Though no one was more adept at breaking and entering than he, he did it only when necessary. And never in broad daylight.
He eyed the backed-up traffic impatiently. By the time the cab driver got them turned around in this mess, he could, like as not, be back at the penthouse on foot.
He shoved fare through the slot and stepped out into the rain.
Chloe shaved her legs with one of Dageus’s razors (studiously ignoring the cheeky little voice that volunteered the wholly unsolicited opinion that a girl didn’t need to shave when it was so cold out, unless she was planning to take her pants off for some reason), then stepped out of the shower and smoothed on lotion.
She moved into the bedroom, slipped into panties and bra, then packed a few things in the luggage he’d set out for her while the lotion absorbed into her skin.
She was going to Scotland.
She couldn’t believe it—how much her life had changed in just a few days. How much she seemed to be changing. In four days, to be exact. Four days ago she’d entered his penthouse, and today she was getting ready to fly across the ocean with him, with no idea what might come.
She shook her head, wondering if she’d completely lost her mind. She refused to ponder that thought too hard. When she thought about it, it seemed all wrong.
But it felt right.
She was going and that was that. She wasn’t willing to let him walk out of her life this afternoon—forever. She was drawn to him as irresistibly as she was drawn to artifacts. Logic didn’t have a damn thing to do with it.
Her mind raced over last-minute details and she decided she had to get word to Tom. He was probably already sick with worry and if he didn’t hear from her for another month, he’d have the entire police department in an uproar. But she didn’t want to talk to him on the phone, he would ask her too many questions; and the answers weren’t completely convincing, even to her.
E-mail! That was it. She could shoot him a short note on the computer in the study.
She glanced at the clock. Dageus should be gone for at least an hour. She slipped into her jeans, tugged a T-shirt over her head, and hurried downstairs, wanting to get it out of the way immediately.
What would she say? What excuse could she possibly give him?
I met the Gaulish Ghost and he’s not exactly a criminal. Actually, he’s the sexiest, most intriguing, smartest man I’ve ever met and he’s taking me to Scotland and he’s paying me with ancient artifacts to help him translate texts because he thinks he’s somehow cursed.
Yeah. Right. That coming from the woman who’d endlessly berated Tom for his less than lily-white ethics. Even if she told him the truth, he wouldn’t believe it of her. She didn’t believe it of her.
She went into the study and was briefly sidetracked by the artifacts scattered about. She would never get used to such casual treatment of priceless relics. Scooping up a handful of coins, she sorted through them. Two had horses etched on them. Replacing the others on the desk, she studied the two coins wonderingly. The ancient Continental Celts had etched horses on their coins. Horses had been treasured creatures, symbolic of wealth and freedom, meriting their own goddess, Epona, who’d been commemorated in more surviving inscriptions and statues than any other early goddess.
“Nah,” she said, snorting. “There’s no way they’re that old.” They were in such mint condition that they looked as if they’d been fashioned only a few years ago.
But then, she mused, all of his property did. Looked new, that was. Impossibly new. New enough that she’d entertained the possibility that they might be brilliant forgeries. Very few artifacts survived the centuries in such impeccable condition. Without the proper means to authenticate them, she had to trust her judgment. And her judgment said—impossible though it was to believe—his artifacts were genuine.
A sudden image rose in her mind: Dageus, dressed in full Scots tartan and regalia, his hair wild, war braids plaited at his temples, swinging the claymore that hung above the fireplace. The man exuded Celtic warrior, as if he’d been transplanted in time.
“You are such a dreamer, Zanders,” she chided herself. Shaking her head to scatter her fanciful thoughts, she replaced the coins in their pile, and turned her attention back to the task at hand. She turned on the computer, and tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for it to boot up. While it whirred and hummed, she sidled out into the living room and eyed the answering machine, twirling a strand of curly wet hair around a finger. The phone had rung many times since he’d turned the volume down.
She peered at it. There were nine messages.
