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Excerpts

The Other half of Your Heart

Land of Heart's Delight

Lost in Egypt

Dark Music

Echoes in the Dark

Second Chance

The Other Half of Your Heart

            Cara hurt all over. Like the rest of her, the bandage on her injured foot was soaked with sweat, which burned her abraded skin like fire. That was the worst, but her entire body ached as if she had been beaten with a stick. Being flung bodily into the nearest ditch both times a vehicle had rumbled down the road had left her feeling bruised from head to toe. The thing that infuriated her the most, however, was that she was once more tied up like an untrained dog.

            “Come on!”

            The original rope was gone, left somewhere on Arvisu property, but there had been a substitute in the jeep. He had rescued it before sending the jeep bouncing noisily down a rock-strewn ravine. This rope was coarser than the other and chafed the delicate skin of her wrist every time Dave yanked on it.

            “I’m going as fast as I can!”

             Scowling, Dave jerked the rope once more, this time more strongly. “We’ve discussed this, Miss Waters...”

            “If you wanted to make time, you shouldn’t have ditched the jeep!” Cara stood her ground, then angrily grabbed the rope in both hands and yanked as hard as she could, not caring if it made him angry or not. She was childishly disappointed that not only did he not fall over, he hardly seemed to notice it.

            He glared at her. “After the Arvisus have reported it stolen? Every cop between here and the border will be looking for that jeep, and they won’t be friendly to American tourists!”

            “So what’s your grand plan now? Do you intend to walk me to death?”

            “Don’t tempt me! You must be some sort of bad luck charm, Miss Waters. I can only hope that you affect Tarrant the same way!”

            Cara stared at him with unconcealed loathing. How could she ever have thought him attractive, let alone allow him to touch her?

            “No.”

            “What?” Dave asked. “What are you talking about?”

            “I am hot, I am tired, I am hungry and thirsty, and I am not going another step until you tell me exactly what is going on here. Who are you? Why do you hate Buck so much? Why are you doing this to me?” Cara made herself stop talking. She was starting to sound hysterical and, worse, she could feel herself starting to become hysterical.

            “Oh, give it over, Miss Waters! Now come on!”

            Cara held fast to the rope. “No.”

            This time Dave really looked at her, then slowly started walking toward her, pulling hand over hand along the rope, cautiously, as if approaching a wild and unpredictable animal. “Now listen to me...”

            “No! Not until you explain to me!”

            He was standing in front of her now, so close that only a breath separated them. In spite of the heat and her own discomfort and the complete bizarreness of the entire situation, Cara was amazed to find herself still drawn to him by a force as inevitable as gravity. She had to force herself to remember that this man was a dangerous criminal no matter what kind of magnetic aura he exuded.

            “I don’t understand you...”

            “Well, then,” Cara snapped, “we’re even, because I haven’t understood anything about you since you kidnapped me!”

            The gaze from his blue eyes seemed to caress her face like cool water. His expression was quizzical, almost as if he had never seen her before.  Her heart began to thud from an emotion that she quickly classified as fear.

            “Don’t you hit me!” she squealed, cringing in spite of herself.

            “I have no intention of hitting you, Miss Waters...”

            He would have said more, but Cara stepped backwards, breaking the moment. She must be getting heatstroke; she felt hot and cold and swimmy-headed all at the same time. “Then tell me,” she said with a mouth that felt stiff and dry, “what is going on here?”

            Dave’s attention shifted abruptly. Cara knew what that sudden, tense alertness meant even before she heard the clattering roar of a motor not far beyond the bend of the road. She also knew what was coming next and planted her feet firmly on the asphalt.

            “No! That’s a ride out of here! You are not going to throw me in that ditch again!”

            Her captor’s suddenly harsh expression spoke eloquently of what he would like to do with her. His voice, though, was mild. “It’s too late anyway. I just hope they’re friendly. The Arvisus aren’t likely to let us out of their hands again.”

            His very restraint made Cara shiver. Even though she would have gladly run then, there was no time. The rattletrap truck was in view and then screeching to a halt beside them.

            Cara was amazed that it ran at all. It had started life a couple of generations ago as a common American pickup; now it seemed to be little more than a collection of rust spots and paint chips propelled down the highway on next to transparent tires.

            “Hola!” said the chubby driver with a gap-toothed grin. “Quieren ayuda?”

             “Yes, we do need help, I mean, si...” Dave answered with obvious relief and then said something in hesitant Spanish.

            The man grinned, nodded, then gestured toward the door. His wife smiled and nodded as well, scooting closer to her husband on the cracked plastic seat.

            Dave’s hand closed painfully around Cara’s as he solicitously walked her around to the other side of the truck. “Stay quiet if you want to get out of this alive,” he whispered in her ear, then began to chatter to their hosts in his marginal Spanish.

            He continued long after they were squeezed into the front seat with the driver and his equally ample wife. About the same age as the Arvisus, the couple was almost an exact opposite to that sleek pair in every other way. Overweight, shabbily dressed and apparently unconcerned that their grey hair showed, they were unquestionably middle-aged farmers who were not too well off. Without knowing why Cara immediately felt a trust toward them that she had never felt toward the Arvisus.

            At least, she did until they started to give her pitying glances. Apparently her kidnapper had not been shy about giving them the ‘jeep accident and crazy wife’ story. Or maybe he had made up a fresh one for the occasion. What she wouldn’t give to speak Spanish!

            Cara choked back a hard bubble of laughter. On the plane Buck had assured her that in Puerto Vallarta everyone spoke English!

            “Are you all right?” Dave asked in a surprisingly gentle voice.

            Of course, Cara thought; even if these people didn’t speak English they could hear. He would want to appear kind and concerned toward his poor crazy wife!

            “Yes. I’m just hot and thirsty and tired... and I want to go home!” Cara replied, squeezing off the words as much from the fear of incipient tears as from the sudden and insistent pressure of his hand on her shoulder.

            The truck was a small one; Cara had to sit on Dave’s bony lap. Spitefully she hoped her weight was putting his legs to sleep.

            “That’s why I’m here,” he said softly in a curiously sad voice.

            “Pobrecita,” said the woman and gave Cara a tender pat.

            If only she could speak English! Cara thought despairingly. This woman she could talk to, this kind-eyed woman would help her, she knew it! If only one of them spoke the same language as the other...

            Buck, Cara’s heart cried, where are you?

            With a tenderness Cara would never have believed, Dave extended a fingertip and lifted one of two sparkling tears from her cheeks. “You’re worn out,” he murmured.

            “I am not,” Cara lied valiantly. “I’m angry...”

            Dave pulled her head down to his shoulder and wrapped both arms around her in a gesture that, despite the skyrocketing heat and humidity, Cara found oddly comforting. He smelled of sweat and greenery and oil from the jeep and something else that must be simply him. Although he had to be as tired as she, he felt solid beneath Cara’s weary body and the cage of his arms was somehow protective. Two more tears oozed from her eyes as she fought to keep a legion of their duplicates under control.

            “Well, then, you can be just as angry when you’re rested...”

            The older couple was saying something in soft Spanish, but Cara didn’t even bother to listen. She just reclined in the gentle embrace of the man who had kidnapped her and simply existed without thinking.

