said pointedly.
'He did.'
'And now poor Morris has vanished.'
'Define vanish for me, Miss Spring.'
She glared. 'I can't find him. We had an appointment this afternoon at his shop, but when I got there the door was locked. Morris never forgets appointments. He's a mid-range matrix-talent. You know how they are. Obsessive about details.'
'Obsessive? You've had a lot of experience with matrix-talents, then?'
She shrugged. 'More than most people. But, as I'm sure you're well aware, no one's had a lot of experience with them. They're not only quite rare, they're reclusive, secretive, and a little odd. They don't like to be studied.'
'Just because most of them won't consent to be guinea rat-pigs in some university research lab doesn't mean they're odd.' This was ludicrous. Nick could not believe that he was allowing her to goad him like this. He breathed deeply, centering himself. 'It just means they value their privacy.'
'Mr. Chastain, I am not here to debate the oddness of matrix-talents. I'm here to retrieve Morris Fen-wick. Hand him over.'
'Tell me, Miss Spring, what, precisely, caused you to leap to the conclusion that I've got him stashed away somewhere in the casino?'
'I suspect that you were afraid poor Morris would try to drive up the price of the journal by starting a bidding war between you and his other client. So you grabbed him with the goal of intimidating him into accepting your offer.'
'An interesting assumption.'
Her mouth tightened and so did her elegantly sculpted jaw. 'Poor Morris knew that journal was extremely valuable to certain parties. He told me that he had it hidden in a safe place until he could complete the negotiations and close the sale.'
'Do you always call him 'poor Morris'?'
She frowned. 'Morris is delicate. Most matrix-talents are. They don't function well under stress.'
Nick was torn between disbelief and disgust. 'In your considered opinion?'
'I told you, I've had more experience with matrix-talents than most of the experts. Morris is a gentle soul who is consumed by a passion for antiquarian books. He will become frantic if you apply the sort of pressure tactics to him that you were obviously using on that poor Mr. Batt who just left.'
Nick managed, barely, not to grind his teeth. 'Let me get this straight. 'You think I kidnapped Fenwick because I was afraid I couldn't outbid my competition. Presumably I'm holding him hostage until he turns over the journal.'
'We won't call it kidnapping if you release him at once,' she said smoothly.
'You're too kind.' Nick got to his feet and stalked around the vast desk. He watched Zinnia's face as he moved toward her. She tensed but held her ground. The bright, fierce challenge in her eyes intrigued him.
He knew who she was, of course. He had recognized the name and the face immediately. A year and a half ago she had been notorious throughout the city-state for three days. The trashy newspaper, Synsation, had labeled her the 'Scarlet Lady.'
Nick detested the tabloids, but he kept track of them because he devoured information from all sources. His primary objective was to watch for photos and stories featuring those from the city's elite social circles who had the misfortune to show up on the front pages of the scandal sheets. He never knew when a tidbit from a gossipy piece involving one of the upper-class families might come in handy.
Eighteen months ago Zinnia Spring had been photographed walking out of the bedroom of a wealthy, influential businessman named Rexford Eaton. Eaton was not only the head of one of the city-state's most prominent families, he was also married. The resulting scandal had been a three-day sensation for Synsa-tion.
The damning photograph of Zinnia in a dashing crimson-red suit not unlike the one she wore tonight had been featured in a place of honor on the front page.
Nick recalled the photo and the accompanying story, not only because it had involved Rexford Eaton but because something about the unsavory details of the affair had failed to ring true. His matrix-tuned mind had detected hints of wrongness between the lines. But that was hardly a surprise, given the low level of Synsation's journalistic integrity.
He had been absently impressed by the way the 'Scarlet Lady' had handled the pushy reporters and gossip columnists who had hounded her for those three days. He had followed the story and he knew that she had refused all interviews with an arrogant disdain that he had admired.
Tonight he was even more impressed. He was accustomed to one of three basic reactions from those who found their way into this chamber: wary respect, extreme caution, or desperate appeal. He did not get a lot of visitors who dared to issue an outright challenge. It took guts.
He was well aware of his own reputation. He had worked hard to build it, first in the wild jungle frontier of the Western Islands and later here in the so-called civilized city-state of New Seattle. A reputation was one of the few things a man in his position could depend upon.
He wondered if Zinnia had worn the scarlet suit to underline the impact of her demands or to shore up her own nerve. Whatever the case, that particular shade of bright, bold, unabashed red looked good on her, even though it clashed with the darker, more menacing red of the carpet and curtains around her. The well-cut, snug- fitting little suit managed to appear both professional and stylish even as it issued a subtle challenge. It skimmed over gently shaped breasts and emphasized a small waist. It also hinted at the appealing curve of a full rounded derriere.
The way she wore the suit interested Nick far more than the color or the style. Zinnia held herself with a graceful hauteur that said a lot about her fortitude and will. This would be one stubborn woman, he decided. Definitely difficult.
Definitely intriguing.
The feeling of rightness that surged through him was annoying. It also made him wary. One of the problems with being a strong matrix-talent was that he was far more sensitive than most to small nuances and subtle details in everything around him. For better or worse, he noticed things that most people ignored.
Even when he was not actively trying to use his talent, some part of his mind was always observing, assessing, and analyzing. He intuitively searched for patterns, looking for factors which felt wrong or out of place or which generated warning signals. He was always watching for the specters of chaos and disruption.
His acute senses had kept him alive in the jungles of the Western Islands and helped him amass a fortune as a casino owner. But lately Nick had discovered that the constant search for the pattern in the matrix had a downside. After years of watching for the shadow of that which was wrong or dangerous, he found himself hungering for that which felt right.
And Zinnia Spring felt inexplicably right.
It made no sense. She had just accused him of kidnapping.
He tried to make himself step back into that remote, detached place where he could study and assess without reacting to what he saw. He made himself look at Zinnia with the calculating intuition that was such an essential part of his nature.
She was striking but not beautiful. He liked the way her straight nose, high forehead, and well-defined cheekbones came together in a package that could only be called aristocratic. The dark sweep of her hair curved sleekly at chin length.
By any standard, there were far more stunning women dealing gin-poker at the tables downstairs. There were several working the bar at the very moment who could make heads turn from a block away. And the new redheaded lounge singer was considered spectacular by every man and a few of the ladies in the casino.
Unfortunately, one of the curses of a strong matrix-talent was that a man who possessed it found himself looking at lovely women in a decidedly skewed manner. Nick could appreciate superficial feminine beauty as well as the next healthy heterosexual male, but the physical attraction that resulted was also superficial. The older he got, the more unsatisfying relationships based on that attraction proved to be.
He wanted something else, something more, something deeper, something infused with meaning. He wanted something he did not understand and could not name.
