Zinnia sh-2 Page 3

  There were two men inside the chamber. Both turned toward her.

  The well-dressed little man seated in front of the gleaming black desk looked harmless. The one lounging in the black-and-gold throne did not.

  "Sorry for the interruption, boss," the guard said. "I'll take care of it."

  Zinnia flung out her hands and grabbed the edges of the door frame as the guard started to pull her back out into the hall. She glowered at the man behind the desk.

  "Mr. Chastain, I presume," she said loudly.

  Nick Chastain looked at her with cold, curious eyes. In that gaze Zinnia saw a slashing intelligence, awesome self-control, and the promise of power. A strange shiver of awareness went through her.

  "Is there a problem here, Mr. Feather?" Nick asked in a soft low voice.

  "No, problem, boss." Feather's hand tightened on Zinnia's shoulder. "Just a little misunderstanding." He started to peel Zinnia away from the door.

  "Hold it." Zinnia tightened her grip on the frame. "Mr. Chastain, I suggest we talk right now. Unless, of course, you want every cop in New Seattle here in this casino tonight."

  Nick raised one black brow. He considered her for a long moment. Zinnia could sense everyone around her holding his breath. She made herself inhale. She would not be intimidated by a casino owner with bad taste.

  Nick smiled. Zinnia almost lost her nerve.

  "Very well." Nick glanced at the nervous man perched in the chair. "You may go, Mr. Batt. I'll be in touch."

  "Yes, Mr. Chastain." Batt leaped to his feet and hurried toward the door with the air of a man who has just received a temporary reprieve from some unpleasant fate.

  Zinnia gave him a sympathetic look as she ducked from under Feather's heavy hand and stepped out of the way. Batt skittered past her and fled down the hall.

  Feather closed the door quietly. Zinnia found herself alone at last with Nick Chastain.

  "What can I do for you, Miss ... ah, I don't believe I caught the name."

  "Spring. Zinnia Spring. And I'll tell you exactly what you can do for me, Mr. Chastain. You can produce Morris Fenwick. Immediately. If you don't release him at once, I'm going straight to the police. I'll have you charged with kidnapping."

  Chapter 3

  "Are you telling me that Morris Fenwick has disappeared?" Nick concealed his rage and frustration behind a calm emotionless mask of polite interest. It was not easy.

  "Don't play the innocent, Mr. Chastain. Mr. Fenwick is a client of mine. He told me that he was negotiating with you for the sale of an old journal that he had discovered. He said you wanted it badly."

  "I do," Nick said very softly.

  Zinnia Spring's fingers clenched more tightly around the strap of her shoulder bag.

  So much for the expression of polite interest, Nick thought. His determination to get his hands on the journal was obviously leaking through the mask. He watched Zinnia narrow her very fine, very unusual, very clear eyes. He had never seen eyes quite that color. For some reason the odd silvery blue fascinated him.

  "Morris also told me that he had informed you that he had another potential customer for the journal," she said pointedly.

  "He did."

  "And now poor Morris has vanished."

  "Define vanish for me, Miss Spring."

  She glared. "I can't find him. We had an appointment this afternoon at his shop, but when I got there the door was locked. Morris never forgets appointments. He's a mid-range matrix-talent. You know how they are. Obsessive about details."

  "Obsessive? You've had a lot of experience with matrix-talents, then?"

  She shrugged. "More than most people. But, as I'm sure you're well aware, no one's had a lot of experience with them. They're not only quite rare, they're reclusive, secretive, and a little odd. They don't like to be studied."

  "Just because most of them won't consent to be guinea rat-pigs in some university research lab doesn't mean they're odd." This was ludicrous. Nick could not believe that he was allowing her to goad him like this. He breathed deeply, centering himself. "It just means they value their privacy."

  "Mr. Chastain, I am not here to debate the oddness of matrix-talents. I'm here to retrieve Morris Fen-wick. Hand him over."

  "Tell me, Miss Spring, what, precisely, caused you to leap to the conclusion that I've got him stashed away somewhere in the casino?"

