Sapphire Flames (Hidden Legacy 4)

“Such a long time,” I said, sinking some of my magic into my words. It stretched to Celia, winding around her. Her smile grew slightly, suffused with genuine warmth. I let her see a hint of my feathers, just a shimmer for half a second. “Runa has already been through so much. She lost her mother.”

Another strand of magic.

“She lost her sister.”

Another strand.

“She lost her house. And now she’s missing two million dollars. Are you sure nothing can be done?”

Celia sat very still for a moment, then waved her arms. “Okay, okay. Just this once. And you have to keep it between us. Sigourney came in and closed out her account. Cash, of course.”

Two million in cash?

“If you can’t find it, it’s probably in her pro account.” Celia leaned forward. “Between you and me, I was surprised by the whole thing. Sigourney was a professional, with a long tenure. She knew how the game was played . . .”

The office door opened and a tall Asian man in a slick silver suit stepped inside.

Celia clamped her mouth shut.

“Ms. Baylor,” the man said. “Mr. De Lacy requests the pleasure of your company. He asked me to invite you to his office.”

“You better go, dear,” Celia said. “Mr. De Lacy is our VP of operations. Very big deal.”

The man fixed Celia with a cold stare. “Thank you, Ms. Scott, that will be all.”

We walked to the elevator in silence, got in, and my escort swiped his card and pushed the button for the top floor. The elevator sped upward, coming to a smooth stop. The doors opened, and the man gestured me forward. “Please.”

I stepped out. The doors shut behind me, and a faint whisper announced the elevator carrying my guide down.

No good-bye hug. How disappointing.

I was standing in a small hallway, framed by mahogany walls on both ends, each offering a door. The door on the right bore a heavy metal sign reading “Randall Baker.” The door on my left said “Benedict De Lacy.”

Benedict had Celia watched and pulled the plug on my interview the second she went off script. Sigourney was important to him and I couldn’t wait to find out why.

I turned to the left. The door swung open under the pressure of my hand, opening with a soft chime. A huge office spread in front of me. You could fit a four-bedroom apartment in here and then some.

Persian rugs lined a floor of white Italian marble. A life-size bronze statue of a running horse guarded the entrance. To the left, a sitting area offered antique French furniture that would have wiped out our entire annual budget. I had seen some luxurious accommodations, but this space was opulent, even by House standards.

Nobody came out to greet me.

I walked deeper into the “office.” The next room offered an antique hand-knotted Turkish rug, delicate inlaid wooden tables, and a magnificent Syrian-style sofa, adorned with mother of pearl. Weapons decorated the walls between ornate shields: a Turkish yatagan, a shamshir, blades of Damascus steel, and French hand-and-a-half knight swords. Marble statuettes rested in wall niches vying for attention along with framed art. This wasn’t the collection of a poser trying to impress. Too eclectic. No, Mr. De Lacy was a connoisseur.

And he was nowhere to be found. This was simply annoying.

The room ended in a long hallway. To the left was a wall with a door. To the right, another interior wall sectioned off a generous portion of the floor space. I turned right and walked into a study. Shelves filled with books and small busts lined the walls, interrupted by tall windows. A heavy oak desk dominated the space. Carved knights in full armor jousted across its front and sides. Behind it, in a thoroughly modern ergonomic chair, a blond man sat in front of a computer, holding a phone to his ear.

He looked up and raised his index finger at me.

Fine. I would wait. I sat in a plush chair upholstered with a kilim rug.

De Lacy listened to his phone. He was in his early thirties, tall, lean, with a powerful frame shown off by a tailored vest he wore over a pale-blue shirt. A suit jacket hung over his chair. He looked like he’d been up for a while. His hair was tousled, and stubble sheathed his jaw.

His face was handsome in that traditional way of good breeding and money: square jaw, patrician nose, good cheekbones; all the features a child could inherit from generations of very rich men marrying very beautiful women. Sometimes the offspring of those families looked softened by the luxury they were born into. There was nothing soft about Benedict. His eyes were sharp and cold, two chunks of ice radiating intelligence and menace.

