by Jenn Bennett
And then he’d acted like an ass in front of Mr. Ginn and her imaginary rope snapped.
“Staring at your backside, that’s a given,” he continued. “I’m a man, after all. If I were a religious man, I might believe the devil himself sculpted your ass to lure me into temptation. But your front side—”
“My front side?” She spun around to face him. “My front side is what, exactly? Harsh? Odd? Too skinny? Have I been studying mummies so long that I’ve started to look like one? Because I’ve heard all those things before, so do your worst.”
He gaped at her for a moment, and then shut his mouth. Had she shocked him? Was he angry or embarrassed? Good.
“You want to know what I was going to say? Do you?”
“Say it,” she challenged.
Agitation transformed him into something foreign. His eyes narrowed to dark slashes under a rocky brow; his jaw tightened. Nothing jovial or casual or charming about him now—all of that vanished and was replaced by brute intensity and darkness.
He loomed over her, leaning in far too close. Their noses nearly touched. “I was going to say that you look goddamn bewitching in that dress, and I hadn’t realized how extraordinarily beautiful you are because all I’ve seen you wear are those ridiculous funerary outfits.” He pulled back, putting some space between them. “There. Happy now?”
Happy? Happy? Hadley’s heart nearly stopped beating.
The taut lines of his body softened. And in a low voice he added, “I was also going to say that your lily reminds me of a tomb painting I saw in the British Museum last spring, of Nebamun hunting in the marshes with a beautiful girl who wears a lotus in her hair. And that it’s lovely on you. Extraordinarily lovely.”
A strange sensation pinched her chest. No one had ever said anything like that to her. Why was he saying it, of all people? He wasn’t teasing. He couldn’t be teasing.
Please, let him mean it.
She blinked, pushing away unwanted emotion, waiting for a punch line that never came. He was so painfully attractive, towering over her in his black tuxedo jacket and white vest. His loose stance radiated confidence. Her body wanted to sway closer, as if it could drink up all his easy self-possession, all that golden light he seemed to emit.
Then she remembered what he was.
A liar. And a flatterer, too. He was good—very good. And she was a fool.
She snorted a bitter laugh. “After a man tells a woman the first untruth, the others come piling thick and fast,” she quoted loosely.
“Fair enough. I’ve given you little reason to trust me. Tell me what I can do to gain it. Swear on a Bible? Get down on one knee? Name it, Hadley.”
She shook her head, confused by feelings that tugged her good sense in different directions. In search of an anchor, her eyes followed the notch of his black tie to the broad ledge of his shoulder, limned with tawny light from the mansion. But when her gaze dropped to the crisp sliver of white cuff peeking from his dinner jacket, and his injured bare hand below, she decided to take him up on his offer.
“That,” she said, nodding her chin at his hand. “Tell me what really happened to your finger.” Give me something real I can trust.
Lowe lifted his bad hand and cradled it in his other, rubbing the scarred flesh with the pad of his thumb. “I haven’t told anyone since I left Egypt.”
“Not even your family?”
“Not even my closest friend.”
Was that a lie, too? She couldn’t tell. “Go on.”
“It’s not half as exciting as you’re expecting,” he said, stalling.
Was he waiting for her to revoke the request? Because she wouldn’t. And after a long moment, he sighed.
“It was early September,” he finally said. “My uncle had just moved us from Alexandria to Philae. It’s an island, you know. Two islands. Nothing there but half-flooded ruins and ancient temples . . . a handful of archaeologists, locals making money ferrying tourists. We were working near a section of colonnade, and one day when my uncle was traveling in Aswan, I missed the last boat and got stuck on the island overnight with a few of the local workers.”
Lowe turned and kicked at the edge of the reflecting pool. “I was supposed to be building scaffolding for the excavation. But the Nubi workers and I decided to have a few stiff drinks. By the time we got to the scaffolding, I was less alert than I should’ve been.”
“Drunk, you mean.”
“Fairly.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose, looking so much more sober than she’d assumed he was earlier when he was juggling his wineglass.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I was sawing a board with my right hand,” he said, pantomiming, “and holding the board with my left. And I couldn’t get a good grip, so I switched angles and, well, to be perfectly frank, I sawed my own finger clean off.”
The blood drained from Hadley’s face.
“Granted, it was only to the first joint. I suppose the drink numbed my reaction and nerves. But we were stuck on the island with no doctor—no nothing. All I could do was bandage it up and drink until I passed out. By the time my uncle returned the next day and they got me to someone who could stitch it up, I was feverish. Infection set in. A few days later, I had to have the rest of it amputated or risk losing my whole hand.”
“Good heavens,” Hadley murmured.
“Took a couple of months to heal properly. I was almost useless to my uncle. Hard to work in the sand and dirt with one hand. Hard to do much at all when you’re in constant pain. That’s actually when I started deciphering pieces of the temple walls. Sheer boredom led me to the djed. Not a glamorous story, I’m afraid.”
