All You Desire (21 page)

“No, not yet. But I'm in New York now.”

“Have you been to see the woman surrounded by smoke?”

“Her name is Phoebe. I've talked to her. Three times, as a matter of fact.”

“And?” More crunching.

“It's not been very helpful. She takes me back to the life I need to see, but never the right parts. I wish there was some other way.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. If I knew of another way, I'd tell you. I suppose you'll just have to keep trying for now.”

“Yeah. It's just . . .” Haven sighed. “It's just that my visions haven't been all that pleasant. Turns out I wasn't a very good person back then. Actually, I was pretty damn horrible. I was mean and vain and greedy. And I have a sick feeling I was engaged to Adam Rosier—and that I might have had something to do with my brother's death. I don't want to see any more, Leah. If I hurt Piero, I don't know how I'll live with myself.”

“I'd be real surprised if you hurt anyone. But even if you did, it was a long time ago. Have you ever considered that you might have learned a thing or two since the fourteenth century?”

“Sure, but—”

“I mean, isn't that the whole point of this reincarnation stuff?” Leah continued. “To learn from the mistakes you've made?”

“To be honest, I don't know what the point is,” Haven said. “But if we really learn from our mistakes, wouldn't we all be much better people by now?”

“Maybe you
are
better,” Leah said. “Or maybe there's something out there that holds people back. You know, like they say in physics, for every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction.”

“Never had much time for physics,” Haven said.

“That's a shame. It explains an awful lot, you know. But I'm afraid I don't have much time for it either right now.”

“No? Why not?”

It was Leah's turn to sigh. “These visions I'm having—they're getting so bad that I can't hardly think straight.”

“Are you still seeing the man in the garden?” Haven looked out from the porch at the grounds of the mansion and tried to imagine how lovely they would be in the spring when the snow finally melted away. There were hundreds of gardens hidden all over Manhattan. Any of them could be the one Leah needed to find.

“Yeah,” Leah said. “It's like he doesn't want me to wait anymore. He wants me to come now. I've never felt this sort of pressure before. Something big is going to happen. I'd be in New York today if I knew where to look for the guy. You haven't had any ideas, have you?”

“No,” Haven admitted. In the distance, a fire engine wailed. “Can you give me any more clues? Do you hear anything in your visions? Smell anything?”

“Now that you mention it, there's something that smells nasty. Rotten—like the time a possum crawled up into my uncle Earl's carburetor and died.”

“That's what New York smells like all summer,” Haven said. “What about noises. Do you hear anything in the visions? A church bell, maybe, or an ice cream truck?”

“No,” Leah said after a long pause. “I don't hear anything.”

“Are you sure? Not even sirens or horns or traffic?”

“Nope,” Leah said. “Nothing. It's totally silent.” Haven heard Leah's hand rustling around in a bag, then the crunching commenced once more.

“Well, I don't know what to tell you, then,” Haven said as her stomach began to growl. “I'm having a hard time thinking straight myself. I've hardly eaten all day.”

“Why not?”

“It's a long story,” Haven said. “Let's just say I'm trying to avoid temptation.”

“By starving yourself?” Leah scoffed. “A hamburger's not going to get you in trouble, Haven. Go find some food. You ain't gonna save anyone if you let yourself die of hunger.”

“Good point,” said Haven.

“My points always are. And Haven?”

“Yeah.”

“Don't worry so much about temptation. Just trust yourself, and you'll do the right thing. Whatever that turns out to be.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Haven raced to board the last car on the train. The seats were packed with weary passengers on their way home from work. She leaned her back against the door of a conductor's booth and watched the subway tunnel recede in the distance. Even in the most desolate stretches, she could see signs that the tunnels weren't entirely vacant. A mangy couch. A stuffed suitcase. A baby stroller. There were people living beside the tracks, fumbling their way through the darkness.

