Twelfth Sun. Mae Clair

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      Brody was interesting company. He rode with admirable skill, as if he’d been doing it all of his life, and patiently instructed Reagan on the simpler points of horsemanship. They spent the afternoon riding on the beach, then took Brody’s sleek foreign sports car into Serenity Harbor, the nearest town. He was charming and companionable and had an inborn flair for putting her at ease. Late in the day, they stopped for lunch at a quaint waterside cafe with a bay view. Fishing boats dotted the water, gently rocking on currents still agitated from the earlier storm. A few yards down, a rickety pier extended into the bay, jutting from marshy ground thick with saw grass and sea oats. A snowy egret stepped to the water’s edge, delicately skimming the surface with a needle-thin beak.

      “You’re not interested in Rook’s journal for yourself?” Reagan asked Brody after they’d given their lunch order. She swirled a pack of sugar into her glass of iced tea, using a spoon to distribute it evenly.

      Brody shook his head and took a swallow of his lime spritzer. “I’m not a collector. I get paid to recover artifacts at my employer’s expense. It’s not a bad way to make a living, especially when someone else is picking up the tab.”

      “Your employer must be a wealthy man.”

      Brody shrugged. “Most collectors are.”

      That wasn’t entirely true. Her Uncle Gavin was comfortable, solvent enough to be considered well-to-do, but a far cry from wealthy.

      “I work for Gerald St. Croix,” Brody continued. “A French-Austrian collector based in Monte Carlo. My own background is a mix of street savvy, first-hand experience, and three glaringly incomplete years of college, back when I considered higher education a plus.” He grinned, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to parlaying nothingness into profit. It’s what I’m good at.” He took a swallow and set the glass down. “Do you know that if I bid high on a mediocre artifact, other collectors follow suit? They figure whatever interests St Croix has to have exceptional value. His reputation is that formidable.”

      “Are you telling me this because you plan on outbidding me for Rook’s journal, or because you think it’s mediocre?”

      Brody laughed. “Hardly mediocre. If you want verification of its value, ask Elijah.”

      Reagan stiffened. She didn’t want to think about Elijah Cross, much less ask his opinion of something. Any memory of him brought her back to that unexpected kiss in the hallway and the complex emotions it stirred. Reluctantly, she summoned a visual image, his shockingly blue eyes contrasted by curling dark hair. Not black but deep brown, like weathered tree bark or newly turned sod after a rainstorm. She blinked. Any woman who thought that deeply about a man’s hair color needed to have her head examined.

      She gulped.

      Or her heart.

      The waitress arrived with their food and Reagan deliberately pushed the thoughts aside. She picked at her Caesar salad, thinking of her last relationship. Neil, an ad executive, had seemed perfect for her. He was near Brody’s age and almost as charming. Unfortunately, that charm had extended to other women when she wasn’t around. It took nearly three months of dating before she figured it out. In the end, she’d dumped a pitcher of green beer over his head and left him with a giggling twenty-one-year-old blonde at a St. Patrick’s Day celebration. Neil had no qualms about dating younger women. Why was she so hung up over the ten-year gap between her and Elijah? Was it because she’d never dated a younger man, or because she couldn’t shake the embarrassment of their first encounter?

      He was quirky and brilliant, with a surprisingly irreverent sense of humor. And so damn attractive it was unnerving.

      “I’m intimidated by him.” She gave a guilty start when she realized she’d spoken aloud.

      Brody looked up from his steak sandwich and fries with a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry about St. Croix. You’ve got the gifted Dr. Cross on your side.”

      Reagan laughed nervously, realizing he thought she was talking about Rook’s journal. “You’re right. By this time tomorrow it will all be over.” She speared a piece of lettuce, steering the conversation back on track. “What do you know about Eric Sothern?”

      Brody hesitated. “Not much.” His head was lowered as he globbed ketchup on a mound of fries. “Exceptionally wealthy, extremely reclusive. He’s not a collector, or if he is, he handles his purchases discreetly.”

      “If he was a collector, why would he sell Rook’s journal?”

      “Good point. Then again, money could hold more СКАЧАТЬ