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  "Indeed, I do." Zinnia gave her a glowing smile. "You'll be pleased to know that Duncan Luttrell phoned just before you arrived. He asked me to have dinner with him tonight."

  "Mr. Luttrell called?" Wilhelmina looked as if she hardly dared to believe her ears. "In spite of those horrid stories in the tabloids linking your name with Chastain?"

  "Yes. He was very sympathetic."

  "Thank God."

  "Don't get your hopes up, Aunt Willy. Remember, I'm unmatchable."

  "Let me be frank here, Zinnia. Everyone knows that in certain circles marriages are occasionally contracted without the assistance of a marriage agency. Especially when there are important family considerations."

  "But surely you wouldn't want me to take such a risk, Aunt Willy. Even assuming I could persuade some man to take a chance on me. I mean, it's my whole future we're talking about. I can't imagine anything worse than being shackled for life to a man I couldn't love and who didn't love me. Why, it would be a living hell."

  "Skip the melodrama, dear. It may interest you to know that before the Founders established the institution of the match-making agency, our ancestors on Earth routinely married without the guidance of syn-psych counselors."

  Zinnia burst into laughter, nearly spilling her tea. "That's just an old myth, Aunt Willy, and we both know it. No civilization that was advanced enough to colonize other planets would run their private lives in such a primitive fashion."

  Zinnia waited until after her aunt had left before she tried Newton DeForest's number again. It was the third time she'd attempted to phone him that day. No one had answered her earlier calls.

  She counted the rings. After the fifth, she reluctantly started to replace the receiver.

  "Hello?" The man on the other end of the line sounded remarkably cheerful and a little breathless.

  "Professor DeForest?"

  "Yes. Sorry, I was out in the garden when the phone rang. Who is this?"

  "My name is Zinnia Spring, sir. I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm doing some research on the islands of the Western Seas and I understand you're an authority on Chastain's Third Expedition. Would it be possible to talk to you about it?"

  There was a pause. "What was your name?"

  "Zinnia Spring."

  "Are you an academic, then, Miss Spring?" DeFor-est sounded suddenly hopeful.

  "I'm afraid not. I'm an interior designer."

  "Oh." There was a short pause while he assimilated that piece of news. "Why in the world would an interior designer be interested in Chastain's Third?"

  "It's a personal interest, Professor DeForest. A hobby, you might say. I'm fascinated with the legend and I want to learn as much as I can." She allowed a delicate pause. "I'm told that you are the leading authority on the Third, sir."

  "I suppose I could spare some time tomorrow."

  Zinnia seized a pen. "That's wonderful. May I have your address?"

  At eight-thirty that evening Zinnia smiled at Duncan Luttrell across a snowy white tablecloth. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. I've been trapped in my apartment most of the day. I left once, early this morning, and was almost cornered by a crew from one of the tabloids."

  "You're safe here at the Founders' Club. The staff knows how to keep reporters at bay." Duncan grinned. "I won't claim that the food is still the best in New Seattle because Chastain's Palace stole the chef six months ago, but the privacy's great."

  "I appreciate it." Zinnia glanced around at the paneled confines of the dining room.

  She had deliberately chosen a refined, rose-orchid-red gown with a discreet neckline and long sleeves to suit the somber elegance of her surroundings. The Founders' Club was a prime example of the heavy Gothic style popular during the Later Expansion Period. Arched doorways, carved stonework, and a sense of brooding age were the key elements. The atmosphere provided a suitable backdrop for the wealthy movers and shakers of New Seattle who were members of the club.

  A sense of wistfulness went through Zinnia. "My father used to belong to this club."

  "I know. So did mine." Duncan looked up as the wine steward came to a halt beside the table. "A bottle of the 'ninety-seven Chateau Sequim blue, please."

  "Yes, Mr. Luttrell." The steward vanished quietly.

  Zinnia relaxed for the first time that day. Duncan had a soothing effect on her. Having dinner with him was a lot like dining out with her brother. No pressure, just a sense of pleasant companionship.

