The Megiddo Mark, Part 1 (2 page)

“I thought he’d have an apoplexy, the poor lad, when he heard bidding had closed for the book.” Elizabeth carried the
wrapped and bound Edgeworth manuscript pages in her arms.

“You’ve never seen the likes, I can bet you. His feet all wound about with yarn. It was a ravin’ mad scene. He must have thought me a daft one.”

Again they paused.

“Ah well, we’ve seen the last of him. Let’s go. We’ve got sights to see. Let’s hope the afternoon is a lot less eventful.”

Malena turned from Elizabeth and pulled up short. There stood a man.

“I’m sorry.” Malena shielded her eyes from the glaring sun. “I didn’t see you. I should be paying attention to where I’m go
–”

He stood close. Too close.

Malena took a step back. She stared into his broad chest. She glanced at his face then looked down again at her shoes.

The victim of their jab and buttonhook stood in front of her.

She peeked at his model-perfect face again. Strong chiseled features. Intense green eyes fringed by dark lashes. Firm square jaw. She tried, too late, to stifle the groan that slipped out. She should have known winning the bid for the book had been almost too easy. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet. But you will.” He gave a slow, lazy smile. The man turned to Elizabeth who’d gone silent. “Ah, we meet again.” He grinned. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” he said looking into Malena’s eyes as he took her hand.

Again, the frisson of electricity pulsed in Malena’s stomach. Her eyes were riveted to his wide sensual lips. She could tell he knew the effect he had on her. She tugged her hand from his grasp.

Malena pushed her shoulders back, standing straighter and in doing so, managed to draw his attention to her breasts. He smiled,
his gaze lingering where the V of her striped blouse met with the low rounded curve of her white cotton camisole. She struggled to calm her erratic heartbeat, appalled. Malena had never reacted this way to a total stranger.

“You’ve got something I want.” His British accent
–clear, crisp, rich, and masculine–washed over her. His melodious tenor made the words take on a seductive meaning that stoked a heat dormant for too long.

“I beg your pardon?” Her gaze snapped to his and held.

“The book,
Flights of Fancy
.” He smiled.

“Ah, yes, my book.”

“I’m willing to buy it from you for double the price you paid. Two thousand pounds on the spot.” He patted first one side of his jacket then tugged at the inside pocket of his suit coat to produce a checkbook.

She looked him up and down; from his stylish haircut, to his tailored shirt and well-fitted suit, to the tip of his fine leather shoes. Way too pricey for her. No doubt possessive and arrogant, too, underneath the suave packaging. She knew his type. Spoiled, rich. He stood for everything she’d learned to despise during those early years growing up in a single-parent family where money had been scarce. She could tell, just by looking at him, that he thought he could get anything he wanted by throwing money at it.

Well, he’d better think again. “No, sorry,” she said, and turned to herd Elizabeth back toward the library.

“Wait. No, just like that?” He laughed. “You’re not even going to negotiate?” He’d stepped in front of her, heading off her retreat.

“Nope.”

“You could at least pretend to consider my offer, especially since you had your knitting-needle-packing friend stab me.”

“I did not stab you,” Elizabeth said. “I poked you.”

“Hmmm. Rather a fine point of distinction, wouldn’t you say?”

“I didn’t ask her to attack you. I only asked her to distract you for a moment.” Malena’s voice trailed off as she realized she’d just admitted to a rather unprofessional ploy. “Well, you can’t have the book. It’s mine.” Damn, she sounded like a petulant toddler who wouldn’t share a toy. She grinned in apology. “Look, I’m not going to resell the book. I hope you understand. It’s personal.”

A group of passing men paused at the library entrance. One, wearing the dark robes of an Oxford scholar, greeted them. “Good afternoon ladies. Wade, good to see you.”

“Don McAllister.” He bowed to the older man.

The don nodded again, pushed up his round spectacles and continued on, shuffling his feet. “Smart boy, smart boy,” he muttered as he disappeared into the shadowy interior of the library.

Her auction opponent, presumably Wade, winked at her. One corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. His honest charm penetrated her defenses. She’d not felt so vulnerable with a man in a long time.

“Then at least say you’ll have dinner with me,” he said.

“I don’t even know your name. You’re a perfect stranger.”

“Well, at least you think I’m perfect.”

“I didn’t say . . .”

He grinned. “That’s an easy one to fix. Wade, Cullen. There, problem solved. I’m well respected all over England. We can retrieve Don McAllister, he’ll vouch for me.”

