Chains of Fire (3 page)

Samuel didn’t know what purpose they accomplished. He wasn’t going to attack Wagner. The guy looked like he could crush Samuel with one fist.

Wagner extended his hand. In precise, German-accented English, he said, “Mr. Faa, how good to meet you. I’m Adelbrecht Wagner. We haven’t seen anyone from the Gypsy Travel Agency for several years. In fact, we had heard reports that an explosion at their headquarters had killed everyone on their board.”

Samuel shook hands, did the male dominance thing by squeezing too hard and making sure his hand remained on top, and put on his solemn face. “Did you? The explosion was a tragedy that deeply affected our organization.” It was a nonanswer, one worked out ahead of time and given Irving’s nod of approval.

Samuel had learned a few things about one-upmanship, and he understood Irving’s position about this operation.

Just in case he didn’t remember, Dina repeated the instructions.
Say as little as possible. Don’t explain yourself. Don’t defend yourself. Make it clear from the beginning you are the man in charge.

Yeah, thanks.

Samuel strode beside Wagner down the short corridor to his office and was ushered inside. The place was immense, luxurious, and windowless.

The guards took up their positions at the sides of the entrance. Wagner closed the doors, and they gave a
thunk
that all too clearly proved they were reinforced with metal.

Wagner’s office was a vault, protecting the bank president, everything he represented and everything he knew.

Samuel would either succeed here or die in prison.

No pressure.

Samuel didn’t even know who thought it first.

Pulling a two-by-two slip of yellow paper out of his inside pocket, he placed it on the desk in front of Wagner. “I need you to transfer control of the Gypsy Travel Agency accounts to this address.”

Wagner didn’t bother to glance down. “Without the necessary legal documents, I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

Which was exactly what Samuel expected him to say. So he removed the formidable set of papers from his manila envelope and placed them beside the slip with the address for Wagner’s perusal. “The originals of the documents we sent ahead.”

“Without the signatures of at least three of the Gypsy Travel Agency board members, I’m afraid this is impossible.”

“As you know, the whole board is deceased. As a former board member and former CEO, Irving Shea—”

“Has been declared incompetent and is therefore not a legal signer.”

Crap
. Wagner knew it all.

They were getting nowhere.

So Samuel used his mind to take control of Wagner’s thoughts.

To his surprise, his intention skidded off as if Wagner’s mind were Teflon protected.

Crap.

What’s wrong?
Dina asked.

I can’t reach him.
In a reasonable tone of voice, Samuel said, “But surely you’re not saying you intend to keep these not-inconsiderable accounts in your bank forever?” He reached out again, this time with more force.

Wagner appeared to be oblivious. “Perhaps you’re not aware, but we have hundreds of unclaimed accounts which will never be opened because the owners have lost their minds, forgotten their passwords, or died. There are fortunes that haven’t been touched for over a hundred years.”

Samuel took a breath, looked straight into Wagner’s eyes, and concentrated.

Wagner stared at him. “Will there be anything else?”

Samuel couldn’t believe it. This had never happened before. He had never failed.

Dina snapped,
What is this? Mind-control dysfunction?

Is he one of you?
Samuel snapped back.

Sarcastically:
I don’t know. I’m not personally acquainted with every miscreant in the organization.

He knew it. He knew Dina would betray them.

But I don’t think so.
Samuel could almost hear her tapping her fingers on the table.
He could be an undiscovered talent, hired for exactly this capacity.

“Mr. Faa?” Wagner stood. “I believe we’ve concluded our business.”

Samuel sent another shot at Wagner’s mind.

The mind was locked tight as a vacuum cylinder.

Wagner said, “In fact, I believe the Swiss police are waiting for you in the lobby below. They want to question you about your knowledge of and intentions for these particular accounts.”

A cold sweat trickled down Samuel’s spine.

Urgently, Dina said,
I can distract him. Touch him. Touch him!

Samuel stood, extended his hand, and when his flesh touched Wagner’s, he heard Dina’s voice say,
Look out!