  Duncan was good-looking in an open, rugged sort of way. He had a strong muscular build that seemed at odds with his career in the high-tech world of computers. He wore his light brown hair cut short in a conservative style that suited his position as the head of his own firm. His brown eyes lit easily with laughter.

  After the waiter had taken their order, Duncan turned back to Zinnia with a commiserating expression.

  "I know how irritating the tabloids can be," he said. "After Dad took his own life last year, the press hounded me for days. I refused all comment and they eventually went away."

  "My technique precisely."

  The waiter returned with the wine. Zinnia waited until Duncan concluded the tasting ritual and approved the vintage.

  When they were alone again, Zinnia took an appreciative sip of the fine blue wine. She rarely got to drink the expensive stuff these days. The bottle she had at home in the icerator was a cheap green.

  "I think the worst of it is over. When you picked me up tonight, the Synsation van was gone."

  "A good sign." Duncan smiled. "So long as you and Chastain don't feed the fires of gossip, the whole thing will dry up and blow away."

  Zinnia winced. "Don't worry. I definitely don't want to throw any more bones to the gossip columnists. And it's safe to say that Nick Chastain feels exactly the same."

  "I understand how you happened to stumble over Morris Fenwick's body. You're the type who would worry about a missing client. What I don't quite get is why Chastain was with you when you found Fenwick. The stories in the papers did not make that clear."

  Zinnia hesitated a split second while she decided how much to tell Duncan. For some obscure reason she felt a responsibility to protect Nick's privacy and she knew intuitively that he would not want her to discuss the Chastain journal. She opted for a limited version of the truth.

  "You'll never believe it, but apparently Nick Chastain collects rare books."

  Duncan chuckled. "You're right. Hard to believe a casino owner with a taste for antiquarian books."

  "I know. But he was one of Morris's clients and I was aware that they had been in negotiations. When Morris failed to keep an appointment, I contacted Chastain to see if he knew what had happened to him."

  Duncan frowned. "You actually went to see Chastain?"

  "I couldn't think of anything else to do. He was as concerned as I was. We both went to the book shop to see what was going on and found poor Morris together. Mr. Chastain called the police."

  Duncan looked thoughtful. "Mind if I give you a little friendly advice?"

  Zinnia held up one hand. "Stop. I have a hunch you're going to tell me the same thing I've already heard from everyone else. You want to warn me to stay clear of Nick Chastain. Right?"

  Duncan smiled, but the expression in his eyes remained serious. "Right. I'm no expert on the subject, but I've heard enough to know that Chastain is not the kind of guy whose attention you want to attract."

  "Don't worry, I'm in complete agreement."

  A short silence descended.

  Duncan picked up his wine glass and swirled the contents with a reflective air. "When you went to see Chastain did you get into his office?"

  Zinnia helped herself to a bit of pate and a cracker. "Uh-huh."

  Duncan leaned forward and lowered his voice. "So, is it true what they say about his incredibly bad taste?"

  Zinnia grinned as she crunched down on the cracker. "Every single word."

  She could not see him but she sensed his presence. He was there in th
e darkness, waiting for her. She knew she should turn and run from him while she still could. But some invisible force tugged at her, drawing her into the endless night. If she entered that darkness with him there would be no turning back. She would be trapped with him in the terrifying emptiness that seemed to extend forever.

  She heard the muffled sound of her own heart beating. The sound grew louder, ringing loudly in her ears. The thunder of blood.

  Zinnia came awake with a great startled gasp. Her nightgown was clinging to her sweat-dampened body. Only a dream. A nightmare. But the thunder did not cease.

  It took her a few seconds to realize that what she was hearing was the telephone, not her pounding heart.

  She glanced at the clock beside the bed. Midnight. No one called at midnight unless something was terribly wrong.

  She picked up the receiver with a trembling hand. "Yes?"

  "Miss Spring? This is Polly Fenwick. Morris Fenwick's wife?"

  "Yes. Hello, Mrs. Fenwick."