“No, I’m only here for the auction today. I’m headed back to London this afternoon.”

“What better fortune? Isn’t it every American girl’s dream to be wined and dined by someone who knows the city on the Thames?”

“Only eighteen-year-olds dream of hooking up with a prince these days. And I’m no stranger to London.”

“I don’t claim to be a prince, only enchanted by you.”

Malena laughed. It had been so long since she’d enjoyed the company of a sexy man. “Still no.”

“Right, yes, of course. Then you take me to dinner,” he said. “Show me your favorite haunts.” She looked over at Elizabeth.

“Don’t look at me,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve my own friends to entertain me when I’m in London.”

“I’ll pick a place.” Wade pulled a business card from his inner pocket and jotted something on the back. “It’s a well-known restaurant. Drop around tomorrow night at seven sharp and I promise you won’t regret it.”

She forced herself not to react to his cocky promise even though she wanted to smile. He was all wrong for her; not her type at all. Wealthy, self-confident, type A personalities were always trouble, big trouble.

She sighed.

But wouldn’t it be nice to live a little for a change? It wouldn’t hurt to enjoy one romantic dinner with a handsome man who showed obvious signs of his appreciation, would it?

“Consider my offer.” He reached forward, slipped the card
–slowly, deliberately–into the pocket of her blouse. Then he walked away.

She watched him walk the whole way across the courtyard then looked at Elizabeth.

“What? I have to eat. It’s only dinner.”

***

“All right, Mr. Stanhope, I do understand. I’ll let you know what I’ve decided about the bookshop.” Malena held the cell phone to her ear, looking out the passenger window. The solicitor prattled on the other end. She glanced across the car as Elizabeth drove them back to London. She flicked her sleeve to look at her watch. Almost six o’clock. They’d spent the afternoon walking around Oxford and enjoyed lunch and afternoon tea. Malena hadn’t planned on arriving back in London so late. She had hours of work ahead of her.

“Thank you.” She tried hard not to sound testy with the old man. For God’s sake, she had a Ph.D. in literature from Yale. Surely she could comprehend a few simple instructions? “Yes, I understand the importance of expediency here, Mr. Stanhope.” She bit her bottom lip to keep from bursting into laughter or tears, she wasn’t quite sure which.

“Yes. You have been more than thorough. No. I don’t have any questions. Yes. Look, this is short notice, and quite a lot of pressure since I just found out a few days ago I’d inherited the bookshop. But, yes, I’ll contact you after I’ve visited.” She paused, listening to the solicitor again. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Stanhope.” She snapped the phone closed.

“Elizabeth, you would not believe my aunt’s solicitor. Talk about detail-oriented. He probably irons his boxers. Sheesh. You wouldn’t know I’d already spent two hours on the phone with him this morning.”

“And where would we be without the Mr. Stanhopes of this world? So what’s happened now, dear?”

“Mr. Stanhope took a call from Aunt Blanche’s shop manager after our conversation this morning. Two of the three booksellers have quit. Mutiny. And . . .”

“And what?”

“He’s had a rather insistent buyer pressing him all day about purchasing the shop. Says I need to consider the offer. But I don’t know. I’ll pop in while we’re in London to take a look at the property. I haven’t been there in years.”

“Would you really sell? Not run the bookshop?”

“I’ve decided I am not going to decide yet. I’ll visit. I need to take my time. This is a big step for me. My great-aunt owned the store for as long as I can remember. I can’t rush.”

“Good for you. Well, either way, I’m here to support your decision. The shop can’t run on its own for long. Are you considering taking a sabbatical beyond summer break?”

“Yes. I have little choice in the matter. There’s no way I can teach in America and run a business in London. My passion is in teaching those kids. And yet, I love that shop. I can’t bear to think about a stranger owning it.”

“Aye.” Elizabeth’s slight lilt slipped, showing her Irish heritage. A transplanted Irish émigré, she often spoke in lyrical sing-song tones that made others feel cozy and at home.

“I don’t know what I’ll do yet. I’m hoping the answer will hit me while I’m in London.”

“Did you know that your aunt planned to will you the shop?”

“No, I hadn’t a clue. I’d been Aunt Blanche’s only living relative. But it never dawned on me that I’d one day own the place, need to run it. She knew how much I loved teaching. I thought she’d arrange to sell.”

