Amaryllis (40 page)

“Really?” Amaryllis went around the reception desk to look at the news photo. For an instant she didn't recognize the scene, let alone herself. Then her face went red. “Oh, my God. I hope my family doesn't see this.”

The picture had obviously been taken by someone in the SynCity Club audience. A patron had smuggled in a camera in spite of the rules, Amaryllis thought grimly. The photo showed her, center stage, hands raised in her frantic attempt to get someone's attention.

Clementine leaned over the desk. “Sort of looks like you're conducting the activities on stage, Amaryllis.”

“This is so embarrassing,” Amaryllis muttered. “I wonder if the
Lower Bellevue Journal
will run the same shot.”

In the photo she appeared to be orchestrating the erotic actions of the outrageously attired syn-sex performers on either side of her. Discreet portions of the dancers' anatomies had been covered with small, black squares. The
New Seattle Times
was a family newspaper, after all.

In the background of the picture, one could just make out Lucas and Sheffield on the floor. They looked as if they were locked in each others' arms.

“Great advertising for Psynergy, Inc.,” Byron declared. “The phone's going to be ringing all day. Every talent in town will want to hire Amaryllis.”

“They can't have me,” Amaryllis said. “At least not for a
couple of days. Clementine said I'm not to accept any assignments today, remember? And I'll be out of town tomorrow and most of the following day.”

“Oh, yeah.” Byron frowned as he scanned the story of Amaryllis's adventures. “You're going to your great-aunt's birthday party, aren't you? Bet your family will be excited when they hear what you've been up to in the big city.”

“Not as excited as they're going to be when I tell them that I'm getting married,” Amaryllis murmured.

Byron's head snapped up abruptly. “You've been matched already?”

Clementine looked thoughtful. “Not likely. There hasn't been enough time for the agency to find a good selection of candidates for you. What are you up to, Amaryllis?”

Amaryllis braced herself. This was only the beginning, she thought. It would get worse before it got better. No one approved of runaway marriages. “I'm going to marry Lucas.”

“Trent?” Clementine's jaw dropped. “Are you crazy? He's a class nine.”

Byron's eyes widened. “Holy synergy. What will your family say?”

“I'll find out tomorrow,” Amaryllis said.

Clementine propped one hip on Byron's desk and crossed her arms. She regarded Amaryllis with troubled eyes. “Are you sure you know what you're doing?”

“Yes.”

Clementine cleared her throat. “Passion is a tricky thing. I hope you're not making the mistake of thinking that it's always linked to love. Marriage is forever, you know. You don't want to take any risks—”

The office door opened before Clementine could finish her lecture. Grateful for the interruption, Amaryllis turned to see who had entered. She stifled a small sigh when she saw Gifford.

“Good morning.” Gifford was dressed in his customary silver gray suit, but his red bow tie appeared a little wilted. He nodded stiffly to Clementine, ignored Byron, and turned immediately to Amaryllis. “I've got to talk to you.”

Amaryllis took a sip of coff-tea. “The last time you said
that, you stuck me in the back of a limousine with a murderer.”

“What's this?” Clementine gave Gifford a sharp look.

“Never mind,” Amaryllis said. “It's a long story. Come into my office, Gifford.”

Clementine glowered ferociously at Gifford. “Touch her and you're a dead man.”

Gifford tugged slightly at his drooping bow tie. “I just want to talk to her, Clementine. It's personal. Not business. Don't worry, I won't steal her away from you.”

“He knows I would never go to work for Unique Prisms,” Amaryllis said.

Clementine favored Gifford with a steely smile. “Damn right, she wouldn't. Amaryllis has standards, unlike some people we could mention. She prefers to be employed by a reputable agency.”

Gifford flushed and hurried past the reception desk. He followed Amaryllis into her office and closed the door with a groan of relief.

“Synergistic hell, Amaryllis, how can you stand working for an eccentric character like Clementine Malone? I can see you at Proud Focus, maybe, or even True Focus, but not this place. Malone has all the social graces of an alley cat-dog. And her taste in clothes is abominable. Worse than yours.”

