Death is Forever

front of her.
    Cole was used to the reaction. He kept his hand extended until she recovered enough to take it.
    “Mr. Blackburn,” Erin said, releasing his hand immediately. “I was expecting someone—er, different. Mr. Rosen, my lawyer, called you a courier.”
    “I’ve been called worse. Is there a place where we can talk privately?”
    “Is it necessary to be private?”
    He shrugged. “Not to me. I just thought you’d like to be alone when I hand more than a million dollars in rough diamonds to you.”
    “You’re joking,” she said, startled.
    “Do I look like a stand-up comic?” He lifted the hand that held the briefcase, showing her the chain and handcuff that leashed it to him. “You can see the diamonds right here if you prefer, but I’d advise less witnesses.”
    Erin made her decision quickly, on the basis of survival instincts she’d developed in the arctic. Considering who and what Cole Blackburn was, the risk involved in being alone with him in her hotel room was less than taking possession of a fortune in rough diamonds in a very public lobby.
    “My room is on the ninth floor,” she said, turning and walking toward the elevators.
    Cole followed, telling himself he was past the age to get aroused by something as trivial as the arc of a woman’s hips. His body silently, violently, disagreed.
    The elevator doors thumped softly closed, shutting out the hushed seething of the lobby. Erin gave the machine a destination. Instantly it began to rise.
    “What did your lawyer tell you?” Cole asked.
    “That he’d been contacted by a highly reputable international law firm, which informed him that I was the sole heir of a great-uncle whose name I’d never heard. I was told that a Mr. Cole Blackburn would arrive at five p.m. in the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire. He would deliver the will and answer all my questions.”
    “Your lawyer was half right.”
    “Which half?”
    “I’ll give you the will. But you’ll have more questions than I’ll have answers.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    “Any woman who can take a picture like ‘Uncertain Spring’ asks the kind of questions that have no answers.”
    Surprise showed clearly in her green eyes. “You called me Windsor. How did you know I’m Erin Shane?”
    “The photo on the jacket of Arctic Odyssey .”
    The elevator stopped and the doors whisked aside. Erin looked warily at Cole, as though changing her mind about taking him to her room.
    “Your first instinct was correct,” he said matter-offactly. “I’m not going to touch you unless you extend a platinum invitation.” The elevator door started to close automatically. Cole caught it with his big hand and held it open, looking directly at Erin as he added, “And you’re not in the business of extending invitations, are you?”
    “No. Are you always this blunt?”
    “It saves time. You have about four seconds before the elevator door starts buzzing. Your room, my limousine, or some neutral third choice?”
    Erin looked at the man whose gray eyes were as clear as ice and infinitely more alive. She had the feeling of being pressed to make a decision whose consequences were totally unknown.
    A few years ago she would have refused all choices and gone back to the known dangers of the arctic, but a few years ago she hadn’t been restless, feeling as though something vital was missing from her life, from herself.
    A year ago she would have been frightened by a man like Cole. Now she wasn’t, not entirely. The realization gave her a heady sensation of being freed from a cage of her own making.
    It was like watching dawn after a long arctic night.
    “My room,” she said, walking past him.
    When they were inside she closed the door, tossed her purse on a nearby chair, and turned toward him. He looked at her for a long moment, then bent and worked over the combination lock on the briefcase until it opened. Using a key that had been left inside the briefcase, he unlocked the heavy steel cuff. A moment later he pulled out a tin box, removed a worn velvet bag, and handed the box over to Erin.
    “Abe’s will was holographic,” Cole said, “written in his own hand without benefit of lawyers. It’s pretty simple. It leaves everything he owned to you. Most of the rest of the papers are covered with doggerel.”
    Erin blinked. “Poetry?”
    “Not as far as I’m concerned.”
    She smiled slightly. “Not much good, huh?”
    “I don’t want to prejudice you,” he said, returning