Somehow the contact of their hands opened Wagner’s brain to Dina, and Wagner heard her voice, too.

His surprise gave Samuel his chance.

Samuel slammed a command into Wagner’s head.
Do what I tell you.

Wagner blinked at him. “I apologize. I thought I heard a woman’s voice.”

“A woman?” Samuel raised his eyebrows as if amazed.

“A woman’s deep voice, hoarse, a smoker’s voice . . .”

“You’ve been working too hard,” Samuel said sympathetically.

“Yes. A temporary distraction.” Wagner blinked again, his defenses broken, his mind bending to Samuel’s will. “What was it you wanted?”

Samuel instructed him without words.
Transfer control of the Gypsy Travel Agency funds to the account on that paper.

“I remember. You wanted me to transfer the Gypsy Travel Agency funds to this account.” Wagner indicated the yellow paper and sat down at his desk.

Samuel stood, barely breathing, as Wagner typed on his computer, checked the numbers on the paper, then pushed SEND.

Wagner looked up. “That’s that. Is there anything else you require?”

“Call off the police downstairs.”

Samuel heard Dina say,
It is done
.

Control of the funds had been transferred into the control of John Powell, the trustworthy leader of the Chosen Ones.

Samuel wanted to laugh in triumph. How he had enjoyed this!

Instead he spoke with cool composure. “There’s nothing more I require.”

Maybe a good stiff drink
, Dina suggested.

“Very good. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” Wagner stood again.

Samuel walked toward the door. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, also.”

“I trust now that your business is concluded, you’ll have a chance to experience our magnificent skiing. It has been a record year for snow.” Wagner pressed the button on the wall. The doors swung open. “I’ve lived here twenty years, and I’ve never seen powder this deep.”

They walked into the corridor and toward the elevator. The guards fell in behind them.

“Tonight I’m going to Monastère for the party benefitting the World Children’s Literacy Foundation; then, alas, tomorrow I must return to New York,” Samuel said.

“Probably just as well. There’s a storm coming in. Just wind, they’re saying, but that always makes the slopes dangerous. Avalanche weather, you know.”

Samuel didn’t know, but he smiled and nodded, wanting nothing more than to clear out of here before Wagner realized what had been done and why. “That’s it, then.”

They shook hands.

The guard punched the elevator button.

The doors opened and Samuel stepped in.

The doors started to close—and right before they snapped shut, Wagner stuck his arm in.

The doors reopened.

“We should probably clarify one matter.” Wagner frowned.

Samuel’s heart stopped.

Wagner asked, “Will someone else return to claim the contents of the safety-deposit box?”

Samuel stepped back out of the elevator. “The safety-deposit box?”

Isabelle glanced around to find her mother, thin and elegant, standing at her side, and she tried not to look surprised at the interruption. Because for all Patricia’s graceful, fragile appearance, Isabelle knew her mother was perfectly capable of directing this party, auditing the charity’s books, and arranging next year’s vacation in Aspen all at the same time. She most certainly did not require Isabelle’s help.

Michel Moreau managed to contain his skepticism, also; Patricia Mason was famed for her competence. Instead he kissed Isabelle’s fingers, a lingering yet respectful kiss the French performed so expertly. He bowed to Patricia Mason. “Madam, your party is, as always, a tribute to charity and elegance.” With a smile, he made his way toward the buffet, leaving Patricia and Isabelle alone in the midst of the crowd.

For all of her urgency, Patricia took a moment to stare after the balding, stylish Moreau. “Such a charming man. Such aristocratic lineage. Why couldn’t you have married him?”

Isabelle did not sigh. There was no point. She’d heard it all before, and until she married the proper man, she would continue to hear it. “Because Michel is twice my age. And half my height. And he’s already married.”

“I suppose. But—”

“Mother, I can’t believe that’s why you interrupted our conversation. He was about to get out his checkbook to make a sizable donation to the foundation.”

“I’m sorry, dear.” Patricia patted Isabelle’s hand. “You do make the gentlemen loosen their purse strings in a formidable way.”