Hadley didn’t intend to reach for his hand, but when her arm began moving, she didn’t restrain herself as she normally would have when it came to her actively touching someone. The warmth of his skin penetrated her silk glove as she lifted it to inspect the scars in the light spilling into the courtyard. “It’s not immediately noticeable that it’s missing,” she said. “Less conspicuous than a middle finger.”
“That’s one way to look at it.” A gentle smile curved his mouth.
Well. Couldn’t hold his hand forever. But as she withdrew, he held on to her, just as he had when they first met in the train station. This time she didn’t fight it.
“I’ve often worried that I might never be able to touch a woman again without her having to swallow disgust in order to tolerate it.”
“I suppose that would depend on the woman.” A practical observation, or that was her intention, but the way his head tilted, just a bit—the slightest of movements—she knew he’d read more into it. Perhaps she didn’t mind that he did. She certainly liked the sturdy feel of his hand holding hers. Some stranger living inside her head wistfully imagined that very hand running up her glove to her bare arm. Just a test, to see if she could “tolerate” it, as he’d said. Just the thought made her stomach flutter nervously.
“You don’t think it’s grotesque?” he asked.
“Haven’t you heard? I’m an admirer of the grotesque and grim.”
Lowe squinted one eye. “Are you flirting with me, Hadley Bacall?”
“I really wouldn’t know where to start,” she replied honestly.
A nearby couple shuffled past them to the other side of the pool. Lowe tugged her out of their earshot, into an awning’s shadow. His head dipped lower, his face an inch away from hers again—only this time, she wasn’t sure what intimidated her more: the angry Lowe, or the Lowe that looked as if he might ravish her right there in the dark of the courtyard. “What’s the verdict? Do you trust me now?”
“Maybe.”
“Only maybe?”
“Temporarily. Until the next lie.”
“Maybe I won’t tell another lie tonight. Maybe I’ll be so virtuous, you’ll nominate me for sainthood.”
�
�Refraining from deception for one night is hardly virtue.”
“Mm-hmm. Expert on virtue, are you?”
“Expert on several things, but virtue isn’t one.”
“Happy to hear it,” he said with a conspiratorial grin. “You know, I always thought the wicked deserved their own sort of canonization. It’s tough being immoral. Requires skill and perseverance.”
“And a certain amount of natural talent, I’d think.”
“Most definitely. I like to believe I was born bad. Shifts the burden of blame to my bloodline.”
She chuckled softly.
“Fan,” he murmured in Swedish. “You should do that more often.”
The scent of laundry starch wafted when he lifted his good hand to her, slowly. The tips of his fingers traced the petals of the lily at her ear, sending a cascade of tremors through her hair, across her scalp, down her neck. It lit up her nerves and cells and spread like wildfire.
Pleasure.
She barely recognized the feeling. All her muscles tightened to hold back a shudder. Good God, it wasn’t even a real touch and she was drowning in it. Perhaps it was halfway real, because she realized he was still holding her hand. Or she was holding his. Someone was gripping harder. It might’ve been her.
His head dipped lower. He inhaled the blossom and whispered, “Intoxicating.”
He was so close. Close enough for her to catch a faint note of vanilla in his pomade. Close enough to shield her bare arms from the cool night air. Close enough that the lapel of his jacket brushed against her nipples.
Her breath caught as another wave of tremulous pleasure waterfalled over her skin, and she was drowning again. So very near. She wanted to lean her cheek against his. Wanted his mouth on—
A nearby booming voice tore into her thoughts.
“Dinner is served in ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen.”
SEVEN
WITH A START, HADLEY dropped Lowe’s hand and looked around. Across the courtyard, a servant held a door open and beckoned the stragglers.
The loss of Lowe’s warmth was acute and nearly painful to her confused body. Her mind slogged to catch up. “We should . . . dinner,” Hadley said dumbly.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.”
“I was supposed to be helping Father with . . .” Helping with what? Why wasn’t her brain working properly?
“Introductions,” he offered helpfully.
“Right.” Introductions. Yes. Something to focus on. Good.
They shuffled inside the hall, a short distance that seemed to take years to traverse. In a daze, she managed to introduce him to a few board members and one of the other curators before they were forced to hunt for their place cards and sit down for dinner. Oliver was seated to her left and Lowe was across from her, next to her father. She guiltily kept her eyes on the silver and china, as if nearby diners could guess what had recently transpired in the courtyard.
“Say, are you all right?” Oliver murmured, not once, but twice. Yes, yes. Fine. Was he still asking? The tone of his voice sounded like her father’s nagging.
The soup arrived, but she was still in a trance. And when she dared look at Lowe, his waiting, heavy stare sent her heart racing again.
When the fish course was being cleared, her father patted along his place setting, and his beleaguered assistant emerged from the shadows to help. Father then dinged his spoon on his water glass until conversation sputtered to a halt. “Many thanks to the Widow Flood for opening up her lovely home for us this evening,” he announced. Cheers and hurrahs circled the tables. “This night is always a special time for us each year, not just because many of you are graciously opening your pocketbooks for your annual tax break—I mean donation to our fine museum.”
Laughter echoed off the marble walls.