            “Wake up... we’re here.” Dave’s voice was soft in her ear.

            With a start Cara realized she must have dozed, for suddenly they were stopped in a large open area. Sleepily she made herself look around. A small shed-like affair of sticks at one end, a square building made of cinderblocks at the other and the pervading scent of animals over all.

            “Where,” she asked muzzily, “is here?”

            “Apparently the Fonsecas - our rescuers - are people of some standing in this part of the country. This is their ranch.”

            It took some contortions, but finally they were out of the truck. Cara was stiff and cramped while Dave hobbled about like a crippled old man. Cara was now enough recovered to wish spitefully that his legs were completely numb and that his recovery would be long and uncomfortable.

            Apparently what passed for ‘standing’ and ‘ranch’ were quite different from what Cara was used to. She almost said so, too, until she decided that it wasn’t worth the effort. It didn’t move and she didn’t have to walk through the jungle any more...

            Cara stared down at her wrist. Once more the rope had vanished, but now Buck’s big silver bracelet completely covered the chafed red area. That annoyed Cara; she wanted it to stand out, so she could wave it under Dave Burkhart’s nose. Maybe these people didn’t understand English, but surely they could understand abuse...

            Señora Fonseca whirled into action the moment her fat little feet touched the ground. Shouting a great deal of machine-gun fast Spanish, the plump little lady wrapped surprisingly strong arms around Cara and whisked her toward the house.

            The stolid cinderblock house was much less grand than the Arvisus’, but it was much more welcoming. Once again Cara found herself stripped and whisked into a tub, this time an enormous tin basin in a stark, unfurnished room. The señora herself lifted off Cara’s soiled and torn dress and then poured water over her as she stood in the tub. If she had been asked, Cara would have said the first thing she wanted was a meal, but the splash of coolish water over her hot, sun-kissed skin was seductively pleasurable.

            Despite her experience in the Arvisu household Cara couldn’t feel comfortable about taking a semi-public bath. She was grateful for the señora’s help - bucket bathing seemed to be an art in itself - but the way the señora kept shouting for things and the way young women, presumably (hopefully!) her daughters repeatedly popped in and out, bearing soap and water and towels, both alarmed and annoyed her.

            “Ay, pobrecita!” the señora said as she at last swathed Cara in a large thin towel. “You are bitten bad.”

            “Yes, it seems the local bugs... You speak English!”

            The señora’s dark, deep-set eyes twinkled. “Yes, I do.”

            “But in the truck... you and your husband spoke only Spanish...” Frantically Cara tried to remember what she and Dave had said in English and, if so, how it could affect things.

            “Ay, it is true.” She shrugged ample shoulders, then smiled secretively. “My Alejandro does not like me to speak English.”

            Cara felt as if she were going down the rabbit hole again. “Why on earth not?”

            The señora took another towel and roughly dried Cara’s hair, exclaiming over its shining coppery color. “Because he cannot. You see, I worked as a housekeeper in Puerto Vallarta before I met Alejandro. I learned English there. Alejandro was here, working the land. He had no opportunity to learn.”

            “But why does it bother him if you do? If it’s that important, why don’t you teach him?”

            “You are American.” The señora shrugged again, then tossed the towel into the corner as a little girl ran in with a smallish jar and had to be physically shooed out. “Gracias, hijita... Your men think different from ours. Our men are very proud, very ...”

            “Silly? Insecure?” a very tired Cara supplied, but her frivolity was silenced by the other woman’s dignified frown.

            “It may seem so to you, but for us it is very important to keep our men happy.”

            “But does that mean he has to take away your identity and your accomplishments?” Cara tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. Fatigue washed over her and it was all she could do to stay upright as the señora generously applied salve to her bug bites. The salve smelled vaguely of swamps and dark, moist places, but at first touch it stopped the horrendous itching which had plagued her and that made Cara very happy.

            “Alejandro takes nothing away from me. He gives me so much more than I can ever do him.” The plump olive face, wrinkled as much from a hard life as from age, suddenly became as soft and radiant as a girl’s. “When you find the man who is the other half of your heart, you will understand. He will be more important than anything to you, just as you will be more important than anything to him.”

            “The other half of your heart?”

            “When I was working in Puerto Vallarta a very smart man, a professor, once told me a legend of some old people in a faraway land. They believed that before you are born, you are two people in one body - you and your love. Then, when one of you is to be born, you are torn apart and made into two, so you spend your time on earth trying to find the one who is the other half of your heart.”

            Something quivered in Cara’s soul with a sound of chimes. “What a lovely legend.”

            “Of course, the priest said it is just pagan silliness and no child of the Church should listen to it, but...” she smiled again. “Even so, when it happens to you, you will know.”

            Cara would have asked more, but the door flew open and in popped another daughter. Señora Fonseca thanked her, took the cloth she carried and draped it over Cara’s head.

            “My eldest daughter’s nightgown,” she said proudly.

            “Oh, I couldn’t...”

            “Carmela herself suggested it. It is clean,” the señora added in sudden anxiety.

            “Of course! I didn’t mean to suggest...” Cara flushed with sudden horror. “I just meant... it’s so pretty.”

            There was no mirror in the stark cinderblock room, but Cara could tell the delicate cotton nightgown was more than pretty. Tucked and ruffled, it was undeniably modest yet still it carried an innocent air of sensuality. It fit as if it had been made for her. The lace edged neck and sleeves suggested an earlier century while the neat hem floated just above her ankles.

            “Thank you. I made it. It is for her...” Her plump face contorted as the señora struggled for the word. “... for her wedding box.”

            “Her trousseau?”

            “Yes! Her trousseau!” The elusive word finally caught, the señora repeated it several times to imprison it in her memory.

            “But I can’t wear this!” Carefully Cara started to skin out of the soft fabric, only to be stopped by her hostess’ frantic hands. “It’s for her trousseau... it’s something special.”

            “But it will hurt Carmela if you do not! It is for good luck, you see... She and Alfonso are to be married after the harvest. She wants to be as happy as you and your husband are.”

            “But we’re not...” Cara managed to stutter.

            “Oh, I know you are a little upset with him now, and who would not be after he manages to wreck your car in the jungle? Men are such little boys, always seeking adventure and wanting to show off to the women they love, and with no more thought of the consequences than a child.” The señora laughed indulgently. “I could tell you about Alejandro and some of the things our boys have done... It is a woman’s duty to overlook and to love, and do not tell me there is not love between you. I have seen the way you look at each other.”

            The matter settled, she pulled the gown back into place. Cara could only stare. The woman was either blind or a raving lunatic. For one frightening, insubstantial moment it seemed that the cinderblock walls were falling in on her. She was still trapped. If this woman believed that Dave Burkhart was her loving husband, there would be no way Cara could get her help in escaping. Señora Fonseca would treat the whole thing as a highly romantic lovers’ quarrel.

            She was no closer to getting away than she had been out in the jungle.

            Cara began to tremble. Would this nightmare never end?

            “Ay, pobrecita! You are too tired. Come and lie down.”

            Lie down? Asleep she would be defenseless. She had to think of a way to get away, to get back to Buck...

            Without really knowing how she got there, Cara found herself lying in a big brass bed. There were soft sheets of real linen, and their fresh scent indicated that they had been just put on. A big glass of milky liquid was placed into her hand and she was urged to drink.

