Twelfth Sun. Mae Clair
afternoon, shooting his own plans for convincing her they belonged together to a subterranean hell.
Reagan. Sexy, gorgeous, lips like satin.
She frowned when she saw him approaching. For her to leave now would look like she was intentionally avoiding him, and she was too proper for that. He watched as she accepted a glass of white wine from a server.
Reagan gave him a cool smile. “Dr. Cross. How are you?”
“I’d be better if you’d call me Elijah.” He caught a whiff of her perfume, a delicate scent blending white florals and woodsy overtones. He hovered by her side, fighting the urge to touch her, to nuzzle her slender neck with his lips. The buzz from the wine tangled with his social discomfort and kicked his tongue into overdrive. “If you wanted to get my attention, you didn’t have to lock me out of the bathroom.” He trailed a finger down the inside of her fitted sleeve. “I told Pellar we had a lovers’ spat, so he gave me a key to the room. Now I can barge in when you’re taking a bath.”
Her eyes went alarmingly wide. For a split second she looked deer-in-the-headlights-startled. “You…you didn’t,” she said in a fierce whisper. “You wouldn’t.”
He grinned, confident again. “What’s the matter, Reagan? Forget to pack the champagne and bubble bath?” He leaned conspiratorially close, his breath fanning softly against her ear. “We could shock the hell out of Pellar with some whipped cream and strawberries.”
She turned away and sipped her wine. “This isn’t spring break. Grow up or find some perky co-ed to bat her eyelashes at you.”
“Nothing doing.” He slipped his arm around her waist. “You’re sitting with me at dinner.” It wasn’t a request.
Reagan stiffened. Her eyes quickened with anger. “What makes you think for one minute I’d–”
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Felix Pellar’s voice sliced across the room with the practiced skill of trained orator. “This way please.” He clapped his hands and hastily motioned to the table. “Come, come. If you’ll all kindly be seated, we can get started. There are place cards for everyone. Mr. Simpson, Ms. Holt, over here. Dr. Cross, you and Ms. Cassidy to the left.” He flitted around the table, pointing out the pre-arranged seating assignments.
“See?” Elijah flashed Reagan a triumphant grin. “No choice. Pellar wants us to sit together, and you know how persnickety he can be.” He tightened his grip on her waist.
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She jabbed him sharply in the ribs.
“Ow!” Elijah grunted and took a step backward.
Freed, Reagan walked gracefully to the table, raising one hand to delicately pat her hair into place. Alan Franklin stood as she approached and offered to hold her chair. He sat to her right, smiling and making small talk.
Elijah scowled at him.
Suck up.
He snatched another glass of wine from Clarice as she headed for the door. It was white this time. Cabernet? Chardonnay? Or was that the blush-pink thing? He was on glass three. Three more than he normally drank. Headache, gut-ache. Something was bound to kick back at him in the morning.
Pellar stopped his flitting and glared. “Dr. Cross, would you please!”
“Sorry.” Pellar. Prissy stick-in-the-mud, all around pain-in-the-ass.
Elijah took his seat. Reagan sat to his right, Earl Tarvick his left. With Reagan set on ignoring him and the bald man as socially intriguing as gum disease, it was going to be a miserable dinner.
Felix Pellar motioned impatiently for silence. Once he had everyone’s attention, he cleared his throat regally. “I have an announcement to make on Mr. Sothern’s behalf. He regrets he is unable to join you once again, but hopes you will enjoy his considerable hospitality.”
“What about Rook’s journal?” Tarvick barked.
“Yes, yes, I was coming to that.” Pellar flicked a hand over his cuffs. “Mr. Sothern has had a change of heart about selling the journal outright.”
“What does that mean?” Livy asked, her alarm mirrored by all of them.
Pellar’s smug glance rested on each in turn. “Mr. Sothern would be genuinely pleased if you would all participate in a treasure hunt of his devising.”
“What?” Tarvick lurched from his chair.
Elijah shook his head, hoping to clear it. The wine had to be muddling his thoughts. No sane person would devise something so frivolous for something so significant. “A treasure hunt?” he repeated, stunned.
The room erupted into pandemonium as everyone began babbling at once.
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