Your Magic or Mine? (41 page)

“We’d better check Gloriana’s suite,” John said. “Did Housekeeping look in over there?”

The head of Housekeeping and the maid, who were waiting outside the suite, said that no one had been in the other suite yet. Standard procedure was to clean his first, then the rooms across the hall.

When the maid opened the door to Gloriana’s suite, the same sort of destruction greeted them. Baldwin walked in first and told the others to stay back while he and Fergus checked out the rooms. He was about to move into the bedroom when Fergus stopped him and pointed to the door. A thin thread stretched across the threshold.

The Swords ordered everyone back to Marcus’s rooms while they searched. Within minutes they returned. “Two booby traps,” John reported, “one behind the door and the other in the bathroom. They look to be smoke bombs. We defused them, and Fergus is taking them to the Swords’ training facilities in the sub-basements. It’s okay for you to come in, but be careful where you step.”

When Marcus entered her suite and took note of the viciousness of the destruction, cold dread seeped from the icy lump that started growing in his stomach the day before. The devastation was definitely worse here. The vandal had ground broken glass into the carpets, smashed the bathroom mirror, and ripped Gloriana’s clothes to shreds. Thank God she hadn’t been here.

“All right,” John said after a thorough perusal of the scene. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Livingstone, you and your people take care of these rooms. Move Forscher and Morgan to other quarters, ones we can keep a very close eye on.”

“We’ll replace their clothing also—the basics by tonight and anything else they need tomorrow,” the manager stated. “They’ll be ready for the debate. My apologies, Dr. Forscher. The HeatherRidge will take care of all expenses. I’m deeply sorry and embarrassed that you have suffered such an indignity and crime.”

Baldwin’s cell rang, and he answered it. After he hung up, he said, “That was Steve. The cameras show someone in a housekeeping uniform with a maid’s cart going into both rooms, Gloriana’s at a quarter to ten and Marcus’s thirty minutes later. The ‘maid’ kept her face hidden behind a pile of towels or cleaning equipment, but we’re checking other views on other floors and the elevators to see if we can find her.”

“Too bad I didn’t stay in my room this morning,” Marcus said.

“She simply wouldn’t have come in,” John answered. “She went into Gloriana’s room first, and I doubt you would have heard her. Doing such damage doesn’t make much noise. We’re fortunate she didn’t start a fire. That’s not all the news. Shortly after we came up here, a cabbie delivered a small overnight bag and a backpack with Dr. Morgan’s name on it. It contains her laptop and a change of clothing. There was an accompanying note from her saying to put it in her room and she expected to be in about three if Ed was looking for her.”

“That’s it?” Marcus asked. “No idea where she is?”

“No. The concierge asked the cabbie where he got it, and he said he’d picked up both luggage and lady at a residence close to Golden Gate Park. He dropped the lady off in Union Square and brought the bags up here as she instructed. He thought her getting out in Union Square was a spur-of-the-moment decision on her part because he had to change his route to go there. She looked and sounded fine to him. Seemed to be in good spirits and tipped him well.”

Marcus let out a whoosh of relief, and his anxiety lessened—a little.

The Swords and Ed trooped downstairs to see the video, leaving Marcus and Livingstone to make a list of his clothing and toiletry needs. Marcus managed to keep his mind on the task, but once he finished, all he could think about was Gloriana. There was no use his going out to search for her; she could be anywhere.

Damn it, where was she?

He paced and fidgeted around the Sword offices until John and Fergus took him aside. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” John asked. “Trust me, we have things under control. A couple of Swords are out looking between here and Union Square, but she’s probably shopping.”

“You see, here’s the thing,” Marcus answered. “We’ve recently discovered we’re soul mates.”

“Ah.” A huge grin spread over John’s face.

“Congratulations!” Fergus shook his hand and pounded him on the back.

Marcus looked around nervously. “Can we keep that to ourselves, please? We’re still getting used to the idea.”

“Sure. We don’t need more uproar, which there will certainly be if the two sides find out,” John said. “In the meantime, take it easy, will you? Take your laptop into the back office and see if you can get some work done, or read a book. Livingstone said he’ll be by before long to show you your new rooms. When Gloriana comes in, we’ll bring her right to you.”

