Shadowlight by Lynn Viehl Page B

GenHance’s business would enable hers to grow exponentially. “I believe we are, Mr. Lawson.”
    “Excellent. I’d like to get together with you to discuss more of the details in person. What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?”
    She glanced at her calendar, but the day remained blessedly free of midday appointments. “It looks like I’m meeting with you.”
    He chuckled. “How does one o’clock at Cecile’s suit you?”
    He’d picked the best French restaurant in the city, where reservations were usually required months in advance. “That’s fine. I’ll see you there tomorrow afternoon.”
    “I’m looking forward to it.”
    Rowan Dietrich took off her headset as soon as Jessa Bellamy ended her latest call, uttered the filthiest words she knew, and then dialed Drew’s private number.
    “Mom,” he answered in a mocking, childish whine, “I told you not to call me at work anymore.”
    “Just wait till your father comes home,” she said, keeping up the joke with her best stern-parent tone. “He’s gonna kick your ass.”
    “Lovely.” A brief crackle of static came over the line as Drew switched on his encryption unit. “We’re clear, little mama. Is it her?”
    She could have lied and said no, and Drew would have believed her. She wanted to. But the thing was out of her hands now. “Yeah, it’s her. She’s scheduled to be taken at Cecile’s tomorrow afternoon. One o’clock.”
    “That soon?” He sucked in a breath. “Maybe we should reconsider this one.”
    “It isn’t up for a vote, Andrew,” she snapped. “They want her, we take her. It’s what we do. It’s what you do, when you’re not jerking off.”
    His tone flattened. “Anything else for me?”
    “Besides a spot right next to me when we burn in hell for this? Not really.” She slammed down the phone.
    She went upstairs, more to get away from the communications center than anything, and wandered through the dark corridors On a good day she could spend hours going through the rooms, looking at all the beautiful old stuff in them, and imagining what it must have been like to live in the place. When Matthias was out of town, she sometimes dressed in one of the old gowns she’d found in the attic, and served herself tea in the Dove Room.
    There, with the sunlight streaming through the blue, white, and green bits of stained glass framing the windows, she could forget who she was. There she played the lady, one who didn’t know what it was to sleep on a park bench, or wash in the sink of a public restroom, or beg for handouts at the back door of a restaurant kitchen. No one looking at her could see the tats under the long, fragile satin sleeves, or the scars everywhere else. They’d never guess she was trash.
    Rowan checked the windows and doors out of habit before walking out into the garage. She wasn’t supposed to leave when she manned the fort by herself, but she couldn’t stand the silence, and she knew she wouldn’t sleep, not after making that call. She got into her Jeep and drove out onto the narrow back road behind the house. From there it was fifteen minutes to her favorite watering hole, Weeping William’s, where she sat in the shadows and watched some tubby tourists shoot lousy pool.
    The bartender, an old stretch of skinny bones and dark coffee-colored skin, brought her Cherry Coke and a small bowl of pretzels. He had a long, thin birthmark on his left cheek that looked as if he were crying black tears. “Where you been, girl?”
    “Working.” She took a sip of the soda to ease her dry throat before glancing over at the football game being shown on the small color TV above the bar. “How’s the team look this year?”
    “Falcons? Shit.” He drew out the last word with much-relished disgust. “I can’t even bring myself to bet against ’em, though I’d likely clean up nicely. Where’s your man tonight?”
    “Out of town.” She felt a twinge of guilt. “You know he’s my boss, not my man.”
    He