by Julie Leto
The chandelier caught her eye immediately. Wrought from cast iron, the light fixture resembled twisted tree branches. Crystals cut like raindrops dangled just underneath each pointed lightbulb. Turning her head to the side, she noticed that while most of the crystals sparkled, one did not. One was muted.
With fingerprints.
“There!” she said.
She pointed to her discovery, and Ben’s eyes widened in instant recognition. He strode forward and, after a fortifying glance toward her, tugged on the crystal.
The panel in the wall beside them slid open silently. Barely a whoosh rent the air.
“You’ve got good instincts,” she complimented.
“On par with your eyes?”
“Sometimes you just need an objective observer and a new perspective.”
“Right now, what we need is a flashlight.”
Which they found just a foot from the panel, sitting on a nearby shelf. The gleam from the light was slightly dim. “Needs new batteries,” Ben commented.
Cat arched a brow. “Afraid of the dark?”
With a glare, he squeezed into the dark corridor, undoubtedly built for one person. The thought of climbing in after him shot a thrill through Cat that wasn’t exactly unwelcome. On the surface, Ben Rousseau was so not her type. Slightly nerdy. Superior attitude. Driven by a blind devotion to a father who was, at the very least, secretive and, more than likely, emotionally cut off from his child. But he was incredibly good-looking, and his hidden adventurous streak appealed to her on a very deep, very personal level—a level that usually, if not always, led her into trouble.
She stepped into the darkness, feeling around with her hands while her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. “Not a cobweb in sight,” she whispered. “Your father must be very meticulous.”
“He has his moments,” Ben said, his voice deep and surprisingly sensual when echoing off the thick wood panels that lined the passageway. In the enclosed space, Ben’s scent, rich with the aroma of freshly tanned leather and sandalwood, assailed Cat mercilessly, especially when paired with the warmth of his hand curled around hers as he guided her in the relative darkness. Fortunately, the secret hallway wasn’t long, and in seconds, Ben opened a door that led into a surprisingly well-lit room, only slightly smaller than the den they’d just left.
And similarly decorated. Books lined the shelves, though these were decidedly older, or at least in less pristine shape than the ones displayed in his study. Tapestries covered every wall, two and three deep. Portraits and paintings, mostly done in oil on canvas, and likely by the same artist, leaned against every available surface. The only clear space was on a small desk lit by a colorful Tiffany lamp.
“He’s been here recently,” Cat commented, running her hand over the surface of the desk. In temperature, the polished teak was cool, but in psychic vibrations, the wood simmered with a familiar warmth, similar—if not identical—to the tremors she’d felt when she’d held the flute.
“How recently?” Ben asked.
Cat slapped a thin layer of dust off her hands. “I’m not sure. It’s so strange to be with someone who believes in my powers, maybe even a little more than I do.”
“Like I said,” he replied, “I’ve been around the block. Before I started holing up in my father’s office as his glorified gopher, anyway.”
Regret laced his tone, piquing Cat’s interest. Crossing her arms over her chest, she watched him as he stalked around the room, assessing carefully, not touching anything until he had the lay of the land. He had the instincts of a cop. His hands hovered at his sides, as if he itched to disturb the crime scene but had the self-control to resist.
“What did you used to do?” she asked.
Ben turned his face into the shadows. “Let’s just say that I took my father’s interest in antiquities in a slightly different direction than academia.”
The wry lilt in his voice, not to mention his elusiveness, turned her suppositions down a dark path. Not a cop. A criminal.
“You were a smuggler?” One swipe with a feather would have knocked Cat right off her feet.
When he faced her again, his gray eyes reflected a dash of unexpected charm. “‘Smuggler’ is an ugly word. Let’s just say I was in the import-export business.”
“With an emphasis on export,” she quipped.
He didn’t deny it, but he did have the grace to change the subject.
“You said you were a paranormal researcher. I suppose you must be more used to dealing with skeptics when it comes to your psychic ability.”
Cat poked into the drawers of the desk, all of which were unlocked except for one. “Actually, no. Usually, I’m the skeptic. Very few of the people who put themselves ‘out there’ as mediums actually have any talent that isn’t explainable by heightened intuition. For all I know, that’s where my talents lie. I don’t use them enough to know for sure.”
Ben lifted one of the tapestries and extracted file folders that had been stacked on a chair behind the fabric. “Really? Why not?”
“A psychic who relies too much on her gift can become a slave to it. I’ve seen it happen.”
Cat waited for Ben to press further, but luckily he seemed caught up in the files and lost interest in her personal admission. Since the people she dealt with daily either didn’t know about her talent or, like Alexa, preferred not to believe in it completely, this wasn’t a discussion she’d had many times before. Mostly, extolling the evils of ignoring her powers was a lecture she endured from her grandparents. At least, until Grandpère died and Yela, her grandmother, succumbed to the ravages of Alzheimer’s.