“But it’s also a time for us to see old friends. To reflect on what we’ve accomplished this year, and to share our hopes for the coming one. And as you all know, my health is not what it once was. Now, now. Don’t pity me. I’m not at death’s door yet. But I am old and tired, and I have given the antiquities department twenty-five good years. It’s time to let someone younger and brighter have a crack at it.”
Hadley’s pulse doubled. The haze lifted from her brain. Was her father announcing his replacement tonight, right here, in front of the board of trustees and the director? She’d expected him to wait until next month’s board meeting, but he was doing it now.
Oh, God. A speech would be expected. Nothing long, but she wasn’t prepared to say anything in front of these people. It was a bittersweet surprise, but a thrilling one. All she had to do was say a few words and be gracious, and perhaps try not to gloat at George, who was whispering something to one of the patron’s wives down the table.
Hadley glanced at Lowe and felt her cheeks heat. Why she wanted his respect, she couldn’t say. Silly, really, but she was glad he was here to see this. All her hard work would finally be recognized.
Her father coughed before continuing. “As all of you know by now, Mr. Lowe Magnusson has just returned from a well-publicized excavation in Philae.” Hold on. Why was he talking about Lowe? “He has graciously offered to give the museum an exclusive opportunity to bid on the Philae finds.”
Hadley’s pulse swished in her temples. She couldn’t concentrate on her father’s words. Degree. University of California, Berkeley. With honors. Rising star in his field. She stared at Lowe. He looked as confused as she felt. Her breath came too fast.
“. . . and so it is with great enthusiasm that I nominate Mr. Magnusson as a candidate for primary consideration to continue my legacy.”
A round of polite applause roared in her ears. Lowe was saying something in reply, how it was unexpected and an honor to even be considered, and something else she couldn’t catch.
Considered for her job. She was her father’s legacy. Heir apparent. She had studied for it. Worked for it. And she damn well deserved it. More than any man sitting at this table. A thousand times more than Lowe Magnusson.
He briefly shook his head at her, claiming innocence. Bravo. What a performance. Quietly charm the girl in the garden—an easy task, because she was so starved for company that any scrap of affection thrown her way would do—then sit back and claim your crown.
What a fool she was.
Rage and hurt called the Mori, who rose up from the floor. Dark limbs, blinking eyes, grotesque features. Monsters, fueled by her pain. Dead things pulled from the Spirit World. Things she didn’t understand and could barely control, but they coalesced into a writhing mass of gloom and shifting shadow, crawling up the marble walls and columns. Sniffing out opportunity as they tugged images from her mind.
Command us, they whispered inside her head. Dark avengers, ready and willing to do her bidding. To avenge her through abhorrent deeds. Through fright. Injury.
And death.
Her negative emotions were like carrion. Drawn to them, the specters scavenged her mind, always hungry. And they were hers to command.
Him, she thought, as angry tears flooded her eyes. No, both of them. Her father for his betrayal. And Lowe for carrying it out and lying to her face. Both of them.
The museum director was standing, raising a toast, while her specters slithered across the ceiling like a cloud of black exhaust toward their goal: a massive crystal chandelier dangling high above the table.
A rumble shook the ceiling.
The guests stilled, poised with glasses in hand.
Until his blindness, her father could see the specters. But now the great Dr. Bacall was as oblivious as the rest of the guests, who assigned an easy logical excuse to the unnatural act—
“Earthquake?”
Once the word flew out of someone’s mouth, fear dominoed down the table.
At her elbow, Oliver lurched from his seat, looking up. Could he see them?
How was that possible? It didn’t matter. Too late to reel the specters back in now.
Hundreds of crystals clinked in unison. The ceiling cracked. Electricity sparked. And as the light dimmed in the chandelier, one of the cables suspending it snapped with a horrifying metallic twang! The chandelier swung on its side like a great glass pendulum.
Startled gasps bounced around the hall. Chairs skidded on marble. Guests scattered.
Everyone but Father, who couldn’t see to move. And Lowe, who was struggling to pull a blind man out of his seat, just as Oliver was pulling her in the opposite direction.
“Hadley!” her father roared.
The sound of his voice penetrated the fog of her anger. Good sense flooded through.
Father knew it was her specters—he knew, he knew, he knew!
Oh, God. What had she done?
With monumental effort, she pushed the Mori away. They vanished into the ceiling as she despaired, shouting, “Run!”
Too late.
The second cable snapped. And like a car tumbling off a cliff, the glittering glass plummeted. Screams pierced the air.
Lowe’s chair skidded backward. He threw an arm around her father and pulled him to the floor as the chandelier crashed onto the table in an explosion of glass and splintering wood.
Lowe crawled beneath the shuddering carcass that teetered precariously on the table above, dragging her father to safety. She flailed against Oliver’s arms and shoved away from him, nearly falling on her face as she ran.
“Father!”
“I’m fine,” he barked, using the wall for the leverage he needed to stand.
Lowe brushed glass from her father’s shoulder, then glanced at his own clothes.
“Are you—” she started.
“In one piece? Think so.” Slightly dazed, he shook out his jacket and glanced around at the destruction, mumbling, “What in the world just happened here?”