Objects Of His Obsession (16 page)

He’d taken his fists to Evander
once. Under very different circumstances. But right now–

That worldly black lashed gaze
dropped to Benedict’s lean, tanned fingers as they tightened about the stem of
his glass. A dark eyebrow lifted.

“Juliana sends her love, by the
way,” Evander drawled.

And at that outrageous missive,
Benedict knew that if –
no, once
– they were alone, he’d kill Evander. Because the bastard knew just what
a knife of conscience he was driving into Benedict’s heart with that statement.

Honey-brown eyes met Evander’s
blandly. “Your wife is too kind. She always was.”

Evander didn’t blink. And Kingsley
merely drank his wine as if hugely amused with the sleight of hand he and his
partners had played on Benedict.

But then he didn’t know, Benedict
sensed. He had no idea exactly what he had unleashed with his involvement in
this.

In the early hours of the
morning Benedict was awoken by something rattling at his bedroom window. The
tiny, narrow house had two small bedrooms upstairs.

His was one of them.

Logic would dictate that a
burglar would break in downstairs but half asleep, logic wasn’t kicking in.

His nerves on edge from a
fitful sleep, he was awake and at the window, ready to attack any would-be
intruder, the thin bamboo blinds yanked aside when he stared down and in the
sharp light of a fattening moon, recognized Evander and another man. A local.

They were standing in the
street below. And one of them must have thrown a thin fistful of gravel at the
window to wake him.

What
the hell–

Cursing under his breath, he
quickly exchanged the pajama bottoms he’d been wearing for a pair of the
coarse, heavy cotton trousers he worked in, pulled on a shirt and buttoned it
up as he headed down the narrow flight of stairs, a small, lit portable oil
lamp in his hand.

His heart was beating like a
hammer against his ribs. And he told himself that it was with anger.

But it wasn’t. Not entirely.

And as he slid aside the heavy
bolts on the thick front door, unlocked it, he took a deep breath. And readied
himself.

Evander stood there. Once the
door opened Evander turned to the man standing beside him and handed him what
was clearly a healthy payment.

“Thank you,” he said calmly.
“You’ve been most helpful. You can go now.”

As he went to walk into the
house the man muttered something to himself. He clearly thought Evander as mad
as Benedict did.

He said with some disbelief, “I
can wait. This area, it may be thought safe enough, but you English are–”

Evander patted the bulge in his
jacket pocket and his grin flashed white in the moonlight. “You’ve been an
excellent guide, but I remember the way here perfectly well. I will doubtless
be calling on your services again. But the walk back to the hotel isn’t much.
And if anyone gives me trouble, I have a revolver and shall shoot to kill.”

The man’s mouth fell open,
together with Benedict’s. Without another word he nodded and walked off.

Dear God, Benedict thought. While
not as good as some, this was a decent enough residential area, as the man had
said, but still. He absolutely agreed with Evander’s guide. But of course
Evander would be armed. And he didn’t doubt the man would use however many
bullets it took to discourage any would-be thieves.

Hell. He thought he was tough
enough, used to the streets. Evander made him feel like an amateur.

Without another word he ushered
him into the house, with its whitewashed, thick walls, and closed and locked
the door behind them. Went through into the living room he also used as a
study, and lit the two large oil lamps on a side table and the desk.

Together with the small lamp they
gave the room decent light.

He indicated one of the well-worn
leather chairs drawn up to a small brass-topped table.

“Whisky?” he asked briskly.
“I’m afraid it’s that or tea.”

“Whisky,” Evander said flatly,
seating himself, and as he did so, Benedict saw him take a deadly looking pearl
handled revolver from his inside jacket pocket and place it on the table.
American, Benedict thought. He knew enough about firearms to recognize it. A
Colt .45. Lethal. He saw Evander shoot him an amused look. “I prefer not to
lounge around with the damned thing on me.”

To his surprise Benedict found
himself grinning back. “Yes, I can imagine why. The thing looks hellish.”

“That is the general idea.”

Benedict snorted and then
remembered just why in the hell he was so angry with the man. With a distinct
lack of grace he slammed a glass of whisky down beside the Colt and took a seat
across from Evander, listening to the wood frame creak with an irritation it
had never caused him before.

Dammit, glancing about this
place now he couldn’t help but see it through Evander’s eyes.

Small. Shabby. Functional. A
place he was existing in, not living in, his real world out there, at the dig, at
Hamer’s offices or simply working at his desk across the room.

Everything else was just fuss.
Bother. Except when you found yourself sharing that very basic home even for
five minutes with a man who owned a country house into which this place would
fit endlessly, one built of marble and gold, and filled with enough artwork and
antiques to stock a museum by itself.

Then it became a very different
matter.

“We sprang that upon you, back
at the club,” Evander said suddenly, blue-black hair gleaming in the lamplight,
blue eyes like jewels. He shook his head, reached for the whisky. “Badly
handled, really, but I couldn’t see anyway around it. And Kingsley is exactly
the man to be out here. He loves the place already. You could see that.”

“You lied to me. He lied to
me.”

“You needed funding and your
cause is a worthy one.”

Benedict inclined his head.
“True, but I don’t like being lied to.”

“It wasn’t exactly a lie.”

“You were disguising the
truth.”

“Would you knowingly have
accepted funding in which I was involved?”

“No.”

“I knew that. And that makes
you a fool. I read those reports you gave Kingsley. On why you’d chosen those
dig sites. Where you want to begin. Your research. You
will
find that tomb. If not at the first site, the next or the one
after. Not to pursue that out of some ridiculous pride would be criminal.”

Benedict snorted.

