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A Season of Miracles
Heather Graham
Centuries ago, in another lifetime, the man Jillian Llewellyn loved tried but failed to save her. Now, in this season of miracles, two lost souls are being given a second chance. Since her husband's death, jewelry designer Jillian Llewellyn has withdrawn, focusing only on her work. But something unimaginable is going to shatter her safe world, drawing her into a web of danger and desire.At the center of the storm is a handsome stranger, Robert Marston. The new silent partner at Llewellyn Enterprises, Marston is as formidable as he is intimidating…as mysterious as he is familiar. The connection she feels is bone deep–as if they've known each other before. When several bizzare accidents strike Jillian, a chilling fear that someone wants to harm her begins to grow.But who would want her dead? A co-worker? A member of her own close-knit family? Against her will she is drawn to Robert, unsure whether he is her salvation…or her damnation. Now, as the ghosts of the past are resurrected, Jillian and Robert must forge a new destiny as they unlock the timeless secrets of passion and betrayal…


A Season of Miracles
Heather Graham



Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16

PROLOGUE
The Burning
He had never ridden harder in his life. Desperate as he was, he became aware of each slight sound and scent, every sensation. The day was cold, crisp. The sky was blue. His horse’s hooves made thunder, striking again and again upon the ground. Distant thunder, muffled by the thickness of the snow. The cold seeped into him, though he was sweating as he rode.
His horse’s hooves seem to beat out words. We will not make it. We will not make it.
But they had to try. He had sworn that he would allow no evil to happen. He had sworn to love, to honor, to protect. He had done so in secret. What had seemed logic had been cowardice. And now…
Now they would pay.
“Hey-yah!” he shouted, heels digging into the sides of a fine animal already doing its best to travel the slick, snow-covered roads.
“Sweet Jesu, Michael, you’ll be the death of us all,” Justin called, riding hard behind him with the others.
“There is no time!” he roared. “No time!”
“We’ll be no good to the lass with broken necks,” Justin said.
“Worry about your own, then, because I will trust my neck to God.”
“Aye, God be with us.”
The snow flew. The ground trembled.
They rode. Harder, harder.
God was with them.
How had he underestimated the evil of his enemies? Michael wondered bleakly. It was incredible, chilling beyond death, the lengths to which men would go out of jealousy, bitterness and greed.
“Faster,” he insisted, fear bringing out the sharp command in his voice.
Again he felt the sweat that trickled down his chest despite the whipping wind and the harsh chill. The air was fresh, as fresh as the scent of her, clean, enticing, invigorating. How her scent seemed to haunt him now, despite the mad rush of their reckless ride, the whistle and groan of the wind whipping in a tempest around them. Snow flew, great chunks of it, filthy with dirt and grass, as their horses tore up clods of it under their racing hooves. His heart hammered in time, thudded, thundered, and still the words rang in his head. We will not make it, we will not make it, we must make it, at all costs, for if we don’t…
If we don’t…
The fear that seized him was unbearable.
“We’re nearly upon the valley,” Raynor, another of his men, riding at Justin’s side, called out. “It’s over that hill. We’ve nearly made it.”
Nearly. They were so close.

The sun.
How glorious, she thought, feeling it on her cheeks.
The day was cold and she so barely clad that she shivered, yet still she felt the kiss of the sun on her cheeks. What a wondrous feeling. Something that heated, warmed, giving her the illusion, if only for precious moments, of a deep, encompassing warmth of bliss and well-being; the illusion of being cherished, secure…
As she had felt with him.
But it was but an illusion, for the day was cold, bitterly cold.
And she would feel real warmth soon enough.
Her arms ached from the ties. She had not felt them so much at first. Now, they ached with a vengeance.
“You have not as yet begun to know pain.”
Her enemy stood before her again, watching her eyes, seeking her panic, her pleading. How he longed for it. And God knew, if it would bring her release, she would promise him anything, swear to anything. God help her, indeed, she would do anything.
But she knew, meeting his eyes, that no plea, no “confession,” nothing whatsoever on her part, would change things.
“You know I won’t beg,” she said simply.
“Aye, you’re too stupid.”
“You’d accuse me now of stupidity? I thought you considered me far too clever for my own good.”
“Not so clever. You are about to die hideously. Or do you believe in miracles?”
Her eyes fell from his. God, how she wanted to believe in miracles!
“I would never beg you, because I know that it would change nothing, that you’ve no intention of sparing me, that any plea on my part would be nothing but sheer entertainment to you.”
“So you stand calmly, thinking aye, there might be a miracle. Salvation might come.”
“It’s the Christmas season, is it not?”
“For some, dear lass. For you…I think not.”
He wanted her to break. To burst into tears. To confess, to plead, to throw herself in abject humility at his feet. Well, she couldn’t quite do that. Not bound as she was.
But she would not cry or break or give a confession.
Her tormentor leaned against the stake. “He will not come, you know.”
“If he can, he will.”
“There are no miracles. Ask me, and God, for forgiveness.”
“God knows my soul. And you should be asking my forgiveness.”
“I do what I must to preserve what is right.”
“What is right? You betrayed me.”
“You betrayed us all. As he betrays you now. You turned your back on your heritage. Now…ah, well, you had your chances. Wait until you smell the fire,” he said, and he came close to her, fingers entwining in her hair as he forced her to look down at the dry tinder and faggots at her feet. “The scent. Oh, God, you cannot begin to imagine the scent of burning human flesh. It’s a sickening smell. Enough to make the staunchest man vomit.”
“Then, you must move on quickly from here. I wouldn’t have the scent of my burning flesh ruin your Christmas Eve repast, good sir.”
She saw his face change, saw the fury, but there was nothing she could have done to prevent the blow he leveled against her face. Her head rocked against the stake that held her. Pain shot behind her eyes.
And still, she knew, she had not as yet begun to know pain….
He stiffened then, knowing he should not have allowed the others to witness his show of emotion, his lack of control. He was a man of right; God knew, he followed the law. To execute her was his duty.
He came very close to her face. His breath touched her cheeks, replacing the warmth of the sun. “You do not begin to understand. I will smell you roast, and I will savor the scent. Indeed, I will take pleasure. And tonight I will enjoy my meal with a gusto you cannot begin to imagine. The taste will remain on my tongue forever.”
“Forever may not be long,” she noted, amazed that she could offer him a smile.
He shook his head. “Poor, naive beauty that you be. But are you so beautiful now? Hair tangled, cheeks windburned, clothes in tatters, your body but bones for the flames to ravage. Would he be so enamored now? What fools you were. What fools.”
He had said that he would come for her. He had sworn. Sworn…
Had he, like God, forsaken her? Had her sins been so great?
No, he would come…might still come…
“I cannot help but believe you will one day find yourself the fool,” she whispered.
“That day will not be today,” he said grimly, his features, once striking, marred with cruelty and taut with fury. “I could have had you strangled. I might have saved you the agony. But you are a little fool, with your dreams of love and the pleasures of the flesh. Even now, you dream of his touch. But what you will feel is the kiss of the flame, the lick of the blaze, the warmth of hell’s damnation.”
He watched her eyes.
“Not even my death, my agony, will free you, will it? You are the one who will suffer. You will spend your life in bitterness. Eaten by flames from the inside out, burning in the hell of your own hatred.”
He looked as if he would strike at her again, but he managed to turn away.
He stepped toward the crowd, raised a hand. The murmuring grew silent.
“I have tried, pleaded, begged…but she has no words of remorse, she offers no prayer for redemption. God help her, forgive her her transgressions against her country. Pray for her, though it seems her tormented soul must return to the Devil, her maker. Let the fires cleanse her, and ourselves, and let us then pray from our hearts in the joy of the season we now enter, a time of God.”
The faggots were lit.
Flame quickly blazed before her. Around her.
She longed to cry out, to curse him. To tell the world that the real monster was there before them, clad in a cloak of law and respectability. She wanted to say that no one was safe, no one who stood in his way, no one who coveted anything he wanted…
Instead she found voice and strength to say, “God forgive you, sir. God grant you ease from the torture and agony you will suffer again and again—”
She broke off, choking. How quickly the flames had risen. Gone was the warmth of the sun, in its place the growing heat of the fire. She could speak no more. Her skirt was aflame. She tried to twist away, but it was no use. She burned! Dear God, she burned, the agony entering her lungs, her flesh.
She began to scream….

They rode over the rise and looked down into the valley. And saw.
He closed his eyes, damning himself, raging within, without.
He had imagined her scent.
He could smell it now.
On the air.
Oh, God.
“Jesus! Our Lord Father, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Justin intoned.
“Help her, for the love of God, help her!” Raynor demanded. “You know what you must do.”
“God help me, I cannot.”
“You must!” Raynor said.
“For the love of God!” Justin cried, tears in his eyes. “Will you look? It is too late. It has gone too far. You know what you must do!”
Tears streamed down Michael’s face. He prayed, he begged forgiveness, God’s forgiveness—and hers. Split seconds passed.
He knew what he must do.
“By God, by heaven, by hell, I swore…”
He had sworn that he would come for her.
“By the angels, by God, by Christ, I swear, the time will come—”
He broke off. Each second meant great agony.
He did indeed know what he had to do.

