Jonas leaned forward, his glass cradled between his lean hands. "What is this item you're trying to sell, Emerson?"
Emerson grinned. "I'll show you." He got to his feet and walked to the front door. En route he patted his daughter on the head. "Be right back. Try not to tear each other's throats out while I'm gone."
The door closed behind him and silence reigned. Verity studied her half-empty glass. Jonas didn't move.
"So," he said at last, "you came over here tonight to apologize?"
"I don't know what got into me," she mumbled, feeling put upon and therefore sarcastic. "I must have been crazy."
Jonas got soundlessly to his feet and crossed the room to stand in front of her. He took her glass from her hand and set it down beside his on the small table near her chair. Then his hands closed around her shoulders and he lifted her to her feet.
"So gracious. But I'll take what I can get. Apology accepted, little tyrant," he said softly and brushed the lightest of kisses across the tip of her nose. With his mouth very close to hers he asked, "What have you got on under this coat?" He ran a finger down the row of large buttons to the sash. "It looks like a nightgown."
"Never mind about my clothes. I think you owe me an apology, too," she announced, looking up at him warily.
"I agree," he said, golden eyes suddenly cryptic. "But my sin is greater than yours and I haven't even finished committing it yet. Give me a little time, Verity."
She thought he was about to kiss her again, this time on the mouth, but the door opened, letting in a blast of cool air. Her father came into the room, bearing an old, flat wooden case. He watched with interest as Jonas casually took his hands off Verity's shoulders. "Here, now, don't let me interrupt anything. You two got something going on between you?"
"Don't get excited, Dad; the man works for me."
"Looks to me like you're giving out some interesting employee benefits, Red."
"Forget it, Dad. What's in the case?"
Emerson chuckled. "Take a look. If your old man hasn't been had, if these are genuine, they're worth a small fortune. Enough to pay off the hound who's baying at my heels." He opened the old case and revealed two oddly shaped guns nesting in faded, aging felt.
Verity stared at the long-barreled weapons. They were both fascinating and ominous-looking. The grips were curved and the metal was blued. There was no hint of ornamentation on the guns. Unlike most handcrafted items from the past, they were stark, functional, and terrifyingly plain in design. The very lack of decorative details seemed to emphasize the purpose for which the weapons had been made.
"Dueling pistols," Jonas said calmly. He peered into the case but made no move to touch the guns.
"British flints. Probably late seventeen hundreds. If they're real, you're in luck, Emerson. They're worth a bundle. How did you say you got hold of them?"
Emerson eyed his prize. "I did a favor for someone once a long time ago. I looked him up in Rio a few weeks back to see if he would be willing to loan me a few bucks to help me get out of my present predicament. He gave me these instead and said they should take care of my problem. I trust my friend, naturally, but you never know. The first thing I have to do is verify that these are originals and not reproductions. Then I'll have to figure out how to find a buyer."
"The first part of your problem should be easy to solve," Verity said briskly. "Jonas has the kind of knowledge and experience it takes to authenticate old things, don't you, Jonas?" She looked up at him, challenging him to prove that what Caitlin Evanger had said about him earlier was true. "Go ahead.
Tell us whether my father has come into possession of a pair of valuable dueling pistols or if he's just been taken to the cleaners."
"I'm kind of curious myself," Emerson said easily. "The condition of my face may depend on it, not to mention my kneecaps. Do you know something about old guns?"
Jonas said nothing. He just stared down into the mahogany case as if he were looking through a window into another world.
"His former area of expertise is the Renaissance," Verity told her father quietly as she watched Jonas.
"But apparently he has a broad range of knowledge on the subject of arms and armor. Well, Jonas?"
He looked up then, his gaze trapping hers. The glittering gold of his eyes made her catch her breath. She sensed a battle going on behind that gaze; perhaps a battle between ghosts. She couldn't tell if Jonas was furious or desperate or excited or eager, or if his new mood was a dangerous combination of all of those emotions. She knew only that there was a wildness in him in that moment that defied description.
Verity swallowed uneasily, wondering what had been unleashed inside him. Already she regretted her impulsive demand.
"Jonas?" she whispered with uncertainty.
"You don't know what you're asking," he said, his voice raw and harsh. "But maybe this is as good a time as any for both of us to find out."
He reached into the case and lifted out one of the pistols.
The instant his hand closed around it, Verity experienced a sudden, overwhelming sensation of being pursued. A ripple of terror went through her. Her palms grew damp and her heart began to beat too quickly, as though she were preparing to run for her life.
That was exactly what she wanted to do. Like a doe fleeing the hunter's hounds, she wanted to whirl and run. The nameless fear gripped her. The walls of the cabin seemed to close in around her, curving, elongating, taking on the shape of a dark tunnel.
Someone was in that tunnel with her. She couldn't see him yet, but she knew he was hunting her. Soon he would reach out for her. If he caught her she would never escape.
Her whole future would be altered if the hunter in the dark corridor found her.
Verity stood frozen in the center of the room, desperately trying to understand what was happening to her.
Panic attack, she thought frantically. The abrupt onset of an irrational fear that triggered the ancient fight-or-flight mechanism in the human body. She'd never had one, but she had heard about them. She knew other women who had experienced them. The attacks struck without warning, leaving the victim shaking with an anxiety that had no known source. Stress was sometimes blamed. Perhaps Jonas was right.
Maybe she had been working too hard lately.
In her mind she turned a corner in the tunnel tailing shape and started to run. There was no end to the corridor; no iight ahead. But she ran regardless, because anything was safer than staying to confront the hunter who pursued her. Already she could feel him coming closer, hands reaching for her.
