The Temple of Indra’s Jewel: (11 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

G
etting through the airport was a tedious process. I hoped the flight to Dublin went smoother. I sat on the plane awaiting takeoff, thinking about the article I’d read on a temple in Cawnpore and sipping Timmy’s coffee. I was growing restless. The captain announced a delay. Checking the time, I realized it would probably be another 40 minutes before we were in the air.

I scrolled through an article on Nadir Shah and his 1738 invasion into Delhi. Legend had it he heard the emperor had a jewel so powerful that possession of it meant control of the empire. Intrigued by mythology as a child, I possessed some knowledge on the supposed magical gemstones; but I assumed that was the stuff of legend, children’s bedtime stories told by Gigi to spark my imagination. Not theology. Mythically speaking, whoever possessed the magic gained the power to time travel. Which to the logical mind sounded nuts, but then again, there was me—unless I was going nuts? Leslie assumed I was still confused from the bump on my head. Even Gigi had seemed shocked by what I told her.

I tucked my tablet away, exhaustion setting in. Life had become a whirlwind. Leslie and my very understanding boss had helped me arrange my sabbatical in a matter of days. The three of us had shared a tearful good-bye last night, leaving me emotionally drained.

I slept most of the flight, waking only briefly to let the girl beside me out. This time, instead of dreams filled with jewels and murder, I lusted after Cullen sometimes melding into Viktor. The eyes never changed—almost as if they were one and the same.

After seven hours of travel from Toronto, I should have been beat, but an equal measure of exhilaration and apprehension forced me to hurry from customs to baggage. I tightened my grip on my purse and strolled into the arrivals area of the Dublin airport. I was in Ireland, albeit still in the airport—which was totally foreign, with signs in Gaelic and chatter I didn’t comprehend. The place was exotic, noisy and bustling.

I stepped outside, and my heart raced as I scanned the crowd of strangers. With relief, I spotted an older man in a green vest bearing the name of the aircoach service Cullen had suggested. The dazzling sunshine brought me to an abrupt stop. For some reason I was expecting rain in Ireland. I lifted my face to the sun’s kiss and greedily sucked in air that hadn’t been climate controlled and recycled. Slipping on sunglasses and savouring the warmth on my shoulders, I waved, wheeling my luggage toward him.

“Hi, I’m Sophia Marcil. I need to go to the Merrion Hotel.”

The man shook my hand. “The name’s Seamus O’Sullivan. Let me help ya with that.”

We both got in. I pulled my cell out just as he pulled the coach away from the curb. I needed to send Cullen a text. He had to work for another hour or so, but he was meeting me for dinner.

“Nice to be off the plane?”

I finished typing and hit send.

“Yes. It’s especially nice to be in Ireland, though I must admit an airport is not the most scenic of sights.”

“Ah, just wait ’til ya see the countryside and the castles. Ya are planning to do a little sightseeing outside of the city, aren’t ya?”

“I hope so. I’m just heading to the hotel for a night or two, and then I’m staying with a friend. He’s promised to take me to the Cliffs of Moher, but I also need to do a little research, so I’ll be visiting Trinity College as well as your museum.”

“We’re almost there. You said Merrion, right?”

“Yes.” I nodded and turned my gaze back out the window. I knew Ireland was famous for its ruined Norman and Anglo-Irish castles, small whitewashed thatched cottages and Georgian urban buildings. I was noticing that there were apparently more bars per capita here than in any city in the world.

After quickly checking in and changing, I headed for Mulligan’s. I took the long way so I could check out the famed Grafton Street. The buildings held the remnants of days long past, mixed with the new and lively. I stopped to watch a street performer across from the St. Stephen Green entrance before realizing it was getting late. I walked a couple more blocks, feeling as if someone were following me. Cullen and I had argued about him picking me up. I’d insisted on sightseeing, and he’d reluctantly been forced to agree. I was now contemplating my decision.