“I learned from the best. Now—what’s wrong?”

Recalled to her grievance, Patricia said, “Look. There!”

Something had put an edge to her mother’s voice, so Isabelle scanned the ballroom.

The Masons’ nineteenth-century château had been decorated with the same subtle elegance that marked her mother as a leader of society in Europe and the States. Flowers had been flown in from the Riviera to fill tall Tiffany vases. The walls glowed with carefully restored Renaissance murals, and rich metallic gold gilded the arched ceilings. The quartet played quiet background music; in about an hour, they would strip off their coats and ties and make the move to dance music, taking the party to its next stage.

Society had traveled by plane and train, then on icy roads up to the tiny, exclusive village for the privilege of dancing, eating, and, most important, being
seen
at one of Patricia’s exquisite charity events. Young women wore Kane and Zac Posen; older women wore Dior and Prada. Patricia herself wore a conservative black satin Chanel evening gown; she preached the classics.

Isabelle had learned from her mother, and wore Versace, a simple pale gold silk that clung in all the right places and gave her bosom (so the designer said) “height.”

Now, with nothing visibly wrong with the flowers, the atmosphere, or the people, Isabelle said, “Mother, I really don’t see—” Then the crowd parted and gave her a clear view of Senator Noah Noble. “Him? It’s okay, Mother; he’s merely my ex-fiancé, and since the breakup we’ve met amicably if not fondly.”

“Not
him
. I invited
him
.” Patricia’s voice changed to warm interest. “Although if you haven’t heard, he and his wife have just secured a divorce.”

Isabelle allowed herself a single, spiteful smile. “Did they? Good. I hope she took him for everything and ruined his political career in the process.”

“Hm.”

“Mother, do you not remember the scene he made when he broke our engagement?”

“Yes, yes. But you were going to break the engagement yourself!”

“Proving I have good instincts about men.”

“Not necessarily.” Patricia used her clasp on Isabelle’s arm to direct her. “What I want to know is—what is
he
doing here?”

Isabelle pretended to search with her gaze, but she had caught sight of him. Now she knew who had her mother in an uproar.

“There,” Patricia said. “Speaking to Prince Saber. It’s
Samuel Faa
.”

“Oh. Him.” Isabelle infused her voice with boredom. “I invited him.”

“You? You?” Patricia hustled Isabelle toward a curtained alcove and in a hushed voice said, “But, darling—the gossip!”

“What gossip? Mother, we haven’t been together for over . . . what? . . . Five years? Six years?”

“Five years, and everyone remembers.”

“Few
knew
, and only you would care. Half the people in here are ex-lovers of the other half.” Isabelle watched her mother struggle with the universal truth that among the wealthy, sex was entertainment.

“It’s true. But I don’t have to like it.”

Samuel wore his tuxedo with a flair that made women turn and look, some in disdain—the outfit was so obviously not his natural state—and some in pure, absolute lust. He looked like the kind of man who could drink too much, make love all night, steal the Hope Diamond from the Smithsonian, and do it all without breaking a sweat. With his black hair and swarthy skin, he was clearly Gypsy. She would call him Romany, but there was nothing politically correct about Samuel. Ever.

Right now he was chatting up Lady Winstead, a female old enough that she shouldn’t be blushing under his regard.

But she was.

Because Samuel knew the secret of charm; when he used those dark brown eyes on a woman, she had his full attention—and she knew it.

Isabelle remembered the force of his charm all too well. More than once in her life, she had been that woman, melting under his regard.

But she was wiser now. She knew what it meant when he concentrated on her. It never ended well.

The man was the kind of lawyer who gave the law profession its bad reputation. He barely acknowledged the high moral standards demanded of the Chosen Ones. He was gifted with a capital “G”—a mind controller, totally without scruples.

When they had been together, she’d heard him say, many times, that the end justified the means.

She simply hadn’t realized he intended to use her for his own ends.

One of the waiters stopped and offered a tray of drinks and one of canapés.

