Midnight Jewels (27 page)

The invitation to take an aerial tour of the region had been issued over a lunch of cold poached salmon and chilled asparagus with hollandaise. Croft had accepted with enthusiasm. Mercy had winced at the thought of skimming the peaks in a sardine can sized helicopter and had regretfully declined. So now she stood all alone with no one but herself to blame.

"There you are, my dear." Erasmus Gladstone's voice
came from the doorway behind Mercy. "Don't worry about having to miss out on the sightseeing. We all have our little phobias. Isobel is an excellent pilot, but to tell you the truth I'm not all that keen on flying, myself. I use the copter only when necessary. Sometimes in the dead of winter it's the only practical transportation."

Mercy turned away from the window, summoning up a polite smile for her host. "I'm sure the scenery would be magnificent from the air, but, as you say, we all have our little phobias."

Gladstone smiled with great charm. His unusual blue eyes seemed to be alight with the force of that charm. "As it happens, I was going to suggest we do some sightseeing of our own. The kind of touring that only people in our field of interest can truly appreciate. How would you like to go down to the vault, Mercy, and spend the afternoon wallowing amid my treasures? I must admit, there's nothing 1 like more than showing them off to someone who can appreciate them."

Mercy's mood lifted at once. "I'd love it."

"Good." Gladstone glanced at his watch. "We should have a couple of hours to ourselves. Dallas and Lance seem to have everything in order for this evening's affair and the guests aren't due to start arriving until after four o'clock. Let's escape to our own version of paradise on earth, Mercy."

It was a pity, Mercy decided resentfully, that Croft hadn't trusted her with a detailed account of the kind of information he sought in the vault. Not that she had encouraged him to do so, Mercy admitted to herself. She had resisted his notions of Gladstone as a crook right from the start. Still, this would be the perfect opportunity to do some investigative work for him. But Croft had not told her what to look for. He'd only said he wanted to see if the contents of Gladstone's collection fit with what he knew of Egan Graves'
tastes in rare books. It was typical of Croft to want to limit her involvement as much as possible. He was so damned aloof and independent.

Nevertheless, Mercy decided to make a mental note of as many titles as possible. Perhaps she could provide Croft with a shortcut in his detective work.

Forty minutes later Mercy was carefully turning the pages of a fine copy of Fuller's
The Worthies of England
, printed in 1662, when she began to notice the growing warmth inside the vault. It had seemed almost chilly when she and Gladstone had entered earlier. Perhaps having the door open had upset the interior air conditioning system.

She frowned down at the title page of Fuller's laboriously compiled national biography, studying the roman numeral date and the accompanying illustration of the author. Thomas Fuller, DD, appeared to have been a robust, serious man. He stared out of his portrait with a gaze
that told the reader he expected proper attention to be paid to the biographies he had written.

"Now over here, if I can just find it," Gladstone was saying half to himself, "I have a first rate copy of White's
Natural History of Selborne
. Beautiful binding. Where did I… Oh, yes, here it is." He pulled the volume down from the shelf and started to hand it to Mercy. He frowned in concern. "Anything wrong, my dear?"

"No, not at all. I was just thinking it was turning a little warm in here."

"I'm afraid that happens when the door stands open for a while. Throws off the air conditioning a bit. It all returns to the proper temperature when we close the door. Allow me."

Before Mercy could protest, Erasmus reached out and swung the heavy vault door shut. Instantly the small room seemed even smaller, more the size of a large coffin. Mercy noticed the locking mechanism on the inside of the door for
the first time and wondered why anyone would have a lock on the inside of the vault as well as on the outside.

"Uh, maybe it would be better to leave the door open," Mercy said weakly.

"Nonsense. We'll get the temperature back to normal in here and you'll be more comfortable." Gladstone moved back to the shelves. "I want you to take a look at this. A particularly fine collection of some of William Morris' private press books. I'm especially proud of his Chaucer. Exquisite, isn't it? When you've finished examining it, I really must show you my prizes in the field of medicine."

