The tall man seemed to gather himself as he turned back to me. I shot him a dazzling smile. There was no expression in his blue eyes as he stared at me as if I was a puppy present on the new rug. “If you would return that way?” he said flatly, pointing.
Feeling more like a prisoner than a guest, I took Jonathan’s subtle directions and retraced our path to the front. I led the way. He kept himself behind me. I didn’t like this at all. It didn’t help that I felt short next to him or that my footsteps were the only ones I could hear. Slowly, the soft colors and textures returned to corporate walls and bustling efficiency.
Keeping those same three steps behind me, Jonathan directed me down a small hallway just off the lobby. Frosted-glass doors were set on either side. Most were propped open and had people working inside, but Jonathan indicated the end office. Its door was wood, and he almost seemed to hesitate before he reached in front of me to open it. “If you would wait here,” he said, a hint of a threat in his precise voice. “Mr. Kalamack will be with you shortly. I’ll be at his secretary’s desk if you need anything.”
He pointed to a conspicuously empty desk tucked in a recessed nook. I thought of Ms. Yolin Bates, clay-cold dead in the I.S. lockup three days ago. My smile grew forced. “Thank you, Jon,” I said brightly. “You’ve been a dear.”
“It’s Jonathan.” He shut the door firmly behind me. There was no click of a lock.
I turned, glancing over Kalamack’s front office. It looked normal enough—in a disgustingly wealthy executive sort of way. There was a bank of electronic equipment inlaid in the wall next to his desk that held so many buttons and switches it would put a recording studio to shame. The opposite wall had a huge window, the sun spilling in to set the soft carpet glowing. I knew I was too far into the building for the window and its accompanying sunbeam to be real, but it was good enough to warrant a severe going-over.
I set my bag beside the chair opposite the desk and went to the “window.” Hands on my hips, I eyed the shot of yearlings arguing over fallen apples. My eyebrows rose. The engineers were off. It was noon, and the sun wasn’t low enough to be casting beams that long.
Finding satisfaction in their error, I turned my attention to the freestanding fish tank against the back wall behind the desk. Starfish, blue damsels, yellow tangs, and even sea horses coexisted peacefully, seemingly unaware the ocean was five hundred miles east. My thoughts turned to my Mr. Fish, swimming contentedly in his little glass bowl. I frowned, not jealous, but annoyed at the fickleness of the luck of the world.
Trent’s desk had the usual stuff on top, complete with a small fountain of black rock for the water to chatter over. His computer’s screen saver was a scrolling line of three numbers: twenty, five, one. A rather enigmatic message. Stuck in the corner where the walls met the ceiling was a conspicuous camera, its red light winking at me. I was under surveillance.
My thoughts went back to Jonathan’s conversation with his mysterious Sa’han. Clearly my story of Francine had been breached. But if they wanted me arrested, they would have done it by now. It seemed I had something Mr. Kalamack wanted. My silence? I ought to find out.
Grinning, I waved at the camera and settled myself behind Trent’s desk. I imagined the stir I was causing as I began rummaging about. The datebook was first, laid invitingly open on the desktop. Francis’s appointment had a line through his name and a question mark penciled beside it. Wincing, I leafed back to the day where Trent’s secretary had been tagged with Brimstone. There was nothing out of the ordinary. The phrase “Huntingtons to Urlich” caught my eye. Was he smuggling people out of the country? Big whoop.
The top drawer held nothing unusual: pencils, pens, sticky notepads, and a gray touchstone. I wondered what Trent could possibly be concerned about to warrant that. The side drawers contained color-coded files concerning his off-estate interests. As I waited for someone to stop me, I browsed, learning his pecan groves had suffered from a late frost this year but that his strawberries on the coast made up the loss. I slammed the drawer shut, surprised no one had come in yet. Perhaps they were curious as to what I was looking for? I knew I was.
Trent had a thing for maple candy and pre-Turn whiskey, if the stash I found in a lower drawer meant anything. I was tempted to crack the near forty-year-old bottle and sample it but decided that would bring my watchers out faster than anything else would.
The next drawer was full of neatly arranged discs. Bingo! I thought, opening it farther.
“Alzheimer’s,” I whispered, running a finger across a handmade label. “Cystic fibrosis, cancer, cancer …” In all, there were eight labeled cancer. Depression, diabetes … I continued until I found Huntington. My gaze went to the datebook and I shut the drawer. Ahhhh …
Settling back into Trent’s plush chair, I pulled his appointment book onto my lap. I started at January, turning pages slowly. Every fifth day or so a shipment went out. My breath quickened as I noticed a pattern. Huntington went out the same day every month. I flipped back and forth. They all went out on the same day of the month, within a few days of each other. Taking a slow breath, I glanced at the drawer of discs. Sure I was on to something, I popped one into the computer and jiggled the mouse. Damn. Password protected.
There was a small click of a latch. Jumping to my feet, I jabbed the eject button.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Morgan.”
It was Trent Kalamack, and I tried not to flush as I slipped the small disc into a pocket. “Beg pardon?” I said, turning the ditzy charm on full. They knew who I was. Big surprise.
Trent adjusted the lowest button on his gray linen jacket as he shut the door behind him. A disarming smile curved over his clean-shaven features, giving him the air of someone my age.
His hair had a transparent whiteness to it that some children have, and he was comfortably tan, looking as if it wouldn’t take much to get him poolside. He looked far too pleasant to be as wealthy as he was rumored to be. It wasn’t fair to have money and good looks both.
“You’d rather be Francine Percy?” Trent said, eyeing me over his wire-rimmed glasses.
I tucked an escaped curl behind an ear, striving for an air of nonchalance. “Actually—no,” I admitted. I must still have a few cards to play or he wouldn’t be bothering with me.
Trent moved to the back of his desk with a preoccupied poise, forcing me to retreat to the other side. He held his dark blue tie to himself as he sat. Glancing up, he looked charmingly surprised as he noticed I was still standing. “Please sit,” he said, flashing me small, even teeth. He pointed a remote at the camera. The red light went out, and he tucked the remote away.
Still I stood. I didn’t trust his casual acceptance. Warning bells were going off in my head, making my stomach clench. Fortune magazine had put him on its cover as last year’s most eligible bachelor. It had been a head-to-knee shot, with him leaning casually against a door with his company name on it in gold letters. His smile had been a compelling mix of confidence and secrecy. Some women are drawn to a smile like that. Me, I get wary. He gave me the same smile now as he sat, his hand tucked under his chin as his elbow rested on the desktop.
I watched the short hair about his ears drift, and I thought his carefully styled hair had to be incredibly soft if just the draft from the vent could lift it like that.
Trent’s lips tightened as he saw my attention on his hair, then returned to that smile. “Let me apologize for the mistake at the front gate, and then with Jon,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you for at least another week.”
I sat down as my knees went weak. He was expecting me? “I’m sure I don’t understand,” I said boldly, relieved my voice didn’t crack.
The man reached for a pencil with a casual ease, but his eyes jerked to mine when I shifted my feet. If I’d known him