Ark of Fire (14 page)

“That c-cop would have killed—If you hadn’t—We would be—” She burrowed her head into his shoulder, fear causing her thoughts to incoherently smash together.

Caedmon wrapped his arms around her. “
Ssshh.
It’s all right. We’re out of danger,” he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek.

It took a good half minute before her breathing returned to something approximating normal. Self-conscious of the fact that she’d thrown herself at him, Edie pulled free from Caedmon’s embrace.

“Better?” he solicitously inquired. Other than the fact that his eyes had turned an iridescent shade of cobalt blue, he showed no outward sign of exertion.

Doing a good imitation of a bobble-head doll, she warily nodded. Warily because she could hear the blare of sirens in the near distance. A police net was being thrown around the National Gallery of Art. If the net was extended, they might yet be ensnared.

She glanced at her watch. Unbelievably, no more than fifteen minutes had passed since the three shots had been fired in the museum concourse. The expanse of lapsed time seemed both longer and shorter, as though time had sped up and slowed down all at once.

“I don’t know about you, but I feel like I just got sucked into a killer cyclone, with houses, cows, and farm fences spinning all around me.”

“I feel much the same.” One side of his mouth quirked upward. “Certainly, this was not how I envisioned spending my afternoon.”

“I hear you.” Still embarrassed by her earlier show of weakness, she wiped several wet flakes from her eyelashes. The snow had slowed to a desultory smatter, its wispy flakes blowing on a cold westerly wind.

From where they stood, the National Archives kitty-corner to them, they had an excellent view in either direction of Constitution Avenue. Spread along the famous thoroughfare were familiar citadels of sanity—hot dog vendors, concession stands, T-shirt-packed kiosks. Tiny punctuation marks haphazardly placed between ponderous block-style buildings.

Deciding to take charge, Edie turned to the right, intending to backtrack to her parked vehicle.

She’d taken no more than a step when Caedmon grabbed her by the elbow, preventing her from taking that all-important second step.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“We discussed this already. I’m going to the Jeep. Are you in or are you out?”

“Though there are advantages to having a vehicle at our disposal, there are certain disadvantages that must be considered.”

Desperate to get back to the Jeep, that being the quickest means of escaping the madness, she straightened her shoulders. No easy feat given that she was bundled in a leather jacket and an oversized trench coat. “On the count of three: rock, paper, scissors.”

His copper-colored brows drew together in the middle. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. Since there’s just the two of us, we can’t put it to a vote. So, instead, we’ll use rock, paper, scissors to decide. You guys do that in England, don’t you?”

“I am familiar with the hand game. In fact, it was invented in the mid-eighteenth century by the Comte de Rochambeau as a means to settle—”

Edie held up a hand, stopping him in mid-discourse.

“More information than I need to know.” Sick and tired of being the follower rather than the leader, she met his gaze head-on. “On three.”

In unison, they each moved a balled right fist through the air.

A line straight out of a Victorian novel, Caedmon moodily thought as he pulled back the drawn hotel curtain. Except it wasn’t a heath; it was an asphalt car park bounded by eight-foot-high brick walls and a twelve-story office building directly opposite.

“My, my, what a posh life we lead,” he muttered, releasing the rubber-backed curtain and stepping away from the window. Since paper beat rock, they’d left Washington via the subway, checking into a Holiday Inn across the river in Arlington, Virginia. That was two hours ago and he was still trying to muddle his way through the calamitous chain of events that had landed him in this monochromatic hotel room with its uninspiring view.

He glanced at his companion. Edie Miller was coiled in a ball on one of the double beds, her mouth slack, her eyes unfocused. His gaze lingered a few impolite moments; Caedmon thought she looked like a dahlia curled in the frost.

In dire need of a refreshing punch, he strolled over to the serving counter, the room equipped with a coffeepot, a microwave oven, and a diminutive refrigerator. He uncapped a green bottle, having purchased Tanqueray and tonic at the wine and spirits shop down the street.

“What are you doing?” A drowsy expression on her face, Edie lifted her head from the pillow.

“I thought I’d mix myself a G&T.”

The dahlia instantly revived. “Make mine a double.”

Tumbler in hand, he walked over to the bed. As though mocking their dismal plight, the ice cubes merrily clinked against the sides of the glass. “Sorry, but the bartender is fresh out of limes,” he said, handing her the half-full tumbler.

Swinging her bare feet over the side of the bed, Edie unlimbered into a seated position, the tumbler clasped between her hands. “The AWOL lime is the least of our worries.”

“Indeed.”

Safe for the moment, Caedmon suspected that they were being hunted by a very determined adversary. And though the adversary had possession of the prize, the Stones of Fire having been stolen from the Hopkins Museum, their enemy was very keen to erase all traces of the theft.

The question had been plaguing him for the last two hours. Neither he nor Edie Miller could identify Jonathan Padgham’s killer. Nor did they know the current location of the bejeweled breastplate.

The manhunt implied that their foe did not want it made public that after several thousand years, the fabled Stones of Fire had been rediscovered. If true, it spoke to motive. Clearly, their foe had an ulterior purpose for stealing the breastplate, one that had nothing to do with plunder and profit.

Lost in thought, he belatedly realized he’d depleted his glass.

Needing to pace himself, Caedmon set his tumbler on the dresser. Drink was a tempting mistress, one that beckoned when he least expected it.

