After Glow Page 7

  He rounded the table in two long strides, clamped his hands over her shoulders, and hauled her to her feet.

  “If you give a single, solitary damn about me,” he muttered, “you won’t joke about sleeping with other men.”

  Stunned by his fierce reaction she splayed her fingers across his broad chest and searched his face. A sense of wonder unfurled within her.

  “Are you telling me that you would be jealous if you found out that I was seeing someone else?” she asked cautiously.

  “I won’t share you with another man,” he said in a low, rough voice. “I can’t. I’m pretty sure it would make me crazy.”

  She touched his face with her fingertips. “Oh, Emmett.”

  “While we’re involved in this arrangement,” he said evenly, “it has to be all or nothing.”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Same goes for me, London. All or nothing.”

  The battle-ready tension eased out of his shoulders. He smiled slowly and raised his hands to cup her face. “No problem. You’re the only woman I want in my bed. Sounds like we’ve got a mutual understanding here.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her before she could get too depressed about semantics. When his mouth closed over hers she felt the hot, urgent need that flowed through him, a need that was harnessed by the self-mastery and control that was so much a part of his nature.

  A low rumble made Emmett raise his head. They both turned to look at Fuzz, who was still on the table, circling the milk carton, tatty fur alternately bristling and going flat.

  Emmett released her reluctantly. “You’d better do your thing with that trap before your dust-bunny accidentally triggers it.” He glanced at his amber watch. “If you hurry, we can still get a couple more hours of sleep tonight.”

  So much for that passionate interlude. She was jolted by the swift, efficient manner in which Emmett had just changed the subject. Apparently having achieved his objective—assuring himself that she would be true to him while he worked long hours at his new job—he was ready to move on to the next item on the agenda.

  It occurred to her that the ability to switch his focus so quickly was probably one of the character traits that had helped him rise to the top echelons of Guild leadership. The skill no doubt made him a terrific CEO but she had a feeling it would prove disconcerting in a relationship.

  Make that an arrangement.

  But he did have a point, she thought. Time to find out what Maltby had concealed in the milk carton.

  “I doubt if Fuzz could spring the trap,” she said, turning toward the table. “Back in the early days of underground exploration there were some attempts made to use animals to identify and trigger the illusion snares, but they failed. The psychic vibes of the traps seem to resonate only with humans. Some experts think that’s because the aliens set them to resonate with minds that had evolved to the point that they were vulnerable to the downside of creativity and imagination.”

  “In other words, minds that could be overwhelmed by nightmares, but you don’t need him tipping over the carton while you’re working on the trap.” Emmett picked up Fuzz. “I’ll keep him out of your way.”

  “Thanks.” She opened the milk carton again and studied the dark shadows inside. “You know, we’re very lucky those intruders we surprised didn’t think to check Maltby’s refrigerator.”

  “My guess is they did check it but never thought twice about the milk carton.”

  “Mmm.” She peered into the carton, studying the shadows within. The amber she wore on her wrist warmed slightly as she used it to tune into the psychic frequencies of the little trap.

  It was small, but the resonating patterns were extremely complex.

  “Maltby was a real pro,” she murmured. “This is not a simple trap. He probably found it somewhere down in the catacombs and managed to de-rez it without destroying it. Then he reset it inside this carton. Couldn’t have been easy.”

  “Can you see what he used to anchor it?”

  “Not yet.”

  An illusion trap had to be anchored to some material of alien construction, usually an object fashioned of green quartz or the far more rare dreamstone.

  She probed with the sure, firm touch required. A tentative approach was often disastrous because the effort resulted in a disturbance of the trap’s pattern that could trigger it.

  Picking up the rhythm of the underlying currents she sent out a few psychic pulses designed to dampen the waves of psi energy.

  This was the most dangerous part of the operation. One misstep at this juncture and the energy pulses would rebound, overwhelming her and locking her into an alien nightmare that would last until she went unconscious. It might take her brain only a few seconds to shut down but it would feel like an eternity.

  The uncoiling energy waves would also catch anyone else who happened to be standing too close when the illusion snare snapped. The fact that Emmett had not bothered to retreat several discreet steps said a great deal about his respect for her skills as a tangler.

  She felt the energy of the trap gradually subside and then cease altogether. She held the frequency for a moment longer until she was certain that the trap had been destroyed permanently and could not be reset.

  “Got it,” she said, struggling to suppress the little flash of euphoria that always followed a successful untangling. It was considered uncool, not to mention extremely unprofessional, to let anyone see you getting off on the small rush.

  “You’re good,” Emmett said softly.

  “Thanks.” The praise made her smile. Hunters were notoriously churlish when it came to giving credit to tanglers. “Coming from a Guild boss, that is praise, indeed.”

  “Credit where it’s due, I always say.” He leaned closer, trying to get a view of the interior of the carton. “What’s inside?”

  She looked down and saw a tiny green quartz tomb mirror and what appeared to be a piece of paper that had been folded into a square. “I’m not sure.”

