Chapter One

It was a typical office setting, at least to outward appearances. The furnishings were ultra-modern – some might also say ultra-expensive – and they elegantly proclaimed the owner a wealthy man. Which he was. Hamilton Southby was a collector of things old and beautiful. He was also an adventurer and a soldier of fortune. At least he had been in times past. But age has a way of making a man desire comfort over excitement and these days Southby was content to let well-paid younger people do his legwork for him.

Not that he didn't like to get out into the field. He did. He just no longer cared for the rain, heat, mud and snow that went along with searching for ancient civilizations and buried artifacts. These days he would show up at the end, just in time to be photographed making the triumphant discovery for his obliging photographer. If his employees were disgruntled with that arrangement, they wisely kept it to themselves.

Along with his increasing age, Hamilton Southby had become an impatient man, often given to fits of rage when deprived of a long sought-after goal. To get in his way was to get run over, and while no one had so far accused him of committing a crime, it was well known that several of his rivals had met with 'accidents' of a suspicious nature. In addition, there were quiet complaints from others that Southby had grabbed a long sought prize right from under their nose. But those complains were voiced privately, for no one dared to accuse him publicly of doing something wrong.

In his younger days, the man had been bold and reckless, almost to an extreme. He was still bold, and quite ruthless when he went after something he wanted. But with age his recklessness had given way to cunning, and most of his time was spent planning and scheming toward the things he wanted…and plotting to overcome those who stood in his way. Without realizing it, the chase itself, the urge to outwit his opponents, had become more important than the prize.

The Southby Associates, Ltd. office complex was quite large and occupied a strategic, top-floor corner of a modern office building in an upscale area of London. A pair of glass doors led into the office from the private elevator in the vestibule. The well-appointed area inside had a single circular desk where Mr. Southby's secretary/receptionist greeted those who came in. A glass-walled conference room large enough for eight or ten people took up one wall and Southby's private office was behind the other.

At two minutes before ten in the morning, the light above the elevator flashed on, and with a soft chime, the door opened. A smart-looking woman in her mid-thirties stepped out and pushed her way through the glass doors into the office area. At first glance there was nothing very remarkable about her, for she was of average size, with plain features and shoulder-length brown hair. A navy blue blazer covered the white turtleneck sweater and black pants. Together with a large shoulder bag, the outfit was something you could buy at almost any good department store in the city and spoke of a working woman who wanted to look nice, but had to stay within a limited budget.

But looks can be deceiving, and the woman who entered the Southby Associates office suite was much more than she seemed. Her clothing and the way she carried herself had little to do with either her profession or what she could afford to buy. It was a carefully prepared look and only if you looked into her eyes might you get a hint of what lay underneath.

The blonde receptionist looked up as the visitor came in, but did not smile. "Go right in, he's expecting you."

* * * * *

Many kilometers away, a woman soared gracefully through the air above a small body of water and caught herself on a narrow ledge, hanging for a moment by her fingertips. A quick pull and she stood atop the last obstacle in the assault course, glancing down at the man on the ground below her.

"Well?"

He shook his head as he peered closely at the stopwatch. "I am sorry, M'lady. It is still two seconds longer than your best time."

"Blast!" And with those words, she jumped off the top of the obstacle and landed lightly near him. "Jeeves, are you sure you stopped the watch as soon as I finished?"

The white-haired man nodded patiently. "Of course, Miss Lara. It wouldn't be an accurate time if I didn't."

"Yeah," she said in frustration. "That's what you said last time, too."

The butler drew himself stiffly to attention, filled with offended dignity. "M'lady, since you apparently doubt my ability to record an accurate time, perhaps in the future you will request that Mr. McPherson do so." With the smallest possible motion, he tossed her the stopwatch and walked away.

Startled, she watched him for a few seconds, her frustration over her slow time giving way to remorse at her hasty words.

"Jeeves?"

The old butler stopped, but did not turn. "Yes, M'lady?"

She hurried after him. "Jeeves, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that…"

"Quite all right, Miss Lara," he replied, still full of offended dignity. "But perhaps it would be better if Mr. McPherson were to help you. He is, well, better versed in such things."

Ian McPherson was Lara's new major-domo and a former Sergeant-Major in the Coldstream Guards regiment. Just over 50 years old, he was still fit and had taken on an additional new role as her unofficial coach in matters relating to fitness and combat. Not that Lara Croft needed much coaching, but in Ian she had found someone who understood what combat was all about. Rising through the ranks to become the senior enlisted soldier in his regiment, Ian had faced death on many occasions. He held a black belt in Karate and, much to her dismay, bested her with distressing regularity at the pistol range. Each brought a wealth of interesting experiences to their relationship, Lara enjoying his military stories and he her tales of her various adventures.

But despite her growing friendship with Ian, Lara Croft had no intention of putting her oldest friend out to pasture, even though he was close to retirement age. She stepped around him and turned to look him squarely in the eye.

