All You Desire (11 page)

With her skimpy robe covering far less than she'd anticipated, Haven opened the door to the baths and was enveloped by a cloud of hot air. She and Frances followed a long corridor until they arrived at a pool surrounded by tall marble columns and wooden lounge chairs. Steam issued from the pool's murky green waters, and the air stank of something like sulfur. The light was weak. There was barely enough of it to make sense of the scene. Ghostly figures floated through the mist. A glistening naked body rose from the pool and lay facedown on a nearby lounge chair.

“They say the water comes from an underground river,” Frances whispered.

“That must be one nasty river,” Haven remarked. “It looks more like runoff from a sewer to me.”

“The green stuff in the water is supposed to be good for you. But it's whatever they put in the
air
down here that makes you feel nice and relaxed.”

“There's something in the air?” Haven asked.

“Take a good whiff,” Frances said. “That's not steam you smell. I have no idea what it is, but I've heard that people have hallucinations sometimes. A girl I knew in high school had a ten-minute conversation with a wall sconce. She thought it was God.”

“How long have these baths been here?” Haven wondered. They looked old enough to have been built by the Romans.

“I don't know,” Frances admitted. “But my grandmother used to talk about them. She claimed they were the only thing that helped her rheumatism. She also told me that back in the old days rich New York girls would be given the address of this place for their eighteenth birthdays. Do you think Constance ever dropped in for a
shvitz
?”

“What's a
shvitz
?” Haven asked.

Frances shook her head sadly. “You need to spend more time in New York. You're not getting enough culture in Italy. Now where's this woman you're looking for?”

Haven began to circle the perimeter of the pool. There were clusters of white-robed women wherever she looked. “Her name is Phoebe. She's old. I'm not sure what she looks like, but I doubt she's alone.”

“Is that the lady?” Frances asked. In a dark corner of the room, a tall, thin figure sat upright on one of the chairs, a towel draped over her head. All Haven could see of the woman was her moving lips. Two other women leaned toward her, trying to catch every word that was uttered.

“Could be,” Haven said. “I'll check it out. You go relax. Have a swim or something. I'll find you when I'm done.”

“I don't know.” Frances hesitated. “I promised Iain I wouldn't let you go off by yourself.”

“She's just an old woman,” Haven said with a huff. “What could possibly happen?”

She didn't wait for an answer and left Frances standing alone by the pool. She chose a lounge chair not far from the Pythia and lay down with her eyes closed and her ears open.

“You were a queen, and you were murdered by your very own husband,” Haven heard the old woman say. Her voice was deep and mellifluous and somehow familiar. “He had changed the world to be by your side, but when you gave him a daughter instead of a son, he turned against you. He may not have killed you with his own two hands, but he might as well have. He accused you of witchcraft, infidelity, and incest, and he had your head removed for the crimes he concocted.”

“This doesn't sound like a very nice life,” the woman whined.

“Not all of our lives are
nice
,” the Pythia responded wearily. “But your life changed the course of history. And your daughter was one of the most powerful women the world has ever known.”

“My
daughter
?” the woman whined again. “Not me?”

“I've got it!” The woman's friend gasped. “Oh Joan, you must have been Anne Boleyn!”

“Who's
that
?” the first woman asked.

“You know, that wife of Henry VIII. He chopped off her head so he could marry someone else. Have you ever had any headaches or neck pains that you couldn't explain?”

“Now that you mention it, yes!” The first woman could barely contain herself. “I do have migraines sometimes! And I've always been terrified of axes!”

“Well, there you go!” her friend exclaimed. “Now you know why! And don't forget your terrible taste in men. That last husband of yours would have murdered you too, if he'd had the chance.”

The first woman turned back to the Pythia, her enthusiasm renewed. “Can you please tell me more?” she pleaded. “What else do you see? Did I really have affairs? Were they as exciting as they sound?”

“I see nothing now,” the Pythia said. “My energy is spent. You must go.”