CHAPTER 1
Present day Manhattan
It all started with the tarot cards.
And then the dreams of burning.
And of course the cat.
But at two o’clock on that Halloween afternoon, those things were still in the future.
Jillian sat at her desk at Llewellyn Enterprises, tapping a pencil on the wood as she stared at her new design. She’d set out to create a contemporary cross, with clean, sleek lines, to be available in yellow and white gold, and platinum. Every year since she’d finished college and joined the company full-time, she’d done a special Christmas design, available in a very limited quantity. By tradition, the invitation to purchase went out November fifth, all orders had to be received by the twentieth, and the pieces were delivered by special courier one month later. She loved designing jewelry. There was something so permanent about it. Pieces could be handed down through generations. A beautiful piece could be timeless—or speak volumes about the decade of its creation.
This piece, however, wasn’t saying what she had intended at all. It wasn’t that she disliked the design—on the contrary, it was coming along beautifully. She simply hadn’t envisioned it quite this way.
“Wow, that is pretty. I guess you’re worth your paycheck.” The voice, masculine and amused and coming from over her shoulder, was so startling that she nearly bolted out of her chair. The speaker was her cousin, Griff, handsome and too charming at thirty. Tall and well built, with sandy hair and hazel eyes, he wore Armani with runway perfection.
She hadn’t seen him enter her office. She had been so intent on the drawing that she’d been oblivious to everything else.
“Thanks.”
Griff stretched out playfully on her teak desk—à la 1930s Hollywood movie. “Excellent, sweetie. Excellent. It speaks ‘new millennium’ loudly. Unfortunately, it appears that the new millennium you’re planning on promoting is man’s movement into the 1000s—Celtic-looking thing, isn’t it?”
“Hmm,” she murmured.
He traced the pattern she had drawn, grinning away. “Oooh, the old boy is going to go ballistic over this one,” he said flippantly, referring to Douglas Alexander Llewellyn, her grandfather, his great-uncle, and CEO of Llewellyn Enterprises. “Could his angel have failed this time? He does think you’re an angel, you know. He’s unaware that you’re half angel, half fire-breathing dragon.”
“He realizes it completely. He’s just very fond of dragons. And, Griff, get your body off my desk. I have work to do, and I don’t need your scrawny self getting in my way.”
“How dare you?” he asked, in a tone of genuine indignation. “My body isn’t scrawny. It’s practically perfect—in every way. In fact, it’s too bad we’re cousins and that we’d have horrible, two-headed-monster offspring, or I’d let you see just how perfect.”
Jillian wrinkled her nose and sat back, looking at him. “Thank God that the possibility of two-headed children is going to spare me. I shudder to think of it. You’re just going to have to share all that perfection with someone else.”
“Actually, we’re only second cousins. Maybe the kids would only be pathetically cross-eyed. Come to think of it…” he mused, “did you know that William of Orange married his first cousin, Mary Stuart, and they ruled together as William and Mary?”
“And they left no heirs,” she reminded him pleasantly.
“Half the royalty of Europe was closely related. Everyone out there was a descendant of Queen Victoria.”
“And half the royalty of Europe was—and is—very strange,” she said. “Griff—”
“C’mon, the old boy is kind of like a king, and he’d be so happy to think he was leaving his little kingdom to those of his own blood, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think, and I’m thanking God at this moment that surely you’re not serious,” she said, shaking her head.
“You’re just refusing to see the possibilities.”
“Griff, was there a point to this visit?” she asked pointedly, glancing at her watch. Griff liked to torture her—good-naturedly, of course, or so he claimed, as did the rest of her family members who were part of Llewellyn Enterprises—Daniel, Theo and Eileen. Jillian knew that she tended to be her grandfather’s fair-haired child, despite the fact that she hadn’t risen to the head of the family class on purpose, nor was she calling the shots at the company now. But she had grown up with her grandfather, she knew him best—and loved him best. Jewelry design was her favorite part of the work, while Theo was a crack marketer, and Eileen’s expertise was public relations.
Daniel was the one with his hands on the reins, though—right behind her grandfather’s. He knew the business, every aspect of it, and with the scope of their various concerns, she was glad. Perhaps her grandfather could control everything, but he was the only man who could. People tended to think of the company as one giant prize. It wasn’t. It was a giant jumble of various enterprises, and it took a variety of talents to keep it in its current excellent shape.
Griff always told her that his expertise was looking good and pretending to be busy, whether he was or wasn’t. And, of course, being charming. He had a point. She couldn’t help but like Griff herself.
Eileen was her first cousin, an only child like herself. The boys were the grandsons of her grandfather’s brother, who had perished in the ever precious “Old Country.” Douglas had outlived not only his brother, but also his two sons and his nephew, the boys’ father, Steven. Jillian often thought of how it must have pained him to lose so many people he had loved so much. But he never faltered; he went on, giving his devotion to the remaining Llewellyns. No one had been forced into the business; they had come because of the same fierce sense of family pride and loyalty.
“You know,” Griff said, wagging a finger at her, “you could do a lot worse. I am handsome, witty, urbane and charming.”
“Of course I could do worse. But you’re my cousin. So, Griff—”
“Don’t you remember playing naked together on those fur rugs when we were babies?”
“Griff, we never played naked together on any fur rugs.”
“I guess not. If we had, you would have remembered.”
She groaned and laid her head on the desk. “Griff, what’s your problem? You’re cute, you’re—”
“Cute? I want to be sexy and devastating.”
“Okay, you’re sexy and devastating.”
“That’s better.”
“And I’m really trying to finish up and get out of here today.”
“I’m really here on an errand of mercy.”
“Oh?” she queried carefully.
“It’s Halloween. I didn’t want you going home alone. You know, poor little rich girl, all alone in the family mansion. That big old place where none of the rest of us are invited to live.”
She leaned back, grinning. “You are such a pathetic liar.”
“Well, in a way, but not really. I don’t want to live in the family mansion. I like my privacy. And believe it or not, the family fortune isn’t my bag, though I do like to live with a certain style.”
“Griff, I have no fear of you ever changing.”
He grinned. “I’m worthless, totally. And happy. And smart enough to be grateful.”
“You pretend to be worthless, but you know you’re not. Anyway, I need to get out of here.”
“So you can sit by the fire like a little old lady and hand out candy to the kiddies? No. Ever since Milo died, you don’t do anything or go anywhere. It’s time for you to start doing things again. You’re not a mole. Not to mention, you’re far too young and…yes, good-looking. Why, Jillian, some people might even call you beautiful. Thanks to good family genes, of course. And right now all that beauty is just being wasted. You need to get out again.”
She felt a rush of air escape her. It was odd how life went on, but that, at strange moments, grief would come sailing back and, like a blanket, wrap itself around her. She had known what she was doing when she got married. She had always known she would lose Milo.
And she knew that Griff really was here to help her.
So she smiled. “For your information, I am going out.”
“A date?” he queried.
“Maybe.”
“With Robert Marston?” he asked carefully.
“Robert Marston?” she repeated impatiently.
Robert Marston had just started working for the company. He wore Armani just as well as Griff did, but he came with sharp, very dark eyes and, in Jillian’s opinion, a sharper—possibly darker—mind. He was handsome, intelligent, deep-voiced and very articulate. He had gone to school with Theo, and spent the past five years with one of the fastest-growing computer companies in the world. He was the type of man who walked into a room and drew attention. By his physical nature he seemed to exude authority.
She had felt wary of him from the moment she had first seen him—and that had actually been from quite a distance. She didn’t even know the color of those dark eyes of his. There had been far too many rumors flying about for her to willingly meet the man her grandfather had brought into the business.
Was he stepping on her cousins’ toes? Or were her cousins in agreement with the situation, content for Marston to be the one with the power? Somehow, she doubted it.
“Why on earth would you assume I’m going out with him?” she asked too sharply. She had wanted to convey courteous impatience. She was afraid that her tone had given away concern.
His grin told her that he had, indeed, heard far more than impatience in her voice. “Well, are you going out with him?”
“No, I haven’t even met him yet. I saw him across a room. And I don’t believe in going out with business associates.”
“So?”
“I’m going out with Connie.”
“With Connie?” he repeated. Was that relief she heard in his voice? Connie had been one of her best friends forever, way back to grade school. Connie was also her administrative assistant. And since it was such a family enterprise, Connie’s husband, Joe, also worked for the company. He was on Daniel’s staff.
“Yes, Connie and I are going out. As we do every Halloween,” she reminded him.
He dropped his teasing manner for a moment and looked at her seriously. “You’re really going to go—”
“Christmas shopping, yes.”
“As everyone does on Halloween,” he responded with a fine line of sarcasm.
“It’s a personal tradition,” she said with feigned indignation. It was a strange tradition, she knew, and it had started when they were little kids who went trick-or-treating together. Now Connie had two daughters, a dog, a cat, a bird and in-laws coming out the kazoo, so she traditionally started her Christmas shopping on October thirty-first, convinced that the best Christmas sales came on Halloween, when everyone was doing last-minute scrambling for a costume. They had a great time shopping, then going trick-or-treating with the girls, and then, usually, just spending the evening together checking out the acquired candy.
“All right,” Griff said. “Just so long as you’re really going out.”
“I really am.”
“Not to baby-sit or hand out candy.”
“No.” Her voice was steady. She wasn’t baby-sitting, and she wasn’t handing out candy.
“And you’re really going to have a good time.”
“Really.”
“Because if you came with me, I’d show you a good time, you know.”
“I’m sure you would.”
He slid off her desk at last, brushing her cheek with his fingertips. “I’d show you off to all my friends. You are gorgeous, you know.”
She caught his hand and squeezed it. “Thanks, Griff.”
“Oh, by the way, Daniel asked to see you. His office.”
“When?”
Griff looked at his watch. “Hmm…a while ago, I guess.”
“Griff, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” He placed his hands on her desk and leaned toward her again. “Why don’t you defy him? Just go home!”
“Because it might be important,” she said impatiently. She stood and walked past him.
“Hey, Jillian?”
She turned back.
“Happy Halloween. And merry Christmas shopping.”

