“They?” Nora asked.
He shook his head, then bent it forward so that she couldn’t see his face at all. A few stray strands of silver along his crown caught the light. Emma was right. He didn’t look like a boy. He looked like a man full grown.
He took a deep breath, slapped his thigh, and then stood. “I take it she’s Sancho’s responsibility now?” The mask was back. His face was smooth, as if nothing could touch it, or him. As if he didn’t have a heart at all.
“Actually, no,” Nora said. “He was responsible for the microbus. It’s still in its garage. I did my part.”
“She can’t be on her own.” Blackstone came forward and leaned on the desk. The scent of him swirled around her, leather and exotic and enticing.
“She isn’t,” Nora said, holding her ground, even though his face was just inches from hers. “She’s already taking action.”
“Action?”
“She hired me to act as her representative.”
“You can’t.”
Nora raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because—you work for Sancho.”
“I don’t see why warehousing a microbus conflicts with becoming the attorney for a woman who needs to establish herself in a strange new world.”
“You claimed, in your apartment, that you were protecting Emma on the behest of Sancho. Now you’re saying you represent her. That’s a conflict.”
“That’s called thinking on your feet. I had to do something to convince you and Ealhswith that I had some authority.”
“Speaking of Ealhswith, how are you going to protect Emma from her?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll come up with something.”
“Let me see Emma. Let me talk to her. This is just foolishness.”
“No,” Nora said.
He leaned back, as if her word had been a physical blow. “No?”
“When we first met, ten years ago, I told you that you had no rights to this girl, remember?”
“She was in a coma then. She—”
“You still don’t, Blackstone.” It was hard for Nora to keep her voice level. He was still too close to her. And she wanted to give in to him, to keep him around. But she didn’t dare, not if she was going to protect Emma. “She makes her own choices, and she is not ready to see you.”
“I can simply appear in your apartment.”
“Do that,” Nora said, “and I’ll have the police after you so fast, your head will spin.”
“So I really am uninvited.”
It was her turn to lean back. Obviously “uninvited” was an important concept to him. He had used that word with Ealhswith when she had been in the loft, and she had left almost immediately. “Yes,” Nora said. “You are uninvited.”
He sighed, slapped his hands on the desk, and stood up. “You are making this impossible.”
“I am doing what I think best.”
“Treating me as you would treat one of your divorce cases, the domestic cases, where the husband is persona non grata?”
“You are not a husband, you are not married to Emma, and you are exhibiting behavior that I could easily convince the police is stalking. I don’t like it, and neither does Emma.”
He headed toward the door, then stopped. “I don’t suppose I could hire you?”
“For what?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “To help me with Emma perhaps?”
“No,” Nora said.
“Why not?”
“Because that,” she said, “is a conflict of interest.”
He let out a hissing breath. “You are a difficult woman.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
He ran his hand through his hair, smoothing it this time, as if he were trying to tame its mess. He didn’t look at her for a moment, and she wondered if he were trying to figure out another way around her, a way to charm her, seduce her, to make her think the way he wanted her to think.
“It’s hard for me to let go,” he said, his back to Nora. “I’ve been protecting her for a thousand years.”
“For a thousand years,” Nora said, “she couldn’t move. She can now.”
“I know.” He shook his head slightly. “I know.”
He was silent for a moment. Nora had learned long ago to wait, to let the other person break a silence. That way, she discovered so much more.
He turned so that she could see one side of his face. She couldn’t quite read it, not at that unusual angle. “I never meant to harm her,” he said.
“You should tell her that.”
“You won’t let me.”
She smiled. “Touché.”
“She’ll need help. I know it. Please, tell her she can come to me. I won’t—do anything to upset her. I promise.”
At least he didn’t say he loved her. Nora didn’t know why that mattered, but it did. It felt as if they were getting closer to the truth somehow, with that little sentence removed from the conversation.
“I’ll tell her,” Nora said.
He nodded, looked away. “And I want you to call me too, if you have trouble with Ealhswith, the Fates, or the magic. Sometimes…” He didn’t finish the thought.
“Sometimes?”
“These things snowball,” he said. He grabbed the doorknob and turned. This time, she could see him, and he looked just like the man she had met—minus the snake. She would have to ask him about that sometime.
“Snowball?” she asked.
“I hope you don’t find out.” His smile was slight, and it didn’t go to his eyes. “I guess Sancho was right about you.”
“In what way?”
“He said you could handle whatever came up.” Blackstone shrugged. “Perhaps he foresaw this.”
“It wasn’t hard to see.”
“For you, maybe,” Blackstone said. “It blindsided me.” He let himself out the door, closing it softly behind him. She stared at it for a moment, then stood.
She was shaking. She hadn’t realized it until she was alone. She was shaking from the morning’s events and the conversation with Blackstone. Hell, just being alone with the man made her nervous. She had to use all of her mental powers to concentrate. She had never found a man so attractive. Not even Max.
Especially not Max.