            She had never tasted anything like it before. Sweetish and vaguely alcoholic, it went down easily, cleansing her throat of dust and taking the worst edge off her hunger.

            “That’s good, but I’m awfully hungry... We haven’t eaten...” The words were thick and uncomfortable in her mouth.

            “We are fixing food now,” the señora said maternally. “Why don’t you rest until it is done?”

            “There’s something I have to tell you...” Cara said, but at the moment her sleep-befuddled mind couldn’t think of what.

            Cara wasn’t aware of having slept, but she was jerked into sudden, heart-stopping wakefulness by the creaking of the bedsprings and the tilting of the mattress. The señora was gone and there was... The nerve of that creature!

            Grabbing the sheet and holding it high in a gesture worthy of any outraged Victorian maiden, Cara snapped, “Get out of here!”

            Jumping up, Dave swore a mild oath. “You scared the hell out of me! I thought you were asleep. Sorry I disturbed you.”

            “What do you think you’re doing?”

            At any other time, under any other circumstances, Cara would have been amused at the sight of Dave Burkhart. He was scrubbed and shiny, his hair still damp, and clad most improbably in a gentleman’s nightshirt of a design popular for most of the 19^th century. It was long-sleeved and high-necked and fell in voluminous folds to just above his knees.

            In spite of herself Cara could feel a bubble of laughter swelling in her throat. She would not succumb to hysteria again, she simply would not!

            “It’s Señor Fonseca’s,” Dave said almost apologetically. “His good one.”

            “So good he never wore it,” Cara couldn’t help saying, giving a critical eye to the stiff, yellowed folds.

            “Apparently. Now scoot over.”

            Tension snapped back into Cara’s body and she clenched the sheet tighter. “I will not! Get out of here or I’ll scream!”

            Dave seemed disinclined to answer. He simply lay down beside her, sending Cara scuttling to the far side of the bed.

            “I will, I’ll scream!”

            “Go ahead,” Dave said around a yawn so big it stretched his face.

            “I suppose you told them I’m crazy, too!”

            “Look, Miss Waters, they’re decent people and they think we’re married, so of course they gave us their bed. Now I’m tired and I know you are, so let’s be adult about this and get some rest.”

            His proposal was so straightforward Cara almost believed him.

            “I don’t want to sleep with you,” she snapped, then realizing what she had said, stammered on, “I - I mean, I don’t want to go to bed with you.... I mean...”

            “I know what you mean,” Dave said wearily, wiggling into the pillow. “And believe me, you’ve made that abundantly clear. I’m just saying we both need some sleep and I for one intend to get some. I suggest you do the same.”

            He wasn’t moving, so Cara relaxed a bit. She was so tired even keeping her eyes open took concentrated effort. It wasn’t as if he were a complete stranger. She had slept in his arms in the jeep...

            Yes, jeered her mind, and what did he do then? He kissed you and held you and you...

            Cara flopped down on her pillow, forbidding her thoughts to go any further.

            “Very wise, Miss Waters.”

            “Just don’t get the idea that you can do anything...”

            Dave yawned again, then looked over at her with a sardonic expression. “And what makes you think I would want to?”

            “That’s an insulting thing to say!” was out of Cara’s mouth before she knew she was thinking it.

            Dave turned his head on the pillow and regarded her dispassionately. “Another tactic, Miss Waters?”

            “No! I - I just... Oh, this is all so horrible! Why did you snatch me off the street? What do you want with me?”

            He moved so swiftly Cara was crushed breathless in his arms. A fire flashed over her body, sparkling and sensual and absolutely overwhelming. “What do you want me to want with you? Something like this?” Ruthlessly his lips descended on hers, soft and warm and plundering.

            To Cara the touch of his mouth on hers felt like an electric shock. At first all she knew was an overwhelming wave of outrage, but her body betrayed her. It responded to the passion of his kiss, the delicious sensation of his tongue insistently probing her mouth, melting against the tenseness of his slim musculature

            “Please,” she managed to whisper in a barely audible voice, “don’t.”

            “What?” he asked in a hoarse and shaking voice. He did stop kissing her, but his mouth was so close Cara could feel his lips brushing hers. “Why? Don’t you like it?”

            Cara struggled ineffectually in his imprisoning arms. “You’re a monster!” she hissed breathlessly, then was shocked into silence as Dave Burkhart’s hand began a gentle circuit around the middle of her back.

            “Stop it,” she whimpered. She would have called him names, screamed for help, anything, had she been able to get her breath. He was using only one arm to hold her, but it was enough to keep her immobile against him. Too late she thought of kicking; his leg was thrown over both hers in a gesture that might look affectionate but was as immobilizing as a wrestler’s.

            “Stop acting, Miss Waters!” he snarled, as angry as she had ever heard him.  “You’re willing to give yourself to Buck Tarrant, so why not to me?”

            “Buck’s a gentleman,” Cara gasped. She was beginning to get dizzy. “And I love him! We’ve waited...”

            “Tarnation!” Suddenly Dave released her, leaning back to study her with the bemused expression of someone who has just found a totally new species. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

            Had she been more able to breathe properly, Cara would have been mortified at the sudden, incriminating blush which stained her cheeks.

            “That’s none of your business,” she snapped, trying not to whoop for air. She still felt dizzy. Even though he now held her as loosely as a tame bird, her exhausted limbs refused to move.

            “Of course... the romance, the whole bit! I knew... No wonder you’re such a defender of Tarrant.”

            “What are you talking about?” Cara tried to sound fierce and logical, but she could feel her eyes beginning to cross from fatigue.

            “Nothing, my dear Miss Waters, nothing that can’t wait until we’ve had some rest. Lie still and sleep...”

            It was the best advice Cara had heard in a long time. Her body ached for sleep and it didn’t seem to matter that his arm was still around her or that her head was nestled into the smooth hollow of his shoulder. Bonelessly she melted against him, her own breathing rapidly synchronizing to the measured rise and fall of his lean, muscled chest.

            Cara’s mind perversely struggled against oblivion. Even as her body relaxed it played and replayed Señora Fonseca’s definition of ‘the other half of your heart’ and it nagged at her. More than just an old legend, it seemed to her sleep-soggy mind to contain an essential truth that was just beyond her comprehension.

            Was Buck the other half of her heart?

            She was attracted to him, she thought him handsome, she enjoyed being with him, she thought he was sexy, she loved him - thought she loved him - so that had to make him the other half of her heart, didn’t it?

            If so, why did she feel so empty when she put her feelings for him against that measure?

            Was her love so shallow that out of sight meant out of mind and out of love? Their romance had been such an intense, whirlwind affair. Three months ago she hadn’t even known him. Then he had entered her life and taken over, filling it with his laughter and his hugs and his presence until she had forgotten that there had ever been anything before.

            Right now he was probably out running around frantically trying to find and rescue her. If he burst in here and swept her up in his arms...

            Even in her semi-comatose state Cara’s mind rejected that as nothing more than a scenario from a bad television episode. Buck was a sensible man; he would have mobilized the local police and the American ambassador or consul or someone like that. He would be waiting at headquarters for word of her, not chasing out looking for her himself. Besides, even if he were, the odds of him being the one to find her in all these millions of square miles of jungle and beach would be minuscule.