In the largest drawer at the bottom of the desk, she found a thick bound manuscript. Flipping through, she discovered a collection of hand-drawn calendars dating back to the seventeen hundreds. Most pages were blank, except for a few penciled-in notations along the lines of “painting, Schooner at Dawn, Damon, Versailles at Antronique’s,” most written after 1946. A quick flip through the paintings stacked near the door revealed a rendition of a two-masted ship with three billowing sails, each reflecting the oranges and pinks of the sunrise. Paschal Rousseau must have found the painting in Versailles at a shop named Antronique’s in April of 1947, according to his notations. She paged through and found references to hundreds of items. Crockery. Books. Children’s toys. Interestingly, nearly all the paintings were attributed to an artist named Damon, whose work she found compelling, bold and unapologetic.
She replaced the calendars. Then, tucked into a cubby, she found another book. A catalog. Hundreds of photographs of swords, with information jotted on the back. The location of origin. The type of metal. The current collector and asking price.
“Was your father into swords?” she asked.
Ben shrugged. “No more than anything else. Why?”
“Not sure yet,” she replied, replacing the book and wondering about the locked drawer. She checked the most obvious places for a key, then turned to the less obvious. Under the chair or taped to the bottom of another drawer. Inside a vase. Maybe mixed in with the paperclips?
Nothing.
“What did you find?” she asked, noticing he was still wrapped up with the files.
“Maps.”
“Of?”
“Looks like Germany.”
“You were born in Europe, right?”
Ben shook his head. “Actually, no. I was born here in the States when my mother and father were visiting old friends from the Resistance.”
“The French Resistance?”
“None other. My mother’s delivery was difficult, so my father bought an apartment in Manhattan and we lived there until I was nearly a year old. Then we returned to Paris. We lived between the two places for most of my childhood.”
“And Germany?”
Ben’s face skewed with deep thought. “I’ve been, but not with my father, though he traveled there quite a bit. He never took us with him, and after my mother died, he never went back.”
“H
ow long ago was that?”
Cat tried not to notice how Ben pursed his lips when concentrating. His fascinating mouth drew her attention more than warranted, and she couldn’t help suspecting that Alexa’s romantic notions about her mysterious ghost had rubbed off on her. But Ben’s eyes—reflecting both a wild curiosity and a tempered worry—snared her as effectively as a metal noose. “Ben?”
He answered without meeting her eyes. “Too long ago. What’s the deal with that drawer?”
He tossed the files back onto the chair, flipped the tapestry down and joined her at the desk. Bending on one knee, he examined the drawer carefully, running his fingers over the lock and around the handle before giving it a firm tug. When it remained closed, he pulled harder, but the compartment wouldn’t yield.
“How are you at picking locks?” he asked.
“Rusty,” she replied. “You?”
“About the same. Is there a letter opener or a paper clip on the desk?”
Cat found both, and he worked the tools with precision. She continued to look for a key. Scanning the shelves, she found a title that seemed more worn along the top of the spine than the others, as if it had been handled often. With a tug, she released the book and inside found a cutout in the pages that contained a small gold key.
“I found—”
With a grunt, Ben yanked open the drawer. The letter opener flew into the air. The force of the lock’s release sent him tumbling backward. Cat winced and tried not to laugh.
“Tell me that’s not the key,” he said dryly, climbing to his feet as he swiped at his backside.
She dangled the tiny treasure from the satin ribbon tied to the end.
“Great,” he said. “We’re going to have to synchronize our efforts more effectively next time.”
Cat pressed her lips together and fought down her laughter. God, he was cute. Nerdy, inventive, stubborn, snobby. A collection of qualities that didn’t ordinarily combine into a desirable mix for her, but Ben Rousseau was certainly doing a number on her libido.
She put the key, no longer needed, back in its hiding place. “After our first meeting earlier, I’m surprised you want me around at all.”
Ben’s expression grew utterly serious. His eyes darkened so that the silver rings of his irises contrasted sharply against the intense blackness of his pupils. “I didn’t want you around,” he admitted. “At first, just because you were loud and disturbing my work. But once you mentioned Valoren, I knew I had to get rid of you.”
Her breath caught. All hints of wry humor vanished. He was dead serious.
“Even now?”
He grabbed her by the arms, and the tension in his fingertips fried her nerve endings. His fear for her safety was a palpable, living thing. Powerful. Fierce.
Fear for his father.
Fear for her.
Without letting her go, he glanced at the drawer, now half open. Whatever lay inside was wrapped in bright red tissue paper. Like a gift—a gift that could change them both forever.
“Especially now,” he concluded.
“Why? Because of what might be in that drawer?”
“Yes. I don’t want to be responsible for putting you in danger, too.”
“No one is responsible for me but me.”
His fingers clutched her tighter. “Maybe that was true before, but trust me, it isn’t anymore.”
15
“Do you think there’s something wrong with us?” Alexa asked Jacob, who’d been poring over the rudimentary blueprints and sketches of her castle with surprising concentration for the past twenty minutes.
Alexa, on the other hand, had decided that after four hours of intense meetings—which had been preceded by a surprisingly Damon-free four-hour visit to the island with a crack team of contractors and architects—she preferred to nurse a vodka gimlet rather than look at lines and angles until her eyes blurred. The booze, unfortunately, triggered her reliving all the weirdness that had happened over the past two days. Hell, the past thirty years.
