Chapter One—The Manuscript #2
She showed her passport to register for the auction and received a numbered paddle in return.
Then she walked in and looked around. There were several other medieval items on display, including a wooden Shield with white lacquer and a square red cross.
The gold card beside it simply read “Circa 1300s: Paris” Quite possibly a Templar Shield left behind when the knights were so cruelly rounded up on that unlucky Friday the thirteenth.
Briefly, she considered calling Mr. Smith and asking him if he wanted her to bid on it, but she reconsidered.
She had no idea how high the bidding would go for the manuscript; if no one else was insistent, she might have enough funds for both.
She moved on and stopped again when she came to where a copy of the front page of the manuscript lay.
It was hard to say how old the yellowed-parchment was, but the script was middle-Gaelic.
The page in front of her didn’t contain much more information than a modern title page did, but she made a note that the catalogue number for it was 333.
Her mind clicked on the trivial fact of the Power of Nine.
In mathematical terms, if a number were multiplied by nine, the answer would always equate to nine.
In the Sisterhood, it meant something quite different.
There were nine Muses, nine priestesses of Avalon, nine aspects of the Goddess…
and the Goddess was always represented in her triple form which multiplied by itself equaled nine.
Sara returned to her seat. Perhaps the number was just a coincidence.
A thin, young man took a seat a short distance away.
He seemed nervous and looked back over his shoulder more than once.
Sara turned, too, catching a glimpse of a rather bulky man with a swarthy face far to the back of the room.
He wore a patch over one eye and could have been a middle-aged pirate, but she knew with the surveillance and security measures that auction houses used, the man would not be armed.
She blinked and realized he was gone. It must have been an illusion with the doors opening and casting shadows into the corners of the room.
Shrugging to herself, she turned back as the auction began.
Unfortunately, the Templar Shield came up for bid before the manuscript did.
The opening bid was $5000 and a couple of bidders drove the price to $6,500 before the gavel descended.
The item sold to a good-looking man impeccably dressed in an Armani suit and Gucci shoes.
But as she studied him, the clothing didn’t seem to fit his character.
His face was sharply angled and his body was tense.
He had dark hair that curled over his shoulders, and the look in his dark eyes was alert, as if he were ready to spring at the first sight of danger. This must be her day for oddities.
She turned her attention back to the auctioneer as number 333 was announced.
The document was brought out and carefully displayed for a few moments.
Several people walked past it to get a look before it was taken away.
Again, the opening bid was $5000. To her surprise, the nervous young man beside her cleared his throat and raised his paddle.
Sara quickly raised hers, and the young man did the same.
They repeated the sequence several times until the price topped $10,000.
Just as the auctioneer began to bring the hammer down, the dark-haired man who had purchased the Shield raised his paddle.
The auctioneer raised an eyebrow slightly and looked back at her. Sara’s paddle went up.
The young man beside her was sweating now and glancing back more frequently as the price was driven up.
Finally, at $25,000 he gulped and gave up.
The dark-haired man smiled at her and lifted his paddle once more.
Sara gritted her teeth, tempted to hurl a curse at the man.
Then she remembered it would return threefold.
Harm none. Mr. Smith was not going to be happy with the price, but he would be furious if she let it go.
Not that she thought it really contained a message about the Holy Grail.
But if her boss thought so and they couldn’t prove otherwise, there would be hell to pay for a long while.
Finally, at $35,000 her tormentor acquiesced. The manuscript was hers.
As she moved toward Purchaser Accounts, the young man brushed against her in his hurry to get out. He looked like he needed some fresh air.
“I’m sorry if I drove the price up so high.”
She turned and looked into the eyes of the man in the expensive suit. He was signing for the Shield and looked down to smile at her.
“Did you really want it so badly or do you just like to irritate women?”
He looked almost affronted. “The Order would never allow that.”
“The Order?” Good Lord. He couldn’t be a monk or a priest!
He gestured toward the Shield. “Some of us still exist.”
