by Dorian Paul
"I can tell you, if you want me to."
Perhaps at some point, but definitely not tonight. "Thank you, no."
She had the rest of the evening to get through. And she would, no matter how much she hurt. Thank God the hosts clattered in bearing loaded trays.
"We have pumpkin and pecan pie," David announced with fanfare. "Both made by the hands of the lovely Claire."
She put on a brave face. "I didn't know you delved into cookery, Claire."
"Taste before you compliment, Elizabeth. Will you have a little of each?"
"A sliver of pumpkin will be fine, thank you."
"Gimme some of each," Bobby said. "I've got a big appetite."
Ten minutes earlier she would have relished his sly smile and all it implied. Now she was at a loss.
"David, I know what you want," Claire stated. "Pecan."
"No, I'll have some of each as well."
"But pecan's your favorite."
David grinned at Claire. "I have begun to believe any pie you make would be my favorite."
They were lighthearted tonight, in spite of what they continued to face. Did that mean there was a chance for her and Bobby too, despite it all? Certainly she continued to hum with awareness of him throughout the dessert course and the fine vintage port that followed. And when he offered to escort her home, which wasn't far from his hotel, the back seat of the taxi put her just where she wished to be when the evening began . . . as near to Bobby Keane as possible. Perhaps she could invite him in for a drink when they got to Charles Street. And after that?
After that, who can say?
***
Bobby eyed her legs as her skirt inched up when the cab took a sharp turn. Contoured calf muscles and spike heels made those legs unbelievably sexy, and he sat close enough to stroke her thigh although he didn't do it. Earlier tonight he'd been sure she wanted him to, but then the talk turned to Jeremy. Things got a whole lot more complicated when it became clear he'd been there when her brother died. Still, when they got to her place she asked if he wanted to come up for a drink.
He shouldn't even think about any kind of relationship with her. It wouldn't be fair if one day he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like Jeremy. But that didn't stop him from saying, "Yeah, love to."
He paid the driver and followed her upstairs to a swanky living room where small oriental lamps cast a sensuous glow, and her firm butt in that tight skirt looked awfully good while she poured them brandy. But instead of handing him the glass, she kept her back to him and said, "I'm not persuaded I should have a brandy. I've indulged more than usual tonight, I'm afraid."
"Nothing to be afraid of. You feel all right?"
"Unsettled, that's all. Perhaps it's best for me not to drink anything more."
When she still didn't look at him, he knew it was time to clear the air. "I can see how you'd be upset about Jeremy."
"Can you?"
"Sure. I know the score. David was a basket case afterwards, not worth a damn."
Now she turned on him. "You're impertinent."
"Didn't mean it how it sounded, Lizzie. I'm sorry. I'm no good with words."
"And I'm rude. Forgive me. Talking about such things is difficult for everyone."
"Yeah, especially for somebody like me." Might as well be honest. No one taught him to be a gentleman and he shouldn't even think about coming on to somebody like her. "I never learned manners and I'm lousy with emotional stuff. No point lying to you."
She hesitated but he saw a trace of a smile. "Actually, Bobby, I like you. But maybe it's too dangerous."
"Do I frighten you?"
"Should I be frightened?"
Probably, since he wanted to throw her over his shoulder like a Viking and find a comfortable place to get laid.
"Perhaps we should begin by getting to know one another better," she said.
"You sure you wanna know me better?"
"Yes and no."
"Tell me about the 'no' part, Elizabeth."
She let out a long, sexy, sigh and he relaxed. "When the evening began, I thought I was ready to hop into bed with you, Bobby. I'm not completely sure now, if you know what I mean. But I'm fatally attracted."
Hot dang, he was too. "Thanks for being upfront. We can go slow if you like. No point in causing stress. See me again, though?"
"Yes, I'd like to. I'm still vacillating about tonight to tell you the truth."
He couldn't help smiling. "But it's just lust, huh?"
"No hard feelings then, Bobby."
"Just so you know, honey, I got something hard but it's not my feelings."
