Love's Golden Spell. William Maltese

      “Here, give me your hand,” he instructed.

      She hesitated, embarrassed for doing so. If he were going to attempt something, he wouldn’t ask for her hand. He’d take it. “It’s dark in there,” she said, stating the obvious.

      “Which should make you feel particularly safe,” he said. She didn’t see how. He laughed. “I prefer my lovemaking with the lights on. I don’t know about you, but I like to see what’s going on.” He reached for her hand. She didn’t give it to him, but she didn’t resist, either. There was a comforting familiarity to his fingers closing around hers. She trusted her intuition and followed him through the opening.

      Déjà vu: the caves of the Molapong Valley where she, with far less hesitation, had entrusted herself to the safekeeping of a younger Christopher Van Hoon.

      He slid the door closed behind them, excluding all light. Being so close to him made her heart flutter. She gasped when his supportive fingers slipped free, leaving her helplessly adrift. “Christopher?” she asked the darkness.

      The lights came on. He was amusing himself at her expense. He could have reached the switch from the outside. At Molapong, he had worn the same expression after telling her they were lost and then, magically, leading her to safety.

      “Are you having fun?” she asked sarcastically. Her question was superfluous. Of course he was having fun! They were in an empty room with cement ceiling, walls and floors. This was a joke!

      “Now don’t get your tail in a knot,” he said, mirth bubbling over with each word. “Everything in this world has its price. My amusement is certainly cheap enough for what you’re getting out of the bargain.

      “Yes, I suppose so,” Janet said, an expansive wave of her arm encompassing the room. “I certainly don’t get to see the likes of this every day, do I?”

      “Ye of so little faith!” he condemned, and laughed as he had laughed at Molapong. The strain in his face dissolved, unmasking a Christopher years younger. His eyes twinkled. His dimples sank deeper as his smile widened. She wanted to touch his cheeks with her fingertips and explore those indentations.

      She was distracted by the grating of metal against metal. One whole wall was moving. Janet watched, fascinated. She had been on the verge of saying something stupid. Had he waited one minute longer before pressing the button, he would have heard her confessing everything.

      She was walking a fine line: on one side her loyalty to her dead father and to her dead husband; on the other her desire to salvage something for herself before it became too late. The thing she kept forgetting was that Christopher didn’t offer salvation. He hadn’t understood the girl turning away from him. He wouldn’t understand the woman coming back.

      She focused on the macabre reality of the room beyond the wall. On all sides, stacked in niches and on special supports designed to store them, one on top of the other, were thousands of elephant tusks. She was staggered by the sheer number. She had no idea what the collection was worth. Never in her wildest imagination had she thought to see this much ivory in one place.

      She turned accusingly on Christopher, aware deep down that the tragedy behind this grisly collection was only one of her excuses for coming to Africa.

      “How many elephants did you kill to give the Van Hoon empire this?” she asked, her voice trembling. He had hunted with Vincent before he met her. He had proudly shown her a gazelle killed on an afternoon hunt with his father. She had taken one look at the lifeless delicate animal, and been sick to her stomach. He’d promised he wouldn’t kill another. His father, furious at such a silly promise, had boxed his ears, calling him a sissy.

      The boy who made that promise wasn’t the man whose handsome face was now showing none of the amusement of a few moments before. “I do all my hunting with a camera, remember?” he said, his voice so frosty it froze her to the quick.

      “I want out of here,” she said. A constriction in her heart made further speech impossible.

      She didn’t wait for his permission to leave. She managed to maneuver the sliding door, and then took the hallway to the stairs. If she tripped silent alarms on the way out, she didn’t care.

      She headed for the library, expecting Ashanti to appear out of the woodwork to intercept her. She didn’t see anyone. She did see the Baccarat decanter of cognac standing on one of the elegant library tables.

      She was cold, very cold. The burn of the brandy going down helped. She poured herself another swallow, sitting down in the nearest chair. She was trembling. She shut her eyes, trying to get control of herself. When she opened her eyes, Christopher was in the doorway watching her.

      “What are you staring at?” she demanded, her nerves on edge.

      She expected an immediate sarcastic reply, but he didn’t answer for several long moments: When he did, his voice was strangely distant, even apologetic.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you reminded me of someone.”

      She felt the shivers dancing along her spine. “Of whom?” she asked in a whisper so low she wasn’t sure she said anything. Her breathing stopped. It was erratic when it returned.

      “I don’t really know of whom,” he admitted.

      She wanted to cry out that she reminded him of a thirteen-year-old girl he once knew, but a large lump in her throat wouldn’t let the words slip past. There was little point in bolstering a memory so weak it was beyond recall.

      She was on the verge of tears, and she wouldn’t be able to explain them. She was saved by Ashanti. “Mr. Geiger is here to see you, Mr. Van Hoon,” Ashanti announced.

      “Excuse me, Janet,” Christopher said, and left the room. By the time he returned with the man, Janet had regained her composure. “Janet Westover, Donald Geiger,” Christopher said.

      Donald nodded in her direction. He was in his forties, his short stocky body poured into soiled pants and shirt. His black hair was graying, his lips narrow, his suspicious brown eyes shifting from Janet to Christopher and back again. He was nervous.

      Christopher locked the door. Janet came to her feet, not appreciating the smile Christopher gave her.

      “Don’t mind Janet’s apparent paranoia,” Christopher said. He was talking to Donald but looking at her. “She sees me locking the door and lets her imagination run rampant.”

      Donald was embarrassed. “Maybe I should come back later,” he said, proving he was as ill at ease as he looked.

      “Nonsense!” Christopher said. “Janet is anxious to be entertained, and she hasn’t been pleased with the job I’m doing. Maybe she’ll be more receptive to what you have to offer.”

      “Maybe I should go?” Janet suggested.

      Christopher wasn’t accepting that alternative, either. “Don’t be silly, Janet,” he said. “Who knows, you might find this the most interesting part of your stay at Lionspride.”

      “Really, I—” Donald began but was interrupted.

      “For the moment, we’ll just pretend Janet isn’t here.” Christopher said.

      He was baiting her. He was enjoying her discomfort in front of Donald. He was encouraged by the flashes of anger in her eyes. She had gone through so much that day it was difficult not to strike out at his sarcasm, but she controlled herself.

      “Donald?’ Christopher said, evidently pleased that Janet couldn’t or wouldn’t speak. He went to his desk and slid his paperwork to one side. From one of the side drawers, he took a square of black velvet and spread it over the cleared surface. “Let’s see what we have, shall we?”

      Donald was as glad as Janet that Christopher’s attention had shifted. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small sack closed off at one end with a drawstring. His large fingers expertly loosened the string. He tipped the bag and spilled out a stone onto