Zinnia

that stone figure.'

Zinnia jerked the flashlight to follow him. The beam gleamed briefly on his collar-length black hair, which was brushed straight back from a peak above his high forehead.

She moved the light downward. A familiar face carved in pale marble lay on the floor near the toe of one of Nick's very pricey black leather shoes. She swallowed when she spotted the reddish-brown stain on one corner of the statue.

'It's the bust of Patricia Thorncroft North that Morris always kept on the counter,' she whispered.

'North?' Nick's brows rose slightly. 'The philosopher who discovered the Three Principles of Synergy?'

'Yes. Morris specialized in the early theoretical works on synergy. He has, I mean he had, a fine collection of North's writings.' Zinnia knew she was babbling. She had to get control of herself. 'The police. I was about to call them.'

'I'll do it.' Nick turned away from the body and crossed through the rubble to the desk. 'Why don't you see if you can find the light switch?'

Belatedly Zinnia realized that she was still holding the flashlight. There was no longer any need to conceal her presence, she thought. Morris was dead and the police would soon be on their way. She walked to the wall and found the switch that activated the old fashioned jelly-ice lamps.

Their soft warm glow spilled across the wreckage that had been Morris's book shop. Zinnia did not took at the crumpled body near the ladder.

When she turned she saw Nick reach for the phone. For the first time she noticed that he was wearing a pair of thin black driving gloves. She stared, riveted by the sight of his powerful long-fingered hands, as he punched in the emergency number.

He glanced at her, an expression of polite interest in his green-and-gold eyes. 'Something wrong?'

She would not let him reduce her to a trembling mass of jelly-ice. She was a Spring. The family coffers might be empty and the tabloids may have labeled her the 'Scarlet Lady,' but she still had sufficient pride to face down the owner of a gambling casino.

'I just wondered why you bothered to wear a pair of gloves here tonight,' she said. 'No offense, but it gives the impression that you came prepared for something illegal.'

'Yes, it does, doesn't it? At least one of us was prepared. Unfortunately, you've probably left your prints all over the windowsill and everything else you've touched so far.'

His sarcasm outraged her. 'I have no intention of denying that I was here tonight. Why would I lie to the police?'

'If you can't think of a reasonable answer to that question, there's no point getting into an in-depth discussion of the subject.' Nick broke off to speak into the phone. 'Give me Detective Anselm, please.'

Zinnia listened as Nick spoke briefly with the person on the other end of the line. There was a marked note of casual familiarity in his voice. This was obviously not the first time he had dealt with the police. Given his line of work, that was probably not surprising, she thought.

'Yes, we'll both wait until you get here,' Nick concluded. He replaced the receiver with his black-gloved hand and looked at Zinnia. 'Anselm said he'd be here in a few minutes.'

She relaxed slightly. The authorities were on their way. It would all be over soon.

'Poor Morris.' She tried to think of something constructive to do. 'I wonder if I should call his wife.'

Nick's gaze sharpened. 'Fenwick is married?' 'Yes, I think her name is Polly. The two of them haven't lived together for several years. Morris told me once that Polly moved out a long time ago because she thought he was getting too weird.' 'I see.'

'A very sad situation. They couldn't get a divorce, of course, so all they could do was separate. Morris blamed himself. Everyone knows matrix-talents are difficult to match properly.' 'So I'm told,' Nick muttered. 'Morris said that when they were dating, he and Polly had gone to an agency where the syn-psych counselors warned them that it wasn't a good match, just barely passable. But they went ahead and got married, anyway.' Zinnia closed her eyes. 'Good lord, I'm rambling, aren't I?'

'Let the police notify Mrs. Fenwick,' Nick suggested with surprising gentleness. 'It's their job.' 'Yes. Poor Morris.'

'Do you think you could stop calling him 'poor Morris'?'

'He was irritable and eccentric and secretive, and he was forever concocting conspiracy theories the way matrix-talents are inclined to do, but I got to know him. I was fond of him. At heart he was just a harmless little man who loved old books. I can't imagine anyone killing him. Unless-' 'Unless what?'

She glanced around uneasily. 'I wonder if this is connected to the Chastain journal.'

'Not likely.' Nick surveyed the room with a single assessing glance. 'For one thing, as far as I know, I'm the only one who wanted the journal badly enough to do something this drastic.'

She felt as if she had just stepped into an empty elevator shaft. 'My God, are you saying that you would have murdered someone in order to get your hands on the journal?'

His mouth curved with deep cynical amusement, as if he had expected her to make the accusation.

'Only as a last resort,' he said.

'If that's a joke, it's in extremely poor taste.'

'I'm noted for my lousy taste. But that's another matter. Bottom line here is that I prefer to pay for what I want and Fenwick knew that. He had assured me that he would let me top any offer he got and I believed him. As I told you, we had an understanding.'

'A gentlemen's agreement, you mean?'

'I'm flattered that you classify me as a gentleman, Miss Spring. I had the distinct impression that you thought I was one of the lower life forms.'

Guilt assailed her. She knew that she had been very rude. 'I'm sorry. I certainly did not mean to imply that I thought you were a, uh, lower form of life.'

'It's difficult to accuse a man of kidnapping without insulting him in the process,' he observed.

'Yes, I suppose so.' She was thoroughly mortified now. 'I beg your pardon. I'm afraid that I jumped to some unfortunate conclusions.'

He inclined his head in a graceful manner. 'Apology accepted. If you want to know the truth, I found your concern for Fenwick rather touching. Not many people would go that far for a business client. Especially one who was an irritable, eccentric, secretive matrix.'

The satisfaction in his words disturbed Zinnia. It occurred to her that Nick Chastain was a man who probably preferred to hold the high cards in any situation. Making her feel guilty and coaxing an apology from her were subtle ways of shifting the balance of power in their relationship.

This was a man who knew how to manipulate and intimidate others and did not hesitate to do so when it suited his purposes.

Fortunately their association was fated to be extremely brief, Zinnia thought. She knew that if she had any sense she should be profoundly relieved by that fact. And she was relieved. Definitely. No two ways about it. The last thing she wanted to do was get mixed up with Nick Chastain. She had problems enough in her life.

So why was she feeling a small wistful twinge of regret at the thought that she would probably never see him again after tonight, she wondered. Too much stress. That was the key. Her emotions were all over the board at the moment. After all, she had just stumbled into a murder scene.

She took a firm grip on over-stressed nerves. 'Whoever did this must have been looking for something.'

'Maybe. But I don't think it was the journal. It would have been too valuable to hide here in his main sales room. He was a matrix. He would have concealed it in a more clever fashion.'

She peered at him, wondering why he seemed so certain of his conclusions. The evidence of a frantic search was all around them. 'There's an old saying that things hidden in plain view are less likely to be discovered.'

His mouth twisted with polite disdain. 'No matrix would subscribe to that dumb theory.'

She thought about it. 'You're right. Matrix-talents are too secretive by nature to trust the plain view concept.' She looked around. 'Morris had other valuable books in his collection besides the journal.

Two original North monographs, for example. Perhaps the murderer was after them.'

Nick studied the ransacked room and then shook his head once. 'I doubt it. This place was torn apart in a random fashion. Whoever did it wasn't searching for valuable books.'

'How can you be certain of that?'