            But he would find her.

            He would.

            He had to.

            Bleakly comforted by that thought, Cara’s mind finally went into a sleep as deep as her body was already enjoying cradled in the embrace of her kidnapper, a sleep so deep that she was not even conscious of the rumble of personnel trucks not a hundred yards away.

The Land of Hearts Delight

As much as I disliked them, snakes were an integral part of that sandy country and prone to pop up in the most unexpected places. Once, when I had been on the job long enough to become regrettably complacent about them, I took my Girl Scout troop on a field trip out to some ranch for a lesson in the proper way to transplant a shrub.
We chose a small manzanita bush about twelve inches high that was just right for the chosen spot on the school grounds. The girls clustered around me watching as I dug the shovel into the sandy soil, isolated the main roots and lifted the whole thing onto the waiting sheet of burlap. I should have been suspicious when it came out of the ground so easily.
Beneath where the shallow root system had been was a ragged hole no larger than a football. At the bottom was a lively layer of finger-sized, whitish, almost transparent... things. They were wiggling until the hole looked almost like a boiling pot. Leaning over, I peered curiously at them, then gave the pulsating mass an experimental touch with the shovel's edge. In response the writhing knot broke apart instantly, with individual creatures slithering off in every direction, including towards my lightly-shod feet.
I had never seen anything like them. Were they some peculiar variety of desert earthworm? It wouldn't be surprising; so far nothing down here in this oddly alien land had seemed exactly like its counterpart back home. I bent down for a closer look.
"Miss! Miss!" shrilled the little girls of my Girl Scout troop.
Startled, I looked up. In the half-second or so since I had uncovered the oddity the girls had magically transported themselves a good twenty yards away. Now jumping up and down in the grip of some fervent emotion, they were making a variety of unintelligible and somewhat hysterical signals. Their words, however, were crystal clear.
"Run, Miss, run!" they screamed. Then as a body they uttered the one word guaranteed to make me move no matter the situation.
"Rattlesnakes!"
Being tall, I quite naturally have long legs and at that time could run extremely fast. It is not true, as was occasionally whispered later, that I jumped from the side of that hole all the way to the car parked out on the ranch road some quarter mile away. If I could have, though, I would have.
That was an invaluable lesson. Newly hatched rattlesnakes are small and translucent and, in their own way, interesting to look at. They also carry just as deadly a bite as their adult counterparts.
By mutual consent the girls and I abandoned the bush and simply went back to town. I never felt quite the same about transplanting shrubs again.

Lost in Egypt

            “Is the duck not to your liking?”
“It’s fine,” Elissa said.
“But you are not eating. You need to keep up your strength...” The words were concerned, but his lean face was alight with erotic mischief. Ripping the drumstick from the duck, he pointed it at her mouth, gently drawing it over her closed lips.
Almost mesmerized by the fathomless depth of those sea-green eyes, Elissa formed her lips into a soft ‘o,’ allowing the bulbous leg to slide deeply into her mouth. The crisp skin had been roasted in a kind of spiced honey sauce and as the drumstick slid even further beyond her lips, stretching them almost painfully, it filled her mouth with a tangy sweetness that piqued her hunger even more. When Nakht made to withdraw it, she leaned forward, tightening her lips so as not to loose so tasty a morsel...
Only when she realized the sexual innuendo of their actions and that Nakht knew exactly what he was doing did Elissa return to her senses. She leapt back so suddenly the tray of dishes rattled dangerously and saved only by the general’s quick action. The honey sauce was now cloying on her lips; she would have licked it away, except to do so probably would have only enflamed that sneaky, sex-mad autocrat further. Grabbing the cloth which had covered the tray, she scrubbed at her mouth as if she could erase thoughts and unbidden reactions as easily as sticky honey sauce.
“You were not so fastidious last night,” he said without rancor, stripping a piece of flesh from the bone and placing it directly on his tongue.
“Last night I had no choice,” Elissa snapped, flushing with the memory of some of the previous evening’s more exotic moments. They were burned forever into both her brain and her body, erotic memories which scalded her not so much because of what had happened, but because she had enjoyed it so much.
She grabbed at the plate he had fixed for her, snatching it so suddenly she almost sloshed the soupy beans over the edge. Nothing more than a flat circle of the same yellowish alabaster, the plate had only the tiniest of rims to hold its contents in place.
Accustomed to sturdier utensils, Elissa stabbed at the beans and then cried with dismay as the fragile ivory spoon shattered in her fingers. Just because she was angry with him and with herself was no need to destroy beauty, she thought and fought the sudden tears springing to her eyes. Aunt Suzy would have given anything for that spoon - a genuine artifact from Ancient Egypt - and she had thoughtlessly destroyed it.
Where was Aunt Suzy now? Was she all right? Did she miss her? Or - Elissa gulped at the sudden specter of a new fear - had her aunt gone into another, different time, becoming as lost and at risk there as she was here?
“Hold there!” Reaching across, Nakht snatched the plate from her hands. “Are there no eating utensils where you come from, my beautiful barbarian?”
“Not like this,” Elissa replied in perfect truth.
“Then we must train you in the ways of civilized eating,” Nakht said with a smile. Picking up his own spoon he filled it with beans and extended it to her as one would to a recalcitrant toddler. “Open your mouth...”
“I will...” Elissa began angrily, stopping only as he tenderly filled her mouth with beans.
How humiliating! Did he expect her just to sit there and allow him to feed her like a baby? Elissa could have screamed with anger, but her mouth was full of beans; not only that, but delicious tasting beans. She could either spit them out - and in doing so lose all pretense at dignity - or obey his implicit order and eat them. This round she lost no matter which way she went.
Glaring at him, she savagely chewed and then gulped down the spicy mixture.
“There now, Isis! Is that not simple?” Nakht asked, dragging the bottom of the refilled spoon on the plate edge to catch any errant drops of sauce before extending it to her.
Elissa leaned back and before she spoke put her hand up as a protective screen against further intrusions. “You need not put yourself out. I am quite capable of feeding myself.”
“Perhaps, but you are a trifle hard on the cutlery. Besides, it pleases me to feed you.” Smiling indulgently, he gently bumped the full spoon against her tightly locked lips.
“Do you intend to feed me every meal?”
Nakht shrugged. “For as long as it pleases me.”
Just like a pet, Elissa thought resentfully. And when he’s tired of me, do I get sent back to the pound?
In a pig’s eye!
Two could play at this game, she decided; if he wanted to make a fool of himself, she was more than willing to help him. Keeping her eyes modestly lowered she obediently opened her mouth, accepting his dominance - and the beans - with all the meekness he could have desired.
“Now is this not much more pleasant?” Nakht asked, hiding a smile. Once again old Esamenope, his one-time master, had been proven right. All it took was a little kindness and sharply defined parameters to ensure contented obedience. He had never yet met a dog, a horse or a woman on whom it didn’t eventually work; it did seem, however, that this beautiful blonde barbarian had capitulated with unexpected suddenness.
Perhaps, he thought complacently, she had never before encountered a man so accustomed to handling difficult... situations.
Elissa chewed slowly, watching him from beneath her lashes. Arrogant pig! He thought she was ready to cave in and admit his superiority just because he was charming and put on a sweetly macho stance. If only he weren’t so good looking... if only her heart didn’t thud with happy betrayal at the sight of him... if only he could see her as a human being instead of as just a temporary toy!
Well, she thought, that was at best a severe improbability! If nothing else she’d make sure that he knew she was not a toy!
“May I have a bite of duck, please?” she asked in a small, femininely submissive voice.
It never failed, Nakht thought with vague content. They really all wanted a man to take over, to make all the decisions. It made their little lives so much easier... and how quickly they learned to take advantage of it!
He ripped off a long strip of pale duck breast and held it out in his fingers. Once any creature was gentled, it should be rewarded to ensure further obedience; then, with continued kindness and - if necessary - occasional firm but gentle discipline, order was maintained. It was the way it should be, the way it always had been, the way it always would be.
What a desirable creature she is, he thought.
He’s such a bastard, Elissa thought.
She opened her mouth wide, moving forward so that not only the strip of meat but his fingers were deep in her mouth. She sucked languidly for a fraction of a moment, milking his fingers with her tongue, enjoying the sudden glow of triumphant pleasure in his eyes before sinking her teeth right through the soft duck meat and into his flesh. Then she enjoyed the shock and fury which leapt into his eyes much more than she had the pleasure.
“Bitch!” he shouted, snatching back his hand, his body reacting with the training of years to jump into a posture of readiness.
The tray slithered to the floor, sending food and shards of alabaster splattering over the rough stone. Though his lacerated fingers throbbed, Nakht’s pride hurt much more. How dare she? He could have her flogged, have her thrown to the men, have her quartered...
A dozen other equally unpleasant forms of death flitted through his mind in less than an instant, but his body did not pause. He seized her, twisting her into a painfully submissive posture even before the scream of protest could leave her lips.
“You will learn that you are my property, barbarian!” he snarled through gritted teeth. In her distorted posture the woman’s firm breasts were thrust tightly against the thin linen of her gown. Nakht’s desire for this wild, strange creature burst over him in a thunderclap of physical need. The ways of devising her death were instantly replaced with twice that number of ways of pleasure, and when he spoke again his voice was husky with dangerous arousal. “You are mine to do with as I will.”
Elissa could not speak. Tears leapt to her eyes as he tightened his grip on her flowing blonde mane. Even in her pain she felt a queer vindication; his sort would always resort to violence in the end, and that alone proved their basic and undesirable instability.
“It would behoove you to learn to obey me...”
“In your dreams...” Elissa gasped, twisting helplessly in the tight cage of his grasp.
“Sir...”
The soldier, his eyes alight with vicarious pleasure, stood in the door. It was not often that anyone saw the famed General Amunnakht in any but the most flattering of lights. A common soldier would have been less than human to not be curious about seeing his vaunted superior battling with a woman... and what a woman! Hair the color of the sun... This soldier would have given ten years of his life to lie with this one, even though she did appear to be as wild as one of the fabled desert lions.
“What is it?” Nakht barked. He had to ask twice, the last time in a tone of imminent danger all the soldiers had learned to fear.
“I beg your pardon for interrupting you, sir, but the pharaoh demands your immediate presence.”
Nakht swore long and fluently, then released Elissa so suddenly that she fell bonelessly to the floor. He looked down at her, his emotions boiling with angry contradictions.
“Remember what I said, woman. We are not done with this.”
Long after the heavy door slammed shut, Elissa pulled herself up on the bed. Her face was hard and set.
“No, my great General Amunnakht, we are not done with this...” she finally breathed. Her eyes glittered. “We are not done with this at all, and you would do well to remember that!”

