“I’m across the hall from you,” Bran said, smiling now.
“Of course you are.”
“And right next door.” Riley strolled down to the door beside Sasha’s.
“Where else would you be?” she mumbled, and unlocked her door.
“Night, kids!” Riley sang out.
“Good night. Thanks for dinner,” she said to Bran, and closed the door.
Bran walked into his own room, switched on the lights. The evening, he thought, had certainly been more entertaining than he’d anticipated. He’d intended to wander out, maybe have a drink, take a solitary walk around to let himself absorb where he’d been driven to go.
Then the women.
He could admit here, alone, that seeing himself in that sketch as one of six had given him a jolt. But such an interesting jolt. As interesting as realizing the artist happened to be the same Sasha Riggs whose work hung in his New York home.
She’d claimed the scene had come from her imagination, and perhaps it had. But he knew that forest and knew it well. And he knew what waited at the end of the path in the shimmering light.
He got a bottle of water, and the tablet he traveled with, plopped down on the bed. And began to research the two women Fate had apparently dropped at his feet.
There were other ways to learn more about them, of course, but this seemed the most fair and aboveboard. He believed in being fair, at least initially.
He had no doubt they hadn’t shared everything with him—the adventurer and the seer—but he hadn’t shared all with them. So that seemed fair as well.
He took the adventurer first, because in truth he felt far too hard a pull toward the seer.
Not simply Riley Gwin, he noted, but Doctor Riley Gwin, who’d earned the title in archaeology and folklore and myths. Born thirty years ago—and two doctorates by thirty meant she was no one’s fool—to Doctors Carter Gwin and Iris MacFee, archaeology and anthropology, respectively, she’d spent a good portion of her childhood traveling.
She’d written two books and an assortment of papers and articles—publish or perish, after all. But devoted most of her time, from what he could glean, on digs or traveling on her own in pursuit of lost treasures and myths.
Searching for the stars certainly fit.
He switched to Sasha.
She was twenty-eight, he noted, only child of Matthew and Georgina Riggs, née Corrigan—divorced. She’d studied art at Columbia. Articles on her were few and far between, which told him she shied away from the media. But she was represented by one of the top artist agencies in New York. According to her official bio, she’d had her first major showing at the Windward Gallery, New York, at the tender age of twenty-two, and lived quietly in the mountains of North Carolina.
Unmarried, which was handy.
There was, he thought, a great deal more to Sasha Riggs than that.
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So he’d have to find out the great deal more, one way or the other. But not tonight, he decided. For tonight, he’d let it all rest, and see what came.
He set the tablet aside, stripped down. He might have preferred the night to the morning, but since he had morning to face, he’d get a decent night’s sleep.
He left the curtains and windows open and, listening to the night, thinking of stars, of fortune, of women with secrets, began to drift off.
The knock on the door brought him out of the half sleep and into mild annoyance. Rolling out of bed, he snatched up his jeans, tugged them on.
It didn’t surprise him overmuch to find Sasha at the door, but it did to see her in the hallway wearing a thin white sleep-slip that barely hit the middle of her very pretty thighs.
“Well now, this is interesting.”
“She’s at the window.”
“Who would that be?” He’d started to smile, but when his gaze finally managed to travel from those thighs up the white silk, beyond breasts and throat to meet her eyes, the smile faded off.