What choice did he have except to comply? He went into the back office where there were several desks, sat at one, booted up his computer, and pretended to be working. Mostly he played mindless computer games.

Where was that woman?

On a beautiful summer day, Gloriana looked out at the Golden Gate Bridge from the cable car Hyde Street turnaround at Fisherman’s Wharf. The orange bridge stretched to her left and a tall-masted ship rested at anchor to her right. A few fat seagulls waded in the shallows of the bay, but didn’t bother her. The savvy birds knew she had no food for them. It was blessedly cool, a wonderful contrast to the heat of Texas. She breathed in the slightly salty air and, for the first time in days, felt alive.

Until she’d finally relaxed with some old friends last night, she hadn’t realized how tired she was—tired of the debates, tired of running at home to get everything done, tired of being cooped up in the various Heather-Ridges. She hadn’t seen one bit of the cities she’d been in except on the rides to and from the airports.

She was so tired of the entire soul-mate situation. Neither Judith nor Stefan had called. Oh, they may have sent her an e-mail. She’d stopped looking at her messages—too many contentious people and the increasing number of nasty comments were getting very old. There was nothing she could do about Walcott or his cohorts. She’d let the Swords handle the mess.

So, she’d stolen some time for herself, first with her friends and by herself before she had to be back at the HeatherRidge. She’d purposefully never turned on her cell phone except to check her messages, and she’d ignored the ones from Marcus. If he had something to tell her, he’d have to tell her to her face. No playing phone tag, no games. Her phone was off, and the freedom that came from being unconnected was surprisingly exhilarating. She was her own boss, unfettered by the tyrant of technology.

She probably ought to tell someone where she was, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. She turned around in a circle—only a few people were in sight, and they were all walking away from her. How anyone could be following her, she couldn’t imagine. They would have been pretty obvious.

After poking around the fancy stores on Union Square, she’d walked with all the tourists over to the cable car, bought a day pass, and taken the Powell & Hyde line up to the top of Russian Hill. From there she’d walked down the stairs on twisty Lombard Street and around to the Cannery and Ghirardelli Square. The shops, however, held nothing to attract her attention, and she took a few minutes here by the bay to relax.

Time to get moving again. She found the end of the Powell & Mason cable car line and rode it to Chinatown.

She wandered down Grant Avenue, but nothing caught her eye in the souvenir and jewelry shop windows. Thirsty, she stopped for an iced mocha in a Starbucks outside the Chinatown gate and put her feet up for a few minutes. Wow, was she glad she’d worn her running shoes. The blocks were long and some very steep. She finished her drink and looked at her watch.

Oops, it was already past three. On the other hand, she was in no hurry. Ed and John would probably be at the HeatherRidge already, but she didn’t really want to eat dinner with them—or talk about the debates. She told herself she didn’t care where Marcus was. No, she’d go back, have a nice shower and a nice dinner, and go to bed.

She left the coffee shop and started back for the cable car on Powell. It was really the simplest way back up the hill—and the most fun. She was waiting for the light when she spied a blond male head across the way. Was that? No, certainly not. The man turned around. It wasn’t Marcus.

The sight put her soul mate right back into her head. What was she going to do about him? Being passive and simply waiting grated on her nerves and her disposition. What choice, however, did she have?

When she reached Powell Street, no cable car was in sight. Thinking about Marcus was making her blood churn, and she started walking north along the line. She didn’t like waiting for man or machine.

Damn the man for being so stubborn.

What if, despite his parents, and the SMI, and her parents, and her arguments, he held fast to his refusal to be anyone’s soul mate? In that case, no one else would ever be hers.

She still wanted a family. Would he consent to giving her a sperm donation? That way she could be artificially inseminated. He wouldn’t have to deal with them—he could even pretend they didn’t exist.

No, that probably wouldn’t work, either. Her parents might go along with the idea, but his would be mad as hell at him and would demand to have a place in the lives of their grandchildren. Besides, every time she looked at the kids, she’d think of their father.