"Jeeves," she said earnestly, "I am sorry. I didn't mean that you weren't doing it right. Will you forgive me?" She smiled sweetly. "Please?"

It would have taken a much harder man than Jeeves to resist a smile like that, especially since he loved Lara Croft as the daughter he never had. Still, he almost managed to keep a straight face.

"Very well, Miss Lara," he replied disdainfully. "Since you seem determined to beg my forgiveness, I suppose I must grant it. No harm has been done. Would you care for some tea after your, er, workout?"

* * * * *

"Blast it, Jeremy! I don't want any bloody excuses. You were supposed to be ready yesterday."

The grey-haired man behind the desk stared out the window as he listened impatiently to the whining voice in his ear. Incompetent fool! The man couldn't organize a group of preschool children, much less a sophisticated expedition. He had to be replaced. Soon.

Hamilton Southby was a big man, just shy of two meters tall. In his younger days he was quite a dashing figure, with dark good looks that had attracted many a pretty woman. But now his dark hair was steel grey and since giving up his travels for an office he had let himself go. He was now almost 12kg (25lbs) overweight and his sluggishness only added to his irritability.

The voice in his ear was trying to explain the reasons for the delay when there was a quiet knock and the door opened. He glanced around and, recognizing his visitor, beckoned for her to come inside. He watched, half listening, as she came toward him. No pretense now on her part, for Hamilton Southby knew who and what she was. In fact, there was a word that seemed to him to describe her perfectly:

Lioness.

She sat down across from him, placed her handbag in her lap and looked up, a neutral expression on her face that gave away nothing of what she was thinking. Southby considered himself an excellent judge of character, but if he had not known her profession, he would not have been able to guess it.

Finally he grew tired of listening to the drivel on the phone. "Shut up, Jeremy. Now listen. You've got forty-eight hours to get everything ready. I'm coming down there to check on it and if you're not ready I'll be looking for a new man. Clear?"

He listened. "All right. Just remember what I said."

Southby slammed down the phone angrily and turned to his visitor. "Idiot! I don't know what possessed me to hire the man in the first place."

The mouth of the woman turned up just a fraction. "You could let me do it. I've offered several times now."

He grimaced. "Of course you could. But that's not why I hired you and you know it." Suddenly he frowned. "You're not thinking of making a change, are you?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, Ham. Sometimes I feel like I'm getting stale. Maybe it is time for a change."

Southby drummed his fingers on his desk as he thought about her words. "Got enough notches on your gun, eh?"

She bristled. "Confound it, Ham! That's not what I meant and you know it."

He smiled. "Well, finish your current assignment and we'll talk about it further. What progress so far?"

"I'm ready."

"Any trouble?"

"None. She trusts me completely. She's even teaching me how to shoot a gun."

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. "You're kidding?"

"Not at all. She got a death threat back last Christmas. I know. I was there. I acted frightened, of course, so now I'm learning to defend myself in case the mansion is attacked."

"'Learning to defend yourself," eh?" he chuckled. "Ha! That's a good one. My resident sharpshooter, learning to defend herself." He shook his head with a grin. "I like it."

Just then the intercom buzzed. Southby pressed a button activating the speaker-phone. "Yes, Millie?"

"Mr. Lewis is here to see you, sir," said the voice from the speaker.

"I thought I told you to tell him I didn't want to talk to him."

"I did, sir, when he called yesterday afternoon. But he insists that you'll want to hear what he has to say."

The woman across from him waved a hand to get his attention and Southby glanced in her direction.

"Seeing him," she said quietly, "might be the easiest way to get rid of him."

The gray-haired man stared at her for a few seconds as he considered her words. Finally he nodded. "Very well, Millie," he said to the phone. "Show him in."

The woman started to get to her feet. "Should I…."

Southby motioned for her to remain seated. "Stay. This won't take but a moment."

There was a knock on the door and the blonde receptionist pushed it open. "Mr. Ned Lewis, sir."

She stepped aside and a dark-haired man came into the room. He was of medium build, but what struck Hamilton Southby was his wary manner. Like a caged animal. The visitor's gaze quickly swung around the room, paused for a second at the sight of the woman seated nearby and came back to the man behind the desk.

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Southby."

"I don't want to see you, Mr. Lewis," Hamilton said coldly. "My secretary should have made that clear to you. Can't you take 'no' for an answer?"

"Yes, sir, I can. But we have something in common that we should talk about first"

"Oh?" Southby sneered. "And what, pray tell, might that be?"

Lewis glanced at the woman. "It's a…it's a private matter, sir."

The gray-haired man waved his hand impatiently. "Miss Oliver is my personal assistant. Anything you have to say, you can say right now."

Lewis continued to stare at the woman, who met his gaze evenly.

