The Chosen

He must have sensed her distraction. “Forgive me. Of course, this must be a bad time for you. What time are you off?”

Vera fought not to stare at him. She felt certain he hadn’t come here to make a play for her. They were strangers. A business proposition, she reminded herself, yet still she shivered against the distraction.

What did he say? ‘‘I, uh…I’m off at midnight.”

“Fine. Would you care to meet elsewhere, then?” His hooded eyes seemed to recede in some of their gleam. “Or perhaps you’d prefer not to meet at all.”

“Oh, no, I’d be happy to,” she agreed too quickly. But why had she said that? Why hadn’t she first asked what exactly it was he wanted? The thought never occurred to her.

Feldspar nodded. “At your convenience, but of course. I’m afraid, though, that I’m quite unfamiliar with this city. Where would you care to meet? I’ll need directions.”

She couldn’t keep her eyes off the sparkling jewelry on his hands. Her consciousness felt like a split thread, twisting as it unwound. The confusion made her tipsy.

“How lovely,” Feldspar remarked.

“Pardon me?”

“Your amethyst.’’ His eyes gestured her necklace. “I’ve always found it to be the most attractive stone, regardless of price. True beauty must never have a price.” Then he turned his hand and showed his own amethyst set into a large gold pinky ring. “Your engagement stone is quite beautiful too.”

Now she knew beyond doubt that he wasn’t putting moves on her. If this was merely some sexual interest, why acknowledge her engagement?

“Thank you,” she eventually muttered. She had to visibly blink to get her mind back on track. What could it be about Feldspar that distracted her so?

“There’s a little tavern a block down the street,” she said. “The Undercroft. It’s quiet and quite nice.”

“Excellent. The Undercroft it is.” Feldspar rose and strayly straightened a lapel. “I’ll see you there at midnight. And thank you very much for giving me the opportunity to talk to you.”

Vera didn’t think to rise herself. She remained sitting there, looking up at this finely dressed, and strange, man.

She squinted. “But what exactly is it you want to talk to me about, Mr. Feldspar?”

“A job,” he said. “I’d like to offer you a job.”

— | — | —

^{CHAPTER TWO}

Research, Paul thought. Yeah, that’s what this is.

I’m simply an observer.

It wasn’t that Paul didn’t trust himself—he was just bothered by conventions, by ideas. He knew he wasn’t going to do anything he shouldn’t do, but that did not fully legitimize the fact that he was an engaged man sitting in a singles bar.

Paul was a freelance journalist. Thus far he’d done over two hundred pieces for the area papers. Both the Sun and the Capital had offered him staff jobs, but Paul had turned them down. He liked to write about what he wanted, not some editor. It had been tough at first, real tough—when you were freelance, you were a man without a country.