Twelfth Sun. Mae Clair
Ignoring the invitation, Reagan collected her purse. The luggage for her weekend stay would come later after she’d met her host. She stepped from the car, tugging the collar of her jacket up around her neck. “Have you met Eric Sothern before?” she asked, curious about the man who lived in such a lavish estate.
Elijah shook his head. “I don’t know the first thing about him, but it looks like he’s got a nice shack. You could do wonders with the interior design.”
She frowned, disturbed he knew her business background. What else had her uncle told him? As they stepped onto the sprawling porch, banked by elaborate white columns, Reagan noticed four cars parked to the side. More guests? Had they inadvertently interrupted a social call or a business gathering? Sothern’s invitation indicated they were welcome to arrive as early as eight AM.
Elijah rang the doorbell and, within moments, a middle-aged man appeared. He gave them a quick once over through close-set gray eyes. “You must be Dr. Cross and Ms. Cassidy.” He studied Elijah discreetly, as if unable to reconcile the professional title with his age. “You’ll do, I suppose. Mr. Sothern is expecting you.”
“How nice.” Elijah’s voice carried a tight edge Reagan hadn’t heard before. “And you are?”
“Felix Pellar. I oversee Mr. Sothern’s staff.” He ran a hand down the sleeve of his immaculately tailored jacket, fastidiously straightening his cuff. “The others are in the solarium. This way, please.”
“Others?” Reagan asked, but Pellar merely beckoned them inside.
Not pausing to see if they followed, he walked crisply through a marble-tiled foyer into a hallway overlooked by a soaring loft. Reagan trailed slowly, Elijah a step behind. A grand staircase made a sweeping curve to the right, rising to the upper level in a lavish serpentine twist. Plush, foam-colored carpeting padded their footsteps, so dense it felt like walking on air. The glass-enclosed solarium was framed by a high cathedral ceiling and banked by walls of windows on three sides. A panoramic view of ocean, shoreline and sky created a startling backdrop of sea-washed blues and greens, steely grays, and earthy tans.
A number of people were already gathered in the room. A young couple chatted quietly in the corner, their heads bent close together. Nearby, a black-haired woman sipped a thick, fruity drink while flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine. A blond man sat beside her, casting an occasional glance over his shoulder when something caught his interest. Farther away, a bald-headed man stood gazing out the window. He had a pale complexion, thick black mustache and a goatee.
“Mr. Sothern will be here shortly,” Pellar announced, eyeing her and Elijah as if they were a matched pair. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll have someone bring refreshments.”
Reagan moved to object. “Thank you, but I don’t want–”
Pellar was gone before she could finish. Exasperated, she clamped her mouth shut. Her eyes returned to the members of the group, who were all now openly staring. She felt like a specimen under a microscope. A flush of heat rose to her cheeks.
“It’s always awkward being the last to arrive.” The blond man left his companion and approached with a breezy smile. He looked to be a few years older than her, his complexion smooth and bronzed as if he’d recently vacationed on a tropical island. His eyes were amber and lightly lashed, but his smile, near perfect and dental-white, was easily his best feature. He gathered her hand, gallantly raising it to his lips.
“My heart just skipped a beat,” he said smoothly. “I’m Brody Simpson. World-traveler, antiquities buyer, modern day knight in shining armor.”
Reagan pulled her hand free. His charm had all the earmarks of being manufactured. “Reagan Cassidy. Is that your resume or your wish list?”
“It’s his brain structure, ranking up there with putty.” Elijah removed his hat and dragged a hand through his loose curls. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Brody. Tarvick too.” A nod indicated the bald man. “Does this mean we’re in competition again? It’s getting to be predictable.”
“You’d miss it if it weren’t. Too bad you’re destined for the losing end.”
“That’s what St. Croix wants you to think. Aren’t you tired of being his lap dog?”
“Aren’t you tired of championing ivory halls?”
Both men grinned simultaneously.
“Excuse me,” Reagan interrupted, feeling left out. “Could someone please tell me what’s going on?”
“Just some friendly rivalry,” Brody explained. He clasped Elijah’s hand and slapped him on the back. “It’s good to see you, Doc, but I’m going to tromp all over you. Gerald St. Croix wants Rook’s journal, and he’s given me carte blanche. I’m going to outbid whatever paltry sum you’ve got tucked up your conniving Mensa sleeve.”
“Outbid?” Reagan blinked, feeling a nip of alarm. She’d been invited to purchase Rook’s journal, not enter into a bidding war. Frazzled, she tugged on Brody’s sleeve. “Excuse me, just who are you and what are you doing here?”
He chuckled lightly. “Since Pellar left and Sothern isn’t here, let me handle the introductions.” He placed her hand in the crook of his arm and guided her into the room. The others turned from their various spots, eyeing her with open curiosity. One by one, Brody introduced them. The young couple was Livy and Alan Franklin, the bald man Earl Tarvick, and the dark-haired woman, Monica Holt.
“We all came for the same reason,” Brody explained. “Jeremiah Rook’s journal. We’ve all received an invitation from Sothern for the weekend. Other than that, we’re waiting to see what our host has planned.”
Before Reagan could respond, a servant arrived with a tray of blended fruit drinks in tulip-shaped glasses and a platter of hors d’oeuvres. Fancy cut cheeses, cold shrimp and grilled toast points with smoked salmon, cucumber and dill were artfully arranged on blush crystal. Anxious, she snatched up one of the tropical drinks, then trailed Brody to a corner where they could talk privately.
“But I came to purchase Rook’s journal,” she protested.
He flashed a smile. “So did I. It sounds like we’ve all been had. Might as well enjoy the stay. And the company.”
He was magnetic but Reagan sensed his charm was conjured at will, a switch he toggled on and off as he pleased. Determined not to be sucked under, she looked away, studying the young couple who spoke with Elijah.
Brody had introduced them as Livy and Alan Franklin, brother and sister, direct descendants of Samuel Storm. She had originally thought they might be husband and wife, but could now see marked similarities in their features. Both had blond hair and wide-set blue eyes, giving them a wholesome boy-and girl-next-door look. Livy’s hair was long and straight, secured in a sleek ponytail. She was cheerleader pretty, with flawless skin and a way of smiling that made her eyes sparkle.
Reagan frowned, noting how intimately Elijah chatted with her, two gorgeous twenty-somethings clicking in the span of a heartbeat. She wasn’t certain why the thought bothered her, or why she was annoyed by Elijah’s fawning.
Was he fawning?
He wasn’t nearly as refined as Brody, but there was something appealing about his offbeat appearance. The unkempt hair, battered fedora and faded jeans paired with dock shoes, made him look more like a starving musician than a respected academic. Eccentric and brilliant. Hadn’t she always fancied herself falling for a man who could think rings around the general population? Too bad he was so young and cocky.
Brody nudged her arm, distracting her. He pointed to the bald man he’d introduced as Earl Tarvick. “Earl likes to snatch up antiquities for resale on the international market. Doc and I frequently get stuck competing with him for the same item. I’ve never met Monica or the Franklins before, but collector circles are growing.”
“Doc?” She fixated on the name. It