“I'm quite content here, Gifford. As Clementine said, I prefer a reputable agency.”

“Reputable. Give me a break.” Gifford rolled his eyes as he sat down in the nearest chair. “Clementine Malone can be difficult, but she is a businesswoman, I'll say that much for her. If Madison Sheffield had walked into this office looking for a prism, I have a strong hunch Malone would have found one for him.”

“I disagree,” Amaryllis said firmly. “Clementine runs an ethical business.” She went behind her desk, sat down, and folded her hands on the neat, polished surface in front of her. “Now, what was it you wanted, Gifford?”

“The cops were waiting for me when I got to my office this morning.”

“I'm not surprised. They probably wanted to ask you a few questions about your association with Sheffield.”

“That's putting it mildly. They grilled me.” Gifford's mouth tightened. “I had to do a lot of explaining. I hope you realize that this mess could really hurt me. I've got my reputation to consider. Unique Prisms has found a very special market niche. We guarantee discretion. This kind of publicity is not good for business.”

Amaryllis felt a pang of guilt. “I'm sorry you got dragged into it.”

“So am I,” Gifford said with great depth of feeling. “Why the hell did you have to get involved in an investigation of Landreth's death?”

“I did what I felt I had to do. Questions arose and had to be answered.”

“Only you would give a damn about the answers. Landreth was an obnoxious old busybody. Nobody liked him.”

“I liked him. And so did his secretary, Irene Dunley.”

“Well, let me tell you, the two of you are probably the only people on St. Helens who cared about the old bastard.”

“Gifford, the man died under mysterious circumstances. Last night a woman was murdered. You can't just ignore these things because the publicity might be bad for business.”

“We pay the police to look into this kind of stuff, not nosy little prisms who think they have to personally see to matters of truth, justice, and the St. Helens way.”

Amaryllis sighed. “If you came here to argue synergistic ethics with me, I'm afraid you've wasted your time.”

“That's not why I came here.” Gifford got to his feet and began to move restlessly around the small office. “I want to ask a favor.”

“What sort of favor?”

“I told the cops the basic truth about my connection with Sheffield. I said I provided him with prisms. I told them that Sheffield had not provided a certification of talent, but that I only hired full-spectrum prisms, so I assumed there would be no risk to any of my employees. How was I to know that he would start burning them out?”

“Indeed.”

“Hell, that's not the point. The police aren't particularly interested in whether or not Sheffield was properly matched with the prisms he hired. It's not a crime to burn out a prism.”

“True. But it's not very pleasant for the prism.”

“But no permanent damage is done,” Gifford insisted. “And no one is sure just what Sheffield was focusing, anyway. Even the prisms he worked with have a hard time describing his talent. Personality traits aren't psychic powers.”

“I don't know about that,” Amaryllis mused. “Do you recall how Professor Landreth once theorized that strong personality traits might be manifestations of psychic energy?”

“Please.” Gifford held up a palm. “Don't mention Landreth's name to me. The point is, I'm an innocent victim in this situation.”

“Innocent?”

“Not only innocent but a damn good citizen. I was trying to help the Founders' Values candidate. The man who would have been the people's choice for governor. Sheffield was a city-state senator who had refused testing on principle. Why should I doubt his word when he told me that he estimated his own strength at around a class nine?”

“Gifford, I don't think there's much point in this conversation. Perhaps you had better leave. I've got work to do and I'm sure you do, too.”

“No, wait, I'm not finished.” Gifford jerked at the knot of the red bow tie. “Look, Amaryllis, I'll level with you. I told the cops the truth this morning, I swear it. I provided Sheffield with qualified prisms. That was my only connection to him. I'm asking you as my friend and former professional colleague not to drag me any deeper into this thing.”

For some reason, perhaps because she truly did bear some responsibility for involving him in the situation, Amaryllis felt another twinge of guilt. “I have no intention of doing that.”

