Zinnia

Chapter 11

She switched off the focus. And then she turned on the lights.

For some reason the simple mundane action caught Nick off guard. Instinctively he suppressed the fiery storm of power that he had generated on the metaphysical plane. The prism Zinnia had created winked out of existence.

"Great. Just great." Zinnia threw up her hands. "The end of a perfect day. I missed breakfast because I had to spend the morning with a loony professor and a bunch of blood-sucking plants. I missed dinner because I had to spend the evening boring myself silly holding the focus for a statistician. I walk in the front door, asking no more out of life than a glass of wine and a sandwich, and what do I find? A psychic vampire in the living room. It's too much. I quit."

She gave Nick a withering look as she stalked across the open loft into the kitchen. She yanked open the icerator and jerked out a bottle of green wine.

Nick rapidly reassessed matters as he watched her reach into a drawer and rummage around for a corkscrew. Things were not going as he had planned. He hated it when that happened.

Ever since he had realized that the journal was a forgery, he had been obsessing on this confrontation with Zinnia. His rage at having been played for a fool was bad enough. The frustration he felt at having once again failed in his quest was even worse. But it was the knowledge that Zinnia had betrayed him that was gnawing at his guts.

She had set him up. There was no other logical explanation.

He did not understand the anguish that had welled up inside when he had forced himself to face the truth earlier that afternoon. He had not allowed anything or anyone to affect him this strongly for a long, long time.

It infuriated him to know that he was reacting so intensely to what he should have foreseen as a possibility right from the start. He should never have trusted Zinnia.

Nevertheless, in spite of the facts, more than anything else at that moment he wanted her to defend herself.

Earlier, as he had brooded in his hidden office, he had envisioned a dozen different scenarios for this meeting. All of them had involved Zinnia desperately struggling to convince him that she had been duped by Polly and Omar. He wanted her to plead, to declare her innocence even though logic told him that she must have been in on the scam up to her elegant ears.

"Where is the real journal?" he asked very softly. "Did you sell it to someone else? Or did you keep it for yourself? Did you buy into that old tabloid legend about my father's team discovering a fortune in fire crystal? Do you think the journal can lead you to it? If so, you're not nearly as intelligent as I had assumed."

"Gosh, I'd hate to sink any lower in your opinion than I already have."

"No one betrays me and gets away with it, Zinnia."

"Don't waste your time trying to intimidate me tonight, Chastain." She came around the end of the counter with a long-stemmed glass of wine in her hand, walked to the antique sofa near the window, and sank down on it with a heartfelt sigh. Propping herself in one comer, she stretched out her legs on the cushions. "I'm too tired to be scared."

"Better work up the energy for it because I'm not playing games."

She took a slow meditative sip of wine and regarded him over the rim of the glass. "If that journal you bought off Polly and Omar last night is a fake, then I'm as much in the dark as you are."

"You made all the arrangements for the transaction." The steady clarity of her gaze made him seethe. "You had to be in on it. The only thing I don't understand is why in five hells you thought you'd get away with it."

She folded one hand behind her head. "Do you really believe this nonsense or is it just matrix paranoia talking?"

"I am not paranoid," Nick said through his teeth. "But I am very good at detecting patterns, even without the aid of a prism. Not that it takes a matrix-talent to see the connections in this situation. A small child with a pencil could connect the dots."

"Then I suggest you go find a small child with a pencil because you're not doing a very good job on your own." She took another sip of wine, leaned her head back against her folded arm, and closed her eyes. "Lord, am I tired. I hate statistics."

Fury swept through Nick. He shoved himself up out of the chair and crossed the room to the sofa. "Look at me, damn it."

She opened her eyes. "I'm not in the mood for this, Mr. Chastain."

He reached down and snatched the wine glass out of her hand. "Did you really think I'd be blinded by a few kisses and the promise of good sex?"

"What promise? The only thing I agreed to was dinner." She raised her brows in mocking inquiry. "Speaking of which, I assume this performance means that the invitation for tomorrow night has been canceled?"