Her hand hovered over the play button for several indecisive moments. She wasn’t proud of her proclivity to snoop, but figured as far as sins went, it wasn’t chiseled in stone on the Top Ten. After all, a girl had a right to arm herself with all the knowledge she could, didn’t she?
It would be naïve and foolish not to.
Her finger inched down toward the play button. Hesitated, and inched again. Just as she was about to press it, the phone rang loudly, startling a little screech out of her. Heart hammering, she skittered back into the study feeling weirdly caught and guilty.
Then, with an exasperated snort, she dashed right back out there and turned the volume up.
Katherine again. Sultry-voiced and purring. Ugh.
Scowling, Chloe turned it back down, deciding she’d really rather not hear them all. She didn’t need anymore reminders that she was one of many.
A few moments later, she logged onto the Internet, signed into her Yahoo! account and typed swiftly:
Tom, my Aunt Irene (God forgive her, she didn’t have one) was taken suddenly ill and I had to leave immediately for Kansas. I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to get in touch with you before, but she’s in critical condition and I’ve been staying at the hospital. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. It may be a few weeks or longer. I’ll try to call you soon. Chloe.
How neatly she lied, she thought wonderingly. She was smoking cigars, accepting bribes and lying. What was happening to her?
Dageus MacKeltar, that was what.
She reread it several times before hitting the send button. She was still staring at the “your message has been sent” message, feeling a little shaky about what she’d just done because it made it all seem so final, when she heard the door open and close.
He was back already!
She hit the shut down button, praying it would also disconnect the Internet. Though she had nothing to feel guilty about, she preferred to dodge a potential dispute. Especially after almost listening to his messages. God, he would have walked in and caught her doing it! How humiliating that would have been!
Taking a deep breath, she pasted an innocent expression on her face. “What are you doing back already?” she called as she strolled out of the study.
Then gasped, startled, and drew up short near the doorway to the kitchen.
A man, clad in a dark suit, was standing in the living room, glancing through the books on the coffee table. Of average height, wiry build, with short brown hair, he was well dressed and had a cultured air about him.
Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who strolled at will into Dageus’s unlocked penthouse. He really should start locking it, she thought. What if she’d still been in the shower, or had wandered downstairs in a towel to find a stranger there? It would have scared the bejeezus out of her.
The man turned at her gasp. “I’m sorry I startled you, ma’am,” he apologized gently. “Might Dageus MacKeltar be about?”
British accent, she noted. And a funny tattoo on his neck. Didn’t seem quite in character with the rest of him. He didn’t seem the tattoo sort.
“I didn’t hear you knock,” Chloe said. She didn’t think he had. Maybe Dageus’s friends didn’t. “Are you a friend of his?”
“Yes. I’m Giles Jones,” he said. “Is he in?”
“Not at the moment, but I’ll be happy to tell him you stopped by.” She peered at him, curiosity never do
rmant. Here was one of Dageus’s friends. What might he tell her about him? “Are you a close friend of his?” she fished.
“Yes.” He smiled. “And who might you be? I can’t believe he’s not mentioned such a lovely woman to me.”
“Chloe Zanders.”
“Ah, he has exquisite taste,” Giles said softly.
She blushed. “Thank you.”
“Where did he go? Will he be returning soon? Might I wait?”
“It’ll probably be an hour or so. Can I give him a message for you?”
“An hour?” he echoed. “Are you certain? Perhaps I could wait; he might be back sooner.” He glanced questioningly at her.
Chloe shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Jones. He went to get some things for me; we’re leaving for Scotland later and—”
She broke off as the man’s demeanor changed abruptly.
Gone was the disarming smile. Gone was the appreciative gaze.
Replaced by a cold, calculating expression. And—her brain seemed to resist processing this fact—there was suddenly, bewilderingly, a knife in his hand.
She shook her head sharply, unable to absorb the bizarre turn of events.
With a menacing smile, he moved toward her.
