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missed a turn. “You’re saying Galahad … ?”
    “… was the first Templar. Yes.” Lucas leaned back and let that sink in. Not only did the Templars adopt the square, red cross that Galahad wore on a white mantle, but much of the original Templar philosophy had been taken from him. Refusing to accept Lancelot’s wealth or his title, he had pursued his quest as a poor man, pure in heart and chaste. Lucas grimaced at that. A lot of the brothers had protested that rule, but Lucas had obeyed it stringently, mostly because he was afraid he’d lose control of the wolf in the midst of climax and hurt his partner. Even today, he kept his emotions tightly under control, lest he loose the animal.
    The Templars had been what he needed to still the wolf. By the early Middle
    Ages, civilization had reared its head again and the wolf did not want to be tamed. A century or two of strict adherence to discipline and penitence had been what he needed, although he allowed himself to fantasize if an alluring woman caught his eye.
    Which brought him back to the dark-haired beauty who owned the manuscript.
    Getting it from her would be only half the challenge. The other half would lie in keeping her safe from the beast inside. Lucas liked strong, independent, clear-thinking women and this one also had a natural sensuality about her. He squelched thoughts about running his hand up her thigh, letting his fingers slowly stroke between her folds. He sighed. The best thing he could do was keep his hands off her. That would take some SEARCH FOR THE SPEAR Cynthia Breeding 13
    doing on his part.

    * * * *
Adam Baylor adjusted the patch over his eye and surveyed the sorry lot of men who sat in front of his magnificently polished black oak desk in the massive library that he took great pride in. Encased in a glass tome on an original Chippendale lamp table was the handwritten first draft of Mien Kamph, given to him by Adolf Hitler himself. A good man, Hitler. One of his best.
    “So you let the manuscript get away from us?” he said in a soft voice to the
    nervous-looking young man who had been at the auction.
    The young man, Toby, gulped, his Adams apple bobbing in his thin throat, only
    too aware that the soft voice spelled danger more than any shouting could have done.
    “I’m sorry, Sir. It was when that other man shot the price up. .... ”
    “What were your orders?”
    He swallowed again. “To buy the manuscript.”
    “Did I tell you how much to spend?”
    “No, Sir.”
    “Did you think I couldn’t afford more than twenty-five thousand?”
    “N … No, Sir. It’s just …”
    Adam Baylor raised his eyebrows. “Just what?”
    “Just … just that you’ve never given me more than that to spend and … and you
    weren’t there in the back of the room when I turned around,” he finished in a rush.
    “I ask again. What were my orders?”
    The young man looked at the floor. “To buy the manuscript, sir.”
    Baylor sighed and then sounded almost concerned. “And I gave you a second
    chance. When you called that you had failed, I initiated Plan B. You failed at that as well. You weren’t able to snatch the portfolio from that American bitch.”
    “No, sir,” he said in a voice that was barely audible.
    “You have disappointed me.” Baylor kept his voice soft, almost sympathetic.
    The stooge in front of him paled. He lengthened the silence for effect until even his bodyguard shuffled a foot and then snapped back to attention. “You do know what happens when someone disappoints me?”
    A moan slipped out of Toby, but was quickly stifled. “Yes, sir.”
    Baylor nodded at the bodyguard who went to the closet and retrieved a medieval cat-o-nine-tails.
    Shaking, Toby removed his shoes and socks and then stood to disrobe. In his
    boxer shorts he walked over to the patch of marble tile in front of the fire place and started to kneel.
    “I prefer you naked,” Baylor said and quickly squelched the quiver of excitement from his voice.