"Morgan thought you and I were involved. Previously, I mean." I stopped there, hoping Ethan got the point so that I wouldn't have to spell out exactly what Morgan had accused me of doing with Ethan.
"Ah," he said. "I see."
"We weren't, of course, but he wouldn't be convinced. So, in addition to the other reasons he won't be happy to see me, he may not be thrilled to see me with you." Ethan gave a half snort, then walked up the stairs. Without so much as knocking, he opened the front door and beckoned me inside.
"What's funny?" I asked when I reached him.
"The irony. By accusing you of such wanton acts, he accomplished the very thing he sought to avoid."
"I'm not sure I'd say 'wanton.' "
Ethan leaned in, his lips at my ear. "I, Merit, would definitely say 'wanton.' " I couldn't stop the grin that lifted a corner of my mouth, or the blush that warmed my cheeks.
"Besides," Ethan whispered, following me into the House, "I've decided that if the Sun-Times story doesn't top his list of things to accuse us of today, there is less hope for his skills as a Master than I might have imagined."
There'd been no security outside the door of Navarre House, no ten-foot-high gate, no mercenary fairies keeping a watchful eye on the premises. Navarre vamps saved that fun for the foyer . . . but the guards weren't the beefy types I expected.
Three women sat behind a semicircular reception desk made of glass and steel that was perched just inside the entrance. Each woman was posed in front of a sleek computer monitor. They all had dark hair and big brown eyes, and they all wore fitted white suit jackets. Each wore her hair up but in a different style - from left to right, funky bouffant, ponytail, and tidy bun.
They glanced up as we entered, then began to whisper and click keys on their respective keyboards. I assume these are the gatekeepers? I silently asked.
Might as well be the Greek Fates, he replied.
"Name," said the one in the middle, looking up from the monitor to gaze suspiciously at us.
"Ethan Sullivan, Master, Cadogan House," Ethan said. "Merit, Sentinel, Cadogan House." The other two women stopped typing and looked at me. Their expressions showed a range of emotions - disgust, curiosity, sheer feminine appraisal. All emotions, I assumed, motivated by the run-ins I'd had with their former Master, Celina, and their current one, Morgan. I was zero for two in terms of Navarre Masters.
"Identification," said the woman closest to Ethan. He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled a card from the interior pocket, then with two fingers handed it to the woman. She glanced at it, then began typing in earnest.
Thinking we were going to be here awhile, I took the opportunity to scope out the digs . . . and was surprised. The open front room was huge, two staircases meeting at a second-floor balcony. The entire atrium was open to the roof, the room topped by a greenhouselike cage of Victorian skylights. Although those things seemed pretty European to me, the decor looked as if it had been taken from a modern-art museum. There wasn't much in the way of furniture or knickknacks, and the few pieces there were had a sculptural quality. There was a white tufted leather sofa, a coffee table that consisted of a giant, curvaceous core of lacquered wood, and recessed lights shining onto giant canvases of black-and-white photography and pop art. All of it was set amongst gleaming, white marble floors and equally white walls.
"This is - ," I began, my gaze on a painting that looked to represent those rubbery grips that fit on number two pencils, but I found no words to describe it.
"Yes," Ethan said. "It most definitely is." He shifted beside me, probably not accustomed to waiting for service, then glanced down at the girls again. "We are expected." Without looking up, the girl in the middle pointed a long-nailed finger behind us. We both turned. A bench sat in an alcove beside the front door, three boredlooking, supernaturally attractive vampires filling it - two women and a man in between them. They all wore suits and had briefcases across their laps.
They were all perfectly polished, but there was a weariness in their eyes and in the slump of their shoulders. They looked as if they'd been here a while.
"Fabulous," I muttered.
Ethan blew out a breath, but his smile was back when he turned to face the Fates again. "At your convenience," he grandly said. As it turned out, their convenience was seven minutes later. "Merit," the girl on the right finally said. I looked down at her extended hand, which held a translucent plastic badge the size of a credit card. It had VISITOR stamped across one side, and bore a hologram of a wide-winged bee - a symbol of the House's French roots, I thought, but rendered in twenty-first-century technology.
"Fancy," I said, then clipped the badge onto the bottom hem of my shirt.
"We have visitors' passes, as well," Ethan muttered, as if offended by the possibility that Navarre House was more organized - or more exclusive - than we were. He accepted a clip and added it to his suit, then looked at the women expectantly.
Silence.
He gestured toward the staircase. "Should we just - "
"Nadia will be down to retrieve you," said the one in the middle.
"We appreciate your assistance," Ethan said, then moved into the room's main space.
"We need a four-story atrium," I told him.
"Cadogan House is perfect as it is. We're not changing it to fit the fancies of an architecturally jealous Sentinel. Ah," he added brightly, "here she is."
I glanced up.
A woman was trotting down the stairway, one delicate hand on the marble banister as she glided toward us. No - not just a woman. A supermodel. She was all effortless beauty. Her eyes were wide and green, her nose thin and straight, her cheekbones high. Her body was long and lean, and she wore leggings, knee-high boots, and a long, belted knit top. It was the kind of outfit I might have worn while traipsing through the streets of Manhattan during my college days. Her hair was long and medium brown, and it spilled across her shoulders like silk. I leaned toward Ethan. "You might have filled me in on the fact that Morgan's new Second was practically a cover girl."
"Jealous again?"
"Not even slightly," I crisply answered, then elbowed him in the ribs. "But you're panting, Sullivan." He offered a fake oof at the elbowing, then, hand outstretched, walked toward Nadia.
"Ethan," Nadia said with a beatific smile, taking his hand. They exchanged cheek-to-cheek kisses and whispers that made something turn in my belly. That would be the jealousy kicking in, I silently thought.