The Megiddo Mark

Chapter One

Oxford, England

Dead women tell no tales, their books, however, weave a story all their own. Malena Alexander whispered her mother’s words. Desire crystallized into the hard edge of possessive need. She’d do almost anything to own the book she now held.

In another, more rational moment, she’d acknowledge that this book, like any other book, contained words like words she’d read a thousand times in the course of teaching literature.

They held no special magic.

No great power.

Yet, her response to Flights of Fancy, the limited first-edition book of poetry written by her mother, the poet known as A. Alexander, was anything but rational. Her hand shook. She looked around to see if anyone noticed her interest.

No. She stood alone in the preview room.

She turned over the slim leather-bound volume of poems by Ava Alexander, fanned the pages in a careful, precise way, opened to the copyright page; 1973, the year she’d been born. She flipped back a page.

Then she saw the bookplate.

Her mind buzzed, a low hum of excitement. The sounds of busy pre-auction activity at the Bodleian Library in Oxford faded into the distance.

The three-by-five-inch swatch of linen paper fused to the inside of the book heralded her mother’s autograph and much more. Malena ran her thumb over A. Alexander, the signature of the mother she lost twenty years ago. The white auction-house-issued gloves created a barrier of cloth between her and the feel of the fine, tight weave of the patch.

A pang of loneliness shot through her.

Malena didn’t doubt for a moment that a handwritten message intended for her lay behind this plate. When her mother knew she was dying, she began writing messages to Malena, leaving them behind bookplates like this one.

She turned the page.

To Juliana Wade, my best friend in life, may your death not be in vain. Justice will prevail. Rest in peace, dear heart. One day we will meet again. ~ Ava

The name sounded familiar. She grasped at the gentle watercolor-wash of a faded pale memory. A distant snippet of a conversation. Turning another page she saw the book dedication: To Juliana Wade (born July 1948 ~ died August 1973). She remembered. Juliana had been her mother’s friend who had died a few months before Malena’s birth.

She opened the back cover and a piece of paper fluttered, falling in a slow twirl to the ground. The edges glowed like a charcoal briquette then flamed. She blinked rapidly to clear her eyes. In an instant, the flames were gone. The slip lay on the floor pristine; a simple square of heavy-weight paper. Her mother’s neat penmanship blazoned across the course linen. Vitae Lux.

Surely she’d imagined the fire.

Malena stooped to consider the fragment of paper on the pitted slate floor then flipped the yellowed piece over. A beautiful image was imprinted on the small square, an intricate sphere with symbols worked into the pattern. The bold black lines formed geometric ellipticals in every shade of the rainbow—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet—to create the design of a lacey flower.

A bell sounded inside the library. The auction signal.

Malena resisted the strong urge to tuck the scrap into her pocket. It didn’t belong to her. Yet.

She brushed her fingers across her mother’s handwritten farewell to an old friend, then slipped the paper between the pages and replaced the book on its stand. Malena tugged the short white gloves from her fingers, and deposited them in a nearby basket before she walked through the doorway into the auction hall.

Elizabeth waved. Malena sat in the chair next to her, pleased she had a clear view of the auctioneer. She accepted the auction program from her. Elizabeth O’Malley, Rush College Rare Collection’s librarian, had accompanied Malena to Oxford to secure the Maria Edgeworth manuscript.

"An autographed first-edition. Flights of Fancy is in perfect condition. Only five copies printed with these exact poems. I must have it," Malena said close to Elizabeth’s ear.

Lovely. Elizabeth nodded and smiled. The Edgeworth is on page one hundred three.

Malena had been asked by the department head to attend today’s auction. Finding a volume of her mother’s poetry here at a rare book sale was an unexpected bonus.

She flipped through the glossy pages to the right spot. Her mind again wandered to Flights of Fancy. An impatience she hadn’t experienced in years hit her, making her antsy and anxious. She wanted this volume of poetry more than she’d wanted anything in a long time. What if someone else won the bid? She couldn’t bear to think about it. Surely no one else would show interest in the tiny, insignificant book of poetry by A. Alexander; insignificant to anyone but her. She would not lose the book now that she knew it existed. Her mother’s poems would be hers in moments. Malena glanced at her watch. She’d give it five minutes. Tops. She tapped her foot on the floor, anxious to hold the book once again. To keep its secrets safe from outsiders.

