Chapter Eight—Theories #2
On landing, he turned his cell phone on the minute the flight attendant announced it was safe to do so and punched in Sara’s number. She answered on the third ring, sounding breathless.
“Hi,” he said. “Where were you?”
“In the shower,” she answered.
He had an image of her standing there, naked, droplets of water running down her silky skin. Or maybe she was toweling off, pressing the cloth against her breasts or bringing it between her legs… He refocused and glanced at his watch. Almost noon. A little late for a morning shower.
“You okay?”
“Sure. I just got back in from running.”
He frowned. “Didn’t we agree you would not take any risks like going out by yourself while I’m gone?”
“I wasn’t alone. Michael came with me.”
He didn’t know whether to curse or be grateful. He wasn’t too sure just how much of McCain’s interest in Sara was more than friendly. “Is he there now?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone.
She laughed. “He is. Do you want to talk to him and make sure I’m being a good little girl?”
Lucas squelched any thoughts of how she could be good. Suddenly the thought of her standing naked in the bedroom made his stomach knot up. Was the guy in bed watching her? The wolf snarled menacingly.
“Lucas? Are you there?”
He took a deep breath. “Yeah. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I can get Michael,” she said, her voice more serious now. “He’s in the living room watching TV.”
Lucas felt an almost giddy sense of relief. By the Dagda, he was acting like a schoolboy. “Won’t be necessary. Just be careful. I don’t know if Balor is stalking you, but he wants a copy of that manuscript. Keep the doors locked…you know the routine.”
“I know,” Sara said. “My copy of the manuscript is locked in my own safe. Mr. Smith has been digging into the Arthurian legends again and has given me enough work to be too busy to go out. He wants me to find out if Gwenhwyfar actually existed.”
Gwenhwyfar. Small and delicately-boned, ivory skin and hair as pale as moonlight.
Eyes that were a startling light grey. Every movement was pure grace.
It was small wonder that Arthur was besotted with her.
Half of the knights of the Round Table were.
But as fragile-looking as she was, she had steel-like inner strength and more courage than many a warrior. History had much maligned her.
“Sounds interesting,” he replied. “You’ll have to let me know what you’ve discovered when I get back.”
“I will. Take care.”
Lucas collected his carry-on and hurried out of the airport. He wanted to get the inventory done and be back on a plane heading toward Texas before Balor had a chance to make a move. For now, much as he hated to think about it, he’d have to trust Michael McCain.
****
Sara closed a website link and sat back in Mr. Smith’s study, rubbing her eyes.
The amount of “non-fiction” work on Gwenhwyfar was amazing.
There were claims that she was a Pict, a Celt, and a Roman.
That she lived in Scotland, Wales, or southern England.
That she had fought at Arthur’s side as a warrior queen, that she was Pagan or that she was Christian.
That she had willingly plotted with Mordred or that she was abducted by him.
That Lancelot had only been her champion and loyal to Arthur or that they had both betrayed their king. How was she going to shift through it?
“You look like you need a break.”
Sara jumped at the sound of Alan Caldwell’s voice. She hadn’t seen him since she’d returned from Nova Scotia.
“I didn’t know you were still here,” she said and hoped she didn’t sound too rude.
If he took offense, he didn’t show it. “I’m almost through. Just wrapping up a few details,” he said. “Let me take you to lunch to make up for the other time.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I insist.” He gave her a charming smile. “I feel bad that you became ill.”
“Why? Was there anything you could have done to stop it?”
A look of hurt crossed his face. “I really would like to make up for it.”
Mr. Smith entered the study at that moment and Sara inwardly groaned. Matchmaker that he liked to be, she was probably doomed.
And she was. Mr. Smith waved them off with a big smirk on his face. At least this time—she glanced in the rearview mirror as she weaved through traffic on I-20—they’d taken separate cars. And she wasn’t about to leave her food or drink unattended for anything.
She parked her car in front of a local Mexican restaurant.
Alan joined her as they walked toward the door.
A rather skinny young man reached it about the same time as they did and opened it for them.
Something about him looked vaguely familiar, but Sara couldn’t place him.
And before she could think about it, Alan started talking.
