'It's no secret that I'm in the process of registering with a matchmaking agency. Everyone, including Miranda, knows I'm in the market for a wife. I'll just tell anyone who asks that you're a candidate for the job.'
Chapter 2
Lucas Trent, the 'Iceman' himself. He had been right here in her office.
Amaryllis managed to wait until the door had closed firmly behind her new client before she succumbed to the amazed wonder that she had barely been able to conceal during their conversation.
Lucas Trent. He had been sitting there on the other side of her desk. She had signed a contract to focus for him.
Amaryllis sagged weakly in her chair. She still could not believe it.
The man they called the Iceman had been haunting her for months. It had been a gentle haunting, to be sure, nevertheless she had been intimately aware of his existence in a way she could not explain.
A year ago a single news photo of him had transfixed her attention. She had picked up the paper one morning and found herself riveted. It wasn't his business success, or the tales of his exploits during the Western Islands Action that had captured her interest. It was not even the discovery of the artifacts that had intrigued her so much.
She thought it was something about his eyes.
It was not as if she had been obsessive about it, she assured herself. In the months since he had appeared on television and in the papers, her awareness of him had quietly receded to the back of her mind. She'd had more important things to do than dwell on Lucas Trent and she had done them.
She led a busy life, and the past few months had been especially full. What with ending her relationship with Gifford, quitting her job at the university, joining Psynergy, Inc., and preparing to register with a marriage agency, she'd had very little time to think about the Iceman.
His name had actually been familiar long before his discovery of the relics. Everyone had become aware of Lucas Trent three years ago when pirates had attempted a takeover of the Western Islands.
The pirates, a motley coalition of outlaws, career criminals, and assorted riffraff from the three city-states had united under a leader to try to take control of the rich resources of the Western Islands.
Amaryllis had been busy with her research and teaching at the university during the Western Islands Action, but she had heard some of the details. She knew, for instance, that Lucas's wife and his partner had been killed during the initial pirate raid.
In the chaotic days that followed the raid, Lucas had put together a hastily deputized police force from among the miners, technicians, traders, cooks, sailors, and shopkeepers who had found themselves stranded in the islands when the fighting broke out.
It was during the Western Islands Action that Nelson Buriton had dubbed Lucas the Iceman. Buriton and the other correspondents who had covered the story had marveled at the effectiveness of Lucas's strategy and tactics. The pirates had been driven from the islands in completed is array in less than two weeks.
But it wasn't Lucas's success as a commander three years ago that had caught Amaryllis's attention. In truth, she had been too occupied with final exams to notice him. It was his discovery of the relics that had made her so intensely aware of him.
She would never forget the photo of him that had been snapped soon after he had emerged from the jungle with the artifacts in his hands. The harsh landscape of his face had been indelibly imprinted on her mind.
Today she had been shaken to realize that, if anything, the news photos and film clips had understated the reality of Lucas's features. His face was not exactly a thing of beauty. It was a graphic rendering of masculine strength and determination. His bold cheekbones, aggressive nose, and strong jaw were as exotic, compelling, and mysterious to Amaryllis as the alien artifacts themselves.
She knew now that the news photos had failed utterly to capture the bleak, icy gray of his eyes. Nothing could have prepared her for her first in-person glimpse into those veiled depths. The chill of a fierce self-control swirled there. Amaryllis decided that Lucas's nickname suited him far better than Nelson Buriton could possibly have guessed.
The bad news, so far as she was concerned, was that whatever it was about Lucas that had tugged at her senses through the medium of film and photograph was a thousand times stronger in real life. His laconic, Western Islands drawl ruffled the tiny, sensitive hairs on the nape of her neck. The sight of his big, competent, jungle- roughened hands had done strange things to the pit of her stomach.
She was no closer to a logical explanation for her reaction to him now than she had been a year ago.
She was relieved when the door to her office slammed open.
'Well?' Clementine Malone, owner and sole proprietor of Psynergy, Inc., strode into the room. Her shrewd, dark eyes gleamed as brightly as the metal studs on her black leather jacket and pants. Her short, stark white hair, cut to resemble a stiff brush, seemed to actually bristle with anticipation. 'Did you get Trent's signature on a contract?'
'Right here.' Amaryllis waved the signed forms. 'I'll be working with him on Thursday night. But I think I'd better explain something, Clementine. There are some problems with this job.'
'We can handle 'em.' Clementine plucked the contract from Amaryllis's fingers and scanned the signatures. 'Nice going. Very nice, indeed.'
'Thanks.' Amaryllis watched her boss flip through the short contract. The knowledge that Clementine was pleased should have given her a good deal of satisfaction. Lucas Trent was, after all, the most important client Amaryllis had signed up since she had come to work for Psynergy, Inc. six months ago. She knew it was not only an important step in her new career as a professional prism, it was also a coup for the firm.
Clementine glanced up from the contract. 'I knew you could do it. I was just saying to Smyth-Jones that this contract will put Psynergy, Inc. into the big leagues. Proud Focus can eat our exhaust.'
Proud Focus was Psynergy, Inc.'s chief competitor. There were a number of firms that offered psychic focus services in New Seattle, but the rivalry between Proud Focus and Psynergy, Inc. had a personal twist. Proud Focus was owned and operated by Clementine's personal permanent partner, Gracie Proud. Amaryllis knew that although the two women had been living together in a blissfully happy union for some fifteen years' duration, they were enthusiastic rivals when it came to business.
'Sorry, Clementine.' Amaryllis reached across the desk to take back the contract. 'I'm afraid you won't be able to brag about this deal too loudly. Mr. Trent wants it kept quiet. Security work, you know.'
'Sure, sure.' Clementine winked as she propped one leather-sheathed hip on the edge of the desk. The steel hoop rings in her ears swung gently. 'But word has a way of getting around in Trent's circles. If he's pleased with our services, he'll recommend us to others. And the next thing you know, we'll be the most exclusive agency in town.'
'We already are the most exclusive agency in town,' Byron Smyth-Jones, Psynergy's Inc.'s combination receptionist and secretary, said from the doorway. 'How many times do I have to tell you that, Clementine? You have to think big in order to be big. Attitude is everything. Vision precedes reality.'
Clementine eyed Byron with mild disgust. 'What in the name of the five hells ever possessed me to send you to that positive synergy management seminar last week?'
'You sent me because you know I'm destined for the top.' Byron gave her a complacent grin.
He was in his early twenties, lean, good-looking in a youthful way, and painfully trendy, in Amaryllis's opinion. His long, blond hair was pulled back and tied with a black leather cord. He wore khaki trousers and a matching shirt. Both garments were festooned with countless epaulets, buckles, snaps, and pockets. An artificially weathered leather belt and deliberately scuffed boots completed his ensemble. He could have served as a model for an ad featuring the Western Islands look.
The style had exploded onto the fashion scene a year earlier when popular news anchor Nelson Buriton had gone on location to the Western Islands to cover the discovery of the artifacts. For nearly a week, Buriton, looking attractively rugged in Western Islands gear, had appeared nightly on the evening news. He had not only focused public interest on the alien relics, he had done wonders for the khaki manufacturers.
The young males of the three city-states had gone wild for what had come to be known as the Western