Eileen Llewellyn paced in front of the storyboards set up in her office, looking at the newest sketches for the catalog campaign. Of medium height, with coal-dark hair that was expertly styled to flatter her heart-shaped face, she was elegant, efficient and a picture of total sophistication. She liked business suits with tailored jackets, short skirts and high heels. She walked with an aura of confidence and authority. One look from her cool blue eyes could silence a room. She had been born to soar in the business world.
But at the moment she was agitated. She groped for the pack of cigarettes on her desk, slipped one out without looking and lit it, grateful in the back of her mind that the company owned the building and she could smoke in her own office whenever she damn well pleased. Exhaling a cloud of smoke eased her aggravation slightly, but still, she continued to stare at one storyboard, in particular. It showed a woman in an off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved, dramatic gown with a flowing skirt; it somehow had the look of something from another time, another world. The woman was draped across an iron chair near a fireplace, and a man was bending down before her, his fingers brushing the bare flesh of her throat while he set a locket around her neck. It was a wonderful sketch. Striking. Seldom could one piece of art speak so clearly, especially in the commercial world. The artist was to be highly commended. It conveyed everything it should. The timelessness of a gift of fine jewelry. The pure romance of such a gift. The class, refinement…more. It was wonderful. What she could do with this one sketch alone…
But, damn, it was irritating.
There was a tapping on her door.
“I’m busy,” she called out sharply.
The door opened, anyway.
Theo walked in. He was a tall man, imposing in stature. Though barely thirty, he had already acquired a few gray strands in his dark hair. They gave an impression of wisdom and authority. He knew how to use his physical presence well, but he didn’t intimidate her. She glanced at him over her shoulder, irritation evident in her eyes.
“Theo, I said—”
“Yeah, I can see you’re busy, puffing away.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s great, isn’t it? I want to use it for more than just the catalog. I want to pull some of the ads we’ve already got for December and rush this in, instead.”
She flashed him a frown. “Theo, it’s way too late to go changing the Christmas ads! December magazines are already on their way out.”
“I was thinking newspapers. And maybe a television campaign, after Christmas.”
“Television? It’s a sketch!”
Theo was silent for a moment, arms folded over his chest, eyes on hers. He smiled slowly. “We both know the real thing isn’t a sketch.”
No, the real thing wasn’t a sketch. It was Jillian. A perfect likeness. The woman was tall, elegantly slim, but shapely, as well. The hair was long and a beautiful reddish blond. The eyes were deep green, like expensive emeralds. It was Jillian.
And she had been drawn with love. Or at least with pure infatuation.
“Eileen?” Theo said.
She let out a sigh of impatience, stubbing out her cigarette. “Jillian is a designer. Yes, she’s good-looking, Theo, really good-looking, but she isn’t an actress.”
“She could carry this off, and we both know it.”
“Brad Casey in art must have a hell of a crush on her. Besides, who knows if she’d even be willing.”
“Brad Casey saw something and used it in this drawing. As to Jillian being willing? Our Jillian? She is Llewellyn Enterprises. She lives and breathes the company.”
“Careful. She gets angry when you say that,” Eileen warned.
He arched a brow. “Hmm. I’m just a hard-working second cousin—you’re a direct descendant of the old boy, just like our Jillian.”
“Well,” she said sweetly, leaning back against her desk to light another cigarette and survey him with cool blue eyes, “Grandfather doesn’t seem to care about that, does he. No one compares with Jillian, but you’re right up there, aren’t you, Theo?”
“Eileen, it sounds as if we need to supply your office with a scratching post.”
“Would you stop, Theo? I didn’t start this. Look—”
“Eileen, you know I’m right, you know this is brilliant. Pure accident, and yes, that poor sod Brad Casey probably does have a crush on Jillian. But it’s perfect.”
A hard rap on the door interrupted them. Griff swept in, bearing a silver tray with a tea serving and Halloween cookies. He slid the tray onto Eileen’s desk and looked at the sketches.
“Wow! Our golden girl is a beauty, isn’t she? I mean, for real. No wonder the old boy dotes on her.”
“Griff, some of us want to get out of here today,” Eileen said, walking around behind her desk.
“Television spots would be perfect,” Griff told Theo. “I heard you through the door,” he said in response to Theo’s quizzical look.
“Thanks for the input,” Theo said briefly. “What’s with the cookies?”
“The old boy sent them out to all of us—his idea of trick-or-treat, I guess,” Griff said. “I gallantly swept them from the hands of the young office assistant about to hear you two airing the family laundry.”
“We weren’t airing the family laundry,” Eileen said impatiently.
“Think Jillian will be willing?” Theo asked Griff.
“We can persuade her.”
“I want to move on this before Marston gets any more involved.”
“Endear Jillian to us before Marston gets his hands on her, huh?” Griff teased.
“What are you talking about?” Theo asked impatiently.
“He’s brilliant, right? And the old boy has pulled him in above all of us.”
Theo turned away, studying the sketches again. “Don’t be ridiculous. I suggested Marston. I went to school with him.”
“He’ll be just like Big Brother—watching,” Griff said.
“This is a company, not a kingdom,” Theo said impatiently.
But Eileen was studying Griff thoughtfully. “Douglas Llewellyn is all about family. Marston is nothing, really, not without—” Eileen said.
“Jillian,” Griff said. “Ah, but then…”
“What?” Eileen asked.
“There’s you, of course. Another direct descendant. You could slip in and cut her out of the running, keep an eye on him.”
“Griff, you’re ridiculous. I’ve been engaged for—”
“Oh, yeah. You and Gary Brennan have been engaged for what—five years? You won’t give the poor fellow a wedding date. He might want you to go by Mrs. Brennan. Horrors,” Griff said with a shudder. “Would you give up the family name, Eileen? Even for love?”
“Many businesswomen keep their maiden names, Griff,” Eileen said icily. “I adore Gary—we just haven’t had time to plan a wedding.”
“No time in five years. Imagine that,” Griff said with mock solemnity.
“I told you—I adore him,” Eileen said sharply.
“I’m sure you do. But you’d throw the poor boy to the sharks in two seconds if he were any threat to your position at Llewellyn Enterprises,” Griff teased.
“There is no threat to me—I actually work,” Eileen snapped back, eyes narrowed.
“Touché,” Griff told her.
Theo let out an impatient sound. “I hope to God we’re not being overheard. We sound exactly like a pack of squabbling children, and we’re supposed to be running a major company. We all work here, and we work hard.” His eyes fell on his brother, and he shrugged. “All right, most of us work hard. But to suggest that there was an underlying reason for bringing in Marston, to even think that anything should go on is…”
“Is what?” Griff demanded
“Sick,” Theo announced. “And the old boy is in perfect health. To begin to imagine that anything is going on is—”
“Theo,” Griff interrupted, “your lack of curiosity is positively boring. Don’t you think it’s just a little bit strange? I mean, we’ve been dividing the executive duties here since we got out of college.”
“You’ve had executive duties, Griff?” Eileen asked.
“You’re not being very nice,” Griff said.
“I am nice,” she snapped back, a trace of hurt in her tone. Griff heard it, she knew. He always saw the smallest sign of weakness in those around him. “I am nice. I’m simply efficient. When people are ‘artistic,’ they don’t have to be quite so efficient.”
Theo came around behind her, speaking softy. “Artistic? Like cousin Jillian?”
“Theo, I love Jillian dearly. We have a bond. Just like you boys have the bond of brotherhood.”
“We’re all Llewellyns,” Theo said flatly.
“And you’re just as nice as can be,” Griff told Eileen, grinning.
“God himself is going to come down and slap you right across your silly face one day,” Eileen told him.
“Did I just say she’s nice?” Griff asked Theo.
“Griff, some of us do have work to do.”
“I know. That’s the point. I’m getting scared. I may have to actually start working around here, now that Marston has suddenly been called in. The old man has been watching Jillian grieve all this time. She’s been widowed a year now,” Griff said. He looked at the other two. “Almost a year. The traditional mourning time is coming to an end.”
“The old man has figured out that there’s more work than all of us can handle, and he’s brought in a crack management and numbers man who happens to be an old school friend of mine. That’s all there is to it. And I’ve got things to do,” Theo said impatiently. “Eileen, this image here is the one I want to go with. When I meet with our major accounts, I’ll be letting them know that a Llewellyn will actually be displaying our jewelry in our next ad campaign. Get busy with it. See what kind of guest shots we can get on the talk circuit. You can use the family name when you’re trying to land guest spots on radio or television. It may be a bit crass to try to cash in on our good works, but God knows, we give enough to charity at Christmas.”
“We like to get our tax breaks in before New Year’s,” Griff muttered.
“If we didn’t make a fortune, we wouldn’t be able to give away big bucks,” Theo snapped. “Get on with it, both of you.”
He walked out of the room.
Griff grinned at Eileen. “Get on with it, huh?”
“Get out of here, Griff.”
He left, and Eileen sat down, drumming her beautifully manicured nails on her desk. How dare they accuse her of jealousy? She loved Jillian, who was the closest thing to a sister she had. She made a face and mimicked Theo’s tone. “Get on with it. I’m not a servant, Theo. Get on with it?”
She was silent for a minute, then she said softly, “Oh, I’ll be getting on with it, all right.”
She picked up a cookie with pumpkin-orange icing and little black chocolate-drop eyes. She took a bite—a savage bite—glad she made the cute little cookie snap.
Then she set the cookie down, stared at the tea service.
“Oh, yeah. I’ll get on with it, all right.”

Jillian swept past Daniel’s secretary with a quick smile and knocked on his door.
“Yes?” he said sharply from behind the wood.
“It’s Jillian.”
“Get in here.”
She froze for a moment, disturbed by his tone. Then she gritted her teeth and walked in, closing the door behind her. He was behind his desk, writing, and he didn’t look up. She stood before his desk, feeling like an errant school child. Then she grew angry and impatient.
“Daniel, you asked to see me,” she reminded him.
He looked up at last, staring at her as he recapped his pen. “Yes, quite some time ago,” he told her.
Like his brothers, Daniel was an attractive man. He liked clothing and appearances, and dressed well. His eyes were a deep brown, a true deep brown that could appear black. His gaze was always fathomless. Many times, when she’d been young, Daniel had been her protector. Ten years her senior, he had often taken her to and from school. In those days, he had been like a big wolf between her and any danger—be it real or imagined. She had loved him deeply; he had been her favorite relative.
But that had been a long time ago.
In the past several years, with her grandfather handing out more and more responsibility, things had changed.
Daniel had held the reins of power for a long time.
The fact that she was a direct descendant seemed to be raising a barrier between them—though he didn’t seem to show the same reserve to Eileen. Maybe it was all in Jillian’s mind. And maybe she had been so involved with the details of her work—and the death of her husband—that she had built her own walls between them.
“Sorry,” she said briefly. She decided not to mention the fact that Griff had forgotten to tell her that she was supposed to come here. “Really.”
“I thought you were trying to get out of here today?”
“I am. But I gave Connie the day off—” She broke off at his frown. “Daniel, she never misses work. She had some things to finish for the kids.”
“And the two of you are off together this afternoon. I’m not so sure it’s a good thing to have your best friend as your assistant,” he told her.
“Daniel, we don’t miss a beat as far as work is concerned. You know that. Joe works for you, and he’s a great employee.”
“Sit down,” he told her, indicating one of the chairs in front of his desk.
She sighed and did so. He heard her sigh, and looked at her sharply. “Daniel, no one puts more time into this company than I do,” she reminded him.
“Oh, I agree,” he murmured. “It’s as if you’re married to it.”
There was a note of bitterness in his tone. Did he think she was trying to make herself the indispensable one?
“Daniel—”
“Never mind,” he said curtly. He thrust his copy of her design for the new cross toward her. “What is this?”
She inhaled, staring at him. “A cross.”
“Yes. It’s supposed to be a contemporary design, Jillian. Sharp, hot, contemporary. A look to the future.”
“Yes,” she said, and faltered. “I know.”
“So?”
“I don’t know what happened. But—”
“It’s a great design. Beautiful. But not contemporary.”
He was right. Definitely right. They’d all been in the meeting, and it had been Douglas Llewellyn himself who had stressed the need to look to the new millennium.
She seldom failed, but she had failed this time. Her voice wavered as she told him, “Well, we can use this in the general line, and I’ll just start over.”
“No.”
“No?”
“We don’t have time, and this…it’s not what we planned, but we can go in another direction. You know. Something like, ‘As we enter the first decade of a new millennium, we welcome the new—and cherish the beauty of our past.’ I’m not sure if that’s quite right, but something like it. I haven’t talked with the old boy yet, but I’m sure he’ll go with it.” He was quiet for a minute. “Especially since it’s you who designed the cross.”
“Daniel—”
“I just wanted to let you know that we would go with it,” he said, interrupting her. “I’m sure you were aware yourself that it doesn’t fit the original concept.”
“Of course.”
He lifted his hands in dismissal. She met his eyes, feeling that she needed to apologize for something. She hadn’t done anything, she reminded herself. The design was different from what they had planned, but…
It was also very good.
“Daniel—” She broke off.
His secretary had tapped on the door and now hesitantly stuck her head in. She was a capable young woman, but to Jillian, Gracie Janner had always given the impression of being a doe caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler. She had frizzy dirty-blond hair that seemed like a puffy halo around her head, and huge hazel eyes. Jillian was as nice and soft-spoken as she could be to the woman, but Gracie always seemed to be on edge. Nervous.
Afraid.
“Cookies and tea, Mr. Llewellyn,” Gracie said. “Jillian, I believe your tray has been sent to your office, but I can run down and get it—oh, my God, I called you Jillian. I should have called you Miss Llewellyn. Or are you still going by your married name? Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Jillian is just fine, Gracie. I’ve told you, please, my first name is just fine.”
“Cookies and tea?” Daniel said impatiently. “You brought me cookies and tea?”
“From the Great Pumpkin above,” Gracie said, trying to joke. She was as slim as a saluki, and appeared frazzled. Joking wasn’t her forte. Maybe she was perfect for Daniel. He didn’t seem to know how to joke anymore, either.
“Thanks, Gracie, but we’re finished here. I’ll just run back to my own office,” Jillian said. “Happy Halloween to you both,” she murmured as she got up and moved toward the door.
“Um, happy Halloween,” Daniel said. Then, to her surprise, he called her back.
She paused in his doorway.
His voice was slightly gruff when he spoke again. “Go out and have a great night. And remember, it’s only Halloween. You and Connie leave some Christmas stuff out there for the rest of humanity, hmm?”
“Will do,” she promised. Her voice was light. But tight, as well.
She was sorry about whatever it was that lay so strongly wedged between the two of them, but for the moment, there was nothing she could do about it.
She had been dismissed.
She hurried back into her own office.
Her tray of cookies and tea had been left on her desk. With a few things to clear up, she poured herself tea. She usually liked milk in her tea, but it had gotten cold, so she just shrugged and sipped it black as she started clearing her desk. She picked up one of the cookies, then put it back down, drawn again to her design for this year’s Christmas cross.
What had possessed her?
The design was beautiful. Intricate, delicate. One of the best things she had ever done. But contemporary? Definitely not.
She picked up the cookie again, studying the cross. She leaned low, looking at her own work. It really was so Celtic.
She set the cookie down again. “Am I unintentionally…stealing?” she murmured aloud. “Did I take that off a gravestone in Ireland or a picture somewhere or—?”
She heard the tinkling of a small bell. Jeeves, a big black alley cat who had one day made his way inside and become a company pet, suddenly leapt up on her desk.
She absently stroked his back. “Am I a cheater, Jeeves?” she murmured. “Can’t be.” She shook her head and threw the design into her upper right-hand drawer. Once again she stroked the cat, then poured him a saucer of the milk intended for her tea.
“Drink up, buddy. Have some cookies, too.”
The cat let out a mournful cry, looking at her with huge golden eyes.
She smiled. “Excuse me, you’re a cat, not a dog. Lap up that milk.”
The cat did so, needing no more invitation. Jillian stroked the animal one last time, making a mental note to leave her office door open.
The litter box was down the hall in Griff’s office. Her cousin did, after all, have his responsibilities. Cat food, water—and the litter box.
It had been his idea to keep the cat and feed it. Studies had shown that pets were good for people, lowering blood pressure, making them calmer, more friendly. Eileen had pointed out that cat hair also made many people sneeze.
The cat had stayed. Luckily, no one in the office had been allergic.
“It’s all yours, Jeeves,” she said cheerfully.
She was leaving. She glanced at her watch one more time. Taxi or subway? She was due to meet Connie in fifteen minutes.
Feet. She wasn’t that far from the coffee shop where they had planned to get together. She would just walk fast. That would be her best bet.
“’Night, Jeeves,” she told the cat. Happy Halloween. Trick or treat.
She grabbed her coat and her handbag, and exited her office.
The cat, heedless of the comings and goings of mortals, gave no note. It greedily drank up the milk.
Suddenly the animal’s body went rigid, then convulsed.
It collapsed by the tea tray.
The body twitched once. Twice.
And then it was still.
Dead still.

