The Adventurer (v2.1), Page 2

  “You always vote for pasta.”

  TWO HOURS LATER, pleasantly stuffed with hazelnut tortellini, Sarah turned the key in the lock of her front door. She wandered through the cheerful, vividly decorated one-bedroom apartment, turning on lights as she went.

  When she reached the desk where her computer sat like some ancient monolith rising from a sea of notes, magazines, empty tea mugs and research materials, she stopped.

  It only took her a minute to find the stack of Gideon Trace’s letters. Margaret was right, Sarah thought with a small smile as she reread one of them. Gideon’s notes did tend to be a bit cryptic. An uncharitable observer might even call them somewhat dry. There was certainly very little hint of the fascinating man she just knew he had to be.

  Dear Ms. Fleetwood:

  In regard to your most recent inquiry concerning the legend of the Fleetwood Flowers, I’m afraid I have very little to tell you that you don’t already know. The tale dates from the late eighteen hundreds and is not unlike many other stories of lost treasure. Such stories tend to become greatly exaggerated over the years.

  The Flowers were supposedly five pairs of earrings fashioned from gemstones. According to the legend, Emelina Fleetwood, a spinster schoolteacher, spent a summer searching for gold in the Washington mountains near her cabin. It was not unknown for women to try their luck at gold mining on the frontier and some gold was found in Washington, as you probably know.

  At any rate, she is said to have discovered a small vein, worked it all summer and then went back to teaching the following year. She never told anyone where her strike was or if she’d gotten anything out of it. But the legend claims she had the earrings, which she always referred to as her Flowers, made up by a San Francisco jeweler and that she paid him with gold nuggets.

  Before she died, Emelina Fleetwood is said to have buried her earrings somewhere on her property and drawn a map showing the location. If there ever was a map, it has long since disappeared.

  I’m surprised you are familiar with the legend. It is an extremely obscure one. My professional opinion is that there is not much merit to the tale. Any search for the Flowers would probably be a waste of time.

  If I can be of any further help, please feel free to contact me. Thank you for your check. I have renewed your subscription to Cache for another year.

  Yours,

  G. Trace

  P.S. Thank you for the recipe for pesto sauce.

  “Well, Mr. G. Trace,” Sarah said as she put the letter back down on the desk, “I appreciate your professional opinion but I’m not going to abide by it. I’m going to find the Flowers and what’s more, you’re going to help me.”

  1

  IT WAS THE BIGGEST, ugliest cat Sarah had ever seen. A true monster of a cat, twenty or twenty-five pounds at least and none of it fat.

  Its fur was a mottled, blotchy color somewhere between orange and brown with here-and-there patches of black and tan for added color interest. It had one torn ear and a few old scars, but otherwise looked to be in excellent physical condition. Sarah decided this particular cat probably won most of the fights it chose to start. She doubted it had ever purred in its life.

  “Excuse me,” Sarah said to the cat, which was sprawled across the top step, effectively blocking the entrance to the porch. “Would you mind if I knocked?”

  The cat did not bother to lift its head but its tail thumped once in warning. It opened its eyes to mere slits and regarded her without enthusiasm. Sarah found herself pinned by a stone-cold, green-gold gaze.

  “I can see you’re not the eager, welcoming type. Somebody should have traded you for a Beagle years ago. What are you? Some kind of guard cat?”

  The cat said nothing but continued to watch her with its remote, gemlike gaze. Sarah glanced around, hoping for signs of human habitation, but there weren’t many.

  The big, weather-beaten Victorian-style house she had finally managed to locate after much diligent searching was perched on a bluff overlooking the sea. The view of the Pacific was hidden this morning behind a veil of fog that hung over the water like a sorcerer’s dark spell.

  The house with all its aging architectural embellishments was as faded, forbidding and aloof as old royalty.

  The nearest neighbor was some distance away, concealed by a heavy stand of trees. The distant roar of the sea and the whisper of restless pines were the only sounds. For all intents and purposes, Gideon Trace’s home was isolated in a universe of its own, with only the cat to indicate that anyone actually lived here.

