Chapter Thirteen
On the following Monday morning Verity stood on the busy San Francisco sidewalk and examined the entrance to the tower of glass soaring into the sky above her, “You’d think that in a state that had a definite earthquake problem there would be laws against building big glass buildings.”
“Since when has California worried much about earthquakes? Only tourists worry about quakes.” Jonas adjusted the package under his arm and gave Verity a gentle push toward the revolving door. “Come on. Let’s see if this Kincaid guy is going to get the privilege of delivering your poor old father from the clutches of a loan shark.”
“And after we take care of Dad’s business we get to shop for the gown I’m going to wear to Caitlin’s party,” Verity reminded him firmly.
“Hey, lay off. I’ve already surrendered on that count, remember? I’ve accepted the fact that I can’t talk you out of that dumb Renaissance ball and I’ve promised we’ll hit the costume shops for a gown today. What more do you want from me?”
Verity smiled sunnily. “Gracious, was I whining?”
“You never whine, Verity. You just nag.” Jonas came to a halt in front of a bank of black and gold elevators and scanned the list of businesses housed in the glass tower. “Here we go. Top floor. The man must be doing all right, just like his representative implied.”
“Maybe we should have brought Dad along,” Verity said. “This is his deal, after all.”
“Take my word for it. The person with the item for sale is the last one who should handle the negotiations. Your father knows that. That’s why he turned the whole thing over to me. Now stop displaying your appalling lack of faith in my business abilities and get ready to smile sweetly.”
“Sweetly?” Verity practiced a sugary smile. “What’s my role in all this supposed to be?”
Jonas gave her an arrogant grin full of male challenge in response to the saccharine one she was bestowing on him. “You, my dear, have nothing more to do than play my fluff-brained but sexy redheaded girlfriend who insisted on coming with me today. All you have to do is remember to smile frequently.”
“What a thrill.” Verity stepped into the elevator.
“Believe me, when this Kincaid character sees that smile, it’ll be a case of instant trust. He’ll know we’re not trying to pull anything shady with the pistols. One look at you and he’d never believe you could be associated with anything underhanded or sneaky.
“Do you always date fluff-brained, sexy redheads with sincere smiles?”
“You’re my first he assured her as the elevator door closed. “Definitely one of a kind.”
“It’s nice to be appreciated.”
They stood in silence as the elevator rose. Verity stole a glance at herself in the mirrored wall. She was wearing her one good suit, a striking black and white number with a full jacket and a very narrow skirt. She hadn’t worn high heels in ages and the black pumps were already beginning to pinch. Jonas was wearing a five-year-old jacket and slacks he had been packing around for no apparent reason.
“Actually,” Verity said, studying the dark suit that fitted his lean figure quite well, “that outfit doesn’t look five years out-of-date. Fortunately for you, men’s styles don’t change too much.”
Jonas fingered a lapel and glanced down. Believe it or not, I occasionally find a use for this suit. Sooner or later a man needs something to wear to a funeral.”
“Or a wedding,” Verity retorted.
Jonas gave her a mild look. “I haven’t attended a single wedding in the past five years.”
“A cheerful thought.” Verity lapsed back into silence, practicing her fluff-brained pose. The banter with Jonas was typical of the way they had been communicating for the past few days. There was a wary, sparring quality to their relationship that disappeared only when they were locked in the mortal combat of passion or the equally compelling forces generated inside the time corridor.
She had made two more trips into that corridor with him since the first one. Jonas had been eager to use the pistols as a catalyst. Too eager, as far as Verity was concerned. She still did not understand what happened to her when she accompanied him and she wasn’t certain she wanted to understand. Jonas had kept both trips short, but there was no doubt that he was very determined to explore the control he now had over his talent. In fact, he seemed driven to explore that control. That worried Verity.
The passion in their relationship was growing more powerful, too. Ever since the night Jonas had run his first so-called test, he had made it abundantly clear that he did not need a jaunt into the psychic corridor to get an erection.
