Falling Awake(44)
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz

Maybe he would be so intent on his manhunt that he wouldn’t notice the puff pastry.

ellis set the briefcase down beside the chair in the small living room and took a quick look around while Isabel made herself busy in the kitchen. He hadn’t had a chance to examine the place the night before and he was deeply curious.

The furnishings looked as if they had come with the house. The sofa, chairs, coffee table and lamps were all nondescript and well worn, veterans of a lot of years of summer rentals.

He was mildly surprised not to see more evidence of Isabel’s personal style and tastes in the room. He had figured her for the kind of woman who would put her stamp on her environment. Why the bland backdrop? Probably hadn’t had time to do any interior design.

The collection of volumes in the plank-and-glass block bookcase proved to be the exception to the generic feel of the place.

He glanced at a few of the titles and smiled. As he had expected, it was a mixed lot that ran the gamut from serious academic dream research to the bogus television psychic stuff. G. William Domhoff’s The Scientific Study of Dreams sat side by side with a collection of Jung’s essays on dreams and a popular book that purported to tell people how to interpret the symbols that appeared in their dreamscapes. Freud’s groundbreaking work on the psychological analysis of dreams was juxtaposed with Stephen LaBerge’s experimental reports on lucid dreaming. The legendary sleep studies conducted by Dement were wedged between copies of the elaborate Hall/Van de Castle dream coding system and a volume containing Patricia Garfield’s theories on the same subject.

This was where Martin Belvedere had hoped to see his work shelved, he thought, right next to Freud, Jung, Domhoff, LaBerge and the others. He wondered if Isabel would someday make the old man’s dream of respect and recognition come true. One thing was for sure. Belvedere had been right to entrust his papers to her. If anyone would take on the responsibility of getting him published posthumously, it was Isabel.

“Wine’s ready,” she announced cheerfully. “And I’ve got some hors d’oeuvres, if you’re hungry.”

“You don’t have to call me twice.”

He crossed the living area and took a seat on one of the high-backed swivel chairs at the counter. In spite of the seriousness of the situation and the knowledge that Isabel probably would have fixed dinner for anyone who showed up on her doorstep, he could not ignore the bone-deep satisfaction he was feeling. There was an inexplicable sense of rightness about this cozy domestic scene. It was as if some part of him were trying to tell him that this was where he belonged, what he had been waiting for all these years.

Or maybe the problem was simply that he could not remember the last time anyone had cooked dinner for him.

Isabel set a glass of wine and a small dish containing an assortment of olives, tiny strips of carrots and crunchy pale jicama, together with some cheese and crackers, in front of him.

“Here’s to our future as dream analyst and client,” she said cheerfully, raising her glass.

He was thinking of a much more intimate relationship but he figured this was not the time to mention it.

“To us,” he said, wondering if she was so intent on having him as a client that she was no longer interested in having him as a lover.

The phone in the living room shrilled an irritating summons just as Isabel took a sip from her glass.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Hastily she put the wine down and rounded the far end of the counter.

He swiveled on the chair, one heel hooked over the bottom rung, and watched her scoop up the phone.

“Hello?” she said. Surprise flashed across her face. “Dr. Belvedere. I wasn’t expecting . . . Yes. Yes, thank you. I’m doing very well. Did you hear about poor Gavin Hardy? Yes, he was killed by a hit-and-run driver last night. It was tragic. . . . What’s that? Oh, I see.”

Ellis watched her closely, wariness gathering inside him. What the hell was this about?

“That’s very nice of you, but I’ve made my decision,” Isabel said politely. Her eyes met Ellis’s. “I don’t want to go back into a lab setting. . . . Yes, that’s right, I’m going to open up a consulting business. . . . What?” She frowned and held the phone a short distance from her ear. “Sir, you’re getting a bit loud.”

Ellis could hear Belvedere shouting at her all the way across the room. He couldn’t make out the words, but there was no doubt about the tone. Belvedere was furious.

“No, I most certainly did not know that the contracts prohibited me from working with any of the three anonymous clients,” Isabel said coldly. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen any contracts. If you’ve got proof of such a clause, I will, of course, want to show it to a lawyer. . . .” She paused again. “No, I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have that information.”

She broke off abruptly and then put the phone down very gently. “He hung up on me.”

“Let me take a giant leap in the dark here,” Ellis said. “Belvedere offered to let you return to your old job at the center.”

“With a substantial increase in salary.” She smiled. “I have to tell you, it felt very good to turn him down.” She walked back into the kitchen and picked up her wineglass. “He sounded quite anxious. Evidently he has just discovered that anonymous Client Number One paid some hefty fees for my services.”

“What did he say about Hardy’s death?”

She frowned. “He had heard the news but he didn’t seem the least bit interested. All he cared about was getting me back to the center. When I declined his offer, he got mad and demanded contact information for Clients One and Two.”

“But not Three?”

“No.” She paused and then shook her head decisively. “I got the impression he only knows about two anonymous clients.”

“And when you didn’t give him any information that would help him identify them, he threatened you with legal action if you lured Clients Number One and Two away from the center.”

She looked smug. “Guess I’m a player now, huh?”

He raised his brows. “Oh, yeah.”

Her expression turned uncertain. “He was bluffing when he said the two anonymous clients had signed contracts that made it impossible for me to do any consulting work for them outside the center, wasn’t he?”

“Relax, neither Lawson nor I signed any contracts,” he assured her. “Didn’t want to leave a paper trail. You’re free to consult with us.” He considered briefly. “Sounds like Number Three didn’t sign anything, either.”