CHAPTER 2
“I didn’t think I was ever going to get away this afternoon,” Jillian told Connie when she met her at the little coffee bar off Fifth. She’d been in such a hurry to leave. She had actually gotten here first. But now, out of the office at last, she was beginning to relax. Not even the caffeine in her café mocha could start her blood rushing again.
“You shouldn’t have given me the day off,” Connie said sadly, stirring her tea.
Jillian looked at her friend. Connie Adair Murphy was petite, dark haired and blue eyed. Her face was round and always pleasant; she had a dimpled smile, and could be a powerhouse despite her small and cheerful appearance.
“You always take Halloween off. And I don’t think anyone could have helped. It was just one of those family kind of days,” she said, rolling her eyes, then grinning.
“They were feisty today, huh?”
“Moody, I think.”
“Over the cross?”
“Only Daniel.”
“What did your grandfather have to say?”
“He didn’t come in today. He likes to take Halloween off, too.”
“Are you going to start over? It would be a shame. It’s such an outstanding design.”
“No, Daniel says we’re going with it. We’ll just put a different spin on it.” She looked at her watch. “My God, it’s getting late.”
“No, it’s not so bad, only three-thirty.”
“It gets dark so early.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Connie assured her cheerfully. “I told the girls we’d head out at five-thirty or six. We’ve got a little time. It won’t take long to get home on the subway. We’ll just shove anyone in front of us away from the platform. We’re fine.”
“If we hustle.”
“So we’ll hustle.”
“Let’s do it.”
They hustled. And to good avail.
Connie found darling dresses for her daughters. And though Llewellyn Enterprises offered an elegant line of evening wear, they took pleasure in finding the bargains that could be had in haute couture by other designers. They went on to find some fantastic gowns for the season’s parties, and there were going to be a lot of them. They would be celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Llewellyn Enterprises, and the rounds of activities and events planned for the estate in Connecticut were endless. Naturally Connie, as Jillian’s assistant, was included, as was her husband. There were benefits to having both members of the family working for the same business. Connie had met Joe right out of college, during her first year working for Jillian; Joe had already been a rising star in the management division.
At the end of their whirlwind shopping spree, they happened upon a costume shop, with a last-minute sale. Connie was totally incapable of passing a sign that stated—in large black letters—50% Off, Today Only!
“Wow! Will you look at this?” Connie said.
Inside, Connie pulled a costume off a rack and brandished it before Jillian. It was a witch’s costume in silk and velvet, decorated with rhinestones. It had a high collar, draping sleeves and a suggestive bodice. It was fitted at the waist, and flowed from there.
“Exquisite,” Connie breathed.
“Buy it. Fifty-percent off,” Jillian suggested.
Connie shook her head sadly. “Too long and too tight for me. But…” She paused and looked at Jillian. “It’s you.”
“Me? I’m not wearing a costume. And there’s no time. We have to take the girls out. In fact, we need to take them soon.”
“Yes, and I’m going to find a costume. I’ve decided I’m going to be one of those fun moms, all dressed up like the kids. Oh, look, there—”
Jillian looked where Connie was pointing and saw a large horse’s head. “That one? Oh, no, Connie, even if I decide to come with you, I am not playing the rear end of a horse so you can be a fun mom.”
Connie started to laugh. “No, not the horse. I’m going to be a princess, and you can be the witch. The gorgeous witch, I might add. And when we finish the trick-or-treating bit, we’ll meet Joe at Hennessey’s.” She made a face and shrugged. “It will be fun. You know Joe. He’ll take a few pictures of the kids, tell them they’re adorable, then leave me to do the candy bit. But he’s going to the annual Halloween party at the pub, and he’s always telling me to get my mom to watch the kids and join him. We’ll do it. We’ll get dressed up and go together.”
“An Irish pub for Halloween?” Jillian asked skeptically.
“Why not? It’s sure to be filled with pixies and leprechauns and maybe a banshee or two.” Connie cocked her head, looking at Jillian hopefully. “All right, so there are sure to be a few big bad wolves around, as well. Actually, you could use a big bad wolf or two in your life.”
“My life is fine.”
“You can’t mourn Milo forever,” Connie said, studying her friend.
Jillian felt another twinge of loss. People still tiptoed around mentioning Milo’s name most of the time. Today, though, he seemed in the forefront of her mind, and she reminded herself again that she had married Milo Anderson with her eyes wide open. She had known about his cancer. He had tried to talk her out of marriage on the basis that she pitied him but didn’t love him. She had insisted, though. Because he had been wrong. She had loved him very much.
Even more than Connie, he had been the best friend she’d ever had. Maybe she hadn’t been in love the way it was in movies and romance novels, but she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be in love that way. Loving Milo had hurt enough.
Neither all the king’s horses and all the king’s men—nor all the Llewellyn money—had been able to stop the growth of the disease. Milo had died almost a year to the day after their wedding. Almost a year ago now. No one in her family ever told her, “Well, you knew it was bound to happen,” and for that she was grateful.
“I’m not going to mourn Milo forever. I’m glad for the time we had together, glad for what he did for my life, glad for what I was able to do for his. But it’s not as if I’ve been wasting away for years. He hasn’t even been gone a year. I don’t go out a lot because I’m busy. I—”
“You need a life. And I happen to know that you refused a get-to-know-you with Robert Marston for this evening, when your grandfather suggested it.”
“And how do you know that? It wasn’t even a real suggestion.”
“You poor innocent! Word is all over the company. You know we love to talk about the bosses.”
“I’m not the boss.”
“Your grandfather wants you to be.”
“No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to let go of the reins while he’s living, and I don’t think he should.”
“He knows he’s not going to live forever.”
“It’s a huge operation. I’m in design, not business. I don’t want the headaches of everything my grandfather has his fingers into.”
“A few of your cousins would be happy with the reins.”
“I’m sure they would be.”
“And they all despise the fact that Douglas has hired Robert Marston. They hate him.”
“They don’t hate him. He’s an intelligent man, a top-notch businessman, and he’ll be great for the company.”
“I bet they think your grandfather brought Marston in to marry you and create a new dynasty.”
“Connie! How ridiculous. This is the twenty-first century. That’s archaic.”
“Archaic, schmaic. I think it’s what’s up. And I think a few Llewellyn noses are going to be out of joint.”
“Connie, I’m not marrying Robert Marston. I’m not dating him. I haven’t had a business lunch with him. I haven’t even been close enough to him to really see his face.”
“There hasn’t been time yet.”
“Connie, come on. We’re not a dynasty—and we’re not going to rule New York fashion design and marketing together. You know I would never marry anyone for business reasons. I can’t believe anyone would think such a thing.”
“Jillian, look at the facts. Suddenly, when you’re…when you’re getting accustomed to the fact that Milo is gone, your grandfather brings in a handsome, powerful, unattached businessman. Out of the clear blue.”
“The company has gotten huge.”
“Marston isn’t working under Daniel, is he?”
“No, he’s—”
“Aha!”
“Connie, I’m not in a position of power. You know that. So an alliance with me wouldn’t get him anywhere.”
“You have your vote. And most people do see you as the natural heir to the company.”
“Eileen is a grandchild, too.”
“Yes, but Douglas dotes on you.”
“It just appears that way because I was orphaned very young and I grew up with him. But I don’t want to run the company. Why would I? It’s huge, and I’m happy to share the legacy with the family. Please, are we buying costumes or not?”
Connie sighed. “I’m dying to dress up. But only if you will, too. Will you buy that outfit? It would look gorgeous on you.”
“I…yes. I guess.”
“We’ll have fun. I promise. Let me call my mom and tell her she’s definitely staying on, that we’re going to go and meet Joe. Don’t look at me like that. I won’t talk shop anymore, I promise. We’ll have fun, fun, fun.”
It did turn out to be fun. They dressed up at Connie’s apartment in Chelsea, went with the kids to the Safe-Haunt party arranged by one of the churches, then took the candy-laden kiddies back home, where they excitedly told their baby-sitting grandmother everything that had gone on. Kelly Adair, Connie’s mother, oohed and aahed over the two women’s costumes, and got into the fun by helping with glitter makeup. Jillian admitted that she was having a terrific time; she so seldom had a chance just to play this way. She worked constantly, went to charity dinners, plays, the opera and political fund-raisers. She almost never got a good night out at a pub or spent time with friends for no reason other than to have fun.
Connie called her the oldest twenty-six-year-old she knew and teased her that she needed to have a good time before moving to a retirement home, where she would get her kicks out of watching reruns and waiting for grade-school children to come and sing Christmas carols. But Jillian knew—instinctively, and due to the fact that it had been pounded into her all her life—that she was a Llewellyn of Llewellyn Enterprises; she had a responsibility to uphold, as did all the family. Once her grandfather had entertained dreams about her father going into the White House. He’d become one of the most popular senators ever to be elected to public office, but then he had dropped dead. An aneurysm had felled him at the age of forty-one. That was when she had really come to love her grandfather. She had watched him swallow his own grief and anguish to console her.
She understood that she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but when people called her lucky all the time, she wasn’t sure why. Luck wasn’t money. She would have traded every dime in the family coffers to have her father back. Connie told her that it was worse to be in agony and broke, and she guessed that must be true, but she felt it was more than enough that she’d lost her mother and baby brother in childbirth, and then her father. She had been raised in a huge, cold house and a huge, cold apartment—though not by a cold man. She adored Douglas Alexander Llewellyn. At the age of eighty-five, he remained the iron-fisted, tough-as-nails ruler of all he surveyed.
But it had never been fear of him that had made her work so hard, take such care in school, or behave with complete responsibility at all times. She loved him. She wanted to please him. And though she loathed politics, she did want to do her part to change the world. Douglas had taught her about giving back; Connie had shown her why she must do so.
“Jillian,” Kelly said, bright blue eyes sparkling, “I have never seen you look lovelier. Not even in all those chic gowns you own.”
“She’s a vamp,” Connie said with a laugh. “We look okay, Mom? I mean, how about me? Your daughter, remember?”
“Cute as a button,” her mother said.
“Cute? I want to be sultry. Stunning.”
Kelly laughed. “Your husband adores you, and you’re devastating. You’re both devastating—in fact, I’m afraid to let you go out to that pub.”
“Just Hennessey’s, Mom. And Joe will be there.” She looked Jillian up and down and angled her head in thought. “Though, come to think of it, we may pick up every sodden Irish-American—hell, every sodden man of any nationality—but what the hey, you only go around once, right?”
“Well, off you go, then.”
They kissed the girls good-night. Tricia was five, and Mary Elizabeth, or Liza, was the baby at four. The excited little girls raved over Jillian’s costume, and as she kissed and hugged them, she found herself loving the clean, baby-powder scent of them in their jammies. They were such a wonderful part of real life, and one day she wanted something as wonderful as what Connie had: a cozy little apartment and people all around her who loved her, really loved her. Family. True, she had a family, but it wasn’t the same as having a husband who’d chosen to love her and children born of that love.
“We’re off,” Connie said, kissing her mother’s cheek.
“Behave, now,” Kelly admonished.
“Behave? Good heavens, Mother. I want this witch to go wild, have a little fun.”
“She can’t go too wild, and you know it.”
“Why not? I’m buying her the biggest Guinness in the place the moment we get there. But don’t worry, because I’ll be there, protecting her.”
Jillian grinned. Connie was the closest thing to a sister she had. In school, Connie had been a class ahead of her, and from the start, she hadn’t been in the least intimidated by the Llewellyn power, money or prestige. She had allowed Jillian to see the streets of New York, the real streets. They had gotten into a few scrapes, but they had also gotten out of them. Thanks to Connie, she had seen harsh things firsthand: prostitutes on the street turning tricks so they could afford another line of cocaine, AIDS victims dying with no hope, kind priests, rabbis, laymen and women determined to help them.
“You are going to let loose, right?” Connie asked her, angling her dark head in question as she studied Jillian.
“You bet I am!” Jillian teased back.
“You can drink like an Irish potato digger, cuss like my pa, and trust in me to see that you’re okay.”
“Aye, and that I will,” Jillian agreed, putting on the appropriate accent. She was good with accents and loved the theater. She still played with the idea of heading out to audition for Broadway one day.
“All righty, then. Jillian and I are on our way out, Mother.”
“Toast me, ladies.”
“We will,” Jillian promised, as Connie dragged her out the door. They flagged down a cabdriver, who, despite the absurdities rife on the street that night, kept staring at them in the rearview mirror.
“See?” Connie teased. “He’s watching you.”
“Hey, you’re the princess tonight.”
“Sad but true, everyone loves an evil woman best,” Connie advised.
In a few minutes they reached Hennessey’s Pub, down in the Village. Though the place was rocking, it was doing so in the nicest way. The music was loud, but not too loud. The band was Irish-American, playing mostly rock, some folk, all with a wee bit of the Old Country thrown in. Drinks had been flowing, but not to the extent that too many drunks were weaving around. For the most part, the clientele was in a good mood. Many people were in costume, from the group dressed as the different colors of M&M’s to the brawny exercise guru in the Carmen Miranda skirt, bra, sandals and fruit headdress. He greeted Connie by name right away. Connie introduced him to Jillian—no last name—as Sergeant Tip Guyer of New York’s finest. Connie did the introductions, and the cop instantly offered to treat them to a couple of beers while telling Connie that she could find her “old man” just inside by the bar, watching ESPN.
“Can you imagine? A party—and they’re watching sports,” she said with disgust. “Tip, if you think you can reach the bar, we’ll take you up on those beers.”
Tip nodded, flashing an appreciative smile at Jillian.
“He can’t believe his good luck,” Connie said, when the man had gone.
“His good luck?”
“Getting to hang with you.”
“Oh, Connie, please.”
“Not because of who you are—just because he wants to bask in your gorgeous nearness.”
“Connie…”
“And there’s good old Joe, not even noticing us, just watching the game.”
“I’m sure he can’t hear too much, with all the music, so he has to study the TV closely,” Jillian teased. There was a tap on her shoulder. A giant leprechaun was asking her to dance, but she wasn’t ready for that quite yet, so she declined politely and asked him to come back in a while.
“Dancing is fun, and you’re out to have fun,” Connie reminded her.
“I intend to dance. But you’ve asked Carmen Miranda to bring us drinks, remember?”
And then she saw the tarot card reader.
“Hey, look, there’s a fortune-teller.”
“A fortune-teller? What fun!” Connie said.
“She’s great.” Tip had rejoined them, bearing glasses of ale. He passed them over as he went on. “She’s interesting. She has you lay out the cards, then she tells you what they mean and how the future might affect you. I have a confrontation coming in my future.”
“How unusual—for a cop,” Jillian teased.
He shrugged. “A nonbeliever. So many are. But she’s really good. It’s not just hocus-pocus. Maybe she’s a psychologist by day, desperate for more interesting characters by night. She told me to watch my temper. Can you imagine?”
“Yes, Tip,” Connie said thoughtfully, “I’m afraid I can.”
As Tip and Connie started discussing the idiocies he saw on the streets of New York every day, Jillian had the strangest feeling. It was as if she knew him. Of course she knew him she told herself; Connie had just introduced her. But she felt as if she had known him before. A long time ago. Was it true, she wondered, that you recognized people in life who you might like, who would be your friends, given half a chance?
Suddenly she noticed that the conversation had stopped and he was staring at her, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from her. “Look at you, looking so solemn. Lighten up. It’s Halloween. Ghosts and goblins and ghouls. Okay, maybe that’s a bad example. Think Christmas. Santa Claus. Ho, ho, ho. Pine trees, packages, Christmas carolers—”
“Really bad traffic, people shoving each other in stores over the newest toy craze, badly wired lights sizzling families to a crisp.”
They all spun around. Connie’s husband, Joe, had joined them. Despite his words of doom and gloom, he spoke cheerfully.
“Back to Christmas,” Connie said sternly. “Pine trees, packages, the girls giggling, Santa Claus—and miracles.”
“You don’t really believe in miracles, do you?” Tip asked.
“And why not?” Connie demanded. “There are plenty of strange things in this world.”
“And the next, too,” Joe said with a depth of sincerity that caused his wife to stare at him again.
“What is this? We’re not here to ponder the next life,” she protested. “We’re partying. Think good times only.”
“All right,” Joe said. “Let the good times roll. But let’s test out the world of the occult. We won’t say a word to the tarot card reader. I’ll go to her with Jillian on my arm. Connie, you go with Tip. We’ll test her powers.”
“She doesn’t claim to have powers,” Tip reminded him.
“Tip, did I ever tell you how good you look in that color bra?” Joe teased him.
“Ah, honey, you’re going to make me blush. But go ahead—test her out. I’ve already seen her. I’ll escort Connie, then you come along with Jillian. You’ll see.”
Carrying their drinks, they joined the line for the tarot card reader. She was a beautiful woman. Her skin was a tawny copper color, her eyes a hazel that gleamed golden in the candlelight. She was dressed for the part in gypsy attire—a sweeping, multicolored skirt, a gold-colored peasant blouse, and a scarf in various shades of gold and copper tied around her head. She was, according to the glittery name plaque in front of her, Madame Zena.
From her place in line, Jillian sipped her Guinness and watched as the woman laid down the cards. The customer, a pretty young woman in a harem costume, tapped one of the cards in dismay. “Oh no, that means death, right?”
Madame Zena shook her head patiently. “It’s not just the cards themselves that speak to you, it is their arrangement. These cards warn you…” She looked up, staring at the girl sternly. “Were you planning on taking the subway back out to Brooklyn alone?”
“Brooklyn—yes, it’s where I live. I’m a Fine Arts student.”
“From Omaha,” the guy behind her teased.
“Don’t go home on the subway alone,” the reader warned.
The young man put his hands on her shoulders. “She won’t,” he said protectively.
“But you’ll be ridiculously late if you come back to the dorm with me.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor. Janice won’t mind.”
“All right, all right, Madame Zena—can you tell me about my midterms?” the girl asked.
Madame Zena leaned forward, then tapped on a card. “You passed. But barely. If you want to stay in New York and avoid Omaha for the next few years, you’d better get cracking.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The girl slid from her seat, her eyes wide. She was a believer. Jillian had to admit to being pretty impressed herself.
“She goes for the obvious,” Joe whispered.
“How so?” Connie demanded in a soft hiss.
“The kid is obviously a student.”
“Maybe, but there are colleges in Manhattan, too, you know.”
“She made a good guess.”
The young man had sat down in front of Madame Zena. He grinned. “Am I going to get lucky tonight?”
“Lucky?” Madame Zena queried. “Are you going to survive the drunks driving around the city tonight? Yes, you’re very lucky. Will you be smart enough to avoid the big pothole on Willoughby Avenue and avoid a broken ankle. Yes, again, if you pay attention. That will be lucky. Are you having sex? Not a chance. Janice is going to be there, and she’s going to throw you a pillow on the floor.”
Those standing around Madame Zena’s table all laughed. Madame Zena smiled, tolerant of the laughter. Jillian decided that the woman was very good at what she did, that she wasn’t psychic, she just used some good solid sense on her clients.
There were a few more people before them in line. Jillian watched, enjoying what she heard, along with the Guinness. Tip refilled their beers while they waited in line and the band kept playing.
Finally their turn came. Tip led Connie forward. Madame Zena studied her briefly, her amber eyes intent. She looked up to the line and motioned to Joe. “Come sit with your wife,” she said.
“You told her,” Joe accused Tip.
“I did not,” Tip protested.
Madame Zena noticed Jillian. Her lashes flickered, as if something disturbed her.
“Well?” Joe murmured.
“Shuffle the cards,” Madame Zena said. “Let your wife go first. I’m using the three-card spread. They reveal past, present and future. There is a meaning to all cards, and a reverse meaning, as well.”
She laid out three cards, side by side. For a moment she studied them, then studied Connie. “Temperance. You are a good human being. You’ve made those around you happy, and you have chosen your friends wisely.”
“That’s me,” Connie said happily.
Her husband sniffed.
“Joe!”
He caught her hand and kissed it. “You’re the best human being.”
Madame Zena looked at the cards, then past Joe and Connie to Jillian.
“Madame Zena?” Joe queried, tapping the table.
Madame Zena pointed to the second card. “The Nine of Swords. There is discord in your life.”
“But there isn’t!” Connie protested.
“Maybe it’s in the future,” Joe suggested gravely.
Madame Zena shook her head. “The future is here…The World. It symbolizes…completion, rewards.”
“So everything comes out okay?” Connie said hopefully.
Madame Zena looked at her. “You must make things come out okay, because the reverse meaning here suggests that success is yet to be won, that you may be lacking in vision. You must take care to see, to see everything, beyond the physical eye, do you understand?”
“Yes,” Connie said. But the tone of her voice said “no.”
“So the cards don’t like me?” she asked in distress.
“The cards are to be used for good. They warn you. Nothing in life is free, nothing comes without a price. Except for the occasional miracle. The cards warn you that you must be firm, steadfast, loyal. You must always control your own future.”
Madame Zena wasn’t going to say more.
“Okay, me now,” Joe said.
Madame Zena looked over his head at Jillian once again. She looked troubled. “Shuffle the cards,” she told Joe.
He did, and the reader laid them out. Three cards. Past. Present. Future.
The exact same lineup as his wife.
“Hey, that’s not possible,” Joe protested.
“Shuffle them again.”
He did. They fell the same way. Madame Zena shrugged. “You know what they mean.”
“They mean you do card tricks as well as readings?” Joe suggested.
“No, young man, I do not do card tricks. You’re a good man, you’ve made good choices.”
“The best of men,” Connie said loyally, slipping her arm through her husband’s.
“You’re passing through a rough time. Only your own courage and determination will show you the way to go. They will bring you through to triumph or success.” She stared at Jillian again. “I don’t want to read your cards.”
“What!” Jillian said, astonished, and dismayed by the little chill that swept through her.
“I’m sorry, I’m tired.”
“Madame Zena, she’s been in line for nearly an hour,” Tip protested.
Joe and Connie had risen already, and Tip was ushering Jillian forward. She sat, and Madame Zena stared at her, then handed her the cards. Jillian felt as if a rush of electricity jumped into her flesh. “We are all part of our own destinies, you know,” Madame Zena said. “The soul can be very old, and the soul can learn. A good soul remains so. Sometimes there are second chances.” Madame Zena’s strange hazel eyes were hard on Jillian. “In life and in death. Energy does not die. God is great. Hand me the cards.”
Instead of the three cards, Madame Zena laid out more, creating a cross on the table before her. She had Jillian turn them over, then was silent for a long time.
“You’ve had tremendous upheaval, tragedy.”
“Of course,” Joe said. “Her husband died.”
Madame Zena asked, “Violently?”
“Cancer,” Connie supplied softly.
Madame Zena shook her head. “No, something worse, far worse. There was a lack of faith, a terrible betrayal…there was a fire.”
“Nope, no fire,” Jillian said positively.
“Yes, there was a fire,” Madame Zena insisted. “Betrayal. And the night. There was one who came and enticed and laughed and…betrayed. And there you see the Moon. Rising in Pisces…You are in danger. You have enemies.”
“Well, she’s a big shot, rich executive. Of course she has enemies,” Joe said.
“Really?” Tip asked, looking Jillian up and down all over again. “Cool,” he said. “And I just thought you were one sexy redhead.”
“Thanks,” Jillian murmured.
“Now you’ve gone and told half the world who she is,” Connie murmured.
“Enemies,” Madame Zena murmured. “Enemies.”
“I still don’t know who she is,” Tip told Joe. He gave Jillian a charming smile, and she tried to respond, but by then Madame Zena was beginning to get to her.
“Beware…”
Madame Zena’s voice was suddenly so low and husky that it seemed to reach out and touch her with fingers of ice, running along her spine, her nape.
“Beware…”
Jillian leaned forward, forcing her lips to move. “Of what?”
“Christmas…Christmastide…”
“Oh my God, this is going too far,” Joe said impatiently. “Beware of Christmas? Of what? A psychopathic Santa? Come on, Jillian…”
“Beware, take warning.”
“Jillian, come on, get up,” Joe urged, but she couldn’t seem to move.
“Witch, witch, witch, witch…” Madame Zena said.
“Which? Which what?” Jillian murmured.
“W-i-t-c-h,” Madame Zena whispered.
Dear God, but she sounded so weird and looked so spooky. Scary. Maybe it was a holiday act.
Madame Zena leaned back, gripping the table. They all stared at her blankly as she fell silent, her eyes closed. When she opened them, they had rolled up into her head until only the whites showed. “Witch,” she murmured. “Witch.” The cry grew louder. “Witch.” Louder still, and different, as if several voices were speaking through the woman. Her voice rose so high that Jillian, staring at her, horrified, was afraid that the cries would echo above the sound of the band.
“Madame Zena, stop it!” she protested.
“Witch!”
“It’s a costume, just a costume,” Jillian said.
“Come on, enough is enough,” Joe told her. He drew back the chair, gripped her elbow and pulled her to her feet.
“Too much,” Tip agreed.
“We need some air,” Connie said.
“I’m all right,” Jillian said, but they were already headed for the door.
As they neared it, it opened and a man entered. He was tall, broad-shouldered. He wasn’t wearing a costume, just a long leather coat against the autumn chill. Jillian barely noted him at first, except as someone who was blocking the door.
Then the light touched him.
He had dark hair, almost pitch in color, cropped at the collar, swept back in the front. His face was strongly chiseled, with clean features and a square, well-defined jaw, a generous mouth, large, dark eyes—maybe dark blue, she thought, rather than brown. He was good-looking and moved with confidence.
“Built like a brick shit-house,” Connie whispered in her ear.
Still, Jillian would have walked right by him. The city was home to lots of good-looking people, models, actors, even businessmen.
Then this man looked at them. And when she looked back, she realized that she knew him.
“My God,” Connie breathed. “I didn’t recognize him at first.”
Of course, she knew him. Or almost knew him.
She’d just never seen him so close.
Nor seen him…look at her.
She felt his eyes on her. Then, suddenly, pain seared her. Rocked her. Hit her in the chest as if she had been struck by lightning. Pain so vibrant that fire seemed to flash before her eyes.
She staggered, doubling over in sudden agony.
“Jillian?”
She heard Connie’s concerned whisper.
Then the pain radiated through her. Fire! It was as if she were on fire.
And then she blacked out.