“Yes, odd she never mentioned her expectations.”

“She did have some rather strong opinions, but she didn’t pay attention to the day-to-day details of life. No, I just think she knew how much I loved the shop. And she didn’t think about what it would take for me to continue to run the store.”

“Hmmm,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t understand her motivation, but I like my theory better. An incurable matchmaker, your aunt. So I’m hoping one of her booksellers is an Adonis who will sweep you off your feet.”

“Drop it. I’m in no mood nor do I have the energy to be mad at you. I am not, I repeat, not looking for a relationship.”

If love found her, and she’d recently begun to doubt it ever would, it would have to surprise her while she attended to her already busy life. She ascribed to the watched pot theory of finding love. A watched pot never boils, a woman on the hunt never finds true love. At the moment, she had bigger concerns.

“I don’t know.” Elizabeth clucked. “For what it’s worth, I think you should take the sabbatical and see what happens.”

“I’m no good at jumping the chasm. If I can’t see firm footing on the other side, I won’t jump. There are too many unknowns here. But I agree, I need to wait to decide. One way or the other, I’ll make the best choice I can. It’ll be fine.” But she, too, had her doubts.

“Well, I’m still hoping you find a little sizzle here in England. What’s the name of that lovely man we just met?”

Elizabeth, ever the optimist. “Mmmm. Lovely. Mr. Wade Cullen. Not that it matters.” She rested her head back against the seat. “I’ll be entirely too busy to have dinner with him.”

She couldn’t bring herself to touch the card in her pocket. No matter how much she wanted to know more about the man, she wouldn’t show interest in front of Elizabeth. She’d toss the card away as soon as she arrived in London. She looked out the window. It was nice, though, that he’d used the book as an excuse to try to pick her up.

However, after thinking about it all afternoon, she’d decided her first instincts were right, he’d be more trouble than he was worth.

Chapter Two

London, England

Darkness descended. The expansive London skyline at sunset stretched before Cullen. Spectacular blue, orange, gold and red faded to a homogenous dark wash of smoky blue. He shifted his weight and rubbed at the annoying ache in his side. In front of him, beyond the tinted glass and stainless steel of his office building, a little to the left, towered St. Paul’s Cathedral.

On another day, he’d have marveled at the scene.

Buildings, just as modern as his own, stood surrounded by others that were centuries old. He loved how history intertwined with routine modernism to create a city rich in texture, culture, convenience, relevance.

The diversity of London.

He’d moved the offices of his private firm that specialized in the acquisition and resale of ancient Roman artifacts and texts to Southwark because it had always been, since Roman times, the center of finance and business in the city. He loved the irony that over 2000 years before, Romans had set up a trading post on this very spot. And most days he took pride in knowing that he carried on a great tradition. However, today he’d been thwarted.

He fumed.

He’d examined the small book of poems for the first time today, held it in his hands. Now the book he’d planned to purchase at auction this morning was gone. Snatched from him by an American who had no idea what she held in her possession. No idea what value the volume held for him.

Cullen had two days to retrieve that damned book.

He was scheduled to depart for Italy then Turkey and Aphrodisias in three days. He couldn’t disrupt his plans, plans that had been in motion for literally years, to recover this book; even if it would give him the answers he needed. Yet it might be the one puzzle piece that completed the picture to provide him with the definitive reason why his mother took her own life. If he could understand her suicide, he could remove the power it held over his own life.

The Society for International Preservation of Historical Archaeological Reclamation, the foundation that currently employed his firm, wouldn’t accept any changes this late in the project. He’d fostered the relationship too long to let it all hang in the balance while he chased ghosts. The grant gave him a significant sum of money to retrieve first-century Roman scrolls from an active dig in Turkey.

SIPHAR was paying him the outrageous amount of money because they wanted the expert in the field. Wade Acquisitions, and Cullen Wade in particular, was considered the expert on ancient Roman artifacts and texts here in Great Britain and on the Continent. His reputation stood on the line.

So if he didn’t obtain
Flights of Fancy
within the next two days, it would have to wait until he returned. There were two options for retrieving it. Plan one started with dinner and ended with the seduction of Ms. Malena Alexander, after which she’d be putty in his hands and more than willing to sell him the book. If that didn’t work, he’d initiate his fall-back plan.

“Sienna, enter, please,” he barked.

Cullen knew his curious assistant had been hovering for the past twenty minutes. He could hear the graduate student shuffling papers at her desk outside his doorway.

