Gift of Gold

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Jonas nodded once, almost absently, as if the last thing he was interested in at the moment was getting her a glass of vodka. But he obediently headed for the kitchen and a moment later Verity heard the clink of glass on glass.

  “Here you go,” he said as he returned and shoved the glass into her hand. “What happened?”

  “Yeah, Red, let’s have the rest of the story. The suspense is killing me.” Emerson took a huge swallow of his drink and flopped down onto a chair. “Fatherhood has its drawbacks. A man could go crazy from the stress.”

  “Stress is one thing you’ll never have to worry about, Dad. I doubt if you know the meaning of the word. Your lifestyle is not conducive to stress.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  Verity sat on the chair near the desk and arranged her coat discreetly over her knees. Jonas just stood where he was, watching her every move. “To make a long story short, I got away from a rather large, odoriferous man named Pedro who grabbed me as I was trying to beat a hasty retreat from the cantina.”

  “You know how to give your old man nightmares, don’t you? Jesus, Red. How did you get away?” her father demanded.

  Verity lifted one shoulder, trying for a negligent air. Heaven knew she had been anything but casual about things that night. It had been a real skin-of-the-teeth experience. She had never been so frightened in her life. “Someone else came into the alley. I didn’t get a good look at him. He was tall. Taller than Pedro, at any rate. That’s about all I know. It was pitch black and I wasn’t in the mood to make detailed observations. I just wanted out of there. I suppose the second man was some tavern patron who apparently thought good old Pedro didn’t deserve to have me all to himself. There was a fight and in the confusion I got away. The only thing I lost was an earring.” She held up her glass of vodka in a small salute. “So you see? Luck follows the virtuous.” She took a swallow of her drink and coughed as the raw liquor hit her throat. Her father’s taste in liquor was appalling.

  “Luck follows idiocy, you mean,” Emerson corrected gloomily. He scowled at Jonas. “Think twice before you decide to have daughters, Quarrel. They’ll drive you crazy.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Jonas said quietly. He seemed preoccupied with his vodka.

  Verity caught the odd tone in his voice and wondered at it. Something wasn’t quite right but she couldn’t put her finger on it. For some reason, it gave her an uneasy sensation to realize just how little she really knew about this man. She turned back to her father.

  “Okay, Dad, let’s have it. What brings you to Sequence Springs?”

  Emerson contrived to look hurt. “Can’t a man get a paternal hankering to see his one and only child?”

  “Sure, but you could have seen me two months ago down in Mexico if seeing me had been all that important to you,” Verity pointed out carelessly. “It certainly would have been a lot more convenient for you. But the fact that you’ve come back to the States without any warning makes me wonder just what you’re up to.”

  Emerson sighed and again looked at Jonas. “That tongue of hers gets sharper every time I see her. It’s getting to the point where she can make a man bleed with a few well-chosen words. She used to be such a sweet, good-natured little girl. Now she’s turning into an old maid before my very eyes.”

  Verity’s mouth tightened ominously. “Odd that you should say that, Dad. Jonas was just making a similar observation not more than a few hours ago.”

  Jonas narrowed his eyes. “You should be grateful we’re both concerned about your future.”

  She wasn’t altogether certain he was teasing her. Deliberately she smiled at him. “Don’t worry about me. If either of you had any common sense you’d spend your time worrying about your own futures.”

  “Hah,” her father muttered. “My future will take care of itself. It always has. But if I let you continue to go your merry way, I’m not going to have any grandchildren to bless my old age and that’s a fact.”

  Verity fought back the warmth in her cheeks. Jonas was smiling faintly. It was time to press the attack. “Answer my question, Dad. To what do I owe the honor of this midnight visit?”

  Emerson swirled the vodka in his glass and looked pained. “Well, Red, to tell you the truth, I need a place to cool my heels for a while.”

  “Dammit!” Verity exploded. “I knew it. You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” Her hands tightened painfully around her glass. “Well? What is it this time?” It was all she could do to keep from hurling the glass across the room. She sensed Jonas’s brooding, watchful gaze, and the knowledge that he was witnessing her loss of control made that loss even worse. “Go on, tell me. Did you get caught with someone else’s wife? Did you try your hand at smuggling refugees out of some hole-in-the-wall country again? Get behind on your gambling debts? Or is your presence here simply the end result of some barroom brawl that you lost? Who’s looking for you?”

  Emerson cleared his throat. “You see how it is?” he complained to Jonas. “No respect. No compassion. No concern for her old man. Just demands for explanations and answers, and when she gets them she’ll probably spend half an hour chewing on me.”

  Jonas’s faint smile broadened briefly but the intent look in his eyes did not lighten. “What is the explanation, Emerson?”

  The big man shrugged. “What can I say? I owe a man a few bucks, that’s all. A debt of honor.”

  “Debt of honor, my foot,” Verity muttered. “A gambling debt is a gambling debt. No need to dress it up the way they did two hundred years ago by calling it a debt of honor.”

  Her father shook his head in woeful regret and turned back to Jonas. “You’d think after all the history I had her read, she’d have more respect for the subject, wouldn’t you?”

