Midnight Jewels

priceless to him. Fifty thousand doesn't sound like a vast sum of money to a man like Gladstone."
    "Everything's relative," Mercy agreed with a sigh. "I could open a couple of bookstores with that kind of money."
    "Everything is not relative. Some things are absolute."
    "I know. Properly prepared tea, honor and vengeance."
    "And love."
    She ignored that, eyeing him intently. "So now what? I heard you say you're going to meet dizzy Izzy at dawn. It's not going to take you all night to drive back into those mountains. It's a four-hour drive at the most. Believe me, I timed every minute of it last night. If you left now, you could be there by eight o'clock this evening."
    "I was planning on getting there around nine. I prefer to work in full dark."
    Mercy took a deep breath. "You're not really planning to meet Isobel in the morning, are you? You're going to try to get into the compound tonight."
    "I want this finished by dawn," Croft said. He waited for her to absorb the implications.
    "What about Isobel?"
    "I don't care about Isobel. It's Gladstone I want."
    "You're sure he's Graves?" Mercy pressed quietly.
    "I'm sure. Even if he wasn't Graves I would still have to do something about him now."
    "Because he sent Dallas and Lance to kill us?"
    "Because he probably meant to kill you after I suffered my 'drowning accident' and because he definitely sent Dallas and Lance to kill you after we escaped from the party." Croft got to his feet. Perhaps she didn't understand that the moment Gladstone had ordered Dallas and Lance to get rid of Mercy, he had signed his own death warrant. Even if he hadn't been certain now that Gladstone was Graves, Croft would have had to act. He knew he was no longer going after Gladstone just because of the unfinished business of. three years before. There was now a much more immediate, more pressing reason for getting Gladstone.
    That reason was Mercy Pennington, who had twice claimed she loved Croft Falconer.
    "Croft?" Mercy watched him anxiously.
    "I've got an hour before I have to leave, Mercy. I want to meditate. I need to clear my mind."
    "Yes, but what about me?"
    "You'll be safe here. No one knows where you are."
    She jumped up, anger replacing the anxiety in her face. "I'm not talking about my safety. I want to come with you."
    That shocked him. "Absolutely not. You've been exposed to far too much danger already because of me. I'm not about to take you with me."
    "But Croft, I've been in it this far. I don't want to let you go alone the rest of the way."
    He realized she was serious and was amazed she would even consider going along. "Forget it, Mercy. This is what I do best. And I always operate alone."
    "You might need help."
    "No."
    "Damn you, you're always so blasted sure of yourself. So self-contained. You think you can do everything alone, don't you? You don't need anyone—or at least you won't admit you need anyone. One of these days that's going to change, Croft."
    It was already changing but he didn't know how to say it.
    Later
, Croft promised himself. Later he would tell her that she was realigning his whole world along a different axis, finding a connection between the dimension in which he existed and the one in which she lived. There wasn't time to tell her now, and besides, he couldn't fully explain it to himself yet.
    "We'll talk when I return, Mercy."
    "I want to come with you," she said once more.
    He shook his head. "No." He knew from the helpless way she looked at him that she was accepting the inevitable.
    "You're so stubborn. So arrogant," she whispered.
    "This is the way it has to be, Mercy."
    "Oh, shut up and go meditate. I'm going out to get another cup of coffee."
    She whirled around and slammed out of the room before he could think of a response.
    Croft stared after her for a long moment and then opened the window. He sank down onto the carpet and let the sunlight warm him. The distant sounds of traffic and occasional voices floated in through the open window, but Croft tuned them out. He could tune out almost anything when he was meditating.
    But that afternoon he found it difficult to clear his mind of the memory of green eyes that reflected emotions as clearly as a watercolor reflected light. Wonderful, transparent eyes that a man could read like a book.
    Mercy had said she loved him and he had looked into her eyes when she had said it. Croft had told himself that she had been under too much stress to know her own thoughts clearly, but he had lied to