“She must be working for Marcus.”

“The thief? I don’t think so. I tracked their e-mails online. She had no clue who he was or what artifact he had before they met. Despite his duality to me, Cooke was careful not to reveal his identity.”

“Maybe Serge…”

“Serge?” Ben swung upright, the letter opener tearing slivers of wood.

“H-he gave me this.” Harris tapped his jaw. “He was on the scene, trying to find Creed.”

Ben hadn’t considered the connection, but it was possible. It would surprise him, though, if Serge had made a friend, and one so gorgeous and famous as Annja Creed.

On the other hand Serge was positively clandestine. All the time. The man could have a harem for all Ben knew.

“So Creed took off with the skull?”

Harris exhaled. “No, some man got it.”

“Some man? Not Serge? Not Creed? But some person you don’t even have a name for?” He hissed madly. “How many people know about this skull?”

“Sorry, Mr. Ravenscroft.” Harris tugged at his tie. “Jones texted me from the warehouse just before the police nabbed him. Said a strange man took off with the skull. He said the skull did something to him.”

Tapping the tip of the letter opener against his chin, Ben slid a leg along the table. Tightening his jaw, he closed his eyes. “Did something?”

“It was like a hurricane, but inside the warehouse. The other man held it up, and it blew Jones and the Creed woman from their feet.”

This was incredible to learn. So the Skull of Sidon did possess powers. But to give all good things? What good was blowing two people away? And not killing them? Unless it was a good thing to the man who now possessed the skull.

Ben wasn’t sure how the skull worked. Perhaps the individual bearer determined exactly what goodness could be reaped from the skull.

“Were they together, do you think? Creed and the other man? Did you get his name?”

“No name, but yes, they were initially together. But I think he left her behind.”

“You think?” He looked up at Harris, but his vision was littered by blurry gray spots. Nauseous, Ben winced at the command the migraine had over him.

“I wasn’t going to get too close to the warehouse. Cops, remember?”

“And you…lost her?”

“Are you sure you’re okay, boss?”

“Yes!” Struggling for breath, Ben spoke rapidly. “You didn’t follow the woman?”

“There were cops all over like ants to peanut butter.”

“Perhaps she left with the police? Did they take her into custody?”

“Couldn’t tell. I was busy getting the hell out of there. Whoa—hey now, boss.” Harris flinched as Ben tossed the letter opener in the air, and caught it, wielding it like a blade before him.

The migraine threatened to fell Ben to his knees. Going fetal was always a last resort. And not the image he wished to convey to his man.

“Harris…you’re fired.”

“But, sir—”

He could not see the man’s face at all now. But he didn’t need to. Controlled by pain, Ben flinched his tightened muscles.

Thrusting, the letter opener slid neatly into Harris’s skull through his nasal cavity. Ben barely had to push.

In his fury, he intended to scramble gray matter. Hadn’t the ancient Egyptians done something similar before mummifying their dead?

He slapped a hand over Harris’s mouth to silence the scream. Shoving the stuttering man against the wall, Ben pushed hard. Pushing away his own pain. Murdering it.

The letter opener stopped, obviously hitting bone. He twisted and was able to cut the blade through the interior. His entire body pressed along Harris’s body; Ben felt the man’s muscles contract.

Harris dropped, dragging jelly fingers down the front of Ben’s shirt. There was very little blood from the hemorrhaging brain.

Dropping the letter opener on the stack of discarded envelopes, Ben stepped away from the damage. His hip jolted against the meeting table. He let out the breath he’d squeezed back since the weapon had entered the man’s nose.

His neck flushed with warmth. He lifted his hands to study them. He saw clearly. No blood, yet his fingers shook. Heartbeats pounded with unrelenting vehemence. He hadn’t noticed his heartbeat at all while committing the violence. Now he could not hear beyond it.

What had he done? The headache…it had taken control. He did not—

“I…didn’t…”

But he had. He’d killed a man.

It had been so easy. Natural. The pain had transferred from his skull, through his fingers and away from his body.

He tugged his foot from under Harris’s leg. Thick fluid oozed out the nose and over the man’s parted mouth. The head, tilted forward onto his chest, would keep the blood from dripping onto the floor.

“What the hell?” Ben scrubbed fingers through his hair and tugged hard. It alleviated some muscle tightness. The headache had moved to the back of his scalp, just a dull pulse now. “I…have to get rid of this.”

Yes. Think clearly. Beyond the migraine. Now was no time to panic. It was too late for regret.

He must know someone who could take this away. Move the body without anyone noticing. What did they call people like that?

“Cleaners,” Ben muttered, shocking himself with the knowledge. He stumbled, tripping over Harris’s hand. He caught himself against the boardroom table and pressed his face to it.

Ben exhaled and slumped onto the chair. He collapsed forward, arms folding in and head bowing. A glance over his shoulder checked Harris’s face. Still no excess blood. When had his blurred vision dissipated?

There was a man he knew who would know the right people. And it was not Serge.

Ten minutes later Ben had been promised a cleaner would arrive within the hour. Stepping over Harris’s body, he dragged the door closed behind him. He had to tug. The body had slumped and blocked the door. Harris’s ear bent awkwardly. The door dragged flesh, but finally it closed.

He phoned his secretary at home. “I was thinking,” he spoke carefully, molding his words before letting them out, “we’d head for the Jumeirah. I want to relax tonight on some luxurious sheets with room service. How does that sound to you?”

“You spoil me, Ben. Shall I give the hotel a call?”

“Yes. I’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour. I’ve got some tidying up to do here and a last-minute phone call with a client on Tokyo time.”

“Shall I order champagne?” Rebecca asked.

Champagne to celebrate his first murder?

“Why the hell not?”

26

Garin strode to the front door and, gripping the handle, for a moment wondered if it would be Annja on the other side. It should be.

Unless she hadn’t gotten away from the murderer in the warehouse.

Did the possibility of her injury, or even death, bother him? He allowed regret no more than a flash. Regret was best reserved for opportunities not taken and love. Both things he avoided like the black plague.

“Garin!”

Hand still clutching the doorknob, Garin grimaced at the male voice on the other side. Not Annja, but a man he hadn’t seen for months. And he never regretted his absence.

He opened the door and Roux charged through. Looking like a silver-screen star with white hair that clashed with his tan skin and sunglasses perched on his head, Roux marched into the living room where Garin had left the skull on the coffee table.

A rush of anger, trepidation and misplaced admiration battled within Garin. He hated that he could never sort out his feelings about the man. Usually anger won.

Nothing wrong with that.