Dark Music

             “Every six weeks,” Bernie rumbled sonorously from the window.
“What?”
“Every six weeks. She could turn out a novel every six weeks, just like clockwork. I’ve got my printing schedule set up on that basis for the next year.” He sounded stricken.
“Miss Hall was one of your better writers, then,” Sergeant Hunter asked and was rewarded with a glare from Bernie. “I - I’m not familiar with the name.”
“Jane Hall never used her own name...” Anita began helpfully, but Bernie began to list her pseudonyms solemnly, as if intoning a roll call of the dead.
“Pauline Marshall, Marsha Paulson, LaWanda Tate, Clarissa Heatherington, Heather Clairmont, Annalise Bernard... that was the one she used for the first book she published with us. In honor of me...”
The Mountie looked rather stunned. “All those names?”
“Jane had at least fifteen names,” Anita said primly. “I don’t know if even she remembered them all. I’m sure our office will get you a list...”
“In that case, I wonder who the killer was killing,” he said slowly. “Miss Hall or one of her alter egos...” Poor man. He looked out of his depth. “Did Miss Hall have any jewelry?”
Anita shook her head. “I’ve never seen her wear anything of note.”
“She had on a pin last night,” I said. “It was a funny, old-fashioned bar pin... filigree, I think.”
“We found that on her body,” Sergeant Hunter said, consulting his notes. “as well as a small gold pinkie ring and a gold neck chain.”
“Poor Jane never did have much of a sense of style,” mourned Anita. “She could have afforded the crown jewels, but she seldom wore anything.”
“Her purse was undisturbed, so I think we can rule out robbery. My partner is making an inventory of the place now, but I don’t think we’ll find anything missing.”
Bernie turned in from the window. His face was ghastly. “I thought you couldn’t disturb a crime scene.”
“We do what we can. We’ve taken photographs of everything.” The Mountie cleared his throat; he was obviously uncomfortable. “I mean, we couldn’t just leave the poor woman lying there...”
There was a small sound of pain, as if from a wounded animal, and I realized I was making it.
“Please!” Anita hissed, her grip on my arm tightening. “Elizabeth is a very sensitive girl!”
“I’m all right, really I am. What... what killed her? There was so much blood...”
“A knife. One of the hotel knives.”
“That means it had to be one of the staff, doesn’t it?” I asked, grasping at straws. Anything to distance this horrible crime from people like me. “I mean, to have had access to the kitchen knives...”
“No, ma’am. It was a regular table knife.”
“You mean...” Anita’s voice went tight with horror. She raised a dainty handkerchief to her mouth. “One like we eat with?”
The sergeant nodded. “A wooden handled steak knife. We’ve got it bagged, but I doubt there’ll be any prints on it. There must be at least a thousand like it here in the hotel. There’s even a set-up chest full of them just outside the Empress dining room.”
Now Anita was clinging to me as much to be comforted as to comfort. “But we used some like that just last night!”
I thought I might be sick. A lot has been written about how most of a queasy stomach is all in the mind and now I believe it. One moment all I could think of was getting to a bathroom where I could throw up in peace and the next I had forgotten all about it.
We were all startled when the door flew open with a crash. Even the steadfast Sergeant Hunter jumped.
“Elizabeth!”
It was Jared, a wild-eyed, distraught Jared I had never seen before. In the comparative warmth of the room the snow was melting off his flapping parka and dripping like tears onto the carpet.
My response was instinctual and immediate. Without a word he held out his arms to me and, all thoughts of my queasy stomach forgotten, I flew into them, burrowing against him as I had so many other, happier times. My head still just fit in the hollow of his neck. His arms closed around me, wrapping me inside the parka with him. The warmth of him seemed to melt something deep within me and the tears I had held back for so long began to ooze from under my eyelids.
“Elizabeth!” Anita’s shocked voice was like a cold shower. Next to it Sergeant Hunter’s growling, “Jerry, what the heck is this?” carried no weight at all.
We ignored them. Jared cradled me close and our bodies fit together as if the bitter years had never been.
“I heard that one of the Wingate writers had been killed... a woman... I had to know it wasn’t you,” he crooned, one hand doing a slow circle in the middle of my back. He hadn’t forgotten how much I loved that. His lips pressed against my hair. “I had to know you were all right.”
“It was Jane Hall. I found her. Oh, Jared, she was right next door to me! While I was sleeping she was dead like that...” I began to shake again and he held even closer.
“You couldn’t help that! Just so you’re all right...”
“Jerry!” This time everyone heard the sergeant. “What is going on?”
“I had to make sure Miss MacAllister was all right.”
“I was not aware you knew any of the staff here,” Anita said repressively. “Elizabeth, who is this?”
Jared and I looked at each other. Even after all this time we could still sense each other’s thoughts. Somehow he had managed to skin out of his parka without ever letting go of me. He tossed it into the corner while the ever-helpful Sergeant Hunter answered Anita’s question.
“He’s Jerry Grant. He plays piano in the lobby bar.”
I nodded and Jared gave me a crooked smile. There was nothing to be lost by telling the truth.
“Not really. I’ve just been going by the name of Jerry Grant.”
“It’s not your real name?” Sergeant Hunter’s eyes bulged.
“No. My real name is Jared Granville.”
“The concert pianist?” Now it was Anita’s turn to be startled.
“Yes. And,” I said, burrowing my head into his chest to avoid her penetrating gaze, “he’s also my ex-husband.”
 

