Copper Beach dl-1

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  In the next heartbeat, her release cascaded through her in waves of energy that defied easy descriptions of both pleasure and pain. Not normal, she thought again. But incredible.

  She cried out and sank her nails into Sam’s back. He went rigid, and then his climax broke free, surging through him in heavy waves. His fierce growl of triumph and satisfaction echoed in the shadows.

  In that senses-shattering moment, she could have sworn that the flaring ultralight currents of their overheated auras had established a harmonic link, a breathtakingly intimate resonance.

  She had just time enough to think, Such a thing isn’t possible.

  And then they were collapsing together into the damp sheets, and she could not think coherently at all.

  14

  SHE AWOKE TO THE INTOXICATING FRAGRANCE OF FRESHLY brewed coffee.

  Sam.

  She opened her eyes to the early light of a Seattle summer morning and bolted upright on a tide of adrenaline. Sam had spent the night in her bed.

  She knew he had not gone back to the sofa, because she had a distinct recollection of him returning from the bathroom after the heated lovemaking. Mentally, she corrected herself: the heated sex. No love involved on either side. They barely knew each other.

  It came down to a one-night stand. She never did one-night stands. Too risky.

  Newton was nowhere to be seen. A shiver of alarm shot through her. He was always there to greet her first thing in the morning.

  As if on cue, she heard Newton in the hall. He trotted into the bedroom, put his front paws up on the bed and licked her hand.

  “Well, good morning to you, too,” she said.

  She rubbed his ears. Newton gave her another perfunctory lick on the hand and bounced off, tail high. He disappeared back down the hall, as if he had more important things to do.

  She forced herself to focus on the chain of events during the night. When Sam had returned to the bed, he had pulled her close and fallen into a profound sleep. She had expected to spend the short time left until dawn lying awake, worrying about the weird, unsettling sensations she had experienced and the possible ramifications of what had happened.

  But the exhaustion that had come over her had been beyond any normal postcoital languor. Probably because there had been as much paranormal as normal energy involved, she thought. She had never before engaged in sex with all of her senses wide open. Until last night, she would not have believed such an encounter was even possible.

  Her phone chimed, snapping her out of her reverie. She scooped it up off the nightstand and glanced at the screen. The familiar caller ID calmed her. Ralph, the day doorman.

  “Good morning, Ralph,” she said. She glanced at the clock again. “­Early-morning package delivery?”

  “There is a gentleman here to see you.” Ralph spoke very quietly into the phone. “A Mr. Strickland.”

  “Dawson? Are you sure?”

  “Says he’s your brother, but you never mentioned a brother.”

  “Dawson is my stepbrother,” she said. She spoke automatically while she tried to think. “What does he want?”

  Sam came to stand in the doorway of the bedroom. Newton was at his heels. Sam had obviously showered and shaved. His dark hair was still damp. He wore a charcoal-gray pullover and a pair of black trousers. He had a cup of coffee in his hand and a little heat in his eyes. She was suddenly very conscious of her wild hair and the faded nightgown.

  “Mr. Strickland says he wants to talk to you,” Ralph said, his voice still barely above a whisper. “But if you’d rather not see him, I’ll be happy to tell him that you’re not at home. After all, you were scheduled to be out of town this week, anyway.”

  She smiled a little at Ralph’s protective tones. He knew she had spent the night with a man and that said male was still under her roof. The door staff knew everything that went on in the building. He was trying to shield her from any possible awkwardness that might result if her stepbrother walked in on the situation. As if Dawson has ever shown any interest in my social life, she thought. So long as she kept a low profile and did not embarrass the clan, Dawson and the rest of the perfect blended family pretty much ignored her.

  “I appreciate that, Ralph, but it’s okay,” she said. “Tell Dawson that I’m just heading into the shower. I need about thirty minutes to get dressed. If he wants to wait that long, you can send him up then.”

  “Let me see if he’ll wait,” Ralph said.