His words were almost melodic, Mercy thought bemusedly. Gladstone had a wonderful speaking voice. In the confines of the vault it seemed to be even more beautifully modulated. It promised wisdom and understanding and sensitivity. She listened to him as he continued to discuss his collection, beginning to find more pleasure in the actual sound of his voice than she did in the content. She became less aware of the confining feeling of the closed vault.

"I'm afraid my passion for books almost consumes me at times. Isobel occasionally complains during the long winter months that I spend more time in my library than I do with her." Gladstone reached for another volume. "But I expect you understand how it is, don't you, Mercy?"

"Well, I certainly spend a great deal of time in my bookshop," she agreed, not certain she would ever develop Gladstone's level of enthusiasm for collecting old books. She found the prospect of dealing in them fascinating, but she didn't think she was likely to become quite this impassioned about it. After all, there were other things in life. "Will your vault be open tonight for your guests?"

Gladstone shook his head firmly. "No, I'm afraid I draw the line at putting my books on display. Dallas and Lance can keep an eye on the paintings and sculpture, but books
tend to be too small and too easily removed. There will be nearly fifty people in the house tonight and I wouldn't want to put too much temptation in anyone's path. Some of these artists are living on a shoestring," Gladstone added with a knowing chuckle. "And while they may be grateful to me for past favors, it might occur to one of them that selling just one of these books would keep them in paint and assorted recreational drugs for a couple of years."

He continued talking about his hobby and Mercy tried to absorb the wealth of information that was flowing her way, but for some reason it was becoming harder and harder to concentrate. Every time Gladstone looked at her she was very aware of his eyes. She was beginning to realize they reminded her of another blue she had seen recently, an odd, glowing blue that she couldn't quite place.

"… I was overjoyed when this fine example of some of Rudolph Ackermann's aquatint work turned up at an English auction house two years ago." Gladstone breathed the words the way a lover would say that he had had the finest climax of his life. "So many great English artists did their apprenticeship as aquatint artists for Ackermann's books."

The word aquatint jarred her, distracting Mercy slightly from the compelling sound of Gladstone's voice. The word made her think of water. Of blue swimming pools, to be exact. She gazed down at the pictures in the book Gladstone had just handed her. "They're beautiful."

"Very. Are you sure you're not too warm, Mercy? We could leave the vault and have some iced tea if you like."

"Oh, no, I don't want to miss a minute." She smiled faintly. "This must be a pleasant, cozy place to spend a cold winter's evening. Do you worry about losing power during the winter? I noticed you don't have any fireplaces."

"None at all." For the first time Gladstone's voice lost a measure of its melodic luster. "I noted earlier
that we all have our little phobias. I don't like fireplaces or, indeed, any source of naked flames."

"I can imagine it would be a risk to your collections," Mercy said quickly, realizing she'd definitely struck a sore point.

"Yes. A grave risk. A man in my position must take many precautions. No, I am very careful with fire, Mercy. I respect it. It's very clean, very certain, very sure."

Mercy glanced toward the solid door and wished it were open. The room didn't seem to be getting any cooler. "Do you ever worry about getting trapped in here?"

Gladstone chuckled, his voice shifting back into the charming, beautifully modulated, hypnotic tones. "Believe me, you are in no danger. This vault would be a trap for others, but not for me. There are many kinds of escape, Mercy, intellectual, emotional and physical. This vault contains all three for me. Now, let me show you a few of my other beauties. Why don't you sit down on that little stool over there? Some of these books are quite heavy. I'll just set them in your lap."

Mercy sat down obediently and struggled to listen to every word. She might never get another chance like this. She made a valiant effort to take in everything Gladstone was saying, but she simply couldn't concentrate.

The sound of Gladstone's voice and the drowsy warmth seemed to envelope her. She found herself seeking eye-to-eye contact, drawn by the vivid blueness of his gaze. She was certain she had never seen anyone else with eyes quite that color. Perhaps he wore contacts.

Still, that particular blue shade was so familiar.

She closed her eyes, trying to remember where she had seen that shade. Dimly she heard Gladstone's voice. He was murmuring on and on. She thought he asked her a question but she couldn't find the energy to open her eyes and answer it.