Isabelle snagged a glass of sparkling water, took a sip, and said, “Samuel came to Geneva on business for the Gypsy Travel Agency. He is here. So are we. It’s ridiculous to leave him out of the festivities.”

Patricia chose a shrimp canapé and champagne, and finished the canapé rather too quickly.

“Is that all you’ve had to eat tonight?” Isabelle asked.

“No!”

“Because before a party, you never eat as you should.” Isabelle plucked a mushroom polenta appetizer from the proffered tray and offered it to her mother.

Patricia started to argue, then gave in with a huff. “Thank you, dear. I am feeling a little empty.” Patricia ate the polenta, took one of the pâté-stuffed pastries, then waved the waiter away.

Isabelle knew her mother. With a little fuel in her, she would march right back into battle.

And she did. “If Samuel acts up, your father will have to throw him out!”

“Daddy went to bed an hour ago. If Samuel acts up, you could have the butler throw him out. No, wait!” Isabelle’s diamond bracelets jingled as she held up her hand in a stop signal. “The butler is Samuel’s foster father.”

“I wasn’t going to bring that up,” Patricia said primly.

“Since
when
?”

“Since you seem to be sensitive about the subject.”

Somehow, in the space of a minute, mother and daughter had resorted to the snappish relationship of Isabelle’s adolescence. That was odd, for in public both of them—Patricia and Isabelle—were known for their soft-spoken good sense.

But on a personal level, nothing had changed.

Everything needed to change.

Taking a breath, Isabelle settled herself back into maturity. “Samuel is quite civilized, I promise.”

“Civilized?” Patricia laughed in a brief, bitter burst. “No, he is not. When I rescued him, I thought such a small child could be rehabilitated, but at the foundation of his being, he is still that little pickpocket who grabbed for everything to make his a better life.” When Isabelle would have spoken, Patricia held up her hand. “Dear, I know you’ll always support him, but his character is set, and he will never outgrow his desperate need to prove his worth with success and power.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Since he joined the Chosen Ones, his actions in the field have been nothing but brave and honorable.” That was true, and those actions were undoubtedly the ones that weighed the most on the great cosmic scales. But on a personal level, in the mansion the Chosen Ones shared as headquarters and home, he was a jerk. Everyone thought so. Most of them said so.

Samuel never seemed to care. He smiled as if no one comprehended how much worse he could be.

But Isabelle did. She’d glimpsed the dark depths of his soul and been burned. She wouldn’t do it again.

Nevertheless, fairness drove her to add, “I do know him very well. I work with him almost every day.”

Her mother sighed and clutched the thick rope of pearls around her neck. “You know what I think of that.”

“Yes, but we’re not going to fight about it now. Not at a party.” Isabelle added the clincher. “Samuel has a lot of money. You can tap him for a large donation.”

“He has money now, does he? What did he do for it, I wonder?”

Isabelle turned a cool gaze on Patricia. “That’s unkind, and not like you at all. He worked for his money; you know he did.”

Patricia grappled with the indignity of being scolded by her daughter before collapsing into a rueful smile. “You’re right, darling. But he is the butler’s son!” She was joking. Feebly, but joking.

“I’ve been reminded of that often enough. He’s been reminded enough, too. Perhaps we could talk about the fact he’s now”—Isabelle almost choked on the phrase—“a respected lawyer?”

“I know, dear. University of Texas law school. Passed the bar in Texas before returning to Massachusetts to pass the bar and work for a law firm. There, one of my friends on the bench sent him down to New York to join the Gypsy Travel Agency.” Patricia ticked off Samuel’s credentials on each finger before turning her clear blue gaze on Isabelle. “I don’t think Samuel joined because he wanted to.”

No. Samuel hadn’t joined because he wanted to. But Isabelle didn’t have to tell her mother everything she knew. “You don’t need to worry that he’ll misbehave, Mother. When he wants to be, Samuel is quite civilized.”

“I know that! I’ve always thought Sammy is a charming, deceitful beast.”

Isabelle patted her mother’s hand. “Then you know everything there is to know about him.”