Gift of Fire (8 page)

“You haven’t met Preston yet. When you do you’ll see that he’s right nearly all the time.” Elyssa did not seem the least bit disturbed by Jones’s disbelief. “Do come in. Everyone else is already here. Maggie’s got your room ready.”

Verity realized that she was beginning to have a few problems with Elyssa Warwick. There was something about the way the other woman watched Jonas that was starting to bother her. Verity had the distinct impression that Elyssa hadn’t believed Jonas when he’d told her he had no psychic ability. In any event, there was no doubt that the woman found Jonas fascinating.

“This is Maggie Frampton.” Elyssa turned to introduce a stout woman with a riot of frazzled gray curls, standing in the hall behind her. “We’re all totally dependent on her. She’s the only one who knows how to keep the electricity and plumbing working in this wing. Doug’s buyers are going to have to spend a fortune bringing the villa up to date. Maggie, would you please show Verity and Jonas to their room upstairs?” Elyssa glanced at Jonas again. “When you’ve had a chance to freshen up, please join us downstairs. I want to introduce you to my friends before dinner.”

Jonas nodded, eyeing the stone staircase in front of him. He picked up his duffel bag and Verity’s small suitcase. Then he gave Maggie Frampton one of his easy grins. “Lead the way, Miss Frampton.”

The older woman nodded once and turned toward the stairs. Maggie had a grandmotherly figure, Verity thought, the sort of shape people used to label “buxom.” Her faded blue eyes held a shrewd, knowing expression. She was wearing a flower-spattered housedress that appeared to date from the 1950s, and a thin metal chain around her neck disappeared beneath the collar.

“Right this way.” Maggie moved heavily up the wide staircase. “Got a nice room for you, it overlooks the garden. Course, that ain’t no big deal. Every room in the whole damn place overlooks the garden. Digby always said those old Renaissance types couldn’t trust anyone but family and that’s why they built their houses the way they did. Lots of stone walls on the outside to keep the neighbors from breaking in, and plenty of room inside to enjoy the gardens and privacy. But I expect a few of ‘em learned you can’t always trust family, either.”

Jonas smiled. “A few of them sure as hell did learn that, Maggie. Family can be treacherous.”

Maggie paused, one hand on the stone banister. She cocked a brow as she glanced back over her plump shoulder. “Is it true what Little Miss Sunshine down there says? You some kinda weirdo psychic?”

“No, ma’am,” Jonas said blandly. “I am definitely not some kinda weirdo psychic.”

“Good. We got enough nuts in this place right now as it is, don’t need another one running around. Taking orders from Little Miss Sunshine is bad enough. Don’t know what Digby woulda thought of all this, just don’t know.”

“Little Miss Sunshine?” Verity repeated curiously.

“The Warwick girl. I call her Little Miss Sunshine ‘cause she’s always smiling and saying how the whole universe is workin’ together just to make her life perfect. That kind of cheerfulness just ain’t natural, if you ask me. Course, I don’t hold much with this hocus-pocus malarkey or the kind of folks who get involved with it. Ain’t nothing new about it anyway. We had the same type of kook around when I was a kid, but at least most of ‘em had the decency to work in a circus or at the county fair.”

“I’m with you, Maggie,” Jonas said. “What did Digby Hazelhurst think about all this psychic stuff?”

Maggie resumed climbing the staircase. “Old Digby was just fine up until about two years before he died. Then he started turnin’ a mite weird, I’ll grant you that much. But the man was in his eighties. Had a right to be a bit touched, I say. Besides, it didn’t affect us one way or the other.”

“Us?” Verity asked quickly.

“Him and me,” Maggie explained with a wistful chuckle. “Digby and me used to have some good times together. We spent more years than I want to count stuck here on this island with only each other for company, and we weren’t neither one of us bored. I’ll tell you, when it came to certain types of activity, that old man had the energy of a high school senior in the backseat of a car. Had us some rare old times down in the torture chamber. My, my, yes, we did.” Maggie reached the top of the staircase and trudged down a dim corridor.

Verity shot a highly amused glance at Jonas, who leered back comically.

Maggie opened the heavy wooden door of a room halfway down the corridor, revealing a large suite with huge, arched windows. A wide, canopied bed occupied the center of the room. The cold stone walls were hung with a faded tapestry and a couple of grime-encrusted paintings. The stone floor was bare.

