Midnight Jewels

sitting on a concrete pad.
    "The chopper is one form of transportation. We also have snow mobiles as well as the four-wheel drives. We're never completely trapped up here in the mountains."
    "A helicopter!" Mercy was astonished. "I don't think I've ever actually known someone who had his own private helicopter."
    Dallas gave her his riveting smile. "Believe me, it beats driving back down that road, especially during winter. Mr. Gladstone usually makes sure all his guests get a ride while they're here. Great view of the mountains from the chopper."
    Mercy shuddered. "No thanks. I don't care for small planes and I'm sure I'd be just as nervous in a helicopter. You'd never get me up in that machine in a million years."
    That got Croft's attention. He frowned at her. "You're afraid of flying in small aircraft?"
    "My parents were killed in the plane my father owned. They went into a mountain during a storm, I was told."
    "So that's where you picked up the phobia? From hearing about the way your parents died?"
    "Probably. I've never stopped to analyze my dislike of small planes. I just know I don't like them. Or helicopters. They always seem so frail and vulnerable." Mercy firmly changed the subject. "Look, that must be our host."
    They were at the entrance of the expansive house. Wide aquamarine doors were thrown open to reveal a hall tiled in light Italian marble. A tall, elegantly attractive man in his late forties stood in the doorway. There was a vaguely European air about him, a certain indefinable style and sense of wealth that made one think of expensive Swiss ski resorts, Paris, Saint-Tropez and the Cote d'Azur. Mercy had never been to any of those places, but she had a vivid imagination. This, she knew, must be Erasmus Gladstone.
    His hair had once been blond but was rapidly turning a brilliant shade of silver-gray. The combination of silver and gold was stunning. It highlighted the bluest eyes Mercy had ever seen. She couldn't put a name to the exact shade of blue, but it reminded her of something, perhaps a color she had created with her watercolors at some point.
    Gladstone's nose and mouth were finely drawn and showed no sign of losing their elegance as the man went through middle age. He was dressed in a casually expensive style, a silk spent shirt, dark trousers and Italian leather shoes.
    Whatever else he was, Mercy decided, Gladstone didn't look like the guru type. He looked even less like the type to involve himself in anything as dirty as sex, slavery and drug running. This man had class. When he smiled at her he also revealed an astonishing amount of masculine charm. Then he spoke and she realized his voice was even better in person than it was on the phone. A wonderful voice for reading poetry or reciting heroic ballads.
    A voice that might, just possibly, be very useful for enthralling an audience of willing believers. Mercy deliberately pushed that thought aside. She would not let Croft's melodramatic conclusions influence her.
    "Miss Pennington, I'm very happy to meet you. I'm Erasmus Gladstone. Please call me Erasmus." He turned his patrician head toward Croft and extended his slender, long-fingered hand. A small, discreet signet ring gleamed on one finger. "You must be the companion I was told about. What was the name again?"
    "Falconer." Croft took the extended hand but kept the handshake brief and businesslike. "Croft Falconer. When I heard Mercy was going to be spending a few days in the Rockies as the guest of a man I didn't know, I decided to invite myself along. I'm sure you understand. I realize business is business, but…" He let the sentence trail off with a meaningful emphasis. A man to man communication.
    Gladstone smiled. "Perfectly, Croft. A man must look after his possessions. There is always someone lurking about waiting to steal valuables. And I must admit Miss Pennington appears to be extremely valuable."
    "Miss Pennington," Mercy interrupted with a scathing glance at Croft, "would just as soon not be referred to as a commodity."
    Croft merely shrugged but Gladstone chuckled richly and glanced back over his shoulder. "I assure you, I understand Croft's feelings entirely. If my Isobel were to receive an invitation from an unknown male a couple of thousand miles distant I would react with a similar degree of concern. Come here and meet our guests, my dear. You're always complaining that we don't entertain frequently enough. You should enjoy the next few days. Mercy, Croft, allow