Zinnia sh-2 Read online

  Chapter 13

  Zinnia stood in the courtyard and surveyed the imposing structure in front of her. "As we interior designers say in situations such as this, it's got great bones."

  This was the home that Nick had chosen for his bride, she thought. The place where he and the future Mrs. Chastain would raise a family. She did not want to admire the mansion. For some obscure reason, she longed to find fault with the soaring columns, graceful steps, and spacious gardens. But the designer in her was too honest. The old Garrett estate was beautiful.

  The house and well-planted grounds occupied an acre of prime-view land above the city. The main building was a large two-storey stone affair in the Neo-Early Exploration Period style. The architect had captured the exuberant spirit of the earlier era while managing to avoid the frothy excesses. The result was elegant restrained exuberance. This was a house that was imbued with a sense of the future, Zinnia thought. A house infused with optimism and hope.

  An elegant colonnaded porch surrounded the entire mansion. The windows were tall and well-proportioned to match the high-ceilinged rooms inside. There was a subtle symmetry to the design that was not generally found either in the original buildings of trie Early Exploration Period or in the Later Revival Period.

  "Good bones?" Nick removed a huge picnic hamper from the trunk of the Synchron. "If that's a polite way of telling me the place is a little run-down, save your breath. I already know there's a lot of work to be done. The good news is, I've got the money to do it."

  "Unlike the Garretts?"

  Nick quirked a brow as he walked toward her with the hamper. "So you do recognize the place."

  "Any architect or designer would." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "I also know how you got the Garrett family to sell it to you."

  "I didn't force the sale," he said coldly. "And I paid full market value. The Garretts came out of the deal with enough cash to finance a merger that was very important to the corporation at the time."

  "Uh-huh."

  Nick started up the front steps. "Don't kid yourself. Old Randolph Garrett, Senior, put out the word that he was forced to sell in order to rescue young Randy from my clutches. But the truth was, Garrett was secretly thrilled to have an excuse to get rid of the place. The property descended through his side of the family. He had the responsibility for maintaining it. It was a steady drain on his finances at a time when he couldn't afford it."

  "I see. You must have been one of the few people in the entire city-state who was willing and able to buy it. Most folks couldn't afford the upkeep, let alone a major remodel."

  "I can afford both." Nick set down the hamper to activate the old jelly-ice lock on the door. "And I want the remodeling done right."

  "I'm surprised the Historical Preservation Society didn't try to get their hands on the house. I would have thought they'd have paid big bucks for John Jeremy Garrett's personal estate."

  "I beat them to it." Nick opened the door to reveal a spacious circular hall tiled in pale green rainstone. "And for the record, from now on, it's the new Chastain estate."

  No one could have missed the naked possessiveness in his voice, Zinnia thought. She studied the spacious graceful rooms as she followed him through the empty mansion.

  "It's not exactly your style, Nick."

  "Don't worry, by the time I gild the columns with some fake gold paint, put down lots of red and black carpeting, cover the windows with red velvet drapes and hang a lot of scarlet and gold wallpaper, it will look like home."

  "You wouldn't."

  Nick turned to glance at her over his shoulder. He said nothing but his eyes gleamed.

  Zinnia put up her hands, palms out. "Okay, okay, it was a joke. You shouldn't tease a professional interior designer that way."

  "I thought you liked red." His gaze traveled slowly down her body, taking in the gauzy, ankle-length, sunrise-red dress she wore. "You sure look good in it."

  She felt herself grow very warm beneath his blatantly sexy gaze. "It's my trademark. And it's okay for clothes. But a whole house done in red would look like a bordello or a, uh-"

  "Casino?" he suggested.

  "Well, yes. And you distinctly told me that you didn't want your future bride to live in a casino."

  "No," he said. "I don't." He set the hamper down on the floor. "As you can see, I really do need an interior designer. Someone who knows the Neo-Early Exploration Period style. I want the place restored properly. Like one of those places you see in Architectural Synergy magazine. How about it?"

  She surveyed the vast, empty, great room in which they stood. "Are you offering me the job for real?"

  "Why not?" Nick walked to the bank of windows that overlooked the city. He kept his back to Zinnia as he gazed into the late evening sun that was sinking swiftly into the bay. "Nothing says we can't continue on with our partnership after we finish this business with the journal."

  "I'll think about it."

  "You do that."

  He was serious, she thought. "This house is very important to you, isn't it?"

  "It's my future," he said simply.

  "What about your past?"

  "My past is the casino. I'm going to sell it."

  That startled her. "Why?"

  "It's part of my plan."

  "Your plan to buy respectability, you mean?"

  "I told you, I only got into the gambling business because it was a way to make a lot of money." Nick turned slowly around to face her. "I've invested the profits in a variety of places during the past three years. Stocks and bonds. Western Islands shipping. I've provided some venture capital for some new businesses that have gone big. The usual."

  "All very respectable."

  His smile held cold satisfaction. "Exactly. My children will have all the benefits of respectability. They won't have to live with gossip and sly glances. My daughters will never face humiliation at society's hands. My sons won't know what it is to have the doors of opportunity closed in their faces simply because they can't claim a socially acceptable family."

