All You Desire (20 page)

Haven couldn't resist. “Do you know someone named Mia Michalski? I think she's some kind of detective.”

“I could introduce you to movie stars, Nobel Prize winners, and the editors of every fashion magazine in town, and you want to meet
Mia Michalski
?”

“She's a friend of a friend. So you do know her?”

“Not well,” Alex said. “Mia doesn't spend that much time at the OS anymore. I have a feeling she's avoiding Adam.”

“Why?”

“Have you ever seen Mia?”

“No,” Haven admitted.

“She's gorgeous,” Alex said, and the measuring tape almost slipped from Haven's fingers. “When she first joined, half the guys at the OS would have traded every point in their accounts for a night with her. She set her sights on Adam, of course. But I don't think he knew she existed until she started throwing herself at him every chance that she got. I have it on good authority that he ended up telling her to back the hell off. I gotta say, the whole episode was rather hilarious.”

“Sounds like it,” Haven said mirthlessly. She should never have asked.

“But why are we talking about boring old Mia Michalski, anyway? So you say you're one of us? Does that mean you know who you were in your previous lives?” Alex asked.

“I've had a few visions here and there, but my memories aren't very good. Do you mind if I move your hair? I need to measure your neck.”

“Not at all.” Alex pulled her hair up and held it in a pile on the top of her head. At the base of her hairline was a tattoo of a serpent swallowing its own tail. “A lot of my lifetimes weren't that clear, either,” Alex continued. “But then I heard about this woman who can see into other people's past lives, and she told me some amazing stories. You should go see her.”

“Oh crap! Phoebe!” Haven dropped the measuring tape, and it rolled across the floor.

“Is that her real name? I've only heard people call her the Pythia.”

“Sorry, Alex. Listen, I just remembered I have another appointment. I think I have all the measurements I need. Can I call you when I have some fabric samples to show you?”

“Sure,” Alex said, gathering her things. “But I wouldn't make any more appointments if I were you.”

“Why?” Haven asked.

Alex's grin was mischievous. “Because I gave your number to a friend of mine who needs a gown too. You're gonna be pretty busy for the next few days.”

 

THE STORM THE night before had deposited more than a foot of snow on the city, and icy white corridors branched in all directions from the Gramercy Gardens Hotel. The doorman guided Haven through the passage that led to the curb and opened the door of an idling taxi. She climbed inside and discovered Chandra sitting in the driver's seat, wearing a military-style coat over a sparkling sari.

“It's twenty past ten.” Chandra's gold bangles tinkled when she pointed at the clock on the dashboard. “You're going to be an hour late, and Phoebe's
not
going to be happy.”

“Sorry. Where's Iain?” Haven asked. “Are we picking him up on the way?”

“That's Vera's job,” Chandra said. “My job is losing the two gray men who are following you. Look out the back window. They're getting into a car parked down the block.”

Haven watched two men with no distinguishing features duck into a beige sedan. The sight left her trembling. “Does this mean Adam's having me followed? Do you think he suspects something? Am I in trouble?”

“I doubt it. We've been careful. He probably just wants to protect his favorite girl. Now pay attention, princess. At the first stop light we come to on Park Avenue, I want you to get out of the cab. There will be a blue minivan stopped on the corner facing the other direction. Walk across the street. A bus will drive by. Wait until you're hidden from view and get into the minivan. Don't hesitate or the timing will be off. You'll recognize Cleo. She's the other woman you met in the subway. She'll take you straight to Phoebe.”

“Wow,” Haven said. “That's some pretty impressive planning.”

“We never forget who we're dealing with,” Chandra noted humorlessly as she started the engine. “You shouldn't either.”

The switch went off without a problem. In the thirty minutes they spent driving along the East River, Cleo said nothing to Haven. Her eyes, hidden behind black Gucci sunglasses, seemed to be checking the rearview mirror as often as they watched the road. When they reached Sylvan Terrace, they found Phoebe peering down at them from the house's stoop. With her silver hair, pale skin, and sleeveless ecru shift, she could have been mistaken for an ice sculpture.

“You're
very
late.” Phoebe's voice had taken on an imperious tone. Haven felt like a chambermaid being scolded by her mistress.

“I apologize,” Haven said. “I was working, and I lost track of time.”

“Working?” Phoebe scoffed. “At what? Don't you have all the work you need for now?”

“Yes, but I'm totally broke,” Haven tried to explain. “I need to work if I want to eat, so I'm making a dress for a friend. I promise—I won't let it interfere with our plans again.”

“Is this ‘friend' someone you met through Adam?” Phoebe inquired.

“Yes,” Haven admitted.

“Excellent,” Phoebe said, friendly once more. “Take some of what he gives you. It's the first step toward convincing him that he's won you over. But don't be too obvious. No money, no jewels—just little favors. Otherwise he'll suspect you're up to something.”

“I don't think you understand,” Haven couldn't help but bristle. “This job wasn't a
favor
. I'm a good designer. I don't need Adam Rosier to sell my dresses.”