“Yeah, Boss?” The young woman stood in the doorway, her long black hair, scrunched up into two black pigtails. Sienna’s pale skin stood in stark relief to her aquamarine blue eyes, dark eye-liner, and black lipstick. She’d been working for him for the past year as a favor to her dad, his best friend, John Mitchell, who held a professorship at Cambridge.

“See what you can find out about a Ms. Malena Alexander. She now owns a book that once belonged to my mother.”

“Sure thing, Boss. You want to buy the book?”

“I tried that today at the auction. No. Now I need to try to convince Ms. Alexander to reconsider my offer.”

“Rotten luck.” Sienna pursed her lips, but didn’t hold her silence for long. She scowled at him. “Veronica called again.”

“And you told her I’m out of the office on a permanent basis, right?”

“What’s the bloody point? She’ll only ring again. She might stop if you talked to her.”

“I’ve said everything I intended to say to her long ago. She’s no doubt run through all my father’s guilt money and now wants to make amends with me. Not on your life. I learned my lesson, I’m staying far away from that piece of baggage.”

“Splendid, but don’t you think it’s time for you to get back on the horse?”

“Get back on the horse?”

“You know, start dating again? You are forty years old. Time to settle down before you can’t . . . a-hemm . . . Maybe I need to look into a mail-order bride for you before it’s too late. You might have better luck with one of those.”

“Why would I want a post-paid bride when I have you?”

“Leave off. Sure, I do your research. On occasion, I bring you coffee or drop off your dry cleaning and bring you lunch. But I am in no way remotely like any wife you’d choose.”

“I know, I refer to your tendency to nag me.”

“Oh.” Sienna tugged at her earlobe and looked down at the floor. “Well, someone needs to keep you in line.”

He ignored her comment. He would not let his pixie of an assistant goad him into a response. “I need you to jump on this research right away. I’m supposed to meet with her tomorrow evening. Considering you don’t work weekends, looks like you have about two hours. Here’s what I know.” He threw the slip of paper onto the desk.

She flattened the crumpled paper, and then peered closely. “Wow. Her name. A hotel address in Oxford. And her description.” 

“The best I could do.”

She fingered the silver cross that dangled on a long black cord, one arm tucked close to her waist. “No measurements?” 

“Measurements?”

“You know, bust, waist, hips.”

He clenched his jaw hard. He would not respond.

“Just trying to figure out if she fits the Wade profile of accepted women. Tall, beautiful, lanky, perfect measurements. Gold digger. No brains. This is a first, even for you. You don’t often have me track down your dates.”

“This is not a date in the true sense of the word. She has a book I want, nothing more.”

“Complete crap, Boss. I can read you like a penny dreadful.”

“No such thing as a penny dreadful or its American cousin, the dime novel, these days.”

“You ought to know better than anyone as much as you pay for books. Guess the book you lost today was the volume of poetry by A. Alexander?”

“Check relatives of Ava Alexander. She must be a distant relation. Leave the details on my desk. I’ll need to convince her to relinquish the book before I leave for Turkey.”

Her eyebrow winged up. “Right then, must be pretty important if you need it before you leave.”

“Clever girl.”

“Did you make a proper offer?”

“Two thousand pounds.”

Sienna whistled.

“I don’t intend to go higher.”

“She refused? Then how do you plan to change her mind?”

“I think she’ll be more amenable to the offer after she’s had a bottle of wine and a nice dinner.”

“Hmmm.” She walked back and forth in front of his desk, her bare feet not making a sound on the tightly woven carpet. “Really? You think that’s wise? Combining business and pleasure always backfires on you.”

“And if that doesn’t work, I have a back-up plan.”

She paused. “I don’t like the sound of that
. . .”

“If you’ve learned anything about me over the past year, you know I protect what’s mine. That book belongs in my family. By Sunday it will be mine again.”

“Brilliant. Tell me your plan isn’t illegal?”

He paused a second too long. “If you have enough power, you can pretty much do anything you like these days.”

She squinted, peering at him then opened her eyes wide in chastisement. “Doesn’t make it right, though.”

“I’ve worked too long and hard to let a random bidder practically steal my mother’s book from me for a thousand pounds. I want that book back. Ms. Alexander won’t sell it to me. I’m not beyond using other means to get it, but I’m hoping my rugged charm will do the trick.”