Very rude. Incredible that she could even think of dozing off while in the midst of this splendid collection. Whatever would her host think of her?

Blue eyes. Such strange blue eyes. Somewhere she had seen that shade, though. It was a glow, an eerie color, not a normal sky blue.

He was asking her something. She couldn't quite understand the question.

"… Falconer, my dear?"

Croft's name jolted her. "I beg your pardon?" Mercy whispered.
Falconer
. Gladstone was asking her something about Croft. That didn't make sense. He should ask Croft if he wanted to know anything about him. Lots of luck, she thought. Gladstone wouldn't get any answers from Croft unless Croft wanted to provide them. And it was equally useless for Gladstone to be asking her about Croft. It would be a kind of betrayal to talk about the man she loved to Gladstone. Never in a million years could she betray Croft.

"… so curious about him, Mercy. Have you known him long?"

Mercy frowned, bewildered. No, she hadn't known him long, although she wouldn't admit it aloud. She ignored the question and thought about Croft, focusing on him as if his name were a meditation mantra. She wasn't sure why it was suddenly so important to concentrate on her lover, but she obeyed the instinct without question.

An image of Falconer filled her mind, blocking out all of Gladstone's questions and neutralizing the compelling quality of her host's perfect voice. Right now Croft was flying through the blue skies of Colorado with Isobel Ascanius, Mercy remembered. At this very moment Isobel was probably making plans to initiate him into the legendary mile-high club. Disgusting. Impossible, too. They were already well over a mile high before they even got off the ground. No
need to make love in a helicopter to join the stupid club. Maybe there was a two-mile high club…"

"… seems like an interesting man…"

"I…" What color were Gladstone's eyes, anyway?

Mercy kept her mind primarily focused on Croft, but a part of her attention took up the question of eye color and mulled it over.

An eerie blue light.

Water that glowed from the lights beneath the surface.

The swimming pool in the tropical garden.

Mercy's eyes snapped open. The room still seemed too warm, but she was no longer feeling drowsy. In fact, she was feeling quite amused to discover she had found the answer to her question about eye color. Erasmus Gladstone's eyes were the same color as the swimming pool in the next room. She would have to tell Croft.

Mercy smiled. Croft's image was still planted firmly in her head, but she no longer needed it for some reason. It had been a shield and a defense for a while, although she could not say exactly what she had been shielding and defending herself from. But now she was safe again.

"Good grief, I had no idea I was getting so sleepy. Please forgive me, Erasmus. This is terribly embarrassing. I think I need some fresh air and that glass of iced tea, after all."

"By all means," Gladstone said. There was a peculiar note of regret or perhaps irritation in his voice. "I'll have Dallas fix us both a glass. I could use some myself. We can spend more time in the vault tomorrow before you and Croft leave. We have yet to decide which of these books you will be taking in partial payment for
Valley
."

"That would be wonderful." Mercy hurried out of the vault, almost overcome by a sense of relief. She felt as if she were escaping from a steel trap into which she had accidentally wandered.

No, not accidentally, she reminded herself with a feeling of deep unease. She had been drawn there by Erasmus Gladstone, held there by a closed door and the hypnotic sound of Gladstone's voice. If she had not been able to focus somehow on an image of Croft and her own inner knowledge that she must not under any circumstances betray him, she wasn't sure what she might have said or what might have happened.

As it was, she had been so busy trying to keep her senses tuned into reality that she hadn't made much of a mental list of the contents of the vault. So much for impressing Croft with her investigative skills. Quickly she ran through the few titles she could recall.

Then Mercy shook off the unpleasant sensation that still hovered around her consciousness. It was amazing how one's imagination could run wild under certain conditions.

But it was even more amazing how one could become mesmerized by strange blue eyes and a charismatic voice.

She hoped Isobel wouldn't keep Croft up in the air for much longer. Mercy decided that if she was going to let herself be mesmerized, she would rather become the willing quarry of Croft's dark sensuality than the unwary victim of a room that was too warm, eyes the wrong shade of blue, and a voice that was too compelling.