“No, quite seriously. That find
will be invaluable. An incredible resource for the world’s scholars.” At Benedict’s
stunned expression Evander smiled wryly. “My dear Yeats, you don’t grow up in a
house with a collection such as my grandfather amassed and not develop a love
of Egyptology. A deep respect for the subject. You may think me flippant about
that collection and its cultural and artistic worth. I am not.”

Benedict found himself staring
at the man and realizing just how completely he’d misjudged him, at least on
that point. But it was only on that point, he reminded himself.

Evander picked up the whisky
and threw it back in one gulp, set the glass back down. He lounged back in the
battered wing armchair, studying Benedict, elbow propped on its arm, a finger
pressed against his own lips, hand folded against his chin.

Benedict stared back at him
stolidly, willing him to talk. Finally Evander lowered his hand and said flatly,
“I came here tonight to assure you that I expect nothing from you. My
involvement in that financing was simply that I believe your cause a just one.
One worthy of backing. That is all. You, I, what happened back in Harkenstorn,
has nothing to do with it.”

“I’m supposed to believe that.”

“Yes, you are. Because Kingsley
and I had already discussed the financing before you came to London on that
trip. In fact, he came to me the moment he returned from his Cairo trip last
year, when you first confided your research to him.”

Benedict snorted. And yet, he
knew it had to be true.

“Kingsley came to me because we
are old friends, we’ve done business together in the past, and he knew that I
shared my grandfather’s obsession with Egyptology.” Evander raised an elegant
eyebrow, smiling at Benedict’s expression. “Yes, Ben, obsession. I prefer to be
a little more subtle about it than you are, rank amateur that I am. But it was
why he came to me with the suggestion, and we brought in Hunt as he is a most
reliable and intelligent man.”

“Glad to hear it,” Benedict
said sarcastically.

Evander did not flinch. Instead
he rose, picking up the Colt as he did so, and slipped it back into his pocket
as he eyed Benedict.

“One thing I wanted you to
know. And yes, this, this
is
personal.
And perhaps I should have told you this back in England, but our time was so
brief. So I will tell it to you now, and then I will be on my way.”

The turquoise eyes flickered,
the thick black lashes half lowering as Evander glanced at a point somewhere
across the room. That sculpted face was set, hard as stone and when he spoke,
his voice was flat. “My father was an incredibly cruel man, Ben. A sadist, some
might say. Thank Christ he died when I was seventeen, otherwise I would have slaughtered
him myself. My uncle is a decent enough man, helped me until I reached the age
of majority. He knew what a prize shit his brother had been. Like everyone, too
damned scared of him to do a thing. But I have that bastard’s blood in my veins.
And I’ve never wanted to become the man my father had been. Someone who enjoyed
hurting others. Physically. Mentally. People say many things, I am sure, about
why my mother left. I knew why and I never blamed her. If she had not, he would
have killed her. And as for me, I was the sole heir. She knew he would not harm
me. She knew I would be away at boarding school, safe.”

Benedict made some sound,
appalled at the horrific images that lay behind those chill, controlled words
and Evander shot him an unreadable glance. He shook his head, mouth hard.

“I’m not interested in sympathy.
I’m simply explaining this to you, explaining exactly what drew Juliana and I
together. She has her own ugly tale to tell, should she wish to. But we both
needed … a true home. We found that in each other.
We understand each other, Ben. We’ve both fought battles
.”

Benedict began to speak, to say
something, anything, to ease the emotion beginning to flow into the other man’s
voice, but Evander held up a hand, stilling him. “You must understand me, Yeats.
I would die for her. Juliana gave me hope that life could be different. That we
could both have a life without cruelty to others. That we could create a family
together, something neither one of us had thought possible.
Be a haven for each other
. And we have
been. If I have a sister in spirit, it is Juliana. We both know what it is to
have hellish home life. We both want better for our own children.”

“And so you see, I could never
hurt Juliana. I know you believe that you and I … that it was a terrible betrayal
of her, of my marriage vows, and I cannot persuade you otherwise. But truly, I
love her, and she loves me. Even as children we had that bond.
It is a true marriage, Benedict
. Just
not a conventional one.”

Benedict was shaking his head,
shocked, stunned at the raw truth Evander was giving him. The emotion. The
outpouring of words.
Truths
. It was
so very … not English. Not Evander. “You’re right. I – I don’t
understand. And I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything more … bewildering.”

Evander was standing, very
still, just watching his square jawed, strong boned face in the lamplight.
Finally he shook his head. “You’ve spent too damned long amongst the dead
rather than the living, but I’m in no mood to argue the point right now. I’ll
see myself out. But do me the courtesy of thinking on what I’ve just told you.”

“I think we left courtesy
behind a long time ago.”

“Perhaps. But think on it, all
the same. I won’t be seeing much of you this visit.” Evander sounded almost
weary, as if the travel, the late hour, had finally caught up with even his relentless
energy. “You’re run ragged with Hamer, and I have business matters to attend
to. I’ll only be here a day or two before my return to France. I should be back
there within the fortnight. I don’t like being away long when my mother manages
to peel herself away from Venice.”

“Your mother?”

Evander smiled almost sadly at
his dumbstruck expression. “Yes, I do still have a mother, Ben. It’s just that
she’s refused to set foot on English soil ever again. But she does occasionally
consent to stay with us in Paris. Juliana and I have a house there, close by
the Bois de Boulogne. It almost meets her standards,” he said dryly. “So
Juliana and the children are having a break while they practice their French and
my mother will be arriving shortly. She adores her grandchildren.”

Benedict swallowed, freshly
reminded of the scandal around Evander’s mother.