  There was some mumbled conversation on the other end of the connection. Ralph came back on the phone.

  “Mr. Strickland says he’ll go down the block to Starbucks and get a latte,” Ralph said. “He’ll be back in half an hour.”

  “Thanks, Ralph.” She ended the connection and tossed the phone down onto the nightstand. She looked at Sam. “Dawson will be coming up here in thirty minutes.”

  Sam walked to the bed and set the coffee on the nightstand. “Who is Dawson? Or should I ask?”

  “Technically speaking, he’s my stepbrother. He’s the son of my father’s current wife by her first marriage.”

  “The man standing next to you in the back-cover photo of your father’s new book.”

  “Right.”

  “I get the feeling you’re not close.”

  “No kidding,” she said. She grabbed her robe off the foot of the bed. “Which is, as Gwen has pointed out, a real shame, because Dawson is the heir to a fortune on his mother’s side. His Strickland ancestors made a ton of money in the lumber industry and later did some very shrewd investing in commercial real estate here in Seattle.”

  “Dawson is connected to those Stricklands?”

  “Yep, those Stricklands. His grandmother, Orinda Strickland, controls the family money now. Dawson and his mother, Diana, are the only heirs.” She pulled on the robe and picked up the mug. “Thanks for the caffeine.”

  He gave her a slow, sexy, intimate smile that raised the hairs on the back of her neck in an exciting way.

  “Any time,” he said.

  She flushed and looked toward the dresser, searching for a distraction. The old herbal was gone. Suspicion slashed through her. She whirled around.

  “Where’s the book?” she asked.

  “In my duffel bag. Figured it would be safer there.”

  “What, exactly, do you mean by ‘safer’?”

  “By ‘safer,’ I meant a little more secure than it was lying on top of your dresser.” Sam’s voice hardened. So did his eyes. “I’m not planning to steal the damn thing, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  She reddened. “I didn’t mean to imply that you would do that.”

  “Sure you did. It was the first thing that popped into your mind when you noticed that the book was missing.”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “That was rude.” She sipped some coffee.

  “Do you always wake up this suspicious after a date?”

  Shocked, she choked on the coffee and sputtered for a few embarrassing seconds. Eventually, she managed to compose herself.

  “That wasn’t a date,” she managed weakly. “Not exactly.” She fumbled to a halt.

  “Let’s see, there was tea and conversation, a kiss in a garden, and there was sex. Really great sex, I might add. I admit that the late-night prowler in your living room, the burning herbal and taking the dog out for a walk at two in the morning were a little unusual, but aside from that, I’d say we met most of the requirements for a date.”

  “Or a one-night stand,” she said.

  “Or that,” he agreed, a little too readily.

  She was feeling cornered, and she knew she sounded surly. She did not dare look in a mirror. Her face was probably scarlet. She drew herself up and squared her shoulders.

  “Excuse me. I need to get into the shower and get dressed,” she said.

  She fled toward the bathroom.

  “Coward,” Sam said behind her. He sounded amused.

  She closed the door very firmly.

  15
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br />   SAM DID A QUICK SURVEY OF THE FREEZER, CUPBOARDS AND refrigerator. The refrigerator was mostly empty, but he located half a loaf of bread and some eggs. He unearthed a package of frozen soy sausages in the freezer and scored a jar of peanut butter in a cupboard.

  Newton sat alertly in the middle of the kitchen, watching each step of the breakfast preparation process with rapt attention. Sam tossed him half a slice of toast slathered with peanut butter. Newton snagged it neatly out of the air and wolfed it down.

  Abby finally emerged from the bedroom. Sam punched the button on the microwave to nuke the pale gray sausages. He glanced at the clock.

  “We’ve still got a few minutes before your brother arrives,” he said.

  “My stepbrother,” she corrected. She walked into the kitchen and picked up the coffeepot. “And I’m glad we’ve got some time, because I think I need another cup of coffee before I deal with him. I can’t imagine why he wants to see me. Something bad must have happened. Maybe someone fell ill or is in the hospital. But I would have expected a phone call if that was the case.”