Still trying to get some dim grasp on the situation, she said stupidly. “You’re n-not his f-friend.” Oh, gee, did the knife give it away, Zanders? she snapped at herself silently. Get a grip. Find a blasted weapon. She inched slowly backward, into the kitchen, afraid to make a sudden move.
“Not yet,” was the man’s bizarre reply as he paced her.
“What do you want? If it’s money, he has lots of money. Tons of money. And he’ll happily give it to you. And there are artifacts,” she babbled. She was almost there. Surely there was a knife lying on the counter somewhere. “Worth a fortune. I’ll help you pack them up. There are oodles of things here you can take. I won’t get in your way a bit. I promise, I’ll just—”
“It’s not money I’m after.”
Oh, God. A dozen horrid scenarios, each worse than the last, flashed through her mind. He’d duped her into freely admitting that she was alone for an hour by pretending to know Dageus. How gullible she’d been! You can take the girl out of Kansas, but you can’t take Kansas out of the girl, she thought, hysteria bubbling inside her.
“Oh, would you look at that! I’ve mistaken the time! He’s due back any minute—”
A sharp bark of laughter. “Nice try.”
When he lunged for her, she scrambled backward, adrenaline flooding her. Frantically, with hands made clumsy by fear, she snatched things off the counter and flung them at him. The thermal coffeepot bounced off his shoulder, spewing coffee everywhere; the butcher block hit him squarely in the chest. Flailing behind her, she grabbed one Baccarat goblet after another from the sink and flung them at his head. He ducked and dodged, and glass after glass exploded against the wall behind him, raining down on the floor.
He hissed with fury and kept coming.
Gasping for breath, dangerously close to hyperventilating, Chloe groped for more arsenal. A pot, a colander, some keys, a timer, a skillet, spice jars, more glasses. She needed a freaking weapon! In the midst of this damned museum, surely she could get her hands on one blasted knife! But her bare feet kept slipping in coffee as she tried to avoid both her assailant and the broken glass.
Afraid to take her eyes off him, she fumbled for a drawer behind her and felt frantically about: towels.
The next drawer: trash bags and Reynolds Wrap. She flung both boxes at him.
Glass crunching beneath his shoes, he advanced, backing her against the counter.
Wine bottle. Full. Thank you, God. She kept it behind her back and went motionless.
He did exactly what she’d hoped. Gave her the bum’s rush, and she smashed the bottle down on his head with all her might, drenching them both with glass-spiked wine.
He grabbed her around the waist as he went down, taking her with him. She was no match for the wiry strength of the man as he wrestled her onto her back beneath him.
She caught a flash of silver perilously close to her face. She went limp for a moment, just long enough to make him wonder, then twisted and went for his groin with her knee and his eyes with her thumbs, whispering a silent thank-you to Jon Stanton in Kansas, who’d taught her “ten dirty tricks” when they’d dated in high school.
“Ow, you bloody bitch!” When he convulsed reflexively, Chloe pounded at him with her fists, scrabbling desperately to get out from beneath him.
His hand locked on her ankle. She grabbed a piece of glass, heedless of her numerous cuts and turned on him, hissing and spitting like a cat.
And when she slashed at his hand on her ankle, a fierce triumph filled her. She may be on the floor, bloody and crying, but she was not going to die without one hell of a fight.
Dageus stepped into the anteroom, wondering if Chloe might still be in the shower. He entertained a brief vision of her, gloriously nude and wet with all that lovely hair trailing down her back. Hand on the doorknob, he smiled, then flinched when he heard a crash, followed by cursing.
Pushing the door open, he gaped, incredulity and shock paralyzing him for a precious moment.
Chloe—dripping red liquid that his mind refused to accept might be blood—was standing in the living room, turned toward the kitchen, her back to him, clutching the claymore from above the fireplace with both hands, crying and hiccuping violently.
A man stepped out of the kitchen, his murderous gaze fixed on Chloe, a knife in his hand.
Neither of them registered his presence.