  "I suspect that you were afraid poor Morris would try to drive up the price of the journal by starting a bidding war between you and his other client. So you grabbed him with the goal of intimidating him into accepting your offer."

  "An interesting assumption."

  Her mouth tightened and so did her elegantly sculpted jaw. "Poor Morris knew that journal was extremely valuable to certain parties. He told me that he had it hidden in a safe place until he could complete the negotiations and close the sale."

  "Do you always call him 'poor Morris'?"

  She frowned. "Morris is delicate. Most matrix-talents are. They don't function well under stress."

  Nick was torn between disbelief and disgust. "In your considered opinion?"

  "I told you, I've had more experience with matrix-talents than most of the experts. Morris is a gentle soul who is consumed by a passion for antiquarian books. He will become frantic if you apply the sort of pressure tactics to him that you were obviously using on that poor Mr. Batt who just left."

  Nick managed, barely, not to grind his teeth. "Let me get this straight. "You think I kidnapped Fenwick because I was afraid I couldn't outbid my competition. Presumably I'm holding him hostage until he turns over the journal."

  "We won't call it kidnapping if you release him at once," she said smoothly.

  "You're too kind." Nick got to his feet and stalked around the vast desk. He watched Zinnia's face as he moved toward her. She tensed but held her ground. The bright, fierce challenge in her eyes intrigued him.

  He knew who she was, of course. He had recognized the name and the face immediately. A year and a half ago she had been notorious throughout the city-state for three days. The trashy newspaper, Synsation, had labeled her the "Scarlet Lady."

  Nick detested the tabloids, but he kept track of them because he devoured information from all sources. His primary objective was to watch for photos and stories featuring those from the city's elite social circles who had the misfortune to show up on the front pages of the scandal sheets. He never knew when a tidbit from a gossipy piece involving one of the upper-class families might come in handy.

  Eighteen months ago Zinnia Spring had been photographed walking out of the bedroom of a wealthy, influential businessman named Rexford Eaton. Eaton was not only the head of one of the city-state's most prominent families, he was also married. The resulting scandal had been a three-day sensation for Synsa-tion.

  The damning photograph of Zinnia in a dashing crimson-red suit not unlike the one she wore tonight had been featured in a place of honor on the front page.

  Nick recalled the photo and the accompanying story, not only because it had involved Rexford Eaton but because something about the unsavory details of the affair had failed to ring true. His matrix-tuned mind had detected hints of wrongness between the lines. But that was hardly a surprise, given the low level of Synsation's journalistic integrity.

  He had been absently impressed by the way the "Scarlet Lady" had handled the pushy reporters and gossip columnists who had hounded her for those three days. He had followed the story and he knew that she had refused all interviews with an arrogant disdain that he had admired.

  Tonight he was even more impressed. He was accustomed to one of three basic reactions from those who found their way into this chamber: wary respect, extreme caution, or desperate appeal. He did not get a lot of visitors who dared to issue an outright challenge. It took guts.

  He was well aware of his own reputation. He had worked hard to build it, first in the wild jungle frontier of the Western Islands and later here in the so-called civilized city-state of New Seattle.
A reputation was one of the few things a man in his position could depend upon.

  He wondered if Zinnia had worn the scarlet suit to underline the impact of her demands or to shore up her own nerve. Whatever the case, that particular shade of bright, bold, unabashed red looked good on her, even though it clashed with the darker, more menacing red of the carpet and curtains around her. The well-cut, snug-fitting little suit managed to appear both professional and stylish even as it issued a subtle challenge. It skimmed over gently shaped breasts and emphasized a small waist. It also hinted at the appealing curve of a full rounded derriere.

  The way she wore the suit interested Nick far more than the color or the style. Zinnia held herself with a graceful hauteur that said a lot about her fortitude and will. This would be one stubborn woman, he decided. Definitely difficult.

  Definitely intriguing.

