Midnight Jewels (18 page)

"What's wrong?" Mercy demanded, climbing hastily out of the car.

"I just want to see how rickety that fence really is." He strode toward the barrier and then, not touching it, turned to follow its path a short distance into the woods.

Mercy watched in curiosity. When he returned a few minutes later he looked satisfied.

"There are alarms every ten feet along the fence. It may look rustic and picturesque, but, believe me, you couldn't drive through that gate without someone knowing you were here. Better make the call to the house."

Mercy nodded and went to the call box that was half hidden by a sweep of fir. The moment she lifted the receiver it was answered at the other end.

"Yes, Miss Pennington. We've been expecting you. Stay right where you are. Someone will be down in a few minutes to guide you to the main house."

Mercy glanced at Croft. "I've brought a friend with me. I hope that's all right? I don't like to impose, but—"

"Just a minute, Miss Pennington."

There was silence on the line and then the voice returned. "Mr. Gladstone is quite happy to entertain your friend as well as yourself, Miss Pennington."

Mercy hung up the phone. "No one seems to mind that you're with me," she said slowly. "I didn't even detect much surprise. Whoever it was sounded very friendly and accommodating."

"Maybe I was expected," Croft murmured.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you occasionally exhibit an unpleasant tendency toward melodrama?"

A short time later Mercy got her first look at Erasmus Gladstone's Colorado mountain estate and decided Croft wasn't the only one with a touch of melodrama in his soul. Erasmus Gladstone appeared to have a few leanings in that direction, too.

Gladstone's large, two-story home was a dramatically modern design of sheer, sweeping white walls and smoked glass windows set inside a walled compound. At first glance it reminded Mercy rather uncomfortably of a futuristic mountain fortress. The compound walls were a couple of feet taller than an average man and made of stone. A wide, steel barred gate set into the walls appeared to be the only point of access.

The gate stood open in what Mercy supposed was meant to be a welcoming fashion and a muscular, handsome young man dressed casually in slacks and a short-sleeved cotton pullover stood waiting to greet Gladstone's guests.

Mercy wondered where Gladstone hired his help. The
man at the gate wasn't the first attractive male she had met so far. The young man who had met her and Croft in a four-wheel drive vehicle was equally eye-catching. Both of the men struck her as the type one expected to find flogging their portfolios to acting and modeling agencies. Except for the bulging muscles. Mercy wasn't so sure that much musculature would have been easy to clothe in designer garb, although it probably would have looked good on screen.

The bulging contours of shoulder, chest, arm and thigh that marked Gladstone's hired help made Mercy realize the lithe, sleek form Croft's strength took. The power in his body had a far more subtle, restrained and graceful emphasis. Gladstone's men would have looked good lifting weights at a body-building beach in California. Put Croft on that same beach and he would have looked like a jungle cat taking a stroll among the muscle freaks.

The handsome driver of the four-wheel drive vehicle halted inside the compound, got out and motioned Croft to park the Toyota to one side.

"Mr. Gladstone said you were to go straight on into the house. Dallas will show you the way. I'll bring in your luggage and put it in your room."

"Thank you, Lance," Mercy said politely as she alighted from the front seat of the Toyota. She felt obliged to add an especially bright smile of gratitude when it became obvious Croft was going to ignore Lance altogether.

Croft saw the smile and shot Mercy a dour glance as he swung himself easily out of the Toyota. "No need to tip him," he muttered over the roof of the car. "I don't think he's working for minimum wage." He took Mercy's arm in a firm grasp and led her toward the house.

"Honestly, Croft, for a man who believes in doing things the proper way, you can be downright rude on occasion."

That observation seemed to cheer him. "I do my best."

A sharp, questioning bark sounded from the rear of the
compound. Mercy automatically glanced in that direction. There was a long, fenced dog run there and two sleek Doberman pinschers paced alertly back and forth behind the wire mesh, their attention on the newcomers.

"They don't look like pets, do they?" Mercy said under her breath.

"No," Croft agreed, watching the dogs thoughtfully, "they don't."

"No need to be afraid of the dogs. We only let them out at night to keep an eye on things," the man called Dallas said as he approached. He smiled, a wonderfully boyish grin that displayed perfect white teeth. "We're a little isolated up here. The dogs are just a precaution. Right this way Miss Pennington. Mr. Gladstone is waiting for you. And your Mend, too, of course." Dallas nodded politely at Croft, who didn't seem to notice.

Mercy rushed to rill the small social gap. "What a lovely place Mr. Gladstone has. Fantastic view. The air is so clear here in the mountains. The peaks and valley seem so close when you look out over a range."

"Distances are deceptive up here. The altitude and the lack of city haze are the primary reasons," Dallas informed her. "A lot of hikers and climbers set out for what appears to be a reasonably close goal and find themselves walking for hours and days longer than they'd planned."

"It certainly is a unique location. I imagine you're cut off almost entirely during the winter. How do you manage?"

Dallas pointed toward the other side of the compound and Mercy saw a small helicopter sitting on a concrete pad.

