Midnight Jewels (29 page)

Mercy couldn't resist. "Did Isobel complain about a five o'clock shadow?"

"No." Croft began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Croft, tell me what happened after Isobel made her pass."

"Nothing." He removed his shirt and reached for his shaving kit on the counter.

"Absolutely nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Good," said Mercy, satisfied.

He caught her eyes in the mirror and arched his brows. "You believe me?"

"Sure. In some ways, Croft, you're completely trustworthy."

"But in other ways?"

"In other ways you're as hard to pin down as a ghost. In fact, there are times when you bear a distinct resemblance to one."

"A ghost?"

"Yup. The only thing that makes me think you're not is that there are parts of you that are amazingly hard and substantial." Deliberately she let her eyes skim the territory beneath his belt buckle. Mercy tried to keep the assessing look cool, arrogant and casual, but she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks even as she made a point of heading for the door. She really wasn't very good at this sort of sexual provocation. It was the thought of Isobel making a pass at Croft that had driven her to such boldness. She was already regretting whatever imp had gotten hold of her tongue.

Croft's hand snaked out, closing around the nape of Mercy's neck without any warning. He pulled her back against him and kissed her with deep thoroughness. His tongue slid between her teeth and his fingers moved enticingly under her hair. Mercy heard her own soft moan and knew that Croft had heard it also. When he released her she was breathless. His eyes were brilliant as he looked down at her.

"I'm not a ghost, Mercy. When this is all over I'll take great pleasure in letting you prove to yourself just how solid and substantial I can get."

Mercy fled from the bathroom. She ought to ask Isobel for pointers, she decided.

By ten o'clock that evening Gladstone's party was in full swing. Mercy was torn between fascination and a distinctly uneasy sensation. She had never seen anything quite like this crowd, even though she had been raised in California. As Croft had once observed, she had apparently led a sheltered life.

For some odd reason the noise level bothered her most. A sophisticated music system was piping progressive jazz and rock to all three levels of the house, but that wasn't the main problem as far as Mercy was concerned. The increasingly high pitch of the laughter and the rising decibel level of the conversations were what was really beginning to bother her. She didn't see how anyone was managing to communicate at all in the living room or anywhere else on the first floor.

She did overhear several shouted arguments about the merits of some of the artwork that filled the house, but Mercy decided that they couldn't really be classified as conversations. Everybody involved appeared to be interested only in what he or she personally had to say. Other people's input was obviously a distraction and an annoyance.

It was a strange self-centered group of people, not quite real in their wild, arresting clothing and their obviously intense need to focus interest on themselves.

The wine and liquor were flowing freely, but Mercy suspected that wasn't all that was contributing to the general gaiety. Here and there she caught whiffs of the acrid scent of marijuana along with some less identifiable aromas. She had seen more than one person exit the room discreetly and return a few minutes later looking unnaturally euphoric.

Croft might think her naive, Mercy decided, but she wasn't stupid. And she
had
been raised on the West Coast.

"Why are you standing in a corner looking so serious? This is supposed to be a party. Act happy, Mercy."

Croft's voice came from her left, sounding strangely cheerful. Too cheerful, considering the situation.

"There you are." She realized she was feeling both relief and acute anxiety. "I was wondering where you'd gone. I couldn't see you in the crowd and I was afraid—" She broke off uneasily, glancing around. But no one seemed to be paying any attention, and any listening devices that might be planted in the living room would already be awash with static. She glared at Croft. "Why are you smiling like
that? You almost never smile. Are you all right?"

"You know, you're kind of cute when you snap at me." He took another sip of the drink in his hand. "I am fine. Peachy keen, in fact. Rarely have I felt better."

"I'm glad to hear it because you're looking a little frayed around the edges."

"Camouflage," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Got to appear to be part of the crowd."

"Right. Well, you're doing a good job of it."

"You're not. You're standing around looking morbid. What are you drinking?" He peered at the glass in her hand.

"Water."

"Ah ha. That explains it."

"Explains what?"