Nick heard a sharp crack. Liquid flowed over his hand. He glanced down and was stunned to see that he'd snapped the fragile stem of the wine glass. He stared, shocked by the evidence of his loss of control. Blood and green wine dripped from his fingers onto the wooden floor.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Now look what you've done." Zinnia got to her feet and started back toward the kitchen. "Come over to the sink. I'll get you cleaned up and then you can go back to your cave."

Anger and despair washed through him. "Zinnia."

He reached for her with his mind the way a drowning man lunges for a lifeline. He felt the familiar floating sense of disorientation as he sent out a psychic probe. Relief rushed through him when he sensed her response. He wished he was sitting down. The overwhelming impact of intense intimacy nearly drove him to his knees.

Zinnia said nothing as she turned on the water faucet, but she offered him a prism on the metaphysical plane. It was crystal clear, very powerful. This time he took a few seconds to study it. He sensed that it could focus the full range of his talent. Never in his life had he ever been able to use his psychic gifts to the maximum.

He could not resist. He sent talent crashing eagerly through the prism. The metaphysical construct did not waver. It channeled the full thrust of raw psychic power and converted it into finely tuned waves of energy. It was energy that could be used the way he used his hands or his ears or his eyes. Energy that was as natural and controllable as any of his other senses.

He no longer had to grope for or deduce the patterns in the world around him. From the slightly irregular edges of the mosaic tiles on the kitchen walls to the myriad tiny sparkles on the surface of the water that poured from the faucet, the intricate designs of the surrounding matrix took on a whole new dimension on the metaphysical plane. Several dimensions, in fact. He could have studied them for hours, analyzing the connections, extrapolating the possibilities, assessing probabilities.

But he made no attempt to use the energy waves. He simply watched the great, glittering cascade of psychic power with his inner eye and marveled. He was drunk with the beauty and excitement of his own fully focused talent.

"You're dripping all over my hardwood floors," Zinnia said.

The normal nature of a good focus link was such that both prism and talent could indulge in a casual conversation or perform a routine task while they worked their combined psychic energy. It came under the heading of being able to chew gum and walk at the same time.

But tonight Nick had a hard time concentrating on Zinnia's words. In addition to the wonder of indulging his own psychic senses to the hilt, he was in the grip of sexual desire so strong that he literally ached with it. He doubted if he could have chewed gum at that moment, let alone walk.

After a brief struggle, however, he managed to subdue the heady sensation long enough to get himself as far as Zinnia's kitchen sink.

"Don't you feel it?" he asked.

"What? The focus link? Sure." She reached for his hand and held it under the running water. "You're very strong, aren't you?"

"Yes." He had meant the feeling of intense intimacy, not the power of the link. Perhaps she didn't experience the connection the way he did. The possibility that the shattering sense of closeness was only happening on his side triggered a wave of melancholy. "I don't know what class. The official paranormal spectrum scale isn't accurate for matrix-talents."

"Speaking as a full-spectrum prism who's had a fair amount of experience with matrix-talents, I can tell you that you're way over a ten." She met his eyes. "As I'm sure you're well aware."

There was no point trying to pretend that he was normal. "I guess so." He leaned back against the counter and savored the flow of his own power on the metaphysical plane while Zinnia rinsed his hand.

He watched, enthralled, as she cradled his fingers in hers. Her hand was beautiful. A model of exquisite evolutionary forces. He could trace the whole history of human development in the pattern of the delicate bones beneath her incredibly soft skin.

"I assume you've never been tested?" Zinnia asked crisply.

"No." He was fascinated by the pattern of the pooling water in the bottom of the sink. "Some researcher probably would have leaked the results. Wouldn't have been good for business."

She smiled wryly. "I don't doubt that. Being a matrix is questionable enough in the eyes of most people. Being an off-the-chart matrix is the stuff of psychic vampire novels."

"Yes." He pushed more power through the prism and deliberately used it to study the intricate design of the drops of water that splashed onto the tile around the sink. He could see an entire mathematical universe in them.

"Speaking of which," Zinnia continued. "I've read every psychic vampire romance Orchid Adams has ever written but you're the first genuine PV I've ever worked with. If Clementine finds out about this, she'll want me to charge extra."