Gifford spun around, hope in his eyes. “What about
Landreth's calendar? You said that the last entry indicated he had made an appointment with me. Remember? That was how you got me into this mess in the first place.”

“Oh, yes, the calendar entry.” Amaryllis frowned. “Well, I think that's neither here nor there now.”

“The police said it looks like Sheffield murdered the stripper because she tried to blackmail him using the information in Landreth's file,” Gifford said impatiently. “But they're also going to look into the report on Landreth's accident. I'd just as soon not have the cops find out that my name was the last entry in the old coot's calendar.”

“Why are you so worried?”

“I'm just asking you not to bring up the subject, okay? I'd like to keep my name out of the investigation as much as possible. Damn it, is that too much to ask?”

“Stop whining, Gifford. If it makes you feel any better, I have no intention of mentioning Professor Landreth's calendar to the police.” There was no reason to do so. Gifford was not the murderer.

“Thanks.” Gifford's relief transformed his features. Even his red bow tie appeared a little perkier. He crossed the office in three strides, came around behind the desk, and hoisted Amaryllis to her feet. “I'll owe you for this. If you ever need a job, come see me. Got that?”

“I don't expect that will be necessary.”

“And I'm sorry about the way you found me with that little blond talent that day in the lab. She meant nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Yes, well, that's in the past now, Gifford. I don't—”

“You were too good for me, darling. Don't you understand? That's why our relationship fell apart. I felt I couldn't live up to your high standards. The pressure was just too much.”

Amaryllis reflected briefly on all that had happened during the past couple of weeks. She had broken into the offices of her former employer, gone to a syn-sex nightclub, visited a stripper, begun an affair with an unsuitable talent, nearly gotten herself killed, and now she was preparing for a runaway marriage. Life had certainly changed recently.

“Actually, my standards aren't quite what they used to be,” Amaryllis said.

Lucas spoke from the doorway. “They're still way too high for you, Osterley, so don't get any ideas.”

Gifford released Amaryllis as if she had suddenly turned red hot under his hands. “Trent. What are you doing here?”

“I came to see my fiancée.”

“Fiancée?” Gifford looked thunderstruck.

“Yeah. I know you can't wait to congratulate us.”

“But you're a talent. A big one. She's a full-spectrum prism. There's no way any marriage agency would match the two of you.”

“Who said anything about going through an agency?” Lucas asked.

Gifford's mouth opened and closed several times. He stared at Amaryllis. “I don't believe it. A nonagency marriage? You?”

Amaryllis smiled very sweetly. “Sort of makes synergistic hash out of everything you've ever taken for granted about me, doesn't it, Gifford? I'm afraid I'm not the woman I used to be.”

“Comes from hanging out with bad company,” Lucas explained. “I on the other hand, have become extremely narrow-minded in recent days. One might even call me a straitlaced prude. For example, I don't like finding my fiancée in another man's arms.”

“I was just having a little chat.”

“Get out of here, Osterley, before I get really annoyed.”

Gifford did not hesitate. He walked quickly toward the door. “Amaryllis and I were simply discussing some private business,” he muttered as he went past Lucas. “Nothing of an intimate nature occurred, I assure you.”

Lucas did not bother to respond. He folded his arms across his chest and regarded Amaryllis with grave interest. “I wonder if you'd care to demonstrate a few of your newly lowered standards.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Lucas straightened, closed the door, and locked it. “We once discussed the propriety of making love on a desk.”

Amaryllis's mouth went dry. “Did we?”

“Yeah. My memory is real clear on the subject.” Lucas walked toward her.

“Clementine will wonder what's happening in here.”

“Your boss and I had a short conversation a few minutes ago. She said you had the day off in order to recover from your traumatic experiences last night.”

“Yes, I do.” Amaryllis watched, fascinated, as Lucas's hands went to the buckle of his belt. “What about your newfound streak of prudery?”

“It only applies to some things.” Lucas came around the desk and gently pinned Amaryllis against it. He reached down and eased her legs apart.