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  The loving but casual references to Ford and their life together, to Bryant, almost undid her. She felt the rush of pain and hastily scrolled down, closing her mind to the memories. She reached the last entry, made April twenty-sixth, and with relief saw that the entire entry was about the intriguing documents she’d been deciphering and translating. She had typed “NIALL OF SCOTLAND” in capital letters, and followed it with “real or myth?”

  She knew the answer to that. He’d been real, a man who strode boldly through history, but behind the scenes, so that few traces remained of his passing. He’d been entrusted with the enormous Treasure of the Templars, but what had he done with it? With the means at his disposal, he could have accomplished anything, toppled kings, but instead he’d vanished.

  Her fingers moved over the keys. “What were you, Niall? Where did you go, what did you do? What is so special about these papers that men have died just for knowing they existed? Why can’t I stop thinking about you, dreaming about you? What would you do if you were here?”

  A strange question, she thought, looking at what she had typed. Why would she even think of him in modern times? Dreaming about him was at least understandable, because immersing herself in her research, trying so hard to find any mention of him, had indelibly imprinted him in her mind. Because of Ford’s and Bryant’s deaths, there was nothing more important to her now than finding out why, so naturally she dreamed about the research.

  But she hadn’t, she realized. She hadn’t dreamed about the Templars, about ancient documents, or even about libraries or computers. She had dreamed only of Niall, her imagination assigning him a face, a form, a voice, a presence. Since the murders she hadn’t dreamed much at all, as if her subconscious tried to give her a respite from the terrible reality she faced every day, but when she had dreamed it had been of Niall.

  What would he do if he were there? He’d been a highly trained warrior, the medieval equivalent of the modern military’s special forces. Would he have run and hidden, or would he have stood his ground and fought?

  Whatever was best to achieve my goal.

  Her head snapped around, her heart racing. Someone had spoken, someone in the room. Her panicked gaze searched out every corner of the small room, and though her eyes told her she was alone, her instincts didn’t believe it. Her body felt electrified, every nerve alert and tingling. She breathed shallowly, her head cocked as she sat very still and listened, straining to hear a faint rustle of fabric, a scrape of a shoe, an indrawn breath. Nothing. The room was silent. She was alone.

  But she’d heard it, a deep, slightly raspy voice with a burred inflection. It hadn’t been in her head, but something external.

  She shivered, her skin roughening with chill bumps. Beneath her T-shirt, her nipples were tight and hard.

  “Niall?” she whispered into the empty room, but there was only silence, and she felt foolish.

  It had been only her imagination, after all, producing yet another manifestation of her obsession with those papers.

  Still, her fingers tapped on the keys again, the words spilling out of her: “I’ll learn how to fight. I can’t be passive about this, I can’t merely react to what others do. I have to make things happen, have to take the initiative away from Parrish. That’s what you would do, Niall. It’s what I will do.”

  Chapter 9

  PARRISH SIPPED THE MERLOT, AND GAVE A BRIEF NOD OF appreciation. Though merlot usually wasn’t to his taste, this one was unexpectedly fine, very dark and dry. Bayard “Skip” Saunders, his host, considered himself a connoisseur of wine and had gone to great lengths to impress Parrish by trotting out his best and rarest vintages. Parrish was accustomed to members of the Foundation becoming slightly giddy whenever he visited; though he would have preferred a fine champagne or a biting martini, or even a properly aged bourbon, he was publicly never less than gracious about his underlings’ efforts.

  Skip—a ridiculous nickname for a grown man—was one of the more wealthy and influential members of the Foundation. He also lived in Chicago, which was the sole reason for Parrish’s presence. Though Conrad had been unable to find a definite trail, he was nevertheless certain Grace had made her way to Chicago, and Parrish had faith in his henchman. Skip Saunders would be able to provide support in the search, in the form of both logistics and influence. Should Grace’s capture be too messy—in other words, too public—Skip would be able to whisper a few words into an ear or two and the matter would simply go away, as if it had never existed. Parrish appreciated the convenience.

  What he would appreciate more, he thought idly as his gaze briefly met that of Saunders’s wife, Calla, was half an hour alone with the lovely Mrs. Saunders. What a superb trophy she was, a glorious testament to the seductiveness of money and power. Wife number one, the recipient of Saunders’s youthful seed and vigor and the bearer of his two exceedingly spoiled children, was unfortunately fifty and therefore no longer young enough or glamorous enough to satisfy his ego. Parrish had met the first Mrs. Saunders, when she had still been Mrs. Saunders, and had been charmed by her wit. At any dull social affair he would have much preferred to have number one beside him—but if the position were changed to under him, he would definitely choose the lovely Calla. Saunders was a fool. He should have kept the wonderful companion as his wife, the main course, and enjoyed Calla as a side dish. Ah, well. Men who thought with their genitals often made poor choices.

  Calla was certainly tempting. Parrish’s manners were too polished to allow him to stare openly at her, but nevertheless each look was thoroughly assessing. She was about five-six, willowy, impeccably dressed in a simple, midnight-blue sheath that lovingly hugged every siliconed and liposuctioned curve and provided ample bare flesh on which to display the multitude of diamonds and sapphires she wore. She was a striking woman, with warmly golden skin and big, china-blue eyes, but what interested him most was her long, straight swath of hair, which she let hang freely down her back. Smart woman. She knew her hair was a magnet for male attention, the way it lifted and swung with every graceful movement she made. It wasn’t as long as Grace’s, he thought dispassionately, or as dark, but still…

  She was taller than Grace, and more slender. She probably hadn’t blushed with shyness since the age of eight, and the expression in her eyes was knowing, completely lacking Grace’s innocence and trust. Her mouth wasn’t thin, but neither did it have the lush, unconscious sexuality of Grace’s lips. Her hair, though… he wanted to wrap his fist in that hair, hold it tight while he used her. He would close his eyes and pretend she was shorter, softer, that the hair he gripped was as sleek and thick as dark mink.

  Perhaps later, he thought, and gave her a long, cool, deliberate look he knew she wouldn’t misunderstand. One elegantly arched brow lifted as she caught his intent, and her lips curved in both invitation and satisfaction. Once again she had attracted the most powerful male present, and she was obviously pleased.

  That minor detail taken care of, Parrish turned his attention back to her husband. “Very good,” he said, seeing that Skip was anxiously awaiting verbal approval of his choice of wine. “I don’t usually care for merlot, but this is exceptional.”

  A flush of pleasure warmed Skip’s tanned face. “There are only three bottles of that particular vintage left in the world. I have two of them,” he couldn’t resist adding.

  “Excellent. Perhaps you should acquire the third bottle as well,” Parrish suggested, and hid his perverse amusement at the knowledge that Skip would now spend an untold amount of time and money trying to do just that. The three bottles could turn to vinegar for all Parrish cared.

  He clapped a friendly hand to Skip’s shoulder, “I want to have a private word with you, if I may, whenever you are free from playing host.”

  As he’d expected, Skip immediately straightened. “We can go to my study now. Calla won’t mind, will you, darling?”

  “Of course not,” she calmly replied, knowing her role and in truth not giving a damn where her husband