“Oh no! Please! You see I'm having a little get-together this weekend, and I was hoping to invite Miranda Bennett, and she won't even
talk
to people who don't have the right pedigree. . . .”

Phoebe held up her hand. “Stop. Come again in two days, and I will attempt to see more.”

“Oh, thank you!” the first woman gushed. “This has been
so
fascinating.”

“Go,” Phoebe urged them once more.

The two women wandered off arm in arm, whispering in each other's ears. Once they had disappeared in the mist, Haven rose and approached the Pythia.

“How much of what you told them was true?” Haven asked.

The woman glanced up at Haven. Half hidden beneath the towel, her face appeared old and frail, but her hazel eyes were dancing. “You're very bold,” she noted without seeming offended. “Didn't one of your mothers teach you that it's not polite to eavesdrop?”

“I'm sorry,” Haven said. “I just got the sense that you were telling them what they wanted to hear so they'd go away.”

“Yes, I doubt Ms. Mortimer would be interested to know that she's been ignorant and useless in every life she's led. I imagine the only notable thing she's done is perfect the art of divorcing rich men. But these people all want to hear that they changed the course of history. If I told them the truth, they would just keep pestering me until I gave them the lies they were looking for.”

“So she wasn't Anne Boleyn.”

“Goodness no!” the Pythia exclaimed. “I
knew
Anne Boleyn. She would have
my
head if she knew what I've done. Fortunately for both of us, Anne never came back to earth. She had enough of this planet the first time around. Now. What can I do for
you
?”

“You can tell
me
the truth,” Haven said. “I need to know more about one of my previous lives, and I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“No.” The Pythia shook her head. “I can't help you. I am expecting another client in just a few moments.”

“If you can't help me now, maybe I could make an appointment with you? The sooner the better, if possible. A friend of mine is missing. He came to New York to meet someone we both knew in another existence. I have to find a way to travel back to the fourteenth century. It's a matter of life and death. . . .”

“It is always a matter of life and death, Miss Moore,” the old woman told her.

Haven froze. “You know me?”

“Yes. And Mr. Morrow as well. You were reckless to come here. Do you know where you are? Do you know who these people are?”

Haven glanced back at the pool and felt eyes regarding her through the steam. How long had they been watching her? What did they want? Haven's fear only grew when she realized she didn't know what was scaring her. It was the blind terror of a trapped animal. The panic of a beast that's been dragged out of hiding. Haven frantically searched for Frances, who was nowhere to be found.

“Relax, my dear. They aren't going to hurt you,” the Pythia told Haven. “Some of them have even been waiting for you to return. But I'm afraid I can't help you. It has been expressly forbidden, and the walls here have ears.”

“Forbidden by whom?” Haven demanded.

“I know that I don't need to tell you that,” the Pythia said.

Haven turned and bolted for the dressing room.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The dressing room was deserted. There was no attendant. No Frances. No wire basket with Haven's belongings. She stood there in the cavernous space, considering her options. She couldn't leave the spa in her cotton robe. She'd freeze to death before she had a chance to catch a cab, and she couldn't pay the fare if she caught one. Haven was stuck.

She poked her head into the lobby and saw no one at all. Tiptoeing out, Haven picked up the receiver on the phone that sat on the receptionist's desk. There was no dial tone, just the soft whistle of wind. Returning to the dressing room, she checked under the stall doors in the bathroom, desperate to find Frances—or anyone else who might help her collect her things and escape. Finally, she took a seat on a bench in the far corner of the room, hoping to stay out of sight until she could decide what her next step should be.

The women inside the spa—were they all members of the Ouroboros Society? How did they know who she was? Which of them had been waiting for her? Iain had been right to worry, she now realized. They should never have come back to New York. The Morrow money, Beau's disappearance—they both must have been part of a plot to lure her here. How long would it be before Adam came to claim her? She caught sight of her own reflection in a mirror across the room and immediately looked away. Huddled on the bench, pale and practically naked, her black curls shooting in every direction, Haven barely recognized herself—the mirror showed a girl she'd never wanted to be.

