Trouble and Treasure (#1, Trouble and Treasure Series) (6 page)

Rather than squeak at the man that I would
talk to the auctioneer to see whether the auction could continue, I
blurted out the dumbest thing I ever had in my entire life.
Shaking, I tilted my head to the side, pulled my lips back in a
supremely awkward grin and blurted, “But there are four
more.”

There were four more, four more spotting
globes from my great-uncle's collection. Well, technically.

The auction house that seconds before had
been ready to explode became still and cold like the depths of
space. You could have dropped a snowflake and heard it hit the
ground.

“
I see,” was all the man had
said.

And that right there had started this all.
All that business with burglars in my hallway, mercenaries in my
drawing-room, lawyers on my lawn, and soldiers in my kitchen; it
was then and there it had begun.

Elizabeth sent me to bed in short fashion,
insisting I brush my teeth on account of how much sugar I’d
consumed. It was a surreal experience to be ordered to clean my
teeth before bed, barely an hour after being chased through a
forest by soldiers with guns.

Yet as soon as my head hit the pillow I
fell asleep, and I didn’t wake until morning.

Amanda Stanton

The second I awoke, I had a feeling I
couldn't remember something, something important. For a few
blissful moments I lay there, warm in bed as I tried to remember
what it was I’d forgotten. Was I meant to call my great-aunt today?
Was there a fair in the local village? Had I organized to meet a
friend in town?

Then in a snap, I remembered everything. I
had no idea how I could have forgotten; it was the only night of my
life that had involved so much action, so many guns, and so many
people out to capture me.

I lay in bed, flashes of last night chasing
through my mind as I curled up, clutched the cushions beside me,
and I tried not to fall apart.

It wasn't too long until Elizabeth called
me down to breakfast. The smell of freshly-cooked pancakes with
apple and blueberry sauce wafted up the stairs, and it was enough
to see me lift my face from the warm press of my pillow. If there
was one thing that could distract me from my paranoid thoughts, it
was food.

Elizabeth called me down stairs again, her
sophisticated accent tinkling like a bell, worlds apart from the
guttural screams and shouts of last night. From her tone to the
pleasant aroma in the air, I was starting to believe that last
night had been nothing more than a nightmare.

As I padded out of bed, hair a mess at the
top of my head, I caught a glance of my wrists and my feet: they
were covered in scratches, bruises, and gouge marks. Nightmares, no
matter how harsh and frightening, stayed in your mind.

I winced as I walked down the long stairs
that led to the bottom floor and the kitchen below. Only the smell
of freshly-cooked pancakes kept me going.

If you'd asked me several weeks ago, before
heavily-armed men had kicked down my door and chased me through the
woods, I would have told you I was an independent, emotionally
stable, tough woman. I was used to mucking out the horse stables, I
was used to changing the tires on my car when I got a flat, I was
even used to fixing appliances when they broke. My great-uncle, for
all his mad eccentricities, had taught me a lot. Still, no matter
how much he’d taught me, last night had taught me something new:
all it took was a couple of pairs of scuffed army boots, a couple
of uncocked machine guns, and a smattering of balaclava-wearing bad
guys, and I could and would be reduced to tears.

The thought of my old great-uncle, and the
stories he'd told me as I sat by his knee in his library, bolstered
me, and I didn’t fall down the stairs in a sobbing mess. Instead I
heaved my way to the kitchen, nose still sniffing the air
appreciatively, stomach gently rumbling, heart calming for the
first time since I’d woken.

Elizabeth nodded at me as I walked into
the kitchen, a weird apron tied loosely over her even weirder
pajamas. “I have made pancakes,” she announced as she shepherded me
to the kitchen bench and placed a titanic stack of pancakes before
me, a dark purple sauce oozing over them. One whiff of it was
enough to give me cavities, but I helped myself to a stack of four
nonetheless.

“
I called my lawyer, dear,” she nodded
earnestly, “He’s going to be here any moment. We’re going to get
this sorted; we’re going to get this sorted today,” she said with
an almost military nod. Despite Elizabeth's colorful, erratic
personality, when she wanted something done she would jolly well do
it.

