Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (17 page)

“If I had the money to spare, of course.”

“There are other people with fewer scruples. They'll try to get it any way they can.”

“Kidnappers?”

“Would you give up the wine if Cathlin were taken?”

“Of course. But it won't come to that.” Dominic thought about the dangers he had confronted while guarding presidents and kings in every corner of the globe. He found it hard to imagine that he'd meet his end back in sedate, stuffy England, trying to protect a case of wine.

Then again, he hadn't made it to the relatively ripe old age of thirty-five by underestimating any kind of danger. “Have you spoken to Cathlin O'Neill about any of this?”

“I've tried, but she hasn't returned my calls. Draycott Abbey can hardly hold fond memories for her, of course.”

Dominic's jaw clenched. “If I should decide to look up Cathlin O'Neill—and I do mean
if—
where would I find her?”

“She has a wine shop on Regent Street. No, wait a minute.” Nicholas delved through a pile of papers on the edge of his desk and pulled out a sheet of thick vellum stock. “If I remember correctly—yes, here it is. Cathlin's on the program of a charity auction to be held at the British Museum next week.” Nicholas held out the engraved invitation. “And do it right, if you please. I don't want any more restless ghosts pacing the parapets and wrecking my sleep.”

“Any more? You mean those stories you told me in school were true?”

Nicholas frowned. “Never mind. Just find Cathlin and convince her somehow. Use that famous Ashton charm I keep hearing about.”

Dominic shook his head. “I'm making no promises,
Nicholas.” He swung his jacket over his shoulder. “How can you expect her to come back here after what happened? Who would want to face all that again? I certainly wouldn't.”

“Maybe it's time she did. No matter what she decides, she's involved, and she's going to need someone to keep her safe when this news gets out. And you were always the very best, Dominic.”

“Not anymore. I'm out of that world, Nicholas. You'll have to find another bulletcatcher.”

“Why? You never told me what happened,” Nicholas said softly.

Dominic watched his shadow slant across the lush peach carpet. Outside, the air filled with birdsong. “Because it almost killed me, Nicholas. After a while I saw shadows everywhere and I couldn't tell my friends from my enemies. I can't go back, not to the shadows, not to the adrenaline highs and the cold sweats. Not even for a million pounds.”

And when Dominic left the abbey, he didn't look back. Danger had once been a way of life for him. He had been a cold professional, a man who had learned the hard way to trust no one.

But France had softened him, taught him balance. The long sunny days and lazy velvet nights of his fields along the Garonne had wiped away some of the anger and most of the bad memories.

And Dominic liked it that way.

So he would go see Ms. Cathlin O'Neill in all her glory at a society wine auction. He was curious to see how good she really was. But that was the beginning and end to it.

Nothing was going to pull him back into the shadows, not even the last, desperate words of a dying ancestor.

Or so he told himself.

T
HE STATELY VESTIBULE OF
the British Museum was filled with the glitterati of four continents. Amid the Indonesian orchids and dwarf oranges, royal dukes rubbed elbows with English rock stars, California winemakers and unsmiling Japanese investors. Champagne flowed, diamonds glittered; the suits were strictly Armani and the gowns were all haute couture.

Cathlin O'Neill looked on and stifled a sigh. It was the world she'd made her own, the world she'd become intimately familiar with since she'd come to England to expand her business as an appraiser and dealer in rare old wines. She knew that tonight the bidding would be fierce, all proceeds from the charity auction going to benefit a popular wildlife trust. It didn't hurt that more than a few in attendance expected the Prince of Wales to put in an appearance before the evening was out.

Cathlin entered the antique-strewn ladies' room and turned before the mirror, straightening her elegantly severe black velvet suit. She looked like what she was: young and clever and very American. If the stuffed shirts around her didn't like it, then too bad for them. She'd had to deal with too many condescending aristocrats since coming to London and she had done it smoothly and well—but she hadn't liked it. She was tired of the formality and tired of the condescension. All she wanted was to finish her work here and go back to her little apartment off Piccadilly Circus, kick off her heels, and finish an article commissioned by
a major wine journal on the pitfalls of sulfites in the winemaking process.

Hardly light reading, Cathlin thought.

But most of her thoughts had been far from light these last months. She had begun to have serious doubts about staying on in England. She disliked the climate and disliked the tone of the city and wanted nothing more than to return to her plant-filled rooms in the sunny Philadelphia shop she kept off Rittenhouse Square.