She grimaced and went to her minibar, where she kept mostly colas, some yogurt and fruit in case she didn’t get lunch, and some ice cream for emergencies. She opened the door, stared inside the refrigerator, and decided she was only going to eat because she was nervous.
And upset.
And terrified.
Maybe that little man Sancho thought she could handle anything, but she didn’t. She had talked a good game about defending herself and Emma against Ealhswith and helping Emma make the transition, but she wasn’t sure she could do it.
And she knew she couldn’t do it alone.
She grabbed a can of Diet Coke, opened it, and put it on a coaster on her desk. Then she dictated her file notes for Ruthie. Before Nora gave them to Ruthie, she would have to swear her to confidentiality, maybe even have Ruthie review her agreement with the firm. This one shouldn’t get out, not to the secretaries, not to anyone. They would all think Nora was crazy.
A knock on her door startled her. “Come,” she said.
Randolph, another of the junior partners, came inside. He was slender and small, trim in an efficient way. His suits were always meticulous, his hair styled neater than any woman’s in the office, and his hands manicured the way that only Ruthie had been able to match.
“Sorry,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “I know I should wait for the partners’ meeting tomorrow, but is that your newest client?”
“What?” Nora asked, feeling as if she had entered into a conversation in the middle.
“Alex Blackstone.”
“Alex?” She blinked. Of course he wouldn’t use Aethelstan. Not in this day and age. But Stan seemed the logical shortening of the name. Not Alex.
“Yea
h,” Randolph said. “It was your office he was leaving, right?”
“Yes,” Nora said, gathering herself so that she didn’t say anything she shouldn’t. “But he’s not a client. He’s connected to a case that I can’t talk about.”
“Damn,” Randolph said. “That’s one big fish.”
“You know him?”
“You don’t?”
The feeling of being in someone else’s conversation continued. “Should I?”
“Don’t you read the papers?”
“Yes, I read the papers.”
“Then you should know.”
“What?”
“Who Alex Blackstone is.”
“Maybe I just don’t read the papers as closely as you,” she snapped.
“Obviously not,” Randolph said.
She waited. So did he. That was when she realized this was one of those petty lawyer games, and she didn’t have time to play. “So,” she said. “Who is he?”
“The hottest restaurateur in Portland. Kind of our answer to Wolfgang Puck. Only he blends cuisines from all over the world into his own. And he does theme nights. You know, War of the Roses Night, a Moveable Feast night—”
“Moveable Feast?”
“You know, Paris in the twenties.”
“No, I didn’t know,” she said, annoyed. “So he’s famous locally.”
“On the verge of becoming famous nationally, I think. And his restaurant has been open less than a year.”
“What’s it called?”
“What?”
“The restaurant,” she snapped, not wanting to play anymore games.
“Quixotic.”
“Figures,” she muttered.
“What?” Randolph asked.
“‘Quixotic’ is an adjective,” she said. “I thought restaurant names were supposed to be nouns.”
He looked at her as if she had gone crazy.
“Never mind,” she said. “Look, I’ve got a lot on my plate, so unless you came here to do more than gossip—”
“I just wanted to find out if we had gotten his legal business. It’s become quite a coup among the firms in town. A lot of them are chasing him—”
“We’re not.”
“Well, since he’s been here, do you mind if I—?”
“Yes.”
Randolph frowned. “That’s not like you. What kind of case is he connected with?”
“A messy one,” Nora said. Then she frowned. “Say, do you know any good general history professors, or maybe English professors with a specialty in medieval lit? I’d even settle for a comp lit prof or a specialist in arcane languages.”
“Is this for the case?”
“Randolph,” she said. “Just answer the question.”
“I can have my clerk dig some up. He’s fresh out of the U of O.”
“I’d prefer someone from Portland.”
“Whatever,” Randolph said. “If I find this out for you, can I help on the case?”
She put her micro voice recorder down. “What is your interest in Blackstone?”
“He’s going to be worth a lot of money, Nora. Especially once he goes national. This is the age of the famous chef. They license a thousand things, from special recipes to franchises to television shows. Think of the income to the firm.”
“You think of it,” Nora said. “I’ve got to get through this first.”
“Mind if I call him?”
“Yes,” she said. “It would be a conflict of interest.”
“Don’t tell me,” Randolph said. “He beats his wife.”
“He doesn’t have a wife,” she said. “I don’t know why everyone assumes he does.”
“What everyone?” Randolph said. “I was guessing.”
Nora frowned at him. She was distracted and tired and not up for a conversation like this. “Do me a favor and don’t talk about this.”
“You still want the names of the professors?”
“Please,” she said.
“All right, but someday you’ll have to tell me what this is all about.”
“I will,” she said, “when it’s all over.”
If it ever ends, she thought, and felt a surge of fear. The magnitude of what she had gotten into had finally hit her. She only hoped she was strong enough to hold her own until Emma got on her feet.
If Emma ever got on her feet.