  Sarah took another look at the large cat. “I’m very sorry,” she said firmly, “but I am going to knock on the door, whether you like it or not.”

  The cat stared at her.

  Sarah cautiously moved to the farthest edge of the steps so that she would not have to actually step over the creature. She went briskly up to the wide porch, ignoring the irritated thumps of the cat’s tail. But the animal made no move to stop her as she went over to the door.

  She had her hand poised to knock when a faint tingle of awareness went through her. The door was suddenly opened from the other side. Sarah looked up and found herself pinned for a second time that morning by a pair of icy, green-gold eyes. This time, at least, the eyes were human. Sort of.

  “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

  For an instant Sarah felt as if time had been temporarily suspended. She stood there on the porch, staring up at the man in front of her, mesmerized by his jungle eyes and the gritty, rough-textured sound of his voice. For the first time since she had set out on her quest it occurred to her that she might have bitten off a little more than she could chew.

  Gideon Trace looked large, cold-eyed and dangerous.

  “Yes, of course,” she said finally. “It makes sense that you would look a little like the cat.”

  The man’s gaze narrowed in a way that reminded Sarah of the beast on the porch step. He did not move—just stood there in the doorway, big and unwelcoming. He was clad in jeans and a faded blue work shirt. “Are you selling something, lady?”

  Sarah rallied quickly and summoned up her most engaging smile. She held out her hand. “In a way. I’m Sarah Fleetwood. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. You are Gideon Trace, aren’t you?”

  His gaze dropped to her outstretched hand as if he didn’t know whether to shake it or bite it. When he glanced up again Sarah thought she saw a barely concealed flare of surprise in his eyes. “Yeah, I’m Trace.” His big hand closed briefly around hers, nearly crushing her fingers. He let go of her instantly, frowning. “You’re the Fleetwood woman who’s been writing to me for the past few months? The one who wrote me about the legend of the Flowers?”

  “That’s me.” Sarah clutched the strap of her oversized black, white and yellow shoulder bag. “I wanted to talk to you in more detail about the legend because I’ve decided to look for the Flowers. To be perfectly honest, I’m hoping to convince you to go with me as a sort of consultant. That’s what I meant when I said I was here to sell you something. In a way, I am. I’m hoping to sell you on this great idea I’ve got. You see, I…”

  “Hold it.” Trace held up a hand to silence her.

  Sarah ignored the upraised palm, much too excited to stop now that she had located her quarry. “I haven’t had any experience with treasure hunting and I thought you could advise me. I’ll pay you, naturally. What do treasure-hunting consultants go for these days? Is there a price break if I buy you for a week at a time, or is it the same as the day-to-day rate? I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out. I’ve given this a lot of thought and I…”

  “I said, hold it.” Gideon Trace’s expression was as austere and forbidding as that of his cat. “Are you always this, uh, enthusiastic?”

  Sarah blushed. “Sorry, I was kind of rushing into things, wasn’t I? My friends say I’m sometimes a little too impulsive. But what do they know? At any rate, I’m so glad to have found you, Mr. Trace, because I just know our association
is going to be an extremely advantageous one for both parties.” She gave him another of her most winning smiles.

  The smile appeared to make Gideon Trace more wary than ever. His strong face was set in distinctly unenthusiastic lines. His green-gold eyes glittered as he looked down at her. “How did you find me?”

  “I asked at the gas station.”

  “Maybe I should go ask someone at the gas station what I’m supposed to do with you now that you’re here.”

  “I think what you should do next is invite me in for a cup of tea.”

  “Is that right?”

  Sarah swallowed. “I think it would be an excellent idea.”

  “I don’t drink tea. I haven’t got a tea bag in the house.”

  “No problem. I always travel with my own.” Sarah plunged a hand into her oversized shoulder bag and whipped out a tea bag with the words English Breakfast on the tag. “All I need is some hot water. You do have that, don’t you?”

