American Quest (43 page)

He allowed for this privacy, a thing he would never have to do again, and replaced the Courvoisier and the glasses. He went instead to his wine storage room. Gloria disliked cognac, anyway. Tonight was not the night to attempt to expand her palate.

He ran his hand over a prized possession, a Château Lafite more than two hundred years old that, etched in the glass, bore Thomas Jefferson’s initials. Gloria would be delighted. But no . . .

The wine might prove so extravagant as to distract. Tonight must be flawless. And, perish the thought, but excellent cellaring or no, the likelihood of the Lafite surviving to be supremely quaffable was a distant . . .

He lifted his head, suddenly wondering how Hedon and Isolde were managing with the travelers. How many heads might they have collected while Enervata and Gloria enjoyed the Peking opera?

And then he returned his attention to the wine.

What else . . . A 1952 La Tâche. Perfect. He withdrew the bottle and exited the cool wine storage. He was surprised to see Isolde there, just as she was departing through the archway.

He frowned, annoyed. Gloria’s door was even open. Reckless canteshrike, what if she’d been spotted?

“Isolde, what the devil are you . . . ?”

She disappeared without paying heed to him.

Enervata’s fury burst within him. He thought to pursue her and kill her on the spot. If she had not disappeared like that, he would have.

He turned toward Gloria’s door, which remained open.

He paused. He looked down at the bottle still in his hands. The La Tâche was a Romanée Conti. He’d already served her wine from that chateau once before. He wouldn’t want her to think him unimaginative. It would be better if he selected something else. In fact, perhaps he should forego Burgundy altogether and surprise her with an entirely different region. Bordeaux.

He returned to the climate-controlled storage and swept his gaze over the gorgeous collection.

Gloria was a woman of complex, delicate layers. A woman to be savored. Enervata bristled at the notion that an obtuse mortal might have ever enjoyed her before he did. He would torture Bruce for that before he killed him.

The 1989 Château Pétrus. Magnificent wine—a lovely Bordeaux from Pomerol. It would probably go for about five thousand dollars a bottle at auction. Perhaps a far cry from one of his other treasures, but as far as drinkability for such an important night, it was a desirable choice.

Oh, but he did so love La Tâche. No; let it be Pétrus.

They could have La Tâche tomorrow night.

“Bea saved us for a reason, tyke,” Forte was saying from the backseat, his arms wrapped around Shannon as he spoke to Emily.

Emily buried her face in Bruce’s chest and he smoothed her hair, kissing the top of her head.

“I know,” Emily gulped. “I just . . . I loved her!”

“Shh,” Bruce soothed. “Shh, baby.”

The van slowed and then rolled into the curved driveway. Before them stood an ornate stone building with broad arches topped in scrolling, buttercream trim. Jamie turned, eyes solemn as she unbuckled her seat belt.

Bruce looked up at the pale expanse of stone and the great, foreboding entryway. He patted Emily’s hair. “You wait in the van, okay?”

Emily pulled back from him, fists to her eyes, and lifted her chin. “Don’t make me do that. We should stick together.”

“She’s right,” Jamie said. “You’ll need all four of us. Besides, it’s probably more dangerous to leave her in the van.”

Emily looked at Bruce with wide, blinking eyes. “I want to be brave for Bea. I want her to be proud of me.”

Gloria accepted her glass.

Enervata admired the long, flowing lines of the green dress spilling over her figure. “Was that Sileny I heard you speaking with earlier?”

Gloria tilted her head at him. “Sileny?” She set her glass down on the tray.

His brow creased at her untouched wine. “It’s a 1989 Pétrus. Very rare at this point.”

Gloria moved slowly, her body lithe and her back to him, the spill of chiffon flowing behind her so much like the feathered tail of the peacock in the tapestry. She stood before it now.

Perhaps he should have followed his instinct and poured the La Tâche after all.

She turned back to him, her expression intense. Tall, proud, and gilded. Her eyes shone; dark eyes, but with brilliant flecks of gold and emerald, not unlike the colors in . . .

“Those feathers,” he breathed.