“Can I get back to you on that one?” She ducked through the door. “Seneca says the powerful man is the one who has power over himself. Maybe you should practice that philosophy for a while instead of exerting your power over a poor helpless woman who squeezed you out of a bid. Wrong is still wrong.”

“Are you finished with the sermon?” He felt momentarily pained. He hated when Sienna took it upon herself to act as his conscience. If she wasn’t his best friend’s daughter, he’d have fired her long ago. “I also need you to research a book called the
Vitae Lux
for me while I’m in Aphrodisias. I found a reference to it in one of my mother’s journals. She owned it for a while. But it’s not in her collection. Might be a volume my father sold when he unloaded the family pile in Cornwall after my Mum died. But I can’t find any paperwork.”

“Why can’t you just ask him?” she called from the other room, then poked her head around the doorjamb. “Might do you good to have a civil conversation with your own father for a change. Give you an excuse to call him.”

His father had remarried six months after Juliana Wade’s death. Nathan Wade had quickly moved on with his own life, building an empire he planned to leave to Cullen. Not that Cullen wanted his father’s legal practice. But he could admire the hard work and determination that kept him at the top of his game at sixty.

What he could not admire was that he’d stolen Cullen’s fiancée a month before their planned wedding. He hadn’t quite forgiven his father for the incident two years ago. Nathan Wade kept Veronica around for about six months before he’d gotten tired of her. He’d paid her off to get rid of her. It looked like Veronica had finally spent through the money.

“You have something more to add?”

“Sure, I guess . . . I’ll see what I can find out about Ms. Alexander, but I don’t like it.”

“I don’t pay you to like your assignments. I pay you to complete them.” Cullen’s conscience nudged him. He hoped the seduction worked because if it didn’t, Sienna wouldn’t like the consequences.

Yes, he did, sometimes, well, use sleight of hand to trick his opponents out of valuable purchases. Cullen rather admired the Alexander woman’s initiative earlier today. Too bad he couldn’t hold on to his objectivity where the book came into play, otherwise, he might be able to laugh at her stunt. But the book was too important. He needed that copy of poems.

He’d never had to go this far, though.

Flights of Fancy
would be his. If there were any clues in the book about his mother’s reason for suicide, he’d find them. Then he’d board a plane for Turkey without looking back. Nothing, and no one, would divert him from his goal this time. Not even his gothic conscience who hissed and clicked as she walked back to her desk.

Half an hour later, Sienna slapped a note in front of him. “Here’s what I found on her after a quick search.” She smiled at him. “And here’s a company check cut for two thousand pounds. Cheers, Boss. I’m outta here. Have a good weekend. Oh, and don’t forget to pay your dinner date for the book when you take it. La’Bel buzzed, he’s on his way up. Gotta run.”

Cullen grunted. “Saboteur.”

“What? Me?” She looked at him. “Never. You’re the boss. Since you don’t have your own woman, somebody’s got to keep you honest.”

Damn. She’d done it again.

Moments later Kane La’Bel walked through the opened door. Something about La’Bel always made Cullen shift into predator mode. He remained seated behind his desk, not bothering to rise for the head of Oxford’s School of Archaeology.

“La’Bel. What can I do for you this evening? Little late for a social call.” He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. He stretched back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

“Wade, the witty conversationalist as usual.” La’Bel’s smile didn’t reach his silver-gray eyes. Around forty years old, he was known to attract women in swarms. Cullen guessed it was the blond hair and pale eyes. Personally, he couldn’t see the draw. Yet the department head seemed to have the opposite effect on Wade’s assistant. Today was no exception. She’d high-tailed it out of his office as soon as La’Bel called up for entry downstairs.

He watched La’Bel, unsmiling.

“Thought I’d stop by, see how you’re getting along.” Hands in his pockets, he looked around the office then moved to the bookcase. He pulled a book from the shelf, and walked toward Cullen’s desk where he stopped. He opened the book and ran his index finger down the page. No matter how much Cullen wanted to throw the bastard out on his arrogant ass, he refrained because of the man’s professional status within the field. He never burned bridges.

“Well, I’ll sit, since you didn’t offer.” La’Bel unbuttoned his jacket then sat on the leather sofa. He tossed the book onto the seat next to him.

“It’s late. I’m wrapping things up here.”

“Yes, then I’ll be brief. Word on the street is that you were a heavy bidder today in Oxford.” He tapped his chin. “But you came up empty-handed.”