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      “So?”

      She didn’t care if it was the Queen of England. She was tired and didn’t want to spend the evening trying to be gracious and putting on a show. And what kind of notice was that? A few hours? He could at least have had the decency to plan in advance.

      Doug clearly disagreed and, in fact, looked ready to pull his hair out.

      “So?” He brandished the invitation in front of him like an exhibit in a court of law. “So? You’re not talking about some fan off the street, Annja. This is Sir Charles, one of the richest men in America, for heaven’s sake.”

      Actually, one of the richest men in the world, she thought to herself. She didn’t dare say it aloud, however, knowing it would just fuel Doug’s argument. Davies hung around with men the likes of Carlos Slim, Bill Gates and Warren Buffett—self-made billionaires who could do anything they ever wanted to given the vast size of their personal fortunes.

      She was a little curious, she had to admit. It wasn’t every day a man like Davies came knocking on her door and she found herself wondering just what it was he wanted from her.

      Doug took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself.

      “Think about this for a minute, Annja. What show do you work for?”

      “Chasing History’s Monsters.”

      “Uh-huh. And what channel airs that program?” he asked in an exaggeratedly patient tone, like a parent talking to a slow-witted child.

      Annja didn’t care for it. “You know well enough what cable channel we’re on, Doug.”

      He acted as if he hadn’t heard her. “I’m sorry, what channel was that again?”

      Annja glared at him for a long moment. Doug could be as stubborn as she could at times.

      But he wasn’t about to budge.

      He finally flashed a phony smile at her. “Now here’s the big one, Annja. Who owns the network that airs our little cable TV program?”

      She didn’t even have to think about it. She saw the name every time she cashed one of her paychecks. None other than Sir Charles Davies.

      The invitation had come from her boss’s boss’s boss. Which meant she could no more ignore it than she could sprout wings and fly on command.

      “Damn.”

      “Exactly!”

      Grinning in triumph, Doug picked up the phone on his desk, dialed a number. When it was answered, he said, “This is Doug Morrell, executive producer of Chasing History’s Monsters. Please inform Sir Charles that Miss Creed would be more than happy to join him for dinner this evening.”

      He listened for a moment, jotted something down on a piece of paper and then said, “Excellent. She’ll be expecting you,” before hanging up.

      Annja was not happy with the situation, not at all. “Why don’t you go in my place?” she suggested.

      “He didn’t invite me. He invited you.” He frowned as he said it and Annja abruptly realized that he was actually jealous of her. While she was content being a cohost for the show, Doug had ambitions of moving up the corporate hierarchy, perhaps spinning off a few program ideas of his own. A meeting with Sir Charles was the kind of thing that could change a career overnight.

      For just a moment she debated asking him to accompany her for the evening, but decided against it. As much as she’d welcome the company, Sir Charles probably wouldn’t appreciate someone unexpected crashing that party.

      Again, she found herself wondering what Davies wanted. Given what she knew about him, she couldn’t picture him even watching the show, never mind being one of her fans. Which meant it had to do with some other aspect of her life. She’d been approached by rich individuals and organizations in the past, usually to investigate the provenance of a particular collection or item, so perhaps that was it.

      Heaven forbid it had anything to do with a new position at the network. Her current role left her time to pursue her first love, archaeology, while responding to the call of the sword.

      Only one way to find out.

      Doug handed her the piece of paper with a phone number on it. “Sir Charles is sending a driver to pick you up at your loft in Brooklyn at six. Call that number if you’re running late. And please, Annja, best behavior while you’re with him. Don’t say or do anything rash.”

      An impish grin crossed her face. “Doug. You wound me. Would I do anything like that?”

      The sour expression that crossed his face was answer enough.

      She was still laughing as she headed out the door.

      Chapter 3

      Having resigned herself to going, Annja decided that she’d pull out all the stops and at least wear something nice. She took a sleek black dress out of the back of her closet, trying but ultimately failing to remember the last time she’d worn it, which said something entirely too depressing about her social life. She brought it to the bathroom with her, showered, dried off and put it on, pleased that the dress still fit.

      The limo arrived promptly at six, as expected. Annja had seen it coming down the street and was just stepping out of her building as it rolled to a stop outside. The driver, a large man in a chauffeur’s uniform, held the door for her while she slipped inside, smoothing her dress over her legs.

      Gascogne, the restaurant Sir Charles had chosen for their meeting, was on Eighth Avenue in Manhattan’s Chelsea District. Normally the traffic on a Friday night would make it next to impossible to get from her flat in Brooklyn and into the city in anything less than an hour, but the driver knew his job and he maneuvered the limo through the crush of traffic like a shark through a school of tuna. He had her at the door of the restaurant with ten minutes to spare.

      There was a small line outside waiting for tables and Annja drew more than a few admiring stares as she emerged from the limousine. She was escorted inside by the waiting maître d’.

      The restaurant had the ambience of a French bistro, with cream-colored walls, white linen tablecloths and muted lighting. It was artfully done and Annja knew that what looked effortless had probably been damned difficult to pull off.

      Transferred to a waiter, she was led across the room toward a table in the back corner where Sir Charles—she recognized him from all the media coverage—sat waiting for her. He was alone, which surprised her. She’d expected either a private dining room or bodyguards. He was, after all, one of the richest men in the world, which would make him a target nine ways from Sunday.

      She was getting closer to the table, and still puzzling it over, when she noticed a couple seated at a nearby table. The woman wore a finely tailored suit and Annja might not have seen the telltale bulge of what could only be a gun holstered beneath the woman’s arm if she hadn’t stretched to reach the saltshaker.

      And just like that it was easy to pick out Sir Charles’s crew from the rest of the restaurant patrons. A pair of men in business suits a few tables over kept looking around the room a little too regularly, and a slightly older man drinking at the bar had been watching her in the mirror ever since she’d entered.

      That Sir Charles wasn’t alone was oddly reassuring and she relaxed as she joined him at the table.

      He greeted her warmly, extending his hand across the table for her to shake rather than getting up out of his chair. Annja wasn’t surprised or offended; an auto accident had robbed him of the use of his lower body more than two decades before. And if she hadn’t known, his wheelchair would have been a dead giveaway. He’d been a tall, broad-shouldered man before the accident and had managed to retain much of his physique in the years since. He had a crushing grip and a wide smile.

      “Ah, Miss Creed. Wonderful to see you!”

      As the waiter held her

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