Coming Soon

Echoes in the Dark

             At first  I was scornful and almost angry at the sight of the wheelchair Zach had tactfully left standing just inside the door. Did he think so little of me that he didn’t find me capable of getting around on my own? How like him to make such a decision for me! I resolved to show him and not use the chair, but the task of getting washed and dressed while balancing on crutches combined with the fatigued drug-dullness left over from yesterday finally made me appreciate the gesture.

            I took advantage of the empty hall to familiarize myself with the chair’s controls. This was no stripped-down hospital job that you propelled by pushing the wheels; Zach had gone the entire way and gotten one of the fancy electric kinds. One feathery touch on a small joystick could send it flying wildly in almost any direction. A scabbard type thing on the back held my crutches; next to it was a pouch that could serve as a purse or backpack. About the only thing it lacked was a seat belt.

            The chair had even been plugged into the wall recharging all night, so it was ready to go. Being halfway between hung over and whimsical, I named it Rosinante. Why not? Hadn’t Don Quixote had problems with reality himself?

            If I didn’t watch myself, I’d start calling Zach Sancho. Or perhaps since he had ridden to my rescue he should be Don Quixote, even though I would make a rotten Dulcinea.

            For the first time I remembered his odd behavior about... what was her name? Deborah. Perhaps she was more likely to be Dulcinea than I. The thought was vaguely uncomfortable.

            After three collisions with the wall and double that number near misses, I quit playing with the chair and located the elevator. It was about five doors down from my room and despite its rickety appearance worked with slow grace. I only hoped whoever was responsible had spent more time making this place mechanically sound than they had cleaning it.

            The ground floor was incredible. In its day, this place must have been both outstanding and elegant, but I agreed with Zach that its day must have been right around 1890 or thereabouts. There’s nothing sadder than fallen grandeur. All the beauty inherent here had long ago been negated, swept away, painted over, ignored. It was incredibly sad.

            I circled my chair slowly, drinking in the elegant proportion and ruined elegance; I suppose my idea of the book was conceived then, though it didn’t emerge until later. At the time my only conscious thought was how depressing it all was, like the haggard crone who believed she still carried the veil of youthful beauty.

            In the vast echoing tomb of the lofty dining room one long table huddled beneath the windows. It looked suspiciously like a couple of picnic tables laid end to end, but the breathtaking vista beyond the streaked glass windows made everything else forgettable.

            Hidden Springs Hotel was on the crest of a high hill and from here there was nothing visible but an ocean of trees undulating almost without interruption right over the horizon. Here and there the green parted to show small islands of cultivation, but they were miles away. I had the odd feeling of being adrift on an alien sea.

            But not alone. She was a hardfaced woman, stocky and square; her hair was scraped back into an uncompromising knot and she wore a shapeless gray dress that had to be the ugliest garment ever made. She didn’t look up from laying the silverware. “So you’re finally up. You probably want some coffee.”

            “Good morning. Yes, I would love some. Please,” I added hastily.

            “It’s hardly morning any more. I’m just getting ready for lunch. I’m Mrs. Connell,” she added matter-of-factly, pouring a cup of coffee from a huge urn on the sideboard and handing it to me with a spare and grudging economy of motion. The coffee was thick and black and there was no sign of sugar or cream anywhere. I hate black coffee, but I sipped at it obediently. Something about her face made me think it would be imprudent to do otherwise.

            “Thank you. I’m Alix Whittaker...”

            “I know who you are, Miss Whittaker. You’re that photographer Mr. Galliard and Dr. Hathcock was so dead set on getting down here.” She looked witheringly at my cast. “I knew this was a cheap outfit, but I didn’t know they were so hard up. I just hope you don’t think I’m going to wait on you.”

            “I can assure you I am perfectly capable of managing as well as any of the others,” I replied coldly, my spine unconsciously stiffening. Mrs. Connell reminded me of several thoroughly unsatisfactory servants my family had through the years, grumpy people who didn’t like anything or anybody and made no bones about expressing it. Unfortunately, none of us had ever come up with a way to handle them besides firing them, and here that wasn’t a viable option. Wheeling over to the sideboard I put the half-empty cup next to the pot. The coffee was thick as tar and just as vile.

            “It’s downright immoral. Immoral and indecent.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            She was laying the plates down now, heavy, ugly white ironstone that went down with a sharp snick! against the scarred wood. “Digging up the dead from their eternal rest. I told Connell I wanted no part of it, but he said it was our job to stay here and watch the place while there were strangers about...” She looked up at me as if about to accuse us of plotting to steal the mismatched, scarred flatware that wasn’t even stainless, let alone silver. “I told him that the spirits would walk, but he wouldn’t listen.”

            “The spirits?”

            “The spirits of the dead you’re trying to dig up. Of course spirits walk if they’re disturbed and I’ve told Connell I don’t hold with grave robbing!”

            Good grief, what had I gotten myself into? I have always had a particular loathing for narrow-minded and superstitious folk ever since one of our houseboys in Jamaica had literally died of a curse in spite of Father’s rational explanation why a curse couldn’t hurt anyone.

            Years later something similar had happened in Africa; we were far back in the bush as Father did some research on a story that eventually became the Hopewell trilogy. The local shaman didn’t like a white man digging into the legends and stories of the tribe, so he put a curse on anyone who talked to the interloper. This time Father knew better than to use logic; as I remember instead he used a great deal of Mother’s make-up, some gunpowder, an old Very pistol and some outrageously hammy acting. To the shaman’s chagrin the cursed ones recovered almost immediately. Zach knew how I felt about such superstition; he should have warned me!

