“You are cold,” the girl said. “Take your cloak with you. You need it.”
The little boy shook his head as he knelt in front of her. “You need it more than I, milady. Come, I will carry you. Wait for me inside the tree, where you will be safe. You shall have your Elizabeth for company and I shall return soon. When I do, I will have a nice fat rabbit for us to share.”
He had picked her up then, though he could not have weighed much more than she herself. When he set her down inside the great tree, he stared at her upturned face. Without warning, he leaned in and pressed his cold lips to hers.
“I will return to you,” he said in a voice she barely heard above the roar through the treetops. “This is my vow, milady Hope. I shall always, always return to you.”
I stepped backwards out of the circle of his arms.
“What?” he said, noticing my expression. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Well, everything. But I just realized that you really do keep your promises, don’t you?” I grabbed his hand and towed him toward the door.
Our hands still linked, he tugged me back to face him. “To you? Always.”
I smiled up at him. “I mean, except for that one.”
Slim eyebrows met over his nose as he frowned, quizzically.
“You promised me a rabbit when we were in the tree. I never got that rabbit,” I told him. “Just one measly old apple.”
He threw his head back. Our laughter twined together, bright as moonlight and light as helium as it floated toward the gallery’s high ceiling.
As we opened the door and stepped back into the ballroom, I said, “Bran, I talked to Gabriella. She told me all about Blasi.”
“Hello, Bran,” a voice said. “Been looking all over for you. And this must be the lovely Hope Walton. I’m curious, Hope. Given how you ladies love to chat, I’d be very interested to know what—?exactly—?my sweet Gabi had to say about me?”
Bran’s grin had vanished. My pulse began to speed for an entirely different reason. I recognized the man Gabriella was so afraid of, standing only feet away, head tilted as he smiled at Bran and me.
Chapter 41
WE’D RESEARCHED THE MAN PLENTY AFTER BRAN’S revelation at the Highland games. Young. Swedish. Secretive. By the age of twenty-three Gunnar Blasi held doctorates in three different physics fields. Considered a prodigy, he was recruited straight out of school by CERN. He’d worked for the international organization only a year before his employment was suddenly and inexplicably terminated. Even with Doug and Moira’s investigatory skills, we could only find rumors and speculation about his abrupt dismissal.
The few photos we’d managed to locate—?including one that showed his CERN ID badge—?portrayed a nondescript bearded guy with frameless glasses and stringy hair pulled back in a man bun.
The guy watching us now was anything but nondescript. Fit and trim. Handsome, with the blond Nordic features of his homeland. Blasi’s once-ratty hair was now cut fashionably short. He was clean-shaven, and the glasses—?if they’d ever been anything but an affectation—were gone.
And though he maintained an almost friendly grin, as he approached, his impenetrable black eyes held all the warmth and charm of a cobra coiled to strike.
Bran positioned himself between us. “Blasi,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you too. If we might have a word, I can—”
The man walked right past him. “Hope.” He had only the barest accent. “I’m glad we’re having this chance. You see, I always enjoy knowing my competition. It makes winning so much more pleasurable. Don’t you agree?”
“I—”
“Blasi,” Bran said again. “I’ve already told you, I’m handling this.”
Gunnar Blasi glanced down at Bran’s hand on his sleeve. “Yes, you did say that.”
My eyes skittered frantically over the crowd, but I couldn’t see any of my people.
Where are you, Collum? Where are you, dammit?
Then my gaze snagged on Tesla, just emerging from a narrow doorway, followed by two men. The first was William Vanderbilt. The second I immediately recognized. John Jacob “JJ” Astor IV, then the richest man in the world, and the most famous passenger to die when—?in seventeen years’ time—?the RMS Titanic would sink beneath the icy waves of the North Atlantic.
Finally I spotted Collum, Phoebe, and Jonathan moving near the wall as Tesla chatted with the two tycoons. He kept touching his lapel as the men bowed and left.
Skirting the dance floor, Collum, Phoebe, Tesla, and Jonathan headed in our direction. An instant later a group of strangers intercepted them. Ringed them. Collum went stiff as one of them leaned in and spoke a few words. Phoebe’s head jerked toward the spot where she knew I was waiting. Our eyes met. After only a few seconds’ conversation, the group began to march across the ballroom and down the steps to the main entrance. At the top of the stairs, Collum pivoted, gaze skimming the crowd. I wanted to wave my arms, jump up and down, scream, “Where the hell are you going?”
Then I saw a metallic flash, as one of the strangers quietly and casually pushed the tip of a half-concealed pistol into the small of Collum’s back.
The guests, wrapped up in their drinking and dancing and socializing, hadn’t noticed a thing.
“Well, that went even smoother than I predicted.” Blasi, too, had been watching the scene at the top of the stairs. “Of course, my men probably warned yours that if they didn’t go along quietly, they’d just start shooting people. They’d have done it too. Barbarians have no clue about timelines.” He tsked.
His eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. “Ah, here comes my little dancing queen.”
“Gunnar.” Gabriella de Roca didn’t look at me as she limped past. “Did you see? That went well, did it not?”
“Hello, darling.” Blasi took hold of her shoulders and planted a lingering kiss on her lips. With his face only an inch from hers, he whispered, “So, what did you tell them?”
Gabriella smiled, but she was blinking furiously. “Tell who? I—?I do not know what it is that you mean?”
“Sure you do. You opened your pretty little mouth, didn’t you?” Blasi tapped Gabriella on the tip of her slim nose and the skin on my back prickled with a sense of danger despite the man’s jovial tone.
“You had to go and get all gossipy on me, Gabi. What a shame. I should’ve known, I guess.” Blasi’s expression was open and pleasant, as if conversing about a favorite book. “But you were so good at . . .” He chuckled to himself. “Well, you know what you’re good at, don’t you? So good, in fact, that I didn’t even realize what a lying little whore you are until right now.”
“No.” Gabriella’s voice shook. “Please, Gunnar, te equivocas.”
“No, I don’t think I am mistaken, darling. I think it’s you who are mistaken.”