“Of course you don't,” Phoebe said. “But please. Don't be late again. Even a talented designer should take the time to save her best friend. It would be a shame if something happened to him while you were sewing pretty dresses.”

Haven opened her mouth to argue, but there was no argument to be made. Phoebe was right.

“We should get started.” The old woman ushered Haven inside and directed her toward the stairs. “I must return to the spa soon. I have an appointment with a woman who's certain she was Joan of Arc.” She sighed dramatically. “They
all
think they were Joan of Arc.”

“Wait a second. Where's Iain? Vera was supposed to pick him up.”

“And so she did,” Phoebe said. “He came, we talked, and then he said he had to leave. It's too bad you missed him; I hear he'll be out of contact for a while.”

“You spoke to him? Did Iain tell you about his plan?”

Phoebe stopped on the stairs. “Yes, and I gave him my blessing. But I also explained why the Horae can't afford to put our own efforts on hold. You and I will continue just as we discussed.”

“But—”

“If Iain succeeds, I promise to reevaluate the agreement I made with you. Until then, our deal stands. Your friend may be in the hands of a psychopath, Haven, and I know you want to do everything you can to help him. Surely you see that two plans might be better than one?”

 

THE SNOW ON the rooftop had melted in a perfect circle around the water tower. Haven stripped off her outerwear as soon as they entered the hot, dry room inside. The air already bore the familiar fragrance of Phoebe's strange herbs. Haven dropped down to the floor by the hearth, and Phoebe took her place at Haven's side. It was all a waste of time, Haven decided. There was no way a vision would come when she was feeling so agitated. Why had she let herself be late for the meeting? How could she have missed her last chance to see Iain? And why was Phoebe being so stubborn?

“Close your eyes,” Phoebe said as she threw more twigs on the coals. “Try to remember the odors you encountered on your last voyage through time.”

Haven recalled the scent of the dirt on Piero's grave, the mustiness of the robes she'd worn. Then another fragrance came to her. It was delicate and floral, a perfume Beatrice had loved. It was still there, beneath the stenches of the fourteenth century.

“Let the smells pull you back. . . .”

 

 

HAVEN WOKE ON the floor. She could feel the woven mat etching a pattern onto her cheekbone.

“Tell me what happened,” Phoebe said.

“This is getting ridiculous!” Haven struggled to rise. She was still in shock—the horrible vision had taken a toll on her. The scent of Beatrice's perfume lingered, making Haven feel nauseous. “You're supposed to show me Naddo!”

“Tell me,” Phoebe repeated.

“No. What I saw was too personal.” Haven didn't want to admit that she'd once been the vain, greedy creature with the lovely face and the stunning blonde hair. And she didn't dare mention the girl's fiancé. There was no doubt about it. Beatrice Vettori had been on the verge of marrying Adam Rosier. But Haven wasn't about to let Phoebe know that.

“Nothing I saw today is going to help me find Beau.”

“How can you be so certain?” Phoebe asked.

“I just am,” Haven announced.

“You're pale. You must have seen something that disturbed you,” Phoebe probed. “There's no need to keep any secrets from me.”

“Please,” Haven begged. She couldn't bear any more probing. “I'm not feeling well. I need to go home.”

Phoebe's mouth curled up at its corners. If she hadn't known better, Haven would have guessed the older woman was delighted. “Very well,” Phoebe said. “Go back to your hotel. We will come for you again in a couple of days.”

Outside, Haven searched for a cab, but the slush-covered streets were deserted. Eager to escape from the Horae, she set off into the grounds of the rickety white mansion across the street. Perched on a hill in the middle of a neighborhood just north of Harlem, it had once been a stately country home, surrounded by an ancient forest. The man who had built it in the eighteenth century could never have imagined it would one day be enveloped by a bustling city filled with people from every known land.

Trudging through snow, Haven circled around to the back of the building where the Horae would neither see nor hear her. There, a porch offered welcome shelter from the bitter wind that blew west off the Harlem River. A strip of yellow police tape stretched across the stairs, but Haven ducked beneath it and shook the snow from her shoes. With Sylvan Terrace out of sight, she pulled out her phone and tried to call Iain. There wasn't an answer—not even a voice mail greeting. Frustrated, she sat down with her back against the wall of the house. She needed to talk to someone she could trust, so she scrolled through her phone's list of received calls. When she found the number with a North Carolina area code, she pressed dial.

“Hello?” The person on the other end of the phone had a mouth full of something crunchy. When they were kids, Leah Frizzell had always carried a bag of chips in her hand or a candy bar in her pocket. Yet she never managed to gain an ounce. There seemed to be a beast inside of the girl, demanding to be fed. It might have had something to do with the rumors she'd heard about Leah's family, but Haven had imagined a giant snake coiled inside the girl's belly, gorging on a never-ending supply of junk food.

“Leah, it's Haven. Do you have a minute?” Haven's mouth was watering. She had no idea what Leah was chewing on the other end of the line, but she'd have given almost anything for a bite.

Leah swallowed. “D'you find Beau?” she asked, as if Haven had been given the simplest task in the world.