"Speak your piece, mister," she said finally. "Or get out. Mr. Southby's a busy man."

Ned turned to the man behind the desk. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Southby, but hadn't heard that some little she-cat is doing your talking for you."

The woman was on her feet in a flash, turning angrily to face him. "Mister, your mouth is going to get you some claw marks if you're not…"

"Enough!" Southby raised a hand to end the dispute. "Susan, get yourself a cup of tea, would you? And pour me a cup as well."

With a final glare at Lewis, the woman turned and crossed the office to a bar area, where a big teapot sat on a warmer. Southby could feel the hostility in the room, and it occurred to him that it might be interesting to see which of them would end up standing after a fight.

"Well, Mr. Lewis," he said, turning to his visitor, "what is it you think we have in common."

Ned's eyes followed the woman as he took a deep breath and tried to get himself under control. He turned and Hamilton Southby saw the intense look on his face.

"We both want Lara Croft dead."

* * * * *

After taking a quick shower and changing into some dry clothes, the object of Ned's hatred walked into her office and sat down. She had just opened a file folder to renew her studies when she heard the soft clatter of a tea cup on a saucer from somewhere behind her.

With a smile she closed the folder and turned to see Jeeves in the open doorway, holding a tray with a porcelain teapot, cup and saucer. A folded cloth napkin flanked the dainty cup and saucer and a small towel was folded neatly over the butler's arm.

"Your tea, M'lady," he said formally.

"Put it here on the desk, would you please?"

The butler placed the tray on the smooth oak surface, then drew himself to attention. "Will there be anything else, Miss Lara?"

"Not right now, Jeeves. Thank you very much."

The butler bowed slightly and turned away. Lara picked up the teacup and sniffed the heavenly aroma. Perfect. The cup was almost to her lips when she paused. Quickly she swung her chair around, but the butler had left the room.

"Jeeves?" she called.

A few seconds later he reappeared. "Yes, M'lady?"

Lara got up and crossed to where he was waiting. "Jeeves, is it all right with you for Ian to be here?"

For a few seconds the surprise on the man's face broke through his normal reserve. But then he recovered and drew himself to attention, staring straight ahead. "It is not my place to say, M'lady. This is your home. Employees come and go at your pleasure."

Lara gritted her teeth. Jeeves was so frustrating at times with his formal manner. She tried again. "Jeeves, you are not only my employee, you are my friend." She stepped sideways, right into his line of vision. "And I want you to stay my friend. If there is a problem, I expect you to tell me, is that clear?"

"Yes, M'lady."

"Well?"

"Well what, Miss Lara?"

"Are you comfortable with Ian here?"

Jeeves flicked his gaze over her shoulder, the very picture of formality. "Of course, M'lady. Perfectly all right."

Lara threw up her hands in frustration. He wasn't going to tell her anything. "All right, Jeeves. Have it your way. That'll be all."

She turned and headed back to her desk. There must be some way to…

"Mr. McPherson is not the problem, Miss Lara," said the voice behind her.

Lara halted halfway across the room, startled by the unexpected words. "What was that?" she asked as she turned to face him.

Jeeves still stood at attention. "Mr. McPherson is a good man, M'lady. He treats the staff with courtesy and performs his duties efficiently. It is Miss Susan that concerns me."

"Susan?" Lara was stunned. Susan had been a very pleasant surprise. She had been referred by an agency, but had adapted quickly to the highly variable atmosphere of the Croft household. When Lara had received a death threat at Christmas time, she had taken Susan down to the range and insisted that she learn how to shoot, just in case of trouble. After some initial resistance, Susan had applied herself diligently and was quickly becoming a very good shot. She wouldn't be able to own a gun of her own, of course, British handgun regulations were quite strict.

"Whatever are you talking about, Jeeves? She's one of the best assistants I've ever had."

The butler's normal stiff manner faded. He turned to face his employer and Lara was startled by the look on his face. "I don't trust her, Miss Lara. I think she's up to no good."

Lara frowned. "What makes you say that?"

"Just a feeling, M'lady. Call it intuition if you like. Right from the beginning there was something about her that seemed, well, not quite right. And then one day last week, while you were at the museum, I heard a voice from within your office. When I looked in to investigate, Miss Susan was sitting at your desk, talking with someone on the telephone. She saw me right away and smiled. But for a short moment, when she first looked up, there was a guilty look on her face, like an errant child caught with her hand in the cookie jar."

For Jeeves it was a very long speech and Lara could tell the man was quite serious about what he was saying. Still, it wasn't much to go on. She couldn't accuse Susan of wrongdoing just because she was talking on the telephone.

"What should I do?" she asked, interested to hear what he would say.

"I don't know, Miss Lara," he replied. "I would not have mentioned it without more evidence, but you asked."

She put her hand on his arm. "You were right to tell me, Jeeves. I hope that time proves you are mistaken."

Go to Chapter 2

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