A Templar? She knew that a lot of them had gone to ground after that fatal day in 1307, being absorbed by the Hospitallers and the Teutonic Knights as well as the Portuguese Knights of Christ. And the theory that the Masons had descended from them was still alive and well. But…
“I can see you’re skeptical,” the man said. “Perhaps it’s just as well. When your eyes are ready to see—”
“And my ears ready to hear?” she answered and received a fleeting look of surprise before he carefully masked his face.
“Something like that,” he said. “But to answer your other question, no, I didn’t jack up the price on purpose. I was bidding for someone else and my money ran out.” He nodded toward the Shield again. “This was his. The Grand Master’s.”
Sara wasn’t sure if he was talking about someone living or not, so she decided to let the subject drop. “I was bidding for someone else, too. I’ll just have to tell him a Templar drove up the price.”
He smiled at that and pulled up the collar of his suit. Putting on sunglasses, he picked up the wrapped Shield. “Good luck.”
She watched as he walked away, wondering why he’d shade his eyes on a cloudy day. Whom did he really work for? Mr. Smith would probably like to know.
“Miss?”
She turned back to the man behind the Purchases counter. He was holding a leather portfolio. “The manuscript has been shrink-wrapped to prevent exposure. But if you’d like to examine it before you leave, I can show you to a private room.”
“That won’t be necessary. I saw it earlier.”
He nodded. “Let me call a security guard to escort you to your transportation.”
The guard was young and friendly, more like a college kid than a private bobby.
“Let me hail a hack for you,” he said as they went outside to the curb.
He took a few steps into the street to signal one just as a small, black car careened around the corner of St. George’s Street with a screech of tires and raced straight toward them.
For a moment Sara stood transfixed as the front tire leapt the curb and at the same time she felt a huge tug on her shoulder.
Instinctively, she cradled the portfolio, but before she could turn around, someone caught her around the waist, diving to the ground with her as the car whistled past, regaining the road.
The man had cushioned her fall with his body and she was aware of how very muscular that body was, even with it dressed in a suit and tie.
He wore a hat over tawny hair and sunglasses—what was it with Londoners anyhow?
—but she had a glimpse of a full, sensual mouth inches from hers before he rolled her off him.
Before she could thank him, the security guard was back, helping her onto her feet with a worried look on his face.
Several people had come running out of Sotheby’s and a couple of witnesses were telling anyone who would listen what happened.
“Are you quite all right, ma’am?” the young guard asked.
Sara brushed dust off her skirt and nodded, trying not to look shaken.
Had the car been meant to kill her? Or was it a distraction so the pickpocket could grab her case?
With the turmoil of a runaway car and a woman knocked down, no one would have noticed a snatching.
Or had he been only an opportunist? No, she knew that answer was wrong.
Whoever the attacker had been, he knew what he wanted.
He didn’t even attempt to grab her purse.
And where was the hottie who had so gallantly rescued her?
She wasn’t used to being rescued; she could usually take care of herself.
Still, she should thank the man, but he seemed to have disappeared.
Sara shifted her attention back to who the pickpocket might have been.
The nervous young man who had brushed by her on his way out?
He would have had time to call someone, for she doubted he was bidding for the manuscript on his own.
If they wanted the manuscript seriously enough—and it appeared someone did—there would have been time to arrange it, especially if whoever the mastermind was had thought ahead with an alternative plan.
The other possibility was the dark-haired man who had purchased the Templar Shield. He, too, had walked out before she completed her purchase. She looked around. He was nowhere to be seen either. And he had admitted he worked for someone else.
“We can arrange for someone to go with you to your hotel, if you wish.”
Sara gave the earnest guard a smile. “No, I’ll be all right. I just need to pick up my things there and then head straight for Heathrow. Airport security these days is about as tight as I can get. But thanks.”
The guard nodded and opened the door of the cab and she slid gratefully into the darkened interior.
She just wished she felt as confident as she sounded.
Too bad that well-muscled package of pure testosterone had disappeared.
She wouldn’t mind allowing herself to feel a little bit safe in his strong embrace.
****