  “So you owe a man a few bucks?” Jonas prompted calmly.

  “I do and he’s getting a tad anxious, I’m afraid. I told him he’d have to wait awhile, and he told me if he was forced to wait too long, he’d send a few people out to rearrange my face. I deemed it prudent to depart from Mexico and then from Rio. My research was finished down there, anyway.”

  “What research?” Verity asked tightly.

  Emerson’s eyes brightened. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m starting a new series of books, Red. Futuristic Westerns.”

  “Futuristic westerns?” she asked blankly.

  “Sure. It’s a natural. Just think what I can do with the combination of traditional western story components and an exotic, extraterrestrial background.”

  Verity didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She told herself she should be accustomed to her father’s ways by now. “You were in Mexico researching futuristic westerns?”

  “Great locale and atmosphere. I was just about done, so I called you up to see if you could take a few days off and come down for a visit. You always did like Mexico. But right after I called you, I got the message that this gentleman to whom I owe a certain sizable sum was impatient. I couldn’t reach you to call off the trip, but I figured you’d understand when you arrived and found me gone. In the meantime I thought I’d give Rio a whirl. Hadn’t been there in a while. As it happens, all my problems were solved in Rio. Or almost solved, I should say. There are a couple of small details to work out, which is why I’m here to visit you for a while.”

  “What details?” Verity asked with deep suspicion.

  “I have to complete a certain transaction,” her father explained. “When it’s finished, I’ll have the cash I need to pay off this rather persistent gentleman who has been hounding me for the past three months.”

  Verity went cold. “What kind of transaction?” she whispered.

  Emerson gave her a compassionate look and then shook his head at Jonas. “Look at her. Now she’s convinced I’m running drugs.”

  “For a spinster, she’s got an active fantasy life,” Jonas observed gently.

  �
��Shut up, both of you,” Verity snapped. “Tell me about this transaction, Dad.”

  “I have come into possession of a very unusual item, Red. It’s in my bag, which is still outside in the car. I’m told this item is extremely valuable. Normally such things are sold through auction houses, but I haven’t got time to set up a deal like that. I also lack the kind of paperwork and guarantees of authenticity an auction house likes to see. I need to unload this item quickly for obvious reasons.”

  “You need a private collector,” Jonas said quietly. “One who is passionately devoted to his hobby and who won’t ask a lot of unnecessary questions.”

  Emerson looked at him with respect. “Exactly. A discreet collector. Preferably one for whom cost is no object. I thought it would be easiest to find one here in the States. But first I need to get the item appraised. I want to know exactly what I’m dealing. So far I’ve only got the former owner’s word that the item is valuable.”

  Jonas leaned forward, his glass cradled between his lean hands. “What is this item you’re trying to sell, Emerson?”

  Emerson grinned. “I’ll show you.” He got to his feet and walked to the front door. En route he patted his daughter on the head. “Be right back. Try not to tear each other’s throats out while I’m gone.”

  The door closed behind him and silence reigned. Verity studied her half-empty glass. Jonas didn’t move.

  “So,” he said at last, “you came over here tonight to apologize?”

  “I don’t know what got into me,” she mumbled, feeling put upon and therefore sarcastic. “I must have been crazy.”

  Jonas got soundlessly to his feet and crossed the room to stand in front of her. He took her glass from her hand and set it down beside his on the small table near her chair. Then his hands closed around her shoulders and he lifted her to her feet.

  “So gracious. But I’ll take what I can get. Apology accepted, little tyrant,” he said softly and brushed the lightest of kisses across the tip of her nose. With his mouth very close to hers he asked, “What have you got on under this coat?” He ran a finger down the row of large buttons to the sash. “It looks like a nightgown.”

  “Never mind about my clothes. I think you owe me an apology, too,” she announced, looking up at him warily.

  “I agree,” he said, golden eyes suddenly cryptic. “But my sin is greater than yours and I haven’t even finished committing it yet. Give me a little time, Verity.”

  She thought he was about to kiss her again, this time on the mouth, but the door opened, letting in a blast of cool air. Her father came into the room, bearing an old, flat wooden case. He watched with interest as Jonas casually took his hands off Verity’s shoulders. “Here, now, don’t let me interrupt anything. You two got something going on between you?”

  “Don’t get excited, Dad; the man works for me.”

  “Looks to me like you’re giving out some interesting employee benefits, Red.”

  “Forget it, Dad. What’s in the case?”

  Emerson chuckled. “Take a look. If your old man hasn’t been had, if these are genuine, they’re worth a small fortune. Enough to pay off the hound who’s baying at my heels.” He opened the old case and revealed two oddly shaped guns nesting in faded, aging felt.

  Verity stared at the long-barreled weapons. They were both fascinating and ominous-looking. The grips were curved and the metal was blued. There was no hint of ornamentation on the guns. Unlike most handcrafted items from the past, they were stark, functional, and terrifyingly plain in design. The very lack of decorative details seemed to emphasize the purpose for which the weapons had been made.