He jerked his eyes up to meet hers. She couldn't possibly be joking. "Reading novels about mythical monster matrix-talents and rolling dice at a casino run by one are two entirely different things," he said.

"True. Most people would be extremely wary of gambling in a place where the owner was capable of tampering with the laws of chance."

"Don't have to tamper with them," he muttered. "They naturally favor the house. Just ask any synergistic probability theorist."

He took a deep breath and was able to reassert some of his normal control. Thankfully, the slightly inebriated sensation was fading. He was still moving power through the prism at full charge, but he was no longer quite so enthralled with himself. The disturbing sense of intimacy persisted, however. He had a fierce erection.

"I believe you." She turned off the faucet and handed him a paper towel. "I'm sorry the journal was a fraud, Nick. But I had nothing to do with it. I was only trying to help. I don't appreciate your attitude tonight. I don't like people trying to intimidate me."

The prism began to fade. Nick realized that she was cutting the flow of her own power. "No, wait." Instinctively he tried to surround the prism with chaotic waves of unfocused talent.

"Don't you dare try to jump me the way you did the other night in the casino." Zinnia glowered. "I don't know which one of us is the stronger but I'm in no mood to find out tonight."

"And you say I'm intimidating." He wrapped the paper towel around his hand and reluctantly stopped projecting his talent. He watched wistfully as the beautiful prism winked out on the metaphysical plane. "I'm sorry about what happened the other night. You took me by surprise."

"I took you by surprise? How do you think I felt?"

"It won't happen again," he promised.

"It better not."

He looked at her. "What was it you did to the prism when you tried to get free?"

She hesitated. "To tell you the truth, I'm not quite sure. It was instinctive. I didn't think about it."

"You twisted the focus somehow."

She shrugged. "Maybe it's the flipside of being able to focus for matrix-talents in the first place. A built-in defense mechanism."

"Why aren't you afraid of me?"

She smiled as she turned away to pour more wine. "Because I know you aren't crazy."

"How can you be sure of that?"

"Probably has something to do with the fact that my own type of psychic energy is weird. I told you, I'm not a normal prism. I can only work comfortably with matrix-talents, so out of necessity, I've become something of an expert on them. Maybe the only real expert in the world. Thanks to Psynergy, Inc., I've had an opportunity to work with more matrix-talents in the past year or so than most researchers see in a lifetime."

"You didn't answer my question. What makes you think I'm not crazy?"

She handed him a glass of wine. "It's hard to explain. I can feel things when I work with a matrix. Things most prisms aren't able to detect when they work with one. I once tried to hold a focus for a matrix who was certifiably bonkers. Believe me, I can tell the difference. He was only about a class-three but he scared the living daylights out of me."

"How? Did he try to take control of the prism?"

"Yes, but he was much too weak to do it. That wasn't the scary part. The frightening stuff was the talent, itself. It was-" She frowned. "Not normal. I don't know how else to describe it."

He held her eyes. "You think I'm normal?"

"I don't know if I'd go that far. There is nothing real normal about you, Nick. But you certainly aren't a wacko."

He took a sip of the weak green wine. "You'd know, huh?"

"Oh, yes. I'd know." She watched him intently. "Your father was a matrix, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"Are you obsessed with finding his journal because you want to know if his talent drove him to suicide? Are you afraid the same fate awaits you?"

She was too damn perceptive. It was dangerous to continue any kind of association with her, let alone risk the intimacy of either a mental or sexual liaison. But she was part of the matrix now. He saw no escape. He did not even want to escape.

Perhaps she was his fate.

But he was not ready to face her blunt questions head-on. It would force him to confront some things he preferred to sidestep.

"How did you learn that my father was a matrix?" he asked instead.

"Professor Loony mentioned that the reason no one questioned Bartholomew Chastain's suicide was because it was strongly suspected that he was a matrix and people have so many misconceptions about matrix-talents."

"Professor Loony?"

Zinnia made a face. "Newton DeForest. Retired history professor. Maniacal gardener."

"You went to see Demented DeForest?" Nick was disgusted. "Why the hell did you do that? I told you he was just an old crackpot."