In addition to her subjective biases against London, the last months had stirred up memories of her English mother, memories that Cathlin preferred to leave buried. But she found she had little choice. The images seemed to come and go at will, and they'd been coming more often since she'd returned to England. Cathlin knew she'd have to make up her mind soon just how much longer to stay. When her friend, formerly the head of Harrods Wine Department, had first called, a partnership had seemed a good idea. Now Cathlin wasn't so sure.

She shoved back her glossy black hair and frowned into the mirror. Outside, the premier auction event of the season was about to begin, and her partner, an old friend from college days in Ithaca, had talked Cathlin into gaveling the Sauternes segment. As an expert in the early sweet white wines of Bordeaux, Cathlin knew how to fill her patter with a running commentary on good wines, bad wines, and how to know the difference between them. She named names and quoted prices, when no one else dared. As a result, she'd been the hit of two similar London auctions, especially when she'd poured out a sample taste of one of the offerings, then tossed the bottle over her shoulder, saying no one needed to be afflicted with an unfortunate mistake like that year was.

The charity council had nearly succumbed to cardiac arrest and the owning wine company had been apoplectic. But Cathlin had been dead on target and the rest of the audience had laughed wholeheartedly.

The next day the phone at her shop on Regent Street had rung right off the wall.

So tonight Cathlin forced a smile and straightened her hair, reminding herself that this exposure helped her business and gave her access to the stuffed shirts she needed, even if she
did
find them incredibly irritating.

“Ready to go?” A jeweled finger pressed her shoulder.

“Serita, you pest, why do I ever agree to do these things? If I die of Joy inhalation, it will be your fault and yours alone.”

“But what a way to go.” Serita McCall, Cathlin's partner, stood six feet tall and drop-dead gorgeous in gold lamé. She knew everyone worth knowing and all their various wine preferences. For five years she'd badgered Cathlin to come to London, and now that Cathlin was here, her friend was determined to see her paired off and happy.

Cathlin had very different ideas. Serita's string of introductions had left her utterly bored, and she was having no more of them.

But suspicion was a hard habit to break, and Serita had that old gleam in her eye again. “What is it, Serita? Don't tell me there's another sweet, dear man you want me to meet. I warn you, I've had it with making small talk with strangers.”

Her friend gave her a sympathetic look. “I was terrible, wasn't I? Well, you can breathe easily, because I'm done with all that. I'm only thinking about that man who's been asking about you. See, over there.” She opened the door and pointed. “Beside the Japanese contingent.”

Cathlin studied the tall man striding past a marble column. She had time for only a dim impression of broad shoulders and dark hair before he disappeared into the jeweled throng. “Am I supposed to know him?”

“No, but I am. His name is Dominic Alexander Montserrat. He's the tenth earl of Ashton, actually.”

Cathlin's lips pursed.

“Don't go all New World snob on
me,
Cathlin O'Neill. Dominic is a perfectly nice man who asked me to point you out. For purely business reasons, I might add. He owns a vineyard himself.”

“Great. Another dissipated absentee landlord. Forget it, Serita.”

“You're wrong, Cathlin. He's very quiet about his involvement, but he does take a great interest in his wine and he's very knowledgeable, believe me. I'd tell you more, but he'd shoot me, since he's very sensitive about his privacy.”

“So am
I.
”

Serita smiled. “As a matter of fact, he said you were far too young to be an expert on anything so subtle as nineteenth century Sauternes.”

“Just what I need, another pompous ass. I dearly love you, Serita, but really, you English seem to grow pompous asses the way we grow Florida oranges. And these auctions just seem to pull them out in droves.”

“But he is a most attractive man, Cathlin. There's something different about Dominic. It's his eyes, I think. He looks at you and really
sees
you. There's something seductive, but dangerous about that kind of total focus in a man.” She shrugged. “Then again, I've already had two glasses of Taittinger, so my judgment is probably a tad hazy. Now I must be off. There's a man waiting for me outside who has a blank check from a very fine department store in Texas and I mean to see he spends every cent of it here tonight.” She winked at Cathlin. “And a few more after that.”

Knowing Serita, she'd do just that, Cathlin thought, as her partner moved back into the crowd. For a moment Cathlin was envious of her ebullient friend, who always seemed to know just how to put people at their ease and bring out their best points.

Unlike Cathlin, who seemed too serious, too competent, too—

Capable. Yes, that was the word. She'd had to be capable, losing her mother so young. Worrying about her footloose father. Then losing him, too.

Sighing, Cathlin picked up her repoussé gold evening bag and headed for the columned auction room. Capable or not, she had made a promise to Serita and that meant she had some very old and very valuable Bordeaux to sell.

Halfway between the potted palms and the carved ice swans a man blocked her way. A very tall man with hair the color of the oak casks used to age the finest Dom Pèrignon.