  "Did I wake you?"

  "It's all right." Zinnia collapsed back against the pillows. "I'm so very sorry about Morris."

  "That's why I called."

  Zinnia frowned as the anxiety in Polly Fenwick's voice finally seeped through the phone. "Are you all right, Mrs. Fenwick?"

  "I've been going through his things. There was a note. With instructions, you know."

  "Instructions?"

  "Very specific. Morris was that way. Very specific. I followed the instructions to the letter. I found a book that he had hidden. It looks like a diary or a journal of some kind."

  Zinnia stilled. "A journal?"

  "According to Morris's note, it's quite valuable. But his instructions are to dispose of it as fast as possible. He thinks it may be dangerous to possess it. I'm to sell it to Mr. Chastain. You, know, the man who owns that casino in Founders' Square?"

  "Yes. Yes, I know." Zinnia was having trouble following the rushed explanation. Part of her mind was still churning with the images embedded in the nightmare. "Excuse me, Mrs. Fenwick, but are you saying that you have this journal in your possession?"

  "Yes. Didn't I make that clear? But Morris's note says I must get rid of it quickly. Apparently he thought someone might come looking for it if anything happened to him."

  "What, exactly, does the note say?"

  "I just told you, I'm to conclude the sale of the journal the moment I discover it."

  "You want to sell the journal now? Tonight?"

  "Yes. I don't mind telling you that Morris's note has made me very nervous. I'm sorry to bother you like this, but it definitely says here that I'm to call you. It says you'll contact Mr. Chastain for me. Will you do that?"

  "Me?"

  "Please, Miss Spring. My stomach is terribly upset as it is. I just couldn't call that dreadful man personally. The very thought of dealing with him terrifies me. Why, he's not much better than a gangster."

  Shades of Aunt Willy. Zinnia closed her eyes. "All right. I'll call Mr. Chastain for you."

  "Thank you so much, Miss Spring." Gratitude and relief bubbled in Polly's voice. "We mustn't be seen together, though. I thought we could meet at Curtain Park in an hour."

  "You're sure you want to do this tonight?"

  "Definitely. I won't sleep until this matter has been taken care of, Miss Spring. You will come with Mr. Chastain, won't you? I'd be too frightened to go through with the sale if you weren't there. Morris said in his note that I could trust you."

  "All right. But I can't guarantee that I'll be able to get in touch with him tonight. He operates a gambling casino, Mrs. Fenwick. There's no telling what he's doing at this hour of the night."

  "Please try. I'm so nervous about all this. Morris was always a little paranoid, but this note is very insistent, even for him."

  "I'll call the casino and see what happens."

  Zinnia hung up the phone and switched on the bedside lamp. She got out of bed and found her purse.

  Inside she discovered the tacky red-and-silver business card Nick had given her.

  Nick Chastain was not the type to be sitting beside a phone, waiting for it to ring, she thought, as she punched in the number of his direct line. She wondered what she ought to do next if he could not be reached.

  Nick answered on the first ring.

  Just as if he had, indeed, been sitting beside the phone, Zinnia thought.

  Chapter 9

  She had finally called.

  It was a good working demonstration of the old adage about being careful what you asked for because you just might get it, Nick thought grimly.

  She had finally called, all right. Not because she wanted his help but because Polly Fenwick had asked her to act as an intermediary in the sale of the journal.

  Now here he was, alone at last with Zinnia Spring, and what was he doing with her? Sitting in a car in a dark park at one-forty-six in the morning waiting for a stranger.

  Nick was not in a good mood. He never was when things were not proceeding according to plan.

  "Tell me." He turned off the Synchron headlamps and dourly studied the stretch of heavily wooded park that surrounded the car. "At what point did it strike you that these meeting arrangements were just a little out of the ordinary?"

  Zinnia shot him a sidelong glare. He was intensely aware of her sitting beside him. She was dressed in a pair of snug-fitting jeans and a sweater that was the lush red of ripe cherry-berries. Her hair had been hastily pulled back into a ponytail. She wore no makeup.