"I'm not going to argue with that assessment. DeForest is about as stable as a deposit of jelly-ice. You should see his garden." She shuddered. "He's a horti-talent who specializes in carnivorous plant hybrids. A matrix friend helped him design a maze full of them. It's positively gruesome."

"What in five hells were you doing in DeForest's garden?"

"I still think Morris's murder may be connected to the journal. My brother, Leo, is studying synergistic historical analysis. He told me that DeForest is the only person who ever actually researched the Third Expedition. I had an appointment to talk to DeForest today."

"Damn." Nick set the wine glass down on the tile counter with enough force to make it ring. "You should have told me that you were going to talk to him."

"You made it clear that you were only interested in the journal." She smiled coolly. "Of course, that was before you realized I was a cunning scam artist and that I had masterminded a diabolical scheme to set you up for a major con job."

"Stop it, Zinnia. Please."

"Do I take it that your curiosity about poor Morris's death has been renewed now that you know the journal is still missing?" she asked bluntly.

"Yes." He took a step toward her. "You could damn well say that my interest in the matter has been renewed. Furthermore, for your information, I'm the leading authority on the Third Expedition, not Newton DeForest."

"Is that right? How come no one, including my brother who's really into history, knows that interesting little fact?"

"Because I've never bothered to publish. I have no reason to share what I've learned with the rest of the world."

"Every matrix I've ever met makes a fetish out of secrecy."

He opted to ignore that goad. After all, she was right. "I've spent the past three years collecting every scrap of information I could find. I know every single theory, legend, and rumor. I've talked to everyone I could find who was in the Western Islands thirty-five years ago. If you want to know anything about the subject, ask me."

A speculative look appeared in her eyes. "DeForest told me that none of the men on your father's team had much in the way of family ties."

"He's right." Nick picked up the wine glass and took another swallow. "Loners, misfits. But all good jungle men. That's one of the things that doesn't make sense. If an accident occurred on the trail, one or two of them should have survived."

"You're assuming that the expedition did leave the jumping-off point."

"It left," he said softly.

"How can you be so sure?"

"I'm certain."

She sighed. "Okay, back to the other issue. You said the team members were loners and misfits. But your father was hardly alone in the world. He was the heir to the Chastain business empire."

"My father was the exception." Nick hesitated. "Andy Aoki told me once that he thought that it was the Chastain family that drove my father out to the islands. Apparently they put a lot of pressure on him to take over the reins of Chastain, Inc. That was the last thing he wanted to do so he got as far away from the clan as he could."

"Andy Aoki?"

"The man who raised me after my parents died."

"You lost your mother, too?"

"Before I was six months old. She left me with Andy the day she went to Serendipity to look for answers concerning my father's disappearance. She never came back. The six-track she was driving went over a cliff during a storm."

"How terrible for you," Zinnia said very softly. "To lose both parents."

"To be truthful, I don't remember my mother. And my father disappeared before I was even born." Nick gave her a level look. "Andy was a good man. He was a father to me in every way that counted."

"I believe you." Zinnia was silent for a moment. "It was probably Bartholomew Chastain's talent that led him to take up expedition work. The lure of analyzing and mapping the unknown would have obvious appeal to a strong matrix."

"I suppose so." Nick considered that. "Depends on the matrix, I think."

"Did you ever consider expedition work?"

"No. I did a little jelly-ice prospecting to get a stake together but once I had the money I needed to open the casino, I quit the jungle work. I have .. . other interests."

"Synergistic probability theory, I presume." She eyed him shrewdly. "That would fit with your career choice."

He shot her a sidelong glance. "I don't run a casino because I'm into gaming theory."

"Why do you run one?"

"Because, among other things, it's a good way to make lots and lots of money."

"Succinctly put. And what do you plan to buy with all the money?"

"Respectability." And everything that goes with it, he added silently.

Her eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. I've got a plan."

She gave him a look of reluctant fascination. "Amazing. What is this plan?"

"I'll tell you about it over dinner."

"Hold on here, Chastain." She put up a palm. "Things have changed in this little matrix. You can't just accuse me of fraud one moment and then expect me to go out to dinner with you the next. I've got some pride, you know. Plus which, I'm still pissed."