  "You mean they won't have to struggle the way you did?" she asked softly.

  His eyes were fierce with unshakable determination. "I will make certain that they don't have to go through what I did to achieve success. My family will have every advantage I can give them."

  "I see." She was suddenly aware of a slight chill in the room. She folded her arms beneath her breasts. "Tell me, what's the rest of this grand plan? How do you go about buying respectability?"

  "Simple. You purchase a membership in the Founders' Club and attend its annual charity ball." He broke off. A look of speculation appeared in his gaze. "Which just happens to take place in a few days."

  "Yes, I know. Go on. What else do you do to get respectable?"

  He shrugged. "You give big bucks to the New Seattle Art Museum and to the Theater Guild. You contribute to the right political campaigns. You buy a house like this one and you pay someone who knows what she's doing to restore it."

  "And you marry into the right family," Zinnia concluded.

  "That's about it. Like I said, all you need is money and a plan. I've got both."

  She looked into his eyes for a long time. He did not look away. "I wish you luck," she said, meaning every word.

  "Luck has nothing to do with it."

  "Of course." She managed a bright professional smile. "Well, this is supposed to be a business dinner, so let's do some business, partner. I wanted to ask you how you knew for certain that the journal Polly and Omar sold you was a fraud."

  He eyed her thoughtfully for a long moment. "I'll show you after we eat." He walked to the picnic hamper and opened it.

  She watched curiously as he spread a blanket on the floor and began to unpack a variety of tempting packages. He arranged a pate, a cold pasta salad, tiny sandwiches, fruit, and a tart on top of the hamper.

  "I'm impressed." She walked to the blanket and sat down, curling her legs beneath her gauzy dress. "Did you make al
l this?"

  "What do you think?" Nick lit the two jelly-ice candles that he had taken from the hamper.

  Zinnia sampled a tiny sandwich and grinned. "I think you hired an excellent chef."

  "The best. Rathbone. Formerly of the Founders' Club. He supervises the dining rooms at the Palace."

  "Lucky you."

  Nick looked up from pouring the wine. "I keep telling you, luck is not a factor."

  "Spoken like a true matrix."

  Zinnia was amazed at how quickly the next hour slipped past. By the time she and Nick had polished off the outrageously expensive bottle of blue wine and eaten the last bit of the flaky pear-berry pastry, night had descended. The twin moons, Yakima and Chelan, rose above the horizon and cast a golden glow over the bay. The light of the two jelly-ice candles flickered warmly.

  "Now I'll show you how I knew the journal was a fraud." Nick pulled another package out of the hamper.

  Zinnia recognized it. "That's the fake that Polly and Omar sold to you."

  "Yes." He unwrapped the brown paper and put the volume down on the blanket. Then he reached back into the hamper and removed a faded envelope.

  "What's that?"

  "The letter my father wrote to my mother the night before the Third Expedition left for uncharted territory."

  She stared at him with mingled disbelief and excitement. "You've got a letter?"

  "Yes. After Andy died I went through his old storeroom and found it. My mother must have hidden it there all those years ago before she left for Serendipity. I think she may have sensed that it was valuable. It refers to the fact that the expedition was preparing to leave on schedule. My father was looking forward to it. He was focused on the future. He was not talking of suicide."

  "My God, Nick. No wonder you've been so sure that the expedition actually took place. Why didn't you tell anyone?"

  He looked up, his eyes very cold. "Because someone went to a hell of a lot of trouble to make it appear that it didn't take place. Until I know why, I'm not going to reveal the existence of this letter. It's the only hard evidence I've got."

  She watched as Nick carefully, reverently unfolded the letter. It occurred to her that the handwritten note was probably the only link he had with his mother and father. Another wave of empathy went through her.

  "I take it you did a handwriting analysis?" she asked, struggling to sound businesslike. Nick would not appreciate it if she started crying, she thought.

  "Yes. With the aid of my talent. I have some control over it when I use it in short bursts." He opened the journal and placed it next to the letter. "Take a look."

  She peered at the bold firm handwriting on the first page of the journal and then glanced at the letter. "It looks identical to me."

  "It's a very good forgery. But give me a prism and then take another look."

  Zinnia hesitated, remembering the strong sense of intimacy she experienced whenever she held the focus for him. But she'd heard that one of the side effects of focusing with a strong talent was that a prism could observe a small portion of what the talent sensed. She was just curious enough now to risk the connection.

  "All right." She braced herself.

  She didn't have long to wait. Waves of power surged toward the prism she projected onto the metaphysical plane. They crashed through the glittering lens and emerged as controlled energy on the other side.

  A feeling of intense intimacy swept through her. But it did not jolt her this time. It was becoming familiar, she thought. Comfortable. Right.

  Not good.

  "Ready?" Nick watched her face.

  "Sure. Go ahead. Show me." It annoyed her that he seemed oblivious to the personal nature of their link. Perhaps he felt nothing.

  "Look at the handwriting on the letter," Nick instructed.

  She looked down at the note. The candlelight created intricate patterns of shadows as it illuminated the single sheet of paper.