“This do for ya?” Maggie asked expectantly. “ ‘Fraid it’s the best I’ve got to offer. Used to have a lot of nice furniture in most of the rooms in this wing, but Digby had to sell the stuff off to keep going. Bathroom’s off to the right there. At least old Digby had the sense to put in plumbing when he inherited the villa. I wouldn’t have stayed with him all those years if I’d had to use a chamber pot, I can tell you.”

“This is fine,” Verity said. The end of her cane rang loudly on the stone floor as she walked to one of the windows. She leaned out, expecting a view of lush gardens.

What she saw was a large courtyard overgrown with weeds. There was a fountain in the center, but no water poured from the jug held by the naked nymph carved on top of the circular monstrosity. Dead pine needles and dirt littered the empty pool.

“See you folks later. Holler if you need anything,” Maggie said, closing the door behind her.

Verity turned from the window to watch Jonas prowl the room. “Everything okay?” she asked softly, although she was almost certain it was. She would know if any strong force in the room was affecting him.

“Yeah.” Jonas paused beside the threadbare tapestry and studied it without touching it. It was just barely possible to make out a scene of Renaissance maidens cavorting in a leafy bower. “Everything’s fine. The bed’s new, incidentally.”

Verity glanced at the big bed. “Just as well. I wasn’t looking forward to sleeping in a four-hundred-year-old bed.”

“The tapestry’s sixteenth-century, though. Can you believe it? It’s just been hanging here, decaying all these years.” Jonas shook his head and wandered over to one of the ornately framed pictures. “Same with the paintings.”

Verity caught her breath. “They’re originals?”

He nodded. “This one is. It would be interesting to see what’s under all that grime. I have a hunch that the artist was just as second-rate as the architect who designed the villa.”

Verity leaned back against the wide window ledge, folded her arms, and eyed Jonas closely. “You’re not going to have any trouble sleeping here?”

“No. I’m fine, Verity. Everything’s under control. I can sense a few faint vibrations, but unless I deliberately open up to them, they won’t bother me. What a relief.”

“That’s one of the reasons you took this job, isn’t it?” Verity asked suddenly. “You wanted to see how much control you’ve really gained over the past few months.”

Jonas glanced at her as he walked across the room to open his duffel bag. “I’m a lot stronger now, Verity. I’m in control. You don’t know how good it feels. And I owe it all to you. Just being around you seems to have strengthened my power to keep from being swept into that time tunnel. I couldn’t have slept inside a genuine Renaissance villa before I met you. The vibrations locked in the walls alone would have overwhelmed me. Christ, it feels good to be able to manage this damn talent of mine.”

“You’re determined not to admit to Little Miss Sunshine and her pals that you’re a genuine grade-A psychic?”

“I am not a psychic,” Jonas stated forcefully. “I have a talent for psychometry, but I’m not clairvoyant. I don’t have visions. I don’t see the future or predict disasters. The only thing I can do is pick up certain scenes from the past.”

“Scenes of violence.”

“A very limited talent,” Jonas pointed out dryly. “I’m sure as hell no psychic. And I would appreciate it if you would refrain from implying otherwise to Elyssa and her friends.”

Verity grinned. “I don’t know, Jonas. There might be more money in this consulting business if we let people know that you have a genuine talent.”

“Not a chance. Normal, rational people wouldn’t believe in my abilities and they damn well wouldn’t want to pay for my services. Only eccentric weirdos would be willing to pay the consulting fees of someone claiming to have a psychic talent. Doug Warwick hired me as a Renaissance scholar, not a New Age nut.”

“And instead he’s getting both,” Verity murmured happily. Jonas scowled. “There’s nothing New Age about me or my talent.”

“I know,” Verity agreed readily. Her momentary amusement faded. “There are a lot of things about you that aren’t even twentieth-century. Sometimes I think you would have done very well back in the Renaissance, Jonas.”

He moved across the room with that peculiar, gliding grace that came so naturally to him, and tipped up her chin with one hard finger. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

“They had ways of handling troublesome females back then.”

“Is that right?” She grinned. “You’ll have to demonstrate sometime. Meanwhile, we’d better get dressed for dinner.” She moved away from him. “I hope you packed that nice sweater I gave you for Christmas.”

“You know it’s packed. You put it in my bag yourself.”

“So I did.”

“Very wifely of you to remember my sweater,” he observed softly.

