"I know," Verity agreed readily. Her momentary amusement faded. "There are a lot of things about you that aren't even twentieth-century. Sometimes I think you would have done very well back in the Renaissance, Jonas."
He moved across the room with that peculiar, gliding grace that came so naturally to him, and tipped up her chin with one hard finger. "You think so?"
"I know so."
"They had ways of handling troublesome females back then."
"Is that right?" She grinned. "You'll have to demonstrate sometime. Meanwhile, we'd better get dressed for dinner." She moved away from him. "I hope you packed that nice sweater I gave you for Christmas."
"You know it's packed. You put it in my bag yourself."
"So I did."
"Very wifely of you to remember my sweater," he observed softly.
Verity flinched and began to unpack busily. "Packing your sweater wasn't a wifely act. It was the act of a shrewd business manager who wants you properly dressed for the client."
"I see." He watched her closely for a long moment, then silently started to undress.
Elyssa and Doug were waiting for them downstairs in a grand salon that ran most of the length of the old villa's south wing. Most of the room was in shadow, the old furniture covered in sheets. Only a small section at the far end of the salon, near the deep fireplace, had been made reasonably comfortable.
Several people were seated on the worn furniture, chatting quietly. A fire blazed on the old hearth.
"Come in, we've been waiting for you. I want you to meet everyone." Elyssa swept forward, her jewelry jangling and her long white skirt swirling. She took Jonas's arm and guided him toward the small group.
Verity made a face behind her lover's back and limped bravely forward on her own. A young, thin, bearded man wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses rose and came toward her. He had very dark, serious eyes.
"Hello," he said in a low voice as he took her arm. "I'm Oliver Crump. Let me give you a hand."
"Thank you." Verity beamed at him, aware that Jonas had glanced back just in time to catch her dazzling smile. His disapproving look encouraged her to turn up the smile a few more watts. He deserved it for letting himself be swept off by Elyssa. "Verity Ames. I'm Jonas's business manager."
"Oliver is a healer," Elyssa explained brightly. "Aren't you, Oliver?"
"I work a little with herbs and crystals, that's about all," Oliver Crump said quietly. His brows came together in a fierce line as he looked down at Verity's injured foot. "What did you do to your ankle?"
"Slipped on an icy deck."
"How many days ago?"
"A couple." She looked down. "The swelling has started to go down but it's still sore."
Crump helped her into a heavy wooden chair with a threadbare green velvet cushion. The thick arms and legs of the chair were ornately carved. Verity leaned back experimentally, wondering how old it was.
Late nineteenth century, she guessed—certainly not Renaissance.
"Let me introduce the people with whom I share the paths to enlightenment," Elyssa said. She stood gripping Jonas's arm as she waved at the small circle of faces. "Oliver Crump, as I just mentioned, is a psychic healer. And that's Preston Yarwood over there by the liquor cabinet. Preston is the leader of our little group. He's a marvelous teacher, so inspirational. He's been interested in psychic studies for years, long before it became so popular. He studied with Ilhela Yonanda, you know."
"Is that right?" Verity said, wondering who Ilhela Yonanda was.
"How do you do?" Yarwood spoke from the dark corner near the fireplace, where he was pouring drinks. "Understand your plane was a little late." He sounded vaguely satisfied about that.
When Yarwood stepped forward to nod at Verity and shake Jonas's hand, the firelight gleamed on the scalp showing through his thinning hair. He appeared to be in his midforties, a short, dynamic-looking man with a rather florid face and a slight paunch. His gaze was intelligent and observant. He had the serene, blissful smile Verity was coming to think of as the New Age look.
Yarwood wore a tastefully expensive plum-colored sweater. His well-cut wool trousers had pleats, and Verity was willing to bet that his loafers were Italian. There was a heavy gold watch on his wrist, the face of which was solid black. Verity was impressed. Running psychic-development seminars was obviously lucrative, as Doug had remarked.
"What can I get you, Verity?" Yarwood asked politely.
"Fruit juice would be fine."
"I had a feeling you would drink juice," Preston murmured softly, as if another prediction had just been verified. "And you, Jonas?"
"Scotch if you've got it." Jonas took the seat next to Elyssa.
"And this," Elyssa went on smoothly, indicating another young man slouched in a corner of the sofa, "is Slade Spencer. Slade is a new member of our circle, although he's been studying various paths on his own for years, haven't you, Slade?"
"Yeah, that's me. Always on the road to enlightenment."
Slade Spencer concentrated for a moment on packing a fragrant-smelling pipe. His hands appeared to tremble slightly.
The small task accomplished, he stretched out his long, jean-covered legs. Slade seemed to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but Verity couldn't tell for sure.
He ignored Jonas and smiled slowly at Verity as he reached for a glass on the table beside him.
Spencer's face had a pinched, ascetic look, and his eyes were feverishly bright beneath his dark brows.
He was so thin that he appeared almost gaunt. There was a sense of nervous energy about the man, as if some part of him was always in motion or, Verity realized with sudden intuition, always struggling to maintain control.
"I admit I've been attracted to the concept of an altered state of consciousness for some time now,"
Slade said, enunciating carefully, as if he didn't quite trust his tongue not to trip him up. "I have this theory that most of us are living in a very unnatural state of consciousness, and that the normal, natural state for human beings is actually what's usually referred to as an altered state. I see the true natural state as a deeply sensual one. A state in which we use all our senses to learn the true meaning of pleasure and personal satisfaction. What do you think? Are you headed in the same direction, Verity?"
Verity blinked. She realized that Slade Spencer had been hitting the booze rather heavily for the past couple of hours. "Actually, I'm into cooking," she said. She glanced around the room and saw the blank expressions. "Vegetarian cooking," she added quickly, hoping that would buy her some credibility.