Now I had something to smile about: I had
someone by my side, somebody formidable, and somebody endearingly
floral.

“
I'm in my pajamas,” I said through a
massive bite, sauce dripping down my chin, “Shouldn't I
change?”

Elizabeth shook her head vehemently. “You
have been attacked in your house by bad men carrying guns; you can
jolly well stay in your pajamas as long as you like. Plus, my
lawyer is a good chap.”

I nodded. I couldn't be bothered changing,
plus, I didn't have anything to change into; all my clothes, though
ostensibly not that far away, were still in a house full of
criminals. In a situation like this, god dammit, anyone could
understand that a girl had to stay in her pajamas.

Shortly after, as I sucked down a glass of
freshly-squeezed orange juice, Elizabeth disappeared from the room
as the doorbell rang.

A kick of fear and uncertainty muddled
around my stomach as I sat waiting for the lawyer to arrive. This
was getting real again. As I’d downed my mountain of pancakes, I’d
managed to gain distance from the situation. That distance rapidly
reduced as I heard even but strong footfall coming down the
corridor.

I turned to the kitchen door.

Sebastian Shaw

I’d sure had one hell of a night, and I sure
had the bruises to prove it. God, I had a bruised ego as well.

When it had come to shrugging into my suit
that morning and getting back to my real job, it had been murder.
There were tracks of mangled skin around my wrists where the cable
ties had dug into them and a stupendous bruise between my shoulders
from where I’d been pistol whipped. But with a great suit, cuff
links, and an expensive watch, I’d managed to hide it all.

That I’d been set free last night wasn't a
surprise. The Special Forces needed me. In their eyes it was all a
painful lesson. Maratova, the titanic and idiotic bastard that he
was, was trying to show me who wore the man pants in this
partnership. As soon as Maratova and his team had gotten back to
the manor, empty-handed, with no babbling Amanda, they’d let me go.
Maratova had leaned down, fetid breath breaking against my face,
that scar on his top lip stretching as he sneered at me, then he’d
told me that from now on I played by his rules and I didn't break
them. Break them, and I’d be tied up like a pig on a spit.

I hadn't cared at that moment; Maratova
could have pulled a knife and carved his name into my arm along
with the line “don't fuck with me,” and I wouldn't have cared. I
was far more interested in where Amanda Stanton had run off to. She
still had my gun and keys.

Maratova made it clear that I was to have
nothing more to do with this. Amanda would be tracked down without
me. Lawyer boy, as they often called me, was to get back to his day
job and leave the real work to the real men.

So here I was back at my day job, but I sure
as hell wasn't going to stop there. I was going to find Amanda
Stanton myself, not because she had my keys, but because I had
spent my whole life looking for those globes, and I didn't give a
fuck that I’d been called off this one.

I shrugged, trying to ease my posture into
a more comfortable stance and away from the stabbing pain in the
middle of my back. I composed myself as I knocked on the door. I
usually didn't make house calls to my clients, but this wasn’t an
ordinary client. Plus, I was already in the area, and I couldn't
pass up the chance of trying to find Amanda again.

“
Sebastian.” Elizabeth whipped the door
open, leaning on the frame and cocking her eyebrow, a sideways
smile on her lips. “You know, you are my favorite
lawyer.”

“
That means nothing, Elizabeth, as you hate
lawyers,” I said with a smile, ignoring the wincing pain between my
shoulders and the grating sensation as my watch snagged against the
raw skin of my wrist.

“
I don't hate you, and it is lovely of you
to come at such short notice.”

I nodded at her. To be honest, I had no idea
what the old dear wanted; Elizabeth Brown was about as mad as they
came. She was the kind of mad that saw her painting smiley faces
and happy flowers on the side of her Rolls-Royce in liquid chalk to
brighten the days of others. She also had a hell of a lot of money,
as did most of my clients. But at least Elizabeth didn't act like
she did. She was kind, and once you got past the chalky smiles,
decent. So when she called late last night, not long after I
returned home from my ridiculously unsuccessful venture, I’d told
her I’d see her in the morning.