"The chopper is one form of transportation. We also have snow mobiles as well as the four-wheel drives. We're never completely trapped up here in the mountains."

"A helicopter!" Mercy was astonished. "I don't think I've ever actually known someone who had his own private helicopter."

Dallas gave her his riveting smile. "Believe me, it beats driving back down that road, especially during winter. Mr. Gladstone usually makes sure all his guests get a ride while they're here. Great view of the mountains from the chopper."

Mercy shuddered. "No thanks. I don't care for small planes and I'm sure I'd be just as nervous in a helicopter. You'd never get me up in that machine in a million years."

That got Croft's attention. He frowned at her. "You're afraid of flying in small aircraft?"

"My parents were killed in the plane my father owned. They went into a mountain during a storm, I was told."

"So that's where you picked up the phobia? From hearing about the way your parents died?"

"Probably. I've never stopped to analyze my dislike of small planes. I just know I don't like them. Or helicopters. They always seem so frail and vulnerable." Mercy firmly changed the subject. "Look,
that must be our host."

They were at the entrance of the expansive house. Wide aquamarine doors were thrown open to reveal a hall tiled in light Italian marble. A tall, elegantly attractive man in his late forties stood in the doorway. There was a vaguely European air about him, a certain indefinable style and sense of wealth that made one think of expensive Swiss ski resorts, Paris, Saint-Tropez and the Cote d'Azur. Mercy had never been to any of those places, but she had a vivid imagination. This, she knew, must be Erasmus Gladstone.

His hair had once been blond but was rapidly turning a brilliant shade of silver-gray. The combination of silver and gold was stunning. It highlighted the bluest eyes Mercy had ever seen. She couldn't put a name to the exact shade of blue, but it reminded her of something, perhaps a color she had created with her watercolors at some point.

Gladstone's nose and mouth were finely drawn and showed no sign of losing their elegance as the man went
through middle age. He was dressed in a casually expensive style, a silk spent shirt, dark trousers and Italian leather shoes.

Whatever else he was, Mercy decided, Gladstone didn't look like the guru type. He looked even less like the type to involve himself in anything as dirty as sex, slavery and drug running. This man had class. When he smiled at her he also revealed an astonishing amount of masculine charm. Then he spoke and she realized his voice was even better in person than it was on the phone. A wonderful voice for reading poetry or reciting heroic ballads.

A voice that might, just possibly, be very useful for enthralling an audience of willing believers. Mercy deliberately pushed that thought aside. She would not let Croft's melodramatic conclusions influence her.

"Miss Pennington, I'm very happy to meet you. I'm Erasmus Gladstone. Please call me Erasmus." He turned his patrician head toward Croft and extended his slender, long-fingered hand. A small, discreet signet ring gleamed on one finger. "You must be the companion I was told about. What was the name again?"

"Falconer." Croft took the extended hand but kept the handshake brief and businesslike. "Croft Falconer. When I heard Mercy was going to be spending a few days in the Rockies as the guest of a man I didn't know, I decided to invite myself along. I'm sure you understand. I realize business is business, but…" He let the sentence trail off with a meaningful emphasis. A man to man communication.

Gladstone smiled. "Perfectly, Croft. A man must look after his possessions. There is always someone lurking about waiting to steal valuables. And I must admit Miss Pennington appears to be extremely valuable."

"Miss Pennington," Mercy interrupted with a scathing glance at Croft, "would just as soon not be referred to as a commodity."

Croft merely shrugged but Gladstone chuckled richly and glanced back over his shoulder. "I assure you, I understand Croft's feelings entirely. If my Isobel were to receive an invitation from an unknown male a couple of thousand miles distant I would react with a similar degree of concern. Come here and meet our guests, my dear. You're always complaining that we don't entertain frequently enough. You should enjoy the next few days. Mercy, Croft, allow me to introduce my companion, Isobel Ascanius. I would be very lonely here in the mountains without her."

Mercy saw a movement in the hall behind Gladstone and a moment later a stunningly beautiful woman appeared. She was almost as tall as Gladstone, which gave her several inches on Mercy. As she approached, Mercy realized the woman named Isobel was only a couple of inches shorter than Croft.

Isobel Ascanius appeared to be somewhere in her early thirties, but with her bone structure, Mercy decided, the woman would always look far younger than her real age, even when she hit her eighties. Her hair was as black and lustrous as obsidian and she wore it twisted into an elegant chignon that emphasized her high cheekbones and beautiful dark eyes. Her mouth looked like something out of a lipstick ad, glistening with just the right touch of coral. The coral color was repeated on her long, carefully shaped nails.

Mercy didn't doubt for a moment that Isobel and Gladstone were lovers. Gladstone's female companion was dressed as elegantly as her mate. Her white silk safari shift and matching trousers glided over a strong, distinctly healthy looking body. She was a lushly built woman with full breasts, but there was nothing soft about her. Isobel's waist was model slim and was wrapped in a soft, black leather belt.