  Picking up the carton, she upended it. The mirror clunked when it hit the table. The folded paper landed on top of it.

  “He used a mirror for the anchor,” Emmett said.

  “Uh-huh.” She picked up the paper and unfolded it with care.

  “It’s a copy of an old newspaper article,” she said.

  She spread it out on the table. Together she and Emmett studied the piece.

  Local Student Disappears Underground; Feared Dead

  Troy Burgis, a student at Old Frequency College, vanished into an unexplored underground passageway sometime late yesterday. A search team was sent down but reported no trace of Burgis. He is presumed lost.

  College authorities said that Burgis and two companions had gone into the catacombs beneath Old Frequency without official permission. Evidently the unauthorized venture was instigated by Burgis.

  Jason Clark and Norman Fairbanks, the two students who accompanied Burgis on the illegal expedition, said that they became separated when Burgis insisted on trying to untangle a large illusion trap that blocked access to one of the corridors.

  Burgis failed and in the process accidentally triggered the trap. Clark and Fairbanks said that they were standing as far away as possible but when the illusion energy rebounded on Burgis, they felt some of the effects. They were unconscious for almost an hour. When they awakened, Burgis was gone.

  College officials reported that Burgis’s parents died when he was very young. He had no siblings. The authorities are still searching for next of kin.

  “The date of the article is nearly fifteen years old,” Lydia said. “Why on earth would Maltby have gone to all the trouble of copying it and protecting it with an illusion trap?”

  “Beats me.” Emmett picked up the small tomb mirror and studied it closely. “Maybe this was what he wanted to hide. Looks pretty ordinary, though.”

  She glanced at the quartz mirror, assessed the simple carving that surrounded the reflective surface, and shook her hea
d. “There’s nothing special about it. I’m sure he only used it to secure the trap.” She tapped the paper. “It was this article he wanted to conceal. But I can’t imagine why.”

  “Lydia, I think you should keep in mind one very important fact about Professor Lawrence Maltby.”

  She raised her head, frowning. “What’s that?”

  “He was a Chartreuse addict,” Emmett said. “That means that his brain probably got badly de-rezzed a long time ago. If I were you, I wouldn’t try to make too much out of this newspaper article or the fact that he left you a message in the first place. He no doubt heard you were asking questions around the Old Quarter and it sparked a couple of delusions.”

  “I’m not the only one who took him seriously. What about those two guys we surprised in his apartment?”

  “I told you, they were most likely looking for his stash, not an old newspaper story about a student who went missing underground.”

  She tapped the copy of the newspaper clipping lightly against her palm. “Hmm.”

  “I really hate when you do that,” Emmett said.

  8

  THE OFFICES OF Hepscott Enterprises, Inc., radiated class and financial success. The furnishings and décor were in various shades of gray punctuated with occasional hits of black and crimson. The reception lobby alone was twice as large as her apartment, Lydia thought.

  On the way to the front desk she passed a number of glass cases that contained models of several Hepscott projects. Among them was a gated community of expensive homes and a new banking and financial tower that were going up downtown.

  A neatly folded copy of the Cadence Star was on the low table in front of a long black leather sofa. She glanced at it and saw the large headlines, Wyatt Critically Wounded. Guild Officials Appoint Acting Head.

  She had read the story that morning at breakfast, sitting across from Emmett. There was nothing in it that he had not already told her. The reporter had stuck to the facts and not descended into gossip. There was no mention of Emmett having once been engaged to Tamara Wyatt. The Star left that sort of thing to the tabloids.

  Lydia was very glad that she had splurged on the new suit and a pair of heels that matched the conservative rusty brown color of the outfit. The ensemble had cost her a month’s income but it was worth it. She looked almost as serious and businesslike as the receptionist.

  “May I help you?” the woman behind the desk asked politely.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Hepscott.”

  The receptionist looked doubtful. “Your name?”

  “Lydia Smith.” Lydia gave her the special smile she had developed for handling the secretaries who guarded the offices of senior faculty members at the university. “I have an appointment.”

  The woman’s brow cleared instantly. “Yes, of course, Miss Smith.” She leaned toward the intercom and pressed a button. “Miss Smith is here, sir.”

  “Send her in please, Elizabeth.” Gannon Hepscott’s voice was well modulated and infused with self-confidence. It went well with the décor of his reception lobby.

  “Yes, sir.” Elizabeth got to her feet. “This way, Miss Smith.”

  Lydia followed her to a tall door paneled in red amber-oak.

  The interior of Hepscott’s private office was even larger than the lobby. It was done in the same colors. The view out the wall of windows was nothing short of spectacular. It encompassed a long, meandering swath of the river and most of the Dead City of Old Cadence.

  In spite of her determination to project oodles of cool, professional competence, Lydia caught her breath at the glorious scene outside the windows. Last night’s fog had burned off early this morning and the green quartz towers of the alien city sparkled and shimmered in the sunlight.

