“How dare you?”
Morgan knew he’d overstepped, opening deep wounds. Carin’s brother was a twenty-three-year-old autistic man living at the Institute. Twelve years her junior, Markie was the agent’s raison d’être…and it had been her work on autism—research meant to help her brother—that Zag had sabotaged.
Still, he pressed his point. “Do you remember the day when you brought Markie to Estelle? You’d never even heard the sound of his voice before then. She gave you that, Carin,” he continued, reminding her that it was Estelle’s gift as a psychic that had allowed Markie to utter his first and only words: I love you.
“Let’s finish the job she started,” he said. “It’s what Estelle would have wanted. It should be what we all want.”
She shook her head, looking away. “You’re a son of bitch, Morgan. You know that?”
Carin glanced down at his desk. Suddenly, she reached for one of several photographs and turned it to face Morgan.
The photo showed Morgan’s daughter, Gia, holding his granddaughter, Stella, in her arms.
“You said it yourself, Morgan. You ruined Estelle’s career and broke her heart. Be careful who you sell out this time.”
She put the photo back and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
Theodore Fields hobbled through the parking area toward the front door of his waterfront condo. Damn Achilles tendon. Every morning he woke up barely able to walk, it felt so tight. Now the damn thing was giving him problems even after a long drive in the car.
Seriously, he was beginning to feel ancient.
He switched the bag of Chinese food—it was probably already cold—to his left hand and took out his house keys.
Fucking Zag.
Theodore didn’t consider himself a violent man. But more and more he wanted to shove his fist into that pompous face.
The fact was, Zag de Rozières had everything. Money, prestige, good looks.
And youth. The bastard had years ahead of him to accomplish whatever he wanted in life.
Not Theodore. He had a bitter ex-wife who’d taken him to the cleaners and was still bleeding him for alimony, and a daughter who’d come out of the closet. Last week, she’d brought her butch lover to their lunch together, parading her around for anyone to see.
Fuck. What a bunch of losers.
Theodore hated losers. All his life, he’d been a winner. He’d won the fucking Nobel, for God’s sake. And he was still the man when it came to membrane theory.
But there was Zag, sitting smugly across that ridiculous table and its Tibetan carvings, talking about bullshit like magic crystals and Atlantis. He could publish his silly theories in legitimate journals solely because he had more money than God…as if anything that man came up with could forward real science.
He should never have agreed to associate with Morgan and the Institute. He’d never have done it if it weren’t for Lionel’s involvement. Now there was a real scientist. And for a while, the work had been interesting. They’d been able to achieve statistically significant samples of telekinesis at the molecular level. That’s why Morgan had brought him on, to keep them on the straight and narrow.
Only now, Morgan was obsessed with this artifact, this Eye of Athena. And he’d signed on as coauthor to Zag’s embarrassing article. Theodore couldn’t help but fear that his current association with the Institute was putting his reputation on the line. It had been too long since he’d published anything significant. And now, he was involved in this bullshit. He was in danger of becoming the laughingstock of physics.
Shit, he could already feel his acid reflux kicking in. Forget the Chinese. He wouldn’t get through the night.
“Theodore?”
The sound of her voice startled him. Theodore turned, his heart hitting his throat, making it difficult to catch his breath. He searched the shadows and found her standing near the bougainvillea.
Her bright red hair was severely pulled back and she wore a black vinyl trench coat tied tightly around her slim waist and ruby-red spiked heels, the same color as her lipstick.
Immediately, he cleared his throat—a nervous habit. He walked to her and grabbed her arm, steering her deeper into the shadows.
He looked around nervously. “I told you never to come here!” he whispered harshly.
But he could already feel his growing erection. Jesus.
She stepped back. In clear view of his neighbors, she opened her trench coat to expose her beautiful naked body.
Her bright red pubic hair had been shaved in the shape of a heart.
“Should I go home, baby?” she asked sweetly.
His hands shaking, Theodore couldn’t get the front door opened fast enough.
8
Seven balanced two bags of groceries as he walked up the path to the house. “Dinner has arrived!” he called out loudly.
Nick, his eleven-year-old nephew, burst out the door, an enormous smile on his face. That smile made Seven’s heart just stop right there in his chest.
Jesus, Ricky. What you’re missing….
He handed one of the bags to Nick and tousled his blond curls. “I’m cooking.”
“No, you’re not.”
Beth was already standing at the door, holding it open. She was wearing jeans and a lacy white blouse, her blond hair loose around her face. As he passed, he gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’m cooking,” he said again.
She shut the door and followed him into the kitchen. “No, you’re not.”
The three of them stood in the modest kitchen, unloading groceries. Just a year ago, Beth had been an upscale harbour wife, involved in all the right charities, taking classes in interior decorating. The kitchen of their waterfront home in Huntington Harbour had been her masterpiece: granite counters, two built-in Subzero refrigerators, top-of-the-line Viking equipment. Now she stood in a kitchen not much bigger than the galley of what had once been Ricky’s fifty-five-foot yacht.
He remembered the day Beth finally looked at him, her brown eyes tired and flat. Her words chardonnay-slurred, she’d told him, “Let them have it. I can’t make up for what Ricky did, killing their son. If this is what they want,” she said, signaling to the house and beyond, “they can have it. They can have every penny.”
She’d been talking about Scott’s family. After Ricky had pleaded guilty to the murder of his lover, Scott’s family had filed an unlawful-death suit.
She’d been drunk at the time; Seven had no idea if she’d meant what she’d said. But the next day, she’d called her attorney and made the arrangements. A week later, Beth started AA.
The last ten months had brought on more changes. The five-hundred-dollar cut and color in Beverly Hills had given way to Lady Clairol and a local salon in Seal Beach. Sweater sets and slacks worn with ballet flats from Neiman’s and Bloomie’s were downgraded to jeans and dresses from Target.
The funny thing—she looked younger. Hipper. More alive. She’d been working at a friend’s real-estate firm. Next month, she was going for her broker’s license.
“Look at this.” He held up some filet mignons and portabella mushrooms. He had a bag of prewashed mescaline greens and three potatoes, each practically the size of Nick’s miniature Nerf football.
“I’m telling you guys. Even I can’t blow this,” he said with a grin.
Mother