"My intent was never to tease you."
"Hey, I'm a big boy. I can wait it out. But for now I'm gonna kiss you and give you a taste of me. Okay?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He wrapped himself around her and let her feel the fullness that was Bobby Keane. He took her mouth. Her response was unrestrained and he wondered if he was gonna come without the act of sex. Wow, this was one incredible lady to make him feel like this, and he reveled in the sensation, ready to shout for joy. Whoa! He pulled himself back a few inches and ended the kiss abruptly, before he did something he'd have to apologize for.
"That's as much as I can take, Lizzie. I gotta go or I'm not gonna go. And we need for me to go or we'll be sorry in the morning. Sorrier than now. But there'll be more with us. Count on it."
She gave him a wistful glance full of regret, and he knew he'd be back for more . . . the sooner the better. Hell, he'd be back on her doorstep tomorrow at dawn if he didn't have to catch a plane with David.
***
Being awakened by sex before dawn was novel for Claire. David's physical fitness definitely translated into sexual stamina, and she had new appreciation for the sport of racquets. And the wisdom to know she'd better buy an endless supply of condoms ASAP.
"Don't get up. I'm late already, darling. I'll call you later," he said.
"Safe travel."
She lay in bed until the vestibule door clicked shut, and then went downstairs in her robe to watch the sun come up in the morning room, holding close the memories of last night's holiday dinner, girding herself for the future. Once she succeeded in her quest to solve Tivaz TB, and she would, dammit, her stay in his world would end and she'd go home. Trouble was, Sherborne House had become home, and David had become family. She refused to sugar coat it; the loss would be as wrenching as her scientific gain would be spectacular. If I pull it off in time.
She headed to the kitchen intent on doing the dishes they'd stacked on the counter last night. Why leave it for Maggie when she could take pleasure in adding to her bank of memories? She soaked the Crest china in warm, not hot, soapy water and washed it with a light touch. She searched the drawers for the softest dishtowels and began to dry the exquisite porcelain handed down through generations of Ruskins, examining his family coat of arms. She didn't own antique china but she had her own inheritance, her mother's Royal Doulton and Aunt Carrie's Spode china. When she got back to the States she'd unearth them both, and use one set for formal dinners, the other for day-to-day. Who was she kidding? The likelihood her life would require formal and informal china was a joke, and there would be no children to save them for. Tears welled and she snatched a spare dishtowel to dab the corners of her eyes.
Only to see his family's irreplaceable soup tureen catch beneath the edge of the towel and tumble to the floor. She scrambled on her knees and watched the broken ornate gold knob from the lid roll toward the sink, as if in slow motion, with a delicate handle following in its wake.
She couldn't move and sobbed uncontrollably. This is how Maggie found her.
"Shh, luv. It's only a soup tureen. The two bits can be refitted."
"No, I've ruined it. It can't be replaced."
"Nonsense. Let Maggie take care of it. Broken my share of the Duchess' things. There's a shop that can fit it up right quick."
Still shaking, she took the tissue Maggie passed and bl
ew her nose, trying to get a hold of herself. "This is my responsibility. Give me the address. I'll take it for repair on my way to the lab."
"Sure, luv? Broken china isn't such a big problem."
Not to Maggie. But to her it was the end of the world, which, for the briefest of time, she allowed herself to occupy inside Sherborne House.
Chapter 30
Varat insisted the meeting occur at the Pars Museum in Shiraz, south of Tehran, because the most famous Zand-period shamshir from his grandfather's collection was taken there for display following his execution. Photographs emphasized the gold-inlaid cartouche, the gilt hand guard, and the walrus tusk handle. But the jawhar on the surface of the curved blade drew the connoisseur's eye. These distinctive wave-like tracings were characteristic of the watered steel swords that subdued Christian Crusaders attempting to fight their way to Jerusalem. Yes, the jawhar had become Varat's talisman for victory over his enemies . . . all of them.