  She had always wondered if the ancient Harmonic architects had been trained in art and poetry in addition to structural mechanics and design. The buildings they had left behind aboveground had an airy, ethereal quality that never failed to fascinate her. The soaring spires, arched roofs, colonnaded balconies, and sweeping walkways dazzled the eye and summoned forth a deep sense of wonder.

  “I know just how you feel,” Gannon Hepscott said from somewhere behind her. He sounded amused. “Every morning when I walk into this office I go straight to the windows and spend a few minutes looking at the ruins. And every day I ask myself the same question.”

  She smiled in understanding. “Why did they leave?”

  “We’ll probably never know the answer.”

  “No, but I doubt that we’ll ever stop asking the question.” She turned around and smiled at the man standing next to the large, semicircular desk. “Keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

  Gannon Hepscott chuckled. “Yes, it does.”

  This was the first time she had met him in person. Until now she had dealt only with members of his staff.

  Hepscott appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was tall, with long-fingered hands and a slender, graceful build that did wonders for the beautifully tailored suit he wore. His features were sharp, almost ascetic.

  She had been warned, albeit respectfully, that Hepscott affected a rather eccentric style. Now she comprehended why he had acquired that reputation. He was a study in pales.

  His eyes were a very light shade of gray. He had striking platinum hair that she knew could not possibly be natural. Even more arresting was the fact that he wore it shoulder-length and tied back at his nape. It was a look favored by a lot of macho, khaki-and-leather-wearing ghost-hunters but not by CEOs and presidents of corporations. Yet Hepscott managed to pull it off brilliantly. On him the style was at once very masculine and very elegant.

  His suit and shirt were white on white. His accessories were silver.

  “Please, have a seat, Miss Smith. Thank you for making the time available this morning.”

  “My pleasure.” She took one of the pair of black leather chairs he indicated and set her portfolio case on the plush gray carpet. “I’m looking forward to hearing more about your plans.”

  “As my architect and designers no doubt told you, I intend to call the project the Underground Experience.” He picked up a sheaf of papers and lowered himself onto the black sofa directly across from her. “My goal is to create the most exciting casino resort to be found in any of the city-states. I plan to locate it near the South Wall.” He paused, mouth tilting slightly at one corner. “For the atmosphere.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s taken me five years to acquire the adjoining properties required for the resort but I’ve finally put together a parcel large enough to suit my purposes.”

  “Your staff said that you wanted to create a theme based on the underground ruins.”

  “Yes.” He spread some drawings out on the table. “What I want is a dazzling, fantasy version of a trip through the catacombs. From the moment a guest walks into the lobby of my resort, I want him to be surrounded by genuine relics and artifacts, not reproductions.”

  “That’s where I come in, I take it?”

  Gannon smiled and sat back against the sofa. “Yes, Miss Smith, that is precisely where you come in. I want the settings to be as authentic as possible. You’ll have a generous budget. I want you to use it to acquire only museum-quality antiquities. Attend the auctions. Contact your connections on Ruin Row. Get the word out to the private collectors. Do whatever it takes. I want only the best pieces. My design team will incorporate them into the décor.”

  “It sounds like a very exciting project,” she said.

  “I’m not one to micromanage.” Gannon rose to his feet. “I hire qualified people and I let them do their job. However, this project is very important to me and I will expect to be kept informed. I’d like weekly status reports in person. Will that work with your schedule?”

  She realized that he was terminating the meeting already. “No problem, Mr. Hepscott.”

  “Please. Call me Gannon.” He studied her with a warm, considering expression. “Something tells me that you and I are
going to make a great team, Lydia.”

  Forty minutes later she leaped out of the cab in front of Shrimpton’s House of Ancient Horrors, paid the driver, and rushed through the entrance. The meeting with Gannon Hepscott had gone smoothly and swiftly enough, but the cab had encountered a rush-hour traffic jam on the way back downtown and as a result she was twenty minutes late for work. She hoped that her boss was not yet aware of that fact.

  The elderly man behind the ticket booth waved to her. “Morning, Lydia.”

  “Morning, Bob. Is Shrimp here yet?”

  “Nope, you’re in the clear.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Relieved, she slowed down to catch her breath.

  Thirty years ago, Shrimpton’s had started out as a third-rate museum featuring low-end alien relics. The establishment had gone rapidly downhill from that point. By the time Lydia had put in an application for a position on the staff seven months ago, it was considered more of a carnival fun house than a legitimate museum. No respectable antiquities expert took it seriously. Certainly no one with her credentials would have even considered working in the place under normal circumstances.

  But she had not had a lot of career options after the university had let her go. Her professional reputation had been in shreds.

  Shrimpton had given her a job when she had needed one desperately and she would be forever indebted to him. Although she was trying to build a new career as a private antiquities consultant she had vowed to give her employer his money’s worth. She would work through lunch to make up the twenty minutes, she promised herself.

  She walked quickly along a long exhibit hall that was dramatically shadowed and lit with glowing green fluo-rez lamps designed to provide the eerie, creepy atmosphere that was the hallmark of Shrimpton’s.