All the anger and frustration boiling inside her was making her walk faster. She had already reached California Street. Nob Hill loomed above her. She looked down the California cable car line. No car coming there, either; she had no choice except to climb the steep incline, and she started up the Fairmont Hotel side of the street. Halfway up, she was breathing hard. Damn, she needed to do more climbing or step aerobics or running in the hills. Her flatland legs weren’t used to such mountains.

To distract herself from the effort, she concentrated on her major problem. What were her conclusions for her contingency plans? No, rephrase that. What was her one, singular, solitary conclusion—her only course of action, or should it be inaction?

She had to wait and trust in the process. Marcus would have to come to her. In the meantime, she hoped the imperative was plaguing the devil out of him. In sympathy, her center hummed.

After stopping at the top of the hill to catch her breath, she walked slowly past the reddish-brown Pacific Union Club and across Sacramento and into the HeatherRidge. She had gotten no farther than ten feet inside the lobby when John Baldwin and a huge man with a white beard swept her up.

“Come with us,” John said, practically dragging her into a hallway behind a door marked
Staff Only
.

They marched down a corridor and into a set of offices.

“What’s going on?” she asked as alarm and excitement brought an adrenaline rush. “What’s the matter? Who’s he?” She pointed to the bearded man.

“Somebody wants to talk to you,” John answered, “and this is Fergus Whipple, one of our Swords.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Fergus said and grinned from ear to ear.

“Likewise. But…”

Before she could say another word, John opened a door and pulled her through it. “Here she is,” he said.

“Glori!”

And Marcus had her in his arms so tightly she could hardly breathe.

“Oh, God, I was damned worried when I didn’t know where you were,” he murmured.

Caught up against his body in the tight band of his arms, she tried to make sense of what was happening. Her heartbeat began to calm down when no immediate threat appeared, and then their magic centers aligned and began to hum. Oh, it felt so good. She almost relaxed while her body began to heat.

When she realized the Swords were still in the room, however, she squirmed to put some distance between them. The last thing she wanted to do before them was lose control to the imperative. But she couldn’t budge him, even when she wiggled and muttered in his ear, “Marcus, let go.”

Finally, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her to arm’s length, scowled, and shook her gently. “Why didn’t you turn on your cell phone, woman? Do you care what you’ve put me through?”

Gloriana stared at him. What she’d put
him
through? Had he gone insane?

Realizing he was slightly crazed and probably overreacting, Marcus stopped shaking her and pulled her close again. It was impossibly difficult to let her go. Gloriana remained still only a few seconds before wriggling. She was right to do so. His center was vibrating, and his blood beginning to heat … and he knew where that would end up if he didn’t separate them. Calling on every ounce of his ragged control, he stepped back and took a deep breath. “You don’t know what happened.”

“No, evidently I don’t.” She twisted to look over her shoulder at John and Fergus, who were watching with big grins. “All right,” she said, aiming her eyes back at him, “somebody tell me.”

“Let’s sit down,” Fergus said.

Pulling chairs from behind the desks, they all took seats, Gloriana’s several feet from his.

Marcus dragged his chair next to hers. She looked at him with a wary expression, but he didn’t care. He had to be close to her.

“Have you seen the threatening e-mails that came in on Thursday and today?” John asked.

“No, I stopped looking at them,” she replied with a shrug. “I figured you all were getting them, too.”

“There have been a couple saying a ‘warning’ would be waiting at the next debate,” John continued. “We scoured the building and found nothing of a suspicious nature. However, this morning, while Marcus was down here with us and you were out, someone trashed both your suites.”

“Oh, my God.” She put her hand on her chest and sat up straight, clearly shocked. “What’d they do? Did anyone get hurt? What about my clothes?”

“No one was hurt. The vandal ripped up the upholstery and sheets, poured a mix of shampoo, hand lotion, and cleaning products over your clothes after slashing some into pieces, and spray-painted ‘Force for True Magic’ on the walls. The worst part is that she left behind two booby traps—smoke bombs. If you’d set them off, you could have been badly burned.” John went on to explain about the fake maid and their failure to discover who she was.