CHAPTER 3
He was bending over her, his head slightly turned as he calmly ordered everyone to move back, give her some room.
Then his eyes fell on her again.
They were blue. Navy. The closest thing to black she’d ever seen that still carried the touch of a hue. And she wasn’t in pain anymore. Not in physical pain.
But she was in mental agony. Total humiliation.
What in God’s name had seized her?
She had been kept from falling by someone and transported to the Victorian sofa that sat just inside the main entry to the pub. Connie was on one side of her, Joe on the other. Her new friend Tip, the cop, was hovering somewhere nearby; she could hear him talking. But it was Robert Marston who was right in front of her, barking out orders, touching her forehead and her throat—checking for a pulse, she assumed.
She wished she could crawl under the couch.
She sat up, an act easier planned than managed. Marston was so close that she crashed right into him, forehead to forehead. He smiled as their heads cracked, while she paled all over again.
“I knew I wasn’t exactly welcomed by everyone in the company, but I never thought I could cause fainting spells,” he joked.
She shook her head quickly. “You had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know who you were. I—”
“Are you all right?” he enquired more seriously.
“I—I—of course,” she stammered.
Then she was aware of Connie’s gaze. “Jillian, are you sure? My God, you were white as a ghost. We were so worried.”
“I’m…I’m fine,” she protested. “Thanks, really. I’m just embarrassed and—”
“Maybe we should get you to the hospital, get you checked out,” Marston suggested, interrupting her with a note of authority.
She stared at him, wishing she could crawl away.
What in the world had caused this?
She hadn’t felt threatened by his hiring, had she? Wary, but not threatened. She hadn’t really talked to him yet, because there hadn’t really been the opportunity. A simple, normal opportunity. But she hadn’t been worried about it. She was in design, he wasn’t. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure why Douglas had suddenly brought him in, but she had neither felt threatened nor overly impressed.
But at this particular moment, he seemed extremely imposing. The man was very tall, even down on one knee the way he was now. His shoulders were broad, though he seemed as sleek and agile as a man more slimly built.
“A hospital couldn’t hurt, other than the hours you’re likely to spend in the emergency room,” he told her.
She realized that she hadn’t responded to his earlier comment; she had just been staring at him. “No, I don’t want to go to the hospital. Really, I’m fine,” she protested. “Please, I just—” She broke off, aware that a sea of faces seemed to be looking on.
In the distance, she even saw the face of the tarot reader. The woman was watching her gravely, as if she weren’t at all surprised by this turn of events.
For some reason the sight of the woman was disturbing. Jillian felt uneasy again, as if something was wrong but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. It was as if the tarot card reader knew something she didn’t.
Something that she should know.
The woman turned away, and Jillian’s uneasiness dissipated. She felt simply and completely like an idiot.
“What?” Marston asked quietly, seeming to sense her unease.
“I just need to get out of here,” she said. Her voice was soft. Raspy. “I could really go for some air.”
A second later, she regretted her words, as Marston lifted her into his arms, striding from the pub. “Excuse us, the lady needs air.”
She wasn’t white anymore. Her cheeks were flushed with mortification.
Outside, she found herself seated on the hood of a silver sports car. She heard Connie’s heels hitting the pavement as she and Joe hurried out to join them, followed by Tip, still in his Carmen Miranda getup.
“Is that better?” Those uncannily dark blue eyes were on hers.
And her hands were on his arms, she realized; she had gripped him to steady herself. She snatched her hands back and grasped for some dignity. “Look, Mr. Marston, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine now. I just—”
“Had too much to drink?” he suggested.
She straightened in indignation. “I never have too much to drink.”
“No?” A spark of humor touched his eyes.
“I don’t believe your job description includes anything about picking me up from barroom floors, though I do appreciate the concern. However, I really am fine.”
“She does seem to be okay,” Tip said.
Marston turned around, his eyes widening at the sight of the big cop in drag. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you two were together,” he said briefly.
“No, no, they’re not together,” Joe said quickly, explaining. “Tip is a friend of mine.”
Jillian could have knocked him silly. She offered him a scathing glance, but he didn’t notice.
“I think I should get off this car before the owner sues for damages,” she said, starting to move.
“Give yourself another second.”
His hands were on her shoulders. Long fingered, clean, neat, powerful. She glanced down at his touch and felt a strange, warm tremor. Barely remembered. Not welcomed now.
“I’m on someone’s Mercedes.”
“It’s mine,” he said.
Naturally. The Mercedes said everything there was to say about him. Smooth, cool. Sporty but mature. Handsome, powerful, sleek.
“Maybe you should take Jillian home, Mr. Marston,” Connie said, concerned. She looked from one to the other. “We haven’t actually met,” she said to him. “I’m Connie Murphy.”
“Joe’s wife. I know,” Marston said. He smiled and took her hand, and his eyes met Joe’s. “Your husband and I have already worked together.”
“Yes, of course.” Connie looked flushed. It had been one thing for her to tease Jillian about company gossip, but now that she was actually meeting Robert Marston, she seemed a little awed herself. He did make an impression.
Was that why Douglas had brought him in? Connie wondered. She answered her own silent question quickly and defensively. No. Daniel, full of confidence, ability, authority and composure made quite an impression himself. Theo was equally presentable. Eileen was pure elegance and assurance. And Griff…
Griff excelled at being Griff.
“Office meeting over,” Jillian murmured with false cheer. She tried to slide off the car, but Marston stopped her.
She looked at his hand, then met his eyes. “I told you I’m all right.”
“If you won’t go to the hospital, at least let me take you home.”
“I’m fine. Tip can see me home. He may look like Carmen Miranda, but in real life, he’s one of New York’s finest.”
“So you’re a cop. Nice to meet you.”
“Ditto,” Tip told him, as the two men shook hands.
“Did you drive, Tip?” Marston enquired, those dark eyes settling on the cop.
“No, ’fraid not,” Tip told Jillian apologetically.
“I don’t need a ride,” Jillian protested.
“Jillian, you passed out cold,” Connie said.
“Thanks, Connie,” she murmured.
“You might have hurt yourself.”
“But I didn’t!”
“You were leaving, anyway,” Marston reminded her. “So let me take you home.”
“You just got here, so I’m sure you don’t want to leave. Go on in and have a good time.”
“And what would I tell Douglas in the morning?” he asked, a half smile curving his lips.
“That his granddaughter is pigheaded?” Joe supplied.
“Joe…” his wife said warningly.
“I really don’t think that watching me is part of the job,” Jillian began.
“I wouldn’t want to bet on that,” Joe said.
“Okay, okay. I’ll go home with Marston,” she said, aggravated.
“You can call me Robert, Bob, Rob, or even Bobby. Most of the time, when people call me Marston, they put a ‘mister’ in front of it,” he said, his tone conversational but with a slight edge, his dark eyes on her.
She eased off the car, meeting that gaze. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Marston.”
He smiled. An honest smile. She looked away, biting her lip.
“’Night, then,” Connie said.
“Good night.” Jillian hugged Connie, kissed Joe and then Tip on a cheek, and walked around to the passenger side of the car. He was already there, opening the door for her.
Call me, Connie mouthed.
She would call her, all right.
A moment later, they were in traffic.
He drove competently, assertively, but not recklessly. He was playing a Celtic CD; a woman was singing about a highwayman. Partiers filled the sidewalks, all laughing, some loaded, some simply happy. Taxis veered in and out; horns blared.
“I live at—” she began.
“I know where you live,” he told her.
Fine.
A few minutes later, they pulled up to the house on Manhattan’s upper east side. It was one of the few old mansions that remained. Among a sea of skyscrapers, it stood three stories tall. A brick wall with wrought-iron gates separated it from its neighbors.
Here, away from the throngs, the streets were quiet. Marston didn’t opt to enter the driveway but slid into an impossible spot on the street.
Before the engine had died, Jillian was reaching for the door handle.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked her. She could hear his amusement.
“No, of course not.” Her fingers fell from the handle.
“Do you resent my being hired?”
He was blunt. “No. Why should I?”
“Want to hear all the rumors?” he queried.
She shook her head. “No. Do you want to hear the truth?”
“Sure.”
“I like design. I enjoy what I do. I especially like jewelry, but make occasional forays into fashion, as well. I don’t want my grandfather’s kingdom. I don’t even think my grandfather wants all his kingdom anymore. So why should I resent you being hired?”
He smiled, looking not at her, but straight ahead at the road, at the night. “Because in a kingdom, you always have to have a king. Or a queen.”
“Well, if we have a king, it’s Daniel. Are you planning to push him from the throne?”
“I’ve been given shares in the company and a very satisfactory title. Part of the package when I came over. Daniel has his own role.”
“Then, we all ought to be just peachy-keen,” she murmured. She looked at him. “Thanks for the ride. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” She fumbled with the door. He reached over her and opened the door easily.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“I would feel better if I walked you in.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“But you don’t resent me?” he queried lightly. He stepped out of the car as she did.
“Okay, walk me in.”
“You did have quite a reaction to seeing me walk through the door tonight.”
“I wasn’t reacting to you,” she said, her heart pounding. What had she reacted to?
The pain. The pain had been unbearable, and the world had gone black.
“Then?” he pressed.
“The tarot card reader,” she said.
“What?”
“There was a woman reading tarot cards. She started screaming, rolling her eyes—and calling me a witch. She wouldn’t stop. She was pretending to be in a trance or something, and we decided to get out. I just needed air,” she said, finishing rather lamely.
“I had nothing to do with it?”
She met his gaze again, black in the shadows. She still felt…wary of him. But curiously drawn, as well. She had to admit he was being polite, and he seemed to have a sense of humor.
She shook her head. “No,” she lied, then smiled. “Honestly, I don’t resent you. I think you’ve got great credentials, and I really don’t want to run the company.”
“If that’s a welcome, thanks, I’ll take it.”
“Sure. It’s a welcome. In fact, please come in, if you’d like. Have a drink here, since you never got your chance at Hennessey’s.”
“Despite the much-appreciated-but-debatable sincerity of that offer, I’m afraid I have to refuse.”
“Ah, a date,” she murmured, lashes flicking downward. She was definitely losing her mind. She hadn’t wanted him to take her home, and had tried very hard to shake him. And now…
She was disappointed. And curious.
Jealous? She wondered who he was meeting.
“An appointment,” he said lightly. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’ve never felt better. Honestly.”
“All right, then.”
But he stood there, watching her.
“Well?”
“I need to see you in.”
“Oh.” She slid her computer key into the lock. The gate swung open; she stepped through, closing it behind her.
He nodded, then turned away, starting back toward his car.
“Mars—uh, Mr. Marston?”
He turned back.
“It was nice to meet you. And thanks for your concern.”
“Of course.”
He walked to his car, and she watched him drive away. Though it was cold, the bars of the gate suddenly seemed to burn against her hands.
She released them quickly.
Strange, strange night.