His brows came together and he gave his head a small shake, as if to clear it. His eyes darkened briefly. "Never mind." He glanced around at the loud, colorful throng. "Time for all good ghosts to be about their business, hmm? Time to practice disappearing and materializing and assorted skills."

Mercy leaned toward him. She was intensely worried now, not just nervous but downright scared. "Croft, are you sure you want to do this? Isn't there some other way of answering your questions about Gladstone? If you get caught—"

"I won't get caught."

"That's very reassuring," she snapped, annoyed with his blithe lack of concern. It struck her as both unnatural and un-Croftlike. "But what happens if you do?"

"You pretend to be as shocked as everyone else."

"What are you talking about?"

He patted her head as if she were an eager puppy and said with exaggerated patience, "If I get caught you just pretend to know nothing about what I was doing in the vault. You tell everyone you're shocked and stunned. Appalled, even. I
must have been using you to get access to Gladstone's valuable collection. You're an innocent dupe."

"I've already played that role once too often around you. Croft, listen to me, I think you should reconsider your plan tonight. There are bound to be a bunch of people downstairs in the gardens and the pool. Any one of them might notice you sneaking into the vault room."

"Nope." He smiled genially at a striking young thing who was wearing hair dyed to match her green, skintight dress. The woman smiled back and floated on past as she inhaled deeply on a long cigarette.

"What do you mean, nope?" Mercy wanted to slap him in order to get his full attention. There was a distracted quality about him that was alarming.

"No one downstairs in the pool room now. I just went down and checked. Place is empty."

"I didn't see you leave."

He winked wickedly. "Trust me. It's empty." He took another sip of the red wine he was holding. "Did you try the salmon canapes? They're great. I've had several."

Mercy shook her head. She hadn't been able to eat a thing or drink anything besides water since the perilous evening had started. There was something not quite right about Croft's mood. She had never seen him like this. Why was he chatting about salmon canapes at a time like this?

If she hadn't known him better she would have sworn he had had too much to drink. But that was impossible. Croft never drank to excess. He was as restrained about his drinking as he was about everything else. Something else must be going on…

"Dallas and Lance probably cleaned out the pool room during the last hour," Mercy noted thoughtfully. "Gladstone's insurance might not have covered twenty or thirty artists getting drunk and falling face down in the swimming pool. On second thought, I don't see a man as wealthy as
Gladstone being overly concerned about his insurance policies. Where is Gladstone, anyway?"

"Over there by the window, talking to that guy with the beard."

Mercy glanced across the room and saw Gladstone involved in what appeared to be a serious conversation with an intense young man. Isobel stood politely beside the two men, listening with an expression of what Mercy assumed was artistic interest.

"That's Micah Morgan. I met him earlier," Mercy told Croft. "Gladstone says he's going to be the hottest thing on the art market in three or four years. Needless to say, Gladstone is collecting him now. Those pictures in the sitting room are Morgan's."

"Why don't you join them?"

Mercy stirred the ice in her glass. "More camouflage? You want me to distract Gladstone and Isobel while you go downstairs and play cat burglar?"

Croft beamed at her. "Will you do that for me, sweet Mercy? Dallas and Lance are so busy up here running the bar and the buffet that I don't think they're likely to wander downstairs unexpectedly."

"I don't think you need my help in this project," she retorted. "You seem to be able to appear and disappear without any assistance from me."

"It never hurts to have a little extra insurance."

"Oh, all right." Resentfully Mercy started to move toward the window where Gladstone and Isobel stood. But something made her turn back once more to confront Croft. "Are you sure you're up to this tonight? How much of
that wine have you had?"

"Half a glass. Just enough to look sociable." He smiled again. "Stop worrying, honey. I'm in complete control."

"I wonder why that doesn't reassure me." Without waiting
for a response, she plunged into the crowd, heading toward Gladstone and Isobel. .

Croft thought about the expression in Mercy's eyes as he made his way through
the jungle of plants in the pool room. She didn't approve of what he was doing
but she was going to help him. She was committed to him, he decided. That
pleased him enormously. He liked having her feel committed. When this was all
over, he intended to have a long talk with her about her sense of commitment.
She was the kind of woman who would stick with a man through thick and thin. For
richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health...