Finally I came to Mulligans of Poolbeg Street, the designated meeting place. The cabbie had told me it was one of the most famous pubs in Dublin. It had authentic old wooden décor, and the bar area seemed ideal for a nightcap and a chat. There was an abundance of Victorian countertops and mahogany, with plenty of confessional partitions, dark corners ideal for intimacy and pints of creamy porter.

An older couple, arm in arm, strolled leisurely toward me, leaning against one another. The sight of them made me smile. I took a look around to see if Cullen had arrived yet. As I slipped through the narrow door into the lounge, I noticed a collection of old theatrical posters. The lounge décor looked the total opposite. It was filling up with a young crowd bopping to the latest music. A rowdy group of young tourists stood by, drinks in hand, arguing over lyrics to a bawdy tune.

A dark-haired man stood behind the group staring at me; he didn’t look like he was with them. His stare lasted only for a second; I didn’t see his face clearly before he was gone. He gave me the creeps. He had been staring as if he knew me.

“Hey, there, ya fine thing,” slurred a drunk as he cast an arm sloppily around me.

“Get off me.”

“I’d rather get on you. How’s about a ride?” he slurred again, this time pawing at my top. Trying to get away from him, I backed up and then tripped over someone’s purse, landing on my rump. His drink followed, soaking my shirt.

“Hey!”

The voice that suddenly went through the crowd was deep and resounding, and had a note of such unadulterated authority that everyone, including me, suddenly went still.

Cullen came striding into the motionless scene. From my position on the floor, he seemed extraordinarily tall, broad-shouldered and well-muscled beneath his rugby shirt. He caught hold of the kid who had touched me.

“What the feck is going on here?”

“Just acting the maggot.” The college kid sounded like a grade-schooler in trouble.

“Well, scram, and learn some manners, ye arsehole.”

“Or what?” ventured one of the drunken college boys.

Cullen stared at him. That was it; he just stared.

The barman brought down a glass on the bar with a bang. “Hey! Yous lot! That’ll do. Settle down now or you’re barred.”

“Just asking,” the boy muttered. He turned and headed out of the lounge. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They all followed suit, heading toward the door. Cullen strode toward me, offering me his hand. I stared into his face.

His complexion was a ruddy golden tan, his eyes a startling brilliant green. He had slicked his wavy coppery hair back. It wasn’t so much that he was typically handsome, but he was one of the most arresting men I’d ever met. He seemed to emit confidence and authority, and not just because of his height or build.

His large hand was extended to me; it was powerful, as I quickly discovered. It wasn’t his strength, which brought me quickly to my feet, that concerned me. It was his touch. Energy, almost like combustion or a current, streaked into me. He released me instantly and stepped back, almost as if he felt it too.

“Womanizing rascals,” he muttered. “Are you all right?”

“Um… fine.” I nodded. “Thanks to you. I guess I should have listened and allowed you to escort me from my hotel.”

“Aye, I hate to be right.” He cracked a slight smile, transforming his face. He was suddenly striking again. Still hard, but striking.

“Now, how about that pint? Then I thought we could head over to the Pearl Brasserie for a nice quiet dinner?”

I looked at my wet shirt.

“I’ve heard that place is nice, but I’m not sure I really feel like being out anymore. Would you mind if we just grabbed room service back at my hotel?”

A few minutes later we pulled up to the Merrion; Cullen parked in front. He got out and came around to open the door for me. The doorman greeted him by name.

“Do you bring all the ladies here or what?” I asked, eyebrow raised.

“I don’t,” he answered straight-faced. A few minutes later, we sat in the sitting room of the hotel suite.

“So how did that doorman know you?”

“Da’s family owns a lot of places around town.”

“Really. I’d like to hear about that.”

“Food first.”

He ordered supper and a bottle of red; he sipped whisky from the minibar. I carried my glass to the sofa and sat in the corner of it, taking my shoes off and tucking my feet beneath me.

