The Enchantment (3 page)

A dinner party wouldn't have helped her father any more than it would help this man. God knew Digby wouldn't be getting a dime from the men in her parlor. Businessmen didn't pay for dreams. They paid for results. It was a reality her father had never learned.

Money. Cold hard cash. That's what made dreams come true. Dreaming about anything but money, and the security it created, was just plain stupid. That was one lesson she'd learned the hard way.

It was so close, Larence thought excitedly. So close to coming true. The dream he'd cherished for almost half his life was inches away from being his.

He flipped the second-to-the-last sheet of paper over the easel's top. The final drawing filled his vision and sucked him into another world. He stared at it, transfixed. His monologue dwindled to a mumble and then trailed off altogether.

There it was, for all to see: the secret, rock-faced entrance to the legendary city of Cibola. A shiver of anticipation coursed through his body. His heart pounded with excitement. This was it. The moment he'd waited half his life for.

Like a sputtering engine, he found his voice again. The final, memorized sentence of his speech tumbled from his mouth. "... And with your generous support, I intend to use this remarkable diary to retrace Esteban's footsteps. Hopefully he will lead me to the legendary Lost City of Cibola."

It took Larence's mind a moment to wend its way back to the present. As always, the past was so vivid in his thoughts that when he spoke of it, he lived it. Slowly THE ENCHANTMENT

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he came back to earth, and realized that it was over. He'd finished.

His breath escaped in a long, trembling sigh of triumph. He'd done it. With nothing more than a few sheets of paper, and his own magical words, he'd recreated the wondrous, legendary Lost City of Cibola. A triumphant grin spread across his face as he turned to look at his audience.

What he saw made his heart stop. Not one of them was awake. Not even Michael. The parlor looked like one of those wild West saloons he'd read about, with men sprawled in chairs and slumped over tables. Snores rumbled through the room. Why hadn't he noticed the sound before?

Larence felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. His grin wobbled, flattened, vanished. He'd blown it.

Suddenly his feet felt unsteady. He sank onto the settee and slumped forward, burying his face in his hands.

He'd spent fifteen years of his life gathering data and fueling his dream, and turning the impossible into reality. And now . . . now when he'd finally been given the opportunity to make it all come true, he'd failed.

Why? he thought desperately. Why was he so unable to communicate with people? God, he tried so hard. . . .

Emma wakened slowly. Something was different. Raising a hand to massage the aching crick in her neck, she coaxed her heavy eyelids open. Then she noticed it: silence. The professor had finished!

She snapped her head up and started clapping, slowly at first as her groggy mind cleared, and then louder. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Michael stagger to his feet. He mouthed a single word: disaster.

She shook her head in disagreement, then hurried to

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Digby's side. "Stand up," she hissed just loud enough for him to hear. Before he had time to answer, she clapped again for attention. "Ah, gentlemen ..." "They're asleep," Larence mumbled. "Two hours ago they were asleep," Emma commented sharply. "Now they're in comas." She shot him an assessing, contemptuous glance. "I take it your specialty is research?"

He looked up at her through dull green eyes. "Yes. How did you know?"

"A wild guess. Now, stand up." Larence eased himself to a stand as, one by one, the men around him roused themselves.

"Gentlemen," Emma said as the last guest wakened, ' 'I know each of you would like to talk to Dr.

Digby, but I'm afraid I must commandeer him for a moment." A sigh of relief swept the audience. Emma pretended not to notice. "So, please, have another drink, and make yourselves comfortable."

She plucked up her skirts an unfashionable but practical two inches. "Follow me," she said, already moving.

"But . . . but some of the men are asking for their coats."

Emma didn't turn around. "Rats have always known when to leave a sinking ship."

She marched briskly toward the door, her chin held high so that none of the guests would suspect her inner turmoil. Behind her, she could hear Digby's shuffling, awkward footsteps. Damn him, she thought again. He'd ruined everything. If he'd had half a brain, she could have convinced the men to invest. But Digby had given her nothing—nothing—to work with, and now she had to turn disaster into success.

