he realized, though he also wondered how anyone could be snobbish about preferences of erotica.

  “I don’t want to see anyone except Isobel at that gate, Gladstone.”

  “There’s no one left to meet you except Isobel or myself. Lance and Dallas are in the hands of the authorities, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “And you’re not going to go bail, right?”

  “For a couple of thieves who had taken advantage of my generosity?” Gladstone sounded appalled at such an idea. “I wasn’t aware they both had criminal records when I hired them. I was very shocked when the sheriff informed me.”

  “I can imagine. Everyone must be feeling sorry for you. So the cops aren’t worried about any possible connection between them and you?”

  “The authorities understand that I am merely an innocent, victimized employer. Apparently Dallas and Lance robbed a motel the other night. They gave the sheriff some nonsense about having been sent by me to do it, but the sheriff didn’t buy that ridiculous tale for a minute. I’m afraid their past is against them.”

  “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

  “The story they gave the sheriff about how they came to be tied up in a ghost town, however, was far more interesting,” Gladstone continued thoughtfully. “They claimed they were chasing a burglar down the mountain and that this man vanished in Drifter’s Creek. When they stopped to search for him they found nothing but ghosts. They remember very little of the incident. I, of course, informed the sheriff that nothing was missing from my home and that I had to assume Lance and Dallas were involved in another private scheme. I did hint, however, that there might be a third man involved and that there might have been a falling out among thieves. That would explain how my two employees came to be found with such incriminating evidence in their possession.”

  “So the sheriff is now looking for a third thief?”

  “Relax, Falconer, I don’t think he’s looking very hard. He assumes the man will have left the area after having abandoned his buddies. The sheriff is pleased to think that trouble has moved out of his neighborhood.”

  “All neat and tidy.”

  “I like things neat and tidy, Mr. Falconer.”

  “So do I,” Croft said. “Make sure Isobel is at that gate at dawn.” He hung up the phone before Gladstone could respond.

  Mercy sat on the bed, waiting for the details. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap and her eyes were very large in her face. “Well?” she asked bluntly.

  “It’s all settled as far as Gladstone is concerned. He thinks I’m a petty thief who’s willing to turn Valley over to him for fifty thousand.”

  “That’s hardly a petty sum.”

  Croft shrugged. “I had to make the number big enough to convince him I meant business but not so huge that he might suspect I thought the book was really priceless to him. Fifty thousand doesn’t sound like a vast sum of money to a man like Gladstone.”

  “Everything’s relative,” Mercy agreed with a sigh. “I could open a couple of bookstores with that kind of money.”

  “Everything is not relative. Some things are absolute.”

  “I know. Properly prepared tea, honor and vengeance.”

  “And love.”

  She ignored that, eyeing him intently. “So now what? I heard you say you’re going to meet dizzy Izzy at dawn. It’s not going to take you all night to drive back into those mountains. It’s a four-hour drive at the most. Believe me, I timed every minute of it last night. If you left now, you could be there by eight o’clock this evening.”

  “I was planning on getting there around nine. I prefer to work in full dark.”

  Mercy took a deep breath. “You’re not really planning to meet Isobel in the morning, are you? You’re going to try to get into the compound tonight.”

  “I want this finished by dawn,” Croft said. He waited for her to absorb the implications.

  “What about Isobel?”

  “I don’t care about Isobel. It’s Gladstone I want.”

  “You’re sure he’s Graves?” Mercy pressed quietly. “I’m sure. Even if he wasn�
��t Graves I would still have to do something about him now.”

  “Because he sent Dallas and Lance to kill us?”

  “Because he probably meant to kill you after I suffered my ‘drowning accident’ and because he definitely sent Dallas and Lance to kill you after we escaped from the party.” Croft got to his feet. Perhaps she didn’t understand that the moment Gladstone had ordered Dallas and Lance to get rid of Mercy, he had signed his own death warrant. Even if he hadn’t been certain now that Gladstone was Graves, Croft would have had to act. He knew he was no longer going after Gladstone just because of the unfinished business of three years before. There was now a much more immediate, more pressing reason for getting Gladstone.

  That reason was Mercy Pennington, who had twice claimed she loved Croft Falconer.

  “Croft?” Mercy watched him anxiously.

  “I’ve got an hour before I have to leave, Mercy. I want to meditate. I need to clear my mind.”

  “Yes, but what about me?”

  “You’ll be safe here. No one knows where you are.”

  She jumped up, anger replacing the anxiety in her face. “I’m not talking about my safety. I want to come with you.”

  That shocked him. “Absolutely not. You’ve been exposed to far too much danger already because of me. I’m not about to take you with me.”

  “But Croft, I’ve been in it this far. I don’t want to let you go alone the rest of the way.”

  He realized she was serious and was amazed she would even consider going along. “Forget it, Mercy. This is what I do best. And I always operate alone.”

  “You might need help.”

  “No.”

  “Damn you, you’re always so blasted sure of yourself. So self-contained. You think you can do everything alone, don’t you? You don’t need anyone or at least you won’t admit you need anyone. One of these days that’s going to change, Croft.”

  It was already changing but he didn’t know how to say it.

  Later, Croft promised himself. Later he would tell her that she was realigning his whole world along a different axis, finding a connection between the dimension in which he existed and the one in which she lived. There wasn’t time to tell her now, and besides, he couldn’t fully explain it to himself yet.

  “We’ll talk when I return, Mercy.”

  “I want to come with you,” she said once more.

  He shook his head. “No.” He knew from the helpless way she looked at him that she was accepting the inevitable.

  “You’re so stubborn. So arrogant,” she whispered.