  The feeling of rightness that surged through him was annoying. It also made him wary. One of the problems with being a strong matrix-talent was that he was far more sensitive than most to small nuances and subtle details in everything around him. For better or worse, he noticed things that most people ignored.

  Even when he was not actively trying to use his talent, some part of his mind was always observing, assessing, and analyzing. He intuitively searched for patterns, looking for factors which felt wrong or out of place or which generated warning signals. He was always watching for the specters of chaos and disruption.

  His acute senses had kept him alive in the jungles of the Western Islands and helped him amass a fortune as a casino owner. But lately Nick had discovered that the constant search for the pattern in the matrix had a downside. After years of watching for the shadow of that which was wrong or dangerous, he found himself hungering for that which felt right.

  And Zinnia Spring felt inexplicably right.

  It made no sense. She had just accused him of kidnapping.

  He tried to make himself step back into that remote, detached place where he could study and assess without reacting to what he saw. He made himself look at Zinnia with the calculating intuition that was such an essential part of his nature.

  She was striking but not beautiful. He liked the way her straight nose, high forehead, and well-defined cheekbones came together in a package that could only be called aristocratic. The dark sweep of her hair curved sleekly at chin length.

  By any standard, there were far more stunning women dealing gin-poker at the tables downstairs. There were several working the bar at the very moment who could make heads turn from a block away. And the new redheaded lounge singer was considered spectacular by every man and a few of the ladies in the casino.

  Unfortunately, one of the curses of a strong matrix-talent was that a man who possessed it found himself looking at lovely women in a decidedly skewed manner. Nick could appreciate superficial feminine beauty as well as the next healthy heterosexual male, but the physical attraction that resulted was also superficial. The older he got, the more unsatisfying relationships based on that attraction proved to be.

  He wanted something else, something more, something deeper, something infused with meaning. He wanted something he did not understand and could not name.

  The unfulfilled yearning had grown stronger during the past few years. It had played havoc with his sex life, which, he reflected glumly, had become virtually nonexistent in recent months. He wondered if all matrix-talents were burdened with this unpleasant side effect of their paranormal power or if he was just especially ill-fated.

  He pushed the intruding thoughts aside and indicated the chair that Hobart Batt had recently vacated. "Please sit down, Miss Spring. Obviously we have a lot to discuss."

  She glanced at the chair, hesitated, and then walked defiantly over to it, sat down, and crossed her legs. One red high-heel shoe swung impatiently. "The only thing I want to talk about is Morris Fenwick."

  "Strangely enough, that's the subject that interests me most at the moment, also." He leaned back against the desk and planted his hands on the elaborately carved edge. "Let's start by straightening out a minor misunderstanding. I don't know where Fen-wick is."

  She eyed him with a trace of uncertainty. "I don't believe you."

  "It's the truth. I swear it. I may not fit your image of a respectable businessman, Miss Spring, but if you know anything at all about me, you must be aware that my word is considered good enough to take to the bank."

  "You're the only one who would have had any reason to kidnap Morris."

  "Fenwick, himself, told you that there is someone else who is interested in the Chastain journal."

  Zinnia frowned. "Yes, but he said that you were the one who seemed most obsessive about it. He said that you claimed that it was written by a relative."

  "My father, Bartholomew Chastain. The journal is the record of his last expedition into the uncharted islands of the Western Seas."

  She studied him carefully. "That would be the Third Chastain Expedition. The one in which the crew is said to have mysteriously vanished."

  "Yes."

  She looked distinctly wary now. He could see that she was swiftly slotting him into a mental file labeled

  KOOKS, ECCENTRICS, AND OTHER ASSORTED WEIRDOS.

  "There isn't much information on the Third," she pointed out diplomatically. "According to the official sources, it never took place. Morris told me that the University of New Portland records show that it was canceled. And everyone agrees that no Third Expedition ever filed a report."

  "I know," Nick said. "Twenty years ago a crackpot named Newton DeForest turned the story of the Third Expedition into a tabloid legend by claiming that the team was abducted by aliens."