“Chloe-lass, back away,” Dageus hissed. Instinctively, he used the Voice of Power, lacing the order with a spell of Druid compulsion, lest she be too frightened to move on her own.
The man startled and saw him then, his face registering shock and . . . something more, a thing Dageus couldn’t quite define. An expression that made no sense to him. Recognition? Awe? The intruder’s gaze darted to the door behind Dageus, then to the open doors leading to the rain-slicked terrace.
Snarling, Dageus began stalking. No need to rush, the man had no place to go. Chloe had responded to his command and backed away toward the fireplace, where she stood clutching the claymore tightly, white as a ghost. She was still standing. That was a good sign. Surely the red stains couldn’t all be blood.
“Are you all right, lass?” Dageus kept his gaze fixed on the intruder. Power was roiling inside him. Ancient power, power that was not his, power that was untrustworthy and bloodthirsty, goading him to destroy the man using archaic, forbidden curses. To make him die a slow and horrific death for daring to touch his woman.
Fisting his hands, Dageus struggled to close his mind to it. He was a man, not an ancient evil. More than man enough to handle this himself. He knew—though he knew not how he knew—that should he use the dark power within him to kill, it would seal his doom.
Hiccup. “Uh-huh, I think so.” More sobs.
“You son of a bitch. You hurt my woman,” Dageus growled, moving inexorably forward, backing the man out onto the terrace. Forty-three floors above the street.
The intruder glanced over his shoulder at the low stone wall encircling the terrace, as if gauging the distance, then back at Dageus again.
What he did next was so strange and unexpected that Dageus failed to react in time to stop him.
His eyes blazing with fanatic zeal, the man bowed his head. “May I serve the Draghar with my death, as I failed with my life.”
Dageus was still trying to process the fact that he’d said “the Draghar” when the man spun about, leaped up onto the wall, and took a swan dive into forty-three floors of nothingness.
9
“What is that stuff?” Chloe asked, wincing.
“Easy, lass. ’Tis but a salve that will speed the healing.” Dageus smoothed it on her myriad cuts, murmuring healing spells in an ancient tongue she’d not know. A language so long dead that the scholars of her ce
ntury had no name for it. The sticky red on her clothing had been wine not blood. She’d come away remarkably unscathed, all considered, with cuts on her hands and feet, a few scratches on her arms, but no debilitating injury.
“That does feel better,” she exclaimed.
He glanced at her, forcing himself to look in her eyes, not at the lush, delectable curves scarce concealed by her delicate, lacy bra and panties. After the man had jumped, Dageus had stripped Chloe more roughly than he’d intended, frantic to know the extent of her wounds. Now she sat beside him on the sofa, facing him, her wee feet in his lap as he tended them.
“Here, lass.” He snatched the cashmere throw from the back of the sofa and draped it around her shoulders, pulling it snugly about her so it covered her from neck to ankles. She blinked slowly, as if only now realizing her state of undress, and he knew her mind was still numb from her ordeal.
He forced his attention back to her feet. The healing spells were pushing him ever nearer the limits of his control. He’d used too much magic in the past few days. He needed a long space of time with no spells to recover.
Or her.
The longest he’d ever gone without a woman, since the eve he’d turned dark, was a sennight. At the end of it, he’d been up on that terrace wall himself. Clutching a bottle of whisky, dancing a Scots reel atop the slippery stones in the midst of an ice storm, letting fate choose which side he fell off first.
“He lied to me,” she said, raking her hair, still damp from the shower, back from her face with a bandaged hand. “He said he was a friend of yours and I told him you wouldn’t be back for an hour.” Her eyes widened. “Why did you come back?”
“I forgot the key, lass.”
“Oh, God,” she breathed, looking panicked all over again. “What if you hadn’t?”
“But I did. You’re safe now.” Never again will I permit danger to touch you.
“You didn’t know him, did you? I mean, he just said that to find out how long you’d be gone, right?”