  “This is the way it has to be, Mercy.”

  “Oh, shut up and go meditate. I’m going out to get another cup of coffee.”

  She whirled around and slammed out of the room before he could think of a response.

  Croft stared after her for a long moment and then opened the window. He sank down onto the carpet and let the sunlight warm him. The distant sounds of traffic and occasional voices floated in through the open window, but Croft tuned them out. He could tune out almost anything when he was meditating.

  But that afternoon he found it difficult to clear his mind of the memory of green eyes that reflected emotions as clearly as a watercolor reflected light. Wonderful, transparent eyes that a man could read like a book.

  Mercy had said she loved him and he had looked into her eyes when she had said it. Croft had told himself that she had been under too much stress to know her own thoughts clearly, but he had lied to himself. He knew that as he sat quietly freeing his mind of all extraneous thoughts. Slowly he focused on the point of light within himself and his mind cleared.

  He could no longer doubt Mercy. She knew what she was saying. He had seen the knowledge in her eyes. She loved him.

  Croft took that knowledge into himself, learning it completely, turning it over in his mind, examining it the way he would examine a flower or a sunset or the sea at dawn. He wanted to know what it meant to be loved by Mercy. He wanted to know it in every fiber of his being.

  He let the knowledge that Mercy loved him flow through him until it filled him, satisfied him and gave him peace of mind.

  It was a different kind of peace than the sort he achieved through meditation and the strengthening movements of his physical training, but it was related to that deep calm in some ways. It was more emotionally satisfying, more filling. In some sense it was a more complete kind of peace. It encompassed the other and surpassed it.

  Croft realized that he had never known a complete love before in his life. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t recognized it or had tried to deny it when he felt it growing between himself and Mercy. He had thought he understood love on an intellectual basis, thought he knew its demands and requirements, but he hadn’t really comprehended its power.

  But he accepted the truth now. He had no choice.

  He was in love with Mercy. As much in love with her as she was with him. It was a combination of passion, friendship, respect, even the exciting, stimulating friction of disagreements and differing interpretations of important concepts.

  A complete Circle.

  Croft studied the new Circle as it came together in his mind, watched as it coalesced around the point of light that was his focus. It was perfect. Even the parts of it that couldn’t be completely understood were part of that perfection. There was no such thing as total knowledge. Some mysteries always remained and he sensed that between a man and a woman those unknown regions were as important as the portions that could be comprehended. He accepted them, accepted the whole. Mercy belonged to him and he belonged to her.

  Satisfied at last, Croft went on to another aspect of his meditation. It was time to summon the clearheaded logic and stamina he would need during the next few hours.

  Time passed. But when Mercy cautiously opened the door of the room a half hour later, Croft was ready. He turned his head to see her standing hesitantly in the doorway, a white paper sack in her hand.

  “I brought you something to eat. And a cup of tea. It’s made with a tea bag but I made them boil the water first. Are you finished with your meditating?” She pulled two cups out of her sack and handed one to him while she uncapped the other for herself.

  “I’m finished.” He got to his feet, feeling serene and yet fully alert. All his senses were awake and aware but they were all under his control. It was the way he always felt before he explored the boundaries of violence and learned anew the thrill of existence.

  It was the way he always felt when he made love to Mercy, except that there were times with her when she took him even farther. With her he could actually lose control and still know that he was safe.

  Croft uncapped the cup of tea and took a sip. “I love you, Mercy,” he said calmly.

  Mercy nearly choked on her coffee. “What?” she sputtered, gasping for breath. Her eyes watered with the effort.

  Croft slapped her lightly between her shoulders, ignoring her frantic question. “I have to go now. I’ll eat the sandwich on the way. I’ll be back around dawn tomorrow. Good-bye, Mercy.”

  He brushed her mouth lightly with his own and then he walked out the door without looking back.

  Chapter 18

  He loved her.

  As usual, Mercy was torn between wanting to shake Croft and a passionate longing to throw her arms around him. He had managed to frustrate both possibilities by walking out on her directly after making his grand announcement.

  It was typical of Croft to do things this way, Mercy fumed as she stalked up and down the small motel room. No passionate proclamation of undying love over a candlelit dinner, no surprise engagement ring, no intense discussion of his emotions and feelings. Just a factual statement before he walked out the door to risk his neck.

  It must have happened during his meditation session, Mercy decided.

  He had clearly worked something o
ut in that convoluted mind of his, meshed his growing attraction to Mercy into his private world view and completed one of his damn inner Circles. When everything was in place, understood and accepted in that labyrinth loosely termed a male brain, he had presented the finished product calmly, as if it were nothing more or less than a fact of life and the universe.

  Then he had left without allowing Mercy any emotional farewells or prolonged pleas to be cautious. She was stuck there while the man she loved and who claimed to love her went off on his lone crusade for truth, justice and the Way of the Circle.

  She must be crazy to be in love with him. She barely knew him.

  Except that she did know him. That was the puzzling part. Somehow, in the few days they had been together, she had come to know him better than she had ever known anyone in her life. The paradox of the matter was that she really knew very few facts about him. The short, bleak history he had given her that afternoon in a rare moment of confidence was the only summary of the details of his life she had gotten, and that summary had made no difference one way or the other in her feelings for him. She would have loved him even if he had chosen never to confide the details of his life.

  Her understanding and acceptance of him had happened on another level entirely, one that had little to do with facts or logic. From the first moment she had met him she had been aware of a new and different sense of awareness around him. It was as if he had the power to bring to life something within her that had slumbered, undetected, all these years, a sixth sense that did not have much to do with facts. That preternatural sense of awareness had its own means of bypassing facts and logic.