            “‘Tain’t Christian to dig people up... at least, not those as was God-fearing Christians!”

            I had no intention of opening the theology versus science can of worms with Mrs. Connell. Instead I returned her belligerent stare with a look of cool dismissal copied from Mother. “What time is luncheon served?”

            “One o’clock sharp. Breakfast is at seven, dinner at one and supper at six-thirty. And no sneaking around in the kitchen afterwards! I don’t cotten to coming into a dirty kitchen of a morning.”

            Mrs. Connell was right when she had said it was no longer morning. My trusty Timex said that it was a quarter after twelve; there were forty-five minutes until luncheon and I surely didn’t want to spend them with Mrs. Connell!

            “Thank you for the coffee. I’m going to look around a bit until the others come in.”

            “One o’clock sharp,” she reiterated. “And be careful where you snoop. Some parts of this old place ain’t safe.”

            Perhaps her gloomy warning was true, but I didn’t find any ‘unsafe places.’ I got only as far as the library. Now there were no books on the rows of shelves and the layers of dust indicated that there hadn’t been any for a long time, but it was still fascinating because it had been commandeered as the dig archive. One section of the long-empty shelves was now occupied by long shallow trays very reminiscent of shoe box lids, each lined with cotton and filled with odd-looking, carefully labeled objects.

            I pulled one out carefully and looked inside. It didn’t appear very impressive; a squashed metal button, a handful of misshapen lumps of metal that might have been bullets and a couple of chunks of broken heavy crockery. All of it was dark and grubby looking, the ugly bits and pieces of Civil War rubbish that passed as archaeological treasure. Ugh. At least in Egypt they had dug up some gold and beautiful things; fat chance of digging up any gold around here!

            The trays on the upper shelves looked deeper; maybe they held something more interesting, but I couldn’t see from my chair. Locking Rosinante’s wheels, I maneuvered into a standing position - no small feat - and balanced against the cabinets beneath the shelves. The first box held nothing but shards of china, but the second one... I wasn’t really interested in the Civil War or the Old West, but the sight of the rusty, skeletal pistol sent a shiver through me.

            “What do you think you are doing?” A rolling baritone voice ripped the silence. “How did you get in here?”

            At least I was able to get the box down safely before splattering myself over the grimy wooden floor. As far as falls went it wasn’t a particularly bad one, but it was the first I had taken since the accident and painfully pointed out to me just how out of shape I was.

            “My God!” The voice was full of dismay. Footsteps thudded hollowly on the wooden floor. “You must be Alix Whittaker... My dear lady, I do most humbly apologize! Please tell me that you’re unhurt!”

            Uncurling my arms from around my head I looked up through the swirling puffs of dust and decided that if this were an hallucination, I should have more of them. Kneeling solicitously beside me was the most handsome man I had seen in a long time... perhaps ever. Impressively tall and well built, his physique alone would have been worth noticing, but his face... Wow!

            Whoever he was, he really could have made his fortune in the movies. His face was aristocratically thin, the smoky gray eyes large and well formed, the nose and lips delicate yet attractively masculine. Once his hair had been a richly dark brown, but now it was liberally mixed with silver. Aside from a few spidery lines in the corners of his eyes, it was the only proof that he belonged to a generation before mine, though the soft brush of Southern drawl which gilded his baritone voice seemed to belong to a different, more mannered age.

            “I’m all right, I think...”

            “No, don’t you try to get up just yet.” Large sinewy hands rested gently against my shoulders. “Shall I send for help? A doctor?”

            His expression was so anxious I tempered my laugh to a smile. “I really am fine... If you could just help me...?” I gestured toward Rosinante.

            I really had intended just to have him help me stand up, then sort of push the chair under me. Really.

            “Now, Miss Alix, do you feel strong enough to put your arms around my neck?”

            As the shock and impact subsided, I could probably have gotten up by myself, but instead I obediently reached upward. He leaned over me, slipped strong arms beneath my knees and shoulders and simply lifted me right up off the floor. For a woman of my height, which is closer to six feet than is fashionable, and build, about which statuesque is the most commonly used term, to be lifted so effortlessly is memorable... almost as memorable as the man who, now he had me aloft, seemed reluctant to put me back down.

            “Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Alix? I am most dreadfully sorry about shouting at you like that. I’m a bit of an old woman when it comes to anyone touching the finds. Last week we had some hikers up here who just walked right in and began digging through everything... People just don’t know how fragile some of these things can be.”

            “If you could just set me down... I’m really too heavy for you, Mr. ...?”

            “Paul Galliard, ma’am, and I could hold you like this all day,” he said gallantly before lowering me into the chair without the slightest indication of strain. “But what are you doing down here? I thought Hathcock said you were going to take it easy today.”

            So Zach thought so little of me, huh? Typical of him to decide and then announce what I was going to do without bothering to consult me! It took a moment of internal struggle to deal with a flash of anger thought long dead, then be able to smile and speak in a friendly fashion.

            “I did sleep in, Mr. Galliard...”

            He half-leaned, half-sat on the edge of the cabinet beneath the bookcases right in front of me. With a gesture worthy of a courtier he lifted my hand and touched it delicately with his lips. “Please, my dear Miss Alix, call me Paul. This is a very informal organization.”

            “Mr. Galliard...”

            “If you don’t call me Paul I’ll think you haven’t forgiven me...” Whatever this man had, they should have bottled it! His voice was properly mournful, but a sparkle of genteel mischief danced behind the gray curtains of his eyes. “...and that would just about break my heart, beautiful Miss Alix.”

            I almost gasped for breath. “All right, Paul...” I swallowed and tried to take my hand back. He wasn’t so rude as to squeeze, but it was obvious I was caught, so I relaxed and tried to enjoy it. “I just came down a few minutes ago to explore...”

            “Aren’t you brave!” Paul Galliard’s handsome face lit with real admiration. “Your first day in a new place, trapped in a contraption like that and you set about exploring by yourself! That’s mighty courageous, Miss Alix.”

            I studied him carefully for any sign of sarcasm and saw nothing but open regard. He really did think it was something! How did he think I got in this fix in the first place? Falling off one of my high heels? I kept quiet, though; it might be pure flattery, but it could be as good a medicine as anything that ever came in a bottle; plus, from what I could see, Paul Galliard was a master of the art.

            “Not really... unless there are places around here that ‘ain’t safe,’ like Mrs. Connell said.”

            “Oh, my poor, dear girl!” Paul exploded with a roar of rich, deep laughter. “Not only do you have to explore this dreary old place by yourself, but the first one of us you run into is Mrs. Connell! We must think of some way to make that up to you.”

            “Well, I didn’t get very far... I looked in here and became enthralled. Are these the things I’m to photograph?”

            “Yes. I want you to know, my dear Miss Alix, how flattered I am to have you join our little expedition. I’ve admired your work ever since that series you did on desert gardens...”

            I remembered that series well. It was one of my first nationally known pieces and, although I didn’t know it at the time, the beginning of the end of my marriage to Zach.

            “...and when I found out Dr. Hathcock knew you and that you would actually come work with us...! Well, I tell you, Miss Alix, I was just over the moon! I realize it’s selfish of me to be so happy, because we couldn’t have ever aspired to someone of your quality if it hadn’t been for your tragic accident, but...”