Bare feet still dangling over the side of bed, Edie looked at him, her expression forthrightly quizzical. At a loss for words, he returned the stare, enjoying the sight of long brown curls framing her face and shoulders in a riotous halo. Admiring a woman’s attributes was one of those simple pleasures that made a man momentarily forget stress and strife; he lowered his gaze. Like chapel hatpegs, her nipples were visibly prominent through the thin fabric of her silk pullover, Edie having removed her bulky jumper.

“Is something the matter?”

Caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, Caedmon quickly glanced at the telly on the other side of the room. His cheeks warm with color, he picked up his depleted G&T and made a big to-do of swirling the ice cubes clustered in the bottom of the glass.

Damn the woman for being so keenly observant. And so blunt in expressing those keen observations.

A sudden knock at the door sparked their joint attention.

“You don’t think . . . ?”

“No, I do not,” he replied, striding toward the locked door. A quick glance in the peephole confirmed what he already knew—the bellhop had arrived. A fortuitous interruption, the room awash with sexual tension.

Unlocking the door, he greeted the bellhop with a courteous nod as the young man handed him a paper bag emblazoned with the Holiday Inn logo. Before taking custody of the bag, Caedmon reached into his trouser pocket and removed several crumpled notes. The exchange made, he closed and locked the door.

Awkwardly smiling, still conscious of the earlier misstep, he hefted the white bag in the air. “I come bearing gifts, compliments of the establishment.”

Edie patted the mattress. “Sit yourself over here and let’s see what’s in the gift sack.”

Uncertain what to make of the invitation, he obediently complied. He knew that in the aftermath of a bum-clenching terror, each person acted differently. Some turned to alcohol, some turned to drugs, and a good many turned to sex. Caedmon preferred the first, had never been interested in the second, and wasn’t altogether certain how he felt about the latter. While he found Edie Miller attractive, he in no way wanted to take advantage of the situation.

He dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed. “One tube of toothpaste, two toothbrushes, hand lotion, shaving cream, razor, and, alas, only one comb. I’m afraid we’ll have to share.”

“I’m kinda getting used to sharing.”

Caedmon assumed the offhand remark had to do with the fact that the room had been paid with a soggy hundred-dollar bill that had come from her “spinach fund.” Concerned that their electronic transactions would be monitored, he had imposed a moratorium on all credit cards. Certain his room at the Churchill would also be monitored, he phoned his hotel and asked that they gather his belongings and put them in storage until such time as he could collect them. He’d also rung up his publicist, informing her that he was catching a late-night flight back to Paris. If asked, she would lead the inquisitors astray.

“Would you mind . . . ?” Edie toggled her glass back and forth, silently indicating that she needed a refill.

“Not in the least.” Getting up from the bed, Caedmon walked over to the makeshift bar on the other side of the room. Along the way he collected his own glass.

The silence unnerving, he busied himself with mixing the drinks. Rightly concerned that he might cross the invisible line, and equally worried his companion might be receptive, he went easy on the gin. With his font of small talk dried up, he wordlessly handed Edie a replenished glass.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his tumbler to hers.

“Actually, more like ‘Tears,’ don’t you think?” Her demeanor glum, Edie listlessly raised the tumbler to her lips.

“For myself, I prefer taking the ‘glass is half-full’ approach to all of this.”

“Don’t you care that your friend was murdered?”

“Of course, I care,” he retorted, not wanting to have this conversation with a woman he barely knew. “However, experience has taught me that the pain will only worsen if I permit myself to wallow in it.”

“Is that what I’m doing, wallowing?”

“No, you are not wallowing. Wallowing is when one for-goes the tonic water.” As well he knew. Hoping to lighten the mood, he said, “His pet name for me was ‘Mercuriophilus Anglicus.’”

“I assume that you’re referring to Dr. Padgham.”

“Padge could never recall anyone’s forename.”

“Probably because he was too caught up in his own self-importance.” No sooner did the words escape her lips than Edie slapped a hand over her mouth. “God, that was horrible! I’m sorry.” Then, laughing, “Did I mention that I’m a mean drunk? So, what does
Mercurio Blabbityblop
mean?”

“It means the English Mercury Lover.”

Still smiling, she lifted a brow. “Hmm, sounds kinky. Do I really want to know the story behind your strange moniker?”

Enjoying the silly game, he feigned indignation. “I can assure you that the story is not nearly as racy as you presume. It so happens that alchemical mercury suffuses all of creation. In ancient times, it was thought to be the secret essence of the All in all things.”

She drew a long face. “Oh, puh-
leeze
. There must be a class you guys take at Oxford where they teach you how to pontificate to us little people.”

“Are you always so frank?”

“Not always.” Her brown eyes mischievously twinkled. “I do have to sleep.”

Caedmon threw back his head and laughed, her offbeat humor growing on him.

“You know it’s crazy,” Edie said, suddenly serious. “All of this murder and mayhem happening because of an old breastplate.”

He walked over to the striped wingback chair situated on the far side of the bed and seated himself. “The Stones of Fire are much more than ‘an old breastplate.’”

“You said something about the breastplate being designed by God and manufactured by Moses.”

“So claim a good many biblical scholars.”

“Come on. You don’t really think that the breastplate was divinely inspired?”

“Actually, I think the breastplate has a far more”—he paused, not wanting to offend her religious beliefs—“
complex
pedigree than that contained within the pages of the Old Testament.”

“
Really?
What exactly do you mean by ‘complex’?” Drawing her legs onto the bed, she curled them beneath her bum. “I thought it was pretty straightforward: Moses would don the breastplate in order to control the—how did you phrase it?—the ‘cosmic power’ contained within the Ark of the Covenant.”