Gift of Fire

that the artist was just as second-rate as the architect who designed the villa.”
    Verity leaned back against the wide window ledge, folded her arms, and eyed Jonas closely. “You’re not going to have any trouble sleeping here?”
    “No. I’m fine, Verity. Everything’s under control. I can sense a few faint vibrations, but unless I deliberately open up to them, they won’t bother me. What a relief.”
    “That’s one of the reasons you took this job, isn’t it?” Verity asked suddenly. “You wanted to see how much control you’ve really gained over the past few months.”
    Jonas glanced at her as he walked across the room to open his duffel bag. “I’m a lot stronger now, Verity. I’m in control. You don’t know how good it feels. And I owe it all to you. Just being around you seems to have strengthened my power to keep from being swept into that time tunnel. I couldn’t have slept inside a genuine Renaissance villa before I met you. The vibrations locked in the walls alone would have overwhelmed me. Christ, it feels good to be able to manage this damn talent of mine.”
    “You’re determined not to admit to Little Miss Sunshine and her pals that you’re a genuine grade-A psychic?”
    “I am not a psychic,” Jonas stated forcefully. “I have a talent for psychometry, but I’m not clairvoyant. I don’t have visions. I don’t see the future or predict disasters. The only thing I can do is pick up certain scenes from the past.”
    “Scenes of violence.”
    “A very limited talent,” Jonas pointed out dryly. “I’m sure as hell no psychic. And I would appreciate it if you would refrain from implying otherwise to Elyssa and her friends.”
    Verity grinned. “I don’t know, Jonas. There might be more money in this consulting business if we let people know that you have a genuine talent.”
    “Not a chance. Normal, rational people wouldn’t believe in my abilities and they damn well wouldn’t want to pay for my services. Only eccentric weirdos would be willing to pay the consulting fees of someone claiming to have a psychic talent. Doug Warwick hired me as a Renaissance scholar, not a New Age nut.”
    “And instead he’s getting both,” Verity murmured happily. Jonas scowled. “There’s nothing New Age about me or my talent.”
    “I know,” Verity agreed readily. Her momentary amusement faded. “There are a lot of things about you that aren’t even twentieth-century. Sometimes I think you would have done very well back in the Renaissance, Jonas.”
    He moved across the room with that peculiar, gliding grace that came so naturally to him, and tipped up her chin with one hard finger. “You think so?”
    “I know so.”
    “They had ways of handling troublesome females back then.”
    “Is that right?” She grinned. “You’ll have to demonstrate sometime. Meanwhile, we’d better get dressed for dinner.” She moved away from him. “I hope you packed that nice sweater I gave you for Christmas.”
    “You know it’s packed. You put it in my bag yourself.”
    “So I did.”
    “Very wifely of you to remember my sweater,” he observed softly.
    Verity flinched and began to unpack busily. “Packing your sweater wasn’t a wifely act. It was the act of a shrewd business manager who wants you properly dressed for the client.”
    “I see.” He watched her closely for a long moment, then silently started to undress.
    Elyssa and Doug were waiting for them downstairs in a grand salon that ran most of the length of the old villa’s south wing. Most of the room was in shadow, the old furniture covered in sheets. Only a small section at the far end of the salon, near the deep fireplace, had been made reasonably comfortable. Several people were seated on the worn furniture, chatting quietly. A fire blazed on the old hearth.
    “Come in, we’ve been waiting for you. I want you to meet everyone.” Elyssa swept forward, her jewelry jangling and her long white skirt swirling. She took Jonas’s arm and guided him toward the small group.
    Verity made a face behind her lover’s back and limped bravely forward on her own. A young, thin, bearded man wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses rose and came toward her. He had very dark, serious eyes.
    “Hello,” he said in a low voice as he took her arm. “I’m Oliver Crump. Let me give you a hand.”
    “Thank you.” Verity beamed at him, aware that Jonas had glanced back just in time to catch her dazzling smile. His disapproving look