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Larence hurried to keep up with her grueling pace. Every time his left foot hit the hard wooden floor, hot shards of pain shot to his knee. He forced himself to ignore it. Instinctively he knew she was testing him.

For some strange reason, she wanted him to fail, wanted him to give her a reason to slam the door in his face again. He gritted his teeth and plodded along behind her, one painful step at a time.

She pushed through a half-open door and disappeared. Larence picked up his awkward pace and followed her into a small, dimly lighted room. It took his eyes a moment to adjust.

She'd led him to a library of some sort. Row upon row of new-looking leather-bound volumes covered the wall beside him in muted shades of russet, brown, gold, and green. The smell of crisp new paper and good-quality leather perfumed the heavy, cloying air of a room whose windows were never opened.

Slowly the rest of the room came into focus. A forest green tapestried paper blanketed the upper portion of the remaining three walls, its primordially lush color disappearing at waist level into stark mahogany wainscoting. In the exact center of the room, facing no windows, was a huge mahogany desk, its mirror-bright surface dotted with carefully aligned piles of important-looking papers. A soft golden glow crept through the lamp's scrolled Japanese paper dome and cast pale fingers on the reddish wood.

Emmaline swept into the massive wooden chair behind the desk, and immediately turned her attention to the stack of papers nearest her hand.

Again Larence was struck by her beauty. In the lamp's light, she seemed to glow like a golden goddess.

The claret-hued velvet of her gown made her skin seem al-

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most ethereally pale. Flyaway strands of white-blonde hair curled across her brow and along her temple, softening the austere way she'd pulled it back from her face. If she'd smile, even once, she'd be the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

' 'Sit," she commanded in the distracted tone of one used to being obeyed without question.

Larence couldn't help himself. In the face of her imperious attitude, he was seized by an irrepressible urge to needle her. "Where?"

She looked up sharply. "I forgot you were a college professor. Perhaps you'd feel more comfortable if I offered a multiple-choice answer."

He laughed. "I take it you feel a certain . . . disdain for higher education." If he thought she'd smile, he was wrong. "Book-based education—I hesitate to use the term 'higher'—is something which I hold in supreme indifference."

"Indifference? But these glorious books—"

"Are decorations. I don't read, Dr. Digby." At his

gasp, she smiled grimly. "Oh, I can, but I choose not

to. You know the old saying, 'Those who can, do; those

who can't, teach.' I do." "But books invite us to other worlds, fuel our dreams, fill our senses. You miss so much by turning your back

on them."

"The last thing I need is a bunch of useless dreams." She gave him a chillingly cold look and then eased the top desk drawer open. "Now, Dr. Digby, fascinating as this discussion is, I suggest we focus instead on the business at hand. As you may—or may not—have noticed, I have a houseful of guests to which I must attend. So shall we get on with it?"

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He moved toward the chair facing her desk. On his second step, pain jolted into his ankle and shin. His leg buckled, and he stumbled forward, collapsing into the overstuffed velvet chair with a sigh.

He steeled himself for her show of concern, false though it would be. Oh, dear, may I help you? was a sentence he'd heard all his life from women—usually just before they left with another man.

She said nothing. Slowly he relaxed. One by one his fingers released their death grip on the chair's wooden arm, and his breathing normalized. When he finally allowed himself to look up, he found her looking directly at him. There was an intensity about her gaze that made him feel uncomfortable—as though she held his limp against him, or, more accurately, as though she saw it as a moral failing rather than a physical one. "Are you all right?" she asked in a clipped, matter-of-fact voice.

"Fine."

She looked about to say something. He leaned forward, eager to hear what a woman like her would say about someone else's pain.

"Good. Then let's get on with it."

He frowned, easing back into the chair. "With what?"

"What else?" she responded sharply. "What do people like you always want from people like me?

Money."

Larence's heart stopped dead, then kicked into a gallop. "Money?" he whispered. It was something he hadn't considered, not even for an instant. That she would help him. "You mean you're considering funding my expedition?"