“
I didn't think we should call the police
until we knew what we were dealing with,” Elizabeth waved me in
through the front door, the two antique ruby rings on her fingers
glinting under the morning sun.

I narrowed my eyes. I was aware of
Elizabeth's eccentricities, as I was aware that my well-off clients
tended to be more suspicious of the police than those from the
lower echelons of the socioeconomic strata. They always thought the
police would take their money off them, Robin Hood style, just for
being rich. While I wouldn't necessarily disagree with the police
if they did, the economic stability of the modern age was built on
the riches of the few being drawn from the livelihoods of the rest.
Still, when you need to call the police, you need to call the
police, and even the most stuffy rich boy judge would uphold that
law.

I played with the corner of my watch trying
to push it up and off the raw skin of my wrist.

“
Elizabeth, what’s this about?”

“
She is in the kitchen.” Elizabeth nodded
down the hall, her wild, never-kempt white hair bunching over her
shoulders.

My stomach gave a kick, a full on kick. I
narrowed my eyes. “Who’s in the kitchen?” I tried to keep my voice
even.

“
She is,” Elizabeth said, explaining
nothing.

My heart beat faster as I followed
Elizabeth, and I kept playing with my watch. It couldn't be her,
could it? She would have gone straight to the police, right?
Wouldn't Maratova have found her hiding underneath a rose bush? Or
perhaps speeding around in my car? She wouldn't have run over to
the neighbors, would she? I had my misgivings about Maratova, but
as far as I knew he was a capable soldier. How in the hell would he
have let jelly-legs Amanda get away from him?

The thought swilled around my mind as I
followed Elizabeth down the long hall. The scent of tantalizing
freshly-made pancakes seduced the air, with a hint of sweet apples
and blueberries.

I entered the kitchen.

She looked up at me, Amanda Stanton, still
in pajamas, even if they appeared to be new ones.

Amanda Stanton

I looked up. I had loaded up another forkful
of pancake ready to finish off the delicious remnants of my
breakfast. I dropped it, the fork clattering against the Wedgwood
plate, the forkful of pancake tumbling onto the floor.

I lurched up, the high stool behind me
clattering to the floor. I turned, on adrenal autopilot as I ran to
the kitchen door.

I tried to yank it open, but it was
locked.

“
Don't worry, Amanda,” Elizabeth said,
voice peaking with amusement, “He’s just a lawyer.”

I turned from the door, pressed my back
into it, and stared at him wildly. He had the strangest expression
on his face. The moment he'd walked into the room, a half smile had
been playing on his lips, a distant look in his eye. Now that smile
had stiffened, those handsome eyes widening and fixing right on me,
his hands dead straight by his sides. “You don't have to do that,”
he put his hands up. “I'm here to help you.”

“
You're her lawyer?” I asked, my voice
cracking as it leveled at a pitch that could crack
glass.

Elizabeth looked interested and kept
turning from me to Sebastian Shaw. “Oh no, don't tell me that this
is the lawyer on your lawn last night? While the mercenaries were
in your drawing room, the burglars were in your hall, and the
soldiers were in your kitchen?”

I nodded, head stiff, hands flat against the
cool wood of the door behind me.

“
But Sebastian is such a good boy,”
Elizabeth pointed out with a flat nod, “He's always been there for
me when I've needed him.”

For Sebastian's part, he hadn’t once taken
his eyes off me. While his hands were still raised, his fingers
still and straight, there was such a stiffness and tension to his
shoulders that it didn’t look like a move of submission.

“
He had a gun.” I stabbed a finger at
him.

“
Is that right, Sebastian?” Elizabeth
crossed her arms. “Did you go to Amanda's house last night with a
gun?”

Sebastian, still with his eyes locked on
mine, put his hands down. He offered a simple bare nod. “That's
right, Elizabeth.”

He said it with such ease, with such a
truthful look in his eye, that you couldn't help but believe
him.