  He watched her carry the mug around to the other side of the counter and perch on one of the stools. She was wearing a pair of snug-fitting brown trousers and an amber sweater that was about the same color as her hair. Her eyes were shadowed with anxiety.

  The microwave pinged. He opened the door and took out the fake sausages.

  “You’re sure you don’t have any idea of why your stepbrother is here today?” he asked.

  “Nope.” She watched him place the sausages on the two plates that held the fried eggs and slices of toast smeared with peanut butter. “That looks good. I think I’m hungry.”

  He set the plates on the counter and walked around the corner to sit down beside Abby. He eyed the soy sausages and reminded himself to keep an open mind. “I take it you’re a vegetarian?”

  “Not entirely.” She took a bite out of a slice of the toast. “I eat fish.”

  He picked up a fork. “When was the last time you saw Dawson?”

  “A couple of months ago. He’s got a house on Queen Anne. We ran into each other by chance in a restaurant here in Belltown. I was with Gwen and Nick. Dawson was having dinner with his fiancée. We said hello. Introductions were made, and that was about it.”

  “You meant it when you said that you aren’t close, didn’t you?”

  She shrugged. “We have nothing in common, certainly not a bloodline. I was twelve and he was thirteen when I went to live with my father and his new family. That happened because my mother died. Dad didn’t have much choice except to take me in. Dawson and I both developed immediate resentment issues. I didn’t like his mother, Diana, trying to parent me. Dawson didn’t like my father trying to parent him. Things got even more complicated when the twins were born later that year.”

  “Okay, I think I’m seeing the dynamics here.”

  “And then there was the inheritance issue. Dawson’s grandmother did not approve of her daughter marrying my father. She insisted on a prenuptial agreement and made it clear that when it came to the Strickland money, I was not considered family. Not that I gave a damn about the financial aspects of the situation. I was just a kid, but by then I already understood that money follows blood. I didn’t have a problem with that fact of life. The little lecture that Orinda Dawson gave me when I turned thirteen was entirely unnecessary, however.”

  Sam winced. “She gave you the talk about inheritance issues when you were just a kid?”

  “The financial stuff wasn’t a big deal. Like I said, I already understood how that worked. But Dawson’s grandmother is one scary lady. She certainly scared the daylights out of me, at any rate. But in hindsight, I think it’s only fair to say that she was horrified by me. Actually, everyone was.”

  “Because of your talent?”

  “I was just coming into it when I moved in. But within the year, it was obvious that I was going to be a little different. Orinda did not want anyone to think that the family bloodline was tainted by weirdness.”

  “She didn’t understand what was going on with you?”

  “No, and neither did the others. I made them all very nervous. I saw a series of counselors and shrinks, and made the fatal mistake of trying to convince each of them that I really did sense paranormal energy in some books. And then there were the incidents I mentioned.”

  “The fire-setting stuff ?”

  “You wouldn’t believe how that kind of thing upsets folks. Eventually, the decision was made to send me to the Summerlight Academy. That’s where I learned to pass for normal. Mostly.”

  The doorbell chimed. Newton growled softly and glared down the length of the front hall.

  Abby sighed and set down her cup. “That will be Dawson.”

  She slipped off the stool and went down the hall. Newton followed, hovering near her in a protective manner. Maybe Abby was right, Sam thought, maybe the dog was a little bit psychic.

  A moment later, he heard the front door open. Polite greetings were exchanged, not the relaxed, familiar sort that friends and colleagues employed, and not the more intimate kind typical of family members. The relationship between Abby and Dawson fell into another category altogether, he decided, one that was not easy to identify.

  Abby reappeared. Newton was still at her heels.

  “Sam, this is Dawson Strickland. Dawson, Sam Coppersmith.”