A few tourists peppered the assembly. Otherwise, the crowd looked predominately academic.

The bidding on Flights of Fancy had begun. Ten pounds. She nodded, a slight movement. The auctioneer noticed. Someone else bid twenty-five. She sat forward to see if she could find the other bidder. She couldn’t see anyone else bidding on the item. Elizabeth pulled out her knitting and began to tat in time with the auctioneer who continued his chant from the podium.

Do I hear fifty? Fifty?

Malena twitched, fifty pounds.

Fifty. And sixty? He pointed at someone in the audience. Sixty.

Again, Malena scanned the crowd. This time she turned in her seat. No one seemed remotely interested.

Eighty. Ninety. One hundred. He pointed first to the far window, second to the center of the crowd and then, finally, to her. She’d bid one hundred.

Counter bid, one hundred fifty.

She fought to sit still.

Again, someone raised the bid.

She twirled her auction paddle, her move hidden from the larger crowd. The auctioneer caught the fluttery movement.

Two hundred fifty pounds.

Who else would want the book that had belonged to her mother? Participants were still filing in the door, causing a slight disturbance.

Bright morning light poured in the windows behind her, casting shadows in the nooks and alcoves. The auctioneer waved his gavel back and forth between where she sat near the door to a spot close to the far wall.

Bidding escalated at a rapid rate.

Gimme five. Five. Anyone five? Five hundred pounds. The auctioneer confirmed Malena’s bid.

She whispered to Elizabeth. Who in blazes cares about my book? Well, they can’t have it. Find the person who is bidding against me and create a distraction. I need this book.

Elizabeth smiled slyly, her violet eyes and short spiked gray hair giving her the air of a mischievous sprite rather than a serious college librarian. She slipped out of her seat and disappeared, knitting in hand.

A few others in the center of the room drove the price up. Still, not many people would carry the bidding as high as she planned to take it if necessary.

Six hundred fifty pounds.

Malena fanned herself using the paddle then grabbed her purse and jumped to her feet. She took up a position next to the door so she could see across the room. The auctioneer nodded in affirmation. Someone else bid. He stood against the cathedral-style window. He was tall, dark-haired, and extremely handsome. Why on earth would he want the volume?

Pockets of conversation here and there, small beehives of murmuring, hummed throughout the room. Malena bid. Again, the man on the other side of the room was about to lift his arm to bid when Elizabeth walked straight into him, knitting needles first. She’d skewered him.

Ouch. Malena winced, turning back to the auctioneer. She bit down hard on her lips to keep from smiling.

What the hell? the man said.

Eight hundred. Eh-eh-eight. Give me eight?

Malena flicked her number. The bid was hers.

Eight it is. Nine?

A man in the middle aisle bid nine.

She placed her final bid. One thousand pounds.

One thousand. One thousand one hundred? Anyone? One thousand then. Going once.

She looked across the room. Half the patrons in the room stared at the commotion as the attractive man whirled, almost knocking Elizabeth over. The crowd parted. People shuffled out of Elizabeth’s path, giving her a wide berth as she clutched her knitting needles.

Her half-moon spectacles sat askew on the tip of her nose. She stumbled and almost sprawled onto the floor. The man grabbed her elbow to steady her. The bag Elizabeth carried on her shoulder, stuffed with bright colored balls of yarn, fell off her arm as he jostled her to keep her from falling into the lap of a man seated nearby. Extra needles clattered to the floor. Yarn rolled down the aisle.

Elizabeth scrambled on the floor after the wayward yarn, jamming her needles into the man’s ankle.

Ow. Damn, woman. Would you watch those?

Moments after the bag spilled its contents onto the slate floor, the man’s feet were tangled in yards of loose yarn. Malena watched in fascination. Elizabeth looked up at him standing over her. He held his side. God, she was good. Elizabeth could earn an Academy Award for this performance. Her voice sounded strained and worried even to Malena’s ears.

Did I hurt you, lad? Oh, by the saints, I never meant to hurt you, she said. She pulled at his tucked-in shirt to assess the damage.

He pushed her hands away to keep her from undressing him in public. I’m fine.