  Gideon was clearly searching for an appropriate response to the question when a soft, inquiring meow sounded from the vicinity of his feet. Sarah knew that gentle tone could not have emanated from the great beast on the front steps. She glanced down to see a small, delicately built silver-gray cat watching her with warm, golden eyes.

  “Oh, isn’t she lovely?” Sarah crouched and offered her fingers in greeting.

  The silver-gray cat stropped her tail once or twice against one of Gideon’s well-worn boots and then glided forward. Politely she investigated Sarah’s fingers and then rubbed her sleek head against the proffered hand.

  Sarah looked up a very long way to where Gideon was scowling down at the scene taking place around his legs. “What’s her name?”

  “Ellora.”

  Sarah was delighted. “After the mysterious cave temples in India?”

  “Yeah.” There was another flicker of surprise in his eyes.

  Sarah scratched Ellora’s ears and the cat began to purr. “I hardly dare ask the name of that monster on the front steps.”

  “Machu Picchu.”

  “Oh, yes, the lost city of the Incas.” Sarah turned to look at the big cat who hadn’t moved from his position in the middle of the step. “The name sort of fits, doesn’t it? Massive and immovable.”

  Gideon ignored that. “I take it you drove over from Seattle this morning?” He made it sound as if she had done something exceedingly stupid.

  “Yes, it was a lovely drive. Hardly any traffic.”

  “Well, as long as you’ve made the trip, you might as well come in for the tea.”

  “Thanks.” Sarah gave Ellora one last pat and rose to her feet. “Your two cats certainly have different personalities, don’t they? How do they get along?”

  “Ellora keeps Machu Picchu wrapped around her little paw.” Gideon sounded resigned to the situation.

  “Hard to believe,” Sarah muttered.

  “What do you expect? He’s just a simple-minded male. Ellora has no trouble with him at all. This way.” Gideon Trace turned to lead her into the house.

  Sarah followed quickly, glancing around with deep interest. The inside of the old Victorian seemed dark and forbidding. It was also chilly.

  “Must cost a fortune to heat one of these old houses.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t need a lot of heat.”

  Sarah eyed the faded drapes, unpolished wooden floors and aging furniture. It was obvious publishing Cache did not provide a high profit margin. Either that or Gideon Trace simply didn’t believe in investing in his personal surroundings. The place did not appear neglected, she finally decided, just dark and gloomy.

  It was also incredibly tidy.

  Magazines were filed in a terrifyingly orderly fashion in a rack. There was a huge assortment of books but they were all arranged with great precision in the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The surface of the coffee table was completely clear, unmarred by so much as one empty coffee mug.

  Even the chess game that had been set up on a table in one corner looked neat and orderly. Sarah glanced at the carved wooden pieces and wondered who Gideon played chess with. From all appearances he was a very solitary man.

  She hurried after her reluctant host as he went through the living room into the kitchen. Here the windows all faced the sea, providing a ringside view of the dark fog that hovered over the water. The room itself was spacious in the manner of old kitchens and somewhat lighter and more inviting than the living room. But the impression of grim orderliness still prevailed.

  Sarah realized she had not anticipated that her hero would be quite so organized. But she refused to be daunted by petty details.

  “Have a seat.”

  Sarah needed no second urging. She dropped her huge bag onto a ladder-back chair with a thud and took a seat at the old claw-footed table. “This is certainly an interesting place you have here.”

  “I like it.” Gideon filled an old steel kettle at the sink.

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Almost five years.”

  “Is that how long you’ve been publishing your treasure-hunting magazine?”

  “About.”

  The man obviously was not good at small talk. That didn’t surprise Sarah. Gideon Trace was not a small talk kind of person. “I certainly have appreciated your help during the past few months, Mr. Trace. The inside information you provided on the subject of treasure hunting was invaluable to my story. You’ll be happy to know I sent the manuscript of Glitter Quest off to New York on Tuesday.”

