Gabriel's Horn. Alex Archer

be right there,” Annja replied.

      “Was that Gesauldi?” Roux demanded.

      Annja furrowed her brow. “Do you know Gesauldi?”

      “He sent the dressmaker?” Roux shouted.

      “Gesauldi heard that,” Gesauldi called from the other room. “Gesauldi is no dressmaker. Gesauldi is an artist.”

      “He heard you,” Annja said.

      “I don’t care,” Roux snapped.

      “How do you know Gesauldi?”

      “If Gesauldi is involved,” Roux said, “then Garin is seeing this as more than a one-time date.”

      Annja smiled, then caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and turned away. You’re not going to think past tonight, she told herself. But she knew she was.

      “I don’t get that impression,” Annja said.

      “Annja,” Roux growled, “Garin sent Gesauldi.”

      “Of course he did,” Gesauldi said from the other room. “You only send for Gesauldi when you want the very best.”

      He must, Annja thought, have ears like a bat.

      “Maybe you should ask Gesauldi how many times Garin has sent him to dress his women,” Roux suggested.

      That thought had crossed Annja’s mind, but she hadn’t given in to the impulse.

      “Gesauldi will never tell,” Gesauldi said. “A promise from Gesauldi is like a little piece of forever. Because Gesauldi will take such knowledge to the grave with him.”

      Terrific, Annja thought. “You know, Roux,” she said, “it wouldn’t have hurt you to let me have my little moment here.”

      “You’re making a mistake,” Roux said.

      Annja hung up.

      AT SEVEN-THIRTY, Johan called Annja. “Miss Creed, there is a gentleman here to see you.”

      Dressed in the spectacular black dress Gesauldi had tailored so that it showed her body to its best, Annja surveyed the results in the full-length mirror. She had to admit it—she looked exquisite.

      Gesauldi had also brought along a hairdresser and makeup artist, who worked their magic, as well. She wore her hair pulled back, held by jeweled combs. The only thing missing was a necklace, but she hadn’t brought anything with her. This was supposed to have been a working trip, not one of leisure.

      “Tell him to come up,” Annja said.

      “I have suggested that,” Johan replied. “The gentleman refuses. He insists that such behavior is rude and unseemly.”

      Annja thought about that.

      “Given the circumstance,” Johan said in a lower voice, “I would have to applaud the gentleman on his sense of decorum. If you wish, I can come up for you.”

      “That’s all right,” Annja said. “I’m on my way down.”

      7

      The sight of Annja Creed stepping from the elevator momentarily stole Garin Braden’s breath from his lungs. She was stunning. Even before Gesauldi’s magic, Annja possessed a natural beauty that made men glad they were men.

      Now—she was a goddess.

      Garin was aware of the effect her appearance had on the men in the lavish hotel lobby. Heads turned in her direction and conversations came to a standstill. And it wasn’t just the men who were affected. Women looked and quieted, too.

      Thin straps crossed Annja’s smooth shoulders and supported the dress. The black material clung to her figure in all the right places. Handmade Italian slingbacks glittered like polished anthracite.

      For a moment, Garin forgot himself in the hush that fell across the lobby. Although he’d seen Gesauldi work his magic before, Garin had never seen any woman as striking as Annja. He’d seen more beautiful women—that was true—but none of them possessed the innate qualities that he’d found at once appealing and unnerving about the young woman in front of him.

      “Excuse me, sir,” the old assistant manager who had helped Garin whispered. “But if you don’t mind me suggesting it, perhaps this would be an ideal time to give the young woman the flowers.”

      Garin’s senses returned. He remembered the flowers in his hand. He chided himself for being so overwhelmed.

      When everyone stared at her, Annja felt extremely self-conscious. She knew other women dreamed of making this kind of entrance, but it had never once been in her thoughts. She found that kind of attention uncomfortable.

      She saw Garin as he approached her. He looked every inch the warrior, and as he stood six feet four inches tall, that was impressive. He wore his dark hair long and sported a goatee. His eyes were blacker than oil. He wore a tuxedo that suggested Gesauldi didn’t just handle women’s clothes.

      Johan stood at Garin’s side, dwarfed by the bigger man.

      Garin carried an extravagant bouquet of flowers. He stopped in front of her and looked down. The fragrance of the flowers rode the air between them.

      “You’re beautiful,” he said.

      This is so not a date, Annja told herself. “Thank you. You look very handsome,” she said quietly.

      Garin handed her the flowers, then offered his arm.

      Annja took it and let him lead her out of the lobby. She knew everyone in the hotel watched them go, and she didn’t know if she’d ever have a moment as perfect as that one again.

      As soon as they stepped out of the hotel, a silver limousine glided to a halt at the curb. The hotel doorman got the door, smiled and tipped his hat.

      “There is one thing, if I may,” Garin said. He took a small case from his jacket pocket and opened it.

      What Annja saw inside took her breath away. A string of black pearls as shiny as drops of oil gleamed on the white fabric lining the case.

      “I thought they would set the dress off,” Garin said.

      Annja thought so, too, but she wasn’t ready to give in to temptation. “I usually don’t wear a lot of jewelry.”

      “These will look beautiful on you.” Garin plucked the string of pearls from the case and held them up in his fingers. They looked ready to spill loose at any second. “Unless, of course, you’d rather not wear them.” He started to put them away.

      “Wait,” Annja said.

      Garin looked at her and smiled. “I didn’t think so. May I?”

      Annja turned her back to him. Gently he strung the pearls around her neck. For just a moment Annja thought that maybe the pearls were actually a disguised garrote. If you’re thinking he might kill you, what are you doing here?

      The necklace fastened and she felt the cool weight of the pearls against her skin. She turned to face Garin.

      “I was wrong,” he said. “The pearls don’t make the dress. You make the pearls.”

      “Thank you.” And you’re just too smooth at knowing the right things to say, Annja thought.

      Garin helped Annja into the car and she slid across the seat. She felt uncomfortable and out of control. She didn’t like either feeling.

      “Would you care for anything to drink?” Garin opened the well-stocked built-in bar as the limousine slid into motion and pulled out into the busy street.

      “Water, please.”

      He frowned in displeasure. “I’ve got a good selection of wines.”

      “No. Thank