Malena smiled behind her hand at the look of horror on his face. She focused her attention back on the auctioneer but found herself straining to hear the conversation.

One thousand going twice. Seconds had passed.

She held her breath, waiting for the man against the wall to chime in with a counter bid, but his focus remained on protecting himself from Elizabeth.

Last call for one thousand. The auctioneer’s chant was muffled by Elizabeth’s loud confessional.

Ooch, I’m sorry, lad, Elizabeth said. I’m sooo clumsy. I wasn’t lookin’ where my feet were taking me. Me mum’s scarf is all I think about. Do you ken? Look at the mess I’ve made.

Elizabeth continued to brush at the web of colored yarn that wound tighter around his feet. Malena covered her mouth, working hard to quell the laugh that threatened to erupt.

Shush.

Quiet.

So rude. Bidders tried to silence Elizabeth, but to no avail.

The man squatted next to Elizabeth, and then lifted her into a standing position away from the yarn. Don’t, he said. Let me. His voice, deep and clear, carried across the room sending a shiver up her spine. He wasn’t unkind to Elizabeth, just the opposite in fact, but Malena could tell by his tight facial expressions that he was uncomfortable with the attention directed his way. He gathered the yarn in one swoop.

The gavel pounded, echoing loud. Sold for one thousand pounds!

The tangled bidder snapped to attention and searched the crowd.

Malena ducked through the doorway and into the nearby ladies room. She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want him to see her. She’d done it. She was surprised at herself. She’d never gone to such lengths to obtain anything. The compulsion to own her mother’s book had been like nothing she’d ever experienced.

The book was hers.

Why had the man been so adamant about buying her mother’s book? His determination puzzled her. She flexed her shoulders. Oh, well, it wasn’t her problem. Flights of Fancy now belonged to her.

Whoohoo! She danced a little jig. Nothing could stop her now.

#

"So you’ve never seen this version of Flights of Fancy before today?" Elizabeth huddled in close to see the small leather-bound volume.

No, never. Malena laughed. I am so pleased.

Who would have thought something like this could happen? Wonderful.

I know.

Standing outside in the slate courtyard of the Bodleian Library, Malena and Elizabeth exchanged excited whispers. Malena slipped the small volume into her purse. She’d cut the plate from the book later to unveil the secret message. A rush of emotion threatened to overwhelm her. The book remained too personal to put on display right now.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like the spectacle you created. Malena hugged Elizabeth. Thank you.

They walked across the courtyard away from the auction. Malena felt like a teenager again. She hadn’t pulled a prank of that magnitude since high school.

I thought he’d have an apoplexy, the poor lad, when he heard bidding had closed for the book. Elizabeth carried the wrapped and bound Edgeworth manuscript pages in her arms.

You’ve never seen the likes, I can bet you. His feet all wound about with yarn. It was a ravin’ mad scene. He must have thought me a daft one.

Again they paused.

Ah well, we’ve seen the last of him. Let’s go. We’ve got sights to see. Let’s hope the afternoon is a lot less eventful.

Malena turned from Elizabeth and pulled up short. There stood a man.

I’m sorry. Malena shielded her eyes from the glaring sun. I didn’t see you. I should be paying attention to where I’m go—

He stood close. Too close.

Malena took a step back. She stared into his broad chest. She glanced at his face then looked down again at her shoes.

The victim of their jab and buttonhook stood in front of her.

She peeked at his model-perfect face again. Strong chiseled features. Intense green eyes fringed by dark lashes. Firm square jaw. She tried, too late, to stifle the groan that slipped out. She should have known winning the bid for the book had been almost too easy. Do I know you?

Not yet. But you will. He gave a slow, lazy smile. The man turned to Elizabeth who’d gone silent. Ah, we meet again. He grinned. I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting, he said looking into Malena’s eyes as he took her hand.

Again, the frisson of electricity pulsed in Malena’s stomach. Her eyes were riveted to his wide sensual lips. She could tell he knew the effect he had on her. She tugged her hand from his grasp.

Malena pushed her shoulders back, standing straighter and in doing so, managed to draw his attention to her breasts. He smiled, his gaze lingering where the V of her striped blouse met with the low rounded curve of her white cotton camisole. She struggled to calm her erratic heartbeat, appalled. Malena had never reacted this way to a total stranger.