  “Dueling pistols,” Jonas said calmly. He peered into the case but made no move to touch the guns. “British flints. Probably late seventeen hundreds. If they’re real, you’re in luck, Emerson. They’re worth a bundle. How did you say you got hold of them?”

  Emerson eyed his prize. “I did a favor for someone once a long time ago. I looked him up in Rio a few weeks back to see if he would be willing to loan me a few bucks to help me get out of my present predicament. He gave me these instead and said they should take care of my problem. I trust my friend, naturally, but you never know. The first thing I have to do is verify that these are originals and not reproductions. Then I’ll have to figure out how to find a buyer.”

  “The first part of your problem should be easy to solve,” Verity said briskly. “Jonas has the kind of knowledge and experience it takes to authenticate old things, don’t you, Jonas?” She looked up at him, challenging him to prove that what Caitlin Evanger had said about him earlier was true. “Go ahead. Tell us whether my father has come into possession of a pair of valuable dueling pistols or if he’s just been taken to the cleaners.”

  “I’m kind of curious myself,” Emerson said easily. “The condition of my face may depend on it, not to mention my kneecaps. Do you know something about old guns?”

  Jonas said nothing. He just stared down into the mahogany case as if he were looking through a window into another world.

  “His former area of expertise is the Renaissance,” Verity told her father quietly as she watched Jonas. “But apparently he has a broad range of knowledge on the subject of arms and armor. Well, Jonas?”

  He looked up then, his gaze trapping hers. The glittering gold of his eyes made her catch her breath. She sensed a battle going on behind that gaze; perhaps a battle between ghosts. She couldn’t tell if Jonas was furious or desperate or excited or eager, or if his new mood was a dangerous combination of all of those emotions. She knew only that there was a wildness in him in that moment that defied description. Verity swallowed uneasily, wondering what had been unleashed inside him. Already she regretted her impulsive demand.

  “Jonas?” she whispered with uncertainty.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said, his voice raw and harsh. “But maybe this is as good a time as any for both of us to find out.”

  He reached into the case and lifted out one of the pistols. The instant his hand closed around it, Verity experienced a sudden, overwhelming sensation of being pursued. A ripple of terror went through her. Her palms grew damp and her heart began to beat too quickly, as though she were preparing to run for her life.

  That was exactly what she wanted to do. Like a doe fleeing the hunter’s hounds, she wanted to whirl and run. The nameless fear gripped her. The walls of the cabin seemed to close in around her, curving, elongating, taking on the shape of a dark tunnel.

  Someone was in that tunnel with her. She couldn’t see him yet, but she knew he was hunting her. Soon he would reach out for her. If he caught her she would never escape.

  Her whole future would be altered if the hunter in the dark corridor found her.

  Verity stood frozen in the center of the room, desperately trying to understand what was happening to her.

  Panic attack, she thought frantically. The abrupt onset of an irrational fear that triggered the ancient fight-or-flight mechanism in the human body. She’d never had one, but she had heard about them. She knew other women who had experienced them. The attacks struck without warning, leaving the victim shaking with an anxiety that had no known source. Stress was sometimes blamed. Perhaps Jonas was right. Maybe she had been working too hard lately.

  In her mind she turned a corner in the tunnel taking shape and started to run. There was no end to the corridor; no light ahead. But she ran regardless, because anything was safer than staying to confront the hunter who pursued her. Already she could feel him coming closer, hands reaching for her.

  “Don’t run from me. You belong to me. Don’t run.”

  The words echoed in her mind, part command and part plea. She thought she should be able to recognize that voice. It was rough, male, and full of power. And it only made her want to flee faster through the corridor. She had to get out of there.

  Then, without any warni
ng, the curving walls and the sense of being pursued disintegrated. Verity was abruptly, violently aware of Jonas, who stood perfectly still beside her. He was no longer holding one of the pistols. He had returned it to the case. But he was looking at her with his strange golden eyes. There was a raw, unleashed hunger in that gaze. It was both undeniably sexual and much more, indefinable and dangerous and compelling.

  The room around Verity looked exactly as it had a moment ago. Nothing had changed, although she was dazed. Something felt terribly, horribly different. In a way she couldn’t explain, she sensed that her world would never be quite the same again.

  “The gun is genuine,” Jonas said in a voice that sounded unnaturally calm. “As Verity told you, my field is the Renaissance, but I know enough about old weapons to tell you that you’ve got a very valuable set of pistols there. Take care of them, Emerson. They’re worth a great deal of money.”

  “I guess my daughter was right,” Emerson said cheerfully. “Luck follows the virtuous. Now all I have to do is figure out how to turn these pistols into cash. Well, it’s been a long day. What do you say we all hit the sack? I could use a night’s sleep, and Verity here looks a little washed out. What’s the matter, Red? Haven’t you been getting enough sleep lately?”

  “She works too hard and she doesn’t eat properly,” Jonas said. His eyes never left her face. “Come on, Verity, I’ll walk you back to your cabin.”

  She wanted to refuse. The panic attack, or whatever it was, seemed to have vanished with as little warning as that with which it had materialized, but a lingering uneasiness remained.