  She cleared her throat cautiously. "I take it you, uh, don't subscribe to that particular theory?"

  "No, Miss Spring, I do not."

  "But you do believe that the journal Morris discovered is actually Bartholomew Chastain's personal record of the venture?"

  "Fenwick told me he was very certain that he had found my father's journal. I want it and money is no object."

  "Morris told me that you said you would top any offer he received for that journal, whatever it is."

  "I will," he said very softly. "Fenwick and I have an understanding."

  Zinnia tensed in her chair. Her red heel stopped swinging. "Morris told me that he planned to sell the journal to you. He just wanted to get the best possible price. He contacted another client just to test the market. Get a feel for price. That's all there was to it. If you had just been patient, he would have eventually sold it to you. Produce him and I'll leave and we can all forget this ever happened."

  "For the last time, Miss Spring, I did not kidnap him. Believe it or not, it's not my style."

  "Your style?"

  "Contrary to what you may be thinking, a man in my position prefers to conduct his business affairs in a normal manner." Nick smiled. "Besides, the bottom line is that I can afford anything I want. There's no reason for me to take the risk of committing a crime that could get me thrown in prison for thirty or forty years."

  A stubborn look appeared in her eyes. "All I know is that Morris is gone. His shop is closed. He doesn't answer his phone. No one has seen him all day."

  "One day is not a long time," Nick said gently. "He could have simply left town to buy books in New Vancouver or New Portland."

  "No, I told you, we had an appointment. Morris would have called to cancel if he had intended to leave town. I wouldn't be so concerned if it weren't for this business with the journal."

  "Why exactly are you so interested in Morris Fen-wick's continued good health?"

  "I told you, he's a client."

  He recalled bits and pieces of the Synsation articles he had read during the Eaton scandal. "You're an interior designer, aren't you?"

  She gave him a cool look. "I see you know who I am."

  "I read the papers."

  "Only the tabloids, apparently."

  "I collect information where I find it
," he explained.

  "If you get your information from the gossip columns, my advice is not to rely on it. But that's your problem. Yes, I'm an interior designer but I'm also a full-spectrum prism. I do some part-time work for a firm called Psynergy, Inc."

  That caught him by surprise. "The focus consulting agency?"

  "That's right. Psynergy, Inc. grabbed a lot of headlines a few months ago when one of our prisms helped solve the murder of a very well-known university professor."

  "I'm aware of the case. A friend of mine was involved."

  Shock lit her eyes. "Do you mean Lucas Trent?"

  "Yes."

  "You're a friend of Mr. Trent's?"

  For some reason her undisguised astonishment amused him. "Is that so hard to believe?"

  "I can verify all this, you know," she warned.

  "I know." He glanced at the phone. "I can call Trent at home now if you like and have him vouch for me. Save you the trouble."

  "It's one o'clock in the morning."

  "So Trent may grumble a bit."

  Zinnia glanced thoughtfully at the phone and then pursed her lips. "Never mind, I'll check your story later."

  "My story? You're beginning to sound like a cop, Miss Spring. Maybe it's time you showed me some identification."

  She stared at him, clearly startled. "I'm not with the police. I told you, I have a business of my own and I do some part-time work for Psynergy, Inc."

  Nick was pleased with the progress he was making. The tables had finally started to turn. He had her on the defensive now. "I take it you focused for Morris Fenwick?"

  "Yes. It's difficult for matrix-talents to work with most prisms. I'm one of the few who doesn't mind focusing for them." She gave a small elegant shrug. "So my boss gives me all the matrix assignments. That's how I met poor Morris. I help him authenticate some of the really rare stuff he buys."

  A nagging unease trickled across Nick's acute senses. "Did you help him discover the Chastain journal?"

  "No. As a matter of fact, he found it strictly by accident when he was called in by the heirs of an old reclusive collector who recently died in New Portland. Morris came across the journal when he evaluated the man's private library. He said he didn't require my help to authenticate it. He knew it would be valuable to certain people. Naturally, being a matrix, he promptly hid it."