Nora closed her eyes. Sometimes it didn’t pay to have legal training. It always taught you to see the worst. And the worst in this case was not something she really wanted to consider.
Only she didn’t know how to stop herself.
When she opened her eyes, Randolph was still there, staring at her. “Something’s really wrong, isn’t it?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I won’t hassle you about it any more,” he said. “But if you need help, you come to me, all right?”
“Yeah,” she said, knowing she wouldn’t. She wasn’t sure she could get help from anyone. At least, not anyone normal.
And that was the biggest problem of all.
***
For the second time that day, Blackstone stood outside a building with Nora inside and stared at his car. It was becoming, to him at least, a symbol of everything that was wrong with the computer age. Why did a status symbol have to be so very small?
He had parked in a parking space near a newly planted maple tree. The street was lined with a dozen of these newly planted trees, apparently some city planner’s attempt at beautification. Downtown Portland was beautiful enough; it didn’t need trees that would someday tower over the road or block the view from the lower windows.
He felt particularly protective of those lower windows. For the past ten years, he had gazed at them and thought of Nora toiling away in her ratty office. He hadn’t realized, until today, that she had graduated to an entire floor at the building’s top.
The Porsche was baking in the heat. For some reason, he hadn’t wanted to go into the parking garage. The garage almost felt as if it were too filled with memories, too much a part of his past.
His past with Nora, not Emma.
His fists were clenched again. What was wrong with him? He should have charmed Nora, forced her to un-uninvite him, and gone to see Emma. But charming Nora would be difficult, if not impossible, and even if it were possible, he didn’t want to.
He wanted her to like him for his own sake. And for the first time in the last millennium, maybe the first time in his life, he wasn’t confident of being liked. Nora seemed to see down inside him, and he was getting the sense that she didn’t approve of what she saw.
Why should she? In her opinion, he had imprisoned for a thousand years a woman he claimed to love, then he had treated that woman insensitively when she had awakened from her coma, and he hadn’t once told her that he loved her.
Somehow he hadn’t been able to say the words. At least, not with Nora in the room. Even if she hadn’t been in the room, he wasn’t sure how convincing he would be. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Emma—besides guilty and slightly ashamed. He could blame this whole thing on Ealhswith and his own inexperience, but somehow that seemed wrong.
It was time he took responsibility himself.
Responsibility meant that he be the one to work with Emma, he be the one to train her in the ways of this brave new world, he be the one to show her how wonderful the twenty-first century could be.
Somehow he had to get Nora to trust him. He shook his head slightly. That wouldn’t work. Not after all she had seen.
He leaned on his hot tiny car and crossed his arms, staring up at the building where she had once had an office the size of a closet. She had come so far since he last saw her. She didn’t look like a kid just out of high school anymore. She looked like exactly what she was—a powerful woman full grown. She had been an attorney for ten years, and she saw things clearly. She would know when someone was trying to manipulate her, even someone as good as he was.
In fact, she would be expecting th
at.
He shook his head. If only they could work together. But she wasn’t ready to do that either. And he didn’t have time—actually Emma didn’t have time—for Nora to gain his trust.
So he would have to play things her way. He would have to see if he could bend the rules of her world, her legal world, so that he could spend time with Emma.
And for that, he needed his faithful sidekick, the man Nora only knew as Sancho Panza. Blackstone knew Sancho’s real name, of course, but those who had come into their magic never used real names—not casually, anyway. It was too dangerous.
Sancho was in the South of France, or so he said. Sometimes he just disappeared for weeks at a time, coming back looking sadder than he had when he left. Blackstone always had the sense that Sancho, for all his bravado, was lonely, but he could never confirm it. The one thing Blackstone knew was that he was Sancho’s best—and only—friend.
It was time to cash in on that friendship. Blackstone couldn’t get to Emma, but Sancho could. If they argued this right, Sancho would leave Nora’s with Emma at his side—and then Blackstone would be able to talk to her, to help her, to make her see reason.
And somehow, in the middle of all that, he would find a way to convince her to forgive him.
* * *
Chapter 7
When Nora got home, she found her mother and Emma in the living room, deep in conversation. Emma looked calmer. Darnell was on her lap. Nora felt a twinge of jealousy—even the cats thought Emma was the be-all and end-all of women—and then put it aside. Nora stood for a moment, taking in the scene before her.
Apparently, Emma had gotten used to Nora’s mother. And a few other things. Emma was holding the television remote as if it were the Holy Grail and occasionally, she would point it at the TV. She kept turning to the Home Shopping Network. After a moment, Nora’s mother would change the channel to CNN, and after a while, Emma would change it back.
It was going to be a long night.
As Nora came inside, carrying her Saks bag and her briefcase, her mother waved gaily. “I have dinner in the refrigerator,” Amanda said. “Emma helped.”
Emma smiled at her, as if she had completed the greatest accomplishment of her life. “I like the stove,” she said. “It is so easy. Even if food is strange here.”
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