"Someone at this party has to, and after your . . . detailed presentation, no one else is willing."

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"Or awake."

Her lips didn't so much as twitch upward. "Yes. So, as much as I abhor parting with money, I must. I owe a debt to Michael—and to Columbia, for that matter. He's counting on me."

Larence leaned forward. "As am I, Miss Hatter. Myself and all the world."

A quick rolling of her eyes relayed her opinion of that. "How much do you need?"

"Ten thousand dollars."

She flinched. "And for that amount, you'll get what?"

He was momentarily taken aback. "Get?"

"What is it you're looking for? Gold, silver, jewels, what?"

Cibola as he'd always imagined it filled his mind. He saw the buildings and streets and artwork of a civilization long gone. It was a sight he'd dreamed of seeing for half his life. Even as a boy, he'd known somehow that it was his destiny to find the lost city; his recompense from God for being a cripple.

Finding Cibola would make him, for one bright and shining moment, whole.

But what kind of answer was that? He studied Em-maline's flawlessly beautiful, emotionless face, searched her exquisite, ice-cold eyes. She'd never understand an answer like that.

So he gave the second-best answer. The one he'd given to hundreds of his students, the one everyone in the world understood and accepted. "Knowledge."

She snorted. "You must be joking."

"Joking? Why would I—"

"Will there be gold in the city?"

He frowned. "I believe so, but that's unimportant compared to—"

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"Silver?"

"Almost certainly, but again—" "Treasures?"

"Undoubtably, but Miss Hatter—" "Fine." She pulled a leather-bound ledger from the top drawer, and opened it slowly. "Eight thousand dollars, was it?" "Ten."

She grimaced. "Oh, yes." Carefully extracting her scrolled silver black pen from its holder, she wrote out the check. Long, tense moments passed as the ink dried. With a quickly suppressed shudder, she handed him the check. Larence's fingers shook as he took the piece of paper from her. She had just handed him the key to unlock his greatest dreams. Words of gratitude flooded his mind and clogged in his throat. All he could do was stare at her in awe.

She flipped open a small sterling silver box and took out a crisp, white card. "Here's my calling card.

Send me a telegram when you find the city. I'll take half." Confused, he looked down at the card in his hand, then across the desk at her. "Half?" "Of what you find in Ciburra." Larence's blood froze. "I don't understand. ..." She studied him with unconcealed disgust. It was obvious she considered him only slightly smarter than the stuffed owl perched in the library's corner. "And just what is it you don't understand?"

"About you wanting half of what I find. The treasures of Cibola belong to the world, not any one person.

They need to be showcased in museums—"

"That's what you'll do with your half. My half, I'll sell to the highest bidder."

"Sell!" He could hear the horror in his voice, feel it 26

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violating his soul. He felt the check slip out of his fingers, taking his dream with it.

"Yes, Dr. Digby, sell. Why would I make an investment of this size with no hope of turning a profit? I'm a businessperson, not a philanthropist." "But surely you can't mean to profit on history?" "Look, Dr. Digby, this discussion is becoming tiresome. Take my money, or don't take it, it's up to you. But if you take it, there's a price. I get half of whatever you find."

He squeezed his eyes shut. The image of treasures, thousands of years old, being hacked up and separated like so many parts of a chicken filled his mind. His stomach wrenched at the thought.

She clicked her jeweled gold pocket watch open. "Now, Dr. Digby."

"Without your money, I'll never find the city," he mumbled.

"Dreams have a price, Doctor. That's a lesson I have learned myself. Now, what's your decision?"

He tried to analyze the situation quickly. What other option did he have? What other choice? Without her money, he was back to the beginning—and it had taken him fifteen years to get this far. The thought of starting over made him feel queasy. Desperate.

She leaned forward. The muffled thump of her elbows hitting the hardwood caused him to jump slightly.

Her gaze narrowed, scrutinized him. Amusement flickered through her eyes and then was gone, as if she was pleased by his dilemma. "Well, Digby?" Her words hung heavily in the silent, breath-laden air, and this time there was no mistaking her smile. "What will you do?"