Twelfth Sun. Mae Clair

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      His answer came too quickly. Reagan frowned, sensing he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Just as she remained convinced he hadn’t been truthful at the planetarium. Before she could say anything, he changed the conversation. Reagan listened politely as he talked about one of his previous buying experiences. She laughed when expected and interjected an occasional comment, but a series of red flags snapped to attention in her mind. Something wasn’t right about Brody. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. If he really was Elijah’s friend, maybe she should ask Elijah.

      Dr. Cross, she mentally corrected.

      She kept her smile in place for Brody. He was charming and good-natured, but she was suddenly one hundred percent certain he wasn’t at all who he seemed.

      * * * *

      Elijah wandered into the circular dining room at twenty minutes to eight, feeling instantly out of place. The formal surroundings were too extravagant for a kid who’d grown up with a machinist father and a clerk-typist mother who’d died when he was eight. A lead crystal chandelier crowned a domed ceiling, softly illuminating an elegantly dressed table below. Beveled crystal goblets, gleaming silver and bone-white china adorned a large round table, offset by a striking centerpiece of freshly cut flowers. Floor-to-ceiling windows flowed around the room in gentle symmetry, casting back the reflected glow of wall sconces and tapered candles.

      The Franklins, Monica Holt, Tarvick and Brody were already in the room, milling among a number of Sothern’s house staff who butlered trays of drinks and piping hot hors d’oeuvres.

      “Excuse me, sir. Would you care for a drink?” Elijah turned to find a woman dressed in a black pantsuit with a white silk blouse standing at his elbow. She balanced a tray of stemmed, wide-bellied glasses on the open palm of one hand. “We have a beautifully aged Cabernet, or if you prefer I can bring you a cocktail. Stuart is circulating somewhere with the Riesling, appropriately chilled.”

      “This is fine.” Elijah snatched the first glass within reach, choosing something red and alcoholic. That was as far as his understanding of wine went, ranking right up there with his limited capacity for alcohol. He’d never been a drinker and usually avoided it.

      “Excellent choice,” the woman commended with a smile. “If you need anything else, my name is Clarice.”

      Elijah gulped down a mouthful as she moved away, hoping for a buzz to put him at ease. He hated social situations that required him to be witty and charming and make inane small talk. They brought back memories of college functions and academic dinners when he’d been the geeky, awkward kid trying to keep pace with his older peers.

      “You’re smarter than they are,” his father had told him. “Tough it out.”

      The same father who’d worked two jobs and spent insanely long hours filling out scholarship applications so Elijah could go to college when he should have been attending junior-high dances. The father who’d come home at night, reeking of motor oil and gasoline, who’d given him rough hugs and broken down crying when he’d gotten that damn doctorate. If only Eden had been there.

      Elijah tossed back the rest of his wine. His book smarts hadn’t amounted to a hill of beans when it came to prolonging his father’s life. Nick Cross had died four years ago at the young age of forty-six from a rare bone disease. Through hospital stays and painful medical treatments, Elijah had been at his side. In the end, all he’d been able to do was hold his father’s hand and try to ease his passing. Hell of a way for a good man to go. Did his sister even know her father was dead?

      “Dr. Cross. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you earlier. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

      Elijah studied the black-haired woman who appeared at his elbow. Monica something-or-other. Hilt? Holt?

       Fortyish, glamorous, plastic boobs. Piranha.

      How many times had his father told him not to make snap judgments about people? He’d done it too long to stop now. Didn’t Brody say she was an archivist? Yeah, and he was a short-order cook.

      He forced a smile. “Call me Elijah.”

      She wore a slinky maroon dress with stiletto heels and drippy gold jewelry. Clarice passed by and Elijah snatched another glass of wine. He gulped two mouthfuls. “Have you seen Reagan Cassidy?”

      Piranha Monica seemed annoyed. “Who?”

      Before Elijah could comment, Brody wandered over, looking typically suave in a tailored charcoal suit with a salmon-colored shirt and elegantly striped tie. Elijah felt self-conscious in his black, off-the-rack combo. He’d bought it for his father’s funeral, and had worn it exactly twice.

      “Didn’t see you around this afternoon, Doc,” Brody said with a grin. “Reagan and I went riding on the beach, and then had lunch in town.”

      Brody. Self-centered, annoyingly likeable, damn good at his job. “I wasn’t invited.”

      “Really? Dreadful oversight on my part.”

      Elijah laughed. It was hard to be angry with Brody even when he deserved it and intruded on territory Elijah thought he’d marked his own. He started to say something when his heart skipped a beat. His mouth dropped and he knew he looked every inch a hormonal kid gawking at a woman out of his reach.

      Reagan entered the circular dining room through a door on the far side, a graceful vision in white silk. She wore a simple above-the-knee dress with fitted sleeves and a flounced skirt. The bodice was snug, nipped at the waist, accentuated by a discreet v-neckline. Her long legs were bare and tan, made even shapelier by a pair of wispy white sandals. Delicate combs secured the normally flowing cascade of her red-gold hair in a classical upsweep. A silver necklace with an emerald fob heightened the sultry glow of her green eyes. Elijah’s mouth went dry.

      “Put your eyes back in your head, boy,” Brody muttered at his side.

      Witnessing Elijah’s reaction, Monica huffed a sigh and strolled away. He barely noticed when she left. He couldn’t take his eyes off Reagan.

      “My turn.” Elijah shoved his glass into Brody’s hand. He strode deliberately across the room, knowing it was time to up the ante. Brody had monopolized her all 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 СКАЧАТЬ