The phone on the wall rang before Nick could decide how to deal with that.

Zinnia grabbed the receiver. "Hello? Oh, hi, Duncan. No, it's okay. I worked late tonight."

Nick did not like the way her voice softened and warmed. Whoever Duncan was, he was more than a casual friend. A relative, he thought optimistically.

"I meant to call you this evening, anyway." Zinnia lounged against the counter in a casual pose that said volumes about the easy nature of her relationship with the man on the other end of the line. "I wanted to thank you for dinner."

Not a relative. Nick sipped morosely at his wine. He recognized the feeling of possessiveness that was uncurling within him but he did not fully comprehend it. Possessiveness implied jealousy. Jealousy was a byproduct of desire that was not properly controlled. He hadn't even gone to bed with Zinnia Spring yet. How could he be feeling anything as strong as jealousy?

He was still suffering aftereffects from the focus link, he decided. He would have to be careful. Very, very careful.

"I had a really bizarre day, as a matter of fact," Zinnia said into the phone. "I'll tell you all about it the next time I see you. Thanks. Yes, I promise. I'll check my calendar in the morning. Good night, Duncan."

Nick watched her hang up the phone. "Good friend?"

"A friend. His name is Duncan Luttrell."

Nick made the connection swiftly. "SynIce?"

"Do you know him?"

"Not personally." Nick summoned up an image of a big, good-looking, confident man. "But I know who he is. He gets a lot of business press. And I've seen him at Chastain's Palace a few times. Strictly a recreational gambler. Doesn't get into deep play." But Luttrell usually won when he played, Nick reflected. Even when the stakes were penny-ante.

"Duncan would never gamble heavily." Zinnia's smile was a little too sweet. "He likes money, too, just as you do, but he prefers to earn it the old-fashioned way."

"Meaning he works for it and I don't?"

"I'm sure running a casino requires all sorts of executive ability. But I suspect your corporate style is somewhat different than Duncan's."

Amazingly, Nick managed to hang on to his temper. "Are you and Luttrell serious?"

"You mean, are we having an affair? No." She grimaced. "My relatives would dearly love us to get more closely involved. Aunt Willy reminded me just this morning that in certain social circles, marriages are sometimes made for what she likes to call family considerations."

"You mean, she wants you to marry for money and position."

"Let's just say she'd like to see the Spring family restored to what she considers its proper station in the world."

"But you're digging in your heels." Nick felt his spirits rise. His best ally in this new battle was Zinnia's own stubbornness.

"With the exception of my brother, none of my relatives is particularly concerned with whether or not Duncan and I would be happy together. They see marriage to him as a way to recoup the family fortunes."

"How does Luttrell feel?"

"I don't know," she said. "I've never asked him. But he's a smart man. No intelligent person would consider marrying a woman who has been declared unmatchable."

"He'd probably be real happy to consider an affair," Nick muttered.

She blushed. "Maybe. But that's not any of your business, is it? I'm sure you're not interested in my personal plans. All you care about is the Chastain journal."

"And all you care about is finding Morris Fenwick's murderer. It seems to me, we're back to Plan A."

"Plan A?"

"The one where you and I work together."

"Together?" Her mouth kicked up at the corner. "Surely you jest, Mr. Chastain. I thought you had concluded that I was a conniving little scam artist. Why on St. Helens would you want to work with me?"

Nick felt the heat rise in his face. He wondered if he was turning red. "I've changed my mind. I don't think you were in on the scam."

"Really? Tell me, what brought about that grand cognition? Did you utilize your phenomenal matrix-talent to deduce that I'm innocent? Or was it my naive charm and big blue eyes."

"Silvery," he corrected, without thinking.

She blinked. "What?"

He felt like a fool. "Your eyes aren't really blue. They're sort of silvery."

She raised her gaze to the ceiling. "Trust a matrix to fuss over details."

"Look, I admit that I was annoyed when I realized that I'd been conned. It was logical to assume that you'd been involved."

"Logical, my Aunt Willy's left foot. All that happened was that you finally calmed down long enough tonight to use some common sense. You've no doubt realized that I'm not stupid enough to risk cheating the notorious Nick Chastain out of fifty thousand dollars and then hang around my apartment waiting for him to find me."