Robert returned to Hennessey’s.
Parking the car in the street—easy enough, with most of the evening’s revelers Halloween-ed out and headed home—he left the driver’s seat and checked his watch.
Too late for his original appointment, but he’d wanted to come back here, anyway.
He’d never seen anything like the way Jillian Llewellyn had looked at him. He hadn’t expected to be welcomed into the company with pure joy and enthusiasm, but he’d never imagined anything like what he’d encountered.
She had looked at him with…hatred? Horror?
Maybe pure blind terror. Or something else. He didn’t know quite what. A combination of all those emotions.
He had felt shaken. For a moment a chill had settled over him, like something cold and horrible beyond words, and then…
Then she had started to fall, and the feeling had slipped away, and now he couldn’t even recall exactly what it had been. Maybe he’d imagined it. And yet…
At the bar, he ordered a beer. They’d dyed the beer with food coloring. Black beer. Interesting.
As he sipped, he eased back and surveyed the room. Nearly midnight. The band was playing ballads. The bar was still full, but the customers at the tables were beginning to head out. When people moved, he saw the fortune-teller.
Tarot card reader. Whatever. It was all just fun and bull.
As he looked at her, she suddenly stared up at him. Her eyes were golden. Amber, glimmering. She was an arresting woman, metallic in color. Even her skin was copper. She was both stunning and disturbing.
As she looked at him, she suddenly leaned back in her chair, gripping the table. She didn’t seem to be doing anything else, certainly nothing threatening, but the couple who had been having their cards read suddenly pushed their chairs away.
He wasn’t sure why, but he rose, walking over to her. She straightened, pointing at him.
But she didn’t see him. He knew that, her eyes had rolled back into her head.
“Betrayer,” she whispered. She began to croon and moan, weaving in her chair.
He felt the cold again. Like ice. Fear unlike anything he could remember. Yet he wasn’t afraid for himself. He just knew that…
His head hurt. Pounded. He leaned forward, putting his hands on the table. “Stop it,” he snapped. “Stop it.”
She jerked forward; her eyes rolled into place. “You shouldn’t have come,” she told him, visibly shaken.
“I shouldn’t have come to the bar?” he asked.
“To Llewellyn,” she answered.
He eased down into the chair, staring at her. “Who put you up to this?” he demanded. After all, this was Hennessey’s. A favorite hangout of Daniel’s, Theo’s, and probably Griff’s, as well.
The name Llewellyn was Welsh. But Robert knew from his long conversations with Douglas that the family had been in Ireland for hundreds of years before he had picked up and made his way to the States.
“Madame Zena,” he said firmly, looking around the pub again for some sight of any one of the Llewellyns, “who put you up to this?”
“No one,” she told him.
“Well, then, listen to me,” he said, leaning forward. “I didn’t come to Llewellyn to hurt anyone. As a matter of fact, I intend to protect certain people, even though they may not trust me. Protect them, and their interests. So you can call off the mind games. I—”
“You know nothing,” she said softly. “You are dangerous. More dangerous than you can ever imagine. You’re so powerful and arrogant.” She leaned toward him, suddenly angry, but very still and quiet as she spoke. “You know nothing. And you do not care to learn.”
“Excuse me, Madame Zena,” he interrupted, puzzled and angry, and not knowing why he felt he needed to defend himself to a fortune-teller. “Look, I’m a decent human being, responsible, concerned, intelligent—”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “You may be all that, but it’s not enough. Fear is a good thing, young man. Fear can create a quest for knowledge, because no man is so strong he can defy God, Heaven and Hell, and all the Fates. Get out of here. And don’t come to me again unless your mind is open.”
She stood and, with a flourish, spun away from him, then rushed from the bar.
Startled, he sat back in the chair.
“Wow, that was…scary!”
He turned around and saw that the girl who had been in his chair just moments earlier had spoken. A pretty young brunette, she was clinging to her lanky escort, eyes wide, cheeks pale.
“Well,” he said with a shrug, “it’s Halloween, after all.”
One of the bartenders—a freckled redhead wearing bobbing bug antennae—came walking over, wiping a glass as he looked out the door. “She didn’t even get her money,” he said, then shrugged fatalistically. “Oh well, I imagine she’ll be back.”
He returned to his position behind the bar.
“Look at the card that’s turned over now,” the brunette said. She grabbed her boyfriend’s lapel. “That wasn’t my card.” She stared at Robert, scared again, shaking her head. “It’s your card. It has to be your card.”
“So? I don’t believe in prophecy. Fate is what we make it,” he said firmly.
“It’s…it’s still your card,” she whispered, then turned, heading out.
“Women,” the man said. “You know the old saying. Can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em, either.”
He hurried after the brunette.
Robert looked at the card on the table. He didn’t know much about tarot cards, and he certainly didn’t believe in their ability to foretell the future.
But even he recognized the Grim Reaper.