For the next half an hour, he talked about his family. He lounged on a club chair, his feet on the matching ottoman. His stories about his older brother, a priest, and of course his parents, who I’d met, made it obvious how fond of them he was.

“How come I’m doing all the talking here? Tell me about the likes of you.”

“Me? What’s there to tell that I haven’t already told you?” I said playfully.

“How yer doing? We didn’t really talk about your grandmother when I visited.”

“I miss her,” I said. My eyes teared up, and I had to stop talking.

“Bollix. I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t be after askin’.”

I laughed, tears spilling onto my cheeks. “It’s all right. Sometimes it’s good to talk about that kind of stuff. I just can’t do it without crying yet.”

“Well, whenever you’re ready. ’Til then, let’s talk about something else. You mentioned doing a little research while you’re here.”

“Oh, yes! I’m looking for a man who used to work at the museum. I’m sure he’s passed on, but I’m hoping to track down some of his family to find some history about a gem that he passed onto my family.”

“What’s his name? Maybe I could help. My grandfather used to—”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Who could that be?”

“Probably room service.” Cullen stood and peered through the peephole before opening the door.

Sure enough, a uniformed man rolled in a cart draped in white linen, covered with food platters and a bottle of wine.

“Hope you’re hungry!” A smile curved his lips.

Aroma from the food wafted in the air, making my stomach grind.

Cullen tipped the guy and closed the door just as his jacket began to buzz.

“Sorry about that,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket and reading the screen. “It’s Da.”

He answered. As they began to speak I mouthed, “I’ll be back.”

I emerged from the bathroom two minutes later to find that Cullen had the food all laid out.

“Da says hello.”

“Hello.”

“They have extra tickets to the orchestra tomorrow night. They wanted us to join them for dinner and the show. It might be a little boring, but we can hit up a pub after.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely.”

“Great. Ma said to tell you she’ll meet you at Brown Thomas tomorrow.

I stared at him quizzically.

“Brown Thomas—ya know, for a dress.”

“Oh, I probably have something,” I said, trying to think of what I’d brought.

“Please, she lives to shop. They have more money than they know what to do with. Besides, I told ye she’s pushy; there’s really no choice,” he said, chuckling. “Just don’t be takin’ any guff off her. You pick out what ye like, not what she likes. And don’t worry about prices because she’s insistin’ on payin’.”

I followed Lucile, as gracefully as possible, as she emerged from the long black limousine in front of the restaurant. My shawl fluttered in the breeze as she smiled at the driver. She was in an ivory evening gown that draped elegantly from one shoulder. She had chosen something similarly off the shoulders for me in a deep blue, although mine had more sparkle at the top. She moved with enormous poise and grace in high-heeled gold sandals as she smiled and took her place beside John.

The photographer snapped their photograph. “They make a striking couple,” I whispered to Cullen as he took me by the arm, following their lead through the discrete front door to the townhouse, a classy plaque the only indication that we had come to the right place. Our coats were whisked into cupboards secreted in the wall, and we were shown to the lounge for a pre-dinner aperitif.

“How did the two of you meet?” I asked, sipping the champagne John had chosen.

“Oh, that’s a story, all right!” Lucile smiled, snuggling closer into her husband.

“Lucy here worked for me. She was nineteen when I discovered her in London.”

“You’re from England?” I asked, confused by her heavy Irish accent.

“Jesus, no. She’s Irish, to be sure—just test her temper to find that out—but she lived there at the time. A receptionist at the local television station I bought. She bowled me over: awkward, shy and beautiful.”

She pecked him on the cheek just as the maître d’ returned to show us to our table, which was at the end of the dining room. Cullen and I were seated on the inside; I admired the ballet of waiters and sommeliers gliding through the room. It wasn’t two minutes before our starters arrived. Roast castletownbere scallops, fine tart with fennel and Saint Tola goat’s cheese.