You’ve got something I want. His British accent—clear, crisp, rich, and masculine—washed over her. His melodious tenor made the words take on a seductive meaning that stoked a heat dormant for too long.

I beg your pardon? Her gaze snapped to his and held.

"The book, Flights of Fancy." He smiled.

Ah, yes, my book.

I’m willing to buy it from you for double the price you paid. Two thousand pounds on the spot. He patted first one side of his jacket then tugged at the inside pocket of his suit coat to produce a checkbook.

She looked him up and down; from his stylish haircut, to his tailored shirt and well-fitted suit, to the tip of his fine leather shoes. Way too pricey for her. No doubt possessive and arrogant, too, underneath the suave packaging. She knew his type. Spoiled, rich. He stood for everything she’d learned to despise during those early years growing up in a single-parent family where money had been scarce. She could tell, just by looking at him, that he thought he could get anything he wanted by throwing money at it.

Well, he’d better think again. No, sorry, she said, and turned to herd Elizabeth back toward the library.

Wait. No, just like that? He laughed. You’re not even going to negotiate? He’d stepped in front of her, heading off her retreat.

Nope.

You could at least pretend to consider my offer, especially since you had your knitting-needle-packing friend stab me.

I did not stab you, Elizabeth said. I poked you.

Hmmm. Rather a fine point of distinction, wouldn’t you say?

I didn’t ask her to attack you. I only asked her to distract you for a moment. Malena’s voice trailed off as she realized she’d just admitted to a rather unprofessional ploy. Well, you can’t have the book. It’s mine. Damn, she sounded like a petulant toddler who wouldn’t share a toy. She grinned in apology. Look, I’m not going to resell the book. I hope you understand. It’s personal.

A group of passing men paused at the library entrance. One, wearing the dark robes of an Oxford scholar, greeted them. Good afternoon ladies. Wade, good to see you.

Don McAllister. He bowed to the older man.

The don nodded again, pushed up his round spectacles and continued on, shuffling his feet. Smart boy, smart boy, he muttered as he disappeared into the shadowy interior of the library.

Her auction opponent, presumably Wade, winked at her. One corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. His honest charm penetrated her defenses. She’d not felt so vulnerable with a man in a long time.

Then at least say you’ll have dinner with me, he said.

I don’t even know your name. You’re a perfect stranger.

Well, at least you think I’m perfect.

I didn’t say . . .

He grinned. That’s an easy one to fix. Wade, Cullen. There, problem solved. I’m well respected all over England. We can retrieve Don McAllister, he’ll vouch for me.

No, I’m only here for the auction today. I’m headed back to London this afternoon.

What better fortune? Isn’t it every American girl’s dream to be wined and dined by someone who knows the city on the Thames?

Only eighteen-year-olds dream of hooking up with a prince these days. And I’m no stranger to London.

I don’t claim to be a prince, only enchanted by you.

Malena laughed. It had been so long since she’d enjoyed the company of a sexy man. Still no.

Right, yes, of course. Then you take me to dinner, he said. Show me your favorite haunts. She looked over at Elizabeth.

Don’t look at me, Elizabeth said. I’ve my own friends to entertain me when I’m in London.

I’ll pick a place. Wade pulled a business card from his inner pocket and jotted something on the back. It’s a well-known restaurant. Drop around tomorrow night at seven sharp and I promise you won’t regret it.

She forced herself not to react to his cocky promise even though she wanted to smile. He was all wrong for her; not her type at all. Wealthy, self-confident, type A personalities were always trouble, big trouble.

She sighed.

But wouldn’t it be nice to live a little for a change? It wouldn’t hurt to enjoy one romantic dinner with a handsome man who showed obvious signs of his appreciation, would it?

Consider my offer. He reached forward, slipped the card—slowly, deliberately—into the pocket of her blouse. Then he walked away.

She watched him walk the whole way across the courtyard then looked at Elizabeth.

What? I have to eat. It’s only dinner.

