Sharp Edges (15 page)

"I like to think that I come in handy once in a while."

She groaned. "I'm sorry I insulted your professional expertise this afternoon."

"Forget it."

"No, I had no right to make that stupid comment when you dropped the car keys, and I shouldn't have implied that private detectives aren't bright. It was uncalled for."

"I said, forget it. Hell, in the course of my professional career I have done lots of things that weren't real bright. And hard as it may be for you to believe, I've even had people say worse things about me than you did."

She smiled wryly. "Thanks. You're too kind."

"We can't ignore what happened today," he said after a while.

"We certainly can't," she agreed with gratifying speed.

He settled back. "We should probably talk about it."

"Fine with me. Since you brought up the subject, I may as well tell you that I found Rhonda Price's number in the phone book. I thought I would start calling her tomorrow after the first ferry arrives from the mainland."

He closed his eyes and held on to the reins of his patience. "I wasn't talking about Rhonda Price. I meant we can't ignore what happened between us in the front seat of my Jeep this afternoon."

"Oh, that."

He opened his eyes. "I wasn't trying to control you with sex. I started out pissed as hell, and things sort of took off from there."

"I understand." Her voice was tight. "It was as much my fault as it was yours. We're both under pressure. We're in a very stressful situation. Perfectly understandable."

"Uh-huh."

"After all, we found a dead body together."

"Some people would consider that a bonding experience," he suggested.

She was silent for a couple of heartbeats. "Yes, I suppose it is. The thing is, we're both trying to walk a very fine line here. We've agreed to cooperate on some issues, but we have separate goals. It makes for a lot of tension and natural conflict."

"Should have guessed you'd have it all nicely rationalized by now."

"We're both adults," she continued, warming to her theory. "We're capable of dealing with this in a mature fashion. I, for one, certainly intend to do so."

"Does this mean you aren't sexually obsessed with me?"

She choked on her wine. "Of course, I'm not sexually obsessed with you." She sputtered. "I've never been sexually obsessed with anyone in my life. I don't have relationships based on sexual obsession."

"I see." He downed another swallow of Pacific Express. "I've never actually had a relationship based on sexual obsession, either."

She gave him a sharp glance. "You haven't?"

"No." He paused. "It might be kind of interesting."

"I think it would be extremely superficial, shallow, and short-lived."

"Yeah, probably that, too." He shifted a little in his chair. "So what do you usually base your relationships on, if not sexual obsession?"

She cleared her throat, took another sip of wine, and settled back in the lounger again. "The usual. Compatibility. Shared professional interests. A certain similarity in matters of taste. That kind of thing."

"Similarity of taste, huh? Damn. It's the shirt, isn't it? You can't get past it."

Her mouth curved in an unexpected grin. "No. It's not the shirt."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

He realized that her response made him feel much more optimistic than he had felt in a long time. "Well, if you don't want to talk about sex, how about dinner?"

"What about it?"

"Just wondered what you were going to fix for yourself," he said very casually.

"I don't know." She crossed her legs. "I brought some radicchio and arugula with me. Maybe I'll do a little goat cheese salad and some zaru soba."

He cocked a brow. "What's a zaru soba?"

"Cold buckwheat noodles and some special dipping sauce. How about you?"

"Don't suppose you know any interesting recipes for tuna fish, do you?"

"The only kind of tuna I eat is sushi-grade ahi grilled medium rare with a little wasabi on the side."

Morosely he regarded the spectacular view. "I was afraid of that."

Eugenia hesitated a minute. "I've got enough goat cheese and radicchio for two. And plenty of noodles. If you want to make the same deal as last night—?"

"Sure, I'll clean up. No problem." He thought about it. "I'm good at cleaning up. It's what I do."

Nine

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T
he gin-and-tonic arrived in a late-nineteenth-century English rock-crystal glass. The man who had once been Damien March savored the sumptuous feel of the heavy glass in his hand. It was a Thomas Webb piece. It looked as if it had been hewn from a solid chunk of quartz rather than crafted in a glass workshop.

The ex-Damien March contemplated the new e-mail messages he had just received from his West Coast people. Colfax was definitely on the trail of the Hades cup.

With matters under control on that front, it was time to contact the future Senator from the great state of California again. The secret to successful blackmail was to create the aura of a partnership between blackmailer and victim. Once the victim had accepted the fact that the person who threatened him the most was the only one who could save him, he became cooperative.

The ex-Damien March looked out over the sun-bright Caribbean and thought about how much he was enjoying himself. He had launched this game with some uneasiness. For all his insufferable, laid-back manners, his slow, methodical ways, and his amused disdain for what he considered affected behavior in others, Cyrus Colfax was both smart and dangerous.

It always gave the ex-Damien March an uneasy sensation to acknowledge that he and Colfax had so much in common. Nevertheless, it was the truth, and he had recognized it from the start. They had both come from nothing, the bastard sons of fathers who had never acknowledged their existence. They were both self-made men. They were both intelligent and willing to stay focused on an objective for as long as it took to achieve it. And they were both capable of a degree of ruthless determination.

But there was one significant difference between the two of them. The ex-Damien March knew that ultimately it separated the winner from the loser. While he had used his natural gifts to achieve a lifestyle that was very close to perfection, Colfax had shackled himself in the chains of an arcane code of honor. It was this code that would, in the end, destroy him.

Exactly what he deserved
. The former Damien March tightened his hand around the rock crystal glass. Three years ago he had thought that he was free of Cyrus Chandler Colfax. He had been wrong. The damned son of a bitch had been tracking him for the whole of that time, drawing relentlessly closer and closer.

Eventually, the ex-Damien March knew, he would have awakened one morning to find Colfax on his doorstep.