“Ms. O'Neill?” His black brow arched.

Cathlin looked into his cool green eyes and thought they were too knowing, far too confident. Not that he didn't have reason to be. His formal black jacket was just about perfection and his bronzed face spoke of just the right amount of time shuttling between Cap d'Antibes and the latest haunt in Mustique.

Which meant that in Cathlin's eyes he was a grade-A washout.

“Maybe.” Her eyes skimmed his body, noting the exquisitely cut white shirt that came from one of the finest tailors on Savile Row. His wrist held a worn but extremely valuable Swiss designer watch that would have bought a year's lease on her shop back in Rittenhouse Square. “But probably not.”

There was a flare of emotion in his eyes, something that Cathlin decided was a mix of anger and humor. She found the combination startling.

“Why not?”

“Because I don't like how you talk.”

A muscle flashed at his bronzed jaw. “You haven't heard me talk yet.”

Cathlin pursed her lips. “Then because I don't like how you look.”

“I can take off the suit if it will help.”

“Not interested. You're too high on the food chain and I don't like your attitude.” Cathlin smiled sweetly. “Is that reason enough?”

Again the flare of mingled emotions, only this time the anger was winning out over the humor. “My credit is good and my ref
erences are excellent. As for my attitude—” His lips curved slightly. “I'd be glad to discuss that further over dinner.”

Cathlin had heard it all too many times before. As a woman in a man's world, she was considered fair game for every Bond Street Lothario and would-be Don Juan with a storefront and a two-line wine list. It was true back in Philadelphia and it was equally true here in London. “Sorry, I never mix business with pleasure.” She turned to leave.

He moved in front of her with a silent grace that left Cathlin frowning. “Then let's leave the pleasure for later and focus on business. I have a proposition for you.”

“I'll just bet you do.”

“A business proposition.”

“Let me guess. You need to decide between an imperial of Château Lafite-Rothschild '71 and a 1912 Château d'Yquem Sauternes and you simply
must
ask my advice.”

His eyes weren't just green, Cathlin saw then. They were smoky, the color of the finest China jade. Too hard to be carved, the stone could only be shaped by the slow and laborious abrasion of some harder substance like crushed garnets or rubies.

The result was objects of phenomenal price but extraordinary beauty.

Looking into those eyes, Cathlin thought of the imperial archer's ring her father had brought back to her after one of his frequent Far Eastern trips.

Cathlin had found the piece lovely—at first. Soon she had come to hate it, because it represented the government work that kept him away from home for months at a time, constantly on the move—and perpetually in danger.

And the work had finally killed him, before Cathlin had ever really gotten a chance to know him.

The green eyes narrowed, hardened. “Sorry, no Lafite.”

“No? How disappointing. Good-bye.” Cathlin saw his eyes
change again. She sensed a raw edge of violence, not quite hidden by that sleek, cool veneer.

If so, that was
his
problem.

She was turning away when his hand snagged her wrist. She felt the hard palm and the ridge of calluses lining his fingers. Not exactly the hand of a playboy, she thought. But he'd probably gotten the calluses from counting tax write-offs and opening bottles of tanning oil for Victoria's Secret models. “Let go of my hand.”

“The Lafite '71 has definite potential, but hasn't opened up and come into its own yet. The d'Yquem '12 was a flat-out disappointment.” A slow, cocky grin. The kind of grin that said he was smart and good to look at and he knew it.

“Now.”

“Maybe I don't want to let go of your hand.”

“There are two kinds of women in this world. Those who say no and mean it. And those who say no and mean it.”

“Very clever, Ms. O'Neill. But there are two kinds of men in the world—those who think there are two kinds of women, and those who know they'll never know the first thing about the incredible subtlety of the female mind. I happen to fall in the second group. Now what about my proposition?”

Cathlin shook her head in disbelief. “There are probably four hundred women in this room right now. Most of them would seriously consider armed robbery to hear a proposition from you. Go pick on one of them.”

The jade eyes glinted. “I don't want one of them. I want you.”

“So call my shop. It's on Regent Street. Right under
H
for hard to get.”

“This is important, damn it. I need to talk to you.”

Somewhere out in the auction area, a man's voice announced that the final lot of champagnes had just been sold, tallying up to a grand total of fifty thousand pounds.

Which meant Cathlin was on next.

She stared at their overlaid hands, trying to ignore his carefully controlled power. Her jaw hardened. “For your information, the Lafite '71 is more than passable even now and its potential is tremendous. The d'Yquem '12 was intense but quite uneven. Both are better than anything that could be said for
you.
” She jerked her hand from beneath his. “And if you ever try that again, I'll break your wrist.”