Zinnia (20 page)

It didn't take a matrix to answer that, he decided grimly. He took his seat behind the ornate desk. For all his planning and unwavering intentions, he didn't want to think about his future wife now that he was involved, however tenuously, with Zinnia.

The door opened. Feather's gleaming skull reflected the soft glow of the jelly lamps. He ushered Hobart,
who was nattily attired in a fashionable, well-cut gray suit and a pink bow tie, into the room.

“Come in, Hobart.” Nick did not rise. “Please sit down. I assume you're here on business?”

Hobart cleared his throat and walked nervously to the chair in front of the desk. “I brought a questionnaire. You'll have to fill it out before I can proceed.”

“Of course. Let me see it.”

Hobart perched primly on the edge of the chair and opened his briefcase. “It asks for details about your personal preferences, your hobbies and uh—” He glanced around the chamber with ill-concealed dismay and swallowed heavily. “Your tastes.”

“Don't look so worried, Hobart.” Nick smiled as he took the questionnaire. “I'm sure you'll find me a lady who won't mind my tastes. And I have no hobbies.”

“No hobbies?”

“I don't have time for unimportant pursuits.” Nick glanced through the thick questionnaire. “Running a casino keeps me fully occupied.”

“I see.” Hobart drew himself up. “Mr. Chastain, we really must discuss your business occupation and your unusual psychic talent.”

“What's to discuss?”

“You must understand that both are serious impediments to a successful match, especially since you have insisted upon limiting your selection to registrants from a certain social class.”

“Don't worry about it, Hobart.” Nick closed the questionnaire. “I'm sure you'll find someone suitable for me.”

“There is one other thing, sir.”

“Yes?”

Hobart took a deep breath. “You mentioned that you were an untested talent.”

Nick raised his brows. “What of it?”

“Sir, I work for a very reputable marriage agency.
Synergistic Connections adheres to a code of ethics. We simply cannot attempt a match unless both parties have been rated and assigned a position on the paranormal power spectrum.”

“In that case, I'm afraid you'll have to handle this match off the record, Hobart. It will be our little secret.”

“How am I supposed to convince a respectable lady to consider a match with an untested matrix-talent? It just isn't done. No family would permit such an alliance. No woman in her right mind would even think of taking such a risk.”

“You're forgetting my one great asset, Hobart.”

Hobart looked wary. “What is that, sir?”

“I'm rich.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Zinnia stood in the courtyard and surveyed the imposing structure in front of her. “As we interior designers say in situations such as this, it's got great bones.”

This was the home that Nick had chosen for his bride, she thought. The place where he and the future Mrs. Chastain would raise a family. She did not want to admire the mansion. For some obscure reason, she longed to find fault with the soaring columns, graceful steps, and spacious gardens. But the designer in her was too honest. The old Garrett estate was beautiful.

The house and well-planted grounds occupied an acre of prime-view land above the city. The main building was a large two-storey stone affair in the Neo-Early Exploration Period style. The architect had captured the exuberant spirit of the earlier era while managing to avoid the frothy excesses. The result was elegant restrained exuberance. This was a house that was imbued with a sense of the future, Zinnia thought. A house infused with optimism and hope.

An elegant colonnaded porch surrounded the entire
mansion. The windows were tall and well-proportioned to match the high-ceilinged rooms inside. There was a subtle symmetry to the design that was not generally found either in the original buildings of the Early Exploration Period or in the Later Revival Period.

“Good bones?” Nick removed a huge picnic hamper from the trunk of the Synchron. “If that's a polite way of telling me the place is a little run-down, save your breath. I already know there's a lot of work to be done. The good news is, I've got the money to do it.”

“Unlike the Garretts?”

Nick quirked a brow as he walked toward her with the hamper. “So you do recognize the place.”

“Any architect or designer would.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I also know how you got the Garrett family to sell it to you.”

“I didn't force the sale,” he said coldly. “And I paid full market value. The Garretts came out of the deal with enough cash to finance a merger that was very important to the corporation at the time.”

“Uh-huh.”

Nick started up the front steps. “Don't kid yourself. Old Randolph Garrett, Senior, put out the word that he was forced to sell in order to rescue young Randy from my clutches. But the truth was, Garrett was secretly thrilled to have an excuse to get rid of the place. The property descended through his side of the family. He had the responsibility for maintaining it. It was a steady drain on his finances at a time when he couldn't afford it.”

“I see. You must have been one of the few people in the entire city-state who was willing and able to buy it. Most folks couldn't afford the upkeep, let alone a major remodel.”

“I can afford both.” Nick set down the hamper to activate the old jelly-ice lock on the door. “And I want the remodeling done right.”

“I'm surprised the Historical Preservation Society didn't try to get their hands on the house. I would have thought they'd have paid big bucks for John Jeremy Garrett's personal estate.”

“I beat them to it.” Nick opened the door to reveal a spacious circular hall tiled in pale green rainstone. “And for the record, from now on, it's the new Chastain estate.”

No one could have missed the naked possessiveness in his voice, Zinnia thought. She studied the spacious graceful rooms as she followed him through the empty mansion.

“It's not exactly your style, Nick.”

“Don't worry, by the time I gild the columns with some fake gold paint, put down lots of red and black carpeting, cover the windows with red velvet drapes and hang a lot of scarlet and gold wallpaper, it will look like home.”

“You wouldn't.”

Nick turned to glance at her over his shoulder. He said nothing but his eyes gleamed.

Zinnia put up her hands, palms out. “Okay, okay, it was a joke. You shouldn't tease a professional interior designer that way.”

“I thought you liked red.” His gaze traveled slowly down her body, taking in the gauzy, ankle-length, sunrise-red dress she wore. “You sure look good in it.”