Verity flinched and began to unpack busily. “Packing your sweater wasn’t a wifely act. It was the act of a shrewd business manager who wants you properly dressed for the client.”

“I see.” He watched her closely for a long moment, then silently started to undress.

Elyssa and Doug were waiting for them downstairs in a grand salon that ran most of the length of the old villa’s south wing. Most of the room was in shadow, the old furniture covered in sheets. Only a small section at the far end of the salon, near the deep fireplace, had been made reasonably comfortable. Several people were seated on the worn furniture, chatting quietly. A fire blazed on the old hearth.

“Come in, we’ve been waiting for you. I want you to meet everyone.” Elyssa swept forward, her jewelry jangling and her long white skirt swirling. She took Jonas’s arm and guided him toward the small group.

Verity made a face behind her lover’s back and limped bravely forward on her own. A young, thin, bearded man wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses rose and came toward her. He had very dark, serious eyes.

“Hello,” he said in a low voice as he took her arm. “I’m Oliver Crump. Let me give you a hand.”

“Thank you.” Verity beamed at him, aware that Jonas had glanced back just in time to catch her dazzling smile. His disapproving look encouraged her to turn up the smile a few more watts. He deserved it for letting himself be swept off by Elyssa. “Verity Ames. I’m Jonas’s business manager.”

“Oliver is a healer,” Elyssa explained brightly. “Aren’t you, Oliver?”

“I work a little with herbs and crystals, that’s about all,” Oliver Crump said quietly. His brows came together in a fierce line as he looked down at Verity’s injured foot. “What did you do to your ankle?”

“Slipped on an icy deck.”

“How many days ago?”

“A couple.” She looked down. “The swelling has started to go down but it’s still sore.”

Crump helped her into a heavy wooden chair with a threadbare green velvet cushion. The thick arms and legs of the chair were ornately carved. Verity leaned back experimentally, wondering how old it was. Late nineteenth century, she guessed—certainly not Renaissance.

“Let me introduce the people with whom I share the paths to enlightenment,” Elyssa said. She stood gripping Jonas’s arm as she waved at the small circle of faces. “Oliver Crump, as I just mentioned, is a psychic healer. And that’s Preston Yarwood over there by the liquor cabinet. Preston is the leader of our little group. He’s a marvelous teacher, so inspirational. He’s been interested in psychic studies for years, long before it became so popular. He studied with Ilhela Yonanda, you know.”

“Is that right?” Verity said, wondering who Ilhela Yonanda was.

“How do you do?” Yarwood spoke from the dark corner near the fireplace, where he was pouring drinks. “Understand your plane was a little late.” He sounded vaguely satisfied about that.

When Yarwood stepped forward to nod at Verity and shake Jonas’s hand, the firelight gleamed on the scalp showing through his thinning hair. He appeared to be in his midforties, a short, dynamic-looking man with a rather florid face and a slight paunch. His gaze was intelligent and observant. He had the serene, blissful smile Verity was coming to think of as the New Age look.

Yarwood wore a tastefully expensive plum-colored sweater. His well-cut wool trousers had pleats, and Verity was willing to bet that his loafers were Italian. There was a heavy gold watch on his wrist, the face of which was solid black. Verity was impressed. Running psychic-development seminars was obviously lucrative, as Doug had remarked.

“What can I get you, Verity?” Yarwood asked politely.

“Fruit juice would be fine.”

“I had a feeling you would drink juice,” Preston murmured softly, as if another prediction had just been verified. “And you, Jonas?”

“Scotch if you’ve got it.” Jonas took the seat next to Elyssa.

“And this,” Elyssa went on smoothly, indicating another young man slouched in a corner of the sofa, “is Slade Spencer. Slade is a new member of our circle, although he’s been studying various paths on his own for years, haven’t you, Slade?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Always on the road to enlightenment.” Slade Spencer concentrated for a moment on packing a fragrant-smelling pipe. His hands appeared to tremble slightly.

The small task accomplished, he stretched out his long, jean-covered legs. Slade seemed to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but Verity couldn’t tell for sure.

He ignored Jonas and smiled slowly at Verity as he reached for a glass on the table beside him. Spencer’s face had a pinched, ascetic look, and his eyes were feverishly bright beneath his dark brows. He was so thin that he appeared almost gaunt. There was a sense of nervous energy about the man, as if some part of him was always in motion or, Verity realized with sudden intuition, always struggling to maintain control.