  Dawson looked exactly as he did on the back cover of Families by Choice. Medium height, brown-haired and endowed with what, in another era, would have been labeled patrician features. He had the toned-and-tanned look that spelled expensive athletic clubs and a lot of time on ski slopes, golf courses and private yachts. His shirt and trousers bore all the hallmarks of hand-tailoring. His watch had cost as much as a European sports car. He carried an Italian leather briefcase in one well-groomed hand.

  But it was the anxious, edgy energy that shivered invisibly in the atmosphere that interested Sam. Dawson was nervous. It was clear he was not looking forward to the conversation ahead.

  Sam came up off the stool and offered his hand. “Strickland.”

  “Coppersmith.” Dawson shook hands briskly, frowning a little in polite concentration. “Name sounds familiar. Any relation to Coppersmith Inc.?”

  “Some.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.” Dawson bestowed a dazzling smile on Abby. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” She gave him a polite smile. “Why would you? It’s been a couple of months since we last met. How’s the engagement going? Have you set a date for the wedding?”

  “Next month.” Dawson affected an air of surprise. “Didn’t you get an invitation?”

  “No.”

  “Must have been an oversight. Carla is handling that end of things. I’ll make sure you get one.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Abby said. “I think I’m going to be out of town on that date, anyway.”

  Dawson frowned. “How would you know that if you don’t know the date?”

  “Just a wild guess. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Sure, thanks. Had a latte down the street, but I could use some more caffeine.” Dawson set down the briefcase and took the stool that Abby had just vacated. “So how long have you two been seeing each other?”

  “Not long,” Abby said, before Sam could answer. She put the coffee in front of Dawson. “What is so important that you had to track me down at this hour of the morning?”

  Dawson stopped smiling.

  “Sorry about the timing,” he said. “I came in person because I don’t like to have these kinds of business discussions over the phone.”

  “You’re starting to scare me,” Abby said.

  But she looked irritated and maybe a little apprehensive, Sam thought, not frightened.

  “Relax.” Dawson flashed a closer’s smile. “I want to hire you.”

  Abby stiffened. “What are you talking about? You don’t collect books of any kind, l
et alone the type I handle.”

  “Let me explain,” Dawson said. He grew serious again. “I’m in the middle of some very high-level negotiations with a potential investor. This guy is hugely important to me and to my firm. Needless to say, I’ve got some competition. Evidently, the man has a thing for old books.”

  “Oh, crap,” Abby said very softly.

  She looked at Sam. He knew what she was thinking, because he was thinking the same thing. There are no coincidences.

  Oblivious, Dawson pressed on, very intent now. “It has been made clear to me that I can improve the odds of bringing this very heavy hitter on board if I can produce a certain book that is rumored to be coming up for sale in the paranormal books market. That’s your market, Abby.”

  Icy fingers brushed the back of Sam’s neck. He was suddenly jacked, all senses on alert. He knew that Abby was running a little hot as well.

  “What old book would that be?” she asked, without any inflection.

  “Not what I’d call a real antiquarian book,” Dawson said. “It’s only about forty years old. Hang on, I’ll get the details.” He got off the stool and hoisted the briefcase onto the counter. Opening the case, he took out a sheet of paper. “Let’s see. It’s a laboratory-style notebook containing the handwritten record of experiments that were conducted on various specimens of ore and crystals taken out of a mine in the Southwest. Exact location of the mine is unknown. Whoever kept the notebook evidently believed that the crystals possessed paranormal powers.” Dawson grimaced. “In other words, he was some kind of nut job.”

  Abby raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Why me?”

  Dawson put the paper back into the briefcase. “Because you’re the only expert on rare books dealing with the occult that I know.”

  Anger flashed across Abby’s face. “I do not deal in the occult. I’ve explained that.”

  “Paranormal, the woo-woo thing, whatever,” Dawson said quickly. “You’re not just the only paranormal–rare-books expert I know, you’re the only rare-books dealer I know. Naturally, I came to you.”