"I figure Polly and Omar pulled a fast one on both of us."

"Brilliant deduction." She contemplated him with narrowed eyes. "So tell me why you want to work with me?"

"Simple. We can help each other."

"Hah. Don't give me that. You don't have any real interest in finding Morris's killer. All you want is the journal." She smiled grimly. "I know perfectly well why you suddenly want us to be partners."

He folded his arms. "Is that so? Why?"

"Simple. You're afraid that I'll cause problems for you if I continue my investigation on my own. My blundering around could interfere with your own strategy. And now that I know you're a matrix-talent, it follows that you do have a strategy."

"I don't want you poking around on your own because it could be dangerous," he said patiently.

"That's not what's worrying you. The real problem so far as you're concerned is that I'm a loose cannon. An uncontrolled element in the matrix. You want to keep tabs on me and you've decided that the easiest way to do that is to pretend we're partners."

"It wouldn't be a pretense."

"Oh? What's in this for me, partner?"

"I told you that first night, I've got connections on the street."

"No offense, Nick, but I don't see you sharing information very readily. Not your style."

"Because I'm a matrix and all matrix-talents are secretive?"

She raised her wine glass in a salute. "That's one good reason."

He tapped a finger on his forearm while he considered the challenge. Then he reached for the phone and punched in a familiar number.

It was answered on the first ring.

"That you, boss?" Feather was not given to polite preliminaries.

"Yes. What have you got on Polly Fenwick and Omar Booker?"

"Looks like they moved fast last night. Must have had their bags packed and in the car when they met you in the park. Their house is locked up tight. Yesterday they told the neighbors they were going on vacation."

"Keep on it. They've probably left the city-state. Ask our friends in New Vancouver and New Portland to keep an eye out for them."

"Right, boss."

Nick hung up the phone and glanced at Zinnia as he punched in another number. "Polly and Omar were packed and ready to leave town before they met us last night. Looks like they had a plan, too."

She frowned. "They either knew the journal was a forgery or Morris's last instructions really did scare them."

"Yes." Nick broke off as the second call was answered. "Stonebraker? This is Chastain. I need a favor."

"I don't do favors, you know that." Rafe Stone-braker's voice was that of a man who lived in shadows. It was laced with a bleak, cynical ennui. "I have bills to pay, same as everyone else. And you, of all people, can well afford my services. What are you looking for?"

"The name of a very, very good forger."

"How good?"

"Good enough to create a fake copy of Bartholomew Chastain's journal from the Third Expedition."

"When you say good enough, do you mean good enough to fool you?"

"For a while, yes. It took me almost an hour of close analysis to be certain that I had just paid fifty grand for a fake. And I doubt that I would ever have figured it out if I had been something other than . . . what I am."

"A matrix?"

Nick was aware of Zinnia watching him. "Yes."

"You're right." Rafe sounded marginally more interested in the problem now. "There are very few craftsmen of that caliber. Fewer still who would take on that kind of project. I'll get back to you in a day or two with a name."

"Thanks." Nick hung up the phone again and met Zinnia's eyes. "That was a friend. He'll find the forger for us. When I get a name, I'll share it with you. Satisfied?"

"Maybe." She confronted him with a calculating expression. "What do you want from me?"

Everything. The realization took away his breath. He sucked in air and forced himself to sound calm and in control. "Cooperation. No more going off on your own. We talk before we make our moves."

She appeared to think that over for a few seconds. Then she nodded once. "Okay, it's a deal."

He felt something inside himself untwist and relax slightly. "Like I said, we're back to Plan A. As far as everyone else is concerned, you're my new interior designer. And to answer your earlier question, yes. The invitation to dinner tomorrow night still stands."

Zinnia smiled slightly. "Your place or mine?"

He glanced around the bright, airy loft. "I like your place better."

"Let's make it yours," she said softly.

"You want to eat above a casino?" He didn't want to entertain her there. The casino represented the past he intended to leave behind soon.

"Not the casino," Zinnia said. "Your new home. The one I'm supposedly going to redecorate for your future bride."