A trace of magic brushed against me, the hint of a glacial mind. My instincts screamed in alarm. I let it wash over me. I had become so good at suppressing my magic, I looked inert to others. The magic drenched me and withdrew. A Prime. Some sort of mental branch. Very strong.

If this was a private equity firm, I would eat my coat.

“Authorization granted,” he said, and hung up. His voice matched him, smooth and resonant, with a practiced quality to it, as if he’d spent some time with a vocal coach. “I see you found me, Ms. Baylor.”

I had no idea what he was, but he had no idea what I was either. If I let him think he rattled me, I might not get out of this alive.

“It was touch and go for a while,” I said. “I almost made camp in the Ottoman room but decided to press on.”

Benedict smiled. The small hairs on the back of my neck rose.

“Why are you here, Ms. Baylor?”

“I’ve been retained by House Etterson. It’s my understanding Sigourney Etterson had an investment account with your firm. Her records indicate she liquidated it. I’m attempting to locate those funds.”

“An admirable pursuit.”

“My client is in severe emotional distress after the death of her mother and sister. Her family home is gone, and she’s trying to pick up the pieces. She needs every dime of her inheritance to rebuild her House. We’re unable to account for the two million dollars. We would appreciate any assistance you could provide us.”

Benedict pondered me.

The next step would be to threaten him with a lawsuit if his firm failed to cough up the information. I didn’t want to push that far, not yet. I was alone in the office of an unknown Prime, asking uncomfortable questions and skating on thin ice.

Silence stretched.

Benedict turned his monitor sideways, so I could see it. On the screen Celia leaned forward and smiled at me.

“You come into my house, Ms. Baylor, and use magic on my staff. You can see how it presents me with a dilemma.”

I waited. Silence stretched.

“I find it interesting that you feel absolutely no pressure to fill the lull in the conversation,” he said.

“What makes you think I used magic? Perhaps Celia simply felt some compassion for the two young people who are now orphaned.”

Benedict smiled at me, a quick, precise baring of perfect teeth. “You’re right. I could blame Celia for her sudden attack of kindness. Unfortunately, Celia doesn’t understand the meaning of the word. She approximates human emotions the same way a chameleon mimics his environment to survive. I’ll be blunt: you intrigue me. You don’t taste like a psionic; they give off a mental stench they can’t mask. I don’t detect the sharpness of a telepath or the particular flavor of a dominator. You’re definitely not an empath. I tend to disturb them beyond their level of comfort. You almost taste like nothing, yet there is this slight hint of spice. A beguiling aftertaste.”

And he went right into creepy. “I think you give yourself too little credit, Mr. De Lacy. Empaths aren’t the only people you disturb beyond their comfort level.”

Benedict chuckled, got up, and strolled over to the window, where a blue crystal elephant stood on a small table next to a collection of matching heavy tumblers. The beast wore a delicate harness of gold that looked spun rather than forged and carried a decanter on its back, half full of what looked like whiskey. Baccarat crystal, antique, midnight shade of blue . . . a hundred thousand, maybe more.

He poured two fingers of amber liquor into a tumbler. “Whiskey?”

“Nine-thirty in the morning is a bit early for me.”

Benedict raised his glass to his lips. “I’ve been up for twenty-two hours. You and this whiskey are a pleasant diversion at the end of a very long day.”

The way he said it set my teeth on edge. Every woman had an instinct that warned her when things were about to spin out of control, and that instinct took in the way he looked at me and started screaming. I had to get out of this office.

I reached deep down and pulled Victoria Tremaine’s granddaughter out. Surprisingly, it was easier than I remembered.

“Since we agreed on being blunt, I hope you don’t mind if I indulge.”

“Please.” He invited me with a sweep of his hand.

“I came here with a simple request for information, and instead I’ve been kept waiting, given the runaround, and now we’re here in your multimillion-dollar man cave, while you are going out of your way to be gauche and vaguely threatening. Why, I can’t imagine.”

He laughed.

Right. I rose. “Mr. De Lacy, thank you for this incredibly frustrating and fruitless visit. Your time is valuable but so is mine. I’m done. I’ll see you in court.”