The dream came suddenly.
She smelled smoke. And then there was the rustling sound of dry kindling as it caught fire. The acrid smell of something burning…
Flesh.
Pain, a searing pain…
She awoke with a violent start and jumped out of bed, screaming, “Fire! Henry, get Grandfather!”
With her eyes open, she saw that there was no fire. She stood dead still. No smoke, no fire, no scent of burning flesh.
Her door suddenly burst open.
There was Henry, Grandfather’s assistant.
Henry was seventy, a spring chicken compared to Douglas Llewellyn. He stood in her doorway in his proper pajamas and robe, snow-white hair beneath a bed cap, as if he were a character right out of a Dickens novel.
“Jillian?” he cried, looking frantically around.
Embarrassment filled her. She’d been dreaming.
“Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry. I had a nightmare, I…I guess.”
He exhaled a vastly relieved sigh. “Oh, my dear girl,” he said.
She walked to the doorway, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Henry, are you all right? My God, I can’t believe I was screaming like that. I wouldn’t have worried you for the world. How ridiculous. I guess it happened because it’s Halloween.”
He smiled. “Why, Miss Jillian, you’ve never been afraid of Halloween, or the dark, or things that go bump in the night.”
She lifted a hand. “I’m at a loss myself. But I’m sorry.” She set her palm on his chest. His heart rate was slowing.
“I’m fine, Miss Jillian. Just fine. The old ticker is pumping just as it should. Shall I fix you a drink? A hot toddy?”
“No, no more alcohol,” she said.
He arched a brow.
“I had a few Guinness Stouts,” she told him.
“Well, then, what say we share some hot chocolate?”
She smiled. “Sounds good.”
As she had since she’d been a little girl, after her mother died, she slipped her hand into his. They walked out to the second floor landing and down to the kitchen together.
As they chatted, memories of the awful vividness of the nightmare faded.
She didn’t tell him much about her Halloween evening at Hennessey’s, though. And she didn’t say a word about the tarot card reader, or the arrival of Robert Marston.
Eventually, warm and relaxed, she yawned, thanked Henry and headed up to bed.
She tried to sleep, but she couldn’t. Suddenly, after all these years, she hated the dark.
She rose. The main light would be too bright. Even the reading light by her bed would be too much. She turned on the bathroom light, then left the door open a crack and lay back down in bed.
Better, but still…
She’d never been afraid before. Of the darkness, of the night. If there were ghosts in her life, they were good ghosts. People who had loved her. Her mother. Her father.
Milo.
Her eyes fell on the snow globe that sat on her nightstand between the lamp and the silver-framed picture of Milo and herself. Always smiling. No matter what pain had plagued him. He had loved art and music, dance, theater, the world. An eternal optimist. The pain was okay, because he was living, still with her, still seeing the world. Death would be okay, too, because then the pain would be gone, and there was a better world.
He had given her the snow globe. It played a beautiful, if somewhat sad, tune, though the title was a mystery. It held a wilderness scene, with horses and riders racing through a winter landscape. She shook it and watched the snow fall.
“I wish you were with me, old friend,” she said softly.
A few minutes later, she felt an odd sense of peace settling over her.
Finally she slept. And the dream didn’t come again.