Verity winced, thinking about the way she had spent the past few nights. She supposed she had unintentionally challenged him, and now Jonas was out to prove he could be insatiable with little or no provocation.
He was certainly doing a good job of it. Verity sometimes wondered how much longer she would hold up under his relentless demands. But she always found herself responding, even when he roused her from a sound sleep as he had at three this morning. She had awakened curled on her side, her hips nestled into his warmth, and discovered that he was sliding into her already moist channel from the rear. Her small protest had been replaced by a gasp of excitement as her body quickly responded to his. Jonas had chuckled deeply, the sound replete with satisfaction as he felt her immediate reaction. One thing was for certain, she was managing to keep his ego stroked and well fed.
Afterward he had left. He always left around three in the morning to return to the cabin he shared with her father. Verity never asked him to stay. She wasn’t quite certain why, but she had a hunch it probably had something to do with the fundamental uncertainty surrounding their relationship. Not letting Jonas spend the whole night with her was a way of keeping him at a slight distance emotionally.
They had not discussed the future of their relationship. Things continued normally at the restaurant and Emerson watched with a benign eye as Jonas openly staked a man’s claim on Verity. The older man never even commented on the fact that Jonas routinely returned to the smaller cottage around three in the morning. He seemed to accept that his daughter had taken a lover.
Verity supposed her father figured that at her age it was much too late to get out a shotgun.
The elevator doors opened onto a sophisticated lobby occupied by a sleek-looking dark-haired receptionist and several pieces of expensive furniture of contemporary Italian design.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked politely, her dark eyes on Jonas.
“Jonas Quarrel and Verity Ames. We’re here to see Mr. Kincaid,” Jonas said easily. “We have an appointment.”
“Of course, Mr. Quarrel.” The woman’s voice was warm honey. “You may go right in. Mr. Kincaid is expecting you. His secretary will show you the way.”
Another sleek-looking woman, this one a blonde, walked into the room. She greeted the visitors in a finishing-school accent. Verity surreptitiously examined the designer suits both the receptionist and Kincaid’s secretary wore and decided that pink-collar work must pay better than restaurant work. She’d better be careful or Jonas might decide to try office work. It was a cinch either of the women in Kincaid’s office would be happy to welcome him into their ranks. They’d probably welcome him into a few other places, too.
It occurred to Verity that she might be jealous. The knowledge made her feel extremely fluff-brained. She remembered the smile that went with the image just as Kincaid’s secretary showed them through a heavy paneled door.
“Miss Ames and Mr. Quarrel, sir.” The secretary excused herself with a polite nod at Jonas.
Verity noticed two things very quickly about Kincaid’s office. One was the stuffed dummy suspended from the ceiling, which looked like a dead body; the second was the Caitlin Evanger painting on the wall. It was one of Caitlin’s most violent works, a picture of a woman
struggling to swim through a bloody sea. Verity stifled a small shiver. The pain in Caitlin’s work never failed to touch her.
Then she turned her smile on the astonishingly good-looking man who rose to greet them. He appeared to be about Jonas’s age—somewhere in his late thirties—and he was built along similar lines. There was the same lean, vital quality captured in a tall, strong-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame.
But the similarities ended there. Not only was Damon Kincaid technically better-looking than Jonas, but he radiated the kind of power associated with great financial success. His burnished blond hair was cut with the precision achieved only by stylists who charged the equivalent of a meal at a Union Square restaurant. Kincaid’s silvery gray suit was Italian, cut to emphasize his sleek build. His shoes were handmade, and the scrap of blood-red cloth in his breast pocket was silk. It was embroidered with a tiny K.
“Miss Ames.” Kincaid inclined his head with a gallant grace that somehow conveyed masculine admiration without in any way suggesting a come-on. He stared down into her smiling face for a few seconds longer than necessary, as if intrigued by something he saw there. Then he turned to Jonas. “Mr. Quarrel. Thank you very much for making the trip here today. I was very sorry to put you to the trouble, but when my assistant, Hatch, informed me that you were planning to come into the city to see other potential buyers, I couldn’t resist the request that you stop by my office.”