Jacob didn’t look up.
“Jacob?” she asked again.
“What? I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
Alexa grabbed the plans and slid them onto the floor, out of Jacob’s reach.
“I asked if you think there’s anything wrong with us.”
“Us? What do you mean? Are you having second thoughts about this property?”
Shockingly, he sounded disappointed. She’d had the distinct impression that Jacob had been less than enthusiastic about this venture until today. There was something invigorating about standing in the middle of a hollow castle and watching with awe as her experts assessed and brainstormed life into her dream project. She had been so caught up, she’d nearly forgotten about Damon and his plight, as well as what they’d done in the dead of the stormy night on the landing where she’d stood for most of the afternoon.
Nearly, but not quite.
“This isn’t about the property,” she admitted.
Jacob arched his eyebrow.
Alexa sighed. “For five minutes, can we not talk or think about business?”
Jacob slid into a chair and reached for the gimlet he’d left untouched for the last hour. “Fine with me. You’re the workaholic, not me.”
“Yeah, I know,” she acknowledged. “I guess being abandoned on that island made me think a bit about my personal life. Or lack thereof. And yours, too. I mean, we’re two wealthy, attractive, interesting adults. Why aren’t we attached?”
“To each other?” His other eyebrow had now beat the first in curving ability.
She chuckled at the absurdity. “No, thank you. We may not be related by blood, but you’re still my brother whether you like it or not.”
He took a dainty sip. “I plead the fifth.”
“Smart strategy. Look, be serious, Jacob. Why aren’t you married?”
He made a face as if the vodka in his drink had suddenly gone rancid. “I’m not the marrying type. Lord, Alexa. What’s gotten into you? And since when have you been interested in my personal life?”
Especially since his breakup with Cat, the topic of who Jacob slept with and why had become completely off-limits. And she couldn’t really remember Jacob showing any interest whatsoever in the men she brought home, so long as they were independently wealthy and weren’t wooing her into bed as a means to access her bank accounts. But without Cat here or even reachable by phone to kick around her problems with, who else did she have? At least she knew Jacob cared about what happened to her. Everyone else in her life pretty much looked at her as the signature on their paycheck and nothing more.
“Who do you discuss your personal life with?” she asked.
“No one. I’m a guy. We prefer action over discussion.”
She nodded. This much was true, judging by Damon’s delicious actions the night before.
“Shouldn’t you be talking about this crap with that weirdo ex of mine? As much as I think the woman is entirely a fraud, you seem to like her well enough.”
“She got your number rather quickly.”
He sneered. “All the more reason for me to despise her.”
“And the feeling is mutual on her part, so at least you have one nonfamilial relationship in your life that is an emotional match.”
“Bully for me.” This time, Jacob’s sip wasn’t dainty at all. In a thick swallow, he downed the rest of the vodka and lime concoction and reached for the pitcher room service had delivered an hour ago, along with the crudités they hadn’t touched.
“I’m serious,” Alexa insisted.
“I get that,” he said, popping a grape tomato into his mouth and chewing. “I also get that since Madam Morose is not available to you, you’re installing me as your personal Dr. Phil. I should point out here that with your bank account, if you called the real deal, he’d fly here in a heartbeat.”
She stuck out her tongue. She didn’t need a therapist. Yet. She needed a friend. “I just wonder why neither one of us has made a
personal attachment with a member of the opposite sex. I mean, our parents loved each other enough to die together.”
Jacob froze, then after a long minute, reached across and patted the top of her hand. “That wasn’t your fault, Alexa. If this is survivor’s guilt talking again, I think you need to call someone with more expertise than mine to work it out.”
She shook her head, though the tightening in her chest belied her denial. But she’d had enough therapy—both mental and physical—to last a lifetime. She’d grown beyond blaming herself for the fact that she’d lived when they’d died. Accidents happened. But the event that should have made her embrace life more fully had instead made her cautious. Except in business. With her father gone, her ambition to not only prove herself but protect the legacy left to her had consumed her.
To the point where she’d ignored every other aspect of her life.
Everything except her fantasies.
“I’m fine,” she assured Jacob when it looked like he was reaching for his cell phone, undoubtedly to give her long-abandoned therapist a call. Or maybe Dr. Phil.
“You sure?”
With a nod, she poured more gimlet for herself and decided that her attempt to draw her stepbrother into an intimate conversation had been a fool’s errand. Jacob’s loyalty to her was something she could pretty much count on, but he did have his limits. And since Cat was still entirely out of touch, she had only one other person she could talk to.
The one person who had caused all this angst in the first place. She should have known that going directly to the source would be her best strategy.
“I think I’m going to get some sleep,” she said.
Jacob nodded, finished his drink, then stood. “Good idea. I’ll call the pilot and make arrangements for us to return to Chicago first thing in the morning.”
Twisting and turning the crystal glass in her hands, Alexa found herself fascinated by the prismed light reflecting onto the polished table. It was like magic, wasn’t it? Magic that fascinated her. Called to her. Unlike the call of returning to her hometown. She loved Chicago, but other than a great big mansion she rarely used and a business that leeched every ounce of her soul out of her, what did she have to go home to?