To her relief, he didn’t seem to be in flirting mode. He asked questions about her temp agency and how she had gotten interested in ancient and medieval history, and he seemed knowledgeable about the swords that he had been studying.
“The claymore was the weapon of choice for the Highlanders,” he said.
Sara suddenly pictured Lucas shirtless, the blue woad of his ancestors painted on his face and chest, swinging the six-foot, two-handed Sword high above his head as he charged into some medieval battle. For a moment it seemed real. She blinked.
“But the spatha,” Alan was saying, “is more efficient than the long sword.”
“Why is that?” she asked and tried to keep her mind off Lucas.
“It’s shorter and can be retrieved more easily.
” He almost snickered. “Haven’t you seen actors trying to pull those long swords out dramatically in the movies?
A man with a spatha could move in for the kill before the other sword was out of the sheath, and then already be out of harm’s way.
” He leaned forward. “But the deadliest sword was the one the Arabs used. A scimitar. It can slice a human head off as easily as you can cut a well-done steak.”
Sara didn’t think Mr. Smith had one of the thin, curved-blade weapons.
And the thought of beheading brought to mind the Middle East terrorists.
Strange that after centuries of civilization, such brutal tactics were still used.
She pushed her plate away, leaving the rest of the enchiladas she’d ordered.
“I really need to be going.”
Alan stood when she did and tossed some money on the table. “It’s early. Let’s make an afternoon of it. Ramsey’s not here to make you work on whatever project it is you’re working on.”
She looked at him sharply. Was he hinting about the manuscript? His face was blank, but she recognized a poker face when she saw one. He had another motive.
“No, really. Mr. Smith has given me another project.”
“Nothing that can’t wait,” Alan said with a smile and took her arm in a viselike grip. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow.” He began propelling her to the door.
Dear Goddess. He was abducting her. Lucas wasn’t going to rescue her this time, and Michael didn’t even know she had left Mr. Smith’s mansion. She had been stupid to do this. Briefly, she wondered if he were armed.
“Let me go or I’ll scream.” She caught the rung of an empty chair with her foot and grabbed the back of it. Across the room, the bartender looked up.
“Trouble, miss?”
For a moment, Alan stared into her eyes and then he let her go. “You misunderstand me, Sara. I simply wanted to spend some time with you before I left.”
She rubbed her arm and smiled at the bartender who had come over. “I’d like to make sure that this man doesn’t follow me.”
Alan looked suitably chastised. “Ah, baby. Don’t be like that.”
“Go,” the other man said. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t leave until you’re out of sight.”
“Thanks,” Sara said gratefully and hurried outside. She locked the doors to the Mustang even as she put it in gear and then breathed a sigh of relief as she headed east on I-20. He’d be gone tomorrow. At least he didn’t know where she lived.
Looking in her rearview mirror, she switched lanes and noticed a small dark car behind her do the same.
She slowed as she neared the Green Oaks exit in Arlington and the car behind her did the same.
As she accelerated, it did too. A knot began forming in her stomach.
Was she being followed? Alan had a burgundy rental, so this wasn’t him unless he’d stolen a vehicle out of the parking lot.
She moved into the right-hand lane to exit on Cooper Street.
The car stayed in its lane and she let out her breath, not realizing she had been holding it.
She’d just exit and go park at the mall.
Just as she was about to turn into the parking lot, she noticed the car again.
It must have made a quick lane change that she didn’t see.
She continued to drive north, then turned west on Pioneer.
This would take her back into Ft. Worth, but it was also too close to her apartment near the lake.
There were other cars behind her now, but she could still see the black car.
Making a hasty decision, she turned right on Fielder and headed north again.
The tail was dropping farther behind, but it was still there.
She made another right on Park Row and headed back east. She was making a very full circle.
When she turned south on Collins, the black car didn’t follow her but went straight.
Either he had tired of the game or realized he’d been made.
She found she was shaking. And she wasn’t at all sure whoever it was hadn’t just turned the chase over to a car she wouldn’t recognize. It would be easy enough to do, with everyone having a cell phone. She searched her rearview mirror and spotted a burgundy car very much like Alan Caldwell’s.
She was glad now she hadn’t headed toward her apartment. If he was that much of a predator that he would stalk her with rape on his mind, the last place she wanted to lead him was home.