“No problem,” Jonas said, casually laying his package down on the one piece of furniture in the room, Kincaid’s desk. “My client wishes to make the best possible deal, and your man Hatch implied you could afford what we’ve got to offer.”
“Money is not an issue,” Kincaid said coolly. “Authenticity and condition are, however.”
“The pistols are in excellent condition,” Jonas assured him, beginning to unwrap the package. “Windham and Smyth flintlocks. Original case. Probably 1795 or so. Definitely a pair of duelers. You’ll know as soon as you hold one.” Jonas paused just a fraction of a second as he lifted the lid of the mahogany case. “If you know dueling pistols, that is.”
“As you can see from what’s on my wall, my chief area of interest is swords, but I also have some duelers at home and I’m familiar with them.” Kincaid examined the contents of the case and then reached inside to lift out one of the guns. “Excellent grip. Good, heavy pistols.” His gaze slid from the gun to Jonas. “You’re certain of their authenticity?”
“Absolutely.”
“What can you offer as proof?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the collector who owned them last, but I can tell you that the pistols belonged to a prestigious British family for a hundred and seventy-five years before they came into the hands of the last collector. They were carried to the scene of a duel between a member of that family and another man shortly before 1800.”
Verity shuddered and went to stand by the window.
Kincaid appeared more interested. “An actual duel? What was the outcome?” He gazed down at the steel barrel of the pistol he was holding as if it were made of diamonds.
Jonas glanced at Verity’s profile as he answered the question. “No shots were fired. The duel was halted when the cause of the challenge interrupted the affair and put a stop to it.”
For some reason Verity happened to turn her head at that moment and caught the expression on Kincaid’s face. She could have sworn he looked disappointed.
“You say the cause of the duel interrupted things?” Kincaid murmured. “A woman, I presume?”
“Her name was Amanda,” Jonas said calmly.
“I see.” Kincaid picked up the second pistol. “Well, the fact that they’ve never been fired reduces their value to me. I prefer aims that have been used as they were intended to be used. A personal quirk, I’m afraid.”
“I understand.” Jonas held out the case so that Kincaid could replace the pistol.
Kincaid’s brows came together over his aristocratic nose, but he surrendered the weapon. “That doesn’t mean I don’t intend to make an offer. I would like to have them properly appraised.”
Jonas smiled blandly. “As I said, you’re welcome to have your own expert examine them, but I can’t make another trip here to your office. I intend to close a deal as soon as possible and I have three other potential buyers to see today. The other three are experts themselves and won’t have to waste time hiring someone to check out the pistols. I’m sure you understand. However, if I don’t reach an agreement with one of those three today, feel free to contact me again and set up a time to have your man look over the guns.”
The subtle insult had its effect. Kincaid clearly did not like the implication that he was not enough of an expert to reach his own decision. But he covered his reaction with cool poise. “I’ll consider that. Keep me informed about the outcome of your negotiations today.” He deliberately turned away from Jonas and walked over to stand beside Verity at the window. “Lovely view, isn’t it, Miss Ames?”
“Very.” She practiced her smile and noticed that Damon Kincaid seemed quite fascinated by it. Maybe she ought to use it on more men more often. “You’re lucky to have this office, Mr. Kincaid. If I had it, I don’t think I’d get much work done. The view is too much of a distraction.”
“You get accustomed to it,” he assured her with a smile. “It’s easy to become accustomed to beauty. Too easy, perhaps. Eventually one finds that a superficially beautiful view or pistol or woman needs more than simple attractiveness to hold a man’s attention.”
Verity looked up at him. “The pistols are beautiful in their own way, but because they’ve never been used for their intended purpose, they lack a certain element of interest for you.”
