The Ruby Tear Read Online Free PDF Page A

the coils closed tight. The signal had been given, the war-horn sounded, and now it all lay in his hands to accomplish. His plan must be sound. The original raging lust for revenge had long since settled to a cooler resolve.
    So for today he was merely a specialty dealer come to check the local antique shops for possibly undervalued treasures in the wealthy town of Rhinebeck.
    He might buy; he might sell.
    He would definitely reconnoiter. The lie of the land was a vital factor in war.

A Man at Bay
    N ick walked his dogs along the back wall of the long garden behind his house for the second time that day. He’d been unbearably restless for two days since Jessamyn’s visit. Only getting outside, out of the house, seemed to help.
    Although the trees that lined the stone boundary fence were leafless, their branches at least partially shielded him from the view of anyone who might be snooping around in the woods beyond. Anyone: the enemy, faceless and nameless and unimaginable in ways that he could never have explained to anyone, not even Jessamyn.
    He’d had rivals before, angry men opposing him over some issue or some prize. But this was someone moved to destroy him because of who he was, and who his father had been, and his grandfather and on back, he couldn’t tell how long. This was something far beyond mere social or professional friction, the bristling of hackles, a flurry of challenges, insults, even punches.
    Among other things, this was more invigorating. Nick walked without his cane, not easily and not fast, but with determination. Today he would do the whole fence line with hardly a trace of the limp he had exaggerated for Jess, running on self-discipline fueled by adrenaline. Tomorrow maybe he’d do it without limping at all.
    Small, hot needles of pain darted through the muscles above his knee with each step. He accepted the pain as penance for deliberately stonewalling Jess, hurting her, and now driving her away. He was disgusted with himself for having been able to do it. But hardness was his reality now. She deserved to be spared further contact with it.
    The dogs paced beside him, alert but quiet, heads high. He’d named them “Mac” and “Beth” in defiance of the old theatrical superstition that “the Scottish play” carried bad luck. The gesture, originally spit in the eye of Fate, seemed puerile to him now.
    Never mind; they knew their names, answered to them with alacrity, and showed none of the viciousness of their shared namesake. They were beautiful and affectionate, but he was careful not to spoil them.
    He’d had dogs as pets, of course, for their energetic cheerfulness and their love. Those days were gone. He had these dogs because he needed them.
    He walked, his gloved hands swinging at his sides for better balance and momentum and to break his fall, if he did fall. The lame leg sometimes slackened when he was tired. His foot sometimes dragged, catching on a root or a rock.
    The sun wallowed in cloud-wrack low behind the trees. He shrugged his duffle-coat higher around his ears, his breath misting the air in front of him. Early or late, cold or warm, he walked every day, in the privacy of his own grounds and without his cane.
    He didn’t want to have to count on the dogs. He needed to be able to trust his own strength, to be able to run, to pivot, to plant his feet firmly so he could back a punch or a kick with his weight.
    His enemy was close. The play would bring him closer. That was its purpose.
    This was the enemy Nick had never believed in. Uncle Rob had talked about him just that one time, after the funeral of Nick’s father. Pressed for details, Uncle Rob had retreated into iron silence.
    The story was ridiculous. Nick had tried to mock Rob into retracting it. There had always been a bit of a rivalry between Rob, the artistic one, and Nick’s tycoon father. Nick hadn’t been willing to let his uncle rattle him.
    And yet: the family history proved that many male heads of the