  “Delighted,” he agreed caustically. “You said in one of your letters that it was some sort of romance novel?”

  “That’s right. I write romantic suspense.”

  “Sounds like a contradiction in terms.”

  “Not at all. I think romance and suspense go together beautifully. Danger and adventure heighten the sensual tension in the story and vice versa.”

  Gideon looked distinctly skeptical as he set out two cups and spooned instant coffee into one.

  “I take it you don’t read in the genre?” Sarah ventured, a little disappointed after all these months of corresponding with her he had apparently not bothered to buy one of her books and read it.

  “No, can’t say that I do.” Gideon put the kettle on the stove.

  Sarah studied him as he turned to face her. He leaned back against the edge of the counter and folded his arms across his broad chest. Either a forbidding scowl was habitual for him or else she had interrupted something important. Perhaps he had been in the middle of one of his articles for Cache. She knew how it felt to be interrupted in the middle of writing.

  “Look, if I’ve caught you at an awkward moment, I could come back later,” she offered.

  “Good idea. How much later?”

  “In a couple of hours, say?”

  The edge of his mouth lifted faintly. The hint of amusement vanished almost instantly. “Forget it. Might as well get this over and done. I get the feeling you’re the persistent type. Tell me why you’ve suddenly decided to go treasure hunting, Ms. Fleetwood.”

  “It’s time,” Sarah said simply.

  “What do you mean, it’s time?”

  “I just have a feeling about it.”

  “How long have you known about the legend of the Flowers?”

  “Almost a year. The story has been handed down through the women of my family for years but no one ever paid much attention to it. When my aunt died a year ago, however, she left the map to me.”

  Gideon didn’t move but there was a new intensity in his eyes. “What map?”

  “The map Emelina Fleetwood made. You mentioned it in your letter, remember? You said you doubted its existence, but it’s quite real. My aunt had it most of her life until she willed it to me.” Sarah reached for her purse and started scrabbling about inside. “I made a dozen copies and put the original in a safe-deposit box. I brought one of the copies with me.” She hauled out a clear plastic envelope that protected a sheet of paper with a crude sketch and som
e words written on it.

  Gideon reached for the envelope with the first show of genuine curiosity he had yet exhibited. He frowned over the cryptic drawing. “Treasure maps are a dime a dozen. Someone’s always claiming to have one or trying to sell one. Ninety-nine point nine percent of them are fake. What makes you think this one is genuine?”

  “My aunt once had the map analyzed by a lab to make sure the paper at least dated from the right period. It did.”

  “That doesn’t mean the map is genuine or even that it was ever meant to lead anyone to the Flowers. It could have been drawn for any number of reasons.”

  “It’s the real thing.”

  Gideon’s head came up, his eyes brilliant. “You sound very sure of that.”

  “I am. I have a feeling about it.” And I’ve also got a feeling about you, Gideon Trace, but we’ll get to that eventually.

  “Even if it’s genuine, what makes you think you’ll be the Fleetwood to find it?”

  “I’ve got a—”

  “A feeling. Right. Do you get these feelings often, Ms. Fleetwood?”

  “Often enough to know I should pay attention when one hits.” There was a soft meow from the floor. Sarah looked down as Ellora jumped lightly into her lap and proceeded to curl up.

  “I think I should point out that I don’t do the kind of consulting work you’re looking for,” Gideon stated, his gaze on Sarah’s hand as she stroked his cat.

  “I know you’re in the business of publishing Cache, but I thought you might be interested in this project. Right up your alley. It’s such a fascinating legend. Think what a great article it would make for your magazine.”

  “I’ve heard plenty of other tales just as fascinating, if not more so. Few of them ever lead to a real find. The most anyone ever actually uncovers is an old bit of rusted metal or a button or a stray rifle ball. Treasure hunting is just a hobby for most people. No one gets rich. Believe me, there’s more money in publishing Cache than there is in actually hunting for the goodies.”