Connie was the first to enter Jillian’s office in the morning. She stepped in humming, then came to a dead halt. A scream escaped her, and she clamped her hand over her mouth to stop it.
Someone rushed in behind her, and she spun around. Daniel Llewellyn.
Like her, he stood dead still. Staring. At the cat.
“Jeeves is…dead,” she said.
“Sure looks like it,” Daniel said.
“Hey, what’s all the commotion?” Griff demanded, walking in behind them.
They both looked at Griff with almost as much surprise as they had stared at the cat.
“You’re early,” Connie said.
“Keeping on my toes,” Griff said lightly, then saw the cat. “Whoa, what happened to him?”
“Connie?” Joe rushed in, looking anxiously at his wife. “I heard you screaming. What—”
“It’s the cat,” she explained.
“The cat?” Joe queried, puzzled.
“Jeeves apparently climbed up on Jillian’s desk to die last night,” Daniel explained. “We shouldn’t have kept a cat in the office in the first place,” he muttered.
“I looked after him,” Griff said, walking over to the dead cat, picking it up. “He’s cold. Dead a long time. What could have happened to him? There are no dogs in here, no cars to run him over—”
“Maybe he was just old,” Joe suggested tactfully. “I mean, no one knew much about him.”
“Should we have…an autopsy?” Connie asked. “An investigation?”
“Cut him up?” Griff demanded indignantly. He stroked the dead cat, looking hurt and troubled.
“I don’t think we can call the police in over a dead cat,” Daniel said dryly.
“But…” Connie began, and shivered suddenly. “A black cat…just dead. On Halloween.”
“In Jillian’s office,” Joe said.
“And after last night,” Connie moaned.
“Last night?” Daniel queried.
“She passed out at the bar,” Joe explained.
“The golden girl got drunk and passed out?” Griff said skeptically.
Connie offered him a withering glare. “Of course not, she just—”
“It was the fortune-teller,” Joe said.
“Tarot card reader,” Connie corrected.
“What?” Daniel demanded, incredulously.
“She started screaming that Jillian was a witch.”
“Well, I’m sure we’ve all called her a name or two along the way,” Griff drawled.
“It was spooky,” Connie informed them firmly.
“Yeah, it was kind of uncanny,” Joe agreed, setting his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “Then Marston appeared—”
“Robert Marston showed up at the bar?” Daniel asked sharply.
“And Jillian passed out?” Griff said, brow furrowed as he tried to understand the chronology of events. “Because of Marston?”
“No…no…” Connie murmured uncertainly.
“It was the bar, I guess,” Joe said.
“The bar or the beer?” Daniel asked.
“She wasn’t drunk,” Connie told him.
“The fortune-teller made her think she was a witch?” Griff asked, as confused as his brother.
“No…but I…” Connie began.
“I don’t think we should let her find Jeeves like this,” Joe said flatly. “She loved that cat.”
“She loves anything with fur,” Daniel commented.
“Is that true of her men, too?” Griff asked Connie, teasing.
“Griff…” Daniel began warningly.
“Hey, she’s coming!” Joe alerted them, stepping in and closing the door. “She’s on her way down the hall.”
Griff quickly slid the dead cat behind his back. Connie rushed over to him, standing behind him so the dead cat was fully hidden.
“The tray of cookies is still there,” Daniel muttered.
“I’ll just grab it,” Joe volunteered.
When Jillian stepped into her office, it was more than weird. Connie and Griff were standing to one side, were very close to one another, looking like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. A very guilty Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.
Daniel was standing by her desk, Joe beside him, looking like a butler, last night’s tray of cookies and tea in his hands.
“Good morning, Jillian,” Joe said brightly.
She frowned. “Good morning, Joe.” She looked around her office again. “Daniel, Connie, Griff,” she said, greeting each of them in turn.
“Morning,” Connie said.
“Good morning, Jill,” Daniel murmured.
“Ditto,” Griff told her.
They were all staring at her.
“Okay,” she said. “What are you all doing in my office?”
“Meeting,” Daniel said.
“I stubbed my toe,” Connie said.
“She stubbed her toe,” Joe repeated. “And screamed.”
“Yeah. She screamed. We all came running,” Griff told her.
They were still staring at her.
“Are you all right now?” she asked Connie.
“Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be all right?” Connie said.
“Your toe,” Jillian reminded her.
“Oh…I…yes. It’s fine now.”
“So what about this meeting?” Jillian said.
“What?” Connie said, frowning.
“Meeting. Didn’t you say you were here for a meeting, Daniel?” Jillian asked.
“Yeah.”
“About what?”
“A quick meeting. Just to say that, uh, we’re definitely going with the Celtic cross.”
“You told me that yesterday.”
“Yeah, but…there’s also an ad campaign we need to discuss.” He looked at his watch. “Can’t now. Have to be in a marketing meeting in two minutes.”
“But—” Jillian began.
“Marketing. That’s me,” Griff said.
“Since when have you actually bothered to attend a meeting?” Jillian asked.
“Today. It’s an important one.” He was walking toward her door.
Backward.
And Connie was going with him.
“I’ll get some coffee,” she said, smiling in response to Jillian’s confused frown.
“And I’ll get rid of the tea,” Joe said cheerfully, rushing out, the tea service rattling.
“Marketing,” Daniel said, sounding ridiculously awkward, not at all like his usual assertive self. He followed Joe, passing by Connie and Griff—old Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum—who nearly crashed into one another in their haste to exit her office.
She watched them go, then walked around to her desk and sat, still staring at the door. She groaned aloud and dropped her head into her hands.
The tarot card reader.
The nightmare. The feeling of burning…
And now her family and friends being entirely bizarre.
Like Alice, she might as well have fallen down a hole.
Her world was going mad.

CHAPTER 4
There was a meeting that morning. At eleven a.m., Jillian found herself in the conference room with her grandfather and all her cousins.
It was a family affair, except that Robert Marston and the artist who’d created the sketch Eileen and Theo had discussed, Brad Casey, had also been invited.
Jillian had heard—via Connie, who had heard it from Daniel’s secretary, Gracie Janner—that Douglas, Theo and Daniel had already met earlier. Now the whole family had been brought together.
She didn’t think her grandfather had been planning on this meeting earlier. She’d seen him briefly at the breakfast table that morning, since he’d been finishing up when she’d come down. He looked good—even at his age, he was tall and straight as an arrow—but there had been concern on his features when he’d poured milk over his cornflakes and said, “I heard you had a bad dream last night.”
“Halloween. I guess I’m still impressionable,” she had tossed back lightly.
He hadn’t pressed the point, which had worried her a bit.
Now, he was staring at her down the length of the beautiful hardwood conference table. “I guess everyone knows what’s going on here,” he said, watching her. “Except for you. And Robert.”
She looked around uneasily, feeling a strange sense that maybe everyone really had gone mad and she had been brought here to be told she was to marry Marston or else be thrown to the wolves—whatever form of wolves still lurked in Manhattan, that is.
She didn’t doubt that there were many.
“Douglas, I—”
“It’s about our next ad campaign.”
“What?” she breathed, feeling instantly at sea. Whatever he was getting at, it was nothing she’d been expecting.
“I have to hand it to Eileen and Theo. They saw the possibilities first.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Neither do I, Douglas. What’s up?” Marston asked.
He was seated to her left. Cool, smooth, impeccable. A powerful, neatly manicured hand wrapped around his coffee cup.
“Brad, show the sketches, please.”
Brad Casey was a nice guy. Tall, slim, with thinning, long blond hair, he had a gift for taking a spoken concept and translating it onto paper. He flushed uncomfortably as he rose from his position at the far end of the table and lifted the cover from an easel. Jillian gasped.
He had drawn her. In an incredibly flattering way. She was sure she was far more electric in his sketch than she had ever been in life. She was looking at a man, her eyes alive, conveying a warmth that seemed to come from the soul, as he fastened a locket around her throat. The entire image was stunning. It captured something more than the giving of a special gift to a special person. It seemed to evoke the very essence of two people together, living for one another, understanding the gift not so much of a locket, but of love. The very best, and most tender, of human emotions.
“Wow. That’s—that’s outstanding, Brad,” she said softly. “And extremely flattering, by the way. Thank you.”
She made sure to add the last. He was a brilliant artist, but never really convinced of his talent. A capable man, but often very shy.
His flush deepened.
“Well, of course, it is idealized—” Eileen began.
“Jillian glows,” Daniel said.
“Just like Rudolph’s nose,” Griff said cheerfully.
The others stared at him.
“Show the next sketch, Brad,” Douglas advised, breaking the silence.
Brad flipped the page. This time, it was a beach setting. She stood by a palm tree. Branches and fronds dipped over her head; the ocean rolled ahead of her. It was dusk, hues of incredible beauty captured on the page. One hand was on the tree, the other reaching for the man coming toward her.
She almost choked.
It was Robert Marston.
She couldn’t look at him. She felt deeply humiliated, as if he had been paid to come here—for her.
“Grandfather, did you—”
“No. Brad admits to using you as his model, but he didn’t know Robert, so that likeness is purely coincidental,” Douglas informed her.
Marston was studying Brad with his fathomless dark eyes. “Quite a coincidence,” he commented.
“Yes, sir,” Brad said. His eyes touched Jillian’s. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. We usually hire models, though we’ve been doing more and more on computer lately, but when I heard what type of feeling they wanted…really, it was me. Just me. And I’m truly sorry.”
It was an incredible speech for Brad Casey, who looked even more desperately miserable than she felt.
“No, no, Brad, what you did is…incredibly flattering, as I said. I’m certainly not angry with you.”
Douglas leaned forward, hands folded on the meeting table, powder-blue eyes steady on hers. “We think it’s incredible. An accidental piece of genius. What better way to promote Llewellyn Enterprises than with a real Llewellyn? We want to make this the centerpiece of a major campaign. Naturally, though, it has to be all right with you. And Robert.”
“They’re wonderful sketches. And if you think that they’ll increase sales, by all means, use them,” she said, though she still felt shaken by the power of the art.
“It’s more than that, Jillian,” Eileen said, sitting forward. “You’d have to be really out there.”
“Really out there…how?” she enquired.
“A campaign, Jill. We want to do a campaign. We want to do some stills, maybe some TV ads. Theo was the first to see it. The sketches are just the beginning.”
Jillian must have been looking at Theo blankly, because he added, “We’re hoping to get you on some of the talk shows.”
“What do I have to talk about?” she asked.
“The company. We can increase our Christmas sales, and by doing so, we’ll be able to increase our charitable donations. We’ll even do a special campaign, something for the children’s hospital you support.”
Theo, she thought, was really trying to talk her into it. She wasn’t sure she shared his enthusiasm, though. She wasn’t convinced that her image would sell more jewelry or improve sales at all.
“We can focus on your piece this year. We haven’t worked it all out yet,” Douglas said. “But the campaign will have something to do with the timelessness of beauty, relationships, the human need for love and permanence. And a full ten percent of each sale will go to charity.”
Marston leaned forward before she could speak. “Don’t you think we might be putting Jillian in danger by making her so well known?” he enquired, not quite sure why the fear loomed so large in his mind.
“Danger?” Eileen exclaimed.
“All our images have already been out there,” Daniel said. “For Douglas’s last birthday, family shots ran in a number of national publications.”
“And the press was all over Jillian last year when Mi—” Eileen began, then broke off.
“When Milo died,” Griff ended quietly.
“There was a tremendous amount of press then. Especially in the city. You must remember,” Theo told him.
“Anyone with money and influence stands in danger,” Douglas said, breaking in at last. “I see your point, Robert. But I also believe that what the others are saying is true—we’ve all been out there many times. Our faces are certainly recognizable. I’ve always had the best and most up-to-date security on the house, and the company that handles this building is top-rated. From the richest man to the poorest, no one is safe from random acts of violence. We need to be smart. But I have always refused to live like an ostrich. I came from nothing, and I was blessed to create this empire—a small empire, but an empire all the same. I like this campaign. It gives back, and it shares the spirit of the season.”
“That’s another point. Most Christmas ads are already ready to run, and ours are no exception. Marketing strategies have been carefully put into place—”

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