European smiths couldn't reproduce this marvel of metallurgy. Only secretive Persian craftsmen knew the combination of coral, borax, pomegranate rinds, oyster shells, orange peels and gall nuts which, when forged with base iron in a crucible, gave birth to a sword bearing the four attributes of the coveted shamshir: it vibrated with a continuous true tone when struck, held an edge sharp enough to slice through silk, was supple enough to bend without breaking in battle, and strong enough to sever a bar of iron.
Now, like the pure ring of his grandfather's prized watered steel blade, Varat's voice proclaimed his mettle as he negotiated with his Revolutionary Guard sponsors in the Farsi language of his Persian ancestors, a tongue that resisted assaults from the Greeks, Huns, and at present, the Arabs.
"An attack on France was not part of our understanding," the lead man thrust.
Of course not because the French continued to trade goods and expertise with Iran in spite of U.S.-backed trade sanctions. That, as much as the schoolyard taunts he endured as an orphan, hardened his heart against the city he loved. "Paris was a good proof source, no?" he parried.
"You sent us a video as proof."
"Ah, but Paris showed the world Tivaz TB in full glory. There can be no doubt about the power of what you're purchasing."
The lead man scowled. "The element of surprise has been lost on our true targets."
"Widespread panic in the West because they couldn't save their children exceeds the value of surprise."
"However, not all of the children died," the man emphasized. "And you haven't produced the quantity of bioweapon you promised."
"Do not concern yourself. I can produce more."
"Where is the scientist?"
"He is safe." Messina was hidden in the Rif Mountains, protected by his Amazigh countrymen. "I have more than enough TB for what you most desire, and the means to deliver it."
"Without our help?"
"Trust me."
"Why should we?"
"I have recruited people within their own state. Your hands will be clean."
He felt nothing but contempt for the men facing him in a tight semi-circle who smiled at the prospect of their enemy turning brother against brother. How quickly they forgot Iran had once done so to the best of its own men, his father and grandfather among them. They did not understand honor flowed from being true to those you swore allegiance to, even after their death.
"I will deliver Tivaz TB as agreed. But first you must meet my full price."
They twitched with blood lust unsatisfied by rockets launched by Hamas and Hezbollah proxies, and in that moment Varat cut his deal and sold them Tivaz TB with the ease of Grandfather's blade slicing the head off of a common criminal.
Base price agreed upon, they moved on to discuss additional targets and argued briefly over a discount for America because they had sleeper cells to help with the operation. The fools boasted of the communications, firearms, and explosives they'd planted within the belly of the Great Satan, unaware that what Varat prized most was how easily the pedigree of their sleeper cells could be traced back to Iran by the Americans, with only a little help from him.
He made a show of conceding in price, but minimally and grudgingly because he understood the higher the price the more his sponsors craved his offering. Then he asked, "And the British?"
"Of no consequence. Their power days are over."
"But they fight hand-in-hand with America. Their will must be broken also."
"Only if you have enough material."
He did, and would reserve sufficient for his personal enemy in any event. Payment details were reviewed next, and he threatened to renege on the deal unless the transfers occurred precisely as he outlined. He was anxious, of course, but not at the prospect he wouldn't receive his money. He wanted nothing to prevent David Ruskin from following the money trail back to these men.
Why did he need more money? Grandfather's collection was essentially reconstituted, save for the few pieces, such as the one in this military museum, which hadn't been sold into the black market upon his family's destruction. And now he was poised to complete his life's mission against his family's murderers, one he pledged to fulfill years ago as a schoolboy in Paris. But to do so he must perform as one of Grandfather's watered steel swords, and bend in the stress of battle without snapping.
They brought him to the Admiral who presided over the museum.
"Varat. I knew your father and grandfather."
And you stood to the side while they bravely faced death.
"Good men, but slow to see how the wind shifted direction."
And you smelled a change in course like the seasoned sailor and rode the storm of revolution to personal safety rather than honor your sacred duty as a Pahlawan warrior to obey your oath of loyalty to the Shah.
"Now you've returned home to work with us."
