Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars by Claire Ashgrove

on the stairs, she slowed her steps to buy herself time and stopped to examine a brightly colored oil painting on the wall.
    Her skin prickled for the second time since she’d left Shapiro’s, the unsettling feeling she was being watched descending around her. Nervous, she glanced over her shoulder. Two young boys played with matchbox cars on the marble hall, not far from their parents who sat reading on a nearby sofa. A feeble old man trudged by, relying heavily on a sturdy, brass-tipped cane. The restaurant hummed with activity, but no one looked her way.
    She rubbed at her arms to smooth the goose bumps. Ridiculous. Her imagination was getting the better of her. No one was following her. No one here gave a damn what she did, except maybe Caradoc, and he’d already gone upstairs.
    Her cell phone burst into song, nearly making her jump out of her skin. She swore beneath her breath, fished a hand into her purse, and withdrew the device. Her pulse skittered as she stared at the all-too-familiar number.
    With shaking fingers, she flipped the phone open. “Hello, Paul.”
    “Isabelle.” Warmth oozed from his voice, as if he greeted a long-lost daughter. “I’m so proud of you.”
    She blinked. “P-proud? What are you talking about?”
    “Thirty-two thousand dollars for my ring. I expected it would take nearly forty.”
    I ce flooded into her veins. How did he know she’d saved him eight thousand dollars on the ring? As her world took a nosedive to the left and dizziness swamped her, she backed up and pressed her back firmly to the wall. Her gaze skipped through the people once again. Who had told him?
    “Though I’m glad the Roman coins aren’t my concern. They were a little steep, don’t you think?”
    “Y-yeah.” Who the hell was his informant? No way could he know these things—the auction wouldn’t post the winning bids until after it closed. Then, Christies would post what pieces brought in, but even then, only those worth interest. Like the diamonds, or the statue Caradoc had spent nearly fifty thousand dollars on, but not a glass case of coins that were, in the scope of antiquities, fairly common.
    Much less an old ring, even if it did have ties to Sicilian nobility.
    “Paul, how’d you know all this?” she asked tenaciously.
    “It’s my job to make sure you’re doing yours. After all, I have to consider September’s arrangements.”
    At the mention of her daughter, anger surged past Isabelle’s trepidation. She straightened like a pike, and a hard edge crept into her voice. “You leave her out of this, Paul. I got your damn ring. I’ll get your fucking necklace.”
    “Such vulgar words .” He scolded with a condescending tsk-tsk. “They don’t become you, Isabelle. Nor do I appreciate them. You don’t speak that way in front of September, do you?”
    “How I talk in front of my daughter isn’t any of your concern. She’s my daughter. Mine . And I swear to God, if you touch her, Paul, I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again.”
    “Enough!” The furious bark gave way to the creepy smoothness once again. “Threaten me again, Isabelle, and you’ll regret it. So will your daughter. And by the way, if you’re smart, you won’t mention our little arrangement or get the bright idea to involve the authorities. You won’t see her again if you do.”
    The line went dead in her ear.
    Stunned, Isabelle struggled to hold on to her phone through the trembling of her hands. Tears welled in an instant, threatening to blind her. Before they could tumble free, she managed to stuff her phone into her purse and ran for the closed elevator.
    The doors swished open, and Isabelle couldn’t rush inside fast enough. She jammed her thumb on the door close button, praying no one else would slip inside. When the steel panels rolled shut, leaving her to solitude, she collapsed against the rear wall, her legs too wobbly to hold her upright
    She’d been wrong. September was in danger. That kind