#

All right, Mr. Stanhope, I do understand. I’ll let you know what I’ve decided about the bookshop. Malena held the cell phone to her ear, looking out the passenger window. The solicitor prattled on the other end. She glanced across the car as Elizabeth drove them back to London. She flicked her sleeve to look at her watch. Almost six o’clock. They’d spent the afternoon walking around Oxford and enjoyed lunch and afternoon tea. Malena hadn’t planned on arriving back in London so late. She had hours of work ahead of her.

Thank you. She tried hard not to sound testy with the old man. For God’s sake, she had a Ph.D. in literature from Yale. Surely she could comprehend a few simple instructions? Yes, I understand the importance of expediency here, Mr. Stanhope. She bit her bottom lip to keep from bursting into laughter or tears, she wasn’t quite sure which.

Yes. You have been more than thorough. No. I don’t have any questions. Yes. Look, this is short notice, and quite a lot of pressure since I just found out a few days ago I’d inherited the bookshop. But, yes, I’ll contact you after I’ve visited. She paused, listening to the solicitor again. Yes. Thank you, Mr. Stanhope. She snapped the phone closed.

Elizabeth, you would not believe my aunt’s solicitor. Talk about detail-oriented. He probably irons his boxers. Sheesh. You wouldn’t know I’d already spent two hours on the phone with him this morning.

And where would we be without the Mr. Stanhopes of this world? So what’s happened now, dear?

Mr. Stanhope took a call from Aunt Blanche’s shop manager after our conversation this morning. Two of the three booksellers have quit. Mutiny. And . . .

And what?

He’s had a rather insistent buyer pressing him all day about purchasing the shop. Says I need to consider the offer. But I don’t know. I’ll pop in while we’re in London to take a look at the property. I haven’t been there in years.

Would you really sell? Not run the bookshop?

I’ve decided I am not going to decide yet. I’ll visit. I need to take my time. This is a big step for me. My great-aunt owned the store for as long as I can remember. I can’t rush.

Good for you. Well, either way, I’m here to support your decision. The shop can’t run on its own for long. Are you considering taking a sabbatical beyond summer break?

Yes. I have little choice in the matter. There’s no way I can teach in America and run a business in London. My passion is in teaching those kids. And yet, I love that shop. I can’t bear to think about a stranger owning it.

Aye. Elizabeth’s slight lilt slipped, showing her Irish heritage. A transplanted Irish émigré, she often spoke in lyrical sing-song tones that made others feel cozy and at home.

I don’t know what I’ll do yet. I’m hoping the answer will hit me while I’m in London.

Did you know that your aunt planned to will you the shop?

No, I hadn’t a clue. I’d been Aunt Blanche’s only living relative. But it never dawned on me that I’d one day own the place, need to run it. She knew how much I loved teaching. I thought she’d arrange to sell.

Yes, odd she never mentioned her expectations.

She did have some rather strong opinions, but she didn’t pay attention to the day-to-day details of life. No, I just think she knew how much I loved the shop. And she didn’t think about what it would take for me to continue to run the store.

Hmmm, Elizabeth said. I don’t understand her motivation, but I like my theory better. An incurable matchmaker, your aunt. So I’m hoping one of her booksellers is an Adonis who will sweep you off your feet.

Drop it. I’m in no mood nor do I have the energy to be mad at you. I am not, I repeat, not looking for a relationship.

If love found her, and she’d recently begun to doubt it ever would, it would have to surprise her while she attended to her already busy life. She ascribed to the watched pot theory of finding love. A watched pot never boils, a woman on the hunt never finds true love. At the moment, she had bigger concerns.

I don’t know. Elizabeth clucked. For what it’s worth, I think you should take the sabbatical and see what happens.

I’m no good at jumping the chasm. If I can’t see firm footing on the other side, I won’t jump. There are too many unknowns here. But I agree, I need to wait to decide. One way or the other, I’ll make the best choice I can. It’ll be fine. But she, too, had her doubts.

Well, I’m still hoping you find a little sizzle here in England. What’s the name of that lovely man we just met?

Elizabeth, ever the optimist. Mmmm. Lovely. Mr. Wade Cullen. Not that it matters. She rested her head back against the seat. I’ll be entirely too busy to have dinner with him.

She couldn’t bring herself to touch the card in her pocket. No matter how much she wanted to know more about the man, she wouldn’t show interest in front of Elizabeth. She’d toss the card away as