Gloria stiffened. Her gaze swept to Enervata’s feet. He looked down.

No more than six inches from his shoe, curled, with their finer hairs swaying from the gentlest air currents, lay two silver feathers.

A black fog bank stole in about him. “Isolde?”

Gloria stepped forward. “The performance was amazing tonight, Aaron. I’d never experienced the Peking opera before.”

“What have you been doing in here?” He grabbed her wrist and yanked her.

She swayed under the force of his hand, a flicker of terror waving across her face. It excited him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she gasped. “You . . . are you angry? You’re frightening me.”

He released her wrist, his pulse racing. Isolde. He would kill her now—kill that reckless canteshrike! He tried to calm himself.

“I must leave.” He said, gritting his teeth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“Really? Do you have to go?”

He struggled to deal with his fury. He had to tend to Isolde. Immediately.

But he couldn’t leave Gloria frightened and wondering. He looked down at her.

She was watching him closely, eyes wide, dark, and searching.

He looked toward the door. Why had Isolde been here? Did Gloria see her? He didn’t dare ask.

“Aaron, I . . .” She stopped.

Her words drew his attention fixedly upon her. He could smell her perfume. And beneath it, the scent of her skin. Warm and womanly, but uniquely Gloria. This creature had been squandered on a mortal whose olfactory senses were probably so obtuse he couldn’t smell that skin unless his nose was pressed to it. Enervata’s mouth watered to taste her now. Thoughts of Isolde drifted silently away.

Gloria extended her hand to the wine, moving ever so slowly. “Did you say this was Pétrus? Won’t you share a glass with me?”

She lowered her eyes. “Of course if you have business to attend to, I completely understand. It’s just that,” she raised her chin again, eyes meeting his. “Just that I’d rather not be alone tonight.”

Hedon. Bruce recognized the fat man from when they’d fallen into the crevasse in West Virginia. Hedon stood leering at the travelers in the cold marble reception. As Bruce paused in mid-stride, several other uniformed attendants filed in from a back room. Bruce guessed that they were something other than security guards.

Hedon’s grimacing face chilled Bruce’s blood. That man had snored through a monster truck massage.

“Steady, everyone,” Bruce said to his four.

“Join hands,” Jamie whispered.

They hovered around Bruce and linked up, fingers hooking with other fingers, and they felt the same now-familiar shock they’d experienced in Bruce’s hospital room. But this time, there were no visions of leather-skinned Maculs. Just a tremendous, coursing, surge of power.

“Take their heads off!” Hedon shouted.

The guards lunged.

Gloria took Enervata’s hand, sitting him down on the chair at the vanity. It caused the tiny hairs to rise on his skin.

“There,” she murmured, handing him his glass.

He accepted the wine, but did not release her hand. He took it, turning her wrist so that her palm faced upward, and he smelled her skin.

And she let him. God, she accepted his touch. Basked in it. After he’d breathed in her scent, she lifted her fingers and combed them through his hair from his temple to the base of his skull.

Shannon screamed.

One of the guards hurled himself at Jamie but stopped just shy of her. Bruce’s fingers remained locked with Jamie’s. He wondered why the guard paused.

“Concentrate, everybody!” Bruce shouted. “Remember who you are.”

They continued to grip one another’s hands, terrified. Emily
whimpered. Another guard leaped over the reception desk and plunged after her. Bruce gasped, wanting to lash out and strike him, but he held firm. Their only hope was the focus of their own minds and hearts.

“He can’t touch you, Emily!” Bruce shouted. “Because you’re pure and full of compassion. He’s evil and that makes him weak against you!”

He hoped the sentiment gave her strength. More important, he hoped to high heaven it was true.

The guard bellowed, his lips mere inches from Emily’s face, and the others crowded in too. A squat guard with an Edward G. Robinson frown pounced as if he were going to break Forte’s neck. They snarled and slashed at them, though their flesh never actually touched a single quester.

Hedon seemed the most dangerous by far. He roared, sour breath tangling into Bruce’s hair, and stamped his foot so hard it smashed the solid marble floor.