            Compliments were nice and attention from a handsome man even nicer, but fulsomeness got a bit sticky after a while. I hoped Paul’s tendency to ramble on would disappear after we got to know one another. This was a phenomena I had seen often with my father and even on a rare occasion or two with me; when confronted with a celebrity some people simply babble on and on, even including the most amazingly intimate details of their own lives. I didn’t think Paul would go that far, but his repeated references to my infirmity were embarrassing. I didn’t want my leg to be thought of as some sort of bid for attention or a passport to special treatment; I had come to Hidden Springs to do my job and I intended to pull my weight.

            “Oh,” I romanced easily. My eyelashes seemed to flutter a little of their own volition; could Southern-ness be contagious? “I probably would have come anyway. I’ve wanted to do an archaeological dig for a long time. Didn’t Zach tell you?”

            The room filled with a rumble like a grumpy bear. Zach himself stood ramrod straight in the doorway, looking as if he had come directly from the dig; his hair was even more untidy than usual and there were thick smears of mud on his arms and face. The light glared off his glasses, turning the lenses into little glowing suns and making it impossible to see his expression. After he cleared his throat his voice was that cold, deliberately neutral tone I had come to know so very well during the last months of our marriage.

            “Lunch is ready,” he said, “if you are.”

   

Second Chance

     Despite her sister-in-law’s highly audible fears, Miss Verity Morrison did reach London in safety, escorted by outriders whose number was a proclamation of her station and a protection social disgrace as much as robbery. The fact that the carriage was a very plain one, the sole passengers a soberly dressed lady past her first youth and a hatchet-faced abigail, and that all travelling was done strictly by daylight in no way mitigated Lady Maria’s fear of highwaymen.

     In all likelihood the elder Miss Morrison would not have noticed had there been a band of brigands besieging her coach. Her mind was worrying with the various and alarming possibilities of Lisbet’s letter and looking forward to the forthright advice of her old friend. If her suspicions were just so much moonshine, the fevered wanderings of a disappointed spinster, Annabelle Pultney, now Lady Francis Bellthorpe, would be the first to tell her so.

     “If Catherine Conover is involved, you are quite right to be worried,” that worthy lady said with dire finality once the excitement of arrival and reunion had abated and they were settled in her comfortable drawing room over a fragrant dish of tea. Annabelle handed Lisbet’s letter back as if it were vaguely unpleasant to the touch. “The woman is just this side of scandalous and a menace to decent society. What did that slowtop Percy mean sending the child to her?” Annabelle’s whitish brows knotted like tapestry yarn.

     Never a beauty, Annabelle Bellthorpe had not improved with age. When a girl her fragile blonde looks had been insipid and now approaching middle age she appeared faded like cheap muslin. After seeing her piercingly intelligent eyes or conversing with her for more than a minimum of time, though, no one could think of her as anything but kind, witty and astute, virtues in spite of which she was one of the foremost literary hostesses in the country.

     With a calm serenity that belied her inner unease Verity folded the missive back into her reticule. “She is Lisbet’s aunt and Percy’s sister, even as I am.”

     “Really, Verity, living in the country has made you mealy-mouthed and missish! You and Catherine are as alike as chalk and cheese. I cannot imagine any notoriety attaching itself to you no matter what the occasion.”

     Unable to decide if that were a compliment or one of Annabelle’s devastatingly delicate insults, Verity decided to ignore it. “Notoriety? Surely it cannot be that bad?”

     “Practically. There are a few places where she is not received and were it not for the deep affection Mrs. Drummond-Burrell feels for Lady Maria neither Catherine nor Lisbet would be invited even to her musical evening this coming Thursday, and everyone knows they have become the most unbearable squeezes. Luckily your niece’s pretty manners were impressive enough at their one and only meeting that the lady consented to their presence. On trial.”

     “But that is simply dreadful! From what I hear Lisbet could be ruined forever if that Drummond-Burrell creature isn’t pleased. What kind of woman is she?”

     “She’s a stiff-necked harpy who is as straight laced as they come and in manners of Society as stuffy as an apprentice saint,” Annabelle said evenly.

     “Heavens! And if the glorious Mrs. Drummond-Burrell chooses she can see that Lisbet is never received again by anyone who matters! We cannot let that happen!”

     Annabelle studied her needlework intently, trying to hide a small smile. Everything would do very well after all, she decided. Verity should not and would not be allowed to languish forever as a country spinster.

     “What about Almack’s? If Lisbet has been turned down there...” Verity’s voice was tight with a justified apprehension. Luttrell’s naughty little quatrain about those who had been refused admission to that exclusive gathering place of the Ton was all too accurate when it said they could ‘do no right.’ If Lisbet had been barred from there it would be almost the same as an exclusion from Polite Society.

     “Catherine may be a heedless rattlepate, but she is most certainly not stupid. I think she knows she has not a chance in this world of getting in to Almack’s.” Annabelle’s small white teeth bit off an inoffensive length of thread with quite unnecessary violence. “Either that, or she knows they can play only whist there and for no more than sixpenny points.”

     “Sixpenny points... Surely she would never play, not while she is supposed to be chaperoning Lisbet! Tell me, please; exactly how bad is Catherine’s reputation?”

     Lady Bellthorpe raised her head and her eyes met those of her friend unwaveringly. “Shaky. She does gamble, you know.”

     “Does not everyone?”

     “Not that deeply. I heard that her loo and pharaoh losses are enormous.” Annabelle took a deep breath and broached the worst. “And she goes to houses. Professional gaming houses.”

     For a moment Verity couldn’t breathe. She had always ridiculed those frailer beings who did not feel secure without a vinaigrette, yet now the pungent fumes would have been welcome to steady her spinning head. “Houses? Are you quite sure?”

     “Of course,” Annabelle replied with some asperity. “She has even been seen coming out of a notorious establishment on Jermyn Street!”

     “Jermyn Street! But that used to be an area only for the coarsest element...”

     “It is even worse now, my dear. In any case, do you think anyone in our set would think twice about a lady having any sort of reasonable losses as long as they keep within bounds? Catherine goes only where the play is deep.”

     Verity took a moment to digest this. Somehow sitting in the sedate Bellthorpe drawing room it seemed fantastic to be talking of ruined reputations and mad gaming, but Verity had come to Town precisely for Annabelle Bellthorpe’s opinion and take it she must, no matter how unpleasant. “And we knew nothing. But Lisbet... It is nothing short of  criminal! How could she take such appalling risks with Lisbet’s future?”

     Annabelle’s pale eyes turned cold. “You more than anyone else should know that Catherine cares nothing for anyone or anything but herself,” she said frankly.

     “Yes, and I must do something... Lisbet’s life must not be ruined!”

     “Then the sooner we do something the better. Catherine is running with a very smoky crowd now. For the past few weeks she has been continually in the company of a rather smarmy skirter named Smythe-White. Calls himself a captain and wears a gaudy set of regimentals. Captain Sharp is more like it.” Annabelle jabbed viciously at her embroidery as if an unpleasant image had suddenly materialized there. “I cannot help but suspect that this creature is Lisbet’s mysterious love. He has been openly dangling after every heiress in Town for the last year.”