Haven felt just as blind. Her vision had illuminated a single scene in the past. Beatrice hadn't been Adam's prisoner. She'd been his fiancée. But the revelation was like striking a match on a moonless night. How many times had Haven chosen Adam of her own free will? Had Iain known all along? As much as she dreaded the answers, she knew she needed to ask.

When the subway stopped at Seventy-second Street and Central Park West, Haven got out. As express trains swept through the station, she sat on a bench and waited for the platform to empty. Chandra might have lost the gray men who'd been following Haven earlier in the day, but there was always a chance that they'd picked up her scent once more. When no one else stayed behind, Haven charged up the steps. Ducking between cars stopped at the traffic light on the avenue, she made her way to the wall that circled Central Park. There, across from Frances Whitman's apartment building, she lingered once more to make sure no one was watching. She shouldn't have risked guiding gray men to Iain. But she'd tried calling a dozen times with no success, and her desire to hear his voice had grown too strong to resist.

She was scanning the street for suspicious sedans when she saw the young man emerge from the Andorra apartments and begin walking uptown. Iain's face was hidden under a Yankees hat, but Haven recognized his gait in an instant. The traffic was heavy, and she couldn't cross the avenue. Shouting would draw unwanted attention. So she trailed Iain from the opposite side of the road until he disappeared down a side street. When the streetlights finally turned red, she hurried to catch him. But the trail had gone cold by the time she reached the sidewalk. Jogging west, she searched for Iain's black coat and cap. Finally she spotted him on a corner of Amsterdam Avenue slipping inside a dingy bar with a neon sign.

She had plenty of time to call out to him, but she didn't. Instead, Haven crept down the sidewalk and hid behind a tree outside the bar. Why was Iain out drinking while she was busting her butt to save Beau? And who in the hell was he meeting? Peeking though the soot-smeared windows, Haven could see a small, shabby room with a pool table at one end. Three booths lined the right-hand wall. A long oak bar ran opposite. There, Iain was greeting a girl who must have been waiting for him to arrive. Mia Michalski. Haven's stomach turned when she saw Iain kiss the girl's cheek.

She didn't look for long, but she saw enough of Mia to see the detective was too young for barhopping—and every bit as beautiful as Alex Harbridge had described. Haven wondered why someone so attractive would choose to do most of her business over the Internet. One flutter of Mia's eyelashes or flip of that long blonde mane could draw secrets out of almost any man alive.

Haven slid back behind the tree and thumped her head against the bark. She'd lost another opportunity to speak to Iain. If she stepped into the bar, he would realize she'd followed him. How would she explain her actions if she couldn't understand them herself? What was wrong with her? Why hadn't she called out to Iain when she'd had the chance?

You're not who you think you are,
the Horae once warned her. Virginia Morrow had said the same thing. Haven thought of selfish, spoiled Beatrice. The girl who lived only for gifts and had agreed to marry Adam Rosier. Was that horrible girl still somewhere inside of her? Was
she
the reason Haven had been too dazzled by Alex Harbridge to remember her meeting with the Horae? Was
she
the reason Haven had gone behind Iain's back to save a fortune that wasn't really hers? Was
she
the reason Haven was spying on the person she loved most—the person who was risking everything to help her?

Trust yourself, and you'll do the right thing
. This time it was Leah's words that Haven heard in her head. And Leah Frizzell never lied. She never tidied up the truth or softened her words just to save someone's feelings. If Leah trusted her to do the right thing, then Haven knew she was capable of figuring out what it was. So without a single glance at the bar behind her, Haven stepped out of her hiding place and followed her heart down Amsterdam Avenue.

She bought a small spiral notebook at a deli, intending to write Iain a note—an apology, a thank-you, and a love letter all wrapped into one. But words couldn't capture everything she needed to say. So for the next two hours, Haven sat at a café and sketched scenes of their happiest memories. The little white cottage in the Washington Mews. Eden Falls. The basement of the Apollo Theater. The balcony of their apartment on the Piazza Navona. The winding streets of Rome. On the very last page of the notebook, Haven wrote,
I keep missing you
.

