The music was being played on a classical guitar by an earnest young man adorned in shoulder-length hair, yellow tunic, and a pair of dark tights that looked suspiciously like exercise tights.
The musician was good. Jonas found it disturbingly easy to hear the four-hundred-year-old exuberance of the Renaissance rune that floated through the modern guitar strings.
In fact, if he narrowed his eyes a little and concentrated on the music and Verity, who was dancing in his arms, Jonas found the night's illusion almost too complete. The costumed people around him were as vividly attired as any Renaissance gathering would have been. It was true the modern fabrics used in the assortment of rented gowns, cloaks, tunics, doublets, and breeches were not as rich or as beautifully made as the originals would have been, but in the soft glow of artificial lamplight and the very real flare of the flames in the steel fireplace, it didn't matter. Polyester looked like silk, machined embroidery appeared handmade, and sparkling pieces of colored glass on hems and cuffs could be mistaken for gemstones.
But the greatest illusion of all, Jonas decided, was the one he was holding in his arms. Verity could easily have stepped from a sixteenth-century Italian painting. She was wearing the peacock-blue velvet gown he had chosen for her the day they went to San Francisco.
The deep, square neckline was embroidered with gold and silver thread and it framed the silken skin of her throat and shoulders. It was just low enough to hint at the soft rise of her br**sts but not so low as to invite prolonged masculine stares. The snug, high-waisted bodice emphasized her slen-derness and the full-skirted gown fell with formal grace all the way to her ankles.
Her hair was pulled back from her forehead, parted in the middle in the old, classic style and folded into a cascade of curls at the nape of her neck. A single blue jewel hung in the middle of her forehead in a style that had been very popular in the sixteenth century. The gem was attached to a fine chain that disappeared into her hair. Tonight Verity's hair looked as if it had been painted by Titian, Jonas thought.
Verity looked up at him, her eyes still reflecting the concern she had been feeling all afternoon for Caitlin.
"Good thing we had advance warning that this was going to be a costume affair. I have a hunch every rental shop in the San Francisco Bay Area has been cleaned out for tonight's party."
Jonas took his eyes off her long enough to cast a quick glance around the room. "You may be right."
"It looks like everyone who is anyone in the art world accepted Caitlin's invitation."
"Like she said, a bunch of curiosity-seekers."
Five of the half-dozen people who would be bidding on Bloodlust tomorrow had arrived earlier and had been shown to their rooms but Jonas hadn't seen Damon Kincaid yet. He was beginning to wonder if the man was going to show up after all. Jonas hoped he wouldn't. The easiest way out of this mess was to have Caitlin's big plan for revenge go quietly down the tubes for lack of one of the participants.
Once he got Verity away from this house, Jonas was certain he could talk some sense into her; get her to see that while Caitlin might have a legitimate desire for vengeance, she also had some serious mental and emotional problems. The woman needed professional help, not Verity's sympathy.
"You know," Verity went on in a soft, mischievous murmur, "you're the only male in the room who looks comfortable in a pair of tights."
Jonas heard the humor in her voice and turned his head to give her a wry glare. "Thanks. You certainly know how to hand out a compliment."
"It's the truth," she said more seriously. "You look right at home in that outfit. Everyone else in the room looks as if he's wearing a costume. You look real."
Verity's eyes moved leisurely over the costume Jonas had chosen. It consisted of a full cut white shirt gathered at the neck and cuffs, a black velvet tunic that ended above his knees, and, yes, a pair of black tights.
The tunic was belted with black leather studded with a lot of showy metal and a few false jewels. An equally flashy dagger sheath complete with a dull-edged fake blade hung suspended from the belt.
Jonas had chosen a short black cloak to wear over the outfit. It fell to a point just below his waist. He had selected his costume and the one Verity was wearing because both had touched some responsive chord in his memory. He had seen people wearing clothes such as these when he had prowled the psychic time corridors.
"I am real, and don't you forget it," Jonas growled. "But I can't say the same for this costume. They didn't have zippers in the Renaissance. Or elastic. And back in those days the dagger would have been a legitimate weapon, not a piece of aluminum."
"At least you didn't wear that damn knife you carry around in your duffel bag."
"I'm wearing it."
Verity stared at him. "You are? Where?"
"On my hip. The cloak hides it."
"Good grief. Are you really expecting trouble tonight?"
Jonas shrugged. "I don't know what the hell is happening and that makes me nervous. The only consolation so far is that Kincaid hasn't arrived."
"Maybe he isn't coming after all," Verity mused. "I don't know what Caitlin will do if he doesn't show. She's been building herself up to this for so long that if things don't go the way she's planned them, I'm afraid she might go a little crazy."
"She's already crazy, if you want my opinion."
Verity's eyes flashed with sudden annoyance. "Just because you're a man doesn't mean you shouldn't be able to understand her need for vengeance. Can't you imagine the kind of emotional scars she's been carrying all these years? Can't you imagine what a woman must feel after being raped and brutalized?"
Jonas studied her intent expression. "I have a good imagination, Verity," he reminded her softly. "And I understand the need for vengeance. I know damn well what I would do to any man who tried to do to you what was done to Caitlin."
She searched his face and Jonas knew the exact moment when she saw the promise of hell in his eyes.
Her own eyes widened for a moment and she trembled in his arms.
"Jonas?" His name was barely a whisper.
"That's right," he said softly. "I would slit his throat. So don't tell me I don't understand vengeance. Caitlin is entitled to hers if she's telling the truth about what happened to her. What I don't like about this whole thing is the elaborate plot and the way she's involving you. She has no right to do that."
"I'm her friend! And I know she's telling the truth. It's there in her painting."