"It is my duty to restore the family honor," he said with honest humility.
"Yes." The admiral smoothed his handlebar moustache. "You wish to see the Shah of Tirbur's sword."
No, he wished to slay this man who'd deserted his father and grandfather and every muscle of his body contracted, making the effort to conceal his desire taxing.
"It is a marvelous example of our heritage."
A far better example than you, Admiral.
At last, a young subordinate officer led him down polished corridors where he beheld Grandfather's most sacred shamshir and fulfilled a dream as old as memory.
Yet he barely saw the dazzling weapon, for his mind's eye sketched every step of this undertaking he'd designed to redeem a prize more valuable than this earthly artifact – the good name and honor of the family Varat. He imagined it unfolding as planned. Jewish parents and children would cry out in the agony of Tivaz TB, and the world would blame Hamas and Hezbollah. Darling Americans would blister in excruciating sores, choke on their own screams, and the mighty nation would clamor for retribution. And Tiger – David Ruskin – would be powerless to prevent the extinction of his own heritage by the hand of Varat. But Ruskin would know he, Varat, was the mastermind behind all this and be clever enough to find the clues leading back here . . . to the Revolutionary Guard.
The full vengeance of the West would then fall on Iran, on those who destroyed his family.
Yes, all would be served in turn as long as he saw this plot through with adamantine resolution, like a watered steel blade strong enough to sever a bar of iron without suffering a single nick.
Chapter 31
Claire was relieved to see Don seemed no worse for wear after the helicopter crash. His thick black wavy hair, slicked straight back, looked unchanged except for the touch of gray around the temples that was absent the last time she'd seen him, nine months ago. And he acted like the same old Don, hugging her and then getting right down to business.
"I finally remember how I know the name Messina. He just missed the cut the year Carl Fantoro took me into his lab." Don shook his head. "I never met the guy, but I heard he stormed off in a huff, claiming Carl discriminate
d against him."
Long before the Nobel Committee sat up and took notice of his work, Carl Fantoro was a god in the world of vaccine research because he prized scientific creativity above all else. But maybe Carl had discriminated against Omar Messina. Why else would he pass on a man whose scientific genius was off the charts?
"Now this guy has the whole world's attention with his manipulation of TB into a bioweapon." Don waved the preliminary report her analysis team did on the nanomolecules from the Paris school. "Bastard even constructed Bucky-balls bigger than the C540 to deliver it."
She forced herself not to chew her cheek. Never again would anyone doubt Messina's scientific prowess. He'd wrapped his killer TB in a nanotechnology coating to protect it from the atmosphere, just like the hard chocolate shells around M&Ms kept them from melting in your hands.
"Where are you on this, Claire?"
Not as far as we need to be. "Still figuring out how Messina's Bucky-balls are split to release his TB into the body."
"Enzymatic action?"
"My first thought too, but his Bucky-ball structure resists enzymes."
Dark eyes flashed above the strong hook of Don's nose. "Think he put in a weak link somewhere?"
She did, but it wasn't easy to take a stand in front of her mentor and possibly be proven wrong. He never suffered fools gladly. "Definitely conceivable."
"If you can isolate it, you can block it."
"Yes, that's one of the strategies we're chasing."
He snapped his fingers. She relaxed at this sign he thought she was on the right track. But there was no guarantee they could keep Tivaz TB locked up in its Bucky-ball shell, and if it got out again they had to be ready to kill it. "I've directed the team to focus on finding a way to deliver a cytotoxic substance directly into the TB bacillus."
"Terrific. The direct bactericidal approach." He snapped his fingers again. "Combine it with your two vaccines and zap – you could have a real winner."
God, she hoped he was right. She so wanted it to be true, and with him here they just might succeed.
Ian knocked and brought in two cups of dark Italian Espresso from the shiny machine he'd delivered to the lab's tearoom after Paris. Sweet of him to provide for what he described as 'Yankee preferences.' Yes, Ian had been an ally since the beginning . . . but her true bulwark sat across from her.