Kincaid smiled approvingly. “You are very perceptive, Miss Ames. That is exactly the case.” He indicated the swords and rapiers on the walls. “These weapons all have histories. I do not collect ceremonial or dress swords, only those that I have reason to believe were used by the men who carried them.” He glanced at Jonas. “Do you know anything about swords, Mr. Quarrel, or is your expertise limited to pistols?”
Jonas’s eyes were cold and unreadable as he took in the sight of Damon Kincaid standing very close to Verity. “I know a little about swords.” He flicked a glance toward a long, tapered rapier on the wall nearest him. “Enough to know that the dagger hanging next to that Italian rapier is a reproduction.”
“A reproduction!” Kincaid’s suave poise was momentarily shattered. He recovered quickly, however. “You must be mistaken. I bought that dagger from a very reliable source. It’s late sixteenth century.”
Jonas raised his brows and strolled over to take a closer look. “Mind if I handle it?”
Kincaid hesitated, then shrugged. “Go ahead.”
Verity realized she was holding her breath. She wondered if Jonas was going to test himself again. She knew he was eager to explore his new command of his talent, but this wasn’t the time or place for such experiments. However, she couldn’t think of any way to stop him. She braced herself for the impact of finding herself in the long corridor.
Then she remembered that he had claimed the dagger was a fake. If it was a reproduction, she told herself in relief, it shouldn’t have any effect on him. She relaxed again.
Jonas took the dagger down from the wall. Verity trembled as a flickering image of the psychic tunnel slithered in and out of her mind. It didn’t take a firm, solid shape the way it had the last time she had seen it. It was as if this part of the corridor were not as completely constructed; as if it were somehow newer.
There was a brief impression of Jonas’s presence but she couldn’t see him. She was turning around to look at him when a hazy image appeared in the corridor behind her. Thinking it might be Jonas, she hurried toward it. She did not like being alone in this psychic tunnel.
She was almost on top of the image before it crystallized briefly
into a scene of an old-fashioned, formal dining room. There was a man seated in an ornate armchair at the far end of an inlaid table. He was clutching at his heart, a stricken expression on his aging, florid face. He seemed to be staring past her toward someone who was not present.
Heart attack, Verity thought, instinctively moving forward. But even as she watched the man pitched forward, the upper half of his body sprawling across a plate of what appeared to be linguini with prawns.
It was then that Verity saw the blood. It welled from the man’s chest, mingling with the linguini and turning the white cream sauce a sickly shade of red.
Verity halted in shock. No one bled like that from a heart attack. Her mind whirled as fear and a terrible sensation of violence swirled around her. Writhing tendrils of emotion leaped from the image and dived toward her.
Verity turned to run and collided with Jonas. He grabbed her wrist, his eyes narrow and grim as he looked at the flickering, fading scene behind her.
“It’s okay,” he said roughly. “It’s okay, honey. I’m releasing the dagger. We’re out of here.”
An instant later the half-formed corridor and the dying man at the dinner table popped out of existence in Verity’s mind. She opened her eyes and nearly lost her balance. Automatically she reached out to steady herself and found herself grabbing Damon Kincaid’s arm.
“I beg your pardon?” Kincaid, who had been watching Jonas with close attention, glanced down at Verity’s hand on his arm. “Something wrong, Miss Ames?”
“No, nothing.” She took a deep breath and tried another of the smiles Jonas had instructed her to apply. “I just felt a bit dizzy for a moment. I haven’t eaten today. Time for lunch.” She let go of Kincaid’s expensive jacket sleeve. Across the room, Jonas had restored the dagger to the wall. He was watching her with a furious glint in his eyes as she freed their host’s arm.
Kincaid glanced at the thin gold and steel watch on his wrist. “You’re right,” he said jovially. “It is almost lunchtime. I would be pleased if the two of you would allow me to take you out to a meal as a thank-you for bringing the duelers here to my office.” He looked at Verity, not Jonas, for an acceptance of his invitation.