  My dearest Sally:

  I'm writing this from Serendipity, our jumping-off point. The six of us leave at dawn. This is the last time I'll have a means of sending a letter until we return in three months. It's late but I can't sleep. I should be going over the details of our plans but I'm thinking of you, instead. I'll miss your laughter and your warmth and all that we have found together. You cannot know how important you are to me. When I'm with you, I am no longer alone. And now that I know you're carrying my baby, I feel as if I've finally found my future.

  I wish you had not waited until the morning I left Port LaConner to tell me that you were pregnant. If you had let me know earlier we could have been married before this expedition. But in the end, it won't matter. I'll be back in three months and then we'll make it official.

  You gave me more than you will ever know when you agreed to marry me. Spend the next three months planning the wedding. This will be my last expedition. When I return I want to settle down in the islands with my new family. In the meantime, know that you are my true love. I will keep you in my heart forever.

  All my love, Bart

  P.S.: Why do I get the feeling it will be a boy?

  Zinnia blinked back tears.

  "See the pattern of the words?" Nick said. "The shapes of the letters?"

  She forced herself to concentrate on the handwriting, not the poignant message of love. There was, indeed, a pattern to the words. A kind of internal rhythm that seemed quite clear now that she viewed it with the assistance of a matrix-talent. Each letter was a tiny work of art with unique nuances and characteristics. She would never have detected the subtle differences with normal vision.

  "Yes," she whispered. "I see what you mean."

  "Now look at the journal."

  She read a few sentences.

  . . . I have instructed Sanderford to keep his eye on the jelly-ice fuel capsules but I no longer trust him. He's careless. I'm starting to wonder if he's got a drug problem . . .

  "See the differences?" Nick asked.

  Zinnia studied the words more closely. "Yes. There's a slight alteration in the rhythm or something."

  "The design is wrong. It's out of sync. Unbalanced. The connections aren't right."

  She could not see all those fine distinctions, but she did not doubt that Nick did. "The differences could be explained by the fact that this is a journal entry, not a personal letter."

  Nick gave a decisive shake of his head. "The individual letters would still look the same. Handwriting doesn't change."

  "No." She took a closer look. The seepage of matrix-talent that she picked up through the focus link was sufficient to allow her to see the tiny differences between the writing in the journal and that in the letter. "Something about the loops is off and the angle of the slant is not quite the same."

  "Exactly." Without warning, Nick cut off the flow of talent. "Without a prism to help me focus, it took me a lot longer to be certain that I was looking at a forgery. But there's no doubt about it."

  "How many entries are there in the journal?"

  "Only eight. All of them are dated before the expedition was supposed to leave Serendipity. Each is shorter than the last. The tone of each one is increasingly paranoid and depressed. In the last entry the writer says that he can't go on much longer. He just wants to walk off into the jungle and be absorbed by what he calls the great green matrix."

  "In other words, you're supposed to believe that your father really did commit suicide before the expedition took place."

  "Yes."

  Nick had shut down his formidable psychic power, but the sensation of intimacy did not vanish. It pulsed across Zinnia's nerve endings, insistent and compelling. She uncurled her legs and restlessly shifted position on the blanket.

  "Someone went to a great deal of effort to deceive you with that fake journal," she said.

  "And expense," Nick added. He closed the volume and rewrapped it. "This kind of craftsmanship doesn't come cheap."

  "How much would an expert forger charge for something that detailed?"
r />   His smile was chilling. "Probably about as much as I paid for it. Fifty grand."

  Zinnia's heart twisted as she watched the care with which he refolded his father's letter. Once more she tried to beat back the empathy that threatened to swamp her common sense.

  "Well, if you needed any further proof that I'm innocent, you've got it," she said briskly. "I couldn't possibly afford fifty grand for a fake journal."

  "I don't need any more proof of your innocence."

  "Gee, thanks." Why didn't the intense feeling of intimacy fade? It was messing up the synergistic balance of her entire nervous system. "Where does that leave us?"

  Nick's eyes were rare exotic gems in the candlelight. "Here. Together."

  On the other hand, why was she trying to fight this incredible attraction, Zinnia wondered. She had waited a long time for passion.

  "Are you going to kiss me again?" she asked, deeply curious.

  "I want to make love to you."

  She smiled. "That's okay, too."

  Chapter 14

  The hunger inside him threatened to explode. He fought it, willing his self-control to win the battle. It worried him that the sensation of touching and being touched in some other dimension had not faded when the focus link was severed. The intimacy of the connection was disturbing enough as it was. He did not know what to make of the fact that tonight the feelings continued even after the psychic joining ended.

  He had to be careful, Nick thought. He wanted her, but when he had sex with her he could not sacrifice the part of him that governed his self-control.

  On the positive side, if there was one thing he was good at, it was control. He could handle this.

  He touched the curve of her hair and smiled slowly. "We're going to be good together."

  "I certainly hope so." She drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. "I've got certain expectations, you understand."

  "Expectations?"

  Her eyes glowed with warmth and a shy amusement that caught him by surprise.

  "I told you, I've read every psychic vampire romance novel that Orchid Adams has ever written."

  Nick stared at her. "Five hells."