Damn it to hell, he knew for certain now he wasn't feeling normal. Marriage rarely—if ever—crossed his mind.

Another wave of queasiness jarred him and he yanked his thoughts back from Mercy to his stomach. This was the third time during the past half hour that he had been aware of a wave of nausea. Nothing bad yet, but potentially dangerous. Nausea could stop a man as effectively as a fist in the face.

Croft couldn't remember the last time he was sick to his stomach. What the hell was wrong with him? Maybe it was something he had eaten from the buffet table. But all he had had was a couple of slices of the smoked salmon and some crackers. There was the half glass of wine, but that was hardly enough to have this kind of effect. Besides, it had been an excellent Bordeaux, not some rotgut vinegar.

Rotgut vinegar. That was a joke. As if Gladstone would serve anything but me best wine. Croft realized he was grinning. It was damned amusing when he thought about it. Gladstone serving cheap wine. What a scandal. Croft almost laughed aloud.

A small sense of shock went through him. The last thing he wanted to do right now was laugh out loud. The whole idea was to make absolutely no noise at all. He was good at
that kind of thing. He could tiptoe through a swamp full of alligators and never wake one of the beasts.

What was it Mercy called him? A ghost. That was it. He'd go in like a ghost. Get in, get a close look at the inside of the vault and get out. If he didn't find anything he would slip upstairs to the study. Somewhere there had to be something in the house that would give him the answers to his questions. His gut instincts told him
that Gladstone was Egan Graves. There were too many similarities in style. This business about being the chief patron for an isolated artist colony, for example. Too much like running a cult. And that voice. Ray Chandler had once told Croft that his daughter still talked about the compelling quality of her ex-guru's voice. Then there was Gladstone's obvious preoccupation with security. The Rocky Mountain estate reminded Croft in some ways of Graves' Caribbean setting. Except for the dogs. They were a new addition.

There were a myriad other small hints and clues. Croft was sure Gladstone was a reincarnation of Egan Graves. All he had to do was prove it. As soon as he had, he would get Mercy away before doing anything more. Above all he had to take care of Mercy.

The nausea faded again, leaving behind a strangely pleasant sensation. Croft tried to analyze the feeling. This lightheadedness wasn't quite normal. True, it had been three years since the last time he had had to play ghost, but he would never forget the feeling of all his senses working together in a faultless rhythm. He knew what the adrenaline rush felt like, remembered the exquisite, almost painful tension, recalled the exhilarating feeling of walking along the sharp edge of an abyss.

He remembered all those feelings very well, just as he remembered his own deep fascination with them.

But he was only getting bits and pieces of those sensations tonight. Everything seemed to be overlaid by this strange sense of easygoing, light-headed cheerfulness. And the cheerfulness was only occasionally interrupted by the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Croft drew in a deep breath, trying to suppress the abnormal giddiness. He should be feeling a lot of things, but not giddiness. Something was wrong. Under ideal circumstances he would have called off tonight's mission and postponed it until he had his body more completely under control.

It was dangerous being out of control, he reminded himself wisely. He never allowed himself to lose that fundamental sensation of being completely in command of himself. Never.

Except when he made love to Mercy.

Every time he took her in his arms he was sure he would be able to handle himself and her. But it always ended in a storm of wild, uninhibited abandonment. He wished he understood what happened when he was around Mercy. It worried him that he couldn't explain his passions or his sense of protectiveness or the strange bond that seemed to link him to her.

Well, she wasn't with him now. He had no excuse for feeling unsteady and unnaturally cheerful. Something was wrong, but it was too late to turn back. He had to get the answers that night. There wasn't going to be another opportunity. Even if he could have persuaded Mercy to stay another day or two he wouldn't have risked it. She was safe enough for the moment, but if Gladstone and Isobel were starting to ask questions, it was time to get Mercy out of these mountains.