The doorman at the Andorra apartments took the notebook and placed it in an envelope that he labeled
guest of Frances Whitman.
Her errand finished, Haven stepped to the curb, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address of the Gramercy Gardens Hotel. When she arrived, she rushed straight for her room. The right thing to do going forward, she'd decided, was keep herself out of trouble. But Haven was only halfway across the lobby when she heard her own name.

“Excuse me! Miss Moore!” A woman dressed in a chic black suit was chasing her.

Not again,
Haven thought as she reluctantly came to a halt. She recognized the woman as the manager who had greeted her at checkin, and Haven hoped she wasn't about to be sent packing from another hotel. Then she remembered: The Ouroboros Society was footing the bill. She could probably demand that the manager strip to her underwear while belting out “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and the woman would happily obey.

“I'm so glad I caught you!” The manager was out of breath but still struggling to keep a broad smile on her face.

“Is there a problem?” Haven asked.

“Oh no, no problem at all, Miss Moore! I just wanted to let you know that you received a delivery earlier this afternoon. I hope you don't mind, but I instructed my staff to take it up to your room.”

“That's fine,” Haven said. Whatever Adam had sent could go right in the trash.

“It was a rather unusual delivery,” the manager said.

“I'm sure it's fine,” Haven assured her.

Upstairs, she opened the door to her hotel room and stopped in her tracks. There was a figure standing by the windows.

“Iain?” Her head told her it couldn't be possible, but her heart kept dancing. When the lights came on, she gasped. The figure was a dressmaker's dummy. Bolts of fabric in every shade of green were leaning against the walls. The desk held a state-of-the-art sewing machine. On the table by the window was a gift basket the size of a garbage can overflowing with pink frosted cupcakes and champagne. An envelope lay beside the basket.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Haven sat at the sewing machine, letting the fabric flow through her fingers as it passed under the needle. She hadn't bothered to cut a pattern for the dress she was making. It wasn't the dress she'd agreed to make, but she knew it was the gown Alex needed to wear. She was creating it from memory, and for the first time since she'd returned from spying on Iain, her mind was unclouded. She kept the phone nearby in case he called, but she knew Iain had gone ahead with his plan. A whole week might pass before she'd have word from him. All Haven could do now was wait—wait for the right vision to come. Wait for someone to save Beau. Wait for Iain to find Padma Singh. While Haven waited, she'd work. The more time she spent alone in her room, the less likely she was to screw everything up.

She cut and pinned and sewed through the night, stopping briefly around three in the morning to attack a cupcake from Alex's basket and wash it down with a glass of champagne. She dropped the cupcake wrapper onto the floor alongside scraps of fabric and rejected zippers. Four hours later, she collapsed on top of the trash and fell fast asleep. The room was a disaster, but in the center stood the dressmaker's dummy, wearing one of the most beautiful gowns Haven had ever created. She would have been the first to admit that it wasn't her own design.

Beau visited Haven in her dreams. She was sitting at the table in his father's kitchen, eating a bowl of Froot Loops. Beau came in and plunked down a doll in a slinky green dress.

“Who is that, Hooker Barbie?” Haven had asked, dribbling a little milk down the front of her shirt.

“Do you have to be so crude? That's Alex Harbridge,” Beau said. “I've freed her from the tyranny of bad fashion.”

“Alex Harbridge would never wear that.”

“She would if
I
made it for her,” Beau argued. “It's designed for a girl with a little flesh on her bones. Barbie doesn't quite cut it, but she's all I had to work with.”

“I'm not saying it wouldn't look good. I'm saying Alex Harbridge would never wear it. She's obviously neurotic about her weight. You may think she's hot, but most girls have no idea what they really look like. We see something totally different when we look in the mirror.”