The door to the lobby swung open, and a great gust of steam was sucked out the exit. A tall figure in a dark, knee-length overcoat appeared at the opposite end of the dressing room. Haven didn't wait to see his face. She silently rose from her bench and crept into one of the bathroom stalls, where she perched on top of the toilet, praying under her breath.

She heard the sound of footsteps on the granite floor. They came to a halt in the middle of the room.

“Haven.” The name echoed. “I'm afraid I saw you just now. Would you mind coming out?”

It could have been mistaken for a polite request, but Haven knew she had no choice but to obey. She stood up and adjusted her robe, wishing it covered more than the bare minimum. Then she opened the door and marched out into the dressing room like a condemned woman greeting her fate.

Haven hadn't forgotten how handsome he was—how dark and debonair. He still had the same aura of power about him, as though he could snap his fingers and turn the world off. But he looked younger than Haven remembered, no more than twenty. He was dressed for the winter weather in a perfectly cut cashmere coat. His hands were clad in black leather gloves and a charcoal scarf was tied around his neck. It was nothing more than a costume, she realized. He needed no protection from the cold.

“Hello, Adam.” Haven felt light-headed, short of breath. But much to her surprise, she no longer felt any fear. Maybe it was because Haven was older now. Or maybe Adam had improved his human disguise. But something had changed since they'd last been together.

At first Adam said nothing in response. His jaw was set, and his cheekbones sharp. He stared at her as if he couldn't quite believe his good luck. He took off his gloves and ran his fingers through his lustrous black hair. Once he'd finished, he shoved his long white hands in his pockets, and Haven wondered if he was trying to restrain them. She knew those same hands had been allowed to caress her skin in the past. Adam knew it too.

“I was told you were here,” he said. “I was certain it was a mistake. But here you are, indeed. And you're more beautiful than ever.”

There was something about the way Adam looked at her—as if nothing could draw his attention away. Haven had never been the type to take compliments to heart, but when Adam said she was beautiful, she had to believe him.

“A mistake?” The words fell just short of mocking. Haven couldn't muster the indignation she needed. “Do you really expect me to believe that you didn't plan this whole thing?”

“What
thing
?” Adam looked confused. It wasn't an expression that came naturally to him. “Perhaps you can tell me what I've done? I refuse to take credit if I don't deserve it.”

“My friend Beau disappeared three days ago. He came here to meet someone, and he vanished without a trace. Where do you have him? I won't leave with you unless you let him go. I need to know he'll be safe.”

“I'm sorry.” Adam shook his head. “You've been misinformed. I didn't have anything to do with Beau's disappearance. You must be terribly worried. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Haven studied Adam, trying to figure out what his angle might be. “You can let me speak to the Pythia. I was told she's forbidden to help me.”

“Yes,” Adam said. “She is. Now and in the future.”

“Why?”

“Because she's a fraud. Nothing she says is true. Her name is Phoebe, and she is an employee of the Ouroboros Society. I pay her to keep our senior members happy. They enjoy hearing tales of illustrious lives they never lived. But Phoebe is just a storyteller. She doesn't
see
anything. No one is able to peer into the past lives of others. It's simply not possible.”

“Oh,” Haven said. Her best hope of finding Beau had evaporated, and the disappointment hit her hard.

“I didn't intend to upset you.” Adam took one step forward and reached out to touch her before he thought better of it and let his arm drop to his side. “Why did you think the Pythia could help you find your friend?”

The question had a simple answer, Haven realized at once. Leah Frizzell had instructed her to find the woman surrounded by smoke. It was Leah's vision of the future that had led Haven to the spa. Which meant there might be a reason Haven needed to come face-to-face with Adam. She just had to figure out what it was.