There was no need to say anything more on the subject, Nick thought. They both knew that the stigma of being a bastard was a serious handicap for anyone searching for a spouse from a decent family at any level of society. It was a nearly insurmountable obstacle for a man who hoped to marry into the highest circles.
But being a bastard was also highly motivating, Nick thought grimly. No one could appreciate the value of respectability as much as someone who did not have it. He was determined that his future children would never face the subtle as well as not so subtle barriers that society placed in the way of those who could not claim a respectable family lineage. His offspring would have all the advantages he could give them and those advantages started with a suitable marriage.
Nick smiled faintly. 'You see why I require your professional expertise, Mr. Batt.'
'What you ask of me is impossible, Mr. Chastain. How can I possibly find you a nice young woman from one of the better families?'
'I'm sure you'll manage. I have complete confidence in you and my money.'
'You think you can buy your way into high society?' Hobart sputtered.
'Yes, that is exactly what I think. It will no doubt cheer you to know that I don't plan to occupy my present low-class niche for long. I have a plan, you see. I won't go into all of the details, but, trust me, within five years I will be so damned respectable that it will take your breath away.'
'A plan,' Hobart repeated cautiously.
'Yes. And you, Hobart, have a very important role to play in my plan.'
Chapter 2
Zinnia Spring leaned heavily against the door marked LADIES and staggered into the women's room. One glance told her that the facility was as tasteless and garish as the rest of the casino. This particular room had apparently been designed to resemble some man's fantasy notion of the boudoir of an expensive but extremely tacky mistress.
A row of gilded stall doors saluted her. Inside the cubicles she could see pink and white marble commodes. On one side of a mirrored wall, fluted gold sinks and faucets in the shape of exotic birds were set in pink and white marble counters. A thick fuchsia carpet covered the floor of the sitting area which was dominated by a gilded pink velvet sofa.
It was enough to make any self-respecting interior designer wince in horror, Zinnia thought. But she was feeling too traumatized at that moment to waste too much energy condemning the decor.
She was relieved to see that she had the restroom to herself.
Her head was still throbbing from the paranormal assault she had just undergone. Her pulse raced. She could feel the back of her blouse sticking to her perspiration-dampened skin. But at least she was no longer focus-linked to the bastard, whoever he was.
She was still not certain whether he had deliberately released her or if she had managed to break free on her own when she had tried to skew the focus. Everything had been so chaotic during those few seconds of contact that she could not recall them in a coherent fashion.
She gripped the edge of one of the fluted gold sinks and studied herself in the mirror. Aside from the residue of panic in her eyes, she looked amazingly normal. She felt as if she had been caught in a hurricane, but her hair wasn't even mussed. Her trademark flame-red suit still looked crisp and professional. The scarf around her throat was as stylishly knotted as it had been before she arrived at the casino.
She closed her eyes and took a series of deep breaths. Whoever he was, he was powerful. Definitely a matrix. She could recognize one anywhere.
But matrix-talents were not supposed to be that strong. She ought to know. She was something of an expert on the subject. The ones she had encountered in the course of her part-time job at Psynergy, Inc. had all been under class-five in her estimation. This man had been off-the-charts.
And it most definitely had been a man. She shuddered again at the memory of the intense masculinity that had accompanied the focus link. The sensation of sexual intimacy had been unnerving. She had never experienced such an overwhelming rush of physical excitement during a mind link. Or in any other situation, for that matter, she thought grimly.
Lately, she had secretly begun to question whether or not she was capable of strong sexual desires.
Well, at least that issue had been put to rest, she thought. She was, indeed, capable of passion. But this was not quite what she had in mind when she read one of Orchid Adams's psychic vampire novels late at night.
This was impossible. Powerful matrix-talents were said to be as rare as First Generation relics. In other words, the experts doubted that any even existed.
Zinnia opened her eyes. She reached for one of the little paper cups stacked in a gold dispenser and turned on the gilded water faucet.
The cup trembled in her fingers as she took a long swallow. At least her head had finally stopped whirling. Her heartbeat was slowing to something close to normal. The disturbing sense of sexual excitement was fading. As far as she could tell there had been no permanent damage done.
She frowned. The psychic agony she had experienced had only occurred when she had struggled to free her mind from the link. She hoped her assailant had suffered some during the process, too. Served him right.
No sense trying to rationalize the situation, she thought. There was only one explanation for what had just happened to her.
She had been jumped by a genuine psychic vampire.
As far as most people were concerned, there were no such things as psychic vampires. They were supposed to exist only in novels and legend.
A few months ago, however, everyone who worked for Psynergy, Inc. had learned of Amaryllis Lark's frightening experience with a real-life psychic vampire. Clementine Malone, the owner of the agency, had made certain that all her employees were warned that vampires were out there even though the experts scoffed at the notion. The information had been kept from the media for the very simple reason that no one would have believed the tale.
The one person who could have proven the existence of psychic vampires was presently locked up in a hospital for the criminally insane. Irene Dunley, a staid middle-aged secretary, had gone crazy when her ferocious power was extinguished during a savage confrontation between herself, Amaryllis, and Lucas Trent.
Zinnia studied her reflection as she took another sip of water. She felt much better now. Almost normal.
Maybe she was overreacting. She was very tense tonight because of the Morris Fenwick situation. Perhaps her imagination had run amok during those seconds of psychic disorientation.
It was comforting to think that she had accidentally brushed up against a class-five or lower matrix-talent who had been surreptitiously attempting to use his paranormal power to cheat at cards. Casinos routinely employed detector-talents to ensure that customers didn't use psychic tricks to defraud the house, but someone could have slipped past security.
She sighed. There was no point trying to deceive herself. She had not simply tripped against a mid-level matrix, she had stumbled over an off-the-chart matrix vampire. Her prism talent was very unusual in that she could only work well with matrix-talents, but she was definitely full-spectrum in terms of raw power. She was able to estimate the level of a talent all the way to class-ten. And beyond, apparently, she thought ruefully, because whoever this guy was, he had been much higher than a ten.
It must have been one of the men at the gin-poker table. She had walked very close to the feverish crowd of gamblers gathered there. She had heard that the game was played for high stakes here at Chastain's Palace. Some very desperate, very powerful matrix-talent had no doubt tried to use his power to cheat. It had been her bad luck to be in the vicinity when the psychic probe struck.
He had probably been just as astounded as herself by the contact, but that had not stopped him from trying to grab the prism she had created.
Everyone knew that matrix-talents were a little weird at the weak end of the spectrum. Apparently they were very dangerous at the high end.
She would stay clear of the gin-poker table when she left the restroom. It was a synergistic fact that the
