Our girl? Yes, he supposed she was theirs. In a manner of speaking. They were, the three of them, connected because of the sword. And whether or not he ever again laid hand to the sword, was able to break it or merely claim it, Garin could admit he did have a soft spot for Annja Creed.

Could be because he hadn’t bedded her yet. A challenge, that woman. To his sense of honor, to his will to protect, and yes, to his libido. And yet, once bedded, would the blush slip away? Would he lose all interest?

Never.

“I think someone should keep an eye on her until we’ve either secured that damned skull or seen it returned to the owner,” Garin said.

“The owner is on his way to New York right now,” Roux offered. “I wager he’s arrived and is already shaking hands with Annja.”

“Maxfield Wisdom.”

“Er, yes. You’re not still determined to take the thing from her, are you? It won’t ever get you the sword, you know that.”

Garin sighed and rubbed a thumb along the vein in his temple Roux’s admonishing tone always managed to twang. Even after five hundred years.

“Why did you buy an apartment in the same town as Annja?”

“It’s a rental, and it has nothing to do with being close to her. Christ, Roux, you are one suspicious bastard. Fine. If you don’t care a whit about her, then I guess it’s up to me to ensure she comes out of this one unscathed.”

“Or, at the very least, bruised, but still standing.”

“Exactly.”

“Garin?”

“What now?”

“Do save our Annja. And while you’re at it? Try not to take over the world.”

Garin clicked the phone off and shoved it in his pocket. “Imperious old man.”

35

Maxfield Wisdom stood outside in the sleet, back to the black limo. He stared at the estate his host had insisted they stop at. The driver stood right beside Maxfield to keep him in place.

He’d never liked Benjamin Ravenscroft. Now, he wasn’t quite sure what the man wanted from him. He didn’t have the Skull of Sidon. Did he hope to use Maxfield to get it from Annja Creed?

He felt nauseous again.

He shivered, but didn’t want to get inside the limo. The cold air cleared his senses. And if he could figure out a way to distract the driver so he could start running, he was all for that. But who was he fooling? He’d get about two houses down the sidewalk before the driver caught him, huffing and slipping about on his dress shoes.

He felt quite sure the besuited chauffeur was also packing a weapon, for his coat strained across one shoulder where Maxfield assumed a leather holster must run.

Is this the kind of adventure Annja Creed experienced? He’d initially thought following her an intriguing notion, but now…

LINDA LAY SPRAWLED on their king-size bed in the pink silk nightgown Ben remembered giving her for their fifth wedding anniversary. A bottle of Vicodin sat on the nightstand, half-empty. He had no way of knowing how many pills she had consumed, but when he slapped her face gently, she didn’t rouse. Her skin was clammy. He found her pulse along her neck. Slow.

“Daddy?”

“Rebecca, take Rachel to her bedroom.”

The secretary complied. She was nervous, but not frantic. He gave her points for that. A strong woman, who took orders well.

“Daddy?” Rachel cried as Rebecca tried to shoo her from the doorway.

“Rebecca’s a new babysitter,” he tried, hating the lie, but blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “I think Mommy isn’t feeling well. I’m going to take her to the doctor.”

“Like me?” Rachel’s voice cracked and tears started. She pulled at Rebecca’s gentle insistence.

“Go with Rebecca, please, Rachel. Mommy is going to be fine. Not like you.” Stupid. Why had he said that? “Just listen to what Rebecca says, and I’ll call you as soon as Mommy wakes up.

“Fuck,” he said as he touched the side of Linda’s neck. Heartbeats should be faster. “What the hell are you trying to do? Kill yourself? Leave our precious daughter alone? Stupid woman.”

He glanced to the phone. He should call for an ambulance. Could the limo get her to the emergency room faster?

Wisdom waited outside in the car. He knew Ben was not allied with Annja and had nervously tried to open the door as they’d driven from the airport. Rebecca had shown surprising sanguinity when she’d offered to hold the gun on Wisdom. It made Ben feel a little like Bonnie and Clyde.

Hell, he shouldn’t be thinking like that! Not now. Not here in his family’s home.

This night was not right. He had things to take care of. A means to save his daughter was out there. So close. All the elements to obtaining it had come together.

And now this…this distraction.

He tugged down the skirt of Linda’s nightgown and stood to pace at the end of the bed.

“Ben?” Rebecca popped her head in the doorway. “I gave her some milk and cookies. She won’t go to sleep.”

“That’s fine. Will you stay with her while I take Linda to the hospital?”

Rebecca nodded. “What about the guy out in the car? You want the gun?”

“No.” Ben exhaled. He could do letter openers, but guns?

On the other hand, he had vowed to do whatever was necessary to save his daughter. Linda was slowing him down. He didn’t need this complication.

“New plan. I’ll call an ambulance. You meet them and explain you’re the babysitter who arrived to find Linda like this, okay?”

“You’re going to leave me with the kid?”

“She’s my daughter, Rebecca.” He allowed her to embrace him from behind. It felt great. Strange, though, standing in another woman’s arms while his wife slowly died just five feet away on the bed. “You love me? You love my daughter.”

“I’ll do it, Ben. But I worry about you and Mr. Wisdom.”

“Give me the gun, then.”

She slipped the Ruger LCP from the pocket of her skirt. The small pistol was perfect for concealing. “You know how to use it?” she asked.

“Doesn’t matter.” He checked the safety. It was on. “I just need to make it look good.” He kissed Rebecca’s mouth, full and warm and always ready for him. “I’ll call as soon as I’m able.”

He slid the pistol into a front trouser pocket, and strode toward the stairs. Then, realizing he’d have to pass Rachel’s room, he detoured toward the back door, stepping softly so she wouldn’t hear.

ANNJA ADJUSTED THE GREEN screen hanging in a corner of her living room. Standing back, she studied the lower left corner. That was the only place torn during Serge’s rampage. She’d fixed it with duct tape to the back and a coating of clear nail polish on the front. Not a perfect fix, but she couldn’t see the tear, and it shouldn’t show on film. And until she had the extra cash to invest in a new one—or could convince Doug Morrell to foot the bill—this would serve.

Chasing History’s Monstersmay be winning some decent ratings, but it was still a strictly low-budget venture. She sometimes recorded spots for her segments in her living room or out in the field, and hoped Doug didn’t insert something like fangs on a local librarian or wings on the backs of a trio of schoolchildren walking away from the camera.

The man had no morals when it came to ratings. Wasn’t Kristie Chatham proof enough of that?

But would he go so far as to doctor a photograph of her? Annja couldn’t decide on that one. And she hadn’t heard from him after e-mailing him about it. Did that mean he was hiding in shame? Or laughing because he’d gotten away with it?

Her loft had been returned to a semblance of normality. She’d spent a few hours going over it, tossing two bags full of damaged food from the kitchen. A terrible waste. She’d even managed to dust the curtains. Hey, a few flicks of the material out the window worked better than a feather duster any day.