  He knew she was annoyed with him. He had picked her up in front of her apartment less than fifteen minutes ago and he sensed that she was already regretting her decision to assist in the transaction. It was his own fault.

  The atmosphere inside the close confines of the car seethed with tension, mostly his own. There was not much he could do about it. He was fighting two inner battles simultaneously and the effort required nearly all of his self-control.

  On the one hand, he was struggling to resist the instinctive use of a few quick bursts of his talent in order to assess the risk factors in the matrix. He knew that if he did not rein in his power, Zinnia would pick up the telltale traces of energy on the metaphysical plane. She might recognize him as the same matrix-talent who had reached out to her last night when she walked through the casino. Nick had not yet thought of a graceful way to explain that incident so he thought it best not to raise the issue yet.

  The second skirmish he waged was against his own brooding frustration. As far as he was concerned, when Zinnia had finally condescended to call him, she had done so for all the wrong reasons. It was not his carefully set lures that had drawn her back into the pattern of his matrix. It was her sense of responsibility to a dead client that had brought her back to him. He had a strong suspicion that once she had fulfilled her duty tonight, he would again lose his tenuous hold on her.

  "What's that crack supposed to mean?" Zinnia asked.

  "I don't know about you, but secret meetings in secluded locations with complete strangers are not the way I usually do business."

  "That does it. I've had enough of this nonsense." She turned abruptly in her seat to confront him. "What's wrong with you? I thought you wanted to get your hands on the journal."

  "I do."

  "In another few minutes it will be yours. But you're acting as if I've dragged you out in the middle of the night for no good reason."

  "I can't believe you agreed to meet with a stranger at this hour."

  "She's not exactly a stranger. She's Morris's widow. I explained that."

  "Why in five hells did you choose the park?"

  Zinnia's mouth tightened. "I didn't pick the location. Mrs. Fenwick suggested it."

  Her quick uneasy glance out the window told Nick that in spite of her bravado, she was having a few qualms, too. About time, he thought with morose satisfaction.

  Curtain Park was not an inviting place at this time of the night. The thickly wooded stretch of greenery occupied a section of la
nd near the bay. During the day the paths were full of joggers, picnickers, and tourists from New Vancouver and New Portland. But at night it was empty.

  The closest object of interest was a large unlovely monument to the First Generation discoverers of semi-liquid full-spectrum crystal quartz. Jelly-ice, as the stuff was commonly called, had eventually enabled the descendents of the stranded colonists to build a new technology to replace the Earth-based one that had disintegrated within months after the Curtain had closed.

  Nick flexed his fingers around the steering bar. "Tell me again how Polly Fenwick just happened to come across the journal tonight."

  "She said she found a note that led her to it and instructed her to sell it to you as quickly as possible.

  Morris apparently advised her to contact me to handle the sale. I think Mrs. Fenwick is scared to death of you. Lord knows why."

  Nick glanced at her, but even in the shadows he could see that her expression was perfectly sincere. "Right. She's so terrified of me that she asks to meet with me at this hour in a badly lit section of the city's biggest park?"

  Zinnia spread her hands. "She said the note from Morris told her to unload the journal as quickly as possible and to keep the deal a secret. He was adamant that no one was to know she'd even found it. Look, I'm sorry if you disapprove of the way I handled things. Mrs. Fenwick woke me out of a sound sleep. I was a little confused and disoriented when she suggested the meeting place."

  "I think we can agree on that."

  "She asked me to get in touch with you, so I did." Zinnia tapped her hand against the back of the seat. "Would you rather I hadn't called you?"

  "You should have discussed the situation with me before the decision was made."

  "Nobody forced you to come out here tonight. If you're too jumpy to go through with the transaction, we can call it off. Polly and I can get in touch with the other bidder, whoever he is. Maybe he won't be so darn picky."

  Nick remembered the card with his uncle's name on it that he had taken from Fenwick's address file. "Is that a threat?"

  "I'm merely laying out your options," she said a bit too airily.