She felt herself grow very warm beneath his blatantly sexy gaze. “It's my trademark. And it's okay for clothes. But a whole house done in red would look like a bordello or a, uh—”

“Casino?” he suggested.

“Well, yes. And you distinctly told me that you didn't want your future bride to live in a casino.”

“No,” he said. “I don't.” He set the hamper down on the floor. “As you can see, I really do need an interior designer. Someone who knows the Neo-Early Exploration Period style. I want the place restored
properly. Like one of those places you see in
Architectural Synergy
magazine. How about it?”

She surveyed the vast, empty, great room in which they stood. “Are you offering me the job for real?”

“Why not?” Nick walked to the bank of windows that overlooked the city. He kept his back to Zinnia as he gazed into the late evening sun that was sinking swiftly into the bay. “Nothing says we can't continue on with our partnership after we finish this business with the journal.”

“I'll think about it.”

“You do that.”

He was serious, she thought. “This house is very important to you, isn't it?”

“It's my future,” he said simply.

“What about your past?”

“My past is the casino. I'm going to sell it.”

That startled her. “Why?”

“It's part of my plan.”

“Your plan to buy respectability, you mean?”

“I told you, I only got into the gambling business because it was a way to make a lot of money.” Nick turned slowly around to face her. “I've invested the profits in a variety of places during the past three years. Stocks and bonds. Western Islands shipping. I've provided some venture capital for some new businesses that have gone big. The usual.”

“All very respectable.”

His smile held cold satisfaction. “Exactly. My children will have all the benefits of respectability. They won't have to live with gossip and sly glances. My daughters will never face humiliation at society's hands. My sons won't know what it is to have the doors of opportunity closed in their faces simply because they can't claim a socially acceptable family.”

“You mean they won't have to struggle the way you did?” she asked softly.

His eyes were fierce with unshakable determination. “I will make certain that they don't have to go through what I did to achieve success. My family will have every advantage I can give them.”

“I see.” She was suddenly aware of a slight chill in the room. She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Tell me, what's the rest of this grand plan? How do you go about buying respectability?”

“Simple. You purchase a membership in the Founders' Club and attend its annual charity ball.” He broke off. A look of speculation appeared in his gaze. “Which just happens to take place in a few days.”

“Yes, I know. Go on. What else do you do to get respectable?”

He shrugged. “You give big bucks to the New Seattle Art Museum and to the Theater Guild. You contribute to the right political campaigns. You buy a house like this one and you pay someone who knows what she's doing to restore it.”

“And you marry into the right family,” Zinnia concluded.

“That's about it. Like I said, all you need is money and a plan. I've got both.”

She looked into his eyes for a long time. He did not look away. “I wish you luck,” she said, meaning every word.

“Luck has nothing to do with it.”

“Of course.” She managed a bright professional smile. “Well, this is supposed to be a business dinner, so let's do some business, partner. I wanted to ask you how you knew for certain that the journal Polly and Omar sold you was a fraud.”

He eyed her thoughtfully for a long moment. “I'll show you after we eat.” He walked to the picnic hamper and opened it.

She watched curiously as he spread a blanket on the
floor and began to unpack a variety of tempting packages. He arranged a pâté, a cold pasta salad, tiny sandwiches, fruit, and a tart on top of the hamper.

“I'm impressed.” She walked to the blanket and sat down, curling her legs beneath her gauzy dress. “Did you make all this?”

“What do you think?” Nick lit the two jelly-ice candles that he had taken from the hamper.

Zinnia sampled a tiny sandwich and grinned. “I think you hired an excellent chef.”

“The best. Rathbone. Formerly of the Founders' Club. He supervises the dining rooms at the Palace.”

“Lucky you.”

Nick looked up from pouring the wine. “I keep telling you, luck is not a factor.”

“Spoken like a true matrix.”

Zinnia was amazed at how quickly the next hour slipped past. By the time she and Nick had polished off the outrageously expensive bottle of blue wine and eaten the last bit of the flaky pear-berry pastry, night had descended. The twin moons, Yakima and Chelan, rose above the horizon and cast a golden glow over the bay. The light of the two jelly-ice candles flickered warmly.

“Now I'll show you how I knew the journal was a fraud.” Nick pulled another package out of the hamper.

Zinnia recognized it. “That's the fake that Polly and Omar sold to you.”

“Yes.” He unwrapped the brown paper and put the volume down on the blanket. Then he reached back into the hamper and removed a faded envelope.

“What's that?”

“The letter my father wrote to my mother the night before the Third Expedition left for uncharted territory.”

She stared at him with mingled disbelief and excitement. “You've got a letter?”

“Yes. After Andy died I went through his old storeroom and found it. My mother must have hidden it there all those years ago before she left for Serendipity. I think she may have sensed that it was valuable. It refers to the fact that the expedition was preparing to leave on schedule. My father was looking forward to it. He was focused on the future. He was not talking of suicide.”

“My God, Nick. No wonder you've been so sure that the expedition actually took place. Why didn't you tell anyone?”

He looked up, his eyes very cold. “Because someone went to a hell of a lot of trouble to make it appear that it didn't take place. Until I know why, I'm not going to reveal the existence of this letter. It's the only hard evidence I've got.”

She watched as Nick carefully, reverently unfolded the letter. It occurred to her that the handwritten note was probably the only link he had with his mother and father. Another wave of empathy went through her.

“I take it you did a handwriting analysis?” she asked, struggling to sound businesslike. Nick would not appreciate it if she started crying, she thought.

“Yes. With the aid of my talent. I have some control over it when I use it in short bursts.” He opened the journal and placed it next to the letter. “Take a look.”

She peered at the bold firm handwriting on the first page of the journal and then glanced at the letter. “It looks identical to me.”

“It's a very good forgery. But give me a prism and then take another look.”