Midnight Jewels

concentrate.
    The sound of Gladstone's voice and the drowsy warmth seemed to envelope her. She found herself seeking eye-to-eye contact, drawn by the vivid blueness of his gaze. She was certain she had never seen anyone else with eyes quite that color. Perhaps he wore contacts.
    Still, that particular blue shade was so familiar.
    She closed her eyes, trying to remember where she had seen that shade. Dimly she heard Gladstone's voice. He was murmuring on and on. She thought he asked her a question but she couldn't find the energy to open her eyes and answer it.
    Very rude. Incredible that she could even think of dozing off while in the midst of this splendid collection. Whatever would her host think of her?
    Blue eyes. Such strange blue eyes. Somewhere she had seen that shade, though. It was a glow, an eerie color, not a normal sky blue.
    He was asking her something. She couldn't quite understand the question.
    "… Falconer, my dear?"
    Croft's name jolted her. "I beg your pardon?" Mercy whispered.
Falconer
. Gladstone was asking her something about Croft. That didn't make sense. He should ask Croft if he wanted to know anything about him. Lots of luck, she thought. Gladstone wouldn't get any answers from Croft unless Croft wanted to provide them. And it was equally useless for Gladstone to be asking her about Croft. It would be a kind of betrayal to talk about the man she loved to Gladstone. Never in a million years could she betray Croft.
    "… so curious about him, Mercy. Have you known him long?"
    Mercy frowned, bewildered. No, she hadn't known him long, although she wouldn't admit it aloud. She ignored the question and thought about Croft, focusing on him as if his name were a meditation mantra. She wasn't sure why it was suddenly so important to concentrate on her lover, but she obeyed the instinct without question.
    An image of Falconer filled her mind, blocking out all of Gladstone's questions and neutralizing the compelling quality of her host's perfect voice. Right now Croft was flying through the blue skies of Colorado with Isobel Ascanius, Mercy remembered. At this very moment Isobel was probably making plans to initiate him into the legendary mile-high club. Disgusting. Impossible, too. They were already well over a mile high before they even got off the ground. No need to make love in a helicopter to join the stupid club. Maybe there was a two-mile high club…"
    "… seems like an interesting man…"
    "I…" What color were Gladstone's eyes, anyway?
    Mercy kept her mind primarily focused on Croft, but a part of her attention took up the question of eye color and mulled it over.
    An eerie blue light.
    Water that glowed from the lights beneath the surface.
    The swimming pool in the tropical garden.
    Mercy's eyes snapped open. The room still seemed too warm, but she was no longer feeling drowsy. In fact, she was feeling quite amused to discover she had found the answer to her question about eye color. Erasmus Gladstone's eyes were the same color as the swimming pool in the next room. She would have to tell Croft.
    Mercy smiled. Croft's image was still planted firmly in her head, but she no longer needed it for some reason. It had been a shield and a defense for a while, although she could not say exactly what she had been shielding and defending herself from. But now she was safe again.
    "Good grief, I had no idea I was getting so sleepy. Please forgive me, Erasmus. This is terribly embarrassing. I think I need some fresh air and that glass of iced tea, after all."
    "By all means," Gladstone said. There was a peculiar note of regret or perhaps irritation in his voice. "I'll have Dallas fix us both a glass. I could use some myself. We can spend more time in the vault tomorrow before you and Croft leave. We have yet to decide which of these books you will be taking in partial payment for
Valley
."
    "That would be wonderful." Mercy hurried out of the vault, almost overcome by a sense of relief. She felt as if she were escaping from a steel trap into which she had accidentally wandered.
    No, not accidentally, she reminded herself with a feeling of deep unease. She had been drawn there by Erasmus Gladstone, held there by a closed door and the hypnotic sound of Gladstone's voice. If she had not been able to focus somehow on an image of Croft and her own inner knowledge that she must not under any circumstances betray him, she wasn't sure what she might have said or what might have happened.
    As it was, she had