Perhaps this business of losing the Hades cup was an act of fate, he thought. It would force the inevitable confrontation, but that confrontation would take place on his terms, not Colfax's.

One thing had become clear during the past three years. As long as Cyrus Colfax was alive, paradise was not safe.

The ex-Damien March allowed the rage to flow freely through him for a time. It gave him strength and power.

When he had himself back under full control, he reached for his laptop computer.

Zackery Elland Chandler II shut down the computer. He sat quietly for a moment behind the teak desk that his father-in-law had given him the day he announced his bid for the Senate.

The newest message from the blackmailer had gotten down to specifics.

…Old Sins Cast Long Shadows: You may relax, our business arrangement is not about money. It will be simply politics as usual. After November you will be in a position to do occasional favors for someone who has only your best interests at heart…

There were few people on the face of the globe who wielded more influence than a United States Senator. The blackmailer was not interested in a cash payoff. He wanted access to power.

All he had to do was agree to the bastard's terms until after the elections, Zackery thought. A scandal of this magnitude blowing up before November could ruin his chances at the polls. He'd seen lesser revelations crush other candidates.

Once he was in office, he thought optimistically, it would not do nearly as much damage. If he played his cards right, the news of his long-lost son would be stale gossip by the time the next election rolled around.

Unless, of course, some journalist discovered that blackmail had been paid prior to the election
. Rumors of a coverup, Zackery knew, would never be allowed to die.

He had to face the truth. If he paid blackmail now, he would end up paying it for the rest of his career.

Damn it to hell.

He had so many things he wanted to accomplish. So many vital, important things. But in order to make a contribution to the future of the country, he had to win this election.

And in order to win the election, he might have to sell his soul.

He looked at the photograph of Mary, Jason, and Sarah. They believed in him. They were proud of him. They loved him. The news of a son he had never acknowledged would have a stunning impact on all of them. Would they believe him when he said that he had never even known about his supposed offspring? Especially if the son he had never known chose to tell a different version of events?

If they ever discovered that he had paid blackmail, would they understand why he had lied to them?

He got up and walked to the window. The bright, hot Southern California sun created a dazzling glare on the windows of the nearby buildings. For a moment all he could see was an endless vista of mirrored glass. His future ricocheted endlessly, uselessly, from one reflective surface to the next until it was lost in infinity.

With an effort he pulled himself together. He had to start thinking logically. He needed facts. At this point he had only the blackmailer's word that there was a son. The first thing to do was discover the truth. Then he would make his decision.

He went back to the desk and picked up the phone. It was while he was in the middle of dialing his lawyer's number that he was struck by a disturbing possibility.

The mysterious blackmailer could be his own son.

On the heels of that thought came another that was even more unsettling. He wondered what the kid looked like.

No, not a kid. Not any longer.

If he existed, his son would be thirty-five years old. A man, not a boy. And quite possibly he would be angry, bitter, and dangerous.

Ten

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T
wo days later Cyrus put down the folder he had been studying. He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and contemplated the view through the door that divided the glass vault from the records storage room.

Eugenia was hard at work inventorying the Daventry glass, but he knew that she was not in a good mood. She was, in fact, getting extremely restless. Rhonda Price had not returned to Frog Cove Island.

The records storage room was a bit cramped, but as far as Cyrus was concerned, it was more comfortable than the vault. The rest of Glass House could hardly be described as restful, but the interior of the glass vault disturbed his senses in some elemental way.

He had never considered himself the overly imaginative type—just the opposite, if the truth be known. But to him, gazing into the vault was like looking into a crystal jungle where the leaves of the exotic plants were shards of glass and the eyes of the predators were faceted crystal.

Daventry had really outdone himself with the glass vault, Cyrus thought. Everything in the room where Eugenia was working glittered and dazzled.

Unlike the dramatically lit gallery on the third floor, the vault was not done in classic museum style with lots of dark, shadowy space between display cases. Instead, it had a surreal quality. The walls and ceilings were all mirrored, and the display cases were made of glass. The result was that objects inside the cases were reflected endlessly.

But the most unpleasant aspect of the room as far as Cyrus was concerned was the lighting. The entire chamber was infused with a pale acid green tint from the colored fluorescent tubes imbedded beneath the glass block floor.

The glass on display in the specially lit cases glowed as brilliantly as if it had all been fashioned of pure gemstone. Eugenia was surrounded by topaz vases, ruby bowls, turquoise bottles, and emerald ewers. The pieces that were made of clear glass looked especially bizarre in this setting. To Cyrus, they appeared to be so many beakers, cups, and pitchers created for ghosts.

Eugenia stood on the far side of the windowless room. The sight of her bent over a large glass paperweight made him smile.

The cat burglar was back this morning.

Eugenia wore another in what appeared to be an endless supply of sleek black tops. This one had an austere round collar and long, snug sleeves. She padded around in the little black slippers she wore inside Glass House.

The intensity of her expression fascinated him. He watched her turn the paperweight in her hand. From where he was sitting in the small anteroom, it appeared to be crammed full of small, brilliant crystal flowers.

"Is it valuable?" he asked, idly curious.

"It's all relative." She did not look up from her inspection. "It's Clichy millefiori. Quite lovely. Worth several thousand on the open market. But it's not a particularly important addition for the Leabrook. Our paperweight collection already has several fine examples."

"I see." He studied the graceful curve of her body as she made a note in a log. When he became aware of the stirrings of a hunger that had nothing to do with food, he made himself look away for a while. The small exercise in self-control was good for him, he thought. It probably built character. Besides, there was no point getting sexually obsessed by a woman who was not sexually obsessed with him.